Red Phoenix Burning (18 page)

Moscow, Russia

Pavel Telitsyn closed the anonymous e-mail account with an angry stab of his finger. Nothing! Cho Ho-jin was well past due on his next scheduled report. The last one was now nearly two days old, and it had been very alarming. The factions struggling for control were indiscriminately shooting anything that moved. Civilian casualties were horrendous and the damage Cho described in Pyongyang was reminiscent of the battle histories from the Great Patriotic War that Telitsyn had read in school. But there the comparison ended. There was no clear understanding as to what faction a particular military unit was allied with, or even if a unit’s loyalty was all that firm—Telitsyn suspected some military leaders traded their unit’s services to the highest bidder.

The picture Cho had painted was one of unmitigated chaos, with no direction or strategy behind the fighting—attrition of the enemy’s forces appeared to be the only discernable goal. He had also warned his superior that it was getting harder and harder to find the information Moscow wanted. Cho doubted many in North Korea could truly be sure who was ultimately in charge of the various factions.

Anger bubbled within Telitsyn. He had to resign himself to the fact that he had probably lost an extremely valuable asset. And for what? He wanted to lash out at those fools on the security council. They had to know there was virtually no chance of obtaining the information they said they so desperately needed.

And if by some miracle the Foreign Intelligence Service had managed to obtain the information, what could they have done with it? There were very few combat units in the Eastern Military District that could be mobilized and moved quickly. With only one railway line leading up to the Tumannaya River, the Russian army couldn’t hope to transport anything more than a token force to the nineteen-kilometer-long border. Idiots!

The spymaster took a deep breath; there was no point in delaying this any longer. He grabbed his secure phone and dialed his superior’s direct line. The phone was picked up on the second ring.

“Deputy Director Malikov.”

“Sir, it’s Telitsyn. I regret to inform you that our North Korean agent has missed another scheduled communications period. This makes two days with no contact. It is my belief that he has probably been killed in the line of duty.”

“Really? And what makes you so confident that he has given his life for Mother Russia? Couldn’t he have just as well deserted, comrade?” Malikov’s voice was cold, uncaring.

Telitsyn was furious, but he bit his tongue. He wouldn’t get anywhere by screaming at his boss. “Sir, Cho went to Pyongyang as ordered. He made several reports and each time the navigation function on his satellite phone put him within one hundred meters of where he said he was. We sent him into a damn Stalingrad! The odds were very much against him surviving for long in that hellhole!”

Malikov audibly sighed on the other end. “Calm yourself, Pavel Ramonovich. I understand your frustration over losing a valuable asset, but our duty is to follow orders—whether we agree with those orders or not is irrelevant. Regardless, it appears that we no longer have direct human insight into what is happening in the DPRK. I will inform the director. And Pavel, my condolences on the loss of your agent.”

“Thank you, sir,” replied Telitsyn tersely. He knew the deputy director’s sympathies were without sentiment, merely a pro forma response. The click in the receiver announced the end of the phone call.

Hanging up, Telitsyn opened one of the bottom desk drawers and took out a bottle of vodka. Pouring a small shot, the Russian raised the glass, a salute to a fallen comrade, and gulped the fiery liquid down. Returning the bottle to the drawer, Telitsyn went back to work.

23 August 2015

33rd Infantry Division, IV Corps, Headquarters

Pyongyang, North Korea

“The headquarters for the Kim faction is here, Comrade General. In the remains of the Korean Workers’ Party Central Committee complex banquet hall,” Ro Ji-hun said, pointing to the location on the Pyongyang city map. The special ops captain smiled in the dim light. “This has, of course, incensed the KWP faction greatly and they’ve already attempted two frontal assaults.”

“Both failed, I’m sure,” remarked Tae, shaking his head. The rubble from the bombed building would offer excellent defensive positions. Troops attacking from the front would literally have to crawl over the shattered walls and columns, exposing them to concentrated machine gun fire from multiple locations. Any attempt would undoubtedly end in slaughter. Tae was content with that outcome. The Kim faction would expend valuable ammunition and take some casualties, while the KWP faction was bled white by their foolish charges.

“Yes, sir. It was a poor use of their soldiers and accomplished nothing.” Ro almost sounded sorry for the slain KWP troops. “However, our reconnaissance indicates the KWP is massing additional units for yet another attempt over here, at the Mansudae Assembly Hall.”

