A Northern Thunder (22 page)

“Yes, sir, and that may be our best shot.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, sir. We know where he’ll feel comfortable. And, in that, we have an advantage.”

Another Powerpoint slide popped up, this one showing a U.S. immigrations officer in a tie and starched white uniform.

“We did a scan on immigrations after Dr. Walter’s death and ran across Customs Officer Benjamin Jones in Boston,” said Tom. “A member of my team, Agent Susan Safer, noted the death of the Russian professor and cross-referenced it with the death of Dr. Walter at MIT. She then cross-referenced the time and dates with staffing at Logan’s Customs and sent an e-mail to the officers asking for anything unusual. She found Jones.”

“I’m listening.”

“Officer Jones has been at Logan for twenty-two years. He remembered a traveler—a Mr. Chang—traveling from Paris to Boston shortly before Walter’s death.”

“Any luck with the random photographs at Immigration?”

“We got one photo, at a distance, of Chang passing through the Customs hall at Logan.”

“And?” said the director.

“We did a cross-section of immigration records,” said Tom. “Not only is there no Mr. Chang, but this man did not leave from Logan on his return.”

“Okay, I’ve heard enough,” said the director. “Let’s give Tom’s group a higher priority and link them up with CIA and DOD.”

“Yes, sir,” said Creighton.

“And, Tom, I need to know the reason behind all these murders. Do we have an answer yet?”

“No, sir. But I know it’s not random.”

“I agree, but what’s the setup with these guys?”

“I believe I know the answer.” The comment came from the side of the table at the far end—from a thin, bespectacled, older man in a vested brown suit.

“Yes, Doctor?”

Tom leaned over to Creighton. “Who’s that?”

“He’s the science advisor to the director,” Creighton whispered, his hand over his mouth.

“It’s a need-to-know issue.” The science advisor said the words softly but clearly.

“Need to know” was the government’s ultimate trump card. Even those with the highest security clearances might lack access to certain information because they lacked an official “need to know.”

“Okay, Dr. Wilhelm, hold on a minute,” said the director. “Dave, provide ‘need to know’ authorizations for you, me, and Agent Pope.”

Tom’s heart skipped a beat. He was being given access to the most secret information by none other than the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It was like a land grant from the king.

“Sir, are you sure? It might pull Agent Pope into matters he might not want to get into,” said Creighton, surprised the director was so quick to include Tom.

“Yes, but if he’s trying to find this guy, he needs to know what makes sense.” The director had pushed the Bureau to break down walls with other agencies. It didn’t make sense to keep them up in his own house.

“Okay, folks, everyone is excused for a minute. Molly, shut down this room and all portals,” said Creighton.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Creighton.”

The group stood up, and as the final man filed out of the room, the glass partition closed and a curtain slid down from the ceiling, sequestering the four men from the remainder of the center. Molly, who worked from a door on the side, quietly pulled it closed. She was a professional who appreciated that secret information was both a blessing and a curse. You might find out information that satisfied your curiosity, but it also stuck to you like glue.

Tom felt something different—a surge of excitement, as if he was a teenage boy allowed into the most secret clubhouse. He came around from the podium and pulled up a seat just to the side of the director.

“Sir, this is a fairly long story.” Wilhelm learned forward and began speaking right to the director.

“Go ahead.”

“In August of 1998, the DPRK launched a Taepo Dong-1 missile. It was their first attempt at building a multi-stage rocket and putting a satellite into orbit.”

Both Tom and Creighton leaned forward to hear the low, quiet voice. As Tom began to make a note, Dave Creighton slid his large, athletic hand over Tom’s, holding the pencil still. Tom took the hint and laid the pencil down.

“Some of us nicknamed the satellite the ‘Trucker’s AM Radio Station,’ or ‘TARS,’ for two reasons: its purpose was to play music glorifying Kim Il Sung, and the frequency band was the same as truck CB radios.”

The director smiled briefly. “Did it work?”

“They claimed yes, but the rocket’s second stage didn’t seem to have the required push. We had some tracking out of the North Hangyong Province missile base it was launched from, and the Kwangnyongsong-1, as they called it, was never confirmed in orbit.”

“So, what’s the point?”

“The K-1 satellite was about the size of a football,” said Wilhelm. “We are limited in what we can track. If something’s too small, we can’t track it. For all we know, that satellite could still be up there.”

“Is it a threat?” said the director.

“Oh, no, sir. As to the K-1, we scanned the band frequencies it was reported to be functioning on and never heard a thing. The point is, they were beginning to develop an intercontinental missile, and. . . they have been on the path of developing miniaturization technology. Later, they tested the TD-2. It was not much better. Broke apart over the Sea of Japan.”

“I’m lost,” Creighton piped up. “What’s this all mean?”

“It means that they are decades away from developing a rocket that can carry a payload the size of one of our older, conventional nuclear weapons,” said Wilhelm.

“Okay.”

“But they are within reach of developing a smaller, intercontinental rocket, and possibly a suitcase-sized sixth-generation nuclear device. If they can reduce their payloads and still accomplish the same thing, they win twice. First, their rockets can carry the payload farther and higher, and—”

“And,” the director interjected, “if it’s small enough, we would detect the launch, but not the weapon, or whatever else they put up there.”

“Exactly. We could monitor frequencies and command instructions, but they’d have numerous ways to get around that.”

“And,” Tom boldly added, “the dead scientists were involved in developing the same technology, and thus best informed on how to stop it.”

“Again, exactly.”

Creighton let out an audible sigh, underlining the point.

“Okay, so is that why someone’s on a course to eliminate all these scientists?” The director raised both hands in a visual question mark.

