Blackout (22 page)

Wednesday, September 9, 3:50 p.m. EDT

Washington, D.C.

Scott leaned over Virgil Hernandez's shoulder while the analyst detailed some recently intercepted communications intelligence. Without warning, the door to the Room of Understanding opened, and a man in an expensively tailored suit walked in flanked by two federal bodyguards.

“Secretary Moss,” Scott said, flustered and trying to regain his composure as he crossed the room. “Welcome to the RoU.”

“The what?” Moss asked with a scowl.

“The RoU—Room of Understanding,” Scott explained, though he could see Moss cared very little about what he was saying. “It's just a nickname that we . . . never mind. So what brings you here?”

Moss pulled on his shirt cuffs until exactly one inch extended from the arms of his suit jacket. “Well, Ross, since I can't seem to get any reports from you, I thought I'd better come and examine your operation for myself.” Moss glared at the faces around the room. He ran his finger across a coffee stain on the conference table, then cleaned himself off with a monogrammed handkerchief he pulled from his pants pocket. “I must say that, thus far, I'm unimpressed.”

So that's the way it's going to be, huh? Big surprise.
“Sorry, sir. We gave the maid service the week off. They're from Mongolia, and apparently it's National Build-a-Yurt week. Who knew?”

Moss wheeled on Scott. “Listen, Ross! I didn't come here to be mocked! I'm here deciding if we have the money to keep this little special operations group experiment funded. And if we do have the money, whether or not you're the one to lead them! So I'd suggest you show me some respect! Understood?”

Scott could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on him. Tara looked ready to jump to his aid, but he waved her off with a quick shake of his head.
Just get through this and get him out the door. Then you can have Stanley Porter work everything out.

“Yes, sir.”

Moss gave a self-satisfied
humph
and said, “Now, who is that?”

Scott followed the direction of Moss's finger. “That's Evie Cline. She is our specialist in electronic surveillance and geospatial reconnaissance. She is also invaluable as a cryptanalyst and regional analyst.”

Moss slowly moved Evie's direction, watching her as she worked. Scott knew that the secretary probably understood only one out of every three words he had just used, which was by design.
The guy's one big bluff. Call him on it, and you'll see he's got nothing in his hand.

When Moss arrived at Evie's workstation, he placed his hand on the back of her chair. Immediately she scooted forward, breaking Moss's contact.

“Good afternoon, Miss Cline,” Moss said.

“Good afternoon,” Evie answered without turning around.

“May I ask what you're working on?”

“Certainly, sir. I've had some trouble of late linking up with the satellite feeds. So I'm adjusting the hardware using Dr. Emmett Brown's algorithmic hypotheses in hopes of getting the system's flux capacitor up to the ideal 1.21 jigawatts.”

Scott heard Joey Williamson stifle a laugh, then cover it with an improvised coughing fit.

“Excuse me, sir,” Williamson said to a glaring Moss. “Allergies.”

Moss turned back to Evie. “As you may have heard, I am here to evaluate your SOG's operation. What do you think of Mr. Ross's leadership of your team? Is he competent? Is he fair to you both as an employee and as a woman? And please know that I will ensure that you will experience no recriminations for whatever negatives you have to say about him.”

Evie finally turned around and said in an icy voice, “Thank you for giving me that peace of mind, sir. But to Mr. Ross's credit, his leadership and integrity make him a joy to work for. And his knowledge of our systems is second to none. In fact, he is so far ahead of the curve that any time we discover some new tool or technology, he's already heard about it and is ready to explain it to us. In a sense, one might say that in order for us to even keep up with him, he's got to step back to our future.”

Williamson had another allergy-related coughing fit, and Scott, too, was having a hard time not laughing.
Whatever else these kids are, they are loyal to a fault.

“I've got problems with Scott,” Gooey called from across the room.

Oh no! I don't know what Gooey's up to, but guaranteed, this will not end well.

Immediately Moss left Evie and half walked, half jogged to Gooey's station. Scott watched Moss's face cringe as his nose drew in the funk that permeated the air in that part of the room.

“And what's your name?” Moss asked.

“Name's Gooey. What's yours?”

