The Korean Intercept (31 page)

Time again seemed to stop, suspended.

Cho lowered his rifle. "And we just want to be left alone to be farmers."

"Return to your lives," said Bol. "Since central headquarters in Pyongyang knows nothing of what Colonel Sung had undertaken here, I will be a hero of the People's Army when I step forward to report everything that I know."

Toi nodded, but her eyes were doubtful. "What of Colonel Sung's death? Who will be made to answer?"

"The shuttle crew," said Ann Chong. "They set an explosive charge to counteract tampering. The colonel was undone by his own design. The sergeant's superiors in Pyongyang will accept the truth. At present, the North Korean government has far too much to concern itself with than one rogue field commander. Colonel Sung has lost relevance in death." The old man's expression grew reflective. "As do we all, I suspect."

Cho emitted a strange snort that might have been a laugh. "Father-in-law, I see you with new eyes and hear you with new ears. You have been right all along, since this began. In the future, sir, I will heed your wisdom." He held his rifle in one hand, and slipped his other arm around Toi's waist. "A man's first loyalty must be to wife and family."

"It would be best," Ann nodded, "if we would listen to each other."

Cho indicated Bol with his rifle. "As for you, soldier, be gone! Consider this the luckiest day of your life. Go."

Bol whirled and fled, not pausing to retrieve his rifle. He had his pistol, in case he needed to defend himself. As he ran into the night, he gave thought to not returning to the airfield and contacting Pyongyang. He thought about going home.

The small fires near the blast site had been extinguished by the sharp mountain wind. There was nearly complete darkness. He vanished from sight.

Toi's expression was doubtful. "Can we trust him? Our lives are in his hands."

"Our lives are in our hands," said Cho. He turned to Ahn with the demeanor of a student addressing his sensei. "Is that not so, father-in-law?"

Ahn again rested his hand on the young man's shoulder. "You showed great bravery this night, Cho, and now you exhibit wisdom. Yes, you and Toi will now return to the village. Return to your lives."

Toi was frowning. "What about you, Father? Will you return to Mother's grave? Are you sure that is safe? You should return with us."

"There is no place in these mountains that is safe tonight, child, except perhaps, for you, in the safety of your home and your husband's arms. Go now. And be sure not to draw attention to yourselves. You were having a husband-wife quarrel, as far as anyone else is concerned. If you draw attention to yourselves, no matter what that soldier promised, trouble will come."

Cho held his rifle in one hand, and Toi's hand in his other. "You have often asked me to heed the wisdom of your father," he told her. "I now ask you to do the same. Let us be gone from here. We return to the village."

Toi hesitated, then stepped forward to lightly kiss Ahn Chong upon the cheek. They embraced. Clouds blotted out starlight and moonlight, and Ahn lost sight of them as they withdrew.

When the sound of their footfalls had faded into the night, he turned and trudged away in the opposite direction, away from the shuttle. He returned to near Mai's grave, where he retrieved his hidden short-wave radio.

He removed the stainless steel cover, extended the antenna and pressed the buttons that activated the set and automatically synchronized the scrambler. He told himself that he should have done this before. But he had not transmitted anything concerning Chai Bin's location to his CIA control officer because of his concern—his fear—for the safety of his daughter. He was releasing that fear. He had underestimated Toi and her husband. They were showing their best, and so would he. He would save his village from this madness. He began to work the transmitter's code key.

Within a few minutes he had made contact with Fox Dog Alpha.

 

Special Forces Command Center, Yokohama, Japan

 

The heavily secured "commercial site" was buried deep in the city's industrial district. The Japanese authorities feigned ignorance of its existence but secretly approved of and facilitated this American covert ops staging area which had been deemed, at the highest level, as beneficial to Japan's national security.