“I haven’t talked with the Agency lately on this subject,” said Wilhelm, “but my guess is that North Korea must have someone trying to corner the market on some of this technology.”

“And an elimination of competition would do what?”

“It would give them several years during which they, and they alone, could do a host of things.”

“Yes, like exporting the technology, selling the technology, and—”

“Blackmailing countries without the technology.” Tom again tossed in his comment without thinking.

“Yes, Agent Pope. Blackmail,” said the director. “If any government in the history of the world has a reputation for resorting to blackmail, it’s the DPRK.”

“Does it matter to us and our investigation if they have a scientist of this caliber?” Creighton asked.

“The Agency will surely want to know what’s going on here, but all we really need is a clear sense of who this guy’s potential targets will be,” said the director. “We need to know who would be considered the scientist’s competitors, and in that regard, some sense of who or what they’re competing against.” The director tossed his pencil down onto the pad, where it rolled off onto the shiny mahogany table.

“Sir, I suggest Dr. Wilhelm makes appropriate inquiry with his counterpart at the Agency, while we bring in our profiling team.” Creighton sounded like the captain of a Michigan football team.

“And their purpose would be to develop a profile of the criminal?”

“No, sir,” said Creighton. “In this case, they would develop a profile of the potential victim.”

“Good idea, but we need to keep this very, very limited.” He was backtracking on his erstwhile interest in breaking down walls, and as soon as he said it, he internally cringed.

“Yes, sir.”

“Agent Pope, for now, keep this limited to you. Let your team develop its thoughts and use this information to guide them.” As he said it, he realized the potential cat and mouse game at hand.

“Yes, sir,” said Tom.

“But don’t expand it further than the absolute minimum.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dave, I need an update on this one with extreme regularity.”

“Oh, yes, sir,” said Creighton. “We’ll give Agent Pope the highest priority, and he’ll let me know what’s going on as it develops.”

Tom knew an order from Creighton when he heard one.

“Oh, and Agent Pope,” said the director, “I know this is sensitive to you, just as it would be to any agent, but we need to know how much information we can get from your source.”

“Yes. . . sir,” Tom stuttered. Like a news reporter being asked about his source, a good field agent took to his grave the identity of a good informant.
Woodward and Bernstein probably felt the same when their editor asked about Deep Throat
, he thought.
But maybe I can give them what they need without getting into too much detail.

The director sensed his hesitation. “I don’t plan on pushing you too much, you can be assured of that. For now, let’s just get this guy.” He jumped up and crossed beyond the table, offering his hand to Tom. “Thank your people for me,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Let them know they’re greatly appreciated.”

“Yes, sir.” Tom’s chest swelled with pride.

“I sense this is big.”

“I
t’s quiet in both the Pacific and the Atlantic.”

“How about China? Any planned launches today?”

“No, quiet there as well.”

The Missile Warning Center was good duty. A small computer room buried deep within Cheyenne Mountain’s Operation Center, the MWC was where sensors, satellites, radars, and surveillance equipment fed all their information from around the globe.
If something big happens, I’ll be the first to know
, thought Air Force Sergeant Billy Algrade.
I’ll get to tell the president the shit has hit the fan.
The Saturday morning shift at MWC had become rather tame and comfortable for Billy, the senior non-commissioned officer of Bravo Crew CD. He enjoyed “being at this point of the spear,” as his commanding officer often put it.
It’s my chance to catch up
, Billy thought.
All the generals are out playing golf. If it gets too boring, I’ve even brought in a second pair of shoes to spit-shine.
Billy often wondered how the background check for his top-secret clearance had missed his wild, younger days in Philadelphia. But he was a dedicated military man now who took great pride in his professionalism.

“Johnson, run off that old stale shit,” Billy commanded his junior airman. Johnson and the crew always expected Billy to start each shift by giving them a certain amount of grief and ordering a new pot of coffee. Then Billy pulled out and placed two pictures on his desk—one of his wife of twenty years, Gladys, and the second of his teenage son, Billy, Jr. His son’s picture was bigger than his wife’s. Everyone knew of Billy, Jr. At fifteen, he already had the scouts running radar on his fastball. The photograph showed the broad smile of a strong young man in baseball uniform.
I wish he could stay long enough under one decent coach
, Billy thought as he straightened up the picture frames. Military life exacted a heavy toll on its children. Few had the luxury of going from beginning to end at the same high school. Most saw old friendships forever broken off and new ones starting. Billy had always paid attention when his son answered the question everyone was always asking: “Where are you from?”

“My father’s in the Air Force and we move around a lot,” was the way Billy, Jr. usually answered. Billy’s son had had a slew of baseball coaches as they moved from military base to base, but despite the frequent moves, he was jelling as an athlete. It had even gotten to the point where, shortly after the last move, Billy received a call from a high school baseball coach in Colorado saying he had heard of the young pitcher and was looking forward to his arrival. It gave Billy a rush that his son was the talk of the military family.

“Johnson, what the hell’s taking you so long?”

At that same instant, the alarm began on the main computer—
whomp
,
whomp
,
whomp
—and in a split second was repeated on the second, third, and fourth monitors. Dominoes seemed to fall as each computer sounded the same distress call.

“What is it?” Billy said. Adrenaline ran through the room.

“Sergeant, launch detection,” said Johnson.

“Okay, check list and location.”

“Sergeant, it’s the Pacific.” At that moment, the Bravo Crew officer of the day charged into the room and pulled up a chair next to Billy’s desk.

“Okay, Billy, what’s it look like?”

“Satellite detection of USA394, sir.”