Fires of War (58 page)

“Plutonium is very expensive and difficult to obtain.”

“Would you know of other control rods?” Jiménez asked.

“I might not,” admitted Ch’o.

“So you were making containers that could carry hot plutonium?” said Rankin.

“No, the material would have to be cool.”

“So wait.” It still didn’t make sense to Rankin. “When were you doing this?”

“Six months ago. No, perhaps three or four.”

“You designed these things. Were they built?”

“I don’t know. I gave him the plans.”

“Your containers would have allowed you to transport the material without calling attention to it, wouldn’t they?” said Jiménez. “In secret, on aircraft that weren’t specially modified.”

Ch’o nodded.

“Why would you worry about that in North Korea?” said Rankin.

“It was to protect people,” said Ch’o, “and, maybe, if there were spies. That is what the general said: to keep them away from spies.”

“Yeah,” said Rankin. “That’s one reason.”

~ * ~

10

THE WHSTE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

“I have always heard that the mice will play while the cat is away, but I did not believe that would apply to the president of the United States and his staff.”

McCarthy’s rich southern voice jolted Corrine from the paper she was reading; she nearly fell out of her chair.

“Now, relax, dear,” said the president, closing the door to her office. “I did not mean to startle you.”

“I’m sorry, Jonathon. I didn’t realize you’d come back.”

“An hour ago. I’ve been busy.” McCarthy sat down in a chair across from her. “And so, I understand, have you.”

“Tom Parnelles wants to talk to you,” she said, “before the NSC meeting later.”

“Mr. Parnelles has already spoken to me,” said McCarthy. “About your operative.”

“Bob Ferguson.”

The president put up his hand. He didn’t want to hear any more about the mission than absolutely necessary, and he particularly didn’t want to know the name of the man stranded in North Korea.

“We have a plan to get him,” said Corrine. “They’re going to take off in a few hours, as soon as it’s dark.”

McCarthy pressed his lips together. Corrine felt a hole open in her stomach.

“I am afraid, dear, that we cannot do that. The life of a single CIA officer, no matter how skilled he may be, cannot justify provoking a war between North and South Korea.”

“But—”

“There are no
buts.
It is, unfortunately, my duty to make the decision.” McCarthy rose. “I am sorry. It is the way it must be.”

Corrine stared at her computer screen.

“You will attend the National Security session, will you not, dear?”

“Now that you’re back, I don’t—”

“Now that I’m back, I find myself very much in need of the services of my legal counsel.”

“Of course, Mr. President. Whatever you want.”

~ * ~

11

NORTH KOREA, SOUTH OF KWAKSAN

ON THE WESTERN COAST

More and more trucks. This time, Ferguson counted over fifty before he lost track. They were speeding south, hurrying in the direction of the capital ... or maybe South Korea.

Ferguson dutifully reported what he saw when he called in but didn’t bother asking Corrigan what was going on. He figured there wasn’t anything Corrigan could tell him that would help him much.

If something truly bad happened—if the North went ahead and attacked—then they’d come. Then it’d be cool. Or if everybody stepped back, relaxed, then they’d come ahead.

But like this, with everybody moving around, rushing, on high alert but not actually shooting, Slott would hold back. He wouldn’t want to be the match that set the shed on fire.

Ferguson knew that. He’d known it when they all talked to him. Now, with all the trucks passing, it was even more obvious.

What he didn’t know was what he was going to do next.

He sat down in the bushes as twilight came on, trying to remember how Chaucer had begun the “Pardoneres Tale.”

~ * ~

12

ABOARD THE USS
PELELIU
, OFF THE NORTH

KOREAN COAST

“What the hell do you mean we’re not going?” Rankin slammed his helmet on the chair next to him in the secure communications space. The sailors on the other side of the room jerked around and stared.

“The order is from Parnelles himself,” said Van Buren over the secure satellite radio. “We’re on Hold.”

“Aw, screw that, Colonel. Screw it. We gotta go in.”

“We are not, Sergeant. We are standing by until we have further orders.”

Sergeant.
The chain of command always came up when the shit hit the fan, thought Rankin.

“Stephen?”

“Yeah, all right. We’ll stand fucking by,” said Rankin. He tossed the microphone down and stalked from the compartment.

~ * ~

13

CHAIN, SOUTH KOREA

Thera stopped the car about a mile down the road from the Seven Sisters Medical Treatment Corporation, parking in the lot of a vast apartment complex. She smiled at a young couple walking toward the high-rise, then removed the bicycle from the rental’s trunk. Tucking her hair under a watch cap, she strapped on her backpack, then cycled out of the lot, riding down a small service road in the direction of the business park.

