The Scarlet Crane: Transition Magic Book One (The Transition Magic Series 1)

by J. E. Hopkins

  A loud crash resounded from the distant main entrance, followed by harsh commands and the drumbeat of boots. It sounded like half the Chinese army had invaded the building.

  “This way,” Hale hissed.

  They ran through the shadows to the far side of the building, the agents hauling Wu’s body sucking air like winded horses. One of the men carried Wu De’s clothing, leaving behind only the generators and lights.

  They piled through the exit, into the cars, and sped toward the U.S. Consulate.

  * * *

  John sat in the communications room, waiting for an assistant to find the DTS Director. He sat back from the table, bouncing his cane on the floor and squirming in his chair. Residual adrenaline and anger made calm impossible. It was five a.m. in D.C., daylight a promise on the horizon; six p.m. in Shenyang, darkness creeping over the city.

  Marva and Akina entered the distant conference room and sat across from the camera.

  “Hale not on the call because of the subject matter?” Marva asked.

  “That, and because I’m pissed at him for killing Wu De. Were those your orders, Director?”

  Marva’s face blazed. “What are you talking about? No!”

  “Well, someone sure as hell did, because Hale isn’t the type to act on his own.” John described the events at the foundry, stopping frequently to respond to Marva’s questions.

  “The order to kill Wu De had to come from Langley.” Marva leaned back in her chair. “Or from someone who can pull Langley’s strings.”

  Unexpected, unwelcome thoughts crowded to the front of John’s mind.

  Is she lying? Was that conversation in the embassy just a sham and she’s afraid of what Wu De might have said? Or am I just too tired and paranoid?

  Marva leaned toward the camera, her ebony face tight with tension. “I’ll handle Agent Hale. You focus on taking Crane down.”

  I want to believe. Regardless, she’s right—one Gordian knot at a time.

  “Time to bring in the special forces guys,” John said.

  “North Korea is a hell of a stretch, Dish, with horrible consequences if we fail.”

  “It doesn’t get any better if we use cruise missiles.”

  “No, probably not. But missiles would put fewer men at risk.”

  “Bullshit. Launching missiles will start a shooting war with the PRK, maybe China. Who knows how many will die.”

  Marva nodded and sighed. “What are you suggesting?”

  “A special forces attack by helicopter from Seoul. That’s the only option that makes sense.”

  “You don’t think that would cause a war?”

  “The Chinese don’t want attention on Crane. And they sure as hell don’t want the world to know they’ve been using a base in North Korea to launch attacks of magic. Global paranoia would crucify them. We get in, get out, present them with a fait accompli. They’ll bury it. If we use missiles, half a dozen countries will detect their launch and we’ll be in the shit with no way back.”

  “Quit selling me, John, I get it. But I don’t know if this is even possible.”

  “It’s about 350 miles from Seoul to the camp. The Nightstalker has the range with external tanks. Think Bin Laden.”

  Marva said, “Okay, okay. I’ll go to the President.”

  “We need to move fast—no more than twenty-four or thirty-six hours from now. The Chinese are going to figure out Wu De is missing and close up shop. We’ll have to start all over again trying to find them. And I don’t even want to think about what they might do with Transition magic.”

  Marva’s voice growled with sarcasm. “Good thing the military is known for its speed. Jesus. Anything else?”

  “Yeah. I’m a couple of hours from Seoul. I’ll get there early tomorrow morning and link up with the teams. I have to be part of the mission. I’m the best person to do a rapid intelligence assessment once the camp is secured, so we can figure out how the Chinese have managed to do the impossible.”

  Marva looked away from the camera for a moment, then back. “Yeah, I’d want to do that, too. Call me from Seoul.”

  Hoeryong

  The Democratic People’s Republic of Korea

  “What do you mean, your son’s gone missing?” Zhi asked. He put Comrade Wu’s call on the speakerphone and stared at Eng, who stood just inside the office door. Zhi lifted his shoulders and hands in a silent questioning gesture.

  Eng shook his head, mimed, “No idea.”

