Korean Intercept

by Mertz, Stephen

  "Sir, excuse me. The President wants to see you."

  Meiko and Trev nodded to each other, the polite unspoken goodbye of two mere acquaintances, and she watched them walk away, angry at herself for having brought up her and Trev's private life the way she had. It had been gnawing at her more than she'd realized, obviously, for everything to come firing out of her as it had. She had always considered herself to be highly disciplined, professionally and emotionally.

  Watching Trev and the man leave the press room, a new thought muted her emotions. Could there be a connection between the space shuttle and the preoccupation, the disengagement, which she had sensed on the part of Press Secretary Halliday? The Liberty's mission and schedule were classified, but the launch had been reported as a success.

  Had something gone wrong?

  Chapter Five

  North Korea

  Dawn silhouetted the mountains. Sunrise rouged the snowy slopes of Mount Paekdu. The intermittent flurries of last night had not stuck to the frozen ground at the lower elevation where the airfield dominated a narrow, shallow valley.

  The perimeter of the military landing field was a galvanized welded-mesh fence topped with barbed wire that glinted in the frozen sunshine. At each corner of the oblong perimeter of the base was a watchtower. Set apart from the barracks, which were dreary, squat structures of cinderblock, was a modern control tower rising from a single-story building with an oversized, rotating dish-shaped radio and television antenna on the roof. The building and tower dominated an inner compound surrounded by its own barbed wire perimeter, complete with patrolling sentries armed with assault rifles.

  Sergeant Bol Rhee stood with his men on the tarmac beside a Soviet-made M-6 helicopter, watching the ground crew work frantically on the engine. It was twenty minutes since the last of the other gunships had lifted off, but since the flight crews were under orders to utilize the onboard heaters only during the months of December through February, on this brisk November morning Bol was glad for the delay. It gave him and his platoon precious additional time to store up what warmth they could from the sunshine before boarding the helicopter for what would surely be a cold, cold flight into the surrounding hills. Search flights spreading out in concentric circles from the base had begun hours earlier and would be continued around the clock.

  Bol Rhee had the stocky, rawboned build of the peasant class from which he came. He sometimes wished that he was still a youngster, that he had never grown up to become a career soldier in the People's Army. But wishing did not make it so, and he was far better off than many. The country above the 38th parallel was wracked with poverty. At least in the army he ate well and had a roof over his head.

  He thought again that this was the strangest duty assignment of his army career. His company had been sent to provide security for this hastily constructed airfield. The completed runway was much wider and longer than any Bol had ever seen. But except for the patrol gunship helicopters already stationed here, no aircraft had ever landed or taken off from this runway. Supplies and materials were delivered by truck at night. Military engineers had constructed the base in record time. There were two distinctly separate, vigorously segregated groups: those who worked in and around the tower and those who provided security. Since the completion of the base, the technicians in their white smocks had stepped up their work around the clock. There continued to be virtually no air traffic in or out, with one exception. Sometimes in the middle of the night, a helicopter would touch down for a brief visit. Civilians were aboard and spent their time in the tower. During one such visit, Bol had seen the helicopter's markings. Not military, but Japanese civilian!

  The only thing stranger was what had happened earlier this morning. The entire company had been positioned along the perimeter. The airfield landing lights were turned on for the first time since the base had become operational, and Bol had witnessed something he would never forget. Something amazing.

  A space shuttle with American markings had soared in for a landing, had appeared fully ready to land, before unexpectedly overshooting the runway at the last possible instant and disappearing majestically into the darkness!

  Then, within minutes he'd been standing in formation with his men, listening to Colonel Sung order the sweep of the surrounding countryside in search of an American space shuttle, which the base commander told them had malfunctioned while in orbit and had attempted an emergency landing but was feared to have crashed. This was a cooperative venture authorized by the United States, their commanding officer had informed Bol and the other troops. No man present was to utter a word of this to anyone, under penalty of death.

