Op-Center o-1

by Tom Clancy

  Schneider was neither surprised nor worried by the buildup, though he wished that General Sam would allow his troops to do likewise. But Sam wouldn't act without an okay from Seoul, and Seoul wouldn't authorize it until President Lawrence had upgraded the situation to Defcon 2 and conferred with President Ohn Mong-Joon. Donald knew that the former wouldn't happen without another incident like the Mirage, and that the two men would avoid talking, officially, until they and their advisers had already decided what needed to be done. That way, they could reach a quick consensus and show the world that they were of one decisive mind.

  Meanwhile, Donald sat and waited to see whether the North would accept his invitation and if they did, whether Schneider would see that as the act of a coward or a Deliverer.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Wednesday, 1:20 A.M., Yanguu Village

  The cottage was made of stone, with a thatched roof and small wooden deck in the front. The door was held in place by a hook latch, no lock, and there were two windows with four-pane glass on either side. The structure seemed relatively new, neither the thatching nor stone looking like they'd been exposed to more than two rainy winters.

  Cho looked back at Hwan, who nodded. The driver cut the lights, took a flashlight from the glove compartment, and stepped into what was once more a light drizzle. When he opened Kim's door, Hwan got out.

  "I promise not to run," Kim said to Hwan with a hint of indignation. "There's nowhere to run to."

  "But people run there all the time, Ms. Chong. Besides, it's policy. I've already bent the rules by taking you here without handcuffs."

  She slid out, Cho standing close beside her. "I deserve the rebuke, Mr. Hwan, and I'm sorry." With that, she started ahead and was quickly swallowed by the dark, Cho snatching the keys from the ignition and hurrying after her with the light, Hwan coming close behind.

  Kim lifted the latch and entered. She pulled a long wooden match from a glass bowl on a table beside the door, and lit several glass-domed candles scattered around the single room. While she wasn't looking, Hwan motioned for Cho to go outside and keep watch. He departed silently.

  As an orange glow filled the small room, Hwan saw the piano, a twin bed neatly made, a small round table with one chair, and a desk covered with framed photographs. He followed her with his eyes as she moved about the room— gracefully, seemingly at peace with what the day had dealt her. He wondered if it was because her heart was never truly in the work, or because she had a pragmatic, Confucian nature.

  Or if she was setting him up for the biggest fall of his life.

  He walked closer. There were no pictures of Kim, but he wasn't surprised. If she'd ever had to flee unexpectedly, Pyongyang wouldn't want photographs of a spy lying around where the KCIA could find them. He picked up one of the photographs.

  "Your brother and mother?"

  Kim nodded.

  "Very handsome. And that's your home?"

  "It was."

  He put the picture down. "What about this cottage. Was it built for you?"

  "Please, Mr. Hwan— no more questions."

  Now it was Hwan who felt rebuked. "Excuse me?"

  "We have an agreement a truce."

  Hwan walked over. "Ms. Chong, there's no such deal. Perhaps you misunderstand our relationship."

  "There's no misunderstanding. I'm your prisoner. But I will not betray my country by cooperating with the KCIA, and I resent your trying to charm your way into my confidence with questions about my home and family. I fear I may have already compromised myself by bringing you here."

  Hwan felt stung. Not because he'd asked and been refused: it was his job to try to learn whether this cottage was built by locals or by infiltrators of whom the KCIA might not be aware, and it was her job to prevent him from finding out. That was the game. What made him angry was that she was dead right. Kim Chong might not be a spy at heart, but she was a patriot. He wouldn't make the mistake of underestimating her again.

  As Hwan stood directly behind her, Kim sat on the green-velvet bench in front of the upright and played several treble measures of a jazzy piece Hwan did not recognize. When she was finished, she lifted the lid and reached inside with both hands. He watched her closely; if she noticed, she made no sign. With both hands, she carefully unscrewed the wingnut on a metal brace, swung it back, and lifted a small radio from the compartment. On the opposite side was a bracket with what appeared to be an explosive device wired to the lid.

