Ian Slater: WW III

Then came the biggest shock of all: cuts of Pyongyang Polly, picked up by satellite, announcing to the slow accompaniment of funereal music that “our dear and respected leader” had been killed in the American raid and that the new people’s provisional revolutionary government was being led by “our dearly revered president, Choi Yunshik,” formerly a vice martial in the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.

The CIA at Langley knew nothing more about Choi than that he was a middle-of-the-roader who had opposed the hitherto unheard-of Communist “succession” of Kim Jong Il taking over his father’s title.

General Kim, it was announced by Pyongyang Polly, was being relieved, “due to ill health.”

With the precious time and intelligence gained by Freeman’s attack, the pressure on the Yosu/Pusan perimeter was immediately reduced. Kim’s overextended supply line severed by the “Freeman-style” attacks, as the press was calling them, on Taejon and Taegu had only added to General Kim’s problems.

Everything had come unglued for Kim, due in no small measure to the capture of Kim’s plan of attack on Pusan from Major Rhee, who, after interrogating Tae at Uijongbu, had been given the plan by Kim to take to Pyongyang for the blessing of the NKA’s general staff.

In Beijing, behind the highly lacquered bloodred gates of Zhongnanhai Compound on Changan Avenue, the North Korean ambassador reported that Pyongyang wished to “discuss the situation” with the United States, and as there was no official representative of the Democratic People’s Republic of North Korea “ in the imperialist warmonger’s capital,” the government in Pyongyang representing the “freedom-loving people of North Korea” requested that their comrades of the People’s Republic of China might intercede on their behalf.

The ambassador’s request was not well received by Premier Lin, who reminded the Korean that their late dear leader, Kim II Sung, father of Kim Jong D, whom Chinese intelligence knew was not dead but under house arrest, had once referred to the Chinese as “American puppets.”

The ambassador was shocked, and said, with great respect, that he did not recall this.

“It was,” said Premier Lin coldly, “in February 1989.” With that, Lin rose, indicating the meeting was at an end. Pyongyang would be informed of the Central Committee’s decision.

The ambassador of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea bowed as low as his back condition would permit.

In three days Pyongyang, seeing their exhausted troops now reeling back from the Yosu/Pusan perimeter as far as Taegu, saw what President Mayne referred to rather mundanely as “the writing on the wall,” at least as far as the Korean theater was concerned.

The CIA was receiving messages from Beijing’s Bureau of Public Safety, the Chinese equivalent of the FBI, that “certain overtures” had been made from Pyongyang. These confirmed the CIA’s suspicion, gained from Japanese businessmen who had visited North Korea prior to the war, that, despite the loyal public displays of affection, the wearing of sixteen different pins of their dear and respected leader, the most secretive dictatorship on earth had within it a boiling discontent. The people, in consequence of the economic cost of Kim II Sung’s lavish self-idolatry, and that of his son, were experiencing the lowest standard of living in the Communist world, it being estimated that over 20 percent of the country’s GNP was going to the military.

General Freeman did not know any of this as he was in the throes of a violent allergic reaction to the tetanus shot. Nothing on his record sheet indicated any such reaction, it being hypothesized that the original vaccination given him years before had been made from a different serum. The knife wound had become badly infected, and in Tokyo’s U.S. military hospital, to which he was transferred, surgeons were discussing the possibility that they might have to amputate.

At the moment the United States Congress rose in unison upon hearing that the heretofore little-known General Douglas Freeman, U.S. Army, was to be the recipient fo the first Congressional Medal of Honor in the Asian theater, Captain Robert Brentwood, U.S. Navy, was in the redded-out control room on the top level of the four-tiered sub off the Kola Peninsula. He was about to take the USS Roosevelt up for a last attempt to receive a burst message via the VLF. No message came.

“Retract VLF,” he ordered. “Ready HF.” This was a whip aerial that would slide up from the periscope cluster to receive on the higher-frequency channels, but its appearance above the sea’s surface could prove fatal if picked up by enemy SATRECON — satellite reconnaissance.

“Five minutes only, Pete,” instructed Brentwood. “Then retract.”

“Understood. Five minutes. Counting.”

At three minutes fifty-seven seconds there was an electronic burp, the receiving screen registering digitized transmission from a TACAMO aircraft out of Reykjavik, Iceland.

There was a collective sigh.

“Jesus!” said one of the planesmen, too relieved not to break the silence order. Brentwood let it pass, relieved himself. From the computer room an operator handed him the computer-converted number-for-word message to USS Roosevelt: “Battle Stations Missiles.”

There was no Klaxon or alarm chime as, following strict procedure, Executive Officer Peter Zeldman calmly announced on the mike, “Now hear this…” as he stood on the attack center’s raised podium about the search-and-attack periscopes.

Next, Captain Brentwood ordered, “Set Condition One SQ”—the nuclear sub’s highest alert.

“Set Condition One SQ. Aye, aye, sir,” repeated Zeldman, then with all compartments “punching in” on the electronic state-of-readiness board, Zeldman confirmed, “Condition One SQ all set.”

“Very well,” acknowledged Brentwood. The USS Roosevelt, containing more explosive power than all the wars in history, each of its missiles forty times more powerful than the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, was ready.

Leaving the attack center, Brentwood walked briskly forward of the BBQ sonar console, nicknamed “Barbecue” by the crew, past the NAVSTAR navigation console to the radio room, where he was joined by Zeldman and two other officers. As Brentwood and Zeldman watched, the other two officers from the sub’s strategic missile division opened the two small green combination safes, extracting a black plastic capsule from both. The code phrase in each was the same — in this case “Anna Belle”— the fact that both capsules contained the same name confirming the Pentagon’s order for Roosevelt to “fire all missiles.”

“Neutral trim,” ordered Brentwood solemnly.

“In neutral trim now, sir.”

“Very well. Prepare to spin. Stand by to flood outer tubes.”

“Standing by.”

“Very well. Flood tubes one, two, three, and four.” The outer doors of the torpedo tubes opened, followed by the hissing sound of air under pressure expelling water from the tubes, the four Mk-48 torpedoes sliding forward from their rail-tracked dollies into the tubes, ready to fire at any enemy sub or ship that might try to run interference with the missile launch.

In missile control the weapons officer, his gold submariner’s dolphins insignia a bloody red in the light, began feeding the local orientating corrections for Kola Peninsula into the warheads’ computers, aligning them to true north — insuring bull’s-eye trajectories for the forty-eight reentry vehicle warheads atop the six missiles. “Spin-up complete,” he announced, inserting and turning the circuit key he carried at all times on a lanyard about his neck. His assistant, a junior officer, walked, headphone wire trailing, along the narrow “Blood Alley,” the redded-out corridor of tall, lean computers, ticking off each missile’s status, verifying for the weapons officer that every one of the Trident-Cs was ready to pass through the last of its four prelaunch modes.