Op-Center o-1

by Tom Clancy

  Of course, Donald thought. That was why Lee had selected this time. Guards were always the most lax when a shift neared its end.

  He looked toward the back of the barracks again, thought he saw something glint in the rising sun, behind a low hill. He stopped, squinted ahead. He saw it again, something metallic, and he ran a few yards to the south to get a better look at it.

  There was a man crouching behind one of the barracks, deep in the shadows. There was something in the wall beside him— it might have been a small generator. His eyes on the man, Donald began running toward him, realized that it wasn't a generator but an air conditioner, and that what he'd seen glinting was the back of the unit. He also saw what looked like a box beneath it.

  A box or a drum. Donald started running slowly. Gas in the air-conditioning system would be fast and horribly effective. The patrols returning to the barracks would be tired, they'd fall asleep immediately, and they'd never know anything was wrong. He started running faster. As he approached, Donald saw that the back of the air conditioner was off. The object was a drum, and it was being lifted to the top of the unit.

  Donald was running as fast as he could.

  "Stop him!" he shouted. "Someone stop that man— behind the barracks!"

  The man looked in his direction, then sank deeper into the shadows.

  "Saram sallyo!" he shouted in Korean. "Somebody help! Don't let him get away!"

  A searchlight flared on a tower in the South, and another came on in the North. The Southern light picked Donald out immediately; it was a moment longer before the Northern light had him.

  Soldiers just heading out on patrol came from around the barracks. Donald waved his arms over his head.

  "Get everyone out of the barracks! There's gas— poison gas "

  The dozen men were animated, appeared confused. Several of them unshouldered their AKM assault rifles, and a few were aimed in Donald's direction.

  "Dammit, no! Not me! I'm trying to help—"

  The men were shouting among each other; Donald couldn't quite make out what they were saying. And then he heard one man yell that the General was coming and this man had naifu.

  The knife. He was still holding the knife.

  "No!" Donald shouted. "This isn't mine!" He raised it above his head where they could see and cocked his wrist to throw it down.

  Two rifle shots tore through the early morning, the reports echoing through the hills long after Donald's pounding footsteps had stopped.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  Wednesday, 7:53 A.M., Seoul

  Nearly five hours after he'd first gone into surgery, Kim Hwan was awake and somewhat alert. He looked around him, the events at the cottage coming back to him. He remembered the drive back Kim the arrival at the hospital.

  He turned to his left. Just past the IV sack he saw the Call button hanging from a white cable. He lifted his left arm carefully and pressed the red button.

  It wasn't a nurse who entered but Choi Hongtack, an agent from the Internal Security division of the KCIA. The young man was dressed in a smartly tailored black three-piece suit. He was a bright kid, an up-and-comer, but deep in Director Yung-Hoon's pocket and not to be trusted without serious threats to his career.

  Hongtack picked up a chair and set it beside the bed. "How are you feeling, Mr. Hwan?"

  "Stabbed."

  "You were. Twice. You suffered wounds to your right lung and to the small intestine, also on the right. The surgeons were able to repair the damage."

  "Where's Miss Chong?"

  "She left your car in the lot, stole another, and has since abandoned it for a third. There's been no report on a car being stolen in that area of the city, so we've no idea what she's driving or where she's headed."

  "Good." Hwan smiled.

  Hongtack regarded him strangely. "I'm sorry?"

  "I said good. She saved my life. The man who attacked me?"

  "He was ROK. We're chasing down what we believe are his commanders, who are also in the field, also ROK."

  Hwan nodded weakly.

  "Your driver, Cho. He didn't come back."

  "I think he's dead. Go to the cottage Yanguu Village. Kim's home."

  Hongtack slid a notepad from inside his jacket. "Yanguu Village," he wrote. "Do you think she went there?"

  "No. Don't know where she would go."

