A Northern Thunder

by Andy Harp

  At that very moment, only fifty miles to the north, the Agency was already following him. Buried well within the walls of the CIA, the last of the graveyard shift of technicians watched a large, rectangular panel screen, where a blinking light showed Will over an outline of Virginia. The light had a small number, “AGT4444,” below and to the right. Quadruple four was Will’s designation.

  “The chip even has Soviet markings,” he said as he ran.

  “Yes, I would expect that.”

  “They said the microprocessor was from India,” Will said. “The Soviets would likely use an Indian microchip for something like this.”

  But why was Will telling Mi? Her answers to his questions all seemed hesitant, as if she always had to hold something back. He had to assume that Krowl was pulling her strings, that she knew about the marker ahead of time and reported everything back to Krowl. But Will had to trust someone. Time was running out and he needed someone on the other side. He had to risk it. He felt a chemistry of sorts with Mi, and he trusted his judgment of people.

  They picked up the pace as they neared the Marine Basic School. Platoons of faces with boot camp haircuts ran by in tight formations, chanting cadence. Each was dressed in the same gray sweats with a black “USMC” embroidered on the jerseys. Only their running shoes were different.

  Will smiled as he noticed the widely varied running shoes. When he had gone through The Basic School, everyone ran in black boots and utilities. Later, as the running craze took hold, the military hierarchy relented and permitted individual running shoes.

  Individuality was not prized at The Basic School. For six months, Will was taught infantry tactics for the individual rifleman and up through the squad and platoon levels, and he excelled. His fellow Marine officers respected him. When Will completed the three-mile physical fitness test in less than fourteen minutes, senior officers began to favor him. All the instructors wanted to recruit Will to their specialty, including the most prestigious—infantry. Finishing at the top of his class, based on graded tests and leadership, Will had the option of selecting whatever military occupational specialty, or MOS, he wanted. All thought he would select infantry, the most direct route to the rank of general.

  But Will surprised them all on the last day, when he chose another MOS.

  “O802.”

  “Artillery?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But, why, Lieutenant Parker?” The company commander was pitching for infantry. A couple of years in an infantry battalion, and Will could easily move up to Forces Reconnaissance.

  “Sir, I think it ultimately gives me more options. It won’t hurt to know more.” He was referring to the ability to call artillery fire. Artillery was the high math of the military. Gravity, winds, weather, and a host of other influences can cause an artillery shell to leave the cannon’s tube and land down range, far away from the intended target.

  Will liked the mental challenge involved. An individualist, he also liked surprising management. For him, the Marine Corps was just a way to express his individuality.

  “One more lap?” Mi said in Hanguk

  Will didn’t understand the Hanguk word for “lap.” “What?” he asked.

  “Go around again?” she said in Hanguk.

  “Oh, yes,” Will said.

  They ran the second lap at a faster pace. He would let her lead, but as they came to a hill, Will would surge past her. The lead danced back and forth between them.

  As she ran, Mi slowly became like the rock she remembered seeing on the Taeback Mountain coast as a child. It jutted out from the shoreline, directly facing the brunt of the ocean, but with a gaping hole through its middle. The ocean had worn it away in the center. Krowl expected her to call every morning immediately after their run. She had been an agent for two countries, but now, she didn’t have any other options. With the fall of the Iron Curtain, the intelligence unemployment line had gotten longer.

  Besides, she thought, I like this country. The years of propaganda washed away in only a few days after she realized there were very few Admiral Krowls in America. It was, in reality, a land of good people who often used their great success and wealth for the good of others. But Krowl was the American she had been raised and trained to hate.

  It was just her unfortunate luck to be working for him.

  “Don’t ever forget,” he had hissed once, “I can make you an undesirable alien with one phone call.” Then, grabbing her arm, he warned, “Or I could simply let a certain someone know where you are.”

