The Korean Intercept (6 page)

Her outlook had evolved from the sense of awe and wonder she'd first experienced upon arriving in Washington almost a year ago to being as jaded as only a political reporter in a world capital could be. During that time, she had developed a feel for her work that did not come from schooling or training but only from working the turf, as the Americans said: from whether or not you adapted and became attuned to the nuances, the subtext a good correspondent watched for beneath the veneer of political blather and double-talk that was the stock in trade of every politician everywhere; and it was this that was now pestering her subconscious as she watched the room slowly empty of correspondents.

The White House spokesman had seemed… well, distracted, she thought. Halliday had a well-earned reputation for being unflappable. You had to be, in his line of work. The press secretary invariably went into a press conference ready with the administration's media handouts for that day, certain of his facts and figures and prepared to engage the American network correspondents and the top American wire service people, who were assigned the front rows and received most of his attention. The question and answer time rarely included the foreign press and certainly had not today. Not that it mattered. Every topic covered had been mundane and wholly routine. But today Meiko had been close enough to the front to sense what she perceived as a subtle preoccupation, a sort of disengagement on the part of the press secretary. She wasn't sure exactly why she thought she sensed this, but she did: an artificial inflection here and there, a glancing to the curtained wings of the small stage, something he did not usually do, as if he was waiting, hoping for someone to bring him some sort of news or information. He was not as focused as usual. Something else beyond the administration's rhetoric about the upcoming economic summit in Europe was on John Halliday's mind.

Meiko now faced the decision of what to do about it. She knew from experience that she had no chance of getting close directly, one-on-one, with John Halliday. That was practically impossible, even for the big three American networks and CNN. She would have to work her contacts. She would have to probe. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe the press secretary just hadn't gotten enough sleep last night.

She sensed someone approaching and turned.

Trev Galt walked up to her.

She thought: speaking of contacts… She met him with a smile. "Well well, Trev, I didn't see you here. What did you think of the press secretary's performance?"

"I missed it, I'm happy to say. I just got here."

He wore his Class A U.S. military uniform. The current president was a stickler for propriety, and this included a dress code for White House personnel.

There was no physical contact between them. Nothing to suggest that they had been dating regularly for the past several months. They'd slept together three times, and that was the last three times they'd seen each other. He was the only man she'd been with since coming to America, and only the second man she'd ever made love with. There was something between them, something nice: a strong mutual attraction that had been there from the moment they met. They enjoyed each other's company and leisure interests, such as movies and tennis and picnics in the country. One thing had seemed to naturally lead to another. She'd felt some reservation at first about sleeping with a married man, but told herself that it made a difference because Trev and Kate were separated. Now though, with Kate Daniels in the news, aboard that space shuttle in outer space, something had changed between Meiko and Galt. What had drawn her to Trev initially was his combination of toughness and gentleness, tenderness and supreme confidence. Trev Galt was a tall mountain of a man. His blue eyes, set in a craggy, oak-tanned face, were always warm with her. But she had no difficulty imagining them as cruel, cold, like chips of ice. This man could kill, and probably had. She knew only that he was attached to the National Security Council, and that he worked in the West Wing of the White House at an administrative level. There was a steadfast rule between them that they never discuss his work, especially in light of the fact that she was a journalist. Theirs was a weekend relationship, which was only what either of their busy schedules permitted. This was the first they'd spoken to each other in two weeks.

Considering the shuttle lift-off, there was only one question she could now think of to ask him. "How are things with
Liberty
?"

She saw at once that this was the wrong question. The blue eyes chilled. "I just know what you know. I'm having a busy day."

Something about the curtness of his reply irritated her. Or maybe, she thought, she'd irritated herself, because he was on her mind so much during the past two weeks. There was no one within earshot. Her cameraman was busy talking shop across the room with a cameraman from one of the networks. So she went ahead and said what she'd promised herself she would never say.

She said, "I've been waiting for you to call."

"I thought we weren't going to talk about us when we met in public like this."

"I'm sorry, Trev. But we also agreed to see each other, and we were until… two weeks ago."

"I told you I've been busy."

"You've been busy avoiding me. We agreed in the beginning that this relationship would be over the first time either of us wanted it to be over. I want to be a good thing in your life, Trev. I don't want to complicate it and I won't. But you're not going to just end what's between us with no explanations and no goodbyes, are you?"

"Meiko, I don't want to talk about it right now."

"Neither do I. But we need to talk. I'm worried, Trev. Not about us, but about you. You're drinking more, like you were when we first met, before you dried out for me."

"Meiko—"

"And I couldn't help but notice that your drinking became worse as the time drew closer for the
Liberty
launch." She stared into his eyes. "I'd be disappointed if you weren't concerned about Kate's safety up there in space. She is your wife." She reprimanded herself even as she spoke, hearing the emotion in her voice, and she knew he would hear it too. "But you did tell me that the romance part of your relationship with Kate was over between you. That you'd agreed it would be all right for you to each date different people. I don't want a lot, Trev. I just want to understand the situation I'm dealing with."

"I'm sorry. I guess I just don't know, either."

"Then that's the problem, isn't it?" She kept her voice pitched low. They remained beyond earshot of anyone else. This would appear only as a cordial exchange to anyone observing them. "Are you in love with two women at the same time, Trev? Is that the problem? You don't like being indecisive, do you? You're not that type of man. I'll bet this is the first time you've been indecisive in a long while."

Galt chuckled. "I can't remember the last time. I'm sorry, Meiko. I haven't been fair to you. I will call."

"Then I'll settle for that, and I'll let you in on a little secret. I wish I understood my own feelings. Perhaps I'm getting what I deserve for feeling this way about a married man."

They became aware then of someone approaching. A man she recognized as being from the Military and Naval Aides' Office reached them with a purposeful stride and addressed Trev as if she weren't there.

