A Northern Thunder (10 page)

The helicopter lunged forward in a hopping fashion as the blades bit into the air. Nampo felt the blades shift from lift to forward movement. As the helicopter moved upward, the deck tilted as the aircraft banked in a three hundred and sixty degree climbing turn out over Wonsan, the small town’s port, and the Sea of Japan. A wrench slid across the floor until the crew chief stopped it. Nampo saw the small fishing boats below in Wonsan’s harbor and several military boats between them and the open sea.

As they climbed higher, Nampo saw the twisting outline of the coast to the south. Just below Wonsan, a large, odd-shaped object appeared in the waters off the small port of Changjon. Not much more than a pier, Changjon had moored a larger passenger cruise-liner with lights on in the middle of the day, strung like a Christmas tree from the front of the main masts to the rear. It was a strange sight for the North.

Nampo immediately knew what this ship was and a scowl crossed his face. Despite his protests, Pyongyang had allowed a South Korean tour boat to bring to Changjon a limited number of South Korean tourists to visit the Taebaek Mountains. A South Korean mega conglomerate, Hyundai Corporation, had secretly consummated the deal, paying Pyongyang hundreds of millions in blackmail bounty. Even North Korea’s leaders were feeling the shortage of goods and supplies and much enjoyed the infusion of Western cash.

It was only after many protests that Nampo was able to ensure that the tour groups would stay on the coastline, taking a bus from the pier at Chamgjon directly to the Diamond Mountain. He did not want anyone to go anywhere near Kosan or his inland valley.

The helicopter banked one final time and leveled off at its altitude. As Nampo smelled the dull kerosene fumes from the jet engines, he turned over his shoulder and looked through the round plexiglas window to see the sharp points of the Taebaeks lined up in a row, paralleling the coast. He soon spotted his small green valley, angled away from Wonsan and the coast.

The flight to the capital took well over an hour. Pyongyang, the largest city in a nation of twenty-two million, is known as the “hermit city.” For more than fifteen hundred years, it served as the capital of the peninsula of Korea, and for five decades, it was the secret city of Kim Il Sung, the father of the nation. It was rebuilt in his honor, according to his whims, with monies and designs provided by Moscow and Beijing. Now the son, Kim Jong Il, ruled.

At a small military airfield near the edge of the city, the helicopter landed and taxied to the edge of an open, lit hangar. Inside it, Nampo noticed, was a troop truck similar to the one in Wonsan, and a large, box-shaped black car. The car, another Soviet product, was rarely seen in the countryside, but Nampo was familiar with it from the other trips he had made to the capital. Once again, Security’s attention to detail was admirable. Under the protective cover of the hangar, a low-orbit spy satellite would see troops enter a building and a troop truck leave. Only with luck would the observers wait and catch a black car leaving from the other end some time later.

The troops bolted from the side door across a short space of tarmac to the interior of the hangar. Inside the building, Nampo and Po separated from the group and approached the Soviet car. A security officer snapped to attention, opening the rear door. Both Nampo and his look-alike climbed into the back of the vehicle. The broad heavy security officer slid into the front passenger seat.

“We are to go directly to NCDB, Comrade Dr. Nampo.”

Nampo was surprised by this news. In previous visits to the capital, Nampo could expect a stay at one of the distinguished visitors’ quarters. It was the sole perk from these tiring and boring trips. Although dedicated to the cause, he didn’t forego all personal benefits.

“Why the urgency?”

“Comrade Doctor, I was not informed why.” The officer paused, wondering whether to say more, having learned the hard way over the years to say less. “I do know this is a special meeting. There are several in attendance.” He paused again, fearing he had said too much, and left the sentence hanging in midair.

The silence in the car was disturbing. As they drove into the city, Nampo observed an open but corroding capital. The buildings were in disrepair. With few lights on, he could see the wood around the frames of windows, dark and twisted, the glass broken in many places. This part of the city was dark, with only an occasional flash of light that broke through the curtain-drawn windows. Candles or lanterns flickered in small, cold apartments.

Nampo took pleasure in his thoughts and observations. It’s not that he cared about this misery as much as he knew it represented opportunity. He would be the shining light the city lacked—the hero of a nation.

Rain fell on the capital’s streets as they headed toward the tall downtown building of the NCDB. The Nuclear and Chemical Defense Bureau was instrumental in Nampo’s operation. It controlled funding and had oversight responsibility. This trip, although sudden, was a good opportunity. Nampo was interested in how the other aspects of the operation were advancing.

The chunky, aged Soviet car pulled into the rear of the building under a covered portico. Nampo and Po entered the building through large metal and glass doors pulled open by two stiff guards dressed in brown buttoned uniforms with red stripes. The red star stood out on their collars and hats.

“I am always unsure which of you is Dr. Nampo,” said the elderly Sin Tae-sam, senior vice president of the state, meeting them at the door. One or two military generals may have had greater stature, but he remained one of the most powerful men in all of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.

“I am Comrade Nampo.” Nampo stepped forward to grab the old man’s hand, and Lin Po stepped backwards and off to the side. Inside the NCDB building, the ruse would be suspended. Po had done his job. Now he could slip away to a side hallway, try to grab a cigarette, and wait until Nampo was on the move again.

“Doctor, we have many important things to discuss.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Come with me.” He turned and walked down a short stairway, across a wide hall to two dark mahogany doors guarded by two similarly dressed soldiers. The soldiers were backed up by two large, heavy, muscular men, preventing anyone—at risk of death—from passing without permission.

Nampo walked into the long, surprisingly narrow conference room. A wooden table covered with green felt stretched the length of the room. Nampo immediately recognized the remainder of the NCDB committee: three generals, men of power all, and another vice president, Choe Hakson, known as a direct advisor to Kim Jong Il.

