Dangerous Grounds

by Don Keith

  There was nothing for Wilson to see but flotsam and a spreading oil slick where the freighter had met her untimely fate. A couple of miles to the north, the shattered and burnt hull of a cigarette boat floated with just an inch or so of freeboard, mute testimony to Delta Nine Foxtrot's accuracy.

  "Captain, all survivors aboard,” the voice on the bridge-to-bridge radio crackled as Petranko reported in. "Returning to ship."

  Wilson shrugged and walked off the bridge. Nothing more to do here but relay the news of yet another frustrating pirate encounter to Mick Donohue back at Naval Logistics Group, Western Pacific. And then listen as the irascible old salt chewed Wilson’s butt, even though both men knew that there was nothing more Wilson could have done. At least not until that glorious day when they finally received permission to take the fight to the pirates. If that day ever came.

  Paul Wilson swallowed his frustration and headed for his stateroom to compose the report.

  Commander Don Chapman and his executive officer, Marc Lucerno, strode up the sloping walkway, past a row of gray, stone-and-concrete buildings. Each of them bore a large, blue sign that announced the important functions housed within the aging walls. The street slowly wound around a craggy, fissured, granite rock that towered over the Navy base. They had walked almost three-quarters of the way around the rock when they came to a narrow paved road that headed directly toward the extinct core of the volcano.

  The road stopped abruptly at a pair of heavy steel doors carved into the rock. An LAV-25 light armored vehicle blocked the road. Its M242 Bushmaster 25mm chain gun pointed menacingly down at the two approaching submariners. The tank commander sat in the turret hatch, holding the M240E1 pintle-mounted 7.62mm machine gun at the ready as he balefully eyed the approaching men. Two more helmeted and combat-rigged Marines stood in front of the pile of sandbags that circled the cement block guard shack. A small blue sign with gold letters proclaimed that this was the home of the Commander, Seventh Fleet Command Center.

  Chapman glanced around warily. Someone was real serious about security. It would take an all out assault by a very determined and heavily armed fire team to blast their way to the doors. And he suspected such an attack would only get tougher then.

  When Chapman and Lucerno flashed their IDs to one of the Marines he nodded and a Navy Lieutenant emerged from the guard shack. He wore over his left shoulder the gold aiguillette of an admiral's aide.

  "Please follow me, Commander. Everyone else is already in the briefing theatre." The lieutenant turned on his heel and disappeared through the steel doorway. Chapman glanced at his XO and shrugged. "Everybody" meant that the admiral was cooling his heels while the commander and his XO were lollygagging up the hill.

  Chapman slipped between the heavy steel doors. They must have been six inches thick. He had read someplace that this place was built as the Imperial Japanese Navy command center. The doors would stand up to everything but a direct hit from a two thousand pound bomb.

  Inside, the walls were bare rock. They still bore the chisel marks from when they were carved out of solid granite almost a century before. A couple of strings of heavy-duty electric cables powered incandescent lights that dimly lit the passageway as it led down and then curved away to the right. Chapman guessed the tunnel was wide enough for two Toyota's to drive abreast.

  A few feet further down the tunnel, the aide guided them through another set of steel doors that seemed identical to the outside pair.

  "Ever been in here before?" their tour guide asked nonchalantly. He continued without waiting for an answer. "The Japs were smart. You notice how we turned ninety degrees from the time we started? Went exactly seventy-four feet and dropped down fifteen feet. Their engineers figured a sixteen-inch shell might be able to go through those outside doors and hit the rock inside. These doors would stop the blast from making it any lower."

  Chapman grunted noncommittally. The aide went on.

  "Yep, not that it means shit now. A nuke would vaporize the whole damn rock, doors or no doors. But it's still the best damn bug-proof room in Asia."

  Then aide stopped abruptly in front of a dull, gray-painted door. The brass nameplate proclaimed that the "Briefing Theater" was on the other side. A small electric sign hung just above the door. "Classified Briefing in Progress," it said.

