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  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Wednesday, 7:00 A.M., the Diamond Mountains

  The 7.65 X 17mm Browning, officially known as the Type 64, was a North Korean-made handgun. It was more or less a copy of the Belgian Fabrique Nationale Browning Mle. 1900 pistol, but what appealed to Colonel Sun, and why he had asked Colonel Oko to bring that weapon specifically, is that it was manufactured in a silenced version.

  Bent over the backseat of the jeep, Sun's orderly handed the Colonel the 64 and kept one for himself. Sun had already checked to see that it was loaded when they left the beach. He trusted Colonel Oko only so far. Their fathers had served together in a unified Korea, fighting the Japanese, and they had played with each other as boys. But while any man who would allow his own soldiers to be killed for the furtherance of a cause was to be admired, he was never to be fully trusted.

  And what am I doing that's any different? Sun asked himself. The soldiers who were working with him and Major Lee were all volunteers, but what of the thousands, perhaps tens of thousands who would die when war broke out? They weren't volunteers.

  Yet, what they were doing must be done. He had known that since 1989, when he crystallized his thoughts and published an anonymous pamphlet called The South Is Korea. It enraged intellectuals and pro-unification activists, which told him he was on the right track. In the booklet, not only did he maintain that eventual reunification would be a cultural and economic disaster, it would destroy the lives and careers and political aspirations of officers on both sides of the border. That alone would create chaos, for soldiers like Oko would not take a mustering out and token post with grace and gratitude. He'd stage a coup that would plunge the peninsula into a war greater and more deadly than the relatively small conflagration they were planning. Besides, incontrovertible separation would prevent repeats of brutal confrontations like the 1994 riots in Seoul, where over seven thousand troops clashed with ten thousand pro-unification supporters and more than two hundred people were injured. Those protests would only grow worse as the U.S. continued its efforts to help the North replace its old graphite-moderated nuclear reactors. New nuclear reactors would decrease the amount of plutonium and atomic bombs the North could produce, thus making them more responsive to a mutual defense pact with the South.

  In the long run, the course of action he and his cohorts were planning was preferable. And if the President of the United States insisted on meddling, on forcing reunification on the South, then he and his allies would find any victory to be a pyrrhic one.

  It was getting late. Time to move. Sun and Kong cupped their left hands at their sides, the pistols cradled in them, barrel up, the silencer extension reaching nearly to their elbow. They walked through the darkness toward Ki-Soo's tent. They passed a sentry who was patrolling the area, a man with medals, a big scar across his forehead, and a sinister bearing. The man saluted with zest.

  The tent flap was unfastened and the Colonel entered.

  Sun did not hesitate, though he was not without regrets. He had read Ki-Soo's record and had a grudging respect for the man. His father was a Japanese soldier and his mother had been a comfort girl during the Second World War. Ki-Soo had fought hard to overcome the stigma associated with his birth, obtaining a degree in communications and then joining the military, where he rose quickly. It was unfortunate that he would die at best, be dishonored at worst. But he had a wife and a daughter, and the Colonel hoped he would be reasonable.

  Sun's orderly went to the holster hanging from the chair by Ki-Soo's desk and collected the TT33 Tokarev pistol. He tucked it in the back of his belt as Sun himself got down on one knee beside Ki Soo's cot and put his free hand beside the Colonel's right ear, the barrel of the gun to his left ear.

  Ki-Soo awoke with a start; Sun pushed the man's head against the barrel and held it there.

  "Don't move, Colonel."

  Ki-Soo jerked his head and tried to rise, but Sun held it firm.

  "I said don't move."

  He squinted into the darkness. "Sun?"

  "Yes. Listen carefully, Colonel—"

  "I don't understand—"

  Ki-Soo tried to sit, then stopped as Sun pushed the gun harder.

  "Colonel, I haven't time for this. I need your help."

  "For what?"

  "I want the code to change the launch coordinates of the Nodongs."

  "But your orders! They said nothing about—"

  "These are new orders, Colonel. Without your help, this will be difficult. With your help, this will be easier and you live. Your choice?"

