“What area exactly did the sats cover?”
“Ninety-mile radius around Pyorha-ri right up to the Russian border using infra-red, ultra-sonic and heat probes – all negative. If an underground plant exists, it’s deep or beneath very thick concrete lined with lead.”
“And GCHQ?” asked Green, referring to the British Communication Centre at Cheltenham, responsible for monitoring all telecommunications around the globe.
“Usual traffic,” replied Sir Jeffery, peering over his glasses. “No chatter to suggest a clandestine bio plant.” He paused to take a sip from his glass, then changed the subject. “What is the latest on the North’s nuclear capability?”
“Since reopening Yongbyon and closing down some of the outdated facilities, uranium enrichment has not stopped. The stockpile of spent fuel rods could yield enough plutonium to produce maybe six to twelve warheads a year.”
“They could then have more than thirty?” queried Sir Jeffery.
“Correct. Selling to other countries too. Maybe the deal with Abu Hasan is for a ‘dirty bomb’. What devastation that would cause if one was to go off in Hyde Park! A hundred lbs of enriched uranium would be all you’d need to make a full-scale nuclear bomb and only nine for one fuelled by plutonium. The North would have that amount to offer buyers.”
Silence descended for several seconds, then Sir Jeffery spoke. “The intel from Moscow, and to some extent Seoul, was enough for us to send a team into the North to verify. The PM needs to be informed again of this latest situation.” He finished his drink and stood, indicating the meeting was over. “I will inform the JIC. John, let our people in Seoul know they’re doing a fine job. Thank you.”
The meeting ended.
John Green returned to his office three floors below, hoping the team sent into North Korea would find nothing and the nuclear submarine situation was a false alarm.
5
Several hours after a non-stop trek through rugged, remote hill country, Ryder and his team arrived at the broad Sinhung Valley. Below lay the main north – south highway between the town of Sinhung and Hamhung, with railway tracks running parallel, and beyond them the Songchon River in full flood. The river in winter is a series of shallow rivulets running over gravel beds, but now, with the summer rains, it had swollen into a single, fast-moving mass of brown, surging water, 400 yards wide. There was no way they would be able to cross by swimming or even on some form of hashed up raft. It was too high and fast.
The group rested up under the protection of a rocky outcrop, screened by bush, to contemplate the next move and to eat.
“Crossing that torrent is definitely out,” said Ryder.
The others all agreed.
“Where’s the nearest bridge?” Chol asked.
Ryder referred to the map. “The nearest is in Sinhung, three miles north.” He ran his finger down the map. “There’s another about ten miles to the south at Chongho.”
“Chongho?” questioned Song, running his hand through his hair and staring at the map. The Korean displayed a quiet determination and confidence that impressed Ryder. If anything happened, he would be the one to take over.
“Small garrison town.”
“Needs to be avoided then,” said Chol, making himself comfortable. He leaned back against the rock face. Taking pistol from his sack, he removed and examined the fifteen- round magazine, took out the bullet in the breach then squeezed the trigger twice before replacing both, satisfied everything was okay. He attached the suppressor and put the pistol back into the sack.
“Sinhung is not a good option,” Ryder continued. “The town is close to the chemical weapons complex. You can guarantee there’ll be a heavy military presence.”
“So, a choice of two evils,” said Bom, shrugging his shoulders and opening a ration pack.
“We should go south,” offered Song. “More likely Chongho will have less of a military presence.”
“A garrison town would be crawling with troops,” countered Bom.
“Sinhung presents more risk,” offered Chol, chewing on a strip of dried meat.
They lapsed into silence.
Grace spoke next. “If I may add my thoughts,” she said in an authoritative tone, looking coldly at Ryder. “It would seem to me easier to go unnoticed in a large town with lots of civilian people than in a small town more likely dominated by military personnel, where civilians could come under much closer scrutiny. Also my understanding is that going north through Sinhung would roughly maintain our north-westerly direction and may even cut down the time to the search area. Would that be correct, Mr Ryder?” she asked, not taking her eyes away from his and speaking for the first time since the death of the goat herder.
She was right. “Good logic; exactly my thoughts.” A lengthy pause, then he said, “Sinhung it is then.” He glanced at the others, each of whom returned a grin. Ryder yearned for a cigarette, but made do chewing on a lump of dried meat.
They spent another hour under the outcrop, resting and deciding the best route. Staying close to the valley highway was the most obvious and the easiest, but also the most dangerous for being discovered. Eventually they agreed to keep to the bush-clad hills right up to the outskirts of the town, even though this would entail a gruelling five-klick hike traversing the predominantly east-west aspect of the terrain going directly north. When the hour was up Ryder gave the order to move out and the group made its way single-file down the north- facing slope towards the town.
Perched within the bush overlooking the southeastern outskirts of the town, Ryder swept binoculars across rows of single-storey dwellings immediately below, including the main tree-lined thoroughfares beyond leading directly to the bridge. Green, leafy trees stood in stark contrast to the array of grey stone and concrete utilitarian buildings. It was early evening and a watery sun began to dip below the horizon. He scanned the roads and bridge and was surprised at the number of people, bicycles and trucks dotting the roadways. The army personnel were freely mingling with the flow. He knew from the briefings that Sinhung had a population of about 10,000, mostly agricultural workers with the rest working in the chemical factory. But from the number of people and soldiers, he could see that seemed an underestimation; he hoped it would be to their advantage to get lost amongst the crowds.
The bridge itself stood at the head of the two main converging roads. To follow the river and try to cross elsewhere could put days, or possibly weeks, on the mission. The longer they remained in this hostile land, the more likely they would be discovered. He raised his binoculars to take in the mountains beyond. To reach them and continue in a northwesterly direction, the bridge had to be risked; an unnerving prospect. With mixed feelings of apprehension and uncertainty, he gave the order to move out and head for the roadway below.
6
A group of men sat at the long, green-baize-covered table in the Cabinet Room of Number 10, Downing Street, listening to the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service, Sir Jeffery Powell, give his latest report. Next to him sat the Prime Minister, William Maxwell, and across the table sat the Minister of Defence, Michael Trafford; Foreign Secretary, David Regis, and Commander-in-Chief, Fleet Admiral Sir Robert Engels.
“… In conclusion, gentlemen, this situation poses a serious threat,” ended Sir Jeffery, removing his glasses and looking intently at each of the others at the table.
A long silence prevailed before the Prime Minister cleared his throat, looking perplexed at the nation’s spy chief. “How reliable is this new intelligence?”