by Ward Larsen
At the direction of the president, a veritable constellation of assets had been reoriented to manage the crisis. A satellite over the central Pacific, which employed infrared and laser sensors with remarkable resolution, recorded a lone athletic man sprinting toward the docks on Midway’s Sand Island. From a similar orbital track, albeit greater altitude, the enhanced radar imaging sensors of a different bird were locked onto a suspicious fishing vessel: six miles west of Midway and closing in fast. Far to the east, over the Korean Peninsula, a new geosynchronous unit fed real-time streaming images of a hillside retreat in the southeastern hills.
Impressive as it all was, the most impactful intelligence gathered that hour came not from the National Reconnaissance Office and its array of orbiting marvels, but from its even more shadowed sister organization—the National Security Agency.
Long the world leader in communications intercepts, the NSA, in close cooperation with the CIA, had been developing a revolutionary surveillance package to monitor Kwon Il-sun’s primary residence outside Pyongyang. From NSA’s point of view, the challenge all along in spying on the North Korean leadership was the regime’s cave-dwelling level of technology. The lack of any meaningful digital infrastructure—the same reason Bureau 121 was forced to set up shop in marmot-infested buildings in Mongolia—meant that Dear Leader’s primary residence had few computers to hack. Indeed, by one reliable source, there were but five computers in the entire main palace, and two of these ran nothing more than video games for Kwon’s amusement. Altogether, it led NSA penetration teams to view North Korea rather like a General Motors salesman might view a country without roads: a place with limited opportunity. So it was, given that burrowing into code and co-opting signals was not an option, the agency’s planners began to explore more direct eavesdropping.
Scientists in the research division were given free rein, and began linking advances on multiple technology fronts: drone miniaturization, stealth technology, power management, artificial intelligence, and signal networking. The NSA, in conjunction with DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, had long been developing a new class of tiny drones. For the mission in North Korea, existing designs were refined, and new technologies incorporated. The end result was something near a revolution.
Each tiny aircraft was no larger than a grain of rice. The drone’s deployable wings unfolded after delivery, and once in position served a triad of functions: propulsion in flight, photovoltaic power source, and dual-use antenna. A second class of drone—a variant that was the size, and to a remarkable degree the appearance, of a certain species of praying mantis indigenous to the Korean Peninsula—was also developed, with power and transmission capabilities far more robust than those of its smaller counterpart.
Two days earlier, with the year-long project deemed mature and the situation on the peninsula becoming critical, the green light had been given. The initial insertion was accomplished using a stealthy “mother” drone—a doormat-sized arrowhead made of frangible composite material—that was delivered by an Air Force F-22, twenty-two miles outside North Korean airspace. The delivery was accomplished at extremely high speed and altitude. After release, the F-22 reversed its course while the drone was further boosted by a small rocket engine. Forty miles from the targeted residence in Pyongyang the motor fell away, leaving the drone to glide the remainder of its journey. With its energy dissipating, the drone navigated using GPS to a point three hundred feet above the palace. And there, the real party began.
With hand-wringing engineers monitoring the mission, the package burst open right on schedule releasing a swarm of 312 tiny drones. All but six were the smaller model, and on deployed wings they fluttered down en masse toward Residence Number 55. No sooner were they clear than a second charge detonated above, fragmenting the remnants of the mother ship into tiny shards—which by no coincidence looked very much like tree bark—across the palace’s northern glade.
It was here that AI kicked in.
The mission was undertaken in the predawn hours of an unusually temperate night. Having been programmed with a diagram of the residence, including the location of three windows that were typically left open, the drones began their search. Of the 306 smaller variety, 295 successfully deployed and inserted themselves into the palace. From there they coordinated among one another to learn dead ends and identify successful passages.
Armed with intelligence gleaned from defectors, the drones infiltrated air-conditioning ducts, spun through hallways, and descended elevator shafts. In burst transmissions, they synchronized with one another to cover as many rooms as possible, and on reaching a valid destination, each used its dwindling initial power supply to alight to some high fixture in the respective room. Picture frames, fireplace mantels, and the canopy over Kwon Il-sun’s bed were all covered. A few of the drones failed along the way, but this too had been anticipated by the engineers at DARPA—the tiny aircraft had been created in the image of the winged seed of a certain Chinese elm, hundreds of which populated the surrounding grounds. While not the correct season for such seeds to be fluttering to ground, in the coming days the housekeeping staff would sweep up dozens unknowingly.
The overall results were an unmitigated success. In the end, an array of over 240 microphones had been cast about the palace. They covered every room, closet, and bathroom. Even the wine cellar was monitored. In the name of power management, the units were voice-activated, meaning they only listened when conversations were ongoing. All results were relayed to the network of six faux praying mantises that had alit to trees around the palace, and from there everything was sent up to waiting satellites.
Which was how, in the early hours of that evening in the White House Situation Room, the nuclear crisis in the Pacific was overshadowed by a new intelligence report. After reading through the message privately, the national security adviser briefed everyone, including, at the head of the long table, the president himself.
