Act of War

by Brad Thor

  He had programmed his camera to its low light setting and now depressed its Record button. He took a quick establishing shot of Hana and her circumstances and then brought the camera in close, more concerned at this point with what she said than what she looked like saying it.

  Before splitting up from the other half of the team, a thought had struck Tucker, the corpsman. If what the Chinese were planning was biological in nature, the North Koreans might have agreed to infect some of the prisoners with it in order to make the training even more realistic. Tucker had warned him that the surgical mask, especially if he got close to the girl and it wasn’t TB she was suffering from, might not be enough to protect him. He tried not to think of that as he hovered only inches from her face.

  A fit of coughing overtook her and Tang moved to the side to avoid the bloody droplets that were being choked up out of her lungs.

  When the fit had subsided, he gently repositioned her head so that she was staring up at the ceiling. She didn’t need to look at him. It was more important that he be able to whisper his questions in her ear.

  “Hana, I can help get you out of here. I can help you escape. I can take you and Jin-Sang to China just like your father wanted. But first, I need you to tell me why the Chinese are here.”

  As the words formed on her lips, Tang leaned in and brought the camera close to her mouth so its microphone could pick up every word.

  It was difficult for her to take in enough air to breathe, much less to speak. Tang could barely make out what she said.

  “Farming?” he repeated.

  Hana squeezed his hand and managed another word.

  “Fighting,” Tang repeated. “Farming and fighting.”

  The sixteen-year-old acknowledged with another squeeze.

  “Where will they go once they have trained to farm and fight?”

  Her response sounded like the air being released from a half-deflated basketball. “America.”

  “Do you know where in America?”

  The girl had been only five years old when she had been condemned to the camp. Anything at all she knew about the United States would have come strictly from her parents, or what she had picked up being a role-player for the Chinese.

  When she didn’t reply, Tang repeated the question.

  “Farms,” she whispered. “Villages. No cities.”

  The four words sent her into another spasm of coughing. Even though he was eager to ask his next question, he had no choice but to wait for it to pass.

  This fit went on longer than the previous one. With each body-racking series of coughs, life seemed to ebb from her body. It was as if her soul was leaving one piece at a time.

  Once the seizure had subsided, Tang noticed her breathing was more labored than before. He could hear bubbles of the bloody moisture rattling and popping in her lungs. It sounded like a dying rattlesnake shaking its tail in one final act of defiance. Tang had taken a handful of tactical medicine courses, but it didn’t take an expert to know that Hana was dying.

  He took her hand back in his with a warm, loving grasp. It was the same way he held the hands of his own children when they were sick. Except that unlike their colds and occasional flus, he knew this was something she was not going to recover from.

  “Hana,” he said. “What kind of attack are the Chinese planning?”

  He waited, but again there was no response.

  Repeating the question, he leaned in closer, but there was still nothing.

  “Hana, Jin-Sang says you know how China will attack America. Tell me.”

  The air gurgled from her lungs along with an almost unintelligible response. “China. Take Jin-Sang to China.”

  “I will take you both,” Tang replied. “But you have to tell me. What did you hear?”

  “I cannot go to China.”

  He needed her to focus. “Hana, do you know what kind of attack the Chinese are training for?”

  As the words struggled from her lips, Billy Tang leaned in even closer. But then he heard something else. Something close. It was the sound of the groaning hinges on the infirmary’s front door.

  CHAPTER 45

  * * *

  * * *

  Before his mind had even fully processed what his ears had heard, Tang’s body reacted. There was no good place to hide. The bed was too small for him to crawl under and there was no other furniture to offer any concealment. If the lights came on, he was in trouble. If a flashlight was aimed at the sheets, he was in trouble. In fact, there was only one way he could possibly get out of this.

  Switching to the other side of the bed, he knelt as he had done before, like a priest praying over a dying parishioner. There was more than a little truth to the metaphor, as Hana’s breathing was coming in shorter and more rapid gasps.

  All of the rabbits and all of the pine needles on the Korean peninsula wouldn’t have been enough to save her now, no matter how badly Jin-Sang wanted it to be so. Little did he know, but by going out in search of what his sister needed, he himself had been provided with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity—a chance for freedom and an American Special Operations team to see that he would get it.

  Helping Hana get it, too, had been part of Tang’s plan; a part that he hadn’t shared with Fordyce or the other two SEALs. Had she been strong enough to be moved, he’d had every intention of moving her, even if he had to carry her himself. If any of the SEALs had guessed that was his intention, none of them had let on. No one had discouraged him. In fact, that very well could have been part of why Fordyce had agreed to the plan in the end and was waiting outside the camp’s perimeter. Why go in and talk to the girl and not share the golden ticket with her as well? Whether the team was carrying one child or two, what difference would it make?

  Of course, Tang knew that Johnson and Tucker had a head start, which made a big difference. Nevertheless, he had intended to liberate Hana as well.

