Dangerous Grounds

by Don Keith

  "Conn, Sonar. Zig sierra two-six. Current bearing zero-five-seven."

  The report blared over the 21MC speaker, jolting Marc Lucerno alert. He swung the periscope around to the sonar bearing. Sure enough, he could now make out the shape of a distant ship breaking through the overcast. As best he could make out; it looked exactly as he expected, like one of the tramp steamers that sometimes plied these waters.

  Better call the skipper. He always wanted to know about every contact coming inside visual range.

  Commander Don Chapman was stepping out of the shower when his phone buzzed. There was already a frown on his face. He despised submarine showers. The idea of quickly, barely wetting your body, soaping down with the water turned off, and then hastily rinsing off the lather just never seemed right to him. Now that he was the skipper here, he allowed himself the luxury of a long hot shower every day. It was a perk he figured came with the top job.

  Chapman grabbed the phone and growled, "Captain."

  "Captain, I hold sierra two-six visually,” Lucerno reported. “Range one-three thousand yards. Classified small merchant. He has zigged toward. CPA is two thousand yards in thirty-six minutes. Looks like he is headed into Najin."

  Chapman balanced the phone against his ear as he pulled up his trousers.

  "Very well. Maintain course and speed. Station the section tracking party and start tracking this guy. If he is headed into Najin, we may want to get a closer look."

  Chapman was still buttoning his uniform shirt when he walked into the control room. It was a bustling place. Lucerno was taking visual observations of the target ship while Cully was using sonar information and the BSY-1 computer to solve for the target’s course, speed, and range. Other watchstanders had dropped their normal duties and were busy plotting the information on charts in order to manually solve the target motion analysis problem.

  Chapman took the quick step up to the periscope stand.

  "Mister Lucerno, let me take a look."

  He grabbed the two black metal handles and put his eye to the eyepiece. Sure enough, there was the little ship, chugging along. She looked like a rusty old coastal steamer, just what you would expect in this God-forsaken end of the earth. Chapman rotated his right wrist, feeling the detent click into place as the periscope optics shifted up to twenty-four-power. He couldn't make out the flag or name yet, even with the increased magnification, but the deck looked empty and the ship was riding relatively high in the water. It appeared the freighter was going into Najin to pick up a load of cargo.

  Chapman handed the periscope back over to Lucerno.

  "Mister Lucerno, I'm going down to the wardroom to get a cup of coffee,” he said. “Looks like this guy will pass well clear, so stay on course and speed. I'll be back up in ten minutes."

  The skipper disappeared out the control room door, heading off in the direction of the ladder that led down to middle level.

  The steamer's broad, squat stern was visible when Chapman returned to the control room, clutching a cup of coffee and munching on a sticky bun. He watched the video display as Lucerno panned the scope across the stern. He could see what the OOD was seeing through the scope being displayed on the screen. The lettering on the ship’s stern was some kind of Oriental script. He had no idea what it was, let alone how to translate it.

  "Mister Lucerno, what is the target's name and flag?" he asked.

  "Skipper, one of the cryppies said it was named the Won Ki. No idea what nationality. We don't see any flag and the name isn't in any of our pubs."

  Chapman stuffed the last of the sticky bun into his mouth and licked the frosting from his fingers.

  "Most likely D. P. R. K. They’re expecting it or the bastards would be shooting at it by now." He took a swallow of coffee to wash down the pastry. "Put a note in tonight's intel summary report that we observed that rust bucket. And let's get back to what we're out here for. Come about and head back to the south corner of the box."

  Lucerno acknowledged his captain’s orders and gave the series of commands to turn away from the harmless old freighter. There was far more important work to do than watch that tub wallow along toward port.

  5

  Admiral Tom Donnegan read the report all the way through one more time. He pulled the half-frame reading glasses off his face and threw them onto the desk. He spun the old battered desk chair around so he could gaze out the window as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. A misty rain distorted the view through the thick, bulletproof Plexiglas.

  There didn’t seem to be much traffic weaving past the Pentagon this late at night. A couple of cars buzzed by on the wet highway. Probably overworked staffers heading home for a late supper. In the distance, through the rain, the Washington Monument was a strong, golden needle stretching high above the black shapes of the oaks and willows that shielded the Potomac. It pointed toward the low clouds that reflected the city's lights in pastel shades of orange and yellow.

  The muted beauty of the Capital City night was lost on the old submariner.

  After two years as the Navy's top spook, not much surprised the admiral anymore. Occasionally something crossed his desk that was just too unbelievable in its scope to be true. He could only hope this was another one of those times. Normally he would direct someone to follow up, do some grunt work, and verify the report before he got too worked up over it or shared it with anyone else. Typically, a few days later, some red-faced young lieutenant would timidly show up at his door to admit his mistake.

  This one was different. The report was too hot. There wasn't any time to waste.

  It was at times like this that Donnegan wished he were back with his beloved boats, under the tropical sun in Pearl Harbor, instead of this cramped, gloomy office on the Pentagon’s E-ring. Life out there in the middle of the Pacific was comparatively simple, even though he was directing his half of the largest and most powerful submarine fleet in the world.

  Donnegan made a quick decision. This news had to be shared with the highest authority.

  With a heavy sigh, he reached across the old battered wooden desk and snatched the red-phone handset from its cradle. The secure line, nicknamed the “Spook Phone,” was connected to only three other offices: the Director of the National Security Agency, the Director of Central Intelligence, and the National Security Advisor's desk in the White House.

  Even though it was almost midnight, Dr. Samuel Kinnowitz answered before the pulse of the second ring was finished. President Adolphus Browne's National Security Advisor was a notorious workaholic. Nobody was sure if he ever slept.

  "Tom, what can I do for you?" Kinnowitz answered jovially enough. His Brooklyn accent was still heavy despite years spent teaching on the opposite coast at Stanford. "It can't be good news, so late at night."

  Donnegan grunted.

  "No, sir. Afraid it’s not. I just received a report from reliable sources inside the Russian Navy. Most troubling. There is a very real possibility that they have lost two nuclear weapons from the submarine base in Vlad."

  The line was silent for a long moment. Donnegan thought he heard a gasp at the other end. It took a lot to surprise Sam Kinnowitz, too. When he spoke again, his voice was brittle with tension. The joviality was gone.

  “Are you sure? How good is the source? Have you verified it?"

  Donnegan flipped through the report as he answered the rapid-fire questions.

  "Of course, or I wouldn’t have called you, Sam. We’re as sure as we can be in cases like this. Our source is at the highest level. He has always been reliable in the past. We haven't had time to get a second source yet but we’re working on it. Didn't figure it was a good idea sitting on something like this while we dug around."

  "What do we know for sure?" the National Security Advisor demanded.

  "Two type 53-68 torpedoes are missing out of their inventory at Vlad. Old sixties-design weapons. They’re not good for much except to make a pretty big and relatively dirty bang. Yield is about twenty kilotons. But they’re big
hunks of steel. Damn things are better than twenty feet long and weigh something like two and a half tons. Not something you would easily misplace. And not something you could strap on your back and walk into a disco with either. Not a likely terrorist weapon."

  "Okay, so why would someone steal them?” Kinnowitz asked then paused for a beat. “That's what has you worried, isn't it, Tom?"

  "Yes, that's what set off the alarm bells. I’m not sure I can answer your question. It kinda defies logic. It would take some damn good engineers and specialized equipment to turn the warheads into something portable enough for a terrorist to use. We don't think any known group has that kind of capability."

  "Damn, Tom! The timing on this couldn't be worse. We are within spitting distance of an agreement with the Russians to reduce warhead counts."

  "Yeah, and that's one of the things that leads me to believe this report is valid,” Donnegan agreed. “Losing a couple of nukes is going to hurt the Russians' contention that they have absolute security over all their weapons. It makes a strong case for the United Nations to demand that they unilaterally destroy them if they can’t keep tabs on them. Ruins their negotiating position."