  Bol believed the part about the death penalty, but not much else. Truly, a very strange duty assignment.

  Colonel Sung now appeared, striding through the morning sunlight toward the helicopter from the direction of the tower, just as the maintenance crew chief signaled to the pilot. The gunship's engine coughed, sputtered, coughed again and started, filling the air with harsh black diesel exhaust. Bol ordered his men aboard, then turned to greet the base commander.

  Sung's uniform was heavily starched. His boots were spit-polished, but he was soft around the middle from too much beer. "Valuable time is being lost, Sergeant. I had wanted your platoon in place by first light." Sung raised his voice to be heard above the engine noise.

  "My apologies, Colonel," said Bol. "The helicopter—"

  "Yes, well, it's been repaired, hasn't it? Remember, I want a thorough sweep of your sector, Sergeant. If Japanese troops are sighted, do not engage them. Radio your position without delay."

  "One question, Comrade Colonel. Chinese border patrols have also been known to cross into this region from time to time."

  "Expect anything. And stop wasting time."

  "Yes, Comrade Colonel."

  Bol boarded the helicopter.

  The gunship lifted off, banking to the east. As he sat on the hard bench, shivering with his men, Bol wrapped his arms across his chest and hugged himself to stay warm. He looked out a side window to watch Sung and the airfield tilt away and recede into the distance below. It was even colder in the helicopter than he'd thought it would be.

  He wondered what this day would bring.

  Ahn Chong led them to a rocky, craggy outcrop of boulders where foliage overgrew a narrow gash, a fault in the stony surface at a low jut of rock that was well camouflaged by dense thickets.

  The interior of the cave was vaguely illuminated by refracted light of the new day, slanting in through the foliage that concealed the entrance. There was a musty, unpleasant closeness about the place, a rodent smell, and some old animal droppings scattered about. But at least it wasn't cold. It was almost warm in comparison to the world outside, here in this close, crowded, dim, musty, confined space no more than ten feet high and thirty feet deep.

  They were less than a kilometer from the Liberty, by Kate's estimation, though it had been difficult to be certain as the old man led them along the rugged, circuitous route to get here. It had been extremely slow going with Ron hobbling along, staying off his broken leg as best he could, leaning heavily on Ahn Chong. Kate and Bob transported Terri.

  Several times along the way, they had done what Scott had first commanded them to do while still at the shuttle, when a North Korean gunship equipped with searchlights had swept by as low as the hazardous terrain would allow, without spotting the camouflaged shuttle. Then, and several times en route, their small group had been forced to huddle beneath the cover of tall pine trees while military helicopters rumbled by overhead at a slow rate of speed like bloated, low-flying prehistoric birds searching for prey.

  "Ahn said we're about three kilometers from the airfield," Scott said after the most recent flyover, listening carefully with an ear cocked. "That chopper's getting set to touch down."

  "We expected that, didn't we?" Kate spoke matter-of-factly. "If they find us, they'll know the shuttle is nearby."

  "Which means we do our best to see that they
don't find us," Scott grunted.

  The old North Korean civilian had then led them the final short distance to the cave, which they'd crawled into just as another helicopter had flown over. Kate didn't know if it was the same one. She and Bob Paxton stretched Terri Schmidt out on the ground of the cave as gently as they could.

  Kate despaired for Terri, who looked to be in terrible condition. Her pulse beat was faint, scarcely detectable. There was a trickle of blood snaking from Terri's left ear, indicating a serious concussion. Kate brushed the blood away. Terri's eyelids fluttered from time to time, but she had lapsed into unconsciousness.

  They were hardly inside the cave when Scott and Ahn Chong launched into an exchange in Korean. Then the old man left them.

  "He said he has to get back to his village or he'll be missed," Scott explained. The tautness in the Flight Commander's voice was the only indication of the excruciating pain he had to be feeling from his broken leg. "He thinks we'll be safe here. He promised to come back as soon as he can and bring us food."