Tae smiled. “Do we know when this attack is to begin? It would make for an excellent diversion for our forces.”

“Unfortunately, we do not know exactly when the KWP faction will make their next move. But I have men in position monitoring their troops’ every action. We may get as much as a thirty minute advance warning, but that is probably the best we can do.”

“You’ve done well, Captain,” complimented Tae, pleased with Ro’s report. The Korean general now had all the location data he needed to plan an assault on what was left of the Pyongyang Defense Command, the mainstay of the Kim faction’s forces. Tae would still need some reinforcements from Vice Marshal Koh, but a strong flanking attack would crush the Kim loyalists. The General Staff would then only have to conduct mop-up operations to finish off the remaining isolated pockets of resistance. Once the city was secured, the army could declare itself in charge and consolidate its holdings over the rest of the country. If all went well, the fighting would be over in a week, and the city would be theirs.

“Thank you, Comrade General,” replied a delighted Ro. General Tae Seok-won rarely gave compliments.

“Do you have anything else to report, Captain?”

“Just one thing, sir. It’s an unsubstantiated rumor, from a single prisoner, but I believe it is sufficiently important to bring it to your attention.”

“Very well, continue.”

“The prisoner stated that Vice Marshal Choe Ryong-hae is still alive and was spirited away from the city early this morning. He didn’t know Choe’s destination, only that it was to the north.”

Tae’s jaw hardened. This would be incredibly bad news if the claim was true. Choe Ryong-hae was the second most powerful man in the DPRK, and a close ally to the Kim family. Choe’s second son was married to Kim Yo-jong, Kim Jong-un’s younger sister, and this made Choe the closest thing to an heir apparent. If he had escaped the General Staff’s closing pincer, he could become a rallying point for other Kim loyalists. That was unacceptable.

“Do you believe this man? Is he still alive?” Tae asked quietly.

“It is hard to say, Comrade General. He was attempting to bargain the information for his life. It could be nothing more than complete fiction. However, he is still alive and can be interrogated at your convenience.”

“But if his story is true, then we have a serious problem on our hands.”

“Yes, sir. That is why I thought it best to inform you.”

“A wise decision, Captain Ro. Well, we need to—”

“General Tae! General Tae!” called out the excited voice of Captain Ryeon, the general’s aide.

“In here, Captain,” shouted Tae tersely. The interruption was not welcomed.

Ryeon burst into the command post; the man looked shocked. Tae’s emotions changed from annoyance to concern. Ryeon was not a man to be easily shaken. “What is it, Captain?” asked the general more calmly.

“Comrade General, I have message from Vice Marshal Koh. The imperialist’s puppets have crossed the demilitarized zone. There are reports of incursions all along our border.”

It was Tae’s turn to be astounded. How could the fascists just stroll across the border? Two of the four Forward Army corps was supposed to have remained behind in defensive positions to deter the Americans and South Koreans from even considering crossing the DMZ. The news was disastrous.

“How did this happen?” growled Tae with frustration. “Why didn’t the First and Second Corps engage the enemy?”

Ryeon swallowed hard. He was well aware of his general’s temper. The captain could see he was already on a slow boil. “Sir, apparently all four corps withdrew. Some of the units that Vice Marshal Koh believed were loyal to the General Staff have gone over to the KWP faction. There is heavy fighting at Wonsan.”

Tae rubbed his face with both hands. This was completely unexpected. Koh had repeatedly assured him that they needn’t be concerned about their rear. Now they had imperialist forces climbing up their backside. If they weren’t stopped, they would soon encircle his IV Corps. And while the fascists wouldn’t intentionally side with the Kim forces, he would still have to deploy troops to defend his rear. This would seriously compromise his ability to execute the attack against the Kim faction. Tae suddenly realized he didn’t have a week to secure the city; at best he had three days.

The general took a deep breath, composing himself. They would have to make drastic changes to their plan. “Comrades, we can no longer afford the luxury of a conventional attack against the Kim loyalists. We have to move much faster if we are to secure the city and prepare our defenses against the imperialists. Captain Ryeon, prepare the troops for an assault with special weapons.