Moss seemed taken aback, both that someone wouldn't recognize him and that a lowly analyst would address him so casually. “I'm Secretary Dwayne Moss. May I ask your real name—just for the record?”

“Well—just for the record—everyone calls me Gooey, so why don't we go with that? So whose secretary are you, Wayne?”

“It's Dwayne—I mean Secretary Moss. I am the president's cabinet secretary in charge of Homeland Security.”

Gooey let out a low whistle. “Pretty impressive. Does that mean you
don't
take shorthand? Nah, I'm just messing with you, Wayne. Now, I heard you asking about Scotty over there, and I've got to tell you, I've got some serious issues with him.”

Moss's cheeks tightened and a vein in his forehead began to make itself known. But he kept his anger in check and nodded to one of his bodyguards, who pulled out a small, flip-top notebook and a pen. “Again, it's Secretary Moss. But never mind—please, go ahead.”

Scott fought to keep his nervousness in check. Gooey was just so unpredictable. Something was about to go really bad—either for him or for Gooey or both. His teeth clenched and his fists balled up as he watched his analyst begin to speak.

“So a week or so ago, I'm here cruising through craigslist—”

“Wait a minute,” Moss interrupted. “Was this on government time?”

Gooey started laughing. “Duh! Of course it was on government time. Why else would I be here? So I'm scanning craigslist and I find this popcorn maker. And it's not like, you know, just this regular old countertop popcorn maker. This thing's like the whole cart—you know, like at the circus or the fair or something. I immediately e-mail the dude; he's still got it, so I bolt out and pick it up.”

“Was this on your lunch hour?”

“On my lunch hour? Come on! I eat lunch on my lunch hour.”

Moss's face was darkening by the second, turning his artificial tan a deep crimson. “First of all, I don't see what this has to do with the topic at hand. And second of all, I don't know how you can justify using government time to purchase a—a popcorn cart!”

“Hold your water, Wayne. I'm getting to that. So I bring the cart back to the office and put it right over there,” Gooey said, pointing to the one corner of the room that didn't have a desk crammed into it. “But no sooner do I get it in there than Scott tells me I have to take it back out. Something about a fire hazard and some muckety-muck's rules. Can you believe that? What kind of idiot makes up a rule against popcorn makers?”

“The rule against appliances of any kind being allowed in Homeland Security offices came from me,” Moss seethed.

“Oh . . . well, ask a question, get an answer. So that's pretty much my gripe against Scott. That, and his rule against playing computer games during work hours.”

“His rule against . . . Ross!”

Scott hustled over to Moss's side.

“My inspection has confirmed everything that I expected about this operation! It is shoddy and undisciplined from the top down! It is a disgrace both to the president's administration and to my department! I have an afternoon meeting today with President Lloyd during which I am going to report to him all that I have seen here. I would be quite surprised if any of you were still working in this office tomorrow.

“But if for some reason the president decides to keep you open, I expect this chair—” Moss pointed to where Gooey was sitting—“to be empty tomorrow! Do I make myself clear?”

“So you're giving me the day off tomorrow?” Gooey asked.

“I'm giving you your life off, you moron!”

“Score,” Gooey said, putting his arms straight up, referee-style.

Moss turned to Scott, gave a disgusted shake of his head, and headed for the door. But before he got there, he turned around and stormed back.

“You know what sickens me most about you people?”

“I can hardly venture a guess,” Scott answered drily.

“It's the levity—the joking around. According to your way of thinking, hundreds of thousands of lives could be depending on your work, and all your team seems to do the whole day is sit around and crack your little jokes and play your little tricks. And you,” Moss said, popping his finger against Scott's chest, “you are the worst of the bunch. That's why you aren't fit to lead—you don't know when to get serious!”

“Listen, Moss,” Scott said, grabbing the secretary's finger but quickly letting go after he saw Moss's bodyguards move toward him. “That just shows how little you understand about what we do. Don't you think we feel the pressure? Don't you think we know what's at stake? Every one of us lives day by day with the knowledge that one wrong decision, one missed piece of information, can result in massive loss of human life.

“So we've got two options. Either we let the pressure crush us and twist our insides until we all have ulcers and high blood pressure, or we laugh. We joke. We release our pressure valves by doing dumb stuff and saying stupid things. We don't do it because we don't care. We do it because we care too much!

