Act of War

CHAPTER 43

Lieutenant Fordyce accepted Billy Tang’s rifle and set it against the rock next to him. “For the record,” he whispered, “this is still a really bad idea.”

Tang nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

Fordyce looked over his shoulder at the ridgeline in the distance. Tucker and Johnson would almost be at the top with Jin-Sang by now.

Looking back at the prison camp, he adjusted his rifle and tried to make himself comfortable. Comfortable, though, was a highly relative term. He wasn’t going to feel truly comfortable until they had gotten the hell out of this godforsaken country.

“In and out,” he ordered Tang. “Five minutes tops and not a second longer.”

“Understood,” the CIA operative agreed.

He was dressed in his peasant clothing with his suppressed nine-millimeter pistol concealed underneath. From his shoulder hung Jin-Sang’s canvas bag. It would give him a way to carry what he needed, as well as a place to hide his night vision goggles once he got there. It would also, he hoped, be a sign to the sister, reaffirming that he had been sent by Jin-Sang.

Fordyce watched through his rifle scope as a guard walked slowly by the fence, stopped for a moment, and then moved on. Just beyond was the infirmary where Jin-Sang’s sister, Hana, had been relegated. According to the little boy, neither the official camp doctor nor the prisoner charged with assisting him remained there overnight. If a patient died, so be it. The only things of value the doctor bothered locking up were the medicine and his office. Tang packed his lockpick set just in case.

“Guard’s gone. Time to move,” Fordyce whispered.

“Whatever happens,” Tang replied as he stood, “don’t do anything stupid just to save my ass.”

“Don’t worry. We don’t do stupid.”

With a smile, Tang took off for the fence. Inside, his heart was already pounding against his chest. He had done a lot of dangerous things over his years of sneaking into North Korea, but this was hands-down the most dangerous.

He had quizzed Jin-Sang about mines, trip wires, and other measures that could be around the perimeter, but the boy had told him none of that existed. “Then how do they keep the prisoners in?” he had asked. “Fear,” was Jin-Sang’s response.

All of the prisoners believed that the fence was electrified. It wasn’t. The small stream that ran through the valley barely generated enough electricity to power camp necessities. Running a lethal voltage of current through the fence was something the prison establishment decided it couldn’t afford.

Despite all of the boy’s assurances, when Tang got within one hundred meters of the fence, he chose his steps very carefully. Through his night vision goggles, he could make out the lightly trod path that ran parallel to the fence. It was at the spot where it cut in that Jin-Sang had told him he would find the hole.

As he moved, Tang made sure to lift his head up every once in a while to scan the interior of the camp for guards, as well as other prisoners. Everyone was a potential alarm ringer. As Jin-Sang had said, the camp operated completely on fear.

Where the path curved to the right, Tang saw the warped part of the fence. It was held together with two pieces of narrow wire — one above and one below. The hole wasn’t huge, but it looked just big enough for him to squeeze through. So far, everything the little boy had told him had been spot-on. The next question was whether he had been correct about the electric current.

When the team had asked Jin-Sang why there were no visible lights in the evening, he said that this was a phenomenon of the Chinese. Whatever hardships they were expected to face in America, lack of electricity was allegedly one of them.

Approaching the fence, Tang crouched down near the opening, reached into his canvas bag, and withdrew his “testing stick.” Fordyce had snapped a piece of metal off his Leatherman tool, which Tang had then lashed with surgical tape to a plastic syringe given him by Tucker, the corpsman. Tang had pulled the plunger, which allowed the syringe to ride on the end of a stick to give him a little distance. It was like having a screwdriver with a long, insulated handle. If the fence was live, the current would cause an arc when the fence was touched by another piece of metal.

Tang made ready and then extended his testing stick toward the fence. His body tensed as the metal made contact, but it was only a psychological reaction. Nothing happened. Just as Jin-Sang had said, the fence wasn’t hot.

He pulled the syringe off the stick, took off his night vision goggles, and dropped everything into his bag. Unwinding the two pieces of wire holding the fence closed, he crawled through and then quickly put everything back as he had found it.

By design, there was absolutely no cover between the fence and the infirmary. It made it easier to identify and shoot prisoners who were trying to escape. That was just one of the many reasons Fordyce hadn’t liked the plan. But the die had already been cast. Billy Tang was inside the wire and now it was time to move.

His dark clothing, the moonless night, and the complete absence of searchlights and perimeter lighting helped to make Tang almost invisible. He covered the ground to the infirmary as fast and as quietly as he could, then pressed himself up against the outer wall. It was a cold, one-story building built of concrete.

He listened for several moments as he took deep breaths and waited for his heart rate to slow. There were no noises coming from inside. He couldn’t hear anything outside either. Not even the nighttime creatures seemed to want to be anywhere near this place.

Fordyce had wanted Tang to carry a radio, but he had refused. If he got caught, the North Koreans would immediately know that he wasn’t working alone. He was willing to risk his own life, but not theirs, not so needlessly. It was yet another thing about the plan Fordyce hadn’t liked. Nevertheless, he had agreed.

With his breathing and heart rate steadier, Tang ducked below the windows and crept toward the infirmary’s front door. Jin-Sang had described the layout to him as best he could. His sister, Hana, was isolated, but she wasn’t alone. There were other patients inside the building. If any of them became suspicious of him and raised the alarm, he was cooked. It was Les Johnson, the SEAL he had pointed his gun at, who had made a simple but brilliant suggestion: “Mask up.”

It made perfect sense. It was an infirmary. Hana’s condition sounded like TB. The doctor and assistant probably wore surgical masks around her, as well as around any other patients with similar conditions. The problem, though, was that the doctor would be dressed in military garb and the assistant in a prison uniform. Neither of them would be dressed in the clothes of a North Korean farmer.

Tang, though, had no choice and hoped that his mask and an authoritative bearing would be enough to bluff his way through and cow any prisoner into believing he had a right to be there.

He was also hoping that the presence of the Chinese, along with their North Korean advisors, had been disruptive and odd enough to condition prisoners to accept the out-of-the-ordinary. It was a long shot, and he knew it, but it was the only shot they had if he was going to make contact with Hana.

Placing the mask over his face, Billy Tang crept the final distance to the door, took one more deep breath, and prepared to slip inside.