Northern Thunder

by Anderson Harp

Will climbed up the series of ladders to the small opening on top of the sail. He felt the behemoth slowly move out from Ford into the main channel. Despite the increasing rain, the surrounding lights of Pearl, other ships in dock, and the warehouses surrounding the harbor painted a dull glow. Two small gunboats, one forward and one to the rear, followed the Trident out to sea.

  In the close channel at Pearl’s mouth, Will saw the lights of the officers’ club. The music of a Hawaiian band carried as he watched, under the fluorescent lights of an open pavilion, people dancing in brightly colored floral shirts. He wasn’t nervous—just on edge.

  “Okay, let’s batten her up.” Hollington climbed into the red-lit porthole, Will right behind. Will stopped, turned one last time, and inhaled the warm, gentle air, realizing it might be a long time before he did so again.

  A short while later, after turning to the east for several miles, the USS Florida submerged. Once below the detection range of satellites, it turned back to the west and then to the north-northwest. In a few days, it would be past the islands of Japan.

  Chapter 33

  The Pentagon

  “Give me a situation update.” Krowl sat at the head of an elongated conference table in the Executive Support Center. At the briefing stand at the far end, an Army colonel dimmed the lights. Four large panel screens dominated the wall behind him. The far left screen had a familiar face. Scott sat in another briefing room on the other side of the world, alongside an admiral—the Pacific commander—dressed in tropic whites. An Air Force colonel occupied another screen, followed by a map of the Western Pacific. The last screen showed a satellite view of a snow-covered road leading into a wooded area.

  “Sir, we have Space Command online and Pacific Command online,” said Scott.

  “Where’s the Florida?” asked Krowl.

  “The central map shows her tracking approximately five hundred miles to the north-northwest of Hawaii.”

  “Scott.”

  “Yes, Admiral?”

  “Any problems?”

  “No,” Scott answered succinctly.

  I was right to put him at the Pacific Command, Krowl thought. It intimidated the PAC commander to take no action, and at the same time prevented Scott from interfering.

  “How about going offline at the conclusion to discuss other issues?” Krowl said.

  Scott knew what “other issues” meant. And, no, he did not have a clue where Mi was now. Intelligence gave no indication she had returned to the north. In fact, recent chatter indicated that North Korean agents had been told to be on the lookout for her and, if they found her, they had a blank check to take “appropriate action.” Scott wanted to talk to her, though he was not as convinced as Krowl that she had turned; indeed, he was convinced a dime had been dropped to North Korea, and he knew who probably dropped it.

  “General, we are minus ten days,” said Krowl. “Is the satellite up?”

  General Kitcher, representing Space Command, appeared in the far left monitor. “USA82X will be as ready as we can make it.”

  “Colonel,” said Krowl, “what’s the intelligence situational awareness on this base?”

  The Air Force colonel clicked on the aerial satellite monitor’s button, zooming in on three trucks traveling in a short convoy down the road toward the wood line.

  “The base has been given the identifier Nampo-1,” said the colonel. “It is a confirmed multilayered, heavily fortified research and launching facility.”

  No kidding, Krowl thought to himself.

  “Admiral Krowl?” said the Pacific commander. His submariner’s gold emblem glittered in the light. Scott scooted to his right and pulled his chair back behind the commander’s.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is the White House going to participate in this?”

  “No, sir,” said Krowl. “We have autonomy on this and will be the ultimate superior command. At minus two days, this cell will go on twenty-four-seven and remain in that status until it’s over,” said Krowl.

  “Any estimate of length?” The Pacific commander was the only one in the conference with the nerve to ask that of Krowl.

  Before he spoke, Krowl took off his glasses and rubbed his face to emphasize the point. “If he doesn’t get it on plus two, it may be a year before we see Nampo again.”

  Intelligence had reported that a Chinese general named Won Su had made several trips to the Nampo-1 site on apparent military inspections prior to the early fall launch. The Agency’s review had discovered that, on these trips, Won always went to the eastern DMZ south of Wonsan. It seemed an odd little fact until a multistage missile launched from this site knocked a West Coast GPS satellite off orbit for a few minutes. Photo imagery of his trips placed him in the same valley at the time.

  The CIA had also learned that another Won Su trip was scheduled for late December.

  “What about weather?” said Krowl.

  “A major front is expected in the Sea of Japan around the landing date,” the Air Force colonel said.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “North Korea is known for being cold, but not for a lot of snow. This front may produce the exception.”

  “Will it interfere with the satellite?” said Krowl.

  “This is Space Command,” said Kitcher. “Nothing will interfere with our bird.”

  “We need a representative in the Command Center who can have total control over that bird, General.”

  “Okay, that can be arranged.” Space Command didn’t usually relinquish control of a multibillion-dollar asset, but this situation called for different rules.

  “Okay, we’ll be up at twelve-hundred hours, Greenwich time, at D minus two,” said Krowl. “Limited personnel with only top secret clearance need-to-know. And there’ll be total restriction on entry at each of these operation centers.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In other words, no walk-in traffic.”

  Krowl anticipated curtailing the traffic even more. They may raise a stink, he thought, but at the right moment, everyone except Space will be dropped.

