Northern Thunder

by Anderson Harp

  God, he’s come a long way.

  A photo on the monitor showed a pencil-thin rocket during a launch.

  “Each of the developed rockets has extended the range of North Korea’s program, but the country always appeared years away from intercontinental missiles.”

  “Until now,” Krowl said.

  “Yes, sir. But payload capacity was also a problem. While our rockets might carry ten thousand pounds into space, theirs could only carry a few hundred pounds or so.”

  “And not into the higher orbits,” Krowl interjected.

  “We believe they are now nearing the completion of a multistage rocket that can reach any orbit.”

  A drawing of a larger, thicker rocket appeared. It was still shorter and thinner than U.S. rockets, but clearly multistaged.

  “Although cargo restrictions will still probably put the payload at three hundred to five hundred pounds at most, this one will have a range of up to 13,000 kilometers and be able to reach any orbit.”

  “And that makes Dr. Nampo a very important man,” Scott said from the back of the room.

  “So with Nampo,” Will said, “they can put up small satellites? Even miniature weapons?”

  “They hope to, sir.”

  “And you wish to do what?”

  Krowl leaned forward. “Colonel, in today’s world, if we can identify what a nation is doing, then prove it on the international stage, we can build a coalition that will slow, if not stop, a program like this one. But in this instance, we must first prove unequivocally that Peter Nampo is the head of the program.” With that comment, a satellite photograph of a small valley appeared on the screen. Will immediately realized this was not simply a spy satellite photo, but rather a live video feed. As Wolf continued to tap computer keys, the video zoomed in on the valley, then a road, and then a square shape near the hills.

  The deep emerald green of the valley and its square-shaped rice paddies made for a striking tableau. The black peaks surrounding it on both sides gave the valley a sense of being sheltered.

  “This square on the side of the valley is a helicopter pad,” said Wolf. “Several weeks ago, we were able to observe something most interesting.”

  The screen’s image changed again to a videotape of the same valley. Out of the bottom right-hand corner, Will noticed some movement, just as the focus changed onto and enlarged the object: A Soviet-built helicopter.

  The video followed the helicopter as it passed low over the valley and then turned to land in the loading zone. The camera focus switched to a small group of men and two vehicles, then zoomed in to where Will could see a man in a general’s uniform, along with another man, exit the helicopter and greet the group. They all departed in two vehicles.

  “We have gathered a couple of things from this video. First, the VIP who flew in on the helicopter is a General Won from China. Second, one of those men on the ground is believed to be Peter Nampo.”

  “What’s he doing there in the valley?” asked Will.

  “Not in the valley, exactly,” said Wolf. “The vehicles left the pad, drove another thirty kilometers, and then pulled into a covered hangar near a DMZ base.”

  “And?” asked Will.

  “No significant bases, sights, or anything are within that thirty-kilometer stretch. Why drive it? You have a helicopter and another helipad there. Why not use them?”

  “Couldn’t they simply be concerned about having VIP helo ops too close to the South Korean border?” Scott asked.

  “Perhaps, but that’s not their typical MO.”

  Will found it interesting that Wolf used a criminal term. Another reminder of how far he’d come from modus operandi and his criminal trials of a week ago.

  “So, question one is where Nampo and the Chinese general went,” said Will. “Question two is why.”

  “Actually,” said Krowl, “our first priority is to absolutely confirm that one of those people is Dr. Peter Nampo. Your job is to do precisely that.”

  In a low voice, Scott said, “Let me explain the stakes here. If this missile is able to deliver nuclear weapons—no matter how small—into GEO orbit, it can disrupt and destroy major satellite systems: GPSs, communication systems, intelligence systems, you name it. According to some estimates, we are more than a hundred-billion dollars behind in updating our military equipment—tanks, jets, trucks, and so on. Most folks on the Hill, and quite a few in this building, believe we’ll never catch up. They say the only thing that bridges the gap is our satellite-intelligence superiority. If another country didn’t care about losing its own satellites in exchange for destroying ours…”

  Krowl jumped in. “Our military and our society would be harmed almost as extensively as if we were the target of all-out nuclear war. Virtually every system we use in daily life depends in some way on a satellite.”

