“We’re standing by, ready to strike, sir,” General Miller said.
“I appreciate your enthusiasm,” Norris said. “But I need to address how we’re going to proceed. After the opportunity to review both a plan considering military action as well as one utilizing diplomacy authored by the State Department, I’ve decided that we should take a less confrontational route.”
Miller raised his hand but didn’t wait to be acknowledged. “But, sir, if I may—”
“No, you may not,” Norris said. “I didn’t bring you here to debate the merits of my decision, simply to inform you about why I’m doing what I’m doing. Now, Kim Yong-ju started out his tenure as North Korea’s leader by rattling a lot of cages. But for the past five years, he’s been relatively quiet. So it led me to question why he changed his tactic all of a sudden. If he was a democratically-elected official, I would assume that he realized what he was doing wasn’t working and decided to take a different approach. After all, that’s what I would do, especially if I felt like my plan wasn’t working. I’d be more concerned about accomplishing what I felt was best for the people than I would about my pride.”
Norris paused to take a sip of water.
“But as Secretary Wheeler pointed out in her report, North Korea is crumbling beneath the weight of our sanctions. If we can get Kim Yong-ju to the negotiating table, I think we can create a win-win situation for us all. We will lift some of the sanctions in exchange for tamping down all the saber rattling in the Pacific Ocean. He’s got to realize that if he pushes us, we can obliterate the country. Mind you, that’s not what I want to do, but it is an option if he wants to engage us in a conflict.”
Norris saw General Miller crack a smile.
Norris continued. “So, while we need to be prepared for the possibility that he might get his hands on some nuclear warheads someday, that day isn’t today. We should resist entering into a military conflict with North Korea and see what kind of results some targeted diplomacy will yield.”
“Sir, with all due respect, Kim Yong-ju doesn’t understand diplomacy,” Miller said. “Like most terrorists, what he understands is force and might. If we demonstrate to him that we aren’t going to tolerate his tantrums, he’ll stop.”
Wheeler shook her head and sighed. “Come on, General. Dealing with Kim Yong-ju is Psychology 101. He’s feeling abandoned or neglected, so he acts out to get attention. We can do things to alleviate the suffering for the innocent people of North Korea without yielding our position of strength. He can sell it as a win to the people, but the rest of the world will know the truth—and be safer for it. We’re not the only country that can get spooked by Kim Yong-ju’s actions, so keeping him at bay should alleviate that potential pitfall as well.”
Miller huffed. “So, we’re going to treat him like a two-year-old who gets rewarded for throwing a tantrum? What gets rewarded gets repeated.”
“Perhaps that’s true,” Norris said. “But I’m more concerned with the long-term picture. And if he’s not firing anything at us and just threatening, we know he has no nukes, which is the most important thing to remember here.”
Miller crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “I think it’s wrong to assume that Kim Yong-ju’s just throwing a tantrum. One of these days, he’s actually going to get a warhead and hurl it at San Francisco or L.A. By the time we realize it, it’ll be too late and we’ll all wish we’d shown him that we mean business instead of kowtowing to his demands.”
As the conversation started to get more tense, an aide entered the room and asked to speak with Norris. He walked over to the man.
“What is it?” Norris asked.
“Sir, you need to turn on the monitor,” he said. “We have visuals on the missile.”
Norris’s eyebrows shot upward. “This missile?”
“Yeah, the North Koreans just fired one over one of our carriers patrolling the Pacific.”
Norris nodded the remote. “Someone turn that monitor on.”
When the screen flickered to life, they all watched grainy images of a missile soaring over the U.S.S. Roosevelt.
“What are we looking at?” Miller asked.
“This is footage from just moments ago when the North Koreans fired over the U.S.S. Roosevelt,” Norris said.
Miller shook his head. “Sir, I think this changes things.”