  Wu wheezed, “Wu De had a planned rendezvous with Upland in Shenyang at noon yesterday. He didn’t phone to update me, so I tried his cell. I haven’t been able to reach him.”

  It was early evening the day after Zhi and Eng had used magic intended to kill the camp’s former second in command, Colonel Rong Meng. Zhi had expected—hoped for—Wu’s call, but to hear about Rong’s death, not Wu De’s disappearance.

  “Does he always call after a meeting with Upland?” Zhi asked.

  “Not always. On some occasions he drops from sight for a few days after he and Upland meet.”

  “So? Surely you have him followed. Are they off fucking somewhere?”

  Wu coughed uncontrollably, a wet, disgusting sound that made Zhi want a shower. “I don’t know. My son insisted he not be followed, as a measure of respect. I complied with his wishes, of course.”

  You senile, dying old fool.

  “Then why are you concerned? Your son’s behavior may be irresponsible, but it’s hardly unexpected.”

  “I don’t know why I’m worried,” Wu said. “Perhaps it’s because the American agents have been crawling around China. Or perhaps it’s simply the worry of an old man.” Wu’s hoarse voice betrayed his fatigue.

  “If I may make a suggestion,” Zhi said.

  “That’s why I called.”

  “I’m certain Wu De is tucked away somewhere, enjoying a sexual education from a Swiss cougar, but your point about the Americans is a good one. Deploy your people and find your son. Check the luxury hotels, the hospitals. If your agents can’t locate him in the next day or so, then we should consider other options.”

  Wu said, “I’ve been reluctant to trigger a search because it will be difficult to keep it private. But you’re correct. We must know what we’re dealing with.” He was wracked by another paroxysm of coughing.

  “Will there be anything else, comrade?”

  “Yes. Colonel Rong died suddenly late last evening of an apparent heart attack. I don’t expect that you much care, but thought I should inform you.”

  Zhi and Eng shook hands in silent congratulations.

  “You’re correct, Comrade, I don’t much care,” Zhi said. “I presume you’ve assigned someone else to handle the details of the orphanage for the children when they exit Transition.”

  “Of course.” Wu struggled to clear his throat. “Did the American captive arrive without incident?”

  “Yes. Although she’s so badly damaged it may be days before I can learn anything from her.”

  “My men are sometimes too enthusiastic.”

  Your torturers are savage, undisciplined idiots.

  “One final thing,” Wu said, “but the most important. Are you on schedule to rid me of this cancerous curse?”

  “Yes, Comrade. Eng is training the children now for a session the day after tomorrow.”

  We’ll cure you, yes. And twist your mind so that I’m more important to you than life itself.

  “Good,” Wu whispered. “That’s good.” The speaker on Zhi’s phone clicked. Wu had disconnected.

  “The Americans and that old fool’s son worry me,” Zhi said. “I want to accelerate our plans. Divide the kids in Transition into two groups. One to heal Wu. The other to see what we can learn from our prisoner. How fast can you prepare?”

  Eng said, “I’ll need at least a day to convince the children they want these things.”

  “Plan for tomorrow at midnight. I’ll have the incantations ready for you first thing in the morning.”

&
nbsp; Seoul

  The Republic of South Korea

  John stood with the rest of the human cattle, waiting to disembark from his early morning flight into Seoul. He was checking the time—six-thirty—when his phone chirped and a password prompt appeared on the screen. He keyed in the requested code and the dialog was replaced by a text message:

  military ride waiting for you. look for embassy attaché with sign for mr. aragorn. acknowledge.

  Once out of the jetway, he strode away from the crowd and tapped confirmation that he’d received the coded message. He hurried to the end of the concourse, took the escalator to the second floor where he cleared immigration, and caught the maglev train to Incheon International’s main terminal. The train disgorged him into a large hall that led into the chrome and glass building. Limo drivers clustered to his right, none holding the promised sign.

  John examined the crowd. An athletic young man stood apart some twenty feet inside the terminal, grasping a hand lettered piece of paper with the Tolkien character’s name. He smiled to himself.