“Ensure all personnel have chemical weapons defense gear, and have Major Eun bring special shells to the Thirty-Third Division’s artillery regiment. We’ll lay down a barrage of gas shells on both the Kim faction and the KWP forces, followed up with regular suppression fire as the infantry executes a shock attack. I want this attack to take place as quickly as possible. Now go.”

“Yes, Comrade General!” shouted Ryeon, departing hastily. There was much to do before the attack could begin, and Tae’s patience was already thin.

Tae then turned back to Ro. “Captain, I want you to extract every scrap of information from this prisoner, and then we need to verify if what he is said is true. I need to know if Choe is still alive. Is that clear?”

Chapter 9 - The Murder of Pyongyang

24 August 2015, 07:45 local time

US Eighth Army Headquarters, Yongsan Garrison

Seoul, South Korea

People unfamiliar with the military often thought that since Colonel Kevin Little commanded the headquarters of the Eighth Army in Korea, that meant he was in charge of the entire Eighth Army. They did not understand that although a colonel was a senior officer, a colonel typically commanded a battalion of maybe a thousand to two thousand people. Or they might not understand exactly how big an army is. The Eighth Army consisted of several divisions, which in turn were composed of several brigades, and each brigade contained several battalions, with each battalion commanded by a colonel.

The battalion that Kevin Little commanded was a special one in the Eighth Army’s organization. The headquarters battalion took care of Lieutenant General Robert Tracy’s command group, and all the headquarters’ communications, intelligence, and logistics staff. It provided security personnel, everyone’s transportation, and everything else they needed, from tents to printer paper. Although not a combat command, which was what every colonel wanted, a badly run headquarters battalion could disrupt the entire Eighth Army—not that Kevin would ever let such a horrible thing happen.

Little had seen his share of fighting in the Second Korean War and in Iraq and Afghanistan. He already had command experience as a lieutenant, captain, and major. Being assigned to command the headquarters battalion was not a bad thing. It meant that he was being groomed for larger responsibilities, and higher rank.

Because the headquarters revolved around the general’s schedule, and Kevin helped manage that schedule, he was able to carve out fifteen minutes when he knew the general would listen to his proposal. He just didn’t know if the general would agree.

General Tracy’s first intelligence brief of the day was at 0730, with his entire staff, and by promising to take over part of the usually half-hour presentation from the intelligence officer, Kevin got a chance to make his pitch. He was almost sure that raising the priority of certain supplies meant for the intelligence section wouldn’t get him in trouble with the IG. Probably. Besides, it was for a good cause.

Colonel Muñoz, the G2, or intelligence officer, covered the air and naval situation quickly, and then went on to detail what they knew of the different faction’s troop movements, which wasn’t very much. The only unusual addition was a section on the progress of ROK troops in their advance north.

It was an unusual advance, of rushes forward of ten or more kilometers, then pauses while a KPA unit was scouted, not only on its position and strength, but its allegiance, and whether it intended to fight or surrender. Belligerent Northern attitudes often changed as attack helicopters or fighter-bombers orbited nearby, waiting for the end of negotiations.

“Indeed, General, the real problem is proving to be logistics. Many of the roads are crowded with refugees, and prisoners coming south are taking up transport and security troops that are needed elsewhere.” Colonel Muñoz pointed to the map display, thick with arrows and unit symbols north of the now-moot DMZ. “Although the eastern part of the peninsula is weakly held, the terrain is so mountainous that the drain on the ROK logistics was too much, and they have shifted most of their effort over to the west.”

“That’s the real prize anyway,” General Tracy observed. “All the big fighting is around Pyongyang. The majority of the factions’ remaining strength is concentrated there. I’d encircle the whole area, then see who wanted to deal with me. The trick is to do it quickly, while the Chinese are still deciding what they want to do.”

It was now 0740, and Muñoz knew he was edging into Kevin’s allotted time. He looked over to Kevin Little, sitting to one side in the area usually reserved for briefers. The general followed his gaze, and spotted Kevin. “Colonel Little, are you giving our G2 a hand?” he asked, smiling.

“I’d like to give you a little more detail on the refugee and prisoner situation, sir, and propose something that would speed the ROK advance.” As he spoke, he walked toward the podium, and Muñoz gave him a controller like relay racers passing a baton.

