Dangerous Grounds

by Don Keith

  He heard the jangling buzz of a phone somewhere inside the veranda. Tai Chui Lim would answer it. If the caller demanded his attention, the old man would carry the phone out here and place it on the granite table for Shun to answer when he was ready. If it was not for him, he would not allow the interruption to interfere with his serene reverie.

  Then there was another disruption. The sound of voices and giggling laughter broke into Shun’s thoughts, coming from someplace below him, down on the lower terrace. That would most likely be some of Mrs. Ward’s college students. The noise was not unpleasant to Shun, though. The young students had served as an interesting diversion. Since his daughter had been banished in disgrace, since he had begun to try futilely to erase her memory from his mind, this had become a lonely place. Now, there was once again the sound of young laughter competing with the songbirds in the trees for his attention.

  Shun leaned over the stone railing to look down on the terrace. From his vantage point, he could easily observe anything happening below without being spotted himself. He was surprised to see it was not the American college students after all. It was Ellen Ward, their instructor, and Roger Sindhlan, the botanist. And they were embracing like a couple of teenage lovers. Their words drifted up to where the old warlord sat and watched them.

  “Ellen, you must know how I feel,” the botanist murmured into the crook of her neck. The passion was heavy in his tone. “I want you. I need you. Right now. Always.”

  His arms were tight around her, drawing her to his chest, but the woman appeared to be gently resisting, politely protesting.

  “Roger, please. We can’t. We’re not kids anymore. I’m a married woman now. A mother. I love my husband.”

  Sindhlan eased his embrace, allowed her to pull away slightly, but the woman did not try to immediately move from the circle of his arms. It seemed that her protests were weakening.

  Shun smiled. So, he had correctly read the look in their eyes, the slightest of gestures between them since their arrival here. He was always looking for information that might prove useful to him in some way. The woman’s husband was an important commander in the navy of the United States.

  This bit of eavesdropping might provide him the most slender of advantages to be employed at some point for his own benefit. And Shun knew only too well what gain could sometimes accrue from even the smallest leverage.

  He had built his empire, maintained his awesome power, partly on just such fragments of knowledge.

  The decrepit old tuna boat seemed no different from a thousand others that ventured out into the South Pacific or Indian Ocean to wrest a meager living from the sea. There probably wasn’t a single person in the entire state of Sarawak, or on the entire island of Borneo, that would harbor any suspicion about this boat as it slowly made its way up the winding channel to Bintulu’s bustling fish docks. Several dozen nearly identical boats were already tied up, with their crews busily off-loading their silvery, yellow-finned cargo.

  Several more boats were astern of this one, waiting patiently for their turn at the dock. The old boat eased into an open slip at the end of the pier. The lines were still being tightened when a pair of large tractor-trailers backed down the pier. The drivers parked the big, red Mitsubishi rigs and set their brakes, then stood and smoked and chatted as the boat crew swung the doors of their trailers open and went to work.

  The crew used the boat’s kingposts to lift the big boxes of fish up onto the pier. Then a forklift made quick work of shoving them into the ready trailer of the first truck. A dozen boxes were slid in before the deck crew swung the doors shut and signaled the driver that he could leave. The man protested, proclaiming that he had room for several more boxes of fish, but the crew ignored him, latched the truck’s doors, and told the driver once again to be on his way, that he was full. He finally shrugged, flicked his cigarette into the oily water, climbed into the tractor cab, and pulled away.

  The last two crates were lifted from the boat’s hold and deposited into the second trailer. A close observer might have seen that these looked a little different from the previous boxes. Although they were still piled high with fish, they seemed to be a little longer and maybe just a bit narrower. No matter. A container of fish was a container of fish and would spoil quickly if anyone took time to study it. The tourist restaurants in City Center were waiting for the delivery.

  There was something else, too. Maybe the crew was being a bit more careful with these boxes. It was hard to tell. But no one was studying that. There was work to be done. Boats to be unloaded.

