Op-Center o-1

by Tom Clancy

  "Right. Not a good exit strategy, especially if any of the troops down there are looking for us."

  Squires indicated the Nodongs. "They haven't got the bomb on these things, have they?"

  "Despite all the hoopla in the press, they aren't quite there yet, technologically," said Rodgers, still studying the map. "Though a payload of a couple hundred pounds of TNT per Nodong will put a helluva dent in Seoul."

  He pursed his lips. "I think I've got it, Charlie. We don't leave where we came in but about five miles farther south, which the enemy will never expect."

  One of the clear eyes squeezed shut. "Come again? We make it tougher on ourselves?"

  "No, easier. The key to getting out isn't to run, but to fight and then walk. Early in the second century A.D., during the first Trajanic campaign, legionary infantry of Rome were engaged by a smaller number of Dacian warriors in the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains. It was the mail and heavy javelins of Rome against bare chests and spears, but the Dacians were victorious. They snuck in at night, took the Romans by surprise, then led the enemy into the hills where the legionnaries were forced to spread out. When they did, the soldiers were picked off by enemies working in pairs. With the Romans dead, the Dacians were literally able to stroll back to their camp."

  "That was spears, sir."

  "Doesn't matter. If we're spotted, we'll lead them off and use knives. The enemy wouldn't dare use firearms at night, in the hills, or they might start picking off their own people."

  Squires looked at the map. "The Carpathian Mountains doesn't exactly sound like home turf for the Romans. The enemy probably knew that land as well as the North Koreans know their terrain."

  "You're right," Rodgers said. "But then, we've got something the Dacians didn't have."

  "A Congress wanting to cut back our asses?"

  Rodgers grinned and pointed toward the small black bag he'd been carrying earlier. "EBC."

  "Sir?"

  "Something Matty Stoll and I cooked up: I'll tell you about it after we've finished making our plans."

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Tuesday, 11:25 P.M., Seoul

  Kim Chong wondered if they'd figured the cipher out.

  She'd been playing piano at Bae Gun's bar for seventeen months, sending messages to men and women who stopped by irregularly— watched most of the time, she knew, by agents of the KCIA. Some of them were dashing, some beautiful, some scruffy, all of them doing a good job playing the successful businesspeople or models or factory workers or soldiers they were supposed to be. But Kim knew what they really were. The same talent that enabled her to memorize musical pieces allowed her to memorize distinctive features or laughs or shoes. Why is it that undercover operatives who took such pains to change their attire or makeup or hairstyle came back wearing the same shoes or holding their cigarettes the same way or fishing the almonds from the peanut bowl first? Even Mr. Gun had noticed that the scraggly artist type who came in now and then had the same chronic bad breath as the ROK Private who showed up once a week.

  If you're going to play a part, you must play it completely.

  Tonight, the woman she'd nicknamed Little Eva was back. The lithe woman watered her drinks with a lot of ice; obviously a health nut, obviously not accustomed to drinking, obviously not drowning her sorrows alone but nursing her scotch while she kept a close eye and ear on the piano player.

  Kim decided to give her something to chew on.

  She rolled from "The Worst That Could Happen" into "Nobody Does It Better"; Kim always used songs from movies to send her messages. She played the first note of the second measure, a "C," an octave lower than it was written. She trilled the "A" below middle "C" in the third measure, then played the entire twentieth measure without the pedal.

  Anyone who knew the music well would recognize the discrepancies. The "C" and "A" were wrong, and a pedal measure corresponded to a letter of the alphabet: in this case twenty, or "T."

  She'd spelled CAT for the KCIA, and wondered if they'd get it; there was no letter frequency ratio, nothing a cryptanalyst could hook onto in the way of a regular substitution or transposition cipher. Kim watched as her man Nam left, his departure noted by Little Eva. The counterintelligence agent didn't go after him; maybe someone else did. Nam said he never saw anyone following him home, but he was old and half blind and when he came here he drank most of what she paid him. She could just imagine the contortions the KCIA went through trying to figure out how Nam and her other letter boxes sent their messages.

  It was almost a shame to take money for this-money from the North as well as a salary to play here. If she were back in her hometown of Anju, north of Pyongyang, she'd be living like an empress.

  If I were back home- Who knew when that would be? After what she had done, she was lucky to be alive. But she would go back one day, when she had enough money or had her fill of the self-righteous South or learned something of the whereabouts of Han.

  She finished playing the James Bond song and segued into a honky-tonk version of "Java." The Al Hirt song was her favorite, the first one she remembered hearing as a child, and she played it every night. She often wondered if the KCIA thought it had something to do with her code: the next song after it was the one with the message, or maybe information was hidden in the little improv she did with the right hand in the second section. She couldn't even begin to imagine what the intelligence minds on Chonggyechonno were coming up with. And at the moment, she couldn't care less.

