Ballistic Force Read online

  “Indirectly,” Delahunt replied. “I’ve been online with this Corporal Michaels guy Akira was working with. He’s keeping tabs with Hilldecker, and she says she’s working the allies for some assistance. Japan and South Korea are already on board, and word is that China’s been more receptive ever since hearing about this possible coup. They might throw in if we sweeten the pot enough.”

  Brognola shook his head. “That’s not likely to happen. We’re just looking to diffuse things, not take the place over and start divvying out slices.”

  “I don’t know if they’ll thinking in terms of a land grab,” Delahunt said. “I think they’re just tired of refugees spilling over the border. If things calm down enough that people quit fleeing the country, that might be good enough for them.”

  “That and some kind of softening on our trade stance with them,” Price guessed.

  “Hey, whatever works,” Kissinger said. “Hell, if it’ll mean yanking nukes out of their backyard, even Russia’ll probably kick in before this is all over.”

  A wan smile creased Brognola’s face. “Who’d’ve thought we’d ever be having a conversation where both Russia and China come off sounding like allies?”

  “War’s the same as politics,” Kissinger said. “Makes for strange bedfellows sometimes.”

  Brognola’s gaze strayed from the computer area to the far wall monitors. One of the screens was filled with a map focused solely on the Korean Peninsula around the 38th Parallel. Barring any flight disruptions, the cargo plane carrying Mack Bolan and the Army Ranger crew from Zane Island would soon be landing at Camp Bonifas to pick up Akira Tokaido and the ops force Colonel Michaels had put together. The fate of their hastily plotted mission across the DMZ would likely determine whether the world would be able to step back from the brink of a showdown with nuclear consequences not seen since the Cuban missile crisis nearly a half century ago.

  “The ball’s in your court, Mack,” Brognola whispered ominously. “We’re counting on you.”

  Camp Bonifas, Joint Security Area, South Korea

  MACK BOLAN STOOD in the open doorway as Corporal Thomas Michaels’ hand-picked crew of Army Rangers scrambled up the mobile staircase into the passenger cabin of the Young-333 cargo plane that had landed just moments before on the runway at Camp Bonifas.

  “Keep moving and don’t be picky about where you sit,” he told the soldiers, waving them in. “We’re on a tight schedule.”

  Bolan wasn’t exaggerating. The Army had earlier dispatched a decoy plane from Osan Air Base to assume the Young’s flight path while it diverted to Bonifas, and for the sleight of hand to succeed, the 333 needed to take off as quickly as possible so that it could reclaim its air space before crossing into range of the KPA’s military radar. After that, of course, there remained the even more difficult challenge of straying off course a second time to allow for the insertion of the special ops teams miles inland from their charted destination of Kaesong. Bolan had checked in with the Farm while in the air, and it sounded as if they might be able to use the cloud cover as an excuse for the second diversion. It would be a moot point, however, if the KPA was given reason to believe that something was amiss with the flight supposedly carrying the captured members of the Kanggye nuclear team.

  The Rangers boarded the plane and settled in alongside their counterparts from Zane Island. Colonel Michaels had already begged off the mission, feeling he’d be more useful working the intel angles and keeping Undersecretary of State Hilldecker supplied with any necessary updates. The female diplomat, along with the rest of the U.S. negotiating team, had been withdrawn from Panmunjom a few hours earlier and were cloistered in bunker quarters located beneath base’s the CRCC compound. In light of the heightening crisis, it had been decided that it would be wiser for them to carry on their negotiations from a safe distance rather than within firing range of North Korea’s DMZ security detail.

  Akira Tokaido had made a point to be the last man aboard, giving him a moment, however brief, to exchange a personal greeting with Bolan.

  “Welcome aboard, ‘Ranger,’” Bolan joked, nudging Tokaido’s shoulder as he closed the cabin door.

  “Hey, no flak, Jack,” Tokaido teased back. “It’s not like this is the first time I’ve stepped out of the office.”

  “I hear you,” Bolan said, “and I’m sure it won’t be the last.”

