McLaren nodded. Well, well, so Park hadn’t really expected him to buy the communist agitator line. Interesting.
“The truth is that my government must restore order in our cities … and we must do so quickly.” Park lowered his voice. “As you know, we have a … how do you say it? A tradition of military intervention to bring order out of chaos.”
McLaren nodded again. South Korea’s military had jumped into the political fray in 1961 and 1979. “Go on.”
“There are officers, junior-grade officers to be sure, but officers nonetheless, who are becoming unhappy with the way the government is handling this latest crisis. They believe we have been indecisive, even weak, in responding to these student provocations.”
“So. Have your Defense Security Command deal with these officers. Hell, that’s what you’ve got it for, isn’t it?” McLaren couldn’t see the problem. The Defense Security Command was a vast, shadowy organization maintained solely to protect the South Korean government from coup attempts by its own military. Security agents were attached to every significant armed forces command, with instructions to keep a close eye on all goings on. And all South Korean officers were subject to rapid and unexplained transfers whenever it seemed that they might be becoming too popular with their troops. It was a system that reduced military effectiveness, but it did provide the government with a powerful check on any overly ambitious officers.
But Park shook his head. “The grumbling is too widespread. If we took hasty action against just a few of these men, the others might be driven into an unfortunate decision.”
Uh huh, McLaren thought, an “unfortunate decision” that would end the careers of a certain number of government officials — like General Park, for example.
Park looked closely at him. “So you see, General McLaren, it is essential that we bring this rioting to an end. The Combat Police are having trouble doing that. You must allow us to use our soldiers to restore order. It is necessary.”
Cute. Very cute. McLaren knew full well that the government, if it simply wanted soldiers for riot duty, could use its “black beret” Special Forces troops — men who weren’t under the Combined Forces Command. But using regular units, units nominally under his orders, would send a signal throughout Korea and around the world that the United States gave its full backing to whatever measures the South Korean government used to quell student dissent. Well, he wasn’t going to play that game.
“No dice, General. If your government wants to end these demonstrations, I suggest you rely on the police to do it. And if I were you, I’d tread more carefully in the way you go about it. If you’ve been following events back in the States at all, you know the Congress is giving the administration hell right now about our involvement over here.”
Park sat rigid in his chair for a moment. Then he stood abruptly. McLaren followed suit. “Then, General McLaren, I believe we have nothing further to discuss today. I shall inform my colleagues of your decision.”
McLaren picked up his uniform cap and briefcase. “Okay, you do that.”
“They will not be pleased. Perhaps our President will want to discuss the matter with your President.”
So they were going to try going over his head on this one? That wasn’t much of a surprise. But McLaren doubted they’d get any further with Washington than they had with him. “Fine. I’m sure they’ll find a great deal to discuss. In the meantime, your colleagues don’t have to be happy with my decision. They just have to live with it.”
He returned Park’s salute and headed out to his staff car. He had an inspection to conduct. And with the mood he was in, he sure as hell hoped the commander of the 4th Battalion, 7th Cavalry had everything ready.
CHAPTER 8
Intentions
The lights were out all over Pyongyang, leaving the city wrapped in a darkness broken only by the stars reflecting off the Taedong River. All its massive government buildings, monolithic statues, and towering apartment houses merged into simple patches of greater or lesser blackness — without feature, without clear line, without scale.
Kim Jong-Il smiled bitterly as he stood looking out over the city from his office. He knew that these periodic practice air raid alerts and blackouts had little military use. He’d seen the lowlight videotapes made by the American bombers striking Libya in 1986. Denying them the use of city lights as aiming points wouldn’t have much effect.
Still, the alerts served as an important instrument of political control. They demonstrated unity and discipline. They reminded the people of the sacrifices of the past and of the dangers as yet all around. After all, what significance could petty internal grievances have when compared to the threat of an aggressive, imperialist war machine?
Kim turned away from the windows, closed the heavy blackout drapes, and switched on his desk lamp. The small circle of light cast distorted shadows against the wood-paneled walls of his office — shadows he ignored. He’d wasted enough time in useless contemplation. Now was a time for action.
The agent Scorpion’s work had borne fruit beyond all his initial expectations. The bloody scenes in Seoul’s streets had shattered the South’s governing coalition, and they were driving the American Congress out of lockstep with its client state.
He had the wedge he’d sought. Now he had to make use of it.
Kim snapped open the sealed Defense Ministry folder sent over by special courier earlier that evening. It contained a thick sheaf of densely typed papers and annotated maps. The title page bore a simple, boldfaced legend:
Draft Operations Plan:
RED PHOENIX
Most Secret
The rumble and clatter of tank treads made it impossible to speak. Lieutenant General Cho Hyun-Jae glanced nervously at the guest beside him on the reviewing stand. Then he swung his eyes back front and allowed himself to relax minutely.
His guest didn’t seem angered or bored by the procession of battle-ready armored fighting vehicles Cho had arranged. On the contrary, Kim Jong-Il seemed pleased, almost excited. The hard, set lines around his mouth had softened somewhat, and Cho could see the momentary gleam of white teeth every time a T-62 thundered by the stand.
It was more a battle drill than a parade. A battalion’s worth of buttoned-up tanks pitched and rolled across the torn-up landscape at full throttle, spread out in platoon groups of four. The forty T-62s were followed by wave after wave of tracked BMPs and wheeled BTR personnel carriers, some towing mortars and light antitank guns. ZSU-23-4 Shilkas rolled along with this second echelon, their quad 23mm antiaircraft guns elevated and ready to fire into the black, threatening clouds that covered the sky.
Kim watched it all avidly, and Cho thanked the nonexistent gods that he’d arranged this realistic display of a motorized rifle regiment’s combat power instead of the traditional, lumbering military parade. Its effect on the Dear Leader was well worth the precious fuel it consumed.
As the last vehicles roared off the review ground and over a hill, Kim leaned closer and pitched his voice just high enough to carry over their fading engines. “Excellent, General. A most impressive display. Your men typify the five combat readiness guidelines enunciated by my father: tenacious revolutionary spirit; miraculous and elaborate tactics; strong physique; point-blank shooting; and ironbound regulations.”
Cho bowed his head, acknowledging the compliment. “Thank you, Dear Leader. I shall relay your approval to my troops.”