Dangerous Grounds

by Don Keith

  Dai-jang watched as Chung took in the scene then said, "This is the comms center. Everything, all communication to or from here, is sent through buried landlines. We do everything we can to stay hidden from the American spy satellites. Even the walls are soundproofed, shielded and grounded so no electromagnetic radiation escapes."

  He took a seat behind the central desk and motioned Chung to sit in a chair opposite him. Dai-jang slowly and deliberately lit another cigarette before he spoke again.

  "Colonel, it is very simple. The sale of these weapons to Nurizam and his group makes a very good cover for us to acquire them ourselves with little chance of anyone else knowing. If we allowed them to have the weapons, there is no telling how they might use them or how quickly it would be learned that we had a role in their acquisition. So what we do is give them something they believe is a nuclear device. If they try to use them, there are enough high explosives in the weapons to make a nice bang and spread some PU-239 around. It will look like a low order detonation.

  "Everyone will blame the Muslim terrorists for trying to go nuclear. They will assume the poor bastards did not have the technical skill to make it work. The rest of the world will be convinced it was the work of Nurizam’s people or the rudimentary efforts of the Iranians or Syrians or someone else friendly to their cause. They will never suspect our involvement. And no one in Nurizam’s camp will ever question a switch either. As far as they are concerned, the weapon went ‘bang,’ it emitted radiation, it did what they wanted it to do."

  Now on a roll, the general stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray on his desk and ceremoniously lit another.

  “But…” Chung began. Dai-jang held up his hand.

  "Wait. I will answer all your questions in good time. See, when we need to use one of the weapons for our own purposes, it will show traces of isotopes known to be in old Soviet weapons. Old Soviet weapons stolen by the terrorists, who have, by then, figured out how to use them. Merely the next round of attacks from Nurizam and his people. The fanatical fools will claim credit for what we have done anyway. No one will ever suspect the Democratic Peoples’ Republic of Korea.”

  Chung sat there for a moment, looking at the toes of his boots. He was still stunned by the abrupt direction his rather simple bit of commerce had taken. When he looked up, General Kim Dai-jang was once again smiling at him through the thick haze of cigarette smoke.

  “So what do you think of our little plan, Colonel?”

  He shrugged his shoulders and smiled back. What else could he say?

  It was a brilliantly simple plan.

  6

  Sabul u Nurizam’s face was crimson with rage. The veins on his neck stood out like cords of tightly wound rope. He threw down the message he had been reading and stomped out of the communications center into the hot afternoon sun. The terrorist cleric could not believe that pig-eating son of a dog, Colonel Chung, would so brazenly delay his grand plan this way. And to make the North Korean’s insult even worse, he now demanded fifty million more U.S. dollars for his filthy stolen weapons.

  Nurizam stormed off in the general direction of his quarters so his followers would not see the fury on his face. They must know that he was in control, that he ran the movement by intellect and prayer and inner strength, not by emotion. The rude hut sat back under a large banyan tree, apart from the rest of the camp. It afforded him a little privacy; a place to sit and think, to plan all the moves for his complicated scheme. Some more planning was called for now.

  He forced himself to calm down and look objectively at these new developments. The additional money for the weapons presented no particular difficulty. Nurizam was sure that if he could so easily get the first fifty million from his benefactors, they would be willing to part with a little more. The more serious problem was the extra month's delay in delivery of the atomic torpedoes. There were too many moving parts in his carefully constructed plan to integrate such unwelcome surprises. The plan depended on timing, on the elaborate series of gears meshing like intricate clockwork. Any delay also increased the risk that the nosy American intelligence agencies might somehow stumble upon the scheme. They were much more difficult to avoid after the incident in 2001. He had no idea how he would compensate for this unforeseen delay.

  Nurizam closed the door behind him and tried to rub the pain from his temples. The headaches were getting worse. They sometimes blinded him with agony. He plopped a couple of ibuprofen into his mouth and downed them with a swallow of water though he knew the pills would do little good against the throbbing. The constant tension must not be allowed to affect him, to cloud his judgment or weaken his resolve. Allah would give him the strength he needed. Of that one thing he was certain.

  It was time for prayers. Nurizam washed himself and spread his threadbare prayer rug so that he faced Mecca. He bowed low and began to chant quietly.

  Still, he could not bring his mind to rest on his prayers. Colonel Chung's message had destroyed the peace that he normally felt during the comforting ritual. Nurizam tried to force his mind to center on the prayer. It disobeyed, continuing to seethe unchecked. There was nothing to do but hurry through a perfunctory prayer session and get back to work.

  Surely Allah would understand. There was too much to do and so little time.

  The radical cleric rose from his prayer rug and stretched his long, aching legs. He folded the piece of cloth and returned it to the shelf where it belonged. He would have an opportunity to do better in a few hours.

  He bounded out the door and jogged the short distance to the communications hut. Maybe there was news about the money already. He would need to convene a meeting soon with his shadowy benefactor, Lee Dawn Shun. The first order of business would be money already owed. Nurizam’s payment in exchange for destroying the last heroin shipment was due to him now.

