Rogue Threat (26 page)

The cinderblock hut was still. Sung could hear a pack of monkeys in the distance screaming and cackling, as if to amplify Kim’s point. The Central Committee had been clever and resourceful up to this point. The news of the destruction of the Metroliner, the mall, and the sports arena was especially welcomed. It meant that the timeline was in effect and gave Sung confidence that many of the variables they had been questioning, such as internal American support, were indeed accounted for.

“Thanks to our Iraqi friends, in particular General Ballantine, we have begun Phase Two operations. The Texas state capitol building will be destroyed next, and we expect to have the same effect as the other attacks. There is one American that does seem suspicious of who might be behind the attacks. His name is Mr. Matt Garrett. He has been to the Canadian headquarters site with what we believe to be a small CIA paramilitary team. Ballantine had to evacuate last night, so operations from Canada were compromised.”

Sung turned to Kim and asked, “What do we plan to do about this Garrett?”

“Not to worry. Ballantine has indicated that he will take care of that issue. He is in full communication and remains capable.”

Sung nodded. “Continue.”

“The American government has chosen to continue limited airline operations. This is better than we could have hoped and should provide us the necessary cover for the remainder of our operations.

“In closing, I should say that we will remain here at Fort Sherman. Lodging has been prepared for everyone. We have security. No one is authorized to have communications outside of our command center. Our guards have orders to kill anyone who is caught trying to depart.” Kim sat down with a perfunctory cross of her legs.

Sung stood and began speaking. “Let me first say that it is a genuine pleasure to be teamed with so many admirable allies. I would like for us all to say our names, what our countries’ objectives are, and where we are in stages of preparation. As for North Korea, we have the necessary personnel and supplies to conduct our part of the operation in this hemisphere. Inside of the United States, we have infiltrated our special operations personnel. Thanks to Mr. Cartagena’s supply routes, we have all of the necessary equipment to conduct operations in the Northwest. Are there any questions?”

The men were silent, many still listening to their own interpreters and processing the information. Sung let what he considered sufficient time to pass and then opened his hand to Aswan, indicating for him to speak next.

“Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Hosni Aswan. I am here on behalf of all members of Saddam Hussein’s former regime.”

Hosni Aswan was a young Iraqi who had fought in the Persian Gulf War in Ballantine’s Tawalkana Division. His loyalties ran deep not only to Ballantine, but also to Hussein. It was no mistake that Hussein had called upon the services of both Ballantine and Aswan. Aswan was a short man with olive skin, typical of his people, and a slashing scar across his left arm. The wound was the result of artillery shrapnel. He wore a short-sleeve, white madras shirt and black pants.

“Our grievance with the United States is well-publicized and much understood amongst this group, I am sure. Our objectives are to retaliate for the unlawful invasion and occupation of our country and exact revenge for the war crimes committed against our people. We have Ballantine, who is conducting Phase Two operations out of Canada. He has begun these operations with the attacks already described. As you just heard, he is in the process of moving to an alternate command post and will continue his operations, God willing. Our area of operations is the northeast region of the United States, including Boston and New York.”

The light murmur of interpreters continued for a few seconds, and then the room fell silent. Sung noticed that most of the men were nodding their heads in agreement. A twinge of satisfaction and excitement flickered inside of him. He motioned to the next man.

“My name is Stephan Radovic. I represent the great leader of the Serbian people, Slobodon Milosevic.” Sung watched Radovic speak. He had a large face, indicative of the man’s impressive stature. His nose was that of a boxer’s, contorted and bent in two places so that it was nearly parallel with the rest of his face. Sung concluded that Radovic would easily kill anyone, man, woman, or child, who obstructed his path. The Serb wore a white T-shirt beneath an ugly maroon sport coat that shrouded him like a prize-fighter’s robe. He spoke in heavily accented but passable English.

