Tom Clancy's Op-center_ Op-center Part 22

The soldiers in the radio center were joking with Private Koh when the message came from the headquarters of General Hong-koo, Commander of the Forces of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea. They were immediately alert, no longer teasing Koh about brown-nosing by taking a second shift; they replayed the coordinates recorded by their directional antennae to ascertain that the message had, in fact, come from just over the DMZ. That done, they checked their computer directory to confirm that the caller was, in fact, his adjutant Kim Hoh. The computer searched its files and, within seconds, had completed a voiceprint identification. Finally, less than thirty seconds after the signal had been received, they radioed back an acknowledgment and started the two-ca.s.sette recorder to tape the message and a copy. One man notified General Schneider that a communications from the North was being received. The private was told to bring it to him the instant it was complete.

Koh seemed the most intent of the five men, listening as the message came through: "To former Amba.s.sador Gregory Donald at Base Charlie. General Hong-koo, Commander of the Forces of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea at Base One, DMZ, returns greetings and accepts your invitation to a meeting in the neutral zone at 0800 hours."

While one of the men radioed that the message had been received, another ran a copy of the tape and a ca.s.sette player to General Schneider's quarters.

Koh said to the remaining two men that he was feeling a bit tired and was going to have some coffee and a smoke. Outside, he walked into the shadows of a nearby truck and undid his shirt. There was an M2 cellular phone strapped to his upper arm: undoing the buckle, he pulled up the antenna and punched in Lee's number.

"There better be a very short and enlightening explanation for this," Schneider said as Gregory entered, "because sleepy-eyed firing squads make me nervous."

The General was dressed in pajamas and a robe and was holding the ca.s.sette recorder and headset in his right hand.

Donald's heart quickened. He wasn't worried about General Schneider, but about the North Korean response.

He took the recorder, placed one side of the headset to his ear, and listened to the message. When it was finished, he said, "The explanation is that I asked for the meeting and I got one."

"So you really did this dumb-a.s.s thing-- illegally, from the radio center for which I am responsible."

"Yes. I'm hoping we can all be reasonable and avert a war."

"We? Gregory, I'm not going to sit across a table from Hong-koo. You may think you scored some kind of coup by getting him to a meeting, but he's going to use you. Why do you think he's waiting a couple of hours? So they can plan the whole thing out. You'll be photographed trying to make nice, and the President will look like he's talking out of both sides of his mouth--"

"Doesn't he?"

"Not on this. Colon's office says he's been a tiger from the get-go, as well he should be. The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds blew up downtown Seoul, killed your own wife, Gregory--"

"We don't know that," he said through his teeth.

"Well, we do know that they shot up one of our planes, Greg! We've got a body bag as proof!"

"They overreacted, which is precisely what we shouldn't do--"

"Defcon 3 isn't an overreaction. It's good soldiering, and the President was going to stop there, make 'em sweat." Schneider rose and jammed his big hands into his pocket. "h.e.l.l, who knows what he's going to do after your little love letter."

"You're blowing it out of proportion."

"No I'm not. You really don't see it, do you? You might very well put the President in a no-win situation."

"How?"

"What happens if you hold out the olive branch and North Korea accepts in principle but doesn't withdraw any troops until the President does? If he refuses, it'll look like he squandered a chance for peace. And if he does back down, it'll look like he blinked."

"Horse s.h.i.t--"

"Gregory, think about it! And what kind of credibility does he have if it looks like you're running his foreign policy? What do we do the next time a Saddam Hussein or Raoul Cedras makes a power grab, or some nutcase sends missiles to Cuba. Do we send for Gregory Donald?"

"You talk to them, yes-- try and reason with them. While JFK was busy blockading Cuba, he was also negotiating like mad with Khrushchev about withdrawing some of our missiles in Turkey. That's what ended the crisis, not sea power. Talking is what civilized people do."

"Hong-koo isn't civilized."

"But his bosses are, and there have been no direct, high-level contacts with the North since this morning. Christ, you wouldn't believe that adults would play games like this, but they are. The diplomats are playing chicken. If I can open a dialogue, even with Hong-koo--"

"And I'm telling you that talking to them won't do any good. He's somewhere to the right of Genghis Khan and as G.o.d is my witness, he'll snooker you."

