Rules of Engagement

by David Bruns

  “Apliu Street,” he said to his driver, a longtime Hong Kong resident. The man’s eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror.

  “A little relaxation this evening, sir?”

  Kong smiled and looked out the window at the bright lights of the vertical skyline. So different from home. The skyline in Pyongyang was beautiful, but not exotic like this. Hong Kong was beyond anything he could have imagined growing up in the DPRK.

  Unlike many of his diplomatic colleagues, Kong did not have a Western education. His family circumstances had been, well, less connected. His job here, as second deputy to the ambassador, was the sole result of his wife’s family connections.

  Fortunately, she had returned to North Korea for an extended visit with her mother, leaving him with free time to sample the darker delights of Hong Kong.

  He settled back in the soft leather seats. The first Western woman he’d seen naked had been a redhead. Kong had grown up in a land of skinny, flat-chested, dour women with straight black hair. The image of the prostitute’s fiery red hair, pillowy breasts, and ample bottom still excited him to this day.

  Others came after that. Blondes, brunettes, Chinese, Russian, curly-haired, tattooed … he sampled as much variety as his wife’s travel schedule allowed.

  He was careful, of course. It wasn’t sexually transmitted diseases that worried him, it was the Chinese intelligence services. If he was compromised, he’d be sent back to Pyongyang—or worse.

  So, he made his selections carefully, never using the same girl twice, never on a regular schedule. Like tonight, he only sought out pleasure when his schedule permitted.

  The car swung into the seedier section of New Kowloon, past the all-night flea market. Multistory shops and rent-by-the-hour hotels lined the street to his right.

  “Stop here,” he called, and waited for his driver to open his door.

  He stepped into the night air. To him, it smelled fresh. He didn’t see or smell the rotting garbage a few meters away. He rubbed his crotch. His quarry was close, and his blood was hot with desire. He was a hunter on the prowl.

  “Don’t wait. I’ll take a cab back to the embassy.” He took off on foot down the narrow street. Although he hadn’t visited this exact street before, they were all the same. Shops, hotels, food vendors all blending into the sounds and smells of nighttime in Hong Kong. But if you looked on the corners, or in the shadowy alleys or lounging in doorways, you would find girls. Lots of girls.

  An almond-eyed Chinese girl with short dark hair and the glazed look of an addict strutted across his path. She met his gaze, but he passed her by without a second glance. Too ordinary. A rail-thin blonde, her bleached hair limp in the dampness, called to him from a doorway. Kong sized her up. A possibility, but he’d walk the block before making his choice.

  At a street-side bar, a redhead lit a cigarette and locked eyes with him. She crossed her milky white thighs, giving her barely-there miniskirt a suggestive tug, and blew out a long stream of smoke in his direction.

  Kong felt his mouth water, his heart rate tick up. This was the one. She tapped her cigarette and a fleck of ash fell to the street. He adjusted his suit jacket to hide his growing erection and stepped toward her.

  “How much?” he said.

  She pursed her ruby lips and drew on her cigarette again. Hard. “More than you have,” she said in a cloud of smoke.

  Kong licked his lips. Feisty.

  He pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and peeled off a few hundred RMB notes, dropping them on the table. The red-haired woman looked away and Kong’s eye followed the curve of her neck. She was magnificent.

  He doubled the amount of money on the table and she scooped up the bills with a broad smile. “Follow me,” she said in Mandarin, crossing the street. Kong stayed close until she stepped into an alley.

  “C’mon,” she called, holding out her hand. “The entrance is back here. The room’s on me, by the way.”

  Kong smiled. He would get a discount after all. Taking her hand, he stepped into the darkness. Afterimages from the bright streetlights clouded his vision.

  He felt a sharp prick on his neck, then strong arms held him. He struggled to breathe.

  * * *

  A sharp, searing scent snapped Kong awake. He cursed in Korean.

  “Morning, sunshine,” said a male voice. Mandarin, passable but with a Western accent. American?

  His arms and legs were strapped to a chair and he was naked. The room was stifling, damp, with an undertone of rot. A basement. He closed his eyes against the harsh light shining in his face.

  “I am a diplomat of the Democratic People’s—”

  The hand came out of nowhere, whipping his head to the side with a slap. His ears rang.

  “Shut the fuck up, asshole. We don’t care who you are. It’s not you we want.”

  A glimmer of hope. “Who is it you want?”

  Another slap. Kong’s eyes watered, turning the light into a glimmering blob in his vision.

  “We ask the questions. You speak when spoken to. Understand?”

  Another slap.

  “I understand,” Kong sobbed.

  “Good. Now take a nap.” A hand holding a needle stabbed him in the shoulder.

  Darkness.

  The searing scent snapped him awake; the light blinded him. His tongue felt like it was glued to the roof of his mouth and he desperately wanted a drink of water. How long had he been asleep? Hours? Days? Surely his driver would have reported him missing now. Then he remembered he’d sent the driver away.

  The slap came out of the darkness. The side of his face throbbed with every heartbeat.

  A new voice. Male, but his Mandarin was better. “Rafiq Roshed. Where is he?”

  Kong looked up into the light. His hearing seemed muffled on his right side. Had they burst his eardrum?

  “I don’t know who that is,” he said, trying to keep the hysteria he felt out of his voice.

  “You’re lying.” The needle appeared again. A sharp stab in his shoulder. Darkness.

  The acrid smell blasted him awake for the third time—or was it the fourth? His naked thighs were sticky with his own urine.

  It had to be days later now. His people would be looking for him, his wife worried. A new fear crept into his thoughts. What would they do when they found him? Would they consider him a traitor?

  “Poor baby.” Her voice was gentle, her Mandarin excellent. The light angled down at the floor and the redhead stood before him. She had on jeans, a silk shirt, and a short leather jacket.

  “You!” Kong tried to spit at her, but his mouth was too dry.

  “Shh!” She held her finger to her lips. “Do you want them to kill you? I just about have them convinced to let you go. Don’t make trouble.” She produced a cool washcloth and knelt in front of him. The dampness felt wonderful on his skin. “You need to do something for them.”

  Kong drew back. “I will not betray the Supreme Leader—”

  “Relax.” She laid one long hand with elegantly painted fingernails on his thigh. Her perfume washed over him, drowning out the dank smell of the room. “No one would ask you to betray your leader. You’re too strong for that. They’re after someone else. A foreigner.”

  Kong recalled them shouting a name at him. Rafiq Roshed. He had no idea who that person was. “What do I have to do?” he said.

  Her voice was like honey in his ear. “All you have to do is deliver a message.”

  Kong’s voice cracked. “I—I don’t know—”

  “Shhh.” The girl put her index finger on his cracked lips. The red nail caressed the underside of his nose. She held up a picture. “Do you know this man?”

  Kong looked at the image. He nodded. It was Pak Myung-rok, close confidant to the Supreme Leader himself.

  “This man brought a foreigner to North Korea maybe four or five years ago. Rafiq Roshed. He now works in the Covert Actions Division. Find Pak and deliver a message to him—and only to him. Can you do that?”
<
br />   Kong nodded.

  “If you fail to do this within two days, they will have no choice but to tell your country you’ve been compromised. You know what happens to those who betray the Supreme Leader?”

  “Death,” Kong croaked. He’d seen the public executions on state TV many times. “But how will they know?”

  The prostitute smiled. “They’ll know.”

  “What is the message?”

  She leaned so close her soft cheek rubbed against his. Her breath was warm in his ear. “Listen carefully.”

  * * *

  Kong woke up on a park bench a block from the North Korean embassy. He struggled to his feet. He was fully dressed in his own clothes, his face washed. Apart from the headache and the pain in his jaw, he felt fine. He touched his shoulder, wincing at the tenderness where his skin had been punctured multiple times.

  No, it wasn’t a dream.

  His wristwatch said it was 6:00 A.M., and the predawn streets around him were mostly empty. He walked stiffly to the embassy entrance, where the guard on duty saluted.

  “What day is it?” Kong demanded.

