Fires of War

by Larry Bond

  “That’s my man.”

  “That’s interesting,” said Slott. “Because our people in Seoul think Namgung’s trying to stop the attack on the South. He may be involved in the coup.”

  “Our people in Seoul don’t know their asses from a hole in the ground,” said Ferguson.

  “That’s your opinion, Ferg,” said Slott.

  “Based on experience.”

  “This isn’t the time to discuss this,” said Parnelles. “Robert, how long can you hold out?”

  “Forever,” said Ferguson.

  “Check in every half hour,” said Slott.

  “Try every three,” said Ferguson. He wanted to save the battery, just in case.

  Just in case?

  Just in case, because there was no way to trust these guys. No way. No, no, no way.

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Ferg?” said Corrine.

  “Hell, no. I’m lying through my teeth,” said Ferguson cheerfully, before pressing the End Transmission button.

  2

  THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Corrine had just hung up from the conference call and reached for her computer to check her messages when the secure line rang again.

  “We may not be able to pick up Ferguson at dusk,” said Parnelles when she answered the phone.

  “Why not?”

  “The North Korean mobilization has reached the critical point: They can launch an attack at any point now. Given that, the failure of a mission might be catastrophic,” the CIA director told her. “The decision has to be left to the president.”

  “I see.” Corrine glanced at the clock at the bottom of her computer screen. It was not quite five o’clock; McCarthy had cut short his trip and was due back within another two hours. “I’ll bring it up with him.”

  “Actually, Corrine, I think I should be the one who talks to him about it. Ferguson works for me, and I’d rather be the one making the recommendation.”

  “Sure,” said Corrine. Then she realized why he wanted to do it. “What are you going to tell him?”

  “I’m afraid my recommendation at the moment would have to be . . .” Parnelles paused. “I would have to say we should not proceed.”

  3

  ABOARD THE USS PELELIU, IN THE YELLOW SEA

  Colonel Van Buren’s voice crackled in Rankin’s headset, barely emerging from the static. It was one of the worst connections Rankin could ever remember.

  “We have a location,” said Van Buren. “A definite location.”

  “Hot shit,” said Rankin.

  “It’s Cache Zed. You have your map?”

  Rankin unfolded the map across the console in the Peleliu’s secure communications center, studying it as Van Buren ran down the situation in North Korea. Several divisions were now poised along the DMZ, with additional units ringing the capital. The coastal highway was a major north-south route, and Ferguson had already reported troop movements along it.

  “So we’ll have to plan accordingly. I’ll get with the ship’s captain,” added Slott, “but from my calculations it should take the ship roughly three hours to get into position to launch. We want to time the mission so that you’re crossing land well after nightfall.”

  “Long time for him to wait,” said Rankin. “We could launch now, use some of the marine helos instead of ours. They’ll get us there and back with plenty of gas to spare.”

  “No. Washington gets final say on this,” said Slott. “You don’t step off until I hear from them.”

  “Say, Colonel—”

  “It’s not my decision, Skip. He has a good hiding place. Ferg told Corrine and Slott he was fine.”

  “He’d always say that.”

  The funny thing was, Rankin couldn’t stand Ferguson, didn’t like him at all. But Rankin felt as strongly about rescuing him as he would have about his own brother.

  Whom, come to think of it, he also couldn’t stand.

  “I have an MC-130 in the air ready for an emergency mission,” said Van Buren. “They can be over the site within an hour. Less. If the word comes, we’ll have the teams on the MC-130 drop in, then you go in and pick them up. Set that up with the Marines.”

  Rankin grunted. He knew it was a plan that would never be implemented, the kind that sounded good in theory but didn’t work in real life. An hour would be forever on the ground. By the time Ferguson called for help, he’d be dead.

  “What was that, Stephen?” asked Van Buren.

  “I got it. Backup plan.”

  “We’ll get him. I’ll be aboard the MC-17 before nightfall. I’ll check with you.”

  “Got it.”

  “We will get him back.”

  “If Washington approves.”

  “If Washington approves, yes.”

  Rankin’s noncom training kicked in, and he let the colonel have the last word.

  4

  THE HART SENATE OFFICE BUILDING, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  “Harry Mangjeol is on the phone, Senator. He says it’s urgent, and he won’t talk to anyone but you.”

  Tewilliger looked over at his legislative assistant, who’d stuck his head in the door. The senator really didn’t feel like talking to Mangjeol, who would probably ask why he had given the press a “no comment” when asked about the fate of the disarmament treaty when news of the troop movements broke. He’d done it because this was the time to be subtle, to maneuver behind the scenes while the president sweated in front of the cameras. As a rule, constituents didn’t understand that.

  On the other hand, now was not a good time to blow Mangjeol off.

  “When are the aluminum can people coming?” Tewilliger asked the assistant.

  “Should have been here five minutes ago,” said Hannigan, looking at his watch.

  That frosted him—senators kept lobbyists waiting, not the other way around. Especially greedy sons of bitches like Mo and Schmo, Tewilliger’s pet names for the two lobbyists who wanted more waivers in the upcoming environmental bill.

