Northern Thunder

by Anderson Harp

  “Captain, he must be between us and the beach,” said the soldier.

  “Slow the men down,” said Sang.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No, stop the men. Tell them to be totally quiet.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Will slowed down his breathing, forcing himself to hear only the water bubbling past.

  “Let’s wait,” said Sang.

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Sang pulled out his pistol and chambered a round. From atop the rock, he could see the stream, the beach, the road bridge below, and the patrol boats in the dark water beyond.

  “He’s between here and the water.”

  “Yes, sir,” the young radio operator whispered as Will heard the crackle of radio traffic. A swarm of patrol units chattered back and forth.

  “Turn the radio off,” said Sang.

  Then silence covered the woods. The only thing heard was the stream of water running over the rocks. Sang waited and Will remained as still as possible, less than an arm’s reach from the captain’s boot.

  “Sir, look.” The radio operator pointed down the stream, to the other side of the bridge. There, between the rocks, was a flash of light. “That’s him.”

  “Let’s go,” said Sang. “Radio the units to close on the bridge now!”

  The radio operator’s radio buzzed with traffic as others converged on the bridge. The patrolmen moved out, clamoring with excitement now that the prey was in the trap.

  Sang stopped the last of his patrol as his men moved downward to the bridge. He turned back upstream.

  “Captain,” said a soldier, “they found a tent and they think he’s still in it.”

  A shot rang out as an impatient Kalashnikov fired at the small, snow-covered tent.

  “Damn it! Stop all firing!” cried Sang.

  A bright flash halted the radio operator’s chance to reply. The explosion lit up the pitch-black sky, momentarily blinding the army. As the darkness returned, Sang’s radio chattered loudly as they closed in on the remains of the tent. A billow of smoke floated up between the boulders. Sang and his men ran down the rocks to the road and bridge just above the debris and smoke.

  “Captain, we have him,” said a soldier.

  “Alive?”

  “No, sir.” The North Korean held, by the wrist, a severed, bloody arm.

  “Form the men up,” said Sang. “I want every man accounted for.”

  “Captain?”

  “I want to be assured that’s the arm of our prey, not one of ours.”

  The units formed up on the road. No one was missing. Sang now canvassed the guards to the south and to the north. No one was missing there, either, or unaccounted for. They continued to canvass the nearby units until well after first light.

  “Sir,” said a soldier, “we have debris of a Russian frogman’s suit, another Spetsnaz uniform, and a Soviet type-64—all destroyed by the explosion.”

  “Then maybe we got him,” said Sang.

  “Not maybe, sir.”

  Chapter 41

  The Advanced SEAL Delivery Mini Submarine below the Surface

  “Oh, my God.” Kevin Moncrief saw the flames streak across the sky. From the ASDS, it was odd seeing the explosion—the water above them muffled the sound.

  “What’s up, Gunny?”

  “We lost him, Hernandez.”

  “Bullshit,” said Hernandez.

  “No, it came from the tent.”

  “Gunny, we need to go in there.” Stidham, now standing, rocked the mini-submarine with his large frame.

  “Men, we got orders to beat it back to the Florida,” said the lieutenant.

  “Lieutenant, I don’t know,” said Moncrief.

  “Gunny, we got a swarm of patrol boats overhead, some with sonar. They can’t get to us right now, but they are looking for us. We’ve got to get out of here now.”

  Moncrief knew the lieutenant was right. He could hear the churn of propellers above him from several different directions. The beach, from north to south, was swarming with lights.

  “Okay.”

  “Gunny.” Both Hernandez and Stidham stared at Kevin Moncrief.

  “Gunny, staff sergeants—the skipper said to get back to the boat. He’s got to protect the boat,” said the lieutenant.

  Moncrief knew it was the thing to do. “We’re outta here,” he said.

  Neither Hernandez nor Stidham could believe what was being said—not by Kevin Moncrief.

