Thanks for everyone reading my last chapters, and a special thanks to Bisslebork for reviewing! I tried out some new stuff with pacing on this one, hopefully to help move the story along. This chapter started as two seperate chapters, but go squeezed into one extra-long chapter for your viewing pleasure. As always, thanks for reading and reviewing, everyone. Cheers!
Gimpo International Airport, Seoul, South Korea, 1978
After the last five-hour leg of his flight to Seoul, James Bond was beginning to forget why he was so glad to be back. Commercial flying was definitely not for him, he decided. Bond walked out of the boarding tunnel into the crowded Gimpo International Airport. Looking around, he couldn't see any familiar faces. What caught his eye, however, were two out-of-place men dressed in dark suits. Bond sighed and shook his head as he walked over to them. Americans.
Dressed in plainclothes, Bond seemed to be below notice to the two men in black until he was practically in their faces. "Oh, sir, didn't quite uh...see you there," the shorter one stammered, surprised at the spy's sudden appearance; which was odd, given the circumstances.
"Bond. James Bond, at your service," Bond said as he extended his hand. The more confident, and taller, of the two took the offered hand and shook it. In a tidewater accent, he told him, "There's a car waiting for you, Mr. Bond. We will explain more on the way." Bond nodded his head, this airport was surely tapped by North Korea, if not the KGB.
The Americans led Bond to a waiting car, subtly disguised as an all-black, polished Lincoln. Bond rolled his eyes but willingly got into the backseat. The agents sat on each side of him as the car rolled off.
"I was told this was to be a NATO operation, not an American one," Bond said, breaking the silence.
The shorter agent spoke. "That may have been...an exaggeration."
"Think of it less of a NATO operation and more as an operation in NATO's interests," the taller agent suggested helpfully.
"Alright, well, can you at least tell me where we are going?"
The two agents looked at each other before the taller answered, "Camp Casey, just outside Dongducheon; about 40 miles from Seoul."
"So US Army territory then," Bond said dejectedly.
"2nd Infantry," the short agent said with pride. The agents seemed to expect Bond would talk more, but that wasn't the case. The rest of his questions could be answered once they got there.
The car pulled through the gates of Camp Casey after being cleared by security. The man at the gate acted like international spies came through the base every day. On account of location, Bond thought, maybe they did.
Passing through the base, Bond saw the usual activity on any military base: soldiers training, officials passing by in cars, and aircraft droning overhead. What caught Bond's eye, and caused him to look a second time, was a small contingent of soldiers running while hoisting the Union Jack.
"I thought you said this was an American-only operation, besides myself," Bond commented.
"There's an SAS contingent on the base," the shorter agent explained. "They won't be helping you on your mission though, they have separate orders."
"I should expect as much," Bond said. The car stopped in front of a seemingly-normal building. Bond scooted off the seat and stood up outside the car, squinting in the sunlight. When had it gotten so bright outside?
Armed guards surrounded him on all sides as Bond was led into the building. Heels clacking on the tile floor, Bond had to squint to see in the dim fluorescent light. He was astounded; it seemed he had managed to find a building drabber than the Century House, which was saying something.
Further inside was a neat and orderly office, in which sat an equally-neat and orderly man. Bond's eyes widened as he checked the man's shoulder tabs. Lieutenant General. This operation must mean a lot to the Americans, then.
Sitting in two gunmetal-gray and green chairs across from the Lieutenant General were two other officers. SAS officers, it seemed. Looking up, the general said, "Ah, Mr. Bond, please excuse me, I have not quite finished my meeting with the SAS representatives." Forcedly, the senior officer offered his name. "I am Captain Roper, and this is my adjutant, Lieutenant Price," the Captain said coldly. Lieutenant Price nodded in his direction. It was obvious they didn't welcome someone from MI6 on SAS territory.
Breaking the silence, the Lieutenant General said, "Captain Roper, we can finish this another time. You are dismissed." Captain Roper nodded but did not salute; he and Lieutenant Price walked out the door. The general sighed as they left and sunk lower into his chair, seemingly more comfortable around a lowly spy than fellow soldiers.
"Friendly bunch, those two," he said to himself. Continuing, he told Bond, "Take a seat Mr. Bond." He shooed the guards out, who would naturally be waiting outside with an ear to the door.
Bond now saw the plaque on the general's desk that read Lieutenant General David Grange. General Grange, meanwhile, had started to sort through files inside a metal cabinet.
