When West German TV and British networks bounced the signals via satellite throughout Europe, particularly into the homes throughout France, “the balloon,” as the newly sworn-in British minister of war said, with barely concealed satisfaction, “went up.”
“Vive la France, gentlemen,” he said. “She is now in the war. Which means, gentlemen, we have our ports.”
“So far,” said an assistant who foresaw something in Gallic disposition within NATO that either the minister did not want to admit to or did not appreciate being referred to, especially not by a junior member of his department.
“ ‘So far’ will do quite nicely,” said the minister icily. “If it won’t do, Parks,” the minister continued, holding his glass out for a refill without looking at the steward, “I suspect you could be called up. Yes?”
The NKA militia approaching the dark, four-storied monolith of concrete and granite that was the Mansudae Assembly Hall were terrified when they saw the Americans. It wasn’t merely the rolling thunder of the overhead battle amid the monsoon that so unnerved them — it was the Americans’ goggles.
Freeman and the nine men in the Humvee, having taken infrared and “starlite” goggle training in stride, could not know that, for all the wrong reasons, they conformed to everything the militia had been told about the U.S. imperialist warmongers — like the banner of the Sinchon “Museum of American Imperialist Atrocities,” which depicted socialist toddlers joyously shooting the U.S. monster, in the form of a wicked-eyed “Uncle Sam.” It was part illusion, reinforced by the reality of the size of the marines’ packs, the big SAWs — squad automatic weapons — and the hideous-looking robotic eyes of the infrared and starlite goggles, the gray plastic lenses protruding from a base the size of a quarter, tapering to a dime-sized lens, giving the Americans an even more terrifying, unblinking appearance to the heavily armed NKA militia and police now defending the North Korean Assembly Hall. The two men on the Humvee’s ATGM-mount and.50 machine gun created a murderous fire-front, the remaining seven, including Freeman, split into two teams, Freeman with his SAW leading the three in front, the probe team, while the four others, all equipped with SAWs in support, were moving in reaction to the lead team’s situation.
The big doors were closing as Freeman, Brentwood, and Brooklyn started up the stairs — a burst of fire from about twenty feet away to their left clipping Brentwood’s helmet, the three of them going down hard on the cold marble steps, Freeman yelling back at the Humvee to “take out that—”
There was a “whoosh” of flame only feet above their heads and the loudest explosion David Brentwood had ever heard, as if someone had let off two massive firecrackers strapped to his head, the noise added to by the reverberations of the huge door, now agape, not unhinged but licked by the yellow flame of the antitank rocket that left a large, jagged section blown out from the door’s right panel, smoke bleeding from it like dry ice, and part of the lower hinge torn, curled back as neatly as a pop can tab — two dead NKA militiamen, another crawling away from the door.
“Let’s go!” Freeman shouted, got up and led the probe team, Brentwood on his left, Brooklyn to his right, up the remainder of the long, wide marble stairs. From the sides of the building and from two third-floor offices either side of the draped NKA flag, from where the dear and beloved leader had issued some of his most famous edicts, flashlights winked in the power outage, then went out themselves.
Almost to the door, night became day, and the three Americans saw two groups of black-trousered militia coming from both corners of the building. David Brentwood to Freeman’s left returned the fire.
“Come on!” yelled the general. “We’re in the sack.”
It didn’t make any sense to David, but he was only too happy to obey the order. Once inside the door, his ears still ringing from the noise of the antitank missile hitting the big doors together with the din of the machine gun raking the militia outside, he realized what the general had meant. The two groups of militia coming from either side of the building couldn’t fire at the Americans without fear of hitting one another in a “fire sack”—the realization bringing a flashback to David of his instructors at Camp Lejeune.
Inside the building an emergency battery light created monstrous shadows. The infrared goggles proved to be of limited use and the three men quickly took them off. While the goggles had allowed them a clear picture of the enormous spotted marble columns with massive sculptures of revolutionary workers and peasants clustered about their bases looking heavenward, they robbed the three Americans of peripheral vision. It was a trade-off — wider vision but less distinct images. David could smell strong wax polish and hear the tinkling of chandeliers, then echoes of boots coming up the marble steps outside the door.
One burst and General Freeman had taken out the emergency light, the foyer plunged into darkness, illuminated only by the eerie light of the NKA flares going up outside over the Assembly Hall and Kim Il Sung Square. There were two muffled explosions and the general knew two of his Chinooks had gone, crimson flames leaping high in the rain. As they advanced down either side of the foyer, Brentwood taking the inside of the left column, Freeman fired a “draw” burst. There was no response.
“Bastards are upstairs,” he said in a hoarse whisper. How he wished he’d been able to bring in a dozen trucks, or even the three other Hummers that had been destroyed, for this place, Freeman knew better than any of his troops and even fewer of his officers, sustained the power and majesty of Communist North Korean power. The runt’s Brandenburg Gate, as he had called it.
There was a loud shout from somewhere upstairs. Though he knew no Korean, to Freeman it sounded more like a revolutionary slogan than an order. The general knelt and unclipped his PRC “satbounce” walkie-talkie radio. “Freeman to square. You reading, Al?”
“Yes, sir, loud and clear.”
“Those two Hummers back from the bridges yet?”
“Only one, sir,” replied Banks.
“Get an HM squad up here fast, Al — start firing two hundred yards back and lay ‘em right on the top. Synchronizing?”
“Go, General.”
Freeman flicked the cover of his watch dial up. “Oh five thirty-seven. Now.”
“ Got it. Ten minutes.”
“Affirmative.”
There was an orange flash, and a sound hitting iron. The ATGM launcher on the Humvee outside had been hit. The machine gun kept going, defying all logic, in a continual burst. Then, through the warped rectangle of the door, David Brentwood saw the soft glow of the burning Hummer, the two Americans slumped over the canopy, the machine gun still firing as at least twenty black-pajamaed militia appeared about the flames. The machine gun stopped, the gunner’s body collapsing into the pyre. David could now hear someone on one of the twin staircases that descended either side of the foyer. Freeman was on his PRC again. There was a crackle of static. “Banks?”
“Sir?”
“You left the square with that HM yet?”
“Negative.”
“Then pack your Humvee with every man you can get in. Mortar crew’s going to need as much covering fire as we are. The bastards are all round the building. And Banks—” Freeman’s voice faded for a moment, then came back. “I want a photographer and a flamethrower.”
There was another surge of static on the line and Banks needed to confirm. “Photographer… flamethrower, sir.”