THE heat was intense. Dan staggered as it hit him, nearly losing his grip on the boarding ladder. He shaded his eyes, squinting across miles of concrete thronged with planes. Bomb damage showed as dark patches, filled with asphalt. On the far side of the main strips piles of wreckage had been bulldozed up, smashed aircraft and buildings ruthlessly cleared aside, part of the squandering and detritus of war.
“Okay, Admiral?” Sergeant Gault, taking his arm. “Look a little pale.”
Dan nodded angrily and shook his hand off. The Marine aide was sometimes a little too attentive. “Let’s get to the terminal, see if the next flight’s on time,” he snapped. Then reeled himself in. “Sorry, Ronson, I’m … tired.”
“You got your head down for a little while on the flight, sir.”
“Yeah, but … yeah.” He vaguely recalled disturbing dreams. Even when he could snatch two consecutive hours of unconsciousness, it didn’t seem to dent his fatigue. It shrouded both mind and body. Slowing his reactions. Making him take too long over what should be simple decisions.
Not good, in a battle commander.
The terminal was a hundred yards away, over concrete so scorching it burned through the soles of his boots. Inhaling the hot, kerosene-smelling air, he forced his steps toward it.
Indo-PaCom and JCS had reluctantly agreed to a two-week pushback for Operation Rupture. Accompanied by promises of priority shipments of missiles and some additional fuel.
His request that Lee Custer be relieved had been denied. Dan hadn’t been privy to the proceedings, but one of Tomlin’s WTI classmates had been in the room with the VTC when Fleet had raked the logistics commander over the coals. Giving him a stark choice: Provide better support to the operating forces, or someone would be found who could.
Since then their requests for support had found more responsive ears. LogForce had set up a test of Brunei crude pierside aboard Ma Kong, ex-USS Chandler, a modifed Spruance-class destroyer sold to Taiwan years before. For two hundred operating hours her turbines had digested a desalted and washed light export blend rich in medium distillates, without excessive ash accumulation. Fourteen general purpose tankers idled by the slump in world trade were under contract, total capacity one point five million barrels. Dan planned to hold them in reserve at scattered anchorages south of the Spratleys.
He hadn’t heard a word from Custer personally. They dealt through subordinates, or official messages.
But just now Dan was headed for Japan, at the request of Admiral Min Jun Jung, Republic of Korea Navy. After the elected president and his entire cabinet had been shot in Seoul, Jung, as the senior officer to have escaped the North Korean takeover, had gotten himself recognized by the Allies as head of the government in exile. Which, for Dan, entailed a long flight back to Guam, then this second, upcoming leg, Guam to Yokota.
He was only getting spotty information. Nothing was on the official news except feel-good interviews and gushing predictions of secret new miracle weapons. But it did seem the Allies were finally making progress in Korea. Operation Chromite had combined a raid with a decapitation strike. After a combined air and ground assault on his stronghold in the far north, the Leader was off the air and presumed killed. Resistance in front the Allied landings near Pyongyang had collapsed. A glacier that had stood frozen for nearly eighty years was finally melting, collapsing.
“We have to take advantage of it now, Daniel,” Jung had told him in a patched-through call. “I asked Jim Yangerhans for you. Suffering Korea needs you. I know you will not leave her to cry out in vain.”
The orders had arrived within the hour. Dan would go with one aide. His staff would continue planning. Lee Custer would put on Dan’s hat as Commander, Task Force 91.
Dan’s shoulders had slumped, then lifted.
So Custer had won, after all. And Dan had lost his chance for professional immortality. Instead of the history books, as the man who’d invaded China, he would be a footnote, a spear-carrier in a side drama.
He felt less disappointed, than overjoyed at that turn of events.
FIVE hours later they descended once more. The beach flashed past. Then mile after mile of densely packed buildings, streets, the solidified encrustation of human occupation, came into view. Tokyo. The C-17 had only tiny portholes in the doors, but through one, from his fold-down seat along the bulkhead, he noted the clouds being replaced by distant green hills. Next, a radio tower, then oil storage tanks and radomes. The wheels shrieked and they were down, rolling. He and Gault unbuckled and got ready to deplane.
