Red Phoenix Burning (20 page)

Cho shook his head sadly. “No, at this point it’s just supportive care. But they probably still have the chemical on their clothes or skin. If so, they’re still absorbing the toxin, increasing their dosage. They have to be decontaminated immediately, along with anything they have touched.” He held up a gloved hand. “Your instincts were good. We can’t touch them directly. The good news is soap and water—lots of both—breaks the chemical down. Their outer clothing should be buried.”

Moon reported, “Fowler-
seonsaengnim
, this one is dead.” She was pointing to the younger man.

Kary nodded sadly. “We’ll decontaminate him as well.” For a Korean funeral, bathing the deceased was the first step in preparing the body anyway. She turned to Cho. “Will you please instruct the militia soldiers while I tend to my patients?”

While Kary gave orders to her helpers, Cho explained to the militiamen how to decontaminate the stretchers and anything else the patients had touched, and what symptoms to watch for.

He also told them to note any shells or rockets that did not explode with their customary force, or that seemed to give off smoke or vapor. They were so rattled by the words “nerve gas” that he had to repeat his instructions twice, and he wasn’t sure they would remember any of it.

She was waiting for him after he sent the militiamen off. “Those men are afraid,” she observed.

“They have every right to be,” Cho answered. “They have neither the knowledge nor the materials to protect themselves, or this town.”

“How long does nerve gas last?” she asked.

“Sarin is ‘nonpersistent.’ It breaks down after several hours, although pockets in sheltered areas can remain dangerous longer. Sunlight and water causes the gas molecule to break up. It’s hot today, which will speed the process, but it also makes the chemical more active, more lethal, until it does. Other types of nerve gas are ‘persistent.’ Their effects can last for weeks or months. If someone has used chemical weapons in the fighting, then part of Pyongyang, probably a large part of the city, is poisoned.”

“Why a large part?” she asked.

“Because nerve gas is an area weapon. Using only a few shells or rockets accomplishes nothing.”

“Someday I hope you will tell me how you know so much about sarin, and about your phone.”

“When we have the time, Fowler-
seonsaengnim
, you may ask me any question you wish, and I will tell you the truth.”

They were almost at the entrance to the clinic when Cho suddenly stopped walking. “Fowler-
seonsaengnim
,” he said firmly, “we must leave this place. Now. Immediately.” Cho’s tone was urgent, almost frantic.

“Are we in danger here? Can the gas drift that far?” she asked.

“Not from the center of the city,” Cho answered, “but from western edge, yes. And the fighting will spread,” he added. “Parts of Pyongyang are now impassible. The combatants will have to fight elsewhere.”

The look of fear on Kary’s face told Cho she understood the threat. Like the other horrors of war, civilians always suffered far more than the soldiers.

“But my patients, the staff . . .”

“Anyone who breathes is at risk. The whole town should get as far away from the city as possible.”

“Then go,” she said. “You’re recovered enough. The stiches can come out . . .”

“No,” he said firmly. “Not without Cheon Ji-hyo and her family. I can’t leave them after all the effort to get them here. And I won’t leave without Moon Su-bin, or you.”

“But they need me here.”

“You have to be alive to help them. And we might meet one or two people on our way that could use your skills.”

Cho could see that she was weakening, and felt a surge of hope. Cho pressed his point, mind racing as he proposed a plan. “We do it right away—this instant. Tell your staff and patients to gather their families here.”

“But the neighborhood monitors will find out. They’ll never allow it.”

Cho shook his head in disagreement. “Didn’t you say Sergeant Choi was in charge of this neighborhood? Considering what you’ve told me, he’ll probably help us load the trucks.”

“What trucks?” she asked.

“The ones I’m going to get from the town’s collective, ‘on the orders of Song-
dongji
‘”

“But . . .”

“Right now, those panicked militiamen are spreading news of the nerve gas through the town. The mayor and his officials will be so terrified that by the time he understands what’s going on, we will be gone.”

She remained silent, considering his plan. Her face was a mask, and his fears grew that she’d say no. Finally, Kary reluctantly nodded. “All right. I’ll get us organized here, but I’m sending Moon Su-bin with you. Her cousin Ja Joon-ho works at the collective’s motor pool, and he can drive.”

