Hunt the Dragon

by Don Mann

  After hundreds of man-hours of tracking and investigation, the FBI Cyber Division had identified People’s Liberation Army (PLA) Unit 61398 near Shanghai as the likely source of the attacks. Unit 61398 was a viable candidate, the FBI expert explained, because it had been the source of previous hacking attacks on U.S. government agencies and businesses. Since 2000, ninety percent of cyberespionage on the U.S. originated in China.

  Public utilities were particularly vulnerable, according to the FBI expert. “All it takes is the right Google search terms to find a way into the systems of U.S. water and power utilities. And this isn’t unusual. Many industrial control systems are hooked up to the Internet. If they don’t change their default passwords and you know the right keywords, you can find their control panels easily.”

  When White House officials lodged a formal complaint with the Chinese government, the Chinese responded angrily, in part because they had been experiencing cyberattacks of their own, targeting banks, businesses, and government agencies, including PLA offices and installations. They pointed a finger at the United States and the same top-secret U.S. cyberwar units that had created the computer worm Stuxnet, which had infected the software of at least fourteen industrial sites in Iran, including a uranium-enrichment plant.

  This worm, first discovered in June 2010, was an unprecedentedly masterful and malicious piece of code that attacked in three phases. First, it targeted Microsoft Windows machines and networks, repeatedly replicating itself. Then it sought out Siemens Step 7 software, used to program industrial control systems that operate equipment such as centrifuges. Finally, it compromised the programmable logic controllers. The worm’s authors could thus spy on the industrial systems unbeknown to the human operators at the plant and even cause the fast-spinning centrifuges to tear themselves apart.

  Two years later the International Telecommunication Union, the UN agency that manages information and communication technologies, discovered another very sophisticated piece of malware forty times larger than Stuxnet, which they called Flame. On investigation it turned out to be a precursor to Stuxnet that had somehow gone undetected.

  While Stuxnet’s purpose was to destroy things, Flame’s was to spy on people. It spread through USB sticks and infected printers shared by the same network. It could also exchange data with any Bluetooth device, and through directional tunnels linked to Bluetooth enabled computers to steal information from other devices and embed itself from two kilometers away.

  The scariest and most revealing aspect of Flame was how it got into computers in the first place—through an update in the Windows 7 operating system.

  Because of the enormous amount of time, money, and resources needed to develop malware like Stuxnet and Flame, cyber experts around the world suspected that a large government was behind their development. And because Stuxnet had been targeted to disrupt Iran’s nuclear enrichment program and Flame had infected millions of computers throughout the Middle East, international experts suspected the United States and Israel, either working separately or together.

  The Chinese had reason to be suspicious of the United States. But this time, according to Dina Brooke and the FBI expert, the United States was innocent. “The charges directed at us have been thoroughly investigated,” Brooke said, “and are absolutely untrue. It’s possible that the hackers involved are acting for some third party and are using the U.S. and Chinese servers as proxies.”

  Crocker, who understood very little about computer systems, found all this fascinating. Before the cyber experts were dismissed, he asked one question.

  “If it’s possible, as you say, to hide behind or piggyback off someone else’s server, could some other country, like Iran or North Korea, be behind these attacks?”

  “The short answer is yes,” Brooke said. “With all the available stolen credit cards and Internet proxies, it’s really quite easy for attackers to become invisible.”

  Crocker smelled a rat. He thought the North Koreans were up to something, maybe with the help of the Iranians, maybe on their own. He didn’t want to hear more hedging from Anders, who was now saying that given the recent tensions with China, the White House would be averse to any contingency in terms of North Korea that could directly or indirectly serve to further offend the Chinese.

  Fuck Chinese sensibilities, he said to himself. If the North Koreans are counterfeiting our currency and hacking into our power grid, let’s kick their butts.

