Missile Intercept Read online

  Howard blinked several times. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in days. “Well, first of all, the North Koreans have declared that us stopping and searching their cargo ship was an act of aggression. They’re threatening to launch a missile in retaliation. We’re got a naval destroyer in the area ready to shoot it down if it threatens the US.”

  “Have you got a fix on the Iranian ship and plane?” Bolan asked.

  Howard’s expression tightened and he nodded. “Both are in Tang Hae Hong, North Korea, at this time. We’ve been monitoring their activities via satellite. The ship’s being unloaded as we speak.”

  “And the missiles were on board?” Bolan asked.

  Howard nodded. “Yes, as we suspected. The plane, which has been identified as the same aircraft that left Culiacán Airport in Mexico, landed and was moved to a hangar.”

  “What’s our plan?” Grimaldi asked. “After they stole those missiles from Panama, we’re not going to let them get away with it, are we?”

  “I’m afraid the situation is a bit more complex,” Howard said. “At this point, I’ve been instructed to inform you that the missiles are no longer your concern.”

  “What?” Grimaldi exclaimed. “They get stopped in the Panama Canal with illegal cargo, ICBMs, no less, and then take them back by force, and we’re going to twiddle our thumbs?”

  “As I said,” Howard continued, “the missiles are no longer your concern. Our main objective is to recover the hostages and any possible top secret technology that may have been compromised.”

  “Was there any indication of that on the laptop we recovered?” Bolan asked.

  Howard compressed his lips, then nodded. “I’m afraid that a significant error was made in the sharing of sensitive information with the people at NIISA. One of the scientists, Dr. Turner, had worked in NASA for some time. He did have in his possession certain classified data, which he may have taken with him when he moved to NIISA. We’re now concerned that some of these top secret files from NASA may have been inadvertently breached.”

  “You mean hacked?” Grimaldi asked. “What type of files?”

  Howard paused, looked down and then took a deep breath. “Files related to reentry technology for long-range rockets.”

  “Or in the case of North Korea,” Grimaldi said, “intercontinental ballistic missiles.”

  Howard said nothing.

  “Marvelous.” Grimaldi grunted. “You got any more good news?”

  The undersecretary shook his head.

  “Do you have any information regarding the hostages?” Bolan asked.

  Howard nodded, looking as if he had a bad case of indigestion. “We’ve been monitoring things via satellite. The occupants of the plane, it appears, remained in the hangar for several hours. In the past twenty minutes, two vehicles pulled up to the entrance, and it looked as though three individuals were herded inside one of them, along with some apparent military personnel. We’re tracking them now. We suspect they’re heading for a remote battery encampment south of Tang Hae Hong and north of the DMZ.”

  “You have information as far as their identities?” Bolan asked.

  “It’s our conjecture, from what we’ve been able to piece together from the scene at the Mexican resort, that the three in custody are white males. Two Americans and one Russian national who was in the US on a work visa.”

  “Two rocket scientists and one slightly corrupt security consultant,” Grimaldi said. “How soon can you get us a ride up to Tang Hae? And what kind of backup are we getting?”

  Howard started to speak, but was interrupted as one of the men sitting off to the side stood and said, “That’s my department, son.”

  As the figure stepped out of the shadows, he was partially illuminated by the glow from the screen. Bolan saw he was a rugged-looking guy in his fifties with iron-gray hair clipped very short and a lieutenant colonel’s black oak-leaf insignia on his uniform. The dark stitching above his pocket identified him as Johnson, US Army. A green beret was folded and tucked under his belt, and his patches and combat-infantry badge told Bolan all that he needed to know. He extended his hand. “Glad to meet you, Colonel.”

  The colonel shook Bolan’s hand and then Grimaldi’s. Turning, Johnson motioned for the other seated men to come forward. One guy was an American who looked to be in his midthirties. His uniform bore the same Special Forces insignias and beret as Johnson’s, except that his rank was an E-7.