  That wasn't true, but he didn't want to tell Hongtack that. She would make her way to Japan, to her brother, and he hoped with all his heart that she got there. But he knew that might not be enough, and her welfare must come first just as she had put his first by bringing him here.

  "If she's found do not arrest her."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "You're to let her go wherever she wants." Hwan reached out and grabbed Hongtack's sleeve. "Do you understand? She is not to be stopped."

  From the ill-concealed fire in his eaglelike eyes, Hwan couldn't tell what bothered Hongtack more: the order or having his clothes touched.

  "I–I understand, Mr. Hwan. But if she is found, you want her followed."

  "No."

  Hongtack's pager beeped. He looked down at the number.

  "But then— what do I tell the Director?"

  "Nothing." Hwan moved his hand from the sleeve to the lapel. "Don't cross me on this one, Hongtack."

  "All right, Mr. Hwan. If you'll excuse me now, I've got to call the office."

  "Remember what I said."

  "Yes. I will."

  * * *

  In the hall, Hongtack tugged his sleeve straight, then pulled the compact cellular phone from inside his jacket.

  "Croaking little frog," he muttered as he walked to a corner near the soda machine. He punched in the number that had been on his pager, the office of Director Yung-Hoon.

  "How is he?" Yung-Hoon asked. "Are they treating him well?"

  Hongtack turned his back to the corridor and shielded his mouth with his open hand. "He's awake and the doctors tell me he'll recover fully. Sir— he also wants to protect the spy."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Protect the spy. He told me she's not to be apprehended."

  "Let me speak with him—"

  "Sir, he's sleeping."

  "Does he expect us to let her go back to the North, having seen him and several of our agents?"

  "Apparently, yes," said Hongtack, the aquiline eyes narrowing. "That's exactly what he expects."

  "Did he give a reason why?"

  "No. He said only that she was not to be taken, and that I was not to cross him on this."

  "I see," Yung-Hoon said. "Unfortunately, that would create a problem. We found her stolen car abandoned at a BMW dealership, and everyone's looking for her. City police and highway authorities have joined our search and I've sent helicopters to cover the roads leading from the city. It would be impossible to recall them all."

  "Very good. What shall I tell Mr. Hwan, if he asks?"

  "The facts. I'm sure he'll understand when his thinking clears."

  "Naturally," Hongtack said.

  "Check in with me again in an hour. I want to know how he's doing."

  "I will," Hongtack said, then returned to his chair outside Hwan's door, a smile on his ascetic face.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  Wednesday, 7:59 A.M., the Diamond Mountains

  Rodgers and Squires crept up to where Bass Moore was lying. He handed his field glasses to the Lieutenant Colonel.

  "That's the unit guarding the eastern perimeter of the Nodong site," Squires said. "There are only supposed to be five of them."

  Rodgers peered out. The hill sloped down sharply ahead, a rocky area of about a half mile to the ledge where the soldiers were sitting. Except for some large boulders, there was nothing to use as cover. On the ledge at the base of the hill were two mobile antiaircraft guns, the clips of two thousand rounds each stacked neatly to the left of each gun. Beyond them, in the valley below, the rising sun revealed the Nodongs beneath their foliage-covered canopies.

 
"Looks like we go in two-by-two," Squires said. "Moore, go back and tell the men to pair off. You and Puckett'll go first. You'll go to that gumdrop-shaped rock sixty-odd yards down on the left. See it?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "After that, you cut right and down to the cluster on the right. You feel your way after that, and we'll all follow. When we're as low down as we're gonna get, the General and me will open fire from the back and give the enemy a chance to surrender. They won't, and when they come up after us we close in from the sides. I'll brief each pair as they come down."

  Moore saluted, then went back up the hill to collect the Sergeant.

  Rodgers continued to study the terrain. "What if the men down there do decide to surrender?"

  "We disarm them and leave five of our men behind. But they won't."

  "You're probably right," said Rodgers. "They'll fight. And when the soldiers at the missiles hear the gunshots, they'll pull men off the other stations and send them after us."