“Within the last hour we’ve captured a number of revealing conversations from Chairman Kwon’s residence. We are certain the coup has been uncovered. It is also clear that General Park has been identified as the leader. The palace is in lockdown, the military has been put on alert, and an overwhelming response is being assembled.”
After a period of stunned silence, it was the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, a lantern-jawed Marine, who summed up the development most concisely. “Park is so screwed.”
SEVENTY-FOUR
The nautical passage leading into the harbor of Midway Atoll was perfectly well marked. The approach was from the southeast, and keeping Sand Island to the left and Spit Island to the right, channel markers offer a virtual invitation to the smooth crystalline lagoon.
Keeping Albatross at idle speed, Boutros held tight to the green marker on his left, better to keep an eye on Sand Island. This was the lone populated island on the atoll. He saw thirty or forty structures of various sizes and purposes. No more than two hundred yards distant was the approach end of a runway that stretched the length of the island, the surface of which, not surprisingly, was in far better shape than the one on Kure. At the airfield’s midpoint Boutros saw one airplane, some kind of business jet with two people boarding.
He checked the time on the navigation display. 13:38.
“I wonder if they will make it.”
Boutros turned and saw Saleem watching the airplane. He had a nylon backpack over one shoulder.
“Who can say,” Boutros replied. “Is the weapon fully armed?”
“Both the primary and backup. Everything is now in God’s hands.”
Boutros looked ahead at the harbor. The marina would pass to port, a tiny set of docks where three boats lay moored. All were less than thirty feet long with twin outboard engines, and by the emblems on the side they were clearly official. Had he not done his research, he might have feared they were run by customs agents or some kind of port authority. As it was, he knew the boats were part of a tiny police detachment that watched over the
encompassing marine reserve—in effect, a handful of nautical game wardens.
“You have the gun?” Boutros asked.
Saleem unzipped the backpack to reveal the frame of their only self-defense weapon, a compact PP-2000 machine pistol.
“All right. Go aft and keep watch,” Boutros ordered. “And keep a close eye on those boats. They are the only real threat.”
Saleem re-shouldered the backpack. “If one of them comes our way, I will be ready.”
Boutros wished they had more to defend with, but he’d already briefed Sami: if anyone attempted to board the boat, he was to do his best to support Saleem. Axes, hammers, flare guns. Whatever he could find.
Saleem went aft and took up a post by the nets. It occurred to Boutros that he was standing directly over the hatch under which a primed nuclear weapon was awaiting one surge of current. He decided Saleem was well aware—he probably wanted to be the first in line for glory.
He adjusted course slightly to port, keeping to the channel. His plan was to enter the main harbor, then reverse toward the island and get as close as possible to shore. He wondered if he should run Albatross aground in shallow water. The weapon, he’d been told, would leave a significant crater. He thought the best legacy would be to remove as much of the island as possible. Unfortunately, he wasn’t sure how to go about it. Put the keel on the bottom? Or leave some water beneath?
It was like no nautical question he’d ever faced.
Boutros maneuvered carefully, slowly, and soon had Albatross fifty yards from the sandy shore. He paused there, stilling the boat in twenty feet of water.
Her bow was pointed at the island like a dagger.
* * *
Sami, standing forward, was the first to notice the threat—although, by any measure, it could hardly be characterized as such. In truth, had it not been for the baking sun, oppressive humidity, and diesel fumes backwashing from the boat’s stack, he might have thought they’d made an early arrival in paradise.
It began with the sound of a small outboard motor, followed soon after by a tiny inflatable runabout rounding the breakwater of the marina. The craft was no more than eight feet long and carried but one occupant: at the stern, with her hand on the outboard’s steering arm, a slim blond woman in a bikini. Sami turned to get everyone’s attention, but right away saw it wasn’t necessary. All three sets of eyes on Albatross were locked on the boat—or more precisely, its occupant.
The woman was steering for the middle of the harbor, where a lone motorsailer lay anchored serenely. That vector would take the runabout two hundred feet clear of Albatross’ port side. The little boat was moving slowly, no more than five knots, its high bow plowing through crystalline water. As it came near, the woman waved in the general direction of Albatross. Only Sami returned the gesture.
The woman was very attractive. Very athletic. Her bikini seemed almost too small for her frame. The little boat was slightly past abeam when it suddenly came to rest. The engine went silent and the squat rubber hull settled on the water. The three men on Albatross watched closely. Saleem put his hand on the machine pistol inside the backpack.
The woman bent down and began fiddling with something at the base of the engine. For almost two minutes she pushed and pulled and rapped with her knuckles. Then, with one pull on the starter cord, the engine fired back to life. She set back out, still headed squarely for the motorsailer. The three men aboard Albatross kept watching, albeit with widely varied thoughts.
Saleem thought the woman’s swimsuit offensive to his Muslim sensibilities.
Boutros, with his commander’s mindset, viewed it as a cautionary event.
Sami was nothing short of enraptured.
Regardless of the effect, all three men were so diverted by the sight, each in his own way, that they never noticed one peculiarity—dragging behind the runabout was a twenty-foot-long line with a diving weight knotted to the end.
