Dangerous Grounds

by Don Keith

  "Reggie, you need to expand your horizons," Ortega answered smoothly as he motioned for the waiter to bring him the same thing his friend was having. "You have to absorb the local culture more while you are serving your country here. You never can tell how such knowledge will be of benefit to you when you are finally the ambassador."

  Morris calmed down a bit, took another sip of his drink, and sat back. He hated to admit it but this sleazy local cop was right. He would be ambassador soon. He had to be ready. It would take all the leverage he could muster to succeed both here and in Washington. He knew, too, that Manual Ortega was part of that leverage. Despicable as he was, the cop was also a key member of in a long line of influential connections that would make Morris a real player in the labyrinth of Asian diplomacy. And the man had special insight into a particularly knotty problem with which he would have to deal.

  The Abu Sayuff terrorists were at the top of a short list of things out here that the people back at 2201 C Street Northwest cared about. The list was Morris's bible. If it wasn't on the list, he didn't give a damn. The two drug agents that Ortega still held in custody were so far down that list that it was unlikely he would ever care to lift a finger to get them released. Not unless it could benefit him some way he didn't see yet. On the other hand, Abu Sayuff and Sabul u Nurizam were number one on the hit parade. If he somehow dug up something useful on either topic, his name would be in the briefing for the Secretary tomorrow. In this game, that bit of recognition was everything.

  "My dear Colonel, what do you have that is so important that it wouldn't wait? Or that you could not deliver over the telephone?" Morris asked. He did his best to appear calm and in control. These damn local dives made him nervous. They were much too dangerous. An important diplomat should never be in these neighborhoods without adequate security. No telling when some radical revolutionary might decide to make a statement against the imperialist yanqui with a bomb. Or a local terrorist might conclude that a kidnapping was a good way to raise some money. Just the random thought of such a possibility caused Morris glance around nervously and take a big gulp of his drink.

  "Reggie," Ortega answered, his voice almost soothing. "Do not be so nervous. Try the kare-kare. The chef here does wonders. It will melt in your mouth.” He lowered his voice to a barely audible conspiratorial whisper and leaned forward. "What I have to say must be kept in the strictest confidence. Just between you and me. People's lives depend on it. You understand?"

  Morris had no choice. He had to lean toward the agent just to hear what he had to say. It was all Ortega could do to keep from laughing. The faggot was so predictable. Anything said in secret tonight would be American policy by tomorrow morning.

  "My people inside Sabul u Nurizam's organization tell me that Nurizam is spreading his wings," the NBI head muttered, still looking around as if everyone in the restaurant was eavesdropping. "He engineered the assassination of a minor mullah on Borneo a few days ago. Seems the man opposed Abu Sayuff. Not a real smart thing to say openly around here. Evidently Nurizam maneuvered the local security forces into taking out his opposition for him."

  Ortega smiled evilly. The beauty of the terrorist's machinations appealed to him. The man was a worthy adversary despite his religious ranting.

  “So tell me more.”

  "Sabul u Nurizam eliminated an enemy and turned the local Muslims against the authorities all in one well-orchestrated move. Smooth. Very smooth indeed."

  Morris nodded animatedly as he listened to the news.

  "So you are saying that he is expanding beyond the Philippines, down into Indonesia? That is very important information for us. Can you verify it? It would be vital to know for sure."

  Ortega rubbed his chin as he pretended to weigh whether or not to divulge another piece of information. Meanwhile, the waiter quietly lit a tiny candle and placed it on the small table between the two men before disappearing back into the kitchen. The sputtering candlelight reflected dully in Ortega's dark, fathomless eyes. Morris could barely suppress a shudder of fear.

  Ortega finally spoke again, slowly, even more quietly than before. It sounded as if the man was afraid that the very walls might hear his words and whisper them to dangerous ears.

  "There is much in this game that you don't know. It is better for both of us if you don't know some things."