  He smiled slightly. How amusing, how ironic, that it was an Asian drug lord who was paying Nurizam and his followers. Paying them well to send the shipments of drugs that were coming out of Asia to the bottom of the South China Sea. And the ironic twist was that those shipments belonged to Sui Kia Shun, Lee Dawn Shun's own estranged father. It was not Nurizam’s way to question what had led to the rift between father and daughter. A rift so deep and wide that it threatened to erupt into a drug war that might reach several continents. It was fortuitous for Nurizam, for his followers, for Allah, that the familial divide could be exploited for the glory and financial well being of their cause.

  Even if there was no word about the money, there might well be news from his lieutenant, Manju Shehab. There had been only bad news so far. The ambush at Mangal, the loss of all his men, and Shehab’s miraculous escape. Since then, there had been silence. One could hope that Shehab was still carrying out his orders despite his close call. Likely, he was. Shehab was the most loyal and determined of his disciples. Still, even the strongest could fall victim to fear.

  Nurizam tried to erase the negative thoughts from his mind as he stepped into the communications hut. The plan was already in motion. He could not allow doubts to distract him. He reached for the clipboard that held the decrypted text of the day’s messages so far and began to read.

  At that same moment, Manju Shehab sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor in the courtyard of the Bintulu mosque. The hustle and bustle of Sarawak's largest city was a calming hum that rose in the background. The fine old building had been constructed generations ago as an oasis of quiet prayer in the center of a chaotic tropical city. It still served its function very well, even if the nature of the chaos was far more modern.

  A low rosewood table sat before the dark, muscular terrorist. It was exquisitely carved with a complex geometric pattern. A large hammered-brass tray, filled with sweet meats and tiny porcelain cups of bitter, strong coffee, was placed precisely in the center of the table. A gentle breeze wafted through the courtyard, carrying the calming scent of jasmine and ginger. It danced through the potted trees, playing hide and seek with the sunlight that filtered through
the leaves.

  Across the table from Shehab, Mullah Subramanian, the Muslim leader for the entire island, returned his coffee cup to the tray and smiled. The old mullah radiated an aura of peace and serenity. His white beard and deeply etched face confirmed a long life but his eyes were his most compelling and telling feature. The deep black pools reflected the trials of his charges like mirrors. They had seen much pain and suffering.

  Two of his senior students sat cross-legged, slightly behind the old man. They listened quietly and attended to their master.

  "Mullah Shehab," the old teacher said, "I am distressed to hear of the difficulties of your journey. May Allah be praised that you were not harmed. That you arrived safely."

  "Yes, Allah be praised," Shehab answered. "My master, Mullah Sabul u Nurizam, sends his highest respects. He only requests that you listen to these words that he sends with an open mind. There is much troubling him these days, Mullah. The infidels are growing stronger. They oppress the true believers. They defile our very lives even as they attempt to conquer and stain our lands with their evil modernism. Mullah Nurizam knows we will ultimately prevail with the blessing of Allah, but he fears that many more innocent lives will be lost in that struggle, many more martyrs will leave their families behind needlessly, if we do not challenge the infidels now, before they grow even stronger.

  “Mullah Nurizam is bringing together the faithful for a jihad. He will form a holy nation here in the South China Sea. He wishes to form an alliance with you and your followers on Sarawak as part of that sacred nation and for the greater good of all Islam."

  Subramanian sighed. His eyes grew darker as they met head-on those of his visitor.

  "I am sorry that you have made such a dangerous journey for no purpose. While I respect his reverence and concerns, I cannot condone Mullah Nurizam's methods. I fear that he does not follow the true path of Mohammed. Ours is a religion of love and peace, not of war and bloodshed. Please tell Nurizam that we on Sarawak will continue to follow a course of peace and have no interest in becoming a part of his alliance."

  "But master," one of the students blurted out. "We must fight the infidels. The Qoran demands it."

  "Silence!" Subramanian said sharply to the younger man. He glowered at the student for a moment then turned back to Shehab and said, more quietly, "The blood runs hot in the young. They speak when they should listen and learn. They act rashly when prudence, prayer and negotiation are the wiser but less expedient way. Anyway, as I said, please tell Mullah Nurizam that we are a peaceful people here. He should never conclude that he can entangle us in his fight."

  Shehab did not tarry. There was no point in further arguing his cause. The old man's mind was made up. He rose and bowed politely to the old cleric.

  "Isha Allah. If God wills."

  With that, he turned and walked deliberately out of the mosque.

  So Nurizam had been right all along. The old man had no fire left in him. His followers did. There was no decision to make. Subramanian would have to go. Men who were willing to fight and die for the cause would replace him.

  As he walked down the narrow, crowded street, Shehab punched out a series of numbers on his satellite phone. A rough voice answered on the first ring. Shehab spoke quickly as he set in motion the next step.

  "It is precisely as we feared. I have seen it for myself. The mosque here in Bintulu is full of armed men. They are having a major meeting at this very moment. Subramanian is planning an attack on the governor's palace this very night. Send in your people immediately, but I caution you. They must be ready to fight. I counted at least twenty men with automatic weapons and they have orders to use them without question should their meeting be raided."

