A Northern Thunder

by Andy Harp

  Copyright 2007 by Col. J. Anderson Harp, Retired, USMC Reserves

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote passages in a review.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Published by Bancroft Press (“Books that enlighten”)

  P.O. Box 65360, Baltimore, MD 21209

  800-637-7377

  410-764-1967 (fax)

  www.bancroftpress.com

  Cover and interior design: Tammy Sneath Grimes, Crescent Communications

  www.tsgcrescent.com • 814.941.7447

  Map of Korea: Thom Hendrick

  Author photo: Bob Hancock

  ISBN 1-890862-53-3 (EAN: 978-1-890862-53-4)

  LCCN 2006935333

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  To Jane and the gang, with love.

  And to Ethel and Lucille, who have

  encouraged the creative mind.

  Table of Contents

  Map of Korea

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  “Is this seat 38?”

  Dr. Myles Harbinger looked up to see a young Asian man. “Yes, I guess it is,” Harbinger said, glancing at the window seat beside him.

  “Thank you,” said the young man. “If you’d rather have the window, I don’t mind.”

  Though he cared little about the seat, Harbinger did not want to move. He simply wanted to not be disturbed. “No, young man, I’ll stay here. Thank you.”

  Wrinkled and disheveled, with reading glasses on his gray, bushy head and an unlit pipe in his mouth, Harbinger looked every inch the professor he was. He had hoped the flight from Washington, D.C. to San Francisco would provide him an opportunity to work on his high-priority research project. He had treasured the promise of five hours of quiet time in the air, and hoped his seat neighbor would end the small talk quickly.

  Fortunately, the young man said nothing else. He took off his leather jacket, sat down, and began reading a newspaper.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Harbinger noticed the paper’s Korean script.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said a flight attendant, “but you’ll need to store the table for take-off. May I take that briefcase for you?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Harbinger handed the satchel across to her and, as she put it in the overhead bin, she noticed the attached tag:

  Dr. Myles Harbinger, Ph.D.

  121 Briar Street

  Berkeley, California 94704

  To the young Asian man, she said, “And may I take your coat?”

  The young man hesitated briefly, and then handed his jacket to her. Later, as she hung it up in the forward cabin, she would notice it had no tags—of any kind—inside.

  “And, Professor, you do know you cannot light that pipe?”

  “Yes, my dear,” he replied. “And a good deduction. What gave it away?”

  “Just a wild guess, Professor.” Harbinger enjoyed the emphasis she added to his title.

  The man next to the professor also knew Dr. Myler Harbinger’s occupation, but not by any guess. He knew where Harbinger taught, how he dressed, what he liked and disliked. In fact, for several months, the man had researched every possible detail about the professor sitting next to him, including the precise airplane seat assigned him on this flight. A Ph.D. in mathematics and the world’s leading mind in the development of GPS—the Global Positioning Satellite network—Dr. Harbinger was the Grace Hopper of his time. Like Hopper, the famed naval captain, genius, and inventor of the COBOL computer system, Myler Harbinger was a decade ahead of his peers, except perhaps one.

  “Where do you teach, Professor?” the young man asked in clear English.

  “I’m at the Engineering Department at Berkeley.”

  “Oh, a very fine school. And, engineering—I thought the computer eliminated our need for mathematics and engineering.”

  Harbinger grumbled to himself. “No, we’ll always need engineering, and we’ll always need professors,” Harbinger replied. Silence followed, but only for a brief time.

  “I work in cable television in South Korea,” the man eventually continued. “Without the satellite, we couldn’t exist. I’m sure the computer helped make that possible.”

  The comment struck strangely close to Harbinger’s work. Suddenly, Harbinger felt uncomfortable.

  “What brought you to Washington, Doctor? Or do you prefer Professor?”

  “A meeting on satellites at NASA.”

  “Oh, really?” the stranger said as he leaned over, peering at the computer screen.

  Harbinger, feeling the man’s body enter his space, leaned back in his chair. “Excuse me,” he said.

  “Oh, Doctor,” said the man, “I did not mean to cause you alarm. I was just curious. I find satellites most interesting. I cannot imagine a world without them. And the military—I would think it could be paralyzed if a satellite fails.”

  Harbinger did not volunteer that this meeting at NASA had been, curiously enough, on that very subject. He did not mention the representatives attending from U.S. Space Command, nor their concern that space debris, whether natural or intended, could destroy a satellite—nor the effect that would have on the military and its aging, costly fleet of satellites.

  For a long time, conversation ended, and Harbinger became so engrossed in his work that the stranger turned away, placed a pillow under his head, and fell asleep.

  Several hours later, the flight attendant interrupted Harbinger. The other passenger was just emerging from a sound asleep. The attendant noticed his hands, particularly a scar covering the top of his left hand. It was a clean, deep scar with a sharp, clear edge—probably a knife wound, as if he’d protected himself from a blow.

