Northern Thunder

by Anderson Harp

  “Where is Dr. Nampo, Captain Sang?” The general remembered the young captain who met him during his last trip, now leading the entourage.

  “With the launch imminent, he was detained, sir.”

  “Well, let’s go.”

  The lead Soviet UAZ469 jeep had a red and gold VIP plate on its front. Won could have done without such attention. He always thought it odd that hardened combat veterans cared much less for pomp and circumstance than less experienced ones, and that the younger generals seemed always to have something to prove. And those who abused power the most were those given it most easily, and often, after only a short time.

  The short convoy circled around the landing pad as the helicopter left, banking over the decrepit farm hut. Won glanced at the old man as his convoy sped past. He remembered him from the last trip.

  “Is that your security guard for this valley?”

  Sang chuckled. “Yes, sir,” he joked.

  “When is the launch?”

  “Tonight at oh-one-hundred, sir.”

  “I didn’t know you had a launch capability in this facility.” He was not amused by the fact that the last tour had omitted that fact. “Will this be its first launch?”

  “Yes, sir. Dr. Nampo and his staff will give you a further update.”

  “Yes.” Beijing had already been given substantial amounts of information. As a result, two Chinese satellites had been moved to a more westerly position. One that arched over the U.S. Pacific fleet in Hawaii had been shifted to the west, behind the protective curvature of the Earth.

  The jeep convoy pulled into the short tunnel below the grove of trees. More pine trees were now evident—not that it would matter after tonight. A missile launch from the silo would confirm the launchpad’s existence, and by noon tomorrow, it would be on the newly revised target list of some American Trident submarine.

  “You’ll be in the same room this time, sir.”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Won.

  Entering the facility, the general noticed a much different energy. Last time, the young men and women glanced at him constantly, aware of a stranger in their midst. This time, they were too occupied to bother. The air in the space felt electric, not unlike that of a military force in its final exercise before an invasion.

  “I’ll come for you at midnight,” said Sang.

  “Yes.” Before the captain left, Won asked, “But when will your doctor give us the update?”

  “He’ll give the briefing at midnight.”

  “Yes, again, thank you,” said Won.

  The stainless steel door slid closed, and as he had done before, Comrade General Won used this opportunity to rest. He unbuttoned his tunic and draped it over the back of a chair. Midnight was not for several hours. As he lay in the bedroom, he again thought of another Korea.

  “General?”

  “Yes?” He sat up, realizing his brief doze had turned into a deep sleep. The captain was awkwardly standing just inside the door to the apartment.

  “They are ready, sir.”

  “Let’s go, then.” He quickly grabbed and buttoned his tunic, somewhat embarrassed that he had not been ready for the captain.

  With Sang’s help, he walked up two flights to a tunnel just wide enough for two lanes of electric cars, similar to American golf carts, going in opposite directions. The carts were separated only by a steel divider the width of a chair arm. Won slid into the back of one cart, facing the rear, and Sang sat in the front, next to the driver, a teenage girl. As they moved forward, Won could see the short length of the tunnel, which opened a few meters away to another large hangar-sized room, where the cars could exit the tunnel and turn around.

  “I don’t recall this from our last trip,” said Won.

  “It was not quite open at the time, sir.”

  “Yes, I imagine not.” He was being courteous. He imagined it would have taken much more than several months to construct this tunnel, yet no mention of it had been made on his last visit.

  As the cart continued at high speed, the general felt the whoosh of other carts pass in the opposite direction. He made a point of pulling his arms in, as if sitting in the seat of a small fighter, for fear that another cart would slam into him. Each cart made a horrible bleep just before passing another, as if to warn of its approach, but the warning always came too late. The bleeps echoed through the tunnel.

  A moment later, his cart came to a quick stop. The cart was perfectly aligned with another tunnel perpendicular to the main one. Appearing almost like a large bank vault, a massive round steel door opened to the next long tunnel, smaller than the main one, for pedestrians only.

  “This way, General,” said Sang.

  “Yes.” The general turned and bowed slightly to acknowledge his young driver. She smiled. With age, Won had learned how important his little gestures were to a young, impressionable soldier. It was one of the few benefits of being a general—to be able to make another’s life feel special for a brief moment.

  As they walked down the tunnel, the floor slanted downward slightly, then opened into another area and another vaulted door. In front of this one were two armed sentries. “This is our most honorable guest, General Won.” The captain almost shouted the words. Both sentries came to quick attention.

  Stepping in through the door, Won realized he was entering another long control room like the one he had visited several months ago, with one wall built from the natural gray stone of the nearby mountains, the other of thick, green-tinted glass looking out over a large bay cut into the rock. In the center of the open bay was a tall, gleaming white, multistaged rocket with a bright red star a quarter of the way from the top. The letters DPRK, boldly printed on the rocket’s uppermost stage, appeared in white, blue, and red.

  Surrounding the rocket, which sat on a stainless steel pedestal under a massive round opening in the rock above, were dozens of men and women, all dressed in white. All wore caps and some wore masks, like surgeons preparing for a transplant operation.

