Northern Thunder

by Anderson Harp

  Will Parker didn’t play that game. “Not at all,” he said with a smile. Officers like Admiral Krowl played the bureaucratic game, regardless of who became pawns, in their quest for advancement. Despite his experience and record, Will had never applied to the General Selection Board. Many an undistinguished colonel would mail elaborate, thick books summarizing their successes to Marine headquarters, designed to persuade an impartial jury. But the jury wasn’t impartial, and verdicts were typically reached weeks before the selection board met. Will had heard and believed that the Marine commandant was always consulted, and the board always knew his preference. The king always had the last word. Will refused to play the game.

  No, he hadn’t agreed to this mission to gain the opportunity to become a Reserve Corps general.

  Scott pursed his lips and nodded, as if to say, to each his own.

  “You’re responsible for supporting this mission?” Will asked, changing the topic. “You’re the operation’s sponsor?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I want to do the training at Quantico.”

  “In point of fact, your best bet for survival would be to keep this mission under wraps—to stay under wraps yourself—as long as possible. Quantico is open to everyone and has an obscene amount of traffic.”

  There were certain benefits to being accessible and Will wanted them. He was not prepared to put his entire fate in the hands of the CIA.

  “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Scott, but I want a familiar training environment.”

  Like virtually every Marine officer, Will had begun his training at Quantico. He went through several weeks of Officer Candidates School there, and returned for several months of basic officer training. He was familiar with every running trail, every hill, every swamp.

  “Also, I assume there will be a cold-weather cycle before making an insert in North Korea during the winter. I want to do that at MCMWTC in Bridgeport, California.”

  The Marine Corps Mountain Warfare Training Center was a small Marine outpost in the High Sierras near the Nevada and California borders. At one time, it had only a maintenance crew of ten Marines, but it had enlarged over the years into a modern, battalion-sized training center. It remained both remote and unknown, something Scott should approve of.

  “I need to be patched into the op center at Langley,” Scott said through an intercom. Will heard a door open in the rear of the aircraft, and a short, muscular, blond-haired man appeared through the cabin. Dressed in the same style white shirt and black slacks as the female crew member, he gave every appearance of being a corporate-jet crew member at home at any airport in the world.

  Will, however, thought to himself, This one is probably a senior Air Force enlisted man on attached duty to the CIA. A communications tech sergeant, maybe.

  The airman placed headphones on in the small electronics compartment, after which the telephone on the wall next to Scott rang in a subdued, buzzing sound.

  Scott picked up the phone. “We need to switch operations training site A to Quantico,” he said. “See if we can get the top floor of the dormitory at the FBI Academy sealed off. And begin planning on operations site B being moved to the Marine base at Bridgeport, California.”

  Quite accommodating, thought Will. Much more so than he’d anticipated.

  “Okay, I am quite certain that you have other suggestions for your training regimen. I look forward to hearing them.”

  Chapter 10

  A Secret Base near Kosan, Korea

  “Comrade Doctor, thank you for both the tour and your hospitality.” General Won, stepping forward from beside Tae Nam-Ki, grabbed Nampo’s hand and wrapped his other arm around the small doctor’s shoulders in a bear hug.

  Unaccustomed to such physical contact, Nampo pulled away.

  Won stayed close as he spoke. “Remember, Comrade Doctor, Sun Tzu’s rule: ‘To subdue the enemy without fighting is the acme of skill.’”

  Nampo understood the message: China would extend its hand to its Communist neighbor, but North Korea should never forget Beijing. And whatever Nampo convinced Pyongyang his system was capable of, North Korea had best not push it too far.

  “Your advice and counsel are greatly appreciated, General. Perhaps you will be able to return for our advanced testing.”

  “Both my government and I look forward to it.”

  A young aide came up to General Won and Colonel Nam-Ki and clicked his heels in attention, signaling it was time to go. Minutes later, Won and his companion boarded another vehicle in the tunnel, once again invisible to satellite surveillance as they left the installation.

