Fires of War

by Larry Bond

  “No. We’re going to neutralize an air base. The Marines are going to back us up.”

  “An air base?”

  “I’ll lay it out in the helicopter. Come on.”

  21

  THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Corrine kept a low profile, sitting at the side of the Oval Office and saying absolutely nothing. Reactions to the theory that Park had made or helped make a bomb that would be used in an attack against Japan ranged from incredulous to . . . incredulous. Neither the secretary of state nor the secretary of defense thought it possible. Nor were they willing to accept that the South Korean government—let alone one of its citizens—had been working on a bomb.

  “They have done such work before,” said Slott, referring to the extraction experiments a decade before. “They only came clean when the International Atomic Energy Agency caught them.”

  “We can shoot the aircraft down,” said Defense Secretary Stich. “They know that. Their airplanes are ancient.”

  “The North Koreans have purchased at least two new MiG-29s in the past few months,” said Parnelles. “Those are formidable aircraft.”

  “We’ll still shoot it down.”

  “There is at least a theoretical possibility that the aircraft could escape detection,” said Parnelles, “once it is in the air.”

  Slott, impatient to get back to work, tapped his foot as a technical discussion continued about how exactly the aircraft could escape detection and whether the Japanese Self-Defense Force could stop it.

  He could tell from the looks he was getting that the others thought he’d lost control of the Agency if not his mind. They were probably thinking of suitable replacements right now.

  This was one part of the job he wasn’t going to miss, the meetings, the posturing, the backstabbing. Backstabbing, especially.

  Slott passed a note to Parnelles saying he wanted to leave. Parnelles nodded. Slott waited for a lull in the conversation, then rose and excused himself, saying he had a few things he had to stay on top of.

  “By all means, Daniel. You get back to work,” said McCarthy, rising. “We all should. I believe we’ve discussed this as far as it can be discussed at the moment.”

  Corrine slipped out as well, ducking down the hall toward her office. Slott, momentarily detained by the chief of staff, followed behind her. She glanced at his face as she went into her office. It looked drawn and tired. Corrine felt as if she needed to say something encouraging to him.

  “You’re doing a good job,” she told him.

  “We can’t continue this,” he snapped.

  Corrine stopped and stared at him. The remark seemed almost bizarre, as if they were continuing an affair.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind,” he said, brushing past.

  “No. What do you mean?” she insisted, going after him and grabbing his shoulder.

  Slott stared at her. She was not quite young enough to be his daughter, but it was close.

  “What experience do you have?” he said. “You’re a lawyer. You’ve only worked in Washington.”

  “If you have some problem with me—”

  “You bet I do.”

  Slott’s voice was loud, too loud for the narrow hall. He glanced over his shoulder; the cabinet members were spilling out of the president’s office.

  “I don’t need this now,” he said, turning to go.

  “We can work this out.”

  “Right.” He walked away.

  Suddenly aware of the people behind her, Corrine clamped her mouth shut and went back to her office.

  22

  SOUTHWEST OF KUSŎNG, NORTH KOREA

  The engineer who designed Ferguson’s bicycle had spent considerable time making it light and easy to take apart. He’d given much less thought to making it easy to pedal and probably no thought at all to making it comfortable.

  Ferguson’s legs felt as if they would fall off after about five miles. By the eighth, he’d lost all sensation in his lower back. There was barely enough light to see the road in front of him, and though he’d put on extra clothes, he was so cold his bones felt like ice.

  But he kept pedaling, and the closer he got to the airstrip—he estimated the distance using his watch—the more confident he felt.

  It’s delirium, he told himself. Then he started to laugh.

  About three guffaws later, the front wheel of the bike hit a pothole, and he found himself flying through the air.

  23

  THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Corrine had left her office and was about to set out for The Cube when Jess Northrup flagged her down in the parking lot.

  “President wants to talk to you,” said the assistant to the chief of staff. “I was calling to you. I guess you didn’t hear.”

  “I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t hear,” said Corrine.

  “Mustang’s almost ready,” added Northrup as they walked back inside.

  “Still going to give me a ride?”

  “Soon as I get an engine.”

  You are doing a superb job on this, dear,” said McCarthy when she reached his office. The president had ordered his military aides to wait outside so he could talk to her alone. “I have a few questions I was hoping you could answer before I go downstairs to monitor the situation.”

  “OK.”

  “Is Park doing this himself? Or is the government involved?”

  “I don’t know.”

  McCarthy ran his fingers through his hair. “I think there is a strong possibility that the government is helping or at least turning a blind eye. I would like to know definitively.”

  “How?”

  “If you want to know who all the hens are, you’d best grab the rooster.”

  “You want us to get Park?”

  “If we don’t, I can only assume the South Koreans will. And I would be very surprised if he were able to be candid under such circumstances.” The president folded his arms. “The Japanese, for one, will not trust what he says if he is in Korean custody. It would be best for all concerned if he turned up here. A job for Special Demands, if ever there was one,” added McCarthy.

