Fires of War

by Larry Bond

“Well, yeah. Things like that.”

  “That’s a waste.” Anger swelled inside her. “Let me talk to Slott. Better yet, give me Corrine.”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “You can get her.”

  “I’ll call back.”

  Thera turned on the television, checking the local news. So far, there was no word of the troop movements across the border.

  A half hour later, Corrine called on the sat phone.

  “You needed to talk to me?” Her voice sounded distant and hollow, more machinelike than human.

  “I wanted to know what we’re doing to find Ferg.”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “I want to interview the people he went north with. They may have information.”

  “Have you talked to Dan?”

  “No. You’re the one who’s really in charge, right?”

  “Dan handles the specifics of the mission,” said Corrine coldly. “You have to do what he says.”

  “We have to find Ferg.”

  “I realize the situation is difficult, Thera. It’s hard for everyone. We all have to do our jobs.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s not easy for me, either.”

  It’s a hell of a lot easier for you, Thera thought, but she didn’t say anything.

  “Do you need anything else?” Corrine asked.

  “I’m fine.” She turned off the phone.

  28

  ON THE KOREAN COAST, WEST OF SUKCH’ŎN

  Ferguson woke to the sound of waves crashing against rocks. At first he thought it was a dream—his mind had tangled through several while he slept—but then he realized his body ached too much for him to still be asleep.

  Light streamed through a thin curtain next to the door of the hut. Ferguson got up slowly and went to the window. He saw the back of a soldier ten yards away. Beyond him, the horizon was blue-green: the sea.

  A tray of food sat on the floor a short distance away. Ferguson got down on his hands and knees and looked at it. There was rice, some sort of fish stew, and chopsticks. A bottle of water sat at the side.

  A short distance away sat two buckets, one with cold water, presumably so he could wash, the other empty, for waste.

  Ferguson opened the bottle and gulped the water, so thirsty there was no way to pace himself. He jammed the rice into his mouth with his fingers, barely chewing before swallowing. But as hungry as he was, the fish stew smelled too awful to eat. He left it and began exploring his prison.

  Flimsy wooden boards nailed to cross members made up the walls. They were arranged in two separate courses, the top row slightly misaligned with the bottom. The tongue-and-groove joints were mostly snug, but here and there daylight was visible where the edges had eroded away. They were flimsy, no more than a quarter-inch thick.

  Someone knocked on the door. Ferguson reminded himself that he was Russian and started to say “come in.”

  His mouth wouldn’t cooperate; somehow the word annyeonghaseyeo— Korean for “hello”—came out instead.

  The door opened, and a thin man entered. He was a soldier with the insignia of a lieutenant, though he seemed far too young to be one.

  “You speak Korean,” said the man.

  “Jogeumbakke moteyo,” said Ferguson, admitting that he spoke a bit.

  “A little. I see, yes. I was told you can speak English?”

  “Yes.”

  “You did not eat the stew,” said the lieutenant.

  “I need a fork.”

  “Fork? Not chopsticks?”

  Ferguson could use chopsticks, but a fork would be more useful. He shook his head.

  “I will bring you one. And more water. Would you like to read?”

  “Sure.”

  The man turned to leave. “Where am I?” asked Ferguson.

  “Do you know Korea?”

  “Not very well,” admitted Ferguson.

  “We are on the Bay of Korea. The west coast. A beautiful place.”

  “Near the capital?”

  “Farther north. South of Unjon. Do you know that city?”

  “Chongchon River?” said Ferguson.

  Amused by the mispronunciation, the lieutenant corrected him and then told Ferguson that he was correct. Three rivers including the Chongchon came together near Unjon and flowed to the sea. They were a few miles south of that point.

  “Do you know where you are now?” asked the North Korean.

  “No,” confessed Ferguson. “Sorry.”

  But he did know, roughly at least. One of the three emergency caches that were to have been planted for a rescue mission North was located five miles north of the Chongchon along the coastal road. If Ferguson could reach it, he would be rescued.

  Just ten miles, at the most, away.

  Easy to do.

  Easy, easy, easy to do.

  Not with the leg chains and clogs.

  The clogs were all right—his feet were so swollen he’d never get them off anyway—but the chains had to go. He’d have to swim to get across the river and hike through marshes.

  Never. He’d never make it. Not like this, depleted, cold, half dead. His body felt as if it had been pushed into a crevice, squeezed there for days, pounded on.

  Ferguson huddled against the wall, shivering beneath the blanket. The lieutenant returned about an hour later, a bag strapped over his shoulder.

  “A fork,” said the North Korean proudly, holding it up. “Difficult to obtain. You must hold on to it.”

  “Thank you.”

  The lieutenant put down his bag.

  “Books.” He pulled one out. “Finding things in translation, it is not very easy in our country. No Russian. These are Korean, children’s tales. Perhaps you can work on your language.”

  “Yes.”

  The man looked at him. “You should take a walk after eating,” he said.

  “There’s an idea,” said Ferguson, some of his usual sarcasm slipping into his voice.

  “Do you need anything?” asked the lieutenant.