  “Guys,” Moncrief said, “follow me on this. The colonel’s orders.”

  The two men sat back down as the navy lieutenant pulled the hatch over, sealing the opening. The boat floated up from the seafloor, turned, and headed west into deeper waters.

  “She’s moved,” the lieutenant said.

  “How deep?” said Moncrief.

  “Two hundred feet, thirty miles out.”

  “Are we being tracked?”

  “I don’t believe so.” The lieutenant had taken the ASDS back to the submarine the day before, recharged its batteries, then returned to pick up Parker’s men. Running on batteries, the craft remained perfectly silent and undetectable by sound.

  “I don’t want to lead them to the Florida,” said Moncrief.

  “We should be fine. Fifty meters down,” said the lieutenant. “We’re heading north for about thirty minutes.”

  The mini-submarine tilted over and banked as it headed north. The lieutenant sensed that the patrol boats’ attention was still toward the shoreline. In deeper water, North Korea had limited assets. At best, they had one diesel submarine, 1950s vintage, on the east coast. Most of their submarine assets grouped in the west.

  After some time, the ASDS tilted again to the west, banking as it turned.

  “The Florida’s on the move,” said the lieutenant. “It’ll catch up to us ten nautical miles to the north.”

  Minutes later, the mini-submarine slid up alongside the Trident, slightly above and behind. It pulled up over the moorings and floated down, clanking as metal connected with metal.

  Moncrief felt the floating sensation cease as the ASDS came to rest on top of the much bigger boat. He heard the rush of compressed air and felt his ears pop as the mini-submarine sealed itself onto the Florida.

  The hatches banged as they swung open. Moncrief led the way into the brightly-lit mother submarine.

  “Welcome home,” said the skipper. “Let’s move to deeper water.”

  The Florida headed east, making time and depth and putting distance between it and North Korea.

  “Ah, Skipper…” Moncrief caught up with the skipper at the control room.

  “Yeah?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “No need,” said Hollington.

  “Skipper?”

  “As soon as things quiet down on shore, we’ll turn back to the west and check things out. We’re following orders now.”

  “What exactly are those orders?”

  “Abandon mission,” said Hollington. “Leave area immediately. Straight from the Pentagon.”

  “When did you get them?” asked Moncrief.

  “Just before the explosion.”

  “Before?”

  * * * *

  The wind continued to blow inland, driving snow toward Will harder and harder. He waited behind the two boulders until well after the explosion. He stayed still, long after the North Koreans had left the area. Just before dawn, he moved inland, back up the stream, toward the little lake.

  At the lake, he moved south at a constant pace, building up a rhythm through the snow. As he did so, Will kept the Diamond Mountains peaks to his left, traveling through deep stands of pine trees and drifting snow. Will stayed up high, well into the mountains and far from any roads. He kept moving past daylight as the snowstor
m continued to rage, almost instantly covering his tracks behind him.

  At midmorning, Will came to a road that cut into the mountains. He stopped at a culvert under a gravel road that headed east. Here, the stench of open sewage forced him to breathe shallowly through his mouth as he crawled through the culvert. North Korean farmers fertilized the rice fields with whatever nutrient they could find.

  Will felt the rumble of vehicles as they approached from the west. He looked down into the water pooling around the culvert and saw ripples form from the vibration. After the last vehicle, Will pulled out toward the western edge of the culvert—the convoy was heading up the valley. As he watched the Soviet-built supply trucks move south, Will noticed the movement of a North Korean soldier, just west, to one side of the road. He appeared and then as Will watched, disappeared behind a snow-covered mound. He did it again and again.

  Will then saw another man in a similar olive-colored uniform appear from another mound. As he made out the shape of the first, Will spied a series of mounds stretched across the valley.