  During a coffee break, Crocker stood on the steps of National Amphibious Base headquarters looking out on San Diego harbor. Seventeen years ago he had suffered through BUD/S training a few hundred yards from where he stood now—eight months of ass-kicking that involved endless runs on the beach, calisthenics, obstacle courses, swimming, boat drills, fast roping, land navigation, and dive training. Out of a hundred guys in his class, twenty-three had graduated.

  Seventeen years ago he had driven cross-country in a beat-up TR6 with no brakes. Since then he had suffered all kinds of scars and bruises in places all over the world. As he watched Anders talking into a cell phone on the lawn, he marveled at how much the world had changed in seventeen years. When he received his SEAL Trident there was no war on terrorism, no ISIS, no Homeland Security, no FBI Cyber Division, and no cyberespionage.

  Who knows what the next seventeen years will bring?

  Whatever the new threats were or where they came from, he knew it was imperative that the United States respond with intelligent, decisive action. Dithering over a reply to al-Qaeda after the bombing of the U.S. embassies in Dar-es-Salaam and Nairobi and the attack on the USS Cole had led to tragedy. An ill-advised invasion of Iraq and the failure to act in Syria had encouraged the rise of ISIS.

  If you saw warnings and didn’t heed them, you could expect bad things to follow. That was the hard, hard truth of life. Blaming people was a waste of time. You had to learn from your mistakes, take responsibility, and get better and smarter. The cold reality was that the world was becoming increasingly complex, dangerous, and interdependent. When rogue actors behaved badly, they had to be put in their place.

  He watched Anders put the phone away and climb the steps. Crocker stepped into his path.

  “If we’re not going to do something, you don’t need me here,” he said, scowling into the setting sun.

  “Come on, Crocker,” Anders responded. “You’ve been around long enough to know how this works. We collect intel, analyze it, make plans, and recommend that the White House takes action. All we can do is hope they make the right decision this time.”

  Day by day, Dawkins was growing increasingly anxious. He’d made it through nearly a week of ignoring the pleading look in Sung’s eyes when she brought him breakfast in the morning, and had gone about his business without mentioning the note from Dr. Shivan or the phone number he’d given her.

  But today was different. For one thing, Sung hadn’t arrived at his room at 7 a.m. An older woman with gray streaks in her hair showed up instead. She spoke less English than Sung and offered no explanation for Sung’s absence. Instead, she served him a rolled egg omelet with kelp and carrots, and rice cakes, set out his clothes, and escorted him out to the waiting Kwon as though she had been doing this all along.

  The second odd thing was that when Dawkins arrived in his workshop, his assistants weren’t there. So while he spun the gyro compass to test that it met no resistance from the digital resolver and platform shrouds, he wondered what was going on.

  Maybe today was a holiday or some special government function was being held. Or perhaps Chiang-su and Sung had been caught passing another note. Or Dr. Shivan had spilled the beans during interrogation.

  Normally, at lunchtime his junior assistant, Yi-Thaek, would roll in a small metal cart bearing hot soup, noodles, and some kind of salad. But today no food arrived. So he sat at the bench sipping rusty-tasting water from a plastic bottle while Kwon waited by the door reading a book in a weathered leather sleeve.

  “Food?” he asked as he mi
med putting something in his mouth and chewing. “Lunch?”

  Kwon looked up at him sullenly, then removed a cell phone from the pouch on his belt and punched in a number.

  Dawkins was adjusting the platform shroud when someone rapped on the door and handed Kwon two bowls of soup. The hot broth tasted greasy, and the slices of meat in it were as tough as shoe leather, but at least the soup spread warmth throughout his body, and with warmth came confidence and hope.

  He’d almost convinced himself that there was a logical and nonalarming explanation for Sung’s absence when a crackly announcement came over the PA system.

  He looked at Kwon to try to gauge his reaction. Kwon worked a piece of food out of his teeth, stood, and waved to Dawkins to follow him.

  “Where are we going?”