  A young North Korean captain approached Nampo from behind and came to stiff attention. Nampo turned and the captain held out a sealed yellow folder with writing on the outside.

  “Comrade Doctor, this just came in from Pyongyang.”

  “What is it?” Nampo knew the captain was the duty communications officer, and would have read the folder’s contents while deciphering it.

  “They want you in the capital as soon as possible.”

  “Transfer by the usual method?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And when will the vehicle be dispatched?”

  “It has been already. You have approximately twenty minutes.”

  Nampo scowled. A trip to Pyongyang, especially one with such short notice, would take him away from his work.

  “Let me go to my quarters and change. Call Lin Po immediately and have him meet me here in fifteen minutes.” Po was one of the assigned doubles. Generally, the trip to the capital was made as inconspicuously as possible. Security would allow Nampo to travel this time with only one double, and Po was a trained security officer capable of handling any situation.

  “Yes, sir.” The captain turned and hurried off while Nampo double-timed it for his quarters. Per security protocols, if he were not at the tunnel when the vehicle passed through, it would leave him behind. And missing this meeting would not be acceptable.

  Nampo went directly to the closet, where his well-worn North Korean sergeant’s uniform hung. As he quickly dressed, he barely noticed the woman enter the room and lie on the bed.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the capital. They want to see me.”

  “But tonight?”

  He turned and, with the full force of his body, backhanded the woman across the face. She pulled herself into a ball and began to sob.

  “We have one purpose here. You know that.”

  Nampo turned away, buttoning the last button on the tunic. He grabbed a military hat from a table near the door and walked out of the room.

  A troop truck had started down the entrance ramp into the tunnel by the time he arrived. At the same moment, a man nearly identical to Nampo emerged from the facility.

  At the tail of the truck, a sergeant stood up. “Men, move forward,” he told the troops already in the vehicle. “Make room.”

  Each grabbed his small pack and rifle and slid forward on the truck’s wooden bench.

  “Make room quickly.” He turned to the two men in similar uniforms. “Get up. Do you have your rifles?”

  As Nampo climbed up onto the truck, a security guard ran out of the tunnel with two AK-47 rifles.

  Nampo grabbed the weapon as he sat down across from his double, Lin Po. However unpleasant these trips were for him, they would appear to others as another small squad-sized troop movement made from the countryside to the city.

  The truck took nearly an hour to complete its journey to Wonsan. The military dared not use the helicopter landing zone in the valley so as to not attract further attention to the site. Rather, the doctor had to endure the long, bumpy journey to the city of Wonsan, where a larger troop-transport helicopter would meet them.

  As the truck drove into the suburbs of Wonsan, Nampo smelled the acrid, overwhelming odor of
the city’s pollution. He had forgotten how sheltered his facility was from daily North Korean life. The truck pulled onto the Wonsan airfield near a large Soviet-made Mi-17 HIP helicopter. Its turbine was winding up so loud the sergeant had to shout out his instructions. Even so, he could barely be heard. Russian helicopters were well known as unstoppable, rugged, and tough, but also uncomfortable and noisy. The HIP, a larger brother of the Mi-8, was a flying tank, described as a 250-knot, medium-lift helicopter.

  “Get up. Get hopping. Move it,” said the sergeant. He jumped out onto the ground and helped each of the soldiers, including the two guests, to quickly unload. Each raced to the rear of the helicopter.

  Nampo entered the loud, humming aircraft and took a seat near the front, where the crew chief signaled him to sit. Po sat next to him. Near the half-open door, Nampo felt the warm blowing air from the blades. The ship rocked as the blades danced it around on the tarmac.

  The men filed in after Nampo and alternated their seats from one side to the other. Nampo noticed that each placed the barrel of his weapon down, ensuring that if an absent round were fired, it would go down through the deck and not up toward the jet turbines. With this, he turned his AK-47 to the floor and gestured to Po to do the same.

