by Larry Bond
“Yes, then, good. I will see you in the morning,” said Norkelus gruffly. The light flipped off; Thera appeared.
“Wait,” whispered Rankin.
“Why?”
“Case he comes back.”
“He won’t.”
“Wait.”
Thera scowled but then disappeared. Rankin squatted, waiting. He’d heard a bit of Ferguson’s act through the door. It was vintage Ferguson. The CIA officer had a gift for bullshit; he’d seen him talk his way into and out of dozens of tight places, blustering and cajoling and always ladling on the crap.
It was part of the game, a tool, but it left Rankin vaguely uneasy. One of the things about Special Forces was that the people you worked with didn’t bullshit.
Except for officers. Officers were always full of it.
Guns stuck his head over the railing above and whistled, signaling that the coast was clear.
“Come on, Thera,” whispered Rankin. “Let’s get this done.”
14
SOUTH CHUNGCHONG PROVINCE, KOREA
Three hours later, armed with Thera’s hand-drawn map, Ferguson and Rankin stepped toward the rear door of an Air Force C-130 Hercules.
“Ready, Rankin?” Ferguson said, yelling over the rush of the wind in the rear of the plane.
“If you are.”
“Hey, piece of cake,” said Ferguson, clamping the oxygen mask against his face.
A night jump into a black hole from thirty thousand feet was not exactly Rankin’s idea of a piece of cake, but he still felt a certain elation as he stepped out of the Herky Bird into the cold night air. Airborne training had been one of Rankin’s favorite “schools” in the army, an absolute blast from the let’s-get-acquainted-with-gravity first jump to the hairiest night dive into the raging ocean. Even now, after maybe five hundred jumps—most recreational and from a considerably lower altitude—he loved the smack of the wind against his body and the loud rush that filled his ears as he spread his arms and began to fly rather than fall.
He was still more brick than airplane, if truth be told, since he was in fact plummeting at a good rate, documented by the dial altimeter on his left wrist. A global positioning satellite (GPS) device was strapped to his right; there was very little starlight and no moon, and he’d need to rely on it rather than his sight to get down to the target area.
A few meters to the right, Ferguson tucked his right side slightly to keep himself on course as he fell. The cold, thin air pressed through his jumpsuit, icy hands squeezing his ribs. It felt as if someone—an angel, maybe—were flying above him, holding on, guiding him to earth.
When he was little, Ferguson’s mind had been filled with stories about angels. He’d had vivid dreams of them, including one in which an angel grabbed him in his or maybe her arms and whisked him from danger.
The danger happened to be a particularly nasty Catholic nun—one of his teachers that half year—but that hadn’t seemed to bother the angel.
The altimeter buzzed, telling him it was time to pull the rip cord. The harness yanked hard against his body as the chute deployed. Ferguson made sure it had deployed properly, then checked his position with the GPS device.
He was roughly two hundred meters north of the spot he’d set for his target, but he still had a long way to fall. Ferguson moved his right toggle downward, working against a slight breeze that wanted to push him east.
Finally he saw the dim outline of the clearing in front of the perimeter fence off to his left. A sudden surge in the wind threatened to take him into the wilderness area; Ferguson dipped the wing of his chute and corkscrewed in the direction he wanted to land. The maneuver got him onto the right side of the fence but nearly collapsed his chute. He came down hard on the side of a hill about fifty yards behind the cameras. Collapsing onto his left knee, he slid for a few yards until he managed to twist downward and stop.
“Auspicious,” he said aloud in a mocking tone. “That’s what happens when you start thinking about angels.”
Rankin landed nearly thirty yards away, a nice walking touchdown on level land. Both men quickly gathered their chutes, bundling them with the rest of their jump gear. They stowed them near some bushes at the base of the hill where Ferguson had landed, then went to take care of the video camera and sensors that covered the fence where they wanted to get out.
The camera could be pivoted by remote control to cover the fence area; it was also set to respond to a motion detector covering the area in front of it. Ferguson identified the wires from the motion detector, then, with a penknife, carefully stripped small bare spots through the insulation. He clamped alligator clips on them, testing the connection to a small black box and antenna. When a light on the box indicated current, he clipped the wire, eliminating the motion detector from the circuit. He took out what looked like a cell phone and began pressing the arrow keys; the camera responded as if it had detected a large animal in the brush.
With the camera pointed all the way to its stop, Ferguson unscrewed the rear housing. He’d just gotten the last screw off when it began moving; the security people were panning it by remote control.
Ferguson waited for the camera to finish moving, then gingerly lifted off the back. He identified the wires supplying power to the circuit board and clamped a fat clip over them. Then he plugged what looked like a thick cell-phone battery into the other end of the wire and tucked it onto the camera chassis. He picked up the ersatz cell phone and pressed the center key. The screen over the keypad turned white, then slowly began to fade to gray, indicating the operation had been a success.
“Fader works,” he told Rankin, putting the housing back on the camera.
Ferguson used his short-range radio to call Guns, who was watching the plant’s main entrance and the administration building from a rise about a hundred yards from the gate.