  Chapter 17

  At the different Pentagon entrances, the shift change of the Department of Defense security guards occurred every day, seven days a week, at ten a.m. Thousands of workers passed through their posts—desks that overlooked scanners—sliding their passes through the detectors. The security guards, in white starched uniforms and bright gold badges, reviewed a list of factors.

  Scott’s DOD/CIA pass was in order as he ran it through the scanner, but Scott looked angry and the guard could tell.

  Oh, boy, whoever he is, this one is hot, the guard thought as Scott pushed against the gate before the computer could process the scan.

  Scott thought he always disguised his emotions well, but not this time. “This bloody gate!” Scott exclaimed as the magnetic reading did not go through and the gate remained locked. To further aggravate him, a small panel light illuminated the failure.

  “Sir, try it again.”

  He ran the card through again as people began to back up behind him. He was like a derailed locomotive stalling the remainder of the train. Fortunately, the gate opened this time.

  “Officer, J-3 of the Joint Chiefs? Perhaps you could tell me where,” said Scott.

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Yes, Krowl. Admiral Krowl.”

  “He’s at 4E512, but that’s in the JCS area. Are you expected, sir?” The guard was referring to a second security system within the Pentagon. Another set of military guards restricted access to many of the Joint Chief of Staff ’s workspaces.

  “Yes, I’m expected.”

  “Then you’re not very far,” said the guard. “Go to the left, not up the stairs, and through the glass-paneled doors. You’ll see the JCS security booth there, and he can tell you where to go.”

  The River entrance, unlike the many others, was paneled in a rich, dark mahogany, and the fittings were all in bright brass. Names on the various doors were in a gilded gold, and the hallway was alternately lined with paintings of ships and portraits of various secretaries of war. The men in the portraits, like the ships, were easily dated by their age and style. Multi-masted frigates hung near white bearded men in their stiff, high-collared uniforms.

  The pace in this section of the Pentagon seemed so different. And far fewer employees dressed formally here.

  From behind the thick-glassed security booth, the Air Force sergeant looked up at Scott.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Scott for Admiral Krowl.”

  “Your pass, sir.”

  Scott’s pass, on a chain around his neck, had become entangled with the collar of his overcoat. The weather was beginning to change as fall settled into Washington. This day was rainy, damp, and cold. Scott’s raincoat, tailored for him by a London shop, fit perfectly over his charcoal pinstriped suit and dark blue tie. He seemed more like a finely-dressed funeral home attendant than a corporate executive.

  Scott pressed the pass against the glass.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Two glass doors with the logo of the Joint Chiefs of Staff slid open to the inner hallway.

  “And where is Krowl’s office?” said Scott.

  “Two doors down on the left, sir,” said the sergeant.

  “Thank you.”

  Pulling off his raincoat, Scott quickly passed down the hallway to a door marked J-3 Deputy. He straightened his tie, looked down at his brightly shined shoes, and swung open the door. In the field, Scott would wear far less, but in battles with management, h
e had learned to send all the signals of authority.

  “Yes, sir.” The Navy lieutenant looked up from her desk, which seemed almost ceremonial—it lacked papers, notes, and all other evidence of work. She had that exceptional look that would cause men to pause and turn their heads, but in an athletic, outdoorsy, well-tanned way. Only a dedicated athlete would be so tanned now that the weather had begun to change in Washington

  “Scott for Admiral Krowl.”

  “Oh, yes, you’re expected. Coffee or something to drink, sir?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll tell them you’re here.”

  Scott didn’t expect the “them.” Instead of taking a seat, he continued to stand, taking in his surroundings. A royal blue couch with gold tridents served as the centerpiece of this outer office. On each end of the couch were darkwood end tables and tall brass lamps.

  Scott was more interested, though, in the photographs hung in groups on the walls. One series showed Krowl as a young officer in jungle fatigues in Vietnam. The man was far more impressive then—much thinner, with a smile more devious than happy. Another group of photos showed Krowl wearing the desert camouflage of the Gulf, a few years and many pounds later. Again, that same smile. All of the photographs were of him alone.

