Fires of War

was near, almost missed it.

The blotch of white was on a rock about five feet from the road. It looked so random that even when he stood over it he couldn’t be absolutely sure.

Because he wanted it, desperately wanted it, to be the sign.

He stood over the rock, found the direction due west, then counted off ten yards, or what he thought was ten yards.

Another splotch.

I’m here, he thought. Here.

He’d planned to circle and scout the area but that was nothing more than wishful thinking. He began looking for the hidden packs. Before he’d taken more than two steps he tripped over something. He got his hands out to protect himself, but he was too weak and they collapsed. The chain cracked his ribs.

Wincing, he saw the packs lying beneath the nearby brush.

I’m here. I am Goddamn here.

Ferguson crawled to them on all fours. He grabbed at the nearest one, pulling it open. He took out a small Russian PSM pistol, then took out one of the bottles of water. He drank so fast his stomach cramped, and he had to lay down on his back for a good half hour, watching the white puffy clouds passing in the bright blue sky until the pain eased.

“Long way to go,” he told himself as he got back up. “Long, long way to go.”

ACT V

The dead shed their covers

And the gate of Knife Hell opens.

— from 'The Seventh Princess,' traditional Korean song for the dead

1

NEAR THE MOUTH OF THE CHONGCHON RIVER,

NORTH KOREA

“Jesus, Ferguson.”

“No, it’s just me, Corrigan. Jesus is holding off until the Second Coming.”

“Ferg, where are you?”

Ferguson’s laugh turned into a cough. “North Korea. Where the hell do you think?”

“Ferg—”

“Puzzle it out, Corrigan. Check the line. The sat phone. I’m at Cache Point Zed.”

Each satellite radio phone included in the cache gear was hard-wired to a specific frequency; these phones also included GPS gear that showed their location at The Cube.

“That’s not what I meant,” said Corrigan. “I meant are you OK?”

“I’m better than OK,” said Ferguson, eying the small tool kit to see what he could use for a lock pick. “But I need a ride.”

“Oh, jeez.”

“Not the response I want to hear, Corrigan. You’re supposed to tell me the bus will be here in a half hour.”

“I have to get a hold of Slott.”

“Well, let’s move.”

“Hang tight, Ferg. We’re with you.”

Yeah, right beside me, thought Ferguson.

He put the radio down and took the smallest screwdriver from the pack, but the blade and shaft were too large to fit in the lock. A small metal clip held two of the MRE packages together. He bent it straight, then broke it in two. But the wire was a little too rounded and not quite springy enough, or maybe he was just so tired that he couldn’t get it to work.

The lock itself was extremely simple, little more than a kid’s toy, which added to Ferguson’s frustration. After trying to work the clip in for a half hour, he gave up and tried something new: chiseling the metal off with the help of a rock and the large screwdriver in the kit.

He’d just broken the link on his left hand when the phone buzzed, indicating an incoming transmission.

“Ferg?”

“Hey, Evil Stepmother. How are ya?”

“Corrigan arranged a conference call. I’m on with Mr. Slott and Parnelles.”

“Guys.”

“You sound terrible,” said Slott.

“Good to talk to you, too, Dan.”

“We’re going to get you out of there, Ferg,” said Slott. “We will.”

“Yeah, Great place to visit but… shit.”

Ferguson stopped midsentence. He could hear the sound of a truck, several trucks, coming toward him. “I’ll get back to you.”

“Ferg—”

“I’m OK.”

He snapped the phone off and ran toward a clump of bushes to his right, stumbling over the rocks before reaching the thick cover. The first truck that passed was a military transport, similar to an American deuce-and-a- half. A stream of similar vehicles, some open in the back, some with canvas tops, followed. All were jammed with troops. Ferguson counted thirty-six.

He waited a few minutes after the trucks had passed, then called back.

“Robert, are you OK?” asked Parnelles.

“Yeah, General, I’m fine. Cold, though. And hoarse.” He grabbed the broken chain in his hand and threaded his arms into the jacket, zipping it tight.

“Ferg, North Korea is going crazy,” said Slott. “They’re mobilizing. It looks like a coup, or maybe even an attack on the South.”

“I just counted thirty-six trucks heading south. Troop trucks. Mostly full,” said Ferguson. “So what would you figure that: thirty-six times twenty, thirty? About a thousand guys?”

“The point is,” said Slott, “we want to know if you can wait until tonight for a pickup.”

“Actually, Robert, waiting is imperative,” said Parnelles.

“Sure,” said Ferguson. “Not a problem. I’ll work on my tan in the meantime. Maybe go a few rounds of golf later.”

“We have a team off the coast, but it will take a while for them to get into position. The North Korean navy is on patrol all up and down the coastline, and army units are moving up to the border and down to the capital,” said Slott. “Waiting for nightfall will be much safer.”

Ferguson hunched over the packs and the bicycles. There was a pair of simple pants and a long shirt. Once he got the other chain off, he could pull them over the pajamas.

He wasn’t going to fool anyone into thinking he was local, but the pants had to be warmer than the prison clothes.