  "We'll be out of here by then. I'll keep the men in pairs to spread the enemy out, pick 'em off as we can. We'll rendezvous at the command tent below and figure out a way to shut those birds down. I just hope they don't fly them prematurely."

  Hood borrowed the glasses and looked down at the command tent." You know, something's not right down there."

  "Like what?"

  "There's no one coming and going from the command tent, including the commander."

  "Everything's set. Maybe he's having breakfast."

  "I don't know. Hood said that two men flew into the North off that ferry. If this is a conspiracy against the DPRK, the commander wouldn't have just let them mosey in, take over, and retarget the missiles."

  "Orders can be forged."

  "Not here. They work on a double-check system. If the commander gets new orders, he radios Pyongyang for confirmation."

  "Maybe they've got someone on the inside up there."

  "Then why send two men here? Why not just change the orders from headquarters?"

  Squires nodded as Moore and Puckett arrived. "I see your point."

  Rodgers continued to study the command tent. It was still, the flap shut. "Charlie, I've got a feeling about this— would you let me take two men and go down there?"

  "And do what?"

  "I'd like to get down there and give a listen, see if whoever's in charge is the person who's supposed to be in charge."

  Squires shook his head. "You'll be eating up the clock, sir. It'll take you at least an hour to pick your way down there."

  "I know, and it's your call. But we're facing twice the number of troops we were expecting, and there's going to be a lot of shooting without any guarantees."

  Squires sucked on his upper lip. "I always wanted the chance to tell a general 'no,' and now that I've got it— I won't. Okay. Good luck down there, sir."

  "Thanks. I'll contact you by field phone when I can."

  Rodgers and Moore took a moment to chart a course the three of them could use to go around the artillery emplacements, while Puckett took off his radio backpack and left the unit with Squires.

  "Oh, and Charlie," Rodgers said before leaving, "don't radio Op-Center unless something happens. You know how Hood gets about some of my schemes."

  "I do, sir, yes." Squires smiled. "Like a terrier at a rib roast."

  "You got it," Rodgers said.

  With the sun high above the horizon and throwing long shadows behind the boulders, the three men started off.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  Wednesday, 8:00 A.M., North Korea DMZ

  The first shot hit Gregory Donald's left leg and brought him down, while the second rifle shot hit the top of his right shoulder as he fell, boring diagonally through his torso. As soon as he hit the ground he was pushing with his left arm, trying to get up. When that proved impossible, he began clawing with his hand, trying to pull himself ahead. The knife tumbled from his dead right hand as he scratched forward, inches at a time.

  The soldiers came running over.

  "Air " Donald gasped in Korean. "Air "

  Donald stopped moving, fell on his side. He felt a slight burning sensation in his left leg, waves of pain that ended at his waist. Above that, he felt nothing.

  He knew he'd been shot, but that was in the back of his mind. He tried to crane his head around, tried to lift his arm to point.

  "The air con condi—" he said, then realized that he was probably wasting whatever breath remained. No one was listening. Or maybe he wasn't talking loud enough.

  A medic came rushing over. He knelt by Donald's side, examined his throat to make sure it was clear, then checked his pulse and examined his eyes.

  Donald looked up into the man's bespectacled face. "The barracks," he said. "Listen to me air-conditioning—"

  "Rest," the medic said. He threw open Donald's jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. He used gauze to wipe away the blood and made a cursory examination of the entrance wound in the shoulder and the exit wound to the left of the naval.

  Donald managed to get his left elbow under him and tried to rise.

  "Keep still!" the medic snapped.

  "You don't see! Poison gas the barracks "

  The medic stopped, regarded Donald curiously. "Air con dition "

  "The air conditioners? Someone is trying to poison the men in the barracks?" Understanding and sadness crossed the medic's features simultaneously. "You were trying to stop them?"

  Donald nodded weakly, then fell back, struggling for breath. The medic relayed the information to the soldiers standing around him, then resumed working on his patient.

