Authors: Tim LaHaye
“Yeah, I wondered how that works,” the truck driver said.
“Look,” the lawyer said, “you know those little UPC boxes with those lines inside that look like a maze — you’ve seen them in the corner of ads? They’re called Quick Response, or QR, codes. For years we’ve been using them. Brilliant actually. Just scan the code box with your Allfone, and bingo, your cell is connected to some part of the Internet where the product is listed. You push a button, and just like that you’ve ordered something off the web, and in two days it shows up at your front door.”
“I just ordered a part for my air brakes using that,” the trucker said.
The lawyer bobbed his head. “There you go. Only one problem. The invisible QR code has all your personal data in it. Every time you enter a park, a shopping center, a post office, an airport, a restaurant, the federal scanning screens will be able to pick you up. So some civil-service creep in a government office somewhere can not only check out where you are at that very moment, he’ll also know everything about you. With one stroke on a keypad. And they update your data constantly. Anytime you get a traffic ticket, go to court over something, or have a medical procedure, they update your QR code automatically. So now they’ve got your entire personal data file — everything — instantly accessible on the back of your hand, and at the same time they know where you are at any time. Time was that the government would need a warrant before they could get most of that in formation — but not any more.”
“All I know,” the farmer said, “is that before we started this tag program, we had terrorist attacks all over this country. But not a single
one since. I remember telling Mary here when the first one hit — when that ferry full of people got blown up — I said, look out, here it comes. Sure enough, after that we had the bombing at the Mall of America …”
His wife added, “My sister-in-law knew someone on the plane that got shot down leaving O’Hare. I kept asking myself, how do these people get their hands on those little missile things …”
“Shoulder-mounted missiles,” the lawyer added.
The trucker leaned in closer. “I got a better one than that. So, those scumbag terrorists set off that portable nuke in New Jersey, and that was on a Tuesday. Well, I was scheduled to pick up a load. Guess where? About twenty miles from that exact spot, the very next morning. Can you believe that?”
“Well, actually,” the lawyer said, “you’re right, the nuke was set off by terrorists. And I know they were supposedly on their way to New York City, and that was their real target. But I think that the feds would have stopped them if that defense contractor, that Jordan guy and his right-wing Roundtable group of billionaire hyper-patriots, hadn’t tried to use their private army to stop them.”
The truck driver had a comeback. “Well, I thought that the feds, the FBI, and Homeland Security had messed up on that deal and weren’t doing anything to stop it … or that the White House blocked them or something … so at the last minute that Jordan guy and his Roundtable had a bunch of former special-ops men try to stop them, and then the terrorists ended up pulling the trigger right then. I mean … I don’t want to sound like a jerk, but a few thousand dead in New Jersey’s a lot better than a million dead in New York!”
The lawyer shook his head violently. “No way, no. We can’t have a bunch of private Rambos trying to stop nukes, can we? They should’ve stayed out of it altogether. I’m glad they’re prosecuting him. I hope he rots in jail.”
“It’s a crazy world,” the farmer’s wife said. “My brother keeps saying this is the beginning of the end —”
Her husband elbowed her and whispered, “Let’s leave Bobbie out of this; the guy’s got problems …”
His wife shrugged but kept on talking. “I’m just saying that with
what happened over in Israel, the way that war ended there, with earthquakes and volcanic eruptions — anyhow, Bobbie said that’s what finally convinced him. Ever since then he’s been going to church regular, talking about Jesus and the Bible all the time. And if you knew my brother before, my gosh, you’d never believe it was the same guy.”
“Hey, look,” the truck driver said pointing. “Finally. The line’s moving.”
Jeremy, the data clerk, stared at the list of names on his computer screen. As his supervisor, Mr. Porter, walked by, Jeremy flagged him over. “Mr. Porter, I have a question.”
Porter carried his cup of coffee over to his clerk’s desk. “What’s the problem?”
