Fires of War

by Larry Bond

  In this case, the inspection of the waste facilities was truly reciprocal: The Blessed Peak Waste Disposal and Holding Station happened to be an almost exact twin of the facility in North Korea’s P’yongan-puko, or northern P’yŏnpan Province, where the team would go next. Both had been designed and built by a French firm within the last two years; the funding for the North Korean plant had come from the earlier framework agreement that had set the stage for the final disarmament pact.

  High-tech monitors and robot train cars played prominent roles at the facilities. All of the waste that arrived at the South Korean facility was sealed in an appropriate containment vessel; even so, no human came within fifty yards of it, at least not under normal circumstances.

  Things in North Korea were not quite as automated nor as strict—the containment “vessels” in some cases amounted to simple metal barrels, moved from trucks by forklift to the train cars—but they were nonetheless a significant improvement over the procedures followed just a few years before, when waste was dumped into open pits by workers using shovels, rakes, and in some cases their bare hands.

  Most of the waste that came to both plants was low-grade radioactive substances left from medical testing and industrial testing, or the byproducts of their production. But the plants also contained temporary storage facilities for spent nuclear fuel. These were the areas that the IAEA had come to look at. For only the fuel from nuclear reactors could be processed into weapons.

  A typical nuclear reactor was fueled by uranium or plutonium pellets no larger than the average man’s thumb. The pellets were loaded and sealed into long metal tubes called rods, which were then inserted into the reactor. The controlled nuclear reaction that resulted generated electricity for a number of years, depending on the plant’s design.

  As the reaction proceeded, the fuel became “spent,” changed by the reaction into material that could no longer fuel the reactor. But the spent fuel represented only about three percent of the pellet. Once removed through “reprocessing,” the unused material could be used in another reactor.

  Reprocessing was not, however, an easy task. The rods were very hot and highly radioactive when first removed from the reactor. To prepare them for reprocessing, they had to be cooled, which in some circumstances could take as long as ten years. They were then encased in lead and steel-lined cement canisters that looked like large barbells. The containment vessels allowed the fuel to be safely transported without danger of leakage.

  Like much else connected with the nuclear industry, the shipping and reprocessing of fuel was an expensive operation, performed only by special plants. It was also highly regulated, for it was relatively easy to extract weapons’-grade material during the process. This was especially true for rods from plutonium-fueled plants such as those built by North Korea.

  At Blessed Peak, spent nuclear fuel was collected from two research reactors in the western part of the country and stored until it could be shipped with waste from other Korean and Japanese plants for reprocessing in Great Britain, something which generally happened every one or two years. In North Korea, the waste was collected from the country’s sole operating nuclear power plant for shipment to Russia for reprocessing every eighteen months.

  Blessed Peak’s wonjon nim, or director, explained all this with the help of an elaborate PowerPoint presentation in the administration building’s small auditorium. At nearly six eight, he was the tallest Korean Thera had seen since she arrived. He was also the palest; his skin seemed almost translucent. But he was an energetic man, bouncing across the stage as his slides appeared, talking in both Korean and fluent English. His silver-and-black hair occasionally blended into the background of the slides, leaving his brown suit hurtling back and forth to the nuances of tracking shipments and protecting against catastrophe.

  Thera took notes during the director’s presentation, but her mind was on her real job: planting miniature monitoring devices known as “tags” at the North Korean site. Because Blessed Peak was so similar, she would plant another set here to compare the North Korean results when the tags were collected again in three months.

  Less than a half-inch square, the detectors were hidden inside fake radiation buttons, the warning indicators worn by the inspection team to detect accidental exposures to radiation. Thera had memorized a list of twenty-five possible spots to plant the devices; she was aiming to plant between six and eight at each site.

  The tags were designed to detect radiation from plutonium-239. Exploiting recently developed nanotechnology, the tags were extremely sensitive gamma-ray spectrometers, or, in layman’s terms, they were “tuned” to detect radiation produced by the bomb material. Tests had shown they could reliably detect about .03 grams of the material at 10 meters, a vast improvement over the most commonly used sensors, which could detect perhaps a third of a gram at the same distance.

  Besides providing a check on the IAEA’s tests, the First Team operation would show if materials from illegal reprocessing were being shunted into the secondary and low-level waste area, something the North was suspected of having done with its earlier extraction program.

  The tags had gold-colored ends, which had to be upright. The gold turned red if the tag made a detection. While a full analysis of the tag would provide additional data about the exposure, the simple indicator would make it relatively easy to check on the site. Another IAEA inspection was tentatively scheduled in three months.

  The director came to his last slide, and the scientists applauded politely before filing out of the room. They toured the monitoring station down the hall, where technicians controlled the machines that received and moved waste containers. The setup reminded Thera of an elaborate toy-train layout one of her cousins used to have in his basement that used a wireless remote to run the engines. The trains here were full sized, and they worked in conjunction with large cranes and automated lifting gear.

  Radio devices permanently attached to the containment vessels showed where the recyclable power waste was at all times. No terrorist could steal the potentially dangerous waste, the director boasted, at least not without the entire world knowing.