  Tokaido pointed out a hastily patched section of cabin wall where bullet holes had been plugged and sealed to insure proper in-flight pressurization. “Souvenir from the rescue effort?”

  Bolan nodded. “Better the plane’s hide than mine.”

  They were interrupted as the pilot called through the open doorway leading to the cockpit.

  “All aboard?”

  “All aboard,” Bolan confirmed. “Let’s get the show on the road.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Kijongdong, North Korea

  Park Yo-Wi was a nervous wreck.

  It’d been less than forty minutes since the contractor had spoken with Myn Bong-Chul, but to him it seemed like hours. He was exhausted but at the same time so wired with fear that he refused to lay down, much less try to sleep. For the first time in his life he wanted to get his hands on a gun, but he was too afraid to leave his office quarters in the mobile home, so instead he paced back and forth in the cramped confines, clutching a metal drafting ruler so tightly that his fingers ached even more than his knotted stomach.

  In his other hand, Park held his cell phone, and rarely had a minute passed without him glancing down at it, yet again making certain it was turned on. He’d given up any hope of hearing from his uncle, but surely Myn would be calling any second, if not to inform him that he wasn’t a marked man, after all, then at least to offer some kind of advice for what he should do other than to walk in circles like a lamb trapped in a feeding cage.

  When he saw the phone’s battery indicator drop a notch, Park’s heart sank accordingly. Then, just as abruptly, his pulse jack-rabbited.

  Someone was knocking at the door to mobile home.

  Park stopped his pacing and stared at the door. He opened his mouth to ask who it was but his throat was so constricted he was unable to speak. Quietly he retreated to the doorway leading to his bedroom. Maybe if he pretended he was asleep…

  “Park Yo-Wi?”

  Hearing his name, Park unwittingly regained his voice, letting out an involuntary gasp that, at least to him, seemed as loud as a scream.

  There was another knock on the door.

  “I need to speak to you. It concerns General Oh. He is your uncle, correct?”

  Park didn’t recognize the other man’s voice, and every fiber of his being told him not to respond, but, like a moth drawn to a flame, at the mention of his uncle’s name, the contractor found himself moving toward the door, knees trembling. He was about to unlatch the lock when he finally came to his senses and backed away as if he’d just received an electric shock.

  “It’s urgent,” the man on the other side of the door insisted. “There’s been an accident, and the general is in surgery. He needs blood, and if you’re a relative there’s a good chance you’re a match.”

  Park was stunned. His mind raced. An accident? His uncle was alive? It couldn’t be! But what if it was? What if his uncle really needed blood?

  Park slowly reached for the dead bolt again. “What happened?” he asked through the closed door.

  “He was riding back to Kaesong when something punctured the front tires on his jeep. He went off the road and there was a crash. Look, there’s not much time.”

  Park wrestled with the news, trying to recall the phone conversation with his uncle. Maybe he hadn’t heard gunshots, after all. Maybe it had been the sound of the tires blowing out. And if the jeep had veered off the road, that would explain why his uncle had stopped talking. But wait! If there was a crash, Park found himself wondering, wouldn’t he have heard it? Maybe he’d confused the crash for more gunfire. He thought back but couldn’t remember
for sure. Think harder, damn it! he told himself.

  But it was no use. Private Euikon had concocted the perfect cover story, and Park finally ignored his better judgment and unlatched the dead bolt.

  Park was turning the doorknob when the door itself suddenly opened inward with so much force that he was knocked backward into his drafting table.

  Euikon Gryg-Il charged into the mobile home, pulling the same .22 Ruger he’d used to kill General Oh. He tried to kick the door shut behind him, but the latch failed to catch and it sprang back open.

  When the private turned to close the door, Park saw his opportunity. A surge of adrenaline suppressed his fear and the next thing he knew he’d leaped forward, lashing out with the drafting ruler still clutched in his right hand. The thin metal edge struck his adversary’s forearm with enough force to hit bone, and the private screamed, dropping his gun. Park saw the weapon fall to the floor but made no effort to grab for it. His total focus was on getting away, and he barreled past his would-be assassin toward the doorway.