  “This is Sergeant Wilson,” the colonel said. “His squad will be assisting you. As observers.”

  “Observers?” Grimaldi repeated with a grin.

  Wilson winked as he shook hands with Bolan and Grimaldi.

  An Asian of about the same age stood next to Wilson, but his uniform had no insignias, name or rank. He stepped forward, offering his hand.

  “I am Mr. Park,” he said. “With what you Americans call the Korean CIA. I will be accompanying you on the trip to the North, as well.”

  Bolan nodded as he sized up the new guys. They both looked combat hardened and formidable. “I take it this won’t be the first such trip for either of you?” he asked.

  “It will almost be like going home again,” Park said. “My grandfather was born in Pyongyang.”

  “How rough is it usually?” Grimaldi asked.

  “Making the trip there is easy. Getting back alive is the tricky part.”

  Military bunker

  South of Tang Hae Hong, North Korea

  JAMES HUDSON LAY on the concrete floor in the dark, windowless room, alone and unable to feel his arms or hands. He was unsure how much time had passed. The ropes binding him had cut off most, if not all, of his circulation. His face and body felt sore from the beating administered back at the airport in Mexico after they’d discovered the files were encrypted. He’d held out as long as he could, hoping that Soo-Han would somehow intercede and save him. But he quickly realized that wasn’t going to happen when he kept catching glimpses of her sitting impassively and watching as the Dragon delivered blow after calculated blow. They were designed to create pain—sharp, twisting pain—but allow him to remain conscious. The guy was a monster. Finally, at the urging of both Turner and Nabokovski, who probably were worried they’d be next, he’d broken, spilling the beans about the passwords on the laptop.

  “I couldn’t recall them if my life depended on it,” he’d said.

  Yi had grabbed a handful of Hudson’s hair and twisted his head up and around so their eyes met.

  “Your life does depend on it,” the colonel said.

  He’d sent Soo-Han back to the resort to get the laptop, and she hadn’t returned. They’d taken off without her, which most likely meant that she was either in police custody or dead. Maybe the Mexican cops had found out, or maybe more of the cartel goons had grabbed her. Hudson didn’t want to think about that. He still had vestiges of feeling for her, even though she’d proved less than loyal to him.

  More time passed, and Hudson heard what he thought sounded like a helicopter. The sound grew closer and then ceased.

  Had someone landed a craft here? And what did that mean for him?

  He got his answer a few minutes later when the door on the far wall opened and three men stepped inside. They closed the door and switched on the light. When his eyes adjusted to the brightness, Hudson recognized two of them immediately: Yi and the Dragon. The third man was clad in a military uniform and wore glasses. His face was slender and waspish looking, and he held a laptop.

  “Jimmy,” Yi said with derision, “I hope you are well rested.”

  Hudson saw the Dragon’s face break into a smile as he stared down at him.

  “This is Lieutenant Ran,” Yi said, pointing to the man with the glasses. The colonel held up the flash drive. “He is here to assist you in the retrieval of the files.”

  Ran�
��s expression was all business.

  “Untie me,” Hudson managed to say. “Please. I can’t help you like this.”

  The three Koreans stood silent for a few seconds, and then Yi motioned to the Dragon. He moved forward and lifted Hudson to his feet, as easily as if he were picking up a sack of potatoes.

  Hudson’s mind raced on how he might be able to delay things, forestall the inevitable that he knew was coming.

  Demilitarized Zone

  The 38th Parallel

  THE FOUR MEN crouched in the darkness of the dense undergrowth, approximately one hundred yards from the long cyclone fence that marked the southern border of the DMZ.

  “This is strictly a black ops operation,” Wilson said, his face now painted black with green stripes. He had shed his standard military uniform for the same black BDUs that Bolan, Grimaldi and Park were wearing. “I’ve got my men standing by in support positions, but officially we’re not here.” A glimpse of white teeth flashed under his bushy mustache.

  “My men, as well,” Park said, tapping his earpiece receptor. “We are all ghosts now.”

