The General guessed the source of the electricity: nuclear energy gone berserk. North Korea’s biggest underground nuclear facility, blasted out of solid rock.
A titanic achievement, to be sure, but at what cost had it been built? Ravi wondered. He stared up at the ceiling, which was still, in places, just barren rock face. But the walls were made of concrete, and even now, through the truck windows, he could feel the soft hum of the generators pervading the entire subterranean structure. Somewhere, behind or beneath this vast reinforced cement cave, there must be a huge nuclear reactor providing the power.
And if anyone wanted to close it down, sealed as it was from the outside world, beneath the 8,000-foot-high peak of Kwanmo-bong, they’d need, well, an atomic bomb. It was, he thought, entirely possible that the only people who could destroy the nuclear facility inside this mountain were the people who built it.
“Jesus Christ,” whispered Ravi.
They drove forwards for about 500 yards, and the truck began an elaborate reverse turn into what appeared to be a loading dock. The driver cut the engine and opened his door, at which point four North Korean officials appeared. Two of them wore white laboratory coats, the others were in that curious military garb of the Far Eastern officer—the olive-drab green trousers, and the open-necked shirt, the same color, with a central zipper instead of buttons, epaulettes, rolled cuffs.
General Rashood and Ahmed joined their driver on the smooth concrete floor and were greeted, in English, by the obvious commandant, who was all business despite the late hour.
“You will see your merchandise?” he said, bowing medium-low, twice. Like a Japanese double-dome. Then he extended his hand and said, “Greetings, General. We welcome you here—hope this first of many visit.”
He introduced himself as Colonel Dae-jung, and his colleagues in turn. Then he led the way back around the corner he had come from and into a wide, brightly lit vestibule where two armed guards and a desk clerk were on duty.
Each man stood to attention and saluted the Colonel, who now led the way along a corridor and up a flight of steps into a wide, bright warehouse with overhead cranes, surrounded by cables leading to great, broad, upwards-sliding steel doors. Ahead of them were two gleaming stainless-steel cylinders about 15 feet high and 6 feet in diameter, known as “flasks” in the trade—heavily constructed Western containers whose sole task on earth was to transport radioactive nuclear material. They were actually perfected at British Nuclear Fuels in England, and were generally considered to be as close to fail-safe as you can get.
Built of one-inch-thick steel, the flasks were heavy with inbuilt shields to reduce radiation, making them at once safer for passersby and also less vulnerable to attack by terrorists.
“Inside there, General,” said the Korean Commandant, “are two nuclear warheads you ordered. Each one correctly assembled includes decoys. Both warheads ready for fitting in the new missiles, packed separately—Chinese guidance and navigational engineers may wish work inside the nose cone of missile—this way no encumbrance of nuclear material. Mostly fit warhead at last moment, before missile sealed and loaded into submarine.”
Ravi nodded. “May I see the warheads?” he asked.
“Certainly. There is small window, glass four inches thick, but you can see inside.” He led Ravi around to the six-inch porthole in the flask and shone a flashlight through it. Ravi peered inside and could just make out the shape of the cone behind the crossbeams and cable that held it secure.
“I assure you, no one disappointed,” said the Commandant. “That’s 200-kiloton warhead. Detonate properly will make all the damage you intend…”
The North Koreans were known for their integrity in these matters, and Ravi did not doubt him. “And the regular missiles?” he asked. “The RADUGA look-alikes.”
“Crated over here,” said the Commandant, leading the way. “One of them not sealed, so you can see—”
Ravi looked at the long, 30-foot crates, each one weighing two tons. “These conventional warheads are assembled and fitted?” he asked.
“Correct.”
“No problem matching the Russians?”
“Absolutely not. We have two Russian RADUGAs here in plant. Reconstruction very straightforward. We have shell casings for certain SCUDs, and for Nodong-1—more or less identical.”
“I won’t even ask how you got ahold of the RADUGAs,” said the General, grinning.
“No. Perhaps not,” replied the Commandant, not grinning. “But we fit entirely Korean-made engine for the rocket. We think it’s marginally superior to Russian motor, and definitely more reliable. Works on regular nitric-acid rocket propellant.”
Ravi nodded. He counted the crates, inspected one of them, leaned over and touched the cold metal casing.
“Are the loading docks at Nampo ready for a heavy cargo like this?”
“Loading docks at Nampo second to none in whole world,” replied the Commandant, modestly. “We expert at loading and transporting missile and warhead. Been doing it for very long time now. No mistakes.”
“Made one off the coast of Yemen a few years back,” said Ravi.
“No mistakes in area of northeast Asia,” said the Commandant. “That more important. That’s what you need to know.”
“You’re right there,” said Ravi. “That more important.”
“Are you satisfied with the shipment?”
“I am. Would you like to conclude the payment details now?”
“Very good, General. Then we have some dinner and then you go. Three of our trucks travel in convoy. Gas tanker inside plant now. Plenty fuel get you to Nampo.”
“I appreciate that,” said Ravi.
The method of payment had been established several months before—$150 million advance in U.S. dollars; the final balance of $350 million U.S. payable upon completion, ex-factory. Arrangements had been made through the Korea Exchange Bank in downtown Seoul, south of the border, and the money had been deposited direct from Tehran several weeks previously.