  The aide indicated that the two submariners were to enter.

  Jon Ward stood at the head of the briefing table that dominated the room. He motioned for Chapman and Lucerno to take their seats at the table and flipped on the projector. The low hum of idle conversation came to a halt as the large screen brightened and Ward stepped to a little wooden lectern to the right of the screen.

  Large red letters read: "TOP SECRET. Special Compartmented Information. Sly Eye." Just beneath the words were the SEAL's “Budweiser” shield and the submariner's gold dolphins.

  Chapman noticed that several of the people seated around the room were dressed in cammies and sported the large, gold SEALs shield. Two of them, a commander who appeared about his age and a youngish-looking lieutenant, were seated at the conference table.

  The room was silent as Ward spoke.

  "Gentlemen, this brief is classified. No notes will be taken. Nothing will leave this room. Couriers will deliver your orders to your individual commands later this evening."

  He pressed a button. A map of the unmistakable peninsular shape of North and South Korea flashed up on the screen.

  "We have reason to believe that the DPRK has acquired a number of nuclear weapons from Russian sources. Our intelligence is very reliable on this one."

  He stopped for a second while a collective gasp arose from the group. They had just heard their worst fear verbalized. Something they had dreaded for their entire careers had apparently come to pass. The North Koreans, one of the most unpredictable and desperate nations ever to cloud the Earth, owned the power to ensnare Asia in a nuclear holocaust.

  It was unthinkable, intolerable. And in his own mind, each man in the room knew immediately that they had to be stopped at any cost.

  "We know that at least two old Soviet-era nuclear torpedoes disappeared from the submarine base at Vlad,” Ward said, using his laser pointer to point to the spot on the edge of the map. “They were last located at the North Korean naval base at Najin. They probably came in by sea, as observed by Topeka while she was gathering intelligence in the area.” Ward nodded in Chapman’s direction. He was always glad to give a submariner props. “We have not positively located the torpedoes since. National assets aren't able to pinpoint them because of the high natural radium content in the mountains in that part of the world. We have only one recourse. We have to put eyeballs on the target to confirm their existence. That's where the SEALs and the Topeka come in. They'll go in and they’ll find the nukes if the are there."

  The SEAL lieutenant, the one wearing a nametag that said " Walker" asked, "And then what? We blow 'em?"

  "Easy, Cowboy," the older SEAL said, almost in a whisper. "We gotta let everyone play."

  A Navy captain wearing a Lake Erie ball cap spoke up.

  "Reckon that's where we come in. You guy's find 'em and we use Erie's Tomahawks to smash 'em."

  "That about describes the plan,” Ward chimed in. “Now, let's get down to planning the nitty-gritty. We haven't got much time. They may keep moving them to lessen the chance we’ll find them. Or they may intend to get them to their buddies somewhere else in the world. We have to find them first. I want Topeka and the SEAL team underway by first light tomorrow. Lake Erie will follow tomorrow afternoon." Jon Ward paused for a moment and looked into the eyes of each man in the room. “Fellows, do I need to tell you how sensitive this all is? Or what it means if we don’t stop those nukes before the bastards use them. Or give them to somebody who does?”

  No one said a word.

  Sabul u Nurizam listened quietly as Manju Shehab made a detailed report about the sinking of the old freighter. When the pirate concluded, Sabul asked, "Are you absolutely
sure all the heroin was destroyed?"

  "Yes, Mullah," Shehab answered forcefully. "It is as I told you. We spread all the heroin on the sea. Not an ounce remains. The fishes are very happy. The rust bucket rests on the bottom and her infidel crew are slaves in Paradise."

  Sabul watched his lieutenant carefully as he spoke, waving his hands for emphasis. He continued watching him, even when he finished talking.

