Korean Intercept

by Mertz, Stephen

  This time of year, the twisted fruit trees lining the small hillside clearing were bare. He knelt at Mai's grave, to lean over and kiss the crudely wrought, simple headstone. During daylight visits, the stone was most often warm to the touch, even during the winter months, warmed by the sunshine though he would tell himself that it was the warmth of Mai's spirit.

  Not tonight. Tonight he could not forget the worries that consumed him even now, even at this most sacred of places to him. His wife's name passed his lips and he remained kneeling at her graveside, gazing upon her headstone as if it might provide him with answers and comfort.

  Neither came to him.

  It was at this exact spot that the extraordinary chain of events had begun; a series of incredible occurrences still unfolding at an alarming rate, the stakes rising and scope broadening with every passing minute from his humble village to the large world beyond his small and insignificant world. Something of this magnitude was surely creating a world crisis, and it was numbing for him to think that he was at the center of it. The space shuttle's overflight had taken it far enough into the valley, away from the village, to allow the acoustics of the mountainous terrain to mute the sounds of the crash from his village. But because he had been here at his wife's gravesite, he had certainly heard, and his life had changed in the instant when he had chosen to investigate and had beheld the awesome, snow-swept sight of the enormous spacecraft, and had made the acquaintance of the American crew. Because of this, he had endured watching his daughter have a gun pointed at her head, and the longstanding animosity between himself and his son-in-law had resurfaced at the worst time, especially considering the other secret held by Ahn; a deep, old, dirty secret that would get Ahn killed in an instant, were anyone else to learn of it. Events had overtaken and were overwhelming him.

  He whispered again to the headstone before which he knelt, his hands folded as a man praying to a shrine.

  "Mai. . . ."

  A male voice behind him said, in a snide, mocking tone, "How very touching."

  The voice broke the stillness, and Ahn's contemplation, like a gunshot. He leapt to his feet, realizing that he had been so lost in his reverie that he, the reputed best hunter in his village, had been surprised like the dumbest of animals.

  A pair of men had soundlessly approached the clearing from behind, and they now stood facing him. They were not soldiers, but they were not civilians. They wore camouflage fatigues, and each was heavily armed with a pistol, a sheathed knife and a rifle.

  One of them had the finely-boned physique of the Chinese, but was of muscular build. An old knife scar bisected one side of his face. A headband held back greasy hair that glistened.

  He demanded, "Do you know who I am, old man?"

  "Yes, I know who you are. You are Chai Bin." He saw no reason to add that his wanderings through these mountains had taken him to their base, which he'd observed more than once from afar.

  Chai smiled an unpleasant smile. "And I know who you are, Ahn Chong."

  Ahn had regained his composure after having been startled. He drew himself to full stature.

  "Everyone seems to know everything about old Ahn Chong, from the military commander of the airfield to common hill bandits."

  The man who stood next to Chai took a menacing step forward. He reeked of foul body odor. He drew a hand back, about to strike Ahn.

  "Curb your insolence, peasant—"

  Chai raised his hand in a gesture that stayed the other. "Han, no. I do not want this old man injured. I seek his cooperation."

  Han drew back, glowering. "As you wish." His hand rested on the handle of his knife as if he would like nothing better than to step forward and slit Ahn Chong's throat.

  Ahn insulted him merely by pretending to ignore him. "Why would I cooperate with you?" he asked Chai. "You are a thief, a murderer, a plunderer."

  Chai laughed. "And you're brave as an old buzzard. True, I am those things you say, and more . . . none of it good. But as to why you will cooperate with me, old man, it is for the very reason you stated: because I do know everything about you. As for Colonel Sung, you need search no further than your own family to affix the blame for what happened today in your village."

  Ahn blinked. "You know about that?"

  "Must I repeat myself? I know everything. I have eyes and ears everywhere. There are those among my men who have relatives in your village. There are those who have brothers or cousins or fathers serving in the military."

