Fires of War

by Larry Bond

  Thera had no trouble finding this out. She simply joined the flow of patients going in the front door and then, before taking a seat in the large reception area, picked up one of the four-color brochures printed in Korean and English explaining the lab and a few of its more “popular” tests. It even contained a photo of the trucks—Hyundais.

  When she was done reading, Thera headed down a back hall where the restrooms were and kept going, passing a number of test suites and arriving at a loading dock at the rear of the building. No one gave her a second look.

  Thera slipped down off the loading area and walked around, spotting the two Hyundai transports and looking over the employee cars parked nearby. Then she circled back around to the front of the building, returning to her car to get satellite tracking devices and gamma tabs to put in the trucks.

  As she pulled her car around the back, she saw two employees come out on the loading dock for a smoking break. She kept going, passing around the back of the building and following the road to the right, killing time until they were done.

  Seven Sisters Medical Treatment Corporation was situated at the front of a commercial park. A long open field sat behind it. Beyond the field, four cement-block buildings were arrayed one after the other. In contrast to the medical testing center, they were old and appeared abandoned, with weeds growing in the lots that surrounded them.

  Thera pulled into the second lot to turn around and go back; as she did, she saw there was a large truck parked next to the back of the building. Curious, she continued toward it, realizing as she got closer that it was the same make as the trucks Ferguson had been interested in in Daejeon.

  Thera parked at the far end of the lot and got out. The building was definitely abandoned: The rear windows were boarded up, and a pile of scrap wood sat near a rusted steel fire door.

  The truck didn’t have a license plate, but it looked drivable. The interior was clean, and the gas gauge read full.

  The back roll-up door was secured by a combination padlock. Armed with a pen and pad, Thera began working on cracking the combination lock, a ten-gate device only a little more complicated than the locks high school kids used on their gym lockers. She found the gates, then began working through a list of likely combination sequences based on usual lock patterns. It took her about ten minutes to snap the lock open.

  The truck was empty. She stuffed the tab near the door the same way Ferguson had, closed it up and returned the lock to its place.

  She’d just climbed down when she heard a car approaching. Thera reached beneath her coat for one of her pistols and started to walk back toward her car.

  A white sedan pulled alongside her. She resisted the urge to pull the gun.

  “Annyeonghaseyo, manaseo ban-gawoyo,” yelled a voice from inside the car as the window rolled down.

  “Hi, nice to meet you.” A pickup line.

  Thera glanced at the man sitting in the passenger seat. He looked about twenty. So did the driver.

  “Eodiseo wasseoyo?” said the kid, asking where she was from.

  “Far away,” said Thera in Korean.

  “You’re on your own?”

  Thera smirked and resumed walking.

  The car stayed alongside her.

  “You cute,” said the kid, this time using English.

  “Yeah,” muttered Thera under her breath.

  She walked a few more steps, trying to ignore them. The car slowed, and the passenger jumped from the car.

  Thera spun around to face him.

  “Get lost,” she said sharply.

  The young man laughed.

  “I’m warning you,” she told him.

  He took a step toward her. Thera, her patience gone and her heart starting to thump, dropped into a combat crouch, pointing her gun at his head.

  The man’s grin faded. He put up his hands and began backing toward the car.

  “That’s it,” she told him. “Go.”

  He made a mad dash for the vehicle as his friend began backing up. Once he was inside, the driver spun the car around and sped away.

  Thera ran to her car and got in, driving away as deliberately as she could. When she stopped in the city a short time later, her hands started to shake.

  She pulled her things out, wiped down the interior and the door, then left the car in the lot, walking several blocks to rent a new one.

  Were they kids or security or what?” asked Corrigan when she checked in.

  “Probably ‘or what.’ They seemed pretty young, twenties, like they were cruising and saw somebody they could hit on. Macho shit. You know men.”

  Corrigan didn’t say anything.

  “I’ll go back tonight and check out the building once it’s dark,” added Thera. “See if you can find out who owns it.”

  “Ten bucks says it’s Park.”

  “Probably.” Thera looked around the mall where she was sitting.

  “We have some good news,” said Corrigan. “Ferg’s OK.”

  “He is?”

  Thera felt tears coming to her eyes. She brushed them back, took a long breath.

  She was sitting on a bench in a park. A little boy and his parents were walking nearby. She waited while they walked to the swings, well out of earshot.

  “You there?” asked Corrigan.

  “People playing on the swing.”

  “Can you talk?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “When you were with Park, did he say anything about a General Namgung?” continued Corrigan. “According to Ferguson, they had a secret meeting.”

  The little boy jumped from the swing, a big smile on his face. Proud of himself, he waved at her. Thera waved back.

  “Thera? Are you there?”

  “I’m here,” she told him. “What general were you talking about?”

  “Namgung. I think I have the pronunciation right. He’s in charge of all North Korean forces in the capital region.”

  Hadn’t Tak Ch’o mentioned that he worked with him?

  “Corrigan, can you hook me into Rankin on the Peleliu?”

  “Why?”

