Hunt the Dragon

Chapter Ten

James Dawkins sat in the chilly underground workroom in the company of three male assistants and confronted the task in front of him. Basically he was being asked to miniaturize and calibrate the inertial guidance system that would fit directly under the warhead of a newly developed Unha-3 rocket. According to the mockups and schematics he’d seen, the Unha-3 was a three-stage 110-foot rocket that weighed about eighty-five metric tons.

Dawkins shivered and sneezed into the sleeve of his dirty gray lab tunic. His nose started running.

The first stage of the Unha-3 used a Nodong engine similar to those deployed on the Pakistani Ghauri-I and Iranian Shahab-3 missiles. It borrowed from the design of the Scud missile engine, but was at least 140 percent larger and featured more finely calibrated nozzles and combustors. Dawkins knew that the Nodong had originally been designed by the Soviets. He was also aware that a man who looked Russian, and who Dawkins suspected was a rocket engineer, appeared to be working in another part of this same underground complex.

He had seen the man once, by mistake apparently, when he emerged from the bathroom with his watchers and assistants while Dawkins was being escorted to his room. They had exchanged quick looks.

The second stage of the Unha-3 was almost identical in design to the old Soviet R-27 ballistic missile deployed in Soviet nuclear subs during the Cold War.

Without even considering the third stage, which was the part Dawkins was charged with working on, he realized three things: One, he was almost certainly in North Korea. Two, he probably knew more about the progress of the North Korean missile program than anyone in Western intelligence. And, three, the North Koreans were close to developing an intercontinental ballistic missile that was capable of hitting the continental United States.

His job was to provide the gyro-stabilized platform (GSP), missile guidance set control (MGSC), and amplifier assembly that would direct the warhead to within feet of its target. The GSP, which was the platform that needed the most work, acted to measure acceleration and velocity and maintain proper flight control. It was stabilized by dual-axis, free-rotor gyros whose rotors were supported on self-generated gas bearings. One gyro helped to stabilize pitch and roll, and the second provided azimuth stabilization.

Dawkins knew all the details of this particular GSP system based on his work on a host of U.S. military rocket systems for UTC Aerospace. He was therefore able to identify the challenges immediately. In this case, this meant generating and regulating the proper gas cushions so the gyros would operate properly during startup.

If he accomplished this, he knew he would be giving the North Koreans the ability to hit targets more than five thousand miles away with pinpoint accuracy. It’s something he absolutely didn’t want to do. But he also desperately wanted to get out of North Korea alive. This was the conundrum that confronted him now as he stood in the cold lab looking at the GSP on the table in front of him. It resembled a large stainless-steel ball with two bands encircling it at perpendicular angles. Each band housed a torque motor and a digital resolver.

Somehow the supposedly backward North Koreans had chosen the perfect engineer for the task. How they had managed to identify Dawkins and snatch him so easily gave him pause. Clearly, these weren’t the bumbling fools spoofed in Western movies and comic books. They were dangerous, ingenious men who also ran very active uranium and plutonium enrichment programs, and therefore in Dawkins’s mind probably had sufficient amounts of weaponized uranium and plutonium to create numerous nuclear weapons.

Dawkins had read published reports about the North Korean nuclear program. He also understood that one of the most difficult challenges in building an ICBM capable of delivering a nuclear weapon was reducing the size of the warhead so it could fit over the guidance system and atop the Unha-3 rocket. He wondered if they had other engineers, like the one he had seen in the hallway, engaged in that task as well.

Of course, there was the Russian. One of Dawkins’s assistants, Pak Ju, referred to him as Dr. Soderov, formerly employed by the Makeev Design Bureau in Moscow, and boasted that Soderov had volunteered to help the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea without remuneration. Whether this was the scientist’s real name, and whether he had worked at the Makeev Design Bureau or not, was impossible for Dawkins to tell.

Clearly there had been a large amount of outside input. In Dawkins’s opinion, the North Korean engineers and technicians he had met weren’t capable of bringing the program to the advanced state it was in now. He concluded this based on the knowledge and capabilities of the North Koreans he’d met, particularly his two assistants-Pak Ju and Yi-Thaek, both of whom spoke some English and were veterans of the program.

Pak Ju was the older and more experienced of the two-a guarded, slow-moving, heavyset man in his late fifties with tiny slits for eyes that he hid behind yellow-tinted, black-rimmed glasses. Yi, Pak Ju’s subordinate in age and rank, had trained as a mathematician. He had a more agreeable manner, stuttered when he spoke, and was thinner, slightly taller, and balding. Dawkins’s third assistant was a guard or minder named Kwon, who stood about five eight, was thickly muscled, and rarely spoke. At least two of these three men accompanied Dawkins everywhere, including to the bathroom.

