Run
“Order X Corps under Almond to charge full speed toward Pyongyang without stopping.”
Ridgway pressed his lips tight, waiting for my next words.
“The fifteen thousand enemies directly facing Sariwon surrendered without a fight. The North Korean command structure is completely paralyzed.” I jabbed my index finger at Pyongyang on the map. A dull scraping sound rasped against the paper. “Kim Il-sung never imagined Sariwon would crumble this fast.”
In the original history, the U.S. 187th Airborne Regiment had dropped into Sukchon and Suncheon north of Pyongyang to cut off the enemy leadership's escape routes. But airborne assaults were too vulnerable to weather and terrain, and they could only deploy limited heavy weapons. Above all, with the blistering pace of Almond's X Corps right now, there was no need to sprinkle troops from the sky.
“If X Corps' tanks pick up even a day's speed, we might drag Kim Il-sung out of that underground bunker of his.”
Capturing the enemy leader. The surest period at the end of a war.
“I'll relay the order to Major General Almond to throw every available armored unit onto Route 1.” Ridgway brushed the dust from his fatigues with his rough palm. Pat pat.
“Remember, Matthew—if we miss Kim Il-sung, we still have to seize the government buildings and broadcast station in Pyongyang intact. Before Mao Zedong's forces cross the Yalu, we need to hammer home the fait accompli that this war's outcome is decided, right in the heart of Pyongyang.”
Ridgway snapped a salute and strode toward the communications room. The steady thud of his boot heels faded into the distance. Thud thud.
Left alone in the empty operations room, I glared at the red pin stabbed into Pyongyang.
If only we could catch him.
Just imagining Kim Il-sung's pathetic state inside that underground bunker filled my mouth with bitter saliva.
Fifteen meters beneath Moranbong Hill in Pyongyang City—a special bunker. The acrid stench of coal smoke drifting in through the ventilator mixed with the musty mold inside, thick in the air. The constant hum of the fan motor grated on their nerves without end.
Kim Il-sung stood frozen behind his massive desk, clutching the phone receiver. Beads of cold sweat dotted his broad forehead, trickling down his thick neck to soak his uniform collar.
The frontline command post radioman's scream-laced report battered his eardrums through the receiver.
“Sariwon has fallen! Commander Kim Ung has been taken prisoner—” Crackle. Static cut off the scream.
Kim Il-sung's lips trembled as he couldn't pull the receiver from his ear. Clack. He slammed it onto the cradle.
The eyes of the gathered leadership locked onto him. Vice Premier and Minister of National Defense Choe Yong-gun, Interior Minister Pak Hon-yong, Bang Hak-se. Their faces were already drained of blood, pale as wax dolls.
“Sariwon's been breached.” Kim Il-sung's voice was parched and cracked. He gripped the desk edges with both hands. “U.S. tank units bypassed Sariwon and are thrusting toward Hwangju.”
That single sentence froze the bunker air solid. Hwangju to Pyongyang was barely a hundred ri. At full armored speed, it wouldn't even take half a day—they were practically on the doorstep.
“We need to blow the Daedong River bridges right now!” Bang Hak-se stepped forward, spittle flying. His uniform medals clinked together. Clink.
“Cut all the bridges so the Americans can't cross the river, barricade the city streets. Order the Pyongyang Defense Command to drag civilians to the defensive lines—”
“Shut your insane mouth!” Kim Il-sung hurled the ashtray from the desk at Bang Hak-se. Crash. The heavy crystal shattered against the concrete wall, shards scattering across the floor with a clamor.
“The fifteen thousand dug in at Sariwon raised their hands without firing a shot at U.S. tanks! Blow the Daedong bridges? You think Pyongyang civilians will stop tanks with their bare bodies?!”
Kim Il-sung's bloodshot eyes glared at Bang Hak-se like they could tear him apart. His chest heaved with ragged breaths. Huff huff.
He'd known since seventy thousand elite troops vanished at the Nakdong River that conventional war was over. But he never dreamed the Americans' advance would be this unnaturally swift. He'd believed they'd consolidate gains and creep north slowly, stretching their supply lines thin—yet here they were, barreling straight for Pyongyang's throat.
“Prepare to relocate the capital.” Kim Il-sung yanked open a desk drawer. Scrape. He pulled out a leather briefcase stuffed with critical secret documents. His hands fumbled in haste. “Where to, Comrade Premier?” Choe Yong-gun asked stiffly, his hand already fidgeting with his hip holster.
“Sinuiju. No—Kanggye.” Kim Il-sung buckled the case shut and scanned the room. Click. “Load only the Party Central Committee and cabinet core onto the special train. The rest of the personnel and government agencies disperse north by road.”