Wheeler glanced at Norris, her eyes pleading for him to disagree. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Miller was right. It was one thing for Kim Yong-ju to beat his chest and and talk about engaging the U.S. in a conflict. But it was an entirely different matter to actually do it. Letting him off the hook would make Norris look weak and make the U.S. vulnerable to a more deadly attack, maybe even one that struck U.S. soil.
“Sir, remember what I said,” Wheeler said.
“Sorry, Madam Secretary,” Norris said. “This is an egregious error, one that can’t be mended by making a few concessions through our sanctions. We need a show of force.”
“The Navy is ready, sir,” said General Adams, the Naval representative to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “I just received confirmation that we can scramble our fighters and have them respond within the next fifteen minutes.”
Norris drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly before answering. “Do it.”
CHAPTER 18
Central Siberia
HAWK SKIDDED TO a halt in front of the man, who opened the passenger side door and started swearing. He held his gun trained on Hawk and ordered him to get out of the vehicle. With his hands held high, Hawk obliged. He walked slowly in front of his captor, who didn’t move, eyeing Hawk closely.
The highway was bumpy, undoubtedly littered with potholes underneath the ice. There wasn’t a guardrail either to protect cars from dropping straight down into a steep canyon. Acting as recklessly on an icy surface as Hawk did was borderline suicidal, enough to unnerve anyone interested in living.
As soon as both men were in the vehicle, Hawk didn’t waste any time in gaining an advantage. He grabbed the man’s hand and yanked it through the opening in the steering wheel. Pulling back on the man’s arm, Hawk applied pressure until it snapped. The man screamed in anguish as he squirmed in an attempt to break free from Hawk’s grip. As the man tried to put the vehicle in gear, Hawk swatted the man’s hand before slamming his head against the side window. After a series of hits, the man fell unconscious.
Meanwhile, the driver in the other vehicle noticed the fracas and attempted to help. He wheeled his vehicle around to face Hawk.
Hawk shoved the other man out of the driver’s seat and took his place. By the time he’d got his bearings, he noticed the other car was headed straight toward him. Hawk threw his vehicle in reverse and waited for the right moment to accelerate.
With the approaching vehicle about fifteen meters away, Hawk stomped on the gas and drove backward up the road he’d just come from. The other vehicle didn’t have a tight enough turning radius and found himself spinning his wheels on the ice after he’d stopped. Hawk seized the opportunity, accelerating straight toward the stalled vehicle. Metal crunched as the grill from Hawk’s vehicle smashed into the passenger side of the other car.
The momentum from Hawk’s SUV drove the car sideways until it stopped a couple of feet from the edge. The other driver rushed toward the passenger side to get out but then stopped when he opened the door and looked out.
“Adios, comrade,” Hawk said before revving the accelerator and then nudging the car farther toward the edge. Seconds later, the man returned to the driver side window, pressing his hands against the glass and pleading for Hawk to stop. But Hawk ignored him before shoving the vehicle into the craggy canyon.
Hawk got out to inspect his work, certain that he’d succeeded. He peered over the edge and saw the car already on fire. As he turned around, he heard footsteps fast approaching. He didn’t wait to assess the situation, instead darting toward his vehicle. The other man had regained consciousness and was sprinting toward him with his w
eapon.
Hawk ducked as bullets peppered the windshield. Keeping his head down, Hawk navigated back onto the road. Noticing the man pulling out his phone to make a call, Hawk drove toward the man before whipping the back side of his SUV into him. He hit the ground hard and slid on the ice, dropping both his phone and his weapon.
Hawk scrambled for the gun and snagged it first. The man climbed over Hawk and went for the phone. But he didn’t make it more than a couple of steps before Hawk put a bullet in his back. The man groaned as he tried to get to his feet, but Hawk shot again, this time dropping the man for good.
Hawk pocketed the cell phone before dragging the man’s body over to the edge and rolling it into the canyon with the rest of the carnage. He took a deep breath and surveyed the area. He couldn’t see anyone in the vicinity. After one final sweep for any clues that a major struggle occurred, Hawk eased behind the wheel and headed north on the highway toward Yakutsk.
