“But it’s easy to disperse in vapor or spray form, has little smell, is highly toxic, and works quickly when absorbed through the skin and even faster when inhaled. Yes, Major Carter. I’ve got Grade One certification, Colonel Orlando’s class, 1993.”
“And you have one of these?” He patted his chest.
Lee undid a button under his tie. He reached beneath his undershirt and withdrew the key.
Carter nodded. Together, the men removed the chains from around their necks and walked to the vault. The keyholes were on opposite sides where one man couldn’t possibly reach them both: when the keys were inserted and turned, the door retreated into the floor until a foot of the top remained: this impediment was designed like a speed bump, to keep soldiers from rushing off with the chemicals and having an accident.
Replacing the key around his neck, Major Carter returned to his desk to get an order fulfillment form while Major Lee supervised the careful loading of the two-foot-high orange drum onto a dolly. These dollies, specially designed to cradle different sized containers, hung on a rack on the back wall: if an enemy ever got through security and made it this far, they might not know that the dollies contained chips that sounded an alarm when they were taken more than two hundred yards from the HMV.
The drums were strapped to the dollies and taken outside, in turn, to the waiting truck. As each was loaded, an armed guard from HMV stood watch; she remained behind with the Korean driver each time Lee and his men returned to get another.
When they were finished, Lee went back in and signed the fulfillment order.
Carter gave Lee his copy. “You know to take this to General Norbom’s office for his stamp. Otherwise, they won’t let you out the gate with this.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“I wish you luck,” he said, offering Lee his hand. “We need men like you.”
“And you,” he replied flatly.
TWENTY
Tuesday, 6:25 A.M., Op-Center
Paul Hood and Liz Gordon arrived at the Tank at the same time. Hood ushered her in with a sweep of his hand and then entered behind her. The heavy door was operated by a button in the side of the large oval conference table, and he pushed it when he was inside.
The small room was lit by fluorescent lights hung in banks over the conference table; on the wall across from Hood’s chair, the countdown clock flashed its ever-changing array of digital numbers.
The walls, floor, door, and ceiling of the Tank were all covered with sound-absorbing Acoustix; behind the mottled gray-and-black strips were several layers of cork, a foot of concrete, and more Acoustix. In the midst of the concrete, on all six sides of the room, was a pair of wire grids that generated vacillating audio waves; electronically, nothing could enter or leave the room without being utterly distorted. If any listening device did somehow manage to pick up a conversation from inside, the randomness of the changing modulation made reassembling the conversations impossible.
Hood sat down at the head of the table and Liz sat to his left. He turned down the brightness on the monitor that sat beside a computer keyboard at his end of the table; a tiny fiber-optic camera was attached to the top of the monitor, and a similar setup was located at Mike Rodgers’s position, across the table.
Liz slapped her yellow pad on the table. “Listen, Paul. I know what you’re going to say, but I’m not wrong. This wasn’t his doing.”
Hood looked into the hazel eyes of his Staff Psychologist. Her medium-length brown hair was pulled back by a black headband; a white streak on a lapel of her smart red pantsuit was the residue of a carelessly brushed ash from one of the Marlboros she chainsmoked in her office.
“I wasn’t going to say you were wrong,” Hood replied evenly. “But what I have to know is precisely how sure you are. The President put me in charge of the Korean Task Force, and I don’t want to tell him his North Korean counterpart is talking peace in our time while he’s trying to egg us into crossing the DMZ.”
“Eighty-nine percent,” she said in her raspy voice, “that’s how sure I am. If Bob Herbert’s intelligence is accurate and we factor that in, our confidence level is ninety-two percent.” She pulled a stick of Wrigley’s from her pocket and unwrapped it. “The President of North Korea does not want a war. The short of it is, he’s thrilled with the way the lower class is growing and he knows that the way to remain in power is to keep that class happy. The best way to do that is end their self-imposed isolation. And you know what Herbert thinks.”
He did indeed. His Intelligence Officer believed that if the DPRK generals were opposed to the President’s policies, they’d have thrown him out. The sudden death of long-time leader Kim II Sung in 1994 left enough of a power void that they could have moved in if they didn’t like what was happening.
Liz folded the gum into her mouth. “I know you don’t think the psych division is very scientific, and you’d be happy as an elf if we were shut down. Okay. We didn’t figure on the police overreaction in Philly. But we’ve worked on the North Koreans for years, and I’m sure we’ve got this right!”
A computer monitor to his left beeped. Hood glanced at the E-mail message from Bugs Benet: the other Task Force members were ready for the teleconference. Hood pushed the ALT key to acknowledge, then regarded Liz.
“I believe in first impressions, not in psychology. But I’ve never met the North Korean leaders, so I have to rely on you. Here’s what I need.”
Liz uncapped her pen and began writing.
“I want you to go back to your data and give me a fresh profile of the top North Korean leaders factoring in the following: even if they didn’t endorse that attack, how will they react to a Defcon 5 mobilization on our part, to a possible South Korean reprisal in Pyongyang, and whether any of the DPRK generals are crazy enough to have authorized something like this without a presidential okay.
“I also want you to recheck that study you gave the CONEX people about China. You said that the Chinese wouldn’t want to get into a war on the peninsula, but that a few officials might push for it. Write up who and why and send a copy to Ambassador Rachlin in Beijing so he can do whatever stroking he feels is necessary.”
When they were finished-indicated, as always, by the Director’s exasperated exhaling, of which he probably wasn’t even aware-Liz stood and Hood buzzed her out. Before the door had shut again, Op-Center’s Interpol/FBI liaison Darrell McCaskey stepped in. Hood acknowledged the short, wiry, prematurely gray ex-FBI man and, when McCaskey was seated, Hood tapped the Control key on his keyboard. As he did, the monitor divided into six equal sections, three across and two down. Five of them were live television images of the other attendees at that morning’s meeting; the sixth was Bugs Benet who would monitor the transcription minutes of the meeting. There was a black bar at the bottom for messages: if it was necessary for Hood to be updated on developments in Korea, the Op-Center Situation Room would send a concise message crawling across the screen.
Hood didn’t understand why it was necessary to see the people he was talking to, but wherever hi-tech was available it was used, whether it was pertinent or not. The whole setup reminded him of the opening of The Brady Bunch.
The audio for each image was controlled by the F buttons on the keyboard, and before he turned on the others he hit F6 to talk to Bugs.
“Has Mike Rodgers come in yet?”
“Not yet. But the team has taken the field, so he should be here shortly.”
“Send him over when he arrives. Does Herbert have anything for us?”
“Also negative. Our intelligence people in the DPRK were as surprised as we were by all this. He’s in touch with the KCIA, and I’ll let you know when they have something.”
Hood thanked him, then regarded the faces of his colleagues as he tapped Fl through F5.
“Can everyone hear me?”
Five heads nodded.
“Good. Gentlemen, it was my impression-and correct me if I’m wrong-that the President wants to be decisive in his handling of this crisis.”
“And victorious,” Av Lincoln’s little image added.
“And victorious. Which means that the carrots we suggest may be a lot shorter than our sticks. Steve, you have the policy files.”
The National Security Adviser turned slightly to look at another monitor in his office. “Our policy on the peninsula is governed, of course, by treaty with the South. Within that framework, we are committed to the following: to work toward the stabilization of both sides, politically. To denuclearize the North and promote the NPT; to maintain a North/South dialogue; to follow our historic consultation procedure with Japan and China; to become immediately and closely involved in any initiatives undertaken by either side; and to make sure that no third party takes a more active hand in the foregoing than the United States.”