  Cursing, Euikon grabbed the gun and bolted after Park, who had scrambled down the front steps and broken into a mad run from the mobile home.

  “Stop him!” Park shouted to a handful of workers lingering near the launch tower. “He’s trying to kill me!”

  None of the workers was armed, however, and at the sight of the Ruger in Euikon’s hand, they froze in place. The gunner glared at them as he rushed their way.

  “Get in my way and you’re dead!” he snarled.

  The men heeded the warning and shrank back, giving the assassin a wide berth. Euikon raced past them, then stopped long enough to draw bead on Park, who was headed for the same doorway through which he’d reentered the structure an hour before. Park had the presence of mind to zigzag as he ran, however, making himself a difficult target. The first shot missed by inches and a second slug barely grazed Park’s thigh, drawing blood but failing to slow him.

  Once outside, Park saw Euikon’s motorcycle next to the parked jeep, where the guard was still standing, now smoking a cigarette. Park waved the guard away and slid into the front seat of the 4-wheeler. The keys were in the ignition and as he turned on the engine he told the guard, “The man who just came here is a traitor! Kill him when he comes out!”

  The guard fumbled with his carbine as Park threw the jeep into gear and sped forward, veering to his right and clipping the motorcycle, knocking it onto its side.

  Euikon appeared in the doorway seconds later. The guard was taking aim at him but the private fired first, putting a .22 slug through other man’s chest. Mortally wounded, the guard slumped to his knees, discharging an errant shot from his carbine.

  “Not smart,” Euikon told the man, pistol-whipping him in the face before yanking the motorcycle upright and jumping aboard. One of the foot pegs had been bent but the bike still ran, and soon, forsaking his helmet, the private was back in pursuit of the fleeing contractor.

  The frenzied roar of the two vehicles’ engines echoed loudly off the surrounding facades as they raced through the empty city. The motorcycle was the faster machine and within a few blocks Euikon had begun to close in on Park. Park’s only advantage was his familiarity with the layout of the ghost town, and several times he was able to outmaneuver his pursuer by making last-second turns into narrow side alleys. In each case, however, Euikon was able to backtrack and quickly make up the lost ground.

  Park finally realized that Kijongdong wasn’t enough of a maze for him to lose his pursuer once and for all. After cornering one of the periphery buildings, he turned away from the city and detoured onto a dirt road that led into the surrounding countryside. He pressed the accelerator to the floor and bound recklessly down the road. He could still see the lone headlight of the motorcycle in the rearview mirror, however, and it was clear that Euikon was once again gaining on him. He knew he had to think of something, quick, or else it would soon be over for him.

  Fortunately the contractor knew area surrounding Kijongdong as well he knew the city itself, and as he approached a bend in the road, Park switched off his headlights and eased off the gas. Once he’d rounded the bend, he veered off the road and slammed on his brakes. He was still skidding across the gravel shoulder when he threw the jeep into reverse. As soon as he came to a stop, he promptly accelerated, backing out onto the road so that he was facing the way he’d just come. He could see the beam of the motorcycle’s headlight as it approached the curve. Park waited until the last possible second, then, just as Euikon rounded the bend, he switched on his brights.

  The jeep’s headlights blinded Euikon momentarily, and it was all he could do to keep control of the bike as he turned sharply to his right to avoid crashing into the other vehicle. Overshooting the shoulder, he crashed through a thicket of wild bramble. Thorn-laden branches slapped at him as he applied the brakes and fought to maintain control of the bike. He managed to stop just short of a thick-trunked acacia rising up through the bushes. Cursing, blood trickling down his face where the thorns had torn at his flesh, Euikon slowly turned the bike around.

  “You’ll have to do better than that,” he fumed as he opened up the throttle and used his left forearm to shield himself from the thorns as he headed back toward the road.

