Fires of War

by Larry Bond

  The other Korean began speaking in a very excited voice, telling her that she would be run over if she did not get away from the embedded tracks.

  “The trains have sensors,” said Ch’o, “but they do not always work. There have been close-call accidents. We do not trust them.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Thera, stepping out of the way.

  Ch’o and the other man stood by her side as the train car went slowly by. The rest of the inspection team had gathered inside the building and was watching the train as it made its way slowly toward the reception building’s door.

  “I didn’t know there were accidents,” said Thera when the train passed. “The South Koreans have the same system. They didn’t mention accidents.”

  Ch’o translated what she said for his colleague. Thera picked up some of the reply but not all of it.

  “Very possibly our cousins have not been one hundred percent candid,” said Ch’o. “Assuming that we have the same system.”

  “You do.”

  Ch’o glanced at her cigarette.

  “You smoke?”

  “Bad habit, I know,” said Thera, dropping the butt on the ground. “Thank you for warning me.”

  She touched the scientist’s arm. He turned light red.

  “Very welcome, very welcome,” he said, leading the other man away.

  The rest of the afternoon passed slowly, the tour a slow-motion replay of the one they’d had in South Korea. Finally, the site director led them to the administration building for refreshments: seltzer water and kimchi-style hors d’oeuvres. Thera took a few sips of the seltzer, then went outside, ostensibly to grab a smoke but really to get another glimpse of the area and make sure she could plant the tags tomorrow.

  It looked like it would be easy. There were no cameras covering the interior of the compound, and the guards stayed close to the buildings. Thera took a short walk, testing to see if she was being watched.

  No.

  Could she get the tags in exactly the same places she had in South Korea?

  Probably. But was that important now? The baseline they’d been looking for was from a plant with no plutonium.

  Thera swung around to head back toward the administration building. The door opened, and a number of team members came out, followed by three or four North Koreans, one of whom was Ch’o.

  “Miss,” said Ch’o. “Oh, Miss?”

  “Me?”

  “You must try these,” said the scientist in English, bowing his head slightly and holding a small package out toward her. It was wrapped in brown paper.

  Thera took it. Two other Korean officials nodded behind Ch’o, motioning for her to open the package.

  She pulled the rough string and opened the paper. There was a pack of cigarettes inside. It was only about half full; obviously Ch’o had improvised the present.

  The package had Marlboro’s color scheme, but the words were in Korean.

  “Our own,” said Ch’o. “Try.”

  “You like, yes,” added one of the other men. “North Korean cigarettes number one.”

  Thera felt herself flushing. “I—”

  “You mentioned to the guard at the door that you needed a cigarette,” said Ch’o.

  “Oh,” said Thera. “It was just an expression.”

  By now other members of the team, including Dr. Norkelus, had come over to see what the fuss was about. More North Koreans joined them, and Thera found herself at the center of a small crowd. She held up the package; Norkelus rolled his eyes. Julie Svenson shook her head. Evora and some of the others laughed.

  “I guess I should try one,” said Thera.

  She took two of the cigarettes from the pack, then held the cigarettes out to the Koreans. They all shook their heads furiously. Finally, Dr. Ch’o, his lips gritted together firmly, stepped up and took one.

  “I will try just a puff with you, out of hospitality. We cannot let a guest be alone.”

  He turned and repeated what he had said in Korean, in effect scolding them for their bad manners. The others grinned sheepishly.

  Thera took a drag and immediately began coughing. Horror flooded onto the faces of the Koreans nearby.

  Then Ch’o laughed, and the others laughed, and Thera laughed as well.

  “It’s good but very strong,” she said.

  The translator, squeezing through the knot around her, explained in Korean. Everyone laughed again, nodding and saying in Korean that their cigarettes were good but took some getting used to.

  “I’m afraid we should all get back to work,” said Norkelus finally. “We should continue.”

  “Yes, we must continue and be perfect hosts,” said Ch’o.

  He walked off very proud of himself, Thera thought.

  She took a short draw on the cigarette as the others left. It tasted just as terrible as before, though this time she managed to keep herself from coughing.

  Thera put her finger into the top of the package to pull the flap closed. When she did, she noticed there was writing on the margin of the paper. At first glance, it looked like a trademark notice, but of course that couldn’t be right.

  The letters were so small she had to hold the package right in front of her face.

  She nearly dropped it as she read the words: Help me.

  8

  OFF THE COAST OF NORTH KOREA

  Rankin took the binoculars from the lookout and panned them across the sea to the south. The small fishing vessel was just under a mile away. It had been sailing toward them for more than an hour, moving so slowly that it was hard to tell if it was being propelled by anything other than the current.

  “I say we grab them if they get any closer,” said Michael Barren. Barren was the assault team’s first sergeant, the ranking noncommissioned officer on the atoll.

  Grabbing the people in the boat was the safe thing to do, unless, of course, they botched it, or the people in the boat were expected somewhere else or managed to get a radio message off.

  “No,” said Rankin. “We wait. They’ll pass by.”

  “What if they don’t?” asked Barren.