“No problem. It’s just I’m not sure of the directive.”
“Which one?”
“The ETD — Enhanced Tracking Directive.”
“You know the drill.”
“Yeah, I understand the ETD. I’ve already synced everything onto the BIDTag tracking matrix, with the list of names with outstanding arrest warrants, the terror watch list, the dangerous deportees list, all criminal defendants … I’ve got all that already loaded into the system.”
“Then what’s the issue?”
“This list, sir.” He pointed to the screen. “Just got this today. It looks like the names of people who have failed to submit to the BIDTag program, the ones who haven’t been tagged. I assumed, based on your memo, they needed to be in-putted too.”
“Right. The nontaggers. You need to put them into the same ETD system.”
“Okay, I’ve been doing that. For some time. I’m up to the Js now. But two questions. First, if they haven’t been tagged, how are we going to track them under the ETD system?”
“You forgot,” Porter said, pointing to the computer screen, “to do this.” He touched a small icon that read — FRS. When he did, a small box on the screen lit up with the words
Facial Recognition System
.
“You have to make sure you also load the nontaggers into the FRS program. So we can pick them up using facial-recognition coordinates off their drivers licenses rather than the BIDTag, which, of course, they won’t have. Then we can pick them up through the video scanners and follow them wherever they are, just like the others on the list.”
“Gotcha,” the clerk said with a nod. “Second question. This is a list of people who never got their BIDTag. But today’s the deadline. Some of them may have waited until the last minute to get their laser tag.”
“No problem,” Porter said. “We can simply purge their names from the list if they end up getting tagged today.”
The supervisor gave a nod, indicating the end of the discussion, and he toted his coffee back to his office. The clerk returned to the list of names. He touched the screen to feed the next nontagger’s name on the list into the tracking system.
The screen read: “J
ORDAN
, A
BIGAIL
.”
The prisoner, Captain Jimmy Louder, was in his green jumpsuit, his face gaunt and eyes sunken. He was thinner now than in the pictures Joshua had seen in Seoul.
In the North Korean facility in Pyongyang, Louder was sitting at a metal table in a stark white conference room. Two military guards in drab olive uniforms and square caps were a few feet behind him, standing at attention, ramrod straight. Each held an automatic weapon.
Across the table, Gavi and Rivka, with their Red Cross ID badges hanging from their necks, sat on either side of Joshua. Gavi had a clipboard and was reading from it — a banal series of questions, inconsequential but perfunctory sounding. He asked about Louder’s physical condition, sleeping habits, medical attention …
Joshua stole a glance at his Allfone watch. They had been there three minutes. Two to go. Then it would begin. He felt the sweat trickling down his back, and his heart pounded. For an instant he wondered if the thumping in his chest was loud enough for the guards to hear. An impossibility, he knew, but he felt vulnerable. He was feeling his age. He could no longer run ten miles without getting winded or breeze through survival exercises. The years were catching up with him. He was not the special-ops pilot he used to be, but just a civilian defense contractor, currently barred from returning to his own country. And now he was in North Korea, trying to help a fellow pilot. As Joshua sat in the metal chair he wished he could encourage Louder somehow about the rescue that was about to take place, but he knew
he couldn’t. He had one simple hope, and he put it into a silent prayer.
God, I don’t want to let this poor guy down. Help me
. And he added another unspoken request.
And let me see Abigail again
.
“Your eating habits,” Gavi said to Louder without a flicker of tension, with an almost bored expression. “Are you eating regularly?”
Louder nodded. His eyes showed that he might be expecting something, but what, Joshua couldn’t decipher. Did he know about the mission?
“Yes,” Louder replied, “I’m eating.”