  Kwon didn’t answer. Dawkins hoped they were on their way back to his room, where he would be given time to fetch his parka and then be escorted outside. But when they reached the end of the hallway, Kwon turned right instead of left, grabbed Dawkins by the elbow, and led him down a short flight of steps and into a darkened room.

  When the light came on, he saw that it was an oval amphitheater with about a dozen rows of chairs. The floor was concrete, and thick metal fencing separated the stage area from the seats. Two men entered and set a ten-foot-tall metal pole into a hole in the floor and secured it with bolts. As they worked, people started to file in silently and sit.

  He noticed Sung across from him with her eyes cast down. She looked up, met his gaze, and quickly lowered her head. He thought he saw fear in her eyes.

  When the space was half full, the same man’s voice came over the PA system. This time it took on a scolding tone. Dawkins noticed the eyes of the spectators shifting to him—the lone Westerner. Panic started to worm into his stomach. When he found the courage to glance up, he couldn’t see anyone familiar besides Sung across the way and Kwon, who sat next to him, upright and rigid, with his hands folded in his lap.

  Martial music played, then a metal door slammed and he heard a man barking orders. Four soldiers in olive uniforms marched in from his left. They stopped at the metal pole, turned with precision, and two men split off to each side and stood at attention with their automatic weapons held in front of them.

  Then eight more soldiers marched in. The last two held metal chains that were attached to the wrists of a woman. Her long hair obscured her face, and she wore a plain gray sack-type dress. The soldiers chained the woman’s ankles and wrists to the metal pole. Then two of them used scissors to cut apart her dress until it fell off and she was naked. Dawkins still couldn’t see her face.

  The soldiers left, leaving the chained, exposed woman alone in the pit. Then the man’s voice came over the loudspeaker again and began a long, loud harangue that seemed to go on for an hour.

  Dawkins noticed that some spectators were visibly shaking and others started to weep. None of them dared make a sound. He started to feel sick. When he tried get up to find a bathroom, Kwon pushed him roughly back into the seat.

  The harangue stopped and there was a long silence. He heard a low groan from the crowd and saw that the woman had peed down her trembling legs.

  The metal door slid open again and a man wearing a black mask and carrying some kind of backpack emerged. At his side he held what looked like a hose with a nozzle. He stopped ten feet away from the woman, pointed the nozzle at her, and pulled a lever.

  With a loud whoosh a bolt of fire shot out of the nozzle, hit the woman, and then subsided. The spectators groaned in unison. The flame had lasted only seconds, but it was enough to singe off all the woman’s hair and melt her ears and lips. She screamed in agony as her skin continued to burn. When the smell hit Dawkins’s nostrils, he lurched forward from the waist and threw up onto his pants and shoes.

  He tried again to stand up, but Kwon slapped him violently on the side of his head. The voice came over the speaker again and harangued the crowd. They responded with groans of agony as the man with the hose released another bolt of fire.

  This one hit one of the woman’s arms, which burned and snapped off at the shoulder. Dawkins covered his eyes. He couldn’t look anymore. The woman wailed like a castrated animal. Was she Chiang-su? Waves of shame and fear passed through his body as he felt a sharp slap across his ear and face, then another.

  When he tried to cover his head, Kwon pulled his arms away and punched him in the mouth. One of Dawkins’s front teeth gave way. He tasted blood.

  The crowd groaned louder this time. He heard another whoosh of flame and passed out.

  Nan sat outside the burn unit of the Reston Hospital Center, waiting for Karen and feeling increasingly anxious. She wasn’t sure why, because this was a routine checkup, and so far Karen’s recovery had gone well. But she sensed that something was wrong. When she saw one of the burn unit nurses leave a room farther down the hallway, she hurried to catch up with her.

  “Is Karen responding to treatment?” she asked. “Are there complications?”

  “No, Mrs. Dawkins. She’s fine. An excellent patient. The doctor is changing the dressing on her ankle. She’ll be out in a minute or two.”

  “Will there be much scarring?”

  “Maybe a little on the outside of her ankle. It can be addressed with plastic surgery, if it’s a concern.”