  The pirate licked the sweat from his upper lip and slightly shifted his weight from foot to foot. Barely perceptible signs, but they spoke volumes to an astute man like Sabul. Manju Shehab was very nervous about something, but what was it? The mission had been spectacularly successful, even if they had lost a few men and a valuable boat. A small price to pay for such a generous reward. Additionally, Shehab escaped unscathed, able to make the confirmation of the destruction of the ship and its cargo. And besides, Shehab was fearless. The close call was not the cause of his nervousness. The only possibility was that something was not totally correct about his report. The man was lying, hiding something. Sabul had no idea what it was but he knew he would eventually find out. Nothing stayed hidden from him for long.

  Sabul finally broke his stare and allowed himself a slight smile. Lee Dawn Shun would be pleased with the raid's success. Even with the loss of a boat and six good men, it was a profitable exchange for the ten million dollars she would pay. Her father, Sui Kia Shun, would be livid with anger. In a time period of less than an hour, the old warlord lost a cargo worth over one hundred million dollars. Even with the drug lord’s supposed wealth, he surely could not survive many such blows.

  Sabul waved a dismissal to Manju Shehab. As soon as the pirate had left the room, the cleric reached for the satellite phone. Time to make the call and collect what was owed him. He punched in a series of numbers and listened as the phone synched with a satellite in geosynchronous orbit twenty-three thousand miles above Laos. The signal was relayed to an earth station in Hong Kong and then on to a cell phone in Macao. The cell phone was a throwaway, being held by a taxi driver who only knew that he was well paid to keep the instrument in his glove compartment. The cell phone instantaneously passed the signal on to a landline station in Kowloon.

  Sun Rey answered the ‘phone on his desk on the second ring.

  "You have news?"

  "The mission was successful,” Sabul answered cryptically, his voice tinny and brittle from all the digital conversions along the way. “I expect payment in full as we agreed."

  "It will be transferred within the hour. You can check online to verify. Our mistress will be pleased. She will have more work for you soon."

  Even when making these short, terse comments, the man sounded like every accountant Sabul had ever known. Short, abrupt, rigid, unfeeling, like a column of numbers lined up on a spreadsheet. He wondered if the man had cold currency flowing through his veins instead of blood. But he would be civil. Ten million dollars was still a lot of money for the cause. The guy could bleed pig piss and Sabul would still do business with him if it furthered his quest. It was Allah's will. Besides, the infidel would burn in the end anyway.

  "Please tell her that we are happy to be of service," Sabul answered smoothly. "And as for the rest of our business…"

  "Everything is moving along,” Sun Rey interrupted quickly, his voice heavy with caution. “That is something we can better discuss at our next meeting. Not now."

  Sabul fought the impulse to explode. This impertinent accountant, this infidel, dared to delay him and his work for yet another meeting. The mission was nearing the critical stage and timing was vital. He must have all the money soon. The Koreans didn't believe in credit. They demanded cash for the weapons, and that cash must come from Lee Dawn Shun. He didn't have time for more interminable meetings or to listen to Rey dissemble before his master.

  It required steel-hard self-control, but the mullah kept his voice calm and reassuring as he responded.

  "My dear Sun Rey, do we really need another meeting? Have we not been gloriously successful in our partnership so far? I thought we were in agreement..."

  But it was futile. Sabul abruptly realized that he was speaking to a dead telephone.

  Colonel Manuel Ortega cautiously watched the large old house that claimed most the block across the narrow, tree-lined street from where he sat. The large, walled villa was a remnant of Zamboanga's colonial past, built from the red island soil by a Spanish don two centuries before. In the ensuing years, the white stucco had faded and peeled away in spots, giving the walls a blistered appearance. The spreading banyan trees had grown haphazardly as well, overshadowing the narrow brick-paved street. The house now served as the United States consulate for this southern Philippine city.

  The late afternoon traffic was typically heavy. Jeepneys and scooters vied with expensive European luxury cars, all of them inching forward over the cobblestones that were worn smooth from years of such passage. Office workers strolling home rubbed elbows with day laborers on the tree-shaded sidewalks.

