Hunt the Dragon

Chapter Fourteen

Five minutes had passed, and Crocker was starting to sweat through his shirt. He kept thinking about the blackout in Las Vegas, and couldn’t help wondering whether that event and this power outage were connected. Across the table, Min was describing the elaborate underground facility on the island of Ung-do, off the east coast of North Korea, that housed Office 39’s new high-tech money counterfeiting facility, complete with intaglio press.

Crocker started to see where this was headed, which excited him. He’d been to North Korea once before, in ’03, on a mission to knock out a radar and listening station in the north. He and his ST-6 teammates parachuted at night into freezing water, climbed into a Zodiac, and motored to shore. By the time they reached land the six men were suffering from hypothermia, their feet and hands were numb, and their clothes and gear had frozen. They spent the next three days climbing icy mountain trails. At night they slept huddled together on a bed of sticks to stay off the frozen ground. One night, one of Crocker’s feet slipped off the bed and was frostbitten.

He still felt it more than a decade later. That mission to North Korea, three hundred miles north of Ung-do near the city of Kimchaek, had ended in success. Ung-do, according to the map Anders brought up on his computer, was approximately 102 miles east of the capital of Pyongyang and roughly on the same 39th parallel of north latitude. The island was covered with a forest of pine trees, which provided perfect cover for the large excavation project started in 2007. With the help of Iranian and Russian construction engineers, the North Koreans had expanded a series of natural caves. It was here, according to Min, that 2HK1 counterfeit hundred-dollar bills were being printed.

Interestingly, it was off Ung-do where the spy ship USS Pueblo had been seized by the North Koreans in 1968, sparking a very tense international standoff. One American sailor was killed when the ship was fired upon by a North Korean submarine chaser. The remaining eighty-two crew members and officers were captured and held in North Korean prisons, where they were starved and tortured. Almost a year later, the officers and crew were released. The vessel itself was never returned and was publicly displayed in North Korea as a monument to resisting the American imperialists.

All this had happened a year before Crocker was born. The United States had issued an apology and a promise never to spy on North Korea again. Thinking about it now pissed him off. Why do we back away when rogue countries like North Korea act aggressively? He didn’t pretend to understand international politics, but he knew that you couldn’t allow a criminal regime like the one that ruled North Korea to get away with anything without risking a much bigger challenge later. It was one of the laws of the streets he’d learned as a teenager. You couldn’t let a punk insult you in public and walk away. You had to punch him in the mouth.

“What are we going to do about the presses?” Crocker asked when the emergency power finally came on.

Anders blinked and frowned. “We’ll get to that now. Be patient.”

Dawkins sat at the wooden table raking his hand through his thinning hair. He’d been staring at the blank page in his notebook for almost an hour and hadn’t written a single word. If he responded to Dr. Shivan in any way, he’d be revealing himself. There was no question about it. What if Dr. Shivan didn’t exist? What if the note was a ruse by the North Koreans to test him?

Any reply-even “I wish you well but have nothing to say”-could be construed as an act of complicity. And he didn’t want that.

On the other hand, judging from the tone and content of the letter, which he had reread a dozen times, Dawkins believed there was an eighty percent chance that Dr. Shivan was who he said he was. Assuming that was true, the temptation to tell him details about himself so that he could communicate them to U.S. authorities upon his release was very strong. He desperately wanted his government to know where he was, and he wanted his captivity to end. But if the letter was fake, any response would serve to diminish his chances of ever reuniting with his family.

Dawkins wasn’t adept at rational thinking in difficult emotional circumstances. He usually did everything he could to avoid situations like this, and if he failed, he relied on Nan. Now, no matter how he examined the dilemma, the biggest, loudest part of him told him to think about his survival. The safest course was best. His release and return home had to be the paramount goal. The voice in his head argued that he wasn’t only thinking of himself. His return to the States would be good for everyone-him, Nan, Karen, and even his countrymen. If Sung and Chiang-su were doing this of their own volition, they were taking an enormous risk for reasons that weren’t apparent to him. If, on the other hand, they were doing this on the regime’s orders, they were being cruel.

