False Flag

by Jack Slater

  Lam’s eyes narrowed sharply. “What is this—another threat?”

  Mitchell shook his head and looked to the President for a lead. Nash motioned for him to continue. The deputy director grimaced. The President knew the stakes as well as anyone, and had apparently given Mitchell his full confidence. Mike only wished he felt the same way.

  “No sir,” he continued, fishing his agency-issued cell phone from his pocket, and bringing up an image. “A warning. We have reason to believe that the events of the last few days were orchestrated by this man—a North Korean colonel now running a group known as Unit 61.”

  Mitchell studied Kim’s reaction closely. For years, in the field, that skill had saved his life on more occasions than he could count. Now, though, hundreds of millions of lives hung in the balance. He watched as Lam’s pupils flared, as a muscle on his left temple twitched. Was it a tell—a sign of recognition?

  Or, with so much on the line, was he describing meaning to something that deserved none? It was impossible to say.

  “Do you recognize him, Mr. Ambassador?”

  Lam did not immediately reply. When he did, his tone was guarded. “I’ve heard of the unit, but not the man.”

  “We think his goal is to engineer a conflict between our two countries.”

  Lam frowned. “For what purpose?”

  Mitchell grimaced. “That, unfortunately, I cannot answer. It is no secret that tensions in our relationship with the DPRK are running high. But why they would involve you in the matter, we do not know.”

  Again, Lam held his response, as though buying himself thinking time. Mitchell knew better than to cut in. He had showed his cards. Now it was time for the ambassador to do the same.

  Or not.

  “North Korea is not my brief, you understand,” Lam began. “But I read the diplomatic cables. I like to stay abreast of what is happening so close to home.”

  Mitchell glanced at Nash, then nodded, not wanting to interrupt. The President was clearly nervous, his expression strained, yet he did the same.

  “Over the past eighteen months, we have seen signs of a struggle for power within the regime. Executions of high-ranking officials. Troop movements. Increased security at the Chairman’s residences. And whilst it is by no means certain, I have seen certain evidence that this Unit 61 is behind these moves against Chairman Song.”

  “So you believe us?” Nash interjected.

  The Chinese ambassador smoothed his suit jacket formally, and directed his attention at the president. “President Nash. Charles. We have known each other for a long time, as you say. But you will understand that I cannot present these accusations to the Politburo without proof. It would do more harm than good.”

  Mitchell bit the inside of his lip. He wished he could consult with the President about what he was thinking of doing, but knew the situation was too delicate. He knew that for the Chinese leadership, losing face was akin to announcing one’s weakness. And announcing weakness—especially in the face of the Americans—was impossible.

  “Ambassador Lam,” he said. “We know what happened in Xichang.”

  Nash shot his subordinate a furious look, but Mitchell barreled on regardless. “We know that China had nothing to do with taking down our satellites. We also know that you lost control of a weapon codenamed Project Songbird. Mr. Ambassador, you need to come clean. China needs to come clean, and we’re running out of time. If you do not, then our two countries will end up at war, and millions of deaths will rest on your conscience —”

  “Michael,” Nash growled. “Enough!”

  Mitchell’s mouth opened and closed several times silently, like a captive fish, before he clamped his jaw shut.

  “Ambassador Lam,” the President muttered, his cheeks crimson with embarrassment. “I apologize.”

  The Chinese ambassador did not respond, his head bowed, lost in thought. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “I will see what I can do. But I make no promises. I will need evidence to present to my superiors. And a show of good faith.”

  “We’ll get it to you,” Nash said, relief washing over his face, chased closely by tendrils of hope. “Whatever you need.”

  Mitchell gambled again, his quick mind as always half a dozen moves ahead of everyone else. He figured that he was happy for Nash to fire him, if it meant preventing a world war. “Mr. Ambassador. If you can, close the border with North Korea. We are working on tracing the delivery mechanism, but I don’t know if we’ll get there in time.”

  Lam dipped his head. “I will do what I can.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, where a gaggle of Chinese diplomats and security personnel had gathered, milling anxiously near the transport planes, whose engines had begun to whine ominously. “But for now, my orders are clear. I must return to Beijing.”

  Nash cut in. “I understand. Do what you can, Ambassador.”

  “I will.”

  Nash and Mitchell watched in silence, flanked by the president’s Secret Service guards, as the Chinese finished loading up the two Y-20 transport aircraft. It wasn’t long before the high-pitched whine of the idling jet engines turned into a roar, and the two planes, ushered through Dulles’ ordinary traffic, leapt into the sky.

  As the two aircraft disappeared into the steel sky, Nash finally spoke—without turning to face his counterpart. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Mike.”

  Mitchell winced. The President’s tone wasn’t accusatory, but neutral—and yet he knew he had overstepped his bounds. His job was to advise, not to direct America’s foreign policy. And yet he had seen no other choice.

  “Yes sir,” he muttered. “Me too.”

  Nash turned to leave, signaling his detail, who closed in around him. He looked exhausted, shoulders slumped, the weight of the world pressing them down.

  “Mr. President —” Mitchell ventured. “There’s one last thing.”

  “There always is,” Nash sighed.

