He glanced down the slope at the single east–west runway traversing the bottom of the valley, about fifteen hundred metres below him, then nodded in satisfaction. The OP was a rocky perch near the top of a ridge that dominated the landscape just to the north of the airfield, and he needed to be on this side so that he could see right into the hangars.
Like most North Korean airfields, T’ae’tan appeared to consist of a runway and not much else. Again, like most military airfields in this country, it was built close to a mountainside – or, in this case, a rocky hillside bordering the north side of the narrow valley. The reason for this was simple enough. The North Koreans always tried to construct hardened shelters for their air assets and command centres, and natural rock offered much better protection than concrete. Invariably expecting any attack to come from the south, they almost always began their excavations on the northern slope of the hill or mountain. Locating a hangar’s entrance, its most vulnerable part, to the north ensured that the bulk of the rock obstructed any assault from the south.
Satellite photographs of T’ae’tan had revealed it possessed a long, straight taxiway, big enough to use as a secondary runway in an emergency. It bordered the runway itself on its south side, and extended some distance beyond it. There a spur ran off, splitting into two, and appeared to terminate in the hills fringing the south side of the narrow valley. In fact, these two sections of the taxiway led to the hangars excavated into the hillside, and it was those that Yi Min-Ho was now watching from his current perch on the opposite ridge.
The instructions he’d been given by his superior officer at Naegok-dong were clear and simple: he was to observe this airfield and assess its current activity. Specifically, he was to identify and report on the type, numbers and possible tasking of any unusual aircraft he spotted. His secondary task was to confirm the exact numbers of Chinese-built Shenyang F-5 single-seat jet interceptors – an old aircraft design based on the Russian MiG-17 – and also whatever Ilyushin Il-28 bombers the base had operational.
The Ilyushins had arrived at T’ae’tan back in October 1995, as part of a major redeployment of North Korean air assets that saw more than one hundred aircraft moved to forward bases close to the DMZ or Demilitarized Zone. South Korean experts calculated that the Il-28s could reach Seoul within as little as ten minutes, should hostilities break out.
By late morning, he’d already filled a couple of pages of his notebook with observations. His country’s National Intelligence Service is technically advanced, but for counting aircraft Yi Min-Ho needed no more than a pair of binoculars and a pencil and paper. Of the three squadrons of F-5 aircraft known to be based at T’ae’tan, he’d counted only five different planes, and just three of those had so far got airborne. He’d watched the other two being moved from their hardened shelters and parked outside. Either all the remaining aircraft belonging to the squadrons were currently in deep maintenance, Yi surmised, or they’d been moved somewhere else entirely. And so far he hadn’t seen a single Ilyushin.
Four of the six hangar doors he was watching were obviously newly constructed, which meant the North Koreans had recently dug some additional space into the hillside opposite. Yi had already estimated the likely number of aircraft these new shelters could accommodate, from careful observation with his binoculars of the old hangars through their open doors. He’d also noted that the single runway had been extended eastwards, as evidenced by new concrete a different shade to the original surface. This was another vital indication that the airfield’s operational capability was being augmented.
After another scan with his binoculars to confirm nothing new was happening below him, Yi Min-Ho decided he might as well take an early lunch. He had to keep his strength up, but the prospect of consuming another MRE ‘delicacy’ was less than enthralling. He pulled the haversack towards him and picked through its packets to make a selection. As he swallowed the first tasteless mouthful, he comforted himself with the prospect of stimulating his palate with a chocolate bar afterwards.
On the south side of the airfield below the hidden observer, Pak Je-San’s instructions were being followed to the letter. Twenty hand-picked soldiers, wearing camouflage clothing and equipped with powerful tripod-mounted binoculars, were spaced along the airfield perimeter, invisible from more than a few metres away, each studying their designated section of the hillside opposite.
The moment he learnt about a possible infiltrator, Pak had guessed the agent’s objective would be T’ae’tan, simply because there was nothing else of military significance to South Korea in that sparsely inhabited region. The sighting of an intruder near Ugom had confirmed his suspicion that the unknown agent would be here trying to observe aircraft movements. Because the hangars all lay along the south side, he had deduced that the spy would be watching from the hills to the north.
And Pak was before long proved correct. When Yi Min-Ho raised his binoculars to check the airfield immediately before pausing to eat, their lenses had flashed briefly in the sun. That distant glint had been spotted by one of the watching soldiers, who had noted the spot carefully, then focused his binoculars and waited. Next he’d seen some sort of movement, though too indistinct to make out. That was when he decided to alert his superior officer.
Within five minutes, all the camouflaged soldiers were studying exactly the same location on the hillside opposite. Meanwhile, a six-man armed patrol, on standby since early that morning, was being rapidly tasked with an intercept mission.
‘Was it really worth it?’ Colin Dekker wondered, gazing across the cargo bay at the body of his Regiment soldier. In front of the battered Pinky, now securely lashed down to prevent it shifting, four of his men were administering whatever medical assistance they could to the soldier with the broken leg and to the injured loadmaster. The pain-killing injections would certainly help, but one of the bullets striking the loadmaster had severed an artery and, despite the tourniquet and the strapped-on compresses, Dekker realized the man’s life was now hanging in the balance.
‘Worth it? Buggered if I know,’ Richter echoed him, after a moment.
‘What was in that hangar, anyway?’
‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’
‘Try me.’
‘Fuck-all.’
Dekker looked blank. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing.
He pulled out the digital camera and selected ‘view’. The first image appeared on the small screen, and Dekker studied it closely. Taken from above, it showed a considerable section of the interior of the hangar, but all he could see was a large expanse of empty concrete, and part of the cradle of a cherry-picker. He flicked to the next frame, and then the next.
‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ he concluded. ‘Are you sure that was the right hangar?’
‘It was not only the one Six told me to investigate,’ Richter replied, ‘but it also had the largest number of sentries guarding it.’
‘But why would the Algerians be guarding an empty hangar?’
‘That’s easy. Something’s obviously missing, either lost or stolen, and I presume the guards are there to preserve the integrity of the scene. The difficult bit will be working out exactly what’s been mislaid, but my own guess is they’ve lost an aircraft.’
Chapter Five
Monday
Anatoli Yershenko stood just inside the hangar and stared at the two massive grey interceptors in front of him, then glanced down at the paperwork he’d been given.