  “Friday, sir.”

  Kong turned away to hide his shock. He had been gone for six hours.

  “Are you feeling all right, sir?” the guard asked.

  “Of course!” Kong snapped back, marching through the gate. He avoided the living quarters, heading to the office area. Not even the secretaries were in this early. He climbed the steps two at a time, his pulse hammering in his ears. He bypassed his own desk and made his way to the ambassador’s office. He would need a secure line to call home.

  His keys jangled in his hand as he sorted through them to find the one that opened the ambassador’s office. The door opened easily, and he stepped onto plush carpet. Morning sun touched the rich red of the DPRK flag posted behind the ambassador’s desk.

  Kong perched on the edge of the ambassador’s high-back leather chair as he slid open the drawer. He breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the official directory. He flipped through the pages, wanting this all to be over, until he found the number for the residence of Pak Myung-rok.

  It took Kong three tries to dial the number. He pressed the receiver to his ear as it rang with the digital warble of a secure line. Once, twice, four times … six times. Kong felt hot tears of frustration prick the corners of the eyes.

  A voice, groggy with sleep, answered the phone.

  “Listen to me,” Kong said, almost shouting in relief, “I have a message for Rafiq Roshed.”

  Kong could feel the tension on the other end of the line. When the man spoke again, there was no trace of sleep in his voice. “I’m listening.”

  Kong thought of the redheaded woman with her gentle hands and her voice like honey, and he repeated the message word for word.

  CHAPTER 20

  USS Gerald R. Ford (CVN-78) 150 miles south of Taiwan

  Heavy rain lashed the carrier’s superstructure as Rear Admiral Manuel “Han” Manolo, strike group commander, entered Flag Watch.

  “Admiral in Flag Watch!” the petty officer at the door called out as he stepped into the room.

  He joined the air wing commander, Captain Diane “Ralph” Henderson, at the BattleSpace display. “How’s the recovery going, Ralph?” he said, using the pilot’s call sign.

  “We’ve got twelve birds out, sir. This little squall will slow us down, but we’re on track for a clean recovery. Easy day.”

  BattleSpace, a square tabletop display twenty feet on a side, gave him a holographic 3-D representation of the area surrounding the carrier. It was currently set at a range of thirty miles and was operated by a lieutenant wearing VR goggles over his eyes and a manipulator glove on his right hand.

  Manolo nodded as he studied BattleSpace. The US Navy could land a plane in almost any weather short of a typhoon. A little rain and sketchy visibility was useful to keep the pilots on their toes. One of the tiny planes in the display changed from green to yellow as it lined up behind the carrier for a landing approach.

  A watch stander behind them called out, “Flight Ops reports Zip Lip recovery in progress. First aircraft is two miles out, on glide slope.” For training, the carrier routinely recovered aircraft in a “Zip Lip” condition: without the use of any active radar or radio transmissions.

  “Very well,” Henderson replied.

  Manolo thought about donning rain gear and heading out to Vulture’s Row, the adjoining bridge overlooking the flight deck. The incoming F/A-18 would appear any second now, slamming onto the deck of the carrier at a relative speed of one hundred miles per hour, preferably snagging the third of four steel cables to slow itself. He’d seen it—and done it—thousands of times and he never tired of experiencing carrier landings. Tonight, he decided to stay dry.

  “Ma’am,” a petty officer called with a hitch of anxiety in his voice, “we’ve got four fast-movers on an intercept course. Probable Chinese J-11 fighters.”

  Henderson cursed and stalked to the edge of the BattleSpace display. “Track them, Lieutenant. Let’s see what these guys are up to.” The operator expanded the display range to show four incoming jets marching across the distance between the Chinese coast and the Ford. In a few minutes, they’d cross paths with the scattering of US jets circling the carrier.

  Outside, Manolo heard the supersonic boom as the incoming Chinese jets passed the carrier.

  Henderson snatched up a handset and spoke to her air boss in charge of recovery operations. “Agreed,” she said. “Put them in a holding pattern until these Chinese assholes clear out. I’ll tell the captain.”

