Squires cocked his head. “You make me feel guilty about not writing home.”
“You can send him a postcard from Osaka when we head back.”
Rodgers felt the plane bank to the southwest. Head back. The words always caused his throat to tighten up. You never knew if you would come back; you just assumed it. But there were so many times that didn’t happen, and even experienced soldiers were caught offguard by that realization. The words of Tennyson came back to haunt him, as they often did:
Home they brought her warrior dead. She nor swoon ‘d, nor utter’d cry: All her maidens, watching said, “She must weep or she will die.
The transport landed, and as Captain Harryhausen complained about the weather, the Striker warriors rushed out to the waiting chopper. They were in and airborne four minutes after the door of the C-141 had been opened.
The sleek, narrow Military Airlift Command jet rose rapidly in the driving rain and headed northwest. The men were sitting as before, in benches along the sides, but the mood now was entirely different. Those who had slept or played cards or read on the trip to Osaka were now electrified. They were checking gear, giving each other pep talks, and a few were praying. Private Bass Moore was in charge of the parachute rigging, and he checked the lines as the jet flew in low over the Sea of Japan, bucking the heavy winds and thinning sheets of rain.
An officer from Seoul was onboard, reviewing the exit strategy with Squires. There would be a Sikorsky S-70 Black Hawk waiting to come and get them: the chopper could be over the DMZ and into the Diamond Mountains in a matter of minutes. More importantly, the eleven-sealer had a pair of M-60 side-firing machine guns to help ensure that they’d get out again.
With just twenty minutes until drop time, Rodgers called Puckett over and asked him to raise Hood.
The Director was edgier than Rodgers had ever remembered hearing him, and it was refreshing.
“Mike, it’s beginning to look like you’re going to be in the thick of it.”
“What happened?”
“The President doesn’t buy it, but we’re convinced that a South Korean team is behind all this, and we’ve also learned that a pilot took two men from a ferry in the Sea of Japan. Guy was so nervous he cracked up his plane on landing and spilled his guts to the sea patrol. He said he took the men to Kosong.”
“Kosong? That’s just a three-pointer from the No-dongs.”
“Exactly. And there were two bodies on the ferry. The dead men were carrying gambling money from Japan to North Korea. Tens of thousands of dollars.”
“That’s decent bribe money up North. Most of those bastards would sell their kids for a grand.”
“That’s what Bob Herbert says. It’s a big leap of faith to assume that someone from the South is planning to use that money to get control of the Nodong site, but we can’t afford to overlook the possibility.”
“Which means we’ve got to get in there and find out for sure.”
“Right. I’m sorry, Mike.”
“Don’t be. This is what we signed on for. To paraphrase George Chapman, being threatened is what turns us into lions.”
“Sure. And like Kirk Douglas said in Champion, ‘Ours is like any other business, only here the blood shows.’ Take care of yourself, and tell Charlie and the boys to do the same.”
“Ten minutes!” Squires called back.
“That’s it, Paul,” Rodgers said. “I’ll radio you when we have something. And if it’s any consolation, I’d rather be dodging bullets than the press on this one. Good luck to you too.”
SIXTY-EIGHT
Wednesday, 7:20 A.M., the DMZ
General Schneider forgot his dream the instant his orderly entered. All he remembered was that he was on skis somewhere and liking it very much. Reality, and the dry night air, always brought him back with an unpleasant jolt.
“Sir, there’s a phone call from Washington.”
“The President?” he said.
“No, sir. Not that Washington. A Mr. Bob Herbert from Op-Center.”
Schneider muttered an oath. “They probably want me to straitjacket poor Donald.” Sliding into his slippers, the General went to his desk. With an air of relief, he inserted himself in the swivel chair and picked up the phone. “General Schneider.”
“General, this is Bob Herbert, Intelligence Officer at Op-Center.”
“I’ve heard of you. Lebanon?”
“Yes. That’s quite a memory you have.”
