Missile Intercept Read online

“Our benefactor has been most generous,” the captain continued. “And the women here are very beautiful.”

  “I care nothing for your carnal desires,” Yi said. “And our leader will not take kindly to you putting your personal pleasures above your duty.” He paused again, letting his words sink in. “How soon can you assemble your crew and be ready to depart for the island?”

  The captain sputtered. “Many will have been drinking. I don’t—”

  “They are your men,” Yi shouted. “Maintain proper discipline of your crew, or upon your return you will be held accountable for your lax attitude toward command and responsibility.”

  Yi heard the other man gasp. “Yes, sir. Of course. It shall be done, just as you order.”

  Again, Yi let silence speak for him. After a long ten seconds, he said, “I will phone you back.”

  He terminated the call and punched in the numbers for Lieutenant Yoon’s sat phone. The man answered immediately. “Yes, sir.”

  “Where are you? And why have you not made it to the ship yet?”

  “We are almost there, sir,” Yoon said, his voice full of deference. “We were delayed at the airport.”

  “I am not interested in excuses,” Yi replied. “Only results. Proceed to the ship. That drunken fool of a captain has been remiss in his duties. Assess everything and report back to me. You will leave for the island forthwith. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Yoon replied.

  “Remember, I do not tolerate fools or failure. Call me back once you are under way.”

  Outside the Hotel del Blanco

  Havana, Cuba

  BOLAN WATCHED AND waited in the shadows as Grimaldi, Stevenson and Chong exited the hotel. Chong’s new haircut looked terrible, but hopefully he could pass for a very drunk North Korean sailor. The two men laughed loudly, keeping Stevenson nearly concealed between them. They turned right, ambling down the block at a slow pace.

  One of the mustachioed national policemen slipped out the front entrance and gave a quick wave. Two more police officers, who’d been stationed across the street, began to follow the trio.

  The first man moved over to the pillars in front of the hotel and took out his cell phone. While he was dialing, Bolan embarked on an intercept course for the two trailing officers. At the corner, he moved across the street and glanced quickly down the block. He was certain he was out of view of the man stationed by the front doors.

  The happy trio continued their stroll, laughing and talking. The two Cuban policemen followed at a reasonable distance, so as not to be too conspicuous. Bolan had his cell phone set to call Grimaldi’s number. He pressed the button, knowing that his partner would feel the vibration and proceed to part two of their plan.

  Seconds later Grimaldi stopped with a jerk and grabbed Stevenson’s arm. “Hey, bitch, are you trying to steal my wallet?” he cried.

  She responded with a litany of profane Spanish as she tried to pull away.

  “Hey, she wants to get paid twice,” Chong shouted, and grabbed Stevenson’s other arm. He cocked his head toward a nearby alley, and they dragged the screaming woman into the shadows.

  The two policemen immediately began to run forward. Bolan raced after them, and when he rounded the corner of the alley he was almost on their heels.

  The man on the right started to turn and look, but the Executioner’s left fist collided with his jaw. The Cuban’s momentum carried him forward, and he plunged face-first to the ground. Bolan looked at the other man, who was drawing a pistol from a shoulder holster under his loose-fitting shirt as he turned. Bolan’s hand automatically went to his own sidearm, but the second Cuban suddenly lurched forward as Grimaldi tackled him from behind. The pilot followed the policeman to the ground, one hand holding the wrist of his gun hand as he twisted and delivered an elbow strike to the prone man’s temple.

  Bolan checked his own downed opponent. The guy was out cold. Chong appeared over Grimaldi’s shoulder and said, “Man, you guys are good.”

  “Help us drag them out of sight,” Bolan said, patting down the unconscious Cuban for weapons. He removed one Tokarev pistol from the Cuban’s belt, as well as an extra magazine and the man’s secret police credentials.

  Grimaldi did the same and thrust the weapon he retrieved toward Stevenson. “Looks like you two are now armed,” he said.

  “I wonder what Mr. Hertel’s going to say about that?” Stevenson asked with a wide grin.

