Missile Intercept Page 7

  That piqued Bolan’s interest.

  “Remember back a few months ago, when the Panamanians discovered a North Korean ship trying to smuggle some old Soviet-era ICBMs through the canal?”

  “Right,” Bolan said. “The missiles came from Cuba. Leftovers from the Cuban Missile Crisis.”

  “You got it,” Brognola said. “The Koreans hid the missiles under a couple hundred sacks of sugar.”

  “And the Panamanians confiscated them under the authority of UN sanctions against North Korea,” Bolan said.

  “That’s it in a nutshell. The sanctions forbid weapons to be sold to the bad guys up north of the thirty-eighth parallel.” Brognola paused and cleared his throat. “Of course, the North Koreans immediately called the seizure an illegal action, and their leader started rattling his saber, which would be laughable if he didn’t have the actual nukes to make it a little scary.”

  “More than a little scary if you’re sitting in Seoul,” Bolan said.

  “Yeah, right,” Brognola agreed. “As far as a credible threat to the US, he’s lacking a long-range delivery system. But if they perfect the orbital reentry technology, he goes from regional boogeyman to hemispherical threat. All they’re lacking is that software and the whole US is wide-open.”

  “And the reentry technology on the old Soviet missiles is going to give it to him?” Bolan asked. “It’s more than fifty years old.”

  “You seen any photos of Havana lately?” Brognola asked. “Lots of ’57 Chevys down there looking like new.”

  “Machines do seem to hold up well in that climate,” Bolan said. “Maybe someone is maintaining the missiles. What were you going to tell me about last night?”

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry. A few weeks back the ship’s crew was released to North Korea. Who knows what happened to them? The Panamanians have been storing the missiles in a warehouse near the Canal Zone, awaiting further instructions. You know the glacial speed with which the UN moves, especially with the North Korean delegation raising a stink about things.”

  “Are you going to tell me that they did more than protest?” Bolan asked.

  “A group of highly trained Asians hit the warehouse last night,” Brognola said. “Everybody’s surmising it was them, but nobody can prove it. They incapacitated the Panamanian guards and moved the missiles out by truck.”

  “They left the guards alive?”

  “Yeah,” Brognola said. “That’s the only thing that doesn’t fit. Usually, the North Koreans don’t leave any witnesses, so maybe they did it to throw off suspicion. But in any case, it’s a no-brainer who they were. The conjecture is that sooner or later they’ll admit it was them and say they were just recovering property that was illegally seized from them. Could that Asian guy you saw during the raid have been Korean?”

  “Possibly,” Bolan said. “Any idea where the missiles are now?”

  “There are four known North Korean ships in the area at the moment. One is docked in Havana, purportedly to get another load of old Soviet ballistic missiles, which our man in Havana claims are on hand,” Brognola said. “We’re keeping tabs on that one.”

  “And the others?”

  Brognola sighed. “The other three already passed through the canal during the past week, and are allegedly en route back to North Korea. Any one of them could have made a stop last night along the Panamanian coast for some special cargo.”

  “Do we have a fix on them?”

  “Uh-uh. Apparently, they’ve turned off their transponders, which would help us locate them. Our navy’s out looking, but...”

  “It’s a big ocean.”

  Three ships somewhere in the Pacific, one of which was carrying the stolen ballistic missiles. It was like a high-stakes version of the old shell game. Which shell was the prize under? Bolan’s mind was racing, trying to put it all together, but it was like a jigsaw puzzle with all the pieces turned upside down. It was impossible to see how things fit together. How was the Mexican cartel involved with selling old missiles in Cuba to North Korea? Both countries were cash strapped. The Cubans weren’t about to give anything away, even fifty-year-old missiles, and the North Koreans couldn’t even buy their way into a penny-ante poker game. Who was footing the bill? And why send a special ops team to silence a Cuban informant, when it was obvious that the North Koreans had conducted the clandestine raid? Unless there was more to this whole game than was readily apparent.

  “I don’t like the way this is adding up,” Bolan said. “I think we’re missing a couple of real important pieces to the puzzle.”

  “You and I agree on that,” Brognola said. “Want to stay down there and check it out?”

  “Absolutely,” Bolan said. He saw Chong and Stevenson getting out of a taxi in front of the café. “See what else you can find out about those missiles and get back to me. It looks like our FBI contacts are here now.”

  “Roger,” Brognola said. “And watch yourselves. We both know that the North Koreans play hardball and don’t hold back.”

  “Yeah,” Bolan said. “But neither do I.”

  Culiacán International Airport

  Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico

  YI WATCHED AND waited as the rest of the Black Tigers proceeded through the customs line, getting their fake Chinese passports stamped. It reminded him of an assembly line at a factory, rote duties performed with lackluster effort. Soon they would all be through and free to embark on the next phase of the mission and the new complexities that had arisen. He had left two of his men in Panama to transport the Iranian, Farrokhzad, and the captive Mexican gangster by boat to the coastal resort. It would take them a few days, but the Iranian’s yacht was comfortable. Plus a suitcase full of money would have raised too many questions at this airport, not to mention the additional problem of transporting the weapons.