But what did he know about their lives and the political and personal pressures they were under? He hadn’t been aware of Chiang-su’s existence before tonight. And if he had to characterize Sung’s behavior over the many hours they’d spent together, he would have to say gentle and sympathetic. Nothing she had said or done had given him any indication that she harbored any hostility toward him or the United States.

Nor was she naive. Sung had to know that the note put her in danger. He wanted to convince himself that by not responding to Dr. Shivan, he would be doing the best thing for her, too.

But he couldn’t. A quieter, more contemplative part of his psyche wanted to learn more from Dr. Shivan about the underground facility and the state of the North Korean nuclear missile program. It urged him to somehow take advantage of the opportunity offered by Sung and Chiang-su. He spent the rest of the night trying to come up with a plan that would afford him maximum deniability and the greatest chance of success.

In the morning when Sung arrived with his breakfast, he summoned her to the bathroom and turned on the shower. With the water hissing, he said, “Tell Dr. Shivan to call this number…seven, zero, three, seven, one, five, eight, two, eight, seven. Ask to speak to Bird, and tell her where I am.”

Late the following night in a secure room at Naval Amphibious Base in Coronado, CA, Crocker met with James Anders, his assistant Dina Brooke, an analyst from the CIA North Korean desk, and another analyst from FBI Cyber Division.

Anders said, “Everything we discuss here will be preliminary and subject to executive approval, because of the mounting atmosphere of hostility between us and China. I want to talk about that, and I also want us to start looking at possibly launching an op against the printing presses on Ung-do.”

“It’s about time we did something,” remarked Crocker.

Dina Brooke, a very serious young woman with long dark hair and glasses, reviewed the causes of the recent tensions between the two superpowers. Over the past month a dozen cities in the United States had experienced power outages similar to the ones he had witnessed in Las Vegas and Honolulu. All of them had occurred when an unauthorized person or entity hacked into the local power utility’s supervisory control and data acquisition system.

They had done this, the FBI Cyber Division expert explained, by bypassing the local power utilities’ security measures and compromising the Domain Name System (DNS). By changing the mapping between the utilities and the IP addresses of their physical servers, the intruders were able to direct traffic heading for the utilities’ domains to the wrong IP addresses-addresses of servers under their control.

The hackers then fired massive amounts of network traffic at the host, which caused it to become overwhelmed and drop legitimate traffic. Using these protocols and others, they essentially took over the local utilities’ computer systems and directed them to power down the outflow of electricity.

Why the hackers had done this was unclear. Analysts at the FBI and CIA theorized that the people behind the cyberattacks were either operatives of an enemy state or a terrorist organization trying to spread fear throughout the United States.

After hundreds of man-hours of tracking and investigation, the FBI Cyber Division had identified People’s Liberation Army (PLA) Unit 61398 near Shanghai as the likely source of the attacks. Unit 61398 was a viable candidate, the FBI expert explained, because it had been the source of previous hacking attacks on U.S. government agencies and businesses. Since 2000, ninety percent of cyberespionage on the U.S. originated in China.

Public utilities were particularly vulnerable, according to the FBI expert. “All it takes is the right Google search terms to find a way into the systems of U.S. water and power utilities. And this isn’t unusual. Many industrial control systems are hooked up to the Internet. If they don’t change their default passwords and you know the right keywords, you can find their control panels easily.”

When White House officials lodged a formal complaint with the Chinese government, the Chinese responded angrily, in part because they had been experiencing cyberattacks of their own, targeting banks, businesses, and government agencies, including PLA offices and installations. They pointed a finger at the United States and the same top-secret U.S. cyberwar units that had created the computer worm Stuxnet, which had infected the software of at least fourteen industrial sites in Iran, including a uranium-enrichment plant.

