Ian Slater - WW III

Tae said nothing and dropped the identification disks into his tunic pocket. The sergeant was now going through the American’s wallet, taking out won bills. He saw Tae watching him and suddenly became rigidly officious. “This is for the People’s Army,” he said.

“I was looking at the photograph,” said Tae quietly.

The sergeant handed him the wallet with an air of stiff magnanimity. “You may have it.”

“Thank you,” said Tae.

The sergeant waved down a motorbike and sidecar, its driver and passenger caked in mud, the engine spitting and coughing as if it were about to give up any moment. Ahead, Tae saw the long column of sodden American and South Korean soldiers, fatigues clinging to them like black wrap as they continued trudging along the narrow, flooded road that disappeared into another misty valley. It was the most hopeless sight he had seen.

The sergeant ordered the driver to take the South Korean major ahead to Uijongbu, explaining that he was an important prisoner, to be debriefed as soon as possible. There was an argument, ending with the passenger in the sidecar getting out grumpily and stalking off with the guard who’d shot the American to the rear of the column. The sergeant ordered Tae into the sidecar and started binding his hands with twist wire. Tae wondered if they’d let him keep the wallet at Uijongbu. He took his only comfort in the cyanide strip hidden in his boot. It was doubtful, he thought, that they’d take his boots away from him.

The bike moved off slowly, sliding at first in the mud, the sidecar ahead of the bike, the sergeant pushing; then it picked up speed and straightened. Tae looked back at the murdered American, a khaki heap in the rain, wondering who he was.

It was breakfast time, the sharks were hungry, and Press Secretary Trainor, having strongly advised the president to spend a day or two at Camp David being presidential, meeting with Arab heads of state, now gladly offered himself for consumption, enjoying the cut and thrust with the pack, some of them former colleagues, a few still friends.

“But shouldn’t the president be in the White House?” It was from some young hotshot blonde at the Post, her white lace bra clearly etched beneath the tight white silk blouse and black tie that only accentuated her femininity rather than conveying the no-nonsense tough-press-woman image she’d intended. Trainor responded, smiling, assuring them that “the president is receiving regular reports on the situation in Korea.” What he didn’t say was that the last report had been received at 5:00 a.m., four hours ago—6:00 p.m. in Korea. Trainor saw the young reporter scribbling frantically, about to launch another question, but in all the excitement she’d forgotten to predicate her first question by indicating there’d be a follow-up. Trainor pointed to the Atlanta Constitution, who did announce he had a follow-up. “Mr. Trainor, we’ve had reports from Kodo News Service that North Korean forces are already halfway down the peninsula. Can you confirm this? “

“Well, with the DMZ being already halfway down the peninsula, Mr. Burns, I’d be surprised if they weren’t.” A chuckle from one of Burns’s colleagues. A mistake, thought Trainor— don’t alienate them. “I know what you mean, Mr. Burns. No, we don’t have any information that would confirm that.”

“Or would deny it?”

Get it over quickly, thought Trainor. “No. Ah, Miss Vogel?” She was a tall, older, freckle-faced woman they called “String Bean,” who had seen four presidents come and go. Her favorite technique was to let the eager pitchers go first, then she’d step in with the curve ball. “Mr. Trainor—” and no crappola, her expression seemed to say “—when did you last hear from Seoul? And I have a follow-up.”

“This morning,” Trainor answered — you crafty old bitch, and I know your follow-up.

“Precisely when was that?”

Trainor paused. Say you don’t know and you’ll be assigned gofer status. Tell her it was four hours ago and your information’s got whiskers on it. Trainor had never had to deal with a military “incident” this size before, but he knew enough that in modern conventional warfare, let alone nuclear strikes, four hours could turn defeat into victory or vice versa. “Earlier this morning,” he answered. “Ms. — ” Trainor looked puzzled, trying to read the name on the press pass of a newcomer, giving him time to regroup his defense. She was a honey blonde, good-looking, about five feet four inches, cool blue eyes.

“Miss Roberts,” she said. “Does the president plan to remain at Camp David until the New Hampshire primary?”

Trainor struck a thoughtful pose, giving the question its due, both hands on the lectern, remembering that the opinion polls were showing a surge in support of Mayne as the presidential candidate least likely to involve the United States in military actions around the world, especially in another quagmire in Asia. Trainor’s strategy of getting Mayne off to Camp David over the weekend before he could make any premature statement about Korea left Senator Leyland plenty of room to lose himself in how he’d deal with the Korean situation. “Stay away from it, Mr. President,” Trainor had advised. “Ask anyone in the street where the hell Korea is. They don’t have a clue. Over there somewhere. The Olympics one time.”

“The president,” Trainor answered, “has full confidence in General Cahill, commanding officer of all U.S. forces in Korea, and in the Republic of Korea’s ability to repel the incursion.”

“That’s a new one,” a reporter muttered in the first row, “ ‘incursion.’ “ Trainor wasn’t happy with his answer either, but only because he had mentioned Cahill first and not the ROK. He couldn’t mention President Rah of South Korea — even his own people had serious doubts about his commitment to democratic rule. The best you could say was that the “old fox,” as they called Rah in Korea, was more liberal than anybody in Pyongyang.

“How big is this ‘incursion’?” someone shouted from the back.

“Ah — the information we have, John, is that it’s regimental size.”

The blonde from the Post was on her toes, both hands waving in the forest of other hands, pen mikes, and barely controlled mayhem. “How big is that?” she called out, willing to show her ignorance of military dispositions the moment she sensed Trainor’s throwaway nonchalance as a little too cool. “How big is that?” she repeated loudly, stretching to her full height, the lace bra threatening to burst right out of the blouse.

A beefy, middle-aged West German reporter from Der Spiegel looked at her as if appraising a good leg of lamb. “Depends,” he said to no one in particular but with his eyes fixed on her. “It means two and a half thousand men in the NKA, nine hundred in the U.S.”

“Quite a difference,” she said.

The German’s bottom lip protruded, “Ja. I think he wants you think American. Nine hundred.”

Trainor was pointing to someone else in the front row as the blonde, sitting down, pressed the German, “How come they’re so different in size?” She tried to read his name from his press card, but it was hidden beneath his blue suede jacket.

“Very confusing,” he answered. “NKA is based on the Russian regiment, you see. They only have the same firepower, though, as a U.S. regiment.”

Now the Post was really confused. “So there’s no difference really?”

The German held his hand up for her to be quiet, his attention shifting to Trainor. Someone, probably a plant, he thought, was asking for the administration’s response to Senator Leyland’s accusation that the apparent “debacle” now overtaking one of America’s “foremost allies” was an example of the “serious implications of President Mayne’s cutting of the defense budget.”