Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

“Sit down.”

Peng’s voice was loud, no room for argument. Li obeyed without speaking. Peng looked at Sung now. “This meeting is concluded. General Sung, you will remain. The rest of you, return to your commands. Orders will follow very soon.”

The others stood, the door opening, a hint of cool air drifting into the stuffiness of the room. Sung kept his seat, did not watch the others, kept his eyes on Peng, who sipped again from the teacup. In a short moment the room was empty, the guard leaving as well, the door closing. Peng closed his eyes briefly, Sung keeping silent. After a moment, Peng said, “There is little wisdom in any of them. The young worst of all. But even the experienced ones have forgotten the value of loyalty.”

Sung shook his head. “I do not believe that to be true. I have heard nothing of disloyalty to Chairman Mao.”

Peng shrugged. “Maybe. But there is uncertainty. They do not trust in our ability to crush our enemies.”

“Do you?”

Peng laughed, a glance toward the door. “Of course I do. Chairman Mao wills it, and it will be so.”

Sung was careful now. He knew Peng enjoyed his company, seemed to treat him as a son as much as a subordinate. It was the same with many of the veterans, the men who had learned to sacrifice for the greater cause.

Peng said, “You have been hungry, yes? I mean…hungry. Starving .”

“You know I have shared such conditions. As have you.”

“Yes, and you have seen the dead gathering around you, men whose weakness betrayed them, whose spirit would not keep them alive, men who could not embrace sacrifice.”

“I suppose so. Yes. We lost nine of ten men on the Long March. It is not necessary for you to remind me of our history, sir.”

“Nine of ten. Yes. The tenth man…you, me, Chairman Mao. We know what victory means. Not some storybook, slicing the head off the dragon. Not merely vanquishing your rival so you may enjoy the sweetness of his woman. Victory . The look in your enemy’s eye as you slide the knife into his heart, as you steal his life. The smell of his blood.”

Sung saw a hard spark in Peng’s eyes, something he had seen before. “Sir, do you doubt my will?”

Peng laughed. “No, my friend. Nor do I doubt your loyalty. To Chairman Mao, and those around him, that is what matters most. I fear that very soon it will be more about your skills as a soldier.” Peng paused. “Colonel Li’s concerns are accurate. We were hopeful that the Soviets would honor their commitment to provide the military equipment that would balance the scales against the Americans. They have now reneged on that promise.”

Sung was stunned. “They have reneged? They assured us—”

“Soviet assurances are like rivers of mud. Soil yourself in it if you wish, but do not expect to drink the water. The North Korean army has become useless, and Chairman Stalin has turned his eyes to other causes. All they offer us now are advisors, Stalin’s toadies, who have pledged to provide assistance where they observe its need. I suspect, as does Chairman Mao, that these men have been ordered to remain blind to our needs. We shall welcome them into our camps, allow them to see just what our weaknesses might be.”

“It sounds as if you are describing spies.”

Peng laughed. “And so I am. Chairman Mao certainly believes it so. Here I disagree with him, if only on a minor point. I still believe the Soviets can be helpful to us, and it is in their interest to assist us against our shared enemies. One day they might require some assistance from us in Europe. Chairman Mao is not concerned with a world so far away. But the revolution will one day consume all men in all lands. On that Chairman Mao and I agree completely. We must know who our friends are.”

Sung absorbed all that Peng was telling him. “I am not so familiar with such lofty things. I prefer being a soldier.”

Peng nodded, a friendly smile. “You are not wrong, my friend. Very soon now, soldiers will be far more valuable than philosophers. The Americans are coming, and we must do what we can to obliterate their threat. I do not require Chairman Mao’s wisdom to tell me that. Like Mao, I smell when the enemy believes he is winning, when he convinces himself he is strong, and so he becomes reckless. There is celebration in MacArthur’s headquarters. Jubilation that they have crushed the army of Kim Il-sung. Now they will march northward singing their songs, waving their flags.”

“Did we not warn them what would happen if they threatened us? Surely they do not wish to risk a war that could engulf all of Asia.”

Peng opened a drawer, held up a piece of paper. “This is a letter, offered to me by Chairman Mao’s secretaries. I am grateful to be included in these correspondences. Now I share this with you.”

He handed the letter to Sung, who took the paper, read slowly. “I’m not sure what this means.”

“Look at the bottom. The signature of the Indian ambassador Pannikar. Our people made very clear to the Indian consul that they should communicate our concerns to the Americans. Minister Chou En-lai made very clear on several occasions, through several avenues, that we will not accept any threat to our borders. None at all. Minister Chou stated very plainly that if there was any such threat, we would respond with vigorous force. There was nothing vague about our intentions, none of that ridiculous diplomatic wordplay. Our concerns were clear and precise. If you threaten our border, we will defend our sovereignty. Ambassador Pannikar was most willing to communicate our concerns to anyone in the West who would listen.”

Sung scanned the letter. “He says here that they would not listen. He says he was…dismissed.”

“Ignored, more accurately. The Americans responded by ordering their troops northward.”

“I don’t understand.”

Peng reached for the teacup again. “The Americans believe they can take any action they choose. I have never seen a people with such…swagger. They defeated the Japanese, the Germans. In the end, Kim Il-sung was little more than a mosquito. And so they believe they are invincible.”

Sung put the paper back on the desk. “They have the atomic bomb.”

Peng pounded a fist, rattling the teacup. “Yes! That only makes them more arrogant. Incredibly arrogant! A big bomb, capable of destroying a whole city in one moment. We are a nation of farms. How many bombs will it require to destroy all of that? So, the mighty Americans can kill a million of us, perhaps two million. Perhaps ten million. And then? We know of sacrifice, Shi-lun. Nine of ten, remember? Chairman Mao knows more than anyone on this earth what is required to win a war against a superior foe. All those big bombs and fast planes and mighty cannons. But the Americans lack belief . We are fighting for revolution. The Americans are fighting for what? To support a corrupt government in the South? They did that once before, did they not? Chiang Kai-shek sits in his counterfeit palace in Taiwan, alive only because the Americans allow it. Now it is Syngman Rhee, kept alive by fat American artillery. There is no justice to what they do, and that is why we will prevail. They fight for a weak cause. There is purity in us, in our people, in our claim to become a mighty nation again.” He paused, seemed to catch his breath. “General Sung, the final order will come as I told the others. But I can tell you this right now. You will continue to command the Ninth Army Group. You will position your forces at the most convenient crossings of the Yalu River, to advance southward on the nineteenth of October. You will use all means to prevent the enemy from knowing your intentions, or your deployment. You will spread your forces to the south and east, protecting the left flank of General Lin’s Thirteenth Army Group, as you both advance southward.”