“Yes, sir.”
After a moment, a deep voice came on the line. Air Force General Michael Kitcher was the commander in chief of the U.S. Strategic Command. He was responsible not only for placing Defense Department satellites into orbit, but also for operating them. By the end of the last decade, the United States had placed more than 490 satellites into space. Kitcher’s command responsibilities were growing daily—a Congressional report estimated that a total of 1,700 commercial satellites would be aloft. More than 8,500 objects were being monitored in space. The intelligence and military satellites were continually at greater risk due to increased traffic. The sky was rapidly becoming filled with a host of satellites—some the public was aware of, and some not.
“Admiral Krowl, what’s the word?” said Kitcher.
“General, I have authority to commence Operation Nemesis. Can you have USA82X in place by the December-January time frame?”
Certain U.S. military satellites were coded by the letters USA, followed by a number. Occasionally, the satellite was given a name like “Dark Cloud.”
The satellite USA82X had no such name. Few knew of its existence and fewer, even at U.S. Space Command, knew its purpose. It had been secretly sent into space two years earlier as a piggyback atop a more conventional satellite. They had announced that the Titan rocket was putting another weather satellite into orbit when, in reality, it was setting up two. Once in space, the USA82X had quietly maneuvered to a higher orbit.
“We will easily have it on station during that time frame,” Kitcher said, “but final testing has not occurred. U.S. Strategic Command cannot warrant this bird until it has been fully tested, and that will take another year.”
“I can assure you that JCS is aware of the limitations of this equipment. However, if we don’t move by the December time frame, North Korea’s launch capabilities will be beyond our control.”
“We will have USA82X on station during your requested time frame.” Kitcher clearly did not appreciate the admiral’s strong-arming, but the mere mention of North Korea served to remind him of the grave threat involved. A terrorist bomb in Time Square might kill a hundred. A nuclear weapon from North Korea would tilt the world off its axis.
As he turned off the SINCGARS radio, Krowl looked at Scott, a smile on his face.
“It’s all coming together.” Krowl lit another cigarette and took a long draw.
“I’m not sure how you’re going to get him in,” said Scott, “or how you’re going to get him out. It was never our plan to do an insertion.”
“Scott, you just described your mission. Just get it done.”
“Oh, and an RFJ reward for twenty-five million dollars? That was a nice touch. Exactly how is J-3 going to fund that? And how are they going to do it without Congress finding out?”
“Scotty, old boy, they didn’t make me an admiral for nothing. I imagine your boys at the Agency have a few unmarked dollars—if they’re ever needed.”
As a Navy SEAL, Krowl was known as a man who got his way at all costs. His men in Vietnam called him “Mr. Fame and Pain”—his fame derived from their pain. His SEAL unit had the highest casualty rate of any similar unit, but Krowl had decided, even then, that priority number one was climbing the promotion ladder. As he moved through his subsequent promotions, Krowl learned how to keep his grading superiors content, often at the price of his subordinates. Soon, the junior officers learned and carried out the fine art of getting transferred so as to avoid working under Krowl. As many knew, an officer transferring in less than thirty days would not have a graded fitness report completed by his superior. It would be a small gap in a career officer’s record and one easily overlooked at promotion time. Better to have such a gap than to be crucified by Krowl.
“You just get Parker prepared and I’ll take care of the rest,” said Krowl. “Do you have your team available?”
“Yes. But a December launch? It’s late June now. I won’t know for some time if he’ll even have a chance.”
The admiral waved away his doubts. “You just get your goddamn team together and get him to that valley on time.”
Chapter 6
Kosan, North Korea, one week later
Several years before the first trucks started to arrive, the people’s committee had chosen the valley just south of the village of Kosan, both for its location and secrecy. Kim Il Sung, the dictator and founder of North Korea, and the supreme commander of the People’s Armed Forces, personally approved the selection. Kosan lay south of the eastern port city of Wonsan and met all the criteria for the project. Less than thirty miles from the coast, it was in a valley surrounded by the Taebaek Mountains. Security for the underground facility, though near the border with South Korea, could be easily maintained.