The bank in Seoul would receive a code word from General Rashood either by phone, fax, or E-mail. Only when the Korea Exchange confirmed that with the Bank Melli Iran would the funds be released to a North Korean Government account. Tonight everyone was on standby awaiting the big-money communiqué from the Hamas General.
He sat before an open online computer in the Commandant’s office, and tapped in the phrase in Persian, se-panjah bash-e—which meant, broadly, Three-fifty, it’s cool. Moments later the code was transmitted 5,000 miles west and six hours back in time to Bank Melli in downtown Tehran, right on the main commercial avenue, Kheyabun-e Ferdosi, opposite the German Embassy.
The reply was back in Seoul in moments…Release funds to the North… Thus, in less than five minutes, $350 million U.S. changed hands, and the brutal terrorist High Command of Hamas took delivery of its first-ever nuclear weapons.
Dinner with the North Koreans surpassed Ravi’s expectations. They provided a superb sinsollo—a special national dish of boiled red meat, fish, and vegetables, flavored with dweonjang (bean paste) and gotchu (red chili), a bit like Japanese shabu shabu, but tastier, saltier. Ravi’s was served with buckwheat noodles and egg rolls.
They drank only mineral water, which he sincerely hoped had not come out of the ground anywhere near the radioactive environs of Kwanmo-bong.
He declined a tour of the laboratories, but could not help seeing dozens of technicians walking around dressed entirely in white, including low-fitting hats and gloves. He trusted that they were staying well clear of the old hexafluoride, and that the executive of this astounding underground complex had rules and regulations about safety and a secure environment for their noxious raw material.
Before he left, the Commandant informed him, “Remember, we conduct the entire nuclear process right here in Kwanmo-bong. Enrichment, harvesting of plutonium, and refinement of U-235. Right into weapons-grade material.
“Down at far end, nearly one mile away, we mak
e rockets and missiles. SCUD-B; Hwasong-5 short-range; Hwasong-6 short-range, like SCUD-C; the Nodong medium range; the Taep’o-dong-1, like Soviet SS-4; the NKSL-1/Taep’o-dong-1 intermediate-range satellite launch; and the big long-range ballistic missiles, Taep’o-dong-2 and NKSL-X-2/Taep’o-dong-2—we make Iran’s Shahab from that last one—like Soviet SS-5, satellite launch. We make what you want. Two-or three-stage missiles. Big payload. No problem. Very good, ha?”
“Excellent,” replied General Ravi. “Most impressive.”
They walked on and turned into the bog-loading bay. The Commandant was correct: There were three big North Korean Army trucks in there now, parked between the massive steel girders of the overhead cranes. A team of young soldiers was swarming all over the vehicles, refitting the big waterproof canvas covers over the rear beds into which were now stacked the thirty-foot-long missiles.
Ravi noticed the truck in which he had arrived contained the two stainless-steel flasks with the nuclear warheads. The eighteen missiles were stacked nine on each of the other two—three stacks of three, piled slightly apart, separated with timbers and wooden pallets, but lashed together with bands of sprung steel.
Ravi considered the weight, probably 18 tons per vehicle, and thought again what he had thought on the long journey to the northeast—They make a hell of a truck in Chongqing.
He shook hands with the Commandant, and he and Ahmed climbed aboard. The young bodyguard had not removed his AK-47 from the rear seat and it had not been touched. It was still loaded.
The three drivers started their engines, and in convoy, they made their way to the main entrance. The entire place was plunged into darkness immediately before the great doors smoothed their way back into the rock. All three trucks were on dipped headlights now, but no other light came flooding out into the pitch dark of Kwanmo-bong.
They drove straight out into the rain and headed for the gates, which were open and held back. The duty guards saluted as they rumbled out onto the southward track and drove noisily away from the underground factory.
Despite the presence of two good-sized, utterly illegal nuclear warheads, encased behind him, the General felt quite righteous as they began their journey. He might be planning something diabolical, but his people had a just cause and were prepared to fight and die for their beliefs, for the right to self-government for the ancient peoples of Palestine and other oppressed nations in the Middle East, which were currently forced to march to the beat of an American drum. On the other hand, the North Koreans were just racketeers. They had no plans, no loyalties, no morals, no higher creeds or beliefs, no allies. They just wanted cash for arms—arms of the worst possible type for whoever wanted to commit crimes against humanity.
The great Allah had proved to be on the side of the Hamas warriors. And He had shown it many times. Ravi knew He would accompany them on all of their great missions against the West. Of that he had no doubt.
The three trucks roared and skidded their way downwards, lurching around bends where the track attempted to follow the contours of the mountain. The surface was rough and the gradients uneven, and the rain never let up. Nor would it, all the way to the junction where the forbidden track to Kwanmo-bong joined the east coast highway.
But the gates were open, ready for them at each checkpoint, and they were not stopped by the guards. They just drove straight on through and turned south, where the rain stopped almost immediately. Heading to the capital city of Pyongyang, they swerved around south of the metropolis before picking up the new expressway to the seaport of Nampo, 25 miles to the southwest. General Ravi was disappointed not to see the urban sprawl of Pyongyang, but he understood there was something bizarre about pulling into the tourist area along the Taedong River, with three trucks filled with nuclear warheads and missiles.