  Morris said, "Yeah, plausible deniability. I understand completely."

  Ortega smiled again. This man really was a puppet, his strings so easy to pull.

  "My sources are in a precarious position. Any undue meddling could put them out of business." He looked Morris in the eye as he paused, then added, "Permanently." Morris nodded that he understood. Ortega continued. "Those JDIA cops were a serious threat to my sources. They could blow the whole operation apart, just when things are really moving."

  Morris bobbed his head again.

  "Of course. I understand completely. You keep them in…shall we say…'protective custody.' The U.S. government will not say anything about the matter. It's a matter of priorities. Some sacrifices are necessary for the greater good."

  Colonel Ortega slowly rose. As he stood, he leaned forward and whispered, "You are most discerning, Reggie. To the greater good. Enjoy your meal."

  With that, he walked out of the restaurant.

  Morris watched the man's back as it disappeared into the gloom. Two JDIA agents cooling their heels in a Philippine jail for a while wasn't much of a price to pay for such intelligence. Not if it succeeded in getting his name briefed to the Secretary tomorrow. Who knows? It might even be good enough for the daily White House brief.

  Morris could already picture himself, presenting his credential as ambassador at the Malacanang Palace in Manila. He took another swig of his cocktail and reveled in its warmth as it spread down his throat.

  Manuel Ortega walked out into the night. His Land Rover waited just across the quiet street. This evening had proven to be very profitable. Sui Kia Shun would be pleased. The JDIA agents were now even more safely out of the way. The Americans were foolishly wasting their time chasing after the Abu Sayuff terrorists instead of harassing his drug shipments. Ortega did the quick calculations in his head. Another million easily-gained pesos in his Hong Kong bank account brought him ever so much closer to retirement somewhere in the south of France.

  He happily cranked the car, popped it into gear, and sped away into the night.

  16

  General Kim Dai-jang felt the heavy steel door swing firmly closed behind him. He could barely hear the hydraulic hiss from the power cylinder. Though he knew it was happening, he could not hear the heavy lock bolts as they slid into place and forced the airtight seals to tightly mate.

  Staring at the cavernous, empty room that stretched out into the distance, Kim fought back his long-simmering anger. The bright white lights reflected off the rows of empty workbenches and silent machine tools. His fists tightened into knots at his side and he ground his back teeth together. He wanted to shout out in rage, reach out and destroy something, make someone pay for the maddening delays that had so far stifled his master plan.

  This room represented forty years of his life, dedicated to turning this forsaken bit of granite and dirt into a power the world would fear. Forty years of dedicating his life to this one sole quest.

  He well remembered the day he selected this remote mountain for the base from which he would begin the task of making his homeland great once again. It had taken over seven years just to carve this room out of the living granite. Almost a thousand coolies had died hacking the hard stone with picks and carrying the debris out in wicker baskets, the same way his ancestors had built things for thousands of years.

  Hiding from the spying Americans and their Japanese lackeys had been easier back then. Still it had taken an enormous effort to hide the construction from their suspicious eyes. If they had any idea of what he was planning, the Americans wouldn't have hesitated to strike, even if it meant fighting another war on the peninsula. Th
ere was no way they could allow the North Koreans to develop a nuclear weapon. And certainly not the missiles to deliver them. Fortunately for him, the possibility was inconceivable to the American leaders of the time. They assumed that the backwards barbarians who ruled the DPRK could never possess enough technical skill to even grasp the concept of building such a weapon.

  Kim had cleverly played on the American prejudice. Even now, in his frustration and anger, he allowed a slight smile when he thought of the cleverness of his plan. He allowed the Americans to discover that his country was building a highly secret and carefully guarded underground fuel storage facility on this mountain. He fed them enough information to convince them this was no more than a place to hide several million barrels of diesel fuel under his mountain. The subterfuge worked perfectly. Just as he had known they would, the gullible Americans put the facility on their target list as a secondary priority target should there ever be another war. By the time the American bombers arrived overhead, if they ever did, the lab's purpose would already be complete. It would, by then, be useless. Japan and maybe the American West Coast would be little more than nuclear cinder piles.