  The helicopter lunged forward in a hopping fashion as the blades bit into the air and finally lifted. Nampo felt the blades shift from lift to forward movement. As the helicopter moved upward, the deck tilted as the aircraft banked in a 360-degree climbing turn out over Wonsan, the small town’s port, and the Sea of Japan. Nampo saw the small fishing boats below in Wonsan’s harbor and several military boats between them and the open sea.

  As they climbed higher, Nampo saw the twisting outline of the coast to the south. Just below Wonsan, a large, odd-shaped object appeared in the waters off the small port of Changjon. Not much more than a pier, Changjon had moored a larger passenger cruise liner with lights on in the middle of the day, strung like a Christmas tree from the front of the main masts to the rear. It was a strange sight for the north.

  Nampo immediately knew what this ship was; a scowl crossed his face. Despite his protests, Pyongyang had allowed a South Korean tour boat to bring to Changjon a limited number of South Korean tourists to visit the Taebaek Mountains. A South Korean mega-conglomerate, the Hyundai Corporation, had secretly consummated the deal, paying Pyongyang hundreds of millions in blackmail bounty. Even North Korea’s leaders were feeling the shortage of goods and supplies and much enjoyed the infusion of cash.

  It was only after many protests that Nampo was able to ensure that the tour groups would stay on the coastline, taking a bus from the pier at Changjon directly to the Diamond Mountains. He did not want anyone to go anywhere near Kosan or his inland valley.

  The helicopter banked one final time and leveled off at its altitude. As Nampo smelled the dull kerosene fumes from the jet engines, he turned over his shoulder and looked through the round Plexiglas window to see the sharp points of the Taebaeks lined up in a row, paralleling the coast. He soon spotted his small green valley, angled away from Wonsan and the coast.

  The flight to the capital took well over an hour. Pyongyang, the largest city in a nation of 22 million, was known as the “hermit city.” For more than 1500 years, it had served as the capital of the peninsula of Korea, and for five decades it was the secret city of Kim Il Sung, the father of the nation. It was rebuilt in his honor, according to his whims, with monies and designs provided by Moscow and Beijing. His son, Kim Jong Il, ruled for decades, but now there were rumors that the next in line was being prepared.

  At a small military airfield near the edge of the city, the helicopter landed and taxied to the edge of an open, lit hangar. Inside it, Nampo noticed, was a troop truck similar to the one in Wonsan, and a large, box-shaped black car. The car, another Soviet product, was rarely seen in the countryside, but Nampo was familiar with it from the other trips he had made to the capital. As usual, security’s attention to detail was admirable. Under the protective cover of the hangar, a low-orbit spy satellite would see troops enter a building and a troop truck leave. Only with luck would the observers wait and catch a black car leaving from the other end some time later.

  The troops bolted from the side door across a short space of tarmac to the interior of the hangar. Inside the building, Nampo and Po separated from the group and approached the Soviet car. A security officer snapped to attention, opening the rear door. Both Nampo and his look-alike climbed into the back of the vehicle. The broad, heavy security officer slid into the front passenger seat.

  “We are to go directly to NCDB, Comrade Dr. Nampo.”

  Nampo was surprised by this news. In previous visits to the capital, he could expect a stay at one of the distinguished visitors’ quarters. It was the sole perk from these tiring and boring trips. Although dedicated to the cause, he didn’t choose to forego all personal benefits.

  “Why the urgency?”

  “Comrade Doctor, I was not informed why.” The officer paused, wondering whether to say more, having learned the hard way over the years to say less. “I do know this is a special meeting. There are several in attendance.” He paused again, fearing he had said too much, and left the sentence hanging in midair.

  The silence in the car was disturbing. As they drove into the city, Nampo observed an open but corroding capital. The buildings were in disrepair. With few lights on, he could see the wood around the frames of windows, dark and twisted, the glass broken in many places. This part of the city was dark, with only an occasional flash of light that broke through the curtain-drawn windows. Candles or lanterns flickered in small, cold apartments.