  The others moved a little closer, interested not only in finding out what they were going to do but also in seeing who was going to get his way.

  “If they don’t, we deal with that then,” said Rankin, handing the binoculars back.

  The boat kept coming. Fifteen minutes later, it was a hundred yards offshore. Rankin, Barren, and two other soldiers crouched behind a fallen tree trunk on the island’s high point overlooking the beach. The helicopters were about a hundred yards behind them, down the hill. The rest of the assault team was spread out in hidden positions around the atoll.

  “We gonna let them come ashore before we kill them?” asked Barren.

  “We ain’t gonna kill them,” said Rankin.

  “What?”

  “We’re going to stay down, hidden, unless it’s absolutely necessary to grab them. Then we grab them. We don’t kill them.”

  Barren thought this was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.

  “Can we talk, Sarge?” asked Barren.

  “We are talking.”

  Barren glanced at the two other soldiers nearby. “We might want to make this private.”

  “Nothing I say is private.”

  “All right,” said Barren. “Why won’t we shoot them?”

  “Because we don’t have to.”

  “Jesus, Sarge. They’re North Koreans. The enemy.”

  “Look, you can call me Stephen or Skip if you want,” Rankin told him. “Not Sergeant.”

  “You’re not a sergeant?”

  Rankin ignored the challenging, almost mocking tone. “This is my call,” he told Barren. “We leave these people be if we can. They come on the island, they see anything, we grab them. We don’t kill them.”

  Frustrated, Barren turned away.

  “Looks like they’re landing,” said the lookout.

  Rankin moved to the end of the tree trunk, watch
ing through his glasses as two men jumped from the front of the small vessel and pulled it onto the beach. A third man stayed with the boat.

  If he gave the order to fire, they’d be dead inside of thirty seconds.

  If he delayed, it was possible they might alert someone via radio.

  But the best thing, the right thing, was to wait. It was much better for the mission that these people leave without seeing them. Kill them, and maybe someone would come looking for them.

  Rankin knew in his gut he was doing the right thing, balancing the different chances in the mission’s favor. But it wasn’t like he could put it into a mathematical formula. The others would just have to trust him.

  The Koreans took a large barrel from the boat. Rankin was baffled, until he realized they were making dinner.

  He rolled back behind the log and told the others what was going on. Smoke was already starting to curl from the fire.

  “What do we do?” Barren demanded.

  “We hang loose and let them eat. If they get frisky and go exploring, then we grab them. Otherwise we wait and hide. It’s already getting dark. It won’t be hard.”

  Barren shook his head, but said nothing.

  “Relax,” said Rankin. “Food smells kind of rancid anyway.”

  Only later, when the North Koreans had pulled out without seeing anyone, did Rankin realize that what he’d said was exactly the sort of line Ferguson would use to put him off.

  “Ferg’s still a jerk,” he mumbled to himself, going to get some meals-ready-to-eat for dinner.

  9

  SOUTH CHUNGCHONG PROVINCE, SOUTH KOREA

  With the fader still in place on the security camera at Blessed Peak, Ferguson and Guns didn’t have to make another night jump—which was fine with Guns, since he hated parachuting during the day, let alone at night. They hiked into the nature preserve around four in the afternoon, getting their bearings before the sun set. They hid and waited until dark, when they hiked up the trail near the mountain that backed into the waste site, then headed in the direction of the fence. Between the sliver of moon and the clear night sky, there was enough light to see without using their night-vision gear, though every so often Ferguson stopped and put his on while he scouted to make sure no one was lurking nearby.

  It took roughly two hours for them to reach the clearing in front of the fence. Ferguson led Guns through the pine trees to a rock outcropping that stood almost directly across from the video camera.

  “You got clips?” Ferguson asked.

  Guns nodded. The clips were large clothespins that were used to hold down the barbed wire at the top of the fence. He also had a Teflon “towel” tied around his shoulder to throw on top of the wire and keep it from snagging them as they went over. Because of the camera angle, they could leave the gear in place until they came back.

  Ferguson took the remote from his backpack and sent the signal to the camera to move to the right. It didn’t budge.

  Ferguson cursed and tried again. Still nothing.

  “What’s going on?” Guns asked.

  “Not sure. Let’s see if the fader’s working.”

  The screen turned white, then grayed. Ferguson let it come back to full.

  “I don’t know why the camera’s not moving,” he told Guns, “but the fader is.”

  “You sure?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  “All right.”

  “If I yell retreat, retreat. OK?”

  “Sure.”

  “Hey, I thought marines never retreated,” said Ferguson, hitting the fader button and jumping to his feet.

  Laughing, Guns scrambled to the fence, leaping about halfway up and climbing hand over hand to the top in about two seconds flat. He clamped down the wires, untied his towel, and twirled himself over and down to the ground.

  Ferguson, several steps ahead, ran straight to the camera. Dropping down behind it, he saw the problem: One of his clips had fallen off the wire. He fixed it, made sure it worked, then went with Guns in the direction of the plant.

