Andy McDermott - The Midas Legacy

One of the guides opened the door for Nina and Eddie. ‘Dr Wilde, Mr Chase,’ he said, ‘welcome to People’s Special Engineering Facility Number 17.’ He saluted the officers. ‘This is the base commander, Colonel Kang Sun-il.’

The older of the two men regarded Nina and Eddie disparagingly. Although he was short, not even Nina’s height, he exuded menace, his eyes narrow and almost snake-like in their coldness. ‘Welcome to Democratic People’s Republic of Korea,’ Kang said, sounding anything but cordial.

‘And the facility’s chief of security,’ the translator continued, indicating the younger man beside the commander, ‘Major Bok Jeong-hun.’

‘Delighted to make your acquaintance,’ said Bok with a predatory smile. His English was fluent and confident, even more so than the translators’. He was several inches taller than his commander, the absence of the other soldiers’ tight-faced haggardness suggesting that his upbringing had been relatively privileged.

Unsure of protocol, Nina settled for a modest bow. Eddie gave the two officers a brief bob of his head. ‘We’re both glad to meet you,’ she said. ‘So, shall we get down to business?’

The colonel took a moment to decipher what she had said, prompting the guide to repeat her words in Korean, which in turn drew a snapped rebuke. The translator shrank back, head bowed in craven apology for his presumption. ‘Yes, business,’ Kang said, eyeing her case. ‘You have Crucible?’

‘You have our money?’ Eddie countered, remembering the part they were playing.

‘Ten million dollars American, ten million dollars gold. Yes.’

Nina opened the lid of the case, letting the two men glimpse the crystalline sphere inside. ‘It’s here. The money?’ She was all too aware of the weakness of her position; there was nothing stopping the Koreans from taking the Crucible by force, or shooting the visitors where they stood.

But Kang simply nodded. ‘Come,’ he said, starting around the blockhouse.

Nina surveyed her surroundings as everyone followed. The hulking concrete building was apparently a control tower, a high line of windows looking out along the runway. Below them was a trio of giant portraits: Kim Il-sung, Kim Jong-il and Kim Jong-un, the three generations of family who had ruled North Korea as absolute dictators since the 1940s. ‘Oh, herro,’ Eddie said quietly, barely hiding a grin.

‘Don’t you frickin’ dare start quoting Team America !’ Nina hissed. ‘They’ll probably shoot us just for having watched it.’ But she had to admit that the late Kim Jong-il did indeed closely resemble his puppet counterpart from the satirical comedy.

Noise ahead caught her attention. A large elevator platform bearing several tons of rubble rose from a wide shaft to stop at floor level. More workers in filthy clothes began to unload the lift’s cargo for transfer into a waiting truck. An emaciated man staggered under the weight of a rock, falling to the concrete floor. A soldier rushed up to him and repeatedly slammed his rifle butt against the man’s back, screaming abuse with each strike. None of the other workers dared even look, struggling with their own burdens.

Bok saw Nina’s shock. ‘Criminal elements,’ he said dismissively. ‘They work for the glory of our nation to pay for their crimes.’

‘And what crimes were those?’ Eddie asked, disgusted. The prisoners were a mix of male and female, young and old.

‘Does it matter? They are guilty.’

‘Guilty of not being able to carry a big lump of stone?’ The beaten man collapsed, other soldiers surrounding him to deliver brutal kicks. ‘You’ve got some real tough guys there, going four against one.’

If he had registered Eddie’s sarcasm, Bok chose to ignore it. ‘All the troops protecting this facility are our country’s very best,’ he said proudly. ‘They will fight without fear against any threat, and bring defeat to our enemies. They each proved their unflinching dedication to their duty by executing a criminal with only a bayonet, or their bare hands.’

‘That’s… dedicated, yeah,’ said Nina, trying to conceal her horror.

They passed beyond the edge of the runway tunnel into a broad passage along the blockhouse’s wall. Lined up before them were numerous vehicles; mostly jeeps and trucks, though some were more exotic. ‘Hang on, I saw those in a film,’ said Eddie. ‘ Die Another Day , right?’ He gestured at a group of small four-seater hovercraft — which had undergone extensive modifications. Sloping wedges of armour covered their noses, narrow slits providing the only visibility for their pilots. Large-calibre guns were mounted on pintles at the top of the shields. ‘You’re nicking ideas from crappy James Bond movies? Don’t tell me you’ve got an invisible car an’ all.’

Kang glared at him, but Bok was amused. ‘Yes, there,’ he said, pointing at an empty space.

‘Good one,’ Eddie replied with a humourless smile. His gaze turned to another collection of oddball machinery. ‘And you’ve got some Little Nellies, too.’ These were ultralight aircraft, barely more than powered hang-gliders with oddly shaped bodywork enclosing the tandem seats. The fabric wings and faceted bodies were all a dull charcoal grey. ‘They’re hardly stealth bombers, though.’

Kang clearly understood, but chose to respond in Korean, the translator relaying his words. ‘That is exactly what they are, Mr Chase. They can fly over the demilitarised zone invisible to radar, and drop bombs.’

‘You can’t exactly carry a blockbuster on one of those little things, though.’

‘They can also land commandos behind enemy lines. We do not need to spend billions on one plane for it to be a good weapon.’ The colonel puffed out his chest in smug pride as the group rounded the blockhouse and the depths of the underground space came into full view.

It was an irregularly shaped artificial cavern the size of several football pitches. Hefty pillars were dotted throughout to support the fifty-foot-high ceiling, upon which was an endless grid of harsh lights. It was not the scale of the facility that made Eddie and Nina stop in surprise, though. It was what it was being used to build.

A production line occupied most of the vast space. But it was not making vehicles.

The seemingly random collection of metal pieces at one end gradually took on deadly form as they progressed through the factory. Curved plates became fuel tanks, mating with pumps and pipework and enclosed in cylindrical bodies, all to the percussive accompaniment of rivet guns and the crackle of welding torches. The bell-like nozzles of rocket motors were fitted at one end, conical nosecones at the other. The final results were revealed in all their sinister glory at the end of the line.

Missiles.

A fully completed example hung in a cradle, several white-overalled men inspecting it carefully. Sixty feet long and five in diameter, its two stages were painted a mottled camouflage green. There were no fins or anything else to break up its shape, a harsh, uncompromising digit of death.

This one was not yet ready to leave its birthplace. But it had siblings that were.

Parked at the line’s end were three enormous trucks, Chinese lumber transporters adapted for military purposes to avoid the arms embargo. Each vehicle had sixteen wheels, spreading the weight of a hefty hydraulic lifting system designed to raise its cargo from its horizontal bed to the vertical. They were TELs — transporter erector launchers, built to ferry ballistic missiles by road and fire them without the need for expensive and easily targeted silos.

And these were loaded. Each TEL bore a missile. ‘Shit,’ said Eddie as he stared at the weapons. ‘Those are ICBMs!’