Authors: Patrick Robinson
“I’ve been there.”
“I didn’t know you’d been to central China.”
“Neither did the Chinese.”
Ahmed laughed and shook his head. “You have many surprises no one knows, General Ravi,” he said.
“I’m hanging on to ’em as well,” replied the Hamas C in C. “Since I plan to go on breathing.”
In Ahmed’s humble but youthful opinion, the General was without doubt the cleverest, toughest, and most ruthless man he had ever met. He had seen him kill without blinking, destroy without a moment’s pity for the dead and suffering. And he had seen him lavish on his own very beautiful Palestinian sister Shakira a devotion and admiration almost unknown in the Arab world.
Ahmed was best man at their wedding. He had acted as Ravi’s personal bodyguard throughout several missions against the Israelis and the West. And Ahmed had stood almost dumb-founded when a reckless young Palestinian terrorist had attacked the General before a mission, viciously trying to land the butt of an AK-47 on Ravi’s jaw.
The speed with which Ravi had dealt with him was blinding. He had broken the young man’s arm into two pieces, and his collarbone, and then rammed his boot into the boy’s throat as he lay on the floor, saying quietly, “I’ve killed men for a great deal less. Take him to a hospital, Ahmed.”
On the way, young Sabah had explained that the Iranian-born Hamas C in C had been one of the most feared team leaders in the British Army’s SAS, and probably the best exponent of unarmed combat in the Regiment. By some miracle, the former Maj. Ray Kerman had found himself on the wrong side in a bloody battle in the holy city of Hebron, where he had been saved by Shakira.
Shakira had brought him to Hamas. He changed his name back to that of his birth. He converted back to his childhood religion of
Islam. And in the process provided the organization with possibly the most important Muslim battle commander since Saladin eight hundred years earlier. At least that’s how the High Command of Hamas used his name to inspire new recruits.
And now he fought alongside his Arabian brothers, with whom he shared forefathers. As the most wanted terrorist in the world, he returned to the Muslim religion and married his adored Shakira.
“Allah himself sent him to us,” Ahmed had said en route to the hospital. The kid with the broken arm and collarbone was inclined to think Satan himself had also had a hand in it.
The Chongqing-built truck faced the most hazardous part of its journey over the last mile. The gradient looked like Mount Everest, and the engine howled in low gear, the four-wheel-drive tires somehow managing to grip the granite and mud surface, which was slick from a small river gushing out of the mountain.
There were many lights and the final 600 yards were downhill, into a hollow with a tall, steel-topped barbed-wire fence crossing it. “Impregnable” was the only word General Ravi could find to describe it.
To the left and the right of the main gates were high guard posts, each one built on six stilts the size of telegraph poles. They were set 10 feet above the razor-sharp steel spikes ranged along the top of the structure. Inside the post were two searchlights and two armed guards, each one manning a mounted heavy machine gun. General Ravi could not quite work out whether they were trying to stop people getting in or out. Either way, his money was on the guards.
Patrolling the outside was a detail of eight men, split into two groups of four and stationed in the open on either side of the gate, rain or no rain. Through the gate Ravi could see no further light, save for that coming through a regular seven-foot-high doorway. There were no other lights between the huge outside gates and whatever lay beyond. Ravi and Ahmed just sat still and waited.
The guard chief ordered the main gates open and their driver
drove forward, headlights on full beam straight at what seemed like a massive wall of rock. It was not until they were quite close up that Ravi saw that the wall was actually solid steel. A small open doorway was set into the steel, and the whole wall suddenly disappeared completely, sliding to the right into the rock face.
Before him was a yawning dark cavern without a semblance of light. It was like driving into a gigantic tomb. The truck moved forward, and silently the great steel doors behind them slid back into place. Ravi sensed them shutting firmly and felt the chill of enclosure by forces way beyond his control.
He and his men had sat for just a few seconds when the entire place was lit up by a near-explosion of electric power. This was no tomb, no cavern. This was Main Street Kwanmo-bong—street-lights, central white lines, and lights from shops, or offices, or laboratories. The street was dead straight, and it stretched through the heart of the mountain as far as he could see.
The General guessed the source of the electricity: nuclear energy gone berserk. North Korea’s biggest underground nuclear facility, blasted out of solid rock.
