Missile Intercept Read online

  WITHIN STRIKING DISTANCE

  It’s no coincidence that Cuban missiles disappear at the same time two scientists are kidnapped from a conference in Mexico. And all the clues lead to North Korea. The country already has atomic bombs, and now they’ve got everything they need to perfect long-range missile technology. Unless Mack Bolan can stop them.

  Determined to save the scientists and prevent a world war, Bolan learns he’s not the only one with his sights set on retrieving the missiles. The Iranians are also after the technology, along with a North Korean army colonel and his ruthless assistant. With a killer on his tail, the Executioner has to eliminate the international threat...or die trying.

  Grimaldi buzzed the airstrip, diving at the accelerating plane.

  The aircraft jerked to the left, slowing. The side door flew open and a figure jumped to the ground. Thin streams of red tracer rounds zoomed upward.

  “Whoever the hell that guy is,” Grimaldi said over the radio, “I’m taking fire, and it’s coming close!”

  Bolan paused, sighted the hostile gunner and squeezed off a quick burst. The man twisted in Bolan’s direction, and the Executioner fired again. His target jerked slightly. He was hit—but how badly?

  Seconds later he had his answer as the red tracer rounds began zipping past him. He ducked, rolled to the left and came up on one knee just as the firing stopped. He saw the hostile leaning back, his right arm extended behind him.

  Bolan fired another burst, and seconds later the flash and concussion of an explosion washed over him, accompanied by a second, larger conflagration as the plane went up in a gigantic fireball.

  #372 Lethal Compound

  #373 Code of Honor

  #374 System Corruption

  #375 Salvador Strike

  #376 Frontier Fury

  #377 Desperate Cargo

  #378 Death Run

  #379 Deep Recon

  #380 Silent Threat

  #381 Killing Ground

  #382 Threat Factor

  #383 Raw Fury

  #384 Cartel Clash

  #385 Recovery Force

  #386 Crucial Intercept

  #387 Powder Burn

  #388 Final Coup

  #389 Deadly Command

  #390 Toxic Terrain

  #391 Enemy Agents

  #392 Shadow Hunt

  #393 Stand Down

  #394 Trial by Fire

  #395 Hazard Zone

  #396 Fatal Combat

  #397 Damage Radius

  #398 Battle Cry

  #399 Nuclear Storm

  #400 Blind Justice

  #401 Jungle Hunt

  #402 Rebel Trade

  #403 Line of Honor

  #404 Final Judgment

  #405 Lethal Diversion

  #406 Survival Mission

  #407 Throw Down

  #408 Border Offensive

  #409 Blood Vendetta

  #410 Hostile Force

  #411 Cold Fusion

  #412 Night’s Reckoning

  #413 Double Cross

  #414 Prison Code

  #415 Ivory Wave

  #416 Extraction

  #417 Rogue Assault

  #418 Viral Siege

  #419 Sleeping Dragons

  #420 Rebel Blast

  #421 Hard Targets

  #422 Nigeria Meltdown

  #423 Breakout

  #424 Amazon Impunity

  #425 Patriot Strike

  #426 Pirate Offensive

  #427 Pacific Creed

  #428 Desert Impact

  #429 Arctic Kill

  #430 Deadly Salvage

  #431 Maximum Chaos

  #432 Slayground

  #433 Point Blank

  #434 Savage Deadlock

  #435 Dragon Key

  #436 Perilous Cargo

  #437 Assassin’s Tripwire

  #438 The Cartel Hit

  #439 Blood Rites

  #440 Killpath

  #441 Murder Island

  #442 Syrian Rescue

  #443 Uncut Terror

  #444 Dark Savior

  #445 Final Assault

  #446 Kill Squad

  #447 Missile Intercept

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  Missile Intercept

  It is only those who have neither fired a shot nor heard the shrieks and groans of the wounded who cry aloud for blood, more vengeance, more desolation.

  —William Tecumseh Sherman

  There is nothing pretty about a nuclear conflagration. Yet the insanity continues. Images of Hiroshima and Nagasaki should serve to stay the hand of all leaders. But they don’t. We must stand strong and protect the innocents.

  —Mack Bolan

  Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

  But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

  Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

  He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

  So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

  But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

  Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Palatial Garden near Kim Il Sung Square

  Pyongyang, North Korea

  Colonel Yi Sun-Shin of the Korean People’s Army of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea watched as Gumon Yoong, the Black Dragon, stalked his last two opponents. Ten bodies littered the ground between them. The Dragon, clad in his dark special forces military fatigues, had dispatched the others with a series of deft blows, punches, whirling kicks and chopping strikes with the edge of his hand.

