Fires of War (59 page)

“Practicing with the simulator, as you ordered. Should I get them?”

Namgung turned back toward the airfield, looking at the dark sky. Clouds obscured the moon. It was perfect.

“Let them practice a little longer,” he said.

~ * ~

15

CHAIN, SOUTH KOREA

Three men stood at the far end of the empty factory.

“Back for fun?” yelled one of them, his English heavily accented.

It was the kid who’d bothered her earlier in the day.

Thera threw herself behind the nearest machine as one of the men began firing a submachine gun. The others yelled at him in Korean to stop wasting his bullets and be careful; they would get in trouble if they damaged the machines.

Thera pulled one of her Glocks out from beneath her coat.

“You remember me from this afternoon?” said the man with the machine gun. “You were very brave when you were the one with the weapon. Let’s see how brave you are now.”

He fired off another burst.

Thera edged to the side of the machine. They’d have a clear shot at her from where they were if she moved, but staying here didn’t make sense; they could move down the side of the building and then attack her from behind the other machines.

She drew her second pistol, took a breath and held it midway. Then she pushed the rest of the air from her lungs and leapt upward, firing twice and taking down the man on her far right.

It took the others two or three seconds to return fire. By that time she had ducked behind the long bending press. Their bullets clinked and clanged as they ricocheted off the heavy machine. Thera scrambled behind it, then rolled to a second tarped hulk nearby.

The two men were cursing bitterly. That was good, she thought; they would react rather than think.

Thera worked her way toward the side of the building where she had come in. When she reached the last machine she slipped one of her guns into her coat pocket and got down on her belly, snaking out from behind the tarp to look for the Koreans.

They weren’t where she had left them.

Thera saw something move to her left and jerked back, firing as she ducked behind cover. Her first bullet got the Korean in the chest, where his bulletproof vest caught it, but her second rose all the way to his neck, slicing a hole in his windpipe.

The third went between his eyes. He blasted away with his machine gun as he hit the floor, his death jerk emptying the magazine.

The other man began screaming and firing wildly on the other side of the building, pouring his bullets in the direction of the machine where Thera had first hidden. He ran through the entire clip of his gun, yelling insanely in Korean. When the gun was out of ammo he began to retreat, running up the far side of the building.

Thera jumped to her feet and ran after him. When she was about six feet away she launched herself, landing on his back.

He collapsed. His gun flew across the floor, clattering against the wall. He struggled for a moment, but the fight was out of him; his courage had fled and left him a powerless shell. Thera pounded the side of his head once, then twisted him onto his back, her knees on his arms and her gun in his throat. Tears flowed from his eyes.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Who?”

He started to answer in Korean.

“English, damn you, or you join your friends.”

“We look after the buildings,” he said.

“You’re security?”

He couldn’t understand what she was saying.

“Explain what you do,” said Thera.

“We watch. There are cameras in the high-rise. We chase children away, mostly.”

“Where are your uniforms?”

“No uniforms; too much attention. Quiet. We must be quiet or no pay.”

“Who hired you?”

“Management company.” He gave a name in Korean that meant nothing.

“Where’d the electricity come from?” Thera asked.

He didn’t understand the question. Thera jumped up and hauled him to his feet.

“The lights,” she said. “The power line outside isn’t connected.”

“Underground. Keys . . . We have keys. Everything quiet. No attention.”

“What was this building used for?”

“I don’t know.”

Thera jabbed her pistol into his throat. “Talk to me or die.”

A fresh flood of tears rained down his cheeks. She smelled urine; he’d wet himself.

“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “No. I don’t know.”

“The other buildings. What’s in them?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? What did they make here?”

“A box. Big, like a ... I don’t know the word in English. They took it away.”

“Use Korean.”

He described it in Korean. Thera understood maybe a tenth of the words.

She pushed him against the wall and patted him down quickly. He had another magazine of bullets for his submachine gun and a cell phone; she kicked both across the floor.

“Come,” she told him, leading him to her backpack at the other end of the building. She tied his hands together with plastic-zip handcuffs, then grabbed her sat phone and dialed into The Cube. Lauren was on the other end.

“Get a Korean translator on the line. Ask this guy what he saw in the building. See if it sounds like an airplane container.”

“Thera?”

“Do
it.”

“I’m doing it. I’m doing it.”

~ * ~

16

THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

The National Security Council meeting was scheduled to begin at eight p.m. President McCarthy practically leapt into the room at 7:58, full of energy. The laid-back southern gentleman always yielded to a purposeful commander in a crisis.