  “Sir, the conference will time out in one minute,” said the Army colonel, reading a note given him by a young enlisted man.

  “Okay, thanks. Scott, call me.”

  “Yes, Admiral,” said Scott.

  Just as each of the screens went blank, the red telephone at the end of the desk rang.

  “Sir, Mr. Scott,” said the tech sergeant.

  “Secured?” said Krowl.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Everyone, I need you to leave.”

  The Army colonel and others quietly left the room, closing the soundproofed metal door behind.

  “What’s her status?” said Krowl.

  “No idea, Admiral,” said Scott.

  “How much damage can this cause?”

  “Well, if she’s turned, obviously, it would be a lot.”

  “You’re damned right.”

  “But I don’t think she defected back.”

  “Why?”

  “Well,” said Scott, “she was last seen coming out of her apartment in Alexandria two days after we finished in Quantico. She was told to take some leave. The Agency said you authorized it.”

  “Yes,” Krowl huffed. When he approved the leave, he had simply been trying to get her out of the way.

  “And then she was gone. But we know that DPRK intelligence has given its field agents a license to kill her on sight.”

  “Yes.”

  “If that was a ruse and they wanted to bring her in to talk, too many people have been given the green light to do otherwise. They couldn’t call off the dogs even if they wanted to.”

  “So…”

  “My guess is she knew you’d never let her out of the game,” said Scott. “She can’t go back…”

  Krowl could
hear the shrug in Scott’s voice.

  “Does Parker know?” said Krowl.

  “Hell, Admiral, he’s about a quarter-mile down and heading to North Korea.”

  “Good.”

  “You know, I’ve got five years invested in recruiting her. Any idea who told them she was loose?”

  “No.” Krowl had already decided that when this was over, Scott needed a major reassignment.

  * * * *

  “Sir, got a moment?”

  Will sat in the officer’s galley with his legs propped up. Ship life was testing his patience. “Yes, Skipper,” he said. He and Hollington had kept up the ruse of being distant. It benefited neither his team nor the Florida crew to know how deep their friendship ran.

  “How about in my quarters?” said Hollington.

  “Let’s go.”

  The skipper’s quarters, not far from command and control, was close to the officers’ galley.

  Will followed Hollington in and closed the door.

  “Okay, our orders are to get in close—about ten to twenty nautical miles south of Wonsan Harbor—and let you and the team off without endangering this billion-dollar weapons platform.”

  Will knew the last comment was customary for all commanders. One was to do the mission but not endanger the vessel—unless that was the only way to complete the mission.

  “I’m in complete agreement.”

  “Meaning?”

  “My team will take me in and then leave,” said Will. “If I’m in the slightest trouble, I don’t want you, or this boat, or especially my team, to come back for me.”

  Will’s suspicious mind had served him well so far. If finding Nampo wasn’t the only problem, he didn’t want either his team or Hollington’s boat to be at risk. It would be his problem to solve.

  Chapter 34

  The USS Florida below the Surface

  The knock on the hatch woke Will from a shallow sleep.

  “Sir, it’s midnight.”

  “Yes.” He was more than ready. The time on the boat with no long jogs, not to mention anticipation of the mission, had made him feel increasingly like a penned-up animal waiting for the gate to open.

  “Your team’s waiting in the galley.” The chief of the boat leaned into the room as he spoke from the well-lit corridor.

  Will quickly put on his utilities and boots and crossed over to the galley, where J.D. Hollington waited with his crew.

  “Steaks for everyone—it’s our tradition.” The galley chief brought in a platter stacked with T-bones.

  “Finally an upside to this suicide mission,” Moncrief said as he plunged his fork into the top steak.

  “Skipper, can I talk to my folks?”

  “Sure.” Hollington closed the galley door, then the officers’ mess door behind him.

  Will pulled out a map and several satellite photos. In front of the men, he laid out the photos and a map showing their location.

  “This is Wonsan, twenty clicks to the north. Your mission is to get me and my gear ashore at this location here.” He pointed to a rocky area where a small stream flowed into the ocean from the mountain above. “I want to set up a well-camouflaged tent here. And that’s it,” Will said. “That’s all I want you to do.”

  “Sir?” said Hernandez.

  “No ‘sir’ about it. You’ll do nothing more.”

  “What about in-country?” Despite what Will had said initially, Stidham had clearly expected to go inland with his boss.

  “There’s no need. If I need you, all I want is your availability after the landing in the ASDS,” said Will. “And…no matter what happens, if you’ve not heard from me by 2200 the day after tomorrow, you’re to return to the Florida.”

  “Sir, we can’t leave you.”

  “Moncrief, that’s a direct order. No word from me by 2200 on D plus two and you, Gunnery Sergeant, are directed to return to this boat.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. That’s a direct order.”

  “Sir—”

  “Again, a direct order.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Moncrief.

  “Okay, let’s go down to the ready room.”

  They wolfed down the steaks, knowing it would be their last real meal for some time, then convened in a small room two doors down that had nothing but four empty duffel bags, one on each of four metal chairs.

  “Now, take everything off.” Will began to strip, removing each item of clothing and putting them into one of the duffel bags. “Rings, watches, necklaces—everything.”