Cho walked off at a brisk pace with Moon in tow. Kary had placed her trust in a surprisingly knowledgeable stranger with a mysterious background. She said a quick prayer for their success and ran into the clinic. It only took a few minutes to tell everyone what they were doing. It really wasn’t a detailed plan. Most nodded, willing to trust her—in fact, willing to trust her with their lives.

Messengers ran off to gather families. By now, word of the desperately sick patients that had just arrived was spreading through the town, overlapping with the stories about the nerve gas. She proposed that, if questioned, people were coming to the clinic “to check on their family members.”

Once the staff was moving, Kary took the time to speak with each of her patients. Gam Sook-ja, Cheon Ji-hyo, and the other patients from Pyongang were eager to leave. They had no ties to Sinan, and had already suffered in the fighting. Now their home was poisoned. They couldn’t go back for some time.

The other patients were also willing, except for Rang Gi-taek. He was barely conscious, and one of his grandchildren spoke on his behalf. “We were preparing to take him home anyway. We will do it now.” If it was possible, Koreans near death were brought home, not only for comfort in their last hours, but so that their spirits would be rooted to the place where they had lived, and not become lost.

There was precious little food and medical supplies to take, and Kary knew that eventually they would have lost it to looters, or seen it destroyed when her mission was engulfed in fighting. It might be enough to keep them alive until they reached the advancing Southern army.

Thoughts about armies caused her to step outside and listen to the sounds of the fighting. To her newly experienced ears, the shelling and gunfire seemed no closer, but intense. She often compared it with the sounds of a summer thunderstorm. She prayed it would remain distant.

Families began arriving in ones and twos and threes, and they were told to wait in the clinic. Some of them were telling wild tales about the fighting in the capital, or what was happening elsewhere in Sinan. None of the news was good, and Kary saw justifiable fear start to become unreasonable panic, to the point where she told Ok Min-seo, the cook, to put every able-bodied soul to work at anything she could think of.

With no immediate crises apparent, Kary took a few minutes to gather a few personal items from her quarters and the office. She wanted to take the Bible from the chapel. It had been a gift from her family, but she weighed its worth against the danger of being discovered with “religious items.” Standing in the chapel, considering, she heard the sound of truck engines.

She ran outside to see two, then three trucks turn off the road into the mission. She waved them around back, behind the dining hall, and ran in between the buildings to meet them there. Cho and Moon were in the first one, a blue stake truck that had been fitted with wooden sides, then a military-looking flatbed, and then another stake truck that might have been white, a long time ago.

She ran up to the cab as Cho stopped with a screech that hinted at badly needed brake work. As he climbed down, she said “Three? How . . .”

“There was almost nobody there. Ja”—Cho pointed to a young man getting out of the second cab—”was the senior person at the motor pool. The city government is in chaos. They’ve received orders that Sinan is to become a ‘fortress against the counterrevolutionaries,’ whoever they are.”

“Most of the city officials have fled.” The different but familiar voice belonged to Sergeant Choi, getting out of the passenger’s side of the second truck. He ignored her surprised expression. “I’m glad to see you’re finally taking my advice, Kary Fowler-
seonsaengnim
.”

Dumbstruck, Kary could only nod, and Choi continued. “Song Kwang-sik,” the sergeant almost spat out the mayor’s name, “has taken his family and six of the militia as an escort and headed for the Chinese border. Most of the town officials are following his example.” Kary noted that Choi hadn’t used the customary “
dongji
“ title when referring to the mayor, which made the use of his name almost an insult.

People had come out of the clinic and the other buildings to look at the new arrivals, and Choi said, “Military units are en route to occupy the town and set up defensive works. We don’t have any time to spare. Any civilians left here will be drafted either as militia or laborers. Come on, I’ll help you get loaded.”

The patients and supplies were put on first, split between the three vehicles, and then the others began to board, to find the trucks already had some passengers. Choi explained, “My niece and her husband and children are on the last truck. Other citizens of Sinan also want to go with you. You should have enough space for everyone; in fact you have to, because as far as I know, these are the last three working vehicles in town.”

He saw her start to ask a question, and held out a hand, forestalling her. “I’m not coming. I have family here that can’t be moved, and with the mayor and the others gone, I’m now the senior official. I’ll do what I can to keep everyone still here safe. But I have a parting gift.”