  “Which line?” Tewilliger asked.

  “Two.”

  “Keep Mo and Schmo outside at least ten minutes before telling me they’re here,” Tewilliger told his assistant before picking up the phone. “Harry, how the hell are you?”

  “Senator, I have important information from a friend in Korea. Very important,” said Mangjeol breathlessly. “It is . . . incredible.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Kim Jong-Il is to be deposed. A defector will take off tonight with a list of his foreign bank accounts.”

  He’s finally lost it, Tewilliger thought, trying to decide how to deal with him. Sane or not, Mangjeol represented considerable contributions.

  “Well, that is . . . incredible information,” said the senator. “But. . . Well, to act on it . . .”

  “I will forward you the e-mail. If you can get it into the right hands.”

  “Of course I can get it into the right hands,” said Tewilliger. Perhaps Mangjeol wasn’t insane. Perhaps the e-mail had some small piece of truth in it.

  More likely it was part of a complicated phishing scam launched by Chinese pirates.

  Then again, it might have some value. He could forward it to the CIA. . .

  No, send it directly to McCarthy, or one of his people. Let them take the fall if it was phony.

  “I would not believe that it was real,” said Mangjeol, “but it does contain specific details, including a location of a secret air base.”

  “Send it, please,” Tewilliger told Mangjeol. “And how are your children?”

  5

  THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  “Ms. Alston, this is Senator Tewilliger. I’m sorry to bother you so late.”

  Corrine glanced at her watch. It was only a quarter past five.

  “Not at all, Senator. How can I help you?”

  “As it happens, I may be able to help you. Or, rather, the president. Some important information has come to me and I want to deliver it to Jonathon personally.�
��

  “He’s not back yet.”

  “So I heard. This is very important, perhaps time critical. I was wondering if you could meet me in my office.”

  Corrine hesitated.

  “I realize it’s an unusual request, but the matter is unusual. It pertains to Korea, which I know the president has been asking you to help him with.”

  “I can be over in an hour,” she told him.

  “The sooner the better.”

  Even though he’d had her rush over, Senator Tewilliger kept Corrine waiting in his outer office nearly fifteen minutes. She spent the time staring at the senator’s appointment secretary, a young woman roughly her age, whose long, elaborately painted nails made working the phone an adventure. The senator’s legislative assistant, James Hannigan, appeared from the inner office every few minutes to assure her that the senator was “just about ready.” Finally, the door to the office opened and two men Corrine recognized as lobbyists for the aluminum industry emerged just ahead of Tewilliger. The senator greeted her in a booming voice, then introduced her to the two lobbyists.

  “The president’s counsel. I’m sure you know her,” said Tewilliger.

  Corrine smiled politely and shook the men’s hands, convinced the senator had called her over primarily to impress the lobbyists; her presence would suggest he was very close to the president.

  The lobbyists gone, Tewilliger ushered her inside, then stepped out to check to see if any important messages had been left while he’d been “in conference.” It was an old Washington game, puffing up one’s importance, but all it did was antagonize Corrine further.

  “Important news,” said Tewilliger when he came back in. “I have something that came from unofficial sources.”

  “OK.”

  “A North Korean pilot is going to defect in the next twenty-four hours. He’ll be in a MiG-29, one of their newest planes. He’ll have records with him relating to Kim Jong-Il.”

  “What sort of records?”

  “Financial records.” Tewilliger opened his top desk drawer and took a folded piece of paper out. “This is a copy of the e-mail. It’s in Korean, unfortunately. I had James make a copy of the file. Apparently you need some sort of special keyboard or letter set to read the characters right or they come out as you see.”

  “Where exactly did this information come from?”

  “A constituent with very high-level contacts over there, business contacts,” said the senator. “I don’t know much about these things, but I’ve heard that you can trace e-mail. Supposedly there are map coordinates and actual place names my constituent claims are real.”

  Corrine glanced at the e-mail header. There was quite a bit of data there, but it was not very difficult to spoof or fake an e-mail address or the path it had taken to its recipient.

  “I don’t want to sound skeptical. . .” started Corrine.

  “But you are.”

  “I guess I am.”

  “So am I. As I say, I don’t read Korean.”

  “Have you contacted the CIA?”

  “I thought you would prefer to do that,” said Tewilliger.

  “I will,” said Corrine. She rose.

  “Ms. Alston, I know the president and I . . . at times we haven’t always agreed on policy. The treaty is an example of that. The incident in the North, with the army mobilizing . . . Well, it made me decide I have to oppose the treaty at all costs. But I assure you, what Jon McCarthy and I agree on far surpasses our few disagreements.”

  “I’m sure the president would agree.”

  “And with you I have no disagreements,” said Tewilliger.

  “Thank you, Senator.”

  Tewilliger got up from behind his desk and took the door as she opened it. “If you ever decide to look for a new boss, come see me,” he told her. “I intend to be at this game a long time.”

