“Flight schedules can change.”
“They can. But they don’t. You put the details in, it’s like setting it in stone. People figure you know what you’re doing and they start their planning based on your flight schedule. Tankers, the logistics and weapons people, even national authority.”
“Yes, master. Grasshopper understand.”
“Knock it off.”
“You going to make me?”
I don’t believe this. What are we, back on the playground? Is he going to helo over here and try to beat the shit out of me? “Listen, you’ve got my flight plan. Now get me yours and we’ll see what kind of plans we can come up with.”
“What if I don’t?”
Coyote smiled. It was not a pretty sight. “Hasn’t it occurred to you,” he said, his voice soft and level, “that I’m a year senior to you? When it comes down to coordinating our operations, who do think it’s going to be in overall command? You? Nope. So, Admiral — yes, I am going to make you knock it off. I will expect your proposed flight plan on my desk tomorrow morning, submitted for my approval, and I will let you know what further tasking we have for you. Jefferson out.”
Had the admiral on board Lincoln been privy to the pissing contest between Coyote and his nemesis, he would have undoubtedly agreed with Coyote. As it was, he was far more interested in the conflicting intelligence reports he was getting from Korea to worry about what was going on in the Middle East.
For perhaps the fourth time in the last hour, he read the latest intelligence summary. According to what the spooks termed “sources of questionable reliability,” North Korean troops were poised to move south. Already, the source claimed, cadres of guerrilla fighters had been filtering into areas along the Demilitarized Zone. The bulk of the troops, never more than a day or so’s travel from the DMZ, were in a heightened state of readiness and could be deployed at any time.
Or maybe not. The problem lay in the fact that there was no supporting source of information. The satellite spooks had not yet turned up any evidence of increased troop movements, nor had any of the international news agencies that followed the area. The only one crying wolf was one lone intelligence source on the ground, a foreign national at that.
It didn’t make a whole lot of difference, though, did it? What would you do differently if you were certain that trouble was starting in Korea?
Get some more assets in the area, for starters. One cruiser isn’t enough. And a higher priority on repairs, intelligence — everything.
And that, he concluded, was the real issue — priority. Most of America’s focus was centered on its problems at home and in the Middle East. Let gasoline prices go up two cents at the pump and everybody would be howling about Middle East stability. Problems with Korea were low on the national priority list.
And they shouldn’t be. Not with China involved.
China had far more power to affect the world than the Middle East even dreamed about, and her first forays into the international arena had taken place here, in Korea, where China knew the ground, the terrain, and the people. Some people remembered that, most notably the veterans of the Korean War, but they were aging and dying off and their voices seldom were heard.
I think it’s happening. And I think it’s happening now. China is not going to miss the fact that we are preoccupied with the Middle East and domestic problems. It’s a situation tailor-made for them. We don’t have the resources to handle the Middle East and Korea at the same time and they know it.
He picked up his desk phone and dialed the chief of staff. “Round up the intelligence officer, will you? And Strike. I think we need to take a serious look at this latest intel.”
This time, he was going with his gut. And his gut was screaming that he’d better be ready.
Chan Su Lee would have taken some comfort from it if he’d known of Coyote’s worries, and there were few comforts to be found in North Korea for the senior officer from the People’s Republic of China. Never in all his military career, not even under the worst field conditions, had being in North Korea seemed such a hardship. The most miserable part of this tour of duty was the smell. The stench of rotting fish and kimchi assailed Chan the moment he woke up. It clung to his clothes and his hair, permeating everything he owned, promising to follow him home to China. Everything he owned and had brought to North Korea would have to be burned downwind from any of his family or friends.
Even after two months in North Korea, the Chinese had not yet fully acclimated. Every day, some misunderstanding or problem arose from the differences in their cultures. In particular, he found the Koreans far too prickly about their national pride and prestige. It struck him as ludicrous that such an insignificant peninsula could matter at all to the rest of the world. The area known as Korea was part of the greater Chinese Empire, and everyone know it. If the rest of the world would stop interfering in what was purely a territorial matter, the matter would resolve itself simply and quietly.
Chan rolled out of his bed. His feet hit the old wooden floor last polished perhaps ten years ago. The deprivations in the North were felt at all levels of the society, and senior visiting dignitaries, even military ones, were not exempt. At home, his accommodations would have been more in keeping with his status. Here, however, he had to cope with damp and cold quarters. No matter that this was the best available. That did not prevent them from being truly miserable accommodations.
His aides and personal servants were already hard at work, organizing the rest of his day. There were a number of political and social obligations, but in truth, nothing much mattered after his morning conference. Oh, yes, there were alliances to be made, and other work to be done. But the man he was meeting this morning was really the only one he needed to talk to.
An hour later, there was a soft tap on his door, which was answered by his aide. He heard a few murmured words, and then his aide was at his office door, announcing the visitor. Chan stood as the man entered the room.
“Thank you for coming this morning,” Chan said politely. “You are well?”
“I am well.” The North Korean officer studied him, his entire body giving the impression of a coiled spring. There was an energy about him that Chan found deeply disturbing, something that went beyond the normal coarse spirit one would expect after years of combat. No, there was something deeply wrong about this man, the commander of the southern forces. A dark, brutal streak of wrongness, something that made him glory in and take personal pleasure in the pain he caused his enemies. It went beyond simple pride in his unit and in his performance, beyond that of the warriors. It was darkness.
Chan offered both food and drink, and settled into the polite inquiries that were the normal preliminaries, even with the military, to serious discussions. The Korean refused both, responded to Chan’s first few questions abruptly, and then suddenly stood. “We don’t have time for this. I understand that you consider me a barbarian, a man completely without manners. I also know that you have dealt with us long enough to understand that here I am not considered so.” He bowed ever so slightly, softening the harsh words. “There is not much time. When can we expect our shipments to arrive?”