by Larry Bond
“An intruder!” he yelled, repeating what the others had said. “Quickly!”
He drew his pistol and began racing toward the airstrip.
The AK-47 sounded like a tin toy to Ferguson, the patter of its bullets the sound a child’s mechanical toy made when winding down. He saw the tracers spinning wildly to his left, the soldier’s aim thrown off by the shadows from the work lights.
The aircraft’s canopy was open and a ladder propped against its side. Two men were racing to the ladder.
Ferguson brought the pistol up and fired at the figures. His bullets missed both.
I’m not that bad a shot, damn it, he thought to himself. He aimed at the lights, got both, and continued running forward.
Pilot Lee Ryung was not sure what was happening, but he knew that he had to do his duty, and his duty now was to board the aircraft. He put his hands on the orange rail of the ladder, pushing away from the crewman trying to help him.
A bullet crashed through the metal hull of the jet a few inches from his head. A soldier ran from the hangar ramp on the other side of the aircraft. The pilot froze for a second as the man began to fire, mistakenly thinking the soldier was shooting at him.
He was so close now there was no way he could miss. Ferguson fired two shots into the face of the man at the base of the ladder and watched him peel off to the side. He leapt past him, raising his gun at the figure descending into the cockpit. He squared his aim and fired.
Nothing happened. The PSM was out of bullets.
General Namgung saw the soldier pull up his rifle as the pilot climbed up the aircraft boarding ladder.
“Don’t hit Lee Ryung!” he yelled. “Don’t shoot the pilot!”
The soldier stopped. Namgung yelled to the pilot. “Go, go!”
Then he realized the man on the ladder wasn’t dressed in flight gear and wasn’t in fact the pilot at all.
Lee Ryung slapped the controls, desperate to start the MiG and move it from danger. Then he realized it was too late for that; there was someone on the ladder. He grabbed at his holster, pulling out his service revolver.
Ferguson screamed as he climbed the ladder, pain, anger, and frustration boiling together. He lost his balance, and as he started to slip he threw the last bit of momentum he controlled toward the figure in the cockpit, grabbing at the pilot’s helmet.
Something exploded on his left.
A pistol, a big pistol.
Ferguson grabbed for it with his left hand, grappling for the barrel.
It felt like a hot pipe, a hot iron pipe on fire. He pulled it toward the other man, pushing it into his chest as it exploded again.
28
IN THE AIR OVER NORTH KOREA
“They’ve lost contact with Ferguson,” Van Buren told Rankin over the radio.
Before Rankin could reply, the helo pilot pointed at the front of the windscreen.
“Airstrip dead ahead. There’s a plane at the far end.”
A thin line of tracers arced toward them from the right.
“We’re going in!” shouted Rankin. He meant to tell the rest of the team, but in his excitement left the radio channel on the control frequency with Van. “It’s hot! LZ is hot!”
“Godspeed,” said the colonel.
29
SOUTHWEST OF KUSŎNG, NORTH KOREA
The man on the ladder dove into the cockpit.
Namgung cursed himself for being a fool. He took out his pistol and fired.
It had been so long since he used the weapon that the nose shot up and the bullet flew far from its mark. He fired again, with the same result.
Cursing, he ran toward the ladder, shouting for help.
Ferguson pulled the gun from the pilot’s hand, bashing the side of the man’s head with it, once, twice, a third time before realizing the man was already dead. The bullet the pilot had fired had gone up through his neck and into his brain.
There were more shouts, screams, gunfire. Ferguson was at the center of a roiling tempest, but all he could see was a small circle around him.
Someone was climbing the ladder. Ferguson leaned over and fired the revolver, felt it jerk up in his hand, the bullet sailing far from its intended target.
The plane’s the important thing, he told himself.
He put the pistol’s nose flat against the biggest screen and fired, then put the rest of the bullets through the panel on the right.
Ducking as the bullet flew past, Namgung lost his balance and slipped down the ladder. He struggled to get his boots back on the rungs, then clambered upward. As he did, the intruder flew over the side of the cockpit.
Namgung reached the cockpit, where the pilot sat upright in his seat.
“Go!” he commanded him. “Start the aircraft and take off! Go!”
Then he saw the blood covering the front of his vest, and realized all was lost.
Ferguson dropped from the MiG’s forward cowling, landing on his legs as he planned but immediately pitching forward, rolling in a summersault underneath the plane. He saw two boots in front of him, and grabbed at them, pushing a surprised North Korean soldier to the ground.
The man’s assault rifle skittered away. Ferguson dove at it, pulling it to his chest as the Korean recovered and grappled him, a fisherman reeling in an immense catch. But this catch slipped its hook: Ferguson rolled and mashed his mangled right hand onto the trigger of the AK-47.
The gun jerked wildly as the bullets spewed from its nose. Only two or three of the dozen bullets Ferguson fired found their target, but they laced across the North Korean’s head, killing him instantly.
