Sword of God paj-3

by Chris Kuzneski

  Payne laughed, glad to see Jones's sense of humor still intact. "Any mobility problems?"

  "Jon," he stressed, "I'm fine."

  "Good. Glad to hear it. Because we have a decision to make." He pulled out a map of the East Sea. "We don't have many choices. Either Japan, mainland Korea, or one of the islands along the way."

  "Forget the islands. We could never blend in."

  "What about Korea? We could make it in a few hours."

  "That depends. How many people did you hurt back there? I hear Korean prisons are kind of brutal on pretty boys like yourself."

  "Good point. In that case, what about Japan?"

  Jones studied the major ports along the Korea Strait. There were several options. "Fukuoka is the closest big city. Roughly two million people. Plenty of places to sneak ashore. That might be our best bet…. Then again, what are we going to do when we get there?"

  Unfortunately, Payne never got the chance to answer.

  He was too distracted by the helicopter that hovered up ahead.

  31

  Monday, January 1

  The roar of Jung's boat masked the chopper's engines until it was too late. Throw in the wind and the choppy seas, and Payne didn't spot it until it was a hundred yards away. Of course, even if he had, what could he have done? The damn thing just hovered there, directly in his path. No movement. No lights. Like an iceberg in the night, just waiting for the Titanic to strike.

  Payne swore to himself and eased the boat to a stop. He told everyone on board not to panic, that everything would be all right. But deep down inside, he wasn't so sure. Technically, they were in a stolen boat and had just fled a country where he'd shot someone and assaulted five others. Park was carrying a gun and had recently fired it several times in the crowded streets of Seongsan. Jones was bleeding. The boy was traumatized. And Kia was privy to everything.

  Yeah, they were screwed.

  Things got worse when the chopper turned on its gigantic spotlight and shined it directly on the boat. Payne shielded his eyes, trying to figure out who he was dealing with. The police? The coast guard? The Korean Navy? Any of those would have ruined his New Year.

  Suddenly a booming voice-like the voice of God- filled the night. It was broadcast in English over the chopper's speaker system, echoing louder than the roar of the turbines. "Do not be alarmed…. Do not make a move…. Prepare to be boarded."

  Jones grimaced at the announcement. "That sounds painful."

  "Let's hope not," said Payne as he inched his way toward Mr. Park, who sat in the back of the boat. When he got there, he spoke firmly into his ear. "If you want to help your son, drop your gun overboard. If they see it in your hand, you will be arrested. Or worse."

  Park nodded in understanding.

  Five seconds later it was sinking to the bottom of the sea.

  The next few minutes were a whirlwind of surprises. The chopper rose several feet above the water, then crept forward until it hovered directly above the cramped deck of the boat. Payne heard the rumble of a large winch as two men were lowered on board.

  Both of them were dressed in black, their faces covered with visors.

  No patches. No badges. No insignias.

  Neither man carried a weapon.

  Confused, Payne stood there, assessing the situation. He knew they were in Korean waters, yet no one on the chopper had identified whom he worked for. The orders to halt had been given in English, not Korean. And the men standing across from him were tall and muscular, closer to Payne's size than Park's.

  Something about this didn't seem right.

  Things got stranger when one of them whipped out a cell phone and waited for it to ring. A few seconds later, it did. But instead of answering the call, which would have required him to take off his helmet and show his face, he walked forward and handed it to Payne.

  The man said, "It's for you."

  "It is?" Payne took the phone and answered the call. "Hello?"

  The voice on the other end was American. Masculine. All business. He said, "We've been sent to evacuate you and your friends."

  "Who is this?"

  But his question was dismissed. Simply ignored. "We'll hoist you up one at a time. Jones first, then the others, then you. Later tonight you'll be briefed in private. Am I clear?"

  "Crystal."

  "Good. My men will remain on board. Tell them where to dump the boat and it will be done."

