Tom Clancy's Op-center_ Op-center Part 27

"Who said that?"

Rodgers smiled. "I did, Charlie. I did."

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE.

Wednesday, 5:20 A.M., the DMZ

Gregory Donald learned of the attack on Sariwon an hour before, after completing another surveillance sweep for Op-Center, and he still couldn't believe it. General Schneider had been wakened and told, and had pa.s.sed the word to him: with relish that Donald found repugnant.

Another person had died, a life had been ended so that the President of the United States could look tough. Donald wondered if Lawrence would have been as willing to take a life if the airman had been standing three feet away, staring at him along the barrel of a gun.

Of course he wouldn't. A civilized person could not.

What was it, then, that made that same civilized person kill for a jolt in the polls, or to make a point? Lawrence would argue, as had presidents in the past, that casualties like these prevent greater losses in the future. But Donald maintained that dialogue prevented more losses still, if only one side or the other wasn't afraid of looking weak or conciliatory.

He looked into the distance, at the conference building straddling the borders, each side brightly lit and guarded to prevent anyone from trying to sneak through. The flags of the North and South hung limply at the end of their surreally tall flagpoles, the South's most recently capped with a spire instead of a ball to make it five inches taller than the North's. For now. No doubt a six-inch spire had been ordered and was on the way. At which point the South would put a taller one on top. Or maybe a weather vane or radio antenna. The possibilities were absurd and endless.

All of their problems could be solved within those four walls, if only the partic.i.p.ants wanted them to be. Soonji had once given a speech on that subject to a meeting of Koreans and Blacks in New York in 1992, when tensions between the groups were at their peak.

"Think of it as a chain letter," she'd said. "If only one person from each side wants peace, and can convince another person on their side to want it, and those two can convince two more people, and those four, four more, we will have the beginning we need."

A beginning not an end. Not more blood spilled and more resources squandered, not more hate branded into the psyche of a new generation.

Donald began walking away from the border, away from the compound. He turned his eyes toward the stars.

He was suddenly very tired, overwhelmed by hurt and a deep sense of despair and doubt. Maybe Schneider was correct. Maybe the North Koreans would use him and he'd do more harm than good trying to bring about "Peace in our time."

He stopped, sat down hard, and lay back, his head on a patch of gra.s.s. Soonji would have encouraged him to go ahead with this. She was an optimist, not a realist, but she had accomplished most of what she set out to do.

"I'm a pragmatist," he said, tears in his eyes, "and I always have been. You know that, Soon." He searched the skies for a familiar constellation, for a hint of order. There was only a jumble of stars. "If I back down from what I believe, then either I've lived a lie or I'll be living one from now on. I don't think I've been wrong, so I have to go ahead. Help me, Soonji. Give me some of your confidence."

A warm breeze drifted over him, and Donald shut his eyes. She would never come to him again of course, but he could still go to her, if not in life, then in sleep. And as he lay in the dark, in the silence, lingering between wakefulness and dream, he no longer felt unsure or afraid or alone.

Two miles to the west, and a few feet underground, the last drum of death was inching its way to the north, carrying sleep of a different kind

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR.

Tuesday, 4:00 P.M., Op-Center

"What's the weather outside?" Hood asked as he walked into Matt Stall's office.

Stoll hit Shift/F8, then 3, then 2. "Sunny, seventy-eight degrees, wind from the southwest." When he was finished, he returned to the keyboard, inputting instructions, waiting, then inputting more.

"How's it coming, Matty?"

"I've got the system cleaned out, except for the satellites. I should have those back in about ninety minutes."

"Why so long? Don't you just write a program to erase it?"

"Not in this case. There are pieces of virus in every photo file we have from the region, going back to the 1970s. They've been lifting images from everywhere. We've got a Ken Burns history of North Korean hardware in today's satellite pictures. And it's seamless. I want to meet the guy who wrote this before we shoot him."

"Can't promise you that." Hood rubbed his eyes. "Have you taken a break today?"

"Yeah, sure. Have you?"

"This is it."

"A working break. Stretch the legs. See if I'm s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up again."

"Matty, no one blamed you for what happened--"

"Except me. s.h.i.t, I used to laugh at Shakespeare or whoever it was said that 'For want of a nail, the horseshoe was lost' business. Well, he was right. I missed the nail and the kingdom came tumbling down. Can I ask you a question, though?"

"Shoot."

"Were you a little happy when the computers went banzai, or was it my imagination?"

"It wasn't your imagination. I wasn't happy, I was--"

"Smug. Sorry, Paul, but that's how it struck me."

"Maybe. I feel like we've all gotten into this speed trap, everything moving faster because it can. When communications were slower and reconnaissance took time, people had time to think and cool down before they blasted h.e.l.l out of each other."