A titanic achievement, to be sure, but at what cost had it been built? Ravi wondered. He stared up at the ceiling, which was still, in places, just barren rock face. But the walls were made of concrete, and even now, through the truck windows, he could feel the soft hum of the generators pervading the entire subterranean structure. Somewhere, behind or beneath this vast reinforced cement cave, there must be a huge nuclear reactor providing the power.
And if anyone wanted to close it down, sealed as it was from the outside world, beneath the 8,000-foot-high peak of Kwanmo-bong, they’d need, well, an atomic bomb. It was, he thought, entirely possible that the only people who could destroy the nuclear facility inside this mountain were the people who built it.
“Jesus Christ,” whispered Ravi.
They drove forwards for about 500 yards, and the truck began an elaborate reverse turn into what appeared to be a loading dock. The driver cut the engine and opened his door, at which
point four North Korean officials appeared. Two of them wore white laboratory coats, the others were in that curious military garb of the Far Eastern officer—the olive-drab green trousers, and the open-necked shirt, the same color, with a central zipper instead of buttons, epaulettes, rolled cuffs.
General Rashood and Ahmed joined their driver on the smooth concrete floor and were greeted, in English, by the obvious commandant, who was all business despite the late hour.
“You will see your merchandise?” he said, bowing medium-low, twice. Like a Japanese double-dome. Then he extended his hand and said, “Greetings, General. We welcome you here—hope this first of many visit.”
He introduced himself as Colonel Dae-jung, and his colleagues in turn. Then he led the way back around the corner he had come from and into a wide, brightly lit vestibule where two armed guards and a desk clerk were on duty.
Each man stood to attention and saluted the Colonel, who now led the way along a corridor and up a flight of steps into a wide, bright warehouse with overhead cranes, surrounded by cables leading to great, broad, upwards-sliding steel doors. Ahead of them were two gleaming stainless-steel cylinders about 15 feet high and 6 feet in diameter, known as “flasks” in the trade—heavily constructed Western containers whose sole task on earth was to transport radioactive nuclear material. They were actually perfected at British Nuclear Fuels in England, and were generally considered to be as close to fail-safe as you can get.
Built of one-inch-thick steel, the flasks were heavy with inbuilt shields to reduce radiation, making them at once safer for passersby and also less vulnerable to attack by terrorists.
“Inside there, General,” said the Korean Commandant, “are two nuclear warheads you ordered. Each one correctly assembled includes decoys. Both warheads ready for fitting in the new missiles, packed separately—Chinese guidance and navigational engineers may wish work inside the nose cone of missile—this way no encumbrance of nuclear material. Mostly fit
warhead at last moment, before missile sealed and loaded into submarine.”
Ravi nodded. “May I see the warheads?” he asked.
“Certainly. There is small window, glass four inches thick, but you can see inside.” He led Ravi around to the six-inch porthole in the flask and shone a flashlight through it. Ravi peered inside and could just make out the shape of the cone behind the crossbeams and cable that held it secure.
“I assure you, no one disappointed,” said the Commandant. “That’s 200-kiloton warhead. Detonate properly will make all the damage you intend…”
The North Koreans were known for their integrity in these matters, and Ravi did not doubt him. “And the regular missiles?” he asked. “The RADUGA look-alikes.”
“Crated over here,” said the Commandant, leading the way. “One of them not sealed, so you can see—”
Ravi looked at the long, 30-foot crates, each one weighing two tons. “These conventional warheads are assembled and fitted?” he asked.
“Correct.”
“No problem matching the Russians?”
“Absolutely not. We have two Russian RADUGAs here in plant. Reconstruction very straightforward. We have shell casings for certain SCUDs, and for Nodong-1—more or less identical.”
“I won’t even ask how you got ahold of the RADUGAs,” said the General, grinning.
“No. Perhaps not,” replied the Commandant, not grinning. “But we fit entirely Korean-made engine for the rocket. We think it’s marginally superior to Russian motor, and definitely more reliable. Works on regular nitric-acid rocket propellant.”
Ravi nodded. He counted the crates, inspected one of them, leaned over and touched the cold metal casing.
“Are the loading docks at Nampo ready for a heavy cargo like this?”