  The key for the chains, a plane south—those would be nice.

  “I’m cold,” Ferguson said. “Very cold.”

  The lieutenant said something in Korean that Ferguson didn’t understand, then said good-bye and left.

  When he was gone, Ferguson forced himself to eat the stew. Then he examined the fork. It was made of thin metal, and the prongs were easily bent—just the thing to slip into the lock at his feet. But the prongs were too big to fit the manacles on his hands.

  The door opened. Ferguson slipped the fork into his pants and looked up as one of the guards came in, holding a thick winter coat.

  There was no way he could put it on properly because his hands were chained, and the guard wouldn’t remove them. Instead, he helped Ferguson drape the parka over himself and buttoned the top button, making it into a cape. It wasn’t exactly airtight, but it was far better than nothing.

  “Fresh air?” asked the man in Korean.

  Ferguson followed the soldier outside. The muscles in his face seemed to snap as the wind hit them. The air smelled of salt and raw sewage.

  Ferguson rolled his head back and forth, vainly trying to stop the muscle spasms in his neck and shoulders. He walked a little way, getting his bearings, taking stock of what was around him.

  A path nearby ran along the sea, paralleling the rocks and shoreline. The road zigzagged away to his right.

  His escape route.

  There weren’t many paved roads in this part of Korea, and this one must eventually go to the coastal highway, a two-lane hardtop road used mostly by trucks and official vehicles. Like all roads in the North, it wasn’t very heavily traveled; if he could get there, Ferguson could follow it to the river, then find a place to get across.

  He was guarded by two soldiers. Both had AK-47s. They kept their distance as he sat down on the rocks.

  He could get out of here. He could do it. He would do it.

  Two guards—that was child’s
play.

  Not now.

  Wait until dark. Use the fork. Undo the lock on his feet, pry off a board, slip away.

  They wouldn’t realize until dawn that he was gone. By then he’d be at the cache.

  Or home. Probably home. Definitely home.

  Wherever that might be. As long as it wasn’t here, anywhere would do.

  He felt so tired and cold and dead.

  Back inside the hut, Ferguson examined the boards and found two he thought he could push out. He used the fork to help ease them apart, moving slowly so he didn’t make too much noise. When the boards were loose enough, he went down and sat near the window, pretending to read one of the books while he bent the tines of the fork to use as a pick.

  The lock was ancient and simple, but it still took over an hour for him to open. Finally it sprang free with a click so loud he was sure someone outside would hear.

  Ferguson grabbed one of the books and held it over his lap. When he was sure no one was coming, he fiddled with the other chain and undid the lock, leaving the clamps over his ankles so it appeared he was still confined. He pulled the blanket over his legs.

  Dark. When would it be dark?

  Hours.

  All he had to do now was wait. Ferguson picked up the children’s book again. He hadn’t learned enough written Korean to read more than a few characters, all used on common road signs. His brain was too flaccid at this point to recall even those. But he leafed through the pages anyway, and gradually realized he’d seen the woodblock prints that illustrated the work before.

  The story was a version of “The Seventh Princess.” They’d read it in Romanized Korean text during his language class. In the ancient Korean song, a girl—the seventh princess—journeyed to the land of the dead to save her parents and bring salvation to the Korean people.

  What was the Korean? He tried retrieving the words from the corner of his brain where they’d fled.

  The figures blurred in front of Ferguson’s eyes. The book dropped form his hand, and he fell back against the wall of the hut, fast asleep.

  29

  CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  “If it’s not a mobilization for an attack, it’s a damn good approximation,” said Ken Bo as the secure conference call wound down. “ROK Army intelligence now thinks it’s for real.”

  “Not much of an endorsement,” said Verigo Johnson, the Agency’s chief Korean expert.

  Slott cut the conversation off before it degenerated. The evidence remained contradictory. Key elements of the North Korean army were moving toward the border, and the navy was on high alert. But the transmissions from army and air force units in the eastern parts of the country intercepted by the National Security Agency were entirely routine. Johnson interpreted this to mean that they were seeing the early stages of a coup, a significant change in what he had told the National Security Council only a few hours before.

  Parnelles wasn’t convinced, holding on to the blackmail theory. Slott was trying to stay neutral: No matter what was going on, the situation was extremely dangerous.

  “Ken, I need to have a word with you now that we’re done,” said Slott as the others signed off. He glanced across the secure communications center at the specialist handling the call, waiting for the signal that he and Bo were the only ones on the line.

  “What’s up?” asked Bo.

  “I’m looking for an update on the South Korean plutonium.”

  “Two of our people are going into Blessed Peak today,” Bo told him. “I’ll send a report as soon as I hear from them.”

  “Good.”

  “Listen, Dan. How much priority do you want us to give this thing? It’s obviously nothing.”

  “Why are you dismissing it?”

  “You saw my note, right?”

  Bo was referring to the theory that the material was the remains of the earlier South Korean project.

  “I saw it,” said Slott.

  Bo was silent.

  “All right,” the station chief said finally. “Ferguson is still working on this?”

  “Ferguson went across the border a few days ago and hasn’t been heard from since,” said Slott, deciding there was no sense keeping it from him any longer.