He handed Kary an official-looking form. “One of the mayor’s last official acts was to issue himself travel orders allowing him and his companions to travel freely anywhere in the country.” He smiled. “My niece’s husband was in charge of drafting the document and accidentally made a second copy, which, in his haste, the mayor also signed.”

Almost in tears, Kary reached to hug Choi but he stepped quickly back. “The mayor and I have been trying to get you to leave since the day you arrived. I’m sure he’d approve. Now get out of here, as quickly as you can.”

The convoy pulled out, heading west, away from both Sinan and Pyongyang. Cho drove the lead truck with Kary on the passenger’s side, and she leaned as far as she could out the window, keeping the now-empty mission in sight for as long as she could. As familiar as it had been to her, she was now terrified of forgetting what it looked like, and she studied and memorized everything she could, until it passed behind a hill and out of sight. Once it was gone, she finally let the tears come.

Chapter 10 - Nightmare

24 August 2015, 1545 local time

Operation Backstop Headquarters, Munsan Refugee Camp

Outside Dongducheon, South Korea

They’d barely set up the command post, but Operation Backstop was in full swing, with Kevin letting his new deputy, Lieutenant Colonel Shin Sung-mo, manage the handover of the six existing camps from the ROK Army to American units. That part was going smoothly, but problems were already cropping up.

Some of the refugees refused to believe that they couldn’t bribe the personnel that managed the camps, for one. They could not imagine a system where one couldn’t buy a place at the head of the line.

That was almost comic compared to the biggest problem: the difficulty of getting the civilians properly immunized. Most didn’t trust the government to give them good health care (unless they could buy it through graft), and Kevin was spending more time than he’d like organizing classes in basic health practices, with a minor in civics.

And Southern civilians were becoming a problem as well. The camp administrators were recording names and other personal data on the Northern refugees as fast as they could, but the South Koreans weren’t waiting patiently, and even if they did wait, it wasn’t at home. Excited and hopeful civilians pestered the staff or tried to get into the camp by any means possible to search for northern relatives or northerners who might be from the same place as their relatives.

Some civilians had received word by various means that their relatives were coming, and sometimes even where they were headed. Many were convinced that their relations were inside the camp, waiting for a happy reunion. When they didn’t get an immediate answer from Kevin’s staff, they simply found a spot nearby and waited, creating a second “camp” outside the first.

Kevin was supposed to verbally report to General Tracy once a day. He had planned to make his first call this evening, so when one of the staff told him the general was calling, he knew it had to be news.

“Kevin, turn to CNN.” Like any headquarters, a TV screen was always on, with the volume muted. Theirs was set to a Korean news station, and Kevin told his staff to switch the channel.

He didn’t even need to hear the announcer. A red banner across the bottom edge flashed, “Chemical Weapons Used in North Korean Civil War.” Most of the staff came over to watch the report, and Kevin stepped away from the crowd. “Then it’s been confirmed?”

Tracy sighed. “Yes. We’ve gotten scattered but consistent cell phone and Internet traffic out of Pyongyang—or more correctly, from the outskirts of Pyongyang—that someone’s using what looks like nerve gas. It was likely artillery or rockets, since we haven’t seen much air activity, or, thank heaven, missile launches. There are reports of heavy casualties, but no numbers.” His tone changed, and he ordered, “Effective immediately, screen everyone coming out of the North for traces of any chemical agent.”

Kevin automatically answered, “Yes, sir.” They’d already been watching for symptoms and doing spot checks with detection strips, just in case, but this changed everything. They’d have to set up decontamination stations . . .

“And make sure all your people have their gear handy and are properly briefed, Colonel. You’re still getting organized, but we can’t discount the threat of a missile attack with a chemical warhead.”

“Understood, sir,” Kevin agreed emphatically. “And we will have to teach the civilians what to do. The medics have plenty of atropine.”

“Then what are your first impressions, Colonel?”

“Major Kae took me on a tour. He commands the infantry company taking care of the refugees here. He needs a battalion. I’ll need at least that. A lot of the civilians are still celebrating that they’re out of North Korea and not dead. And they’re getting decent meals. But there’s some serious culture shock. There are problems to solve, but we can make it work. But my prediction about the number of refugees was off, sir.”