This worm, first discovered in June 2010, was an unprecedentedly masterful and malicious piece of code that attacked in three phases. First, it targeted Microsoft Windows machines and networks, repeatedly replicating itself. Then it sought out Siemens Step 7 software, used to program industrial control systems that operate equipment such as centrifuges. Finally, it compromised the programmable logic controllers. The worm’s authors could thus spy on the industrial systems unbeknown to the human operators at the plant and even cause the fast-spinning centrifuges to tear themselves apart.

Two years later the International Telecommunication Union, the UN agency that manages information and communication technologies, discovered another very sophisticated piece of malware forty times larger than Stuxnet, which they called Flame. On investigation it turned out to be a precursor to Stuxnet that had somehow gone undetected.

While Stuxnet’s purpose was to destroy things, Flame’s was to spy on people. It spread through USB sticks and infected printers shared by the same network. It could also exchange data with any Bluetooth device, and through directional tunnels linked to Bluetooth enabled computers to steal information from other devices and embed itself from two kilometers away.

The scariest and most revealing aspect of Flame was how it got into computers in the first place-through an update in the Windows 7 operating system.

Because of the enormous amount of time, money, and resources needed to develop malware like Stuxnet and Flame, cyber experts around the world suspected that a large government was behind their development. And because Stuxnet had been targeted to disrupt Iran’s nuclear enrichment program and Flame had infected millions of computers throughout the Middle East, international experts suspected the United States and Israel, either working separately or together.

The Chinese had reason to be suspicious of the United States. But this time, according to Dina Brooke and the FBI expert, the United States was innocent. “The charges directed at us have been thoroughly investigated,” Brooke said, “and are absolutely untrue. It’s possible that the hackers involved are acting for some third party and are using the U.S. and Chinese servers as proxies.”

Crocker, who understood very little about computer systems, found all this fascinating. Before the cyber experts were dismissed, he asked one question.

“If it’s possible, as you say, to hide behind or piggyback off someone else’s server, could some other country, like Iran or North Korea, be behind these attacks?”

“The short answer is yes,” Brooke said. “With all the available stolen credit cards and Internet proxies, it’s really quite easy for attackers to become invisible.”

Crocker smelled a rat. He thought the North Koreans were up to something, maybe with the help of the Iranians, maybe on their own. He didn’t want to hear more hedging from Anders, who was now saying that given the recent tensions with China, the White House would be averse to any contingency in terms of North Korea that could directly or indirectly serve to further offend the Chinese.

Fuck Chinese sensibilities, he said to himself. If the North Koreans are counterfeiting our currency and hacking into our power grid, let’s kick their butts.

During a coffee break, Crocker stood on the steps of National Amphibious Base headquarters looking out on San Diego harbor. Seventeen years ago he had suffered through BUD/S training a few hundred yards from where he stood now-eight months of ass-kicking that involved endless runs on the beach, calisthenics, obstacle courses, swimming, boat drills, fast roping, land navigation, and dive training. Out of a hundred guys in his class, twenty-three had graduated.

Seventeen years ago he had driven cross-country in a beat-up TR6 with no brakes. Since then he had suffered all kinds of scars and bruises in places all over the world. As he watched Anders talking into a cell phone on the lawn, he marveled at how much the world had changed in seventeen years. When he received his SEAL Trident there was no war on terrorism, no ISIS, no Homeland Security, no FBI Cyber Division, and no cyberespionage.

Who knows what the next seventeen years will bring?

Whatever the new threats were or where they came from, he knew it was imperative that the United States respond with intelligent, decisive action. Dithering over a reply to al-Qaeda after the bombing of the U.S. embassies in Dar-es-Salaam and Nairobi and the attack on the USS Cole had led to tragedy. An ill-advised invasion of Iraq and the failure to act in Syria had encouraged the rise of ISIS.

If you saw warnings and didn’t heed them, you could expect bad things to follow. That was the hard, hard truth of life. Blaming people was a waste of time. You had to learn from your mistakes, take responsibility, and get better and smarter. The cold reality was that the world was becoming increasingly complex, dangerous, and interdependent. When rogue actors behaved badly, they had to be put in their place.