  The four naked men then went through another hatch into a room with four small tables lined up in a row—each with an issue of uniforms, boots, and underclothing.

  “We’re Spetsnaz now,” Will said. “Put on your wet suits, seal up the Spetsnaz uniforms in these waterproof pouches, and grab your weapon.”

  The men suited up in the plain black wet suits and slung their packs and weapons over their backs. Now they moved to the third cabin, directly below the open hatch to the ASDS.

  “Let’s go.” Turning to Hollington, who had entered the room, Will told his men, “Whatever you do, don’t endanger this boat.”

  Hollington smiled at the comment. “That won’t be a problem. Good luck and Godspeed.”

  Will felt a small flutter of emotion. All was in place and all was beginning. He climbed up into the mini-submarine, where the men sat in two rows facing each other, alongside their packs and the black, lightly frosted 50-gallon barrel.

  “Sir, we have direct contact with PAC.” The Navy lieutenant who skippered the mini-sub sat in a seat directly behind its operator. Gauges and scopes, similar to panels on the Gulfstream, were all in blues and greens. He handed a headset, tethered to a long cord, to Will.

  “PAC, this is the team. Go,” said Will.

  “Team, this is PAC and ESC.” Even over the headset, Will recognized Scott’s British accent. He thought of Scott sitting in a vault-like room in the basement of the newly finished glass and brick building at Camp Smith. Pacific Command’s new headquarters stood on a hilltop looking out over the mountains of Hawaii and the expanse of Pearl Harbor.

  Once more, Will thought of Krowl, silently listening in from the Executive Support Center deep in the heart of the Pentagon.

  What hour is it? Will thought absently, looking down at his Soviet watch with its small red star and deep green dial. It’s another day in Washington, he thought as he did the mental calculation of time zones.

  “You have perfect weather,” said Scott.

  “That is confirmed,” said Will. The weather officer of the Florida had given him an update as they left the galley. A gale-like snowstorm was following them as they headed ashore—perfect weather indeed for going undetected. Will could expect at least ten hours of blizzard conditions, followed by sporadic snow flurries and then another storm. The temperatures would be in the thirties.

  As the small submarine rocked to the side, Will grabbed the panel of electronic boxes. He felt the rise of the vessel like an elevator ascending.

  “Are you go?” said Scott.

  “We are go.” Little else needed to be said.

  “We have the satellite ready for reception of your transmission.”

  “Affirm last.” Will again imagined, somewhere in space, a satellite’s small boosters going off in a syncopated motion as the satellite itself moved to a location in the geo-orbit directly above the Korean peninsula. The satellite might even be able to capture the shadow of the ASDS parked offshore from the North Korean coast. “Lieutenant, what’s your plan?”

  “Sir, the Florida’s about twenty-two nautical miles offshore.” He pointed to the scanning screen of one of the sonars. It showed a green outline of the shore and a fixed larger object well out to sea. “We’ll park this on the bottom about five hundred meters offshore.�
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  “How long will you wait there?”

  “We can sit on the bottom, parked and anchored, for as long as needed,” said the lieutenant. “We have some lithium batteries that keep us charged up and a snorkel, if needed, for air.”

  The $250 million price tag for the advanced SEAL delivery system bought a dry, warm transfer vehicle that allowed the big boat to stay as far as a hundred miles offshore. The young lieutenant was clearly proud of his new command.

  The lights in the small submarine switched to red. The lieutenant stepped past Will and pulled down a small periscope as he pushed and held down a red bar. A small motor ran for a few seconds. The lieutenant circled with the periscope.

  “Here’s the coast of North Korea, sir.” He pointed to the scope and stepped aside so Will could look through.

  Will saw darkness and the shape of a stark, rocky mountain. As his eyes focused and he turned the periscope, he spotted the faint, yellow light of what appeared to be a guard structure. He looked above the periscope to see an LED compass heading of 160 degrees toward the south. He swung it around to 352 degrees and the north. A large jetty of rocks extended out from shore, framing a small bay. Beyond the rocks to the north were the diffuse, yellow lights of a city reflecting off the low cloud cover. With the clouds and lights, Will could tell that snow was driving toward the shore.

  “Perfect,” he said.

  “Sir, let’s go ‘ready.’” The young lieutenant reached beyond Will to a hatch in the center front of the mini-submarine. He pulled the hatch up and over, revealing a black water hole. The pressure in the submarine kept the water down in the hole.

  “Moncrief, you lead,” said Will. “I’ll be last. Once out with our gear, I’ll take the lead.” Will took his type-64 pistol and spun the silencer onto the barrel. He then pulled back the slide to chamber a round and carefully put it back into a waterproof pouch, which looked much like a bag for shirts returned from the dry cleaner. Moncrief and Hernandez chambered rounds in two Russian AKM-68 assault rifles while Stidham wrapped up the Dragunov SVD sniper rifle in a similar waterproof bag.

  Moncrief slid over the edge and worked his way down into the black, cold water. He slid the rebreather mouthpiece over his mouth, tilted the black Russian face mask to let a little water into it, and headed down the ladder.