A Northern Thunder

by Andy Harp

  “Sir?” said Hernandez.

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

  “What about in-country?” Despite what Will had said initially, Stidham had always 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 twenty-two-hundred 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 by me by twenty-two-hundred on D plus two and you, Gunnery Sergeant, are directed to return to this boat.”

  “But—”

  “No but’s. 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, as if it might be their last real meal for some time.

  Two cabins away, the team came to a small chamber room with nothing but four empty duffle 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 duffle 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.

  “This is all Soviet,” Will said, “down to the last stitch. Put on your wetsuits, seal up the Spetsnaz uniforms in these waterproof pouches, and grab your weapon.”

  The men suited up in the plain black wetsuits 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,” Will directed. Turning toward Hollington, who had entered the room, he further instructed his men, “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 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.

  And, again, Will thought of Krowl, silent, 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 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 offshore about five-hundred meters.”

  “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 much as a hundred miles offshore.

  “We can stay here, anchor, and let you swim in and out from our lower hatch all day long.” The young lieutenant was clearly proud of his new command. On his blue jumpsuit, he had the gold badges of both a Navy SEAL and a submariner. “And if you get the bends, we can handle them as well.”

  “We’ve got enough problems,” Moncrief chirped in from behind the men.

  Will had heard that the earlier models of the ASDS had to be reworked for noise, but this propeller purred, no louder than the gentle noise of an air conditioner switching on in a home on a summer day.

  “Okay, we’re on location, sir.” As the lieutenant turned around, 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 motorized sounding device 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 very 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 reading of one-hundred sixty degrees toward the south. He swung it around to three-hundred fifty-two 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 diffused, 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 well down in the hole.

  “Moncrief, you lead,” said Will. “I’ll go 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 more like a bag for shirts just returned from the laundry. Moncrief and Hernandez chambered rounds in two 68 Russian AKM assault rifles while Stidham wrapped up the Dragunor 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 re-breather mouthpiece over his mouth, tilted the black Russian facemask to let a little water into it, and headed down the ladder.

  As two hands reached up to pull it down into the water, Stidham slid a backpack wrapped in a black plastic bag into the hole. Then both Stidham and Hernandez slid the black rum-shaped barrel down over the edge. It had little buoyancy and clanked on the sides as it slid down into the water. Black straps encircled the drum, providing a good grab-hold.

  “I’ll go next,” said Hernandez. He slipped down into
the opening, followed by Stidham.

  “Thanks, Skipper.” Will smiled at the lieutenant and slid his feet into the hole. He saluted as he descended into the black water. The water’s coldness penetrated the suit, but felt only like a cool dip in an unheated swimming pool in early summer. Will was impressed with the suit’s ability to keep him comfortable even as the shock of cold water hit the exposed parts of his face.

  As he slid down the ladder, Will felt his feet touch a sandy bottom. He saw the red circle of light above him, and as his eyes adjusted, the red illuminated the ocean’s floor in a large circle. Round, smooth boulders dotted the ocean floor. He turned toward the nose of the submarine to orient himself toward shore. Will detected the shapes of the others, then saw them donning long black fins. His eyes quickly adjusted to the low light, and touching each man on the shoulder, he pointed toward the west.

  In total silence, they headed in a snakelike motion toward the shore. Will felt the sea surge as he swam across the increasingly rocky floor. In the dark, his only senses were the taste of rubber in his mouth and the sound of air sucked in from his re-breather. The Soviet device, similar to that made for U.S. Navy SEALs, released no air bubbles. After some time, he stopped, gathered the team together, gave them a hand signal to wait, and slid up to the surface.

  The cold air struck his face as Will broke through a wave. Icy snowflakes hit his cheeks as he turned toward the shoreline. He was just out of the breakers, feeling the ocean as it ran past him. The shore was barely visible beyond the white foamed waves crashing into jagged black boulders. Will quickly circled several times, unable to detect the slightest movement.

  Searching the shoreline for a break in the rocks and surf, Will quietly kicked up-shore for several meters, toward the north, until he saw a small beach no longer than two men laid end to end. Strapped to his wrist was a digital compass, from which he took a bearing. He backtracked to where he had surfaced, then submerged. Finding his team, he signaled them to the north.

  Chapter 35

  After several minutes, they moved up-shore. Each man swam in below the surf, until they could stand, with only their heads above the surf. Will led them through the tumbling waves and driving snowstorm to the break in the rocks. There, they quickly pulled their packs and barrel ashore, and each took a point.

  Will signaled Moncrief that he was going forward, then silently slipped around one truck-sized boulder and quickly disappeared. The roar of the surf pounded on the rocks surrounding them. Each slipped their weapons out of protective covers and held them locked outbound from the center. Moncrief scanned the rocks above.

  “Gunny.”

  Moncrief was surprised by Will’s sudden appearance behind him. “Damn, sir,” he whispered.

  “A small river runs into the bay about fifty meters to our right. It goes up into the mountains just over there.” Will pointed up, toward what appeared to be a divide in the rocks. “There’s a bridge on the coastal highway.” Will had remembered this spot from the countless hours spent in the training room with the three-dimensional maps.

  “What’s the plan?” said Moncrief.

  “Simple. We erect the tent in those rocks at the base of the bridge and you get out of here before first light.”

  “Okay.” Moncrief did not embrace the idea of the team breaking up, and his tone said as much.

  Will led the team, one by one, in a slow, quiet move around the rocks and boulders and up off the small beach. Only a few meters up, Moncrief saw the outline of an old, gray cement bridge. In the driving snowstorm, a flat roadway that paralleled the coastline was barely visible. He could tell it was a road only because of an occasional post marking its outline. He pointed to Stidham to keep a lookout to the north while he scanned the roadway to the south, expecting a coastal surveillance vehicle at any moment.