  Captain James Gutterman, commanding officer of the Ford, entered Flag Watch with his typical brusque style. “I was just about to call you, Captain,” Henderson said. “I’ve suspended recovery ops until we’re sure the pattern is clear.”

  Gutterman, a short, swarthy man with a jutting jaw, addressed Manolo. “This is bullshit, sir. We’re in international waters and they damn well know we’re recovering aircraft.”

  “Calm down, Jim,” Manolo said. “They had their fun, let them clear out.” His words were meant to placate his team, but Manolo was worried. He was convinced that this increased Chinese activity was part of a larger, more aggressive pattern. The briefing he’d received just a few hours ago confirmed his suspicions that Sino-American relations were sinking, and fast.

  The Chinese fighters settled into a wide loop around the massive ship, crossing the flight path of the incoming planes, ensuring that the carrier could not recover her aircraft.

  Gutterman fumed, gripping the railing around the BattleSpace table with his beefy hands as if he could choke the problem to death.

  “Any response to your warnings?” Henderson asked, breaking the tension.

  “Not a peep from those fuckers,” Gutterman replied through clenched teeth.

  “Join me on the Row,” Manolo said to the two other officers. He stepped out of Flag Watch onto Vulture’s Row. The rain had stopped, but the wind, chilled and heavy with moisture, still blew in gusts. He turned. “Options,” he said.

  “Let me light them up with a fire-control radar,” Gutterman said. “That’ll send them heading for the hills.”

  Manolo hid a smile. “As much as I’d like to do that, Jim, you know it’s against the rules of engagement. If World War Three starts tonight, it’s not going to start here. Not on my watch.”

  Henderson spoke. “The closest bingo airfield is Kaohsiung in Taiwan. We’ve got another ten minutes before we have to divert our birds.”

  Ten minutes. Manolo glared down at the idle flight deck, tamping down a deep burning anger at these irresponsible Chinese pilots who were putting his people at risk. He eyed his two commanders in his peripheral vision. Henderson was concerned but seemed in control. Gutterman, on the other hand, felt on the edge. The last thing he wanted to do was inflame the carrier CO into doing something stupid. Even though he would dearly love to give the order to blast those Chinese planes out of the sky
, he needed to keep cool, stay level.

  This is how wars get started, he reminded himself. When people take things personally.

  “Start the clock,” Manolo said. “I’m going to call Admiral Cook at Seventh Fleet.”

  He stepped back into Flag Watch and ordered a watch stander to get him a secure linkup with Commander Seventh Fleet.

  “Cook here.” His boss’s voice warbled slightly from the scrambled digital signal.

  “Admiral, we’ve got a situation brewing. Four Chinese fighters are disrupting recovery ops for a dozen aircraft. No response to hails. In another ten minutes, we’re going to have to divert to Taiwan for refueling, sir.” He hesitated. “That briefing we received this afternoon about increased Chinese aggression. It’s happening.”

  Cook swore.

  “Look, Manny, I know this is going to hurt, but do not provoke the Chinese. If you have to divert, then that’s what we’ll have to do. For now. This thing has gone to the White House already and they are terrified of starting a hot war from this penny-ante bullshit.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I’ll take it to Pac Fleet right away and they’ll take another run at Washington. For now, our orders are to play nice. Understand?”

  As Manolo hung up the phone, Henderson approached. “We’re three minutes from bingo on fuel, sir.” She raised her eyebrows at him.

  Manolo watched the team gathered around the brightly lit BattleSpace display and gritted his teeth.

  “Order the divert. I want those birds right back here as soon as they’ve refueled.”

  Pyongyang, North Korea

  Pak Myung-rok paced the hardwood floor of his study, fuming. What was taking so long? Rafiq and his goddamned security protocols. He needed to speak with him now.

  His mobile phone beeped, indicating an incoming message. He thumbed to the screen to find the number for Rafiq’s daily burner phone. Pak’s breath hissed through his teeth as he dialed the number. Even with these elaborate precautions, their call could still be intercepted by the Americans.