  “Yeah? How are we going to get across the DMZ?” Grimaldi asked. “It’s some of the most heavily mined real estate in the world, isn’t it?”

  “You are right,” Park said. “We won’t go across. We’ll go under.”

  “For several generations now,” Wilson said, “the North Koreans have been building tunnels underneath the DMZ in anticipation of an invasion of the South. We’ve been discovering and monitoring them, and eventually placing obstacles inside, like booby-traps, or blowing them up. But a few we’ve left intact so we can pay some visits of our own occasionally.”

  “This one is mostly okay,” Park said. “We have blocked the exit with many kilos of rock and dirt, but we have our own tunnel next to it, so we can still use it.”

  “They’re breaking through now,” Wilson said. “Once we gain access we’ll have a quick trek under the Zee, and then about ten klicks to get to this bunker where our intel believes they’ve got the hostages stashed.”

  Bolan nodded. “Ten klicks is a long haul.”

  Wilson grinned again. “Park’s operatives have already procured a couple of vehicles for that purpose. One military, one civilian. There’s a road we can take. The only trouble is, there’s very little traffic along the highways up there. Hardly anyone has a vehicle, much less money for gas.”

  “Great, so we’ll be sitting ducks,” Grimaldi said.

  “Well,” Wilson replied, “I never said it was going to be a cakewalk.”

  “Meanwhile,” Park said, pulling a burlap sack and a roll of duct tape out of his ditty bag, “we must tape these over the ejection ports of our weapons.”

  “Why?” Grimaldi asked.

  “It’s SOP for operations in the DMZ,” Wilson said. “The North Koreans do the same thing. No one can leave any traceable shell casings.”

  Park reached for Grimaldi’s MP-5. “I have a smaller bag for your pistol.”

  Bolan unslung his weapon and took one of the bags. It was porous enough to allow the expended gas to dissipate, but sturdy enough to catch any expelled rounds.

  “Doesn’t this increase the chance the weapon will jam?” Bolan asked.

  Park nodded. “Sorry ’bout that, but we must leave nothing behind. Not even one shell casing.”

  Bolan nodded and handed Park the weapon. The Executioner was already reprioritizing the mission mentally. Although Wilson hadn’t said so, he was certain some Special Forces snipers would set up to provide up-to-date intel.

  Park’s head jerked as he obviously received a transmission on his radio. He muttered a response and turned to Bolan.

  “It is time,” he said.

  Military bunker

  South of Tang Hae Hong, North Korea

  YI WATCHED AS the Dragon bent Hudson’s left hand back and then grabbed his smallest finger. The man groaned in pain as the Dragon glanced at Yi, who nodded.

  With a deft movement, the Dragon bent the finger all the way back, causing the American to cry out.

  The colonel nodded again, and the Dragon let the American fall to his knees. The two scientists, sitting on a cot, looked away.

  Breaking a man was done in stages. Yi knew that from many years of practice. A prisoner needed to be given an interim between inflicted injuries to reflect on what was yet to come.

  Yi was impressed by Hudson’s resistance. Despite several attempts in which he feigned cooperation, only to turn away after a plethora of failed efforts to open the files, they were no closer now than when they had begun several hours prior.

  Even Ran’s continued efforts to unlock the mystery had garnered them nothing. He sat in front of the laptop in frustration.

  And now Hudson was once again professing ignorance as to the passwords needed to decode the computer files. Even after escalating sessions of physical persuasion, the American’s story had not altered; he needed the laptop. Yi began to worry as he glanced at his watch. Four hours had passed since he’d transported the guests of his nation to this bunker, hoping to retrieve the files so that they could be presented to his leader upon his arrival. Yi wondered when that would be. He debated calling Song and informing him of the situation, telling him that he needed a bit more time to set everything up... But the drunken fool, Yi knew, would only place all the blame on him, taking none of the responsibility himself.

  No, the only course now was to extract the information. They had to break the American.

  Yi’s cell phone rang and he answered it.

