they fired contained their entire supply of plutonium and, without the destructive effects of the EMP to cripple the South Korean forces, they weren’t going to risk proceeding.’
Black glanced at his watch. ‘The bar’s opened already, because of what happened to Charlie and Roger. You should both go down there. The rest of the squadron will want to talk to you about the mission, but be careful how much you tell them. Officially, neither of you ever crossed the DMZ, and all the action took place over South Korea. Sign the bar chits with “Viper”, as it’ll make accounting easier.’
An old Royal Naval tradition is that on the day an officer dies, the entire wardroom drinks on his mess bill, which is then written off.
‘Why not?’ Richter murmured, and stood up.
‘It looks like they’ve given up,’ Muldoon said. ‘The latest pictures show the extra troops dispersing, and there’s noticeably less activity at most of the North Korean bases.’
‘I’ve just got back from the White House, and the President’s decided we’re not going to embark on a military response,’ Hicks replied. ‘Pyongyang has sent an apology for the nuke that detonated over Seoul. They’re claiming that the release was an unauthorized act by a disaffected officer, and officially we’re buying that. They’ve already offered financial reparations for the damage caused, and that includes the two British Harriers that were lost trying to take out the Seersucker.’
‘They’re buying their way out? But North Korea’s virtually bankrupt.’
‘I know, so I guess they’ll just increase their production of hard drugs for a few years to cover the cost. The problem we have is that if we did decide to eliminate that psychopathic dwarf in Pyongyang, we’d either have to use nukes ourselves or get dug in for another Vietnam, and neither option’s politically acceptable in the present climate.’
‘So we wait for the next brilliant plan the little shit comes up with?’
‘I guess so,’ Hicks said, ‘but maybe next time we’ll be better placed to take him down.’
North Korea isn’t a particularly big country, and the flight took only just over an hour. Both helicopters landed a few minutes apart on the square that lies between the armoury and the office of the Camp Director.
Once the rotors had stopped, the prisoners were hustled into the torture and detention centre on the west side of the square. Preparations had been made for their reception, and the order of their arrival had been specified. Pak Je-San was already gagged and strapped to a chair bolted to the floor in front of the clear glass wall of the gas chamber when his wife and two children were led towards the killing room.
The moment he saw them he began pulling at his bonds, but the soldiers who had secured him knew their trade, and his struggles were completely ineffective.
Kim Yong-Su smiled pleasantly at the woman, who was clearly terrified, her hands clutching at her children’s shoulders, and opened the airtight door to usher her inside the chamber. He looked, bizarrely, like a doorman at a good hotel welcoming a favoured guest, and within moments the three of them – Pak Je-San’s wife and his two sons, aged ten and eight – had stepped inside. There was, after all, no other option for them.
The door was sealed and the internal pressure checked. Pak moaned in anguish as his wife stared helplessly at him through the armoured glass, and his eyes filled with tears.
Kim Yong-Su ordered the cameras to start recording – although it was an execution, useful data could still be obtained – then walked across and took the chair beside him. He settled himself comfortably, then nodded to the chief scientist, who started a stopwatch and opened the valve that allowed the gas to flow down the injection tube and into the chamber.
‘We’re using soman,’ Kim remarked in a conversational tone to Pak, who’d closed his eyes and bowed his head as he heard the rush of the injected gas. ‘It shouldn’t take long.’
The gas chamber wasn’t soundproofed, but the thick glass wall served to muffle any sounds from the inside.
When his wife screamed, Pak looked up and stared at her for what he knew would be the last time. His sons had already collapsed, their slight frames twitching involuntarily as the agent wreaked havoc on their nervous systems. Urine and faeces stained their clothes and the grubby metal plates that formed the floor. Then his wife fell backwards and Pak closed his eyes again. That he couldn’t bear to watch.
Four minutes later the gas flow was switched off and the pumps began purging the chamber. Pak looked up again, at the three pathetic bundles that had once been his family, as strong hands began releasing the straps that held him in the chair. Anger burned inside him, but he knew resistance was completely futile.
Three prisoners wearing grey overalls and gas masks opened the door of the chamber and dragged out the bodies. A sharp command brought Pak to his feet, and he shuffled round to the chamber entrance, Kim walking beside him.
‘For you, we’re going to use tabun,’ he explained. ‘It’s not quite as fast-acting as soman, so you’ll have a little more time to suffer.’
Pak Je-San stepped into the chamber and waited for the door to be closed. He’d resolved to simply sit down close to the injection pipe and inhale as deeply as he could, to finish his life quickly.
Behind him he heard a sudden commotion, and looked round in surprise. The door had slammed shut, but Kim Yong-Su was
And despite himself, Pak began to laugh.
The mood in the Wardroom was subdued. Most officers who weren’t on duty were there, standing or sitting in small groups as they discussed the events of the last few hours. Richter was sitting in one corner, half a cup of coffee on the table in front of him, and still wearing flying overalls, a technical breach of etiquette that no one appeared too concerned about. He was wondering if he could be bothered to change before lunch. Or even to eat lunch. All he really wanted to do was sleep.
When the communications rating appeared in the doorway, Richter knew almost instinctively that he was the addressee on the signal the man was holding. He got up, walked over towards him, signed the Classified Documents Register, and ripped open the envelope. The message was short and to the point, and Richter knew immediately that he wasn’t going to be getting much sleep in the near future. Or, at least, not on this ship.
RICHTER, ILLUSTRIOUS. RETURN LONDON IMMEDIATE. OVERRIDE PRIORITY
Thirty minutes later Richter was escorted onto the flight deck by the duty SE rating. They stopped just abeam the Merlin’s cargo door and waited for the pilot, Craig Howe, to give permission for him to board the aircraft. The moment the marshaller waved him forward, he walked across, ducking as he moved under the rotor disk.
As he strapped himself into the seat, about to lift off for Seoul, Richter wondered just what the hell Simpson had got them involved in now. He’d only heard the ‘FRANTIC’ priority code-word used once since he’d been at FOE, and had hoped he’d never hear it again. But, he reflected, leaning back and finally closing his eyes, he supposed he’d find out soon enough.
About the Author
James Barrington, a trained military pilot, has worked in the secretive world about which he writes. His previous Paul Richter thrillers were