  There was a resigned acknowledgement from the other end of the telephone connection and a sincere warning to Shehab that he should get far from the place as quickly as possible. It was about to get very hot in the vicinity of the Bintulu mosque. Shehab agreed and broke the connection, but instead of hurrying clear, he continued ambling down the crowded street.

  The first police van roared by before Shehab could even reach the little café at the end of the block. He had scouted this place earlier. It was the perfect location to observe what was about to happen without being seen by anyone who mattered. Close enough to the action, but still with enough cover to stay hidden.

  The little café was filled with people, most of them enjoying conversation and a cup of tea as the day ended. He ducked under the low awning and sat at one of the tables in back, concealed by the deep, late-afternoon shadows. He had a perfect view. The main entrance to the mosque was just down the street, framed by the large glassless window that made up most of the front of the café.

  Four more unmarked vans screeched to a halt in front of the mosque, right next to where the first one now awaited their arrival. Black clad troops in full body armor and riot helmets poured out of the vehicles on someone’s signal.

  The Malaysian Security Police SWAT team did not waste time with the niceties of civil liberties. They weren't going to allow the armed terrorists they knew were inside the mosque the advantage of getting off the first shots. The front door was blasted open. Flash-bang grenades flew through the smoking opening, followed immediately by long, rolling bursts from the police M-16s. The teams charged through the doors, into the dark, smoky interior. More grenade blasts and automatic weapons reverberated from inside the mosque.

  A tremendous explosion rocked the side of the building. Debris flew high into the air, only to pelt down onto the street like hailstones. Someone had blasted a gaping hole through the mosque's wall. More troops leaped through the smoke and over the broken bricks and mortar to get inside, shooting wildly as they ran.

  What had once been the ordered chaos of the crowded marketplace turned into sheer bedlam. People raced down the street in every direction, not sure what was happening or where safety lay. Stalls were overturned and people trampled as the crowd stampeded away in blind fear. The café emptied, everyone scurried for cover. Panic was absolute.

  Shehab ignored the raw fear all around him and pulled farther back into the darkness. If anyone noticed, he was simply another innocent bystander cowering in the shadows, too frightened to even try to run away.

  The attack on the mosque lasted less than ten minutes. The firing stopped as suddenly as it began. The empty street was quiet. Fingers of fire leaped from several broken windows high up on the mosque's outer wall, pouring black smoke into the cloudless blue sky. A squad of security troops emerged from the hole that had been blasted in the wall of the smoking building. Their spent weapons dangled from their sides. Their helmets were off and their sweaty faces were blackened from the smoke and dust.

  Another crowd of police walked out of the mosque's main entrance. Two of them supported Mullah Subramanian between them. His clothes were torn, his countenance was stunned, confused. Blood oozed from a gash above his left ear. Shehab wasn't quite sure if they were restraining the old mullah or holding him so he could stay upright.

  Shehab was prepared for the eventuality that the old man might survive the assault his false report had unleashed. He glanced around. Nobody else was left in the café. He pulled the pistol from under his tunic and sat back down at his table. From this distance it was a difficult but not impossible shot. His previous observations had confirmed the distance. There was no crosswind to speak of. Well within the capability of his match-grade modified Browning Hi-Power. Certainly within the capabilities of Shehab’s skills as a marksman. The terrorist lieutenant put his elbows on the wooden tabletop, supported the weapon’s considerable weight, and took careful aim, allowing for four inches of drop during the bullet's journey. He took a deep breath, then let half of it leak slowly through his pursed lips to help steady his hands.

  He gently squeezed the trigger.

  The blast came almost as a surprise, just as it always did. The big .357 made a lot of noise. Even this far away, he could see the neat round dot appear in Subramanian's foreh
ead and the old mullah’s head kick. Then the cleric pitched backward, falling out of the trooper's grasp and collapsing onto the street as if he had been ripped away from them by some giant, unseen hand.

  The cleric was dead before he hit the pavement.

  Shehab did not remain to see the reaction of the policemen who had flanked his victim. He darted through the café’s interior, into the tiny kitchen in the rear, and then out through the back entrance. No one noticed him as he disappeared down the narrow alley, blending in with the rest of the frightened, running crowd.

  Tonight he would call Nurizam. He would tell him the glorious news that Subramanian had died while he was in police custody. That one more obstacle to his leader’s holy plan had been blessedly eliminated.

  7

  General Kim Dai-jang glanced around at the grim-faced gray-skinned men who lined the large conference table. Seated at the polished teak oval were the most powerful and secretive men in the Democratic Peoples’ Republic of Korea. In the most restricted nation on the planet, nothing moved without the approval of this group, the Committee for State Security. Not even someone with the power of General Dai-jang could act without the Committee’s approval.

  The General had been a member of this committee for many years. During that time, he had watched as men's dreams had been shattered with a simple raised eyebrow from a member of the Committee. Or as the lives of others had been raised to undreamed of heights with no more than a grunt.

  Now here he was, seeking approval for his own bold plan.