Red Phoenix Burning (22 page)

Kary, comparing the farmer’s map with the landscape, announced, “Here.” They turned off a two-lane macadam road onto gravel. The restaurant, if that’s what it was, sat alone a hundred meters off the main road, surrounded by cultivated fields. Most held ripening crops, although more than a few were fallow. It was a low, one-story building, but large enough, with thankfully plenty of space for the three trucks to park.

It also seemed to be abandoned. There were no other vehicles nearby, nobody outside or visible through the windows, and no smoke coming from the kitchen’s chimney in the back. Painted a faded yellow, the sign in Hangul under the obligatory photo of the Supreme Leader simply read “Good Food.”

Picking up a small medical bag, Kary said, “I’ll check on my patients while you see if anyone’s home.”

Cho put a hand on her arm and asked, “Why don’t you come with me? That farmer kept glancing at you while he dickered with me. A beautiful, exotic American woman might help with the negotiations.”

Kary nodded, but was a little flustered. She hadn’t paid any attention to her appearance in a long time. And Cho was smiling as he said it. Was he joking? What if he wasn’t?

As the two got out of the truck, others hopped out from the other two cabs and the back. Moon Su-bin and her cousin Ja Joon-ho were in the second truck, and Kary told them to keep everyone close while they looked for gas.

A thick man in his mid-forties stepped out of the front door and looked over the group. “We’re closed,” he said harshly.

Cho nodded his understanding, but approached and offered him a paper. “I have a note from Do Han-il.”

The man pursed his lips, and took the note Cho offered. He asked, “Is he getting any business at that run-down appliance shop?”

Did he glance in Kary’s direction?
He has to be curious about who I am
, she thought.

“He was a farmer when I talked to him,” Cho answered.

“All right.” The proprietor seemed satisfied. “I might have enough for all three trucks, but it will cost you.”

“I have the money.”

“Let’s see it.”

Cho showed him the corner of a single American twenty-dollar bill. “Let’s see the gasoline,” he responded.

The man stepped back inside, and came out with a twenty-liter plastic jerry can. “One bill, one can.”

“We need six cans. Two bills.”

“Five is all I have. Four bills.” He definitely looked in her direction. Kary wasn’t thrilled at being a negotiating tool, but it was for a good cause. And she was glad Cho was handling the negotiations. She’d learned how to dicker well enough, but lacked a lifetime of experience.

“We’ll take them all. Two bills.”

The gasoline dealer remarked, “Why do I get the idea you only have two bills?”

“Forty US dollars is going to be worth a lot, unless you’ve got South Korean won,” Cho countered. “Yuan notes will be worthless after the South Korean army gets here.” He pointed south. “They’ll be coming up that road tomorrow or the next day.”

The man shrugged. “Then why not just wait?”

“We’ve got injured and sick people,” Cho explained. “We can’t wait.”

“And the Southern army is really coming?”

Cho took out his satphone and called up pictures and maps that showed the progress of the ROK forces.

“All right, I’m convinced. Four cans for your two bills, and that’s my final offer.”

They were on their way twenty minutes later. Grateful for the gasoline, nobody had asked about food. As Cho started their truck, Kary leaned over and tapped the gas gauge, hoping it was stuck. It was up from near empty, but read just a little over half full. “It should be enough,” she said hopefully.

“It has to be,” Cho answered, “since I’m now out of both Chinese and American currency.”

“I’ll repay you,” Kary assured him.

He waved it off. “Don’t be silly. It was the Russians’ money, anyway.” After a short pause, Cho asked, “Have you given any more thought to calling your father?”

Kary shrugged, hoping Cho would let the question pass, but he pressed his point. “You said he was a very powerful man in the American government.”

“Yes,” she answered simply, but did not elaborate. She knew where the national security advisor fit into the US government, but she’d remained willfully ignorant of his exact duties. After a pause, she added, “He’s retired now, anyway. He’s head of a foundation somewhere.”

Cho sighed, and she could hear his frustration. They’d driven through the night, talking to keep each other awake. Cho had kept his promise. She’d asked her questions about who Cho Ho-jin really was, and after getting over her surprise, learned about his youth and the reasons for spying for the Russians.