  The United States and the Republic of Korea signed a Status of Forces Agreement (SOFA) in 1966, guaranteeing the presence of U.S. military personnel to protect against external threats. Currently, there are more than thirty thousand American soldiers stationed in Korea, scattered around the country on several official bases. And several more that are unofficial.

  Payne and his crew were taken to one of those, tucked in the rolling hills of Jeollanam-do Province, near the southwestern tip of the peninsula. On paper, the base was decommissioned a decade ago, yet it still housed enough soldiers to start a small war. From the outside, the facility looked abandoned-a series of dilapidated hangars and warehouses that should have been razed-but the inside was a different story.

  It was buzzing with activity.

  From the moment they got into the chopper until they were escorted to a small room on the northern end of the compound, the Parks were blindfolded. Kia sat next to them the entire time, whispering in Korean, assuring them that everything was being done for their safety. Her dedication continued once they reached the base. She refused to leave their side, even after their blindfolds were removed and they were locked in their holding cell, which had the feel of a cheap hotel room-equipped with a bed, desk, TV, and bathroom. A video camera was mounted in the far corner of the ceiling, allowing a team of guards to monitor them at all times.

  Meanwhile, Payne and Jones were taken to a different building, this one in the center of the camp, where they met the senior enlisted adviser in a tiny office with cement walls and an American flag as its lone decoration. His name was Crawford, and his rank was command sergeant major. He wore a beige T-shirt and camouflage cargo pants that were recendy ironed. His hair looked brown but was shaved so close its color hardly mattered. The type of guy who smiled so infrequently it looked like he had gas when he actually tried.

  Payne recognized Crawford's voice the moment he spoke-he was the man who'd called him on Jung's boat. "I hope you realize the position you put us in, having to save your ass in the middle of the night. We didn't appreciate the exposure."

  "Excuse me?"

  "You heard me. This is supposed to be a low-key operation."

  "Yeah," Payne snapped. "I gathered that from your office decor. I meant the saving my ass part. I never asked to be saved."

  "That's not what we heard from the Pentagon." He opened the lone folder that sat on his desk. "At oh-oh-oh-two hours, we were notified of a possible medical evac on Jeju Island. Details to follow. At oh-oh-eleven hours, medical evac was changed to personnel evac. Three soldiers, two civilians. Aerial resources were diverted from a training mission in the Korea Strait, course south-southwest toward Seongsan. At oh-oh-seventeen hours, our rendezvous point was updated when your boat was tagged by satellite." He glanced up from the folder and stared at them. "Shall I go on?"

  Jones spoke first. "Can you repeat the part about medical evac? That was so exciting!"

  "You think this is a joke?"

  "No," Payne said, "we don't. But unless you have transcripts of an unauthorized broadcast on our part, I think it would be best if you dropped your attitude. Last time 1 checked, sergeant majors were several notches below captain in the chain of command."

  Crawford stood from his chair. "Maybe so. But last time checked, you were retired."span›

  He walked toward his office door, then stopped. "Stay put. I'm calling Washington."

  Payne and Jones waited for Crawford to close his door before they spoke. And even then, they did it in hushed tones, trying not to be overheard.

  Jones asked, "D
id you call for evac when I was shot?"

  "Are you crazy? I was running down the street, chasing a gunman. When could I call?"

  "What about Kia?"

  "What about her? She was taking care of you. Did she use your phone?"

  Jones shook his head. She was busy, too. "Well, someone called."

  Payne nodded, confused. "Yeah, but the question is who."

  32

  Twenty minutes passed before Crawford returned. When he did, he said nothing until he punched a series of buttons on his desk phone. Its speaker crackled to life.

  He muttered, "Washington is on the line. Hang up when you're done."

  Then he turned and left the room. No explanation. No name or hint of what was to follow. Payne couldn't tell if Crawford was angry, embarrassed, or pleased with himself, because the bastard had no facial expressions. Like the ultimate poker player. Or someone with Botox.

  Payne pulled the speaker closer. "This is Jonathon Payne. Who am I speaking to?"

  There was a lengthy delay before a gruff voice filled the line. "Randy Raskin. Pentagon."