  "You poor man," the doctor said. "I'm sorry. So very sorry."

  Behind him, Donald could hear shouts, men running in the direction of the barracks. He tried to speak. "What ?"

  "What's happening?" the medic asked an aide.

  "The soldiers are leaving the barracks, sir."

  "Do you hear?" the doctor asked Donald.

  Donald heard but couldn't move his head. He blinked slowly, looked past the medic at the bluing sky.

  "Don't let go," the doctor said as he called for a stretcher. "I'm going to get you to the hospital."

  Donald's chest was barely moving.

  "What's happening now?" the medic asked as he straddled Donald's chest.

  His aide turned back. "There are soldiers around the air conditioner. They're checking the other barracks now. Now the lights just went out— it looks like the electricity's been shut off."

  "You're a hero," the doctor said to Donald.

  Am I? he thought as the blue sky went gray and then black.

  * * *

  There were shots, but the doctor paid no attention to them as he pressed his mouth to Donald's, pinched his nose shut, and gave him four quick ventilations.

  He felt for his cartoid pulse, found none, then repeated the procedure. There was still no pulse.

  Sliding from Donald's chest, the medic knelt beside him and put the middle finger of his right hand on the notch where the sternum meets the bottom of the rib cage. Then he placed the heel of his left hand on the lower half of the sternum beside the index finger and pressed, counting out eighty pushes each minute. His assistant held Donald's wrist, checking it for a pulse.

  Five minutes later the medic sat back on the balls of his feet. The stretcher lay beside him and he helped his aide place Donald's body on it. Two soldiers carried it away as an officer walked over. They ignored the soldiers from the South who were looking on.

  "Does he have any identification?"

  "I didn't check."

  "Whoever he was, he deserves a citation. Someone had rigged valved drums of gas to the air conditioning systems of the four barracks on the east side. We caught him as he was about to turn them on."

  "Just one man?"

  "Yes. He probably wasn't alone, though he won't be telling us anything."

  "Suicide?"

  "Not exactly. As we closed in, he tried to spill the gas. We were forced to shoot."
The officer looked at his watch. "I'd better inform General Hong-koo. He's on his way to meet that American Ambassador, and this may change things."

  * * *

  Tucked behind the trunk of a large oak, he watched as the small convoy of three jeeps neared the northern entrance of the conference building. They had come from the far northern side of the base where the General had his headquarters, and would park right beside the door of the structure, wait for the contingent from South Korea to arrive, and not exit until then. At least, that was probably the plan.

  But if Lee had seen what he thought he had— Donald gunned down as he ran toward the barracks— there would be no contingent from the South. It also appeared that there would be no gas attack on the barracks. Those other shots, the lack of excitement at what should have already occurred— it was obvious the plan had gone seriously wrong.

  His palm was dry, his grip on the pistol sure. If only he had used that against Donald, instead of the knife. It would have attracted attention, but he could have fled- No matter. Fate had handed him another opportunity, one that was almost as rich.

  The cars stopped, and Lee's eyes came to rest on General Hong-koo, a small man with a wide mouth like a snake and, he'd heard, a disposition to match. The General would wait no more than twenty minutes before entering: when no one showed up, he would announce to the world that the North wanted peace, the South did not, and he would return to his headquarters.

  That was surely the plan, he thought again. For Lee didn't intend to give him the chance to do either.

  Roughly 150 yards separated Lee from Hong-koo's convoy. The General was sitting stiffly in the back of the middle jeep, a poor target now but not for long. As soon as he emerged from his jeep, Lee would run over, gun him down, and shoot as many of the six other men as he could before running back toward the tunnel.

  Yet he was prepared to die, if he had to, emerge as either a leader or a martyr. All of them had been ready to give their lives for this cause, for even if the bombing, the assassination, and Sun's attack against Tokyo didn't start a war, their acts would strengthen the hearts of those opposed to reunification.