  “Because Ch’o worked with Namgung and did some shielding for air transport.”

  “The containers the university truck moved!”

  “Just get me Rankin.”

  9

  ABOARD THE USS PELELIU, IN THE YELLOW SEA

  Jiménez had already finished the morning session with Tak Ch’o and was about to leave when Rankin arrived, fresh off the phone with Thera.

  “I have a couple of questions for you,” Rankin told the scientist. “If you don’t mind.”

  Ch’o nodded and lay back on his bed. Not only was it more comfortable to rest while he talked, but it was also practical, since the cabin was so small.

  “You helped a general named Namgung on a project recently,” said Rankin. “He headed the army around Seoul. I wonder if you could tell me about that.”

  Ch’o glanced at the interviewer, then back at Rankin.

  “General Namgung,” said Ch’o, correcting the American’s mispronunciation. “I have worked under his command several times. He is not simply the head of the army around Seoul but an important man in other respects as well. Very influential with the leader.”

  “Was he involved in the production of nuclear weapons?”

  “Not directly. As I said the other day,” Ch’o glanced at the interpreter, “my role in the weapons program was extremely limited. My field is primarily dealing with by-products. Waste.”

  “You had a way of moving waste so it wouldn’t harm people. In airplanes,” said Rankin. He knew he needed to prompt Ch’o to fill in the details, but he wasn’t sure how to get him to do it.

  “The project I was doing with the general involved finding a way to move rods of fuel around the country safely,” said Ch’o. “The rods come from reactors. When the operation is stopped and they are removed, first they must cool, of course. After a period of time they can be moved and stored at a facility such as the one wh
ere I was working. From there, they would be taken to Russia or somewhere else for processing. The general was interested in doing so in standard jetliners. This would have presented a grave problem without shielding.”

  “Airliners with passengers?”

  “No,” said Ch’o. “But there would have been danger to the crews.”

  Ch’o wasn’t telling the entire truth. While the general had mentioned safety as a concern, shielding the rods would also make them nearly impossible to detect. That was the general’s real purpose. Namgung had never said that; it was understood.

  “These rods were for weapons fuel?” said Jiménez.

  “It doesn’t exactly work that way,” said Ch’o. “Plutonium can be used for weapons, but the danger has nothing to do with that fact. The radiation—”

  “So were these used?” asked Jiménez.

  “No. The rods are still in storage.”

  “How do you know?”

  “When they are removed from the reactor, they’re very hot. They’re placed in pools of water. It can take considerable time for them to cool off.”

  “Weeks?”

  “Months. In some cases, years. The rods have been accounted for. The UN, the Chinese, the International Atomic Energy Agency—all of the inspections have certified this.”

  Rankin remained skeptical. “Maybe some were hidden.”

  “Plutonium is very expensive and difficult to obtain.”

  “Would you know of other control rods?” Jiménez asked.

  “I might not,” admitted Ch’o.

  “So you were making containers that could carry hot plutonium?” said Rankin.

  “No, the material would have to be cool.”

  “So wait.” It still didn’t make sense to Rankin. “When were you doing this?”

  “Six months ago. No, perhaps three or four.”

  “You designed these things. Were they built?”

  “I don’t know. I gave him the plans.”

  “Your containers would have allowed you to transport the material without calling attention to it, wouldn’t they?” said Jiménez. “In secret, on aircraft that weren’t specially modified.”

  Ch’o nodded.

  “Why would you worry about that in North Korea?” said Rankin.

  “It was to protect people,” said Ch’o, “and, maybe, if there were spies. That is what the general said: to keep them away from spies.”

  “Yeah,” said Rankin. “That’s one reason.”

  10

  THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  “I have always heard that the mice will play while the cat is away, but I did not believe that would apply to the president of the United States and his staff.”

  McCarthy’s rich southern voice jolted Corrine from the paper she was reading; she nearly fell out of her chair.

  “Now, relax, dear,” said the president, closing the door to her office. “I did not mean to startle you.”

  “I’m sorry, Jonathon. I didn’t realize you’d come back.”

  “An hour ago. I’ve been busy.” McCarthy sat down in a chair across from her. “And so, I understand, have you.”

  “Tom Parnelles wants to talk to you,” she said, “before the NSC meeting later.”

  “Mr. Parnelles has already spoken to me,” said McCarthy. “About your operative.”

  “Bob Ferguson.”

  The president put up his hand. He didn’t want to hear any more about the mission than absolutely necessary, and he particularly didn’t want to know the name of the man stranded in North Korea.

  “We have a plan to get him,” said Corrine. “They’re going to take off in a few hours, as soon as it’s dark.”

  McCarthy pressed his lips together. Corrine felt a hole open in her stomach.

  “I am afraid, dear, that we cannot do that. The life of a single CIA officer, no matter how skilled he may be, cannot justify provoking a war between North and South Korea.”

  “But—”

  “There are no buts. It is, unfortunately, my duty to make the decision.” McCarthy rose. “I am sorry. It is the way it must be.”

  Corrine stared at her computer screen.