  Taking out his sat phone, Yi checked his watch and mentally calculated the time difference. It would be close to midnight, but he knew the general was a light sleeper. Besides, Yi was certain to be reprimanded if he failed to maintain his timely reporting. But first he removed his other cell phone and called the Dragon.

  He answered on the first ring.

  “Where are you?” Yi asked in Chinese.

  “We are near the resort,” the Dragon said. “We are awaiting your arrival so that we may all register together.”

  “Good.”

  “And you, sir?”

  “We are clearing customs at the airport. Do you still have the equipment with you?” Yi asked, referring to the weapons that the cartel had provided to the Dragon to accomplish the neutralization of the Cuban.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. The rest is being shipped to us,” Yi said, thinking about the slow boat bearing the Iranian, the suitcase, the guns and the Mexican gangster. Although he regretted abandoning the weaponry in Panama, transporting weapons across international borders was too much of a risk. Yi thought about the disposal of the other excess baggage. He had killed the Panamanian and left his body in the verdant jungle. It had been the most satisfying personal interaction he’d had with the man. The Mexican gangster would be next, but only after he served his purpose and provided the right assistance here. Yi was certain the Mexican’s cooperation could be obtained by pointing a pistol at him.

  “We had a problem with our guides at the previous location,” Yi said. “Thus, we must formulate a contingency plan for any possible complications moving forward.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Yi told the Dragon that he would contact him shortly, and terminated the call. It was now time to call the general.

  Song’s phone rang several times, and Yi was on the verge of hanging up when the general’s voice came on line. “Yeoboseyo.”

  He was speaking in Korean instead of Chinese. Even though the transmission had scramblers on it, the security protocol had
been clear: only Chinese was to be spoken, which Yi now used.

  “Ah yes, I have forgotten my manners,” General Song said, switching to Mandarin Chinese. From the slurring sound of his words, it was obvious he had been drinking. Yi felt a tightening in his gut. He disliked drunks and forbade himself ever to indulge in any type of intoxicant. It was especially troubling to him that Song would be imbibing while such a crucial mission was ongoing. But still, discovering a weakness of his superior officer was not such a bad thing. Rather, it was information to be filed away for a future usage.

  “How goes your trip?” Song asked.

  “All goes well, sir. The packages have been sent to you. They should arrive in eight days’ time.”

  “I should hope sooner than that.” Song laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. “It is already tomorrow in Pyongyang.”

  Another slip, mentioning the capital. Had the general consumed so much liquor that his senses had deserted him?

  “Do you not like my humor?” Song asked, his tone growing harsh.

  Yi pondered his response. “I do appreciate it, sir.”

  “Then, why do you not laugh?”

  Again Yi pondered an appropriate response. “I am afraid that I have little time for amusement.”

  Song grunted in approval. “Then, everything is proceeding as we planned? What of the other shipment? Is that on schedule?”

  “It is, as far as I know,” Yi said. He actually had several agents on the ship in Havana seeing to that acquisition, but it was nothing more than a diversion to draw the Americans’ attention. The important shipment was already under way. Had Song lost sight of the specifics, the intricacies? “I will look into it.”

  “You will do more than that,” Song said. “You will see to it personally.”

  The drunken fool’s arrogant petulance could upset the entire plan, but Yi knew better than to argue.

  “It shall be done, as you directed, sir,” Yi said. “We are looking forward to completing our performance here, and returning home soon.”

  “I shall so advise our great leader,” Song said.

  The words hit Yi like a roundhouse kick. The drunken idiot had used terminology that could be directly associated with the North Korean leader.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “All is well, but I must go.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Yi terminated the call, not concerned or worried that he had just hung up on his superior officer. There was too much at stake to risk the drunken fool inadvertently divulging any more information, encrypted phone transmissions or not. For now, he had only the skill and expertise of the Black Tigers, and himself, to rely on in accomplishing their task, and failure was not an option. He knew that if something did go wrong, it would be him before the firing squad, not the incompetent General Song. Such was the burden of the dedicated soldier’s mission.

  In his mind’s eye, Yi harkened back to the days of his namesake, Yi Sun-Shin, at the helm of a powerful dragon ship, dependent only on the fierceness of his crew and the armament that adorned the vessel. Yi could almost see the waves parting, as if in fear of the mighty dragon’s head hovering above the water. In such days, when iron men ruled, the throats of weak, drunken failures like Song would be slit, their bodies thrown overboard.

  Soon, Yi thought, there would be a return to those times. A return to greatness for the homeland. A united homeland.

  All that mattered now was the success of the mission, and there was much to do.

  Punta de las Sueños

  Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico

  HUDSON WATCHED AS Soo-Han sat naked on the edge of the bed and spoke softly on her cell phone. They’d just finished having sex and he was feeling satiated and mellow. The nighttime arrival and drunken reveling on the beach to watch the sunrise had sent his adrenaline into overdrive. While McGreagor and the investors waded in the surf and pounded down drinks from the beachfront bar, it had been up to Hudson to arrange for the special patrols and assure that the entire area was secure. But he hadn’t minded. It was like guarding the golden goose, and soon the gold would be his.

