Free A Northern Thunder by Andy Harp

the aircraft.
    Will stepped through the electronics cabin and another door into a large open room with several oversized, tanned leather chairs on both sides of the aisle. It looked to be the private jet of an oil-rich Middle Eastern prince.
    “Have a seat, Colonel, so we can bloody well get moving.” Scott imparted his British accent more emphatically with certain words than others. Key words like “bloody well” telegraphed his background.
    As he sank down in the deep chair, Will looked toward the cockpit, watching the woman as she pushed and held down a lit yellow toggle switch near the exit. He heard a low hum under the front of the aircraft as the stairs pulled back. She turned from her job briefly, and as she did, her eyes found Will. He smiled and she smiled back.
    Scott sat down in the seat across from Will’s. “Hold on, Colonel,” he said. “These birds waste no time.”
    In less than two minutes, Will felt the turn of the aircraft onto the active runway and heard the jets very quietly spin up to a higher pitch. Few would know it was ever here in Cordele.
    Suddenly, the nose of the aircraft tilted sharply upwards, pitching up into the black sky. Will’s head sunk back into the chair, his eyes focused on the front wooden panel that formed the bulkhead between him and the electronics compartment. In the bulkhead wall were three small television screens. The top screen displayed a highly detailed map with the shape of a small airplane just above the word “Cordele.” The second television was blank, but the third displayed a muted CNN correspondent. Will sat there, absentmindedly trying to interpret what the female reporter was saying.
    “Well, Colonel, are you ready for this?” Scott swiveled his chair toward Will. Almost in perfect sync with his comments, the aircraft tilted down to a level position. Will glanced toward the altimeter and noticed the number “42,000,” then swiveled his chair to his left.
    “Yes, Mr. Scott.”
    “What questions do you have, Colonel Parker?” Scott reached over and closed the door to the forward compartments.
    “Here’s what I’ve deduced. Peter Nampo has developed a high degree of computer, electronic, or engineering capability. He is in North Korea, using his talents to help that government, and thus has become a threat to the United States. Somehow, North Korea has camouflaged him to the point where we can’t be sure who he is.”
    “Right on all fronts,” Scott fired back.
    Will had been pondering the situation since earlier in the week, concluding that the country involved had to be the hardcore Stalinist nation of North Korea. It was a perfect fit for both Peter Nampo and the mission vaguely described to him.
    “Taking this job, handling this mission—flag rank may be in your future,” Scott said. He knew that a military man, particularly a senior officer, enjoyed that phrase, “flag rank.” He often laughed at the fact that, despite their protests, he had never met a lieutenant colonel or colonel who didn’t think he had every chance of becoming a general. Some of the generals and admirals unknowingly encouraged this belief through their own, sheer incompetence. Most officers thought, “Surely I’ll be picked—because I’m so much abler than this general is.”
    The Marine Corps especially encouraged such thinking among its officers. On more than one occasion, some of its reserve generals had been demoted because of scandals, or they had very mixed, embarrassing pasts. As a youth, one such officer had even attended meetings of the “Christian Identity,” a radical Aryan-based hate group, and the Marine Corps had somehow hid that fact from a Democratic White House. Scott thought that many Marine colonels were probably right—how did these people make it to top rank?
    “Not at all, Mr. Scott.” Will smiled, not realizing he had thoughts on the subject.
    “Why’s that, Colonel?” Scott thought he would provoke the conversation. Even in a