  “Mr. Scott.” The inner door swung open and a bald Navy commander stuck out his hand.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Commander Sawyer, the admiral’s assistant,” he said. “Please come in.”

  “Yes,” said Scott.

  Sawyer was Krowl’s handyman. He often did the admiral’s unpleasant work, Scott had learned, and gave Krowl protection. All flag officers, for better or worse, had a “Sawyer” to deliver their messages or to snoop out the status of certain sensitive matters. If a general was caught in an affair, the Sawyers of the military always found out first.

  The inner office was a cavernous, wood-paneled chamber with two picture windows looking out on a boat harbor that led into the Potomac River. Any Pentagon office on the outer, or E, ring was valuable real estate in the world of military power. This remained true even after the attacks of September 11th and the destruction of certain E ring offices. An office view gave the appearance of power. And even though this location posed a greater risk, most power-seekers would happily accept it.

  Admiral Krowl had two small couches facing each other and a square mahogany coffee table, bright brass hinges built in. Behind his desk was an enormous oil painting of two Revolution-era sailing ships engaged in battle.

  “Mr. Scott, come on in,” Krowl said as he looked up, taking one last draw on his cigarette before crushing it into the already full ashtray on his desk.

  “You know Mi.” He pointed to the back of the room where she was sitting slightly out of sight in one of the leather chairs.

  “Yes, of course.” Scott was not totally surprised she was there.

  “Commander Sawyer will join us. He has full authority and knowledge of these matters.”

  Again, Scott could not say he was surprised. People he distrusted by instinct rarely worked alone.

  “Okay, let’s review where we are,” said Krowl. “Scott, what is the progress of training?”

  Coming in, Scott had decided to limit his comments. “He’s doing fine.”

  “You have a month left at Quantico. Is the team ready?”

  “Yes, they’ll meet him at Bridgeport.”

  “And how long will Bridgeport take?”

  “About a month.”

  “That would make them ready in early January,” said Krowl. “They have to be ready sooner. The boat will be available at Pearl by fifteen December.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “No buts—fifteen December.”

  “The team may not be ready by then,” Scott protested.

  “Didn’t Colonel Parker pick the team himself?” Krowl sounded like a sneering bully. Once you bested Krowl, as Will had, he would use that fact, almost gloatingly, as a reason to predict your failure.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then, they will be ready. Tell them something has changed. Tell them Intelligence reports the doctor is moving.”

  Scott’s blood boiled. His hand squeezed the arm of the sofa as he attempted to suffocate his rage.

  “Admiral, I don’t mind preparing the bloody man for a job that holds the probability”—Scott pronounced the word slowly and quietly to emphasize the point—“I said the probability that he will not survive, or worse, be imprisoned for the rest of his life in a dank, brutal prison by an already starving country that considers torture an art form. But, to continually lie to him—”

  Scott was still angry about the unannounced insertion of the tracer into Will. Krowl had ordered the procedure during the dental treatments while Will was under the effect of the gas.

  “Mr. Scott.” Krowl said it like a teacher about to send a misbehaving student to the principal’s office.

  “Yes?”

  “He agreed to this mission,” said Krowl. “And, besides, he’s getting paid. No one in this building, nor the public for that matter, will be concerned about a mercenary being caught, imprisoned, or killed.”

  “Admiral, the money was your idea. I’m not sure it even mattered to him,” said Scott.

  “Well, we’ll see.” The conversation was not going as Krowl had hoped. “And, Mi, how about it?”

  “Sir?”

  “Will he be ready?”

  “Yes,” said Mi. “He’s already fluent in Hanguk. He’s conversant in Russian. He has been over the topography computer programs several times and knows every lake, stream, and valley within a fifty mile area. He has a general sense of the vegetation, too, from the 3-D program.”