Jung’s headquarters was posted with a hastily painted sign. Korean, and under it in English, HEADQUARTERS OF PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT REPUBLIC OF UNITED KOREA. JUNG MIN JUN PRESIDENT. A picture beneath it showed Jung resplendent in choker whites, medals, and white gloves, a smile lighting his broad face as he saluted, gaze lifted to a Korean flag streaming in the wind.
When Dan was admitted to the inner sanctum, though, the president was in his undershirt, sitting cross-legged at a low table, chopsticks flicking among dozens of tiny bowls. Dan’s first impression was that his old shipmate had gained weight. He’d always been barrel-chested, but now excess flesh drooped from his jawline. His belly bulged the thin cotton. Jung glanced up as Dan stopped in the doorway, then hoisted himself with a grunt and waddled toward him, big fleshy arms extended.
“Bro hug, amigo,” he said, and wrapped Dan in a heavy-armed embrace. Dan patted his back, exchanging glances with Gault. “Hey, have some lunch. They feed you on the plane? Damn, I’m glad you could make it. We’re going back. Just like you said we would. Three years. You remember Min?”
Min Su Hwang had been Dan’s liaison during Task Force 76’s swirling, murderous battle in the central Pacific with the Chinese submarine force. Dan shook the willowy captain’s limp hand, then noticed something different. “You’re an admiral,” he said.
“I promoted him.” Jung guffawed and dropped back to a cross-legged posture. He gestured expansively. “Bulgogi beef, that was what you always liked. And white rice. You don’t have to eat the kimchee, Dan. I know how you hated it. But you don’t have to eat it to please me. Not anymore.”
Dan hesitated, then settled across from him. He crossed his legs, and was immediately reminded how uncomfortable most Westerners found the position.
“Admiral, put him in the picture,” Jung said around a mouthful of rice.
Hwang sank to a graceful lotus. He said in a soft voice, “The main battle is taking place in the north. Some of our ships are supporting the Allied invasion there. We have gathered the rest in Nagasaki Bay. From there, only two hundred and fifty nautical miles across the Korea Strait—which you know.”
Dan nodded. Yeah. He’d fought there too, back when the Northerners had tried to slip a nuclear weapon into Busan.
“The ships you know, as well. You led many in our central Pacific fight together. I have done the planning for our return. But it would be helpful if you could look it over.”
“Sure,” Dan said. “Glad to help.”
While Hwang spoke Jung’s wide face had clouded. He lit a cigarette and sucked deep, waving it around as he exhaled. Said, “Unfortunately, we do not dispose of many ground formations. Kim dissolved the ROKA. The officers went to prison camps or were shot. The rank and file went to work battalions. Our spies tell us many have died of starvation. And the Americans say the US has no ground forces to spare, with the occupation of Taiwan and actions elsewhere.” Jung shrugged. “They want me to wait. But I cannot, when my country suffers. We must rescue her. This is the time.”
Goading Jung into action had never been the problem. Restraining him from a headlong Light Brigade charge into the midst of the enemy—that had been Dan’s challenge during their operations in the Taiwan Strait. He couldn’t decide which was harder, getting Custer going or Jung stopped. “So where will your troops come from?”
The provisional president chopsticked up ponytail radish and chewed, eyes narrowed. “We have a few. Perhaps a regiment’s worth. Patriots who left the country when the government fell, or afterward, when I broadcast the call to rally to me.”
“One regiment?” Dan blinked. Was he serious?
“Of course, far too few. So … I have asked the Japanese for an armored division. And for the amphibious lift. It is not how I wanted to return. My countrymen still hate the Japanese. For what they did to us for so many years. On the other hand, they would welcome the Americans. We will have American air cover. But no Marines. No U.S. Army.
“Therefore, Dan, my old friend, I want you beside me when I lead the way ashore. Two heroes, allies and friends. From there we will proceed north, reconstituting the forces of freedom for the liberation as we go.”