  “Welcome again, Comrade General.” Dr. Nampo was also dressed in a long white surgeon’s coat.

  “Thank you, Comrade Doctor,” said Won. “I never cease to be amazed at your resources and capabilities.”

  “Yes, well…” Nampo seemed at a loss for words. He clearly had difficulty accepting a compliment. He bent his head down like a beaten puppy, then turned to his other associates.

  “Let us begin.”

  “What are we doing here, Doctor?” said Won.

  Nampo pointed to three large seats at a panel of television monitors above the main floor of scientists.

  “We will launch our missile tonight to a target some six thousand nautical miles away, near the path of a west coast GPS satellite and in a GEO orbit.”

  “Yes, impressive.”

  “It will be absolutely clear, General,” said Nampo, “that even with conventional explosives, we will be able to reach, intercept, and destroy any satellite in space, whether military or civilian.”

  General Won slumped into the chair.

  He was not sure this was a power he wanted unleashed, even by a so-called ally. But, he thought, there was little that could be done to stop it.

  Chapter 22

  Marine Corps Base, Quantico

  “Congratulations, sir.” Gunny Punaros sounded like a teacher who had given his star student all A’s on his report card.

  The last sniper, however, grimaced as he picked up his rifle and camouflage. He obviously knew as well as the gunny that Will had not stayed within the field’s boundaries. Then again, thought Will, he hadn’t hesitated to cover the target with his body.

  “What’s next?” asked Will.

  “That’s it, sir. You’re ready.”

  Mi came up to the small group, gathered near the sniper’s final position. It was getting dark and cold as clouds moved
in at a rapid pace. She pulled the collar of her black PolarTek jacket up to block the chilly wind.

  “How far out are we, Gunny?” Will said.

  “I’d say about nine to ten miles back to the Academy, sir.”

  “Okay, we’re gone.”

  With that, Will took off.

  * * * *

  Mi smiled briefly at Punaros, then raced after Will down the graveled road.

  Sometimes, during these runs, Will would talk, and after several weeks, Mi had begun to talk, too. At this point, they were both in such good physical shape that conversation, even while running, was effortless. But neither spoke now.

  Will came to the paved road and turned right, heading back. As he did, snow began to fall—not a driving snowstorm, but a steady flow. Mi could feel the cold flakes as they struck her face and eyes. Then a dull flash of light lit a cloud, and they heard a rumble far in the distance. This was that rare storm—thunder, lightning, and falling snow as the temperature dropped.

  They ran on in the lights of the following Suburban, with Mi nearly in step with each of his long strides. His movement was a constant rhythm.

  As darkness fell and they neared the final road that turned to the Academy, Will crossed a bridge over a small, bending creek—one they had passed over nearly every day.

  Suddenly, he jumped right just beyond the bridge, down the embankment, onto a trail heading back into the deep, dark woods. Mi jumped, staying in his tracks, as the snow began to stick to the cold ground. She tried to follow within his steps, but his long, fluid stride caused her to be short every third or fourth step. When this would happen, she would feel her foot slip slightly, stamping through the newly fallen snow.

  The black Suburban slammed on its brakes, then slid off the road to the other side and down the embankment. Mi could hear the slamming of doors and men cursing as she followed along the trail, deeper into the woods. Mi didn’t remember this trail, but Will apparently did—he didn’t hesitate. He ran in the dim light, with an occasional dull flicker of thunder illuminating the sky. The light reflected through the tree limbs and off the new, white snow, allowing Mi to see well into the woods. It would have been a lonely, scary view but for the fact that she could spot a cloud of hot air from Will’s breath.

  Will dashed down the trail until he came to a sharp bend in the creek running parallel to their path. He suddenly turned right, leaping up on the large outcropping of rocks the stream flowed over.

  She kept pace, determined more than ever to stay in his footprints.

  Is he trying to lose me? she thought, beginning to feel both angry and exhilarated. Branches slapped her in the face and arms as he picked up the pace.

  Another crashing boom of thunder and light struck nearby as the storm continued to build. The lightning was getting dangerously near, but Will continued up the hill.

  Suddenly, as quickly as they came into the woods, they came out. They were near a line of rounded, tin-roofed Quonset buildings, all still dark and apparently abandoned. A sign on the side of one door, red with yellow lettering, said Camp Upsher Barracks B. It was the second one down the line. The camp was empty of Marines—or any others, for that matter.

  Will turned to the third one and slammed open the shed’s door. Another boom of thunder sounded nearby, and the metal-roofed building shook with the force of the sound wave. She followed him into the building. Inside, two rows of bunk beds lined up straight. A few buildings away, a security light provided a dull yellow glow through small rectangular windows the height of a man’s reach.

  Again, a boom of thunder whammed through the building, and Mi saw another flash of light illuminate the barracks. As it did, Will grabbed her from behind. She jumped, startled. He brushed the snow off her back and arms and then turned her around, looking directly into her eyes, grabbing both her arms as he pulled her closer.