  “So what’s our plan?” Will said.

  Wolf flashed another image on the screen. “Simply put, sir, using a boat south of Wonsan, we insert you with a team of highly trained Navy SEALs. You get in, confirm which one is Nampo, and take his photo with a digital surveillance camera. The photo is fed into a small, high-speed, hardened computer, then sent by AN/PSC-10 tactical satellite communications radio to one of our birds over the western Pacific. It’s then transferred to a room like this and studied. If it passes muster, you’ll be given the green light to get out of there and come home.”

  It sounded simple enough. But Will knew that “simple” and “military” in the same sentence constituted an oxymoron—two words that, in truth, should never be put together.

  “The problem, sir,” continued Wolf, “is that we can’t risk having a U.S. Navy SEAL team discovered in North Korea.”

  “Mr. Scott?” prompted Krowl.

  “We’ll train each of the team members in both Russian and Korean,” said Scott, “making the team appear, from dress, outfit, weaponry, and every other detail, to be Russian Spetsnaz. If caught, you’ll appear to be part of a highly trained, Big Brother Russian plot to keep track of its little friend’s efforts to play in the big leagues.”

  Spetsnaz, the Russians’ elite insertion force, might conduct a mission like this, but it wasn’t clear why. Will voiced the question.

  “At the same time, we’re going to have our people in Moscow leak a low-level story that the Russians are increasingly concerned about rogue nations’ efforts to steal micro-electronics technology from the Ioffe Physico-Technico Institute in St. Petersburg.”

  Will nodded at the cover story, thinking that if the SEALs and he were captured in North Korea, the story wouldn’t make much difference to them. They’d likely be dead.

  “We’ll change everything—your fingerprints, your teeth, et cetera—through dental work and other surgery, and everything will conform to Russian method and style.”

  Will appreciated the attention to detail but, again, he didn’t like his chances of survival, even with the cosmetic transformation.

  “Which Navy SEAL team and boat are we considering using, exactly?” Krowl asked.

  “One of the Pearl Harbor–based SEAL teams and a Los Angeles–class submarine.”

  “Let me make a suggestion,” Will told Scott, leaning back in his chair, angling it to face all of them directly. He knew these next comments would not make him a friend in the room. “Let’s use a three-man recon team from Mobile.”

  “A reserve unit?” said Scott.

  “Yes. More specifically, Gunnery Sergeant Kevin Moncrief, Staff Sergeant Enrico Hernandez, and Staff Sergeant Shane Stidham. I’ve worked with them all before.”

  “I don’t know…” said Krowl.

  “Also, Admiral, I want to use an ASDS on SSGN728.”

  “A boomer to deliver a SEAL team?” asked Krowl.

  Wolf, reeling from all the naval jargon, said, “Excuse me, gentlemen, but what are we talking about?” />
  Scott, turning to Wolf, said, “He’s suggesting using an advanced SEAL delivery system—a mini-sub attached to a Trident submarine. We’ve got a Trident program that allows some of our fleet to deliver teams and troops into light-intensity conflicts.”

  “Also, I want the gold crew of the Florida.” Will was effectively saying he wanted to use his own people.

  “I’m sorry, Colonel,” said Krowl, “but that’s a no-go. For all I know, 728 may be in the Atlantic, and the gold crew’s schedule may not work at all.”

  Each Trident submarine has two identical crews—one tagged “blue” and one tagged “gold.” The switch-off enabled the billion-dollar boat to remain almost perpetually at sea.

  This was the inevitable impasse that Will had been anticipating for several days—the demand to use his own team. He paused for a moment, then looked right at Krowl. “Thanks, sir. It’s been interesting.” He stood up, pushed his chair under the desk, and headed without hesitation for the door. He’d reached the sentry’s station before Krowl reacted.