  “All right,” said Corrine. “Dan Slott is pretty upset about the present arrangement.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I think he thinks I’m interfering with his job.”

  “Are you?”

  “No. But—”

  She stopped, not sure exactly what she wanted to say.

  “Pardon the expression, Miss Alston, but that is a pregnant pause if ever I have heard one.”

  “You have to admit that the chain of command is confusing,” said Corrine. “And I realize that’s partly by design, but—”

  McCarthy gave her his fox smile. “Are you accusing me of confusing my underlings?”

  “I think you try and keep people on their toes.”

  “I hope so. Don’t worry about Mr. Slott. Keep doing what you are doing.”

  “Who’s in charge of the First Team?”

  “I am, dear. I am in charge of everyone who works for this government. Their faults are my faults. They can take the credit if they want.”

  “But as far as operations go—”

  “You are my conscience and oversight in matters related to the Office of Special Demands, and the deputy director of operations of the CIA is in charge of Central Intelligence personnel. I see no confusion.”

  Corrine knew she wasn’t going to get more of an answer, and this certainly wasn’t the moment to press him anyway.

  “Work with him, dear. He’s a good man.”

  “I know that. But I’m not the problem. Sir.”

  24

  SOUTHWEST OF KUSŎNG, NORTH KOREA

  Ferguson knew it was going to hurt when he landed.

  He seemed to know that forever, flying forward in the blackness toward pain.

  He managed to get his right hand up as he landed. This didn’t deflect the fall so much as it focused the anguish o
n the asphalt scraping his palm and forearm raw. He rolled over on the ground, the wind knocked out of him, unable even to scream.

  There was no telling how long he might have lain there if he hadn’t noticed the faint light of headlights in the distance behind him. He pushed himself to his feet, grabbed the bicycle and dragged it off to the side as the lights rounded the curve behind him and became two distinct cones sweeping the night.

  If he’d been in better shape, Ferguson might have leapt onto the back of the fuel truck as it passed, for it lumbered rather than sped. But he was too spent. He had barely enough strength to watch it as it passed.

  Thirty yards down the road, the truck’s brake lights lit. It stopped, then began moving in reverse. With a groan, Ferguson grabbed for the pistol he’d tucked into the parka’s pocket, but the truck had only missed a turn. It took a right, the driver grinding the gears as he went up a winding path.

  Ferguson got to his knees, then stood, watching the headlights disappear behind the trees. Corrigan had told him the airport was up about a hundred yards from the roadway, up a hill. There weren’t any settlements anywhere nearby.

  Was this it already?

  He pushed the bicycle into a clump of bushes and started in the direction the truck had taken. Ferguson walked until he came to a chain-link fence topped by barbed wire. His right hand hurt so much that he decided to look for a spot to crawl under rather than use it to pull himself over. Eventually he came to a hole made by a large tree trunk and managed to squeeze underneath.

  Threading his way through a clump of young trees, Ferguson found himself at the edge of what he thought at first glance was a farm field. There were lights a few hundred yards away and a small building. It was only when he started walking toward them and dragged his feet across the ground that he was sure he’d found the airstrip.

  He backtracked, walking along the perimeter near the fence until he found the road the truck had taken toward the building. As soon as he started down it, however, he caught a glimpse of two shadows moving a short distance away. He stopped, watching as they worked over a third lump. This one barrel-shaped. Fire suddenly erupted from it, and the two men held their hands out to warm themselves.

  Can I take them?

  I could use one of their uniforms.

  Take them.

  But if I’m asking the question, then I can’t do it. ’Cause if I doubt myself, that’s a warning.

  Find the plane and call it in. That’s most important.

  Ferguson slid back in the direction of the fence, circling warily around the sentries. His hand was too mangled and his legs stiff. He couldn’t think quickly, and his body felt as if it were moving through mud.

  He walked only another seventy or eighty yards before he had to stop and rest. There was definitely a plane there; he could see it in front of the hangar. The truck was nearby and must be refueling it.

  What the hell else do I need to know?

  Ferguson pulled out the sat phone.

  “Corrigan, you awake?” he asked.

  “I’m here, Ferg. Where are you?”

  “I found your airstrip. There’s definitely an airplane here.”

  “What kind?”

  “Some sort of jet.”

  “Is it a MiG?”

  “Hang on, I’ll go ask them.” Ferguson put the phone down against his leg and shook his head. Then he picked the phone back up. “They say they don’t know.”

  “I guess that was a dumb question, huh?”

  “No, Jack, it was a ridiculously dumb question. I’m about seventy-five yards from them, maybe farther. I don’t know; my distance judgment’s off. They’re not using any lights. There’s a cube kind of building there, like a bunker. If all of that fits your description, this is the place you’re looking for.”

  “Stand by.”

  “I am standing.”

  A moment later, Slott came on the line.

  “Ferg?”

  “Hey.”

  “We’re sending in a team to take the plane out. Are you OK?”

  “I really feel like horseshit to be honest.”

  Slott sighed, as if the whole weight of the world had now settled on his shoulders.