At the end of each workday Kwon would lock the lab and the three of them would walk him down the hallway, down a flight of stairs and along another dank hall to his quarters, where Sung would be waiting. She prepared his meals, washed his clothes, and attended to his other needs. At night after he fell asleep, she’d leave quietly and lock the door behind her. She returned promptly every morning at seven to help him dress and serve him breakfast.

It was a strange, simple routine, but one that he adjusted to relatively easily. At the end of the first week, Sung dressed in him in a suit-black and badly made-shirt, and hooded parka.

“Think about you family,” Sung whispered before she turned off the electric space heater and pointed outside.

“My family? What do you mean by that?”

Kwon stood waiting in the hallway. The two North Koreans led him to a large freight elevator that lifted them to ground level. It was the first time Dawkins had seen the entrance to the underground complex, which looked unimpressive-a twenty-foot-high concrete structure with large metal doors hidden in a grove of tall pine trees. The air outside was thin and freezing cold. The sun shone weakly through a thick layer of gray clouds.

He sneezed again, and his legs and head felt heavy as he walked beside Sung along a dirt path that ended at what appeared to be a very large body of water with islands in the distance shrouded in mist. Ice covered the rocks along the shore.

As he shivered, he remembered that today was Karen’s ninth birthday. After muttering a prayer to her under his breath, he sighed. He wanted her to be proud of him, and sensed that whatever he did or didn’t do here would greatly affect her future.

“Very peaceful, Mr. Dawkin,” Sung said, lingering at his side. He had asked her to call him James.

“In the spring and fall the cranes come. They are sacred.”

“Sacred? Are you sure you’re using the correct word?”

“A thousand of cranes appeared when our Supreme Leader’s father died four years ago. They tried to carry him to heaven, but the people cried and despaired so much that the Supreme Leader’s father returned.”

Dawkins assumed she was talking about Kim Jong-il, who had died of a heart attack in December 2011. “Where is he now?” he asked.

“Living in special palace in Pyongyang.”

“Do people see him?”

She didn’t answer. He wanted to believe that Sung was a sensible woman, but this kind of talk troubled him. Changing the subject, he said, “I assume we’re on an island. Is that correct?”

Sung turned slightly to glance back at Kwon. When she saw that Kwon wasn’t looking, she nodded. It was a very slight gesture of independence, he thought.

He heard dry leaves crunch behind him and smelled cigarette smoke.

Sung said loud enough for Kwon to hear, “Today is important day for you, Mr. Dawkin. Some very important man want to meet you.” It was the first indication Dawkins had that Kwon understood English.

“Oh, really? Who?”

“This is the great man who direct our program and is trusted by the Supreme Leader. This will be very great honor for you. We call him Jang-gun-nim.”

“Am I correct to assume that’s his name?”

“There is no word in English for this. Maybe…marshal, or honored general.”

Presented with a choice, Dawkins would have preferred to remain outside, but he wasn’t. So he followed Kwon and Sung as they walked back to the complex, descended one level instead of two, and turned right. The hallways here were narrower, and they soon came to a door with two soldiers outside. Kwon saluted and they entered a waiting room with a large framed photo of Kim Jong-un on the wall, smiling and wearing sunglasses. In another image he wore a white tracksuit and held a basketball under his arm. Dawkins thought he looked like a puffed-up infant in adult clothes.

A military orderly wearing white gloves showed him into an office. A square-shouldered, square-jawed man in a stiff green military uniform with red piping around the lapels and collar rose to greet him. His hand felt soft and lifeless. Behind him stood a wizened older man in a black suit and white shirt smoking a cigarette and sizing him up through thick glasses.

Dawkins bent at the waist to show respect and was led to a sofa behind a round glass table in the corner. The honored general sat in an overstuffed chair opposite him, with the older man in another upholstered chair to his left and the jittery young aide/interpreter perched on a metal chair to his right.

The aide picked up a piece of white paper and started to read in a high, strained voice: “The most honored general welcomes you, Mr. James Dawkins. He is joined today by Minister Kim Gun-san. The most honored general brings greeting from the Supreme Leader, who is brilliant and benevolent in all things. He wants to tell you that the project that you are privileged to work on is of utmost importance to our people and those who oppose imperialism throughout the world.”

The word “privileged” grated on Dawkins’s nerves. The aide paused and seemed to be waiting for his response.

After an awkward silence Dawkins muttered, “Thank you.”