Dan fidgeted, shifting his legs, which were already cramping. A division and a regiment didn’t sound like a lot to take on an army, even a weakened one. And “reconstituting” sounded risky too. On the other hand, Napoleon had returned from Elba nearly alone, and rallied enough troops to make it a close call at Waterloo. Obviously Jung fancied himself in the same mold. “Um … when did you plan to land?”
“We sail at midnight.” Jung gazed into the distance with lifted head. Dan suddenly noticed an unobtrusive little man in gray across the room. He was taking pictures, moving about silently on tiny, high-arched, stockinged feet. A striking Asian woman in pink lipstick stood there too, communicating with the photographer via silent gestures.
“Holy … there’s not much point in my looking at your plans, then.” Dan coughed, fighting a tickle from the smoke. “I thought you needed my advice. Landing beach, strategy, breakout, support, comms—”
“That is what I told the president,” Hwang said softly. “But he insists.”
Jung said, “The air strikes will begin tonight. Busan would be the most convenient point at which to land. But the Northern forces realize that too. They have fortified it with heavy defenses. The naval bases at Cheju and Sinseondae as well.
“Therefore, we will land at Gwangyang. A large commercial port. It is well sheltered, with a channel depth of fifteen meters at low tide. If we capture it undamaged, we will be able to offload directly onto the container piers and push inland.”
Jung beckoned and an attractive young woman in a loose combat uniform knelt to spread a chart on the floor. Hwang clicked a laser pointer in the shape of a pink mouse. He briefed the order of sailing, the assault lanes, and the order in which the special forces would secure the port entrance. “We will not have the fire support for heavy preparatory fires,” the chief of staff murmured. “We must count on the cooperation of the dockworker’s union, which we have organized into resistance cells. From there, the railroad leads north.”
“North, to victory,” Jung pronounced, and lifted his chin. Smoke curled up from the cigarette.
Winstons, Dan remembered. Hwang was staring at him, expression bland, yet still somehow questioning. He rubbed his face, covering his misgivings with a sip of hot tea from the tiny porcelain cup the uniformed woman poured for him.
The operation looked reasonable. If you had four divisions in the assault, and a couple more in reserve. With only one-plus and no reserves, they were begging to get their tails kicked back into the sea. If he was honest, it looked like a recipe for failure.
Should he say so? He couldn’t decide. Couldn’t decide if Jung was a deluded buffoon or quite simply one of the few truly great and historic figures he had ever met. Or perhaps those two things were the same thing, and only Fate and Luck drew the distinction afterward.
A few feet away the little man in gray squatted, aiming his camera at them both.
IN the end Dan recommended that they have a fallback plan for withdrawal if enemy resistance proved too heavy. And, just as he’d expected, Jung waved it away. “There is no point,” he said mildly. “We won’t need it.”
They flew out of Tokyo that evening in a Japanese Air Self-Defense Force V-22 and boarded Sejong the Great, Jung’s flagship, that night.
The destroyer was massive, a cruiser in all but name. Aegis-equipped like the Arleigh Burkes, but over a thousand tons bigger. Capacious, modern, and with deeper magazines than comparable US classes, they also had a large suite of flag quarters that Jung occupied with the attitude of a medieval ruler in his keep.
Dan had been impressed with the Koreans back when he’d operated with them. He’d seldom seen better sailors, with more can-do attitudes. Maybe Jung was just the average Korean writ large.
Instead of adjourning to those luxurious spaces, however, Jung went to CIC. He was uncharacteristically quiet, replying in monosyllables. Dan took the hint and found a seat at the end of the command table, facing four large-screen displays.
US submarines had wiped the board clean of the antiquated North Korean diesels in the first year of the war. The Japanese, Hwang muttered, had guaranteed transit across the strait, since their ground forces were involved. They were embarked on Hyuga- and Oosumi-class LSTs and what the JSDF called “helicopter destroyers,” though they were more like small carriers. Hwang said the Japanese navy suffered a lot of damage during the campaign to retake the Senkakus and Okinawa. Their marine force had island-hopped down the Ryukyus chain on their own. Their troops were battle-hardened and their ships ready to fight. Another plus would be the foothold the US Marines now held far to the north. That might attract the enemy’s mobile forces, draining them from where Jung planned to land.