That had led to stories about her growing up with a famous father, who’d been gone too much and whose business seemed to be imposing American power on the rest of the world.

Her generation had grown up with armed conflicts on the television news every night, and she hated the images of shattered families and wounded innocents. Unlike many around her, the people suffering on the screen were never foreign or strange to her. They needed her help, and at the earliest possible age, she’d joined Christian Friends, already experienced from work she’d done with refugees during summer breaks from college.

Driving at night, with no light but the dashboard and headlights in front of them, it had been easy to talk, to tell Cho about things she hadn’t spoken of in years, and later of things she barely admitted to herself. Cho had also been open with her, glad to have someone to trust after many years of being more than just alone.

“When was the last time you spoke with your father?” Cho asked in a noncommittal tone.

“A few months ago. Early June, on his birthday.”

“I wish I could do that. I don’t have many memories of my father. Like yours, his duties kept him away from us, but I remember my mother being very happy when he was home, and his plans for me. He never returned from the war. Once it was clear the North had lost, he was simply arrested and shot as a traitor. There’s no grave that we know of. He’s lost to us forever.”

Kary could feel the weight of his arguments, but procrastinated. “He’s been out of the government for twenty years. And I’ve always been the one pushing him away. I’d thought about reconciling with him when I went home for my next visit, but I can’t just phone him up and say, ‘Hi, I need your help.’”

Cho shrugged. “Maybe it’s different in America, but in Korea, you go to family first. Families fight with each other, and do foolish things, but they are still family. And the help isn’t for you personally.”

His final point made her reluctance look selfish.
Swallow your pride, girl
.

By now she had learned how to operate Cho’s phone properly, and she dialed her dad’s number in Indiana. It was late there, but her father often stayed up into the small hours.

It only rang twice. He was awake. “Blake Fowler here.” His tone was cautious. She didn’t know what his caller ID said, but it would not be a familiar number.

“Dad? It’s Kary.”

“Kary? Thank God. Where are you? Are you safe?”

“I’m still in North Korea, but we’ve left the mission and we’re heading south. I’ve got some injured people with me and we hope to reach the South Korean army later today.”

“But you’re not hurt?” he said hopefully.

“No, Dad, I’m fine, but we have patients with us who were gassed. A friend thinks it was something called ‘sarin.’” She looked over to Cho, who did not speak English, but confirmed her pronunciation. “Somebody used a lot of it in the fighting in Pyongyang. There are so many dead, Dad.”

“I’d heard that, but we still don’t have a clear picture of what went on in the capital. Would you be willing to describe what you saw to someone I know?”

Irritation flared inside her. All he could see was the big picture. “Dad, I’ve got three trucks full of injured and wounded, who haven’t eaten anything since yesterday morning . . .” She felt a hand on her shoulder, and Cho’s gentle pressure calmed her, reminding her of why she was calling. He didn’t pat it or try to soothe her. She might have lashed out at him if he’d done anything like that.

“Dad, I’m sorry. I’m tired and scared, and some of my patients might not last the day.” She paused, and then added, “And yes, I’ll talk to anyone you want. The world should know what’s happening there.”

“And I’ll talk to some friends I have in Korea. Where are you, exactly?”

She told him, using the phone’s map, where she and their ragged convoy were and their planned route. “The South Korean army is somewhere ahead of us. We don’t know about any Northern soldiers.”

“I’ll tell the ROK government where you are and that you need urgent medical assistance. At a minimum, I can make sure they know you’re not an enemy unit. With a little luck, you will be met. And Kary, anything you can tell us about what happened in Pyongyang will be a huge help to everyone, not just in the US, but in Korea as well. There haven’t been a lot of eyewitnesses.” He sounded very grateful that she was one of them.

“Just tell anyone you can to send everything they can.”

“All right, Kary, let me hang up and start making some phone calls. Stay safe, and can you please call me later today, to let me know how you are?”

“I promise, Dad, I’ll call later today.” Suddenly, she was reluctant to end the call. “Dad, I’m so sorry I haven’t called before. If you’re mad at me, I’ll understand.”