  “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Bolan said as he and Chong dragged the unconscious man farther down the alley. The soldier stopped when he was sure they were out of sight, and took out his cell phone. “Bind and mask them,” he said to Chong.

  The FBI special agent leaned forward and pulled a black burlap sack over the first man’s head. After tying it with a loose slipknot, he used plastic cuffs to secure the man’s wrists. He took out a second burlap bag and moved to Grimaldi’s captive.

  Bolan punched in the number for Miguel’s cell phone and said, “We’re ready.”

  At the other end of the alley two sets of headlights appeared. The vehicles started toward them. As they drew closer, Bolan saw that the first one was a dilapidated pickup truck, vintage 1959 or so. It was trailed by Miguel’s ’57 Chevy. The pickup slowed to a stop, and two men jumped out and grabbed the first unconscious Cuban. The men swung him upward and let him drop into the bed of the truck with a loud plunking sound.

  Bolan watched as they picked up the second policeman, and as they began to swing the body into the truck, the Executioner grabbed one man by the upper arm.

  “Go easy,” he said.

  He was met by a hostile stare from the Cuba Libre man.

  Miguel sauntered forward and spoke quietly in Spanish. Then he looked at Bolan and grinned. “I tell him you are one mean hombre, amigo,” he said. “But that you no like, how you say, unnecessary violence.”

  “I heard you,” Bolan said. “And these men may be secret police, but just because they’re on the other side doesn’t mean they’ve done something to merit mistreatment. I don’t want them harmed.”

  “Oh, sí, sí,” Miguel said, then barked quick orders for the second man to be placed more carefully into the truck. “I am sure,” he added with a more than a touch of sarcasm, “they would have given us the same humane treatment had things been reversed.” He laughed.

  “We’re not here to kill people,” Bolan said. “Unless we have to.”

  Miguel shot him a half smile, and they watched as the Cubans covered the unconscious policemen with a tarp and placed some bags of sugar on top of them.

  Miguel nodded to the two men, who got back into the pickup. The gears ground for several seconds before catching, then the vehicle moved forward. Miguel, a half grin still plastered across his face, motioned toward his Chevy. “Ready?”

  The Executioner nodded and they headed for the car. Bolan and Grimaldi got in back, leaving Chong and Stevenson in the front beside Miguel. Stevenson slouched down as much as she could, making her smaller form almost invisible. Miguel shifted into gear and drove out of the alley.

  The line of waterfront taverns was fairly deserted as he made his first drive-by. Bolan scanned the area and immediately picked out the bar that was packed with North Korean sailors. He leaned forward and touched Stevenson’s shoulder. She felt tense.

  “You ready for this?” he asked.

  “You bet.”

  Brave girl, he thought. He was sure neither she nor Chong had much experience in the field, and certainly neither had been expecting to be thrust into the middle of an international operation. He hoped they were fast learners.

  “You haven’t commented on my new haircut,” Chong said, grinning.

  “Some things are better left unsaid,” Bolan replied, allowing himself a rare moment of levity. “How about you? You ready, as
well?”

  “Just let me at ’em, boss,” Chong said, the smile still on his face. But Bolan detected a bit of nervousness in his tone.

  Fast learners, he thought again. Let’s hope for a bit of luck, too.

  8

  La Mesa Gusta

  Havana, Cuba

  Bolan and Miguel had just dropped off Chong and Stevenson in an alley behind the bars and set up in the Chevy when Miguel got a call on his cell phone.

  “My men watching the ship tell me two Korean hombres came down the gangplank in a hurry,” he reported. “They’re heading for the bars.”

  Bolan considered that. Were they simply latecomers to the revelry, or was it something else? Perhaps the captain had received orders to shove off earlier than planned, and wanted his crew back in decent shape. Bolan also had to factor in the possibility that the Cuban secret police were starting to search for the missing surveillance team. He picked up his burner phone and called Grimaldi, who answered, “What’s up?”

  “Looks like a couple newcomers heading your way from the ship,” Bolan said. “How’s it going in there?”