  At least these executions were more entertaining than the last batch, Yi thought. Those had been carried out with an antiaircraft gun, leaving the hapless general and his assistant little more than misshapen piles of
bones and flesh on the firing range. It was like using a sledgehammer to smash a mouse.

  One of the Dragon’s remaining opponents assumed a fighting stance, his fists outstretched.

  The Dragon smirked, continuing his steady advance.

  His opponent lurched forward and threw a high roundhouse kick, which the Dragon brushed away with a casual flick of his hand.

  The man twisted, executing a spinning back kick.

  Instead of blocking the blow, the Dragon stepped inside the arc of the kick, letting his opponent’s leg curl around him. The Dragon’s hands were a blur as they struck the man’s exposed neck, the tandem blows leaving his head flopping like a broken doll’s. He slipped to the ground, a trail of blood leaking from a corner of his mouth, his eyes open and sightless.

  The Dragon’s last opponent glanced around nervously, but the stone walls of the garden were high. There was no place to flee, yet he tried, turning and running away at full speed. The Dragon pursued him, closing the gap easily and then leaping into the air, his left leg tucked, the right cocked and ready. The Dragon’s right foot shot out, clipping the back of the running man’s neck. He fell face-first onto the hard ground as the Dragon landed lightly on his feet.

  After grunts of approval, the country’s leader and his entourage stood and filed out of the garden without so much as a word, heading to the front of the building for the commencement of the Victory Day parade.

  Yi surveyed the carnage. The last remaining members of the freighter that had been seized in the Panama Canal now lay dead. Such was the price of failure in the march toward victory. Yi glanced at his watch. It had taken the Dragon just over three minutes to dispatch them all.

  The colonel knew his fate would be similar if he failed in his mission. It had been a warning as well as an example. “The bungling incompetents have disgraced us with their failure,” his immediate supervisor, General Song Hai-Son, had said. “They will be dealt with immediately prior to the parade, and then our supreme commander will be informed of your coming mission.”

  The juxtaposition of the two events was not lost on Yi. Mission failure was not an option. Any outcome except total and complete success would be considered an affront to their leader’s authority, and whether the transgression was real or imagined did not matter. To fail was a death sentence.

  “Colonel Yi,” a voice called from the arched doorway.

  He turned and saw General Song standing by the ornately fashioned arch. Yi approached him, stopped, came to attention and saluted.

  “Yes, General.”

  Song snapped his fingers at the soldier standing beside him. The man remained at attention, motionless.

  “Go tell our supreme commander we will soon be on our way,” the general ordered.

  The soldier saluted, replied in the affirmative and left with crack precision.

  “The Black Dragon looks ready for the coming task,” Song said.

  “He is always ready, sir,” Yi replied. “As am I.”

  Song nodded and grunted his approval. “Good. Come, let us proceed to the balcony. The Victory Day parade is about to begin.”

  He began walking slowly down the long hallway toward the elevators.

  “I have gone over your plan,” the general said. “I have some concerns.” His face puckered into an expression of displeasure. “It seems overly complicated.”

  Yi had expected as much. Their current leader, like those before him, had surrounded himself with men essentially lacking in both cunning and guile, in an apparent attempt to minimize disloyalty and the possibility of deceit. Thus, military tactics had been degraded to the most basic. Such limited imagination engendered incompetence.

  The colonel knew if he were to say that to Song, it would be tantamount to holding a pistol to his own temple. Instead, he applied a bit of deference.

  “I agree, General, that it is complicated, but may I remind you that it is as you have said in the past. The clever warrior uses subterfuge and deception to minimize his expenditures and maximize his strengths.”

  The general lifted an eyebrow, appeared to contemplate, and then smiled fractionally.

  Yi had fictitiously attributed the dictum to Song, but also knew the false attribution would be welcomed and accepted by the vain officer. Yi’s father, who had fought the Americans decades before, had taught his son the lessons of war and of mastering an opponent. Deception was imperative in both instances.

  “When I was a young boy,” Yi continued, “growing up in the military camp near the DMZ, there was an old man who would amuse the soldiers with a game using three walnut half shells. A shell game.”

  Song’s eyes narrowed. He said nothing.

  “The man would place a dried pea under one of the shells, then move them around. The soldiers would try to guess under which one they would find the pea. They would wager on it.”