  A ranger to lead me to my military escort.

  The kid had a small blue stone piercing his ear and a steel loop in his lip, looking more like an anxious teen than an embassy attaché.

  John walked up, extended his right hand for a momentary clasp, and bowed slightly from his waist. “An-yung-ha-say-oh”

  It goes peacefully. My favorite cultural hello.

  “I’m the one you’ve been waiting for.” John looked around, searching for threats.

  “An-yung-ha-say-oh. I am Park Chin-Hea. This way, please.” He turned and began weaving through the crowd.

  “Where are you taking me, Mr. Park?”

  Park stopped, turned, and bowed deeply. “I’m to take you to Mr. Rangel, an officer with the U.S. Army. He’s over there.” He pointed vaguely toward the other end of the building and hesitated. “I have a message for you if this arrangement makes you uncomfortable.”

  “I’m uncomfortable. What’s the message?”

  “Marva hopes you had the opportunity to visit La Ville cemetery in Zurich and that you found it peaceful.”

  It took John a couple of seconds to parse the words, then the message registered. He’d told Marva about La Ville years ago, when he’d first visited it. She was one of the few that seemed to understand why he found cemeteries so interesting. He was touched that she recalled something so personal.

  “Lead on, Mr. Park.”

  Rangel was standing with an airport security guard near an unmarked, alarmed door on the western perimeter of the terminal. His Army Combat Uniform bore the cloth insignia for a Chief Warrant Officer 4 and a shoulder patch for the 160th Special Operations Regiment. The ACUs hung loosely on his wiry six-foot frame. Wrinkles around his flinty eyes hinted that he was older than his smooth purple-black face might suggest.

  “Welcome to the Republic of Korea, Dr. Benoit.” The CWO’s bass voice had a raw edge, as if aged by fine Tennessee whiskey.

  “Thanks, Chief,” John said, as they shook hands. “It’s an honor to meet a member of the Night Stalkers.” He paused. “I seem to recall a motto—Death Waits in the Night.”

  Rangel inspected him closely. “It’s a little thing we do.”

  John smiled. “Thing” sounded more like “thang.”

  Southern accent as misdirection. This is not a man you’d want to underestimate.

  Rangel bowed to Park Chin-Hea. “Thank you, Mr. Park, I’ll take it from here.” The attaché returned the courtesy and melted into the airport crowd.

  “I have a ride waiting to take you to Osan Air Base.”

  He nodded to the security guard, who used a key to bypass the exit door’s alarm and hurried them along a twisting, sterile hallway that terminated at another secured door. The guard again disarmed the security system, this time remaining behind as he held the door open for the two Americans. A cold rain that smelled like jet fuel pelted them as they ran to a glistening ebony Hyundai Sonata Y20.

  He stowed his bag and climbed into the back seat. Rangel rode up front next to the driver, an ancient woman dressed in an airport security uniform. The top of her head didn’t extend above the steering wheel.

  The Chief placed both hands on the dashboard, sucked in a deep breath, and nodded. “Go.”

  John aged ten years in the five-minute ride across the tarmac to the far side of the airport. The woman drove like she was in a bumper car race, slowing for nothing, dodging planes and ground crew alike, skidding to a stop next to a U.S. Black Hawk helicopter. Tuk-tuk rides were calm in comparison.

  A roiling fog that threatened to turn into ice any second kissed the helo’s rotors. Rangel stowed John’s gear and showed him how to buckle into seats in the troop compartment.

  “A Warrant 4 and a Black Hawk?” John asked. “Seems like overkill.”

  Rangel shrugged. “No such thing as overkill in my line of work, sir. Besides, my unit will be providing transport for you and some very ugly men of the marine mammal persuasion. Thought I’d come take a look at who’s been stirrin’ things up.”

  “You can fly in this weather?” John asked.

  “No problem,” Rangel said. “You just survived the riskiest part of the trip. That woman’s about a hundred years old, notorious. Rumor is that she’s the airport manager’s mother.” He climbed forward, dropped into the pilot’s seat and powered up.

