A Northern Thunder (9 page)

“We have peace-time generals and war-time generals. Patton would never have made it through the selection process in peace-time or in the reserves. And I have no interest in doing what it takes to become a general. Even in times of war, our greatest hero was Chesty Puller.”

Scott smiled. Puller, a tough, hardheaded fighter, had received more Navy Crosses in more wars than any other American. Yet, he did not become Marine commandant or even a four star general. Late in his career, he did make a two star general, but he was better known for his days as a Marine colonel than a Marine general.

“You get picked for Marine colonel for what you’re capable of doing,” said Will. “You get picked for general, particularly a reserve general, by the innate ability to kiss ass.” Will smiled as he emphasized the last two words.

It took several years of combat for Will to understand that the heart and soul of the United States Marine Corps was the young lance corporal and brand new second lieutenant, because each believed he was an invincible part of a true brotherhood, which was made up of the private first class in his new dress blues, and the buck sergeant leading his tank crew into combat. The higher in rank you rose, especially lieutenant colonel and above, the less it was a Marine
Corps
of ideals. The world was politics—even in the Corps.

Generals like Admiral Krowl proved the point. They played the bureaucratic game, regardless of who became the pawns. Despite his experience and record, Will had never submitted to the General Selection Board a package of information for its consideration. Many an undistinguished colonel would mail into Marine headquarters elaborate, thick books summarizing their successes, designed to persuade an impartial jury. But the jury wasn’t impartial, and the verdict had been reached weeks before the Selection Board met. Will had heard and believed that the commandant was always consulted, and the Board always knew his preference. The king always had the last word. Will refused to play the game.

Ironically, but for his unique history of personally knowing Peter Nampo, Will would continue to fade further and further away from the Marines, along with the challenge the Marines once represented to him. Yet he hadn’t agreed to this mission to gain the opportunity to become a Reserve Corps general.

“You’re responsible for supporting this mission? You’re the operation’s sponsor?” Will changed the topic.

“Yes, I am.”

“I want to do the training at Quantico.”

Scott had planned to use several Agency facilities in the Virginia area, but not Quantico. A Marine Corps base and home of the FBI Academy, Quantico was, he thought, too accessible and too close to Washington.

“Colonel, your best bet for survival would be to keep this mission under wraps—to stay under wraps yourself—as long as possible. Quantico is open to everyone and has a lot of traffic.”

There were certain benefits to being accessible, and Will wanted them. He was not prepared to put his entire fate in the hands of the CIA.

“I appreciate your concern, Mr. Scott, but I want a familiar training environment.”

Like virtually every Marine officer, Will had begun his training at Quantico. He went through several weeks of Officer Candidates School there, and returned for several months of basic officer training. He was familiar with every running trail, every hill, every swamp.

“Also, I assume there will be a cold weather cycle before making an insert in North Korea during the winter. I want to do that at MCMWTC in Bridgeport, California.”

The Marine Corps Mountain Warfare Training Center was a small Marine outpost in the high Sierras near the Nevada and California borders. At one time, it had only a maintenance crew of ten Marines, but it had enlarged over the years into a modern, battalion-sized training center. It remained both remote and unknown.

Scott thought,
At least he picked one place that’s somewhat isolated.
He actually liked the idea of Bridgeport, but was dubious about the colonel’s assertion of control. Admiral Krowl had set the parameters of the mission without Scott’s input, and especially without Parker’s.

“I need to be patched into the op center at Langley,” Scott said through an intercom. Will heard a door open in the rear of the aircraft, and a short, muscular, blond-haired man appeared through the cabin. Dressed in the same style white shirt and black slacks as the other crewmembers, along with epaulet boards with a single stripe, he, alongside his mates, gave every appearance of being a corporate jet crew member at home at any airport in the world.

Will, however, thought to himself,
This one is probably a senior Air Force enlisted man on attached duty to the CIA. He appears slightly older. A communications tech sergeant.

The airman placed headphones on in the small electronics compartment, after which the telephone on the wall next to Scott rang in a subdued, buzzing sound.

Scott picked up the phone. “We need to switch operations training site A to Quantico,” he said. “See if we can get the top floor of the dormitory at the FBI Academy sealed off. And begin planning on operations site B being moved to the Marine base at Bridgeport, California.”

Scott knew both sites would be made immediately available. Although they weren’t CIA facilities, this mission had been given the highest priority of any he had seen in over a decade. The White House and Secretary of Defense had sent top-secret messages to the director of the FBI and other related agencies that they were to cooperate to the fullest extent possible with the requests of the CIA’s Mr. Scott. More importantly for the U.S. Government, funding authorization codes were provided on each message. Federal cooperation improved exponentially when one part of the government knew others would pay.

“Okay, Colonel, I imagine you have several other suggestions. I look forward to hearing them.”

C
omrade Doctor, thank you for both the tour and your hospitality.” General Won, stepping forward from beside Tae Nam-Ki, grabbed Nampo’s hand and wrapped his other arm around the small doctor’s shoulders in a bear hug. Nampo, unaccustomed to any man being so close, was repelled by the maneuver.

Won put his face near Nampo as he spoke. “Remember, Comrade Doctor, Sun Tzu’s rule: ‘To subdue the enemy without fighting is the acme of skill.’” The general’s actions were entirely calculated. China would extend its hand to its communist neighbor, but North Korea should never forget Beijing. And whatever Nampo convinced Pyongyang his system was capable of, North Korea best not push it too far.

“Your advice and counsel are greatly appreciated, General. Perhaps you will be able to return for our advanced testing.”