Kevin pressed a button and a bar chart appeared. “These are the figures for the refugees already housed in the six camps the ROK government has established. They’re already overcrowded.” He pressed another control. “This map shows their locations, and the ROK Army units assigned to run them.”

The next slide was another bar chart, labeled “Projected Increase in Refugees.” Little started to speak, but Tracy cut him off. “You don’t have to convince me there’s a problem, Kevin. Give me the short answer. How bad is it going to get?”

“People are going to start dying soon, mostly from diseases they contract in the camps. They’re malnourished to start with, and weak from the trip south, and many are bringing sicknesses we haven’t seen in the South or the US in decades: tuberculosis, diphtheria, dysentery, and malaria. Most haven’t been vaccinated. And it could spread outside the camps, because so many Southerners are coming there looking for relatives.”

“So you want to send US medical units to assist the ROK forces?” Tracy asked. “I don’t see a problem with that. It’s a good idea, Kevin. I’ll make it happen.”

“It’s only the first step, sir,” Kevin continued. “We have a lot of troops over here that are at a high state of readiness, in case the Chinese come across the border, and we’ve got reinforcements arriving from the US all the time. If the Chinese don’t intervene, or until they do, our troops have little to do but wait.”

He paused, and clicked the controller several times. “This is a list of American units I recommend taking over the existing refugee camps from the ROKs. They’ll also set up more places for the ones still coming.”

Tracy was studying the list while his chief of staff took notes. Kevin pressed his point. “The switch frees up a lot of South Korean troops—military police, engineers, and additional infantry units—to go north. Our armor and artillery units won’t be involved in this, so they’re ready to move, and they are what the Southerners would need most if the Chinese intervened.”

The chief of staff, Colonel Page, asked, “What if the Chinese do come south? We’d have a lot of our people tied up taking care of civilians. I agree armor and artillery would be a priority, but if we’re dealing with the Chinese, one thing we will definitely need is numbers.”

General Tracy nodded. “And the ROK units in the north will be spread out all over creation trying to occupy the country.”

Kevin smiled. He’d thought about that question. “The ROKs are mobilizing reserve units as fast as they can and sending them north as garrison troops. If the Chinese attack, we let the reserve units take our place.”

Tracy smiled. “The Blue House should like this. They get more units for the advance, and if the balloon does go up, we still go north.”

Colonel Page wasn’t convinced. “We will be moving quite a few troops out of garrison to positions just below the border. What will the Chinese make of that?”

“We’ll let the press watch. Public affairs will have full access,” Kevin replied.

Tracy looked on approvingly, and picked up where Kevin had stopped. “And the troops will have something useful to do, helping people instead of waiting for something we hope doesn’t happen. And maybe all those war hawks who want to send us north right now, which would definitely cause the Chinese to jump in, will quit quarterbacking from the bleachers.”

The general smiled broadly. “Well done, Kevin. This gives a boost to the South Koreans, it’s good for our troops, and it will help the Korean civilians; heaven knows they can use it. We’ll call it Operation Backstop, and I know the perfect man to run it.”

Kevin felt a cold hand close around his heart. He didn’t respond right away. He couldn’t think of anything that would prevent the inevitable, and the general just nodded slowly. “Backstop is your baby, Colonel. You’re the man to run it. Turn the battalion over to your deputy. Tell Jane it’s her chance to shine.”

24 August 2015, 8:00 a.m. local time

Christian Friends of Korea Mission

Sinan, outside Pyongyang

Sergeant Choi came by again that morning, he said on the orders of Mayor Song, to look for “deserters or other criminals.” Two militia soldiers, wearing red armbands and awkwardly carrying automatic rifles, had accompanied the sergeant, but Choi honored Kary’s request that they remain at the front gate while the sergeant made his inspection.

She recognized one of the soldiers as a local shopkeeper, and didn’t trust either one’s competency with firearms, or not to steal something if they could.

Choi made a point of looking everywhere. First the office building, which also had quarters for the CFK staff and a chapel, then the dining hall, with its kitchen and storehouse. The policeman had been polite, allowing the mission’s business to continue as he searched, sharing gossip and what rumors he thought were worth repeating. They were all local rumors, though. All state-controlled media were off the air, and if anybody had a bootleg radio, they weren’t advertising it.