  “You will attend the National Security session, will you not, dear?”

  “Now that you’re back, I don’t—”

  “Now that I’m back, I find myself very much in need of the services of my legal counsel.”

  “Of course, Mr. President. Whatever you want.”

  11

  NORTH KOREA, SOUTH OF KWAKSAN ON THE WESTERN COAST

  More and more trucks. This time, Ferguson counted over fifty before he lost track. They were speeding south, hurrying in the direction of the capital . . . or maybe South Korea.

  Ferguson dutifully reported what he saw when he called in but didn’t bother asking Corrigan what was going on. He figured there wasn’t anything Corrigan could tell him that would help him much.

  If something truly bad happened—if the North went ahead and attacked—then they’d come. Then it’d be cool. Or if everybody stepped back, relaxed, then they’d come ahead.

  But like this, with everybody moving around, rushing, on high alert but not actually shooting, Slott would hold back. He wouldn’t want to be the match that set the shed on fire.

  Ferguson knew that. He’d known it when they all talked to him. Now, with all the trucks passing, it was even more obvious.

  What he didn’t know was what he was going to do next.

  He sat down in the bushes as twilight came on, trying to remember how Chaucer had begun the “Pardoneres Tale.”

  12

  ABOARD THE USS PELELIU, OFF THE NORTH KOREAN COAST

  “What the hell do you mean we’re not going?” Rankin slammed his helmet on the chair next to him in the secure communications space. The sailors on the other side of the room jerked around and stared.

  “The order is from Parnelles himself,” said Van Buren over the secure satellite radio. “We’re on Hold.”

  “Aw, screw that, Colonel. Screw it. We gotta go in.”

  “We are not, Sergeant. We are standing by until we have further orders.”

  Sergeant. The chain of command always came up when the shit hit the fan, thought Rankin.

  “Stephen?”

  “Yeah, all right. We’ll stand fucking by,” said Rankin. He tossed the microphone down and stalked from the compartment.

  13

  CHAIN, SOUTH KOREA

  Thera stopped the car about a mile down the road from the Seven Sisters Medical Treatment Corporation, parking in the lot of a vast apartment complex. She smiled at a young couple walking toward the high-rise, then removed the bicycle from the rental’s trunk. Tucking her hair under a watch cap, she strapped on her backpack, then cycled out of the lot, riding down a small service road in the direction of the business park.

  The road ended about forty yards from the parking area. She turned off the macadam and began pedaling across the field. The sun had only just set, but the field was already so dark she could barely see the building she was aiming at. Thera bumped along on the bike, steering between the rocks and scraping against the tall clumps of underbrush.

  A chain-link fence separated the field from the parking lot behind the buildings. Thera rode along it until she spotted an opening, then turned, gliding through and bumping down onto the pockmarked asphalt.

  She stopped near the pile of discarded wood, not far from the truck, dropping the bike against the pile. It was nearly invisible from five feet away.

  Crouching next to the truck, Thera made sure she hadn’t been followed. Then she went over to the corner of the building where a large power cable fed into a box and meter. The meter showed that the power was off; she confirmed this with a handheld current meter, the same one she used to detect alarm wiring. Then she checked the rest of the perimeter, making sure she was alone before returning to the back of the building.

  The window frames were made of metal, and the plywood covering them had been at
tached with thick screws. Thera took a large Phillips-head screwdriver from her rucksack and began backing the screws out of the frame closest to the truck. She took out six screws, leaving only the two at the very top, which were hard for her to reach. The wood creaked and split as she pried the board away from the bottom and squeezed underneath.

  The glass windows were still intact under the board. Thera smacked her gloved fist and then her elbow against the pane, but it wouldn’t shatter. She had to use a glass cutter, and even then it took several minutes to get past the thick outer glass.

  The inside pane gave way more easily. Thera made a large hole, then stuck her head through to look around with the help of her night-vision goggles.

  Metal studs crisscrossed the vast space. The place smelled as if it were filled with fine metallic dust.

  She climbed inside. Though empty, the interior looked in better shape than the outside, clean and neat, the polished concrete floor smooth. Thick canvas tarps covered a cluster of objects of different sizes at the extreme right side of the building.

  Choosing one at random, Thera cut away the belt securing the canvas and found a drill press. She reached into her backpack and took out a plastic bag, collecting some of the fillings in the work tray below the table. Then she took a radiation meter and held its wand over the machinery.

  The needle didn’t move.

  She went to the wall, making sure it was the outer one, then began looking around the floor, searching for a trapdoor or some other hiding place. But the floor was solid concrete and had been swept so clean that even her great grandmother would have approved.

  Wouldn’t a shuttered factory like this be filled with dust?

  Puzzled, Thera began pulling the tarps off the machines one by one. Most were specialized fabrication tools she was unfamiliar with; she took pictures with the infrared digital camera, just in case.

  The shavings in some of the machines were plastic. Thera found a table stacked with thin sheets of metal she thought was lead. Unsure, she took the smallest piece she could find, a narrow strip about a quarter-inch thick and eight inches long.