  She also noticed the ring on his other hand—unostentatious gold, and twisted in the shape of a dragon. To her, it looked out of place on his hand. He was not ornately dressed. Rather, he wore non-descript black clothing—a shirt, tie, and leather jacket—as if he hoped not to stand out. And, yet, he stood out by the way he dressed—at least to her. He seemed out of place while making an effort to app
ear in place.

  “Gentlemen,” she said, “we have about an hour until we reach San Francisco. I apologize for the late meal. Would you care to have the chicken or the steak for dinner?”

  “Miss,” Harbinger replied, “I believe I have a special meal ordered. Would you mind checking on that?”

  “I would be happy to, Professor.” She turned to the man in black. “And you, sir? What would you like?”

  “Miss, the steak would be fine.”

  • • •

  As the flight attendant cleared away their two meals, the young stranger tried to strike up another conversation.

  “Professor,” he said, “did you know the United States wastes more food in a week than the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea consumes in a year?”

  Harbinger had taught long enough at Berkeley to know how to interpret a comment like that. To the rest of the world, the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, or DPRK for short, was known simply as North Korea. South Korean businessmen did not refer to North Korea as the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. Only a friend of North Korea would refer to it that way.

  “I’ve heard that North Korea has had a difficult time,” Harbinger said.

  “Yes, Professor. Its children are starving. Thirty-eight miles from Seoul, children are dying from malnutrition. They lie there, gasping for breath, a short drive from one of the largest, best-fed cities in the Pacific Rim.”

  As Harbinger looked for a way to shift or stop the conversation, the pilot announced that the plane had been cleared for approach into San Francisco International Airport. Harbinger was thankful for the interrup-tion. This young man was more than a cable television businessman from South Korea, and the more Harbinger heard, the more he wanted the flight to end.

  So Harbinger used the pilot’s landing announcement as an opportunity to begin closing down his portable office. He appeared pleasant as he turned off his computer and sorted his papers.

  Shortly thereafter, the plane’s tires yelped as the weight of the Jumbo 767 settled down on the San Francisco runway. As the aircraft taxied to the gate, Harbinger’s thoughts turned to the class he had to teach tomorrow.

  The rush of people to the front of the aircraft caused a bottleneck in first class, and Harbinger did not notice his row-mate twisting the gold ring on his finger as he got up from his seat. The man had no briefcase, bag, or satchel to remove from the overhead bin.

  “Well, young man, I hope your remaining journey is pleasant,” Harbinger said, trying to show some civility.

  “You too, Doctor.” The man sounded more serious as he placed his hand lightly on the Professor’s shoulder. Harbinger felt a small prick as the crowd surged toward the door, and as he turned to look, the man had already disappeared into the general shoving for the exit. Harbinger stepped forward, but as he did, pain struck his chest, as if a sledgehammer had knocked the breath out of his body, and he crumpled to the ground, his bags plopping down beside him. Passengers pushed from behind, not realizing Myles Harbinger, a world leader in micro-electronic technology, had a highly concentrated dose of sodium nitroprusside surging through his veins, and was dead even before his body slumped to the aircraft floor.

  Chapter 2

  Along the nearly deserted country road was an old run-down gas station, a large sign declaring the availability of “cheap gas” and “boiled peanuts.”

  “Where the hell is he?” the “old man” asked, wondering why his driver was taking so long to get directions.

  For the “old man,” the scorching heat and humidity made everything unbearable—even sitting in the glossy black executive car with the air conditioning roaring away at full blast. In military parlance, the senior ranking officer was always the “old man.”

  The other passenger leaned forward and said, “Admiral, I don’t think he’s been to Vienna before.” A faint British accent was evident in his words. Black sunglasses hid part of a scar running down his cheek.

  They had stopped on the edge of Vienna, a small, square town in south Georgia. Locals had come up with a special pronunciation—VEYE-anna. Any comparison to the Austrian city ended with the identical spellings.

  “I don’t give a damn where he’s been or not been before,” Admiral Krowl screamed at his companion. “I told the Marine Corps to have their best driver available—at least somebody who knows where to go.” The gas station’s screen door banged and a young Marine with lance corporal stripes jogged over to the car, hopped in, and shifted into drive.

  Krowl leaned forward. “You know where to go, Marine?”

  “Yes, sir. Only seven more miles down on the right.” The lance corporal’s well-creased uniform was beginning to show signs of the heat, or maybe of his high-pressure passenger.

  Rear Admiral Julius “Jig” Krowl could not stand waiting, whether in a car in rural Georgia or in a Pentagon briefing room. He also hated his nickname, but it had stuck. In his first week at the Naval Academy, “Julius” had been shortened by an old Marine mustanger who’d served in both World War II and Korea. “Julius? Bullshit,” the captain had barked. “Henceforth, you will be Jig.” The Marine was referring to the old phonetic designation for the letter “J.”