  Figuring that was about as good as an opportunity as he was going to get, Mitchell continued, after glancing at his wristwatch. “We are about to hit Unit 61’s camp. Any moment now. But our boys are going to be mightily outnumbered, and I’ve got an operative down there who’s been through hell—and more to the point, exposed to this virus. I want to buy them time.”

  Nash’s reply was succinct. “How?”

  “Air support.”

  The President’s eyebrow kinked. “Deputy Director Mitchell—are you asking me to authorize the invasion of North Korea?”

  49

  Jason Trapp turned back to the Russian scientist, Boris Savrasov. In truth, he was fuming—both at what the Russian had told him and the evidence he had seen in front of his own eyes. The sight of Eliza Ikeda, behind glass, imprisoned with the dead and dying.

  “I have some friends on their way, Boris,” he growled. “So the decisions you make in the next few seconds will guide how they are disposed to treat you. Do you understand?”

  Savrasov nodded slavishly, his eyes wide with fear and red with tears.

  “Good,” Trapp grunted. “Because the alternative is me putting two pieces of lead in the back of your skull.”

  “I will help you,” Savrasov whined. “I promise. I didn’t know what they were going to make me do. I —”

  “I don’t care,” Trapp replied, a mocking smirk on his face. “You sold your country out, Boris. But worse, you sold out your fellow man. You knew exactly what this virus could be used for. You just didn’t care.”

  Savrasov’s head slumped against his chest. He knew better than to argue with Trapp’s righteous fury.

  “The cameras. Are they monitored?” Trapp said. “The ones in the laboratory ward.”

  “In the control room? Only by my assistants. The colonel detailed one of his men to stand watch, but he left earlier this evening and no one replaced him.”

  “Good. Then Boris, I have a task for you.”

  “What?”

  Trapp tapped the North Korean Type 58 rifle by his
side meaningfully. “I need you to take this to a friend.”

  Jason wished that he could do more for Ikeda at that moment, as he passed the supply closet in which he had stashed the two captured soldiers and exited the warehouse. He was torn. A large part of him wanted to turn back, to stay by her side until help arrived.

  But he knew that he could not.

  And moreover, he knew that a woman like Eliza Ikeda would not want him to babysit her like a helpless damsel in distress. She was a tough cookie, there was no doubt about that. And once Boris smuggled in the assault rifle, she would be well-equipped to resist any attempt to surprise her—at least until help arrived.

  Right now, though, Trapp thought as he crossed the empty, dark courtyard between the warehouse and the administrative buildings, there was another task that deserved his attention. He had a rough approximation of the location of the satellite killer’s control unit, and before he left the man, he’d grilled the Russian scientist for every piece of information he could remember about the North Korean base.

  It wasn’t a lot. Savrasov had been confined to the laboratory facility for most of his stay. But what little he knew, he told Trapp.

  And so Jason Trapp strode through the darkness with fire in his blood. The signal emitted by the control unit lined up with Colonel Kim’s headquarters building. The CIA operative suspected that a man with the delusions of grandeur that the North Korean displayed would want to keep the device by him at all times.

  The unit itself, according to Lockheed scientists quizzed back at Langley, was probably only the size of a small suitcase. It would have its own power supply, encrypted communications link, and worst of all, a dead man’s switch. If it was destroyed while the weapons it had deployed were active, then the munitions in the sky would attempt to re-establish communication three times.

  Upon failing the third interrogation, they would detonate.

  Taking every last one of America’s eyes in the skies with them.

  Trapp knew that this was an outcome that simply could not be allowed to occur. And since preventing it most likely meant coming into contact with the man behind imprisoning and torturing Eliza Ikeda, it was a task he was more than happy to carry out. He grinned as he pictured beating the man into a bloody pulp with nothing more than his fists.

  Merry Christmas, jackass.

  The colonel’s office building was a squat concrete block, distinguished only from a dozen identical units by a number stenciled on its side. Trapp mentally cross-checked the identification with the directions Savrasov had provided him with.

  Jackpot.

  Trapp quickly cased the building. It consisted of only two stories, and all of the windows on the first floor were shuttered. There was another exit at the rear. He grimaced. The tactical layout was far from ideal. He had no idea how many enemies might be inside, how they were armed, or where they might be situated.

  He contemplated waiting until the cavalry arrived, but quickly discounted the option. With luck, the North Koreans would assume that the helicopters belonged to them, at least for a few critical seconds as the SEALs descended, rifle barrels spitting fire.

  But he quickly decided that it was a risk he could not take. It would be the work of seconds to trigger the munitions that were attached to America’s satellites, rendering her immediately blind, deaf and dumb, and potentially triggering the outbreak of a third world war.

  Not an option.

  That only left one move: to go in fast, hard, and quiet—and to take no prisoners. In truth, that was the way Jason Trapp liked it best. He devised a simple plan: enter the building, neutralize any enemy combatants inside, and protect the control unit from all assailants until backup arrived.

  It wasn’t exactly a strategic masterpiece. Especially since the second he fired his pistol, the locals would wake up, and boy would they be pissed.

