Fires of War

“Ferg,” said Corrine, “are you really OK?”

“Hell, yeah. All right, here’s what I got.” He told them that Park had probably had him arrested because it looked like he knew something was up.

“Why didn’t he just kill you?” Slott asked.

“Because I’m a nice guy, Dan. He thought I was Russian. They couldn’t decide whether I was working for the Kremlin or the mafyia. The North Koreans didn’t want to piss off one of their major creditors, so they put me on ice.”

Ferguson took a breath. He could feel the mucus in his chest, as if he had bronchitis.

He might actually have bronchitis, now that he thought about it.

“Park met with a Korean general named Namgung. There’s something up between them. Something big enough that Namgung had me taken out of jail because they thought the Russians would be pissed off at him, not Park.”

“General Namgung?” said Slott, pronouncing the name differently. “The head of People’s Army Corp I?”

“Is that around the capital?”

“Yes. It includes Air Force Command One and some security forces as well as a dozen divisions.”

“That’s my man.”

“That’s interesting,” said Slott. “Because our people in Seoul think Namgung’s trying to stop the attack on the South. He may be involved in the coup.”

“Our people in Seoul don’t know their asses from a hole in the ground,” said Ferguson.

“That’s your opinion, Ferg,” said Slott.

“Based on experience.”

“This isn’t the time to discuss this,” said Parnelles. “Robert, how long can you hold out?”

“Forever,” said Ferguson.

“Check in every half hour,” said Slott.

“Try every three,” said Ferguson. He wanted to save the battery, just in case.

Just in case?

Just in case, because there was no way to trust these guys. No way. No, no, no way.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Ferg?” said Corrine.

“Hell, no. I’m lying through my teeth,” said Ferguson cheerfully, before pressing the End Transmission button.

2

THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

Corrine had just hung up from the conference call and reached for her computer to check her messages when the secure line rang again.

“We may not be able to pick up Ferguson at dusk,” said Parnelles when she answered the phone.

“Why not?”

“The North Korean mobilization has reached the critical point: They can launch an attack at any point now. Given that, the failure of a mission might be catastrophic,” the CIA director told her. “The decision has to be left to the president.”

“I see.” Corrine glanced at the clock at the bottom of her computer screen. It was not quite five o’clock; McCarthy had cut short his trip and was due back within another two hours. “I’ll bring it up with him.”

“Actually, Corrine, I think I should be the one who talks to him about it. Ferguson works for me, and I’d rather be the one making the recommendation.”

“Sure,” said Corrine. Then she realized why he wanted to do it. “What are you going to tell him?”

“I’m afraid my recommendation at the moment would have to be…” Parnelles paused. “I would have to say we should not proceed.”

3

ABOARD THE USS PELELIU, IN THE YELLOW SEA

Colonel Van Buren’s voice crackled in Rankin’s headset, barely emerging from the static. It was one of the worst connections Rankin could ever remember.

“We have a location,” said Van Buren. “A definite location.”

“Hot shit,” said Rankin.

“It’s Cache Zed. You have your map?”

Rankin unfolded the map across the console in the Peleliu’s secure communications center, studying it as Van Buren ran down the situation in North Korea. Several divisions were now poised along the DMZ, with additional units ringing the capital. The coastal highway was a major north-south route, and Ferguson had already reported troop movements along it.

“So we’ll have to plan accordingly. I’ll get with the ship’s captain,” added Slott, “but from my calculations it should take the ship roughly three hours to get into position to launch. We want to time the mission so that you’re crossing land well after nightfall.”

“Long time for him to wait,” said Rankin. “We could launch now, use some of the marine helos instead of ours. They’ll get us there and back with plenty of gas to spare.”

“No. Washington gets final say on this,” said Slott. “You don’t step off until I hear from them.”

“Say, Colonel—”

“It’s not my decision, Skip. He has a good hiding place. Ferg told Corrine and Slott he was fine.”

“He’d always say that.”

The funny thing was, Rankin couldn’t stand Ferguson, didn’t like him at all. But Rankin felt as strongly about rescuing him as he would have about his own brother.

Whom, come to think of it, he also couldn’t stand.

“I have an MC-130 in the air ready for an emergency mission,” said Van Buren. “They can be over the site within an hour. Less. If the word comes, we’ll have the teams on the MC-130 drop in, then you go in and pick them up. Set that up with the Marines.”

Rankin grunted. He knew it was a plan that would never be implemented, the kind that sounded good in theory but didn’t work in real life. An hour would be forever on the ground. By the time Ferguson called for help, he’d be dead.

“What was that, Stephen?” asked Van Buren.

“I got it. Backup plan.”

“We’ll get him. I’ll be aboard the MC-17 before nightfall. I’ll check with you.”

“Got it.”

“We will get him back.”

“If Washington approves.”

“If Washington approves, yes.”

Rankin’s noncom training kicked in, and he let the colonel have the last word.

4

THE HART SENATE OFFICE BUILDING,

WASHINGTON, D.C.

“Harry Mangjeol is on the phone, Senator. He says it’s urgent, and he won’t talk to anyone but you.”