  Building the lab proved to be the easy part. Finding the scientists, engineers, and tons of special equipment turned out to be much more difficult and expensive than he ever imagined. In the beginning, Moscow had been helpful. They secretly supplied technicians and equipment. But they co-operated on the Kremlin's timetable. If the West was particularly recalcitrant toward the USSR, the funds flowed freely. If they preached rapprochement, the aid quickly dried up. It chafed Kim to always have to play political games to wheedle one more centrifuge out of the Russians. He was a military man, descended from great warriors. He wanted to make things happen quickly, without the mire of diplomacy.

  It was soon evident to him that his friends, the Soviets, didn't really want the DPRK to be nuclear capable at all. They only wanted them to get near enough to worry the Americans and, more importantly, the Chinese.

  Kim strolled the length of the room, idly wiping the light dust from a workbench top. The Russians were as bad as the hated Americans. Maybe even worse in some ways. To them, the DPRK was little more than a minor pawn, to be used or ignored, played and sacrificed, as it best suited the Kremlin. To trust or depend on them was the way to suicide.

  The general idly scratched at the annoying patch of red, burning rash that stretched from his chin, down his neck and beneath the collar of his starched shirt. The itch and inflammation were getting worse. The useless doctor in Pyongyang and his steroid creams weren't bringing any relief. It was only one more minor annoyance to frustrate him at this critical time.

  Kim picked up a probe of some kind that was attached to a complicated-looking piece of electronic gear. He used its sharp point to scratch the annoying itch on his neck. He remembered when he decided the only way to succeed was to corral the right people, bring them here to his mountain, and develop the whole technology himself. It was during a period of high tension between the Kremlin and Beijing in the late sixties. The "Dear Leader" had tried to play both sides against each other for the gain of DPRK, but he had once again failed miserably. Both countries recognized the “Dear Leader’s” clumsy effort, dropped their aid and left the petty despot to fend for himself.

  Without even knowing it, they almost killed Kim's great plan at the same time. That is, until he decided to go it alone without the help of anyone else. He convinced the "Dear Leader" that North Korea would only take its true place in the sun if they ignored the world powers, even their so-called friends, and plotted their own course. Kim Kyong-sun, the stubborn old man, had taken a lot of convincing. The plan called for a massive investment of the impoverished country's meager resources. And there was little chance of return for many years.

  General Kim had almost gone insane convincing the idiotic leader and his sycophant bureaucracy of the worth of his project. They simply could not see the great goal. It was more important to them to build a huge army of goose-stepping troops to parade up and down the streets of Pyongyang on military holidays. Or to sporadically lob a few shells into South Korea in a vain hope of re-invading the lost provinces. In the end Kim had wheedled from the “Dear Leader” a few minor concessions and a vague order to hush and go off and put something together.

  Kim eased down into a chair at the head of a small conference table where he had often spoken to his workers, reminded them of not only the importance but also the urgency of their work. Along the way, he refined his grand scheme a bit at a time and became more convinced than ever the he could do it all himself. There was no way that the ideologue idiots in Pyongyang could provide the long-term backing he needed. And it was a certainty that they would expect to control the weapons once they were ready.

  That just couldn't be allowed.

  It meant training a whole generation of physicists, engineers, and weapons experts. What began as a short project for Kim became a lifelong goal. Promising young students were sent off to schools in Russia, China, and even to America. Slowly they came back with the mental tools necessary to pick up the work and carry on. The engineers and scientists, along with a small group of officers, were fiercely loyal to the program and to Kim.