Joshua had one job now, as he sat across from Louder. He simply had to keep his cool. That was it. But it was crucial. The plan to use these two Israeli Mossad agents, posing as Red Cross workers, to launch a rescue had been in the works for over a year. In the White House, President Tulrude had balked, undoubtedly because of her stated goal of melding the United States with the growing international movement toward a single global government. Then there was the pressure from Tulrude’s close confidant — the secretary-general of the United Nations, Alexander Coliquin. He had urged the president against taking any unilateral action, even against tyrannical nations like North Korea, and presumably including even the rescue of a downed American pilot, for fear of another retaliatory nuclear strike. That concern had struck Joshua as far-fetched as long as the United States still had Joshua’s RTS anti-missile-system technology. On the other hand, Joshua also knew how the Pentagon had decided to rescue one of its own, quietly, under the radar, encouraging and assisting the mission to get Louder out.
The only problem had been the North Koreans’ repeated refusal to allow Red Cross inspections, until, that is, an idea was hatched: they would use Joshua as bait. When the idea was slipped to Louder through the inside double-agent, encouraging him to make a request for a visit by Joshua, and when he then voiced that demand to his captors, the North Korean military command reversed their decision. They said that the Red Cross could come — but only on the condition that Joshua Jordan joined them.
Ethan was right, of course, about one thing. And Joshua knew it.
By the end of the briefing, Major Chung made it clear that the North Koreans would have no intention of releasing Joshua once they had him. His knowledge of his own RTS system, and the revenge the North wanted for the nuking of its ship, were reasons enough. There was only one chance for a happy ending — not just for Louder’s rescue — but also for Joshua to escape arrest by the North Koreans who wanted to subject him to a quick show-trial followed by torture and a painful execution: the mission would have to be executed flawlessly.
“And your diet, Captain Louder,” Gavi continued, “the Red Cross would like to know about your meals. What kind of food have you been eating?”
Louder paused for a second.
One of the armed guards shifted slightly in place, narrowing his eyes and then staring directly at Joshua.
Joshua stared back. When he did, he gave a half-smile to the North Korean guard.
“Your diet, Captain?” Gavi asked nonchalantly.
But there would be no answer. In an instant the room was plunged into darkness. An alarm sounded, and a red light began flashing in the hallway, which cast a sliver of red light under the door.
At first, Joshua could only hear the attack, grunting and muffled groans, but then in the dim, red flashing light coming from under the door, he could see, in broken frames of light, like an old-fashioned movie, Gavi’s arm striking out like the arm of a pitching machine. He was sending a series of blows to the throat of one of the guards. Rivka kicked the other guard in the groin, and then a high-wheeling kick to his face. His machine gun clattered to the ground as he collapsed.
Joshua tapped the “illumin” feature on his Allfone. A thin beam of light shot out like a miniature high-beam flashlight. He trained the light on the two disabled guards. They were out. Gavi and Rivka dragged the bodies behind the desk.
In the room lit only by his Allfone, Joshua made his way around the table to Louder, who had a startled look on his face, but he was already on his feet, instinctively ready for whatever was next. Grabbing Louder by the arm, Joshua said, “We’re here to bring you home, son.”
Louder gave a garbled gasp. He was fighting back tears. Then, just as suddenly as the lights had gone out, they blinked once and came back on. Everyone squinted in the stark illumination. Then a knock on the door. Gavi calmly went over to the door and opened it.
A tough-looking North Korean guard with sergeant’s stripes stood in the doorway with an electronic com-pad in his hand. This next step was critical. Joshua knew that. He found himself holding his breath. It had to work perfectly. No room for error.
This sergeant, who was the inside source for this prison mission, spoke in fairly good English. “The guards?”
“Behind the desk,” Gavi replied.
“Then follow me,” the sergeant said. “And stay close.”
The sergeant strode down the hallway with Louder in handcuffs, followed by Gavi and Rivka. Joshua, a step behind, brought up the rear. He was already wondering whether Louder, in his yellow prison garb, could get past the sentries who would be posted at each door. He knew the plan — from his distant location, Yung Tao, the IT genius, would hack into the prison’s computer system and insert a new directive ordering the transfer of Captain Louder, under the custody of the sergeant, and to another facility for questioning. Once out of the prison, a local agent, posing as a police officer, would pick them up and take them to a rendezvous point by the river.