  Hwan recognized the radio as a state-of-the-art Israeli-made Kol 38. The KCIA was negotiating to buy them as well; with them, the user could reach distances of over 750 miles without using a satellite. One part was for listening, another for receiving, which made it possible for agents in the field to "conference call" with headquarters. The unit ran on lightweight cadmium batteries, which made it ideal for remote locations like this. Even the U.S. models weren't as reliable.

  She went to the window, opened it, and set the radio on the sill. Before switching it on, she casually rested her hand on the LED readout on top so Hwan couldn't see the frequency to which it was set.

  "If you say anything, it will be picked up. They must not know I've been compromised."

  Hwan nodded.

  Kim pushed a button and a red light came on beside the condenser microphone built into the top of the unit.

  "Seoul Oh-Miyo to home, Seoul Oh-Miyo to home, over."

  An operatic code name, Hwan thought. It was somehow appropriate to the Wagnerian events that swirled around them.

  After a moment a voice came in so rich and clear that Hwan was startled.

  "Home to Seoul Oh-Miyo. Ready. Over."

  "Home, need to know if army boots, explosives, and other items have been stolen. KCIA found evidence of same at Palace today. Over."

  "How recent was theft? Over."

  Kim looked at Hwan. He flashed ten fingers and mouthed month.

  "Ten months," she said. "Over."

  "Will call with any information. Over and out."

  Kim punched off the switch.

  Hwan wanted to ask her if these things were computerized in the North as they were in the South. Instead, he asked, "How long might this take?"

  "An hour possibly longer."

  He held his watch near a candle, then looked out at Cho's dark figure standing beside the car. "We'll take the radio and go back."

  She didn't move. "I can't do that."

  "You don't have a choice, Ms. Chong." He came closer. "I've tried to show you courtesy—"

  "We both gain—"

  "No! That keeps us from becoming animals. But I must stay on top of the investigation, and I can't do that from here. I promise that no one will look at your radio display. Will you give me what I need?"

  Kim hesitated, then put the radio under her arm and shut the window. "All right. To keep from becoming animals."

  They went outside. The flashlight snapped on to light the way, and the dark figure beside the car opened the door so that Kim could enter.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Wednesday, 11:30 A.M., Op-Center

  The faces of Ernesto Colon and Bugs Benet could not have been more unalike. Floating in a red border on Hood's computer monitor, the face of the sixty-three-year-old Defense Secretary was drawn, the deepset eyes ringed with shadows. The head of a major defense contractor who had served as Undersecretary of the Navy, he was Dorian Gray's portrait, reflecting every decision he'd had to make during two years in this office— the few that had gone well along with the many that had gone poorly.

  Bugs was forty-four, with a round, angelic face and bright eyes that showed none of the pressure of managing Hood's schedule and document processing. He had been the executive assistant to the Republican Governor of California when the Democratic Hood was Mayor, and they had gotten along extremely well— "conspiratorially" was the word the Governor had used more than once.

  Hood had always found it strange how the pressures of sitting down and making a decision took a greater toll than run
ning around and carrying them out. The conscience was a killer taskmaster.

  Yet Hood had a deep respect for Bugs, who not only managed to deal with his boss's brooding but with the moods and demands of men like Colon— and Bob Herbert, who ran a close second to Lowell Coffey as a voice of caution at Op-Center. The difference was that Coffey feared lawsuits and censure, while Herbert had seen only too well the results of failing to consider every possibility.

