A Northern Thunder (30 page)

Darkness was finally falling as he reached the dead end of Highway 930, which stopped at the small state park on the far end of the island. From there, he began walking the old Farrington Highway, which quickly deteriorated into more of a trail than a roadway. He hiked several miles along the cliffs and broken road. On the very edge of the deep blue surf, white spumes of water shot high into the air after colliding with the rocks. A bright half moon lit his path and a constant warm breeze blew in from the ocean like a large gusting fan. The road became progressively worse as large gaps caused the surf to spray up. Will worked his way around the rocks and gaps, smelling the ocean surge as he moved up the trail.

Finally, after the road almost completely gave out, he came to a break several feet below. A large, barren mountain range paralleled his path, with nothing but sage and tumble-like weeds. This part of Hawaii was dry, brown, and unoccupied. Only a few tower lights marked the tops of the mountain, and a brilliant red and white light flashed farther down on the point.

At the gap, staked to the side of the rocks, was a chain that led down across a small rocky path to something dark. Will slid slowly down the trail, holding the chain, inching across the rocks to the end. The farther down he headed, the more slippery the rocks became from the spray of water and the moisture of the salt air. Then, near the bottom, was an opening the size of a man with both arms outstretched. It was an entrance to a black hole.

Will entered the cave, feeling the cool charge of air and smelling a musty odor of prior hikers or explorers. He went to a large outcropping of rock and reached behind it, struggling with his arm, feeling only the sandy floor until he touched the edge of something man-made.

“Yes,” he whispered as he pulled out a green and black backpack from behind the rock.

• • •

The Tahoe pulled up to the U.S.S.
Florida
at precisely 10 p.m. local Hawaii time. Because most everyone was already aboard—the exceptions being a handful of security officers—few noticed the four men as they carried a drum and backpack onto the vessel. The chief of the boat was still topside.

“Chief, this drum must be stored in the food freezer.”

“Aye, sir.” Anyone else making such a request would have to go through several layers of command. The chief knew better.

“Sir,” said the chief, “a Mr. Scott is waiting for you below, and when you get done with him, the skipper wants you on the sail.”

“Yes, I see you got the ASDS.” A smaller black version of the Trident was locked onto the
Florida
’s deck just to the rear of the main sail. It may have been miniature, but its structure loomed high above their heads.

“Yes, sir. Newest version. High-speed. Silent-running.”

“Great.”

At that same moment, Scott climbed out of the aft hatch.

“Here you are,” Scott said, looking more than a bit dismayed.

“Yes, Mr. Scott,” said Will.

“Let’s talk.” They walked to the stern, standing on the black steel where rows of missile tubes used to be.

“Colonel, Krowl put me here at Pacific Command to monitor the mission,” said Scott. “So I’m essentially out of the game. The camera, along with a relay computer and satellite dish, are in your cabin. You’ve worked with them in Quantico. You know where Nampo should be. We’re expecting a visit to the facility by a Chinese Army general on the 15th. That’s probably your only chance—one photo, nothing fancy.”

“Yes, Mr. Scott.”

“Oh, and Colonel, as best you can, watch yourself.”

Will wasn’t sure what to make of Scott’s last statement. Perhaps the training had developed a little loyalty after all.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, but we’re moving.” The chief pointed Scott to the gangplank as two sailors wrestled with it. Scott jumped onto the plank and, with two hops, made it onto the deck. He turned to Will and gave him a thumbs-up. As the rain began to pick up, Scott disappeared into the dark.

“Sir, on the sail,” said the chief.

“Yes, Chief.” Will heard the Auburn University fight song piped through the submarine. The skipper knew they wouldn’t all be Auburn fans, but wanted to give the crew a reason to galvanize as a team. Each crew member donned a different version of an Auburn hat and roared in song, “Fight down the field, always to conquer, never to yield.” It could have been Notre Dame or Southern Cal or Alabama. The power of that unity and pride made for a better crew.

Appropriate
, Will thought as he felt the mass of steel gently moving under his feet. Then he smiled, knowing Staff Sergeant Stidham was at home with his old football team.

“Permission to come up?” said Will.

“Yes, granted,” said Hollington.

Will climbed up the series of ladders to the small opening on top of the sail. He felt the behemoth slowly move out from Ford into the main channel. Despite the increasing rain, the surrounding lights of Pearl, other ships in dock, and the warehouses surrounding the harbor painted a dull glow. Two small gunboats, one forward and one to the rear, followed the Trident out to sea.

In the close channel at Pearl’s mouth, Will saw the lights of the Officer’s Club. The music of a Hawaiian band carried as he watched, under the fluorescent lights of an open pavilion, people dancing in brightly-colored Hawaiian shirts. He wasn’t nervous—just on edge.

“Okay, let’s batten her up.” Hollington climbed into the red-lit porthole, Will right behind. Will stopped, turned one last time, and inhaled the warm, gentle air, realizing it might be a long time before he did so again.

A short while later, after turning to the east for several miles, the U.S.S.
Florida
submerged. Once below the detection range of satellites, it turned back to the west and then to the north-northwest. In a few days, it would be well north of Hawaii.

“G
ive me a situation update.” Krowl sat at the head of an elongated conference table in the Executive Support Center. At the briefing stand at the far end, an Army colonel dimmed the lights. Four large panel screens dominated the wall behind him. The far left screen had a familiar face. Scott sat in another briefing room on the other side of the world, alongside an admiral—the Pacific commander—dressed in tropic whites. An Air Force colonel occupied another screen, followed by a map of the Western Pacific. The last screen showed a satellite view of a snow-covered road leading into a wooded area.

“Sir, we have Space Command online, and Pacific Command online,” said Scott.

