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what the hell is going on here?” He stabbed a finger toward the fully armed troopers. “Riot troops with rifles? What stupid bastard ordered that?”
    The Korean stared at McLaren. At an inch over six feet, the broad-shouldered, barrel-chested American general towered over him. Ice-cold gray eyes glared down above a bent, often-broken nose and below the close-cropped white bristles of a regulation military crew cut. The general’s face was the face of a man who’d soldiered in half a dozen of the world’s most godforsaken climates—sun-browned, leathery, square-jawed, and lean. It was the face of a man born to command.
    Nervously, the lieutenant licked his lips. “I have my orders, sir. Radicals and communists are marching here from the Myongdong Cathedral. They have declared their intent to assault the Blue House and depose our president.”
    “Hell,” said McLaren, “they always say that.”
    “Sir, we cannot take such threats lightly. The disturbances have grown more violent each day, and this one has been most difficult to control. These criminals may think they can actually reach the palace. But they will not get through this line. It is all planned, sir. My men will fire a volley over their heads to force them back—if the tear gas doesn’t work.”
    The lieutenant straightened up. “Those are my instructions, sir. And my men and I will carry them out. We cannot allow these terrorists to cause trouble this close to the Blue House—or this close to your embassy for that matter.
    “In any event, General, this is an internal matter. And I am not under your command.” The Combat Police lieutenant seemed slightly more at ease now that he had remembered that. He saluted sharply and moved back to his men.
    McLaren stared after him—working hard not to explode in rage. The trouble was, the little son of a bitch was right. As the overall commander of all the regular military forces in South Korea, McLaren could control the movements of more than six hundred thousand South Korean and American troops. But he didn’t have any authority over the country’s internal security and paramilitary units, and so he could not issue orders to this one half-assed Combat Police junior officer. There wasn’t any way around that—not in time for it to matter anyway.
    His long, black staff car, paced by two sweating policemen, pulled up beside him, and Corporal Harmon stuck his head out the window. “Hey, General, sir. We’re out and ready to roll.”
    McLaren climbed into the backseat and slammed the car door shut. “Did you get through to the Blue House, Doug?”
    “They’ve canceled today’s meeting, sir. Something about this upcoming demonstration ‘requiring immediate attention.’ ” His aide laughed. “Whatever that means.”
    McLaren jerked a thumb out the window as they passed through the rifle-armed Combat Police. “Well, I’ll tell you. It sure as hell doesn’t mean anything good. Let’s head up to the embassy to check in.”
    They sat back in silence as the car moved toward the gates of the American embassy compound. But as the Marine sentries at the entrance came to attention, McLaren leaned forward again. “Hold it, Harmon. I’m getting out here.”
    He turned to his aide. “Doug, you go on into the embassy and report in to HQ. Get a status report on the demonstration and try to find out if the CIA has any idea why the South Koreans are so goddamned spooked. Meantime, I’m going to go back and eyeball this one—I don’t like the feeling I’m getting about all of this.”
    McLaren noticed his aide and driver exchanging rueful looks as he got out of the car. Well, let them. He knew they didn’t approve of his gallivanting off into a “situation,” but they’d also learned the hard way not to try to stop him. He just didn’t see the point in holing up with the ambassador while something explosive was happening just outside the embassy’s gates.
    It really was none of his business. After