  Benet and Herbert mostly listened as Hood and Colon reviewed simulation papers on the computer and formulated the military options they would recommend to the President. Though the timing and particulars of execution would be left to the Joint Chiefs of Staff in consultation with their field commanders, the men felt that the naval and Marine forces already en route from the Indian Ocean should be supplemented by three battleships and two aircraft carriers from the Pacific fleet, as well as calling up reserves and redeploying fifty thousand troops drawn from Saudi Arabia, Germany, and the U.S. They also would call for the immediate airlifting of a half-dozen Patriot missile systems to South Korea. Although the Patriots had underperformed dramatically in the Persian Gulf War, they made good TV news visuals when they worked, and keeping the public's blood flowing red, white, and blue would be vital. Less visibly, tactical nuclear missiles were to be shifted by air from Hawaii to South Korea. DPRK might not be a nuclear power yet, but that wouldn't stop them from purchasing a bomb from any number of countries.

  The men also calculated anticipated casualties of a "short war" of two or three weeks before a U.N. mandated armistice, and a "long war" of six months or more. With nonnuclear strikes, U.S. losses were expected to be at least four hundred dead and three thousand wounded in a short war, at least ten times that in a long war.

  During this discussion, Bugs remained silent and Herbert made only three suggestions. The first was that until more was known about the terrorists, only a minimum number of troops should be diverted from the Middle East. He felt there might still be the possibility that this was a plot to involve the U.S. in a fake front so a real war could be started somewhere else. The second was that until the satellites were back on-line, he be given time to analyze whatever up-to-the-minute intelligence they and CIA Director Kidd were able to collect before committing troops. And the third was that no force be sent into the field without beefed-up antiterrorist personnel. All three recommendations were put into the military options paper. Hood knew that Herbert could be crusty, but he'd hired him for his knowledge, not his charm.

  While Bugs was putting the rough-draft document on the screen for the men to review, Herbert's chair phone beeped. Paul glanced over as Bob hit the speaker button.

  "What have you got, Rachel?"

  "We've heard from our operative at the military communications station in Pyongyang. He says that it's been difficult for him to get to us because the authorities there seem to be just as surprised by today's events as we were."

  "That doesn't mean their hands are clean."

  "No. But he does say that they just received a message from an operative in Seoul. She was requesting information about the possible theft of military boots and explosives from any base in the North."

  "A North Korean agent was asking."

  "Yes."

  "The agent must have learned about the KCIA's suspicions. Inform Director Yung-Hoon there appears to be a leak in the pipeline. Did we pick up the transmission anywhere else?"

  "No. I checked with Private Koh at the communications center at the DMZ. The message didn't come through a satellite uplink."

  "Thanks, Rachel. Send the text of the transmission to Bugs." After hanging up, he looked at Hood who nodded. "DPRK is checking into the possible theft from one of their depots of the materials used in the bombing. Looks like we all may have been had, Chief, by someone who wants us at war."

  Hood looked from Herbert to the monitor as the President's words returned to haunt him: Whether or not the North was in it before, Paul, they're in it now— up to their necks.

  As the breakdowns of troop deployments were merged from the War Games file into the military options paper, Colon used his code to sign off on his section of the document. When he'd switched off, Hood said, "Bugs, I want that transmission placed up front, and I'd like you to add the notation I'm going to type in. Ask Ann Farris to get on, would you?"

  Hood thought for a moment. He didn't have Ann's gift for conciseness, but he wanted a cautionary note to be somewhere in the permanent crisis Task Force file. He made a window that she would be able to read on her monitor, and began pecking at the keyboard.

  Herbert rolled to his side and read over Hood's shoulder.

  "Mr. President: I share your outrage at the attack on our jet and the loss of an officer. However, I urge restraint from a position of strength. We stand to lose much and gain little fighting a foe who may not be our enemy."

  "Good for you, chief," Herbert said. "You may not be speaking for the Task Force, but you speak for me."

  "And me," Ann said. "I couldn't have said it better."

  Hood saved the addendum and brought Ann's face on the screen. She was so good at selling ideas to reporters over the phone, he couldn't tell what she was really thinking unless he saw her face.

  She was thinking exactly what she'd said. In the six months he'd known her, that was the first time she hadn't noodled with something he'd written.