"Then come with me. Help me."

"I can't. I told you, these people know their propaganda. They'll use grainy film, black and white, and shoot me looking like I'm sniffing horse apples, like I'm a POW. The doves in Washington will go berserk." He popped the tape from the recorder and slapped it gently in his open palm. "Greg, I was sad for you when I heard about Soonji. But what you want to do isn't going to stop anyone from dying. There are still more than a billion Communists right around the corner, and a billion other radicals, religious fruitcakes, ethnic cleansers, cult psychos, and Jesus knows who else. It's me and mine who look after the other three billion, Gregory. All a diplomat is ever good for is buying time-- sometimes for the wrong side, like Neville Chamberlain. You can't reason with sickos, Gregory."

Donald looked at his pipe. "Yes I see that."

Schneider looked at him strangely, then glanced at his watch. "You still have about six hours. I suggest you sleep, wake up with a stomachache, and call this off. In the meantime, as far as this base is concerned, your original broadcast no longer exists. We erased your message from storage, took the coordinates you used out of the log." He held up the tape recorder. "This is the first any of us heard about a meeting-- when they contacted you. If the North Koreans say you radioed first, we'll deny it. If they produce a tape, we'll say they faked it. If you contradict us, we'll tell the press you were crazy with grief. I'm sorry, Greg, but that's the way it's got to be."

He looked down at his pipe. "And if I convince Hong-koo to withdraw?"

"You won't."

"But if I do?"

"In that case," Schneider said, "the President will take full credit for having sent you, you'll be a G.o.dd.a.m.n hero, and I'll personally pin the medal on you myself."

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE.

Wednesday, 2:00 A.M., Yanguu Village

Kim slid into the car, hugging the small radio to her to protect it from the light rain.

Hwan watched her carefully. A captive, his hands cuffed behind his back, had once used the spring in the seat-belt latch to pick the lock and get away. But he wasn't watching Kim because he feared an escape; she would have tried that before, when they were alone. He was watching her because she fascinated him. Patriotism and humanism rarely existed in perfect harmony, but Kim had that balance. He strove for that in his own life, and usually fell short: one couldn't dig into the darker side of people's lives without getting into the dirt- His thoughts were cut off by a sudden movement to his right, the flashlight moving crazily, followed by a crippling pain in his side. He gurgled loudly as the sharp punch emptied his lungs, followed by another that caused his right leg to shake and fall out from under him. He tried to grab the open car door to brake his fall. He missed, twisted, and fell against the side of the car seat, on his back. As he fumbled to get to the.38 in his shoulder holster, he looked out at Cho.

Only it wasn't Cho. The light from the car cast a faint yellow glow on the hat and on a face he didn't recognize, a face that was taut and cruel.

d.a.m.n her, he thought through his pain. She had someone here all the time His right hand was tingling and he couldn't get his fingers to close around the gun. His right side felt damp as he slid toward the ground.

Hwan saw the nine-inch blade stained with his blood. It went back, level with his stomach. He would be unable to stop the blow to his chest, up and under the sternum, a flash of agony and then death. He had often thought about how and when he would die, but it was never like this, flat on his back in the mud.

And feeling like a fool. He felt her lean over him. He trusted her, and he hoped they put that on his headstone as a warning. Either that, or What a sucker- Hwan's gun slipped from its holster as he landed on the wet earth. He reached over reflexively, squeezing the wounds with his left hand, fighting to keep his eyes open so he could face death with what little defiance remained in him. He saw the a.s.sa.s.sin in Cho's clothing grinning, and then there was a white flash like lightning, followed by a second and third. The quick bursts were just a foot or two above him and he shut his eyes as their heat rolled toward him. The thunder echoed for a moment and died, and then there was only the tapping of the rain on his face and the throbbing heat in his side.

Kim crawled over Hwan and knelt at his side. She reached past him for the knife, and for a confusing moment he didn't understand why he hadn't felt the shots and why she was going to stab him instead of shoot him.

