Vengeance and Reckonings

by Todd Turner

“There were eight,” answered Chung.

  “Was the number eight chosen for any reason?”

  “Numerology would be as good a reason as any,” Chung offered, worried his theoretical answer would earn him more destruction.

  “Were they all shipped to the same place?”

  “No.”

  Preston reached forward and dialed a three on the machine. He wanted to get Chung to stop with his evasive and minimal answers. “This is not a court. You are not testifying. You are encouraged—no, make that expected—to answer with more than a yes or no!”

  Chung nodded, grimacing at the machine ready and set for three seconds.

  Preston pressed. “How many were shipped to each port—and which ports were they shipped to?”

  “Three went to Benicia, three went to Newark, and two went to Houston.”

  “The three sent to Benicia … what was their final target?”

  “I don’t know the final plan—I swear literally on my nuts! I overheard one was going to lay Las Vegas to ruins. They said it would be a modern-day Pompeii.”

  Preston wanted to confirm. “That’s what you heard?”

  “Yes, that is what they said, but no mention of other places, other than the ports themselves.”

  “Do you think the ports themselves were targets?”

  “I don’t think so. Only Newark and San Francisco would represent serious damage, so maybe one was intended to stay there. I honestly don’t know that part of the plan,” said Chung, looking downward with anxiety.

  “Do you know how the vehicles are transported to their destination from the ports?”

  “I know it’s usually by truck or train or even in some cases a combination of both.”

  “How is the destination of a car determined?” asked Preston.

  “I don’t know all the details, but General Motors decides what dealers get what cars,” explained a more-informed-than-expected Chung.

  “And someone in your operation is controlling that, or has it just been left to chance?” Preston inquired.

  “Not chance, no. I know there were specific targets,” Chung offered cautiously.

  “So, you have someone in General Motors sending specific cars to specific places?”

  Chung was fearfully staring at the three-second timer. “I don’t know the details, but that would be the most possible.”

  “You don’t know to what places?” probed Preston.

  Chung, staring at the digital number three on the timer, swallowed then lifted his head to look Preston right in the eyes to answer, hoping in doing so this man would see he was telling the truth. “No, other than Las Vegas, I don’t know.” He slumped back, resigned to getting his genitals fried.

  Preston saw the fear, noticed Chung’s desperate attempt to indicate his desire to be seen as truthful, and decided he was getting more now with the threat of long-term damage alone.

  “Do all of the cars have the same device installed?” asked Preston.

  “I think that’s the case. I don’t know for certain, though,” Chung said thoughtfully.

  “Do you know the capability of the weapon?”

  “Not the technical specifications, but the things I’d heard about Las Vegas was that it would destroy or damage most of the garish hotels that city is known for,” Chung said, just a little too boastfully.

  Preston’s eyes widened. Since he had yet to be told what the team in Benicia had discovered, he hadn’t even considered the possibility that what he was questioning Chung about was a nuclear device.

  Preston considered this for a moment and began to wonder if he’d been too gentle with Chung. No, no, he knew he had to keep his anger in check and get the information he could. He was told this was their one and only lead.

  While trying to hide the shock in his voice, he asked Chung, “These bombs are nuclear?”

  Now it was Chung’s turn to look surprised. He had no idea the American didn’t already know what was in the gas tanks of the Korean Chevys. He couldn’t help himself. He felt the corners of his mouth move up into a grin. He didn’t consciously want to smile. In fact, the very moment he felt it happening, he regretted it.

  Preston saw the grin and lost control. It was just more than he could push down inside himself. This asshole was taking pride in the prospect of eight nuclear devices being detonated in populated areas, killing millions and making millions more suffer a variety of illnesses for the rest of their lives? He punched the button.

  Almost immediately he regretted it. As Chung writhed in the chair and sweat broke on his face, shoulders and chest, he knew he’d have to make the next threat even more terrifying to counter the hatred he just engendered.

  The moment Chung mentally revived, Preston dialed a seven into the machine. He wanted Chung to know that regardless of his hatred he’d be well advised to keep cooperating.

  “So, again, to confirm, these are nuclear devices we’re talking about?” Preston asked, his tone demanding.

  Chung didn’t smile. “Yes. I thought you already knew that.”

  June 28, 06:21 KDT

  USAF Camp Kim, South Korea

  The light in the room flickered, signaling Preston to come out; a subtle signal. In such a crude environment, a power interruption would hardly be noticed by a detainee. This place in fact was intentionally built to appear crude.

  “I am going to give you a short break. When I come back, I expect to find out how you expect me to believe your country has the capability to build eight nuclear bombs and plant them in eight cars bound for the United States!”

  The door’s electronic lock clicked open and Preston left the room. He was met by Director Kim. Preston looked at him as though he wondered how the hell he’d gotten in, then he remembered that Kim was very well respected by the director of this facility, an air force brigadier general by the name of Steve Kessler, who was standing right next to Kim.

  Kessler was a gritty man with leathery skin who didn’t feel it necessary to use a lot of words. In a gravelly voice that sounded as though he’d either smoked a million cigarettes or spent the day on horseback riding the desert with no water, Kessler grumbled, “We’ve got more info from the states. I’d call it intelligence, but I am always suspect of that term.”