  “Goddamnit, go get him.”

  Scott reached Will as the door swung open.

  “If the Marine would please return to the meeting…” Scott said with a subdued smile.

  Will didn’t create any additional drama; he simply walked back to the briefing room and sat in his chair.

  “The Spetsnaz plan’s fine,” he said. “My recon team can dress and arm themselves as Spetsnaz, but I only want them to get me to the shoreline. Any travel on land, I’ll do myself.”

  Will wanted his recon team as an insurance policy. With a briefer role, they were less likely to be deemed expendable. Also, he had another thought.

  “Okay, JCS will get SSGN728,” grumbled Krowl.

  “Yes, sir.” Scott spoke more to affirm the decision than to make it happen. Krowl had all the power here.

  “And we’ll get one of the ASDSs at Pearl. What’s next?” said Krowl.

  Scott broke in, “Sir, we have a team ready for training at Quantico as we speak. Ten weeks there and then six weeks in mountain and cold-weather training at Bridgeport, California. The first two weeks will be medical. Change dental work to be consistent with typical Moscow Dento-El work. Alter fingerprints. Then, a general fitness program with intel briefs and language training daily. Oh, and also Lasik surgery to correct any vision problems. No glasses where you’re going,” he told Will.

  “Make it faster.” Krowl decided he would dictate his own terms. “Much faster.”

  “We’ll try.” Scott looked at Will for agreement.

  “Yes,” said Will. Scott’s thoroughness was impressive.

  “Good hunting, Colonel.” Krowl smiled as if he had gotten the last word in.

  Will squeezed Krowl’s hand and, as in Georgia, sensed that all was not right. “Until this is over,” he said, “just call me Mr. Parker.”

  Chapter 13

  Moscow

  The memory of prior days hung in his mind as Rei, standing on the bridge, looked out over the lake. Small sailboats crisscrossed the green and blue water, and a cool breeze chilled his face.

  Though it was a summer day in Moscow, Rei felt chilled. He pulled his collar up over his neck and glanced at his watch.

  The train to St. Petersburg would arrive around seven o’clock in the morning. His target, a professor at the Ioffe Physico-Technico Institute in St. Petersburg, was scheduled to give a lecture at the old Leningrad Polytechnic Institute’s Laser Technology Center at one p.m. He would take the metro system from the Moscow station to the university campus and, later, a taxi to Pulkovo-2, the international airport, for his Aeroflot flight to Paris.

  It was a simple plan, dependent on speed. Speed in leaving the country was always the best defense.

  Isn’t it ironic? I return to Russia, which trained me, to kill one of its own.

  From the moment he had stepped out of the taxi to stop this time at a spot overlooking the lake, Rei had felt uncomfortable. Never retrace old steps. Never walk the same path. He remembered the old guidelines, yet here he was, violating each of them.

  Perhaps I should move on.

  He had three new targets, each a leader in his field. The one in Russia would be the most difficult, primarily because of the lack of reliable transportation. Russian trains were chronically late. Russian airplanes sometimes didn’t fly. Russian taxis were hard to find.

  My best hope is that the police are just as bad.

  Perhaps, after this final list, he would ask his superiors for the opportunity to attend the people’s military school. As he twisted the ring on his finger, he laughed, thinking how, in some future ceremony, he would give a new agent the ring. Or, he thought, maybe I’ll retire it.

  A taxi, its engine running, waited near the bridge. In perfect Russian, Rei barked his destination at the driver.

  The train ride was typical for Russia. Always, the cars were either too hot or too cold. In this one, the stark smell of burned cabbage filled the compartment. Where it came from, he had no idea, but the fat peasant woman and her elderly husband carrying a load in oversized plastic bags seemed the most likely suspects.

  As the train pulled into the north St. Petersburg station, Rei grabbed his small, torn bag from the shelf above his seat. During a short visit to Moscow’s traders market, he had bought it and some clothes—all of which had enabled him to blend in.

  Rei walked from the train directly to a small coffee booth.

