Origin - Season Two (45 page)

“Francis, if you can hear me, we’re cutting the link,” Mitch said. “You’re starting to look a little pale on this side.”

“I’m okay,” Francis said. “Just had a little trouble there for a moment.”

Before Mitch could answer his feet sank into the soft mud of the sea bed. The lights were back on and he could see the frame a few feet away, slowly disappearing in a rising cloud of silt.

“I’m on the bottom,” Francis said. “I can’t tell you how weird this is.”

“And the bomb?”

“Right here,” Francis said. “What are the chances it’ll still go off?”

No one seemed to know.

“Alright,” Francis said. “How deep is the water here? It felt like I reached the bottom pretty fast.”

The answer arrived a minute later from Almila. “Could be anywhere from a hundred and fifty to five hundred feet. That near to the coast you’re probably a lot closer to the first. They’re going to come looking for it, you can count on that.”

“But not in the next eight hours,” Francis said.

“No,” Almila said. “It’ll take at least a few days to make the preparations. Is there any way you can move it?”

“I can try,” Francis said. “How am I doing for juice?”

“Less than ten percent,” Mitch said.

Francis didn’t get a chance to say anything else. At least not as Odin.

It began in the tips of his fingers, a strange tingling sensation, as if his hands were going to sleep. As he raised his hand to his face the fingers began to evaporate into a dark mist that quickly sank to the seabed. A moment later his feet were doing the same.

“You seeing this?” Francis said.

“Yep,” Mitch said. “Looks like it’s game over.”

When it reached his elbows Francis felt a sudden sharp pain somewhere in the middle of his head. It lasted only a few seconds, then the world went black. When he opened his eyes he was back on the bridge of RP One.

The Pandora

Wednesday 27 June 2007

0300 EEST

“Welcome back,” Mitch said. “How you feeling?”

Francis took a moment to reorient himself. The first thought that occurred to him was how weak and fragile his own body really was. He had, in effect, been killed several times over in the last twenty minutes. The thought was both exciting and frightening at the same time.

“Ask me in a few days,” he said.

Francis looked around at the faces on the bridge. They were watching him with a kind of superstitious reverence, as if they weren’t quite sure he was still human. He caught Richelle’s eyes and smiled at her. She smiled back.

Francis turned to the viewport, where both ships were now visible. The helicopter had set down on the stern of the destroyer and was being wheeled inside its hangar. On the deck of the Xilin Gol at least a measure of the panic had abated and men were moving around again.

“We’ve left quite a mess, haven’t we?” Francis said.

“We’ve saved a lot of lives,” Watkins said. “Does anything else really matter?”

“I guess not,” Francis said. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go topside and get some air.”

He walked down the gangway on legs that didn’t quite feel like his own. He could still feel that tingling in his feet and hands, a kind of carry-over ghost limb syndrome.

When Richelle slipped away and followed him the rest of them only looked at each other in awkward silence.

– – –

“Mind if I join you?”

Francis turned around and saw Richelle standing there. She looked pale.

“Of course not,” Francis said.

“I’m sorry about what I said—” she began.

“Don’t be,” he interrupted. “I gave as good as I got. And you were right, I’ve been too cautious. I guess I was hoping it would all sort itself out somehow. I was wrong.”

Richelle walked over and stood beside him at the rail. “You shouldn’t blame yourself. If it wasn’t for you we would never have even known.”

“Maybe,” Francis said. “And maybe not. I guess we’ll never know.”

Richelle stood looking out at the sea for a long time. When she turned to him she said, “About what—you know—what Titov—”

“Our lover’s quarrel?” he smiled.

She laughed, but it was a nervous laughter, not dismissive, but embarrassed.

“I think we can put it down to nerves,” Francis said. “He was certainly right about the preschool part though. People around here—”

“He was right,” Richelle said.

Francis looked at her, the surprise on his face almost comical.

“I’ve been telling myself it isn’t true,” Richelle said. “Christ, I’ve been going out of my mind telling myself that. After—after Jack I—”

When Francis didn’t say anything, she looked away and said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be telling you my problems. I mean, I’m the boss, right? Forget it. I’m just being stupid.”