  "Are you collaborating with the colonel?"

  Han snorted, and spat upon the ground. "Fool. The military would love to see us in shackles or dead."

  Chai nodded. "I have had the airfield under surveillance since the first day of its construction. When Sung went to your village today, my 'eyes' were there and they reported to me. They told me what happened. I had already known about the shuttle, of course."

  "Of course," said Ahn dryly.

  Chai stroked his beard as if in contemplation, but there was mockery in his eyes. 'The colonel left his base today on orders from Pyongyang to locate the American spacecraft. Until today the colonel has never left his precious airfield. Peculiar, don't you think?"

  "You will forgive me," said Ahn, "but I do not know what to think."

  "Then I will answer the question for you. It is most peculiar. Colonel Sung operates under a cloak of absolute secrecy. I wonder if that had anything to do with the space shuttle going down. And if so, who exactly is the good Colonel taking orders from? A helicopter with Japanese civilian markings has been observed landing and taking off from the airfield periodically."

  "And why do you tell me these things?" Ahn made a rude sound. "I am like you in one way, Chai Bin. I hold no allegiance to our government. They. . . ." He thought to tell them about Mai, of how she died, of the treatment denied his wife by the state. But he could not share the holiness of her memory with men such as these. He said simply, "I hold no allegiance." His eyes narrowed. "You know where the shuttle is."

  Chai chuckled. "Naturally, I do. That is why you are here speaking to me, peasant. You see, I know that you are an informant for the CIA."

  Ahn gasped as if he had been struck. "But no one—I mean, that is to say . . . no, that's not true!"

  He heard himself mumbling the inane protestation like a truant schoolboy, dumbfounded that his deepest, darkest, most closely guarded secret—the secret that could get him summarily executed—had been stated so casually by this man he'd never met.

  "You were supplied with a transmitter," said Chai. "I assume that it's hidden near here, in the vicinity of this graveyard. Your visits to your wife's grave are the perfect cover. Your control officer's code name is Fox Dog Alpha."

  "How do you know this about me?"

  "When the Americans and the Russians fought their Cold War, I was subsidized by funds from the CIA. I supplied them with routine intelligence. The name of my contact control officer was Fox Dog Alpha. I met him one time only. We got drunk together. He told me things. He told me about you."

  Ahn felt his chest tighten. "What do you want of me?"

  "I want you to contact Fox Dog Alpha."

  "But you just said that he was your—"

  "He was my control officer during the Cold War," said Chai. "They abandoned me when they no longer needed me."

  Ahn felt drained, sapped of any strength, of any of his own will. "How long have you known my secret?"

  "Do not trouble yourself. Your secret has remained safe with me, and will in the future. That is, if you cooperate with me. You," said Chai, "will be my liaison with the Americans. You will pass along what I instruct you to tell them. I have possession of their shuttle and of its crew survivors. I am prepared to negotiate. I, Chai Bin, await their response. You will relay my offer to the United States government."

  On board Air Force One at forty thousand feet

  The designation Air Force One applies to any Air Force plane the president is traveling on, but usually, as now, it was one of two 225-fo
ot Boeing 747-200s, part of the 89th Airlift Wing based out of Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland. Air Force One is more comfortable than the Waldorf Astoria and better stocked than the White House kitchen. There is a conference room, comfortably-padded reclining seats in cabins for senior staff, and quarters for off-duty pilots and Secret Service personnel. There is a medical room where emergency surgery can be performed. There are fax machines as well as eighty-five telephones aboard, and live TV feeds by satellite. The president can make phone calls to anywhere in the world: to astronauts in space, or admirals in submarines. There are two thousand meals aboard, and in-flight refueling is possible after seven thousand miles. Air Force One could stay aloft for a week, though it's never been done. There is a jamming system to deflect antiaircraft missiles, and wiring that can withstand the electromagnetic effects of a thermonuclear blast. Air Force One generally carries seventy passengers, including thirteen journalists who fly in the rear of the plane, and twenty-three crewmembers. The chief executive has a private office with a wooden desk and a swivel leather chair. This "flying Oval Office" is adjoined on one side by a private bedroom with a shower, and on the other by a conference room, which in its time had seen everything from birthday parties to Mideast peace accords brokered in flight well before official announcements were made and treaties signed.