  “A coffee,” he quietly ordered in Russian. He drank the coffee slowly as he walked through a side exit onto the crowded street. Rei cut across two streets and down a small one before walking four blocks or so to a small grocery. The shelves were empty except for a few sparsely placed canned goods. The bread shelves were full and though he wasn’t there for bread, he bought two loaves and placed them in the plastic bag he was carrying. At the right moment, he stopped and turned toward the store window.

  Rei knew KGB training firsthand, and thus knew that KGB surveillance would have to keep him under a constant eye without entering the store. He looked across the street and saw no one. So far, so good.

  He also bought a small pint of the cheapest vodka. He crossed the street to the public toilet where, in a foul-smelling stall, he took a large gulp of the vodka, swilled it around in his mouth, spit it out, and spilled a little on his brown, thread-thinned cloth coat. To anyone nearby, he’d smell like an authentic country Russian.

  The metro took him to the edge of the St. Petersburg Technical University campus. Rei had studied the maps carefully. He was not comfortable with St. Petersburg, although, perhaps because he and Mi—another North Korean trainee at Moscow’s KGB intelligence school—had taken a holiday here once. Rei was the son of an ironworker from Pyongyang. His father had helped build the new Pyongyang and, as a skilled worker in the big city, always had food. Mi, also from Pyongyang, had been less fortunate: the daughter of a Russian engineer married to a Pyongyang schoolteacher. They had been so far from home back then. They didn’t see much of Moscow, living in a KGB flat near the train station. It had merely provided a brief break from training.

  This summer day, Rei did not dare enter the Laser Technology Center. He waited across the street at a metro entrance until he saw Imode Boriskof leave the center shortly after three in the afternoon.

  Dr. Boriskof and two young associates headed across the street toward the same metro station. Rei would not risk a confrontation, but he had already formulated his plan as the three crossed. I’ve got at least three hours before the flight to Paris.

  He pulled in behind the trio as they entered the metro. Rei guessed that the two students would eventually peel away from the professor as they headed north and he home.

  As they all entered the subway car, Rei lowered his bags to the floor and reached into his pants pocket. There, in a white cloth, he had the gold ring—he’d been careful
not to wear it on the train or even in Moscow. He felt the chill of its metal as he slipped it on his finger.

  Rei picked up the bags and moved closer to the three and their conversation.

  “We still have the problem with the progression.” Boriskof’s younger aide appeared to be making a point, although the doctor looked distracted.

  “I have some ideas on that.” The other aide seemed more experienced.

  “Let me have them…Monday.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As the subway car jolted through a turn, Rei was nearly on top of Boriskof. The old doctor’s frayed collar was crumpled up in his brown, pinstriped coat. His black, paisley tie was tied in an oversized knot. Heeding his suspicions, Rei looked down to see the doctor’s arthritic hands. He imagined the difficulties the professor must have had every morning tying that knot.

  “Why don’t you both come home with me for supper tonight?” said Boriskof.

  Rei’s heart froze.

  “Thank you, Doctor. We would be most pleased,” the older of the two associates spoke.

  Rei weighed his options—wait or go? When the train came to a stop at the next station, virtually everyone except he and the scientists left the train.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  “Next stop, the Moscow station,” the metro clerk yelled as he headed through the car. Boriskof looked at Rei and smiled, as if acknowledging the stupidity of a clerk yelling at them from only a few feet away.

  Rei smiled back.

  The train lurched to a stop and a flood of people poured into the car. Rei quickly stepped to one side of Boriskof, placing himself between him and the door. The two younger men were on the other side.

  Rei knew he would have but one very brief opportunity. If he stayed in St. Petersburg to await another chance, the risk that Boriskof’s comrades would recognize him would be substantial.

  As he neared Boriskof, pushed along by the influx of subway travelers, Rei detected the slight scent of vodka and decided the good doctor was, indeed, a typical Russian. It will make the drug work even faster. At the same time, the doctor appeared to detect Rei’s odor—a fellow vodka fan.