  In ten minutes, both crates were transferred to the truck. The doors were slapped shut and locked. The load was tugged away, driven off into the crowded, teeming streets of Bintulu. Meanwhile, the boat slipped out of the harbor as quietly and unnoticed as it slipped in, making room for another ship at the dock.

  The old Land Rover reluctantly ground to life just as the truck moved past. Manju Shehab shoved in the clutch and yanked the floor shift into gear. The rusty gray relic lurched into the late afternoon traffic, mingling with the bicycles, motor scooters, black Mercedes taxis and the occasional water buffalo cart.

  Like many secondary cities in Malaysia, Bintulu was a town caught in transition. Sleek high-rise office buildings and heavy, modern industry vied with ancient mosques and squalid slums, often within the same block, for real estate. Japanese sports cars roared down broad boulevards shared with chicken farmers bicycling to market with cages of their fowls stacked high. Large segments of the population were caught in a never-ending cycle of extreme poverty, while a select few fully enjoyed the fruits of the modern world. The addition of a large, discontented, and vociferous Moslem community competing for political dominance brought the pot to near the boiling point.

  Manju Shehab smiled slightly. The last time he was in this town, it was to assassinate that foolish old cleric Mullah Subramanian. Sabul u Nurizam had been right. With the old man out of the way, his hotheaded young lieutenants had eagerly joined the Abu Sayuff. Three of them, armed to the teeth, now rode with him in the old Land Rover.

  More importantly, no one knew that Bintulu was a new center for Abu Sayuff and was quickly becoming Nurizam’s first major base outside the Philippines. How fitting for a town whose name means “place where the heads of our enemy are smoked.”

  The red Mitsubishi rig, almost a full block ahead, disappeared around the corner onto Tanjung Kidurong Road. Shehab wove through the dense traffic, ignoring the angry honking from a cab he cut off, and turned down the same street. The truck was stopped at a red light on the next block. Shehab eased into line behind an old Isuzu pick-up, back three cars from the truck. He didn’t want to make it obvious that they were following the tractor-trailer. He would have to stay close enough not to lose it, but far enough back to be inconspicuous.

  The truck swung onto the highway heading out of town and picked up speed. Shehab eased in behind. It was harder to inconspicuously tail the big rig out here on the highway. There was too much open space and fewer vehicles to cover them.

  Shehab cursed the fact that there had not been enough time to set up a proper operation. Sabul u Nurizam had ordered him on this mission only yesterday. The locals were all amateurs. Zealous and well-meaning for sure, but amateurs nonetheless. There was no way he could trust them on their own, even if he could depend on their undying loyalty. And even that was in question. He would have to make do with only himself and the three gunmen in the Land Rover with him and pray there would be no surprises. He glanced down at the black leather suitcase leaning against his thigh as he steered sharply around a turn.

  Now, with the road mostly straight and with practically no other traffic, Shehab allowed the truck to get almost a kilometer ahead, then picked up speed to match it. Small rice paddies flashed by as they headed toward the island’s mountainous spine, where the natives still climbed bamboo poles to retrieve bird nests for making soup. Occasionally they passed some of the island’s native longhouses or a mosque. />
  Up ahead, the tractor-trailer veered off the highway, onto a narrow dirt road. When Shehab spun the Land Rover onto the same road, the Mitsubishi was already disappearing around a sharp turn. He stepped on the accelerator, picking up speed and jolting his passengers around the compartment. They didn’t seem to mind. They maintained their sullen expressions and watched the dust of the truck ahead of them.

  There was no way now to stay hidden from whoever was in the cab of the tractor-trailer. Not on this winding, twisting road. Not without losing it totally. Dozens of roads and dirt lanes shot off in every direction. If the Mitsubishi rig suddenly dove down any one of them when Shehab was too far back to see it, the truck would be lost with no chance of finding it again. The only thing to do was to stay close enough to keep it constantly in sight.

  Five kilometers later, the road became even more rough and rutted. Dust hung thick in the air from where the truck had roared past. It slowly settled out to sift down onto the heavy green vegetation, coating it with a layer of yellow-red dust that would last until the next monsoon rains came.