"Sir, excuse me. The president wants to see you."

Meiko and Trev nodded to each other, the polite unspoken goodbye of two mere acquaintances, and she watched them walk away, angry at herself for having brought up her and Trev's private life the way she had. It had been gnawing at her more than she'd realized, obviously, for everything to come firing out of her as it had. She had always considered herself to be highly disciplined, professionally and emotionally.

Watching Trev and the man leave the press room, a new thought muted her emotions. Could there be a connection between the space shuttle and the preoccupation, the disengagement, which she had sensed on the part of Press Secretary Halliday? The
Liberty's
mission and schedule were classified, but the launch had been reported as a success.

Had something gone wrong?

 

North Korea

 

Dawn silhouetted the mountains. Sunrise rouged the snowy slopes of Mount Paekdu. The intermittent flurries of last night had not stuck to the frozen ground at the lower elevation where the airfield dominated a narrow, shallow valley.

The perimeter of the military landing field was a galvanized welded-mesh fence topped with barbed wire that glinted in the frozen sunshine. At each corner of the oblong perimeter of the base was a watch-tower. Set apart from the barracks, which were dreary, squat structures of cinderblock, was a modern control tower rising from a single-story building with an oversized, rotating dish-shaped radio and television antenna on the roof. The building and tower dominated an inner compound surrounded by its own barbed wire perimeter, complete with patrolling sentries armed with assault rifles.

Sergeant Bol Rhee stood with his men on the tarmac beside a Soviet-made M-6 helicopter, watching the ground crew work frantically on the engine. It was twenty minutes since the last of the other gunships had lifted off, but since the flight crews were under orders to utilize the onboard heaters only during the months of December through February, on this brisk November morning Bol was glad for the delay. It gave him and his platoon precious additional time to store up what warmth they could from the sunshine before boarding the helicopter for what would surely be a cold, cold flight into the surrounding hills. Search flights spreading out in concentric circles from the base had begun hours earlier and would be continued around the clock.

Bol Rhee had the stocky, rawboned build of the peasant class from which he came. He sometimes wished that he was still a youngster, that he had never grown up to become a career soldier in the People's Army. But wishing did not make it so, and he was far better off than many. The country above the 38th parallel was wracked with poverty. At least in the army he ate well and had a roof over his head.

He thought again that this was the strangest duty assignment of his army career. His company had been sent to provide security for this hastily constructed airfield. The completed runway was much wider and longer than any Bol had ever seen. But except for the patrol gunship helicopters already stationed here, no aircraft had ever landed or taken off from this runway. Supplies and materials were delivered by truck at night. Military engineers had constructed the base in record time. There were two distinctly separate, vigorously segregated groups: those who worked in and around the tower and those who provided security.

Since the completion of the base, the technicians in their white smocks had stepped up their work around the clock. There continued to be virtually no air traffic in or out, with one exception. Sometimes in the middle of the night, a helicopter would touch down for a brief visit. Civilians were aboard and spent their time in the tower. During one such visit, Bol had seen the helicopter's markings. Not military, but Japanese civilian!

The only thing stranger was what had happened earlier this morning. The entire company had been positioned along the perimeter. The airfield landing lights were turned on for the first time since the base had become operational, and Bol had witnessed something he would never forget. Something amazing.

A space shuttle with American markings had soared in for a landing, had appeared fully ready to land, before unexpectedly overshooting the runway at the last possible instant and disappearing majestically into the darkness!

Then, within minutes he'd been standing in formation with his men, listening to Colonel Sung order the sweep of the surrounding countryside in search of an American space shuttle, which the base commander told them had malfunctioned while in orbit and had attempted an emergency landing but was feared to have crashed. This was a cooperative venture authorized by the United States, their commanding officer had informed Bol and the other troops. No man present was to utter a word of this to anyone, under penalty of death.

Bol believed the part about the death penalty, but not much else. Truly, a very strange duty assignment.

Colonel Sung now appeared, striding through the morning sunlight toward the helicopter from the direction of the tower, just as the maintenance crew chief signaled to the pilot. The gunship's engine coughed, sputtered, coughed again and started, filling the air with harsh black diesel exhaust. Bol ordered his men aboard, then turned to greet the base commander.

Sung's uniform was heavily starched. His boots were spit-polished, but he was soft around the middle from too much beer. "Valuable time is being lost, Sergeant. I had wanted your platoon in place by first light." Sung raised his voice to be heard above the engine noise.

"My apologies, Colonel," said Bol. "The helicopter—"

"Yes, well, it's been repaired, hasn't it? Remember, I want a thorough sweep of your sector, Sergeant. If Japanese troops are sighted, do not engage them. Radio your position without delay."

"One question, Comrade Colonel. Chinese border patrols have also been known to cross into this region from time to time."

"Expect anything. And stop wasting time."

"Yes, Comrade Colonel."

Bol boarded the helicopter.

The gunship lifted off, banking to the east. As he sat on the hard bench, shivering with his men, Bol wrapped his arms across his chest and hugged himself to stay warm. He looked out a side window to watch Sung and the airfield tilt away and recede into the distance below. It was even colder in the helicopter than he'd thought it would be.

He wondered what this day would bring.

 

Ahn Chong led them to a rocky, craggy outcrop of boulders where foliage overgrew a narrow gash, a fault in the stony surface at a low jut of rock that was well camouflaged by dense thickets.

The interior of the cave was vaguely illuminated by refracted light of the new day, slanting in through the foliage that concealed the entrance. There was a musty, unpleasant closeness about the place, a rodent smell, and some old animal droppings scattered about. But at least it wasn't cold. It was almost warm in comparison to the world outside, here in this close, crowded, dim, musty, confined space no more than ten feet high and thirty feet deep.