  "I want to know who you're with."

  "Your choice, Colonel?"

  "I won't turn the missiles without knowing where!"

  Sun stood, the gun still pointed at Ki-Soo's head. He is doing what a good officer should do, he thought. Let him have that much.

  "They'll be aimed nowhere in this country, Colonel. That's all I'll tell you."

  Ki-Soo looked from Sun to his aide. "Who are you with?"

  Sun's arm shifted and there was a pop followed by the hiss of released gas as the silenced pistol discharged. Ki-Soo howled as his left hand was pushed into the cot. His right hand flew over, clutching the bloody wound.

  After a moment, they heard hurried footsteps outside. Sun saw a flashlight approaching from a nearby tent. "Colonel, are you all right?"

  Kong stepped beside the flap, the Tokarev and his own 17mm pistol both pointing toward it.

  The Colonel moved his arm so the gun was once again pointing at Ki-Soo's head. "Tell your orderly that everything is fine."

  Fighting back the pain, Ki-Soo said, "I–I stubbed my toe."

  "Do you need to find something, sir? I have a flashlight."

  "No! Thank you, I'm fine."

  "Yes, sir."

  The orderly turned and went back to his tent.

  Sun glared down at the officer. "Kong, tear off a piece of the bedsheet and wrap his hand."

  "Stay away!" Ki-Soo hissed. He pulled off his pillowcase and pushed it against his hand.

  Sun gave him a moment, then said, "My next shot will be higher. Now, Colonel, the code."

  Ki-Soo was struggling to stay composed. "Five-one-four-zero in the bottoni row lets you get into the system. Zero-zero-zero-zero in the middle row erases the coordinates and allows you to change them. Once you've done that, any code you pick for the bottom row will lock the coordinates in."

  The coordinates. That was something of a joke in the South. The American-built systems were operated by built-in topographic maps and photographic images provided by aerial or satellite surveillance. These missiles were able to find a particular jeep in a busy camp and could be dropped in the lap of any of the passengers. Conversely, the Nodongs could be aimed in 360 directions, and the elevation was selected by how many miles away the target was. Targeting specific city blocks was virtually impossible.

  But Sun didn't need to hit a specific block. He just needed a particular city, and anywhere in it would be fine.

  "What time do the men in the hills change shifts?" Sun asked.

  "They'll be relieved at eight."

  "Will the officer in charge report to you?"

  Ki-Soo nodded.

  Sun said, "I'm leaving Kong with you. The flap is to remain closed, and you'll receive no one. If you do anything but what you're told, you'll die. We won't be here long, and when we're finished your camp will be returned to you."

  Ki-Soo winced as he used the thumb of his right hand to press the pillowcase into the wound. "I'll be disgraced."

  "You have a family," Sun said. "You were right to think of them." He turned to leave the tent.

  "The missiles are aimed at Seoul. What target can be more important?"

  Sun said nothing. Very soon, Ki-Soo and the rest of the world would know.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Wednesday, 7:10 A.M., Osaka

  "General Rodgers, I thought the pilot was flying us into some warm sunshine!"

  Even over the roar of the engines,
Lt. Col. Squires along with the rest of the Striker team could hear the slashing rain as they crossed Ise Bay on their approach to Osaka. Rodgers was always fascinated and impressed by imbalances of that sort, like hearing a harp in the midst of an orchestra. In a way, it was similar to the philosophy behind the formation of the Striker unit. From David and Goliath to the American Revolution, size did not always mean dominance. Playwright Peter Barnes had once written about a puny weed that split the walk, and that image— not just the Andrew Jacksons and Joshua Chamberlains and Teddy Roosevelts of history— had kept Rodgers going in some of his darkest days. He'd even had his sister stitch the design onto his duffel bag, so he'd always be reminded of the image.

  Private Puckett broke into Rodgers's reverie with a salute and a snappy "Sir!"

  Rodgers removed his earplugs. "What's the word, Private Puckett?"

  "Sir, Major General Campbell says he has a C-9A jet waiting to fly us over."

