Fires of War (55 page)

“Ferg, where
are
you?”

Ferguson’s laugh turned into a cough. “North Korea. Where the hell do you think?”

“Ferg—”

“Puzzle it out, Corrigan. Check the line. The sat phone. I’m at Cache Point Zed.”

Each satellite radio phone included in the cache gear was hard-wired to a specific frequency; these phones also included GPS gear that showed their location at The Cube.

“That’s not what I meant,” said Corrigan. “I
meant
are you OK?”

“I’m better than OK,” said Ferguson, eying the small tool kit to see what he could use for a lock pick. “But I need a ride.”

“Oh, jeez.”

“Not the response I want to hear, Corrigan. You’re supposed to tell me the bus will be here in a half hour.”

“I have to get a hold of Slott.”

“Well, let’s move.”

“Hang tight, Ferg. We’re with you.”

Yeah, right beside me, thought Ferguson.

He put the radio down and took the smallest screwdriver from the pack, but the blade and shaft were too large to fit in the lock. A small metal clip held two of the MRE packages together. He bent it straight, then broke it in two. But the wire was a little too rounded and not quite springy enough, or maybe he was just so tired that he couldn’t get it to work.

The lock itself was extremely simple, little more than a kid’s toy, which added to Ferguson’s frustration. After trying to work the clip in for a half hour, he gave up and tried something new: chiseling the metal off with the help of a rock and the large screwdriver in the kit.

He’d just broken the link on his left hand when the phone buzzed, indicating an incoming transmission.

“Ferg?”

“Hey, Evil Stepmother. How are ya?”

“Corrigan arranged a conference call. I’m on with Mr. Slott and Parnelles.”

“Guys.”

“You sound terrible,” said Slott.

“Good to talk to you, too, Dan.”

“We’re going to get you out of there, Ferg,” said Slott. “We will.”

“Yeah, Great place to visit but. . . shit.”

Ferguson stopped midsentence. He could hear the sound of a truck, several trucks, coming toward him. “I’ll get back to you.”

“Ferg—”

“I’m OK.”

He snapped the phone off and ran toward a clump of bushes to his right, stumbling over the rocks before reaching the thick cover. The first truck that passed was a military transport, similar to an American deuce-and-a-half. A stream of similar vehicles, some open in the back, some with canvas tops, followed. All were jammed with troops. Ferguson counted thirty-six.

He waited a few minutes after the trucks had passed, then called back.

“Robert, are you OK?” asked Parnelles.

“Yeah, General, I’m fine. Cold, though. And hoarse.” He grabbed the broken chain in his hand and threaded his arms into the jacket, zipping it tight.

“Ferg, North Korea is going crazy,” said Slott. “They’re mobilizing. It looks like a coup, or maybe even an attack on the South.”

“I just counted thirty-six trucks heading south. Troop trucks. Mostly full,” said Ferguson. “So what would you figure that: thirty-six times twenty, thirty? About a thousand guys?”

“The point is,” said Slott, “we want to know if you can wait until tonight for a pickup.”

“Actually, Robert, waiting is imperative,” said Parnelles.

“Sure,” said Ferguson. “Not a problem. I’ll work on my tan in the meantime. Maybe go a few rounds of golf later.”

“We have a team off the coast, but it will take a while for them to get into position. The North Korean navy is on patrol all up and down the coastline, and army units are moving up to the border and down to the capital,” said Slott. “Waiting for nightfall will be much safer.”

Ferguson hunched over the packs and the bicycles. There was a pair of simple pants and a long shirt. Once he got the other chain off, he could pull them over the pajamas.

He wasn’t going to fool anyone into thinking he was local, but the pants had to be warmer than the prison clothes.

“Ferg,” said Corrine, “are you really OK?”

“Hell, yeah. All right, here’s what I got.” He told them that Park had probably had him arrested because it looked like he knew something was up.

“Why didn’t he just kill you?” Slott asked.

“Because I’m a nice guy, Dan. He thought I was Russian. They couldn’t decide whether I was working for the Kremlin or the mafyia. The North Koreans didn’t want to piss off one of their major creditors, so they put me on ice.”

Ferguson took a breath. He could feel the mucus in his chest, as if he had bronchitis.

He might actually
have
bronchitis, now that he thought about it.

“Park met with a Korean general named Namgung. There’s something up between them. Something big enough that Namgung had me taken out of jail because they thought the Russians would be pissed off at him, not Park.”

“General Namgung?” said Slott, pronouncing the name differently. “The head of People’s Army Corp I?”

“Is that around the capital?”

“Yes. It includes Air Force Command One and some security forces as well as a dozen divisions.”