The Taebaek Mountains stretched along most of the eastern coast of North and South Korea. Sharp, jagged mountains were cut by the winds and rains of time, and their 12,000-foot peaks jutted up from the coastline, causing deep valleys inland to the west. Dark forests of pines and evergreens covered some of the western hillsides and valleys. By prohibiting any commercial development, the Communist regime allowed the region on the North Korea side of the border to become pristine forest with increasing populations of wildlife. Roe deer and bear began returning to the mountains. Even tigers, nearly eliminated during the World War II years of Japanese dominance, were occasionally seen.
The roads to and from Wonsan were free of vehicles, except for the convoys of North Korean military units approaching or leaving the DMZ an hour to the south. Only the infrequent farmer, usually on bicycle, traveled these roads. It was the perfect setting for a top secret military base—as close as possible to South Korea, Japan, and U.S. forces in the DMZ.
The Kumgang peaks stood out in the Taebaek Mountain ranges. A series of knife-like points, they had inspired visiting emperors from China and Korea for centuries. Older Koreans remembered a time prior to the Korean War when they had commonly traveled to Kumgang to hike the peaks, wander the forests, search for mushrooms, and stop by the waterfalls of the mountain streams and the Pukhamyang River that flowed north to south across the border and down to Seoul. Kumgang was, as the Koreans called it, the Diamond Mountain, both sharp-edged and beautiful, and a great irritation to those in the south who had to abandon it to the isolationist Communist government in the north.
On and off for centuries, Japanese armies had dominated the Korean peninsula, ruthlessly murdering, raping, and destroying any living thing that showed a hint of resistance. North Korea’s hatred of Seoul was only amplified by South Korea’s alliances with Japan and the United States. Russia, a strong ally, had aided in the training of young North Korean leaders. The father of the North Korean government and the North’s absolute dictator for several decades, Kim Il Sung, had been militarily trained at Moscow’s finest academies. And with this training, he had developed his ironclad rule of Stalinist communism.
Kim Il Sung’s gulags, as brutal as Stalin’s, held nearly a quarter-million men, women, and children labeled as political criminals. In camps along the Chinese border to the northeast, children lived in death camps of unimaginable horror.
When Peter Nampo first appeared in the North Korean capital of Pyongyang, Kim Il Sung’s son himself instructed the National Defense Committee to give his project priority. It was rumored that, even on his deathbed, Kim Il Sung instructed his son and successor Kim Jong Il to do everything possible to obtain “the bomb.” This mean that Peter Nampo was regarded as a national treasure to be protected at all costs. But jealousy had intervened. Other scientists had convinced Pyongyang to not trust the engineer, who had spent time in America. Only the failure of other missile efforts had convinced the government to give Nampo the opportunity he sought.
Nampo appreciated his place in the nation’s pecking order. In a country short of fuel and food—in fact, unable to meet virtually all needs of daily life—he received great r
espect and full support. Here, the last haven of absolute Stalinist communism, his work was seen as helping the grand cause: stopping the spread of imperialism and the influence of the United States.
“Comrade Dr. Nampo, the helicopter has been delayed briefly in Wonsan. It should be here shortly.”
A uniformed officer of the North Korean Red Guard addressed four eerily similar and identically dressed men as they stood near a helicopter landing pad in the valley just south of Kosan. He spoke to them as a group, but used the singular when addressing them. Captain Chan Sang, a short, thin man in his late twenties, was very thorough, which Nampo appreciated. Because Sang was a worrier, Nampo knew that any mistake would be one of ignorance or misinformation, not of attitude or effort. Sang had that fear of failure that forced him to overcompensate for being less than bright, and because of his worries, Sang constantly and compulsively checked every detail again and again.