  The DPRK’s labor camps had been around twelve times longer than the Nazi death camps, but unlike the hue and cry over why the Allies didn’t bomb German rail lines in the 1940s, no one today—not even with undeniable satellite imagery—was calling for the shutting down of North Korea’s camps. Tang had vowed that if he ever got the chance to help even one prisoner, he would take it.

  But while Jin-Sang was going to make it, Hana wasn’t. She would know freedom soon enough, but it wouldn’t be of the earthly kind.

  Tang now strained his ears to discern how many were headed his way. The footfalls were heavy and deliberate. That meant either guards or infirmary personnel.

  He heard door handles being rattled. At first he thought it might have been someone checking to make sure everything was locked up, but the intensity was too much, desperate even, and didn’t make sense.

  The footfalls drew closer and Tang readied himself for what would come next. He ran through his mind how long it would take to get from the infirmary door to the hole in the fence and then to Fordyce’s position.

  Though he would never wish death on anyone, he prayed for Hana to slip away. If she survived, if he was wrong and she recovered, the torture facing her from what he was about to do would surely result in her death. Listening to her, though, he could hear the distinct sound of guppy breathing. She was definitely dying. Even if Tucker had been here, there wasn’t anything he could have done for her. Tang took selfish solace in that thought.

  As the footfalls neared, Tang was able to discern that there was only one person making his way through the infirmary. Was it a parent coming to check on a sick child? Maybe a family member had waited until the staff was gone in order to steal the medicine a loved one needed?

  While stealing was a death penalty offense in the camps, as a husband and father, Billy Tang had no doubts that there were certain things worth dying for.

  But it didn’t matter who was coming, or why. Whoever it was, he was a threat. Children were one thing, but adults were something completely different. Adults were most definitely a threat.

  D
espite that snap realization, Billy Tang didn’t fire his weapon the moment the booted footfalls stopped, just feet away from him, and the sheet was snatched back.

  Instead, he looked up and saw a Chinese military officer, his left hand wrapped in a bloody towel of some sort. His Korean was excellent. “You, there,” he barked. “I need help. Right now.”

  The soldier must have believed Tang was the doctor’s assistant.

  “Please go to the exam room. I will be right with you,” Tang replied.

  The soldier drew his pistol. “You will be with me now. Let’s go.”

  Tang’s hand was wrapped around the butt of his SIG beneath Hana’s blanket, his finger on the trigger. He could have shot the officer, but if he had missed and the man got off a shot of his own, the guards would come running. Letting go of his weapon, he decided to leave it under the blanket.

  Standing up, he gestured for the officer to follow. The man stepped back as Tang passed and then fell in behind him.

  They walked into the exam room and Tang told him to sit on the table.

  “What happened?”

  “What do you think happened?” the Chinese officer snapped. “An accident.”

  He was arrogant, but Tang let it pass. “What kind of accident?”

  “I cut myself.”

  Tang set down Jin-Sang’s canvas bag and approached the table.

  The officer looked at him. “Do you have proper medical training?” he demanded.

  Tang nodded. “I studied in Pyongyang and was a practicing physician before circumstances brought me here.”

  The answer seemed to satisfy the man, who had made no comment on the way Tang was dressed. He likely had no idea how things operated in the camp, much less the infirmary. The fact that he had shown up in the middle of the night seeking medical assistance confirmed it.

  “I was demonstrating something with my knife,” the officer said. “It slipped and I cut my hand. Badly.”

  “I’m going to need to take a look.”

  “Don’t you want to turn on the lights?”

  Tang forced a smile. “They don’t trust us with lights.”

  The officer grunted as Tang unwound the bloody cloth around his hand. “Here,” he said, fishing a small flashlight from his pocket with his good hand. “Use this.”

  “Are you allowed to use flashlights?” Tang asked as the officer clicked it on and handed it to him.

  “This is an emergency. Besides, do you think we’re sending our people without flashlights?” he replied with a grimace. “If so, you’re as stupid as the Americans.”

  The CIA operative smiled. “You are indeed embarking on something exciting and worthwhile.”

  The Chinese officer paused and looked at him. “What would you know about it?”

  “Me?” Tang replied. “Nobody talks to me unless they have a problem. All I know is what the rumors are around the camp.”

  The Chinese officer seemed to relax. “Tell me about the rumors,” he said. “While you’re seeing to my hand.”

  A good intelligence officer was adept at putting people at ease. If you were a good listener and could get them talking, it was amazing what you could pick up.

  “Let’s see what we’ve got,” Tang said as he removed the final layer of wrapping. The cut was bad, and blood instantly began pulsing from the wound.

  “We’re going to need to slow the bleeding,” he said, placing the bloody cloth back against the man’s hand. “Hold this and keep pressure on it.”

  The officer had no choice. Holstering his pistol, he used his good hand to press down upon the cloth.

  “You’re going to need stitches,” Tang explained. Stepping to the cabinets along the wall, he found one that wasn’t locked. There was no medicine inside, but there was an almost empty bottle of antiseptic and some clean bandages. Tang removed them and made a show of preparing a tray.