  The conference room was presently a war room.

  Four men of military background each concluded speed-reading the array of printout data and analysis spread out upon the table, materials brought by each to be shared with the others.

  The president sat at the head of the table with MacDonald, his secretary of defense, and Latisha Samuels, his national security advisor, seated to his either side. He was due to address a previously-scheduled fundraising event in San Francisco that evening, and would be attending the opening of a new defense plant the following day.

  He leaned back, rubbing his tired eyes, then took a sip from a can of Diet Coke. "So, North Korea shows no sign of backing down?"

  "They're stonewalling," said MacDonald. "They want to see how far we'll push it before they budge an inch. They've initiated their own search and rescue."

  The president crunched the empty aluminum cola can in his fist. "Damn. Every minute counts. Let's go on the assumption that some or all of the crew did survive. We could have walking wounded over there."

  The national security advisor was an attractive woman by any standard, but at the moment her mouth was a tight, angry line. "Their so-called search and rescue would make a fine diversionary tactic."

  "If Pyongyang is up to diversionary tactics," said the president, "that suggests that the Koreans brought down that shuttle."

  "You're damn right, sir," said MacDonald. "Their airfield in Hamgyong Province is evidence of intent, right in the region where Liberty dropped off the screen."

  The president ran his fingers through his cropped hair. "But do they have the contacts and the sophistication to reach all the way to Houston and set up a NASA scientist in a sex trap?"

  "That," said Samuels, "is why we need to keep the North Koreans from knowing that we know about the existence of that airfield. We know the shuttle isn't at that airfield, so if they were behind it, something went wrong. If this is someone else's operation and they're operating on North Korean soil, the North Koreans will be coming down hard on that area now that they know what's up, and the less they know, the better for us. Our best bet is to send a small force in unilaterally, to secure our shuttle and extract our people.

  "Galt really is the man to put together a package like this," said Samuels.

  The president grimaced as if he had a toothache. "I don't want to talk about Trev Galt."

  "If we stage an op like the secretary is suggesting," Samuels continued, "it had better be damned fast and accurate. The North Korean military is riddled with old-timers from the Korean War who still hold positions of command. Those crazy old coots would like nothing better than to go out in a blaze of glory, taking as many American servicemen along with them as they could. And they don't much give a damn how many of their own they sacrifice in the process. The younger officers are too cowed or too new to voice dissent. I wouldn't put it past those whackos to push for a nuclear showdown over something like this."

  A heavy silence fell over the room, enveloped by the subtle, powerful, throbbing hum of the plane in flight.

  MacDonald loosened his tie in a gesture of irritably. "If cooler heads among the North Koreans are thinking negotiation, of letting us in, they're cutting this one awful close. The general is right. The whole mess is dicey."

  The president made an easy overhand toss of the crumpled aluminum can into a nearby wastebasket. "And let us not forget the American people. The media disconnect on Liberty is starting to fray at the edges, I'm told. Sometime during this visit to San Francisco, we're going to have to go public."

  Latisha Samuels' militant bearing softened. She sighed. "This is going to make the Cuban missile crisis look like Tiddlywinks."

  "It's not going to go that far." The president leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "My place in history will not be that of the president on whose watch we engaged in our first nuclear exchange with another country. And by the way, staying on focus but on another subject, where the hell is Trev Galt? Wil says he disappeared after he touched down on his return flight from Houston."

  Samuels sighed again, this time with a mixture of respect and displeasure. "Your chief of staff is right as usual. And our man Galt does know how to disappear, I'll give him that. Uh, sir, we don't even know if he's in Washington . . . or in the country, for that matter."

