Okay, Rhee thought stubbornly, so he was on the high side of forty, maybe very high. But he was in excellent condition, and he believed in leading from the front. He knew his reputation: decorated combat service in the Second Korean War, then multiple tours in Afghanistan, and rapid promotion. He was one of the youngest officers ever to command a Special Forces brigade. There were rumors that he’d make general soon, but he was actually happier as a colonel. He’d seen too many energetic leaders promoted and tied to a desk, turning into sedentary lumps with hands.
He grinned. Well, that wasn’t going to happen to him. Paperwork was why they invented adjutants.
He shook the sweat out of his eyes and turned to look down the line of trainees pushing uphill behind him. He grinned again. He was still out in front and he was carrying the same load as the twenty-four-year-old second lieutenant leading the platoon. These men had completed their advanced training before being assigned to the Ninth, the “Ghost” Brigade. But if they had expected to relax, Rhee had told them, forget it. Their real training was just starting. Especially with the insanity going on north of the DMZ, he needed these new troops in shape, now.
They were fourteen kilometers in on what the brigade called the “Stone Snake.” Laid out in an extremely irregular oval in the rocky hills surrounding the brigade headquarters, the dirt path was worn ankle-deep in the surrounding terrain, except where stones resisted erosion and rose up to catch the unwary.
Rhee knew he was tired. The sweltering, sticky air didn’t seem to have enough oxygen to sustain him, but he forced himself to think like an officer, a leader. He sent the lieutenant back along the line to check on his platoon. Were they drinking enough water? Were any of them limping?
The kid had a good spirit. The required time for finishing the Snake today was two hours, while any man who made it in an hour and forty-five minutes would get the rest of the day off. The lieutenant, in front of his men, had promised Rhee that the entire platoon would make it in less than an hour and forty-five minutes. Confident, the kid was already planning a barbecue for his men later.
So far, they were on schedule. But the junior officer had to learn that if he wanted his men to perform like that, it took more than words. They had to know their lieutenant was looking out for them. And if that was the only lesson Rhee managed to pound home on this hell march, he would consider it time and agony well spent.
“Sir,” one of the trainees gasped, pointing ahead.
Rhee turned and saw the cloud of dust coming up a winding dirt road that intersected the Snake at several places. He shaded his eyes against the sun’s glare. That was a jeep speeding toward them. His adjutant’s voice suddenly squawked over the radio. “Sir, I’m with General Kwon.”
The young officer didn’t add anything else. He’d already said enough. Major General Kwon was Rhee’s boss. He commanded the Republic of Korea’s Special Warfare Command, the “Black Berets.”
Rhee turned toward the platoon leader. “Bring them the rest of the way, Lieutenant! And I’ll expect you to keep your promise!”
Using the energy he’d saved for the last few kilometers, Rhee sprinted for the jeep as it pulled up close to the Snake. He stopped just short and snapped a salute. “So it’s started, sir.”
It wasn’t a question, just a statement of fact.
Kwon, lean and gray-haired, nodded sharply, with just the hint of a grim smile. “It has started, Colonel. And we’re sending you and your Ghosts in deep.”
Chapter 4 — Reconnaissance
The farmer had gladly offered a ride to Cho Ho-jin in return for gas money, a few Chinese yuan notes, and a story about a “business to the south.” Travel in the people’s republic was closely controlled, but the farmer didn’t care about Cho’s movements, not when the truck, the farmer, and the load of vegetables it carried were all illegal, making him technically subject to imprisonment or death.
But people needed to eat. The government ration was for two poor meals a day, which had been declared the official diet of the country. Only the elite were able to buy more food legally, at state-run stores with North Korean currency. The rest of the population either starved or found ways to make money in the gray economy, where the Chinese yuan and American dollar were the only currency that mattered. The official exchange rate of one hundred thirty North Korean won to one yuan was a joke, and largely ignored. The gray market rate was about four thousand to one.
The gray market in North Korea grew and sold food, provided goods from shoes to Japanese electronics, and services that ranged from haircuts to installing a tuner in your radio that would receive foreign stations. It survived, in spite of the government’s efforts to either stop it or co-opt it, because the state-controlled economy could not provide the necessities of life.
So food was privately grown on government-owned land, and shipped in trucks that were registered to a government office, and sold at an open-air market that theoretically didn’t exist, because government directives explicitly forbade private businesses. And as long as every petty official and every police officer got a part of the proceeds, in yuan — not won, if you please — it didn’t exist.
As bad as things were in the DPRK, without the gray market they would be far worse, and that’s why the government couldn’t make it disappear. The officials that would have to enforce the edict made far more money from gray businesses than they ever would from the state.
As a result, much of the North Korean economy consisted of bribes. Low-ranking officials received payments and gratuities and outright kickbacks in return for favors and fudged records and customized documents. The petty officials used their gray income not only to buy goods on the gray market, but also to pay higher-level bureaucrats tribute and bribes in exchange for their protection.
Cho received an adequate, if not generous supply of foreign currency from his Russian masters. His last mission had been close enough to the Chinese border to facilitate a fresh supply for his travels south. He had enough money to move and eat, which in North Korea would be considered a major accomplishment. His current identification said he was an agricultural inspector, which provided an excuse to travel.
So the farmer, a squat, weathered peasant by the name of Park, had been delighted when the inspector had not asked for a bribe, but instead offered to help pay for the trip to the market. Cho listened attentively to the local gossip as they drove from the farming village, down National Route 1, over the Chongchon River to the edge of town.
There was plenty of gossip to listen to. Cho’s status as a petty official didn’t deter Park from complaining about corrupt police and idiotic rules. Lean and gray past his years, he was worried about much more than the weather and the greed of the local officials. The stories from the capital were beyond belief: buildings exploding, battles in the streets, and worst of all, contradictory and confusing orders to the officials, the populace, and even the military.
Park had a son in the army, somewhere south, and told Cho the boy’s unit had received three sets of orders in the past week, from two different commanders: first to mobilize and head to another army base, then prepare for a defense of their own base, and then to leave and move south to the DMZ. When Cho pressed for the son’s location or unit, Park replied that his son, an ordinary soldier, hadn’t been told the unit’s name for security purposes, and only officers were allowed to look at maps.