Galt stood beneath an overhang at the front of the hangar, watching rain pelt the helicopter gunships that were poised on the tarmac for lift-off. The helos' landing lights made the slanting rain look like falling multi-colored diamonds. There was a Blackhawk gun-ship, heavily armed, boasting 5.56mm mini-guns mounted on external turrets. The machine gun protruding from its nose could deliver 20mm cannon shells. The Blackhawk, designed for personnel insertion and extraction, was book-ended by a pair of Apache AH-64s, the most heavily armed, fastest armored aircraft in the world. The Apaches were loaded for bear, each armed with 100-pound missiles, a fully loaded 30mm chain-gun cannon and 70mm rockets. Ground crews had attached 1,700-pound, 230-gallon external fuel tanks to two of the Apaches' left inboard weapons storage areas. To make room for this extra fuel, each aircraft had reduced its number of rockets to nineteen. The wing tank concept had been developed during the first Gulf War. While it raised the gross weight of the aircraft some 1,500 pounds past its combat weight, the up side was that the Apache gained a strike capability in excess of 400 miles.

Set somewhat aside from the others was a third Apache, its pilot visible in his cockpit. This chopper's engine was idling, unlike the others.

Galt wore jungle cammies and combat boots. The 9mm Beretta was again worn in an unconcealed shoulder leather. An M4 carbine, a shortened version of the standard Ml6, was slung over his shoulder. He wore a K-Bar fighting knife sheathed at mid-chest, and a backpack computer for satellite communications. His Night Vision Device goggles, attached to his combat helmet, were in the upflipped, unused position. His face was darkened with camouflage ointment.

Behind him, smells of oil and grease permeated the atmosphere of the spacious hangar. Pilots and members of the special ops team, combat-outfitted, attired in commando black, milled around folding chairs in a corner where a table with topographic maps had been set up.

In this hundred-percent male atmosphere, Galt oddly found himself thinking of saying goodbye to Meiko at the airport, with Sachito present. Meiko had looked so lovely, and so sad. And there was something else. Something elusive. Something on the edge of Galt's consciousness that was trying to call attention to itself. Something he had missed the first time around. He was forging ahead, but he still didn't have the full picture…

General Turtle materialized at a run, approaching the hangar through the veil of rain. He found cover next to Galt, beneath the overhang. His eyes were tight, angry.

"Galt, just how goddamn stupid do I look?"

Galt had been expecting this. "Uh, that sounds like a trick question, sir."

"Did you honestly think that I wouldn't find out that you've been using your White House clout to get that CIA hack, Smathers, to jump through your hoops?"

"Sir—"

"Cork it. Goddamn it! You requisitioned that extra Apache out there on the tarmac for your own personal insertion into North goddamn Korea. Smathers told me that you were sitting next to him at the safe house when his contact in North Korea radioed in with the attack coordinates on Chai. And you had the goddamn brass balls to instruct Smathers to set up a rendezvous point with his man! And you draft a chopper pilot to ferry you in, all of it unauthorized."

"He wasn't drafted, sir. I went into the pilots' team room and asked for a volunteer."

Turtle shrugged off his raincoat. "Jesus on a crutch." He glanced at the squad of Army Rangers, who were outfitted similarly to Galt, gathered at the far end of the hangar, beyond earshot. "I brought them together for the rough stuff, son. You went off-mission to initiate this operation and I put the package together, and part of that deal was that I need you on the outside with a clear overview, helping me to call the shots. I need you right here in Japan to work with me on the big picture while this is going down. You're the last man to stage a maverick strike on a goddamn warlord."

"I'm the only man to do it," said Galt. "I've got to make a preliminary soft probe, General. I can get inside without them knowing I'm inside. I can isolate and protect the crew survivors until the ops force shows."

"Let me tell you something." Tuttle's narrowed eyes burned. "You're talking about risking blowing this whole operation by going wild card on me. You'll only get the wrong people killed, including my men and quite possibly your wife. If Chai Bin catches you, he'll know we're on our way, then he'll really hunker down. Our advantage of surprise would be lost, and he could well execute the surviving crewmembers out of pure maliciousness. No, that is not acceptable. Galt, you are not going in."

"You're making a mistake, General."

Tuttle angrily tossed aside the raincoat. "I've got a briefing to deliver. Now start acting like a soldier and obey orders." He strode away without waiting for a reply.

The special ops squad seated themselves when Tuttle approached a lectern that fronted a map.

Galt wanted to hear the briefing. He took a standing position behind the last row of men.

