by Tom Clancy
Tea was placed in front of him, and a second cup was placed on the empty sofa on the other side of the table and left empty.
He sat nervously in the silence, concentrating with all his might on giving off an air of calm.
The man’s name was Hwang Min-ho; he was the new director of the Korea Natural Resources Trading Corporation, the nation’s state-owned mining concern. In his position for less than a week, he was here to meet Choi Ji-hoon; this would be his first face-to-face with the leader of his country, and the current occupant of the center of the personality cult to which Hwang had belonged every second of his life.
Both of Hwang’s parents had been on the personal staff of a colonel who served as a deputy of the Workers’ Party of Korea, his father a driver and his mother a nanny for the children, and they were both typically fervent believers of the propaganda upon which the entire society was based. Hwang was raised to revere not the party or the government but the leader of his nation, a benevolent god who created all and bestowed all his blessings upon his people. Choi Ji-hoon’s grandfather, then his father, and now Ji-hoon himself, they had all been the epicenter of Hwang’s universe.
Hwang never questioned the things he knew to be truth: His leader’s perfection and omniscience were established facts as sure as the rising and the setting of the sun. That said, Hwang was worried about his new promotion.
Hwang saw what happened to his boss. He’d done his difficult job to the absolute best of his ability; the Dae Wonsu had demanded the impossible, and when the impossible was not delivered, Hwang’s boss was taken from his home. The rumor at the state-run mining company was he’d been sent to Kyo-hwa-so No. 9, the notorious reeducation camp on the east coast of the country. The urbane sixty-year-old former director of mining was, if the rumors were true, now working on his hands and knees in a coal mine and subsisting on a cup of barley soup a day.
Hwang himself had been ordered to remove every single mention of the former director from Korea Natural Resources Trading Corporation literature. To erase the very existence of the man. He did as he was told unquestioningly, and he did not even doubt the Dae Wonsu’s decision internally (as a boy, his mother had told him the leader of the nation could read his mind so to always project love and gratitude in his thoughts), but Hwang, though brainwashed, still was a sentient being, so when he was ordered to fill the former director’s position, he could not help but recognize this great honor came with great danger.
Hwang thought of the danger now as he waited in the luxurious sitting room at Residence No. 55, especially when two armed men, both dressed in the olive-green uniforms of the Chosun Inmingun, the Korean People’s Army, stepped into the room. They were armed with AK-47 rifles that hung over their shoulders, and they took up positions near the doorway. Four more men entered and stood behind the sofa in front of him. Hwang knew these men were members of Section Five of the Party Central Committee Guidance Department, and they were the Dae Wonsu’s personal bodyguards. Still two more men, both wearing Mao suits, entered. These appeared to be personal secretaries of some form or another.
Soon Choi would enter, and Hwang knew the reason for the meeting. Choi would tell him his decision regarding foreign partnerships at the rare earth mineral mine at Chongju. Since the Chinese had been thrown off the project weeks before, there had been discussions to bring them back, if not as coequal partners in the project, at least as foreign contract employees. Hwang’s staff had sent over all the relevant facts and figures about what was required at Chongju, and the information obviated the fact that the mining operation did not have a chance for success without outside help. He fully expected the Supreme Leader to come to the same conclusion.
A female secretary in the uniform of a Chosun Inmingun major entered with a transcription machine. She set up her operation on the chair next to the sofa opposite Hwang. When her machine was ready she bowed to Hwang, and he bowed to her.
Everyone greeted one another as dongmu. Comrade.
Everyone stood or sat silently and waited like this for more than thirty minutes. Hwang was ready to wait even longer, but when a beautiful female attendant entered through a side door and poured steaming tea into the cup across from him, he knew the Dae Wonsu was on his way.
No one would dare serve the leader of the nation tea that had grown cold.
Seconds later Choi Ji-hoon entered through the massive double doors into the residence, flanked by four older men in military uniforms. Hwang had seen his nation’s leader numerous times before; as an elite of North Korea, Hwang often found himself at functions where the Supreme Leader appeared. As always, Hwang was taken by the man’s young face and the wide cut of his impeccable black Mao suit.
As Hwang leapt to his feet, his placid face morphed into one of unbridled joy. He bowed over and over as Choi approached, but he did not speak. This was the way to greet the Dae Wonsu, and Hwang was damn well not going to mess it up.
The military men took positions against the wall; in their hands were notebooks and pens, and they smiled at Hwang, who bowed in their direction. He was careful to form his bows to appear gracious and subservient, but not as deep as those reserved for the Dae Wonsu.
Choi smiled back and sat down across from Hwang. He reached forward and took his tea and sipped it silently for a moment. He looked around the room with bright but furtive eyes, as if making sure everyone in his entourage was in place. After a few moments he looked to Hwang.
“Dongmu Hwang, someone said your father drove for Colonel Ahn.”
Hwang’s heart leapt and his eyes fought back tears of joy. Both of his parents were still living, and he knew telling them the Dae Wonsu knew something of his father’s life would bring them outrageous happiness. He bowed from his chair and struggled to keep his tone measured. “Yes, Dae Wonsu, you are correct. You bring great honor to my family by speaking of him.”