  Kinnowitz coughed and then said, "Tom, bring that report over right away. We'd better wake the president and brief him.” He paused for another moment then asked, “Any idea where the weapons might be?"

  "Maybe. Topeka is on an indications-and-warning mission off the Democratic Peoples’ Republic of Korea, gathering intel and watching for any sign of hostile activity there. Their daily message yesterday had an interesting sighting. They reported tracking a North Korean freighter out of Vlad and into Najin. We just don’t see a lot of traffic like that. And our source suggested this was the most likely way the weapons would be removed from Russia. Those could be our nukes."

  "Damn, Admiral!” Kinnowitz said with a snort. “You have a real knack for saving the worst news for last. So you’re telling me you have reason to believe that the North Koreans have acquired themselves a couple of Russian-made nuclear weapons. I think we have the makings for a problem here."

  Tom Donnegan had no response for the security advisor’s massive understatement.

  Nor did he notice that a thick fog had crept in while they were talking. A fog that now obscured the Washington Monument, effectively snuffing out the warm lights of the nation’s capital.

  North Korean State Security Department Colonel Kuang il Chung stepped back into the shadow of the old warehouse, seeking refuge from the elements. Its rickety bulk provided some shelter from the cold, blasting wind that blew the harbor waters into a churning, frothing cauldron of gray, foam-topped slate. An occasional wave, larger than the rest, would heave up and spew freezing salt spray across the pier.

  Chung watched intently as a gaggle of stevedores worked the crane and lines to lower a silver-gray cylinder from the Won Ki's main deck. The huge weapon, the second one Chung had babied all the way down from Russia, swung high in the air, wavered a bit in the icy wind, and then settled onto a cradle strapped down on a flatbed trailer. The dull-green-painted truck that was hitched to the trailer bore the red star and white circle markings of the Peoples Army Special Weapons Agency. This secretive and little-known group was charged with carrying out the D. P. R. K.'s fledgling nuclear weapons program.

  Peoples Army guards, oblivious to the stinging wind, stood next to an armored personnel carrier that blocked the head of the pier. They were there to prevent anyone from stumbling onto the unloading. More guards strolled the pier itself. They watched every move until the weapon was safely snugged down on the trailer and covered with a tarp.

  An officer wearing the collar tabs of a Dae-wi, a senior captain, marched smartly up to where Chung stood. The captain snapped to attention and saluted Chung even though the colonel wore the clothes of a civilian.

  "The weapon is loaded, Colonel,” he reported. “My men will guard the convoy all the way to the laboratory. General Dai-jang awaits you in his car. It is parked just outside the gate."

  Laboratory? They were to take the torpedo to a warehouse where its twin waited, a short distance from the pier.

  Chung pulled his topcoat more tightly around himself, stepped out into the brisk wind, and headed around the warehouse. If there had been a change of plans, surely General Kim Dai-jang was here to explain them to him.

  There, across the dusty street, was the General's black Mercedes. The driver opened the rear door so that Chung could enter, sliding in next to a short, silver-haired gentleman in full dress uniform. General Dae-jang was arguably the most powerful man in North Korea, after President Kim Jae-uk. He did not give Chung any formal welcome. He continued to chain smoke his favorite Players cigarettes, as usual. Once the limousine had pulled away from the pier, he spoke.

  "Colonel Chung, your mission was successful?" Dai-jang inquired. The General’s tone sounded as if he was assured of the answer.

  Chung settled back into the seat, bracing himself as the driver turned the first corner sharply. Having General Dai-jang waiting at the pier was unexpected. The reclusive military leader rarely left the comfort of his compound in the hills south of Pyongyang. Even though Chung was one of his senior officers, he had met with him in person only twice in the past five years. There was surely a connection between the general’s presence and a change in the plans for the torpedos.

  The big car made another abrupt turn, pulled away from the pier, and headed toward the main road out of the sprawling Najin Naval Base. The rutted surface bounced the car and jolted the occupants, making conversation difficult. Chung could see the convoy with the weapon following behind them. He had no idea where they were going but he did know it was not to the warehouse at Najin.

