A Northern Thunder

by Andy Harp

  “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. The old man was starting to feel his age.

  They 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. Won felt the back of the seat as he was pushed into it. 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 special for a brief time.

  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, multi-staged 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 with a massive round opening in the rock above and below, were dozens of men and women, all dressed in white. All wore caps, and some wore masks, like surgeons preparing for transplant operations.

  “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 was at a loss for words. He could never accept a compliment. He bent his head down like a beaten puppy, but then turned to his other associates.

  “Let us begin.”

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

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

  “We will launch the Taepo Dong-3X tonight to a target some six thousand nautical miles away, near the path of a west coast GPS satellite in 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.”

  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, or should be done, to stop it.

  Chapter 22

  Congratulations, Colonel.” 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 knew for certain that the colonel had not stayed within the lines, but he couldn’t complain because he had covered the red target with his entire frame. Someday, the sergeant would smile, acknowledging that he had been outfoxed.

  “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 followed Will down the graveled road.

  Punaros smiled as the two Agency men raced to the black Suburban in pursuit of two runners already a football field’s distance down the road.

  Sometimes, during these runs, Will would talk, and after several weeks, Mi began 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. He could feel the cold flakes as they struck his warm 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 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 trace, as the snow began to stick to the cold ground. She tried to stay 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, dashing 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, bu
t Will continued up a 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 his upper body against the 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. He wouldn’t let her look down. As he bent over her small frame, she felt his grip pull her up off the ground. “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 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?” He pushed for a definite answer.

  “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 embrace.

  “This thunder. . .” he said.

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

  “For snow like this. . .”

  “Yes?”

  “We have a name for it.”

  “What?”

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

  A cold, frightening thunder, she thought, laying still. “What’s next?” Mi asked.

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

  Personal experience had well prepared Will Parker for this. He 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

  The SIOC’s operations center on the fifth floor of the FBI building was much larger than Tom Pope had remembered. Its forty thousand 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 has asked for this update and he wants to hear the news.” Dave Creighton was a man Tom Pope had known throughout most of his career, and 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?” Creighton asked.

  “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, trashcan-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 was 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 and the Pentagon, SIOC became the FBI’s main operational center when responding to a national crisis. Congress 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 the men passed through another set of doors and into a hallway.

  “Come, 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 bone, the likely result of chronic nervousness.

  “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 walkthrough.”

  “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 Brenner 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 candor and aplomb, displaying a willingness to criticize and accept criticism when needed.

  “I’m ready,” said Tom.

  “Okay, let’s go with it. He’ll be more interested in getting specific questions answered than seeing a dog and pony show,” said Creighton.

  The two swept their cards on a scanner at another wood door within the entranceway, this one marked with brass letters, “FBI Operations Center.” Inside, several flat video monitors, massive in size and split-screened, immediately attracted Tom’s eye. A large conference table stood directly in front of the screens. Far behind the table were several aisles of computer-laden desks, attended by an assortment of men and women. In a glance, Tom noted that the screens had a variety of maps, video surveillance displays, and several people talki
ng from what appeared to be other centers, either across the country or across the world.

  Tom came down to a rostrum next to the screens, to one side of the conference table. A large blue leather chair monogrammed with the Bureau’s seal dominated the table. A glass panel, again with the FBI seal etched on, separated the conference table from the room with computer desks, and a set of sliding glass doors joined them.

  “Okay, sir,” Molly said to Tom. “This dimmer controls the light here on your podium. I’ll control the lighting in the room. This clicker will control your Powerpoint. It’ll be all set up. And if there are any problems, I’ll be ready.”

  Tom looked forlorn.

  “Have you ever briefed this guy?” Molly asked sympathetically.

  “No, this is just my second time even being here.”

  She smiled. “He’s okay. He won’t embarrass you. Some of his assistants may take a swing at you, but he won’t.”

  “Great.” He breathed a sigh of relief, then a side door swung open and in walked several men and women.

  Tom recognized the director from his many appearances on CNN, Fox, and other news networks, and from the evening news the night before, when the anchor had interviewed him. Boy, will I have something to tell my family, he thought. The director went right to the big chair, where a yellow pad, pencil, and coffee cup had been set out for him.

  “Okay, Agent Pope, what have you got?” the director said.

  “Sir, we formed an integrated task force several months ago after a contact informed us of the deaths of certain respected scientists, and an apparent common thread connecting them.”

  “That’s your Joan of Arc.” The director was well-informed, which immediately impressed Tom.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Believed to be a DPRK employee.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Working at the United Nations?”

  “Yes, sir.”