  "Leave it to the army," Squires said. "We get an unarmed Nightingale to fly over North Korea."

  "I'd rather have a nice, snug Black Hawk myself," Rodgers said, "but we've got a problem with range. Thanks, Private."

  "You're welcome, sir."

  Squires grinned as Puckett returned to his seat. "Johnny Puckett's a real good man, sir. Says his daddy used to have a Ham radio setup in his room when he was a baby— made him a mobile out of old knobs."

  "There's something to be said for that. Like in the old days, when people learned one craft and became real good at it."

  "True, sir. Only if you don't get quite good enough at it, like my daddy trying to be a soccer player, you're screwed."

  "Are you?"

  "Seems so to me."

  "He passed that drive and ambition on to you, didn't he? King Arthur couldn't search for the Holy Grail himself. Moses wasn't permitted to cross the River Jordan. But they inspired others to do those things."

  Squires cocked his head. "You make me feel guilty about not writing home."

  "You can send him a postcard from Osaka when we head back."

  Rodgers felt the plane bank to the southwest. Head back. The words always caused his throat to tighten up. You never knew if you would come back; you just assumed it. But there were so many times that didn't happen, and even experienced soldiers were caught off-guard by that realization. The words of Tennyson came back to haunt him, as they often did:

  Home they brought her warrior dead. She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry: All her maidens, watching said, "She must weep or she will die."

  The transport landed, and as Captain Harryhausen complained about the weather, the Striker warriors rushed out to the waiting aircraft. They were in and airborne four minutes after the door of the C-141 had been opened.

  The sleek, narrow Military Airlift Command jet rose rapidly in the driving rain and headed northwest. The men were sitting as before, in benches along the sides, but the mood now was entirely different. Those who had slept or played cards or read on the trip to Osaka were now electrified. They were checking gear, giving each other pep talks, and a few were praying. Private Bass Moore was in charge of the parachute rigging, and he checked the lines as the jet flew in low over the Sea of Japan, bucking the heavy winds and thinning sheets of rain.

  An officer from Seoul was onboard, reviewing the exit strategy with Squires. There would be a Sikorsky S-70 Black Hawk waiting to come and get them: the chopper could be over the DMZ and into the Diamond Mountains in a matter of minutes. More importantly, the eleven-sealer had a pair of M-60 side-firing machine guns to help ensure that they'd get out again.

  With just twenty minutes until drop time, Rodgers called Puckett over and asked him to raise Hood.

  The Director was edgier than Rodgers had ever remembered hearing him, and it was refreshing.

  "Mike, it's beginning to look like you're going to be in the thick of it."

  "What happened?"

  "The President doesn't buy it, but we're convinced that a South Korean team is behind all this, and we've also learned that a pilot took two men from a ferry in the Sea of Japan. Guy was so nervous he cracked up his plane on landing and spilled his guts to the sea patrol. He said he took the men to Kosong."

  "Kosong? That's just a three-pointer from the Nodongs."

  "Exactly. And there were two bodies on the ferry. The dead men were carrying gambling money from Japan to North Korea. Tens of thousands of dollars."

  "That's decent bribe money up North. Most of those bastards would sell their kids for a grand."

  "That's what Bob Herbert says. It's a big leap of faith to assume that someone from the South is planning to use that money to get control of the Nodong site, but we can't afford to overlook the possibility."

  "Which means we've got to get in there and find out for sure."

  "Right. I'm sorry, Mike."

  "Don't be. This is what we signed on for. To paraphrase George Chapman, being threatened is what turns us into lions."

  "Sure. And like Kirk Douglas said in Champion, 'Ours is like any other business, only here the blood shows.' Take care of yourself, and tell Charlie and the boys to do the same."

  "Ten minutes!" Squires called back.

  "That's it, Paul," Rodgers said. "I'll radio you when we have something. And if it's any consolation, I'd rather be dodging bullets than the press on this one. Good luck to you too."

