Yet, what they were doing must be done. He had known that since 1989, when he crystallized his thoughts and published an anonymous pamphlet called The South Is Korea. It enraged intellectuals and pro-unification activists, which told him he was on the right track. In the booklet, not only did he maintain that eventual reunification would be a cultural and economic disaster, it would destroy the lives and careers and political aspirations of officers on both sides of the border. That alone would create chaos, for soldiers like Oko would not take a mustering out and token post with grace and gratitude. He’d stage a coup that would plunge the peninsula into a war greater and more deadly than the relatively small conflagration they were planning. Besides, incontrovertible separation would prevent repeats of brutal confrontations like the 1994 riots in Seoul, where over seven thousand troops clashed with ten thousand pro-unification supporters and more than two hundred people were injured. Those protests would only grow worse as the U.S. continued its efforts to help the North replace its old graphite-moderated nuclear reactors. New nuclear reactors would decrease the amount of plutonium and atomic bombs the North could produce, thus making them more responsive to a mutual defense pact with the South.
In the long run, the course of action he and his cohorts were planning was preferable. And if the President of the United States insisted on meddling, on forcing reunification on the South, then he and his allies would find any victory to be a pyrrhic one.
It was getting late. Time to move. Sun and Kong cupped their left hands at their sides, the pistols cradled in them, barrel up, the silencer extension reaching nearly to their elbow. They walked through the darkness toward Ki-Soo’s tent. They passed a sentry who was patrolling the area, a man with medals, a big scar across his forehead, and a sinister bearing. The man saluted with zest.
The tent flap was unfastened and the Colonel entered.
Sun did not hesitate, though he was not without regrets. He had read Ki-Soo’s record and had a grudging respect for the man. His father was a Japanese soldier and his mother had been a comfort girl during the Second World War. Ki-Soo had fought hard to overcome the stigma associated with his birth, obtaining a degree in communications and then joining the military, where he rose quickly. It was unfortunate that he would die at best, be dishonored at worst. But he had a wife and a daughter, and the Colonel hoped he would be reasonable.
Sun’s orderly went to the holster hanging from the chair by Ki-Soo’s desk and collected the TT33 Tokarev pistol. He tucked it in the back of his belt as Sun himself got down on one knee beside Ki-Soo’s cot and put his free hand beside the Colonel’s right ear, the barrel of the gun to his left ear.
Ki-Soo awoke with a start; Sun pushed the man’s head against the barrel and held it there.
“Don’t move, Colonel.”
Ki-Soo jerked his head and tried to rise, but Sun held it firm.
“I said don’t move.”
He squinted into the darkness. “Sun?”
“Yes. Listen carefully, Colonel-”
“I don’t understand-”
Ki-Soo tried to sit, then stopped as Sun pushed the gun harder.
“Colonel, I haven’t time for this. I need your help.”
“For what?”
“I want the code to change the launch coordinates of the Nodongs.”
“But your orders! They said nothing about-”
“These are new orders, Colonel. Without your help, this will be difficult. With your help, this will be easier … and you live. Your choice?”
“I want to know who you’re with.”
“Your choice, Colonel?”
“I won’t turn the missiles without knowing where!”
Sun stood, the gun still pointed at Ki-Soo’s head. He is doing what a good officer should do, he thought. Let him have that much.
“They’ll be aimed nowhere in this country, Colonel. That’s all I’ll tell you.”
Ki-Soo looked from Sun to his aide. “Who are you with?”
Sun’s arm shifted and there was a pop followed by the hiss of released gas as the silenced pistol discharged. Ki-Soo howled as his left hand was pushed into the cot. His right hand flew over, clutching the bloody wound.
After a moment, they heard hurried footsteps outside. Sun saw a flashlight approaching from a nearby tent. “Colonel, are you all right?”
Kong stepped beside the flap, the Tokarev and his own 17mm pistol both pointing toward it.
The Colonel moved his arm so the gun was once again pointing at Ki-Soo’s head. “Tell your orderly that everything is fine.”