Finding purchase, he pulled one out. Setting it on the desk, he said, "Excuse my language Mr. Bond, but let's cut through the bullshit. We need your help on this one, and we need it quick. We lost some good men on that island, and our most valuable asset in twenty years to boot."
"Why not just send in someone from the CIA?" Bond asked.
"Most of the CIA's assets are in Europe right now, and what we have in Asia doesn't have the...expertise in these matters."
"I assume you haven't heard of Kashmir, then?" Bond quipped.
General Grange didn't seem to appreciate humour any better than M did. "I have been notified of your...actions in Kashmir Mr. Bond, but that will not deter this operation. What we need is simple: we land you in Russia, you head from there into North Korea, and you find out just what the hell is going on up there." With his last sentence, he jerked his thumb in the general direction of the DMZ.
Bond crossed his arms, "I suppose I don't get a say in the matter?"
General Granger shook his head and placed a hand on his brow. "Look, here's how it goes son. A, you carry out the mission as planned and help us protect South Korea from the commies. Or, B, you refuse and are locked inside a military stockade for the next hundred years or until the United States wins World War III; take your pick. You limeys may not be concerned about Asia's affairs since Vietnam, but to the Department of Defense South Korea represents a valuable asset that must be kept safe at all costs."
Bond resisted the urge to raise his hands in defense. "When do I leave?" he asked.
General Granger handed him his orders before telling him, "You leave in thirty minutes to a US Naval Base. There, you will board the USS Theodore Roosevelt; she will take you to the designated drop point."
The general rose from his seat, standing tall and erect. "Are we understood?"
Bond stood as well and straightened his back to follow suit. "Crystal, sir."
"Good," General Grange said, handing him his orders. "These are your orders, carry them out to the letter and this whole crisis will blow over nice and quiet."
Bond nodded and remained standing, confused as to whether he should leave yet.
The general looked up at him and grunted, "Dismissed."
"You have got to be kidding me," Bond muttered to himself upon seeing the USS Theodore Roosevelt. When he had read in his orders that he was to be dropped off by the Roosevelt, he had expected being dropped in a dinghy by a surface ship. Instead, the Roosevelt was a submarine. "Guess, I'll be getting wet, then," Bond said, again to himself.
He walked down the gangplank, duffel bag on his shoulder, to the open hatch of the Roosevelt. A young sailor at the entrance stopped him until Bond showed his papers. The captain of the Roosevelt was amiable enough about having a spy on board given the circumstances.
"You will be confined to a corner of the crew's quarters for the duration of the trip, and you will not emerge until we are near Vladivostok," he had said.
So Bond kept to himself for the trip, mostly content to rest or catch up on his Korean during the trip. Luckily, the sailors onboard seemed downright cheery for submariners; they were dropping him off before buzzing around Kamchatka and then heading home.
Finally, the sub reached the waters near Vladivostok. Bond was led to an empty ballistic missile tube, where he was issued a wetsuit as well as a special engine...thing. It was basically a small submarine, with a hatch inside for storing gear; there were handles on the outside for him to hang on to. He wasn't taking much gear besides the usual necessities.
His only real "gadget" was a relay device that, when activated, used satellites to pinpoint his exact location anywhere in the world for location and possible extraction. It was apparently pretty new around the CIA, so they evidently intended to get it back. Other than the locating device, he had several poisons and syringes, along with a silenced Makarov PM. The US military was certainly no-nonsense about its spying missions, it seemed.
Once in the wetsuit and his gear safely inside the minisub, the missile hatch opened, letting in a rush of water. Bond struggled to hold on to the minsub as the water cascaded over him. As soon as the tube was filled, however, Bond put his minsub in gear and propelled away from the Roosevelt. The oxygen tank he had been given would only last him two hours, and he didn't want to see how far he could make it last.
Bond steered the submersible toward the direction of the city, which was a straight line from the rear propeller of the Roosevelt. The trip would be about an hour, as the captain of the Roosevelt hadn't wanted to get so close to the HQ for the Soviet Pacific Fleet.
The hour passed, and Bond found himself on the edge of Vladivostok. He made sure to steer the minisub away from the main harbour and onto a quiet beach. Had any locals been around they would have thought it funny seeing a man in a skintight wetsuit dragging a miniature submarine to shore; before they were shot for their troubles, of course.
Bond stripped out of the wetsuit into his civilian clothes and pulled his gear, placed inside an ordinary backpack, out of the minisub. Putting the wetsuit in the submersible, he kicked it out to sea with the storage hatch open, letting it sink to the ocean floor.
