by Larry Bond
As she cinched her backpack to go, Thera heard a sharp snap behind her. She spun back in the direction of the sound. In that instant, the lights came on.
14
SOUTH OF KUSŎNG, NORTH KOREA
General Namgung had still not made up his mind which pilot to choose when he arrived at the small airstrip south of Kusŏng. This was uncharacteristic; throughout his career he had decided most important matters literally in seconds. Now, as his most important moment neared, he found it impossible to pick its agent.
Perhaps he needed to look each man in the eye, to feel his grip. Perhaps it was the human connection that he lacked, the spark that would set everything in motion.
It was already in motion, moving across the country. There was grumbling, questions from P’yŏngyang, from the Great Leader himself. The Southerners were slow to react, obviously thinking it was some sort of bluff, but that was just as well.
Several generals had refused to follow his orders, and Namgung knew he might not be able to trust all of the units near the capital. But he had never counted on one hundred percent support in any event. Once the attack was launched, the reactions from the Americans and from the Chinese would propel events. His position would carry him.
Namgung’s car stopped in front of a small concrete building. Next to the building, concealed by a large camouflaged net, was a ramp that led to an underground aircraft shelter.
Nearly all of North Korea’s air force facilities had underground concrete hangars. This one, however, was unique in that it was occupied by a single plane, a MiG-29 the country had acquired within the past few months, partly with money made available by Park. The aircraft, an improved version of the already formidable fighter-bomber, combined the latest Russian and Western technologies, and was considered superior even by the Americans to all but a handful of fighters. Small and fast, it could avoid the most powerful radars until it was too close to its target to be stopped.
Strapped to its belly was a nuclear device built with the billionaire’s help. Park had supplied the plutonium; North Korean scientists working for Namgung had done everything else.
“General, everything is in order,” said Lee, saluting as the general approached. “The fuel truck will arrive within ninety minutes, as soon as the satellite passes.”
“Very good,” said Namgung. “Where are the pilots?”
“Practicing with the simulator, as you ordered. Should I get them?”
Namgung turned back toward the airfield, looking at the dark sky. Clouds obscured the moon. It was perfect.
“Let them practice a little longer,” he said.
15
CHAIN, SOUTH KOREA
Three men stood at the far end of the empty factory.
“Back for fun?” yelled one of them, his English heavily accented.
It was the kid who’d bothered her earlier in the day.
Thera threw herself behind the nearest machine as one of the men began firing a submachine gun. The others yelled at him in Korean to stop wasting his bullets and be careful; they would get in trouble if they damaged the machines.
Thera pulled one of her Glocks out from beneath her coat.
“You remember me from this afternoon?” said the man with the machine gun. “You were very brave when you were the one with the weapon. Let’s see how brave you are now.”
He fired off another burst.
Thera edged to the side of the machine. They’d have a clear shot at her from where they were if she moved, but staying here didn’t make sense; they could move down the side of the building and then attack her from behind the other machines.
She drew her second pistol, took a breath and held it midway. Then she pushed the rest of the air from her lungs and leapt upward, firing twice and taking down the man on her far right.
It took the others two or three seconds to return fire. By that time she had ducked behind the long bending press. Their bullets clinked and clanged as they ricocheted off the heavy machine. Thera scrambled behind it, then rolled to a second tarped hulk nearby.
The two men were cursing bitterly. That was good, she thought; they would react rather than think.
Thera worked her way toward the side of the building where she had come in. When she reached the last machine she slipped one of her guns into her coat pocket and got down on her belly, snaking out from behind the tarp to look for the Koreans.
They weren’t where she had left them.
Thera saw something move to her left and jerked back, firing as she ducked behind cover. Her first bullet got the Korean in the chest, where his bulletproof vest caught it, but her second rose all the way to his neck, slicing a hole in his windpipe.
The third went between his eyes. He blasted away with his machine gun as he hit the floor, his death jerk emptying the magazine.
The other man began screaming and firing wildly on the other side of the building, pouring his bullets in the direction of the machine where Thera had first hidden. He ran through the entire clip of his gun, yelling insanely in Korean. When the gun was out of ammo he began to retreat, running up the far side of the building.
Thera jumped to her feet and ran after him. When she was about six feet away she launched herself, landing on his back.
He collapsed. His gun flew across the floor, clattering against the wall. He struggled for a moment, but the fight was out of him; his courage had fled and left him a powerless shell. Thera pounded the side of his head once, then twisted him onto his back, her knees on his arms and her gun in his throat. Tears flowed from his eyes.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “Who?”
He started to answer in Korean.
“English, damn you, or you join your friends.”
“We look after the buildings,” he said.
“You’re security?”
He couldn’t understand what she was saying.
“Explain what you do,” said Thera.
“We watch. There are cameras in the high-rise. We chase children away, mostly.”
“Where are your uniforms?”
“No uniforms; too much attention. Quiet. We must be quiet or no pay.”
“Who hired you?”