  Security around the perimeter of the plant and in the area where the recyclable fuel was kept was relatively strong; cameras with overlapping views covered a double fence, which was patrolled by guards at irregular intervals. But the security system left the rest of the facility relatively open, making Thera’s job simple, assuming she could drift away from the pack.

  That part wasn’t going to be easy today, though. Norkelus kept prodding her to stay close to their host, reminding her in pantomime that she should be jotting things down.

  The director led them into the reception building, a large shedlike structure whose ribbed walls were made of steel. Every truck or trainload of waste entering Blessed Peak came to the large building first, where it was recorded, classified, and then prepared for storage. A large overhead crane, similar to that used to load containers onto and off of ships, sat near the middle of the building. The crane could swivel 360 degrees, setting containment vessels and waste “casks”—essentially smaller vessels with less serious waste—onto the special railroad cars.

  “No people,” said the director, waving his hand, “except the truck driver. All is controlled from the administration station, with the aid of the cameras.”

  He pointed overhead, where a pair of video cameras in the ceiling observed everything in the building.

  The cameras made it impractical to plant the tags inside, but Thera wouldn’t have to; the metal ribs that ran upward from the ground to the roof on the outside would make easy hiding places near the door.

  As the group left the building, Thera pulled out a pack of Marlboros and broke off from the rest of the group. She lit up, then leaned against the side of the building.

  It was a perfect cover: She could slide a sensor right into the metal seam while pretending to light a cigarette.

  Why not do it now?

  She slid her
hand inside her pocket, flicking off the exterior casing of the tag and sliding the detector between her fingers.

  One-two-three, easy as pie.

  “Miss?”

  Thera looked up in surprise. A man in a lab coat was staring at her a few feet away.

  “Um, cigarette,” she said, holding the cigarette up guiltily.

  “You will come with me,” said the man. “Come.”

  “But I was just having a smoke.”

  The man grabbed her arm. It took enormous willpower not to throw him down to the ground and even more not to flee.

  5

  DELAWARE COUNTY AIRPORT, INDIANA

  Senator Gordon Tewilliger pulled himself into the limo and shut the door. The weather had turned nasty and his plane from Washington, D.C., had been delayed nearly an hour from landing at Delaware County Airport, just outside of Muncie, Indiana. That meant he was even further behind schedule than usual.

  “State Elks dinner begins with cocktails at six.” Jack Long, his district coordinator, leaned back from the front seat. “Your speech is scheduled for about eight thirty. You can just blow in, do the speech, then skip out. Which will get you over to the hospital before ten.”

  “That’s still not going to help us, Jack.”

  “You cut the ribbon at the Senior Center at six. We go from there directly to the Delaware County reception. You spend fifteen minutes there, then we swing over to the Boy Scout assembly to give out the Eagle badges.”

  The door to the limo opened, and Tewilliger’s deputy assistant, James Hannigan, slipped in. Though his title seemed to indicate that Hannigan was number three in the hierarchy of his aides, in actual fact he was the senator’s alter ego and had been with him since Gordon Tewilliger had first run for state assembly. Hannigan, a short, wiry man, put his head down and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to rub off some of the rain. Once the aide was inside, the driver locked the doors and put the car in gear. The windshield wipers slapped furiously, as if they were mad that the rain had the audacity to fall.

  “Finish the Eagle badges no later than seven-ten,” continued Long, “then stop by the reception at the Iron Workers Union. If things run late, we can cut that. Then—”

  “You don’t want to cut the Iron Workers,” said Hannigan.

  “Gordon could stand on his head, and they won’t endorse him,” said Long.

  “Sure, but Harry Mangjeol from Yongduro is going to be there, and he wants to say hello.”

  “He wants more than that,” said the senator. “He’s going to harangue me about the nuclear disarmament treaty again. ’South Korea get raw deal.’ ” Tewilliger mimicked Mangjeol’s heavily accented English.

  “He and his friends are supplying the airplane to New Hampshire tomorrow,” said Hannigan. “It wouldn’t be politick to tell him to screw off.”

  “No, I supposed it wouldn’t,” said Tewilliger.

  Mangjeol was a first-generation Korean-American who owned an electronics factory halfway between Muncie and Daleville. Though a rich man in his own right, Mangjeol was more important politically as the representative of a number of Korean-American businessmen with deep ties to South Korea.

  The Americans were always complaining that the North was getting away with something. Oddly, at least to Tewilliger, in the next breath they would say how much they hoped the peninsula would be reunified, as if getting the two Koreas back together wouldn’t require a great deal of compromise and understanding.

  “McCarthy’s not budging on the disarmament agreement,” said Tewilliger. “He won’t change a word.”

  “A powerful argument to Mangjeol in favor of backing you for president,” said Hannigan.

  “Here we go, Senator,” said Long.

  Tewilliger looked up, surprised to find that they were driving up to the senior center already.