  Ferguson started to laugh. He had to put his arm against his mouth to keep his voice down.

  The truck had started to move.

  “Hey, when’s that team getting here?” he asked.

  “Twenty minutes. Why?”

  “Too late,” he told him, stuffing the phone in his parka as he began to run.

  25

  CHAIN, SOUTH KOREA

  The kid watching the warehouse who’d lost his nerve would be an important witness, but Thera wasn’t sure what to do with him. Turning him over to the South Korean security forces didn’t make sense for many reasons. For one thing, it was very possible Park was working with the government in some way; handing him to the intelligence agency might be the same as giving him to the billionaire’s lackey, Li.

  And for another, his two dead comrades would have to be explained, probably ad infinitum.

  The only thing Thera could think of to do with him was to take him to Seoul, where she could leave him with the CIA people at the embassy. He sat meekly in the passenger seat, hands cuffed, oblivious as she attempted to pry a little more information out of him.

  “I’ll put on music if you want,” she told him, trying to get him out of his fugue.

  The kid continued to stare straight ahead.

  Maybe there’s something about me that makes men go catatonic, she thought to herself.

  She was about an hour out of Seoul when the sat phone rang. It was Corrine Alston.

  “Can you talk?” asked Corrine.

  “It depends,” said Thera. “What’s up?”

  “We want you to get Park,” said Corrine. “Arrest him, offer him protection . . . whatever it takes.”

  “Protection? He’s behind the whole thing.”

  “Tell him whatever you want, just get him. We don’t want the South Koreans dealing with him on their own; they may have been in on it, and will simply use him as a scapegoat. You have to get him before they do.”

  “I don’t know, Corrine.”

  “It’s not a matter for debate.”

  Right, thought Thera. Dumb ideas never are.

  “Do you know where he is?” Thera asked.

  “That’s your department. Colonel Van Buren is detailing you a Special Forces team.”

  “I don’t think it’ll work.”

  “You have to make it work. It’s what the president wants.”

  Thera glanced at her passenger, still catatonic.

  “You don’t really know what you’re asking,” she told Corrine. “It’s not going to work.”

  “Well, try, damn it.”

  26

  SOUTHWEST OF KUSŎNG, NORTH KOREA

  The pilots were even the same height.

  General Namgung studied Ri Jong-Duk and Lee Ryung, looking first at one, then at the other. The harsh overhead lights in the small underground training room turned each man’s face a fiery red.

  Ryung, on the right.

  Yes. That was it.

  “You will take the plane,” he told the pilot. “Go.”

  A broad smile spread across Ryung’s face, though he tried to keep it in check. The thirty-three-year-old turned into a teenager again, practically skipping from the room.

  Ri Jong-Duk stood stoically, staring straight ahead.

  “You, too, have done your duty as a Korean,” Namgung said to the pilot. He put his hand on the man’s shoulder, feeling sincere compassion. The pilot had done nothing wrong; he had in fact been as brave and courageous as his fellow.

  Ri Jong-Duk remained silent.

  “You will be accorded a hero’s funeral,” said the general.

  He stared into Ri Jong-Duk’s eyes. They began to swell.

  General Namgung nodded, then turned away. The pilot’s stoicism inspired him. It was a propitious omen, a sign that th
ey would succeed.

  Very good. He would see the plane off, then drive to P’yŏngyang to begin things.

  Namgung was six or seven steps from the flight room when he heard the gunshot signaling that Ri Jong-Dak had done his duty. He quickened his pace, determined to honor the young man’s courage with his own actions.

  27

  SOUTHWEST OF KUSŎNG, NORTH KOREA

  Ferguson’s lungs felt as if they were collapsing in his chest, compressed by the hard strokes of his legs as he ran across the field. The truck was moving, going off on the road to his right. There were two men near the jet, working on it, illuminated by work lights that made the aircraft seem like a bird of prey hiding in the night. A fat cylinder sat beneath its belly.

  Ferguson kept his eyes fixed on the cylinder, which looked more like a fuel tank than the bomb he guessed it must be.

  He had the Russian PSM pistol in his left hand; his right couldn’t close around the trigger.

  He had to get close with that gun, real close. Right next to them.

  Shoot them, grab their weapons, screw up the plane somehow.

  Step by step.

  Go, he told himself. Go, go, go, go!

  Ferguson was less than thirty yards from the aircraft when he tripped the first time. He felt himself falling and managed to roll onto his left shoulder, curling around and getting back to his feet. The men at the aircraft, consumed by their work, didn’t notice.

  Go, go, go!

  The second time he tripped he was twenty yards away. This time he hit his elbow and lost his pistol.

  He couldn’t find it at first. The men at the aircraft began shouting.

  Ferguson spotted the gun and scooped it up. He was on both knees. He steadied his left hand with his right as best he could and fired.

  He missed high, the bullet not even close enough to scare the men pointing at him.

  Nothing to do now but go, he told himself, jumping to his feet.

  Go!

  General Namgung was still in the tunnel from the flight room when he heard the screams.