“How far off?” Tracy asked.

“By a factor of two or three, at the very least,” Kevin answered. “It’s not just those who make it across the border on their own anymore. The South Korean army is sending empty supply trucks back loaded with refugees and prisoners. Whole villages and KPA units are being transported south. Major Kae says the army’s policy is to remove anyone along their route of advance so they don’t pose a security threat to the army’s rear, but that’s a pretty flimsy excuse.”

Tracy was sympathetic. “I can understand why. They’ve watched their relatives suffer for a long time. But I agree. You can’t support half the population of North Korea.”

“Sir, I’m hoping you can take this up the chain and we can get the government to change the ROK Army’s orders. I’ve got twelve thousand–plus in the Munsan camp alone, and at the rate they’re coming, I’ll need three times the number of camps we have now.”

“That’s a valid point. I’ll speak to my Korean counterpart, and send it up to Combined Forces as well. Good luck.”

Tracy had signed off like he was sending Kevin into combat, but Kevin understood the general’s meaning. His own life wasn’t in danger, but lives were at stake, as well as the reputation of the US Army. He wasn’t going to take his assignment lightly.

He hung up and headed back to the far-too-large group surrounding the television. The volume was up, so he could hear the broadcast, even though the crowd was three deep and he could only see half the screen. The anchor was interviewing a senator from one of the Western states.

“. . . about the Chinese reaction if American forces go into North Korea?”

“If we stopped worrying about what China, Russia, and the rest of the world thought, we would already be in Pyongyang. Letting the South Koreans do it alone is a typical half-measure for this administration.”

The senator thundered, “Does anybody in the White House or the Pentagon remember that when China invaded Korea sixty-five years ago, they
lost
? I bet the Chinese remember.”

He paused to draw a breath. “We’ve had US troops in South Korea for sixty-five years, and fought two wars there. Now, when they’re needed to finish the job, the president gets cold feet. The South Koreans have made it plain they’d welcome our participation.”

“The Chinese ambassador . . .”

“Of
course
the Chinese don’t want us involved. They’re watching a smaller version of their own sick political system collapse, right on their front doorstep. Democracy is winning, and the president’s leaving our troops on the sidelines. My bill will force the . . .”

“I think that’s enough of a break,” Kevin said softly, but the colonel’s voice carried clearly. In ten seconds, the group had scattered, with the last straggler pausing only long enough to mute the broadcast.

25 August 2015, 0550 local time

Ninth Ghost Brigade Forward Headquarters

Near Sariwon, North Korea

Like the motto, special operations forces train to do the impossible. They can lay in hiding near hostile forces, reporting on enemy operations for days at a time without being discovered. They can thread their way through opposing units and attack a command post or key part of their adversary’s defenses, opening the way for friendly forces to attack with a much better chance of winning.

For most nations, special operations missions are few and far between, and a country’s special operations forces might have only one or two teams on a mission at one time—unless you were South Korea. In the event of a war with the North, the ROK Army had designed Operation Gangrim to swiftly attack over a hundred bases and installations across North Korea with special warfare troops. Their orders were to either capture or destroy the weapons of mass destruction before they could be used. It had a very tight timeline.

Nobody in the South had any illusions about Kim’s willingness to use WMDs against either the ROK Army or the cities in the South. North Korea was known to have large stocks of chemical weapons, a dozen or so nuclear weapons, and possibly even biological agents. Leaving even one depot in the hands of the regime could cause untold destruction and pointless slaughter. Rhee and the other brigade commanders understood that Gangrim was strategic, both in scope and effect.

Only the ROK’s Special Forces soldiers had the skills to operate independently behind the battle lines in small groups. But add to that was the complexity of managing many such missions at the same time. Rhee had thirty-seven known and potential WMD targets to strike in his sector, one of three covering North Korea. They were installations with suspected or confirmed stocks of WMD agents, delivery systems like heavy artillery or ballistic missiles, or both.

His field headquarters was outside the city of Sariwon, deep in Northern territory, about halfway between Pyongyang and the advancing ROK forces. The base had been inserted by air and was supplied by near constant helicopter deliveries of fuel and ammunition, and served as a staging base for ten-man teams that were airlifted to different targets.