  I know what these are, he thought, cupping his hands around his eyes. In countless briefings, Will had been told that he’d know he’d gone too far south if he began to run into North Korea’s hardened artillery sites—vast bunkers for their long-range artillery, called HARTS. Embedded deep within each bunker’s concrete- and steel-reinforced walls were Koksan M1978 170-mm self-propelled guns and 240-mm MRLs. The multiple rocket launchers could spew out hundreds of chemical shells over the border, saturating square miles with deadly poison gases for lengthy periods of time. And the self-propelled guns could lay down a formidable barrage of hot steel.

  Will was nearing the rear of North Korea’s DMZ defenses—hundreds of sentry posts, troops, and detection devices. If he somehow passed through this maze, he would come upon miles of minefields, layered in crisscross patterns, each device capable of blowing a man to shreds.

  I’ll wait until dark and head to the coast, thought Will, leaning back against the cement culvert and ignoring the stench.

  His mind drifted, wondering where she might be now—and if he could beat the odds stacked against him.

  Chapter 42

  Pyongyang, North Korea

  The conference room of the Nuclear and Chemical Defense Bureau was filled with military men of the highest rank, as well as the top leaders of the civilian government. Choe Hak-son, science chairman, sat on the far end, beside the vice prime minister. Also near Choe were Admiral Li Yong Ji and General Hokoma, the army’s chief of staff, whose scowl bespoke his contempt for the others in the room.

  On the other end, near an empty chair, Comrade General Jo Si, chief of the air force, smoked his French Gitanes, one after another. Several other comrade generals of artillery and logistics had chairs near his. The bright, shiny gold insignias of their respective branches of service stood out on their red shoulder epaulets. Several others sat in chairs away from the main table. One, dressed in a dark olive, Mao-styled jacket, was Sin Tae-sam. He, along with the others, sat in silence, as if this were a wake.

  The military and government leaders were joined by a balding, aged man in a brown, Western-style suit. His pug nose dominated an ashen white face, alongside a blackened mole on the right of his forehead. Ambassador Vershinof was no stranger to anyone in the room.

  “Attention.” The young orderly sharply kicked his heels, then swung the door open for the Supreme Leader.

  The short, frazzle-haired man with huge, black-framed glasses always appeared more comic than deadly. It was only by his pedigree that Kim Jong Il ruled the most dangerous country in the world.

  Kim’s chair was oversized and raised, allowing him to look down at the others. His fingers, held together tip-to-tip, touched his chin, like a Buddhist monk contemplating a prayer. The gloss of polished and manicured fingers reflected light from the chandelier.

  “It’s been assumed that the assassin of Peter Nampo was a Russian spetsnaz, perhaps from a submarine out of Vladivostok. A source in Moscow suggested that Russian arms manufacturers had been growing frustrated with Nampo’s success in developing new weapons,” said Kim Jong Il. His face was more placid and pale than in the past. As many in the room knew, or had heard rumors of, the leader’s heart was slowly failing. Today’s events wouldn’t add to his longevity.

  “That’s what you were meant to think,” said Vershinof. “But it was not a Russian spetsnaz.” Vershinof spoke loudly to ensure there was no confusion on this point.

  “And I’m told you have more,” said Kim Jong Il.

  “I do, Comrade General Secretary.” Vershinof pulled a large manila folder from a beaten leather satchel. “I’ve brought copies. These are prints from one of our satellites taken over the Americans’ Pearl Harbor only a few weeks ago. Moored to the backside of what they call Ford Island you’ll see a Trident submarine modified for special operations.”

  The clarity of the photo showed several men on the deck of the submarine. Three in the conning tower wore baseball caps. Several on the deck carried rifles.

  “You’ll notice the fittings behind the submarine’s sail or tower,” said Vershinof.

  The North Koreans circulated the photos around both sides of the room like schoolboys receiving assignments from their teacher.

  “I have another photograph taken with sensitive, low-light film by one of our people nearby.” He referred to a KGB agent, a Hawaiian importer who conveniently lived in a house on Halawa Heights Road with a hilltop view of all Pearl Harbor.