  “Mayor’s name is Sue Bayhern. Serious lightweight, but she gets eighty percent of the vote,” said Long, feeding the senator the information he’d need to navigate the reception. “The place cost six point seven million dollars; the federal grant covered all but two hundred thousand.”

  “Our grant, Jack. They’re always our grants,” said Tewilliger, opening the car door.

  6

  SOUTH CHUNGCHONG PROVINCE, SOUTH KOREA

  Thera’s right knee threatened to buckle as she walked with the man in the lab coat toward the administration building near the gate. She wasn’t sure what the fuss was all about. She’d never gotten the tag out of her pocket.

  Had they somehow figured out she was a spy?

  “What’s going on?” she asked in Greek and English, but the man didn’t answer. Four guards ran from the building.

  The man in the lab coat yelled at them in Korean, “She must be detained.” The men immediately began escorting them.

  Thera had studied Korean for over two months, and had become proficient enough to hold uncomplicated conversations but couldn’t understand everything the man told the guards. When they reached the building, she stopped and demanded to know what was going on.

  “Jal moreugesseoyo” she said. “I don’t understand.”

  The man in the lab coat told her to go inside.

  “Why?”

  He pointed at her fist, where her half-smoked cigarette continued to burn.

  “This?” She held up the cigarette. “This is what you’re upset about?”

  “Very important law for all. No exceptions.”

  “I’ll put it out. God. It’s not a big deal.”

  The man in lab coat responded by slapping her across the mouth. Stunned, Thera dropped the cigarette. Once again, it took all of her willpower to respond the way the mousy secretary would: Rather than decking him she let herself be led inside, then down a hallway to a part of the building she hadn’t seen on the tour. A door was opened, and Thera was shoved inside. The man in the lab coat ordered her to strip.

  “Like hell I will,” said Thera. The mousy act had its limits.

  “You will do as I say,” repeated the man. He approached her with his hand out, threatening to strike.

  “I am not taking my clothes off. I want to see the director. I want Dr. Norkelus. I was only having a cigarette.”

  The man swung his hand. Thera ducked quickly out of the way. Her body poised to strike back, she yelled for Dr. Norkelus.

  Thera’s speed and poise surprised the Korean. He caught hold of himself, realizing he had gone too far.

  “Empty your pockets,” he told her in English.

  “I want Dr. Norkelus.”

  “Empty your pockets.”

  “Where? There’s no table or anything.”

  He said something to her in Korean that she didn’t catch, then turned and left. The others remained in the room.

  “It’s just cigarettes, see?” Thera reached into her pocket and took out the pack. She showed it to the soldiers. One of the men shrugged; the others were immobile. She couldn’t tell if they spoke English or not. “I was just grabbing a smoke. Nicotine fit.”

  Thera shoved her hand back into her pocket, slipping her fingers around the sensor she’d opened and trying to return it to the case. It wouldn’t quite snap together. Finally she took the pieces from her pocket, grasping them in her palm so that only the top part was visible.

  One of the soldiers was watching.

  “It’s just a sensor. See? Like yours?” She pointed to the somewhat larger clip-on devices on their uniform shirts. “To make sure no one’s poisoned. I have the spares. And a lighter.” She put the tag into her other hand, pushing it closed in the process. Then she took out the lighter. “See? Cigarettes. I’m addicted.”

  The man smiled nervously but said nothing. Thera pulled out the rest of the tags, showing them to the men. Then she took out her pocket change and some crumpled won notes.

  “See? Nothing. You think I have a gun?” She turned to the guard who had smiled. “You smoke, too, yes? I can’t say it in Korean. Smoke?”

  “Dambae,” said the m
an. “Cigarette.”

  “That’s it. Dambae.”

  “No, no, no,” said the man, wagging his finger as if she were a child.

  The door opened. A short, squat woman in a lab coat entered, scolding the men in Korean and telling them to leave. Then, still speaking Korean, she told Thera she was going to be searched.

  Thera feigned ignorance.

  “You must be searched,” said the woman in English. “Take off your coat.”

  “I have cigarettes, a lighter, not even lipstick.”

  “You must be searched.”

  “Because I had a cigarette?”

  “Cigarette smoking is forbidden inside the compound. Very dangerous. Any violation . . . this is taken very seriously. We have strict procedures. It is the country’s law, not ours.”

  “I guess.”

  “Please take off your coat.”

  An hour later, Dr. Norkelus appeared with the facility director. He was carrying Thera’s belongings in a clear plastic bag. The extra radiation sensors were at the bottom, along with her cigarettes.

  “I have to apologize for the way you were treated,” said Dr. Norkelus, “but smoking is forbidden. Strictly forbidden.”

  “Yeah,” said Thera. She snatched back the bag.

  Norkelus stiffened. She wasn’t acting like the mousy secretary, and he didn’t like that. He needed to feel superior, in charge.

  “I’m sorry,” said Thera, trying to get back into character. “I was just having a cigarette. They made me strip.”

  “Outrageous,” said Norkelus, his protective instincts kicking in. “The Koreans . . . they are very careful about their rules; they do not have the best attitude toward people breaking them.”