  They had more than a mile and a half to go when Ferguson noticed a glow he hadn’t seen the other night.

  “What’s up?” asked Guns.

  “Looks like there’s a used-car lot down there, doesn’t it?”

  Guns peered through the trees.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Place wasn’t lit up like this the other night. There are spotlights down there.”

  “They going to see us coming?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Ferguson started walking again. About a half mile from the low-level waste area, he emerged from the ravine he and Rankin had used the other night, circling above and around the cavelike entrance. The rise in terrain gave them a better view of the area, though the brush and rocks were fairly low and they had to stay close to the ground to avoid casting shadows.

  A dozen security guards stood near the reception building, warming themselves around large burn barrels. Another four or five stood around a barrel near the tracks, about a hundred yards from the low-level waste site but within full view of it. The train cars had been moved.

  “This is new,” Ferguson told Guns.

  “You think they saw something with the video camera?”

  “No. They’d’ve sent somebody up to fix it. Or shoot us.”

  “I mean when we went over.”

  Ferguson studied the compound. It was possible that there had been an alert, but surely the response would have been more emphatic. This looked more generic, like something you might do if you heard bank robbers were over at the saloon having a drink.

  Or if word had leaked out of the Seoul office that something was up.

  A pickup truck swung around the compound. It was the same truck that had been used for patrols the other night, only this time there were men in the back. The pickup stopped in front of the low-level waste area, and the men got out, took a look around, then hopped back in.

  Ferguson and Guns lay on the cold ground for another hour and a half, timing the patrols. There were seven during that time, almost nonstop. The men varied their patrol route as well.

  “Something tipped them off,” Ferguson told Guns. “There’s no way we’re getting where we want to go without being seen.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Follow me.”

  “We leaving?”

  “Not yet.”

  Ferguson retreated about a hundred yards up the hill, then began circling toward the far side of the entrance to the underground waste depository. He had to move slowly, trying not to kick too much dirt or rocks downhill. And every time the pickup truck came in the direction, he and Guns had to flatten themselves to make absolutely sure they weren’t seen.

  Nearly two hours passed before they had reached the other side. Ferguson stripped off his pack and took out his small shovel and baggies.

  “Chill for me here, Guns.”

  “Hey, don’t get lost, man.”

  “You’re getting a sense of humor. That’s dangerous in a marine.”

  Ferguson got down on all fours and crawled out in the dirt toward the entrance to the low-level waste area. After roughly fifty yards, he reached the edge of a macadam parking area that sat off the loop road used by the pickup patrol. He was just about to get up and run across it when the security patrol swung in his direction.

  Ferguson flattened his body in the dirt, nudging his face against the pebbles. His nose and mouth filled with the fine, claylike dust as he waited for the truck to pass.

  Guns, standing in the shadows, watched helplessly as the truck veered in Ferguson’s direction. He had a smoke grenade in his hand, but what good was that? He reached for his pistol, even though Ferguson had told him they weren’t supposed to shoot anyone.

  Ferguson heard the engine, then the staccato rhythm of the Koreans’ voices. The wheels crunched the gravel, spraying it to the sides. The truck jerked to the left, then sped up. They’d just missed seeing him.


  Ferguson waited a full minute, then scrambled across the lot and the road, throwing himself down in the dirt. Two shovelfuls later, he had the bag filled.

  “I thought they were going to spot you,” said Guns when he got back. “They were like, ten feet away.”

  “Eleven at least,” Ferg told him. “Let’s get the hell out of Dodge.”

  10

  NORTH P’YŎNPAN PROVINCE, NORTH KOREA

  Thera lay on her cot, staring at the bottom of the empty bunk above her. Lada Rahn snored a few feet away. The sound rattled all of the metal in the room, like a kind of counterpoint to the hum of the fluorescent light fixtures from the hall.

  Thera had destroyed the message in the cigarette box, but the words had been seared into her brain.

  Dr. Tak Ch’o wanted to defect.

  Why had he picked her? Was it a trap? A trick?

  Thera wasn’t sure what to do. The scientist might be a big prize, but was he worth jeopardizing her mission for?

  And even if he was, how would she go about arranging for his defection?

  If there were answers, they weren’t in the dark gray light around her. But Thera continued to stare, unable to sleep.

  11

  SOUTH CHUNGCHONG PROVINCE, SOUTH KOREA

  Ferguson picked his way slowly across the rocks, crossing the hill behind the entrance to the underground low-level waste area. The whole night had been pretty much a waste—the soil samples were the lowest priority on the wish list the specialists had given him—but he had to contain his bile until they were out.

  Ferguson stopped as he came to a deep crevice. He didn’t remember the fissure, which was about three feet wide and extended at least twenty. Unsure where he had gone off course, he stopped and took off his night-vision glasses to get his bearings.

  “What’s wrong, Ferg?” asked Guns, tagging along behind him.

  “You remember this hole here?”

  “No.”

  Ferguson reached into his pocket and took out his satellite photos. They’d gone farther up the hill on the way back than they had on the way in. It wasn’t a big difference, but if they kept going they’d end up at a cliff.