“No. His boss.”
Ferguson and Guns found the next hospital but couldn’t locate the truck, nor did they find one at the next place they tried, a small machine shop. This area of the city — technically, it was one of the suburbs, though a visitor would find it difficult to find the border — was a curious mix of business and science, part Berkley and part Silicon Valley, with what looked like old-line factories thrown in every so often for variety.
Two trucks belonged to a company whose name indicated it was a medical testing lab. Confused by the Korean street signs, Ferguson and Guns had a hard time finding it, and when they finally did they were stopped by a security patrol outside the building. Ferguson grabbed the map, hopped out, and began pointing excitedly, saying in Russian that he was truly, truly lost. The officers did not speak Russian, but one of the men patiently began to explain in Korean and then halting English how to get back to the road.
After a few minutes of gestures and nodding, Ferguson thanked the man profusely and stuffed a business card into his hand. This was an honorable gesture in Korean culture that could not be ignored, and the security officer not only examined it carefully but reciprocated by giving him his own.
The card came in handy an hour and a half later, when they checked on a trio of trucks owned by Science Industries. Ferguson drove through the main entrance without spotting a guard, only to find a pair of security officers standing in front of a gate a short distance from an intersection a quarter mile from the entrance. Before Ferguson could decide whether they should go left or right, one of the officers approached the car with his hand out in the universal sign of “halt.”
His other was on his holster.
Ferguson rolled out his Russian again, then went to pidgin Korean, saying he had lost his way. When that didn’t work, he found the other guard’s card and handed it to the man. Mollified, the security guard called over his partner for advice on how to best send the foreigners on their way.
Ferguson got out of the car to better understand the directions and to get a better look around. There was a loading dock at the side of one of the buildings about a half mile away, down the road that was outside the gate. Three trucks were parked in front of it.
The security officers agreed that his best bet was to go back the way he had come, taking a right on the main road and then heading to the highway a short distance away. From there he would have an easy time finding downtown Daejeon, his supposed destination.
“This way?” said Ferguson, pointing in the direction of the warehouse.
“No, no, straight.”
“Straight, then this way,” said the other guard.
Ferguson thanked the men and got back into the car. He turned around and began heading down the road.
“Those the right kind of trucks?” he asked Guns.
“Hard to see from here, Ferg.”
“Yeah, hang on.”
Ferguson turned off the lights, then veered to the right down the narrow dirt road that ran inside the perimeter fence. After about fifty feet he spotted a fire lane that led down to the lot in front of the warehouse.
“Hop out and hold the meter by them,” he told Guns, reaching up to kill the interior light.
As Guns got out, Ferg spotted headlights coming up the road in his direction.
He pulled forward into a three-point turn, ready to go.
“How much longer, Guns?” he called out the window.
“It’s still, like, calibrating.”
The headlights were growing larger very quickly.
“Never mind,” Ferg yelled. “In the car. Let’s go.”
The security patrol was less than a hundred yards away by the time Guns jumped into the car. The man inside turned on the side spotlight and moved the car into the middle of the street, trying to block their way.
“That’s the kind of crap that really annoys me,” Ferguson said as Guns hopped in. He stomped on the gas, homing in on the spotlight.
“Aren’t you going the way we came?”
“He’ll just follow us and radio to his buddy to cut us off. This is faster.”
“Jesus!” yelled Guns, covering his eyes with his arm.
The security officer, either taken by surprise or simply stubborn, remained in the middle of the road. Ferguson kept the pedal floored and, at the last second, jerked the wheel to the right. The car flew over the curb, rising up on two wheels.
Ferguson had cut it too close; his left fender and door sideswiped the security vehicle with a loud screech. The rental rebounded across a cement sidewalk, flattened a sign, and then landed back on the access road.
Something was scraping under the car, but this wasn’t a good place to stop and investigate; the security officer had jumped out of his battered vehicle and was firing at them.
A tracer round flew past Ferguson’s window.
“They’re not screwin’ around,” said Guns.
As Ferguson reached the main entry road, a burst of red illuminated the rear of the car. Thinking at first this was just the reflection of a police light, Ferguson ignored it.
“We’re on fire,” said Guns. “One of the tracers must have hit us.”
“Shit. I hate that.”
Ferguson slammed on the brakes and threw the car into a skid.
“Out!” he told Guns as the vehicle stopped perpendicular to the road, blocking it. He yanked off his seat belt, grabbed his backpack, and threw himself to the pavement as the gas tank exploded.
21
Rankin studied the satellite photo as the AH-6 Little Bird helicopter veered toward the North Korean shore. According to the GPS coordinates, the site where they had to plant the first cache “dump” was exactly three miles dead ahead, a few hundred yards off the coastal highway heading north.
While the highway was deserted at night — and indeed for much of the day- an unmanned Global Hawk reconnaissance drone was flying overhead just to make sure. The feed from the unmanned aerial vehicle was being monitored by Colonel Van Buren in Command Transport Three, a specially equipped C-17 flying a hundred and fifty miles to the south.
“Bird One, you’re go for Cache One,” said Van Buren.
“Bird One acknowledges,” said the pilot.
Their job, though dangerous, was relatively straightforward. Bird One would land in a field near the highway, where Rankin and the two soldiers with him would hide two large packs with emergency rations, weapons, a special radio, and a pair of lightweight, collapsible bicycles. The gear would be used by Thera in an emergency or by team members sent to rescue her. There were three spots along the coast, stretching from this one, about thirty miles south of the waste plant Thera was inspecting, to a spot on dry land in the marshes five miles north of the muddy mouth of the Ch’ongch’on or Chongchon River.
Rankin didn’t see much point in leaving the gear. It wasn’t a mistake, exactly, just a waste of time. A forward rescue force would be parked on an atoll about twenty miles offshore. This was about seventy miles from the plant where Thera would be inspecting. If anything went wrong, they’d scramble in, grab her, and get out. The caches were just CIA fussiness, “just-in case” BS that the Langley planners liked to dream up to pretend they had all the bases covered.
That was typical CIA, though. They went crazy planning certain elements of a mission, then ignored others.
Like the possibility that