SEVENTY-FIVE
Slaton had never cared much for jewelry or fine accessories. All the same, at that moment, he was infinitely appreciative that Christine had splurged to give him a high-end Swiss diving watch as a Christmas present.
According to his Breitling Superocean, he had fifteen minutes.
He was by then directly beneath the boat named Albatross. On the ship’s hull he saw a modest accumulation of barnacles and algae, and looking aft a school of fish was swirling around the rudder. The boat’s engine was running, evident by a low rumble transmitting through the water, yet her propeller was stilled for the moment. He prayed it would stay that way.
Slaton was wearing a black wetsuit, long fins, and a mask. Strapped over his left shoulder was a small “Spare Air” oxygen tank with an integral mouthpiece. Designed as an emergency air source for divers, the miniature tank was rated to provide roughly fifty breaths. Since leaving the pier and getting dragged most of the way to Albatross, Slaton had counted thirty-two. It proved more than enough. He kept moving to the boat’s starboard side—opposite where Sorensen was feigning a mechanical issue on the runabout. On breath number forty he surfaced.
He had two other items from the dive shop in his right hand. One was a modest length of rope, knotted every few feet, at the end of which was a weighted pouch from a diving rig. The other, hanging from his wrist by a looped cord, was one of the few weapons on earth he’d never employed.
Slaton made a cursory scan of the rails above. He was situated amidships, and above him was the wheelhouse. He’d been hoping the boat would anchor—the rope would have given him a way to reach the main deck ten feet overhead. Unfortunately, the crew hadn’t bothered—with no significant current or wind, the boat lay dead in the water. Backed against the hull, Slaton saw no simple method of climbing aboard. He’d counted three men earlier, and while there might be more, he had no time for surveillance. The three had taken up stations: one forward, one aft, and one remaining in the wheelhouse. None displayed weapons obviously, but any might be armed—most conspicuously, the man aft was carrying a backpack for no apparent reason.
Slaton looked up, desperate for inspiration. He’d known this would be the weakest point of his plan—but then, he’d never hatched any tactical scheme in the space of two minutes that didn’t have grave deficiencies. He saw a number of stanchions along the port side, and these supported twin lifelines along the length of the boat. He was sure he could heave the weighted rope over the lifeline, and with a few tries get it to return to create a secure loop. The problem: doing so would make enough noise to get everyone’s attention.
It seemed a fatal flaw.
If an alarm was raised on deck, he would have no choice but to fight his way on board. That meant scaling ten feet up the side of a steel hull, one versus three, while supporting his own weight. He was already regretting his choice of weapon—there had been only two to choose from in the scuba shop. Most simple had been a spear gun, which in his present predicament might have proved more useful. Slaton had instead gone for lethality. Looped around his wrist was a device commonly referred to as a bang stick. Originally conceived by divers as protection against sharks, it was little more than a three-foot pole, at the end of which was a chamber, firing pin, and twelve-gauge shotgun shell. The bang stick solved the biggest problem of underwater ballistics—water was far more dense than air. But the bang stick was a contact weapon—you had to plant the business end directly on your target, giving an effective range of the combined length of your pole and arm. Great for incoming tiger sharks. Far less so looking up the side of a sixty-foot trawler.
Slaton checked his watch. Fourteen minutes remaining. There was simply no choice.
He rearranged his gear, making sure the coiled rope was free. He was about to attempt his first throw when the relative silence in the harbor was violated by the most glorious sound. The engines of a Citation X business jet winding up to takeoff thrust.
* * *
Boutros had been watching the jet intermittently since they’d arrived. He’d seen a handful of peopl
e climb aboard, and watched the jet taxi to the end of the runway—from where he stood, no more than a quarter mile away. Now, as its engines spun up to full power, the air seemed to reverberate. He saw birds scatter from the nearby island, and the jet began to move. Boutros nodded and thought to himself, Now there are some lucky people.
A different sound, more sharp, seemed to register through the din. He looked at Sami and Saleem—they were both watching the jet takeoff. Another muffled thunk nearly caused him to turn, but then his eyes averted to the woman in the runabout. Her tiny boat was circling behind the motorsailer, barely visible. The woman had donned a T-shirt. He mused that sunburn would soon be the least of her problems.
As it turned out, this was Boutros’ final living thought—in the next instant, a sturdy metal cylinder imparted a crushing blow to his skull.
* * *
For two reasons, Slaton had viewed the man in the wheelhouse as his primary target. Based on position and demeanor, he was almost certainly the commander. He was also nearest the point where Slaton had come aboard.
Not wanting to expend his one-shot weapon, he’d gone with the Spare Air canister. Although small and light, it was made from high-grade steel. One vicious hammer blow had done the job. The leanly built man crumpled.
Before he’d even hit the deck, Slaton was rushing aft. The man with the backpack had a clear view of the wheelhouse. He’d seen what was happening and reacted predictably, digging into the backpack for what had to be a gun. If he had already had it in hand, it would have forced Slaton into cover.