“Hold on,” Mitch said.
The helicopter continued to move away and gain altitude. The frame, now on its side, left the deck and swung out over the edge of the ship.
“Take it out,” Francis repeated.
“We’re trying,” Mitch said.
When another ten seconds had gone by with no sign of the helicopter suffering the fate of the ship’s navigational systems, Francis made up his mind and got to his knees. He stood up slowly, watching the faces of the men in front of him with a wry satisfaction he couldn’t help. The gunfire tapered off, then stopped completely. One of the men shouted something and threw down his rifle. When he turned and ran the contagion quickly spread. Francis took in a deep breath through lungs that existed only in his mind and let out an animal roar of fury. The men began falling over each other to get away. The pilot must have seen him too because the helicopter suddenly dipped and swerved to one side. For a moment it looked like the blades would catch the side of the ship, then it was leveling out and rising again.
“It’s not working,” Mitch said. “We think it may have something to do with Odin. If we cut the link—”
“If you cut the link and it still doesn’t work, we’re fucked,” Francis said. “Don’t cut it.”
The helicopter was at least thirty yards above the ship now, but the bomb dangling beneath it was less than ten. Francis moved to the edge of the deck and set off at a run. He was halfway there when he caught a flash out of the corner of his eye on the deck of the destroyer. A moment later something hit him in the chest and exploded. The force of the impact lifted him off his feet and sent him flying over the cargo hatch into the wall of the superstructure over a hundred feet behind him. He could feel the bulkhead buckle around his head and shoulders as he bounced off and fell to the deck.
“I’m shutting down the link,” Mitch said.
“Don’t you dare,” Francis said. “If you do you better tie me down in that seat first. Do you hear me? That bomb is going to go off before anyone has a chance to figure it out.”
Mitch made no reply. But he didn’t shut down the link either. As Francis suspected, the paralysis he felt was only in his head. When he looked down at his chest there was no sign of the impact at all. Before he could get back to his feet the destroyer fired again. This time Francis ducked and the shot hit the wall behind him. He could feel both the rushing air and the heat from the explosion, but as with every other sensation Odin simulated for its user, these were only perceptions, not pain.
The helicopter, meanwhile, had gained even more altitude and turned toward the destroyer. Francis got to his feet and remained stationary just long enough to present a target. When the shot came, he sidestepped it and set off along the far side of the deck. Assuming the gunner knew what he was doing, Francis began to weave his way forward to make his job a little harder. The next shot missed completely. When he was halfway across the deck, Francis fixed his attention on the frame—now some thirty yards beyond the edge of the rail and moving away quickly—and ran. He reached the edge at a speed no mortal could possibly have managed and jumped.
As his feet left the deck Francis first saw—then felt—the next shot. It passed only inches from his head. Then he was flying through the air toward the moving frame. Odin was powerful, but it was also heavy. He could feel himself losing momentum almost immediately and all but resigned himself to the inevitable as the object in his sights seemed to move further away with every passing moment. More out of reflex than hope he extended his right arm forward, exerting every ounce of his willpower. In response the arm began to change. Francis thought he must be imagining it at first. It began to grow thin. As it did it also grew longer. Then he felt his hand grip something hard. The arm was no longer an arm but a pole almost four times as long as it had been and no thicker than a baseball bat. Then, just as quickly, it was an arm again, pulling the rest of his body forward as it contracted.
Francis let out a scream of triumph and grabbed the frame with his other hand. When he looked down, the sea was rushing up to meet him. It looked as if they were all going in together, then someone either cut the rope, or it snapped. Either way, Francis hit the water with a mighty splash.
Instinctively, he let go of the frame and tried to swim. The absurdity of this soon became apparent as he began to sink much faster than the frame itself. He reached out and took hold of it again, dragging it down with him into the darkness. As he descended he could feel the pressure building up in the ears he didn’t have. Equally strange was the sensation that he needed to breathe. In his head at least he had been breathing all along, and he was now holding his breath.
“Francis?”
It was Mitch. Francis tried to answer by projecting it as a thought rather than opening his mouth, but it didn’t work. He heard someone on the bridge telling Mitch to cut the link. Against his every instinct Francis opened his mouth and drew in a deep breath. It worked.
“Francis, if you can hear me, we’re cutting the link,” Mitch said. “You’re starting to look a little pale on this side.”
“I’m okay,” Francis said. “Just had a little trouble there for a moment.”
Before Mitch could answer his feet sank into the soft mud of the sea bed. The lights were back on and he could see the frame a few feet away, slowly disappearing in a rising cloud of silt.
“I’m on the bottom,” Francis said. “I can’t tell you how weird this is.”
“And the bomb?”
“Right here,” Francis said. “What are the chances it’ll still go off?”
No one seemed to know.
“Alright,” Francis said. “How deep is the water here? It felt like I reached the bottom pretty fast.”
The answer arrived a minute later from Almila. “Could be anywhere from a hundred and fifty to five hundred feet. That near to the coast you’re probably a lot closer to the first. They’re going to come looking for it, you can count on that.”