  He was fully aware that his five minutes were now up and that Jimi Fordyce had undoubtedly seen the Chinese officer enter the infirmary. Even so, he felt the opportunity was worth the risk.

  He wished he could activate the camera in his pocket and record the conversation, but that was as good as begging to be shot. One electronic chirp and everything would be over.

  “Make sure to keep pressure on the wound.”

  The officer was in pain, but seemed intent on continuing the conversation. “I am,” he said. “Now tell me about the rumors.”

  Tang wondered if the man had a background in intelligence and was himself gathering information. “The guards talk about the mock American town,” said Tang. “They’re jealous. All of them want to go to America with you. They say they dream about pizza and milk shakes.”

  The officer shook his head. “There won’t be pizza and milk shakes there for a long time. The guards will be better off here.”

  Tang looked up from his tray. “But we’ve had political prisoners who have been to America. All they talk about is the food.”

  “Only the Chinese will have the food.”

  “Interesting,” he replied, turning his attention back to his tray.

  The officer looked at him. “What do you mean, interesting? You don’t believe me?”

  “I’m sorry. You know better than I.”

  The great thing about arrogant men was that they thought they were smarter than everyone else and often liked to lecture.

  The Chinese man laughed. “How much do you know about America?”

  “Not much.”

  “Well, let me tell you about the United States. It is not only decadent, it is completely reliant upon technology. If you remove their technology, they die.”

  “Die?” repeated Tang.

  “Yes,” the officer replied. “They die. None of them are prepared to take care of themselves. They believe that their stores will always be open and stocked with food, that their pharmacies will be stocked with drugs, that water will continue to flow from their taps, that their heating, their air-conditioning, and even their civil order will continue in perpetuity, no matter what happens.”

  Tang approached with some clean bandages and swapped them for the bloody cloth. “But how do you remove a nation’s technology?” he asked.

  “With a very powerful weapon developed by your country.”

  “The DPRK?”

  The officer changed the subject. “How many stitches will my hand need?”

  He tried to lift the clean bandages to examine it, but Tang stopped him, “You need to keep pressure on it.”

  The man relented and reverted to the previous subject. “Are you familiar with your country’s nuclear tests?”

  Tang nodded. “Yes, they were a glorious success. There were many television programs about them. The West and the Americans fear us because of our military strength.”

  The officer laughed and shook his head. “The West made fun of your nuclear tests. They said that they weren’t serious. That the yield was too low.”

  “The yield?” the CIA man said, trying to appear uninformed enough that the Chinese man would keep talking. “I don’t understand. The TV programs said—”

  “The television programs are propaganda. So were the tests. The yield was never intended to be any larger than it was.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t. Just like the Americans. Everyone believed the DPRK was testing conventional weapons. They were not.”

  “They were not?” Tang repeated.

  “No. They were testing something very unconventional.”

  “A weapon that can remove a nation’s technology?”

  The Chinese officer smiled. “Now you’re beginning to understand.”

  “But doesn’t a nuclear weapon remove everything? Not just the technology?”

  “You’re a somewhat educated man,” the soldier said. “You should know about electromagnetic energy.”

  Tang’s heart stopped in his chest. Now he understood what Hana had been mumbling when the Chinese officer entered the
infirmary.

  “I know how doctors use it, but not how soldiers would,” he replied. “Is it a missile fired from a ship? Or is it dropped from a plane?”

  The soldier suddenly decided he was done chatting. “You’re right. These things are beyond your understanding. Enough talking. Focus on my hand.”

  Tang wanted to press the issue, but he had already been inside the camp too long. If he didn’t leave, there was a good chance Fordyce would come in looking for him and there were a million and one ways that could end up badly.

  Wheeling the tray over, Tang reclined the table and asked his patient to sit back.

  The Chinese officer, though, was having second thoughts. “I think I would rather see the real doctor.”

  “That would not be a good idea.”

  “Who are you to question my request?”

  Tang pantomimed the doctor drinking alcohol, and the officer got the point. “Oh,” he said. “I see.”

  “Please,” Tang offered, encouraging him once more to lie back.

  “Do you have anything for pain?” the soldier asked.

  “I might,” he replied, stepping back to the cabinet.

  Turning, he saw the Chinese officer swing his feet up on the table and lie back. The table had been set up along the wall so the patient faced the door, not the cabinets. Tang was behind him.

  “Can you please remove the dressing and tell me if your wound is still bleeding?” he asked.

  The soldier did as he was told. “Still bleeding,” he replied.

  When he next heard Tang’s voice, the CIA man was over his right shoulder.

  “You’re going to feel a little pinch,” Tang said. He had already pulled out his Otanashi noh Ken knife.

  Before the Chinese officer knew what had happened, Tang had come up behind the exam table, clapped his hand over his mouth, locked his head back, and slid the blade into his neck.