“Where’s the
Florida
?” said Krowl.

“The central map shows her tracking approximately five-hundred miles to the north-northwest of Hawaii.”

“Scott.”

“Yes, Admiral?”

“Any problems?”

“No,” Scott answered succinctly.

I was right to put him at the Pacific Command
, Krowl thought. It intimidated the PAC commander to take no action, and at the same time prevented Scott from interfering.

“How about going offline at the conclusion to discuss other issues?” Krowl said.

Scott knew what “other issues” meant. And, no, he did not have a clue where Mi was now. Intelligence gave no indication she had returned to the north. In fact, chatter seemed to indicate that now, more so than in several years, North Korean agents had been told to be on the lookout for her, and if they found her, they had a blank check to take “appropriate action.” Scott wanted to talk to her. He was not as convinced as Krowl that she had turned; indeed, he was convinced a dime had been dropped to North Korea, and he knew who probably dropped it.

“General, we are minus ten days,” said Krowl. “Is the satellite up?”

General Kitcher, representing Space Command, appeared in the far left monitor. “Admiral Krowl,” he said, “USA82X will be as ready as we can make it.”

“Colonel,” said Krowl, “what’s the intelligence situational awareness on this base?”

The Air Force colonel clicked on the aerial satellite monitor’s button, zooming in on three trucks traveling in a short convoy down the road toward the wood line.

“The base has been given the identifier Nampo-1,” said the colonel. “It is confirmed as a multi-layered, heavily fortified research and launching facility.”

No kidding
, Krowl thought to himself.

“Admiral Krowl?” said the Pacific commander. His submariner’s gold emblem glittered in the light. Scott leaned to his right, and pulled his chair back behind the commander’s.

“Yes, sir.”

“Is the White House Situation Room going to participate in this?”

“No, sir,” said Krowl. “We have autonomy on this and will be the ultimate superior command.”

The Pacific commander thought that unusual, but made no further comment. He would later make a very tactful offline inquiry and, much to his surprise, find out that Krowl did indeed have the Secretary’s blessing to run this operation himself. The White House and Secretary of Defense saw little need to be involved in a covert intelligence-gathering effort on this scale, even it if did involve Peter Nampo.

“At minus two days, this cell will go on twenty-four seven and remain in that status until it’s over,” said Krowl.

“Any estimate of length?” The Pacific commander was the only one in the conference with the nerve to ask that of Krowl.

Before he spoke, Krowl took off his glasses and rubbed his face to emphasize the point. “If he doesn’t get it on plus two, it may be a year before we see Nampo again.”

Intelligence had confirmed a Chinese general named Won Su making several trips to the Nampo-1 site on apparent military inspections prior to the early fall launch. The Agency’s review had discovered that, on these trips, Won always went to the eastern DMZ south of Wonsan. It seemed an odd little fact until a multi-stage missile launched from this site knocked a west coast GPS satellite off orbit for a few minutes. Photo imagery went back to his trips and placed him in this same valley at the time.

The CIA had also learned that another Won Su trip was scheduled for late December.

“What about weather?” said Krowl.

“A major front is expected in the Sea of Japan around the landing date,” the Air Force colonel said.

“What’s that mean?”

“North Korea is known for being cold, but not for a lot of snow. This front may produce the exception.”

“Will it interfere with the satellite?” said Krowl.

“This is Space Command,” said Kitcher. “Nothing will interfere with this bird.”

“We need a representative in the Command Center who can have total control over that bird, General.”

“Okay, that can be arranged.” Space Command didn’t usually relinquish control of a multi-billion dollar asset, but this situation called for different rules. The ESC, and Krowl more directly, could control this operation totally.

“Okay, we’ll be up at twelve-hundred hours, Greenwich time, at D minus two,” said Krowl. “Limited personnel with only top secret clearance need to know. And there’ll be total restriction on entry at each of these operation centers.”

“Yes, sir.”

“In other words, no walk-in traffic.”

Krowl anticipated curtailing the traffic even more.
They may raise a stink
, he thought,
but at the right moment, everyone except Space will be dropped.

“Sir, the conference will time out in one minute,” said the Army colonel, reading a note given him by a young enlisted man, who looked barely out of high school. The Air Force tech sergeant knew his job and ran the satellite video feed like an expert, but he also knew that video conferences had a short life and reservations were timed by the communications satellite.

“Okay, thanks. Scott, call me.”

“Yes, Admiral,” said Scott.

Just as each of the screens went blank, the red telephone at the end of the desk rang.

“Sir, Mr. Scott,” said the tech sergeant.

“Secured?” said Krowl.

“Yes, sir.”

“Everyone, I need you to leave.”

The Army colonel and others quietly left the room, closing the soundproofed metal door behind.

“What’s her status?” said Krowl.

“No idea, Admiral,” said Scott.

“How much damage can this cause?”

“Well, if she’s turned, obviously, it would be a lot.”

“You’re damned right.”

“But I don’t think she defected back.”

“Why?”

“Well,” said Scott, “she was last seen coming out of her apartment in Alexandria two days after we finished in Quantico. She was told to take some leave. The Agency said you authorized it.”

“Yes,” Krowl huffed. When he approved the leave, he had simply been trying to get her out of the way.

“And then, she was gone. But we know that DPRK intelligence has given its field agents a license to kill her on sight.”

“Yes.”

“If that was a ruse and they wanted to bring her in to talk, too many people have been given the green light to do otherwise. They couldn’t call off the dogs even if they wanted to.”

“So. . .”

“My guess is she knew you’d never let her out of the game,” said Scott, “and they wouldn’t take her back.”

“Does Parker know?” said Krowl.

“Hell, Admiral, he’s about a quarter mile down and heading to North Korea.”