“And you very well may be right that I'm not fit to lead. But I can guarantee you that I'm a far sight better than some anal-retentive, ladder-climbing, play-by-the-rules-unless-it-suits-your-own-needs, self-important, self-righteous, bureaucratic stuffed shirt like yourself,” Scott finished, immediately wondering if maybe he had gone just a tad too far with that final flourish.
Yeah, maybe. But Jim sure would have been proud!

Moss didn't move. The vein in his forehead looked like it was in danger of widening to a four-lane highway up and over his scalp. Finally he whispered through gritted teeth, “Start packing your office, Ross. You're done.”

With one last look of disdain, he walked out the office door.

“Thanks for popping in, Wayne. Come back anytime,” Gooey called after him.

Scott whapped him on the back of the head, then wiped the grease on his pant leg.

As soon as the door closed behind Moss, everyone started laughing. Williamson and Hernandez each did impressions of the great secretary while Evie swooned from awe and fear. Even Tara managed a smile, although Scott knew she understood better than the analysts the trouble they were all in. Especially him.

Eventually Scott calmed them down. “Listen, gang, try to forget this little visit and just get back to work. I'll see what I can do about smoothing this whole thing over.”

“Should I get Porter on the line?” Tara asked.

Scott sighed. Sooner or later Porter was going to tire of constantly having to bail him out of trouble.

“Sure,” he answered.

As he walked toward his office, he saw Gooey packing up his stuff.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“You heard the man—I'm getting some time off . . . a lot of time off.”

“Put your stuff back. You're not going anywhere.”

“Aw, man,” Gooey said as he started pulling action figures and bags of Cheetos back out of his plastic grocery bag.

“And, Goo, when you come back tomorrow—because you
are
coming back tomorrow—bring the popcorn cart with you.”

Thursday, September 10, 5:30 a.m. KST

Chosan, North Korea

Pak Kun felt blood on his face and arms, but that was nothing out of the ordinary. The pine trees that forested the region between Chosan and the border could be merciless. And although his salty sweat made the scratches sting, the speed he was traveling at made the pain worth it. There was still nearly an hour until sunrise, and he was only fifteen minutes from home. With any luck, his wife, Son Soo, would already be awake and awaiting his arrival with a warm herbal salve and hot tea.

Tonight was the first time Pak Kun had made the trip across the border during the week, and he had to admit that he was even more nervous than usual. If he were stopped on a Sunday, he could at least try to make the excuse that he had gotten lost hiking in the woods. But there was no good reason for a person to be out in the middle of the forest on a weekday when he had to work first thing in the morning.

Careful; careful; watch your step here,
he reminded himself as he leaped over the gnarled roots of an ancient oak tree. Then, cutting fifteen feet to the right, he bounded across a dead tree that stretched over a narrow stream.

The first few times he had made this journey, he had returned bruised and battered from tripping his way to the border and tripping his way back. Now experience and familiarity with the trail meant only two or three headfirst sprawls into the dirt and brush each way.

Why was this message so important that Pak Bae came out in the middle of the week?
Pak Kun wondered for the hundredth time.
And why was he so insistent that I take this across the border tonight?

Pak Bae's sudden arrival less than a day ago had caused a stir throughout the family. North Korea was not a country that lent itself to impulsive, spur-of-the-moment actions. So when Pak Bae arrived unannounced, everyone assumed it was bad news.

But his cousin had seemed his normal, jovial self. He laughed; he gave gifts; he did all his usual things. But after he had left, his mother had worriedly told the family that despite Pak Bae's outward appearance, there was something wrong. She knew as only a mother could.

Well, Pak Kun knew what was wrong. He knew as only a coconspirator in treason could. Breaking all their previous protocol, Pak Kun had walked his cousin around the back of the train station, passed him the message without any attempt to cover it up, and told him that he must get the small packet across the border that very night.

Well, it's there! I have done my part! The rest is up—

A sound in the brush caused Pak Kun to dive up against a large boulder that was embedded into the side of a hill. He flattened himself against the jagged rock and tried to control his breathing.
In, out, in, out . . . in . . . out . . . in . . . out.
Pak Kun held his hand against his chest, willing his respiration to slow down.

Silently he sat, waiting, listening.