  “This is General Song,” the voice said. “Where are you, and where are the Americans?”

  “I am conducting my final interrogation,” Yi said.

  “Well, hurry up.” Song’s voice was ripe with anger, impatience. “Our great leader is about to arrive.”

  Yi muttered a reply and terminated the call. As he put his cell phone back in its holder, he stared down at Hudson, who was cowering on the floor.

  “It seems as though time has run out for both of us,” Yi said, removing his pistol from its holster. “You will tell us how to open the files now or you will die.”

  * * *

  WILSON HANDED BOLAN the night-vision binoculars. The Executioner adjusted the zoom button and scanned the front of the bunker, which was little more than forty yards away. It was a long rectangular brick building with thin slits for windows. Each one was blacked out, showing no trace of illumination from inside. The door looked to be solid steel, which made the possibility of a physical breach a bit of a challenge. Bolan swept the area. The green image showed three soldiers wearing the same dark BDUs as the ones they’d tangled with in Cuba. They were lounging at their posts, looking as if they had dropped their guard since arriving back in their own country.

  “Looks like the same outfit,” he said.

  “North Korean special forces,” Wilson said. “They call them the Black Tigers. Pretty rough sons of bitches.”

  “They look relaxed.” Bolan handed the binoculars to Grimaldi.

  “Hell, they’re probably as exhausted from all this as we are,” the Stony Man pilot said.

  “Looks like two sentries guarding the building, and one on the chopper,” Wilson whispered.

  “Yeah,” Grimaldi said. “And that helicopter looks like an Mi-24 Hind. Plenty of room. If it’s got enough fuel, I can fly us all out of here in style.”

  “We’ve got our exit plan in place,” Wilson stated. “I’d suggest we don’t deviate from it.”

  “Let’s keep an open mind,” Bolan said. “Our next objective is taking out the sentries in a timely fashion.”

  Wilson keyed his mic and said, “Whenever you’re ready.”

  Bolan nodded and Wilson whispered, “It’s a go.”

  The Executioner watched as two of
Park’s men, about twenty-five yards away, rose and fired their sound-suppressed MP-5s. As if on cue, all three sentries collapsed. But Bolan was already moving. Surprise was their greatest ally in an attack, and he had no doubt that the interior would hold more obstacles.

  Knowing that Grimaldi, Wilson and Park were right behind him, Bolan covered the distance to the bunker just as two of Park’s men set off an explosive charge that blew the solid steel door inward. The interior was well lit, and Bolan could see hurried movement inside the first room. He pulled the pin from the stun grenade he’d been gripping, and tossed it through the opening. Flattening himself against the wall, he waited the intervening few seconds for the blast. The concussive wave blew debris out the doorway, and Bolan wheeled inside, his MP-5 ready.

  Two more Black Tigers stumbled toward him, trying to bring up their AK-47s. The Executioner zipped a three-round burst into each man’s chest, and they tumbled forward as the burlap bag taped to his weapon puffed up like a balloon, then slowly started to deflate.

  The room narrowed to a hallway, which Bolan knew could quickly become a kill zone. There were four doors on each side. Another Black Tiger appeared from a room at the end of the corridor. Before the man could fire his raised weapon, Bolan shot him. Then he pulled another stun grenade from his pants pocket, snagged the pin and yanked it free. Releasing the flange, Bolan silently counted off three seconds, then tossed the device underhanded down the hallway.

  It exploded seconds later as he made it to the closest door. Bolan took a look inside, while Grimaldi, Wilson and Park raced past him on their way to clear the other rooms. Through the haze of swirling dust, Bolan saw that the space contained five men in various positions. One in civilian clothes lay on the floor. A uniformed soldier holding a pistol stood over him. Another uniformed soldier was trying to stand, black-framed glasses askew on his face. He held a laptop against his body with his left hand, a pistol in his right. Bolan shot him, and he twisted and fell. Two more men, who looked to be Turner and Nabokovski, sat on a cot, their legs shackled.