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while others started waving cars off onto some of thesmaller east-west roads feeding into Sejong-Ro. Bulky armored cars mounting water cannon and tear gas grenade launchers were parked behind the police line. McLaren could see the walled U.S. embassy compound several hundred feet past the barricades.
    It’s like damned clockwork, he thought. It’s September in Seoul, so it must be time for another friggin’ student demonstration. Another few months of tear gas, rocks, and a bunch of puppydog kids yelling their heads off for “democracy” and “economic rights”—things they had heard about but didn’t really understand. There had been three already, all in the week since classes started. Each had been large and well organized, and each had been bigger than the one before.
    He squinted up into the dazzling noontime sky. Seoul’s skyscrapers cast giant, gloomy shadows across Sejong Street, but wherever they left an opening, the sun seemed murderously hot. Bad time for a demonstration—“mob weather” they called it. The time when hot, muggy weather and harsh sunlight could drive people crazy, could make them snap without the slightest warning.
    McLaren kept walking toward the police line. An officer—a lieutenant by his bars—braced and saluted him. McLaren returned the salute. The officer, of course, knew him on sight.
    The lieutenant smiled. “Good morning, General McLaren. How can I be of service?” His English was pretty good, almost accentless.
    “Well, for one thing, I’d appreciate it if some of your men here could get my staff car out of that mess back there and through your barricades. I’ve got a meeting with your President and Joint Chiefs up at the Blue House in just a few minutes.”
    The lieutenant snapped to attention. “At once, sir.” He turned and snapped a string of orders in Korean that sent two of his troopers jog-trotting down the street toward McLaren’s car. Then he turned back to McLaren. “We will have your vehicle through this obstruction shortly. And, if I might suggest, sir, it would be a good thing to leave this place as soon as possible. We are expecting a… how do you say… a ‘spot of trouble’ presently.”
    McLaren looked up the street. “Yeah. I heard there was supposed to be a demonstration today, but my liaison officer told me it was expected further southeast, near the cathedral.”
    “It did start there, sir, but the rioters have broken past our barriers and they are marching in this direction. We are most concerned about this disturbance. Several Combat Police have already been injured. One group was isolated, surrounded, stripped of their equipment, and badly beaten.”
    McLaren frowned. And how many kids have you guys put in hospitals, today? But it wouldn’t be a good idea to ask that question aloud. Instead he just nodded. “Sounds bad, all right.”
    The South Korean officer kept smiling, but his smile seemed a little toofixed, and he kept swallowing. McLaren couldn’t figure out if the officer was more rattled by the presence of Commander Combined Forces-Korea so near a demonstration, or by the demonstration itself.
    He eyed the men along the police line carefully. Christ, what a bunch of green kids. They all had their helmet visors up, but their uniforms were soaking up the heat. They hadn’t formed ranks yet. They were just standing around in small groups, talking, and although he couldn’t understand much Korean, their voices made one thing damned clear. These kids were as nervous as a preacher waiting in line at a cathouse.
    Then he saw the kicker. The thing he should have seen right away. Half these Combat Police conscripts weren’t carrying their usual riot shields, nightsticks, and tear gas guns. They had very real M16s slung over their shoulders. And friggin’ bayonets, too.
    McLaren’s face tightened and he leaned forward to stare right into the police officer’s eyes. He kept his voice low and hard. “Jesus Christ, Lieutenant. Just