  Corrine couldn’t think of anything to say, so she only smiled.

  6

  SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA

  “This is a wonderful present, Mr. Park,” said Yeop Hu, studying the jeweled hilt. “I am quite honored to receive it.”

  “It’s a small token of friendship.” Park nodded to the president.

  “We’ve never been very good friends,” admitted South Korea’s president. He smiled at his staff members.

  “This is true,” said Park, “but there is the future, and perhaps we will find our way then.”

  “Certainly.”

  The president placed the knife back in its scabbard and returned it to the wooden box Park had presented it in.

  “I have something else for you,” the billionaire told the politician. “Given the present crisis, it may be of use.”

  “It’s just another bluff by the dictator to show that he is alive,” said Yeop. “In a few days, it will blow over.”

  “Perhaps.” Park reached inside his jacket and took out two large envelopes. “A friend asked me to deliver these personally. I do not know what they contain.”

  “A friend?”

  “An important man in the North. General Namgung.”

  At the mention of the North Korean general, the president reached for one of the ceremonial letter openers on his desk. This disappointed Park; he had hoped the president would use the knife.

  One of the envelopes contained detailed orders similar to those that had been carried by the “defector” who’d been shot at the DMZ a few days before. The second was a brief, handwritten letter. The letter stated that the author would do whatever he could to preserve peace between the people of Korea.

  “It’s not signed,” said the president, holding it up for Park to see.

  “As I said, I haven’t looked at the letters. They were not addressed to me.” Park nodded again. “But perhaps the general thought it unwise to put his signature to anything.”

  The president handed both documents to his chief of staff, directing that they be sent to the National Security Council immediately.

  “You know Namgung well?”

  “Our families were in business together many years in the past,” said Park. “Before the barbarians raped our people in the world war.”

  The president’s mood had deepened considerably. “Let us have lunch,” he said. “We can discuss this further.”

  Park bowed. As they left the room, he shot a glance back toward the ancient knife he had brought as a present. How long would it take the president, he wondered, to learn that the man for whom it had been made, a thirteenth-century traitor to one of the great lords of Korea, had used it to commit suicide after his crime was discovered?

  7

  CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  To get beyond the crisis, Slott knew he had to put his personal feelings aside, but it was difficult, very difficult.

  He took a deep breath, then used the secure line to call Corrine Alston.

  “This is Corrine.”

  “The e-mail you sent over, we’ve translated it,” he told her. “It has flight coordinates, not an actual base. But we have a reasonable idea where it would have had to start from.”

  “It’s a real e-mail?”

  “It appears so. The course here would take the aircraft to Japan. As it happens, it’s almost precisely the course a North Korean defector took a decade ago, bringing his MiG-27 west.”

  “Did the message come from North Korea?” Corrine asked.

  “Ultimately? It’s possible. We’re not sure.”

  The National Security Agency had intercepted a similar e-mail to someone in the Japanese consulate in Seoul a few hours ago. Tracing the e-mails’ origin was not as easy as people thought, however, since someone who knew what he or she was doing could employ a number of tricks to disguise the true path. There were enough arguments for and against authenticity in this case that the NSA had held off on an official verdict. At the very least, it was an elaborate fake—so elaborate that it had to be taken seriously.

  “Can I ask where this came from?” said Slott, trying his best to kee
p his voice level.

  “Gordon Tewilliger got it from a constituent. He called me over to his office about a half hour ago.”

  “Why you?”

  “I don’t know. He wanted me to give it to you—to the Agency—and to alert the president. He’s opposed to the treaty, though. So I don’t know his angle precisely. It’s political, obviously.”

  Slott wasn’t convinced that the e-mail had simply dropped into her lap. But there was no point in pursuing it. If Corrine Alston—if the president—was running some sort of backdoor clandestine service, he wasn’t in a position to stop it.

  “We should share this with the South Koreans and the Japanese.”

  “By all means.”

  “Who is it who’s defecting?” asked Corrine. “Does it say?”

  “It’s not just that they’re going to defect,” explained Slott. “This mentions financial records of the leader. Presumably, those are foreign bank accounts belonging to Kim Jong-Il. That’s immensely valuable information. Far more valuable than any aircraft the pilot will take with him.”

  “That’s good.”

  She didn’t sound like someone making an end run around him, thought Slott. That was what was so damn annoying about her. She seemed so . . . not naive but up-front. Honest.

  The best liars were like that.

  “I’m going to attend the National Security Council meeting this evening,” said Slott. “There may be more information by then.”

  “I’ll see you there.”

  “Yup,” he said, hanging up.

  8

  CHAIN, SOUTH KOREA

  The Seven Sisters Medical Treatment Corporation provided diagnostic services to local doctors and hospitals. Patients went there for everything from old-fashioned X rays to elaborate positron emission tomography (PET) scans. Radioactive materials—technically referred to as radiopharmaceuticals—were used in many of the tests, and the facility generated a small but steady stream of waste each week. Special trucks were used to transport the waste to the disposal site.