  While he couldn’t change his nickname, Krowl, a high-ranking military official for a long, long time, had grown accustomed to getting his way on everything else.

  “I can’t believe we have to resort to this,” the admiral mumbled. “Surely, Langley could give us a better option.”

  Beside Jig Krowl was a thick folder marked, “Top Secret: CIA.” Over its center was a large seal marked “SCI,” followed by a bright red warning that fines and imprisonment were the penalty for unauthorized use.

  “If Langley had any other option,” said Krowl’s companion in a low grumble, “we would have used it.”

  Krowl turned to him. “Listen, Scott, if this doesn’t work, who will they go after?” Krowl was angry, not so much about the proposed idea, but that the CIA might rob him of the credit. His every decision and plan had an angle, and as soon as Krowl was sure this one was a winner, Scott would be slipped to the background.

  James Scott had heard admirals spout off before, and, frankly, couldn’t care less. A career officer with the Agency, he’d learned a long time ago that the mission was primary. He had met the admiral only the day before, but Scott took pride in his ability to size up people quickly, and he sensed Krowl was a man to keep a close eye on.

  When he answered Krowl, his words were slow, deliberate. “Admiral, from our discussions in the EC yesterday, you know this is the best choice we have. We bloody well need him, and we need him bad.”

  The EC, or Executive Center, was little known—even by many military insiders. In the Pentagon, no sanctuary was more secret.

  During their meeting the day before, even James Scott had been impressed. He’d seen many secret facilities during his years in intelligence, but this one was unique. The EC was the Secretary of Defense’s private war room. Soundproofing on all sides prevented any eavesdropping. An eye-scanning device had a limited history of those few it would let in. The assault that infamous September day had had no impact upon the center. It remained impregnable.

  As Scott had entered the steel vault, he was met by an armed sentry—a Marine armed with a 9-mm Beretta in a shoulder holster—behind a small, green-tinted plexiglas opening. His green utility clothing seemed fuller, as if the outer garment covered a bulletproof vest.

  “Sir, are you Mr. Scott with the CIA?”

  “Yes,” he said forcefully.

  “I need to see additional photo verification.” No one would pass this sentry without meeting all the requirements, and Scott immediately sensed that.

  “You have the eye scan.”

  “Yes, sir. . . but this briefing has the highest classification—Top Secret, Need to Know Only, SCI.” No superior would complain if the sentry refused to pass into the top secret facility someone who lacked all the proper identification. To enter, even the most se
nior executive at Defense had to comply with all requirements.

  Scott pulled out his identification card. The sentry inserted it into a scanner.

  “Now, sir, please place your right hand here.”

  Scott put his hand onto a small black box. A red light flashed as the machine hummed, and he heard a click as the system registered its approval.

  “You’re clear, sir. You’re to go to the conference room, third door on the left. Admiral Krowl is waiting for you.”

  “Thank you, Marine.”

  Scott walked the short distance down the small hallway to another set of steel doors. As he stepped near the front of the third door and his foot touched a thick gray carpet pad, he heard another click.

  Above the door was a lit sign in a small metal box: “TS. . . SCI. . . Conference in Session.”

  A voice came over a wall speaker. “Yes?”

  “James Scott, CIA.”

  The second door clicked.

  A short, graying, heavy-set man in an admiral’s uniform stood just inside. His thin, round, gold-metal eyeglasses accentuated coal-black eyes and eyebrows.

  “Scott, I’m Rear Admiral Julius Krowl, repping the Joint Chiefs. This is General Louis McCain of the Marine Corps and Mark Wolf of DIA.” The Defense Intelligence Agency, or DIA, was one of the U.S. military’s main providers of intelligence, much of it obtained from spy satellites. DIA was the eavesdropper capable of electronic snooping anywhere in the world. Telephone conversations, whether from land lines, cell phones, or satellite phones, fell within the electronic scope of DIA surveillance, as did e-mails.

  McCain, a three-star general, commanded the Marine Forces Reserve, more commonly referred to as MAR FOR RES. Based in New Orleans, the entire reserve force of the Marine Corps was under his control. Though the Reserves were playing a greater role nowadays in front-line defense, it was unusual for a MAR FOR RES rep to be at such a meeting—they were not regularly admitted to this inner sanctum of decision makers. Scott knew, however, why a reservist at this briefing was appropriate.

  The admiral pointed to a high-backed leather executive chair, one of four surrounding a small wooden table. Scott sat down, taking in his surroundings—a small room with red striped drapes on three walls, there to further reduce sound and obscure any conversations. On the fourth wall were three screens surrounded by drapes. And above the screens were six clocks, one marked Seoul, another Honolulu, another Washington, another Beijing, and the last two London and Moscow.