“But not in the next eight hours,” Francis said.
“No,” Almila said. “It’ll take at least a few days to make the preparations. Is there any way you can move it?”
“I can try,” Francis said. “How am I doing for juice?”
“Less than ten percent,” Mitch said.
Francis didn’t get a chance to say anything else. At least not as Odin.
It began in the tips of his fingers, a strange tingling sensation, as if his hands were going to sleep. As he raised his hand to his face the fingers began to evaporate into a dark mist that quickly sank to the seabed. A moment later his feet were doing the same.
“You seeing this?” Francis said.
“Yep,” Mitch said. “Looks like it’s game over.”
When it reached his elbows Francis felt a sudden sharp pain somewhere in the middle of his head. It lasted only a few seconds, then the world went black. When he opened his eyes he was back on the bridge of RP One.
Chapter 110
The Pandora
Wednesday 27 June 2007
0300 EEST
“Welcome back,” Mitch said. “How you feeling?”
Francis took a moment to reorient himself. The first thought that occurred to him was how weak and fragile his own body really was. He had, in effect, been killed several times over in the last twenty minutes. The thought was both exciting and frightening at the same time.
“Ask me in a few days,” he said.
Francis looked around at the faces on the bridge. They were watching him with a kind of superstitious reverence, as if they weren’t quite sure he was still human. He caught Richelle’s eyes and smiled at her. She smiled back.
Francis turned to the viewport, where both ships were now visible. The helicopter had set down on the stern of the destroyer and was being wheeled inside its hangar. On the deck of the Xilin Gol at least a measure of the panic had abated and men were moving around again.
“We’ve left quite a mess, haven’t we?” Francis said.
“We’ve saved a l
ot of lives,” Watkins said. “Does anything else really matter?”
“I guess not,” Francis said. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go topside and get some air.”
He walked down the gangway on legs that didn’t quite feel like his own. He could still feel that tingling in his feet and hands, a kind of carry-over ghost limb syndrome.
When Richelle slipped away and followed him the rest of them only looked at each other in awkward silence.
– – –
“Mind if I join you?”
Francis turned around and saw Richelle standing there. She looked pale.
“Of course not,” Francis said.
“I’m sorry about what I said—” she began.
“Don’t be,” he interrupted. “I gave as good as I got. And you were right, I’ve been too cautious. I guess I was hoping it would all sort itself out somehow. I was wrong.”
Richelle walked over and stood beside him at the rail. “You shouldn’t blame yourself. If it wasn’t for you we would never have even known.”
“Maybe,” Francis said. “And maybe not. I guess we’ll never know.”
Richelle stood looking out at the sea for a long time. When she turned to him she said, “About what—you know—what Titov—”
“Our lover’s quarrel?” he smiled.
She laughed, but it was a nervous laughter, not dismissive, but embarrassed.
“I think we can put it down to nerves,” Francis said. “He was certainly right about the preschool part though. People around here—”
“He was right,” Richelle said.
Francis looked at her, the surprise on his face almost comical.
“I’ve been telling myself it isn’t true,” Richelle said. “Christ, I’ve been going out of my mind telling myself that. After—after Jack I—”
When Francis didn’t say anything, she looked away and said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be telling you my problems. I mean, I’m the boss, right? Forget it. I’m just being stupid.”
When she began to walk away Francis reached for her hand and pulled her back. “You want to know something?”
“What?”
“I’m pretty stupid myself,” Francis said.
Francis put a hand on the small of her back and pulled her to him. When she opened her mouth to say something he cut her off with a kiss.
“Do that again,” Richelle said. “I think I liked it.”
Francis did.
Chapter 111
Pyongyang, North Korea
Wednesday 27 June 2007
0930 KST
Rhee had made it as far as the inner perimeter fence when he was spotted by one of the patrols Captain Shin had sent out to find him. Kim Jong-sul was no longer with him. Somewhere in the darkness of the tunnel that led from the bed chamber to a small manhole cover near the back of the building Kim, terrified and confused, had fallen and been unable to get back up. Rhee had considered dragging him, but the sound of approaching footsteps had forced him to abandon the idea and take his chances alone. Now, in a last-ditch effort of desperation, Rhee fumbled for his revolver, only to be shot in the leg by the nervous young corporal leading the search. Captain Shin arrived a minute later.
“Take him inside,” the captain ordered.
When they reached the rear entrance of the building they found Kim sitting on the steps surrounded by a dozen soldiers. He was bleeding from a cut above his right eye and one of his shoes had been removed, revealing a badly swollen ankle.
The captain ordered his men to take Rhee inside and approached Kim.
“What’s happening, captain?” Kim asked.
The captain did his best to recount the events of the previous hour. When he was done Kim appeared no less confused. The sad truth was, he had known very little about the circumstances of his own arrival in Pyongyang, and even less about the plans it had been engineered to serve.
“I want to speak to him,” Kim said.
“Of course, dear leader,” the captain said.
