Encirclement
"Air force, navy, artillery. They have everything we lack. If we clash head-on with the Americans on the Korean Peninsula, we'll suffer heavy casualties."
Liu Shaoqi nodded. It felt like his argument was being validated. But Peng Dehuai didn't stop there.
"However."
That single word shifted the direction.
"The Americans have a weakness too. Their supply lines are stretched thin. Across the Pacific, through Japan, all the way to the Korean Peninsula. The further north they push past the 38th Parallel, the longer those lines get. Come winter, the mountainous terrain in northern Korea will restrict armored operations. And ironically, they're overly reliant on that firepower. Decisively—"
Peng Dehuai rose from his seat. He stepped forward to the map. Mao Zedong shifted aside a pace.
"They don't know the scale of our forces."
His finger tapped the Yalu River. The exact spot Mao had indicated earlier.
"Night marches. Daytime concealment. Infiltration through the mountains. It's possible to insert large forces into northern Korea while evading U.S. air reconnaissance. By the time they spot us, it could already be too late—they'll be encircled."
The study fell silent. Peng Dehuai's words were more than a proposal. It was a conception built on the premise of execution, not mere "if."
The corner of Mao's mouth twitched. Too thin for a smile, yet too expressive for blankness.
"Continue."
"But."
Peng Dehuai pulled his hand from the map and met Mao's gaze head-on.
"There's one prerequisite. We need Soviet air support. Fighting the Americans without any air cover is impossible. We must secure at least a promise from Comrade Stalin for air defense over Manchuria."
Mao and Peng Dehuai's eyes locked. The language of comrades who had starved together in Yan'an and marched in the Long March. Peng was one of the few who never flattered Mao. It earned him resentment at times, but in moments like this, it made him indispensable.
"I'll handle Stalin."
Mao drew deeply on his cigarette. He exhaled the smoke slowly as he spoke.
"Dehuai. Nothing's decided yet."
Everyone in the room perked up at "yet." No one missed its implications.
"But we should prepare."
Mao looked up at the map. The entire Korean Peninsula filled his view. From Pusan to Sinuiju. Who could have foreseen that this narrow, elongated landmass would decide East Asia's fate?
"Review the composition of the Northeast Frontier Force. Troop numbers, equipment status, movement plans. Bring it all up."
Peng Dehuai nodded. He added nothing more. That was his way.
Zhou Enlai set down his teacup and spoke cautiously.
"Chairman, if the Americans detect this movement..."
"Let them detect it."
Mao's reply was unexpected. Liu Shaoqi's eyes widened.
"Move the forces, but don't hide them completely. Let the Americans know. Let them see us massing troops at the border. That in itself is a warning."
Diplomacy and military signaling in tandem. The troop buildup was preparation for intervention—and a diplomatic pressure card. A signal that if America crossed the 38th Parallel, China wouldn't stand idle. In actual history, China had issued such warnings through third parties.
"If they don't cross the 38th Parallel, we won't move."
Mao scanned the room, eye meeting eye with each man.
"But if they do."
The sentence hung unfinished. Yet everyone knew what followed.
Mao sank back into his chair. His finger drummed on the telegram atop the desk—Kim Il-sung's desperate plea.
"Dehuai."
"Yes."
"You'll command."
Peng Dehuai's expression didn't change. As if he'd known, or was prepared. He merely nodded once.
Wind blew outside the study. Ripples stirred on the lake in Zhongnanhai. Beijing's night deepened, and the war beyond the Yalu entered a new phase.
Nothing was decided yet. As Mao said.
But the machinery had begun to turn.
Leaving the study, Peng Dehuai walked the corridors of Zhongnanhai, rolling numbers in his mind. Northeast Frontier Force. Currently four armies, about 250,000 men. Equipment was the issue. Outdated rifles captured from the Japanese, a mishmash of American small arms seized from the Nationalists, a handful of Soviet heavy weapons. Ammo calibers weren't standardized. Artillery at one-tenth the Americans'. Anti-aircraft guns practically nonexistent.
Facing the Americans with this force? Possible.
But the blood price would exceed imagination.
Peng Dehuai was prepared to pay it. The question was the soldiers. Could he demand that resolve from them?
Through the window at the corridor's end, the lake gleamed. Moonlight shattered on the surface. A beautiful night. Unsuited to war.
The same hour, southern Korea. The North Korean 6th Division along the Nakdong River front showed signs of collapse. Supplies cut off for three days. Ammo down to under 20 rounds per man, rations absent for two. 8th Army barrages pounded day and night, rumors of Incheon breached spreading among the troops. The division commander awaited retreat orders, but nothing came from Pyongyang. Desertions began at platoon level. A few vanished each night. No one asked where to. Answers wouldn't change anyway.
And then...
The first report arrived at 0640. Walker's 8th Army, 1st Cavalry Division lead elements broke through enemy lines 8 kilometers north of Waegwan. An infantry battalion forded the Nakdong at night, secured a bridgehead; engineers bridging. 12 Shermans waiting to cross.
Second report at 0720. ROK 1st Division broke through at Tabu-dong. The hills they'd bled for over three months were now taken from the opposite direction. Intel of crumbling organized resistance.
Third, fourth, fifth reports flooded in. 24th Division, 25th Division, ROK units. The entire Nakdong front erupted in assault. Blue pins surged north on the map.
I stood in the operations room of the Incheon temporary HQ, watching those pins. Staff officers shifted them with each new report, blue arrows multiplying on the map. The front, static for three months, finally cracked.
The line held well enough. One snag: lighter forces meant slower Seoul advance. 1st Marine Division mired in five days of fighting on Yongdungpo outskirts, bridgehead for Han River crossing taking longer than expected. North Koreans threw up hasty defenses in Yongdungpo, barricades in every alley; Marines cleared block by block. In original history, 7th Division on Seoul's east would have pinched from both sides; now Marines pushed frontally alone. Predictable.
But tolerable. Syngman Rhee hadn't whined yet. Promise of Seoul's glory to ROK forces working. Pusan provisional government trumpeted ROK Marines' feats to boost morale; Rhee content with the "ROK Army reclaims Seoul" narrative.
And finally...
"General! We've connected!"
The signal officer burst in clutching the dispatch sheet. Taking the paper, a faint tremor reached my fingertips. My hand was shaking.
A few days faster than original history. Natural—7th Division unbound from Seoul, raced south. From Incheon through Suwon, Cheonan, Daejeon; engineers hastily repaired bridges, paving the way. 7th loaded on trucks, covering dozens of kilometers daily. North Korean rear was empty. Main forces tied at Nakdong. Rear held only supply units, guard companies—and even those scattering on Incheon news.
The encirclement complete.
I stood before the map, staring at that line. Blue arrow south from Incheon met blue arrow north from Nakdong somewhere south of Daejeon, forming a ring. Red pins trapped inside. North Korean main force. Over ten divisions. Tens of thousands of men.
Done.
My chest burned hot. The "opportunity MacArthur missed" I'd critiqued in my thesis—I'd made it real. The strategy I'd hammered out in 50,000 characters on my keyboard now etched on the map before me.