Dan could only hope resistance would be light.
THE transit took five hours. They exited Hiroshima Bay, threading past Tairajima and Hirado Islands, then sortied into the open sea. Dan sat in CIC, drinking the coffee that Jung ordered specially for him—it didn’t seem to be a staple in this navy—and tensely watching the screens. The symbols for friendly air stitched the southern edges of the peninsula. The Japanese and US air forces, taking down any remaining fighters and what defensive installations could be identified. As they neared, two hostile contacts sputtered outward from antiship batteries Intel had missed. Japanese missiles swiftly batted them down.
Hour by hour, the coast grew closer. The minesweepers went in first, escorted by patrol craft backed by missile frigates. Dan discussed hypersonics with Hwang. Intel said the Russians had sold them to Pyongyang—Mach 7 missiles that flew too fast for older antiaircraft systems to track—but no one had seen them yet. Ballistic missiles were a possibility too.
They stayed alert, but no more threats appeared. When the main body altered course for the channel in, it was almost dawn.
The prospect of landing in daylight didn’t seem to faze Jung. He sat Buddha-serene in his command chair, chain-smoking, only now and then shooting a question in rapid Korean to Hwang or to the ship’s CO, beside him. Dan kept wondering why he himself was needed. He didn’t seem to have a job, or be expected to do anything. And he didn’t speak Korean. Was it just for appearances? He reflected uneasily that that was pretty much what Jung had said he wanted, after all.
“We will be pierside in half an hour,” Hwang said, placing a soft hand on Dan’s shoulder. “You will want to prepare.”
He flinched at the touch. “Uh, prepare. For what?”
“The president wants you in the landing party. You have brought a fresh uniform? Ribbons? Your Congressional Medal?”
WTF, over? “Uh, well, no … just khakis. But will it be secure? Aren’t we going to have to fight for the port?”
“It is in our hands. The unions, the port authority are ours. There may be some slight resistance. Communist stragglers. But we are ready for them. Demolition teams from the North tried to destroy the cranes. They have been dealt with.” Hwang lingered, then said again, “You will need to be in proper uniform.”
Dan took the hint. He found Gault asleep in their stateroom and changed without waking him. Considered, then nudged him. “Sergeant. Need you on deck. We’re going ashore.”
The marine looked dazed. “Ashore … right, sir.” He swung his boots out. He’d slept with them on, only taking off his blouse.
Dan turned back at the door. “And find a weapon somewhere.”
“Broken down in my duffel, Admiral.”
“Get it. They say there’s no resistance, but Jung’s a prime target. We need to be ready.”
He left Gault assembling his rifle and went back to CIC.
Video feed from a UAV showed the lead destroyers, Daegu and Gangwon, making a slow approach to a huge commercial pier area. Nearly four miles long, it lined the inner harbor. When they halted alongside, a body of armed men, but not regular troops, emerged from containers stacked across the concrete and set up a ragged perimeter. The frigates’ guns rotated uneasily from point to point, standing by for counterbattery. But there didn’t seem to be anything to fire at.
Jung snapped an order. Dan caught Shimokita and Kunisaki, the landing ships. On the screen, the huge vessels drifted in to the pier. Within minutes ramps extended to the concrete and the lead tanks rumbled ashore.
Jung stubbed out his cigarette and stood with a grunt. Sweat gleamed on his brow. The uniformed woman held out a fresh shirt, and the president put his arms out. A uniform, but without medals or ribbons. Just a plain khaki shirt, open at the neck. Plain khaki trousers. Black half-Wellington boots, lovingly shined, which she placed carefully on the deck, then bent to help slip his feet into them.
“It is time,” Hwang said softly.
WHEN they emerged into the dawn, fog lay over the bay. The ship seemed to hover, suspended in the clouds, between low areas of fill or marsh. The narrow strip of hoary water was cupped by green-topped almost-mountains. But the low land lining the bay was covered by concrete seawalls, cranes, warehouses, pyramids of containers, and inshore of that, a city. A frigate lay four hundred yards off.