As the group walked, a few North Korean officers passed them in the hall. The sergeant held his electronic clipboard in his hand. He tapped it, swooped his hand over the screen, then touched the corner. “Got to check the daily orders for this facility.” But as he did, his head bobbed down just a fraction to read what it said, and when he did, his jaw clenched. He slowed his pace and turned to look at the foursome behind him. Joshua could see the tight lips and the stress on his face. Something was wrong.
The hallway was momentarily clear. The sergeant touched his right ear where the tiny combination earbud/AllFone was located; then he tapped the External Line icon on the screen in his hand. He began to speak softly in Korean. “This is the sergeant.”
Yung Tao, located somewhere in the North Korean capital, responded.
The sergeant got right to the point. “Got a problem.”
The group could see the sergeant listening through his earbud to Yung, but the sergeant wasn’t satisfied with the response. He shot back a hoarse whisper to his colleagues as they walked. “The MIS — master information system — hasn’t been updated with our implanted information — doesn’t say anything yet about allowing Captain Louder to be transferred out of the building …”
The sergeant was at the point where the hall intersected with another corridor. Before turning right, he stopped. Louder followed his lead. Gavi, Rivka, and Joshua caught up to them from behind. The sergeant muttered something in Korean. To Joshua, it didn’t sound pleasant.
The sergeant waited another few seconds, checked his digital clipboard again, but shook his head in disgust. Then, in English he addressed his group. “We can’t wait any longer.” Then another message in his earbud. The sergeant bent his head to listen, then said, “Yung Tao says he is rebooting, refreshing the system, says the new orders should appear on all the digital clipboards in a few minutes.” Then he added. “He’d better be right — or we’re all dead.”
The sergeant motioned for the group to follow as he turned the corner into the intersecting hall. Now they could see a security desk with armed guards a hundred feet away. As he walked, the sergeant glanced down at his e-clipboard and gave a half shake of his head with a grimace. His jaw was still clenched. As he walked, the sergeant dropped his left hand to his side, close to his side-arm. Yung Tao’s hacking job might not happen in time.
Four guards stood at the table ahead. Two of them, standing behind the desk, had patrol rifles, which to Joshua looked like the Chinese version of the Ak-15. Though they were slower firing than a full automatic, they could still fire a full thirty-shot magazine with blazing speed. More than enough to take down their whole group.
The other two guards had clip-loaded pistols. One of the guards was already standing, while the other, even more mean-looking, remained seated at the desk in front of a laptop. Soon he too started to rise.
The sergeant slowed as he approached the security desk, still glancing down at his digital clipboard, still frowning.
Joshua had a single thought.
Oh man, this is getting close
.
The guard who had just stood up shouted something in Korean and gave a quick wave for them to hurry up.
As the sergeant stood at the table, he and the guard in charge began to talk. Another guard threw him a questioning look and a scowl. Then he motioned for the sergeant’s digital clipboard. Then he snatched it up and stared at it. The angry guard bent down to his own laptop, tapped on the screen, and began comparing his data with the sergeant’s e-clipboard. Then he straightened up. His face relaxed slightly as he picked up the sergeant’s electronic clipboard, took out his digital pen, and quickly signed off on the bottom.
The sergeant bowed and then roughly pushed Louder ahead of him, playing the part of a military jailer, followed by the other three, as they all moved past the guards. Joshua could see the end of the corridor about thirty yards ahead. There was a doorway to the right. It looked like some kind of utility area. It had a red sign on it. To the left was another hallway. Now Joshua’s group was about ten yards from the turn. The electronic pad was now flashing some kind of red warning message. The sergeant half-turned, picking up his pace as he did, and spoke in a tone that cut like razor wire. “We have been detected. MIS now reports our computer hacking. All orders suspended.”