“Our goal is to inflict great suffering upon the people of the United States, who sat by while their government was killing innocent civilians in Serbia,” Radovic said. “We wish also to bring about an end to American arrogance and dominance in the affairs of other countries. We also have forces ready to execute Phase Two operations. Meanwhile, we intend to attack the current NATO Kosovo forces to engage them in battle.

“On behalf of President Milosevic, I wish to express two things. First is his desire to ensure that post-conflict matters and spoils, should there be any, are divided according to participation in this operation. And, second, he wishes for me to thank all of you in advance for your united effort in ending the tyranny of the oppressors.”

“Thank you, Mr. Radovic,” Sung responded. “First, before we leave this room today, we will all sign a document that addresses the very issue that you raise, the one of post-conflict matters. As we review this issue, some of us may not desire to possess some of the post-conflict spoils, as warfare is often a matter of chance. It may not bring what we wish.”

A few of the men shrugged, understanding Sung’s point that they may not win the fight, and therefore might suffer the consequences of an angry America.

“However, when the remainder of Phase Two operations begin, we will go forth with the Joint Document of Retribution, which we will all sign here today. This document accords to each country, in relation to the size of its participation in this operation, both the responsibility for the consequences of our forthcoming actions and the burden-sharing demands in the event of victory.”

Sung paused and then continued. “As we all know, the G-8 is meeting next week in Helsinki, and by the end of the week, we should be able to force a UN Security Council vote on our Joint Document of Retribution.”

“This is good,” Radovic said.

Sung nodded at Radovic, an understanding passing between the two men, then opened his hand to a slight gentleman sitting across from Radovic.

“My name is Jorge Cartagena. Three nights ago, I crossed the border from Colombia into Panama paddling a canoe along the Rio Balsas through the Darien region into Yaviza. On my way, I visited my native friends in the mountains of Panama just to the east of here,” he said pointing out the window. Cartagena spoke in rapid tones with just a whiff of Hispanic inflection.

“I then traveled by jeep through the impoverished hinterlands of this country along the Pan American Highway until I reached our location here this morning. While not an official of the Colombian government, I represent a great many Latinos who believe the Americans have prospered for too long by standing on the backs of our people. They say that I belong to a so-called drug cartel; however, we only traffic what the Americans desire. They are a society of consumers, and we provide a product.

“It is in our interest to be involved in this operation. We seek independence from the Colombian government and the recognition as an entity entitled to international money for infrastructure development. Our children need food and schools. The native Panamanian children need food and schools. We need help to lift ourselves up from this impoverishment that has been imposed upon us. We mostly are providing intelligence to the operation and the network to travel and communicate. In fact, Aswan’s operative is using many of our lines of communication and operation to orchestrate his project.”

Sung had deliberated carefully before allowing Cartagena and his Colombian band of drug pirates into the consortium. He knew the Americans had dedicated a significant amount of resources to spotting and tracking drugs and drug suppliers coming out of Colombia. But Cartagena’s infrastructure in the United States was invaluable. All of the routes of ingress, as well as the internal supply routes, had proven vital. The Americans may have picked up on some of the movement, but their intelligence indicated that there was no reason to believe it was not simply drug trafficking.

“Thank you, Mr. Cartagena. We are delighted to hear from Mr. Lin, representing the great nation of China.”

Bruce Lin was a tall, thin man who had been living in the United States for the past fifteen years. The one advantage that people like Lin, Sung, and Aswan had over their adversaries in the United States was their circular view of life, as compared to the extraordinarily linear and shallow view possessed by most Americans. Confucian and Islamic ideologies overlapped sufficiently both in theory and in practice to allow these strangers to find some common purpose.

Sung remembered meeting Lin some thirty years earlier. Sung had been a part of the North Korean military team that had brutally attacked and killed the American soldiers pruning a tree in the demilitarized zone in the summer of 1976. The Americans were clearing fields of fire as Sung had poured from the back of the military transport truck with twenty of his comrades, all wielding picks and axes. They had caught the Americans completely by surprise.