The young man leaned across the glass table and handed him a document. “The most honored general has prepared this schedule. When the tasks are completed, you will be paid one million dollars into your bank account and will be allowed to fly home in first-class accommodations. If you finish the task on time, you will get an extra bonus of one million dollars. Two million dollars in total, plus whatever gifts the Supreme Leader decides to give you. Does that please you, Mr. Dawkins?”

The general smiled at him like a kindly grandfather and waited for his response. Dawkins noticed that he was wearing a gold Breitling Chronomat watch, which seemed at odds with the spare, functional surroundings. A large gold, jade, and diamond ring adorned the index finger of his right hand.

“Mr. Dawkins?” the aide asked.

Dawkins scanned the typed schedule, which had him completing all work on the gyro-stabilized platform, missile guidance set control, and amplifier assembly by September 15-approximately six months away. It was doable if everything went well.

Dawkins cleared his throat and said, “I will do the best I can, honored general, but I hope you understand that some things are out of my control. Specifically, the delivery of parts. I’ve given my assistants a list of components with precise measurements and instructions in terms of composition and materials.”

“Very good,” the aide gushed. He turned to the general and translated.

As the general listened, he nodded and smiled so that his eyes became hidden. Despite his gentle manner, he exuded menace.

A military aide arrived and served jasmine tea and almond cookies. As Dawkins drank, his entire body started to tremble. He didn’t know whether he had been drugged with something, was simply unnerved by the situation, or was coming down with a cold.

Crocker was sitting on the edge on his bed in his apartment in Virginia Beach watching a Frontline documentary entitled “The Secret State of North Korea” when he heard a knock.

“Dad?” his daughter asked through the door.

He pulled a black World’s Fastest Indian T-shirt over his head and used the remote to lower the sound. “Yeah? What is it?”

“Grandpa’s on the phone. He wants to know time of the hearing tomorrow.”

“Ten.” He paused the TV, opened the door, and faced Jenny, who had recently added pink streaks to her long fawn-colored hair. He thought it cheapened her but refrained from commenting. At least it wasn’t a tattoo, though she already had at least two of them-a butterfly on her right ankle and what his buddies referred to as a “tramp stamp” on her lower back.

“Grandpa’s coming?” he asked. “Is he sure he wants to do that? Does he need a ride?”

“No, he said he’ll see you at the courthouse.”

Jenny went off to answer her grandfather’s question, and Crocker stood thinking that the trial would be uncomfortable enough without his father’s presence. He’d probably be so focused on the proceedings he wouldn’t notice.

When he looked up, Jenny was standing in the doorway again. “Dad, you gonna be okay tomorrow?” she asked.

“Yeah, yeah. You working tonight?” He wanted to change the subject.

“I’ve got to close up, which means I won’t get out until eleven. After that, Kenna and I are going to stop by a friend’s birthday party. So I’ll be crashing at my place.”

“Okay…” He reminded himself once again that she was eighteen now and semi-independent. “I’ll be in the DC area tomorrow. When will I see you again?”

“Wednesday night, I’m off. It’s two-for-one night at Outback. You wanna go?”

“Sure, honey.” It was her favorite restaurant.

“Cool, Dad.” She kissed him quickly on the cheek and left.

“Be good.”

Sweet kid, he thought. Despite her uninterested manner she knows I’m lonely and is making an effort to spend more time with me, even though she’d rather be with her friends.

Next morning he sat at the defendant’s table in Courtroom C of the Fairfax County Court sweating through his suit as the assistant district attorney read the charges: “Your honor, under the authority entrusted us by the State of Virginia, we believe we have sufficient evidence to prove that the defendant Thomas Michael Crocker is guilty of breaking and entering, and aggravated assault.”

Judge Doris Whitney looked like she was in her late forties, with a helmet of short brown hair and a pretty face. She asked her clerk to read through the police report on the incident. “On the night in question, the defendant, Thomas Michael Crocker, forcefully gained entry to the apartment of Carla Ruiz on 267 Mulberry Drive. Entering the bedroom, the defendant confronted Ms. Ruiz and Bill Atherton, who is a deputy sergeant with the Fairfax County Police Department. Deputy Sergeant Atherton identified himself and asked the defendant to leave the apartment, whereupon the defendant assaulted the police officer with a lamp and proceeded to knock him unconscious. He subsequently assaulted Ms. Ruiz and threatened to kill her.”

“Jesus, Tom,” Crocker’s father whispered behind him. “You lost control.”

Crocker half turned and whispered back, “Quiet, Dad.”