Fighting back the pain, Ki-Soo said, “I-I stubbed my toe.”
“Do you need to find something, sir? I have a flashlight.”
“No! Thank you, I’m fine.”
“Yes, sir.”
The orderly turned and went back to his tent.
Sun glared down at the officer. “Kong, tear off a piece of the bedsheet and wrap his hand.”
“Stay away!” Ki-Soo hissed. He pulled off his pillowcase and pushed it against his hand.
Sun gave him a moment, then said, “My next shot will be higher. Now, Colonel, the code.”
Ki-Soo was struggling to stay composed. “Five-one-four-zero in the bottoni row … lets you get into the system. Zero-zero-zero-zero in the middle row … erases the coordinates and allows you to change them. Once you’ve done that, any code you pick for the bottom row will lock the coordinates in.”
The coordinates. That was something of a joke in the South. The American-built systems were operated by built-in topographic maps and photographic images provided by aerial or satellite surveillance. These missiles were able to find a particular jeep in a busy camp and could be dropped in the lap of any of the passengers. Conversely, the Nodongs could be aimed in 360 directions, and the elevation was selected by how many miles away the target was. Targeting specific city blocks was virtually impossible.
But Sun didn’t need to hit a specific block. He just needed a particular city, and anywhere in it would be fine.
“What time do the men in the hills change shifts?” Sun asked.
“They’ll be … relieved at eight.”
“Will the officer in charge report to you?”
Ki-Soo nodded.
Sun said, “I’m leaving Kong with you. The flap is to remain closed, and you’ll receive no one. If you do anything but what you’re told, you’ll die. We won’t be here long, and when we’re finished your camp will be returned to you. ”
Ki-Soo winced as he used the thumb of his right hand to press the pillowcase into the wound. “I’ll be disgraced.”
“You have a family,” Sun said. “You were right to think of them.” He turned to leave the tent.
“The missiles are aimed at Seoul. What target… can be more important?”
Sun said nothing. Very soon, Ki-Soo and the rest of the world would know.
SIXTY-SEVEN
Wednesday, 7:10 A.M., Osaka
“General Rodgers, I thought the pilot was flying us into some warm sunshine!”
Even over the roar of the engines, Lt. Col. Squires along with the rest of the Striker team could hear the slashing rain as they crossed Ise Bay on their approach to Osaka. Rodgers was always fascinated and impressed by imbalances of that sort, like hearing a harp in the midst of an orchestra. In a way, it was similar to the philosophy behind the formation of the Striker unit. From David and Goliath to the American Revolution, size did not always mean dominance. Playwright Peter Barnes had once written about a puny weed that split the walk, and that image-not just the Andrew Jacksons and Joshua Chamberlains and Teddy Roosevelts of history-had kept Rodgers going in some of his darkest days. He’d even had his sister stitch the design onto his duffel bag, so he’d always be reminded of the image.
Private Puckett broke into Rodgers’s reverie with a salute and a snappy “Sir!”
Rodgers removed his earplugs. “What’s the word, Private Puckett?”
“Sir, Major General Campbell says he has a C-9A jet waiting to fly us over.”
“Leave it to the army,” Squires said. “We get an unarmed Nightingale to fly over North Korea.”
“I’d rather have a nice, snug Black Hawk myself,” Rodgers said, “but we’ve got a problem with range. Thanks, Private.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
Squires grinned as Puckett returned to his seat. “Johnny Puckett’s a real good man, sir. Says his daddy used to have a Ham radio setup in his room when he was a baby-made him a mobile out of old knobs.”
“There’s something to be said for that. Like in the old days, when people learned one craft and became real good at it.”:
“True, sir. Only if you don’t get quite good enough at it, like my daddy trying to be a soccer player, you’re screwed.”
“Are you?”
“Seems so to me.”
“He passed that drive and ambition on to you, didn’t he? King Arthur couldn’t search for the Holy Grail himself. Moses wasn’t permitted to cross the River Jordan. But they inspired others to do those things.”