Sung had never forgotten the lesson of the attack. The Americans carelessly believed there was no threat and had accordingly placed no security to provide early warning.

After the massacre, Sung and his fellow attackers were rewarded in a ceremony in Pyongyang. Lin was an assistant to the Chinese ambassador to North Korea and had approached Sung after the ceremony. Lin had wanted to know about the attack, yearning for information and wanting to participate in the afterglow of victory against the Americans. Lin, wearing a gray silk Armani suit, spoke in smooth, well-practiced English.

“Thank you, Comrade Sung, for this opportunity. The Chinese government brings to the effort the most advanced technology, capable of doing great damage to our many targets. It has been our honor to extract from our adversaries the many secrets that have contributed to the development of these most dangerous weapons. All of our assets are in place, and we await only the message to execute. We have all of the necessary equipment and personnel in position to achieve the effects we desire in the southwestern and eastern portions of the United States. And, of course, I hope you find our accommodations here in Fort Sherman suitable.”

Lin paused before continuing and then looked at Sung. “The
Fong Hou
is ready as well,” Lin said.

“Yes, the
Fong Hou
,” Sung whispered as he looked skyward. “The
Fong Hou
carries the most precious cargo and is crucial to our overall success. She is on schedule?”

“On schedule,” Lin confirmed.

“Good. Now I turn the floor to our friend from Angola,” Sung said.

“Hello, my name is Jay P. Kahtouma. I am a member of the National Union for Total Independence of Angola. While our oppressors have been primarily the Portuguese, the imperial policies of the United States have kept our people in a continual state of poverty. We have many points of contact in the southeastern United States that will execute the appropriate actions when the word is given.”

“Thank you, Jay P. We appreciate your contributions to our effort,” Sung said.

He then turned to Igor Krachev, a hard-line Russian who had spent many years in Afghanistan fighting that most horrible war. Many of the Russian commanders, such as Krachev, became worn down by the conflict. Toward the latter half of the war, they struck deals with the local Afghans to trade protection of their troops for the assurance that their occupying forces would not attack villages. He had spent most of his career in the Russian paratroops and had migrated away from the democratic reforms when he saw black market corruption take control of his country. Krachev held out a diminishing flicker of hope that this current course of action would help restore Russia to its rightful, preeminent place in world geopolitics.

“Commander Krachev,” said Sung.

“Thank you, Comrade Sung. We have necessarily kept a low profile, but are ready to execute our portion of the plan. Everything is in place and we will perform with precision.” Krachev sat back in his chair, his large shoulders slumping over.

Eduardo Sanchez stood as the final speaker. The Cuban nationalist was a tall, light-skinned man sporting a pencil mustache just above his thin upper lip.

“Everyone understands Cuba’s role in this operation,” Sanchez said. “We have been preparing for this for many years. Our country has been suffering the economic and political sanctions of the United States for nearly fifty years now. They have driven my countrymen into economic despair and we stand ready to unite with all of our brothers and sisters across the globe to destroy them. On order, we will begin operations to initiate the remainder of Phase Two operations and support Ballantine’s actions as well.”

Sung stood and spread his arms wide. “I thank you all for your commentary and for your support in this operation. I intend to speak with General Ballantine soon.” He paused for effect and translation. “Our thoughts and best wishes go out to all of our men and women who are about to begin the remainder of Phase Two operations. We will await the code word from Ballantine, indicating that conditions are set, before launching our attacks.”

Everyone nodded. They had been over this portion of the plan before. They all had agreed that Ballantine’s final attack must be successful before they would sacrifice their soldiers. Destruction of the United States’ command and control architecture would facilitate their attacks greatly.

“Together we conquer the enemy!” Sung shouted, holding his fists in the air.

“Together!” they responded, each in their own language, raising their arms and pumping their fists.

Sung lightly touched Sue Kim’s arm as he guided her outside into the muggy Panamanian early morning darkness. The monkeys howled in the background, as if to signal the joy that was to come.