  “Stevenson’s already pegged a reasonable facsimile to Chong. We’re waiting for her to prime him a little more and escort him out the back door for a little fun.”

  Once the unsuspecting and semi-intoxicated North Korean sailor was out of the sight and reach of his companions, the plan was to incapacitate the man and steal his clothes. Chong would then slip onto the ship using distraction number one, plant the transponder, signal he was ready and then slip off again with distraction number two. That was the tricky part, given the FBI agent’s inexperience, but the kid was certain he could do it. It was a complex plan, and the Executioner knew those were the worst kind. He reviewed the intricacies once again, and renewed his hope that both Stevenson and Chong were the fast learners they seemed to be.

  Miguel was speaking quietly into his cell phone. He turned to Bolan again.

  “The two newbies are going to the bars, but they no look like they thinking about having fun.”

  Bolan nodded and relayed the information to Grimaldi. “They might be en route to herd everybody back to their ship. Better try to speed things up.”

  “Roger that,” Grimaldi said. “I’ll meander in and give her a heads-up.”

  “Be discreet,” Bolan said. “We don’t want to blow her cover.”

  “Roger.”

  Bolan figured he had at least five minutes, and decided to check in with Brognola. He took out his sat phone and punched in the big Fed’s number.

  “Hey, I was just thinking about calling you,” Brognola said. “You want the good news or the bad news?”

  “Better give me both.”

  “Okay. The good news is we located one of those North Korean ships that took off from Mexico four days ago. And the navy was able to set an intercept course. The USS Reagan had that contingent of SEALs ready to go, and they were able to board the ship.”

  “And?” Bolan asked.

  “That was the good news. The bad is that they found zilch. Just a lot of bags of sugar, bananas and other assorted junk. No missiles.”

  “What did the North Koreans say about that?”

  “The captain threw a hissy fit, but we didn’t pay much attention. The President said we’re to take whatever steps necessary to locate and seize those missiles that were illegally removed from that warehouse in Panama.”

  “So this turned out to be strike one.”

  “In a manner of speaking. Pyongyang has been uncharacteristically silent on the police action. We were expecting North Korea to threaten to launch a nuke at us.”

  “Which they’ll be able to do soon if they get that technology,” Bolan said.

  Brognola sighed. “All too true, which is why we have to make sure we target the right boat next time. Speaking of which, how goes that little venture down your way?”

  “We’re trying to iron out a few wrinkles. I’ll let you know soon.”

  “Okay,” Brognola said. “Keep me in the loop”

  As Bolan ended the call, he felt his burner phone vibrate in his pocket. He glanced at the screen and saw it was Grimaldi.

  “Operation sailor switch is under way,” Grimaldi said. “Want to swing by and pick up the trash?”

  “I’ll send Miguel’s guys,” Bolan said. “I want to stay here and watch Teresa.”

  “All right. She and Chong are on their way.”

  “Is the other guy out?”

  “Yep. Down for the count. She slipped him a mickey.”

  Bolan told Miguel to have his two men in the truck swing down the alley and pick up Grimaldi and the incapacitated North Korean sailor. The Executioner then picked up his night-vision binoculars and zeroed the range finder on the front of the bar. The street was dimly lit, and he saw the two men from the ship Miguel had described approaching the busy establishment.

  Stevenson and Chong stumbled out the front door. His gait was exaggerated, and she appeared to be holding him up, helping him walk. From this distance, the kid looked to be turning in an award-winning performance as the proverbial drunken sailor.

  The two men from the boat shouted something at the staggering pair, and Chong, his head hanging, lifted his arm in a half-assed salute. The two men kept walking toward the bar. Bolan saw Chong glance over his shoulder, and his movements became crisper and more purposeful.

  It looked as if he was trying to speed things up. They were about fifty yards from the dock and the gangplank. Bolan turned to Miguel. “Are your guys ready?”

  “Sí,” the Cuban said. “One collapsed building coming up.”