  Jones started laughing, happy to hear from his friend. "Damn, Randy, you scared the hell out of us. We thought you were someone important."

  "Thanks, man. I appreciate it. I love you, too."

  Payne said, "You know what he means."

  "I know, I know." The ever-present clicking of Raskin's keyboard could be heard in the background. He was the quintessential multitasker. "I'm guessing your host is out of the room."

  "Yeah. We're clear."

  "Thank God! That guy is an idiot. I've been forced to sound official for the past three hours. No matter what I did or said, he kept quoting rules and regulations. Blah, blah, blah. Even when D.J. was shot, he gave me flack about evac."

  Jones leaned forward. "I'm fine, by the way. Thanks for asking."

  "Oh, now I get it," Raskin teased. "You don't consider me important, yet you want me to care about your health? Sorry, fellas. You can't have it both ways. .. . Besides, I already knew you were fine. I've been monitoring your progress all night."

  Payne frowned. "How so?"

  "The amazing thing about Korea is their technology. They're way ahead of us when it comes to implementation. It's actually kind of creepy. Sorta like Big Brother."

  "Meaning?"

  "Did you know Jeju has more than six thousand traffic cameras? With a touch of a button, I tapped into their mainframe and followed your movement all over the island. I'm telling you, it was great. Just like a movie! When you got attacked by ninjas? Man, that was awesome! You were like, kick, punch, shoot! And that guy was like aaaaaaaagh! Only I couldn't hear him scream because there's no sound on their cameras."

  "Are you done?"

  "Not yet. If you want, I can burn you a copy on DVD. You know, like a home movie."

  "I'd like one," Jones said. "Please send it to-"

  But Payne cut him off. "Actually, I'd prefer if you deleted all traces of us from their system. If Korea sees that footage-"

  "1 know, I know. Don't worry. I already took care of it. I wiped out the entire feed from Seongsan. Their computers will interpret it as a power surge, but we know the truth."

  "Thanks," Payne said. "You're the best."

  "I know that, too."

  "So," Jones said, "was there a reason you called? Or were you just calling to brag?"

  "Damn! The guy gets shot one time, and now he's all business." Raskin pounded away on his keyboard until the correct file filled his screen. "You asked me to do more research on Dr. Ernie Sheldon, and I found some interesting nuggets. Is there somewhere I can send them, or will I have to go through Crawford?"

  "Fill us in now," Payne said. "You can send it through him later."

  Raskin scanned the data. "Don't crucify me on this one, but I gave you some misleading intel the last time we talked. Turns out, Dr. Sheldon might not be dead. In fact, I'm pretty sure of it. His main file lists him as deceased. Yet I tracked him through some back doors and found a fairly recent posting. For the past three years he's been working as a special projects coordinator at Fort Huachuca."

  Fort Huachuca is a major military installation in Arizona that became home to the U.S. Army Intelligence Center and School in 1971. Since then, its post has changed several times, yet in the past three decades one thing has remained constant. If a soldier wanted to be certified as an interrogator, he went to Fort Huachuca-where they taught all the necessary skills to become a 97E (pronounced 97 echo), everything from the art of interrogation to the rules of deception.

  Payne and Jones were quite familiar with the installation, a place both of them endured while prepping for the MANIACs. At times their training was horrific, bordering on inhumane.

  But it prepared them for what they'd face in the Special Forces. And how to handle it.

  Payne said, "Define special projects."

  "Everything from the latest torture techniques to mind-control experiments. Plus I hear there's been progress with gamma-aminobutyric acid. Combining GABA drugs and physical exhaustion to extract confessions." Raskin cleared his throat, as if catching himself before he revealed too much. "Of course, that's probably just hearsay. I have no specific knowledge as to what Sheldon was working on."

  "And these projects," Payne wondered. "Are they being used in the field?"

  "Honestly, Jon, I really don't know. I sit behind a desk all day, fiddling with my keyboard. You're the one in the real world. You tell me. Are these techniques being used?"