  Without warning, the tractor-trailer pulled off the road onto a narrow lane. It was almost invisible from the roadway, overgrown with luxuriant jungle foliage inexorably reclaiming what looked to be a long abandoned plantation. The Mitsubishi disappeared into a rusty metal farm shed.

  Shehab stopped the Land Rover at the entrance to the lane and sat there for a moment, allowing the dust to settle. What was happening in that shed right now? Was this a trap with dozens of gunmen ready to spring out of the jungle to gun them down? There was no way to tell, but Nurizam’s orders were explicit.

  With a “get ready” nod to his passengers, he twisted the wheel and guided the Land Rover down the overgrown track and right up to the shed. He shut the engine off and climbed out, grasping his trusty .357 magnum, reciting a silent prayer.

  Three men emerged from the shed, each holding an AK-47 at the ready, pointed downward at a forty-five degree angle. Shehab hoped the young revolutionaries in the Land Rover would remain cool, would not begin firing without a good reason. But he hoped just as fervently that they would effectively cover him if that good reason should present itself.

  The leader shouted in English, “You Shehab?”

  Shehab nodded and shouted back, “Yes. Are you Colonel Chung?”

  The man answered coldly, his voice lower now.

  “No. Sadly Colonel Chung has joined his ancestors. General Kim Dai-jang has sent us in the colonel’s place.”

  Whatever had happened to the North Korean arms trader was clearly of no concern to his replacement. Nor was it of any interest to Shehab. The terrorist finally lowered his pistol. These were the men Nurizam had directed him to follow, the Koreans the leader had indicated that he was to meet.

  “Yes, sad. Things happen,” he said, with no emotion in his voice. He nodded toward the red Mitsubishi, the rear of its trailer just visible inside the shed. “I assume you have brought the shipment as arranged?”

  “Yes. Did you bring the money?”

  Shehab walked back to the Land Rover and reached inside. He could sense the rifle barrels rising just a bit, pointed now toward his back. He nodded at his three passengers inside the car, whispered to them to remain calm, then hefted the black suitcase out for the man to see.

  “Fifty million U.S. dollars, as agreed. You may count it if you wish while we inspect the weapons.”

  Shehab carefully climbed into the back of the trailer. The stench of rotting fish, heated in the tropical sun, was almost overpowering. He yanked the canvas cover off one of the boxes and looked inside. The silver-gray cylinder looked exactly as Nurizam had described it, cold, dark, and forbidding.

  One of the new lieutenants passed Shehab a small yellow box. A thick, coiled wire snaked out of it, terminating in an aluminum hotdog. Shehab swung the probe slowly over cylinders, watching the needle on the box’s meter swing to the right peg. It was registering gamma radiation. Nurizam was correct. These bombs contained plutonium. They had to be real.

  He tossed the Land Rover keys to the North Korean leader and climbed into the truck’s cab. The switch had been made. At long last, they had the power to really light the fuse of the Islamic revolution. With these weapons, Nurizam would finally burn the infidels out of Southeast Asia. And he would be there to help.

  Shehab smiled once again, just as he had as he gently ran his hand along the smooth skin of the nuclear torpedo.

  Generations of boys at their madrassas would learn of their brave deeds and sing the names of Sabul u Nurizam and Manju Shehab, the men who boldly turned aside the infidels and changed the course of history.

  20

  General Kim Dai-jang tore into the conference room, slamming the door behind him like an ominous clap of thunder. There was so much to do this day that demanded his attention. It was unfortunate that his homeland was blessed with only one person with the vision and courage to form the future. Surely that idiot son of the misbegotten father, Kim Jae-uk, should be here, handling the details, instead of off somewhere dreaming of bedding Hollywood starlets.

  General Kim slowed his pace across the room and smiled inwardly as he reflected. What should he expect from the illegitimate son of a peasant potato farmer? No wonder the little bastard stuttered so badly one could barely understand his “pearls of wisdom.” And little wonder the rest of the world chuckled at the little mouse’s pronouncements.