“Management company.” He gave a name in Korean that meant nothing.
“Where’d the electricity come from?” Thera asked.
He didn’t understand the question. Thera jumped up and hauled him to his feet.
“The lights,” she said. “The power line outside isn’t connected.”
“Underground. Keys . . . We have keys. Everything quiet. No attention.”
“What was this building used for?”
“I don’t know.”
Thera jabbed her pistol into his throat. “Talk to me or die.”
A fresh flood of tears rained down his cheeks. She smelled urine; he’d wet himself.
“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “No. I don’t know.”
“The other buildings. What’s in them?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? What did they make here?”
“A box. Big, like a . . . I don’t know the word in English. They took it away.”
“Use Korean.”
He described it in Korean. Thera understood maybe a tenth of the words.
She pushed him against the wall and patted him down quickly. He had another magazine of bullets for his submachine gun and a cell phone; she kicked both across the floor.
“Come,” she told him, leading him to her backpack at the other end of the building. She tied his hands together with plastic-zip handcuffs, then grabbed her sat phone and dialed into The Cube. Lauren was on the other end.
“Get a Korean translator on the line. Ask this guy what he saw in the building. See if it sounds like an airplane container.”
“Thera?”
“Do it.”
“I’m doing it. I’m doing it.”
16
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
The National Se
curity Council meeting was scheduled to begin at eight p.m. President McCarthy practically leapt into the room at 7:58, full of energy. The laid-back southern gentleman always yielded to a purposeful commander in a crisis.
“Gentlemen, ladies. I’m glad we’re all here.” McCarthy’s drawl had a decidedly caffeinated flavor to it. “Korea. Update me, if you will.”
Verigo Johnson from the CIA began running down the latest intelligence. The key word seemed to be confusion; even the North Koreans didn’t seem to know what was going on.
The Japanese government had issued a terse though polite “we don’t comment on rumors” statement, while at the same time placing its self-defense forces on high alert. The Russians had issued a statement of support for Kim Jong-Il “during his illness”; the Chinese had remained characteristically silent. Behind the scenes, the British were suggesting a coup was underway and had notified the U.S. that two warships would be steaming toward the area and could be called on if necessary.
About halfway through the slides in Johnson’s PowerPoint presentation, one of Slott’s aides came into the room and whispered something in his ear. He grimaced, then looked across at Corrine and motioned with his head toward the door.
She waited a minute after he left, trying to preserve some pretense that she wasn’t working with him.
Slott had gone down the hall to the secure communication center and was talking to Thera in Korea when Corrine got there. The communications specialist on duty had already arranged for her to join the line; all Corrine had to do was pick up the phone.
“The cargo container was lined with lead,” Thera was saying. “That’s why it was so heavy. It must have gone north when the 727 brought Ferguson north.”
“What went north?” asked Corrine.
“The plutonium,” explained Thera. “Park had a special container made for his aircraft. We have the scientist who designed it in North Korea, and I’ve spoken to the people who moved it.”
“They must have used it to bring the plutonium south,” said Slott.
“No, not south,” said Thera. “It was south. It went north.”
“I doubt that,” said Slott. “Park must be buying it from the North Koreans. He wouldn’t be giving them plutonium.”
“Why do you think it went north?” asked Corrine.
“Because the plutonium was at the waste site when I was there, and now it’s not. Right? They must have moved it out. Maybe it was in one of those train cars near the tag, and then was removed by the truck that Ferguson saw.”
“That just means they moved it to a better hiding place,” said Slott. “Giving bomb material to the North would make no sense. They’re almost at war.”
“Maybe Park thinks he’ll somehow benefit if there’s an attack on South Korea,” said Corrine.
“I don’t think so,” said Thera. “He’s kind of nutty, but not in that way. He collects old Korean relics. He’s really into history. Really into it.”
Corrine glanced up at Slott. “What did Ferguson say about Park? He hates the Japanese.”
“Big time,” said Thera. “Can’t stand them.”
“The defector with the dictator’s bank data,” said Corrine, realizing where the senator’s e-mail had come from. “What if that plane were carrying a bomb?”
17
NORTH KOREA, SOUTH OF KWAKSAN ON THE WESTERN COAST
Ferguson lay in his hiding spot among the rocks, leaning on his elbows as he contemplated the stars. He hadn’t slept. He couldn’t sleep; his mind spun in a million different directions, just beyond his control.
“We’re all going to die,” a friend who had pancreatic cancer once told him, “but I’ve been blessed with the knowledge that it’ll be very soon.”
“That’s because you’re a priest,” Ferguson had answered. “You see everything as a blessing.”
“Aye, but truly it is, because it gives me a chance to do my best until then. Every day.”
“Shouldn’t we do that anyway?”
“If we did, Ferg, then what in the world would I have to preach about every Sunday? Will you tell me that, lad?”
“Will you tell me that, lad?” said Ferguson now, staring at the night sky. “Will you tell me that?”