“Bob, I never forget when we do something stupid. Goddamn Embassy had a ‘kick me’ sign on it for terrorists. No heavy barricades out front, nothing to stop a bomber bent on driving a truck to Allah’s doorstep.” He leaned back in the chair and raised his eyelids to stretch the sleep from them. “But enough about old mistakes. You’re calling to stop a new one from being made.”
“I hope so,” said Herbert.
“Yeah, I don’t know what the hell got into the man. Well, that’s not true. He lost his wife yesterday. Donald’s a good man. He’s just not thinking clearly.”
“Clear enough to go over there with official instructions, I hope.”
Schneider shot forward in the seat. “Hold on! You’re telling me you’re sanctioning this idiotic little conference of his?”
“Director Hood has asked him to relay a message. That we believe a team of South Koreans masquerading as North Koreans are behind the blast… and that it may be the first of several terrorist acts designed to throw us into war.”
“Our own side?” Schneider sat still as an oak. “Dammit, you’re sure?”
“The pieces are coming together,” Herbert said. “We think a Major Kim Lee is behind it.”
“Lee? I’ve met him. Stony-faced bastard, superpatriot. I liked him.”
“He seems to have put together a small team,” Herbert said, “and he appears to be in your area now-with four quarter-drums of poison gas.”
“I’ll contact General Norbom, send out a search and destroy squad to find him.”
“That’s not all. Some of his men may be trying to gain control of a mobile Nodong site in the east.”
“Ambitious,” said Schneider. “You sure you want Donald to tell Hong-koo all this? They’ll have it on all the wire services before the last word’s out of his mouth.”
“We know.”
“They’ll also shoot Lee’s people on sight,” Schneider said. “Have you thought about what’ll happen when word gets out that the U.S. was responsible for the death of South Koreans? Seoul will explode. It’ll be like goddamn Saigon.”
“Hood knows about that too,” Herbert said. “He’s preparing something with our Press Officer.”
“A double funeral would be my recommendation. You guys may actually be creating some kind of constitutional crisis by effectively obstructing the powers of the Oval Office to make war.”
“Like I said,” Herbert replied, “the boss knows.”
“Well, Bob, I’ll relay the message. And here’s one for Mr. Hood. His tank may not be full in the brains department, but I haven’t seen stones like his since Ollie North.”
“Thanks,” Herbert said. “I’m sure he’ll understand that was a compliment.”
Gregory awoke from his short sleep feeling remarkably refreshed and clearheaded.
Sitting up on the scrubby flats, he looked over at the brightly lighted border. How fitting it was that hate and suspicion should cause both sides to burn their fires. Distrust always leaves people in the dark.
He took out his pipe and filled it with the last of his Balkan Sobranie tobacco. After lighting it, he held the match to look at his watch.
It was nearly time.
He puffed slowly and reflected about the smoke, about the Balkans and how a single incident there, the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand, triggered the First World War. Would a single event here trigger a Third World War? It was conceivable. There was more than tension in the air: there was rampant insanity. Preserving ego with lives, painting images in blood. What is wrong with us?
From behind, headlights found the former diplomat. Donald turned and shielded his eves as a jeep approached.
“Communing with the stars?” General Schneider said, climbing from the passenger’s side. He walked over, an imposing silhouette.
“No, General. With my muse.”
“You should have told me where you were going. If you didn’t light up, we’d be searching till daylight.”
“I haven’t changed my mind, if that’s what you’ve come about.”
“No. I’ve got a message for you from your boss.”
Donald felt his insides constrict. He hoped that the General hadn’t gone to the White House.
General Schneider told him what Herbert had said, and Donald felt an enormous weight lift from his shoulders. Not only was there the satisfaction of his and Kim Hwan’s initial hunch having been correct, but there was every chance that now this brushfire could be stamped out.
Strangely enough, he thought, he wasn’t surprised about Major Lee. When they had met earlier, there was something in his eye, in the last glance he gave, that wasn’t quite right. There was intelligence, but also an edge-suspicion, perhaps, or maybe contempt.