He was confused and annoyed that Captain Sutter’s letter seemed to have had no effect on the judge. His attorney, John Nestor, offered no explanation for the judge’s indifference except to say, “Each judge is different. Some consider mitigating factors like that; some don’t.”

What annoyed Crocker even further was the sight of Carla in a white dress sitting beside his father.

What the fuck is she doing there?

He was trying to remain calm and resist the powerful impulse to throttle Deputy Sergeant Atherton, who sat behind the prosecutor’s table in a freshly pressed uniform, looking like an altar boy.

Judge Whitney turned a stern face to Crocker and asked, “Does the defendant have anything to say before he enters a plea?”

Crocker’s attorney stood. “No, your honor.”

Crocker rose right behind him. “Yes, I do.”

“Proceed, Mr. Crocker.”

Nestor shot him a confused look that didn’t stop him. Crocker’s charcoal-gray suit felt like a straitjacket. “Your honor,” he said, “my father, Mr. William Crocker, seated behind me, is a military veteran and holds the position of commander at his local VFW. Several months before the incident, I had become aware that he was helping out a young Gulf War vet named Carla and her son. Your honor, he was helping them out financially to the tune of over twenty thousand dollars. I became concerned because my father is a man of modest means who basically lives off his military pension. He’s also a very empathetic man, and I suspected that Ms. Ruiz was taking advantage of him.”

The female assistant district attorney stood and asked, “Your honor, can I approach the bench?”

“Let the defendant finish his statement.”

“A day or so before the incident, I learned from my father that he had given Ms. Ruiz an additional ten thousand dollars to attend a private drug rehab facility to kick her dependence to Vicodin and other drugs. My father told me that she was attending the facility at the time. That night I drove by Ms. Ruiz’s apartment and noticed that the lights were on. When I rang the bell, she didn’t answer, despite the fact that I could see her in the apartment through the kitchen window. I saw her in the company of another man. When they left the kitchen, I entered through the open window.”

“You entered her apartment illegally?” the judge asked.

“I did, your honor.”

“You admit that?”

“I do. When I entered Ms. Ruiz’s bedroom, I found her and Officer Atherton sitting on her bed smoking crystal meth.”

“Objection!”

The judge pounded her gavel, then, turning to Crocker, asked, “How did you know it was crystal meth?”

“They were smoking it through a glass meth pipe, and it had that unmistakable smell like oven cleaner or burning plastic.”

“What happened next?”

“Officer Atherton identified himself as a cop and told me to leave immediately. When I didn’t, he assaulted me with his fists. I stepped out of his way, causing him to lose his balance and crash into a wall. While that was happening, Ms. Ruiz reached into a drawer by her bed and produced a pistol. She threatened me with it, and I disarmed her.”

“Did you threaten to kill her, Mr. Crocker?”

“I told her that if she took another penny from my dad under false pretenses, I’d break every bone in her body.”

“So you did.”

Both Crocker’s attorney and the assistant district attorney jumped to their feet and called for the judge’s attention. Just then a man in a shabby gray suit entered from behind them, spoke to one of the court officers, approached the judge, and handed her a document. As the people in the courtroom waited, she unfolded it and read it, then called both attorneys and Crocker into her chambers.

Crocker emerged thirty minutes later. Finding his father sitting on a bench in the hallway looking worried, he said, “Let’s get out of here and get lunch.”

He escorted his father out of the building and down the steps, and his father stopped and asked, “Tom, what happened with the judge?”

“It was pretty straightforward. She handed me a warning and dismissed the charges.”

“Gee, Tom, that’s terrific news.”

A very relieved Crocker opened the passenger door to his pickup and watched his dad climb in. Soon as he settled on the backseat, his father asked, “She dismissed the charges, just like that? No explanation?”

“Apparently Deputy Sergeant Atherton was caught on video this weekend selling meth to an undercover DC police officer,” Crocker answered. “I dodged a bullet.”

“Thank God.”

“From now on you’re not giving any more money to that Carla Ruiz piece of shit, are you?”

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that. I’m still your father.”

“Sorry, Dad. But what were you thinking, sitting with her in court?”

“Carla wants to talk to you. She feels badly.”

“I bet she does.”

As soon as Crocker started the engine, his cell phone rang. It was Jim Anders, deputy director of CIA operations. He put him on speaker.

“Crocker, you still in the DC area?”

“Yes I am.”

“Good. There’s someone I want you to meet, this afternoon at four. A safe house in Arlington. I’ll text you the address.”

“I’ll be there.”

Crocker hung up, shifted into first, and pulled out into traffic.

“What’s going on?” his father asked.

“You didn’t hear that, okay?”

“You need to lighten up.”