When she began to walk away Francis reached for her hand and pulled her back. “You want to know something?”

“What?”

“I’m pretty stupid myself,” Francis said.

Francis put a hand on the small of her back and pulled her to him. When she opened her mouth to say something he cut her off with a kiss.

“Do that again,” Richelle said. “I think I liked it.”

Francis did.

Pyongyang, North Korea

Wednesday 27 June 2007

0930 KST

Rhee had made it as far as the inner perimeter fence when he was spotted by one of the patrols Captain Shin had sent out to find him. Kim Jong-sul was no longer with him. Somewhere in the darkness of the tunnel that led from the bed chamber to a small manhole cover near the back of the building Kim, terrified and confused, had fallen and been unable to get back up. Rhee had considered dragging him, but the sound of approaching footsteps had forced him to abandon the idea and take his chances alone. Now, in a last-ditch effort of desperation, Rhee fumbled for his revolver, only to be shot in the leg by the nervous young corporal leading the search. Captain Shin arrived a minute later.

“Take him inside,” the captain ordered.

When they reached the rear entrance of the building they found Kim sitting on the steps surrounded by a dozen soldiers. He was bleeding from a cut above his right eye and one of his shoes had been removed, revealing a badly swollen ankle.

The captain ordered his men to take Rhee inside and approached Kim.

“What’s happening, captain?” Kim asked.

The captain did his best to recount the events of the previous hour. When he was done Kim appeared no less confused. The sad truth was, he had known very little about the circumstances of his own arrival in Pyongyang, and even less about the plans it had been engineered to serve.

“I want to speak to him,” Kim said.

“Of course, dear leader,” the captain said.

The captain instructed two of his men to lift Kim and led them up the stairs into the entrance hall where Rhee’s leg was being bandaged by a medic.

“You may stay, captain,” Kim said. “But please send the rest of your men away.”

They lowered Kim onto the steps. When they were gone he looked at Rhee with clear disgust and said, “If you have cost me the lives of my wife and son you will pay for it with your own. That I promise you.”

Rhee looked up and smiled. “You’re a boy—”

Captain Shin stepped forward and punched Rhee in the face so hard he fell out of the chair and crashed to the ground with a loud groan.

“You are addressing the supreme leader,” Shin yelled. “Guard your tongue.”

When Rhee looked back up the smugness was gone.

“You created this mess,” Kim said. “And you’re going to help me clean it up. You will contact the Chinese and inform them of everything that has happened.”

“It’s too late,” Rhee said. “I’ve activated one of the warheads. If you’re going to kill me, why wait?”

“Dear leader,” the captain said, “we found this on him.”

The captain handed Kim the satellite phone Rhee had been carrying. Kim looked at it for a moment, then handed it to Rhee. “Call them. Tell them what you have done. There may still be time.”

When the captain reached for his sidearm, Rhee took the phone. Kim was about to repeat the demand when it began to ring. He snatched it back from Rhee, pressed the receive button and held it to his ear. “Who is this?”

If the man on the other end was surprised not to hear Rhee’s voice, he hid it well. To Kim’s own surprise he spoke English. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing the dear leader of the Democratic People’s Republic?”

“Who is this?” Kim repeated.

“I’m not one for names,” the man said, “But you can call me Iris.”

“Do you speak for the Chinese?” Kim asked.

“No,” the man said. “But I can certainly pass on a message if you wish.”

Kim hesitated, but only for a moment. “Then please inform them that General Rhee no longer represents our government. We believe he has activated a bomb on a Chinese vessel bound for the port of Shanghai.”

“Would that be a nuclear bomb by any chance?”

“Yes,” Kim said. “There may still be time to stop it.”

“I’ll be sure to let them know,” the man said.

Kim found the man’s calm unsettling. “Please do.”

“And may I ask what you intend to do?” the man said.