“Loading docks at Nampo second to none in whole world,”
replied the Commandant, modestly. “We expert at loading and transporting missile and warhead. Been doing it for very long time now. No mistakes.”
“Made one off the coast of Yemen a few years back,” said Ravi.
“No mistakes in area of northeast Asia,” said the Commandant. “That more important. That’s what you need to know.”
“You’re right there,” said Ravi. “That more important.”
“Are you satisfied with the shipment?”
“I am. Would you like to conclude the payment details now?”
“Very good, General. Then we have some dinner and then you go. Three of our trucks travel in convoy. Gas tanker inside plant now. Plenty fuel get you to Nampo.”
“I appreciate that,” said Ravi.
The method of payment had been established several months before—$150 million advance in U.S. dollars; the final balance of $350 million U.S. payable upon completion, ex-factory. Arrangements had been made through the Korea Exchange Bank in downtown Seoul, south of the border, and the money had been deposited direct from Tehran several weeks previously.
The bank in Seoul would receive a code word from General Rashood either by phone, fax, or E-mail. Only when the Korea Exchange confirmed that with the Bank Melli Iran would the funds be released to a North Korean Government account. Tonight everyone was on standby awaiting the big-money communiqué from the Hamas General.
He sat before an open online computer in the Commandant’s office, and tapped in the phrase in Persian,
se-panjah bash-e
—which meant, broadly,
Three-fifty, it’s cool
. Moments later the code was transmitted 5,000 miles west and six hours back in time to Bank Melli in downtown Tehran, right on the main commercial avenue, Kheyabun-e Ferdosi, opposite the German Embassy.
The reply was back in Seoul in moments…
Release funds to the North…
Thus, in less than five minutes, $350 million U.S. changed hands, and the brutal terrorist High Command of Hamas took delivery of its first-ever nuclear weapons.
Dinner with the North Koreans surpassed Ravi’s expectations. They provided a superb
sinsollo—
a special national dish of boiled red meat, fish, and vegetables, flavored with
dweonjang
(bean paste) and
gotchu
(red chili), a bit like Japanese
shabu shabu
, but tastier, saltier. Ravi’s was served with buckwheat noodles and egg rolls.
They drank only mineral water, which he sincerely hoped had not come out of the ground anywhere near the radioactive environs of Kwanmo-bong.
He declined a tour of the laboratories, but could not help seeing dozens of technicians walking around dressed entirely in white, including low-fitting hats and gloves. He trusted that they were staying well clear of the old hexafluoride, and that the executive of this astounding underground complex had rules and regulations about safety and a secure environment for their noxious raw material.
Before he left, the Commandant informed him, “Remember, we conduct the entire nuclear process right here in Kwanmo-bong. Enrichment, harvesting of plutonium, and refinement of U-235. Right into weapons-grade material.
“Down at far end, nearly one mile away, we make rockets and missiles. SCUD-B; Hwasong-5 short-range; Hwasong-6 short-range, like SCUD-C; the Nodong medium range; the Taep’o-dong-1, like Soviet SS-4; the NKSL-1/Taep’o-dong-1 intermediate-range satellite launch; and the big long-range ballistic missiles, Taep’o-dong-2 and NKSL-X-2/Taep’o-dong-2—we make Iran’s Shahab from that last one—like Soviet SS-5, satellite launch. We make what you want. Two-or three-stage missiles. Big payload. No problem. Very good, ha?”
“Excellent,” replied General Ravi. “Most impressive.”
They walked on and turned into the bog-loading bay. The Commandant was correct: There were three big North Korean Army trucks in there now, parked between the massive steel girders of the overhead cranes. A team of young soldiers was swarming all over the vehicles, refitting the big waterproof canvas
covers over the rear beds into which were now stacked the thirty-foot-long missiles.
Ravi noticed the truck in which he had arrived contained the two stainless-steel flasks with the nuclear warheads. The eighteen missiles were stacked nine on each of the other two—three stacks of three, piled slightly apart, separated with timbers and wooden pallets, but lashed together with bands of sprung steel.
Ravi considered the weight, probably 18 tons per vehicle, and thought again what he had thought on the long journey to the northeast—
They make a hell of a truck in Chongqing.