Nampo thought of the fat, lazy students at places like Berkeley and MIT. They relied upon their intellect to justify their decadent lifestyles. They would fail miserably under President Kim Il Sung’s ideology of Juche—the art of self-reliance. Nampo had gained early respect for Kim Il Sung as a true ideologist, committed to the cause. Juche, as the leader saw it, was the path to a people’s government of pure communism, a state of self-reliance that depended upon no other, especially the imperialist West. If starvation and hunger were the temporary price of victory, then so be it.
The key word here was temporary. Kim Il Sung believed the bomb would bring his nation permanent, long-term relief, ending the starvation that had paralyzed the country for years. It was the great leader’s dedication to the cause at all costs that brought Nampo to North Korea, and it was Nampo’s plan that brought his genius to the attention of the family of dictators. But in 1994, the omnipotent leader died suddenly, and Nampo, unsure whether his efforts were in jeopardy, had fallen into a weeks-long depression. Finally, when the son called him to the capital of Pyongyang after the last missile failure, Nampo was ecstatic. Like the Supreme Leader, Kim Jong Il realized that the future of the North Korean people rested largely on the shoulders of Dr. Peter Nampo. Nampo had been named “Director,” a title that held near-absolute authority.
“Captain, it’s coming,” shouted one of the guardsmen as a blunt-shaped Soviet-built helicopter approached the valley from the north.
* * * *
As the helicopter passed over the village of Kosan and the small farm plots to the east, the helicopter’s chief passenger spotted a small, well-camouflaged landing pad and a group of men standing near a vehicle where the road twisted around it. This vital installation would look quite harmless to a satellite in orbit around the Earth.
Comrade General Won Su of China had earned his stripes in the war to resist U.S. aggression and to aid Korea. He had gained great friendships, but lost many friends. As a young captain at the Chosin Reservoir, Won had fought the best of the U.S. Marines. Surrounding Marine units with overwhelming numbers, his unit and others had caused the imperialists to retreat. But Won also knew the other story—a story the propaganda machine did not mention. The Americans had fought well at Chosin. Against overwhelming odds, the hardened, determined 7th Marine Regiment had battled, inch by inch, to regain an escape route out of the mountains and back to the coast. The 1st Marine Division was a most worthy enemy. Eleven times the number of Chinese died as had Americans that day. Su was old now, barely able to walk, but still a respected general and advisor. He had been called from retirement because the Chinese military leadership thought his mind the best to analyze North Korea’s latest activity.
The helicopter began its final bank to the landing pad, and the passengers felt the slight rise of the nose as the back wheels lightly touched down. Won looked out to the side of the craft as a group of men, one in uniform and the others in plain khaki work clothes, bent over, protecting their eyes from the rotor blast. The weight of the bird settled down on its wheels, and the aircraft came to a stop.
Won glanced over to his seatmate, Comrade Colonel Tae Nam-Ki of the Democratic People’s Republic, serving as his liaison officer for this visit to North Korea. The colonel was most helpful and respectful to Won. Every North Korean of a certain age knew that General Won had fought to preserve North Korea from the imperialist onslaught. Nam-Ki had been only a child during the war, but he knew Won’s history as well as anyone.
North Korea is our greatest challenge, the general thought as the helicopter’s rotors slowed to a stop. How do we channel this enthusiasm and effort to the common good?
China’s long-term strategy had been an unquestioned success. Russia was only a minimal threat. North Korea served as a conduit, supplying Chinese technology to nations such as Syria, Iran, Vietnam, and Pakistan without China losing status or stature with the United States or the world community.
But North Korea teetered on the brink of economic collapse. And, known to few, internal revolution. That was why Comrade General Won had been sent to visit with Dr. Nampo.
Won had observed firsthand the country’s starvation and lack of infrastructure, and he thought privately that Kim Il Sung’s relentless commitment to Stalinism and Juche had caused more harm than good. How can these people continue to endure without the basics needed for human survival? Outside Pyongyang, Won had seen the gaunt look of hunger in the children, eyes bulging from their sockets, their skin stretched over the bony outlines of their faces. He had witnessed adults moving slowly, like dim, fading light bulbs. How could they watch their children become emaciated and die without questioning Juche? But if, in order to survive, they opened their gates to South Korea, would China lose the buffer to imperialism that its ally, North Korea, provided? Was a buffer even needed anymore?