Kim looked at the two men now staring back at him with matching expressions of bewilderment. Realizing neither spoke English, Kim said, “If my wife and son are returned to me, I am prepared to settle matters with the Chinese amicably.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” the man said. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d better attend to our little problem.”

“Please hurry,” Kim said.

“Might I make another suggestion?” the man said.

“What?” Kim asked.

“Keep this phone with you. It may turn out to be to our mutual benefit.”

Before Kim could say anything else, the line went dead. Kim regarded the strange handset for a moment, then put it in his pocket. When he looked up Rhee was studying him with clear curiosity.

“Why?” Kim asked. “Why betray the Chinese and risk everything? You told me our cooperation with them was our best hope.”

When Rhee moved his hand toward the inside pocket of his jacket the captain drew his revolver. Kim stepped forward and, ignoring the captain’s warning, reached into the pocket and pulled out the crumpled photograph.

“She was eight years old,” Rhee said, his eyes red and gleaming.

“Your daughter?” Kim asked.

“My sister,” Rhee said.

Kim, whose own son would soon be celebrating his eighth birthday, could think of nothing to say. He handed the picture back to Rhee. “I want him kept here. Put him in one of the rooms upstairs. I’ll decide what to do with him later.”

Kim watched the guards lift Rhee to his feet and help him up the steps. When he was gone Kim turned to the captain. “Call Minister Kay and have him summon the cabinet. Do not relate anything that has happened here. I will inform them myself.”

Beijing

The president of the People’s Republic lowered the report and looked across the table at the men assembled before him. Among them, looking anything but stately, was Yew, now the
former
deputy minister for state security. His colleagues on the council appointed to oversee Project 38 had fared no better.

“Mr. President,” one of the men said, “I still say we should hold them here. What guarantees do we have that Kim Jong-sul will keep his word once they are handed over? How do we even know General Rhee is actually dead?”

The president looked at Yew. “Well?”

Instead of answering, Yew picked up a pen and wrote something on the notepad in front of him. He tore the page off, folded it and handed it to the president. Written on the sheet was a single sentence:
The information comes directly from Iris
.

The president crumpled the sheet and stuffed it into his pocket. “Very well. Let us proceed.”

The man who had admonished the president not to release Kim’s family shook his head and said, “It could all be a lie.”

“For what purpose?” Yew said. “They no longer have the warheads. Kim has agreed to destroy the tunnel and shut down the facility at Nampo. If he had any intention of retaliating for what happened at Sunan he would have exposed the entire project to the world by now. I don’t think I need to tell you that such a scandal would only strengthen his position and make ours impossible.”

“Retaliating?” the man said. “They shot down a plane with over sixty of our men onboard.”

“I think you’ll find that was General Rhee’s doing,” Yew said. “Kim has only one interest, and that is to see his family.”

The president nodded, as if this had been his own conclusion, and said, “We will return his wife and child. Kim Jong-sul is not his father. With our assistance he may even be able to reach more amicable terms with the South.”

“And what good will that do us?” one of the other men at the table said. “A settlement with Pyongyang would only strengthen the South.”

“Perhaps,” the president said. “It would also give them a reason to refuse further help from the Americans. The situation is what it is. We will have to rethink our plans for the peninsula. Now if you don’t mind I have other important matters to attend to. This meeting is adjourned. General Sew, if you would please, stay.”

The men began to shuffle out. Two soldiers entered the conference room and escorted Yew out. When they were gone, a young woman entered. “Mr. President, Professor Yen has arrived.”

“Show him in,” the president said.

Yen was a tall man and surprisingly young for the title he held. He wore a clean black suit with a white shirt and red tie and looked more like a businessman than a scholar of physics.

“Come in, Professor,” the president said. “And thank you for arriving on such short notice. I know you’re a busy man.”

“It’s my honor, sir,” Yen said.

“General Sew tells me you’ve found something most extraordinary on the Xilin Gol. I’m intrigued to know what it is.”

Yen approached the president and placed his briefcase on the table. He produced several black and white photos and handed them over. “These are stills recovered from the targeting computer aboard the destroyer sent to recover the ship.”