“Anything going on?” Ferguson asked, adjusting his night-vision goggles before setting out down the hill.
“Aniyo,” said Guns.
“Learning the lingo are we?”
“I got the MP3 player with me.”
“Great. Just don’t get so caught up in the pronunciation that you forget about us, right?”
“Ne, dwaetseoyo,” said Guns. “OK.”
Ferguson and Rankin picked their way through trees and rocks for about an hour before coming to an old stone wall. The vegetation had been cleared on the other side of the wall, and within fifteen minutes they could see the buildings at the center of the complex.
They continued down a ravine that ran behind the low-level waste storage area. The radioactive dump had been sited inside the side of the hill. The entrance to the area looked like a mine shaft, albeit one large enough for a pair of trains to drive through. The actual disposal areas were shafts dug deep within the hillside. There were no fences blocking off the entrance, nor were there security cameras. The nearby ground was flat and open, though obscured from the rest of the site by a parking area for the train cars.
“First tab is over near those trains,” said Ferguson, pointing. “We’ll get it, then split up.”
They hadn’t taken more than a few steps before Guns warned them that the security people were starting a round in their pickup truck. Seconds later, Ferguson saw the vehicle’s headlamps swinging in their direction.
“No place to hide around here,” said Rankin.
“Into the mine shaft.”
“There’s radioactive waste in there,” said Rankin.
“There’s radioactive waste all over the place here, Skippy. Better to glow than get shot.”
Actually, the waste was stored far below, in containers and compartments that prevented contamination. The entrance looked like a train tunnel or a very large mine shaft. The roof and walls were tiled with large cement blocks, reinforced at intervals by triangular-shaped steel pillars and crossbeams. The train tracks ran along the floor, bending to the right as the shaft turned and disappeared from sight.
Ferguson stopped at the fi
rst set of pillars, watching as a four-door pickup circled in front of the shaft opening, then darted away.
“Gone?” Rankin asked.
“Gone,” said Ferguson, stepping out. “The radiation is all contained, Rankin. You don’t have to worry about it.”
“Yeah, all right.”
“You remember that from the briefing, right?”
Rankin shrugged.
“You don’t believe them?” Ferguson asked.
“Who the hell knows what to believe?”
They trotted across fifty yards of open ground to a pair of railroad flatcars and a small diesel shunting engine. They could see the truck in the distance as it returned to the administration building, the patrol over.
“You should have at least thirty minutes before the next security run,” said Guns. The irregular intervals was intentional, designed to make it difficult for anyone who might try to time them. “Maybe as much as an hour.”
“You get the three on that side,” Ferguson told Rankin, pointing to the left of the operations station. “One’s in the rail there, another is over by that little power transformer set, and then there’s the one in the siding of the building.”
“I remember, Ferg. Jeez.”
“You got one camera on the corner of that building there.” He pointed to it. “Go.”
Rankin nudged forward, moving in a half crawl to the shadows on the other side of the railroad track. He got down on his hands and knees and began groping for the tiny sensor.
Ferguson, meanwhile, trotted in the opposite direction, running through a dark shadow toward the fence guarding the recyclable reactor rods. It was the hardest tag to get, because it was within view of the recycling area’s guard post. Ferguson reached the fence and threw himself on the ground. As he did, he saw the pant leg and boot of a man in the round glow of light ahead. Fearing he’d been seen, he reached for his pepper spray; there would be enough trouble if they were caught without killing the guards.
But the sentry continued without noticing him, walking across the macadam toward the administration building. Ferguson watched his boots disappear into the shadows, then snuck to the corner. Thera had stuck the sensor into the metal loop connecting the fence to the pillar; he retrieved it and retreated back toward the reception area for the other tags.
“Truck comin’ down toward the plant,” warned Guns. “Going to the front gate.”
“What, are you kiddin’?” said Rankin. “It’s way after closing time.”
“No shit, man. Really.”
“Where are you, Rankin?” said Ferguson.
“Other side of the reception building, near the little power cabinet.”
“Truck is at the gate. Going in,” said Guns.
“Rankin, stay where you are until the truck goes through.”
Ferguson hunkered down as headlights swept in front of him. The truck was a six-wheeler, a bit stubby looking, the type used by small firms in the States for local deliveries. It headed in the direction of the low-level waste disposal area, bumping over the tracks close to the railcars where he was supposed to meet Rankin.
“Guns, they question these guys at the front gate?”
“Just let them through, Ferg. The patrol should be starting in another five minutes or so. Any time after that, I mean. It’s been twenty-five minutes.”
Ferguson retrieved the second tag from the side of the reception building and then began looking for the last, which Thera had planted on top of a barrel opposite the corner of the building.
The problem was, he didn’t see a barrel.
Thinking Thera had gotten the corner wrong when she drew her map, Ferguson got down on his hands and knees and crawled along the side of the building. He was about midway when he heard voices coming from the direction of the administration station. Cursing, he jumped up and got back to the reception building as the men crossed toward the recycling area.