  “Gonna be a little bumpy. Barf bag is under your seat. Don’t puke in my baby!”

  * * *

  Osan Air Base, forty miles south of Seoul, was built during the Korean war on the site of the Battle of Bayonet Hill. As soon as the Black Hawk touched down, Chief Rangel whisked John to a secure communications room tucked in the back of an old Quonset hut.

  A naval commander welcomed the two of them as they entered the darkened space. A wall-sized projection screen showed a vice admiral sitting next to Marva in the director’s D.C. conference room.

  Marva greeted them with a curt, “Good. You’re here; let’s get started.” John sat and placed his cane between his knees and starting his balancing ritual. “Everyone already knows who you are, Dish. Let me return the favor. Admiral Forrest Leyden heads the Naval Special Warfare command.” The admiral nodded. He looked like he’d just gotten a whiff of something foul.

  “On your end, Commander Enrico Estival is the Task Unit commander for SEAL Team 12, one of the Navy’s two Tier One Special Ops units. He’ll command the operation we’re going to be discussing.”

  Estival reached over and crushed John’s hand.

  “You’ve met Chief Rangel. His Night Stalker team will be flying the force in and out of North Korea.”

  “Commander,” Marva said, “please summarize the operation.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Estival said. “The assault is code-named ‘Trident Prime.’ Chief Rangel and his crews will fly two fifteen-man assault teams to the Crane compound, where we will secure the camp and capture or kill the program commander and his direct reports. When the situation on the ground is under—”

  John cut him off. “And rescue Agent Hill, if she’s there. You meant to include that, right?”

  Too much to hope for but I can’t help myself.

  “Affirmative. My apologies.”

  Estival continued. “When the situation on the ground is under control, you”—he looked at John—”will enter the camp for an intelligence assessment. You’ll identify which, if any, records the team will collect for the return to Seoul. SEALs will collect and box up the bad guys’ pocket litter for later analysis. Then we’ll beat feet back the way we came.”

  “What’s our equipment? How hardened is this place?” John asked.

  “It doesn’t appear hardened at all—they probably think their location is all the protection they need. We’ll use three extended-range Black Hawks for the assault. The SEALs go in and out on two of them; the third is a backup in case one of the others goes down. You ride on bird number two. We’ll use the backup to bring the kids and any priso
ners out of the camp.”

  John asked, “The Black Hawks aren’t heavily armed, right?”

  “Affirmative. They’re for transport. Two Apaches will accompany us to provide heavy arms support if needed.”

  “How will you deal with North Korean radar?”

  Rangel answered. “The birds have stealth kits. And we’ll be flying less than twenty feet above the ground, using night vision and NOE navigation. The PRK will never see us.”

  “NOE?” John asked.

  “Nap of the Earth. Means real fucking close to the fuzz on the ground.”

  Admiral Leyden leaned toward the camera and snarled. “Don’t be too cocky. The avionics don’t protect you from power wires or cables.” He sat back in his chair, the hint of a smile cracking his face. “If there’s any good news, it’s that the PRK bastards are so poor there won’t be much in the countryside that can snag you. The key is speed. Get in there and take control before anyone in the compound figures out what’s going on and calls for help.”

  John nodded. “The Apaches provide backup support for the assault teams. I get that. What happens if the Apaches aren’t enough?”

  The room fell silent. Marva finally said, “Dish—”

  Leyden interrupted. “That question’s mine, Director. The President agreed with my recommendation and it’ll be my call if the time comes.”

  “What recommendation?” John asked.

  Leyden stared directly into the camera. “The Apaches have the firepower to help you with most situations. If you need more than that, you’re fucked. We can’t come in to help you without starting a war. Anything goes bad, and I call in cruise missiles and wipe the earth clean of the camp and you. We can’t leave anything behind for the PRK to put on CNN. The Chinese and the North Koreans will bitch, but, absent evidence, there won’t be anything they can do. If you don’t like those terms, we scrub the mission and go with missiles only. Frankly, that was my preferred plan, but Director Bentley persuaded the President to go with the assault teams.”