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  Wednesday, 7:20 A.M., the DMZ

  General Schneider forgot his dream the instant his orderly entered. All he remembered was that he was on skis somewhere and liking it very much. Reality, and the dry night air, always brought him back with an unpleasant jolt.

  "Sir, there's a phone call from Washington."

  "The President?" he said.

  "No, sir. Not that Washington. A Mr. Bob Herbert from Op-Center."

  Schneider muttered an oath. "They probably want me to straitjacket poor Donald." Sliding into his slippers, the General went to his desk. With an air of relief, he inserted himself in the swivel chair and picked up the phone. "General Schneider."

  "General, this is Bob Herbert, Intelligence Officer at Op-Center."

  "I've heard of you. Lebanon?"

  "Yes. That's quite a memory you have."

  "Bob, I never forget when we do something stupid. Goddamn Embassy had a 'kick me' sign on it for terrorists. No heavy barricades out front, nothing to stop a bomber bent on driving a truck to Allah's doorstep." He leaned back in the chair and raised his eyelids to stretch the sleep from them. "But enough about old mistakes. You're calling to stop a new one from being made."

  "I hope so," said Herbert.

  "Yeah, I don't know what the hell got into the man. Well, that's not true. He lost his wife yesterday. Donald's a good man. He's just not thinking clearly."

  "Clear enough to go over there with official instructions, I hope."

  Schneider shot forward in the seat. "Hold on! You're telling me you're sanctioning this idiotic little conference of his?"

  "Director Hood has asked him to relay a message. That we believe a team of South Koreans masquerading as North Koreans are behind the blast and that it may be the first of several terrorist acts designed to throw us into war."

  "Our own side?" Schneider sat still as an oak. "Dammit, you're sure?"

  "The pieces are coming together," Herbert said. "We think a Major Kim Lee is behind it."

  "Lee? I've met him. Stony-faced bastard, superpatriot. I liked him."

  "He seems to have put together a small team," Herbert said, "and he appears to be in your area now— with four quarter-drums of poison gas."

  "I'll contact General Norbom, send out a search and destroy squad to find him."

  "That's not all. Some of his men may be trying to gain control of a mobile Nodong site in the east."

  "Ambitious," said Schneider. "You sure you want Donald to tell Hong-koo all this? They'll have it on all the wire services before the last word's out of his mouth."

  "We know."


  "They'll also shoot Lee's people on sight," Schneider said. "Have you thought about what'll happen when word gets out that the U.S. was responsible for the death of South Koreans? Seoul will explode. It'll be like goddamn Saigon."

  "Hood knows about that too," Herbert said. "He's preparing something with our Press Officer."

  "A double funeral would be my recommendation. You guys may actually be creating some kind of constitutional crisis by effectively obstructing the powers of the Oval Office to make war."

  "Like I said," Herbert replied, "the boss knows."

  "Well, Bob, I'll relay the message. And here's one for Mr. Hood. His tank may not be full in the brains department, but I haven't seen stones like his since Ollie North."

  "Thanks," Herbert said. "I'm sure he'll understand that was a compliment."

  * * *

  Gregory awoke from his short sleep feeling remarkably refreshed and clearheaded.

  Sitting up on the scrubby flats, he looked over at the brightly lighted border. How fitting it was that hate and suspicion should cause both sides to burn their fires. Distrust always leaves people in the dark.

  He took out his pipe and filled it with the last of his Balkan Sobranie tobacco. After lighting it, he held the match to look at his watch.

  It was nearly time.

  He puffed slowly and reflected about the smoke, about the Balkans and how a single incident there, the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand, triggered the First World War. Would a single event here trigger a Third World War? It was conceivable. There was more than tension in the air; there was rampant insanity. Preserving ego with lives, painting images in blood. What is wrong with us?

  From behind, headlights found the former diplomat. Donald turned and shielded his eyes as a jeep approached.

  "Communing with the stars?" General Schneider said, climbing from the passenger's side. He walked over, an imposing silhouette.

  "No, General. With my muse."

  "You should have told me where you were going. If you didn't light up, we'd be searching till daylight."