  “You’re kidding. He went north?”

  “He traveled with Park Jin Tae.”

  “About the plutonium? Jesus. He’s off on this one, Dan. I know he has a great reputation, but, honestly, he doesn’t know garbage about Korea.”

  “Maybe not,” said Slott.

  “You want us to put feelers out?”

  “No.” Putting feelers out—asking about Ferguson, even in his covered identity—might inadvertently tip off the North Koreans to his true identity. That would be tantamount to signing a death warrant. A crooked Russian arms dealer was far safer in North Korea than a CIA officer.

  “Do you want to give me some information about his cover? Maybe we’ll hear something unusual.”

  “Let’s leave it the way it is for now, Ken. Update me on the waste site as soon as you can.”

  30

  FIRST AIR COMBAT COMMAND, KAECH’N, NORTH KOREA

  “The plane is prepared,” General Kang told Namgung. “You have only to choose between the two pilots.”

  Namgung nodded. He had known the head of the First Air Combat Command since he was six years old; he trusted Kang with his life.

  Literally, now, since word from Kang could ruin the plan and brand him as a traitor.

  “How will you choose?” asked General Kang.

  Namgung had pondered the question for the past several days. Both pilots were highly qualified; both were committed to striking a blow against their ancient enemy. They were so evenly matched that he could have them simply draw straws and be pleased with the result.

  But it was his job as commander to decide.

  “I will make a decision right before takeoff,” he said. “I will be there personally. One shall go.”

  “And the other?”

  “He, too, will do his duty.”

  “Very good,” said Kang. “As it should be.”

  Namgung held out his arms, and the two old friends embraced.

  “We will succeed,” said Namgung. “I have no doubt.”

  31

  NEAR DAEJEON, SOUTH KOREA

  The Cube had used a Korean speaker to call hospitals in the area along the DMZ, inquiring about Caucasian patients who had been admitted unconscious. They found one in a small facility northeast of Seoul, and sent Thera to check it out.

  She hadn’t realized exactly how much she was hoping she’d find him until she broke into tears when she saw that the patient, who was hooked into life support in the critical center, wasn’t him.

  CIA officers weren’t supposed to cry—women CIA officers especially. If a woman wasn’t ten times as tough as a man, she was labeled a liability.

  Thera couldn’t help herself, though. She was still sobbing when she boarded the train back to Daejeon.

  Thera’s sat phone rang when she was about ten minutes from the Daejeon station.

  “Yes?”

  “Can you talk?” asked Corrigan.

  “A little.” The two rows around her were empty.

  “We have something new for you to check out. It’s a real long shot but that’s all we’ve been playing.”

  “What?”

  “We were checking a list of vehicles that used the Korean waste site where your tabs found the plutonium. There’s a truck used by a medical facility that happens to be owned by Park. It’s down in Jiro, which is a couple of hours from where you are.”

  “What’s that got to do with Ferg?”

  “You’re not looking for Ferg, remember? You’re looking for the plutonium. That’s our priority.”

  “I just came back from the hospital looking for him.” Thera realized she’d spoken far too loudly. “I have to go.”

  “Thera.”

  “I’ll call back,” she said, hanging up.

&nbs
p; 32

  ON THE KOREAN COAST, WEST OF SUKCH’ŎN

  The pungent smell of the awful fish stew woke Ferguson. The room was dark; he was lying on his side near the wall, the parka still wrapped around him, his book on the floor where he had dropped it when he fell asleep.

  Fear shot through him. Had he slept through the night?

  He leapt to his feet, chains clanking dully on the dirt, and went to the window. A few faint lines of purple curled around the shadowy outline of the horizon. The sun had only just set.

  Ferguson crawled to the food. He wolfed it down, then drank half the bottle of water. He’d save the rest for his journey.

  Finished eating, he went back to the window, looking to see if he could spot his guards. One stood about ten yards in front of the door, near the road. He couldn’t find the other man.

  If the guard was behind the house, he’d see Ferguson when he came out, but taking that chance was the only way to escape.

  Ferguson, his hands still chained, pushed the boards to get them out of the way. The first came off easily, but the next stuck. Frustrated, he lost control for a moment, launching his fist toward the wall. He pulled it back at the last moment and collapsed on the floor, wrestling with his anger.

  This is because I don’t have the right hormones.

  Do it step by step.

  Don’t go weird.

  Step by step.

  He retrieved the fork and pried at the pair of nails holding the bottom of the board. The wood came loose but then stuck somewhere toward the top. Ferguson pushed, gently at first, then more forcefully. Suddenly whatever was holding it gave way, and the board slipped from his grasp, clanking onto the ground outside.

  Ferguson froze.

  Don’t stop now. Go!!!

  He squeezed through feet first, rolling onto the ground. He sprung up, chain between his hands, a weapon, ready to confront the guards.

  No one was there. The sound had been too faint to be heard over the lapping waves.

  Ferguson propped the board back against the house, then crept to the corner of the building. The two soldiers were together now, standing next to the road a few yards from the front of the cottage.