Twisting his head, Dan caught the upperworks of the landing ships farther inland, above a low island that masked a turn in the channel. Jet engines shrieked. A CAS drone rocketed across the low island, rocking from side to side as its sensors scanned the ground below.
He’d expected a helicopter, but Jung led the way to a ladder. They descended cautiously, gripping the handrails, into a battered, listing landing craft. A dozen tough-looking Koreans, heavily armed and bulky with black tactical gear, ballistic vests, and black helmets, were already aboard. The craft surged and clanked in the chop. The official party huddled in the well as the diesels growled. The last to file down the boat ladder were a party of men and women in casual clothes, carrying black plastic cases with bright chromed clasps.
The diesels gave a throaty cough, clunked into gear, and the gray sheer salt-whitened sides of Sejong the Great fell away. Gault checked his carbine. He pulled another helmet from somewhere and held it out. “Admiral. Got a nine-mil for you too.”
Dan weighed the pistol belt. Glanced at Jung. The president was staring away, as if into the future. Dan cinched the belt on and checked the firearm. Magazine loaded. Chamber empty.
He searched the sky again. One fighter, or attack helicopter, and they were toast out here. Hwang was deep in conversation with the high-cheekboned, pink-scarved, rose-lipsticked woman who’d supervised the photography the night before. Today, in a black leather jacket and beret, she seemed to be directing the civilians.
The engine roared, going to speed. Dan couldn’t see over the high bulkheads of the well deck. He sagged to a squat and closed his eyes. The pistol wasn’t enough to reassure him.
Sometime later, Gault shook him awake. He came up with a snort. Had been dreaming about a booth, some kind of sales booth, outside the White House. He’d been scrubbing the walls with bleach and cleanser. While arguing with someone about Dostoevsky, who’d come by earlier. “Eah,” he grunted.
“Admiral. Your Korean buddy, he says to get ready.”
He creaked to his feet. The gritty, rust-stained deck was steady under him; they’d reached the inner harbor, apparently. The troops were mustered in front of the ramp. The civilians had opened their cases, revealing fitted foam cutouts where delicate machines had nestled. The tall woman in the pink scarf was shrieking at her crew over the clamor of the engines. Dan caught what he suspected was gunfire in the distance. “Just fucking great,” he muttered, exchanging glances with Gault.
The sergeant charged his weapon and checked his safety. Dan loosened his pistol in the holster and wished he had one of the protective vests. The black-clad bodyguards returned his gaze flatly, with no trace of expression.
“Gyeong-go! Jin-iblo-eseo dwilo mulleo seo!” shouted the lead woman. Hwang craned above the other heads, caught Dan’s eye, and waved him back.
With a grating roar, the bow rose. The sudden deceleration sent everyone staggering. One man dropped his camera, and was subjected to a renewed dressing-down from the lipsticked woman.
She was interrupted mid-diatribe by a sudden flood of light as the bow ramp dropped away, slamming down hard into wet sand. Dan crouched, clearing his holster, expecting every moment a shower of machine gun bullets. The troops charged off, shouting, boots thundering on the dented metal.
The producer wheeled and marched after them, signaling her crew to follow. They scrambled off behind her, jumped off the ramp, and ran up the slope.
Jung stood alone now, in the center of the ramp. Hwang, glancing back, beckoned Dan to join them. To the right Dan made out the cranes, the piers, the gray upperworks of the LSTs. Ahead lay white sand rising to scrub, and beyond that the red roofs of what looked like beach cottages. The PR team was spread out in a ring inside the larger perimeter of the black-clad special operators. The latter faced outward, weapons ready; the former inward, toward the landing craft.
Jung turned his head. Up close his face was shiny with sweat. “You have never truly believed in my destiny, Daniel,” he said.
“I’m not sure I believe in destiny, period, Mr. President,” he said. Then wondered: Why am I suddenly calling him that?