A small amount of dirt and grit trickled into his hair, telling him that his efforts at hiding had not succeeded. He closed his eyes and tried not to hyperventilate as he awaited the voice or the blow to the head or the gunshot.

A minute passed, and nothing happened. His legs threatened to cramp from the tension.
Do it! Just do it!

Finally he could stand it no more. He opened his eyes, leaned away from the rock, and looked up.

Standing above him was a lynx, its yellow eyes reflecting the moonlight. Pak Kun couldn't move, but not from fear. He was transfixed—held by the cat's beauty, by its calm, by the way its eyes seemed to be telling him that there was nothing for him to fear in the woods tonight.

What seemed like hours was only seconds. Its black-tufted ears twitched backward. Its gaze seemed to draw within itself. Then it turned and disappeared into the woods.

Pak Kun wanted to stay right in that spot—playing and replaying in his mind what he had just experienced.
But there's no stopping the sun. I have to get home now if I have any hope of getting to the textile factory in time.
He began to run again, twisting and turning with the well-worn path.

Fifteen minutes later, he came to the base of a low hill. Just on the other side was the village where his family had lived for generations. Excitement filled his heart as he picked up his pace.

But then he stopped. Something wasn't right. In the predawn darkness, a strange orange glow shone from the opposite side of the hill.

Son Soo!

Pak Kun sprinted toward his home. There were no thoughts of what might be waiting for him in the village. There was no fear for himself. All he could think of was his wife, his mother, his family.

As he got closer, the acrid smell of smoke reached his nostrils. It wasn't the smell of the morning wood cooking fires that typically filled the village about this time. It was the smoke that came when they burned trash in the afternoons—wood mixed with plastic mixed with whatever other materials and chemicals made up the contents of the week's garbage.

He rounded the corner of the small Buddhist shrine at the end of his block at a dead run, then stopped in the middle of the dirt street. Movement caught his eye, and he turned in time to see shutters closing on the corner house.

Down the block, he could see his house burning, as well as the houses of his mother and extended family. Bodies lay in front of each doorway. He was still far enough away to not be able to see any faces, but he knew by size and location who each person was.

Pak Kun slowly walked forward. Hanging from a maple tree in front of his aunt's house was a naked man. Although the sun had not come up and the face was twisted and bloody, the light from the fire was enough for Pak Kun to be able to discern the features of his cousin, Pak Bae.

How? How did this happen? How did they find out? Look what they've done to my family! Why did I ever say yes to Pak Bae? Why couldn't I have just gone through life quietly like everyone else in my village? Now look . . .

There was his uncle, Sam-chon. There was old Halmoni, the matriarch of their family. There were his two toddler nephews, Pak Ho and Pak Chul.

He wanted to stop and cover the bodies. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to run. But he just kept moving forward, finally coming to his house.

In front of his door, as he knew she would be, lay Son Soo. Her clothes were scattered around, and her face and body were matted with dirt and blood. The absolute horror of what he was experiencing sucked away any emotion and left him in a daze.

Walking past the little white fence he had built, which now lay trampled in the dirt, Pak Kun knelt beside his wife. He brushed the bangs away from her face, having to tug a little to loosen them from the drying blood. Then, as he gently smoothed her hair back over her head, he reached his other hand down and lightly touched her swollen belly—the belly that up until this morning had been protecting and nurturing their first child.

There was a shuffle to his left, but Pak Kun didn't look up. He had been expecting it and was surprised it had taken this long.

“Get up,” a voice demanded.

Pak Kun continued to stroke his wife's hair.

“I said get up!”

With a heavy sigh, Pak Kun touched Son Soo's cheek for the last time. He stood and turned to meet his fate.

There were five brown-uniformed soldiers in front of him. The sound of feet behind Pak Kun told him that they were not alone.

“What is your name?”

“You know who I am,” he said wearily.

“Tell me your name,” the officer commanded.

“My name is Pak Kun, and my only hope is that you will burn in hell for what you have done and that the Buddha will never allow you reprieve.”

The officer nodded to a soldier next to him. Pak Kun prayed for a quick death as the man stepped forward. The soldier raised his rifle, and the last thing Pak Kun saw was the butt of the gun driving toward his face.