He watched Anders put the phone away and climb the steps. Crocker stepped into his path.

“If we’re not going to do something, you don’t need me here,” he said, scowling into the setting sun.

“Come on, Crocker,” Anders responded. “You’ve been around long enough to know how this works. We collect intel, analyze it, make plans, and recommend that the White House takes action. All we can do is hope they make the right decision this time.”

Day by day, Dawkins was growing increasingly anxious. He’d made it through nearly a week of ignoring the pleading look in Sung’s eyes when she brought him breakfast in the morning, and had gone about his business without mentioning the note from Dr. Shivan or the phone number he’d given her.

But today was different. For one thing, Sung hadn’t arrived at his room at 7 a.m. An older woman with gray streaks in her hair showed up instead. She spoke less English than Sung and offered no explanation for Sung’s absence. Instead, she served him a rolled egg omelet with kelp and carrots, and rice cakes, set out his clothes, and escorted him out to the waiting Kwon as though she had been doing this all along.

The second odd thing was that when Dawkins arrived in his workshop, his assistants weren’t there. So while he spun the gyro compass to test that it met no resistance from the digital resolver and platform shrouds, he wondered what was going on.

Maybe today was a holiday or some special government function was being held. Or perhaps Chiang-su and Sung had been caught passing another note. Or Dr. Shivan had spilled the beans during interrogation.

Normally, at lunchtime his junior assistant, Yi-Thaek, would roll in a small metal cart bearing hot soup, noodles, and some kind of salad. But today no food arrived. So he sat at the bench sipping rusty-tasting water from a plastic bottle while Kwon waited by the door reading a book in a weathered leather sleeve.

“Food?” he asked as he mimed putting something in his mouth and chewing. “Lunch?”

Kwon looked up at him sullenly, then removed a cell phone from the pouch on his belt and punched in a number.

Dawkins was adjusting the platform shroud when someone rapped on the door and handed Kwon two bowls of soup. The hot broth tasted greasy, and the slices of meat in it were as tough as shoe leather, but at least the soup spread warmth throughout his body, and with warmth came confidence and hope.

He’d almost convinced himself that there was a logical and nonalarming explanation for Sung’s absence when a crackly announcement came over the PA system.

He looked at Kwon to try to gauge his reaction. Kwon worked a piece of food out of his teeth, stood, and waved to Dawkins to follow him.

“Where are we going?”

Kwon didn’t answer. Dawkins hoped they were on their way back to his room, where he would be given time to fetch his parka and then be escorted outside. But when they reached the end of the hallway, Kwon turned right instead of left, grabbed Dawkins by the elbow, and led him down a short flight of steps and into a darkened room.

When the light came on, he saw that it was an oval amphitheater with about a dozen rows of chairs. The floor was concrete, and thick metal fencing separated the stage area from the seats. Two men entered and set a ten-foot-tall metal pole into a hole in the floor and secured it with bolts. As they worked, people started to file in silently and sit.

He noticed Sung across from him with her eyes cast down. She looked up, met his gaze, and quickly lowered her head. He thought he saw fear in her eyes.

When the space was half full, the same man’s voice came over the PA system. This time it took on a scolding tone. Dawkins noticed the eyes of the spectators shifting to him-the lone Westerner. Panic started to worm into his stomach. When he found the courage to glance up, he couldn’t see anyone familiar besides Sung across the way and Kwon, who sat next to him, upright and rigid, with his hands folded in his lap.

Martial music played, then a metal door slammed and he heard a man barking orders. Four soldiers in olive uniforms marched in from his left. They stopped at the metal pole, turned with precision, and two men split off to each side and stood at attention with their automatic weapons held in front of them.