  The general’s visage twisted into a scowl. “They were gambling?”

  “Only with cigarettes.” That was basically true, because none of the soldiers had any money, but Yi left that part out. “But the man with the walnut shells would never lose.” Yi paused. “The dried pea was concealed in his hand the entire time, and was never truly placed under one of the shells.”

  The general’s eyes widened. “Deception.”

  “The principle is the same in this instance,” Yi said. “The three ships are under way.”

  “And the other?” Song asked. “The Iranian?”

  “Some of our agents are with it now. Soon the Black Dragon and I will be under way, as well.”

  “I do not trust these Iranians,” Song said, his face puckering again. “Such religious fanaticism hardly inspires trust or reliability.”

  “They hate the Americans,” Yi replied. “And as the saying goes, the enemy of our enemy is our friend.” He knew the deal of appearing to share their nuclear capabilities with Iran was a necessary evil. For all their failings as a culture, they had the one redeeming feature that made the association necessary: money.

  The two men reached an elevator and entered. The doors closed and the elevator car ascended. As they rode upward, Yi wondered if his story had achieved its purpose. Seconds later, he knew it had.

  “Subterfuge and deception,” the general repeated, smiling now.

  Yi smiled, too. He had assuaged Song’s doubts about the plan. All that remained now was the implementation, and the new era would begin.

  “I trust that your travels will be both expeditious and fruitful,” Song said.

  The elevator doors opened, and Yi could hear the cheers from the crowd below through the portals of the balconies. He could not help but feel a swell of pride as he anticipated the procession of marching soldiers, the lines of tanks and the massive array of intercontinental ballistic missiles. The people’s army, his army, was ready to fight to the death on command, each man’s leg kicking outward in precise unison with the others, their AK-47s held at port arms without deviance, their faces turning as they passed the buildings. Yi felt the surge of pride in his army, his country...

  Another set of missiles passed, and Yi knew that soon the Americans would be driven off the lower peninsula forever, once the ICBMs were transformed into the new dragon ships, once they had the technology capable of maintaining the missile trajectory upon reentry to the atmosphere.

  Soon, he thought, the world would bow before North Korea’s might. The puppets in the South would be overthrown, and not even the Chinese, who had for so long cast their dominant shadow over the Korean peninsula, would be an equal.

  He closed his eyes and pictured the long-ago sea vessels, a huge dragon’s head rising from the armored bow of each, striking fear into the hearts of the hated Japanese and Chinese. These vessels, once the most powerful ships to roam the seas, had been conceived and piloted by his ancient namesake, Yi Sun-Shin. S
oon these new dragon ships would restore his country to its proper place of prominence. It would be one Korea, unified and under Communist rule, no longer a small fish dominated by whales.

  Soon...

  1

  Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico

  Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, and his team were spread out in the darkness along the tree line, about thirty yards from the high cyclone fence that surrounded the facility. The remote grounds, once the site of a Jesuit monastery, now housed a warehouse for the Sinaloa Cartel. Just outside the fence were the crumbling ruins of the old church.

  The Executioner gently tapped the bottom of the magazine inserted into his Heckler & Koch MP-5 to make sure it was properly seated, then checked the tape that secured the inverted second magazine to the first. His weapon was ready.

  Aerial photos had given them the layout of the place, a metal, prefab building approximately one hundred yards in length, set on a concrete slab and surrounded by the cyclone fence. A short, curving road led to a paved airstrip on the west side of the compound. Once Bolan and his team were through the fence, they would have to cross a wide courtyard with little cover to get to the warehouse.

  An informant had told the authorities that trucks would be loaded that night with marijuana, cocaine and brown heroin. The green light for the raid had been given less than an hour earlier, and the team had been hustled to the airstrip to be transported to the remote site. The highway was a scant quarter mile from the compound, and they’d double-timed it all the way to the tree line.

  Bolan glanced at his watch: 0252. It was as good a time as any for a raid, he thought, and keyed his mic to Jack Grimaldi’s frequency. “Jack, do you copy?”

  “Your eye in the sky is waiting for the show to start, Sarge,” the Stony Man pilot replied from the helicopter high above. “I’ve got your back.”

  “We’re almost in position,” Bolan said.

  “Roger that. Want me to do another flyover?”

  Before Bolan could answer he heard the drone of an aircraft engine. He looked upward, but was unable to see the sky through the thick canopy.

  “Sounds like a plane approaching,” he said. “See anything?”