Warren Murphy: Bidding War

And all he could think of was the certain response from Pyongyang. If they had the bomb, it would soon be screaming Seoul way perched atop a Rodong or Nodong I missile—however they pronounced the damn thing.

Since the earliest days of the land of Korea, Pyongyang was. From the days of Ancient Chosun, when it was called Asadal and was established as the first Korean capital, through the Three Kingdoms period to the present day, Pyongyang endured. Invaded many times, subject to foreign occupation and bombed virtually flat during the Korean War, it had been rebuilt each time, greater than before.

Pyongyang was a special city. People didn't go hungry in Pyongyang, no matter the famines that prowled the countryside. There were great streets in Pyongyang, which sparkled because few drove automobiles. The buildings reared up gray and strong, and as long as no one walked the floors too heavily, the concrete remained solid.

In the farthest corner of this special city was a tall concrete building, eighteen stories high, but extending fourteen stories into the bedrock of Pyongyang. On the lowermost floor, in the farthest corner, behind doors of steel that no bombs could reach, a North Korean general listened to what had happened at the Thirty-eighth Parallel.

A colonel gave him the report. His name was Nekep. A few people knew him. The general's name was Toksa. Pullyang Toksa. Everyone in Pyongyang knew of him, but few had seen him. He alone reported to the premier of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea personally. He did this every day. Pullyang Toksa told the Supreme Leader what was going on in the world.

In Pyongyang one judged one's importance by how deep one's office was, a remnant from the days when, American bombs fell all over the north. Colonel Nekep had never been this deep, and Pullyang Toksa had never asked questions before. But this time he personally had ordered the colonel from the Ministry of Intelligence to tell him everything.

"The Master of Sinanju has been seen in Beijing, General," said Colonel Nekep.

"He will not work for Beijing," said General Toksa.

"He is in Beijing."

"The mandarins in Beijing will not meet his terms, for their gold sits in their fists too tightly." He shook his head firmly. "No, the Master of Sinanju will next come here, and when he does he will gladly work for us."

"But we have not such gold as he will demand."

"No. But we have better. For the Americans in their insanity have communicated a threat to us. They have dared to target the Pearl of the Orient with a nuclear missile."

Colonel Nekep paled to the hue of a steamed bun. "They are mad."

"Whatever they are, they have delivered the House of Sinanju back to its historical home." General Toksa looked up. "Dismissed, and say nothing of this to anyone—or you will be sent to the countryside to dig grubs for your meal."

The message for the Supreme Leader, premier of the DPRK, did not reach him. It stopped at the cold stone desk of Pullyang Toksa, who sat like a squat toad, his narrow eyes showing nothing but an abiding darkness.

With such a powerful card in hand, the proper moment, like a helpful ace, would reveal itself.

Chapter Forty-three

The first dull thud barely penetrated the deep underground bunker that was the headquarters of II Corps, and so did not awaken General Oh Nambul of the Inmungun, or Korean People's Army.

The second was no louder, but the repetition caused him to roll over. The third brought him snuffling and snorting out of his sleep in the windowless command bunker north of the Thirty-eighth Parallel.

His head came off the threadbare pillow, and his ears still rang with a sound he didn't consciously perceive.

A rumble caused him to throw back his coarse army blanket, but he realized it was only his stomach grumbling.

The next thud came plainly to his ears, and he jumped into his cracked boots and clawed on his web belt with its Makarov pistol.

It sounded like artillery fire. But as General Oh fought to become fit for battle, he felt no shaking in the concrete walls protecting him, nor did the dirt floor under his boots jump as it would under a rocket barrage.

"What is that sound?" he grumbled.

An orderly met him as he crawled out of the bunker.

"Report! "he barked.

"They are deploying the ROK drops, General Oh."

General Oh frowned with all of his face. ROK drops were the great concrete barriers that were kept poised over the remaining bridges and roads still linking North and South for ceremonial and prisoner-exchange purposes. In the event of a Northern attack, they were to be pushed off their perches with explosive charges, pry and crowbars, completely blocking all northern attack avenues.

"Are we invading the South?" he said in the stupid tone of a man who hadn't quite awoken from sleep.

"No, General. The South is invading us. But never fear, for we are an invincible army who greatly outnumber their pitiful ranks."

General Oh stood rooted for a long moment. Were his ears lying to him?

Again he asked the orderly as the camp sprang into life all around. Jeeps were heading south. Every man knew his duty. For this was the historical moment all had trained for.

"ROK K-l tanks are pouring up the Munsan Valley, Comrade General. But they drive into the teeth of horror. For have we not been preparing for this hour for over forty years?"

General Oh's doughy features went flat as a pond. His eyes creased in his moon face, and his mouth went slack as if the muscles of his mandible had been sliced by a bayonet.

He groaned like a wounded man. "We are doomed."

"Comrade General, we are already victorious. They charge into the gleaming teeth of our entrenched forces. We have prepared. Even now bullets and spare parts are rushing to the front. Soon Seoul will be ours, for the fools of the South have given us the pretext to seize their fine cities and women."

"No. No. You have it wrong. This was not the way it was supposed to happen. This is not what we have prepared for."

He wheeled and shouted at a driver. "You, stop. Unload those munitions. They do not need more bullets at the front. They need rice."

The driver looked momentarily blank. His expression seemed to ask, What type rifle fires rice?

"Rice!" General Oh screamed. "Rice. Send rice to the front. All the rice you can scrounge. Only rice can save Pyongyang and our Supreme Leader. Rice! Rice! Do you hear me? Rice!"

And falling to his knees, General Oh of the Inmungun knew all was lost. This was not the historical moment Pyongyang had anticipated. This was disaster, and he was the general in charge of the disaster.

Captain Cang commanded the first line of defense of the DPRK. He lived in a mountain, Stone Mountain, which overlooked the Munsan Valley. Within his mountain he cleaned and oiled and drilled his great 170 mm Koksan gun and its gun crew.

All the mountains overlooking the DMZ had been hollowed out and great elevators built within. On these lifts sat the Koksan guns, their tubes pointing south though the thick natural granite.

They were the perfect defense. When the signal came, his gun crew would swing into action like the well-oiled machine it was trained to be. The breech would be rammed shut. The gun was always kept loaded. The huge elevator would toil upward, lifting gun and gun crew while synchronized gears caused great steel blast doors to lift, exposing the rising gun tube just long enough to deliver its terrible 170 mm shell. The gun was preaimed. All the Koksan guns were preaimed.

There would be time for one shot and one only. Then the elevators and the blast doors would return to prefiring position before the counterfire systems of the mysterious South could lock on and target the mighty Koksan gun.

Return fire would perhaps dent the blast door if properly targeted, but most likely it would chip at the obdurate granite of Stone Mountain. By that time, the great Koksan gun would already be reloaded and toiling upward for its second punishing blow against Seoul, which was but thirty miles away.