“That’s my man.”

“That’s interesting,” said Slott. “Because our people in Seoul think Namgung’s trying to stop the attack on the South. He may be involved in the coup.”

“Our people in Seoul don’t know their asses from a hole in the ground,” said Ferguson.

“That’s your opinion, Ferg,” said Slott.

“Based on experience.”

“This isn’t the time to discuss this,” said Parnelles. “Robert, how long can you hold out?”

“Forever,” said Ferguson.

“Check in every half hour,” said Slott.

“Try every three,” said Ferguson. He wanted to save the battery, just in case.

Just in case?

Just in case, because there was no way to trust these guys. No way. No, no, no way.

“Are you
sure
you’re all right, Ferg?” said Corrine.

“Hell, no. I’m lying through my teeth,” said Ferguson cheerfully, before pressing the End Transmission button.

~ * ~

2

THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

Corrine had just hung up from the conference call and reached for her computer to check her messages when the secure line rang again.

“We may not be able to pick up Ferguson at dusk,” said Parnelles when she answered the phone.

“Why not?”

“The North Korean mobilization has reached the critical point: They can launch an attack at any point now. Given that, the failure of a mission might be catastrophic,” the CIA director told her. “The decision has to be left to the president.”

“I see.” Corrine glanced at the clock at the bottom of her computer screen. It was not quite five o’clock; McCarthy had cut short his trip and was due back within another two hours. “I’ll bring it up with him.”

“Actually, Corrine, I think I should be the one who talks to him about it. Ferguson works for me, and I’d rather be the one making the recommendation.”

“Sure,” said Corrine. Then she realized why he wanted to do it. “What are you going to tell him?”

“I’m afraid my recommendation at the moment would have to be…” Parnelles paused. “I would have to say we should not proceed.”

~ * ~

3

ABOARD THE USS
PELELIU,
IN THE YELLOW SEA

Colonel Van Buren’s voice crackled in Rankin’s headset, barely emerging from the static. It was one of the worst connections Rankin could ever remember.

“We have a location,” said Van Buren. “A definite location.”

“Hot shit,” said Rankin.

“It’s Cache Zed. You have your map?”

Rankin unfolded the map across the console in the
Peleliu’s
secure communications center, studying it as Van Buren ran down the situation in North Korea. Several divisions were now poised along the DMZ, with additional units ringing the capital. The coastal highway was a major north-south route, and Ferguson had already reported troop movements along it.

“So we’ll have to plan accordingly. I’ll get with the ship’s captain,” added Slott, “but from my calculations it should take the ship roughly three hours to get into position to launch. We want to time the mission so that you’re crossing land well after nightfall.”

“Long time for him to wait,” said Rankin. “We could launch now, use some of the marine helos instead of ours. They’ll get us there and back with plenty of gas to spare.”

“No. Washington gets final say on this,” said Slott. “You don’t step off until I hear from them.”

“Say, Colonel—”

“It’s not my decision, Skip. He has a good hiding place. Ferg told Corrine and Slott he was fine.”

“He’d always say that.”

The funny thing was, Rankin couldn’t stand Ferguson, didn’t like him at all. But Rankin felt as strongly about rescuing him as he would have about his own brother.

Whom, come to think of it, he also couldn’t stand.

“I have an MC-130 in the air ready for an emergency mission,” said Van Buren. “They can be over the site within an hour. Less. If the word comes, we’ll have the teams on the MC-130 drop in, then you go in and pick them up. Set that up with the Marines.”

Rankin grunted. He knew it was a plan that would never be implemented, the kind that sounded good in theory but didn’t work in real life. An hour would be forever on the ground. By the time Ferguson called for help, he’d be dead.

“What was that, Stephen?” asked Van Buren.

“I got it. Backup plan.”

“We’ll get him. I’ll be aboard the MC-17 before nightfall. I’ll check with you.”

“Got it.”

“We will get him back.”

“If Washington approves.”

“If Washington approves, yes.”

Rankin’s noncom training kicked in, and he let the colonel have the last word.

~ * ~

4

THE HART SENATE OFFICE BUILDING,

WASHINGTON, D.C.

“Harry Mangjeol is on the phone, Senator. He says it’s urgent, and he won’t talk to anyone but you.”

Tewilliger looked over at his legislative assistant, who’d stuck his head in the door. The senator really didn’t feel like talking to Mangjeol, who would probably ask why he had given the press a “no comment” when asked about the fate of the disarmament treaty when news of the troop movements broke. He’d done it because this was the time to be subtle, to maneuver behind the scenes while the president sweated in front of the cameras. As a rule, constituents didn’t understand that.