  None of this innocent activity escaped Ortega's cautious, trained eye. Nor did it really interest him, or even register on his conscious. He was nothing more than an experienced cop remaining aware of his surroundings on one level while fully concentrating on his objective on an entirely different level.

  On yet a third level, Ortega plotted out his course of action. The two Joint Drug Interdiction Agency men were still cooling their heels in the headquarters detention cell despite their constant demands. That would not happen. Sui Kia Shun's orders to Ortega had been quite explicit. He was to hold them under whatever pretext he could find until told otherwise. Sui had important shipments coming through the area and the JDIA was proving a considerable hindrance. The drug lord had previous experience with the JDIA, in America, and he did not want to take any chances with them costing more than he could afford to lose.

  Ortega had also anticipated the U. S. Consulate's reaction. The Americans had long since concluded that he was in the perfect position to help them counter the Abu Sayuff's renewed terrorist attacks, to feed them information so they could keep tabs on the radicals. The Americans would do anything to secure his allegiance, even if it meant sacrificing the freedom of a couple of meddling JDIA agents for a few weeks, months, or years. Ortega merely needed to keep stringing them all along while he profited gloriously from the situation. He had removed this encumbrance to Sui’s commerce in exchange for a generous payment. And he would throw the Americans a morsel every once in a while to keep them from digging too deeply into his methods.

  That was the reason for tonight's meeting. It was time to share with that tight-pants Morris the news that Sabul u Nurizam had ordered Mullah Subramanian assassinated. That Sabul was spreading his tentacles into Sarawak. That ought to make the little man twitter like a schoolgirl.

  The intricately woven wrought iron gate in front of the consulate swung inward just then to allow a black Mercedes to slip silently out onto the street. It was impossible to see who was behind the smoked-glass windows, but it really didn't matter. Ortega already knew, just as he knew the car's destination.

  He slumped down in the seat of the Land Rover; hiding below the window as the Mercedes pulled alongside and then passed on down the street, barely missing a jeepney full of Australian tourists out looking for local color.

  When the black car disappeared around the corner, Ortega cranked the Land Rover, slipped it into gear, and slowly made his way in the opposite direction. There was still an hour before the scheduled meeting and his people were following the car.

  He grinned as he sharply took the corner turn.

  Everything was going exactly according to plan.

  14

  General Kim Dai-jang stopped his pacing for a minute. He stopped in front of the window and took a look outside while he distractedly scratched a splotchy red spot on his upper arm. The rash was getting worse. The cream had not done anything to relieve the incessant irritation. That incompetent Army doctor claimed it was caused by
a nerve condition and would only get worse. The doctor obviously didn't have an appreciation for an old soldier’s self-control. The itch was only a minor annoyance, not something to even consider. There were many, far more important things to occupy his mind. Too many chess pieces whirling about to bother with such trivialities.

  They were getting close to the culmination now. The years of scheming, careful planning, and groveling for alliances with less capable but more powerful men were almost at an end. By the end of summer everything would be finished. He would lead his people to victory in their historic struggle. The Democratic People's Republic of Korea would finally be respected and feared amongst the world powers. It was their destiny and he would be the one who would make it happen.

  The drab, gray hills stretched out to the horizon. They had been picked absolutely bare of any vegetation by generations of starving peasants.

  Just then he saw a black sedan as it toiled up the narrow, winding ribbon of macadam that led up from the military highway that skirted the base of the hill. He watched the big car as it deliberately made its way along the road.

  Like a thousand other stretches of highway in this fortress of a country, this bit of military highway was constructed of meter-thick reinforced concrete. It was built to withstand the pounding of heavy fighter jets as they slammed down for a landing. Hidden taxiways led off to bombproof caves that had been hewed out of solid granite alongside the thoroughfares. Every straight stretch of road in the country also was designed to serve as a wartime airbase.