“I won’t deny I’ve been worried, but all I am right now is very, very happy. Let me make these phone calls and get things moving. I love you, Kary.”

“I love you too, Dad. I’ll call you soon.”

She sat quietly, crying again, and patted Cho’s arm in thanks.

Chapter 11 - Exodus

26 August 2015, 1300 local time

Operation Backstop Headquarters, Munsan Refugee Camp

Outside Dongducheon, South Korea

They talked while they ate, her first decent meal in a day and a half, according to what he’d been told. Wearing a plain blouse and skirt, with her hair tied back, she looked tired, but spoke forcefully. “Cho Ho-jin should be released immediately. He has been detained without charges.” If she was enjoying the food, she didn’t say so.

“Miss Fowler, my deputy, Lieutenant Colonel Shin, says that Cho is on their intelligence watch list. Did you know he’s the son of the DPRK general who led their army in the last war? Shin’s recommendation was that Cho be turned over to their intelligence people until his status is resolved.”

“Colonel Little, I can ‘resolve his status’ right now.” She repeated the phrase as if it was as stupid as it was vague. “I know all about his father, who was shot for losing the war, by the way. Cho hated the Kim regime and worked as a spy for the Russians. Here.” She rummaged in her bag and removed an electronic device, handing it to the colonel.

Kevin, more than a little surprised, and absorbing the new information, studied what looked like a top-quality satellite smartphone.

Kary explained, “Cho gave it to me just before we arrived. He knew he would be searched if he was arrested, and the phone would have been taken from him. We used it to find out about the South Korean army’s advance, and to navigate our way here, and to call my father. According to Cho, it uses special encryption and is hard to track.”

“Why would a Russian spy help you?” Kevin asked.

“He’s not a spy anymore,” Kary asserted. “He quit after the Russians sent him on a suicide mission into Pyongyang.” The colonel did not look convinced, and she explained. “The Kim regime executed his father and seized his family’s possessions. His mother died penniless while he was still a child, and he had to live on the street until the Russians recruited him. He doesn’t love the Russians any more than the Kims, but they gave him the chance to strike back at the people who’d hurt his family. But Kim is gone now, so there’s no reason for him to continue.”

“Miss Fowler, people don’t just ‘quit’—”

“He saved a woman’s life after she was severely wounded, by bringing her to my clinic. That’s how we met. He was wounded himself.”

“That’s laudable, but the Russians —”

Adding another bargaining chip, she said, “He was the one who recognized the nerve gas attack, and told me the best way to treat the victims.”

“The South Korean security —”

“He was the one who got us out of Sinan before we were caught up in the fighting, and he was the one who convinced me to call my father. And I know my father wants me to report what I know about the gas attack. What I know, I learned from Mr. Cho. He knows much more than I do, and I doubt if he’ll want to talk while under arrest.” That was her final, and most valuable chip.

They’d eaten lunch in the colonel’s “conference room,” a tent with screened sides that provided shade and a little privacy, away from the busy headquarters tent. While staff cleared away their trays, Kevin used the time to consider her request.

Kevin had heard of Kary Fowler even before she’d arrived, from a message coming down through General Fascione’s headquarters, but originating much higher up the chain. It warned of gas victims arriving in a three-truck convoy and their desperate need for medical attention.

They’d been spotted by ROK scouts north of Kaesong and given an MP escort straight to the Munsan camp. Everyone in the convoy who required treatment was hospitalized immediately.

That’s where he had found Kary Fowler, in the hospital, a small but forceful woman in her mid-thirties, discussing her patients with the medical staff. She’d refused to speak with the colonel until she was satisfied with her patients’ care, and then had immediately turned to Kevin and demanded her companion Cho’s release.

She was an extraordinary woman. It wasn’t the largest single group of refugees that had arrived, but it was large enough, with some seriously injured, and she hadn’t lost anyone. And there were gas victims. And a spy. Or an ex-spy?

“Colonel, can you help me, or is there someone else I should be talking to? I’m grateful for lunch, but if they move Cho . . .”

Kevin realized he had been sitting silently for too long. “Miss Fowler, I’ll take your request up the chain of command, but the best I think we can do is get him transferred to our custody, here in the camp. Is that satisfactory?”

