A Northern Thunder

by Andy Harp

  Scott set the pace as the two men charged down the hallways and up several flights of stairs. Will stayed close, bouncing up the stairs as if to say, “Scott, you’re not pushing me at all.”

  The two climbed up a dark, oak-lined stairway with marble steps and came out into a broad hallway—the sign “Eisenhower Corridor” was printed in bold letters above. As they sped by, Will passed glass boxes containing photographs and letters of Ike Eisenhower—one as president of the United States, one as president of Columbia University, and so on. Each hallway box delved into an earlier time in Eisenhower’s life. As he passed the last box, Will found photographs of an Army lieutenant with the innocent young eyes of a boy from Kansas.

  They turned the corner and went up another stairway farther into the depths of the building. As they headed to the higher floors, the entrance-ways to the offices became plainer and simpler. After a series of floors of dark wood paneling decorated with oil paintings, models of ships, and portraits of admirals and generals, they progressed to floors with simple office doors, some made of dark wood, others of black or gray metal. Still others had glazed glass through which Will could sense only the shape of a person or a dull light. The main floors accepted visitors and tours, but these floors discouraged them. It was in this part of the building where the far less visible work of the Pentagon was conducted.

  Finally, Scott stopped in front of a plain gray door marked “Restricted.”

  To Will’s surprise, the initial door did not have a keypad or tumbler, and as Scott, having been here before, swung it open, he pointed for Will to lead. Inside, Will found a narrow corridor lined with a gray, carpet-like material on the walls, ceilings, and floors. As they proceeded down the hallway, Scott remained behind him, until they arrived at a small cubicle at the end. Scott then sidestepped Will, punching in a series of numbers and looking down into a microscope-like device. The door opened, and after passing through additional security, an armed guard, and another hallway, they stood in front of a set of steel gray doors with a lit sign above marked “TS. . . SCI. . . Conference in Session.” After another click, the door opened to reveal Krowl.

  “Well, I see you made it, Colonel.” It was too late in the day, or too early, for Krowl’s smug, irritating voice.

  “Yes. . . sir,” Will said.

  “Scott, you know Mark Wolf of the DIA?”

  “Yes.” The men exchanged handshakes.

  “Let’s begin.” Krowl pointed to four chairs—tall, sleek, executive-style—around a small table facing a wall with a screen. The clocks above the screen ticked away.

  “Colonel Parker, earlier this week, you asked what this was all about,” said Krowl. “Mr. Wolf, let’s start with you.”

  “Thank you, Admiral.” Wolf swung his chair around and pulled a computer keyboard out from below the lip of the desk. A small slim computer screen, built into the desk surface, popped up. As he typed into the computer, he said, “Gentlemen, this brief is Top Secret—Need to Know Only.” The words appeared on the screen above an FBI warning about severe penalties for violations.

  “We know Peter Nampo is one of the world’s leading scientists on nano-engineering and nuclear engineering,” said Wolf. “Since obtaining a Ph.D. in engineering, Nampo has been intent on leading North Korea in its development of a multi-stage rocket, its nuclear weapons program and, we believe, its satellite interdiction program. He’s on the world’s cutting edge of micro-engineering in electronics. He’s effectively their Werner Von Braun.”

  With each comment, a multicolored slide appeared on the screen. One slide showed a pencil-thin rocket during a launch.

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

  “Until now,” Krowl interrupted.

  “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 again interjected.

  “We believe they are now nearing the completion of the Taepo Dong3X.”

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

  “Although cargo restrictions will still probably put the payload at three- to five-hundred pounds at most, the Taepo Dong-3X will have a range of up to thirteen-thousand kilometers, and be able to reach the highest orbits.”

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

  “So with Nampo,” Will said, “they can put up miniature satellites? Even miniature weapons?” Will aimed the question at the DIA agent.

  “They hope to, sir.”

  “And you wish to do what?”

  Krowl again 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 Nampo is the head of the program.” With that last comment, a satellite photograph of a small valley appeared on the screen. Will immediately realized this was not simply a spy satellite photo, but in fact a live video feed. As Wolf continued to tap on his computer keys, the video zoomed in on the valley, then a road, and then a square shape near the hills.

  Will was impressed by the deep emerald green of the valley and its square-shaped rice paddies. The black peaks surrounding it on both sides gave a sense of shelter.

  “This square here 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. It was 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 know several things from this video. First, the general, named Won, is from China. Second, one of those men on the ground was Peter Nampo,” said Wolf.

  Scott turned to Will. “We also know something is going on in that valley near that helicopter pad.”

  “What do you mean?” said Will.

  “The vehicles left the pad, drove another thirty kilometers, and then pulled into a covered hangar near a DMZ base,” said Wolf.

  “Okay, and . . ?” said 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?” Wolf said.

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

  “Perhaps, but that’s not their typical MO.” It was interesting that Wolf used a criminal term. Will smiled, realizing again he had come a long way from modus operandi and his criminal trials of a week ago.