  Herbert left the office, Ann returned to her conference with the White House Press Secretary, and Hood finished reviewing the options update before telling Bugs to fax it over the secure line. Alone and surprisingly relaxed for the first time that day, he rang the hospital where the news was not what he'd expected to hear.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Wednesday, 1:45 A.M., the DMZ

  The soldiers in the radio center were joking with Private Koh when the message came from the headquarters of General Hong-koo, Commander of the Forces of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea. They were immediately alert, no longer teasing Koh about brown-nosing by taking a second shift; they replayed the coordinates recorded by their directional antennae to ascertain that the message had, in fact, come from just over the DMZ. That done, they checked their computer directory to confirm that the caller was, in fact, his adjutant Kim Hoh. The computer searched its files and, within seconds, had completed a voiceprint identification. Finally, less than thirty seconds after the signal had been received, they radioed back an acknowledgment and started the two-cassette recorder to tape the message and a copy. One man notified General Schneider that a communications from the North was being received. The private was told to bring it to him the instant it was complete.

  Koh seemed the most intent of the five men, listening as the message came through:

  "To former Ambassador Gregory Donald at Base Charlie. General Hong-koo, Commander of the Forces of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea at Base One, DMZ, returns greetings and accepts your invitation to a meeting in the neutral zone at 0800 hours."

  While one of the men radioed that the message had been received, another ran a copy of the tape and a cassette player to General Schneider's quarters.

  Koh said to the remaining two men that he was feeling a bit tired and was going to have some coffee and a smoke. Outside, he walked into the shadows of a nearby truck and undid his shirt. There was an M2 cellular phone strapped to his upper arm: undoing the buckle, he pulled up the antenna and punched in Lee's number.

  * * *

  "There better be a very short and enlightening explanation for this," Schneider said as Gregory entered, "because sleepy-eyed firing squads make me nervous."

  The General was dressed in pajamas and a robe and was holding the cassette recorder and headset in his right hand.

  Donald's heart quickened. He wasn't worried about General Schneider, but about the North Korean response.

  He took the recorder, placed one side of the headset to his ear, and listened to the message. When it was finished, he said, "The explanation is that I as
ked for the meeting and I got one."

  "So you really did this dumb-ass thing— illegally, from the radio center for which I am responsible."

  "Yes. I'm hoping we can all be reasonable and avert a war."

  "We? Gregory, I'm not going to sit across a table from Hong-koo. You may think you scored some kind of coup by getting him to a meeting, but he's going to use you. Why do you think he's waiting a couple of hours? So they can plan the whole thing out. You'll be photographed trying to make nice, and the President will look like he's talking out of both sides of his mouth—"

  "Doesn't he?"

  "Not on this. Colon's office says he's been a tiger from the get-go, as well he should be. The bastards blew up downtown Seoul, killed your own wife, Gregory—"

  "We don't know that," he said through his teeth.

  "Well, we do know that they shot up one of our planes, Greg! We've got a body bag as proof!"

  "They overreacted, which is precisely what we shouldn't do—"

  "Defcon 3 isn't an overreaction. It's good soldiering, and the President was going to stop there, make 'em sweat." Schneider rose and jammed his big hands into his pocket. "Hell, who knows what he's going to do after your little love letter."

  "You're blowing it out of proportion."

  "No I'm not. You really don't see it, do you? You might very well put the President in a no-win situation."

  "How?"

  "What happens if you hold out the olive branch and North Korea accepts in principle but doesn't withdraw any troops until the President does? If he refuses, it'll look like he squandered a chance for peace. And if he does back down, it'll look like he blinked."

  "Horse shit—"

  "Gregory, think about it! And what kind of credibility does he have if it looks like you're running his foreign policy? What do we do the next time a Saddam Hussein or Raoul Cedras makes a power grab, or some nutcase sends missiles to Cuba. Do we send for Gregory Donald?"