But Choi had already moved on. “The Chinese will not be returning to Chongju. We will continue on without them.”
Hwang knew every relevant fact and figure on the subject. North Korea was abundant in many valuable natural resources, but due to acute shortages of electricity, it would be impossible to exploit the mine without help.
But if not the Chinese, then who?
Brazil had some joint mining ventures here in the North, but they didn’t have the rare earth experience China did. Hwang knew Chongju would never have been discovered without China, and the exploitation of the find wouldn’t happen in his lifetime without outside help.
Hwang did not say anything upon hearing his leader’s decision. Choi cocked his head, as if noticing the delay in the response. If he took it as any sign of disrespect, Hwang knew, he would be executed. Dissent was punishable by death, and dissent was highly subjective in the DPRK, to say the least.
“You disagree with my decision?” Choi asked.
Hwang recovered quickly. He bowed. “No, Dae Wonsu. Of course, I very much agree. I am only thinking of the difficulty with the mine at Chongju. We have been partnering with the Chinese at most all of our mineral extraction sites, but at Chongju we rely on them.”
“That reliance was a mistake by your predecessor. I told him it went against Juche. He has been punished for allowing China to outshine us technologically.” Juche was the North Korean philosophy of self-reliance. This and the worship of the Chois were the quasi-official religions in the nation.
Hwang said, “Yes. Yes, of course, I agree.”
“Good.”
“But . . .”
“But?”
“We can extract the ore. Obviously our nation has the best mining capability in the world.” Hwang wouldn’t have gotten anywhere in his career without calculated exaggeration, but this was an outright lie. “But the actual processing of the rare earth minerals has always been done in China.”
“What do you mean, ‘processing’?”
Hwang was confused b
y the question. It had all been in his report. He said, “The ore is mined at Chongju, then delivered by truck to China. The three minerals containing rare earths—bastnäsite, monazite, and xenotime—must be identified and put through a grinding process, and then different chemicals are applied to the powder so that the rare earth oxides will separate from the other minerals. This is a highly technical process that requires geologists, chemists, computers and computer experts, and others.”
Choi said nothing.
Hwang asked, “Will we continue to ship our ore north to have it purified?”
“Of course not. We will do all this here. Not only do we have the largest reserves of minerals on the planet, we have the best scientists and the best technology with which to exploit these minerals.”
Hwang forced himself to nod. Not only did it seem as if Choi was ordering Hwang to create an industry where none had existed before, but he was also demanding he adopt a process no one in North Korea had even seen firsthand.
Choi looked up at the military men around him. Hwang did not know why, but he did not like the silence. To break it he said, “We will develop the processing capability.” He added, “We will lead the world.”
Choi smiled now, and Hwang thought the meeting was about to end. Instead, Choi said, “Very well. I will give you my guidance to ensure everything goes smoothly. Now, you might wonder how long you have. This mine will generate great riches for our nation, and we need these riches to ensure our national security. Having said this, I do not want to rush things, because I know this will require some work on your part.” He looked up as if thinking, and said, “I demand you to begin profitable mining at Chongju within . . .”
It looked to Hwang as if he was going to pick a time frame out of the air, though he didn’t seem to be even remotely aware of the complexity of the endeavor, or even what rare earth mining and processing entailed. Hwang knew that other nations had taken decades to produce their rare earth mineral industries, but he doubted Choi would give him that long. He hoped to, at least, hear him say ten to fifteen years.
Instead, Choi said, “Within eighteen months.”
The bald man’s heart sank, but he managed to keep his visage the same other than a slight trembling of his lower lip. The task before him was impossible, but he knew there would be no discussion in the matter. The Dae Wonsu had spoken.
Hwang loved the Dae Wonsu. Both the state and his parents had successfully brainwashed him into doing so, and he did not question his devotion to Choi. But even so, he knew Choi’s words to be madness.
After only the slightest hesitation, Hwang Min-ho said, “Yes. As the new director of Korea Natural Resources Trading Corporation, I promise you we will meet with great success in the endeavor.” He added, “And we would be so honored for your continued advice.”
Choi nodded with a smile that made him look genuinely pleased with the talk, and then he stood.
Hwang stood quickly himself, and began a routine of beaming grins and bows, a show of utter subservience that was only enhanced by the fact he fully expected that the man in front of him would order him sent to a labor camp in exactly eighteen months.
9
Present day
Jack Ryan, Jr., awoke in the pitch dark, his eyes thick with sleep and his mind void of any clue of where the hell he was. He heard rain pounding on a window next to him, and he thought back, tried to remember the recent past.
This feels like jet lag. Where did you go this time, Jack?
It came to him slowly because he was so damn tired. Vietnam, Hazelton, the motorcycles, the plane ride home with the smell of death, halfway around the earth, the exhaustion after landing in Baltimore the previous evening.
Only then did it hit him. He realized where he was now.