He glanced at the cell phone to make sure it had a strong signal. Being dark for so long, he didn’t want to call Alex only to have the call drop within a few seconds. Once he was satisfied that he could hold a call, he dialed her number and waited for her to pick up.
On the fourth ring, she answered.
“Hello?”
“Alex,” he said, unable to get out another word before she expressed her relief.
“Thank God, Hawk,” she said. “Are you all right?”
“I am now,” he said.
“What happened? I was really getting worried about you.”
“Pretty much nothing has gone right so far. From my kayak getting a large hole in it to getting kidnapped by some Russian mafia to Andrei Orlovsky forcing me to do some dirty work for him to—”
“Wait, you just saw Orlovsky?”
Hawk sighed. “Yeah. He made me drop off some drugs for him and then had his goons try to kill me.”
“Obviously they didn’t succeed.”
“Yeah, they’re in the bottom of a canyon right now along with one of their vehicles.”
“Did you get hurt?”
“Nah, just a few scrapes and bruises. I’ll be all right in the morning.”
“What are you doing now?”
“I’m driving to Yakutsk to finally find out what the hell is going on with Tyson. What about you? How’s life on the farm? John Daniel?”
“I’m much better now that I know you’re okay,” she said. “I was really hoping we could do this together.”
“Me too. Things always seem to run a little bit smoother when I’ve got you in my ear, walking me through everything.”
She laughed. “I’m not sure that wasn't a pipe dream anyway with John Daniel running around.”
“That bad, huh?”
“The little guy misses you,” she said. “But he’s living on the edge, just like his daddy. He’s leaping off beds, climbing to the top of bookcases, and pushing the limits. There’s no doubt he’s your son.”
“Well, give the little man a hug for me. I’ll give you an update when I can. The problem is I need to ditch this phone before Orlovsky uses it to track me. I’ll get a burner when I get to Yakutsk and call you again. Sound good?”
“Yes, but please make that a priority,” she said. “Hawk, if something happened to you, I just don’t—”
“I know, Alex. Just remember that we’re doing this so another kid can be reunited with his dad.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” she said. “But that doesn’t make it any easier.”
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Yeah, get out of there as soon as you can,” she said. “There’s some trouble brewing in the Pacific, major trouble.”
“North Korea?”
“Yeah—and they’re talking about nuclear war now.”
Hawk grunted. “That’s not what I wanted to hear.”
“You and the rest of the world.”
“I miss you,” he said. “I love you. See you soon.”
“Love you too. Be careful.”
Hawk disconnected the call and then tossed the phone out of the window and into the canyon below. If Orlovsky could track the phone’s location, perhaps he’d think that Hawk drove off a cliff.
As Hawk turned on the radio, breaking news bumper music interrupted the anchor. Then he proceeded to read a report about the tension between North Korea and the U.S. Hawk detected a hint of joy in his voice as he explained the scant details available to the public.
After letting out a string of expletives, Hawk returned his full attention to the winding roads. He needed to be in Yakutsk yesterday.
He just hoped Tyson would be there upon arriving in the central Siberian outpost.
CHAPTER 19
Washington, D.C.
VICTOR EDGEFIELD RUBBED his knee and grimaced in pain. Since suffering a severe injury jumping from a bridge eight years ago, all the hours of physical therapy hadn’t helped him recover. He sucked a breath through his teeth as he eased back from his desk at the U.S. State Department.
When he was forced out of the field, he lost his passion for the agency. Working as a desk analyst was torture, serving as a daily reminder that he couldn’t be assisting on operations. Frustrated with his plight, he put in his early retirement papers. His supervisor used connections to get Edgefield a job at the State Department, working as an information officer. But instead of the job being what he needed for his mental health, he resorted to other means to get his adrenaline pumping.