  Meanwhile, his intelligence network had scurried about, stealing the hard-won secrets from other countries working on their own nuclear problems. Of course, America and the U.S.S.R. both carefully guarded their secrets during this time. They got little from either of them. But the Pakistanis, the Indians, the French, and half a dozen other countries weren't nearly so careful. There was always someone whose expertise could be bought for a few francs.

  The real work was figuring how to use the weapons once they were attained. Weapons, even nuclear ones, were meant to destroy an enemy. It never really occurred to Kim that he might not ever use them. He spent long hours plotting and calculating the precise location and timing for his final solution. The bombs, carefully placed, would be the nudge needed to drive the great powers to each other’s throats. While they were battling to the death, Kim and the DPRK would move and accomplish all that his country and its leaders had never been able to do.

  By the time the U.S.S.R. fell, Kim was very close to the final stages of his long plan. The weapons design was completed and the prototype missile was being assembled. He struggled on toward his goal, even as he knew the stunning occurrences in the old Soviet Union would require that he adjust his strategy completely. When he saw there was only one world power left, Kim revised the plan accordingly.

  The DPRK's economy collapsed once they could no longer rely on Russian aid. First Kim Kyong-sun, and then his idiot son, Kim Jae-uk, figured they could rebuild the economy and feed the starving peasants by supplying weapons to all the third world despots in Asia and Africa. Not only did they lose billions when their customers refused to pay, but their display of Korea's secret missile prowess immediately raised the suspicions of the Americans. Suddenly, General Kim had to worry about American spy satellites trying to ferret out the secrets he kept hidden under his mountain.

  Indeed the Americans soon began putting together hints and clues about the nature of his work. Eventually, inevitably, once the North Korean leaders blew the cover, the Americans built a pretty good picture of what he was trying to do. They had no real idea of how far along he was or even who he was. The name Kim Dai-jang didn't appear on any official records. In typical arrogant American fashion, they refused to consider that he could possibly be successful.

  That gave him a very good chance to succeed, even after the "Dear Leader's" and the "Dear Son's" clumsy mistakes. All he needed was for his government to keep denying that he and his project ever existed until everything was finally in place.

  Kim had just finished assembling the fourth nuclear device, the one destined to ride on the first missile that would be aimed at an American target. That’s when Pyongyang deserted him. They sold him out for a few worthless treaties and a couple of boatloads of wheat. His beloved lab was empti
ed. The Americans had the effrontery to demand that they witness the destruction of his devices. His life's work was gone, smashed into useless crumpled metal shards in a few short minutes on worldwide television.

  He had been so very close to success. He would have raised Kim Jae-uk to the heights of world power while he ruled the most powerful military force in Northern Asia. Pyongyang didn't have the vision to see that. They sacrificed his dream for a few morsels of moldy American grain.

  But General Kim would not surrender so easily. Not by a long shot. That stupid Colonel Chung had inadvertently given him the tools he needed and the perfect way to cover his tracks. The Russian warheads were exactly what he needed for his new strategy. Too large for a missile warhead but that was no matter. The damned American anti-missile systems made such a delivery method worthless anyway. There were better, easier ways to use these beauties.

  Kim clawed through the fabric of his shirt at the burning irritation that seemed to be spreading down his chest like a wildfire. But then he smiled coldly as he heard the door at the far end of the room slide open. Several soldiers entered and trotted toward him. Two of them were pushing large crates that rested on a couple of freight carts.

  His babies had arrived safely. It was, at last, time to get to work on the denouement of his long-delayed plan.

  The ships were unloading their grain at the docks in Wonsan and would sail again with a load of machine parts in three days. These very crates would be concealed deep inside their holds.

  Kim stood and stepped to the closest crate. It was time to put the new strategy in play. It was so gloriously simple. Soon he would use these weapons as the spark to ignite a holy war, a jihad, between the world's two major religions. One of his babies detonating in Mecca should be just the flicker that would light the fire. A Russian nuclear bomb would destroy Islam's holiest place. The Christian and Moslem fanatics would erupt.