  Kim put her hand over the phone and turned to Hudson. “There has been a slight change in plans,” she said in English. “The colonel says there is a sudden, urgent matter that has come up elsewhere that must be attended to. Thus, delaying our business here.”

  Hudson knew the North Koreans were trying to grab more of the old Soviet ICBMs in Cuba. It made sense. They were likely thinking that once they had Nabokovski, he could probably just transplant the reentry device from the old missiles to the Korean’s SCUDs. But they’d still want the updated designs from NIISA. Plus the Iranians were after the long-range missile technology, too. And they were the ones footing the bill.

  “Not a problem,” Hudson said. “The cruise isn’t scheduled for four days.”

  She nodded and went back to speaking in her native tongue.

  Hudson’s mind raced, wondering what additional measures he needed to take to safeguard himself once Yi had the scientists and the designs for the reentry technology.

  “Ask him when I’m going to get my money,” Hudson said.

  She shot him a sly glance and covered the receiver. “Do you not mean ‘our money’?” She smiled and resumed talking in Korean. Whether or not she asked the question, he had no idea.

  Kim ended her call and looked at him in an alluring fashion as she crawled toward him on all fours.

  “So did you ask him about our money?” Hudson asked.

  “Of course,” she said, then added, “Soon. Very soon.”

  La Palacio de Oro Hotel

  Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico

  BOLAN AND GRIMALDI sat across the table from Special Agents Chong and Stevenson, but no one was talking. Bolan signaled the waitress for more coffee. When she’d left, the FBI agents exchanged glances.

  “So who are you guys really?” Chong asked.

  “We already went over that, didn’t we?” Bolan said.

  Chong stared at him for a few seconds, then laughed. “Come on, you guys aren’t DOJ, are you?”

  “We need to know who we’re dealing with before we cooperate,” Stevenson added.

  Bolan looked at her. “Did you call that number I gave you?”

  “Yeah,” Chong said, his face cracking into a smile. “And they verified everything you told me. But you two don’t operate like any DOJ agents I ever met. Like I said, who are you really? CIA?”

  Bolan shook his head. “Let’s just say we’re all on the same side. The more we can share our information, the better off we’ll all be.”

  The FBI agents again exchanged glances. Finally, Chong said, “Okay, but like I told you, this is still a Bureau case.”

  Bolan nodded.

  “Okay,” Chong said. “Right after you left the hotel room, Espinoza opened up. He said he was tired of playing around and wanted a deal in writing. We told him that he’d have to give us something first, and when he did, it blew our socks off. It involves some weapons being sold in violation of UN sanctions.” The agent stopped. “I’m going to have to check with my supervisor before I can say more, but—”

  “North Korea’s buying old Soviet-era ballistic missiles from the Cubans,” Grimaldi said. “We already know that.”

  Chong’s mouth gaped.

  “Look,” Bolan said. “This will go a lot faster if we don’t have to keep playing twenty questions.”

  “You guys are CIA,” Chong said. “I knew it.”

  “How much do you know?” Stevenson asked.

  Bolan glanced around. It was getting toward midmorning and the café was starting to fill up a bit, but the section where they were seated was still mostly empty. He leaned forward. “The Cubans sold the North Koreans five ICBMs from the 1960s. The shipment was intercepted in the Panama Canal when inspectors found the
missiles concealed under bags of sugar. The Panamanians were keeping the confiscated cargo in a warehouse in the Canal Zone until last night.”

  “Until last night?” Chong repeated.

  “A group of commandos hit the warehouse in a raid,” Bolan said. “They took the missiles.”

  “Coincidentally,” Grimaldi added, “there were a bunch of North Korean ships in this area that have since disembarked. One of them has to have those missiles on board.”

  “A bunch?” Chong asked. “How many?”

  Grimaldi held up three fingers. “And it’s a big ocean.”

  “Do we know which of the three has the missiles?” Stevenson asked.

  “We’re trying to determine that,” Bolan replied.

  “Damn,” Chong said. “We weren’t told anything about the raid or the ships.”

  “Welcome to the world of compartmentalized information,” Grimaldi told him. “If the left hand knew what the right hand was doing...”

  Chong looked deflated. “You guys obviously know a hell of a lot more than we do.”

  “We don’t know everything,” Bolan said. “Like who’s footing the bill. Did Espinoza say anything about that?”

  “Well,” Chong said, “he did hint that he had more to say, but wouldn’t elaborate. He wanted to get his deal set up and in writing first.”

  “There’s a fourth North Korean ship docked in Havana,” Bolan said. “The conjecture is that they’re there to obtain more ICBMs.”

  Stevenson’s brow furrowed. “So what does this mean?”

  Bolan took out his sat phone. “We’re going to make arrangements to go to Cuba to check things out.”

  Chong looked at him. “I thought I told you this is a Bureau case.”

  “So file your report,” Bolan said. He paused and looked at the two special agents. One was Cuban-American, and the other Korean-American. They wouldn’t be a bad addition to this little venture. “You want to accompany us?”

  The two exchanged glances yet again. “We’ll have to get authorization from our supervisor first,” Chong said.