Ian Slater: WW III

Tae made himself a cup of coffee and for a moment sat admiring the desk photo of his children. Mi-ja, eighteen, was resplendent in a watermelon-pink chima, the traditional flowing, high-waisted skirt, with matching chogari, or short jacket. Dyoung, eight, stood proudly in the loose, white, pajamalike uniform of Taekwondo, the ancient Korean hand and foot combat sport of self-defense. It was their future he was most worried about.

He opened the interrogation folder. Another NKA infiltrator caught south of Munsan near the west coast. As usual, he’d refused to talk. The report stated the prisoner had “fallen down stairs.” Even so, he had still not revealed the specific target of his mission — they never did — and so he was put on the train for the prison camp on Koje Island in the Southeast. Tae hoped that these days Koje was more secure than during the Korean War, when the American guards had been so accommodating in assuring prisoners’ rights under the Geneva Charter that the NKA had actually managed to kidnap an American general and stage a massive breakout. Even so, Tae wasn’t naive enough to think the present ROK guards hadn’t been infiltrated by “sleepers,” NKA agents already “in place” in the event of hostilities. For every NKA agent they caught, Tae suspected there were at least four or five who managed to slip across the DMZ undetected. Only one thing of interest had emerged from Tae’s quieter, more democratic interrogation of infiltrators captured in his zone that week, and it wasn’t until after three sessions involving the usual cursory examination of the prisoners’ possessions that he’d even noticed it and decided to add a note to his daily report to Seoul. He had observed that the chopsticks the NKA infiltrators had on them when captured — no Korean would travel without them — were seven inches long instead of the standard nine.

Tae typed his SITREP, situation report, quickly, for he knew that as soon as the general had finished inspecting “nighttime readiness” of the local U.S.-ROK fortifications, he and his aide, Jordan, would leave for the more civilized environs of Seoul HQ.

Shortly after 10:00 p.m., heading back to Seoul, Jordan decided to take a chance. He’d been thinking about it ever since the farce in the joint security enclosure. “Ah, General—” he began hesitantly.

“Yes?”

“Ah — I’ve got a buddy — a pilot — stationed down south at Osan. They say he’s a real genius with aerial reconnaissance, camera-to-speed ratios — all that sort of hi-tech stuff.”

“So?”

“I was just wondering, sir — say we got a really small Nikon and one of those big kites, like the ones they have in some of the temples…”

“For Chrissake…” said Cahill.

“Well,” began Jordan defensively, “it was just a thought. We can’t see what they’re up to at night. They could be tunneling — again. Our infrared overflights didn’t detect any of those we found last year.”

“We found them, didn’t we?” challenged Cahill.

“Yes, sir, but more by good luck. An infiltrator spilled the beans, but normally they never reveal…”

“We’ve got seismic probes,” replied the general. “Ground sensors.”

“Yes, sir, but the problem is the moment the NKA go on maneuvers, we can’t distinguish a tunnel being dug from any number of other noises — heavy trucks, road-working equipment. All we get is tremor graphs.”

“You’re worrying too much,” said Cahill. “Winter-maybe — when the ground is hard enough for their armor. But not now in the monsoons. Rice paddies all flooded. Everything’d bog down.”

They were now completing the U-turn near the “Bridge of No Return.” On their left, a U.S. army truck sat fully gassed, motor running twenty-four hours a day, ready to back up and block the bridge. To their right stood the Y-shaped tree that had been trimmed for a clearer view across the DMZ and where thirty-one NKA regulars had come across in ‘76 to club and hack two Americans to death.

“Anyway,” continued Cahill, “we’re constantly patrolling the DMZ. We’ve got minefields right up to the wire. Fighter Command’s on a moment’s notice. Attack choppers are ready. Isn’t like it was in fifty, Dick. Moment Kim or any other gook puts his cotton-pickin’ finger over that ribbon, I’ll chop the goddamned thing off. What’s our G-2 say?”

“No unusual movement.”

“There you are.”

“But,” Jordan pressed, “there is this report from Major Tae. The ROK intelligence officer up here…”

“Yes, yes,” said Cahill impatiently. “I glanced at it before we left. Goddamned chopsticks aren’t as long as they used to be. Timber in Korea’s in short supply — always has been — so he figures all the wood saved goes into building more chiges — A-frame backpacks. Infantry buildup.”

“Yes, sir. We know their infantry, like the Vietcong used to, carries everything on their backs.”

“So do ours, Dick,” said Cahill. “That’s why we call ‘em ‘grunts.’ You’d grunt, too, with eighty pounds weighing you down.” But the general knew what Jordan meant. “Yes, yes, I know,” he said irritably. “ ‘Red Army’s two legs better than Americans’ four wheels.’ Right?” The car had passed the Munsan checkpoint. Suddenly its brakes squealed, the car skidding sideways in an earsplitting screech, headlight beams roiling with talc-fine dust. As custom decreed, the driver was allowing an old man in traditional white “pajamas” to cross the road, the man’s tall, wide-brimmed stovepipe hat a symbol of his status of country gentleman.

“I hate those stupid hats,” said Cahill, venting his fright at the car almost hitting the old man. “Ever see anything so goddamned ridiculous in all your life? What’s it good for? Damned horsehair won’t keep out water — won’t keep off the sun.” Jordan made vague noises of assent but was more interested in getting the general to think about Tae’s hunch than elders’ hats. Cahill anticipated him.

“Lookit, if an attack comes — to have any hope, any hope at all — it’s got to be hard and fast. Right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, and all those backpacks of yours are going to be worth squat — all unless armor clears the way. Right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any sign of armor — visual or ground sensor?”

“No, sir.”

“No — because it’s too damn wet. Moment a tank goes off a road, it’s in rice paddy. Sinks in the mud.” He paused. “How about the canaries — they okay?”

“Far as I know, sir.” Cahill was referring to the tunnels the NKA had dug beneath the DMZ during the seventies, which were later found and cemented shut except for a small, wedge-shaped peephole in each cement bung. A few yards away from each bung there was an ROK machine-gun post manned around the clock, and right by each peephole, a canary in a cage. As in the mines, the bird’s death would be an early warning in the event of gas attack.

“Tell you what,” said Cahill. “I’ll issue a bulletin on KBS TV and radio announcing that despite tomorrow’s Independence Day celebrations, South Korean defense forces remain vigilant to any incursion of the North.”

“General!” said Jordan, happily feigning shock. “That’s using the airwaves for willful propaganda.”

“Damn right,” Cahill smiled. “It’s true, too. We’ll run a few tanks through town tonight. Keep you and Tae happy, and it’s a darned sight cheaper than a general alert.” Cahill smiled. “General Accounting Office’ll probably give me a medal — in addition to my KBM.” KBM was Seoul HQ’s acronym for “Kim Bullshit Medal,” awarded for patience and restraint “above and beyond the call of duty.”