  By now Park had opened up a quarter-mile lead on his pursuer. He’d turned his lights off again, trying to see his way as best he could in the dim light of the moon, which drifted in and out of the cloud cover. Up ahead he could see the shadowy outline of Kijongdong, but he had no intention of returning to the phantom city. Instead, once he reached the nearest crossroad, he turned right, heading down into a deep, wooded valley. He could only hope that the surrounding trees would conceal him from view of his pursuer. He couldn’t see the bike, but he could hear its engine and assumed that the rider had managed to extricate himself from the bramble.

  “Damn!” Park cursed as he sped on. The nearest military installation was less than two miles away, on the other side of the valley. It seemed unlikely that there would be other conspirators lying in wait for him there. If he could just make it to the site, Park figured he’d be safe.

  Much as the trees helped to provide concealment, they worked against Park, as well, screening the moonlight enough that soon he had no choice but to turn his lights back on. His pursuer was apparently having the same problem, because moments later Park spotted the motorcycle’s telltale headlight. Euikon was back on his track and once again closing in. Worse yet, Park was now in the heart of the forest, and the trees flanking both sides of the road were spaced too closely together to offer an alternative escape route. Park raced on, fearful now that he would be overtaken before he reached the installation.

  Then, after the road had led him through a series of winding terms, Park was suddenly forced to put on the brakes.

  “No!” he exclaimed in despair.

  Up ahead, rail tracks bisected the road and the contractor’s way was blocked by a slow-moving southbound train. One after another, a procession of boxcars inched past, offering only fleeting glimpses of the roadway beyond and the way to safety.

  “Faster!” Park screamed frantically, knuckles whitening as he clutched the steering wheel. But the train showed no signs of picking up speed. If anything, it seemed to be slowing even more.

  “No, no, no, no,” Park murmured, heart racing.

  For the first time since fleeing the launch compound, he felt a burning sensation in his thigh and became aware of the blood soaking through his pants where he’d been shot. There was no time to dwell on the wound, however. Glancing over his shoulder, Park saw the light of the approaching motorcycle. Any second his assassin would be in view and he’d find himself trapped, boxed in by the train, as easy a target as a fish in a barrel.

  Park shifted into neutral and frantically searched the jeep for a gun or some other weapon. Nothing. Soon he could hear the motorcycle’s whine over the clattering of the boxcars. Panicked, the contractor abandoned the jeep and stood trembling on the road. His first
instinct was to flee into the forest, but he realized the biker would have little trouble weaving through the trees and hunting him down. That left only one other option.

  Once the motorcycle negotiated the final turn and came into view, Park bolted away from the jeep and made his way toward the tracks. He eyed the crawling boxcars and when he saw one with an available handhold, he broke into a trot, running parallel to the tracks. At the last possible second, he lunged forward and grabbed hold of the rung, pulling himself up and swinging his right foot forward, seeking out the boxcar’s rear platform. Once he had a footing, he shifted his weight and reached around, gripping a vertical bracket mounted to the backside of the boxcar.

  Park had just managed to place his other foot on the platform when Euikon fired, drilling a bullet into his side. It felt as if he’d been struck with a sledgehammer, and it was all he could do to keep from toppling into the gap between the two boxcars and being crushed beneath the steel wheels. A second shot clanged off the metal siding above his head before the train carried him beyond range of the Ruger. The damage had already been done, however. It had been Park’s plan to reach the far side of the train, then drop back to the ground and run the rest of the way to the military installation. But the bullet in his side had burrowed deep, piercing his right lung and nicking an artery. Park felt his strength drain out of him. Seconds later, he crumpled to the landing, unconscious.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Changchon Mountain Range, North Korea

  The Young-333 cargo plane carrying the two Army Ranger teams had just crossed the DMZ into North Korean airspace when the pilot received an urgent communiqué from Camp Bonifas. He promptly switched on his intercom and informed his passengers that Colonel Michaels had just taken a look at the first infrared feeds coming from the NSA satellites monitoring the area they were headed for.

  “Apparently there’s a small convoy heading through the mountains toward your drop zone,” he reported. “Looks like two military jeeps and a missile transporter.”