  “Colonel Parker,” said Wolf, “we must absolutely confirm that one of those people was Dr. Peter Nampo and that he is at work in that valley. Your job is to do exactly that.”

  In a low tone, Scott spoke directly to Will. “Let me explain what’s going on here. If the Taepo Dong-3X 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 one 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 way to make u
p the difference is by using intelligence superiority obtained through satellites and computers. If a country didn’t care about losing its own few 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 your 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 Pentium 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.

  “I’m familiar with the AN/PSC-10 and the Quantum Leap efforts.”

  Scott smiled, but immediately placed a hand over his mouth. Will was referring to the Navy SEALs’ efforts, called Quantum Leap, designed to make use of integrated computer technology to capture and transfer intelligence information obtained from digital cameras, infrared lasers, sensors, high tech video, and the whole James Bond box of toys.

  “The problem, sir,” said Wolf, “is that we cannot risk having a U.S. Navy SEAL team in North Korea, especially given the state of relations between our two countries at this time.”

  “Okay, Mr. Scott, what’s your suggestion?” asked Krowl, feeling the need to insert a comment to remind everyone who was in control.

  “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 Soviet Spetsnaz. If caught, you’ll appear to be part of a highly trained big brother Soviet plot to keep track of its little friend’s efforts to play in the big leagues.”

  Spetsnaz, the Soviet’s elite insertion force, would conduct a mission like this, but it wasn’t clear why.

  “Couldn’t the Soviets simply send an envoy to North Korea and get all their questions answered?” Krowl asked.

  “Yes, sir, but at the same time, we’re going to have our people in Moscow leak a low-level story that the Russians are increasingly paranoid about Third World efforts to steal their micro-electronics works from the Ioffe Physico-Technico Institute in St. Petersburg.”

  Every government in the world knew of Russia’s paranoia. At best, Will decided, the disinformation would either buy time or lead to something else. The story would hold up better if the North Koreans had trouble figuring out where the four dead bodies came from. Getting captured was apparently not a valid option.

  “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.”

  “What Navy SEAL team and what boat?” Krowl asked.

  “We’re thinking one of the Pearl Harbor-based SEAL teams and a Los Angeles-class submarine.”

  “Scott, let me make a suggestion.” Will leaned 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.”

  “Mobile, Alabama?” said Scott. It was a reserve unit.

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

  “Well, Colonel, 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, “Mark, he’s suggesting using an Advanced SEAL Delivery System—a mini-sub attached to a Trident submarine. We’ve got a new 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 trillion-dollar boat to almost always be at sea.

  This was the point Will had anticipated for several days. 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 hestitation, toward the door. Unlike them, he had prepared for days on a point like this, demanding to use his own team. He’d reached the sentry’s station before Krowl reacted.

  “Goddammit, go get him.”

  Scott reached Parker as the door swung open.

  “Marine, the gentleman will be returning to the meeting,” Scott said with a subdued smile.

  Will very briefly smiled, too, and didn’t linger on the point. He returned to the briefing room and sat down in his chair.

  “The Spetsnaz plan will work,” Will continued, “but not the recon team. They can dress and be armed as Spetsnaz, but I only want them to get me across 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 in mind.

  “Okay, JCS will get SSGN728,” said Krowl, seething.

  “Yes, sir.” Scott spoke more to affirm the decision than to make it happen. Krowl had all of 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 our dental work to be consistent with typical Moscow suburb work. No surgeries to correct. Fingerprints to be altered. 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.”

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

  “Good hunting, Colonel.”

  “Thanks, Admiral.”

  Will squeezed Krowl’s hand, and as in Georgia, sensed the same thing.

  Chapter 13

  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 Timex once stood out during trips to Moscow—he recalled glances, particularly in the subways—but Russia was changing. Many younger Russians had Timexes. Capitalism was creeping in.

  “The train to Leningrad will be leaving shortly,” he mumbled to himself, realizing that Leningrad was no more. It was again called St. Petersburg.

  Rei again looked 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 Centre at 1 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 preeminent scientists.

  From the moment he had stepped out of the taxi to stop at this 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 unreliable.

  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 at the driver, “To the St. Petersburg station,” where he planned to take a local train and be less visible to the KGB’s thousands of informants.

  The train ride was typical for Russia. Always, the cars were either too hot or too cold. In this one, the stark smell of burnt cabbages filled the compartment. Where it came from, he had no idea, but the image of a fat peasant woman and her obese husband carrying a load in oversized plastic bags came to mind. She would smell of cabbage and he of countless burnt cigarettes and vodka.

  Rei smiled, uncharacteristically, at all of the old, heavyset women as they hustled in from the varied stops. Little conversation was the rule after a brief, friendly greeting. One of the old women had her husband with her, a gaunt elderly man in a rough brown jacket buttoned to the top.

  Rei could read the man’s face. A World War II veteran on a state pension, he guessed, carrying a large plastic bag similar to his wife’s, probably filled with potatoes and cabbages. They’re returning home after a visit to their grandchildren in Moscow.