She answered “Yes!” gratefully, almost joyously, and watched while he contacted Shin and gave the necessary orders. “I’ve already told Eighth Army intelligence about your arrival. Please make sure Mr. Cho is willing to share what he’s seen in Pyongyang. We’re interviewing anyone who’s been near the capital, but I suspect his account will be especially valuable.”

“Will they bring him here?” she asked.

“Yes. He can stay here at Munsan, but I’ll need someone to monitor him on a frequent basis. I could place him in your custody, but that could make your return to the US complicated.”

“What return? I’m not going anywhere. Those are my patients, and . . .”

“I think the doctors can properly supervise their care.”

“These people won’t trust the doctors. They won’t even understand that they’re getting proper care. They’ve never had it before.”

That got Kevin’s attention. The senior medical officer had briefed him on “cultural differences” between the staff and the refugees, and had already mentioned the same issue.

Fowler continued, “You wouldn’t believe the state of public health in the North. One of the first things I had to do was organize classes in basic health practices and nutrition. None of them have been vaccinated—”

“Miss Fowler, would you like a job?” interrupted Little.

Surprised, she remained silent for half a moment, and gave the colonel a look that said that as far as she was concerned, the jury was still out. “What kind of a job?” she asked cautiously.

“My assistant. Ombudsman for the refugees. Health educator. I’ll give you a dozen blank badges and you can make up a new title every day. I need help, Miss Fowler, if I want to do these people any good. You know what needs to be done, and you speak fluent Korean.”

“I sound like a Northerner,” she complained.

“All the better. The refugees will listen to you, and the Southerners will listen because you’re helping their new countrymen. You can start by organizing those health classes you talked about. We’ve got six camps right—”

“Six!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, six, and all are badly overcrowded. Three new camps are being set up, and they should begin taking some of our overflow in a few days, as well as new arrivals.”

Fowler sat back in her chair, looking like she’d been poleaxed. “You really do need help,” she said.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ I’ll get you quarters with the female officers and some clean fatigues . . .”

“No.” She said firmly. “No uniforms.”

“No offense, Miss Fowler . . .”

“Please, call me Kary.”

“Wouldn’t you like a change of clothes?”

She smiled, imagining her bedraggled appearance, but insisted. “You’re right, but no military clothing. I’ll get some scrubs from the hospital.”

“Whatever you want,” Kevin replied cheerfully. “It’s my custom to tour the camp at 1700. Would you like to accompany me?”

26 August 2015

Hwangju Air Base

North Korea

It had been a big operation. Hwangju Air Base housed a regiment of Russian-built MiG-21 Fishbed interceptors. The type first entered Soviet service in 1959, and had been out of the Russian inventory for almost thirty years, but they were still flying in the Korean People’s Air Force.

Or had been, before the air base had been hit hard by the ROK Air Force. The antiaircraft defenses—outdated radars, guns, and missiles—had been ruthlessly flattened before a second wave of attackers used smart bombs on the concrete shelters and open revetments that housed the fighters themselves. The strikers had also destroyed the control tower, the maintenance hangars, the fuel system, and anything else to do with airfield operations.

Hwangju existed to protect another nearby installation, nestled against a low mountain some thirty kilometers to the northeast. Sangwon housed a brigade of the North Korean Strategic Rocket Forces, equipped with Rodong-1 ballistic missiles. They were capable of reaching any part of South Korea, and even parts of Japan.

The sounds of the explosions at the air base were still echoing when Surion helicopters, carrying a full company of SOF troopers, stormed the Sangwon base. Gunships covered them, and fighters orbiting high overhead covered the gunships.

Although the garrison, maintenance, and other parts of the brigade were housed in ordinary structures, the brigade’s reason for existence, its six missile launchers, were sheltered in tunnels that had been driven into the rocky slope. Farther back, in caverns blasted inside the mountain, were the missile magazines, with possibly thirty or more missiles. Some of them might be fitted with nuclear warheads.

The missile base had been hit on the first day of the Southern advance, but only enough to collapse the doors that led to the tunnels, and of course destroy the garrison and its antiaircraft defenses. If the launchers couldn’t leave the tunnels, they were not an immediate danger. And even if the missiles weren’t protected by their rocky stronghold, the South couldn’t risk destroying them until they were sure of what was in there. That’s why Rhee’s men were needed.