On Nampo’s right were two of the engineers in charge of the nuclear reprocessing facility at Yongbyon. They had the job of ensuring there was sufficient weapons-grade plutonium available for small nuclear warheads, but their tasks were well down the line, so they looked relaxed.

To their side, Nampo recognized what he called the navigation unit—the intelligence officers assigned that task. In the shadows of the rear, on the left, was another man, not dressed like any of the others. With a dark cosmopolitan look, he appeared to be a European—someone from Paris or possibly New York. A black leather jacket with black trousers might appear normal in New York, but in this communist city, his dress stood out. Nampo noticed a glimmer of gold as the man’s hand moved.

“Dr. Nampo,” said Sin, “have a seat here in this central chair of great importance.”

Nampo pulled the large leather chair away from the table and sat down. In the center of the green felt table sat several silver trays with bottles of water and bowls of fruit. Nampo, realizing he had not eaten for most of the day, grabbed an apple. Even for Nampo, the tart, succulent, sweet taste of the apple was a rarity, and he ate with relish.

“Dr. Nampo, where are we?”

Nampo quickly put forth an updated timetable, and Sin provided the recently obtained coordinates Nampo had long awaited. At the discussion’s end, the elder chairman pulled his chair back.

“We are appreciative of the efforts of everyone. This project will save our nation and its great cause.”

As the men stood and began to depart, Nampo again noticed the dark figure in the back of the room.

“Oh, Dr. Nampo, please stay one moment.”

Only the chairman, Nampo, and the man in the shadows remained. The chairman waved his hand in a small signal to the guards—more than an order to close the doors. If Kim Jong Il himself asked to be admitted, he would not be.

“Dr. Nampo, per our last discussion, it is reported that the names you have suggested have been. . . retired.”

Why
, Nampo thought,
did they elect to use such evasive words?

“Did you bring an additional list?” said Sin.

“Yes.”

“We have now retired Harbinger at Berkley, Walter at MIT, and Brooklins at Cal Poly,” said Sin. “Each was a leading mind in micro-engineering, nanotechnology, and satellites. Who else?”

“The next list,” Nampo said, “will be fragile.” Now even he was using words in an absurdly careful manner. The plan seemed too dangerous to discuss out loud, but it was necessary.

The figure in the rear of the room shifted his weight in his chair.

“Who, Doctor?” said Sin.

“Wiretrack at Oxford, Feizer at Chicago, and. . . Boriskof at the Ioffe Physico-Technico Institute in St. Petersburg. And possibly one other in Japan at the Riken Institute.”

“We will take this upon consideration,” said Sin.

“Thank you, Comrade,” said Nampo.

“What is a reasonable expectation for the first launch date?”

“Thirty-one December,” said Nampo, “but we must be assured of a valid GEO orbit location.”

The chairman knew this was Nampo’s ego talking. Even if the blast radius was pinpointed, they still risked missing the satellite. The GPS systems would compensate for one or two downed birds, but the blast had to have an effect. It had to register on several GPS receivers in that western portion of the U.S. Only if GPS systems on airplanes, boats, trucks, and in a thousand other places suddenly failed could North Korea make its point. The country’s economy was bleeding. It could afford no failures.

The man in the shadows stood up and walked out another back door. He had his assignment and began to sort through his approach to each of the targets. Russia, though politically risky, would be easy. He had trained there. He knew Nampo’s full request list would be approved, but wondered how much risk they were willing to take with the Russian.

A
s he swung open the shutter doors, Tom Pope chuckled at the realization that his closet perfectly matched his life as a senior FBI agent. From right to left, virtually identical Brooks Brothers suits lined up in military row. Below, pairs of spit-polished dress shoes were neatly assembled, facing forward. A set of conservative, blue-striped, burgundy-striped, and dark blue print ties hung to the left.

“What’s so funny?” Debra Pope didn’t expect much humor from her husband this early in the morning.

“Nothing. . . Where are my blue jeans?”

Debra always shuddered when he asked this question. Even on weekends, when he cut the grass at their Arlington, Virginia home, Tom Pope wore khaki trousers with a crease. The blue jean question meant only one thing to her.

“I think they’re in the back end of my closet,” she said.

He stopped his search, closed the doors, and came across the room to her larger closet. There, well in the back, behind several dresses in plastic storage bags, were the worn and frayed blue jeans—the typical outfit of a hard-working blue-collar employee.

As he pulled the jeans and shirt off the closet rail, Debra snuck up behind her husband and gave him a hug. He turned and felt her warm shapely body underneath her pajamas.

“What’s this? You realize it’s a Monday morning, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

He smiled, glancing at the clock and realizing there was not enough time for anything more than a hug. The children would be bouncing into the room any minute now.

“What’s going on today?” She knew the answer, but asked anyway.

He smiled. “No, it’s not undercover.”

Debra hadn’t known if her marriage would last. When Tom worked undercover in the FBI’s organized crime section, living with danger every day, she asked him to move out—not because she didn’t love him deeply, but because she simply couldn’t take it when, at nine or ten o’clock at night, he didn’t come rambling through the front door. Every time he was late or didn’t show at all, it scared her to death. She was the mother of two young children, ages six and eight, and the idea of widowhood terrified her.

And she was not allowed to call him at the Bureau. The men and women of the agency quickly identified the wives who called, and knew those agents were destined to limited careers. A nagging wife, combined with the demands of the job, propelled most husbands out of the field and into administration, performing security background checks or other monotonous tasks.

Tom knew Debra was not a caller—and loved her all the more for it. Particularly because she didn’t call, he would always tell her what was going on—sometimes more than he should. Tom felt he owed her.