“Gentlemen, ladies. I’m glad we’re all here.” McCarthy’s drawl had a decidedly caffeinated flavor to it. “Korea. Update me, if you will.”

Verigo Johnson from the CIA began running down the latest intelligence. The key word seemed to be
confusion;
even the North Koreans didn’t seem to know what was going on.

The Japanese government had issued a terse though polite “we don’t comment on rumors” statement, while at the same time placing its self-defense forces on high alert. The Russians had issued a statement of support for Kim Jong II “during his illness”; the Chinese had remained characteristically silent. Behind the scenes, the British were suggesting a coup was underway and had notified the U.S. that two warships would be steaming toward the area and could be called on if necessary.

About halfway through the slides in Johnson’s PowerPoint presentation, one of Slott’s aides came into the room and whispered something in his ear. He grimaced, then looked across at Corrine and motioned with his head toward the door.

She waited a minute after he left, trying to preserve some pretense that she wasn’t working with him.

Slott had gone down the hall to the secure communication center and was talking to Thera in Korea when Corrine got there. The communications specialist on duty had already arranged for her to join the line; all Corrine had to do was pick up the phone.

“The cargo container was lined with lead,” Thera was saying. “That’s why it was so heavy. It must have gone north when the 727 brought Ferguson north.”

“What went north?” asked Corrine.

“The plutonium,” explained Thera. “Park had a special container made for his aircraft. We have the scientist who designed it in North Korea, and I’ve spoken to the people who moved it.”

“They must have used it to bring the plutonium south,” said Slott.

“No, not south,” said Thera. “It
was
south. It went north.”

“I doubt that,” said Slott. “Park must be buying it from the North Koreans. He wouldn’t be
giving
them plutonium.”

“Why do you think it went north?” asked Corrine.

“Because the plutonium was at the waste site when I was there, and now it’s not. Right? They must have moved it out. Maybe it was in one of those train cars near the tag. and then was removed by the truck that Ferguson saw.”

“That just means they moved it to a better hiding place,” said Slott. “Giving bomb material to the North would make no sense. They’re almost at war.”

“Maybe Park thinks he’ll somehow benefit if there’s an attack on South Korea,” said Corrine.

“I don’t think so,” said Thera. “He’s kind of nutty, but not in that way. He collects old Korean relics. He’s
really
into history. Really into it.”

Corrine glanced up at Slott. “What did Ferguson say about Park? He hates the Japanese.”

“Big time,” said Thera. “Can’t stand them.”

“The defector with the dictator’s bank data,” said Corrine, realizing where the senator’s e-mail had come from. “What if that plane were carrying a bomb?”

~ * ~

17

NORTH KOREA, SOUTH OF KWAKSAN

ON THE WESTERN COAST

Ferguson lay in his hiding spot among the rocks, leaning on his elbows as he contemplated the stars. He hadn’t slept. He couldn’t sleep; his mind spun in a million different directions, just beyond his control.

“We’re all going to die,” a friend who had pancreatic cancer once told him, “but I’ve been blessed with the knowledge that it’ll be very soon.”

“That’s because you’re a priest,” Ferguson had answered. “You see everything as a blessing.”

“Aye, but truly it is, because it gives me a chance to do my best until then. Every day.”

“Shouldn’t we do that anyway?”

“If we did, Ferg, then what in the world would I have to preach about every Sunday? Will you tell me that, lad?”

“Will you tell me that, lad?” said Ferguson now, staring at the night sky. “Will you tell me that?”

The thick clouds refused to answer.

If living meant living like this—shaking from the cold, exhausted, his mind torn off its pegs—was it worth living?

No.

Why bother?

Ferguson rubbed his eyes. They were like hard marbles in wooden saucers.

The sat phone began to buzz. He grabbed it, held it to his ear expectantly.

“We leaving?” he asked.

“Ferg, this is Corrine Alston. I’m here with Dan Slott.”

“Wicked Stepmother,” he said, forcing enthusiasm into his voice. “You calling to tell me I’m going to have to walk to China?”

“Ferg, when Park met with the general, was there any talk about a MiG-29?” asked Corrine.

“I didn’t hear the conversation,” said Ferguson. “Why?”

“We’ve been told that a MiG pilot is going to defect and fly to Japan with documents saying where Kim Jong-Il has hidden his money. We’ve located what we think is the airport where he’s supposed to be taking off from. It has an unimproved strip.”