  Near the base of the bridge, sheltering a small patch of sand, were two giant boulders, both capped with freshly fallen snow. Will pointed to the spot and used hand signals to direct the next move.

  Hernandez and Stidham pulled up one of the oversized packs and took from it a small mountain tent. In a flash, the tent was up, snow quickly accumulating on its camouflaged sides.

  “Sir, I’m not sure this is the best spot,” said Moncrief.

  “It’s fine,” said Will.

  “But anyone looking from that bridge can see it.”

  “The snowfall should camouflage it well.”

  “Okay, boss.” Moncrief sensed when Will’s mind was made up, and he clearly had a definite purpose in mind for putting the tent here.

  “Gunny, put the barrel there,” said Will. To all of them, he said, “Give me the two other packs, and then run a quick scouting mission north and south.”

  “Yes, sir,” they replied, piling up the extra packs and barrel next to the tent. Then they moved north, then south, for several hundred meters. Each man made every effort to move on the rocks at their base so as to leave little imprint, although the snow was now coming down in droves. They doubled back to Will. One pack had been moved—Moncrief assumed it was in the tent.

  Will was suited up now in the Spetsnaz winter uniform, a hooded one-piece KLMK coverall, a patchwork of white, black, and brown. When he pulled down the hood and facemask, the snow created what looked like a cloud of steam around his head. Over his left shoulder, he had one pack, also camouflaged in white, black, and brown streaks, and another pack over his right shoulder. A black shoulder holster held the Type-64 pistol. Its long silencer extended well below the holster. The black barrel lay on its side near the tent.

  “Okay, return to the mini-sub and wait for my signal,” said Will. “If no signal by twenty-two-hundred hours tomorrow, return to the Florida.”

  “Yes, sir.” Moncrief picked up the pack as the other men grabbed the remaining gear and worked their way down to the water’s edge. They slid into the surf, backing out and dragging the remaining packs.

  “Gunny,” said Hernandez, grabbing Moncrief just as a wave hit both of them in their backs.

  “Yeah.”

  “The barrel is floating. We’ll need to take off the lid to sink it.”

  “Do it.”

  Hernandez pried the lid off the black oil drum. As the water rushed in, it gave off a white cloud of steam. The next wave caught its open face and sent it to the bottom.

  “Oh, shit. I hope he didn’t want that,” said Hernandez.

  In fact, Will had already retrieved the contents of the barrel before dropping it into the water.

  “If need be, we can find it. Best to leave it here for now.” Moncrief took a quick glance at the shoreline and triangulated three markers to provide Will a bearing on the barrel.

  Good luck, boss, he thought as he took one last glance at the North Korean coastline, pulled his mask down, and slid quietly into the surf.

  Chapter 36

  “Do you need two keys to your room, sir?”

  “No.”

  The hotel clerk, who had worked for the Tokyo Marriott Kimshicho Tobu for only a few months, bowed to the guest as she gave him the key. “Do you have an interest in our symphony?” she asked.

  “Possibly, yes.”

  “Our concierge may have tickets remaining for tonight. She’s at the desk on the other side of the lobby.”

  The clerk was referring to the Tokyo Orchestra. The Kimshicho Marriott, part of an interconnected row of modern silver and glass buildings, included the symphony hall. It was the tallest part of a commercial complex in the center of one of suburban Tokyo’s many commercial districts. This particular district was to the east of Tokyo, along a growth of buildings and suburbs that connected the city to Narita Airport.

  Rei was not a music fan. To him, it was yet another capitalist excess. But attending this concert might serve a good purpose. The day before, Rei had taken the Tokyo subway to the Kimshicho station and walked the two blocks to the hotel complex. There, he noticed something he did not like.

  “And I have you down for a five-day stay,
” said the hotel clerk.

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “And this is for business?”

  “Of course, yes,” said Rei.

  “We’re required to examine your passport.”

  “Yes.” He handed her an American passport with another false name. This time, he was pretending to be a Japanese-American returning to Tokyo on an annual visit to the corporate headquarters of a Japanese electronics maker.

  The day before, Rei had spotted a well-dressed young man reading a Japanese newspaper in the Marriott lobby. It was not the newspaper that disturbed Rei. It was the very small and barely noticeable earpiece the man was wearing.

  Rei had passed him quickly, making a point not to glance back at him. As he rode the taxi back to Keio Plaza, where he had begun his Tokyo stay, Rei realized the only way to penetrate security was to be on the inside.

  Having retrieved his passport, Rei approached the concierge. “Madam?”

  “Oh yes, sir?” The Marriott’s concierge had enjoyed her job for several years now. The American wife of an American newsman, she took great satisfaction from making American visitors to Japan feel at ease, whether it was helping with tours, directions, or concert tickets. To the Westerners, it was comforting to hear her voice.

  At the same time, her gray, perfectly-shaped hair and her immaculate dress also put her Japanese guests at ease. She bowed appropriately. After living in Japan for so many years, she fully appreciated the need to observe Japanese protocol.

  “I’m interested in two tickets to tonight’s symphony,” Rei said, playing the odds. Buying two tickets would be less suspicious, even if the seat next to him remained empty. More important, a concert in the building adjoining the hotel would be a likely social activity for the science conference attendees, and might give him his best opportunity.

  “They’re rather expensive,” she said. “The concert’s nearly sold out.”

  “Yes, and how much?” He did not want to appear too easy or too quick.