  Ba-da da-da da-da

  She shut her eyes and hummed along. Wherever she was, whatever she was doing, "Java" always brought her back to when she was just a baby, being looked after by her much older brother Han and their mother. Her mother's husband, Han's father, had died in the war, and her mother had no idea which soldier passing through was Kim's father, whether he was even Korean or whether he was Russian or Chinese. Not that it mattered: she loved her daughter just the same, and food had to be put on the table somehow. And when they found that box of 45s stolen from the South, her mother used to put Java on an old hand-cranked record player and they'd dance around their small shack, causing the tin roof to rattle and scaring the chickens and goat. Then there was the priest who had a piano and saw Kim sing and dance and thought she might like to play- There was a commotion in the nightclub and her eyes snapped open. Little Eva rose as two clean-cut men wearing suits and hard expressions entered by the front door and another pair came in through the kitchen door, behind a beaded entranceway to her left. Remaining otherwise motionless, Kim reached down with the toe of her right foot and lifted the wheel lock that held the piano in place. When she saw Little Eva look at her and knew why the men had come, she jumped to her feet and pushed the piano lengthwise across the beaded passage, blocking it. Little Eva and the other men still had to make their way through the tables, which gave Kim a few seconds head start.

  Grabbing her purse, Kim ran for the rest rooms that were in the other direction. She swung into the men's room, remarkably calm and focused. Her six months of training in North Korea had been brief but effective: she had learned how to plan and walk through her exit routes with care, to keep money and a variety of handguns hidden.

  The window was always open in the men's room, and climbing on the sink, she slipped through. Once outside, she discarded her purse after fishing out the switchblade she kept there.

  Kim was in the small backyard of the bar. It was cluttered with broken stools, discarded appliances, and surrounded by a high wooden fence. Clambering on top of the row of garbage pails, cats scurrying in all directions, she held the knife in her teeth and put her hands on the top of the slats; as she was about to vault over, a shot chewed the fence just inches from her left underarm. She froze.

  "Think it over, Kim!"

  Kim's stomach tightened as she recognized the voice. She turned slowly and saw Bae Gun standing there, holding the smoking Smith & Wesson.32 automatic he kept to protect the bar and its take. She raised her hands.

  "The k
nife—" he said.

  She spat it out. "You bastard!"

  Two other agents ran up behind him, guns drawn. They ran over, and while one of the men helped Kim down from the garbage pails, the other pulled her arms behind her back and cuffed her.

  "You didn't have to help them, Bae! What lies did they tell you about me?"

  "No lies, Kim." The light from the bathroom window spilled onto his face and she saw him smile. "I've known about you from the start, just as I knew about the singer who was here before you and the bartender who worked here before him. My boss, Deputy Director Kim Hwan, keeps me well informed about DPRK spies."

  Fire in her eyes, Kim didn't know whether to curse or congratulate him as she was ushered past, half walking, half stumbling toward the street and the waiting car.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Tuesday, 9:30 A.M., the White House

  Hood remembered the first time he'd come to the Oval Office. It was when President Lawrence's predecessor had asked to meet the mayors of New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, and Philadelphia to see what could be done to prevent riots. The gesture, intended to show his concern for the inner cities, backfired when the President was accused of being racist for anticipating that blacks might riot.

  That President was a tall man, like Lawrence, and while both may have appeared a little too short for the job itself, they seemed too large for the desk and for the office.

  It was a small room by any reckoning, made smaller by the large desk and chair and clusters of top-level aides who were always coming and going from the senior staff offices down the hall. The desk was built from oak planks that once belonged to the British frigate HMS Resolute, and it took up fully twenty-five percent of the Oval Office, beside the window. The leather swivel chair was also larger than life, designed not just for the President's comfort but his protection: the back was lined with four sheets of Kevlar, the bulletproof fabric that was designed to protect the Chief Executive from gunfire originating outside the picture window. It was designed to withstand a hit from a.348 Magnum, fired at pointblank range. The desk itself was free of clutter: there was a blotter, pen stand, photograph of the First Lady and their son, and the ivory-colored STU-3 telephone.

  Across from the desk were two thick-cushioned armchairs dating back to the administration of Woodrow Wilson. Hood was in one, and National Security chief Steve Burkow was in the other, away from his empire, the spacious National Security Council suite located on the other side of the lobby and accessible through double doors under a portico. The Op-Center Director had presented them both with copies of the Options Paper, which they read through quickly. Since Hood had told them about the surveillance breakdown at NRO and Op-Center, the President had been curt at best.

  "Is there anything you haven't put in here," Burkow asked, "anything off the books?"

  Hood hated questions like that. Of course there were. Clandestine operations were always going on. They went on long before Ollie North oversaw the arms-for-hostages deal, kept going on after his activities were exposed, and would continue going on in the future. The difference was, presidents no longer took credit, even in private, for covert operations that succeeded. And people like Hood were castigated, in public, if they failed.

  The effete Burkow just liked to hear it. He liked officials to admit that they were doing something illegal so he or the President could point out that they were on their own. It reminded them who was President and who was his cousin and most trusted adviser.

  "We've been flying one surveillance mission an hour to make up for the loss of satellite recon, and I sent a Striker team over minutes after the explosion. It's a twelve-hour flight, and I wanted them in place if they were needed."

  "In place," said Burkow. "Meaning—"

  "North Korea."

  "Unmarked?"

  "No uniforms, no identification of any kind on the weapons."