  Paxton frowned. "That gives the troops in those choppers more time to find us. And why should that old guy want to help us? I say we don't trust him."

  Kate remained kneeling beside Terri, dabbing the woman's forehead with a piece of tissue dampened from Kate's canteen. "We have to get Terri some medical attention."

  "Ahn Chong told me that there aren't any medical facilities anywhere near here." Something approaching exasperation crept into Ron's voice. "The only doctors in this region are military, and the nearest one is fifty kilometers away."

  "So you are suggesting that we just stay here all day?" Paxton asked. He shook his blond head. "Hell, we're sitting ducks."

  "No more than if we venture out in broad daylight," countered Scott, "with North Korean army patrols and helicopters already looking for us. Mr. Ahn also informed me that there are bandits in these hills. They've been terrorizing the locals on both sides of the border. They're heavily armed. Ahn Chong said they pose as much of a threat to us as the military."

  The lines of apprehension in Bob Paxton's features had only grown deeper. "Speaking of the military, how do we know they're not looking for us so they can help us?"

  "Here's why. Ahn says that after the soldiers started work constructing that base we flew over, the locals were told to stay away or they'd be shot, and there have been regular patrols through the villages to intimidate them. I'm not about to trust our well-being and a four-billion-dollar space shuttle to thugs like that, if we can help it."

  Kate stepped forward to join the conversation. "Do you still think someone forced us down? Were we supposed to land at that airfield?"

  Paxton uttered a rude, exasperated snort of dismissal. "But that's crazy. How could anyone pull off something like that and hope to get away with it?"

  "I don't know," Scott admitted with a frown. "Maybe it happened like that, maybe not. But here are my orders. We're going to lie low until we get a better handle on whatever it is we've gotten ourselves into. For now, one of us has to find some cover outside and keep an eye out in case anyone does come this way. We're on high ground here. We should have some advance warning. We'll risk making a break for it if we have to."

  "I'll volunteer for guard duty," Paxton said. "But I still don't like the idea of trusting that old gook."

  Kate eyed him with open disapproval. "Bob, this is Ron's call. You heard his orders."

  Scott locked eyes with Paxton. "Maybe you've got a better idea?"

  "Maybe I do." Paxton avoided looking Scott in the eye. "Uh, maybe I should take command. Y'know, sir, with that busted leg of yours—"

  "Kate is second in command, if anything happens to me. You know that."

  Kate said, "We've already discussed it, sir."

  Scott studied the blond-haired man before him as if for the first time. "Then what the hell, Specialist?"

  Paxton stared with a trace of contrition at the cave floor. "I just want to make sure we get out of this alive."

  "We all want that," Scott snapped. "But we will maintain the chain of command. Is that clear?"

  Paxton gulped audibly. "Yes, sir. It's clear."

  "Position yourself outside. Kate and I will take turns relieving you every few hours. Stay under cover."

  Paxton's jaw tightened. "I know enough to take cover. Don't treat me like I'm stupid."

  "Then stop acting like you are."

  Kate said, "Stop it, both of you. We've got to get along if we're going to pull through this."

  "Don't you get on me too," Bob groused at her. "I'm on my way."

  He leaned down to crawl through the shrubbery concealing the cave. Scott suddenly gripped him by the shoulder.

  "Wait. Someone's coming."

  Kate heard it too: the shuffling of footfalls on rock outside the cave, not far away. Voices in conversation in what sounded like Korean. Someone emitted a coarse laugh.

  At that moment, Terri Schmidt's eyes opened. The eyes were glassy, unblinking and semi-conscious. Terri's head began rolling from side to side. Her moaning filled the cave. "Mom, I'm sorry," she mumbled weakly. "Dad? Where's Jimmy . . . Mom, don't . . . where are you? Mom. . . ."

  Bob Paxton glared around with a look of pure panic. "Make her shut up!"

