A Northern Thunder (6 page)

“Comrade Dr. Nampo, the helicopter has been delayed briefly in Wonsan. It should be here shortly.” A uniformed officer of the North Korean Red Guard made these comments to four similar-looking and identically-dressed men as they stood near a helicopter landing pad in the valley just south of Kosan. He spoke to them as a group, but used the singular when addressing them. Captain Chan Sang, a short, thin man in his late twenties, was very thorough, which Nampo appreciated. Because Sang was a worrier, Nampo knew that any Sang mistake would be one of ignorance or misinformation, not of attitude. Sang had that fear of failure that forced him to overcompensate for being less than bright, and because of his worries, Sang constantly, compulsively checked every detail again and again.

Nampo thought of the fat, lazy students at places like Berkeley and MIT. They relied upon their intellect to justify their decadent lifestyles. They would fail miserably under President Kim Il Sung’s ideology of
Juche
—the art of self-reliance. Nampo had gained early respect for Kim Il Sung as a true ideologist, committed to the cause.
Juche
, as the leader saw it, was the path to a people’s government of pure communism, a state of self-reliance that depended upon no other, especially the imperialist west. If starvation and hunger were the temporary price of victory, then so be it.

The key word here was “temporary.” Kim Il Sung believed Nampo’s plan would bring his nation permanent, long-term relief, ending the starvation that had paralyzed the country for several years now. It was the great leader’s dedication at all costs to the cause that brought Nampo to North Korea, and it was Nampo’s plan that brought his genius to the attention of Kim Il Sung. But in 1994, the omnipresent leader died suddenly, and Nampo, unsure whether his efforts were in jeopardy, was depressed for weeks. Finally, when Kim Jong Il called him to the capital of Pyongyang after the TD-2 test to advise him of his commitment to the project, Nampo was ecstatic. Like the Supreme Leader, Kim Jong Il realized that the future of the North Korean people rested largely on the shoulders of Dr. Peter Nampo. Nampo was named “Director” with absolute authority.

“Captain, I hear the helicopter,” shouted one of the guardsmen.

The blunt-shaped Soviet-built helicopter approached the valley from the north. As it passed over the village of Kosan and the small farm plots to the east, the pilot spotted a small, well-camouflaged landing pad, and a group of men standing near a vehicle where the road twisted around it. The road initially did not seem out of the ordinary, but as he looked closer, the pilot noticed that it was unlike the hundreds of country roads he had seen in his flights over North Korea—the ones that twisted around streams or farmhouses. This road curved without cause—not sharp turns, but long, slow twists through the valley. As his helicopter descended, the pilot saw the road at a different angle, and noticed that it led to what appeared to be a deep grove of trees, later re-emerging on the other side. It would look quite harmless to a satellite in orbit around the Earth.

The helicopter’s passenger also noticed the road. Comrade General Won Su of China had earned his stripes in the war to resist U.S. aggression and to aid Korea. He had gained great friendships, but lost many friends. As a young captain at the Chosin Reservoir, Won had fought the best of the U.S. Marines. Surrounding Marine units with overwhelming numbers, his unit and others had caused the imperialists to retreat. But Won also knew the other story—a story the propaganda machine did not mention. The Americans had fought well at the Chosin Reservoir. Against overwhelming odds, the hardened, determined 7th Marine Regiment had battled, inch by inch, to regain an escape route out of the mountains and back to the coast. The 1st Marine Division was a most worthy enemy.

That experience taught him never to underestimate the enemy. Each hill, each foot of dirt gained, cost hundreds and hundreds of casualties. The American Marines were outnumbered ten to one, yet fought without a hint of doubt. China pushed the Marines out, but only because of overwhelming numbers—and, in turn, suffered overwhelming casualties. For every Marine killed, eleven of Won’s fellow soldiers died. China, he reminded himself, had learned many lessons in this country.

The helicopter began its final bank to the landing pad, and the passengers felt the slight rise of the nose as the back wheels lightly touched down. Won looked out to the side of the craft as a group of men, one in uniform and the others in plain khaki work clothes, bent over, protecting their eyes from the wind blast brought on by the blade-shift on landing. The weight of the bird settled down on its wheels, and the aircraft came to a stop.

Won glanced over to his seatmate, Comrade Colonel Tae Nam-Ki of the Democratic People’s Republic, serving as his liaison officer for this visit to North Korea. The colonel was most helpful and respectful to Won, who had fought to preserve Nam-Ki’s government from the imperialist onslaught when Nam-Ki was just a child.

North Korea is our greatest challenge
, the general thought as the helicopter came to rest on the ground.
How do we channel this enthusiasm and effort to the common good?

China’s long-term strategy had been an unquestioned success. Russia was only a minimal threat. North Korea served as a conduit, supplying nations such as Syria, Iran, Vietnam, and Pakistan with the technology China had not been prepared to openly provide North Korea. It could cause havoc in the world, and could equip anyone China wished without China losing status or stature with the United States or the world. China was rising now to be a predominant world power, one that could stand equal with the United States.

But North Korea teetered on economic collapse. Because Russia wasn’t able to assist China in the bailout of the communist Korean country, instead selling its aircraft carriers to South Korea for scrap metal, North Korea was starving to death. The country was on the brink of internal revolution, and that was why Comrade General Won had been sent to North Korea to visit with Dr. Nampo.

In his journey through the land, Won had observed the starvation and lack of infrastructure, and he thought to himself that Kim Il Sung’s relentless commitment to Stalinism and this philosophy called
Juche
had caused more harm than good.
How can these people continue to endure without the basics needed for human survival?
he thought. Outside Pyongyang, Won had observed the gaunt look of hunger in the children, eyes bulging from their sockets, their skin stretched over the bony outlines of their faces. He had often seen adults moving slowly, like dim, fading light bulbs.
How could they watch their children become emaciated and die without questioning
Juche
? But if, in order to survive, they opened their gates to South Korea, would China lose the buffer to imperialism that its ally, North Korea, provided?