At first, betting on sporting events was a passing fancy, but it grew into an obsession. And before Edgefield could stop, his debt had grown into a mountain. The hours he spent poring over statistics analyzing each game created a chasm between him and his wife Rebecca. She was five months pregnant when she learned how deep he was into gambling. He didn’t tell her until three months later that he was a quarter of a million in the hole with an illegal bookie who promised to exact as much pain as possible.
The aluminum bat a man nicknamed The Hatchet put to Edgefield’s knee exacerbated his injury. It also strained his marriage to the point that within a few months after Corey’s birth, Rebecca left Edgefield. He didn’t really blame her on the nights when he sat at home alone drinking a fifth of scotch. Given his state of mind, he wouldn’t want to be married to himself either. Instead of marrying a spy, she woke up one morning to learn that she was married to a degenerate gambler.
As the debt piled higher, he never thought he could recover. But that was before the man with the scar on his face approached him. Scar Face went by the moniker The Hustler, and he asked Edgefield if he’d be interested in getting out of debt.
“Of course,” Edgefield had said. “What do I need to do?”
“Sell your soul to the devil,” The Hatchet had replied.
Edgefield had remained stoic. “Where do I sign?”
The two men broke into laughter, but The Hatchet was only partially joking. Edgefield didn’t owe his soul, but he did owe his allegiance to someone other than his country. When he began scouring diplomatic cables for information that The Hatchet’s superiors might find useful, Edgefield felt dirty, used, traitorous. But the guilt lessened each time he received a large deposit in his offshore account, which he quickly rerouted to Manuel Diaz, who stopped sending over any enforcers when he began receiving regular payments from Edgefield.
After the latest cable landed on his desk, he made a copy and tucked it into his coat pocket. He opened up his desk drawer and stared at the bottle of whisky peeking from behind the yellow legal pad. Instead of succumbing to the desire to take a little nip before he left the office for the day, Edgefield took a deep breath as he looked at the ledger. His debt was down to fifteen thousand. He was in disbelief, wondering how the number had dropped to such a manageable level.
One more and I’m out.
Edgefield sifted through a few more cables before he found one that would earn him the extra funds to end his makeshift indentured servitude. He pulled out his burner phone and took a screen
shot of the cable, one that would be sure to get his contact’s attention. Within seconds, a text buzzed on his burner phone.
Perfect. A deposit has just made to your account.
Edgefield smiled, reveling in a moment he feared would never come. He checked his banking app and then forwarded the final payment to Diaz. Once he was notified, Edgefield wrote back his contact.
I’m out. That’s the last one.
Edgefield interlocked his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair. He’d finally done it. The eight-hundred-pound gorilla on his back had finally been shed.
As he closed down his computer, Edgefield started whistling. He used to do it all the time, but he hadn’t in years—until now.
“Got a date tonight?” his colleague, Eric, asked as Edgefield headed toward the elevators.
“Why do you ask?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this happy.”
“Sue me,” Edgefield said, hitting the button to take him down to the parking garage. “I’m in a good mood.”
“But you’re never in a good mood.”
“Sue me,” Edgefield said with a sneer.
“And now you’re back to the grinch.”
Edgefield scowled. “The grinch?”
“Yeah, it’s what we call you behind your back, or, in this case, to your face. Work’s a lot more fun when you aren’t acting like a grumpy old man all the time.”
Edgefield flashed a quick hand gesture that wouldn’t endear himself to Eric. But Edgefield didn’t care. Nobody knew the kind of pain he’d been laboring under for the past few years. He put on as good a face as he felt was humanly possible. And if it made him seem like an old codger, so be it. Edgefield didn’t have time, nor did he care, to worry about what people thought about him.
The elevator doors closed and then he began to descend to the parking deck. Before he reached the bottom, his cell phone buzzed with a message. He whipped out his phone and read it before his mouth went dry. His stomach began to churn.
The Shadow Hunter (The Phoenix Chronicles Book 1) Page 10