Gangrim had been designed for wartime, and assumed an organized opposing army. The DPRK civil war worked to their advantage in some ways, for instance, the lack of air opposition. In other ways, though, it was a greater problem. The unstable, almost unreadable political situation meant there were many actors who could choose to use WMDs. At least one already had.

The use of nerve gas in Pyongyang meant that the other combatants would likely follow suit, if they could. There was no time for subtlety. Command of the air allowed the helicopters to operate unmolested, and urgency demanded that concealment be sacrificed in the name of speed. So far, the risks had paid off.

Rhee spent more time in the air then on the ground. Accompanying WMD specialists that cataloged and removed any weapons that were found, he inspected each installation after it was captured, and interviewed the team leader about the assault. In peacetime, the team’s after-action report would be thoroughly studied and the findings distributed to the rest of the brigade. That might come later, but for the moment Rhee had to evaluate each leader’s job and decide whether there were lessons to be learned. Rhee also had to judge the team’s readiness to move on to another target, often just hours later.

He was returning from another inspection, with the Ninth’s headquarters in sight through the side window of his helicopter. The Ghosts’ machines were Korean-built Surions that had replaced the old American-built UH-1s. The Surion was faster, and had an advanced “glass cockpit.” The ones operated by his Ghosts had special modifications, including muffled blades and engine noise, special sensors, and protective countermeasures. His command bird was fitted with extra communications gear and a worktable that served as a flat-screen map display.

Rhee was working while they flew, assigning newly available teams to targets, when the copilot reported, “Colonel, I’ve got the team leader at Bongmu. Enemy forces are greater than expected. He reports they are getting ready to transport some of the ammunition from the depot. Brigade HQ is already tasking UAVs for air support, but he can’t wait. He intends to attack immediately.”

“How far?” Rhee asked the copilot over the headset. He could have asked to speak with the team leader, but the leader hadn’t asked for permission to attack. He’d just reported the changed situation.

He heard the copilot answer “Eighteen minutes.”

“Do it, Lieutenant.” Rhee was already dialing up the Bongmu site on the map display, and felt the machine turn and accelerate. The floor also dropped away, then rose and fell again as the pilots followed the uneven terrain. They might have air superiority, but there was no sense taking chances, either from a stray fighter or antiaircraft emplacement.

The pilot managed the actual flying, just meters over the ground or the treetops, while the copilot navigated and watched for threats or obstructions ahead of them. They weren’t maneuvering violently, but it paid to be belted in. This near dawn, they could have flown using visible light, but they kept their night vision goggles on. Obstacles had better contrast.

Rhee studied the analysis of the Bongmu weapons depot. Artillery shells with nerve gas, according to the intelligence they had, for divisional and corps artillery. The garrison was supposed to be about a company of about a hundred men, which meant only a third or so on duty at any given time. The ten-man squad would have had no problems with a force of that size. But if someone were moving WMD ammunition, there would be additional security. How much?

The swaying motion of the helicopter distracted Rhee for a moment. He wasn’t prone to motion sickness, thank goodness, but he took a moment to look up and settle his inner ear. Master Sergeant Oh, his comrade from his first mission into the North, sat across the cabin from him, securely belted in. Oh had strained his right shoulder on his second raid during Gangrim, and had been assigned to light duty until it recovered. Rhee could relate to that. Rather than send him to the rear, which Oh had loudly but respectfully resisted, Rhee had chosen him as his personal escort.

Oh could still shoot a pistol, but the sergeant’s primary task was to watch the colonel’s back in the field. Rhee always carried both a K5 pistol and K7 submachine gun, so as long as he wasn’t blindsided, he could take care of himself.

“One minute out.”

Rhee acknowledged the copilot’s message and checked his gear. “We’re being met,” the copilot reported, which told Rhee the landing zone was secure and the fight at Bongmu was over.

The helicopter set down in the clear space in front of the depot’s gate. The compound was relatively small, maybe five hundred meters square enclosed in double-layered fencing. A guard tower at each corner was anchored by a bunker built into its base. A few wooden buildings inside the wire were backed with several rows of angular concrete structures. Rhee knew each would have a heavy door and contain several hundred artillery shells loaded with chemical warfare agents. Outside the fence, the ground had been cleared, and kept clear, for a hundred meters all around. Beyond that was a ragged wood line.