I imagine the Americans would be troubled
, Won thought,
if Mexico on its border suddenly became a radical Stalinist nation, yet the U.S. seems content not to understand our concerns about North Korea becoming an open capitalist market. How can North Korea preserve the communistic state, remain our ally, and still bring in badly needed capital?
Won had far more on his mind than merely a visit to another clandestine military installation.

“Comrade General, it is our greatest pleasure to welcome you to the People’s Kosan Project.” The young captain had managed to open the door to the helicopter and execute a sharp salute at the same time. As General Won returned the salute, the group of men at the edge of the helicopter pad stepped forward. The four men, all dressed in Mao-styled jackets with matching khaki pants and black combat boots, were exactly alike in age, size, and shape.

“And which one of these fine men is the famous Dr. Nampo?” The general’s astonishment was not well-disguised.

“Comrade General, whenever we are outside, beneath the sky of the spying imperialist, Dr. Nampo makes no effort to distinguish himself from his group of colleagues.” The captain made this unusual comment as if it was the common drill, and the general took no offense. He shook the hands of each of the four men, unable to discern which one was actually Nampo.

“If you will come this way, General.” Captain Sang pointed to the vehicles below the helicopter pad. As they approached the first jeep, the helicopter’s engines jumped into a high-pitched whine, and the craft lifted off from the pad. General Won smiled, recognizing that satellite observers would have had but a brief moment to spot the helicopter on the ground.

The party descended the short steps to four vehicles waiting in line with their drivers. Sang directed the general to the first vehicle, a Soviet-made jeep, and as he stepped into the backseat with Tae Nam-Ki, Won saw the four nearly identical men climb into the second and third jeeps. As the vehicles sped away, Won noticed that the road, though topped with gravel, was unusually smooth.
The gravel must be for appearance’s sake
, he thought as the vehicles sped down the valley.
Surely, there must be a substructure of cement.

“Captain,” he said, “is this road well-built?”

“Yes, sir. Twenty miles of gray cement topped with gravel,” said Captain Sang. “It can handle all our support vehicles, but shows no additional signs of traffic wear. Even the potholes were planned to show
some
wear, but not too much. It also has special subdued lighting for night travel. We have a thermal blanket that protects the truck engines from heat discharge and makes the engines virtually undetectable. Without difficulties, trucks can come from Wonsan in the deepest snowfalls or heaviest rains.”

What a curious nation of people
, Won thought.
Highly capable. Potentially a dangerous enemy.

Across from the road, beyond a small, green-carpeted rice field, a man hoed a thin, sparse garden, his worn, tired clothing draped over his frail frame. The man was hunched over, his curved back welded into place by years of constant, nagging malnutrition, caused by an emaciating diet of a single daily bowl of rice. The general remembered seeing thousands upon thousands of similar huts and garden plots in his China, but always with wives, children, and grandchildren in sight. China fed its people, and malnutrition was rare.

As the lead vehicle rounded a curve along a small mound, Won noticed the road entering a short subterranean tunnel. A tight group of trees shaded another mound above the tunnel, but as the automobile drove down the tunnel ramp, he saw light at the other end where the road climbed back up. The vehicles stopped at the base of the tunnel and, in a quick motion, the captain jumped from the car and opened the door.

“General and Colonel, please come this way quickly.”

Won and Tae Nam-Ki stepped out of the car, and almost as quickly, the convoy of cars continued through the tunnel and back up to the surface.

Ingenious
, Won thought as the vehicles pulled away. To the eye of a satellite, the convoy would have passed into a small group of trees and then continued on. The satellite would have been unable to detect the stop. Won chuckled as he thought of the U.S. spy satellite following the vehicles for another ten or so miles until they pulled into a covered barracks somewhere north of the DMZ.

The captain led the group into another tunnel running perpendicular to the drop-off point. As they entered the facility and passed through a large gray blast door, a crowd of soldiers and white-frocked scientists appeared to meet them. To his side, Won noticed the four Nampos follow him into the entranceway. One of the four turned toward another vault-sized door and entered a combination on the security pad. The door clicked faintly as it swung open. As Won stepped through the door, he realized the depth of the Taepo Dong-3X Project, the entranceway leading to an enormous metal-grate balcony, through which he saw three massive subterranean floors.

“General, welcome to my home and to the Taepo Dong-3X Project,” said the man, who stepped forward and held out his hand. “I am Comrade Peter Nampo.”

T
he knock on the door startled Clark Ashby. It was an early Thursday evening, her roommate had gone home to Atlanta for the weekend, and court had wrapped up several hours earlier than usual, and well before five. Judge Roamer, uncharacteristically, had told all employees to go home. He usually took great pride in giving the voters no chance to criticize his courtroom for quitting early.

The trial of the drug dealer last week had gone well. The jury had taken less than an hour to reach its verdict of guilty. Ilkins, the defendant, sank back down in his chair after the foreman read the verdict, which carried a sentence of decades in prison—state, not federal, prison. Ilkins was looking at dirt-hard time. His lawyer already knew Judge Roamer’s reputation for sentencing on drug dealer cases. His client’s best hope was an appeal bond, which, if granted, would be substantial, allowing Ilkins the opportunity to escape south to Colombia.

As Clark drove home, she’d planned out the evening in detail: a long, hot bath, blue jeans, and a series of Blockbuster movies. Then came the knock on the door.