  "Where are we headed?” Chung finally dared to ask. “I had arranged to store both the weapons on base until Sabul u Nurizam arrived with the payment."

  General Dai-jang inhaled, drawing the cigarette smoke deep into his lungs. He exhaled before he answered the question.

  "There have been some changes in your plans, Colonel. We have some work to do before we are ready to deliver a torpedo to Nurizam."

  Then the general was quiet, not interested in further conversation. They turned south, taking the main road along the coast toward Ch'ongjin. The general’s stony countenance looked as impenetrable as the steep, dark mountains to the west. The look in his eyes was as foreboding as the gray sea to the east.

  The pair rode in silence. Chung knew not to break it.

  The car unexpectedly turned off the coast highway onto a narrow, winding road, barely more than a track that wound up a steep mountain valley. A roaring river flush with icy cold snowmelt from higher up carved the vertical rocky slopes to which the path precipitously clung.

  Almost an hour of slow, twisting crawl eventually brought them to a plateau high above the coast road. The flat field was empty except for a couple of rusty sheds tucked up close to the mountain slope. A high chain link fence, topped with a generous roll of razor-sharp concertina wire, surrounded the entire area. High guard towers marked the corners of the enclosure. The ugly snout of a 14.5mm KPVT machine gun protruded out of each tower. Something inside this secluded little compound required serious protection.

  The black Mercedes drove past the guards and through the gate without being challenged. It came to a halt in front of the farthest one of the rusty sheds. General Dai-jang hopped out of the vehicle before it had even stopped.

  "Come on,” he shouted over his shoulder. “I will show you the new home we have made for your toys."

  Without waiting for a reply, he charged through the doorway into the shed, disappearing into the darkness inside.

  Chung scurried to catch up. The inside of the hut was a sharp contrast to the exterior. Brilliant florescent lighting reflected off immaculate stainless steel and Formica surfaces. The room was outfitted with the latest in machine tools and electronics. Several men dressed in white lab coats were huddled around a long metal tube that looked very much
like the 53-68 torpedo that Chung had just spent a week babysitting from Vlad down to Najin. Puzzled, he looked at the General with wide eyes.

  Dai-jang almost smiled as he answered Chung's unasked question.

  "Yes, this is your other weapon. Or at least part of it." He chuckled dryly. "We are making some changes so your customers will not inadvertently hurt themselves. And hurt us in the process."

  Chung stepped toward the weapon. He could see that the cover panel had been removed from the warhead. He peered into the opening. As near as he could tell, nothing inside had been disturbed. Once again, he looked questioningly at the diminutive general.

  "See anything different?"

  This time, Dai-jang smiled broadly. Chung shook his head. This appeared exactly the same as the last time he had looked inside the weapon, when he had left it at the warehouse at the base.

  "No, nothing different."

  "Good. It should look the same. We went to great lengths to make it appear identical. The real warhead has been removed already and sent to our weapons facilities. This one is merely a look alike."

  Chung gasped.

  "You built a fake? How am I supposed to sell it? Nurizam will be able to tell we are trying to fool him. He will come looking for me and…"

  "I doubt it. For all practical purposes, it looks the same. We even inserted a small amount of plutonium 239 into the core." The General picked up a gamma detector and passed it near the weapon. The needle jumped off scale as the instrument chirped madly. "You see. Just like the real thing."

  Chung was even more perplexed than before.

  "I do not understand. Why are we doing this?"

  Dai-jang lost his smile and glared at his underling. The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

  "Colonel, normally I would have you shot for questioning my actions. But in this case, I need you to know and understand what is happening. Step into my office and I will explain."

  The little general turned on a heel and marched smartly out of the building, across the narrow courtyard, and in the door of the other shed. Again Chung followed. This building was different from the other one. The inner walls were almost a foot thick. The room was small and cramped. A bank of telephones and computer terminals filled one entire wall. Lights flashed on the electronics and the monitor screens flickered in the darkness of the room