  The submarine appeared to be crossing back from the other side of the harbor. A cigar-shaped object was affixed to its back.

  “This is a new ASDS mini-submarine used for SEAL team deliveries. Their navy let it be rumored that the submarine was at Pearl for testing, but it left late at night with the ASDS attached.”

  “Go on,” said Kim.

  “It has not returned, either to Pearl or their West Coast harbors, and…”

  “Yes, Ambassador?”

  “As we compute things, like speed and sail time, it could easily have been along your coastline three days ago.”

  “So it was the Americans,” said Kim. “But how did they do it?”

  “Our scientists would appreciate any opportunity to help investigate. In fact, we—”

  Vershinof’s comments were cut short when the young, uniformed orderly at the door approached the general secretary, bowed deeply, and handed him a note. Kim Jong Il appeared astonished at what he read. He quickly folded the note and laid it down. “Thank you, Ambassador. I’m sure we’ll have further discussions on the matter.” Kim finished his cigarette and stamped it out in the ashtray.

  From many years spent in the foreign service, Vershinof knew when not to press a point. To persuade any in doubt, he left the photographs behind for further examination. Then he gathered up his old, tattered satchel and left the room.

  “The body parts of the corpse our patrols found contained frozen tissue,” said Kim Jong Il once Vershinof was gone. “The man may still be out there. We need him dead.”

  Chapter 43

  Deep in the Taebaek Mountians

  A deep cold swept through the valley as the sun’s last light started to fade. The SSC Natick Laboratory suit had kept Will well-camouflaged and relatively warm so far, but it was not designed for extreme cold weather and the temperatures were dropping.

  He began to shiver in the pitch-black culvert, seeing only faint gray light at each end. The suit, adjusting to the environment, was now a coal black that matched the interior of the culvert. Only a small patch of white around his eyes gave any hint the shape might be something human. And if he turned away and looked down, he would have been undetectable even to someone with a flashlight.

  Well after dark, Will slowly moved out, beyond the culvert, to a low, snow-covered ravine, where he again adjusted the suit color. The miniature computer on the for
earm scanned the white and gray surfaces in the low light, and in a few seconds, the suit changed to a matching, mixed pattern of gray and white.

  The stars lit up the sky, clearly illuminating the valley. Will did not like this level of light. It might allow his pursuers to detect his movement.

  But they won’t be looking north, he thought, referring to the hundreds of DPRK soldiers sitting in their bunkers only a few hundred meters away. It was their preoccupation with the south that gave him an advantage.

  The mountains to the east stood black and jagged against the sky, like a broken pane of glass. They went from his left to his far right. But their rapid ascent and sharp topography gave him both protection and camouflage. Few hardened artillery bunkers were on the other side of the Kumgang peaks. This he remembered from reviewing the three-dimensional holograms.

  Will moved in the bottom of the ravine, again at a runner’s pace, quickly building up heat as he kept low. Gradually, the terrain changed until he was climbing up a staircase of rocks and boulders. He set his course for the far right of one peak where, well in the distance, a faint yellow light indicated an observation or listening post. Will stayed low, stopping only briefly throughout the night, as he climbed up over a small jagged line into the next gully and again up over more jagged rocks.

  It was well after midnight when he realized how thirsty he had become. His power fuel packs had given him a continuous surge of adrenaline, but his mouth was now dry and parched. He followed the line of rocks, spotting a turn and drop to the south, indicative of a possible streambed.

  Beyond an outcrop of rocks, Will heard the movement of water. It was a small stream coming down from the last peaks to the east. The water did not have the smell of the lowlands.

  Will stuck the fingers of his gloved hand into the icy pool, using the other hand to again open the Velcro covering on his forearm. The LED screen of the uniform’s computer displayed a code of letters in a light blue light. The computer confirmed that the water was untainted and drinkable.

  So Will drank. His thirst seemed minor until he first tasted the clean, melted snow water. Then he sat on his knees and gulped through his cupped hands.