The road ended about forty yards from the parking area. She turned off the macadam and began pedaling across the field. The sun had only just set, but the field was already so dark she could barely see the building she was aiming at. Thera bumped along on the bike, steering between the rocks and scraping against the tall clumps of underbrush.

A chain-link fence separated the field from the parking lot behind the buildings. Thera rode along it until she spotted an opening, then turned, gliding through and bumping down onto the pockmarked asphalt.

She stopped near the pile of discarded wood, not far from the truck, dropping the bike against the pile. It was nearly invisible from five feet away.

Crouching next to the truck, Thera made sure she hadn’t been followed. Then she went over to the corner of the building where a large power cable fed into a box and meter. The meter showed that the power was off; she confirmed this with a handheld current meter, the same one she used to detect alarm wiring. Then she checked the rest of the perimeter, making sure she was alone before returning to the back of the building.

The window frames were made of metal, and the plywood covering them had been attached with thick screws. Thera took a large Phillips-head screwdriver from her rucksack and began backing the screws out of the frame closest to the truck. She took out six screws, leaving only the two at the very top, which were hard for her to reach. The wood creaked and split as she pried the board away from the bottom and squeezed underneath.

The glass windows were still intact under the board. Thera smacked her gloved fist and then her elbow against the pane, but it wouldn’t shatter. She had to use a glass cutter, and even then it took several minutes to get past the thick outer glass.

The inside pane gave way more easily. Thera made a large hole, then stuck her head through to look around with the help of her night-vision goggles.

Metal studs crisscrossed the vast space. The place smelled as if it were filled with fine metallic dust.

She climbed inside. Though empty, the interior looked in better shape than the outside, clean and neat, the polished concrete floor smooth. Thick canvas tarps covered a cluster of objects of different sizes at the extreme right side of the building.

Choosing one at random, Thera cut away the belt securing the canvas and found a drill press. She reached into her backpack and took out a plastic bag, collecting some of the fillings in the work tray below the table. Then she took a radiation meter and held its wand over the machinery.

The needle didn’t move.

She went to the wall, making sure it was the outer one, then began looking around the floor, searching for a trapdoor or some other hiding place. But the floor was solid concrete and had been swept so clean that even her great grandmother would have approved.

Wouldn’t a shuttered factory like this be filled with dust?

Puzzled, Thera began pulling the tarps off the machines one by one. Most were specialized fabrication tools she was unfamiliar with; she took pictures with the infrared digital camera, just in case.

The shavings in some of the machines were plastic. Thera found a table stacked with thin sheets of metal she thought was lead. Unsure, she took the smallest piece she could find, a narrow strip about a quarter-inch thick and eight inches long.

As she cinched her backpack to go, Thera heard a sharp snap behind her. She spun back in the direction of the sound. In that instant, the lights came on.

~ * ~

14

SOUTH OF KUSŎNG, NORTH KOREA

General Namgung had still not made up his mind which pilot to choose when he arrived at the small airstrip south of Kusŏng. This was uncharacteristic; throughout his career he had decided most important matters literally in seconds. Now, as his most important moment neared, he found it impossible to pick its agent.

Perhaps he needed to look each man in the eye, to feel his grip. Perhaps it was the human connection that he lacked, the spark that would set everything in motion.

It was already in motion, moving across the country. There was grumbling, questions from P’yŏngyang, from the Great Leader himself. The Southerners were slow to react, obviously thinking it was some sort of bluff, but that was just as well.

Several generals had refused to follow his orders, and Namgung knew he might not be able to trust all of the units near the capital. But he had never counted on one hundred percent support in any event. Once the attack was launched, the reactions from the Americans and from the Chinese would propel events. His position would carry him.

Namgung’s car stopped in front of a small concrete building. Next to the building, concealed by a large camouflaged net, was a ramp that led to an underground aircraft shelter.

Nearly all of North Korea’s air force facilities had underground concrete hangars. This one, however, was unique in that it was occupied by a single plane, a MiG-29 the country had acquired within the past few months, partly with money made available by Park. The aircraft, an improved version of the already formidable fighter-bomber, combined the latest Russian and Western technologies, and was considered superior even by the Americans to all but a handful of fighters. Small and fast, it could avoid the most powerful radars until it was too close to its target to be stopped.

Strapped to its belly was a nuclear device built with the billionaire’s help. Park had supplied the plutonium; North Korean scientists working for Namgung had done everything else.

“General, everything is in order,” said Lee, saluting as the general approached. “The fuel truck will arrive within ninety minutes, as soon as the satellite passes.”

“Very good,” said Namgung. “Where are the pilots?”