  “Now it’s time,” he said, his blue eyes staring directly into hers. “It’s time for you to decide.”

  She looked down.

  “No,” he said, raising her chin to meet her eyes. “What’s it going to be?”

  She was tired of deciding. All her life, fate had pulled her toward decisions of life and death. And she thought herself toughened by these decisions, both in North Korea and when working with the CIA. When she’d defected, it had cost several lives. Some died simply for being too close to her. But this time was different. He was different.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Yes, what?”

  “This time, no government. This time—you.”

  Will kissed her and pulled her to the bunk bed. He reached behind her, pulled the mattress down to the floor, and leaned down onto the bed above her. They were both wet from the melting snow.

  As the thunder shook the building again, they stayed locked in an embrace.

  “This thunder…” he said.

  “Yes,” she said, turning to face him.

  “With snow like this?”

  “Yes?”

  “We have a name for it.”

  “What?”

  “A northern thunder…a cold, northern thunder,” Will said.

  “What’s next?” Mi asked.

  “We’re totally on our own,” Will said. “Don’t trust anyone.”

  Personal experience had prepared Mi well for this. She had been alone for years now. Not trusting others was the easy part.

  “Yes, I know.” This time, she grabbed him and pulled him closer, kissing him again.

  Another boom of thunder struck nearby. He looked into her eyes again. “Now, this is what I need you to do…”

  Chapter 23

  FBI Headquarters, 935 Pennsylvania Ave, Washington, D.C.

  The SIOC’s operations center on the fifth floor of the FBI building was much larger than Tom Pope had remembered. Its 40,000 square feet of windowless, gray-carpeted workrooms were separated by a series of well-insulated walls. Massive fifteen-foot video screens covered much of the wall space in the separated work areas.

  On his way to his office, Tom had often seen the one elevator with a guard in the back corridor, but had been called to the operations center only once before. This time, like the previous one, he had to get a bright red pass displaying today’s date in bold letters, emphasizing his very temporary clearance.

  “The director will be waiting.” Dave Creighton was a man Tom Pope had known throughout most of his career; as deputy director, he was a heartbeat away from the top. Every agency within the government needed dependable professionals who could help the government make a transition from one administration to another. Creighton was in that small group of top executives who transcended politics and changing administrations. “Do you have a PowerPoint for him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And a hard copy?” For all executive-level briefings, the director was given a hard, printed copy as an aid and a record.

  “Yes, sir,” said Tom.

  “It has to be classified,” Creighton said.

  “Yes, sir. It’s already marked.”

  “If he doesn’t want to keep it at the end, you must collect all copies and either keep custody of them or place them in a burn bag.” Most secure offices at the Bureau had a red-striped, trash can–like paper bag, similar to a small grocery bag, where sensitive documents were deposited every day and destroyed.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you ready?”

  The procedural details made Tom nervous, but from his time in Washington, he knew Creighton to be a concerned boss trying only to help an underling do well.

  “Yes, sir,” said Tom.

  The elevator door slid open to a wood-paneled entrance with two armed guards. Behind their desks hung a large, oversized seal of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Below the seal was SIOC in large gold letters, and, below that, the label Strategic Information and Operations
Center. The “Sigh-Ock,” as it was called, had started sometime in the late nineties, and was known by several other names. After the September 2001, attack on the World Trade Center, SIOC became the FBI’s main operational center when responding to a national crisis. Congress had authorized hundreds of millions of dollars to upgrade the center, its computers, and its communications.

  Both guards stood at attention as Creighton flashed his badge. “He’s with me,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tom meekly lifted his temporary badge. He almost expected a laugh from the two, but they were accustomed to seeing guests on limited visits.

  “Hey, thanks,” Tom mumbled as he passed the men through another set of doors and into a hallway.

  “Follow me,” Creighton instructed.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Molly, this is Tom Pope.”

  “Yes, sir.” A young, freckle-faced woman with brown-blond hair, dressed in a blue pinstriped suit, greeted both men as they walked down the hall. Tom quickly noticed her nervous habit of pushing her wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose and, as she did, he noticed her fingers—the nails had been gnawed to the quick, the likely result of nervous tension.

  “She’s our tech rep,” said Creighton.

  “Agent Pope, do you need any help on the briefing?” said Molly.

  Tom pulled a CD from his pocket. “PowerPoint.”

  “Yes, let’s do a quick walk-through.”

  “Not much time,” Creighton said with a frown. An overpowering man who had played all four years at Michigan as middle linebacker, Dave Creighton was not particularly tall. He had shaved what little hair remained on his head, giving him a Yul Brynner look.

  Liked and respected, Creighton had a reputation for complete fairness. Never political, he was seen as someone who would help the Bureau survive bad times. During Creighton’s rise to deputy director, the FBI had been confronted with several difficult incidents. Creighton had handled them all with great candor and aplomb, displaying a willingness to criticize and accept criticism when needed.