He was home. His new place, a modern condominium overlooking the Potomac River in Old Town Alexandria, Virginia. He barely knew his own home, he’d been traveling so much, so it took him a while to get his bearings. Finally, he rolled out of bed and walked toward the kitchen, hoping he could remember the way in the dark.
Jack had bought this place on Oronoco Street six weeks earlier, but it still felt brand-new to him. He’d been undergoing a battery of advanced tradecraft and operations training that took him all over the world—until last week, that is, when he and most other members of his unit rushed off to Asia on special assignment. Ryan realized he’d spent only six or seven nights at his Alexandria address since moving in, so it came as no real surprise that he’d been disoriented rising early on the morning after an exhausting flight around the world.
To combat the cobwebs in his head now he threw a pod into his coffee machine, filled the reservoir with water, flipped the device on, and stuck a cup under the spout. As he stood there with his eyes closed, the machine began to spew the hot black liquid into the cup. Jack had become a bit of a coffee snob, and he knew “pod” coffee couldn’t compete with “real” coffee in a taste contest, but in a speed race the pod won by a wide margin.
He stood in his dark kitchen and drank his coffee black and molten. It burned the back of his throat, but he needed the jolt because he could tell his brain was still somewhere back in Asia and he had to go to work today.
Thunder boomed on the street outside, and Ryan headed back upstairs to get in the shower.
Ryan had lived in Columbia, Maryland, for several years, but he moved here for the simple reason that his place of business had moved here. For years the offices of Hendley Associates had been north of D.C., in West Odenton, Maryland, but that building had been shuttered months back, after Chinese operatives learned of the existence of The Campus. A unit of Chinese Special Forces raided the property, killing several employees, and even though the threat had been repelled, both the “white side” Hendley Associates and the “dark side” Campus had closed up shop to prevent any further compromise.
Gerry Hendley had spent most of the intervening months looking for a new space, until finally deciding on a building here in Old Town Alexandria. The new Hendley Associates property was on North Fairfax Street, in a four-story brick Federalist office building with views of the Potomac River and the distant D.C. skyline. The building turned out to be perfect for Hendley’s needs. It had been built as the home of a government intelligence contractor run by a former U.S. Army general, before he’d left it behind to move his offices to an address inside the District.
Ryan dressed for work in a charcoal-gray pin-striped suit and a red silk tie. His formal attire contrasted a little with his thick, dark beard and his slightly longer than collar-length brown hair, but the beard and the hair were more important to him now than the suit. His father was President of the United States, so Jack had made it a focus of his attention to do whatever he could to avoid notice and attention. And in this task he had enjoyed near mission success; in the past few months only two or three times had anyone stepped up to him to inform him of the fact he was Jack Ryan, Jr., son of the President.
After he checked his suit in the mirror for lint, he stepped over to his nightstand and hefted a black pistol in a black leather holster from its nightly resting place by his clock. He slipped it into the waistband of his pants on his right side, then slid a small leather pouch containing an extra magazine for the weapon on his left side.
The operators of The Campus appreciated the relocation to Virginia for a few reasons, but one of the main perks was that they could easily and legally carry firearms here, unlike in nearby D.C. and in Maryland, which were both much more restrictive. Jack’s main carry weapon was the Austrian Glock 19, a squat, black, nearly featureless automatic pistol that carried sixteen rounds of nine-millimeter hollow-point ammunition. It was a simple and effective weapon, without a lot of bells and whistles such as a manual external safety. If one kept the gun loaded—which one should if one carried it for defensive purposes—anytime the trigger was pulled, a round would fire. There were no extra levers, switc
hes, or buttons to slow down the process.
Ryan considered himself much more of an intelligence analyst than a gunfighter, but he had entered into gun battles multiple times in his years with The Campus. It went with the job, so Ryan went armed as often as he could possibly get away with it.
Jack Junior popped open his umbrella on his covered back deck and he locked his back door, then he shouldered his backpack and exited his property through his rear garden gate. He walked past his black Mercedes E-Class in the driveway and continued down the street.
Ryan enjoyed walking to work; inside the Beltway it was the closest thing to paradise anyone had managed to find, and even in the rain it beat getting stuck in morning traffic.
—
Ten minutes later he shook out his umbrella at the entrance to Hendley Associates and stood in front of a bulletproof glass door until he was buzzed into the lobby by one of four guards inside.
A dozen armed men were employed as the security force of Hendley Associates. They were all ex-CIA paramilitary operations officers with top-secret security clearances who’d taken contracts as static security in the private sector. They knew the organization they protected was a sub rosa intelligence outfit, and they knew they weren’t supposed to know more than that, save for one extra item of interest that was quite relevant to their positions. The son of the President of the United States was an analyst for the company. Jack Junior arrived each morning at eight a.m., unless of course he was out of town. No one could imagine he had any operational capacity for the company, but then again, none of the static security was aware of the true scope of the work done by the men on the top floor. The security force here just assumed that on occasion POTUS’s kid had to go into the field to conduct some sort of financial analytics task for Gerry Hendley.