  Trapp crouched in front of the main entrance, pistol drawn, and his knife clenched in his left hand. In the darkness, he hoped, the outline of his helmet, combined with the cut of his uniform, would make him indistinguishable from the locals.

  It might buy him the precious seconds he needed.

  Trapp tested the door knob. It turned, creakily protesting its lack of maintenance. He sent up a prayer, not to protect his life, but to the god of getting the job done.

  And then he surged through the door.

  50

  Colonel Kim slept with a woman in his bed and a gun by his head.

  He didn’t screw the girl, he was not that crude. She was there for the same reason as the weapon. To calm his fevered dreams. They were always the same. Full of death and pain and violence. Memories of his own childhood, and dreams of those he had stolen.

  The room was dark but his sleep was light. The second he heard the squeal of the door, he shot upright, knocking the girl who slumbered anxiously on his chest aside. In an instant, the pistol was in his hand, and he was crouching by the side of his bed, tasting the air for danger.

  The girl moaned, and his hand shot out, covering her mouth. He could barely see her in the darkness, but he radiated a threat by sheer force of will. Before long, he withdrew his covering palm, but the bitch remained silent, as he knew she would. Everyone on this base knew the consequences of disobeying their commander.

  Inside that fence, his word was law. He was their god, for it was he who gave the gift of life and death.

  Kim’s head was still foggy with sleep. But the surge of adrenaline now running through his veins instantly cleared his mind.

  Someone had entered his sanctum. That much was immediately clear. There were only two culprits, and he quickly discounted the first, for none of his underlings would dare wake him unless the fires of a revived Mount Paektu were at that very moment swallowing the base whole.

  Since Kim could not hear the groan of the earth cracking open, nor the spitting of lava, he knew that, somehow, an intruder had dared to test him.

  An invader.

  Kim crept naked and barefoot through the darkness. He analyzed his tactical position. There was only one explanation for the presence of a trespasser in this building. Someone, either the Chinese or the Americans, had discovered the location of the control unit and had sent an operative to secure it. He dismissed a third option instantly—that Chairman Song, the weak, fat Supreme Leader of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, had discovered his plan and had sent a loyalist to eliminate him.

  There were no loyalists. Not in North Korea. Not anymore. One by one, Kim had rolled them up. Offered them the carrot, and shown them the stick.

  Kim grinned, his yellowed teeth flashing in the darkness, more resembling a snarl than a smile. He knew what the man on the other side of that door did not—could not—know. A Korean might have learned that the colonel slept where he worked.

  But not the Chinese. And certainly not the hated Americans. They had no sources beyond the demilitarized zone. And with their satellites destroyed, they were blind.

  Which meant that he had the advantage. His opponent could not possibly know he was there. The door that led to Kim’s sleeping quarters was nondescript, resembling the entrance to a supply closet more than a bedroom, nothing that would raise the slightest suspicion.

  And Kim had one last card up his sleeve: a trap door, specially built, that led to a tunnel whose exit lay beyond the camp’s outer fence. He’d constructed it in secret, and had every prisoner who worked on it isolated during construction, and executed immediately after completion.

  But the colonel left that option in reserve. He had the upper hand—and, more importantly, the control unit lay in the office, not his sleeping quarters. Besides, a vicious rage was burning inside him now. Someone had dared to test his power. Someone had dared think him weak.

  Someone had dared to disrupt plans that were years in the making.

  And now that someone would pay.

  Kim crept forward at an angle, pistol leveled at the door, but his body shielded from any projectiles that might be fire
d through its frame. He froze, listening for every hint of movement, picturing the office that lay on the other side of the door, and attempting to locate his opponent within its layout.

  A tiny scrape sealed the man’s fate. An adversary less practiced in the dark arts of death than Kim would not have heard it, let alone instantly formed a targeting solution in his mind. The colonel stopped dead, and for a second time a snarl stretched across his scarred face.

  The intruder was on the other side of the door.

  Kim leveled his pistol and fired three times. The shots ripped through the door. As the echoing roar of the weapon died away, he heard a grunt, then a thud. A vicious wave of satisfaction flared in his mind, almost orgasmic in its intensity.

  The intruder was a dead man.

  51

  Trapp threw himself backward, acting on pure instinct. His conscious brain never processed the input that saved his life: the whisper of sound as the North Korean threw back his bed covers, the racking of the pistol’s slide.

  But his subconscious did.

  The experienced CIA operative knew better than to doubt his instincts. He did not this time, as chunks of wood blew free from the door, missing his torso by mere inches.

  Trapp’s life did not flash before his eyes. He did not vomit from fear, or freeze in the face of onrushing danger. But as he pressed his back against the wall, forcing his chest to stop heaving, and regaining mastery over the adrenaline-induced tremors in his fingers, he knew instantly that he was in for a fight.

  Worse still, the pistol’s report had put paid to any notion that he could carry out this operation with stealth on his side. If the North Koreans had assigned even a halfway competent watch, then it wouldn’t be long before the camp was swarming with pissed-off soldiers.

  He was in for a whole world of hell. His only option was to hold them off for long enough for Lieutenant Quinn to rain down fire on his assailants. It would be like the Alamo, except with only one of him, and the bad guys equipped with automatic weapons.