By itself, his youthfulness gave him no great advantage. Despite over forty years of Marxist rule, the people of China retained a traditional veneration for the elderly and automatically ascribed the virtue of wisdom to them. In fact, that attitude toward age had even insinuated itself into the Party. And the Premier had to admit to himself that he shared some of that peasant reverence for the old — despite the years he’d spent in the Soviet Union training as an engineer and administrator.
Still, this daily demonstration of good health acted as a reminder to his colleagues and younger members of the administration that he would be around for years to come — long after the first generation of the Revolution was dead and buried. And that was useful. It gave him an edge in the fierce internal struggles that often racked the Party out of public and foreign view.
Though that edge had most certainly not shown itself during the morning’s debate on Korean policy, the Premier reminded himself as he turned a corner and began climbing the steps toward one of the Forbidden City’s magnificent inner courtyards. Behind him, one of his bodyguards slipped and skidded on a patch of ice hidden among the cobblestones of the walkway. He ignored the man’s stifled curses and muttered apology.
No, he thought, this morning’s Defense Council meeting to adopt China’s position on this mad North Korean adventure had been even more of a hidden wrestling match than such meetings usually were — with all the participants circling watchfully, waiting for that one opening that could lead to victory.
No one had found it. And the result had been an unsatisfactory compromise. A compromise he himself disliked despite having been its chief proponent.
It was, however, the only realistic policy China could follow at this stage in the renewed Korean War. The Politburo was just too evenly split among the conservatives, moderates, and Party liberals to adopt a less equivocal position.
The Premier nodded to himself as he emerged from a vast gateway topped by a stone-carved Imperial dragon. The policy he’d urged and won was the best of the immediate alternatives available to China. And it was the best precisely because it could be altered to match ebbs and flows in the complicated military and political game being played out in Korea.
China had been losing the competition with the Soviets for influence in North Korea for years. She simply did not have enough of the high-tech weaponry Kim Il-Sung and his son lusted after. And the Premier knew that the failed assassination attempt launched by his predecessor against the elder Kim had been the last straw. It had given the younger Kim the power he needed to throw North Korea firmly into the Soviet camp.
Given that, some of the more liberal and moderate members of the Politburo had argued for open opposition to North Korea’s aggression. They were openly contemptuous of Kim’s antiquated Stalinism and “cult of personality.” But the Premier had squelched that talk swiftly. The Party hard-liners still had more than enough power to successfully resist action they would see as a betrayal of their fellow communists in Pyongyang. Especially when the North Korean offensive seemed to be going so well. And China could not risk yet another internal power struggle in the midst of a serious international crisis.
At the same time, his nation could not afford to openly support North Korea’s actions. First, it wouldn’t gain them anything in Pyongyang — the Soviets were too firmly entrenched. More important, open support for the North while it was killing American soldiers in combat would almost certainly cost China its hard-won commercial links to the U.S. — trade agreements vital to the PRC’s continued economic growth. That was too bitter a pill for even the hard-liners to swallow.
Even the alternative of declared, open neutrality was unacceptable. In fact, perhaps the most unacceptable option of all. A declaration of disinterest in a war being waged in its own stated sphere of influence would make a mockery of China’s claims to status as a world power.
And that was why the Politburo had finally adopted his suggestion that it adopt no clear-cut position. Instead, it would ship Kim Il-Sung the weapons and supplies he’d requested while officially terming the war “an internal affair to be resolved by the Korean people.” And the Premier planned a quiet chat with the American ambassador to help the U.S. understand his position. Such behind-the-scenes diplomacy might help avert an American overreaction to China’s logistical support for Kim’s invasion. Or, at any rate, so he hoped.
The compromise, while unsatisfying, was at least susceptible to change should the battlefield situation itself change. And the Premier’s technically trained engineer’s mind regarded that flexibility as a virtue in and of itself.
He glanced at his watch. It was time to turn and head back to his office for his scheduled meeting with the Rural Electrification Committee. With an effort he shoved the considerations of war and international politics out of his consciousness — making way for thoughts about small hydroelectric dams and coal-fired power plants.
China had made its decision. Now it would await events in South Korea’s snow-covered hills and frozen rice paddies.
Major General Andrew Pittman, USMC, handed the FLASH message from Washington to his division ops officer, the J-3. A frown creased his weather-beaten face and crinkled the bushy, black eyebrows that were his trademark and most prominent feature. His Texas twang was even more pronounced than usual after a full night without sleep. “Well, what do you think, Brad? How much longer before we’re packed up and ready to ship out for Pohang?”
Tall, stick-thin Colonel Owen Bradley Strang scanned the priority message from the Joint Chiefs of Staff and handed it back to his boss. He ran a hand over his shaved scalp, absentmindedly ruffling long-gone hair. “Breaking every rule and shortcutting every procedure the way we’ve been doing it since the commandant called?”
Pittman nodded.
The colonel shrugged. “We’ll have the two infantry regiments, the First Amphib battalion, the Headquarters battalion, and the Third Recon aboard ship with all their gear within the next twenty-four hours. The artillery, Divisional Support Group, and the Seventh Commo battalion will take longer. Peleliu has been rerouted from Subic Bay, and once she’s in, we’ll have more space for the heavy equipment.”
“Best guess, Brad.”
Strang looked out down the truck-choked road leading to the harbor. Storm clouds had rolled in on Okinawa toward midnight, bringing with them gusting winds and periodic rain squalls. Even with the sun up, the Navy’s harbormaster had been forced by poor visibility to keep the furnace-white arc lights along the quays burning. And in their glare, Strang could see more than a score of gray-painted Navy amphibious ships pitching and tossing in heavy, gray-green seas.
As the trucks carrying troops or equipment crawled through the traffic up to the harbor’s main gate, Marine and Navy officers in rain slickers and camouflage ponchos assigned their cargos to specific ships. The division would sail from Okinawa combat-loaded, with vital stores and gear dispersed so that losing any given ship to enemy air or sub attack wouldn’t cripple the Marines before they could reach the battlefield.
Strang turned back to his commander. “With the weather playing up like this, it’s going to take us at least seventy-two hours to get everything saddled up.” Even that was a miracle made possible only by constant practice and detailed prewar planning. Strang thanked God for the annual Team Spirit exercises they’d held in South Korea.
Both men fell silent as a rain-laden burst of wind rattled against the window.
Then Strang cleared his throat. “Of course, we could always break the division up. Sail now with most of the troops and let the heavies follow on afterward.”