The captain instructed two of his men to lift Kim and led them up the stairs into the entrance hall where Rhee’s leg was being bandaged by a medic.
“You may stay, captain,” Kim said. “But please send the rest of your men away.”
They lowered Kim onto the steps. When they were gone he looked at Rhee with clear disgust and said, “If you have cost me the lives of my wife and son you will pay for it with your own. That I promise you.”
Rhee looked up and smiled. “You’re a boy—”
Captain Shin stepped forward and punched Rhee in the face so hard he fell out of the chair and crashed to the ground with a loud groan.
“You are addressing the supreme leader,” Shin yelled. “Guard your tongue.”
When Rhee looked back up the smugness was gone.
“You created this mess,” Kim said. “And you’re going to help me clean it up. You will contact the Chinese and inform them of everything that has happened.”
“It’s too late,” Rhee said. “I’ve activated one of the warheads. If you’re going to kill me, why wait?”
“Dear leader,” the captain said, “we found this on him.”
The captain handed Kim the satellite phone Rhee had been carrying. Kim looked at it for a moment, then handed it to Rhee. “Call them. Tell them what you have done. There may still be time.”
When the captain reached for his sidearm, Rhee took the phone. Kim was about to repeat the demand when it began to ring. He snatched it back from Rhee, pressed the receive button and held it to his ear. “Who is this?”
If the man on the other end was surprised not to hear Rhee’s voice, he hid it well. To Kim’s own surprise he spoke English. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing the dear leader of the Democratic People’s Republic?”
“Who is this?” Kim repeated.
“I’m not one for names,” the man said, “But you can call me Iris.”
“Do you speak for the Chinese?” Kim asked.
“No,” the man said. “But I can certainly pass on a message if you wish.”
Kim hesitated, but only for a moment. “Then please inform them that General Rhee no longer represents our government. We believe he has activated a bomb on a Chinese vessel bound for the port of Shanghai.”
“Would that be a nuclear bomb by any chance?”
“Yes,” Kim said. “There may still be time to stop it.”
“I’ll be sure to let them know,” the man said.
Kim found the man’s calm unsettling. “Please do.”
“And may I ask what you intend to do?” the man said.
Kim looked at the two men now staring back at him with matching expressions of bewilderment. Realizing neither spoke English, Kim said, “If my wife and son are returned to me, I am prepared to settle matters with the Chinese amicably.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” the man said. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d better attend to our little problem.”
“Please hurry,” Kim said.
“Might I make another suggestion?” the man said.
“What?” Kim asked.
“Keep this phone with you. It may turn out to be to our mutual benefit.”
Before Kim could say anything else, the line went dead. Kim regarded the strange handset for a moment, then put it in his pocket. When he looked up Rhee was studying him with clear curiosity.
“Why?” Kim asked. “Why betray the Chinese and risk everything? You told me our cooperation with them was our best hope.”
When Rhee moved his hand toward the inside pocket of his jacket the captain drew his revolver. Kim stepped forward and, ignoring the captain’s warning, reached into the pocket and pulled out the crumpled photograph.
“She was eight years old,” Rhee said, his eyes red and gleaming.
“Your daughter?” Kim asked.
“My sister,” Rhee said.
Kim, whose own son would soon be celebrating his eighth birthday, could think of nothing to say. He handed the pictur
e back to Rhee. “I want him kept here. Put him in one of the rooms upstairs. I’ll decide what to do with him later.”
Kim watched the guards lift Rhee to his feet and help him up the steps. When he was gone Kim turned to the captain. “Call Minister Kay and have him summon the cabinet. Do not relate anything that has happened here. I will inform them myself.”
Conclusion
I
Beijing
The president of the People’s Republic lowered the report and looked across the table at the men assembled before him. Among them, looking anything but stately, was Yew, now the former deputy minister for state security. His colleagues on the council appointed to oversee Project 38 had fared no better.
“Mr. President,” one of the men said, “I still say we should hold them here. What guarantees do we have that Kim Jong-sul will keep his word once they are handed over? How do we even know General Rhee is actually dead?”
The president looked at Yew. “Well?”
Instead of answering, Yew picked up a pen and wrote something on the notepad in front of him. He tore the page off, folded it and handed it to the president. Written on the sheet was a single sentence: The information comes directly from Iris.
The president crumpled the sheet and stuffed it into his pocket. “Very well. Let us proceed.”
The man who had admonished the president not to release Kim’s family shook his head and said, “It could all be a lie.”
“For what purpose?” Yew said. “They no longer have the warheads. Kim has agreed to destroy the tunnel and shut down the facility at Nampo. If he had any intention of retaliating for what happened at Sunan he would have exposed the entire project to the world by now. I don’t think I need to tell you that such a scandal would only strengthen his position and make ours impossible.”
“Retaliating?” the man said. “They shot down a plane with over sixty of our men onboard.”
“I think you’ll find that was General Rhee’s doing,” Yew said. “Kim has only one interest, and that is to see his family.”
Origin - Season Two Page 36