  Still those weren’t the reasons the “Great Leader” was absent from this briefing table. Kim Jae-uk didn’t have the intellect to conceive this masterstroke. And certainly not the fortitude to carry it out. When everything was in place and the world quaked at the power of the DPRK, Kim would be able to step forward and replace the short little pretender. Then his people would know what a real leader had done to bring their nation to its rightful place in Asia.

  General Kim pulled to a halt at the head of the long teak table. He glanced at the four men who were standing at rigid attention, two on either side. These were warriors of which he could be proud. Soldiers who had honed the steel core of their character in the fires of the hardest training Kim could devise. Then they had proven their mettle on numerous deadly, clandestine missions around Asia. Missions bravely and cleverly completed so others got the blame. These soldiers should be worthy of the honor he was about to bestow on them. The honor of becoming the martyr-fathers of the New Korea.

  These four, along with their equally-hardened teams, had been carefully chosen from the millions of soldiers serving the DPRK. Their bravery and skill at killing were important. Their loyalty to the cause was without question. But the most important criterion in their selection was something over which they had no control. It was their appearance.

  A fluke in the thousand years of racial mixing across the steppes of Asia had resulted in these four having very distinctive dark, angular Arab features. Not Korean at all.

  “Gentlemen,” Kim growled. Four heads snapped toward the head of the table in perfect unison. “Be seated. Make yourselves comfortable.” Four bodies sat as one. Four spines remained ramrod straight.

  Kim turned to the large map covering the wall behind him and studied it for a moment, deliberately piquing the interest of the men who watched him. The chart displayed Southwest Asia and the Indian Ocean, from the shores of Africa to the Andaman Sea. Two blues lines crossed the map from the west to east. One terminated at Mumbai, a major port on the eastern coast of India. The other continued across the Arabian Sea, up the Red Sea, and then to Jiddah, less than 100 kilometers from Mecca, the holiest place in Islam.

  “It is time for you to know the details of the mission for which you have been training,” Kim shouted. The four sat, almost impassively, but the old general could see the fire already smoldering in their dark eyes, the pulse quicken in the hollow of their necks. “To you falls the honor of the generations. Your ancestors will rejoice in the pride of siring such true sons of the fatherland. Your sons will venerate your name for gen
erations to come for what you are about to do.

  “Your mission is simple. Captain Wang and Lieutenant Tak-Ji, you will board the Motor Vessel Dawn Princess with your team when she makes port in Singapore. You will guard with your lives the special cargo that Dawn Princess carries. When the vessel arrives in Jiddah, you will escort the cargo to the city of Mecca. You will arrive at precisely noon on the first day of Ramadan. You will then arm the device, setting the timer to detonate six hours later. Detonation will occur precisely as the faithful who are making their haj will be ending their daily fast. The six hours will also allow your team time to return safely to Jiddah before the nuclear weapon discharges.”

  A collective gasp arose from the four special agents. They broke their locked stares and looked across the table at each other, stunned by the awful nature of what they were about to do.

  Kim spun toward them, his face instantly crimson with rage.

  “You dare to question your mission?” he roared. “Is it too much for you? Or do you have sympathies for the Moslem hordes in Mecca?”

  Captain Wang was the first to stand and answer.

  “General, it will happen as you order. The nature of the mission surprised us. That is all.” The soldier paused for a moment, as if hesitant to say what was on his mind, but then he marched on. “General, it is unworthy of us to ask, but if…perhaps…we knew the strategy, we might be better able to better serve the fatherland.”

  Kim smiled slightly and rubbed his chin. Captain Wang was quite perceptive. And not too timid to ask the question that was obviously on the lips of each of his peers. The general rubbed his chin. It might indeed be wise to tell them a bit more of the plan so they might better understand its importance. After all, their loyalty was unquestioned. If they were caught with the nuclear device before planting it, they would kill themselves before being captured, before having any details tortured out of them. And they would be unable to divulge anything at all afterwards.