  Preston cracked a grin and quickly asked, “Is Director Kim cleared?”

  “Yeah, he’s clear. And I’ll tell you what, you’re right to ask. I’ve been told the usual channels are closed on this,” Kessler said.

  “So, what’s the latest from the states? The device is a nuke?” asked Preston.

  Kessler was both impressed and surprised, but he was not amused. “When did you find out?”

  “About twenty minutes ago. I was just getting a bit more detail. How tight is this circle? Who’s out and who’s in?”

  “I don’t know who’s out, but I do know we can speak with Craig Stout, Director Richards, Dr. Kim, and the president. And that’s damn near about it!” explained Kessler.

  “Bonner seems to be an obvious omission,” Preston noted.

  Kessler offered a shrug in response.

  Preston shifted his feet, concerned. “Well,” he grunted, “then I’ll give credibility to my informant. We can skip the usual psych and analysis bullshit, I don’t think we have fucking time for it.”

  Preston filled in Kessler and Kim on what he’d found so far. It was a quick conversation, with him talking and the others listening with increasing alarm.

  The usually quiet Kessler began to turn red, anger seething from his pores. “You mean to tell me these little fuckers have put eight nukes in the U.S. and we don’t know where they are or when they will detonate?” As he spoke, he realized Kim was right there. “Fuck,” he said, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. You know I don’t disrespect any race.”

  Kim, always honest, regardless of how ugly or hurtful the truth, spoke low. “Even words said in anger have an element of truth, but I accept your apology.”

  It was clear to everyone these words soaked i
n. Preston broke the awkward moment. “That’s where we are now, yes sir!” He pointed to the interrogation room. “He’s sweating it out now, but I doubt he’s got much more for us. I think we’ve gotta get someone in Detroit. The trail seems headed toward General Motors HQ.”

  Kessler thoughtfully looked at the ceiling and said quietly to Preston, “You’ve got a report to make to Richards. Use my office, and make sure you secure the line.”

  June 27, 17:38 EDT

  FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

  Richards hung up after getting Preston’s report. This was the doomsday scenario everyone trained for in both U.S. intelligence services and all the military branches—the very scenario scoffed at and scorned by citizen watchdog groups and even Congress as paranoid fabrications. Even he had certain doubts. Was this in fact one of those moments? More to the point, were they truly prepared?

  Terrifying thoughts for a man who right now held the fragile hope of mitigating such a threat. “This is useless. Get back to it, old man,” he told himself, picking up the phone to call Craig Stout.

  It’s not the usual chain of command for the director to call a subordinate about making assignments in an investigation, but Richards was putting all his chips on the table. His opinion: there was one chance for success, and that was for Stout to continue to head the investigation. Craig knew people at his level he could trust, giving him a huge advantage over Richards himself; and too it’s what the president wanted.

  June 28, 07:44 KDT

  USAF Camp Kim, South Korea

  As he entered the interrogation room, Preston saw Chung still staring at his crotch, strapped into the wire chair—wondering, no doubt, if his genitals were already ruined.

  Preston thought that he’d better reassure the man they probably were not—but that could change with one touch of the button.

  He approached Chung and sat at the table across from him.

  “You’re wondering if the damage is already done, if there’s any point in cooperating any further. Let me assure you, many men have not only survived what you’ve been through but have survived fully functional. That does, however, change with each treatment. Not only will the time increase, but the damage is also exponential with each push of the button. Do you understand?”

  Chung nodded, almost eagerly, with a sense of glee in a way.

  And Preston knew he’d not have to use the machine again.

  “You were about to tell me how such a piss-poor country like North Korea was able to pull this off. It had to have cost millions, if not billions.”

  “I am not in the circle of . . .” Chung paused, searching for the right expression or word, “. . . knowing, is that right?”—instantly seeking confirmation that his English was understood, lest that button get pressed.

  Preston nodded. “Yeah, that’s it, go ahead. I understand.”

  “I only heard, you know, talk, bullshit maybe, that it was help from another country, with both the enriched plutonium and also money. I think our part was limited to accessing and shipping the packages into the U.S.,” Chung quickly explained.

  “OK, makes sense, but what country?”

  “I don’t know—I mean, I never was told what country.”

  “Don’t make me push that button. You have a better idea than I do right now what country, and you’d better be singing like a bird at this point,” threatened Preston.

  Chung’s fear was evident again, but he also felt like he had reached his end, the point where he couldn’t cope with this anymore, and now wondered if he would be killed anyway. He’d been told by his trainers that if he was captured, the Americans would kill him. Now, though, there was doubt, and he began to think he might not be killed after all.

  “We all just assumed it was Iran,” said Chung.

  “Were there any signs of that? Something you saw that helped confirm it?”

  “I didn’t have any interaction with the people who assembled the bombs, but when I was helping install them in the cars, there was some foreign writing on some of the parts,” said Chung.

  “Arabic?”

  “I don’t know, but it wasn’t Korean or Chinese or English. There were dots and dashes, over and around characters with squiggly, curved lines.”