“They’re going for the truck,” warned Guns.
Ferguson was now trapped. He couldn’t stay where he was because he’d be easily visible once the truck started in his direction. Two of the other sides of the building were visible from the administration station itself; the front, with its large doors, was covered by cameras.
He considered running across the open lot to his left but decided that was too risky. Instead he backed against the building, hoping to hide in the shadows. The metal ribs extended out nearly a foot, but he didn’t think they were quite big enough to hide him. As he examined them, he thought it might be possible to climb up between them, leaning against one rib with his feet and the other with his hands. He gave it a quick try, pulling upright a few feet off the ground.
The sound of the pickup approaching convinced him this was going to have to be the solution. Ferguson reached the metal overhang of the building and pulled himself on top as the patrol truck swung in his direction.
As soon as the truck passed, Ferguson took out his night-vision glasses and used them to scout the nearby yard. The barrel was about ten yards from the corner of the building; he’d gone by it earlier without realizing it was where Thera had put the bug. Obviously her map hadn’t been drawn to scale.
Meanwhile, the truck that had come through the gate had disappeared into the entrance to the low-level waste storage area. Ferguson could see the top of the opening but not inside.
“Ferg, where are you?” asked Rankin over the radio.
“On top of the situation.”
“Where the hell is that?”
“On the reception building. Where are you?”
“Over near the back of the administration building. I got one more to get.”
“Hang tight. Guards are coming back.”
The pickup swung around the reception building, slowed near the entrance to the recyclable waste area, and then returned to the administration building.
“Clear,” said Ferguson. He was about to jump down when he saw the headlights from the truck that had come in earlier heading in his direction. “Hold it,” he told Rankin, and he leaned down against the metal roof.
Blessed Peak was a state-run facility; the users weren’t charged. Why would they need to bypass the standard procedures by bringing a single truck in late at night, skipping around the classifying and tracking station?
Ferguson reached into his pocket and grabbed three small wireless bugs, then crawled to the edge of the roof. When the truck passed the building, he tossed the bugs onto the top of the truck body. One bounced onto the ground, but the others stayed.
“Guns, see if you can follow that truck,” Ferguson said. “I dumped a couple of bugs on top.”
“On it, Ferg.”
Though not as good as dedicated tracking devices, the bugs could be used as primitive range finders with roughly a three-mile range.
“Ferguson, where are you?” asked Rankin.
“About to break my legs getting off the reception building roof,” said Ferguson, looking over the side and realizing there was no easy way down.
15
SOUTH CHUNGCHONG PROVINCE
Guns ran down the hill and jumped into the car. He fumbled with his backpack, finally locating the audio bug’s receiving unit in a case at the very bottom. He had to squint to see the directional arrow in the screen.
Then they were gone. The bugs worked with line of sight radio waves, which would limit their range in this terrain.
At least he had the advantage of knowing which way the truck had come from. He eased down the dirt road toward the highway and waited for it to go by.
Five minutes passed before he realized his assumption was wrong; the truck had to have left by now and must be going the other way. Sure enough, he got the signal back as soon as he passed the waste facility.
It was weak; the truck was more than a mile beyond him, possibly close to the outside limits of the bug’s range. He stepped on the gas.
“Going east,” he told Ferguson. “He came from the west.”
“Just follow him unt
il he gets somewhere. Check in later. We’ll meet you at the park.”
Guns had to slow down to take a series of curves as the road descended, braking so sharply that the receiving unit fell off the car seat. He grabbed for it, then lost it again as the road jerked right in front of him. Cursing at himself, he waited until he came to a straightaway, then reached down and grabbed the unit, holding it in front of the Hyundai’s dash.
They were straight ahead, about a half mile away.
Guns decided to trying ramping the volume on the unit, but the only thing he heard was a whooshing noise. Only one bug seemed to be working, even though Ferguson had told him he’d thrown more than one.
Five minutes later, Guns came to a north-south intersection. As he started across, he saw that the directional indicator had swung to the right. He veered across the shoulder and opposite lane of the deserted highway, scraping the muffler on the median curb. The car’s exhaust rumbled a bit louder as he got into the right lane, but at least he was going in the right direction.
While the immediate area was deserted, the truck would soon reach a built-up area where there were lots of intersections and turnoffs. Guns decided to close the gap. Within a few minutes the meter showed he was steadily gaining on the truck, and he started looking ahead for taillights, expecting them to appear at any second. Every so often he glanced at the receiver; his target was dead ahead.
And then suddenly it wasn’t.
The strength needle began backing off, and he lost the directional compass. Guns realized he’d somehow passed the truck.
He spun into a quick a U-turn. The strength gauge climbed again, showing the bug was dead ahead.
And then behind him.
He cursed, realizing the bug had fallen off the truck onto the road.
16
SOUTH CHUNGCHONG PROVINCE
It took Ferguson and Rankin nearly three hours to hike out of the waste plant property and down through the nearby park. Guns was leaning against the car near the fence, waiting for them, his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. Ferguson laughed, then slapped him on the back and told him not to take it so hard.