He walked into town, following the same route as the poor farmers coming into town to sell their goods. His worries of fitting in were quickly assuaged as the dust from the road left Bond with a layer of filth on his body, rendering him an anonymous face in the crowds of poor. Bond's orders had told him to get into contact with a local smuggler, named (unimaginatively) Wolf.
If the American intelligence was right, Wolf hung out at the local seedy bar, looking for customers and keeping up his tab. Bond decided to try there first, and walked into the smoke-filled bar.
The place was crowded, so Bond went unnoticed as he walked in and headed toward the back. Bond didn't have to look long; for being a smuggler, Wolf really stuck out.
The man had a massive and dirty beard, which was coupled with his equally-dirty clothing. He wasn't fat, but was certainly headed in the right direction. The man was chatting rapidly in a mix of Russian, Chinese, and Korean with his friends when Bond approached him. Despite his looks, the man seemed to up-to-date on his knowledge of spies.
"Excuse me for a second," he said in a strange agglomeration of the three languages. He pulled Bond aside and spoke in German, presumably as to not be overheard. Bond was surprised at his amount of languages, but it was rumoured that Wolf was ex-KGB.
"Americans, you are always late," he spat. From the smell of his breath and the tone of his voice, the man was buzzed. When Bond gave him an angry look, Wolf half-shrugged and said, "You Westerners are all the same, anyways. I can hardly tell any of you apart!"
Bond rolled his eyes and waited for the man to take another plug from a nearby bottle.
"So," he said, continuing," You want to get over the border, eh?"
"Quiet, not so loud," Bond said, looking around anxiously. Wolf gave a hearty laugh and slapped himself on the knee.
"This is a Russian bar my friend, no one cares what you say here," he said, lapsing back and forth between Russian and German.
Trying to edge his way to the point, Bond just nodded and said, "Alright, yes. I need you to get me over the border to North Korea, and I need you to bring me there as soon as you can."
"North Korea, eh?" he asked. "Much more difficult than China, but I can still make due. The fee is fifty thousand dollars."
Bond handed him a sack from inside his backpack that was filled with bills. "Here's a hundred thousand if we leave tomorrow."
His eyes glistening over, Wolf could only answer, "Agreed."
Wolf was waiting for him outside the city limits the next morning. Wolf was carrying a simple backpack, similar to Bond's.
"Traveling a little light, aren't we?" Bond asked.
Wolf shrugged. "Easier to run when you're not carrying much."
The two set off south, toward the border. It wasn't easy going on the road; the way to North Korea wasn't exactly a popular one. They had been walking a few hours when Wolf led Bond aside to rest. "We need to keep our energy up," he explained.
Bond scouted the area, searching for anyone following them. They were stopped atop a small ridge, and Bond walked under it to look.
"Shouldn't we start to see Army patrols soon?" he called to Wolf.
"You might say that," Wolf called, though his voice came from much closer to Bond than the ridge.
Turning around, Bond saw that Wolf had an AK-74 in his hands, pointed straight at him.
"I thought this was all a little too convenient," Bond muttered, mostly to himself.
Unsurprisingly, camouflaged soldiers garbed in the uniforms of the Spetsnaz appeared on all sides. A tall, blonde man stepped out in front of the soldiers. He was garbed in the uniform of the KGB.
He nodded to Bond, "James."
Bond nodded back, "Abram."
Abram Volkov, head of anti-intelligence in the KGB, tipped his cap to Bond.
"I'm sorry for the rough introduction, James, but we had to do something." Wolf, though Bond supposed he wasn't the real smuggler, poked him with a gun from behind.
"I assume the real Wolf is dead?"
Abram laughed, as if Bond was a small child saying something ridiculous. "What do you take me for? Your smuggler friend is enjoying counting trees in Siberia, I imagine."
He walked up next to Bond, their shoulders almost touching.
"I wish I could be less direct, James, but time is of the essence." He pulled out a hypodermic needle. "This is why I must apologize in advance."
Before Bond could pull away, he felt the sharp sting of the needle in his arm, followed shortly by a creeping feeling of exhaustion.
Abram stepped in front of him, a cheeky grin decorating his face. "Don't worry James, you're in good hands. When you wake up, everything will be explained."
Abram kept talking, but Bond couldn't hear him. His legs gave out under him, but Bond was unconscious before he hit the ground.