  Will had been taken to Langley several times. Always late at night, the van would pull into the CIA’s basement parking garage, after which they would travel two floors up to the computer graphics room. With a 3-D headset and instructions from Frank Darlin, Will could walk, run, or even fly through the computer-reconstructed topography of the North Korean countryside. The programs were integrated with the latest information received directly from satellites, along with Darlin’s personal expertise. The detail allowed Will to walk past vehicles parked that very moment on a roadway in North Korea.

  “He’s fully up on the camera and satellite relay computer.” Scott had worked with Hamilton and Will for several days on the relay. Photographs were taken from several locations across Quantico and relayed directly, via satellite, to Langley.

  “Good, okay. Anything else?” said Krowl.

  Sawyer had been sitting quietly in the back taking everything in, but this was his cue. He stood up and opened the door to help move the visitors along.

  “No?” said Krowl. “Then let’s get him to Bridgeport no later than one December.”

  Scott grimaced. He picked up his raincoat and held it over his arm to make it more difficult for Krowl to shake his hand. This didn’t bother the admiral, who remained behind his desk.

  “Oh, Mi, stay a moment,” said Krowl.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Scott looked at her and turned toward the door. Sawyer followed him out and closed the door behind him, leaving Mi alone with Krowl.

  “Anything else I need to know?” Krowl asked. He had learned a long time ago that a close observer always provided the best intelligence.

  “No,” she said hesitantly. “No, sir.” She regretted not giving him something. A wild dog is easier to control when regularly fed.

  “Good. So, from your viewpoint, he can get to that valley?”

  The admiral, she thought, had a tendency to describe only half the mission. Krowl never spoke about Will getting back from the valley.

  “I think Will. . .” Again, another mistake. It was not like her.

  “Yes?”

  “Colonel Parker will get to the valley, complete the mission, and get back.”

  “Okay.” He said it flatly, without much enthusiasm.

  “Anything else, sir?”

/>   “No.” He paused as he lit another cigarette. “But keep me informed. Your calls have been most helpful.”

  She was silent.

  “Mi?”

  “Oh, yes, sir?”

  “Thank you.”

  Sawyer re-entered the room. A good aide always appeared and disappeared at the right moment.

  “Miss Yong was just leaving,” said Krowl.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He walked her out to the hallway while Krowl stayed behind, seemingly preoccupied with a document.

  Sawyer soon returned. “Sir, anything else?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m not sure about Scott. I want the CIA to order him to CINCPAC during the operation. Let him monitor it out of their SCIF. That’ll keep him out of the way,” he said. “We can say it’s necessary so he can be closer to Korea if the need arises.”

  “Yes, sir. Good idea.” The top-secret, classified operation center, or SCIF, at CINCPAC in Hawaii would take Scott out of the action, but not totally out of Krowl’s influence.

  Like his boss, Sawyer was devious, something Krowl recognized early. Others were never sure when he was talking for Krowl or when he was talking for himself, so the best thing was simply to stay away from him, they figured.

  Sawyer appreciated the power, but knew it was illusory. Krowl would never help him get promoted, because Krowl helped no one. But whenever Krowl was out of the Pentagon, which was often, Sawyer left after lunch, carrying his cell phone. His tanned complexion came from golf at the Army-Navy Club. He enjoyed all the benefits of being an admiral without bearing any of its burdens.

  “What about her, sir?” said Sawyer.

  “Yong?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “She’ll be our little insider,” said Krowl, “and when he moves on to the next phase, we’ll be done with her.”

  “Doesn’t she know a lot?”

  “Yes.” He leaned back in his chair, inhaling his cigarette. Thin white smoke curled upwards to the ceiling. “That’s a good point.”

  “Isn’t she still high on their list?” said Sawyer.

  “Oh, yes.” Krowl continued to lean back and draw on his cigarette. “Let me think about this. Good job, Sawyer.”