Ian Slater - WW III

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.”

“Fast as you can.”

“We…”

Freeman didn’t hear the rest — young Brentwood had opened up with his SAW, taking out the first two militia to make it through the door, a third tripping over them, the rest breaking either side, lost to the darkness behind the huge marble columns.

“Brentwood — Brooklyn?” Freeman’s voice took on the tone of a basso profundo, its echo bouncing off the nearest statue of a hero worker. “Alternate fire! I’ll start the next one. Brentwood?”

“Sir?”

“You got a PRC?”

“Yes, sir!”

Suddenly the darkness was split by the flash and telltale staccato of AK-47s, glass breaking behind Freeman and Brentwood, bullets singing as they struck marble. Brentwood squeezed off a burst, quickly moving to the next column, every nerve raw, not knowing how far up the hall they’d gone.

“When our boys start moving up those steps,” Freeman yelled, moving toward the balustrade, “we go up to the first floor. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Brooklyn?”

There was a squeaky reply — Brooklyn so terrified, he could hardly find voice.

“More gooks, General,” Brentwood called out, and fired at the door, seeing there were too many for alternate fire if they were to stop them. He thought he got one or two, but the rest had disappeared like the first group, left and right of the cavernous foyer, behind the columns.

His ears still ringing, heart thumping, David crossed the hall, letting off another burst as he reached a marble column close to the balustrade. He felt something stinging him — his left leg-momentarily wondering whether or not it was a bullet but having no time to dwell on it. Soon, he knew, the enemy, now over the initial surprise, must figure out a rough plan of fire without hitting one another.

Now the Koreans were shouting instructions to one another, adding to the sense of increasing chaos. A second later two grenades shattered the air with purplish white. There was a scream, and in the flash Freeman glimpsed three militia coming up his side, rolled a fragmentation grenade, turned about the nearest column, and let off a quick burst from the SAW. Next instant he was on his back, Kevlar helmet hitting the marble floor, a needlelike pain down his neck, the NKA troops shooting wildly, hitting windows and turning the water-slicked floor that had caused Freeman to fall into a gallery of elusive running shadows.