  Burkow looked at the President.

  "What's the mission profile?" the National Security head asked.

  "I've ordered the team to go in near the Diamond Mountain range and report back on the status of the Nodong missiles."

  "You sent all twelve men?"

  Hood nodded. He didn't bother to tell them that Mike Rodgers was one of them; Burkow would have a shit. If the team were captured, war-hero Rodgers was well known enough that he might be identified.

  "This conversation never took place," Lawrence said predictably, then closed the report. "So the Task Force recommends that we continue a slow, steady deployment until we've determined whether or not North Korea was responsible for the explosion. And even if the government or one of its representatives was responsible, that we exert diplomatic pressure only, though without standing down militarily. Assuming, of course, that there are no additional acts of terrorism."

  "That's it, sir. Yes."

  The President drummed the top of the report. "How long have we been piddling with the Palestinians about those Hezbollah terrorists who hit the Hollywood Bowl? Six months?"

  "Seven."

  "Seven months. Paul, we've been kicked in the ass way too often since I took office, and we keep turning the other cheek. It's got to stop here."

  "Ambassador Gap called earlier," said Burkow, "and offered the most obligatory of regrets. He said nothing to assure us that they weren't responsible."

  "Martha says that's the way they are," Hood said. "And while I don't disagree with the need to be decisive, we have to make sure we hit the right target. I repeat what's in the report: we see no unusual military activity in the North, no one has claimed responsibility for the explosion, and even if certain factions in North Korea were responsible, that doesn't implicate the government itself."

  "It doesn't let them off the hook, either," said the President. "If General Schneider started lobbing shells over the DMZ, you can bet Pyongyang wouldn't check with me to see if it's okay to start firing back. Paul, if you'll excuse me now, I've got to meet—"

  The STU-3 rang and the President picked it up. His face clouded over as he listened, saying nothing. After several seconds, he thanked the caller and said he'd get back to him. After hanging up, he rested his forehead in his steepled hands.

  "That was General MacLean at the Pentagon. We have had now, Paul, unusual military activity in the North. A DPRK MiG fired on one of your spy planes, killing the Recon Officer."

  Burkow swore.

  "Was it a warning shot that went bad?" Hood asked.

  The President glared at him. "Whose side are you on, for Christ's sake?"

  "Mr. President, we were over their airspace—"

  "And we will not apologize for that! I will instruct the Press Secretary to tell reporters that in light of what happened this afternoon, we had to step up security in the region. North Korea's overreaction simply confirms our concerns. I will further instruct General MacLean that as of ten A.M. this morning, all U.S. forces in the area are to go to Defcon 3. Put the screws to your friends in Seoul, Paul, and huddle with the DOD to get me a military update to this by noon. Fax it— you're too valuable to have running back and forth." He picked up the Options Paper and dropped it. "Steve, tell Greg I want the CIA out there turning over every rock until they find out who was responsible for the explosion. Not that it matters: whether or not the North was in it before, Paul, they're in it now— up to their necks!"

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Tuesday, 11:40 P.M., Seoul

  The hearse sped south toward the airstrip, traveling highways that were thick with military traffic heading north, away from Seoul.

  As he sat in the backseat of the Ambassador's Mercedes, following the hearse, Gregory Donald noticed the increased troop movements away from the city. In light of Bob Herbert's phone call, he could only imagine that things were heating up between the two governments. He wasn't surprised; this close to the DMZ, high alerts were as common in Seoul as pirated videotapes. Still, this level of activity was unusual. The numbers of soldiers being moved suggested that generals didn't want to have
too many people in one spot, lest the North attack with rockets.

  For the moment Donald felt detached from it all. He was trapped in a cocoon two car-lengths long and too few years wide, locked in with the reality that that was his wife in front of him and that he would never see her again. Not on this earth. The hearse was illuminated by the headlights of the Mercedes, and as he gazed at the black drapes drawn in the back he wondered if Soonji would have been pleased or bothered to be riding in a state vehicle in that car in particular. He remembered how Soonji had shut her eyes after he told her the story, as though that would somehow close out the truth- The black Cadillac was shared by the American, British, Canadian, and French embassies in Seoul, and was parked at the latter when not in use. Sharing official hearses was not uncommon, though there was almost an international incident in 1982, when both the British and French ambassadors unexpectedly lost relatives on the same afternoon and both requested the official hearse at the same time. Since the French kept it garaged, they felt they deserved first use; the British maintained that since the French Ambassador had lost a grandmother and the British Ambassador a father, the closer relation took priority. The French countered that, arguably, the Ambassador was closer to his grandmother than the British Ambassador was to his father. To defuse the conflict, both ambassadors hired outside funeral homes and the official hearse remained unused that day.

  Gregory Donald smiled as he remembered what Soonji said, with her eyes still tightly squeezed: "Only in the diplomatic corps could a war and a car reservation carry equal weight." And it was true. There was nothing too small, too personal, or too macabre to become an international issue. For that reason, he was touched— and felt Soonji would have been too— when British Ambassador Clayton phoned him at the embassy to offer his condolences and to tell him that the embassies would not use the hearse for their own victims of today's blast until after he was finished with it.