There was a second of stillness, of no sound, as if a vacuum had been created beneath Ferguson’s body. He felt nothing, not cold or pain, certainly not triumph, nor even despair.
And then the tumult resumed: Helicopter blades whirled in the distance. Guns fired. Someone screamed.
It was Ferguson. He pushed himself out of the dead man’s grasp and ran back the way he had come.
Despair overwhelmed General Namgung. His future—Korea’s future—sat stone upright in his hands, empty.
“He’s escaping!” yelled one of the soldiers.
“Helicopters!” yelled another.
Namgung started down the ladder, moving deliberately. He felt nothing, not anger nor revenge.
The soldier he had stopped from shooting earlier lay on the tarmac a few feet away. Two other soldiers were crouched nearby, firing into the field.
Namgung went to them. He could tell they were firing blind, without a target.
“Bring up more lights so you can see him,” he said calmly. He checked his own pistol, making sure it was ready to fire.
Ferguson threw himself down about thirty yards from the strip. He crawled forward, deeper into the darkness. All he had to do was crawl away, just crawl. Rankin and the rest of Van’s guys were here now, above, right here, on their way. They’d get the plane and then rescue him.
Or would it be better to die now?
He could stop, stand up, and burn the rest of the magazine, make himself an easy target.
Go out in a blaze of glory.
There was a certain romance in that, a fittingness. People would say he went out the way he wanted to. But the truth was, he didn’t want to go out like that. Not now, at least, not here.
There were many things to do, people to see, to talk to.
His dad. Always his dad.
He hunkered down as a fresh wave of bullets flew by, pushing deeper into the darkness.
He’s there!” yelled one of the soldiers, pointing at the shadow about forty yards away.
General Namgung grabbed the rifle from the nearby soldier. He would take care of the man himself.
30
IN THE AIR OVER NORTH KOREA
Rankin saw the figures running from the airstrip toward the field.
They must be after Ferguson.
“There,” he shouted at the pilot. “I want to go there.”
“I thought you wa
nted the plane.”
“There’s no one in the cockpit. We get my guy first.”
The pilot started to answer, but Rankin didn’t hear. He’d already pivoted toward the open door of the helo and put his Uzi on his hip. He steadied the weapon as the aircraft swooped low and began to fire.
31
SOUTHWEST OF KUSŎNG, NORTH KOREA
General Namgung stopped and lowered the nose of his rifle, aiming at the man crawling away.
He showed great courage in attacking us, but now runs like a coward, thought the general.
As he pushed the trigger to fire, he felt the hot wind of hell swirling around him. He glanced up, realizing it was a helicopter.
In the next instant, a half-dozen 9 mm parabellum bullets riddled his neck and chest.
Rankin leapt out of the Little Bird as it touched down, running toward the body to the left of the chopper. At first glance, he thought he’d made a mistake; it looked like a Korean.
At second glance, it looked dead.
Ferguson pitched himself onto his back, trying to bring up the AK-47.
Rankin stepped on the gun. Ferguson was so weak he lost his grip on the weapon. He blinked, then realized who was standing there.
“About fuckin’ time, Skippy,” Ferguson croaked. “You missed all the fun.”
32
CIA BUILDING 24-442
Corrigan looked up from the console.
“They’ve got him!” he yelled. “Ferguson is alive! They’ve got him!”
Tears began to stream from Corrine’s eyes.
“Aircraft is under their control,” added Corrigan, almost as an afterthought. “We have the bomb. The Marines are inbound!”
Corrine looked down at the communications panel controlling her headset and pushed the button to connect with Slott.
“You heard that, Dan?”
“Yes.”
“I think you should be the one to tell the president.”
“We should both tell him,” he said. “Corrigan?”
There was a light pop in the headphones.
“You’re on the line with the White House situation room,” said Corrigan.
Corrine waited for Slott to say something.
Slott, waiting for her, remained silent.
“I hope there is nothing wrong with this line,” said the president finally.
“Mr. President,” said Slott. “The First Team has stopped the aircraft. We are in the process of securing the weapon.”
“There is a weapon then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good work, Mr. Slott. How long will it take before the bomb is secured?”
“We’re going to use a marine helicopter to airlift it out,” said Slott. “We want to bring it to one of our assault ships offshore. It will take a few hours.”
“I would imagine that securing that weapon is a tricky thing.”
“Yes, sir. One of our people has experience with that,” he added, referring to Ferguson. “But, uh, every weapon is different.”
“Are the North Koreans in a position to stop us?”
“We don’t believe so at this time. We’re monitoring the situation closely. There are no units nearby. There’s a great deal of confusion in the capital.”
“You will tell me the moment the weapon is in our complete control aboard our ship,” said McCarthy.
“Yes, sir, I will.”
“We will keep a careful watch until then, and do nothing to alert either country.”
“I can’t guarantee we can keep this a secret,” Slott said.
“Then we had best move as quickly as possible,” said McCarthy. “Miss Alston, are you on the line?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“Job well done to you as well.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said, cringing as she heard Slott click off the line.