Instead, the little convoy kept going, driving through the night towards the shores of the Yellow Sea. It was almost dawn now, and the sun was fighting its way towards the horizon. Daylight came as they passed through the gates into the dockyard at Nampo, the largest port on the west coast. Ravi and Ahmed, tired and hungry, were astounded at the size of the jetties, all occupied by major container ships, moored beneath great overhead cranes. Most of them flew the flags of countries in Southeast Asia and Africa, but there were three from the Middle East and one from Europe. Freighters had no difficulty entering and exiting the port of Nampo, regardless of their size, since the construction of the enormous West Sea Floodgates significantly elevated water levels and dramatically improved berthing capacity.
Ravi’s convoy pulled up alongside a much smaller ship, an old 500-tonner, dark blue with rust marks all over the hull. The number 81, just visible beneath the paint, gave little away, but the thirty-six-year-old freighter was in fact a converted ASU-class auxiliary ship originally built for the Japanese Navy, a twin-shafted diesel that now looked to be on its last legs.
The for’ard superstructure was in dire need of a few coats of paint, as was its one broad funnel. The aft area was flat and carried a hefty-looking crane, which had once lifted Japanese Naval helicopters. There had also been a small flight deck, now converted for short-haul freight.
The red-painted hull letters on its port bow were barely legible in either Korean script or English—Yongdo. Ravi had no idea what that meant. But she flew the broad maroon stripe and single star of the North Korean flag on her stern, stretched out hard in the gusty morning breeze.
The jetty was staffed entirely by military personnel, and it was not until the three army trucks came to a halt between carefully painted markings, and they all disembarked the trucks, that General Ravi noticed they were in a sealed area. A large iron gate had already been closed behind them. There was obviously no way out, and there sure as hell was no way in.
Awaiting their arrival was the ship’s commanding officer, North Korean Navy Captain Cho Joong Kun.
“Welcome to Nampo,” he said in English. “Please come aboard immediately. I have arranged breakfast and cabins. We sail tonight on the tide around midnight. As you know, it’s a two-day voyage.”
Ravi glanced down at the officer’s sleeve insignia—two black stripes on gold, with a downward line of three silver stars. In this Navy you needed to make Commodore to get four stars.
“Good morning, Captain Cho,” he said. “I’m glad to see you. We’ve been driving all night.”
“Yes, I was told. You may sleep most of the day if you wish. By the time you awaken we’ll be loaded. That crane over there will be ready for us in about three hours. It will take some time. You have a rather delicate cargo.”
“Very delicate,” replied Ravi. “And expensive.”
1900, Thursday, May 28 (Same Day)
27.00N 124.20E, Depth 400, Speed 25.
Barracuda II moved swiftly north, through 460 fathoms of ocean, 80 miles northwest of Okinawa, and now clear of the long chain of the Ryukyu Islands, where the ancient territories of imperial Japan had finally come to an end.
They were running up towards the line of the Japan current, which effectively provides China with a frontier for the Pacific end of the East Sea. The newly promoted Rear Adm. Ben Badr intended to stay out in the deeper water on the Japan side of the current as long as he could. Like most Middle Eastern and Eastern submariners, he preferred to run deep whenever he could, away from the prying eyes of the American satellites.
It was of course unusual for a Rear Admiral to serve as Commanding Officer, but Ben would have a full-fledged Captain on board for their next mission, and his own authority in this ship was tantamount. Anyway, the Hamas were not hidebound by the traditions of other people’s navies. They were in the process of establishing their own.
The Barracuda had cleared Zhanjiang, headquarters of China’s Southern Fleet, on Tuesday evening, on the surface, in full view of anyone who was interested. They went deep just before the Luzon Strait, which separates Taiwan and the Philippines, and were now around halfway through their 2,400-mile journey to the North.
This
was the second of the two Barracuda s, which the Hamas organization had purchased from Russia in utmost secrecy. And while the Americans may have harbored serious suspicions about who actually owned it, they only knew three things: for one, Russia did not admit to selling this particular Barracuda to anyone; two, China did not admit to owning it; and three, neither did anyone else.
The fate of the first Barracuda, destroyed in Panama, was known to the Americans, but it was a highly classified subject, and Washington was as close-mouthed as Beijing and Moscow.
Adm. Ben Badr knew that the sight of Barracuda II, steaming cheerfully out of Zhanjiang, bound for God knows where, would most certainly have attracted the attention of U.S. Naval Intelligence. And in Fort Meade, the same old question was doubtlessly about to rear its irritating head again: Who the hell owns this goddamned thing?
The Barracuda, an 8,000-ton, 350-foot-long Russian-built hunter-killer, was on its way to its first mission. Its initial destination was the ultrasecret Chinese Navy Base of Huludao, way up in the Yellow Sea, the cul-de-sac ocean where China prepared and conducted the trials of its biggest Inter-Continental Ballistic Missile submarines.
Scimitar SL-2 (2004) Page 7