The thick clouds refused to answer.
If living meant living like this—shaking from the cold, exhausted, his mind torn off its pegs—was it worth living?
No.
Why bother?
Ferguson rubbed his eyes. They were like hard marbles in wooden saucers.
The sat phone began to buzz. He grabbed it, held it to his ear expectantly.
“We leaving?” he asked.
“Ferg, this is Corrine Alston. I’m here with Dan Slott.”
“Wicked Stepmother,” he said, forcing enthusiasm into his voice. “You calling to tell me I’m going to have to walk to China?”
“Ferg, when Park met with the general, was there any talk about a MiG-29?” asked Corrine.
“I didn’t hear the conversation,” said Ferguson. “Why?”
“We’ve been told that a MiG pilot is going to defect and fly to Japan with documents saying where Kim Jong-Il has hidden his money. We’ve located what we think is the airport where he’s supposed to be taking off from. It has an unimproved strip.”
“Ferg, remember the airstrip A5?” asked Slott.
“More or less.”
“It’s south of Kusŏng. You looked at it as a possible evac base, but we couldn’t be sure if it was inactive.”
“Yeah, OK.” Ferguson didn’t remember it at all.
“It’s only about fifteen miles from where you are,” said Slott. “The satellite passed over it a few minutes ago, and there was nothing on the strip. But if the aircraft is in an underground hangar, it might be there.”
“Why do you think there?”
“We have coordinates that indicate something will take off from that area pretty soon. We’re arranging a Global Hawk surveillance flight with ground-penetrating radar, but it’s going to take about two hours at least for it to get up and get over there. If you were able to use the bike that’s in the cache kit, you’d get there in half the time. You could at least tell us if the runway’s clear.”
“Yeah.” Ferguson got up and started pulling the bike together. “Did you find the plutonium?”
Neither of them answered.
“All righty then. Hook me up with Corrigan so I can get a road map.”
18
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
The National Security briefing had already broken up by the time Corrine and Slott finished talking with Ferguson. They followed the president and a knot of aides up to the Oval Office. Corrine felt almost sheepish, as if she’d snuck out of class to meet a boyfriend and gotten caught.
Slott felt as if he were in the middle of a painful dream. He still wasn’t sure he believed Park and the North Koreans were actually aiming at the Japanese. It was a wild theory but too dangerous to ignore.
Parnelles, who was with the president, saw them in the corridor. The CIA director whispered something to McCarthy, and the president’s voice suddenly boomed through the hall.
“I require a few minutes to discuss something with my attorney,” McCarthy told the others. “Miss Alston, if you could meet me upstairs please. Tom, why don’t you and Dan stand by, and I’ll take you right after her. Everyone else, please have a very good dinner.”
When they got to the president’s office, Corrine insisted that Slott and Parnelles come in and then made Slott say what they had found. McCarthy leaned back in his leather chair, one foot propped against the drawer of the desk.
“It is an incredible theory, Mr. Slott. Very incredible,” he said when Slott finished.
“It’s out there, sir.”
“And we’re checking it out?”
“We have an officer nearby. A coincidence.”
But maybe it wasn’t much of a coincidence at all, Slott thought as he said that. Ferguson always man
aged to get himself in the middle of whatever was going on.
“Lucky for us, Mr. Slott. Can we stop this aircraft?”
“I can try and get it on the ground, Mr. President,” Slott said. “I have the Special Forces component of the First Team offshore. I can get them into position to make an attack. With your permission.”
McCarthy did not want to accidentally start a war between South and North Korea, but even that paled against the possibility of Japan being attacked with a nuclear weapon.
“If the aircraft is there, do it. In the meantime, alert the air force.”
“Jon, if this is a defector,” said Parnelles, “we don’t necessarily want to shoot him down.”
“Better to shoot him down than risk Tokyo being obliterated.” McCarthy picked up his phone. “Jess, run and get Larry Stich before he leaves for the Pentagon, would you? And the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Round him up as well. And the secretary of state and Ms. Manzi. Tell them I have some new developments that require their input.”
19
SOUTHWEST OF KUSŎNG, NORTH KOREA
As tired as he was, as dead-dog beat tired as he felt, riding the bike made Ferguson feel incredibly better. It was something to do, a goal. He could turn off the rumbling in his brain and just push down on the pedals, pump up the road Corrigan said would take him directly to the airstrip.
Fifteen miles. That was about an hour’s ride at a decent, moderate pace.
I’m going to do it in less, he told himself, pushing. Much less.
Less.
20
ABOARD THE USS PELELIU, IN THE YELLOW SEA
Rankin raced into the gym his men were using as a ready room.
“Saddle up! We got a mission, let’s go,” he shouted through the doorway. “Let’s do it. Get aboard the choppers. Come on, let’s go.”
The men snapped to immediately, grabbing their gear and trotting in the direction of the flight deck.
“We getting Ferguson?” asked Michael Barren, the Special Forces’ first sergeant.