  The president chuckled. "Ah, Trev. Well, what the hell did we expect, with his wife among the missing? Trev Galt is not the type of man who sits on the sidelines when the action is hot."

  MacDonald was not amused. "Sir, given the delicate nature of our standoff with the North Koreans, it seems to me that Galt could pose a serious threat to our interests if he gets personally involved any further."

  Samuels nodded. "It is not an exaggeration to say that one misstep in this situation by someone or something could trigger a nuclear holocaust."

  Before the president could respond, a door opened. Wil Fleming stepped in. The brisk young chief of staff looked harried. Fleming had aged half a lifetime during the preceding half-day. He placed a decoded message on the table before the president.

  "Sir, there's been a break. We have contact with Liberty . . . sort of."

  Chapter Eighteen

  North Korea

  Kate's NASA light fiber clothing offered some protection against the cool dampness of the cave, but there was a clammy coolness to the cramped, cell-like chamber that was their prison that had settled into the marrow of her bones. A single, dim oil lamp affixed to the wall illuminated the cave. It was impossible to find a comfortable position or to keep warm. A guard was posted at the narrow opening, watching them, a rifle held at port arms.

  Kate knelt beside Commander Scott, who sat on the ground with his back resting against the rock wall. His broken leg was stretched out before him, held rigid by a pair of tree branches that were wrapped, with dirty pieces of fabric, at his ankle and upper thigh. Scott was visibly struggling to remain conscious. His flesh was pasty. He was covered with a cold sweat. She was spoon-feeding him from a bowl of rice soup, alternately providing him with sips of the cool, clear water that had been brought to them moments earlier.

  Bob Paxton watched from where he sat, cross-legged, spooning his soup with slurping desperation. His broken, swollen nose and the bruised puffiness about his eyes were turning from red to purple. It was difficult for her to imagine that she had once thought him handsome, or even nice for that matter. Paxton set aside his emptied bowl and gulped a sloppy slurp of water, glaring at Kate.

  "Don't think playing nursemaid to the commander will compensate for what you've done, you treacherous bitch. You actually helped Chai inventory the stuff after they brought it back here!"

 
; The words slapped at her like a physical blow because, for all her rationalization, what he said was true.

  She returned to administering to Ron Scott. The flight commander's eyelids fluttered, and his head tilted to one side. She gently steadied his head with a hand to the back of his neck, and, using her other hand, she held another spoonful of soup to his lips.

  "Commander, please. If you can hear me at all, you must eat. Think of your family. Sir, you must stay alive. We have to get you home. Please, eat the soup."

  His lips quivered. "My wife," he mumbled. "Lucy. Tell her I love her." The soup dribbled down the side of his chin.

  There was a flurry of movement outside the fissure in the rock that created the entrance to this chamber. The guard was suddenly grasped from behind by someone unseen, and tossed aside. Kate's heart soared for one wild, crazy moment. Trev! Trev, you've come! And her heart sank just as quickly when the bandit, Han, replaced the guard in the doorway.

  Fumes of alcohol and body odor emanated from him just as when he'd first captured them in another cave, and force-marched them here. Chai Bin's second-in-command held a pistol. Han tottered drunkenly, his bleary eyes scanning them. He leered at Kate. He smacked his lips and said something in Korean.

  Some survival instinct brought Ron Scott awake. Pale, weak, his eyes stared hatred at the drunken man with the gun. He started to translate in a weak voice.

  Kate kept an eye on Han, while her peripheral vision darted about, seeking a rock, anything she could use as a weapon. Han obviously remembered all too well her martial arts display in front of Chai when she had made a fool of him. He kept his distance from her, but aimed his pistol at her.

  "Save your strength, Commander. I think I know what he said."

  Han next spat an angry tirade at Paxton, who cowered in a corner, his knees higher than his head, as if Han were ten feet tall, and not some grimy little brute with a gun.