Won’s China had changed.
I imagine the Americans would be troubled, though, Won thought, if Mexico suddenly became a radical Stalinist nation. Yet the U.S. seems not to understand our concerns about North Korea becoming an open capitalist market. How can North Korea preserve the Communistic state, remain our ally, and still bring in badly needed capital? Won had far more on his mind than merely a visit to another clandestine military installation.
“Comrade General, it is our greatest pleasure to welcome you to the People’s Kosan Project.” The young captain had managed to open the door to the helicopter and execute a sharp salute at the same time. As General Won returned the salute, the group of men at the edge of the helicopter pad stepped forward. The four men, all dressed in Mao-style jackets with matching khaki pants and black combat boots, looked almost exactly alike in age, size, and shape.
“And which one of these fine men is the famous Dr. Nampo?”
“Comrade General, whenever we are outside, beneath the sky of the spying imperialists, Dr. Nampo makes no effort to distinguish himself from his group of colleagues.” The captain made this unusual comment as if it were common knowledge, and the general took no offense. He shook the hands of each of the four men, unable to discern which one was actually Nampo.
“If you will come this way, General.” Captain Sang pointed to the vehicles below the helicopter pad and helped the general down the steps to four vehicles waiting in line with their drivers. Sang assisted the general into the first vehicle, a Soviet-made jeep, and as he settled into the backseat with Tae Nam-Ki, Won saw the four nearly identical men climb into the second and third jeeps. As the vehicles sped away, Won noticed that the road, though topped with gravel, was unusually smooth. The gravel must be for appearance’s sake, he thought as the vehicles sped down the valley. Surely, there must be a substructure of cement.
“Captain,” he said, “is this road well-built?”
“Yes, sir. Twenty miles of gray cement topped with gravel,” said Captain Sang. “It can handle all our support vehicles, but looks like a rural road. We have thermal blankets that shield the truck engines’ discharge and make them virtually undetectable.”
&
nbsp; What a curious nation, Won thought. Highly capable. A dangerous enemy.
Across from the road, beyond a small, green-carpeted rice field, a man hoed a thin, sparse garden, his worn, tired clothing draped over his frail frame. The man was hunched over, his curved back welded into place by years of constant, nagging malnutrition, caused by an emaciating diet of a single daily bowl of rice.
As the lead vehicle rounded a curve along a small mound, Won noticed the road entering a short subterranean tunnel. A tight group of trees shaded another mound above the tunnel, but as the automobile drove down the tunnel ramp, he saw light at the other end where the road climbed back up. The vehicles stopped at the base of the tunnel and, in a quick motion, the captain jumped from the car and opened the door.
“General and Colonel, please come this way quickly.”
Helped by Nam-Ki, Won exited the car and, almost as quickly, the convoy of cars continued through the tunnel and back up to the surface.
Ingenious, Won thought as the vehicles pulled away. To the eye of a satellite, the convoy would have passed into a small group of trees and then continued on. The satellite would have been unable to detect the stop. Won chuckled as he thought of the U.S. spy satellite following the vehicles for another ten or so miles until they pulled into a covered barracks somewhere north of the DMZ.
The captain led the group into another tunnel running perpendicular to the drop-off point. As they entered the facility and passed through a large gray blast door, a crowd of soldiers and white-frocked scientists met the party. To his side, Won noticed the four Nampos follow him into the entranceway. One of the four turned toward another vault-sized door and entered a combination on the security pad. The door clicked faintly as it swung open. As Won hobbled through the door, he realized the depth of this missile project, the entranceway leading to an enormous metal-grate balcony, through which he saw three massive subterranean floors.
Northern Thunder Page 4