33
DAEJEON, SOUTH KOREA
The idea was rather simple; the trick was in its execution. Fortunately, Thera’s plan relied heavily on the billionaire’s ego, which was commensurate with his wealth.
“I am calling from the BBC,” she told Park’s official spokesman by phone. “We have heard that the South Korean military has been put on alert because of a possible attack by the North. We would like to arrange an interview with Mr. Park on the situation because of his prominence. His opinion will be of great importance to the business community internationally.”
Thera hoped to worm Park’s location out of the man or, failing that, to set up a trace on her line when Park came on to be interviewed. But the PR man did even better than she expected: He invited the BBC reporter and camera crew to Park’s home at six a.m. for an interview.
“A very complex situation, and Mr. Park can surely shed important light on it,” said the aide.
“We’ll be there,” said Thera.
She punched off the phone. It was half-past two; they were about thirty minutes from the compound.
“You have time to refuel,” Thera told the pilot. “I have some calls to make.”
34
DAEJEON, SOUTH KOREA
So it was done.
Years of planning and maneuvering. The difficult arrangements with the scientists, the companies, the Northerners, the mobsters and criminals like Manski, so repulsive and yet so necessary—it had all paid off. The plan would be well underway by now. In less than an hour, the people of Korea would have their revenge and be launched on the road to reunion and strength.
Park knew he would not get any credit for it, but credit was never his goal or desire. It was enough to know what had been accomplished.
The billionaire ordinarily had no use for TV, especially the news. But he could not resist the pleasure of seeing the newscasters’ response to and coverage of the destruction of Korea’s traditional enemy. He went to his office and turned on the small set he kept there, surfing through the channels, though by his calculations it would be at least a half hour before the aircraft would reach Japan.
The half hour passed slowly. Park flipped through the channels, waiting.
Another half hour. He settled on a Japanese station, reasoning that it would carry the news first.
Nothing.
Another half hour. He flipped to CNN. The network was playing a feature about shearing sheep.
Park once more began flipping idly through the channels. There should be news any moment. Any moment.
The phone rang.
Park glanced at the clock on the desk before answering. It was nearly four.
“Something has gone wrong,” Li told him. “The Northern troops haven’t moved as planned. Namgung is not in the capital. And Tokyo—”
“Yes,” said Park, putting down the phone.
35
CIA BUILDING 24-442
“Rankin is aboard the Peleliu,” Corrigan told Corrine. “The bomb is secure.”
Corrine glanced at her watch. It was precisely 2:15 p.m.—a quarter past four in Korea. She punched the line to connect with Slott.
“Give Thera the go-ahead,” Slott said.
Corrine nodded to Corrigan.
“Why don’t you talk to the president this time?” Slott said. “I’m in the middle of something.”
“Sure,” said Corrine.
Corrigan made the connection.
“Mr. President, Dan Slott asked me to tell you that the bomb is aboard the Peleliu. The First Team is en route to secure Park.”
“Well done, dear. We will give your people forty minutes to complete their task, and then I will call Yeop Hu in Seoul. After that, I will share what we know with the American public. It has been a difficult time,” added McCarthy, “and I expect a few more difficult moments ahead. But you have all done yeoman’s service. Yeoman’s service.”
“Jonathon, there’s one thing you should know about where some of the information came from on this,” said Corrine. “There was an e-mail that we think, that I think, came originally from Park or one of his people. It was sent to Senator Tew
illiger. He gave it to me, and I gave it to the CIA.”
“Gordon was involved in this?”
“Indirectly. And probably unwittingly.”
“Well now,” said McCarthy, “isn’t that a fine, fine twist in the old bull’s tail.”
“Sir?” Corrine had never heard that expression before.
“Keep that information to yourself a spell, would you, dear?”
“Of course.”
“I would imagine it will come out at some point in the future,” added McCarthy. “At a much more strategic moment.”
36
DAEJEON, SOUTH KOREA
They did it by the book.
Two teams took the perimeter from the ground, surprising the guards at the main gate and subduing them without resistance. Within seconds, a pair of Marine helicopters swooped in over the grounds, depositing two Special Forces A Teams on the roof of the house. Roughly twenty seconds later, they came in three of the windows.
The lone security officer on duty in the house made the mistake of opening fire at one of the American soldiers. There wasn’t enough left of him to fit into a decent-sized garbage bag.
Thera came in behind the point team, racing toward the hallway that led to the residential suite and Park’s bedroom. Infrared surveillance of the house had given the assault troops a reasonably good idea of where he was.
“Park, I’m here to help,” she yelled as she and the soldiers reached the hallway. “Your government has declared you a criminal. I can offer you asylum.”
There was no answer. The plan was for Thera to wait until the Special Forces soldiers with her subdued the billionaire, but she was too juiced with adrenaline to slow down. She reached the door to the room where he’d been at the start of the assault, dropped to her knees, and grabbed a flash-bang stun grenade.