Only one ten-man team had landed by helicopter near the base, and had noisily attacked, still causing a fair amount of damage. Meanwhile, the platoon’s three other teams landed some distance away before dawn and, approaching on foot, had come in from the other side, achieving total surprise.

Their targets were the entrances to several smaller tunnels used by the missile brigade’s personnel to enter the tunnel complex. Once inside, the teams would have to fight their way down narrow rock tunnels against an unknown number of defenders, while doing as little damage as possible to the facility. And they had virtually no information on the layout of the chambers beyond the entrances.

In addition to the risks associated with armed defenders in tight spaces, any conventionally armed missiles would have seven-hundred-kilogram explosive warheads, and all the missiles were fueled with two corrosive chemicals: red fuming nitric acid and hydrazine. Since the missiles were not filled with fuel until just before launch, large quantities of those deadly chemicals had to be stored somewhere inside.

Every officer in the Ghost Brigade had begged to be given the assignment. General Kwon had personally forbidden Rhee from leading the attack. The colonel satisfied himself with riding in his command helicopter, coordinating with the air force units supporting the attack, while Captain Ji, one of his best company commanders, ran the actual assault. Rhee’s other job was to keep General Kwon and the rest of the brass happy with situation reports. Captain Ji had other things to do.

Rhee’s men quickly secured the parts of Sangwon that were outside the mountain. His helicopter landed, along with more machines carrying a reserve infantry company. They would gather prisoners and search the smoking ruins for anything of intelligence value. He could expect no word from Ji’s force while they were deep inside the mountain. The rock blocked all radio communications from inside.

After fifteen minutes had passed with no word from inside the mountain, Rhee sent the rest of his SOF troopers inside as reinforcements, and prevented himself from worrying by supervising the eager but inexperienced reserve company commander.

After another ten minutes, a runner emerged and reported, “All secure, sir. Captain Ji reports no sign of special weapons.”

Shaking his head, Rhee reported to Kwon, then ordered, “Take me to Captain Ji.”

The personnel access into the mountain was two meters wide, with armored doors that were scarred where Ji’s men had burned the locks away. Rhee followed the hurrying trooper down a pale green tunnel deep into the rock. Florescent fixtures provided enough illumination, but also highlighted a layer of haze near the ceiling.

It stung Rhee’s eyes, and he could taste gun smoke and the acrid tang of flash-bang grenades. Ji’s men had gone in with a triple load of flash-bangs, and tactics for clearing a confined area devoid of friendlies encouraged their use.

He could have traced Ji’s progress by the trail he’d left. Scorch marks, bullet scars, and KPA corpses punctuated the tunnels, and they passed several doors and passages leading in other directions, labeled but still mysterious and still a little threatening. Master Sergeant Oh had returned to his own team, and Rhee missed having someone watching his back.

It took almost ten minutes to reach Ji, who was in a very wide, industrial-looking tunnel with tracks running along the center of the floor. Ji saluted when Rhee appeared. “All parts of the facility secured. Nine wounded, two seriously.”

Nearly thirty percent wounded
, Rhee thought.
A hard fight
. Rhee returned the salute, and responded, “But no WMDs?”

Captain Ji motioned to a sergeant. “Here’s my specialist.”

The sergeant came to attention. “Sergeant Sin Soo-ro, Colonel.” He pointed behind him to a large door in the tunnel side. It was open, with rails from the main tunnel curving inside. “Our first count is thirteen missiles.” He pointed to the opposite side of the tunnel and another open door. “The warheads are stored there, and we count nine. Their markings and configuration are consistent with conventional high explosives. No sign of chemical warheads or nuclear devices.”

Rhee took the time to look into both storage areas. The missile magazine was a vast space, especially considering it had been painfully hollowed out at enormous cost. It could hold twice as many missiles as they’d found. Steel supports networked the walls and ceiling. A crane system overhead allowed the missiles to be moved. Even without their warheads, and without fuel, they still weighed several tons and were fourteen meters long.