“Both my government and I look forward to it.”

A young aide came up to General Won and Colonel Nam-Ki and clicked his heels in attention, signaling it was time to go. Some time earlier, a covered jeep had departed the military camp near the South Korean border in an apparently routine trip to the helicopter landing zone in the valley. At a pre-designated time, the vehicle would take the curve at a slow pace, proceed undetected into the dark wooded area, and pass into the short tunnel. The passengers would be standing by, waiting to quickly board and delay the vehicle only momentarily. A satellite would know only that the jeep drove into the grove of woods and came out at the other end.

How could a nation so wrapped in poverty be capable of such efficiency?
Won thought as he turned to take a final look at the facility.

Shortly thereafter, Won would be aboard a helicopter, then a Chinese military jet returning him to Beijing.
I’ll be expected to go directly to the military department and be debriefed on this trip.
Won cringed at the thought. Debriefings on past trips had led to debates on controversial issues lasting well into the night.

As Dr. Nampo heard the staccato pump of helicopter blades pass over the valley, a young North Korean captain approached him from behind and came to stiff attention. Nampo turned, and the captain held out a sealed yellow folder with writing on the outside.

“Comrade Doctor, this just came in from Pyongyang.”

“What is it?” Nampo knew the captain was the duty communications officer, and would have read the folder’s contents while deciphering it.

“They want you in the capital as soon as possible.”

“Transfer by the usual method?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And when will the vehicle be dispatched?”

“It has been already. You have approximately twenty minutes.”

Nampo scowled. A trip to Pyongyang, especially one with such short notice, would take him away from his work.

“Let me go to my quarters and change. Call Lin Po immediately and have him meet me here in fifteen minutes.” Po was one of the assigned doubles. Generally, the trip to the capital was made as inconspicuously as possible. Security would allow Nampo to travel this time with only one double, and Po was a trained security officer capable of handling any situation.

“Yes, sir.” The captain turned and ran off. Nampo, knowing he didn’t have much time, headed for his quarters. If he was not at the tunnel when the vehicle passed through, he knew it would leave him behind. Security had made it absolutely clear that no vehicle entered the grove of trees without also leaving shortly thereafter.

Nampo went directly to the closet, where his well-worn North Korean sergeant’s uniform hung. As he quickly dressed, he barely noticed the woman enter the room and lay down on the bed.

“Where are you going?”

“To the capital. They want to see me.”

“But tonight?”

He turned to the bed and, with the full force of his body, threw his hand across her face. She reeled back, fell to the floor, and began to sob.

“We have one purpose here. You know that.”

Nampo turned away, buttoning the last button on the tunic. He grabbed a military hat from a table near the door and walked out of the room.

Shortly, as Nampo stood at the entranceway, a troop truck started down the entrance ramp into the tunnel, just as a man nearly identical to Nampo emerged from the facility.

The young troops in the truck had heard of this mysterious tunnel facility, but they were never to mention it, not even to family or friends, on the threat of instant execution.

At the tail of the truck, their sergeant stood up. “Men, move forward,” he said. “Make room.”

Each grabbed his small pack and rifle and slid forward on the truck’s wooden bench.

“Make room quickly.” He turned to the two men in similar uniforms. “Get up. Do you have your rifles?”

As Nampo climbed up onto the truck, a security guard ran out of the tunnel with two AK-47 rifles.

Nampo grabbed the weapon as he sat down across from his double, Lin Po. However unpleasant these trips were for him, they would appear to others as another small squad-size troop movement made from the countryside to the city.

The truck took nearly an hour to complete its journey to Wonsan. It did not use the helicopter landing zone in the valley so as to not attract further attention to the site. Rather, the doctor would have to endure the long bumpy journey to the city of Wonsan, where a larger troop transport helicopter would meet them. Even in this, there were risks—North Korea rarely had the luxury of using helicopters for random troop transport. But even the capital knew that Nampo could not afford to be away from the facility for long. The risk was reasonable and had to be taken.

As the truck drove into the suburbs of Wonsan, Nampo smelled the acrid, overwhelming odor of the city’s pollution. He had forgotten how sheltered his facility was from daily life.

The children here were thin and slow-moving. One child, no more than ten, stood on the road, staring at the truck as it drove by. Nampo stared back with no emotion. He had seen many such children before.

The truck pulled onto the Wonsan airfield near a large Soviet-made Mi-17 HIP helicopter. Its turbine was winding up so loud the sergeant had to shout out his instructions. Even so, he could barely be heard. Russian helicopters were well known as unstoppable, rugged, and tough, but also uncomfortable and noisy. The HIP, a larger brother of the Mi-8, was a flying tank, described as a two-hundred and fifty-knot, medium-lift helicopter.

The truck suddenly stopped, and all its passengers were tossed forward. One of the troops in the back, half asleep from the journey, fell to the hard floor. His friends laughed. The two passengers remained expressionless.

“Get up. Get hopping. Move it,” said the sergeant. He jumped out onto the ground and helped each of the soldiers, including the two guests, to quickly unload. Each ran at a forty-five degree angle to the rear of the helicopter.

Nampo ran into the loud, humming aircraft and took a seat near the front, where the crew chief signaled him to sit. Po sat next to him. Near the half-open door, Nampo felt the warm air blowing from the blades. The ship rocked on the tarmac as the blades danced.

The men filed in after Nampo and alternated their seats from one side to the other. Nampo noticed that each placed the barrel of his weapon down, ensuring that if an absent round were fired, it would go down through the flooring and not up toward the jet turbines. With this, he turned his AK-47 to the floor and gestured to Po to do the same.