Then eight more soldiers marched in. The last two held metal chains that were attached to the wrists of a woman. Her long hair obscured her face, and she wore a plain gray sack-type dress. The soldiers chained the woman’s ankles and wrists to the metal pole. Then two of them used scissors to cut apart her dress until it fell off and she was naked. Dawkins still couldn’t see her face.

The soldiers left, leaving the chained, exposed woman alone in the pit. Then the man’s voice came over the loudspeaker again and began a long, loud harangue that seemed to go on for an hour.

Dawkins noticed that some spectators were visibly shaking and others started to weep. None of them dared make a sound. He started to feel sick. When he tried get up to find a bathroom, Kwon pushed him roughly back into the seat.

The harangue stopped and there was a long silence. He heard a low groan from the crowd and saw that the woman had peed down her trembling legs.

The metal door slid open again and a man wearing a black mask and carrying some kind of backpack emerged. At his side he held what looked like a hose with a nozzle. He stopped ten feet away from the woman, pointed the nozzle at her, and pulled a lever.

With a loud whoosh a bolt of fire shot out of the nozzle, hit the woman, and then subsided. The spectators groaned in unison. The flame had lasted only seconds, but it was enough to singe off all the woman’s hair and melt her ears and lips. She screamed in agony as her skin continued to burn. When the smell hit Dawkins’s nostrils, he lurched forward from the waist and threw up onto his pants and shoes.

He tried again to stand up, but Kwon slapped him violently on the side of his head. The voice came over the speaker again and harangued the crowd. They responded with groans of agony as the man with the hose released another bolt of fire.

This one hit one of the woman’s arms, which burned and snapped off at the shoulder. Dawkins covered his eyes. He couldn’t look anymore. The woman wailed like a castrated animal. Was she Chiang-su? Waves of shame and fear passed through his body as he felt a sharp slap across his ear and face, then another.

When he tried to cover his head, Kwon pulled his arms away and punched him in the mouth. One of Dawkins’s front teeth gave way. He tasted blood.

The crowd groaned louder this time. He heard another whoosh of flame and passed out.

Nan sat outside the burn unit of the Reston Hospital Center, waiting for Karen and feeling increasingly anxious. She wasn’t sure why, because this was a routine checkup, and so far Karen’s recovery had gone well. But she sensed that something was wrong. When she saw one of the burn unit nurses leave a room farther down the hallway, she hurried to catch up with her.

“Is Karen responding to treatment?” she asked. “Are there complications?”

“No, Mrs. Dawkins. She’s fine. An excellent patient. The doctor is changing the dressing on her ankle. She’ll be out in a minute or two.”

“Will there be much scarring?”

“Maybe a little on the outside of her ankle. It can be addressed with plastic surgery, if it’s a concern.”

“Thank you.”

The conversation with the nurse hadn’t lessened her anxiety. Maybe all the worrying about James and the incident with the fire had frayed her nerves. Thinking that she was about to have a panic attack, she crossed to the water cooler in the waiting area, filled a paper cup, and downed it.

She was about to refill the cup when her cell phone rang. She expected it to be a call from work, but the screen read “Unknown.”

The voice on the other end asked, “Bird?”

“Yes. Who is this?” No one called her Bird except for James and her stepsister, who she hadn’t spoken to in months.

“I’m calling in regard to Mr. James Dawkins.” It was a man’s voice with an Asian accent.

“Oh, oh…Yes! He’s my husband.”

“Mrs. Dawkins, I work for an antigovernment organization called the North Korean Strategy Center based in Seoul, South Korea.”

“Are you with my husband? Is that where he is now?” Nan asked.

“I am not with Mr. Dawkins. I’m sorry. He’s at a location called Ung-do. He’s been held prisoner there by the North Korean government.”

A dozen questions crowded her brain. “North Korea? Do you know why? Is he being treated well and in good health?”

“He is alive. Unfortunately, I have very few details. He’s living in an underground complex and is being forced to work on North Korea’s nuclear weapons program.”

“Oh…What is the name of his location again?”

“Ung-do. It’s an island.”