He must have been writhing because she told him to hold still. He tried to relax, and became aware of how painful it was to breathe.

Kim pulled his shirt from his belt, cut a slit up the side, then picked up the flashlight. After studying his wounds she rose and jumped over him; he craned to watch as she pulled the shoes and socks off the a.s.sa.s.sin, then undid his belt and yanked it off. Hwan collapsed, his breath now coming in gasps.

"Ch-Cho?" he said.

"I don't know where his body is."

His body "This man must have followed us. Don't ask: I don't know who he is."

Not with Kim from the bombers Kim slid the belt around Hwan's waist but didn't fasten it; she put a sock against each of the wounds. "This may hurt," she said as she buckled the belt tightly.

Hwan gasped as pain girdled him and shot from his right armpit to his knee. He lay back, wheezing now, as Kim moved behind him, grabbed him under the arms, and pulled him onto the backseat of the car.

As she put the radio on the floor, Hwan tried to raise himself on an elbow.

"W-wait-- body."

She eased him back and tried to secure him with the seatbelt. "I don't know where Cho is!"

"No! Finger prints."

Kim understood. She shut the door, opened the pa.s.senger's side in front, and pulled the dead man in. Then she hurried to the driver's side, started to get in, and stopped.

"I've got to find Cho!" she said as she backed out.

s.n.a.t.c.hing up the flashlight, she turned it toward the ground and followed the killer's footsteps. Though there was urgency in her movements, outwardly she was calm, focused. The prints led to a thickly wooded ravine some forty yards from the side of the hut, where she found a motor scooter and, beyond it, the driver. Cho was lying head down on a slope, on his back, the middle of his chest dark with blood.

Skidding down the muck to Cho's side, Kim frantically searched his pockets until she found the keys he'd taken with him, then ran back to the car.

Hwan was lying still, holding his side. His eyes were squeezed shut and he was panting. When he heard the engine rumble, he opened his eyes.

"Car radio."

Kim eased the car into gear, then sped up quickly. "You want me to tell them what happened?"

"Yes" The belt dug into his flesh and he tried not to move. "Need ID fast."

"Of the killer. From his fingerprints."

Hwan didn't have the strength to speak. He nodded, wasn't sure Kim saw, then heard her speak into the radio. He tried to remember exactly what he was thinking about her, but every little breath, each b.u.mp of the car, sent shocks through him now. He tried not to move, jabbing his right elbow into the crease behind the seat and putting his left hand against the front seatback in an effort to brace himself. He felt as though there were a strap inside of him, tightening, bending him to the right. Thoughts and images swirled through his mind as he fought the pain and tried to stay awake.

Not North Korean she wouldn't have shot him but who in the South why?

And then the fire spread to his brain, the pain hammering him mercifully into unconsciousness.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR.

Tuesday, 12:30 P.M., Op-Center

Dr. Orlito Trias was there when Hood phoned Alexander's room. He had the bedside manner of Dr. Frankenstein, but he was a good doctor and a devoted scientist.

"Paul," he said in his thick Philippine accent, "I'm glad you called. Your son has a virus."

Hood felt a chill. There was a time, before AIDS, when the word suggested a problem easily treated with antibiotics.

"What kind of virus? In laymanese, Orly."

"The boy had an acute bronchial infection two weeks ago. The infection appeared to be cured, but the adenovirus hid in his lungs. All it took to trigger the attack were allergens in the air, which is why the steroid drugs and bronchodilator medication failed to work. This isn't a typical asthma attack. It's a form of obstructive lung disease."

"How do you treat it?" Hood asked.

"Antiviral therapy. We've caught the infection relatively early, and there's every reason to believe it will not spread."

"Reason to believe--"

"He's been weakened," Orly said, "and these viruses are very opportunistic. One never knows."

Jesus, Orly. "Is Sharon there?"

"Yes."

Hood asked, "Does she know?"

"Yes. I told her what I've told you."

"Let me talk to her-- and thanks."

"You're welcome. I'll check back here every hour or so."

Sharon came on a moment later.