  “Tell them to wait for my signal,” Bolan said. He went back to watching through the binoculars. Chong and Stevenson were on a direct course for the gangplank leading to the North Korean freighter and the guard at his post on the dock. This was perhaps the most difficult part of a mission: watching someone else performing a crucial task. The Executioner was used to leading men, but almost always through example. This time, he was relegated to the sidelines while his two inexperienced charges were tasked with performing the subterfuge.

  When they were about twenty-five feet away, Bolan saw the gangplank guard’s mouth move. He was obviously uttering some kind of command or order. Chong, his head still drooping, again lifted his arm in a mock salute.

  “Tell your guys to get ready,” Bolan said.

  Miguel grunted some instructions into his cell phone.

  The gangplank guard stepped forward suddenly, yelling and waving his arms. Chong was hunched over and suddenly leaned forward even more, a spray of dark liquid spewing from his mouth.

  Phony vomit, Bolan thought. Nice touch.

  The guard jumped backward, away from the spray.

  Bolan nodded to Miguel. “Do it.”

  The Cuban relayed the command, and suddenly an abandoned building on the waterfront crackled, emitted several booms as loud as thunder and began to crumble inward.

  To everyone local it would appear to be just another collapse, but it gave Chong the diversion he needed. As the gangplank guard looked at the imploding building about fifty yards away, Chong slipped by him and started up the gangplank. When he was halfway up, a group of four pretty Cuban women, accompanied by two smartly dressed sailors—the ship’s officers, no doubt—appeared at the top of the walkway. The women were laughing and swaying their hips. The men with them seemed fully fixated on them, and almost oblivious to the intoxicated sailor ascending the plank. At least that was what Bolan hoped. He nudged the butt of the Tokarev with his elbow, ready to initiate a rescue assault if Chong was discovered.

  But the women and officers slipped past Chong, who had turned and leaned over the chain railing with a fake case of dry heaves.

  Bolan felt a surge of satisfaction. Part one complet
e. All the kid had to do now was to find an appropriate place to plant the transponder and then signal he was ready for extrication. Everything was going according to plan so far.

  But the Executioner couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was about to happen...

  And then he saw it: a big black Soviet-style limousine pulling onto the dock. It raced toward the gangplank and stopped with a screech. Six men in black BDUs exited the limo carrying long bags that looked as if they could contain weapons. These guys had the look of professional soldiers... An elite branch. It was doubtful they were bringing fishing gear on board. The gangplank guard snapped to attention.

  Part two of the plan was in jeopardy.

  Punta de las Sueños

  Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico

  YI SAT IN the wooden chair and watched as the Dragon, shirtless and barefoot, went through his kata on the sandy beach outside their plush room. The call from Lieutenant Yoon was overdue, and Yi hoped that did not mean something had gone wrong in Cuba.

  The Iranian sat beside Yi, the suitcase filled with money next to him. He seemed to never let it out of his sight, even when he would unroll his rug on the floor and do his ritualistic prayers. As a dedicated Communist, Yi had no use for religion, but did appreciate the Iranian’s discipline. The man never touched alcohol and was totally focused on the mission. But still, Yi did not fully trust these religious fanatics. He knew they had a selfish reason for helping his country gain access to the nuclear technology and possession of the old Soviet missiles. The Russians had promised to help them in updating the long-range capabilities for their ICBMs. Soon the Americans’ world dominance would be over, when they were threatened from two nuclear-armed enemies in opposite hemispheres.

  The enemy of my enemy, Yi thought.

  The Dragon did a double roundhouse kick, jumped in the air and performed another snapping front kick.

  Yi allowed himself the luxury of one more American cigarette, which he reached for as he glanced at his watch. It had been over two hours since his conversation with Lieutenant Yoon. He most certainly had to have arrived at the ship and gotten that incompetent captain squared away. Yi considered that perhaps he had erred in assigning Yoon to the task. But the lieutenant had shown aptitude and ability during secret operations in the past, and there was no way Yi wanted to risk sending the Dragon on another assignment so far away.