  Nampo took pleasure in his thoughts and observations. It’s not that he cared about this misery as much as he knew it represented opportunity. He would be the shining light the city lacked—the hero of a nation.

  Rain fell on the capital’s streets as they headed toward the tall downtown building of the NCDB. The Nuclear and Chemical Defense Bureau was instrumental in Nampo’s operation. It controlled funding and had oversight responsibility. This trip, although sudden, afforded a useful opportunity. Nampo was interested in how the other aspects of the operation were advancing.

  The chunky Soviet car pulled into the rear of the building under a covered portico. Nampo and Po entered the building through large metal and glass doors pulled open by two stiff guards dressed in brown-buttoned uniforms with red stripes. The red star stood out on their collars and hats.

  “I am always unsure which of you is Dr. Nampo,” said the elderly Sin Tae-sam, senior vice president of the state, meeting them at the door. One or two military generals might have had greater stature, but he remained one of the most powerful men in all of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.

  “I am Comrade Nampo.” Nampo stepped forward to grab the old man’s hand, and Lin Po stepped backwards and off to the side. Inside the NCDB building, the ruse would be suspended. Po had done his job. Now he could slip away to a side hallway, try to grab a cigarette, and wait until Nampo went on the move again.

  “Doctor, we have many important things to discuss.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  “Come with me.” He turned and walked down a short stairway, across a wide hall to two dark mahogany doors guarded by two similarly dressed soldiers. The soldiers were backed up by two large, heavy muscular men, preventing anyone—at risk of death—from passing without permission.

  Nampo walked into the long, surprisingly narrow conference room. A wooden table covered with green felt stretched the length of the room. He immediately recognized the remainder of the NCDB committee: three generals, men of power all, and another vice president, Choe Hak-son, known as a direct advisor to the dictator.

  On Nampo’s right were two of the engineers in charge of the nuclear reprocessing facility at Yongbyon. They had the job of ensuring there was sufficient weapons-grade plutonium available for small
nuclear warheads, but their tasks lay well down the line, so they looked relaxed.

  To their side, Nampo recognized what he called the navigation unit—the intelligence officers assigned that task. In the shadows of the rear, on the left, was another man, not dressed like any of the others. Based on his dark, cosmopolitan look, he appeared to be a European—someone from Paris or possibly New York. A black leather jacket with black trousers might appear normal in New York, but in this Communist city, his dress stood out. Nampo noticed a glimmer of gold as the man’s hand moved.

  “Dr. Nampo,” said Vice President Sin, “have a seat in this central chair of great importance.”

  Nampo pulled the large leather chair away from the table and sat down. In the center of the green felt table stood several silver trays with bottles of water and bowls of fruit. Nampo, realizing he had not eaten for most of the day, grabbed an apple. Even for him, the tart, succulent, sweet taste of the apple was a rarity, and he ate with relish.

  “So, Dr. Nampo, where are we?”

  Nampo put down the apple and quickly set forth an updated timetable; in turn, Sin provided the recently obtained coordinates Nampo had long awaited. At the discussion’s end, the elder chairman pulled his chair back.

  “We are appreciative of the efforts of everyone. This project will save our nation and its great cause.”

  As the men stood and began to depart, Nampo again noticed the dark figure in the back of the room.

  “Oh, Dr. Nampo, please stay one moment.”

  Only the chairman, Nampo, and the man in the shadows remained. The chairman waved his hand in a small signal to the guards—more than an order to close the doors. If the supreme leader himself asked to be admitted, he would not be.

  “Dr. Nampo, per our last discussion, we have now retired Professor Harbinger at Berkeley, Walter at MIT, and Brooklins at Cal Poly.”

  Retired, Nampo thought. Why bother to use such euphemisms here? Of course, North Korea was a country of euphemisms.