  That was good enough for Preston.

  “These cars, you said you don’t know where they were going to end up, exactly, but you thought someone at GM was part of the plan to get them to the right places. What makes you say that?”

  “From my time at Daewoo I learned that cars are shipped either to the port or to dealers in Korea, based on what the computer printed out on the sticker that was on the window of the car. Someone has to tell the computer what to print.” His shrug indicated to Preston that “someone” was unknown to Chung.

  “OK.”

  Preston was satisfied. Chung could give him nothing more.

  “You know you will never go home again. To live, there will be a long period of time in which you’ll need to convince us you have turned willingly, and with complete integrity, and that you will never betray or sabotage the United States.”

  Chung nodded and looked down again, hoping Preston would instruct the techs to disconnect him.

  June 27, 15:45 PDT

  Benicia, California

  Benicia, California, had not experienced the increase in development that had been so prevalent in the bulk of the Bay Area. Its relative isolation made for an impractical commute to San Francisco or Oakland. As a receiving port for automobiles, it would appear at first glance to be less than strategic, which is somewhat true for truck traffic taking processed cars into San Francisco. This processing center was also responsible, however, for distribution of Korean-built Chevrolet cars to dealers throughout most of the Western United States. The railhead attached to the far end of the facility and the port’s relative isolation made this location perfect for the port’s original mission: to handle the shipping of munitions from the West Coast to the Pacific front during World War II.

  The irony wasn’t missed by Craig, as he looked out at the brown waters rich with silt from the Sacramento River that empties here on its final journey to the Pacific Ocean. He didn’t think for a moment the parties responsible for the bomb even knew.

  As he pressed End to finish the call with Director Richards, Craig gazed over these waters in deep reflection, an activity he ordinarily considered a waste of time. Now, though, confronted with the angel of death, he paused to consider life.

  He’d just learned that this bomb was likely part of a much larger operation, perhaps even a nation-wide conspiracy. That alone caused him to wonder if the director was in on it too—and if so, was there no one he could trust? Shake it off! he told himself. You can’t afford to get paranoid.

  There were no leads, nothing to follow on his end. He had to find out more, and fast. The one person he could trust was Scott; and being the president’s son—who also happened to be in charge of the NSA’s Economic Terrorism Unit—he had the necessary clearance.

  Craig called Scott at the office but got his voicemail. He left a message requesting a call back ASAP. Then he paged him on the emergency system, knowing he’d get that in minutes. On a whim, he thought he’d try the home number and was surprised when Scott picked up.

  “Hey, what’s up? And where are you?”

  Then Craig realized it was almost 09:00 in D.C., and began to do some damage control of his own. “Damn, babe, I’m sorry. I’m near San Francisco. There’s a situation here.”

  Scott broke in. “Yeah, I know. There’s always a situation. I knew what I signed up for with you, but I thought I’d see you at least once in a while.”

  Craig knew this wasn’t going to be fixed now, so he appealed to the desire to be needed, which was very true: he needed Scott’s expertise now. “I know. I know. My communication with you sucks, I’m sorry, you deserve better from me; but can we please talk about that later? I need your help. I think this might be the crisis we’ve trained for, the one we fea
r but hope will never happen. You know the one?”

  Scott switched gears. It was amazing how he could do that—and one big part of why they worked. “Shit. What’s going on?”

  “That line isn’t secure. I need you to call me back on the scrambled SAT phone in the closet. Here’s the number: nine nine nine-five five five-one one one one. Code: nine eight eight four five nine three seven. That code will only work from that SAT phone.”

  “I’ll call in five minutes, and sorry about earlier. You sound genuinely scared,” said Scott.

  “Forget it, don’t apologize when I’m the one who’s been an ass.” Craig ended the call. He didn’t mean to be short, but it bothered him that Scott could read him that way. He was trained not to signal emotion. He feared when Scott could do it, he might be losing his edge.

  Scott’s return call at first added to that fear, starting with, “You know I can always tell when you’re scared,” but Craig relaxed as soon as he heard “what I hope is someday that will be OK with you.” At that point Craig knew he was not alone. He had an ally. Scott knowing him so well did make him feel safe, not easy to admit for a man whose self-imposed obligation was to make others feel safe.

  He proceeded to run through the day, all the events, the flight interception in Korea, the knowledge gained from the spy on that plane; and the fear it was all orchestrated with either the tacit knowledge of Bonner or even worse, masterminded by him. Craig went even further, telling Scott that the director didn’t disavow the idea that the president himself could be involved.

  Scott didn’t take any of this personally; he knew how it would look from the perspective of those paid to do the looking. Yet he was confident in his belief that his dad had no knowledge of this. He hadn’t the slightest doubt.

  Scott summarized what he’d heard to confirm he’d heard correctly. It seemed unreal. “So, what we know is that a spy posed as a truck driver at this car factory in South Korea for years. And that four weeks ago he was instructed through his control to detour delivery of a truckload of specific cars to a warehouse located a mile short of the port. He pulled the truck and trailer inside, where he saw a few dozen men, and four car lifts, and what appeared to be an automotive shop rack filled with spare gas tanks.”