“But we each have a fate, my friend. If we doubt, it will abandon us. But if we believe, work for it, it will make us great. You too have one. Do not doubt it. Fight for it.”
“It’s time, Mr. President,” Hwang said. “They are ready for us.”
Jung nodded tightly. He hesitated for one more second; then stepped out as if given a “Forward, march” command, and strode down the ramp. He stumbled as his boots plowed sand, but kept himself upright, powering forward. Toward, Dan saw, an orange plastic disk in the sand some fifty feet up the beach.
Dan suddenly understood. Jung was playing Douglas MacArthur. This was a PR event. He almost rolled his eyes, but to be honest he felt too pumped to mind. Maybe Jung really had a “destiny.” Or maybe seeing him stride ashore would inspire his countrymen to resist.
If it helped end the war, it was worth putting up with some theatrics.
The producer was shouting orders as she backed up the slope. She spotted Dan and pointed at him. “To right of President. That’s good. Gun is good. Hold gun out more. That’s good. Like that.” The cameras circled. Above their heads a lens glinted from a camera drone, hovering a hundred feet up, staring down. At a shout from the woman a crewman ran up and planted a microphone on a stand in front of the disk.
Jung strode up to it and halted. He glanced down, positioning himself on the marker, then thrust his hands into his belt. He looked up, lifting his double chin, narrowing his eyes. The wind ruffled his black hair. Dan stood awkwardly two steps away, holding the pistol away from his body. The chamber was still empty, but he was ready to rack it and shoot.
Jung began speaking. His tones rolled out. Deep. Booming. Grandiloquent. Dan didn’t follow the Korean, only got a word here and there. Like “America,” when Jung turned to him and beckoned him forward. Placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. Dan lifted his head too, and tried to look inspired as the troops unwrapped flags and jammed the hafts deep into the sand. The blue and white of the United Nations. The Stars and Stripes. And the red/blue yin/yang of the Republic of Korea. No Rising Suns, he noted. The Japanese were going to be left out of this piece of showmanship.
A snap, and sand spurted up between Jung and the cameras. The pop-crack of a distant shot. The troops wheeled, and began ripping out automatic fire. Dan couldn’t see what or who they were firing at. Somewhere over by the piers.
He leapt in front of Jung, arms flung wide. And then, shouldering him aside, Gault was there too, the pair of them human shields in front of the president. Who didn’t cower or hit the dirt, though his voice shook as he called commands. The video crew threw themselves down but kept filming, some lenses pointed at the distant piers, others at Dan and Gault and Jung.
The black uniforms closed in, grabbing them, hustling them up the beach. At the last moment, as he passed it, Dan bent and in some inexplicable impulse jerked the orange tee marker out of the sand and stuffed it into a pocket. They climbed to the dune line, boots slipping in the loose shifting soil. On the far side was a road, black SUVs, a police car, and a yellow utility truck, strobes on and rotating.
Dan followed Jung and Hwang as men in dark business suits and identical blue ties stepped out of the SUVs. They arranged themselves in a line, a welcoming party, and bowed as one, as Jung slogged up to them. His pants legs were wet and his boots coated in sand but that didn’t seem to slow him down. He nodded coldly as they held their bows. A driver jogged around to open a door.
Dan made as if to climb in after Jung, but one of the black-clad security guys grabbed his sleeve. The soldier pointed to the second vehicle, then held out his hand. Another trooper was trying to wrestle Gault’s carbine away from the unwilling marine.
Dan stared at the waiting glove for a moment, then understood. He handed over the pistol and trudged back to the second car as the suited men climbed into the first vehicle after the president.
He stood looking back for a moment before he got in. On the beach, the media crew were repacking cameras and broadcasting equipment. The tall woman, arms akimbo, was yelling at them as they furled the flags. In the harbor, low wisps of white fog twisted across the water like mooring lines under strain. Troops and combat vehicles were streaming out of the landing ships. A few bodies lay at the base of the cranes, as if they’d been thrown off.
Destiny? Or stage management?
Strategy, or luck?
He stared for another second, imprinting it on his memory. Then ducked, and slid into the car.