His order was a blatant declaration of abandoning Pyongyang. Pak Hon-yong's eyes bulged as he stepped forward, thin lips quivering.
“Comrade Premier! You're just handing over the capital like this? The people will panic. What will Moscow and Beijing think of us?!”
Kim Il-sung advanced on Pak Hon-yong with the briefcase, his cigarette breath washing over the man's face.
“The people? Moscow? What's the use when my head's about to roll into Yankee bastard hands?!” His fist shoved hard into Pak Hon-yong's chest. “We hole up in the mountains until that bastard Mao Zedong crosses the Yalu. Stay in Pyongyang, and we'll be slaughtered like rats.”
Kim Il-sung turned and marched toward the bunker door. “Burn every important document. Don't let a single sheet fall into American hands!”
The bunker erupted into chaos. Officers tore open cabinets, dumping stacks of papers onto the floor. Bang clatter. Gasoline splashed over the piles, and a match ignited them. Whoosh. Flames roared up toward the ceiling. Acrid black smoke from burning paper choked the air. Cough cough.
In the blinding sting, document shredders whirred amid the scramble to pack. Kim Il-sung covered his nose and mouth with a handkerchief and bolted up the bunker stairs. Tap tap tap. His boot heels echoed on the cement.
Emerging aboveground, the chill October night air stabbed his lungs. Haaa. Pyongyang's night sky glowed red. Explosions from burning supply depots and fuel stores boomed everywhere. Boom rumble. Red flames lit the city streets like daylight.
At the secret tunnel mouth on Moranbong's slopes waited two black Soviet ZIS-110 armored limousines and several escort military trucks, engines rumbling. Vroom vroom. Thick black exhaust mixed with raindrops on the ground.
Guard Command soldiers stood vigilant with rifles. Kim Il-sung crammed himself into the limousine's back seat like baggage. As his rear hit the plush leather, he bellowed at the driver.
“To Pyongyang Station. Full speed!”
The driver slammed the gearshift and floored the accelerator. Screech. Tires skidded on wet asphalt, lunging forward.
Pyongyang's streets outside were hellish. Civilians with bundles on their heads tangled with routed soldiers who'd shed uniforms, clogging the northbound roads. But in his mind echoed only the phantom grind of U.S. tank treads crossing the Daedong.
Pyongyang Station's plaza was beyond control. Thousands mobbed the platforms for trains. Black smoke billowed from the station roof; overloaded military trucks jammed chaotically. Screech bang.
Kim Il-sung's limousine shoved deep into the platform area. A special steam locomotive huffed in wait. Hiss whoosh. Scalding steam from the iron behemoth blanketed the platform white.
Guard Command soldiers fired submachine guns into the air. Rat-tat-tat. “Back off! Reactionary scum, fall back now!”
The crowd screamed and parted. Kim Il-sung leaped from the car and scrambled aboard the special train's passenger car. Inside: finest red velvet carpet, thick curtains sealing the windows.
He peeked through a curtain gap. The platform floor littered with abandoned bundles and trampled shoes. Choe Yong-gun, Bang Hak-se, and the leadership boarded in file, uniforms soaked and filthy.
“Depart.” At Kim Il-sung's order, the train whistle wailed long and shrill. Wooo-ooo-ooo.Clank clunk. The massive wheels churned into motion.
The train pulled slowly from Pyongyang Station, gathering speed. Kim Il-sung sank deep into the leather seat and closed his eyes. The steady vibration of rails thrummed through. Clack clack.
Cold sweat trickled from his brow, soaking his eyelashes. 'Yankee bastards. Yeah. The Chinese are coming. Peng Dehuai. I'll dye the Yalu red with their blood.'
His fists trembled. The fugitive's shame and terror fused into venomous thirst for revenge.
Same moment. Hwangju outskirts, a hundred ri south of Pyongyang—Route 1. In pitch darkness, dozens of M4 Sherman tanks thundered down the dirt road, headlights off. Rumble grumble. Diesel roars tore the sleeping earth.
Major General Edward Almond rode shotgun in the lead jeep. Dust caked his uniform white; his goggle-shielded eyes gleamed with frenzy.
“Don't slow down! Crush any rats hiding in the dark under our treads!” Almond bellowed into the radio mic.
Tank tracks pulverized mud and gravel, surging north relentlessly. Clank crunch. X Corps' steel steeds halted for nothing. Their gun barrels aimed dead at Pyongyang's heart.
A north wind carrying the scent of burning lashed Almond's cheek. By tomorrow's dawn, this endless track rumble might reach the Daedong's south bank.