  “Thank you.”

  The conversation with the nurse hadn’t lessened her anxiety. Maybe all the worrying about James and the incident with the fire had frayed her nerves. Thinking that she was about to have a panic attack, she crossed to the water cooler in the waiting area, filled a paper cup, and downed it.

  She was about to refill the cup when her cell phone rang. She expected it to be a call from work, but the screen read “Unknown.”

  The voice on the other end asked, “Bird?”

  “Yes. Who is this?” No one called her Bird except for James and her stepsister, who she hadn’t spoken to in months.

  “I’m calling in regard to Mr. James Dawkins.” It was a man’s voice with an Asian accent.

  “Oh, oh…Yes! He’s my husband.”

  “Mrs. Dawkins, I work for an antigovernment organization called the North Korean Strategy Center based in Seoul, South Korea.”

  “Are you with my husband? Is that where he is now?” Nan asked.

  “I am not with Mr. Dawkins. I’m sorry. He’s at a location called Ung-do. He’s been held prisoner there by the North Korean government.”

  A dozen questions crowded her brain. “North Korea? Do you know why? Is he being treated well and in good health?”

  “He is alive. Unfortunately, I have very few details. He’s living in an underground complex and is being forced to work on North Korea’s nuclear weapons program.”

  “Oh…What is the name of his location again?”

  “Ung-do. It’s an island.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  A great river does not refuse any small streams.

  —Korean proverb

  After days of hanging around San Diego and growing increasingly frustrated, Crocker was summoned to NAB headquarters again. As he sat texting Cyndi, Captain Sutter arrived, all spit and polish, with every Kentucky-bred hair in place. The same group of analysts that had been meeting all week took their places—minus the FBI cyber expert and the analyst from the NK desk. Dina Brooke had a lizard tattooed on the back of her wrist and something that looked like computer code on her upper arm.

  What it meant, he had no clue. Seeing the document stamped TOP SECRET that she set in front of him and the burn bag by the door, his mood brightened. Looked like they were finally getting down to business.

  Sutter dove in, explaining that SOCOM—Special Operations Command—had been considering three military options for dealing with North Korean aggression:

  A cruise missile attack launched from U.S. warships stationed in the South China Sea.

  A laser-guided high-altitude aerial bombing with special bunker-busting bombs.

  A small amphibio
us landing by a SEAL demolition team.

  “But given recent developments, options one and two have been shelved,” Sutter explained.

  “What recent developments?” asked Crocker.

  “We learned last night that a missing U.S. advanced missile guidance engineer was kidnapped by the DPRK and is being forced to work on their nuclear missile program.”

  “How long has he been held?” Crocker asked.

  “About a month,” Anders answered. “The DPRK kidnapped at least one other missile engineer, an Indian gentleman, who we believe was killed recently. There might be others.”

  “The blackouts, the counterfeit currency, now the kidnapped engineers…I knew they were up to something.”

  “Analysts at CIA believe that these acts are all part of a campaign initiated by Kim Jong-un,” Anders explained. “His endgame isn’t clear. Maybe some form of nuclear blackmail, or an attempt to lure the United States and China into military conflict that he can take advantage of.”

  Crocker’s blood pressure had started to spike. He said, “We’ve got to respond decisively. I hope that’s why we’re here.”

  “DPRK’s missile tech operation is run out of the Ung-do complex,” Anders continued. “We believe it’s the same place where our guidance engineer is being held.”

  He didn’t explain who that important piece of information had come from—specifically, an FBI agent who had received a call from the engineer’s wife, who had been contacted by a DPRK dissident, who got the information from a woman working in the Ung-do complex.

  “We’re prioritizing option three,” Sutter announced. “It’s yours, Crocker. We need you to lead the planning and assemble a team.”

  “What size team are we talking about?” he asked, getting fired up.

  “Small,” Sutter answered. “Probably no more than four men, but totally contingent on how you infil.”