Behind them, an angry guard was shouting. The group was at the end of the hallway, and the hallway to the left led to one more security desk with armed guards, and beyond that, Joshua could see the streets of Pyongyang.
The sergeant turned to the utility door with the sign to his right. He pulled out an electronic card and swiped the card-box next to it. The heavy metal door clicked open. Once he swung the door open he reached around and swiped another card into the slot to jam the electronics. The door began buzzing and an alarm sounded. The group ran through the open entrance, and the sergeant slammed the door behind them with another loud click. They could hear the muffled
sound of gunshots and the metallic ping as the bullets struck the other side of the heavy door.
They raced along a metal catwalk. “Hurry, hurry,” the sergeant yelled. They sprinted along the walkway, down several flights of stairs, taking several steps at a time. When they got to the ground floor the sergeant led them to yet another heavy metal door that had large red and yellow warning signs. He swiped the door again with his card, and he swung it open.
Daylight and a blue sky above. A pathway led through a grassy yard outside, between two tall, windowless buildings with a concrete wall at the end, just a short distance away, perhaps forty feet. Inset in the wall was a single door. They could hear the car horns and street sounds of the capital just beyond the wall. It all looked too easy.
The sergeant unlocked Louder’s handcuffs and swung around quickly to face the rest of them. But his face was now telling a frightful story. “This yard is a minefield,” he said. “You must follow me — exactly.”
He carefully inched out into the grassy pathway. The rest of them were close behind in a tight, snaking line, with Joshua at the end. The sergeant moved slowly to the right until he was three feet from the adjoining building and he reached out his arm until he could barely touch its bricks, as if to measure some invisible point. Then he stopped and half-turned his head but kept his torso and legs perfectly still.
“This way. Follow exactly.”
Gavi, Louder, Rivka, and then Joshua followed the leader, walking with deliberate speed, with bodies hunched and tensed, careful not to let a foot stray to the side. When they were fifteen feet from the door in the wall, they heard it. A little snap, like a tiny twig breaking.
“Oh” was all that the sergeant said. He froze and looked down at his right foot, which was immobile on the spot where he had just depressed the trigger on a high-explosive land mine. There was silence for a second or two as the line halted behind him. The sergeant slowly waved them to pass him on his left.
Gavi led the way, stepping one foot in front of another, until he was even with the sergeant, who cautiously removed his handgun, which dangled gingerly from his fingers. “Take it,” he said to Gavi.
“Go, straight-line now, to the door. Use gun to blow lock on the wall.” Then he added, “Save the bullets. Use them if you get caught. Better that way …”
When all of them had arrived at the locked door, Joshua turned to survey the sergeant’s desperate situation. He was still frozen in place, halfway down the grassy path. Joshua said to Gavi, “We can’t leave him.”
“We have to, Colonel Jordan,” Gavi snapped. “No choice. Besides, he’s got a plan.” Gavi then peeled off his shirt and pants, revealing another outfit underneath, and he gave the clothes to Captain Louder to cover up his prison garb.
Gavi fired a shot at the key lock, blowing it open, and stuffed the handgun in his pocket. After swinging the door open, they quick-stepped out onto the sidewalk along the busy boulevard. Gavi turned to the group. “We’re looking for a police car.”
They didn’t have to wait long. A North Korean squad car, driven by a man dressed in a police uniform, stopped at the curb. Gavi jumped in the front, the rest in the back. As they pulled away, Joshua leaned over the front seat and said to Gavi with a voice full of pathos, “What kind of plan could he have had?” But before Gavi could answer, everyone in the squad car flinched as the sound of an explosion reverberated from the grassy yard on the other side of the wall.
For a long time they drove through the city traffic of Pyongyang without saying a word. Joshua was the first to speak. His voice broke.
“What was the sergeant’s name?”