"The good news first," said Tuttle. He caught Galt's eye, and nodded in approval of Galt giving in to common sense. "The mission is a go. The not-so-good news is the storm." He nodded toward the wind-whipped rain pelting the tarmac outside the hangar. "It's been upgraded to a typhoon."

There was grumbling among the helicopter pilots.

"I know," said Tuttle, "and I don't like it either. The center of the storm is presently north of the Sea of Japan and is coming this way, but its course is not predictable. The target area, this warlord's so-called fortress, should be on the fringe of the storm. Unfortunately. I'm speaking here of the opposite fringe from the one we seem to be on, which means you're likely to encounter extreme turbulence between here and there. As for your penetration of North Korean airspace, you must get in stealthily, without creating a signature. More not-so-good news: the terrain over there is rugged, cloud covered as I say, with high mountains and narrow passes. Expect bad wind currents with sudden downdrafts."

More muttering among those present.

"Belay that," Tuttle growled. And when silence had been restored, he continued, "Our biggest problem is lack of maps. The ones that are available don't have much fine detail. Therefore, the Cobra has been equipped with a Global Positioning System to fix your target position within ten meters. Gentlemen, are there any questions?"

"Uh, yes sir," the team commander said. "What about that extra Apache sitting outside?"

Galt eased about and strode away from the group, toward the front of the hangar. He picked up his pace. He broke into a dead-heat run when he heard Tuttle shout, "Galt!" Galt left the hangar, angling toward the Apache that was set aside from the others, its pilot visible in the cockpit through sweeping sheets of rain. At sight of Galt, the pilot followed his previous instructions and the Apache growled to life, competing with the storm's fury with exhaust fumes and the increasing, whistling rpm's of the rotor blades. Galt pulled himself aboard, into the gunner's position, in the lower front seat. He turned to face Turtle.

The general appeared oblivious to the drenching downpour.

"Dammit to hell, Galt, get your ass out of that chopper this instant." He shouted to be heard above the revving-up turbines and the whistling of the propeller blades. "You're not going anywhere!"

Galt strapped himself in. "I beg to differ, sir. I want this done right, so I'm doing it. I'm the best shot we've got and you know it. I'm going in to set it up for the ops guys from the inside. Nothing else has changed."

"Everything has changed, you lone wolf son of a bitch. An unauthorized insertion into North Korean airspace and taking out one of their bandits is bad enough. I know you, Galt, and I will not stand for some wild-hair, improvised pick-up-and-go operation."

"I know you know me, sir. You know I have trouble taking orders. Ask the president."

"Galt, I can have that ops team over there give chase in their Apaches and they'll vaporize you before you get a mile off-shore. Don't make me do it."

Galt looked over at the team. They were holding back, observing this confrontation from the hangar.

"Sir, I don't think you'd do that." Galt slammed the hatch shut. He leaned forward to tap the shoulder of the pilot, an intense Hispanic kid from Arizona named Morales. "Get us out of here, son." He buckled himself in and grasped the overhead strap to steady himself.

The Apache lifted off into the storm, immediately being buffeted about by slashing wind and rain, like a toy shaken by an irritable child.

Tuttle remained standing where he was, and watched the Apache vanish from his sight into the turbulence of the storm. The wind and rain battered his face.

"Goddamn you, Galt," he said under his breath. "God bless you."

 

North Korea

 

An armored column of Russian-made T-54 tanks was called in from the Provincial Headquarters of the Chinese military at Shenyang. Their course had already been well denoted through the frontier by the previous passage of General Li's column of BTR-40 personnel carriers. The T-54s made good time despite the mountainous terrain and the darkness. In fact, the tanks overtook General Li's convoy one kilometer short of where Li's prisoner, the terrified bandit, claimed they would find Chai Bin's fortress, and the equipment and crewmembers of the
Liberty
.

The prisoner now cringed against the tire of a personnel carrier. His eyes were swollen shut. Several of his teeth were missing. Two of his fingers had been broken. He whimpered like a sick puppy. He had provided prompt and thorough responses to every question posed by his tank commanders.

The trace of exhaust fumes of the recently departed T-54s still lingered on the air, though their clanking sounds had been smothered beyond the folds of the mountains.