  Kate bit back an angry reply. She placed her fingertips lightly across Terri's lips, leaning down to coo comforting, whispered sounds. It worked. Terri's moaning and mumbling tapered off.

  Too late.

  A voice outside shouted something at the others. The laughter and conversation stopped. Kate heard the metallic snapping of rounds being chambered into weapons. Footfalls began advancing across the rocky ground outside, toward the cave entrance.

  Scott and Bob Paxton were poised just inside the entrance, their pistols held up and ready. Kate unholstered her revolver. Terri began moaning again, louder than before.

  "They've got us," Paxton said, desperation in his eyes and in his voice. "We're dead."

  Chapter Six

  Houston, Texas

  There is a pervasive order and simplicity about the Johnson Space Center, the 100-building complex where more than 10,000 NASA employees work amid a purposefully comfortable setting of uniformity and coherence. Neat green lawns, trees, walkways and man-made ponds of symmetrically landscaped quadrangles sparkle between sprawling work centers.

  In a corner of the massive parking lot adjacent to the concrete-and-glass command center building, Special Agent Claude Jackson, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation's counter-espionage branch, surreptitiously placed a radio beeper on the inside surface of a Volvo's rear fender in a movement so practiced, so slick, it would have gone unnoticed even by someone paying attention to him. However, no one was paying undue attention to the tall black man striding into the parking lot. Passersby coming and going from the building were occupied with their own determined preoccupations, as were the drivers of those cars that entered and exited the parking lot in a moderate but steady flow. They paid scant attention to Jackson as he stooped down briefly, sprightly for a man of his considerable bulk, as he passed between the Volvo and the vehicle in the next parking space. In no more than the length of time it would take to flick a twig from his pants cuff or a speck of dust from his shoe, it was done. He continued on to the unmarked Bureau car parked several aisles away where Chalmers, his partner, sat waiting behind the steering wheel. The car's interior was comfortably warm from the early afternoon sunshine pouring in through the windshield.

  A pair of binoculars and a long-lens camera, loaded with high-speed film, rested on the car seat. Jackson lifted the binoculars, focusing them on a side exit of the building. He said, "Better let 'em know we're in place."

  Chalmers spoke into his lapel mic, reporting across the tac net to their senior watch officer stationed with backup nearby. "We've set up surveillance."

  Jackson and Chalmers worked the enforcement detail out of the center's FBI office. Undercover agents were in place at every level of the center, a protective measure des
igned to neutralize sabotage and/or espionage. The Johnson Space Center held the secrets of everything relating to the American space program, and so every person on center grounds had to be considered a potential security risk. This was the reality that mandated the Bureau's security operations in Houston. For the inhabitants and workers of the space center, it was no secret that undercover FBI agents worked among them. Such agents were viewed resentfully as spies by hardworking Americans, who took offense at the suspicion of their integrity and patriotism implicit in such undercover activity; nor were they much appreciative of the routine use of lie detectors and surveillance.

  As viewed through Jackson's binoculars, the space center appeared to function as normal. His partner had selected a surveillance position well inside the parking lot, with enough distance from the building to ensure that their daylight surveillance went wholly unnoticed by the parade of briefcase carriers hustling about. The slight increase in their number, discernible only to Jackson's trained eye, alone indicated the massive event of a few hours ago.

  Chalmers slapped the steering wheel impulsively. "Damn, this is like trying to catch a fart with a butterfly net. We're spread way too goddamn thin to get results as fast as Washington wants." He had a youthful face set above a middle-aged body. He and Jackson had been partners for eighteen months.

  Because of the time it would take to go over every personnel file at Houston for any possible leads to what had happened to Liberty, the assistant director who honchoed counter-intel ops from Washington had promised reinforcements before the day was out. Chalmers knew this. He was just an impatient guy. Without taking the binoculars' focus from the building exit, Jackson said, "At least we have those prelim scans to work from."

  Chalmers grunted irritably. "I guess that'll have to do. The pressure's on, that's for goddamn sure."