There was no need to talk about the fighting in the city. The whole town could hear the near-constant rumble of artillery and tank cannon, which at irregular intervals would crescendo and then fall in volume, but remained thankfully distant.

The biggest news was still the mayor’s reaction to the fighting. The day after Kim died, Mayor Song had ordered, “that for security reasons Pyongyang residents fleeing the city are to be housed at the Greatness of Labor municipal hall.” The building was one of the largest in town, and served as a meeting place or a theater for socially uplifting entertainment. Officially, they were supposed to be fed and given medical care, but Kary had heard—not from Choi—that the refugees had nothing but bare floors and a thin soup, served once a day.

The last building to inspect was the clinic and dispensary. Choi said, “I’m supposed to inquire about Cheon Ji-hyo and her family that arrived the other day. They must join the others in the Greatness of Labor hall when you think they are able to be moved.”

And which one does the mayor think is the greatest threat? The mother, grandmother, or the two children?
But Kary didn’t say that aloud. “She’s still recovering from the first surgery. She needs at least one more operation, and then at least a week in bed.”

“And the man that brought them in, Cho?”

“I sewed up four deep lacerations in his back. He lost a lot of blood. He may be up tomorrow.”

“His papers are in order, but as soon as he’s mobile he’ll be required to volunteer for the local militia.”

Kary nodded. “I’m sure he will be happy to do his duty.”

The sergeant didn’t question her judgment, or press for too many details. The mayor suffered the mission’s existence because she provided medical care the town of Sinan couldn’t. And while he had ordered Choi to take any healthy outsiders to the municipal hall, every person she housed and fed was one less for him to deal with.

Choi ran down the list of other patients at the clinic. They had ten beds, and eight were occupied. Cheon, her family, and Cho were five of the eight who had fled the city, while the other three were locals. Cheon was the worst trauma patient, and the worst local citizen was Rang Gi-taek, in his fifties, who was fighting pneumonia and losing.

With the hospitals closed to all but the party and the army, Kary’s clinic offered the best medical care in the area, both for the locals and refugees from the city. She would have been swamped, but only people who knew about the mission came there.

But as proud as she was to be helping, she also seethed inside at the limits the regime had placed on her organization. She could have done so much more, for people who needed so much and asked for so little. And there were so many she’d lost. Kary had become very familiar with Korean funeral customs.

Standing by the front gate, ready to leave after his fifteen-minute tour, he said, “You are a good woman, Fowler-
seonsaengnim
, but you should get out of Korea.”

“I can’t leave,” she insisted in her best Korean.

Choi looked over at the two militiamen, and moved a few steps back into the compound, away from the gate. Lowering his voice, for a moment Kary thought he was going to give her another pistol. Instead, he said, “The mayor has declared that this place is not part of Sinan, and is not to be protected. He explicitly ordered me not to respond to any calls for help from here.” He nodded solemnly at her shocked expression, and added, “I will disobey that order if I can, but he actually thinks this place is one of the secret bases our enemies will use to launch the final attack on Pyongyang.” He smiled, but there was no humor in it.

As he walked away, the two soldiers following, she sighed. He probably was giving her good advice. She knew that. He had her best interests at heart. When he’d inspected their storeroom and its meager contents, tucked neatly in one corner, he’d just shaken his head and closed the door. He hadn’t even taken a tin of food.

With Choi’s thankfully short visit out of the way, she’d headed back to her office, via the clinic. She made the rounds as often as she could. Even if there was little she could give them, at least she could keep close tabs on their progress.

As she entered the long room, this time without the sergeant, volunteers and the patients’ family members greeted her quietly. Kary walked down the center aisle, between the double row of beds, speaking with any patients who were awake and checking everyone’s vitals. Few were as sick as she’d told Sergeant Choi, except possibly Cheon Ji-hyo.

The woman was mending slowly, getting by on minimal doses of the clinic’s painkillers and antibiotics. One or both of her kids were always on one side of the bed, her mother Gam Sook-ja on the other.

Kary couldn’t look at Cheon without feeling a little pride. She’d done more surgeries lately than she’d ever imagined, and Cheon Ji-hyo’s shoulder had been by far the most difficult. Bullet and bone fragments had torn through the muscles, but guided by divine hands, she’d repaired the torn muscles and stopped the bleeding. In a few days, Kary would have to go back in to see if she’d . . .