  Payne knew the answer was yes. Torture has been around for as long as there's been pain and wouldn't stop anytime soon. The problem is that torture has proven to be unreliable because all prisoners eventually talk, although what they say is often fabricated, a way for the brain to protect the body from further abuse.

  That's why men like Dr. Sheldon conducted their research.

  They're looking for better ways to obtain information.

  Recent studies have shown that some of the simplest techniques-exhaustion, sleep deprivation, prolonged exposure to heat or cold-are the most effective. Yet in recent years, the one technique that's been in the news the most is waterboarding. It was even mentioned by Vice President Dick Cheney in a White House interview, who called it a "very important tool."

  Prisoners were immobilized with ropes or cords. Feet slightly inclined. Head below legs. Cellophane was wrapped around the subject's face and water was poured over him. Almost instantly the gag reflex kicked in and the subject panicked, terrified of drowning and certain death. Rumor has it that several CIA officials volunteered to go through the ordeal to understand its physiological devastation. Their average endurance time was fourteen seconds.

  Payne was familiar with all this information. What he didn't know was Dr. Sheldon's role in what was going on. Had he been called in as an expert to assess the crime scene? Or was the cave one of his experiments gone wrong? And if so, who was the intended victim?

  "Bear with me," Payne said as he changed the direction of their conversation. "Last time we spoke, I asked for the names of prisoners in black-op facilities. Unfortunately, you were unable to help. So let me approach this from a different angle. One of my sources recently gave me the name of a known terrorist who we think might be part of this. If I mentioned his name, would you be able to confirm or deny his capture?"

  Raskin chose his words carefully. 'Technically, I couldn't confirm anyone's capture without proper clearance. But I'd be happy to deny any rumors that I felt could hurt your mission."

  "Fine. The name we heard is Hakeem Salaam."

  Raskin said nothing for the next fifteen seconds.

  'Thank you," Payne said, reading between the lines. "That's a big help."

  "My pleasure. Now unless you have something else, please put the sergeant major back on the phone. I want to mess with him some before I get back to work."

  Whatever Raskin said to Crawford was effective, because from that moment on he was on his best behavior. He led Payne and Jones
to a private computer terminal, where they were able to download Dr. Sheldon's file and print several photographs they had requested.

  Armed with this new information, they were escorted across the facility grounds to where the Parks were being detained. Kia was called out of the room for a quick briefing, filling them in on the past few hours, describing what was said on the boat, in the helicopter, and in the holding cell. Amazingly, just like Mr. Kim in the village, the Parks had warmed to her in a short time-incredible, considering the circumstances.

  "Is the boy talking?" Payne wondered.

  "Not about the cave, but he is talking about other things. He's a great kid who's been through a whole lot. I'm stunned he's even coherent."

  "What about the dad?"

  "Scared. Angry. Anxious. Emotional. Everything you'd expect from a guy who lost his family and doesn't know why."

  "What do you recommend?"

  "About what?"

  "About talking to them. We need to know what they know. ASAP."

  "But Jon-"

  "I know," he said, not letting her get started with an emotional plea. This was one of those situations where he wouldn't be dissuaded. 'Trust me, I realize they aren't ready to talk and won't be ready for some time. Unfortunately, this interview can't wait. We got some new intel that we need to act on immediately, and the only way to do that is by talking to them. So whether it's you, me, or all three of us combined, this conversation needs to take place right now."

  33

  Kia led the Parks into an interview room and prepared them for what was about to happen. She assured them that Payne was a decent man who would do them no harm, that he'd lost a good friend during the violence at the cave, and needed their statements to find the people responsible. When put in those terms, Chung-Ho was more than willing to help-even though he knew it would be painful for him and his son-because it was the honorable thing to do.

  Payne came in next. Polite. Respectful. Empathetic. None of it an act of any kind. He'd lost his parents at an early age, killed by a drunk driver when he was in junior high, so he was all too familiar with sudden loss. His years as a soldier, surrounded by death and destruction, hadn't dulled any of those feelings, and they never would.