"But they did it anyway. Fort Sumter would have happened with or without Dan Rather and Steve Jobs. I just think you like being a daddy, and these babies don't need us till they run the family car into a ditch."

Before Hood could protest-- and when he thought about it later he was glad he didn't, because Stoll had a point-- Bob Herbert paged him. He used Mart's phone and punched Herbert's number.

"Hood here."

"Bad news, Chief. We found out what Major Lee was up to today, at least part of the day."

"More terrorism?"

"Looks that way. He took four quarter-drums of poison gas-- tabun-- from the Hazardous Materials Vault at the army base in Seoul. All very legal, the paperwork in order. It says he's taking it up to the DMZ."

"When was this?"

"About three hours after the explosion."

"So he would have had enough time to set the blast, get to the base, and head north, a.s.suming that's his real destination. And somewhere along the way he decided to waylay Kim Hwan."

"Sounds about right."

Hood looked at his watch. "If he did go north, he's been there at least seven hours."

"But doing what? Tabun is a pretty heavy gas. Somebody'd notice if he was hauling a missile around, and he'd need a crop duster to use it on troops."

"Then there's the question of which troops. He could use it on ours to send Lawrence into a frenzy, or use it on the North Koreans to push them over the edge. Bob, I'm not going to go to the President with this. Call General Schneider at the DMZ. Wake him if you have to, and tell him about Lee. Ask him to find Donald as well, and have him call me."

"What are you going to tell Greg?"

"To radio General Hong-koo and tell him we've got a nut on the loose."

Herbert's gasp was audible over the phone. "Tell North Korea that the South Koreans are behind all this? Chief, the President'll have you shot deader'n Ike Clanton."

"If I'm wrong, I'll load the gun myself."

"What about the press? The Dee-Perks'll smear it everywhere."

"I'll talk to Ann about that. She'll have something ready to go. Besides, world opinion may slow the President down long enough for us to prove our case."

"Or get our a.s.ses royally kicked."

"Lives are worth that. Just do it, Bob. We're short on time."

Hood hung up.

"I know," said Stoll without looking up, "my fingers are flying as fast as possible. Just find out what kind of truck Lee was driving: I'll get your satellites back as soon as possible."

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE.

Wednesday, 6:30 A.M., the DMZ

In his long career of crawling through tunnels, Lee had never decided which was preferable: the rank, damp tunnels that filled your lungs with musk that stayed for weeks, and tickled your face with roots, or the dry, airless tunnels like this one, which filled your nose and eyes with sand and left your mouth painfully dry.

This is worse, he told himself. You can get used to a smell, but not to thirst.

At least his labors were nearly at an end. They were in the last section of tunnel with the last of the drums: in just a few minutes they would reach the niche they'd dug on the other side. He would help Yoo up with the drums, and then the rest was up to the Private, carrying them closer to the target and putting them in place before sunup. Yoo had already brought his tools through; they had studied the course through the hills and shadows several nights before, and there was no way anyone could see him.

While Yoo worked, Lee would go back and take care of Mr. Gregory Donald before he could meet with Hong-koo. It was so typical of an American. Those who weren't empire builders were self-righteous meddlers. He hated them for that, and for having stopped short of victory in the war. When they finished helping him destroy the government of Pyongyang, he would work on expelling them at long last from his country.

His country. Not Harry Truman's or Michael Lawrence's, not General Norbom's or General Schneider's. The personality and industry of his people had been kept down and perverted for too many years, and it would stop now.

Despite the pads he wore. Lee's knees were rubbed raw by the crawling and chafing, and his eyepatch was soaked with sweat, his good eye burning. But he could barely keep from rushing through these final yards and minutes as the time of the second and third events neared, the moment they'd been planning since he first approached Colonel Sun with his idea two years before.

He continued to creep forward, balancing himself on his left hand, rolling the drum with his right, his shoulders hunched. His good eye shifted slowly from side to side as he moved ahead, watching the walls of the tunnel. And then the yards were a few feet, and the minutes were seconds, and they stood the drum upright with its three companions.

Yoo took a rolled rope ladder from the niche they had dug, and with his back to the wall of the narrow pa.s.sageway, he shinned to the top. Attaching the ladder to a rock, he lowered it down and they began bringing the drums up.

Major Lee moved back through the tunnel on all fours. Sometimes his knees didn't even touch down as he kicked off with the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, his legs going past his elbows as he raced ahead. He pulled the flashlight from his shoulder and doused it as he neared the pa.s.sageway on the southern side, then sprang onto the hemp line. He scurried up, hand over hand, then paused just below the rim.

There was no one around. Pulling himself through, Major Lee patted his left pocket, made sure the switchblade was still there, then ran into the night.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX.