Steve Abbott

DEVIL’S GAMBIT

Edited by Isaac Sweeney

For Darleen

PYONGYANG, DEMOCRATIC PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF NORTH KOREA

The clank and rumble of tanks and mobile missile carriers faded from the People’s Square, a dull rumble of future dark promise. The faint stink of diesel hung in the frigid air in a thin, grey kerosene fog, which coated the back of the throat. The “Dear Leader” was dead. His flag-draped coffin set on the roof of a Chinese copy of a Russian hearse through a mottled sea of uniforms.

Kim Jong Un, his son and now the Supreme Leader of North Korea, stared out across the square, his face impassive, impenetrable. The wails and screams of grief from below washed over the podium, an undulating bombardment of a nation’s mourning. The destiny of the country was now in his hands. He may not have been the oldest of his father’s sons, but he was the one in his father’s favor. He had weathered the bloodlettings and the internal fights between his siblings. As said in war, “The only battle you must win is the last one.”

The people craved a certain style of leadership. A bold hand that stayed the course, no matter the consequence. They would cheer every new five-year plan, which would promise to give them a better life than they already endured, but when you are forced to boil weeds for sustenance, a grain of rice or a kernel of wheat is a bounty. What sort of leader would he be if he did not give his people what they deserved for the hardships they endured? Still, this was a delicate time. Loyalties had to be strengthened, control shored up and possible future threats disappeared along with their families and relatives. There would be no coup d’état.

History was written in blood and there was no greatness achieved without sacrifice. Korea would be united again, but under Kim Jong Un’s flag. The endeavor would give his trusted commanders a monumental task to keep them busy. There would be no idle hands to plot and scheme his overthrow. His plan would earn him an epithet in history worthy of Alexander the Great or Napoleon. The West and its meddling lackeys would once again taste the bitter ashes of defeat on Korean soil.

He turned to the ministers and generals who stood behind him on the reviewing platform. “Enough of this,” he said before he stepped away. His bodyguards cut a swath through the inner circle. “Follow me. There is much to discuss.”

The bright banners and flags were a sharp contrast to the drab dress of the people. They were now the officially confirmed subjects of Kim Jong Un, Supreme Leader of all that you see and all that you do not. From just below the reviewing stand, Special Assistant Kwan Te Sung shuffled his feet in the December cold. Stout and middle-aged, he was unremarkable in every way except his eyes, which missed nothing. The Devil, as they say, is in the details. He had noticed a great many bicycles in the procession of the Army. Fuel was getting scarce even for them. This funeral, this outpouring of grief at the death of such a tyrant, was a grand show for the world. The same had happened when Stalin died. Not even forty years later, they ripped any reminder of the man from their country. Just how many of the tear streaked faces would not live through this winter, frozen or starved to death because of this useless squandering of fuel to lay their Supreme Leader to rest? Even in death, Kim Il Sung managed to kill.

Growing shortages of goods and critical services took their toll. When people could not get basic staples, unrest was sure to follow, even here. A small uprising of farmers in the North just the month before had been halted with brutal expediency. Another blood-soaked example of what would happen if you tested the will of the party.

Kwan Te Sung stood and shivered. Who was left to blame? The world had gone mad. North Korea was the only remaining bulwark of Communism. China was nothing more than a cheap pool of labor for the West. Russia was, for all intents and purposes, ruled by a Czar once again. They might have called him a President, but nobody with half a brain was fooled. And Cuba? They weren’t even worth mentioning. The problem was not the failure of Communist brethren; it was the Americans. A nation bloated with self-righteousness, always interfering in others’ matters and always claiming they had the right to dictate the way the world should be. Meanwhile, they sucked the world dry, ignoring their corpulence as it grew and grew.

Sung, from his official vantage point in the Directorate of Supply, had watched the vital shipments of fuel oil dry up almost overnight. Russia wanted hard currency for their liquid gold. North Korea could no longer purchase the twenty three million barrels of oil they needed every day to keep their military, fourth largest in the world, running. Even the weapons tap had been turned off. No more free arms to continue the struggle. Military equipment was another commodity to be sold and exploited. With the Russians no longer an ally, the North had turned back to China. Still angered by the Dear Leader’s long-time pro-Moscow stance, China only allowed a trickle of oil to flow from their refineries into the country.

North Korea had been made to do with one twelfth of what they needed, what had once been taken for granted. They had redirected the vital resource where they could best be used, but sporadic brownouts and complete shut off of electricity to homes had become commonplace. Heavy industry had been severely curtailed as coal cars sat immobile in their stockyards because there was no diesel to run the locomotives. No coal delivered to power plants and foundries affected steel production; this affected production of new tanks and other essential military supplies, including missile equipment. There was no fuel for maneuvers and training, and morale suffered as a result. The keen edge of his country’s most important sword was becoming duller right before his eyes.

Sung was no ideologue. He did what was best to further his career. He had no family and no friends. He was a person with only two goals: to keep himself alive and to prosper, no matter how thin the ground grew under his feet. Kim Jong Un prior to his Father’s death had taken notice. Sung had no idea he was being watched until one of Kim Jong Un’s bodyguards had approached him with a letter requesting a meeting. Sung had to read the letter then burn it in front of the bodyguard. The letter had been short and vague; it hinted at Sung coming up with a viable plan to annex the South. As he was no general, Sung imagined that Kim Jong Un sought a deeper vision than storming across the Demilitarized Zone, the UN imposed buffer between the two Koreas in human wave after human wave. When he had finally met the now Supreme Leader two years before this frigid day, he had been right in his assessment. He had been able to hatch a plan. It was daring, bold and near impossible. But if it worked, it would succeed where others had failed, and the risk made it more than worth it. Of course, it would mean the destruction of many careers. His immediate superior would have to be one of the first to go.

The inner circle shuffled into the briefing room behind their Supreme Leader and his phalanx of bodyguards. The walls of the room were richly appointed in polished Rosewood and Mahogany panels. Scenes of cranes and other wildlife, all rendered in painstaking detail in ebony and ivory, lined the deep red timbre. The panels graced all four walls and the room’s ceiling. A large, deep green marble-topped conference table sat in its middle, chairs already pulled back to receive the inner circle. The only thing out of place was a large cloth-covered board on wheels parked against the wall opposite from the entrance.

The bodyguards lined up along the walls. The Supreme Leader took his chair at the table’s head and brought the meeting to order with a short wave of his hand. “Our country has suffered a great loss in the death of my father.”

A chorus of muttered assent rolled through the room.

Kim Jong Un looked at the empty chair of the Ministry of Supply. “Where is Comrade Sung?”

One of the other Ministers spoke up. Kim Jong Un could not remember from which Ministry. “He was on the lower viewing stand, Supreme Leader. He may have not seen us leave the reviewing stand.”

“Send for him.”

The man bowed. “At once, Supreme Leader.” He looked over at one of the bodyguards standing at attention. With a brief nod, the man left to fetch Comrade Sung.

Kim Jong Un looked down at the tabletop. “I grieve deeply as a son for the loss of my father, for our loss, but know that I place the needs of our country first, above all else. There is little time for our deep sadness. As you know, all is not well. Our brothers in China,” the growl in his throat let all know what he thought of their so called brothers, “have promised to increase shipments of oil but at the expense of our nuclear power plants proceeding. Regardless, whatever they would have sent us under any terms would have been too little too late. This winter promises to be another one full of hardship and loss for our people. Fuel stocks country wide are low. Our glorious armed forces can barely maintain operations for thirty days under combat.” He looked up and met their collective gaze. “Though, as you witnessed today, they would not need as much time; any hostilities encountered or endured would be resolved long before that.” His face grew grave. “Once again, we are at a turning point. Western imperialism has pushed our backs to the wall, their boot raised to come down on our neck. They have eroded all choice from us except one. To a man, you know it must be done or our glorious republic be left to crumble into the dust of history. The only way to free ourselves is to free the south from the tyranny of the west.”

There was a long pause as the men around the table took this in.

Kim Jong Un nodded to his lead General, a hatchet-faced man with deep sunken eyes.

The man cleared his throat and put both hands on the table. “Current intelligence shows that the Americans have only twenty-two thousand troops along the demilitarized zone. The South Korean Army and Air Mobile units represent another two and a half million effective combatants with just over half of those being reservists. We, of course, have one million effectives under our control, all of which are full-time soldiers sworn to their duty. Vastly superior to anything the Western led south can throw at us.”

Kim Jong Un’s gaze bored into the General. “The cost would be high.”

“The cost is always high, Supreme Leader. It is the nature of combat, but those who fall will have the admiration and gratitude of all our people for their sacrifice to preserve our glorious way of life.”

The security agent returned, Sung in tow. Sung directed a brief bow of the head towards Kim Jong Un. “I grieve for your loss, Supreme Leader, and I hope that you will guide our country to new heights through your skill and wisdom.”

Kim gave a slight nod before he addressed the table. “Years before this sad day, I noticed Comrade Sung and his talents for organization and planning. I approached him with a particular problem and gave him free reign to pursue a solution, after his daily duties were fulfilled of course.” There were nods of ascent all around the table. “Comrade Sung is not a military man, even though he served with distinction in our glorious People’s Army. His specialty is logistics and procurement. Our resources are limited and our current suppliers are not helping matters. If we are to bring the South into our control, we will need to think outside the circle of current doctrine and find a new way of defeating our enemies. With this in mind, please consider what he is about to say to you.”

Sung bowed at the waist. “I thank you, Supreme Leader.” He moved from the wall to the other end of the table. “I too was full of reservations when you first gave me this assignment. It is not entirely within the realm of my experience or expertise.” The members around the table traded confused looks. Sung held up his hand. “But still, it was an interesting problem, and I threw myself into my work. After much research and reflection, I came upon a way, an idea, which will reduce our casualties to nearly zero and bring the Americans and the Western world to their knees overnight.”

The ensuing silence was thick enough to cut. Sung pressed on. “I believe that we can invade the South and hold it against American counterattack indefinitely.”

Kim Jong Un smiled. “Proceed.”

Sung swallowed hard, personally picked by the man or not, Kim Jong Un was not to be trifled with. “In the interest of security, I respectfully request a private meeting with the appropriate Directors and the Generals who would be involved before I go into greater detail.”

The Supreme Leader waved his hand. His bodyguards approached the chairs of those who had to leave. Sung received more than one dirty look as the excluded members filed past him. When the door closed behind the last embittered back, Sung resumed talking. “My plan is simple, it involves the detonation of three low-yield nuclear devices in the high upper atmosphere over mainland Japan, Okinawa and China.” All heads turned to Kim Jong Un to gauge his reaction but the Supreme Leader kept his face a mask.

One of the Army Generals could not contain his disbelief. “You want to initiate a nuclear exchange?”

“The West would not hesitate to retaliate in kind.” The Minister for Transport added.

There were nods of ascent around the table others readied their own response taking The Supreme Leader’s silence as a cue to condemn Sung’s mad plan.

Sung held up his hand and dove back in before they had time to settle down. “Shocking, I know. Bear with me comrades. Current doctrine emphasizes we keep a sixty day stock of all fuels in case of resumption of hostilities.” Sung paused and looked over at the Supreme Leader. “I was too young to be a soldier in the last Patriotic war, but many years ago I served as an observer with a Soviet Special Forces unit in Afghanistan. My experiences gained there leave me to doubt our current stocks would last even thirty days in the meat grinder of modern combat. No doubt our decreased activity in field exercises has not been missed by western intelligence satellites and observation aircraft the Americans constantly send over our country. You have every right to look at me in disbelief. I admit, this plan is radical.”

Sung strode over to the board against the far wall and removed its cover to reveal a map of China, the Korean Peninsula and Japan. He tapped the Japanese mainland. “We cannot defeat the Americans by going toe to toe with them. Many have tried; all have failed. Their technology is simply too good. Their weakness is an economic one. They live the life of the fat and happy. What they throw out in a month would feed one of our families for a year. They think nothing of the amount they consume or the waste they generate. They depend on their demands always being met, whether it’s light and heat in their homes or food on their table. Their structure is immediate with nothing left for the long term. Terrorism has had mixed results against this mindset. The destruction of their World Trade Center did little damage to their economy. Their own deregulation of their banking system did far more long-term damage to them and the world and yet, even in the midst of that, they managed to conduct an expensive offensive against the Taliban in two separate countries, and assassinate the leader of that organization in a supposed ally nation. So our object is not to strike at physical targets, but to place a mortal blow at the very assets that allow their bloated empire to continue. Most of the American debt and much of their electronic commerce flows through the largest banks of Japan and our Communist…” he practically spat out the word, “…brothers in China. The devices will be launched and detonated at an altitude of sixty kilometers. The resulting EMP will disrupt all communications and burn out most electronic devices. Any monetary transfers via electronic transit will be erased. Their satellites, also damaged by the electromagnetic pulse, will be disabled and surveillance coverage of our part of the world will go dark. Then our glorious army will surge across the DMZ, overwhelm the Southern opposition and once again, all of Korea will live under one glorious flag.” Sung paused and looked to the Supreme Leader.

Sung continued, “But that is only two targets. What about the third, you ask?” Sung’s finger moved across the surface of the map until it found the proper spot. “The Americans have only one major airbase located in the South, at Kunsan. It is home to the Eighth Tactical Fighter Wing, composed of only F-16 fighters. It would be of little consequence for one of our Special Forces commando teams to take care of. Kadena AFB on the island of Okinawa poses a more difficult problem. It is home to the Eighteenth Tactical Fighter Wing. This wing has three tactical fighter squadrons, all equipped with the F-15C fighter. A Special Operations Group is posted there and a Patriot Missile Defense system is in place. Delivery of a nuclear payload by missile is unlikely. To render the base inoperable, we will physically need to deliver the device to the target, our first target.”

“And of the Commandos that deliver this device?” The Supreme Leader let the question hang in the air.

“We will mourn their loss as much as we will honor their supreme sacrifice.”

The room was deathly quiet.

Kim Jong Un was not done. “And what of American retaliation? Will they not respond in kind once they understand who was responsible for the attacks? These weapons are used to give clout to your demands. To use them in war is to fail.”

Sung knew now was the time to choose his words with care. “I respectfully disagree. The Americans would never retaliate when we hold twenty two thousand of their troops and the remaining population of the South as political hostages and human shields. We have seen how their population goes weak in the knees over a handful of hostages. Think of the prolonged bargaining power of an entire country. It will more than stifle their want for revenge.”

Kim Jong Un pointed his finger at Sung. “And when the final hostage is released? There is no guarantee they still will not retaliate.”

“We have all seen what the Americans are capable of. It lies in our cities amongst the rubble of buildings they destroyed. This time we are more than ready for them. Our anti-aircraft defenses are formidable. If they dared to intrude into our skies, they would be blown out of them.”

The Supreme Leader steepled his hands in front of his face. “You speak as if we have all of the means to bring your plan to fruition. We do not possess any nuclear devices of this type in our arsenal. Our research has not been fruitful. We are constantly badgered by these UN IAEC inspection teams and we have yet to recover from your department’s bungled attempt to move the breeder reactor at the Yongbyong complex. That disaster set our weapons program back years.” Kim Jong Un leveled a finger at Sung’s chest. “We have managed the successful extraction of Plutonium, yes, but not in amounts large enough to create any sort of weapon.”

Sung was prepared. “You are of course correct, Supreme Leader. Our advanced Scud-C missiles are not yet equipped with a warhead package of the type required, even though they possess the correct range. I am afraid my superior, Deputy Director Kyun, has failed to locate components for our purposes through the regular back channels. I, on the other hand, using a South African contact who has been of aid to us in the past, have located the needed devices and have arranged for their purchase and transport.”

Kim Jong Un’s voice was flat. “Without my consent.”

“It was an issue of timing, Supreme Leader. I apologize for not seeking your counsel, but I felt if things had not gone well during this procurement, you would be saved the sting of my failure.”

Kim Jong Un’s eye’s narrowed. If Sung’s gamble had paid off, there was no point in making him disappear if the results were positive. “Very well, but I advise you to curb your haste in the future. How has Comrade Kyun failed us? His record is exemplary, his dedication to this country reflected by accomplishments in the construction and design of the Yongbyon and Packchon facilities, ahead of schedule and below budget. Yet you discredit the man before this council? A council, I might add, with more than a few men who fought beside Kyun in the Great War of Liberation.”

Sung sighed heavily with regret. “Supreme Leader, I am afraid Comrade Kyun has fallen prey to the allure of imperialist excess.”

“What proof do you have of this?”

“For one, his failure to produce anything of major use in the last six months. Look at your own reports, gentlemen. They clearly show the lack of materials received from what was before a most lucrative operation.”

Kim Jong Un tried to brush Sung’s arguments aside. “Circumstance and conjecture, you have no proof. The West has frozen us out of their markets for years now. Our suppliers feel the pressure and have to devise new ways of getting us what we seek under the ever-changing sanctions we face.”

“And yet I was able to circumvent Comrade Kyun and successfully secure the devices sought.” Sung drove the point home. “It is my considered opinion that Comrade Kyun has fallen prey to Western intelligence and is now in their employ. This would explain why the West has been able to block the majority of our attempts at purchase from his particular operation for the last six months.”

Once again, silence dominated the room. When the Supreme Leader finally spoke, the weight of his decision was evident. “Comrade Kyun can no longer be trusted.” He looked to the Director of People’s Security. “Proper steps are to be taken to deal with Kyun immediately.” The Director of Security nodded. A team of assassins would depart that night for Brazzaville in the Belgian Congo.

The Supreme Leader looked Sung directly in the eye, “You seem to have thought of everything, Comrade. How much is this South African contact asking for the items and his services?”

“One hundred million US Dollars in gold.”

The Supreme Leader did not flinch. “That is acceptable. Make the necessary arrangements for procurement. You are now in charge of this operation, answering only to me. Its success will guarantee you a high place in our nation’s history.”

Sung knew failure would net him a painful death and an unmarked grave.

SANTA BARBARA, CALIFORNIA

Gayle Ecevit smiled as she slipped on her silk blouse in the dark of the hotel room. It felt good to get off the base grounds for a change. At least the coast had some scenery. It had been a while since her last weekend off and she intended to use her free time to its fullest potential. Picking up a willing partner had not been a problem. Gayle was not a stunning beauty, but her dark hair and olive skin, from her Turkish father’s side of the family, added an air of the exotic that men found attractive. Gordon somebody – she couldn’t remember his last name – lay on his back, snoring gently.

A chiropractor. That was what he said he did for a living. Of course he could have been anything; hearing over the moving wall of sound most dance bars feel they need to inflict on their patrons made understandable conversation haphazard at best. Gayle had been on quieter flight lines. The dancing and the wine were just what she needed to put the Russians, the base and all that went with it behind her, at least for seventy-two hours. She stepped into her skirt.

Gordon had been good with his hands. Maybe he had been telling the truth. Everyone should have a massage like that once in their life. His steady and unhurried approach had made the sex better. She felt a small tinge of regret leaving like this, but in her job, long-term relationships were tough to maintain. When most people found out what she did for a living, they were hard pressed to understand the job. Shoes in hand, she slipped out the door into the hall. It was convenient that they had driven her car; Gordon would have to cab it back to the club. Gayle unlocked her driver’s side door and got behind the wheel of her blue sixty-five “Stingray.”

Ever since she had been a small girl, Gayle had loved two things: speed and mathematics. A career in the Air Force had given her a good dose of both. Unfortunately, it was still mostly a man’s game. The USAF still chose to ignore documented fact that women were just as suited to fly aircraft in a combat environment as men. Gayle quickly tired of the bull in Flight Ops and moved into her second field of interest.

Theoretical mathematics valued intelligence over testosterone. In the civilian scientific world of applied quantum mechanics, she would have been well-received. Her ability was respected enough, even in the realm of the bullish Air Force, to attach her to one of the elite Nuclear Emergency Search Teams based out at Los Alamos. Getting her Doctorate had been an exercise in stamina and guile. As a NEST member, all of the work she did was classified. In the academic world of publish or perish, getting recognition for work you couldn’t show anybody below a Top Secret clearance made things difficult but not impossible.

Gayle reached into her purse to check her phone for messages. It looked like any other high-end Smartphone, but you’d have be hard-pressed to tell who made it. And while it worked fine over any cell network (free of charge), it could access the Defense Communications Satellite network whenever needed. There were no texts or emails; she was still a free woman. NEST members were on call twenty-four hours a day. Personal free time was the only problem with her new position. Gayle had never felt the need to be married to her job. She took everything in stride and when it called for her to let herself have a good time, she did. When she was on the job though, she was all business. God help any who stood in her way when she was at work. Thankfully, emergencies of the type she trained for weren’t a regular occurrences. Because she spoke Russian, all of her nuclear weapons experience so far, had been technical assistance in warhead disposal in the Communist Independent States. Gayle knew it was only a matter of time before she’d be faced with a real crisis, and it would be a hot unit wired and ready to go under her hands instead of advising from the safety of a blockhouse in some ex-Soviet arsenal. Her close contact with the problems of disposal in Russia led her to harbor a deep suspicion. It would be all too easy to misplace a nuke or two in the existing morass of bureaucratic red tape. Add to this the regular flow of weapons and weapon systems of obvious Soviet origin on the world market and you had a real recipe for mayhem.

One of the comforting benefits of the new world order was that they had been able to secure plans for every warhead and detonator type the Russians produced. The data proved the obvious. The physics behind yield and production were easy to duplicate. To combat this new threat, the United States had signed a secret treaty with Russia to share knowledge in high-energy physics and to pool their resources. Even with the crudity of the Russian scientific instruments, some of their advances were stunning.

There were rumors of a “Global Shield” anti-ballistic missile program. From what Gayle had witnessed of life for scientists in Russia right now, she would discount it, but there had been a recent flood of ex-Soviet scientists hired to work on American projects of interest, which were based on the original Russian models and experiments. Also in Los Alamos and other nuclear design facilities around the US, joint NEST teams were being formed. When you added two and two, it always equaled four.

Gayle was training with one of those joint teams right now at Los Alamos. The curriculum was grinding, to say the least. She enjoyed the Russians’ company and their obvious respect for her intellect, but it was nice to be around people who spoke English with an American accent for a change.

Dawn had started to break over the mountains. Gayle checked herself in the rear view mirror. Nothing a shower and a change of clothes wouldn’t fix. As she drove down the coast highway to her hotel in Montecito, she ticked off the hours left in her leave. Plenty of time to get into trouble before returning to the grind, she decided with a smile.

She was only half right.

JAMRAYA, SYRIA

Sean Addison stood alone at the edge of the sandstone bluff. His white UN inspector armbands and back flash across his protective vest blazed in the desert sun. Below him lay the remains of what had been a storage site for 122mm rocket motors. The rest of the UN inspection team had decided to use a safer path to get down to the valley floor. The inside of his Chemical Defense suit was nearly unbearable in the desert heat. Sweat ran down the bridge of his nose and pooled under his chin. Sean itched to wipe it away, but that would require removing his hood and gas mask and the possible consequence of exposure to whatever the rocket warheads had once or still contained. They were assessing the site for the UN Organization for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons, OPCW for short. The Syrians had been anything but cooperative and this site was close to the edge of a very hot and very active civil war.

Charred rocket body tubes and black twisted steel were all that remained of the storage depot. Syria had a long and active past in the creation of weapons which represented the ultimate in the Pandora’s Box of nasty shit humans concoct to kill each other with. Sean’s breath sounded hollow in the close confines of the gas mask. If a terrorist group ever got its hands on a canister of this stuff, the end result would be catastrophic. A car or suicide bomb was one thing – at least you had a chance to survive – but a pinprick’s touch of this stuff would cause instant agony, followed by death.

The voice of Paul Shute, the Inspection team leader, an Australian chemical and nuclear weapons specialist working for the United Nations, crackled to life in his ears. “Okay people, that’s enough sightseeing. Time to get down to business before these bastards hold us up again.”

Sean chuckled under his breath. The Syrians were not keen on their presence, a sure sign they were up to no good. Their last stand-off had ended up with a few uncomfortable days and nights stuck in a factory, sleeping on concrete floors and relieving themselves in a bucket. An experience Sean could do without repeating. He suspected the delays were merely a shallow ploy to give the Syrians enough time to move more sensitive materials to other locations. Even with this reluctance, material slated for disposal was still making its way to the Chemical Disposal Ship MV Cape Ray as she sat in port at Tartus.

This was a lot different than his usual operations with 22 SAS. As an operator, Sean was undercover with the UN Inspection Team; even the team didn’t know his real background and MI6 had provided him with a foolproof identity. His mission? To assess the risk of Syrian chemical weapons falling into the hands of international terrorist organizations. You didn’t need to be boots on the ground to see that chances of them already being in the wrong hands was a pretty sure bet. The real question was, would they make their way out of this regional conflict to the rest of the world?

Sean made his way down the bluff face. The sandstone debris was extremely loose underfoot; it made a safe descent almost impossible. After a difficult ten minutes, he made it to the bottom drenched in sweat and covered in orange red grit. He wiped at the dust on the outside of his faceplate. Even in the new charcoal-lined NATO suits, heat prostration was a dangerous possibility. A cut or breach of the suit in any way could have dire consequence. The voice of his drill sergeant, a dry old Glaswegian, echoed in his head. “There are old soldiers and there are bold soldiers, but there are no old, bold soldiers.”

Sean paused for a few minutes at the bottom of the bluff. He took a short pull of tepid water from the mouth tube inside his mask. He was going to have to go on course to get back in shape after all of this was over. Every foot placed carefully before the other, he started to travel the long distance to the remains of the Depot Warehouse and the rest of the team.

The remains of the warehouse loomed ahead in the shimmering heat, a twisted black, modern sculpture of war. Machine gun, rocket fire and heavy artillery had ripped through the sheet metal walls. The rocket motors stored inside and out of the structure had been ignited or blown apart. The fierce heat of the conflagration had melted some of the building girders into strange shaped pools of cooled metal. In some places, even the sand had been fused into glass. Sean checked for irregularities in the ground ahead of him. Another team had recently lost a member. He had stepped on an unexploded mortar bomb and been blown to bits. With the volume of fire concentrated in such a small area, there were bound to be more than a few unexploded nasties lying in wait for the reckless and unobservant.

Shute’s voice crackled over the communications net again, “I can see the main dump. It’s a hundred feet behind the warehouse. Looks like the biggest yet we’ve come across. Close up on me and we’ll get a better look, and for God’s sake, take it slow and watch where you put your feet.”

Sean neared a scattered group of scorched yellow warheads. Even in its poor condition, the dreaded initials GB in Cyrillic and Arabic were clearly visible on the side of the one closest to him. GB was the symbol for “Sarin,” a deadly neurotoxin, delivered by artillery shell or, in this case, a rocket warhead. Exploded above the target area, it spread over the unfortunate troops or civilians below. Cautiously, he moved to it. The warhead’s fuse socket sat empty; no danger of explosion; a small relief, considering. Sean crouched and gently brushed away soot and heat-peeled paint from the shell’s surface. Small, hairline cracks crazed back and forth across the warhead surface. Sean gave the shell a tug; it rose easily out of the desert soil. It was too light; the Sarin payload inside had leaked into the soil beneath. Sean looked at the stained ground under the shell’s resting place.

The chemical had a short half-life before breakdown, at least normal Sarin did. It even acted as fertilizer in its inert state. The Syrians, however, were good at improving the work of others. Proving they had tampered with the formula would be nearly impossible. Nor was it likely that the Syrians would give them any proof of just how far they had taken this lethal product.

Sean put the shell back down beside the shallow depression it used to rest in. He pressed the “Talk” stud at his Larynx. “Addison here.”

Shute was quick to respond, “Go ahead Sean.”

“They had Sarin. The area I’m in has from fifteen to twenty, 120 millimeter warheads loaded with the stuff. The one I’m looking at has been breached.”

“Get a soil sample and mark the area with a red flag. Shute out.”

“Roger.” Sean took a red flag out of his backpack, telescoped the body out to its full eight feet and jammed it in the sand beside the shell. He scooped up a sample of the darkened earth and put it into a small bag. He plugged a Geotag button into his logging unit, a blocky device that hung from his hip and coded its chip with the discovery location and probable chemical content. The chip was then adhered to the sample bag with its sticky backing. The Geotag system was a better solution than trying to use a pen with the suit on. Once everything was secure again in his backpack, he started again towards the rest of the group. It took him ten long minutes to cover a few hundred meters.

The whole group stood in silence, astounded by the sheer size of the dump. It filled the narrow defile walls of the crescent-shaped valley. A rocky shelf outcropping had hidden the true size of the place from the vantage point of their Land Cruisers. The terrain even shielded it a great extent from the prying eyes of low-flying aircraft. All of these natural defenses hadn’t mattered in the end. What had once been neat and orderly piles of munitions, now looked like the Devil’s junk pile.

Shute shook himself free from the monstrous vista first. Shock and anger permeated his voice. “Damn and blast! Well that bloody tears it. We’ll never know how much stuff they had here and if we ask, the bastards are just going to pull the same old ‘the records were destroyed’ routine.” He turned his mask-clad face to Sean. “You had better get word to your friends in Whitehall. There’s no telling how much of this stuff disappeared through the back door.”

Sean looked over the narrow defile walls. “I doubt if any of it has.”

“What are you talking about?”

Sean shook his head, a difficult thing to do inside a CD suit. “You would have to be a complete nut to try and transport any of this stuff out of here in its current state. They blew the absolute shit out of this place. I would guess that almost every munition here has been damaged in some way. So far I have seen six sites and every one, except for the size of this place, looked the same. Terrorists, even the ones of the Islamic extremist sort, aren’t going to worry themselves mucking about in ammo dumps full of nerve gas and chemical agents. They’ll find other, safer sources.” Sean pointed to individual piles. “This crap can only be done by countries. Not by some backyard bomber bent on dying for Allah. We even helped sell these bastards the ingredients to make this mess.”

Frustration welled up inside Sean. The export trade in Chemicals and the machinery to process them was big money. Money meant more jobs and jobs meant more votes and power for the government. Because of the huge monetary gains, it was nearly impossible to restrict and monitor all the sales of dangerous technologies and chemicals.

“If not us, then somebody else” was a common argument used by industrial countries engaged in the trade. It made possible end results distant and sanitary. Sean, on the other hand, got to see the human side, the bloated bodies and sightless eyes of the victims of chemical attacks.

To walk in the hand of tons of chemical deaths for the last few weeks in his covert role was mentally eroding. It took a toll far worse than even the blackest of operations.

Shute cut him off with a sharp hand gesture. “Make your report as you see fit, but don’t give me a bloody diatribe and don’t preach to me. I’m the one who wrote the book on this stuff, remember?”

Sean was diffident. “Well, that’s the problem isn’t it? You wrote the book, but it’s always somebody else’s job to clean up the mess.”

Shute softened his tone and tried another tack. “Look, we might as well get out of here. The heat is getting to us all. Fighting among ourselves is counterproductive. Let’s get back to the Land Cruisers and call it a day. This site is going to be marked off as a double red anyway. And we’ll need to arrange cleanup with the Syrians.” He swung himself around to face the bluff. “Slow and easy people; single file please.”

Sean watched Shute’s receding back, not sure what he felt. Anger at being cut off or satisfaction at having gotten a rise out of the Australian? Maybe the man was right, the heat was getting to them all, but something inside Sean told him it went deeper than that.

The team was slow to form behind Shute. As was his habit, Sean ended up near the end of the line. Progress was slow. Each member would stop from time to time and take film footage, take a sample, and Geotag it. Sean stopped to take a sip of water. Instinct made him turn around. The American specialist ten meters behind him and last in line turned from the path of safety worn in the sand by the others, and walked towards a clump of debris, which had caught his attention.

Training kicked in. Sean started to throw himself to the ground.

The ground under the man’s feet erupted in a ball of black and grey, with a ball of orange fire at its center. The observer disintegrated. The air over Sean’s head ripped apart as shrapnel flew in all directions. Luck was with the rest of the team. A large mound of wreckage protected them from the blast and debris. The shockwave hammered Sean into the ground. He cracked his head on the metal ring surrounding the mask’s faceplate. White noise filled his ears and eyes, then it all went black.

He woke on his hotel bed, surprised to be alive. Sean rolled over to check the time, every bone, tendon and muscle complained. He was confronted by the face of his counterpart, Bill Harris, another member of 22 SAS, assigned undercover like Sean but to another team.

Bill shook his head. “You’re getting slow in your old age, mate. Thought for sure we were going to have to zip you into one of those green bags and put your name on the clock tower.” Harris sat back in the chair he had pulled up beside the bed. “Shute says to tell you to lose some weight.”

Sean shook his head. It felt fuzzy. His ears were still ringing. Fragments of what had happened on the valley floor flickered through his head, “The observer behind me is he?”

Bill nodded slowly, “Dead.” He watched Sean’s face for a reaction. Many men had cracked from guilt, assuming they could have prevented disaster. “Want to talk about it?”

Sean shrugged his shoulders, “He left the path. If I hadn’t stopped and turned around, I’d be dead too.”

“Still.”

“Still, nothing. He fucked up and almost got me killed. I’m going to be deaf as fuck in my old age.”

Harris did not push it any further. In the SAS, trust was the foundation of teamwork and expertise. He had to trust Sean. Each man had his own way of dealing with things they had to see and do in their job. The best thing he could do for his friend was take him to get roaring drunk. Too bad the nearest drink was thousands of miles away.

“How are the rest of the team?”

“A bit shaken. They were lucky.” Harris looked Sean in the eye. “You must have been putting in overtime at the church on your last leave.”

Sean smiled, “No, but I hear Father Tim has the ladies tea group praying for the salvation of my soul.”

Harris roared at that one, “I’m amazed he even thinks you’re worth saving.”

Sean pulled himself up on the bed and swung his feet to the floor. The rapid movement made the room swim. “Well, ever since Mum and Dad died, I’ve been his special project. This time, I am not going to fault the good Father’s intentions.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Harris turned serious, “Shute’s worried you’re losing your perspective.”

“And?”

Harris shook his head, “Don’t get all defensive. If you’ve got a problem with this Op, talk to me. Leave the civvies out of it.”

A hint of anger crept into Sean’s voice, “I’m sick of talk. That’s all we ever do here. We go and look inside this or that suspected building, rifle through a few files and then go walking through a place you and I would stay the hell out of on a bad day. Today is just the capper. These people aren’t soldiers. They have no respect for the hardware.”

“You getting mad at Shute isn’t going to help.”

Sean put his head in his hands and rubbed at his temples. “I know, I know. Traipsing round all these depots is starting to get to me.”

“Do you want a relief sent out?”

A shake of the head, “Of course not. You know how that would look on my record. They’d have me out of the brigade in no time. God, I could use a drink.”

Harris chuckled, “You’re feeling better all right.” But there was still a tightness around his friend’s eyes and mouth. Harris had seen it before. In the SAS it was a look that could get you and your team killed.

Sean got to his feet. “Hell, I could be dead.” He felt around his body. “No important bits missing. Things could be worse.” Sean put on his shoes, “Come on you Welsh git, I’ll buy you an orange juice.”

Harris chuckled, “How this lot does it, I don’t know.”

Sean paused at the door and looked over his shoulder, “Haven’t you heard? We’re infidels, hardly worth pissing on.”

CAPE TOWN, CAPE TOWN PROVINCE SOUTH AFRICA

Andrew Verkatt turned the rented Ford off Marine Drive onto one of the waterfront’s side streets. Tidy modern warehouse and dock buildings gave way to run older, but still tidy warehouses. He thanked God for air conditioning. The heat and humidity of Cape Town at this time of year was murderous. A man as heavy as Verkatt hated to sweat under any circumstance. The GPS the rental agency had supplied directed him step by step through the maze of the warehouses to the address his contact had provided.

This was all highly unusual. Discretion should have made him turn such a meeting with the Koreans down. If there were not so much money at stake, he would have. Verkatt grinned to himself; they must be even more desperate than he first thought. His meeting with Comrade Sung had been a surprise. It was not usual to meet with people so highly placed in government. Deals were made through intermediaries, cutouts. It was obvious a play for power was going on. The absence of Sung’s senior deputy, Chun Seng Kyun, spoke volumes. Verkatt could smell profit a mile away. That first meeting had been incredible, unbelievable in its scale, but not impossible. Anything was possible if you used enough money.

Stealing nuclear devices on behalf of his North Korean clients held little in the way of a moral dilemma for him. The challenge of the contract suited his ego and the ensured payment suited his preferred lifestyle.

Today’s emergency meeting showed the plan had made it to the very top levels. Obviously they were pressed for time. No doubt the International Atomic Energy Commission had brought pressure to bear in the wrong place. Verkatt felt a moment of pity for Chun, but only a moment. Chun was just a pawn, a casualty of someone else’s grand scheme. His demise was orchestrated by one man and signed off by others. Verkatt could appreciate the irony. Chun had personally picked and groomed Sung. All of his work would gain him little more than his final years in a reeducation camp. That was why the South African always worked alone. The Koreans had met his price without batting an eye. Verkatt made the appropriate turn and there it was: a steel-sided warehouse.

Faded oriental characters were painted at the top of windows, the insides of which were coated with years of impenetrable filth. Underneath the characters in English, was the company name, Park and Sons, Import and Export. Verkatt parked his car some ways down the street; no need to call any more attention to these events than necessary.

A series of fiber optic lenses mounted in a mock junction box on top of a telephone pole across the street from the warehouse fed their images down thin glass fibers a mile long. The box was also transparent to radio emissions. A special wide band receiver monitored every signal and phone call that emanated from the warehouse communication lines. Every piece of visual and transmitted information went from the junction box to a small, nondescript office, well down the street. The office was cramped and dingy, and filled with more television and radio monitoring equipment than some professional studios.

Two members of MI6’s South African division watched Verkatt get out of his car. The two security officers, more commonly called “watchers” by their peers, tracked Verkatt up to the front doors of Park and Sons. They saw him go inside.

“Recognize him?” Don Evans, a three-year veteran of the Cape Town operation, looked over at Frank Weston, his partner.

“Andrew Verkatt.”

“Sure?”

Frank had been part of Cape Town a lot longer, ten years. “There’s only one Andrew Verkatt. He’s been dealing with this lot for a couple of years now. First time I’ve ever seen him here though. They usually go for covert meets. Must be some kind of emergency to drag all of him down here. Better get a time log going.”

Evans moved to punch the time and date on a keyboard nearby. “Okay, done.”

Weston looked over at a still image of Verkatt frozen on one of the video monitors. “Yeah, that’s him. I’d recognize the fat bastard anywhere.”

One of Mr. Park’s aides moved Verkatt through the seedy, run-down front office and into a more luxurious main office at the rear of the building. Park sat behind a modern computer desk, watching a display of Korean characters scroll rapidly by. The scrolling stopped and the computer let out a long beep. Park read the message and grunted to himself. He turned off the monitor with a flick of his wrist and turned to face Verkatt.

Park was small and lithe, dark skinned, even for a Korean. He favored Verkatt with a reptilian smile and stood to shake the South African’s hand. Verkatt made himself comfortable in the high-backed chair in front of Park’s desk.

“Mister Verkatt. So glad that you could make it on such short notice.”

“I’m sorry, we have not yet met. I thought I would be dealing with the other Mister Park.”

The current Mr. Park shook his head with remorse, “I am afraid he was recalled.”

Verkatt covered his worry well. “I see.” He clapped his hands together, “Well let’s not let that stand in the way of our business.”

Park nodded, “Pyongyang needs the requested units sooner than expected. Can you deliver?”

Verkatt, never one to miss an opportunity to exploit a situation, made a point of considering the question with a grave look on his face. “It will be more difficult. Difficult requires greater risk, which of course requires more money.”

Park had been briefed to expect no less from Verkatt. The current message on his screen authorized him to make any transactions necessary to secure Verkatt’s services. Odorous as the man was, he did, after all, get results. “I would expect nothing less for your trouble. How much more will be required to complete all phases?”

“Forty million US, in equivalent Deutsche Marks, to be deposited to this account, within the next forty eight hours.” Verkatt handed Park a card with the address of a bank in Luxembourg and the account number. Park took it and placed it on his desk.

“It will be done at once.”

Verkatt gave a slight nod of his head to show trust, where there was none. “As soon as the deposit is verified, I will be in touch through the normal channels. A meeting like this again puts us all at risk. I prefer to work through cutouts.”

Park bowed his head slightly, “As do I, but orders are orders.”

Verkatt rose to leave. As far as he was concerned, their business was completed. But Park was not yet finished. For all of his smooth and dangerous demeanor, he was still no more than a party man.

“How soon will we have them?”

Verkatt turned slowly, “Give me three days to find out.”

“We will be waiting.”

“Of course. As soon as I know, so will you.” Verkatt left the office. One of Park’s aides closed the door behind him. The aide turned to Park with raised eyebrows. “He is arrogant.”

The reptile crossed Park’s face again, “Men like him always are, but he gets results. We can stand his arrogance for the time being.”

The two MI6 men watched Verkatt come out of the warehouse. The multiple lenses of the phony junction box followed his progress down the street to his parked rental car. The license and rental agency were noted. The car would be rented by one of the Pretoria watchers before the rental cleaning staff had a chance to destroy any evidence. A team would then dust the car for Verkatt’s fingerprints and search for any other evidence of his meeting. Frank Weston was curious. Verkatt dealt almost exclusively in nuclear materials. Nobody in the Pretoria operation had heard any rumblings from inside the South African National Intelligence Service. The service was still widely penetrated by MI6. If there were any hints of pending sales through back door channels, they were being very quiet about it. Now that they were part of the world stage in a big way, they were doing everything in their power to keep that side of things out in the open. To have a creature like Verkatt meet out in the open like this, the Koreans must already have a mission running. Frank voiced his doubts to Don.

“He looks far too pleased with himself. Don’t the Koreans usually deal out of the Belgian Congo?”

Don nodded, “Usually this place is just for emergency meets and supplying cheap TV’s and VCR’s for the party faithful back home in the fatherland.”

“Well he’s in on something and from the way he’s smiling, it’s worth big cash to him. We’d better send this lot on. The Colonel is going to want to know about this.”

Don pulled the time-coded tape out of one of the machines. The current label for the day was applied to its face. To avoid the kinds of questions that intelligence agencies don’t like to answer, the cover for their office was that it produced industrial safety films. This tied in nicely with the amount of audio and video equipment stacked everywhere. The tape was then put in a bubble wrap envelope marked with the prominent logo of a major express delivery service. Most of these delivery services were as secure as and faster than the old ways of transportation. This one would go out on the next truck in about an hour.

CARASAMBA, TURKEY

“Shit!” Benjamin Johnson pulled back hard on the flight yoke of the aging DC-3. His starboard wing just missed the top of an oak tree that had shot up out of the ground without warning. Sweat flowed freely over Benjamin’s body. Flying at low level during the day was hard, but doing the same at night without terrain following radar? Well, most seasoned pilots considered it suicide. The French night goggles he wore screwed up his depth-perception which made matters even worse.

Creaks and groans echoed through the DC-3 as its frame strained under the terrible flying conditions. Benjamin just hoped his contact was waiting for him at the landing zone, not the local police. If he and the rest of the crew were caught with their illicit cargo, he would become another statistic in an area noted for its numerous plane disappearances. The airframe might be old but it was tough. Thousands of Allied troops had ridden into Europe to be dropped on D-Day into France. The shape was basic, a stubby nose with good vision sat in front of a strong forward placed lower wing with a port and starboard engine. The tail was nearly as tall as it was wide, which gave excellent stability in the lousiest of condition. There was a reason, DC-3s were still flying sixty plus years after the last one had been built.

Benjamin’s present employment situation was the culmination of numerous flights for his government in foreign lands, under Air America and other shell aviation freight companies’ protective covers. A few bad scandals and the current government’s official policies on covert operations had “severely curtailed his upward career mobility,” as he liked to put it. An excellent old hand at flying in and around the Golden Triangle, work had been no problem. Besides, the pay was much better than he ever got in service to his country. It was worth the increased risk. Hell, it wasn’t like this was the first time he’d run drugs. His eyes scanned the horizon. The landing zone had to be around here somewhere.

“Come on Sergei. Where are you?” As if in answer to his plea, a bright spot burst into view. The smugglers working within the confines of the current iteration of Russia (meet the new boss, same as the old boss) had learned important lessons from the military. Instead of using a shielded light that could be spotted by anybody in the area, they used infra-red spotlights stolen from Russian supply depots. These projected a light source visible to only those possessing thermal imaging equipment or wearing IR vision enhancement goggles like Benjamin. The pilot toggled a switch on his console, turning on and off a similar IR set-up mounted in the nose of his aircraft. The other light blinked back in response. Two parallel lines of dim fire flashed out alongside each outside edge of a darkened runway. Benjamin hated flying at night, a grim irony in his line of work. Sergei Smirnoff, the man on the ground, was one of the best operators in the region, but like all drug dealers, he was not to be trusted. The landing and the load were hazardous enough, but the job he needed Sergei’s help with ran a high risk of getting he and his crew killed, just for asking.

He brought the big plane around. For all of her age, she still handled well. Benjamin had replaced the two original Pratt and Whitney R-1830 Twin Wasp radial motors with more modern Pratt and Whitney PT6A-67 Turboprops a year ago. The older but reliable design Gas Turbine engines gave him more power, greater range, reduced the airframe weight and increased his speed. He’d never regretted the upgrade.

He flicked on the cabin intercom switch, “Get ready by the door guys. I’m bringing her in.”

His two kickers strapped themselves into place by the rear door. As soon as the plane stopped rolling, it was their job to get the bricks of Burmese Tar heroin out the door as fast as possible. The two men, both Filipinos, looked at each other in the darkness. The more religious of the two said a silent prayer for the American to get them on the ground once again.

The landing site sat in a narrow, high-walled valley in Russian-occupied Abkhazia. The modified DC-3 bucked and surged as Benjamin fought a hard crosswind and downdraft coming off the ridge of hills to the aircraft’s starboard side. The goggles made it hard to keep one eye on the console gauges. Benjamin fought the urge to tear them off. He lost visual bearings outside the cockpit with every quick glance down. The starboard wing kept wanting to rise up and slide him port side into the rocky valley floor. The plane soldiered its way through the crosswind all the way down to a bumpy landing. Full reverse pitch on the props slowed the DC-3 to a full stop in short order. As soon as the plane was down, the kickers had the doors open and bricks of heroin tumbled into the waiting arms of men who appeared to have sprouted out of the ground.

Benjamin unbuckled his seat harness with shaking hands, and he pulled himself wearily out of the pilot’s chair. Strapped into the copilot’s seat was a briefcase. Benjamin grabbed it as he went to the crew hatch just behind his seat and opened it. Frigid mountain air rushed into the relative warmth of the cabin. It mixed with the sweat he was drenched with and chilled him instantly. He had trouble extending the crew ladder with fingers numbed by the sudden cold. He gave up and kicked at the release. The ladder slid down with a clatter. Benjamin blew on his hands to warm them. It did no good; contact with the freezing metal of the ladder sucked the life right back out of them again. Once on the ground, he turned around and saw the sturdy figure of Sergei shuffle towards him in the darkness. The goggles made the Georgian look like a green and white ghost.

“There is only one man stupid enough to fly here on a night like this.” His thickly accented English boomed. Sergei’s face broke out in a wide, gap-toothed grin. “I hope that it is your ugly face under that contraption, friend Benjamin.”

Benjamin laughed. Sergei was, if anything, a character. “Sergei, you old bastard, don’t you ever tire of this?”

Sergei’s laugh shook his whole body, “Never, my friend. It keeps me and the Checkisti bastards entertained. Besides, games are for old men with nothing better to do with their time. A few more shipments of product and I will be living like the Czars of old.” Sergei produced a bottle of Starka Vodka in his left hand. “I thought you might need a drink after….” He made a motion like a falling leaf with his right hand.

Benjamin nodded and reached out to take the proffered bottle. He pulled the night goggles from his face and clipped them to his belt. The Starka was warm and burned a path of fire down his throat into his belly. He took two deep swallows and let the warmth move through his body a little before speaking. “Verkatt has some local business for you. He needs something only you can get him. The payment is very big.”

“That fat pig of a South African? What could he want out here in my territory? He gets his cut always.”

“Sergei, believe me, you do have something that he needs and it’s worth a lot to him to get your help.”

“What does he want?”

“He needs you to liberate three SCUD warheads.”

He could get those from anybody these days. Why here?

“He’s not after conventional warheads; he’s after the other kind.”

“And by other, I take it you don’t mean chemical.”

“No, not chemical.”

Sergei’s voice dripped with sarcasm, “Yes, well I’ll just have a talk with some of them, then they can run down to the base and ask if they have any spares.”

“Think about it, Sergei. You’d be stealing what they prize most out from under their noses. It would be a revenge well paid for.”

Sergei turned his back to Benjamin and spoke out into the night. “You talk about revenge, Benjamin. You try to bait me with the past. Perhaps you think me just a puppet.”

“And underestimate you? I know who you are, Sergio. I’ve heard of the things you’ve done in revenge.”

Sergei snorted, “Revenge? No, that was business.”

Benjamin kept his voice level. “From what I hear, it was family business.”

Sergei turned back around, his eyes glittered in the darkness. “Amazing how history always finds the guilty.”

“If you look hard enough.”

A dark chuckle rumbled out of Sergei. “Yes, if you look hard enough.”

“I need to know, do I continue or do we end this here?”

Sergei slipped back into sarcasm. “You’ve come all this way; I might as well hear you out.”

“Verkatt heard that you have certain members of a nearby mobile base dependent on your exclusive services.”

Sergei nodded, “There are a few, yes.”

“Sergei, there are many.”

Sergei stepped back, clearly irritated. “Yes, damn you, there are many. Every other day, one of them, sometimes more, overdoses, leaving me and my men stuck walking the pigs round and round, hoping to God they don’t die and start an investigation.”

“How many of them are technical types?”

“Maybe an even dozen.”

This was the first good news Benjamin had received all night. “For this thing to work, Verkatt needs at least three of them. I assume that this dozen are all officers?”

Sergei’s reply was a verbal sneer, “That’s what they call themselves.”

“How bad are their individual habits?”

“They range. Most just smoke themselves into insensibility. They have low-grade habits. Most can hold out payday to payday.”

“How the hell do they function?”

“The same as always: barely.”

“Verkatt needs three of them that have access to the warheads.”

“This is going to cost.”

“Verkatt is aware of that.” Benjamin held up the briefcase in his left hand. “This is three kilos of refined heroin. Verkatt considers it a down payment. Inside is an envelope with complete instructions and a key to a Swiss account containing three million US in Krugerrands.”

Sergie scratched his head, “You and the size of the payment make a strong argument. It will be hard, but give me a month.”

“A month is too long. Verkatt needs delivery within two weeks.”

Sergie’s eyebrows shot up. “Two weeks?” He sputtered.

“His clients are most desperate for these devices.”

“They must be. For three million, I’m thinking Verkatt’s slice of this pie is very large.”

“I don’t get paid enough to speculate.”

Sergie took a thoughtful tug at his beard. “It can be done, but it will be quick and dirty. I cannot ensure deniability. If I had a month, yes, but not two weeks. It is not enough time to do the job thoroughly.”

Benjamin nodded, “I understand. He was not specific on that point when he contacted me in Burma. I doubt it will be a problem.”

“Then it is settled. You have a way I can get confirmation to you?”

“The Paris address is still there.”

“That will do well. The old code?”

“Sure, why not.” The two men shook hands and the deal was sealed.

Sergie stood Benjamin’s briefcase in one hand and watched as the dim shape of the DC-3, both engines at full throttle, roar into the predawn sky.

NATIONAL TRAINING CENTER, FORT IRWIN, CALIFORNIA

The tank Colonel knew he was in deep shit. He had been fighting a running battle across the desert for the last ten days. He was low on sleep and low on ammunition. Field replenishment had not gone as planned. Every time he made a move to get supplies in, they were harassed by Hind attack helicopters. Most of his fuel and food supplies had been destroyed en-route. What he needed now was air support and lots of it.

His command group had been jumped a couple of hours ago by two Hinds. The two choppers had come in so low, the pilots must have driven the damn things across the desert.

The attack had cost him a crucial communications vehicle and a surface-to-air missile battery. The raid had been hit-and-run. So viscous and fast that the helicopters vanished without any shots being fired in return. It was bad enough to lose vehicles, but to lose face was even worse. If the rounds from the Hinds and the group losses had been real and not a training exercise, the outlook would have been bleak indeed.

Captain Terry “Black” Donovan loved the feel of ground effect. The surge of pressure as the terrain rose and dipped underneath him was the world’s best roller coaster. The ride in back though could be hard on men when the doors were closed. The inner ear hated a lack of visual reference. The stomach was almost always the loser in the battle of bodily wills. Donovan once again gave grudging respect to the Soviet-built Hind helicopter he flew.

The Soviet aircraft industry had taken a lot of flak over the years for producing inferior product. At air show after air show, airplanes had been torn apart by dramatic engine failures. This dampened western attraction in Soviet fighter platforms, but it had generated increased interest in Soviet ejection systems. Consensus between the Russian factories was there were better ways to demonstrate such products.

The Hind had proved it could be a bear to work on. It was a metric bird, something the American flight mechanics and flight crews had taken some time to get used to. Bolts were in millimeters, altitude was in meters. They could have ripped the dials out of the cockpit and replaced them with more familiar empirical ones. But these were lean times for defense dollars and that would have meant the added expense of changing the entire on-board power supply system. So the pilots learned to use Metric to gauge altitude and the mechanics got new wrenches.

The Hind Donovan flew was one of the newest versions to roll out of the Mil Helicopter factory in Rostov. The sheer simplicity and ruggedness of the design made it a joy to fly. Its official NATO designation was Hind-VP. Donovan did miss the thirty-millimeter chain gun of his Apache attack chopper and the missiles on the Hind were weak and clunky compared to his Apache’s Hellfire missiles. But this version made up for the chain gun by having two 23 millimeter cannon mounted in a side-by-side configuration in the chin turret. A vast improvement on the small 12.7 millimeter Gatling gun that used to be housed there. The Hind could carry troops and take a real shit-kicking and keep on flying. Troop transport was something the Apache could not do.

Flying on his starboard wing was Captain Henry “Mac” Macintyre. Both had transferred to the “Gray Threat” program at the same time. Six months of intense training later, they were now well-versed in Soviet helicopter attack and support tactics. When all that knowledge was coupled with American tactics, you had the results felt by the Tank Forces Commander hours before.

Donovan and his wingman were re-tasked the second they landed. There was just enough time to relieve themselves, grab a bite to eat and refuel the choppers.

The Red Force mission was straight forward. In the rear of each helicopter were eight heavily armed men. Intelligence had reported, Blue Forces were advancing on their flank. The Blue Commander had decided to forfeit strategy for speed in the dash for his next objective, the force command compound. The quickest path was through a rock-strewn valley to the main body of Red Force’s left flank. The Blue Force commander was expected to win. American doctrine had, for years, stated that while the Soviet threat was numerically greater, their equipment and troop structures were technologically inferior. So Red Force was always at a slight disadvantage. Most Red commanders felt intense resentment about this and would grumble about the uneven playing field they had been dealt.

The current Red commander had a history of being unorthodox. Colonel Geoff Channick had struggled through the adversity of poor beginnings and intolerance to get to where he was. While some would take the Red command assignment as a possible career slight, he reveled in the challenge, something that did not go unnoticed at staff levels. The Opposing Force or OPFOR assignment lasted for about three years. Exercises were run in all four seasons. This gave visiting commanders a chance to experience everything from snow to torrential downpours and blistering heat. Of the last three Blue commanders to take on Channick, all had achieved their objectives, but at force loss levels far above acceptable estimates. Like he had three times before, Channick would make his Ivy League opponent pay for an arrogant gamble.

The Hinds would deploy the two eight-man teams, in this case, Navy SEALs from SEAL Team Three. SEAL Team Three was normally tagged for operations in South East Asia, but were cross-training in advanced desert warfare. Umpires for each team were squeezed into the cramped confines of the Hinds as well. The two teams would set up mortar positions on either side of the far end of the valley. A perfect ambush spot for 120 millimeter mortars with almost four kilometers of range. Once the men were secured on the ground, Donovan and Macintyre would deal with any forward air support elements of the advancing force. The SEALs would stay camouflaged and hidden until the tanks and infantry were well into the valley. If it were a real war, it would be an almost suicidal mission, but here in training, the lessons would be invaluable practice to both commanders.

Lt. Commander Bob Hunter watched the outside terrain slide by in the gray early light of morning. The intercom headset draped around his neck wouldn’t fit over his Kevlar helmet, so he was forced to wear it like a bulky necklace. He and the seven other members from Seal Team Three were anxious to get to the hide site and set up shop. This was a refresher course for him; his last stint in the desert had been in Iraq with SEAL Team Five, looking for Taliban leadership. Local assets had stumbled onto his team’s hide. Hunter had received a purple heart for being just a bit slower than a ricochet, and early promotion for getting all of his team out at great cost to the enemy. The headset around his neck grumbled. Hunter held it to his left ear and keyed the mike.

“Repeat please.”

“We’re two minutes out of the drop zone. Get your men ready.”

Hunter held his hand in the air. With his index finger extended, he made a circle. Weapons were checked and loads secured. Each man checked his buddy’s gear to be sure. The helicopter touched down. Hunter was out the door in a flash. He hit the ground hunched over and running. The Hind roared off in a spray of dust and gravel seconds later. Hunter scanned the valley floor from the edge of the bluff. His men were already setting up at the camouflaged hide site.

The site, a mixture of sand bags and camouflage netting, had been constructed three months previous on very quiet orders from Channick. If the playing field were to be uneven, the Colonel had decided to throw in some potholes of his own. The valley was too tempting an avenue to leave undefended. The secret of surprise was always speed. So he had his Engineer section build the hides and Forward Observer positions in advance. A few well-placed demolition charges placed under the guise of avalanche control turned the available points of approach to the two bluffs into one single ground route.

The hides were important. The attack helicopters of the Blue Force were equipped with thermal sighting equipment. If they had relied on only the camouflage netting, the choppers would see the difference in background heat signatures. By using the sand bags as well as netting, a small bivouac was created that had the same heat signature as the surrounding ground. The mortar was set up inside it in a matter of minutes. Channick’s Engineers had stockpiled mortar rounds, extra ammunition, rations and even water.

Hunter stood in the Forward Observer bunker at the front of the bluff. To the outside eye, it would look like a pile of rocks; the engineers had done an excellent job of concealment.

Thanks to satellite technology, the latest line of secure field communications were little bigger than a cellular phone. Hunter wore his in the small of his back. He could switch secure channels by turning a small knob beside his throat mike. It was uncomfortable at times, but it beat lugging around a forty pound man pack. The units transmitted in line of sight, or bounced a signal off overhead military communications satellites. Its signal could be routed anywhere in the world. Hunter punched in the mission activation code. He was now linked to all of his assets and he could switch between each as was needed.

“Thistle one to all elements. Com check.”

“Thistle two, com five by five.”

Thistle three, com five by five.”

“Thistle four, com five by five.”

“Thorn one, com five by five.”

“Thorn two, com five by five.”

“Roger, out.” Now all there was to do was wait.

With three men and the umpire on the one twenty mortar, Hunter deployed the other four to cover the approach to the bluff. If he were the Blue commander, he would deploy air and then ground scouts ahead of his main formation. The Hinds would jump the air elements and Hunter’s men would deal with the reconnaissance elements when the time came.

All of the men wore the latest MILES gear. The new laser-sensing harness activated a vibrator located in the small of the back as well as a blinking red light between the shoulders. It gave a more realistic feel to the exercise and eliminated the annoying beeping they used to give off.

Hunter settled in; the waiting game was the worst part. To stay immobile and do nothing but watch, while bugs and God knows what else crawled over you, took extreme discipline. Hunter’s eyes swept the valley. Sometimes he used the field glasses, their lenses turned to slits with gun tape to eliminate the chance of telltale flash. Most times he relied on bare sight. He learned the valley and sought any color, any movement that didn’t belong. His ears reached out for any man-made sound over the roar of the wind.

Hunter heard the Apaches long before he saw them. The chop of their rotor blades bounced off the valley walls. It was impossible to tell from which direction they were coming. All of the men sank lower into their hiding spots.

The two olive, drab gunships burst into view at the far end of the valley. They swept up the center in line abreast formation. Hunter held his breath. If they spotted the hides, both teams would be eliminated in a matter of seconds. Where the hell were the Hinds?

Hunter switched to the secure air channel. “Thistle one to Thorn one, Hawks in the valley.”

“Copy Thistle one; we’re on it.” Seconds later, Donovan and Mackenzie thundered over the far crest of the valley. They fell upon the two attack choppers starboard flank. The twin 23 millimeter cannon on each craft chattered as blank rounds fired. Back at the main control center, computers calculated range, speeds and damage. The Apaches were taken by complete surprise. Central control ruled them destroyed and ordered them to clear the arena without communication to the Blue Force. They would be buying the beer back at the base tonight.

Hunter chuckled to himself. That was going to raise some hackles back at Command Central. The ground scouts would be next, once the Blue leader figured out his Apaches were out of the picture.

“Thistle one to Thorn one.”

“Thorn one.”

“Pull back to position two. We’ll call if we need you for dust off.”

Donovan was annoyed, but Hunter was the ground commander for this mission. He was experienced enough to have reason to order the fall back. “Roger, Thistle one.”

Hunter watched the Hinds follow the defeated Blue choppers up the valley. He did not want to lose his only fast means of escape to simulated stinger missiles the Blue Force was sure to have. He switched back to the ground channel.

“Keep it tight guys. You know what’s next.”

It was three hours before they heard the Blue columns’ approach. The valley walls acted like one big ear, directing sound right towards them. Hunter put the field glasses to his eyes. Blue would wait for a report from his scouts before he moved his tanks and equipment into the valley. He might be a hard charger, but the man was not a total idiot. Still, Hunter was going to have to draw the Blue Force into the valley and, to do that, he had to make the Blue commander sure the valley approach was open and unprotected. The man was bound to have his doubts after the disappearance of his gunships. But that could always be explained as umpires making the exercise more difficult.

There! A flash. The sun was almost right overhead, but Hunter was looking down. One of the scouts had scanned the top of his bluff and his field glasses had caught the sun. Well, they were still a ways off. He doubted Blue had the patience to wait until his men reported back.

Hunter keyed his radio. “Did you catch that Thistle two?” The radio clicked twice. They had seen the scout as well.

“Smoke, you and Dice head into the valley and take out their scouts.”

Smoke was a new addition to the Team, but Hunter had been impressed by the way the boy handled himself. His voice was eager, “You bet, boss.”

Hunter decided to temper him a bit. “Make sure you’re quiet about it.”

Smoke grinned to himself. The old man was over-cautious. He and Dice took off their rucksacks and lay them against the bluff face. With only their silenced M-4s and one hundred rounds of ammo each, they slipped away from the other two team members and moved towards the valley floor.

Hunter watched the two move down from their position; he lost them quickly. Smoke had a God-given ability to disappear in his surroundings. Dice was the luckiest son of a bitch in the unit. The man could jump in a cesspool and come up holding hundred dollar bills. The two of them were a perfect team. Each time Hunter caught a glimpse of the Blue scouts, he relayed their positions to Smoke and Dice. It took two hours for the two SEALS to neutralize all of the enemy scouts. All done quietly, as asked.

Smoke and Dice put a couple of the captured scouts into stress positions and with a little personal persuasion and application of the myth that surrounds the SEAL Teams, the go codes were extracted from the men. Hunter relayed them over the captured radios. It was now close to high noon. In being so cautious, the Blue commander had given up any hope of surprise. Even a mad dash through the valley would have seen at least some of his force getting through, maybe. Hunter’s two positions would have been eliminated and his attack could sweep through the corridor to Red’s flank. Instead, his forces had been committed in piecemeal and disjointed fashion. Hunter called Smoke and Dice back to their start position. Two umpires escorted the “dead” scouts from the field. The main Blue push came at fifteen hundred hours.

A phalanx of M1A1 Abrams tanks roared into the valley, dust boiling around their churning treads. They were arranged in arrowhead groups of three. Blue had put everything into this gamble. Hunter hoped he had enough rounds. There were no infantry on foot. Behind the tank phalanx were three command tracks and twelve Bradley AFVs. That’s where the infantry was. Trading speed for skill. What did this guy think this was, an arcade game?

Hunter fed his first set of coordinates. Each mortar team adjusted their tripods. He waited until Blue was in the center of the valley, fully committed to the advance.

“Fire!”

“Whup!” His crew was the first to get a round off, but the crew on the other side of the valley was only a split-second behind. Hunter watched two white puffs of dust appear in the tank column. One was on the top of one of the Abram’s turret – a lucky hit but a welcome one. The tank ground to a halt as the umpires back at Central Command informed the crew that they were dead. The tank’s kill light flashing on top of its pole became the signpost marker for the start of a deadly traffic jam.

“Fire for effect!” Hunter yelled. “Thistle two, concentrate fire on the back of the column. Close the door on them.” He clicked over to the air channel, “Thorn elements, weasels are trapped in the barnyard. Provide support as needed. Prep for dust-off on my call.”

“Roger, Thistle one. Weasel killers inbound.”

Hunter flashed his field glasses over the valley floor.

At least ten of the tanks and four of the Bradleys had white splashes on their top decks. All sat immobile; traffic on the valley floor was at a standstill. The training rounds rained down on the column.

“Uh oh!” Soldiers began to boil out of the remaining Bradleys. The ground pounders split into two groups and were heading for the two bluffs. Hunter clicked to the guard channel, so everybody could hear him, “Infantry on the way up. Smoke, get your guys back up here. Wire the trail. It doesn’t look like too many got out of the valley.”

“Roger, Chief.”

“Thistle two, what do you have left for rounds?”

“We have ten rounds left.”

“Okay, send them and get to LZ Cabin. No sense in hanging around.”

“Roger that. See you at the bar. Two out.” The four-man team from the bottom of the bluff burst over the bluff edge into view. Dice ran in a low crouch over to Hunter’s position.

“What’s up, Chief?” Hunter pulled himself out of his firing position and moved away from the edge of the bluff. The last thing he wanted now was to take a stray tag from a MILES laser.

“Were bugging out. Blue isn’t going to be much of a threat to us anymore. I don’t see the sense in us getting our asses shot off to inflict a few more simulated casualties. Do you?”

Dice answered with a smile, “Hell no.”

Hunter grinned back. He called over to the mortar crew. “Frag, you boys done yet?”

“Last one just left the tube,” Frag shouted back.

“Break it down. We’re bugging out.”

“Roger that.”

“Thistle one to Thorn one, dust-off, dust-off, dust-off. LZ could be hot.” Hunter turned to Dice. “Pop a smoke. Purple. Thorn one, LZ smoke is purple. Repeat, purple.”

Hunter heard the claymore simulators go off below them with a soft “Pop.” Dice moved his men into firing positions to cover the approach to the bluff. Hunter dropped into a crouch beside him.

“Grenades?”

Dice looked over at his commander, “Sure, why not?” He put his fingers to his lips and let out a wolf whistle. His three men looked back. Dice held up his right hand in a clenched fist and popped his thumb. The three SEALS nodded. They pulled concussion grenades from their combat webbing and threw them over the edge of the bluff to the trail. The air filled with loud bangs as the grenades went off. Hunter hoped the umpire would rule in their favor.

“Thorn to Thistle one, we have your smoke. Prep for dust-off. State LZ condition.”

“Landing zone is secure, Thorn one, but keep your door gunners alert.”

“Copy that, Thistle. Stand by.” Hunter could hear the heavy Russian rotors approaching, but he could not see the Hinds.

Donovan and his partner kept the helicopters lower than the top of the bluff, just in case there were any working Stinger simulators left in the maelstrom of the valley. At the last instant, Donovan popped his attack chopper up over the crest of the bluff and brought it down by the smoke canister. The Heavy Weapons crew ran from their hide through the swirling dust with the mortar components. Hunter sprinted to the side of the helicopter and helped them throw the bulky tripod, tube and base plate on board.

There was still no resistance from the approach to the bluff.

“Dice, everybody, PUFO. If the Blues aren’t here by now, they’re not coming.”

“Copy that, packing up and fucking off.” Dice and his four men broke from their positions and fell back towards the Hind. Each man kept his weapon trained on the edge of the bluff. Hunter was the last on.

“All in. Go, go, go!” Dust and gravel churned around the Hind as it lifted off. The door gunners peppered the area with machine gun fire, just in case somebody had not gotten the message to keep their head down. Donovan slid them nose down to the other side of the bluff, leveling off a scant fifty feet from the desert floor. Once he was sure the threat receivers were inactive, he patched over to Mac’s Hind.

“Thorn two, status?”

“A’OK. Inbound to base.”

“Roger that. Good work Mac.” In the back, Hunter was composing the after-action report. Training mission or not, the Blue commander was going to have a new asshole chewed for him over his lack of tactical planning. Thank God it had not been for real. What were they teaching these guys in War College? Oh well; what did he care? After all, he was just a line animal.

YEUN TAE. PLANTATION, BRAZZAVILLE, THE CONGO

Chun Seng Kyun sat and watched the thin blue ribbon of cigarette smoke curl through his fingers. Bittersweet memories of a game he and his young squad mates had played so many years ago filled his mind. A game played over sixty years ago on the banks of the Yalu River during the bloody rout of the UN forces. A time when Chun was just an underage private in the People’s Army of North Korea.

Each squad member took turns holding the lit end of a cigarette closer and closer to the webbing between his partner’s fingers. The one who held out the longest before pulling his hand away won. In retrospect, it was stupid; a game for young men not yet bloodied in battle. There was no prize, no money to be won, just the pain of a burnt hand. Chun always won.

That November had been a month of blood and fear. After their first clash with the Yankees and the first loss of one of their band, no one played the game anymore. It took two grueling weeks to push the UN forces back to and out of the capital, Pyongyang.

The cost in lives had been high on both sides. Chun was the last survivor. His squad’s young faces lived on as ghosts in his mind. As testament to them, he wore the scars on his hands with more pride than medals on his chest that he was required to don for political functions.

After the cease fire was declared and the fighting ground to a halt, Chun’s military service came to an end. He threw himself into the Korean Worker’s Party and became a rising star. Five years later, he found himself personal aide to the Under-Secretary of the Ministry of Public Security. An employee of the power elite, Chun was insulated from the day-to-day struggle foisted upon the common population as North Korea fought to raise itself out of the ashes of war. His principal job was hunting down dissidents fingered by his immediate superior for “political re-education.” Chun was quick to notice the majority of these “dissidents” were often those who posed an immediate or perceived threat to the under-secretary’s power. Chun was smart, and he kept his silence. He weathered his overseer until the day the man was dragged from his office protesting his loyalty to the Great Leader. The MPS agents had shown him the same amount of mercy they had shown those targeted by him.

Chun worked even harder. He was soon recognized and rewarded for his devotion and his ability to get a job done. He rose rapidly through the jungle of party politics until he became Deputy Director of Supply Section. The portfolio was part of the Third Engineering section, Ministry of People’s Security. In his new posting, he was responsible for supplying necessary material to all Korean Worker’s Party construction projects. At the time he assumed the Deputy Directorship, the KWP was just starting the ground work of its most ambitious project. The creation of a top secret Uranium processing plant at Yongbyon.

At this point in Chun’s career, the West finally took an interest in him. Information on the man was thin. A break in the gap did not appear until the KWP had Chun start the Yeun Tae Trading Company, a cover operation in the Belgian Congo. It provided North Korea with a secret supply point for the nuclear materials they so desperately sought.

Their main supplier? Twenty years ago, it was a well-established African country, isolated by world opinion on how a distinct minority ruled over the majority. It was a simple trade deal. Supplies of Soviet-style weapons, ammunition, and equipment to spread the destabilizing forces of revolution and terror. Deniable necessities for insurgency programs running in the myriad of new neighboring countries that surrounded their segregated paradise.

In return, the North Koreans received shipments of raw Cobalt and Uranium ore needed for their brand new nuclear facilities, both public and secret. Their new friends even helped them secure essential precision machining tools, through front companies of their own. The trading company was very successful and soon became a third party, bulk goods operation. A supply network of weapons and logistic assistance to those that could pay.

Of course, nothing lasts forever. Their friend underwent a drastic change of government. This, in turn, ended the embargo on their country. No longer needing to do deals in dark alleys, everything dried up overnight. It had been a struggle ever since to find similar resources from much poorer and even more violent relations. The successes of the past seemed very much relegated to stay there.

Chun liked the Congo. In his old age, he felt less of a need to subject himself to the bitter winters, characteristic of his native land. The relative freedom and autonomy of responsibility in his new position was a welcome change from the cloistered and drab atmosphere of Pyongyang.

Chun was brought back from his reverie by the presence of his guest, Khon Yueng-Hwan, the First Secretary of the North Korean Embassy in Brazzaville. They were almost the same age, but they looked nothing alike; Khon was about as thin as a human could be and not fade from sight. He was not happy in what he had to deliver to Chun.

“I am sorry to bring you such news.”

Chun crumpled the termination order Khon had given him into a ball and gave a noncommittal shake of his head. “It is of no matter. I have seen it happen to others enough times before. Old age must have clouded my eyes, not to have seen the treachery which lurked in young Comrade Sung.”

Khon looked down at the floor. “We are but simple soldiers. Such a thing is out of our understanding.”

“You have indeed come far, for such a simple soldier.” Chun let out a long sigh. “How long did your friend in the Ministry give me?”

“He said the order was immediate and that a team had been dispatched. He has not failed me yet. Nor should he, considering the large retainer I pay him.”

“Then you must go. Being seen here with me is dangerous, tantamount to treachery in the eyes of the state.” Chun snorted, “Five years I have been here, trying to rebuild new paths to get them their blasted materials. Keeping the liberation groups supplied and running. I should have gone back more often.”

“It would have changed nothing.”

“I especially liked the part about falling prey to western excess.”

Khon laughed, “I always wondered about the number of young girls you paraded through here.”

Chun smiled in spite of his predicament, “If only it were true. You must go, old friend. It will be dark soon and what I must do, I must do alone.”

“Good luck Chun.” Khon saluted him.

Chun return the salute and the two men embraced. As Chun watched his friend walk away, he called out. “Do not worry about me. This old soldier still has some fight left in him yet.” The gray shadows of twilight crept across the perfect lawn. Khon turned around, his back ramrod straight and saluted one last time. Chun did the same. Khon turned and disappeared into the shadows.

Chun went into the house. Khon was right, the MPS agents could not be far away. An executive assassination order would be carried out with expedience. He went to the bureau in his office. Over the years, through all the periodic purges that had torn through his department, Chun had seen friends and others in his ministry swept away by the capricious will of his government. He had not been entirely truthful with Khon. Chun knew Sung would seek his position. The hope his party service and military record would insulate him from the sword of Damocles that so many others had fallen under, had proved to be an empty one.

Chun had a contingency plan for the eventuality he now faced. Step one of the plan lay wrapped with an oilcloth in his bureau bottom drawer. Chun pulled out the heavy bundle and unwrapped a 7.65 millimeter, Type 64 automatic. It was an ugly weapon, an assassin’s gun of Chinese manufacture, it had a built in silencer. Chun had learned long ago that cold November, stealth was the best shield. He loaded the four empty magazines, seven rounds in each. The clips could have been left loaded, but tired magazine springs raise the risk of a misfeed. There was no need to decrease his odds of survival. Perhaps the gun would be unneeded. Chun had never been directly responsible for the death of those chosen by his Party bosses.

Even pushing eighty, he was still in good shape, thanks to long walks, a good exercise regime and none of the overindulgence he was accused of. One clip went in the gun and the rest in the front right pocket of his bush jacket.

Chun’s villa was on the outskirts of Brazzaville. There was an airport in town, but he assumed the MPS were already in the Congo. He had read the same operations manual they had. Their first task would be to secure the airport. So an escape by air was unworkable. Two hundred and fifty miles away on the coast, stored in a private dock in Point Noir, lay his best chance of escape. Chun had purchased a cigarette boat. The boat, with its high speed and shallow draft, was ideal for running small arms, and sometimes even agents, into remote areas. The boat would be known about by the MPS agents; after all, the MPS had paid for it. It had enough range to reach Liberia. From there, Chun would try the American Embassy in Monrovia.

Point Noir sat close to the Congo/Angola border and had an airport. The MPS agents would have the advantage of just having to fly to the port city to overtake Chun. Good paved roads were few and far between in the Congo. The main highways out of Brazzaville snaked into the mountains and ended roughly one hundred miles away at Kinkala. It was a long, winding journey, but to try and head southwest on the lower route was too dangerous. The road there degenerated into a mud track after Moutampa and wound its precarious way into Zaire. The roads were better in Zaire, but Chun would have to pass through Angola to get to Point Noir. Longtime customers of the Korean trading company, the MPS agents could elicit help from the Angolan government. His best route was to follow the Congo railroad and head north to Mindouli, and then east towards the Point. If he did not deal with the MPS agents here, he would have to deal with them on the road into Point Noir. There, the agents would have the advantages of time, position and concealment.

Chun went upstairs to his bedroom. In a hatbox on the top shelf of his closet were a pair of French-made night vision goggles. One of his customers had given them to him in a gesture of gratitude. Chun had heard later that the man was killed in an abortive attempt at assassination on some insignificant third-world head of state. The webbing slipped easily over his head. Chun tugged at the straps to adjust the fit. With the press of a button, the room burst into green clarity. Now that he had eyes in the dark, he felt his chances of escape improve. The distant tingle of pre-battle rush began to course through his body.

In the back recesses of the closet was a small leather knapsack. It too was part of the plan. It contained four days’ rations and some basic medical supplies. In a small wax-sealed cigar tube in the bottom of the pack was his passport into the confidence of the Americans: a complete microfiche set of the blueprints to the Yongbyon complex and another set for the complex that they only suspected of existing at Pakchon. The second complex was dedicated to the processing of weapons-grade Plutonium. Chun slid the pack on his back and weighed his options. They were few, and the ones open to him were not pleasant. The old soldier worked the slide back on his pistol and chambered a round. He took one last look around the dim bedroom. So much of his life invested in this place and it all was going to be lost to him because of another man’s ambition. In the darkness at the top of the stairs, a decision was made. If he was to escape, he would have to terminate the assassination team. He was old. They were young and fit. Chances of his success were slim and there would be more blood on his hands, but this time it would be Korean blood. Sung would pay with his life for this treachery one day. Gun in hand, he moved back downstairs. They would come in the early hours of the morning, when all men were at their lowest ebb.

Chun snapped awake. He glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. One thirty in the morning. He had fallen asleep. Unforgivable. He slid out of the kitchen chair and moved over to the kitchen window. The night vision goggles were slid over his eyes and clicked on. From his new vantage point, Chun could see no movement on the grounds or in the trees at the back of the property. Perhaps his killers were still in transit.

It was wishful thinking and he knew it. Chun opened the back door a crack and listened. When he was sure no threat waited for him, he stole out onto the veranda.

He cut across the lawn to a large work shed that stood on the rearmost corner of the property. The gardener kept his keys on a nail by the back door of the work garage. His battered Land Rover would be a lot less conspicuous and better suited for the journey to the coast than his big Mercedes. He scanned to the left and right as he crossed the huge expanse of lawn. Chun felt totally exposed. If the MPS team had night vision equipment as well, he would know about it very soon.

He neared the side of the garage and paused; something felt out of place. The side door was not closed all the way. His gardener was a meticulous man; all things in his universe had their rightful place and a door slightly ajar was not one of them. Chun thumbed the pistol safety off and moved slowly and deliberately closer to the offending door. Blood pounded in his ears as he strained to hear any sound out of place. This was the closest to real combat he’d been in sixty years. He fought his own body and struggled for the filter of calm. He stood by the garage’s side door and listened hard. Still no sound and then there it was, the faint scuff of a shoe on concrete, right beside the door. Chun swung the door open with a sharp push of his left hand, but he did not enter. The startled agent inside quickly fired three silenced shots at the open door. The bullets struck the door beside Chun’s head, showering him with splinters. Chun stepped into the doorway and shot the agent, dazzled by his own muzzle flash. He hit the agent twice in the chest before he could bring his gun to bear. The impacts staggered the man back against the Landrover before his knees gave out and he slid down to the ground. Chun looked at the dead man, not quite sure what he felt.

He lifted the car keys from the nail beside the door, got behind the Land Rover’s steering wheel and jammed the keys into the ignition. He had to move fast. Other MPS agents, like the corpse by his door, would be advancing on the garage. The old four-wheel drive roared to life, shattering the silence of the night. The gardener’s other passion was cars. The ancient Landrover, for all of its dilapidated appearance, had a perfect motor and running gears. Chun dropped it in first gear and drove through the closed garage door.

The agent who arrived at the front of the garage never knew what killed him. Chun, his forward vision blocked by the door debris, felt the body go under the wheels. The rest of the door fell away and he aimed the Landrover directly at the main gate. With a hard crunch, the Landrover went over the concrete curb and clawed its way across the villa’s perfect lawn. Another MPS agent appeared from inside the house and started to shoot at him as he sped away. The back window blew in, shattered by a lucky round. Chun pulled hard on the steering wheel. The Landrover fishtailed in a hard one hundred and eighty degree turn. The front of the vehicle now pointed at the veranda on the front of the house. Chunks of turf churned out from under the wheels as Chun pushed the gas pedal to the floor.

“Three men to kill just one old man; at least they still respect my abilities,” he thought.

The passenger-side window blew in, showering Chun with glass as another round found the Landrover. Chun did not swerve or waver. The front wheels of the Landrover hit the concrete steps with a crash. With a hefty bounce, the vehicle hurtled up the steps and struck the MPS agent. Chun looked out at the crumpled corpse’s draped arms outspread over the hood of his vehicle. His forehead felt wet. Chun wiped at it; his hand came away red. Glass from the side window must have cut him. It would have to wait. There was no time to dress the wound now.

Chun thundered down the road, the lights of the Landrover off. The night goggles would provide him with vision until he was far enough from Brazzaville. His body buzzed with the high of battle and escape. Not bad for an old dog. If all went well from here, he would be on the boat and underway in eight hours.

PYONGYANG, NORTH KOREA

The smiling Chinese emissary signed the document before him and passed it to the South Korean diplomat for his signature. Under a blaze of lights, history was made once more, a friendship pact between two countries that a little over sixty years before had been bitter enemies. The event went virtually unnoticed in the west except in some of the trade news. Just another international trade deal but, then again, it was a busy news day. The elections in the United States were just over and the people were waiting to see what parts of his platform the new president would enact first. Great Britain and the rest of the European community were mired in their own problems and even Russia failed to take notice.

Kim Jong Un, Supreme Leader of North Korea, did not miss this news. He watched it unfold live on the pirated South Korean news channel fed to the ninety-inch television in his office. He clenched his fists in impotent anger as he watched the full scale of China’s treachery unfold with each pen stroke. He stabbed a finger down on his intercom, “Get Sung here, now.”

Sung had taken over Chun’s position as Deputy Director. He arrived in record time, having also seen the broadcast. This news, combined with the report he held in his hands of the Brazzaville operation’s failure to capture Chung, ensured it would not be a pleasant visit. He moved through the heavy wooden door into the Supreme Leader’s opulent office.

Kim Jong Un sat behind his desk in near darkness; the image on the television screen provided the only illumination. He did not turn to face Sung when he entered. “You have seen?” It was a statement, not a question. “And your men let Chun escape.”

“Yes, I have seen and yes, the MPS failed to deal with Comrade Chun.” There were no other answers; Kim Jong Un did not tolerate lies. “He was informed of our intentions and was well-prepared for the MPS agents.”

Kim Jong Un allowed a small note of admiration to creep into his voice. “He saved me the trouble of ordering their deaths for their failure.” Kim Jong Un turned to face Sung. “I would expect no less of Chung. Father always said he fought to win.”

Kim Jong Un looked back to the still-smiling visage of the Chinese special diplomat to South Korea and his entourage. All were shaking hands and smiling for the cameras of the world. He gestured with an accusatory finger at the screen. “Look at them. It is their ultimate revenge, their ultimate punishment upon us. They have waited years for the chance to destroy us, to drag us down to their level of communism. They prostrate themselves for the right to sell their souls to feed the hunger of the west for cheap consumer goods. They would see us held on the same leash. Another country of slaves strapped to tables and assembly lines. They seek to destroy our great country. A country my grandfather and father built. I will not let that happen. Nor will you.” He held up his right hand. In it was the final version of Sung’s plan.

“Implement your plan. I am informing the Army and Air Force to increase the number of drills by the Demilitarized Zone.” Rage still in his voice, Kim Jong Un brought his fist down on the mahogany desktop. “We must bring ourselves to readiness. I will not allow this Chinese slight to go unpunished.” He grew calm, “You may deal with individuals who stand in the way of this as you see fit. You must double your efforts.”

“At once, Supreme Leader.” Sung turned and left. On his way down in the private elevator, he smiled to himself. The plan was already in motion. Sung was sure he had done his best to ensure secrecy and deniability.

PRETORIAN HQ, MI6

Hamilton Smythe placed the photo on his desk. It was Andrew Verkatt walking into a dilapidated warehouse. Smythe leaned forward and put his fingers in a bridge across his forehead; his thinking position, as his wife called it. He scanned Evans and Weston’s observation report. The margin notations indicated there was a time-coded video to go with the pictures. That could wait. Verkatt breaking his long-established routine of only covert meetings with clients was serious. The man was very careful about his exposure. He had carried on business like this under the noses of the South African government for the last fifteen years. In fact, before that, Verkatt had been a full-time employee of said government. Until the old guards were swept away by the new Mandela government and truth and reconciliation became the norm. Cockroaches fear the light. Verkatt uncomfortable with this new level of exposure pushed his activities deeper into the shadows. Now this. Hamilton Smythe was sure of one thing: whatever was going on between Verkatt and the North Koreans, it involved a large sum of money. Verkatt’s greed was legendary. He scrutinized the photo.

“What’s your game then, Mister Verkatt? What’s your game?”

“Pardon me, sir?” Smythe looked up. He had not heard his secretary, Gwen, enter the office.

She was a handsome, slender, red-haired woman in her early forties. A South African of British descent, she had been his secretary for all of his tenure as head of MI6’s Pretoria station. Right now, she held a silver tea service. “Your morning tea, sir. I hope I didn’t interrupt.”

Smythe had been her boss for nearly ten years and, in all that time, it had never been anything but Mr. Smythe or sir. The ritual had been going on for so long now, Smythe doubted it would ever change.

“No, no Gwen, just going over the morning reports. Speaking of which, I need the latest summary of Andrew Verkatt and what he’s been up to for the last six months.” He tapped the bridge of his nose in sudden thought. “Hmmm, better get whatever the Americans have on him as well. I’ve got a feeling that he’s up to something and whatever it is, it can’t be good for any of us or our friends. I should have had him terminated when we had the chance.”

Gwen nodded. “How would you like the request to the Americans worded? Shall I make it an official request on letterhead or an informal request on your own stationary?”

Smythe was again poring over the report. He waved a dismissive right hand in the air, “I am sure you know which format will give us the best results.”

Gwen sniffed as she turned on her heel to leave. “The informal style it is then.” Smythe chuckled as she left. He had no idea what it was about Americans that she despised so much. Perhaps she detested heavy set men in Bermuda shorts and dress socks.

Gwen returned shortly with the MI6 file on Verkatt. It was thick and heavy, jacketed in red manila, stamped with a large, black “Top Secret.” Someone in the files room had a sense of humor, Smythe saw. They had assigned the code name, “Hyena.”

That, thought Smythe, was more than fitting considering the man’s reputation. He read the short bio of Andrew Verkatt to refresh his memory.

Born 1954 to a wealthy Boer family. The only son. A normal, if not undistinguished, school record. Did a little better in college and moved on to university. Concentrated on business and political study courses. That much was typical, thought Smythe. Had served in the Militia when his service had come up, as any good son of the Svelte would. Smythe flipped to the personal analysis pages. There was nothing new there either. Like most of the descendants of the Boers, he had strong views on racial harmony and had said as much during his student and army days. After his service was up, a job was waiting for him in government service, thanks to friends of his father. There was a further summary of his father and suspected friends. Close ties to right wing, white supremacists.

Young Verkatt had quickly managed his way into the NIS, then known as BOSS. Smythe grimaced in memory; an unsavory organization if ever there was one. An attempt to change their image by renaming themselves, the National Intelligence Service had been a failure. Changing the name without changing the men in the organization had guaranteed that. Many civilians, black and white, still used the old name, BOSS, when talking about the state security forces.

Secure in the bowels of BOSS, Verkatt had gone about building his own position into one more favorable to his tastes. South Africa had, for years, labored against world restrictions on trade of weapons and technology to a land controlled by apartheid.

Desperate for foreign capital, South Africa had negotiated in secret with other nations also in disfavor who needed supplies of rare earths, minerals and Uranium. Adversity makes for strange bedfellows. Israel, France, West Germany and North Korea were all suspected of black market arms trading with the South Africans. The Americans and, sadly, Great Britain, due to the control Russia had held over the greater part of the rest of the African continent, had bought what rare earths and minerals they needed on the open market. It was out of this tumultuous trade that Verkatt saw his chance to succeed.

In a very short period of time, he closed numerous deals that were beneficial for all parties involved, but his true specialty was yet to shine. He found his niche in the sale and trade of Uranium and nuclear materials. This included the trade of secrets. Some were South African and others he acquired through numerous contacts. BOSS might have suspected. But Verkatt was very good at his job. The profits were enough that those who might have been trouble were silenced by hefty donations to their private funds. His career rocketed forward in BOSS, until the point it no longer mattered what BOSS did with him. His contacts on the international arms markets were made. When the sea change happened with the release of Mandela and then his rise to the position of President, Verkatt left BOSS for personal pursuit of lucrative business on the international arms markets. For twenty years, he had been busy on the international scene as he closed deal after deal with any who had the money to pay. But in the last six months, he had gone inactive. Some speculated that he had retired. Smythe knew that was not the case; the photo on his desk said as much. Verkatt had just been gathering his strength.

Smythe leaned back in his chair and digested this information. Verkatt was going to be a hard nut to crack. As successful as they had been at intercepting traffic to and from the North Korean Embassy, their operation in Cape Town and others best not mentioned, precious little of it was ever decoded. Even messages where they broke the encryption were usually as dependent on time frame as to be useless. This could well be a job left to the SAS or M Branch. They could be much more persuasive than his technically non-existent organization.

MONROVIA, LIBERIA

Chun took great care as he guided his power boat the last few feet to the Liberian dock. A brilliant sunrise to the starboard side bathed everything in gold and red. Chun was tired, stiff and hungry from his many hours sitting at the helm of his small craft. The batteries in the night goggles had run out hours ago. He had navigated by flashlight and the marine GPS receiver built into the boat’s dashboard.

The docks were crowded, even for this early in the morning. Fishing nets were being fed onto all of the fishing boats. That explained the gangs of people. There must have been a run of fish in the deeper waters off the coast. Chun pushed farther down the dock until the water started to be too shallow for the deep draught fishing vessels. The speedboat gently nosed the dock. A young boy dressed in tattered hand-me-downs ran over and took the rope Chun threw to him. Once the boat was tied firmly at both ends, Chun took his small haversack from the passenger seat and climbed onto the dock’s boardwalk. He had no money to give the boy, so Chun tossed him the keys to the boat. He spoke to the boy in English.

“Take them. The boat is yours. I have no more use for it.”

The boy did not believe him. Chun could see the boy’s ribs under his shirt. “I am serious, it belongs to you. Where I am going, I will have no use for it.”

A brilliant white smile split the boy’s face. Chun stepped past him and strode purposely up the dock towards United Nations Drive. The excited chatter of the boy and his family faded behind him as Chun walked into the city.

It took an hour to reach the front gates of the American Embassy enclosure. The formidable steel gates were flanked by two Marines armed with M-16A4 rifles. Liberia had seen its fair share of unrest and civil war in the last ten years. The two soldiers looked every bit the professionals that Chun knew they were. He wished he could have shaved before this first encounter. Shoulders squared back, haversack across one shoulder, he approached the gate.

The two guards saw Chun’s approach and the haversack at his shoulder. Both were graduates of the Afghanistan school of hard lessons learned. The Marines assessed Chun from head to toe. Asians were not a common sight here. He looked at the way the stout gray-haired man carried himself as he walked towards them. Nothing about Chun fit the normal local pattern. Their joint assessment was “Possible threat.” Both embassy guards had seen what IEDs could do. Their rifles swung to bear on him in one fluid movement.

Chun froze in place before he heard the command to halt. He had healthy respect for the M-16; he had seen enough of its early handiwork, touring Vietnamese emplacements and camps during their “War of Liberation.”

The guard on the right walked forward, rifle still raised at Chun. “Please place your hands behind your head and do not move, sir!”

Chun did as he was told. No use to get this far only to be shot at the embassy gates by an overly cautious guard.

“Turn around and back up slowly towards me.”

Chun turned and backed slowly up until he felt the hard metal of a gun barrel prod him in the small of his back.

“That’s far enough. On your knees please.”

Chun knelt. A pair of hands searched him expertly. His pistol was found immediately. “Gun!” The gun was pulled from his belt and Chun was pushed roughly to the ground. The Marine who had been frisking him kept his knee in the small of Chun’s back. The barrel of the soldier’s rifle hovered just over Chun’s left ear. The concrete and grit of the road dug into Chun’s cheek and face. He endured. All this would change the minute the commanding officer arrived. The Marine’s voice was loud and urgent, “Sound the alert, secure the perimeter and all personnel.”

Within minutes, in a clatter of boots and equipment, the embassy security detachment arrived. Colonel Prentice, their commanding officer, pushed his way through the cordon of troops formed at the front gates. Frank Prentice was a lanky native of Louisiana, his heritage given away by only the slightest of accents. An accent most pronounced when he was under stress. This was one of those times. He approached the kneeling Marine crouched over the prostrate form of Chun.

“What you got, son?”

The soldier did not look up, “Sir, this individual was approaching the compound gates. I didn’t like the look of him, so I ordered him to halt. When I searched him, I found this.” He produced the Chinese assassin’s gun Chun had been carrying. Prentice took the gun and turned it over in his hands. Not a normal firearm, that was for sure.

“Chinese. Have you attempted to question him yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Well you might as well let him up. Nobody is going to be dumb enough to try anything with every rifle in the camp aimed at him.”

The Marine rose off Chun’s back and stepped back to Prentice’s side, rifle at the ready. Chun got slowly to his feet, beating the dust of the street from his clothes as he turned around to face Prentice. Careful not to make any threatening moves, Chun kept his hands at his sides, palms out. Prentice could see why the guards had seen this man as a threat. Even after his rough treatment and the grave situation he was possibly in, this man was not shaken.

Chun cleared his throat. “I am a North Korean citizen. My name is Chun Seng Kyun. I am a Deputy Director in the People’s Ministry. I wish to defect.”

Prentice turned to the soldier beside him, “Get the Ambassador. This is his type of show.” He turned back to Chun, held out his hand and motioned to the compound. “Perhaps we can continue this inside the safety of the compound walls.”

Chun bowed his head. “As you wish.”

Prentice grabbed the Officer of the Day’s arm as he led Chun inside the compound through the main gate. “Make sure the boys have secured the compound. I want a full alert, but make it look casual. Our guest here carries himself like he’s somebody, so I’m inclined to take him at his word.” The OD moved quickly to carry out Prentice’s orders. Prentice watched him go before turning back to Chun. “If you will follow me, my office is right over here.”

The two men walked across perfectly tended embassy grounds. “Your men are most enthusiastic in the pursuit of their duties,” Chun observed dryly.

Prentice chuckled and nodded his head, “Yeah, well not much happens around here, but when it does, it can get hairy pretty fast. Most of my boys have been around. It makes ’em a bit more cautious. The boy who frisked you operated out of Kabul. He lost more than a few friends over there.”

Chun rubbed his still-sore back. “That explains much.”

Prentice smiled in spite of himself. They continued up the main steps of the embassy past the door guards. As Prentice returned their salutes, he saw Chun’s right hand twitch. It was a hard thing to give up being a soldier. The Colonel opened the door to his office and directed Chun to one of the leather chairs in front of his desk. Ambassador Cranwell and the station CIA resident turned up seconds later.

Ambassador Cranwell, all sharp creases and a perfect smile, was a sharp contrast to Doug Bishop, the rumpled and sweating CIA resident. Cranwell got down to business, cutting off Bishop’s hasty questions before Bishop had a chance to blurt them out.

“What’s going on here, Frank?”

“Well, sir, it appears that this gentleman here is a highly placed North Korean citizen who wishes to defect to our country.”

Cranwell motioned Bishop to close the door to the hall. He walked around to face Chun directly. “And you sir, are?”

Chun stood. “Chun Seng Kyun, Deputy Director of Supply Section, third. Engineering Section, Ministry of People’s Security, North Korea.” He smiled, “But I am sure that your resident officer of the CIA is more familiar with my activities under the auspices of the Yeun Tae Trading Company.”

Cranwell turned to Bishop, “Can you confirm this man’s identity, Doug?” Bishop still could not believe his ears. An opportunity like this was like winning the lottery. To have one of the most important defectors in thirty years show up on your front doorstep. Hell, he could smell that muggy Washington air already.

“Uh yes, Mister Chun’s activities in this region are well-documented,” he managed to stammer out. “This person does resemble what few photographs we have of Comrade Chun.”

Cranwell absorbed all this in silence.

Chun pointed to his haversack on Prentice’s desk. “Please, I have not come empty handed. I believe this will prove I am who I claim to be.” Chun reached down for his haversack and extracted the tube containing the microfilms of the North Korean nuclear facilities he helped build. He put the tube on Prentice’s desk. “Gentlemen, I give you the complete plans for both the Uranium processing facility at Yongbyon and the Plutonium breeder reactor facility at Packchon.” Chun pulled out another three small, lead cylinders.

Bishop picked up one of the cylinders and examined it.

“These are isotope samples of those facilities for your own independent analysis,” Chun said.

Bishop dropped the tube he was holding as if a snake had bit him. His face drained of all color. “Oh, Christ! It’s operational then, isn’t it?” He pointed at the three cylinders. “I mean, that stuff, is it weapon’s grade?”

Chun’s reply was blunt, “Yes, it is operational, but they have as yet to produce enough material for any type of device.”

Bishop turned to Prentice. “We have to get him and his stuff out of here now.” Bishop was out the door and down the hall to the communications room before Prentice or Cranwell had a chance to answer.

Cranwell, always the diplomat, held out his hand to Chun. “Welcome to America, Mister Chun. It appears all of your papers are in order.”

BATUMI, GEORGIA, CIS

Major Pieter Boskovitch drew the heavy smoke through his mouth, down deep into his lungs. Tendrils of pleasure snaked from his depths as the synapses of his brain exploded in random bursts, igniting every nerve and fiber with sensation. Waves of color erupted before his eyes on a shore of infinite darkness. He pitched and whirled away from the terror and uncertainties of life; pushed with the help of the hashish and heroin concoction the proprietor, Sergei Smirnoff, served to his Russian patrons; patrons all too eager to escape the drudgeries and fear of the new order.

Pieter smoked, no telltale needle marks to give him away to the dreaded GRU.

Military Intelligence was still a force to be reckoned with, even with the FSS growing in power every day. Another deep drag and more colors snaked across his vision. He would sleep soon, and the dreams were the best part of all.

Through a small peephole in the wall, Sergei watched Boskovitch’s slide into oblivion. His grandparents had been accused of collaboration in the last days of the Second World War, by a self-serving NKVD officer who had a long-held grudge against them. Sergei had avenged their deaths with piano wire; the old man who had caused his family shame died in twisting agony. He slid the cover of his hidden vantage point back into place. The two others who fit the description marked out in Verkatt’s instructions were on the same duty station. They were also lying in a drugged stupor in cells on the next floor down. Sergei’s concoction was a powerful mixture of four percent heroin with the rest hashish. It gave a potent high. Soon, these three men would be receiving a much more powerful high. Sergei reached into his hip pocket and extracted a cloth pouch containing a hypodermic syringe, needles, and four vials of pure medical grade, eight percent liquid heroin solution. Twice the normal purity available to him.

The pouch had been in the attaché case; Verkatt had thought of everything. Sergei drew out the syringe and attached a needle to the end. The needle glinted in the light; the ultimate coercion device. He pierced the top of one of the vials and drew some of the clear liquid into the syringe. With light taps at the side of the cylinder, he depressed the plunger to push any air out. He couldn’t have these addicts dying of an aneurysm. He smiled at his own dark joke.

Pieter was far gone. He didn’t hear Sergei enter the room, wasn’t aware of the burly Georgian as he walked to the side of his cot. Even as the needle slid into the vein on his arm and the carefully measured amount of heroin started on its insidious course through his body, Pieter sensed nothing. Sergei looked down at the prone Major in his rumpled work dress, his glazed eyes rolled back in their sockets. A thin rivulet of drool ran down the side of the Major’s thin face. He hated these men for their weakness, even as he dealt it out to them, but most of all, he hated them for being Russian.

Sergei was Georgian to his core, every bit the “man of steel” Stalin had been. What good was a life if it wasn’t being pushed to the edge? Was it his fault the edge lay on the other side of the law? His father had been a drunk and his mother a whore, they had nothing to teach him. But the Bratva offered an unlimited future. And Sergei progressed quickly from just another boyevik or warrior to a respected and feared kryshas. He was a man who got things done and didn’t mind a bit of blood on his hands. His job done, he left to take care of his other two guests.

Pieter started to come around; coming down was not always a good experience. This time was different. He still felt very mellow. He lifted his watch up and was amazed at how much time had passed: nearly four hours. He did not see the small red dot on the inside of his arm where Sergei had injected him. Pieter struggled off the grimy cot and pulled his work dress straight, anxious to find his comrades. The locked door came as a surprise. The door was made of stout wood with a small covered grille set into the middle of the top of it. It reminded him uncomfortably of a prison door. For the first time, Pieter saw that the rooms Sergei kept in the back of his establishment were more like cells. Even more disconcerting was the silence. Sergei’s place was usually loud at any hour. He beat at the door with his fists.

“Sergei! Sergei you bastard! Let me out, damn you man. I paid already.” Sergei stood in the hall just outside the door and listened to Pieter’s shouts get more and more frantic. The other two guests were clamoring for attention as well, but they were one floor down at opposite ends of the building. Isolation was a great tool. Sergei had paid off his employees and girls for the evening. Except for the three Russians, the normally crowded building was empty. For three million, it was the least he could do. He waited till Pieter started to scream before opening the small grate. Showing who was in control from the beginning was an important issue in matters like this. With a cold eye, he watched the relief spread across the Major’s sweating face.

“Stop your sniveling Boskovitch.”

Pieter was near tears. “Thank God, Sergei. The door must have gotten locked.” Pieter’s stomach dropped when he saw the look on Sergei’s face. He knew in an instant that the door had been locked on purpose.

Sergei saw the uncertainty on Pieter’s face and smiled like a wolf. He moved forward until his face filled the entire space of the grille. “I would not thank him just yet, Checkisti.” Pieter jumped when the hatch slammed shut. He was too stunned to react. Sergei was well down the hall before the blows on the door and yells of the now-terrified Major resumed. Sergei laughed out loud. For this kind of entertainment he would have carried out Verkatt’s wishes for free. Further recreation was waiting. Full of dark purpose, he moved down the stairs.

Pieter felt the waves of nausea build and overtake him once more. He rolled to the side of the cot and vomited on the floor again. The shakes hit right after, hard. It felt like his was body was tearing itself apart. He was dying; Pieter knew it in his heart. Sergei must have put poison in the drugs. That was it. He cursed at his stupidity, his weakness. He rolled in agony on the cot as the next wave of pain shot through him. How long had he been here? Days, months, an eternity?

From his peephole, Sergio watched the Major go through his first stages of withdrawal. It always amazed him how short the time it took, never more than a day. A few more minutes and he would give Pieter some release with a small dose. Just enough to take the edge off. When the Georgian was finished with the Major, he would do exactly as told. Sergei had to admit, this one was far tougher than the other two. They were proving much more pliable.

The shakes hit Pieter in waves now, each bout slamming deeper and deeper into his core. He did not see Sergei until Sergei was standing over him with a hypodermic in one hand.

Sergei’s smile was bitter cold. “Comrade Boskovitch, I hate to see you so ill. I have brought you some more medicine to ease your pain.”

Pieter could guess what was in the needle, but he was too weak to protest. Right now, he would kill for release from his agony, poison or not. He thrust out his right arm and struggled to hold it still.

MI6 HQ, PRETORIA, SOUTH AFRICA

Hamilton Smythe read through the transmission time sheet of the Korean cover company operating out of the Cape Town warehouse. There had been two major bursts of incoming and outgoing coded messages, which preceded and followed Verkatt’s meeting. The man was up to something for the North Koreans. Whatever it was, it could not be any good. He looked up across his desk at Edward Travis, the head of the Communications Department.

“Any luck at all with the codes, Edward?”

Travis was through and through a product of the British public school system. A thin, cadaverous man, he maintained an air of superiority over anyone he deemed lower on the social ladder than himself. But it hid nothing from anyone. All the members on station knew that underneath his shell of class, he was a toadying coward. Travis struck what he liked to think of as his headmaster’s pose. The staff called it his Mr. Chips delivery.

“Barnes feels that there might be an ‘En Clair’ ghost behind the initial outbound transmission,” Travis said.

If it were true, if there was a shadow of the un-encoded transmission under the intercepted signal, it could give them a real key into decoding everything coming out of the Korean operation. Smythe would be able to throw a very big wrench into North Korean intelligence’s gears. “But you, of course, have your doubts.”

Travis hesitated to answer. It annoyed Smythe that his Communications head would not or could not support the findings of his department. “Well… er… yes.”

Smythe decided to give him a bit of rope to hang himself with. Rumors had it that Travis bullied his staff and they, in turn, despised him. Smythe had suffered under the hands of a bully when he attended public school and he rarely missed a chance at retribution. He leveled his gaze at Travis over his reading glasses, which were now perched on the end of his nose.

“I would like to know on what grounds you reject the findings of Mister Barnes,” he said.

Travis had no answer.

Smythe decided to let him off the hook this time. “Then, tell Barnes to keep on it. If he is successful in any way, I want to know about it immediately. Have him come and see me later. Let Gwen know to expect him on your way out.”

“Of course, sir.” Travis slid out of his chair and left the room.

Hamilton Smythe waited until the door to his office had swung shut behind Travis’ back before he swore under his breath, “Prat.” The man really was odorous.

The monitoring of the signals from various machines, including the fax messages out of the North Korean legal and illegal operations, was an extension of the old “Stockade” program. The problem was, as always, decoding so you could read what was intercepted. Smythe pushed his reading glasses back up on the bridge of his nose and continued on with the Korean report.

MOBILE ROCKET FORCES BASE, BATUMI, GEORGIAN PROV. CIS

The guard at the gate eyed the three disheveled individuals as they sat in the UAZ 469 jeep. It looked to the guard like the men had had a very successful three-day leave. It took great dedication to get to such a state. He handed the Major back their papers and waved to his partner to lift the barrier.

Pieter looked at his two companions, Dimitri Golotsin and Sasha Filidovich. They were through, beaten. In the last stages of Sergei Smirnoff’s narcotic indoctrination, all three had come to know just how far their addictions would take them. Sergei had given them each two small vials of the now-precious amber liquid. Strong enough to take the edge off, but too weak to get high. Sergei had promised them a way out of the country and new identities if they could get what he wanted by tonight. The new addicts would have tried tonight anyway. Without more of the heroin, the shakes, the pain and the vomiting would return with a vengeance. Pieter had vomited blood during his last bout; he thought his lungs would burst. He didn’t doubt death would come before release the next time.

“The Storage Depot at 20:00, do not be late for duty,” Pieter said.

Blank faces turned to look at him. The treatments had been much harder on Dimitri and Sasha, but both men nodded.

“Better get cleaned up. We all look like hell. The last thing we want is to go on report.”

The two men got out of the jeep and shambled towards their barracks. Pieter had to return the jeep to the motor pool before he could do the same. Sergei had planned well. It was no coincidence they were all on the same duty roster.

Pieter washed himself under the gang shower in the Bachelor Officer’s Barracks. How long had the cursed Georgian been waiting for such a chance? Pieter almost resolved to tell the base commander Sturmovic the whole story just to see that bastard Sergei before a firing squad. But the memory of what withdrawal could do to him reared its abyssal depths in his mind’s eye. He rubbed at the red marks over the veins of his left arm. The shower was aggravating the situation more than it helped; Communist plumbing was haphazard at best. Water pressure and heat varied in great degrees. Pieter’s nerves, ravaged by recent events, exaggerated all information to his brain. He was forced to turn the shower off, another defeat of the spirit. Even the lights seemed too bright, his uniform too rough.

The Captain he relieved looked at Pieter’s sallow, worn face with appraisal. “Your leave must have been very successful, major.”

Pieter smiled weakly and mumbled, “Yes, I suppose it was.”

The Captain gave Pieter a strange look, but the reply seemed to quell the officer’s interest. Satisfied, the man left. Pieter sat down and tried to work his way through the paperwork that had accumulated on his leave. There was no sense to it. The numbers and words danced around the outside of his comprehension, making his headache worse. He just made it to the bathroom in time to vomit in the sink. There were specks of blood in it. Pieter did not even bother with surgical tubing. He just plunged the needle of the hypodermic into the vein of his arm. The initial rush was short-lived, but it did take the edge off. The clock advanced with excruciating slowness towards 20:00.

At ten minutes to the hour, Pieter grabbed his officer’s cap and left his desk.

“My men and I have orders to remove some of the warhead triggers and thermal battery units for testing by Moscow,” he told the Duty Sergeant. “We will also be putting in replacement components tonight.”

The duty Sergeant looked puzzled.

Pieter frowned. “I’m telling you this because it is going to be an all-night job. If anybody calls, tell them my team and I are doing routine maintenance on a few of the warheads in the holding area. If it can’t wait until morning, send them out there to find me.”

The Sergeant, a new conscript not long in the service, did not know such an occurrence was so uncommon.

Pieter met the others at the storage depot’s front gate. Twelve MAZ-7310 Launcher Transports sat with their deadly payloads within the double layer chain-link fence that surrounded the compound. An equal number of ZIL-157 6x6 supply trucks were also visible. Four single-man guard towers were positioned at each corner of the compound. Until a few weeks ago, the missiles had sat with their nuclear warhead packages in storage, but with the current internal terrorist threats and Islamic militant action on the rise, the base Commander deemed it safer to have the missiles armed and mobile on a full-time basis. Pieter silently cursed Sturmovic for his foresight. It was going to make the job that much harder.

Because the missiles were nuclear equipped, the enclosure was guarded around the clock by soldiers of a GRU detachment. Despite the Glavnoye Razvedyvatel’noye Upravleniye or Main Intelligence Directorate’s presence, Pieter, Dimitri and Sasha, all rocket forces officers trained in the installation and maintenance of the missiles and their payloads, were cleared for the area. Getting in was not the problem; getting the devices out could be.

Pieter presented the guard with admittance papers that he had typed up at his desk. “We are here to inspect missile units three, seven and ten.”

The guard, a GRU Lieutenant, raised his eyebrows. The hour and orders were unusual. “We were not notified on the duty sheet.”

Pieter had rehearsed his answer. “They failed to arm during the last test drill. The Commander feels that, due to the present situation, they should be diagnosed and repaired. Just in case, of course.” Pieter gave the guard a knowing smile. The guard waved the men and their UAZ jeep through. Pieter drove the jeep over to unit three.

The missile sat on the back of its Mobile Launcher in the transport position down in its tray, a welded pipe half-cage to protect the underside of its nose cone in transit. To allow easy access, the hatch to the nuclear payload bay was on the topside of the cone. A narrow foot way was welded to one side of the transport tray. Once the access hatch was open, the rest of the job of removal was quite simple. The Russian edict for most things mechanical was to make it durable and make it simple, no matter how dangerous the payload. The payload unit was a half-meter long cylinder of stainless steel, ten centimeters wide, nestled in a welded, stainless cradle. Pieter reached down and caressed the face of the unit. The cylinder was slightly warm to the touch. It had always amazed him that an object as small as this could harbor such raw destructive power.

A relative low-yield weapon, only five kilotons, both the trigger and the nuclear payload were housed in the warhead cylinder. The warhead was linked by a single computer cable to the Inertial Navigation System. This, in turn, was linked to an impact-triggered detonator. A mobile chain hoist equipped with a special jaw clamped to the sides of the carry tray supplied the lifting force needed to pull the one hundred and fifty kilo warhead from its casing. Once out, it was a simple but physically demanding job to manhandle the unit to the back of the specially modified UAZ jeep.

It took an hour for each unit. All three of the men were drenched in sweat, part from exertion, part from their need for another injection. The extra stress made their need a steady beat in the backs of their heads. The units were packed in special transport cases that, with the help of two bottles of good vodka, Pieter had acquired earlier that day from stores. The heavy-duty, foam-filled nylon carry crates were clearly marked with the international symbol for radiation and their Mobile Rocket Forces unit number. Pieter had forged the documents covering the transfer of the warheads to the storage and testing building. The guard, as before, gave the papers only a cursory glance. Anything was possible if you had the right papers. There was not a government door in the world that could remain closed to you. Pieter had made sure his papers would pass. The guard had no reason to suspect that the Major sitting in the UAZ before him was committing an act of state treason.

Seconds later, Pieter was amazed to find himself not under arrest, but clear of the compound. For the first time, he dared to hope that maybe it could be brought off. The sooner the better; he could feel the edges of his brain gnawed on by the habit. The last shot had packed less of a punch than he had hoped. The radiation symbols were hidden by quick application of a gun-tape patch. Time was running out.

Pieter parked the UAZ in the motor pool beside one of the ZIL 8x8 heavy trucks. The heavier transports were equipped with a winch mounted beside the tailgate. Sasha opened the back of the truck and the three warhead crates were wrestled from the jeep and winched, one by one, into its covered rear deck. Pieter produced a set of travel papers he had also forged earlier and checked them over. Dimitri tried to get the diesel engine of the truck warmed up and started. The Polish-built truck chose to be difficult. Pieter winced at every wheeze and cough of the cold engine as Dimitri pumped the gas pedal and thumbed the start button. With a dull rumble and a belch of black smoke, he managed to convince the metal bitch to start. Sasha and Pieter climbed into the cab. Dimitri drove the heavy truck out of the motor pool straight to the main gate.

Once again, the forged papers passed scrutiny and the barrier was drawn out of the way. Dimitri gunned the engine and the truck bounced and lurched off into the darkness, down the road to Batumi.

The guard they had just passed watched the small taillights fade in the distance and shook his head. Only in the Soviet army would men be sent off in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere to get supplies for a Commander’s party. He moved back inside to the relative warmth of the flimsy, wooden guard shack. Damn the Commander’s black heart, if the nights were not getting colder earlier this year.

BLACK SEA APPROACH TO BATUMI HARBOR, GEORGIA, CIS

The World War Two vintage MBT moved slowly through the oily waste-strewn waters of Batumi’s harbor. The boat, stripped of its original armament of torpedo tubes and fifty caliber machine guns, was now rigged for speed. Powered by twin turbo-charged marine diesels, each capable of generating four hundred and fifty horsepower. She was the ultimate runner. Whether it was drugs or guns, all that mattered was the money.

For this trip, she had a crew of four, one more than she normally carried, but this was a special job. If all went well, the boat and her crew could be retired for good. Her run into the Black Sea had been a risky pass under a moonless sky through the narrow straits of Bosporus, which ran between Turkey and the only warm water port in Russia, or whatever place controlled it that day. John Sykes, the leader of this group of unique and dangerous individuals, had decided to up the cost on that alone. Sykes was a solid man and a hard one. For most of his life he had been a well-respected member of the elite Royal Marines. That had been before he and a certain officer had come to blows during the Falklands conflict, over what Sykes still believed had been a stupid order that would have gotten he and his men killed. It might all have been left at that, if the officer had not been Lord so and so. Sykes found himself cashiered out, his otherwise shining military career in disgrace and ruin. He left Britain, disgusted at his treatment at the hands of the old boy network.

The ex-Marine headed for Paris, one of the cities where men with his talents could find regular work. He had met Petros Stamopolis, Captain of the boat he was presently on. Petros had been looking for a partner. Impressed by John’s credentials, he offered him a partnership in his smuggling operation for a modest buy-in and a percentage of John’s share of the profits until his full share was paid off. They had been hired for this gig by an intermediary of Andrew Verkatt, a South African Arms dealer they’d run some stuff for before. Through the contact, they were instructed to receive their extra crew member. The location of the extra man, the pick-up and destination of the cargo, were all given with disturbingly short notice.

Sykes stood on the bow of the patrol craft. The silent and dark docks and jetties of Batumi slid by. Skeletal shapes of cranes, back lit by the sparse lights of the town. Even the refinery was quieter than normal. The water was littered with trash. The oil was piped overland back to the motherland; there were no tankers in port to carry the oil to foreign markets.

Slung from his right shoulder, silenced barrel pointed to the ground, was a German-manufactured AK-74 battle rifle. This particular model was chambered for the NATO standard 5.56 millimeter. The German-modified hybrid really was a nice bit of kit. The four that he and his men carried, had all been bought on the black market without the need for troublesome end-user permits. Sykes smiled in the gloom. There really was no problem that couldn’t be solved with cold hard cash. Cash had also paid for the Russian Marine Special Forces uniforms they all wore. Considering where they were going, it would go smoother if they dressed in appropriate clothes.

He moved from the bow, back to the command bridge and climbed the short ladder. The figure of Petros Stamopolis as he stood at the helm, was a shadow in the gloom. Sykes moved up beside him.

“You’re positive you know where you are going?”

Petros was quite vain about his prowess as a Captain and he snorted in answer to Sykes’ question. “Relax, my friend. I can see like a cat with these things.” Stamopolis tapped the night vision goggles he wore draped over his face. His gray beard stuck out from underneath. It made Sykes think of some strange creature conjured from Greek mythology, summoned to guide them in their quest. He laughed and took another set of goggles from the shelf beside Petros. He could have used Russian-made goggles, but he needed sets that would work all of the time. The sets he had settled on were generation three Israeli. Expensive but worth it. They used a battery-powered ambient light-collecting lens arrangement. He turned them on. The docks leapt into bright green clarity. Sykes could see the outline of a heavy truck, with a rear canvass cover, at the end of the farthest jetty. The glow of three lit cigarettes burned with bright incandescence at the truck’s tailgate. The cigarettes really pissed Sykes off. You might as well set off flares to give your position away. He reached over and spoke down the voice tube set in the front of the bridge.

“Burghoff, get your ass up here.”

Petros turned to Sykes. “It is still early.”

Sykes shook his head. “Time friend Burghoff starts earning his keep. Besides, the sooner he tells those idiots to stub out those cigarettes, the bloody better. Bloody amateurs will be the death of us all.” Sykes watched the stocky butcher’s shape of Hienrich Burghoff emerge from a small hatch in the deck on the port side.

Burghoff was a German of the Eastern variety, an ex-member of the STASI secret police. The new Germany had little use for men like him and he’d bumped from this job to that until he’d strayed over the line one too many times and it became clear a quick change of identity and a new location would do more for his physical health and mental well-being than a lengthy trial.

Sykes disliked Burghoff the moment he set eyes on him. The man carried himself like he was still wrapped in the protection of STASI with power enough to terrorize people to do whatever he told them. That sort of attitude washed very little with Sykes, but all that could wait. He’d received instructions on what to do with Herr Burghoff.

The last member of the normal crew came out of the same hatch. Marc Reoum, a tall, lean ex-Foreign Legionnaire, pulled himself onto the deck. He was every bit as competent in his job as Sykes.

At one hundred meters from the jetty, Sykes saw the Russians stiffen and turn toward the sound of the boat’s engines. At least they were not armed.

Burghoff and Reoum took up station on the bow, their weapons at the ready. Sykes could see the men on the jetty getting hawser ropes ready to hold the boat fast. Burghoff was to handle all conversation, he was the only one fluent in Russian. He was also the only member of the crew who knew what the cargo was. Try as he might, Sykes had not been able to get any information out of the man. Petros cut the engines and they glided the last few meters in silence. Two of the Russians threw down hawsers and the boat was made fast to the dock.

Burghoff slung his weapon and climbed up a slime-encrusted, rust-covered ladder exposed by the low tide, set into one of the support pillars. His job was to verify the cargo’s authenticity. Out of sight on the dock overhead, Sykes could hear guttural Russian being fired back and forth. Burghoff came down the ladder and walked quickly over to Sykes. His English was heavily accented.

“The cargo is in order. They will lower it down to us in a few moments. They have been told that we have money, new identities and safe passage for them.” He paused. “Wait until we are well out in the bay before disposing of them.” Sykes nodded. Burghoff turned back to supervise the loading of the cargo. Sykes had his suspicions. With the kind of money being spent, there were very few items that a cargo that physically small could be. Whatever it was, it had to be worth a hundred times more than their fee on the international black market.

Sykes watched as the first of the small transport containers was lowered from the dock to Burghoff and Reoum, who were waiting on the foredeck of the boat. The runner had no stowage to speak of. The three crates were lashed down in turn to the deck. The Russian stenciling on the sides of the crates rang a distant alarm bell in the back of Sykes’ mind.

“Not my bloody problem anyway.” He checked his weapon. It took forty five minutes to load the three crates. It would be dawn in four hours and he wanted to be as far from this place as possible by then. Sykes had been surprised at the weight of the things. More distant alarm bells began to sound in his head. Marc finished tying down the crates and looked up at Sykes, who motioned his head towards the bridge. Marc’s goggle-clad head flicked a glance at the Russians now climbing down the ladder. The Legionnaire left the crates and moved to the command bridge. Sykes waited until all three of the Russians were on the bow. All of them were officers. One was even a major, not that it mattered. They stood there in silence fidgeting in the cold of the night.

Sykes raised his rifle and emptied a full magazine into the men. The silencer reduced the gun shots to a long series of choked pops. The muzzle flash strobed from the barrel in long tongues of flame, freezing each man in eerie green brilliance as the rounds hammered into them. The force of the bullet impacts tossed the Soviet missile officers off the bow of the boat into the oily water of the harbor.

Burghoff spun on Sykes. “You idiot! What the hell are you doing? I told you to wait until we were in the bay. We must get those lines off now.” He yelled at Petrol on the bridge, “Get the engines started. As soon as the lines are cut, get us out of here.” Stamopolis waved in reply; the engines rumbled to life. Burghoff advanced on Sykes, who had just reloaded his weapon. An accusing finger stabbed at Sykes’ chest. Burghoff was so angry he reverted to German. His English was almost unintelligible. “Du hilt ein Dumbkopff! You fool how many do you think saw the shots?” He drew himself up. “From now on, you will follow my orders to the letter. If you do not, I will kill you myself!”

Sykes fired a three-round burst into the East German’s chest. Burghoff, a look of shock and surprise on his face, stumbled back. His foot slipped on a pool of blood left by the Russians and he tumbled off the side of the boat into the bay, his body joining those of the Russians.

Burghoff disposed of, Sykes, with Marc’s help, quickly cut the lines holding the boat fast to the dock. When that was done, he moved back to the command bridge beside Petros, who backed the boat away from the dock. When he felt they were far enough in the bay, he swung the boat hard around and gave the engines full power.

“I am not so sure it was a good idea to kill Burghoff, or the Russians for that matter.”

“They were all a liability. You knew that and the man paying us knew that. He wanted Burghoff and those Russians dead. Once he had verified the cargo, Burghoff was just dead weight. Now none of them are a problem.”

“You are a cold man, John Sykes. A cold man.”

“Ah well Petros, live now pay later.”

His partner did not answer. He pushed the engine throttles to full and sped the boat off into the enveloping gloom.

MOBILE ROCKET FORCES BASE, BATUMI

Base Commander Nikolay Sturmovic was in a mood that befit his name. Three of his officers had failed to appear at morning parade. He was determined that, even though the future of his unit was suspect, until he had orders to the contrary, his post was to be run with the same level of professionalism that had marked his entire career. Missing morning parade, as far as Sturmovic was concerned, was an offense that should be punishable by death.

Sturmovic took solace in thoughts of just what punishment he would give to these three miscreants. A junior GRU Lieutenant ran up to him as he stalked the perimeter of the parade ground. The young officer saluted and produced a small notebook. Sturmovic embodied so much of the old ways that his men still used the no-longer-needed prefix of socialism.

“Comrade Commander.” The young man was slightly out of breath. Sturmovic made a mental note to talk with the base’s commanding GRU officer about an increase in the physical fitness regimes of his squad leaders.

“Have they been located?”

“No sir, but the guard who was on duty at the front gate said three men officers who fit the description left the base last night in one of the heavy trucks. They had proper paperwork.”

“What was the reason for their nocturnal expedition and what was their final destination?”

The young officer looked down at his notes. “Apparently they were going to get supplies for a party you were throwing.”

“I gave no such orders. What was the specialty of these three men?”

“All three were in the same duty section of Three Group, Mobile SCUD C missile battery.”

The Commander paled visibly. “And all three had access to the missiles?”

“Yes, sir. In fact, they were carrying out maintenance last night on some defective warheads.”

Sturmovic was amazed that this man had not put it all together yet, but then individual thought had not been overtly encouraged over the years in the Soviet forces. “Get every officer on base to the gymnasium now. Then get over to the storage building and check the payload sections of those missiles. Make sure they are all still secure and in place.”

“Yes sir, I uh…”

“Don’t stand there gasping. Move!” The tone of command galvanized the man into action. He took off at a dead run across the parade ground. Sturmovic watched him go. There was no point in sounding the alert. It would be a futile closing of a barn door after a fleeing horse. He would go back to his office and wait for the return of the GRU officer before making the phone call he knew would end his career.

STRATEGIC ROCKET FORCES COMMAND, MOSCOW

The Supreme Commander of the Rocket Forces, General Gennady Mikhail Kirstol, put down the phone and placed his head in his hands. He was the first to be touched by the political shockwave radiating from Batumi. The path of bureaucratic destruction had begun.

“Why me?” He ventured to the empty room around him. He picked up the phone and, with a heavy hand, dialed the President’s private number.

The President was gruff as always. “Da?”

“Mr. President, General Gennady Kirstol, Strategic Rocket Forces. We have a situation.”

The President hated the way the military danced around direct answers. He asked his next question in a guarded tone, emphasizing each word. “What kind of a situation?”

“Three warheads from a SCUD unit just outside of Batumi, Georgia, have gone missing.” The phone was silent at the other end for a long time. “Mr. President?”

The phone erupted. “How did this occur? Did they grow legs and walk off the base? Or perhaps their launchers wanted a change of scenery. What kind of fools are you people, that you can lose something so dangerous? I want details and I want them now.”

Kirstol waited until the furor subsided before answering. He swallowed hard. “I was only just informed myself of these developments, but I will try to be concise as possible.”

The President’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Oh, please do.”

“According to the base Commander Nicolay Sturmovic, three of his officers failed to show up for morning parade.”

Surprised, the President interjected. “I was not aware that these things were still done.”

“Sturmovic still clings somewhat to the past.”

“Is he an anti-reformist?”

“No, in fact he kept the KGB at bay during the Coup attempt. He merely is a man who sees that the older way of the military is the better way. The three officers in question were all part of the same duty section in the SCUD group. It appears that they have absconded, with the use of one of the unit’s heavy trucks, three complete warhead units. Sturmovic is still searching for them. If they are working alone, they cannot have gotten far.”

“And if they are not working alone?” The President left the question hanging.

“From what we know of the underground market developing in that region dealing with illegal sales of our military technologies, it would not be good. In keeping with directives you initiated, we must notify the Americans as per the START treaty and activate our most available joint NEST team.”

“We will look like fools.”

“With all due respect, Mr. President, better to look like fools than mass murderers.”

“Yes. You are correct. Keep me informed. If you will excuse me, I have some people to call. Good day, General.” The line went dead.

Kirstol breathed out a heavy sigh. That had gone better than anticipated. If Stalin had been in power, the NKVD would be arriving about now to administer a Tokarev-induced heart attack.

THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW

The “Glavnoe Razvedyvatelnoe Upravlanie,” or GRU, the military intelligence arm of the Soviet Army, gathers intelligence through military attaches, and keeping a close eye on the various arms of the Russian war machine.

The thawing of the Cold War, the exchanges of nuclear information and SDI technology between the new leadership in Russia and the United States, had formed and trained four new international Nuclear Emergency Situation teams. Staffed by a mix of highly trained individuals, each trained in every nuclear delivery system known, and a few just speculated at. Of course, all of the Russian team members were officers in the GRU, even if their official paperwork said they were outstanding officers of the Raketnye Voyska Strategicheskogo Naznacheniya. The Strategic Missile Troops of the Armed Forces.

General Fillip Ilyich Molotov, the Director of the GRU, listened to the President explain the unfolding situation in Batumi. Information he already had, but no need to inform his President of that. Unfortunately, the only team available was in the United States finalizing their training. They would have to be recalled. It was an unwanted early start to the team’s new careers.

Molotov and the President sat in a small room that adjoined the President’s main office. Swept daily for bugs and well-recessed in the walls of the building, it was supposed to be impervious to all forms of electronic eavesdropping. Molotov put little faith in such claims, but it made the President happy and so there they were, in what was little more than an oak-lined closet.

Molotov was one of the surviving old guard, everything a modern General should be. Experienced in battle and well-versed in the tactics of his enemies, whomever and wherever they may be. His style of leadership and temper matched his name.

The President wrapped up his brief with a question: “Who stands to gain the most through acquisition of these devices?”

Molotov’s answer was candid. “Take your pick. Any country who wishes to join the nuclear club without the effort. Every terrorist group with money and a cause. Even the North Koreans. They have a fully functional, if not plagued, program.”

The President did not take that well. “General, how will we retrieve these weapons?”

Molotov made a bridge out of his fingers, “It will be very hard. These particular units are extremely portable, but I think we can rule out terrorist groups.”

The President looked surprised, “And why is that?”

“The whole payload carriage assembly was removed, including the guidance system. These units are a large enough size that they would make a very conspicuous bomb. In fact, you would need a truck to move even just one around. Also, the warheads are controlled by a ribbon-type computer cable. A terrorist group would need access to our targeting algorithm and extensive working knowledge of the warhead itself. And while it is possible, I would think it highly improbable.” Molotov shook his head. “No, these were stolen to be sold to a country with a delivery vehicle of their own.”

“So that leaves us …?”

“China, Pakistan, the North Koreans or perhaps some private buyer with dubious plans of his own. The Chinese build most of the world’s electronics. They have a functioning nuclear program with intercontinental capability. Any advances in their guidance or warhead technology would be through adapting consumer technology gleaned from commercial contracts. Information can be a very lucrative business. They concentrate on components, not payload packages. Not all people have discretion in these areas.” Molotov paused. “Pakistan is a good probability. A nuclear weapon not linked to them, in their hands, would be a useful tool to create an accident or even a terrorist act on Indian soil. Though, our intelligence assets in the region have not indicated any type of move in their military or government to secure weapons of this nature.”

“And you believe this because?” The President leaned forward.

“Because, there is no information that can’t be bought in their government. Corruption would seem to be a way of life there. It actually makes the game less of a challenge, but in this case, I don’t care as long as the results are good. I also think a private buyer is merely wild speculation on my part.” Molotov spread his hands. “And so we are left with…”

“The North Koreans.” the President said.

“They have been put into a very difficult position by our demands of hard cash for oil. Our economic intelligence unit shows the Chinese are supplying them with but a fraction of the oil they need for that monstrosity of a military they insist on maintaining. Also, the new leader, Kim Jong Un, pardon me, their Supreme Leader, follows in his father’s footsteps and insists on a sixty day military reserve of fuel.” Molotov paused to pour himself a cup of tea. He took a sip and looked over at his president. “Our people know full well what kind of a strain that puts on your way of life. Power outages are common, when there is any power at all. Food and fuel cannot get to the outlying districts, so another winter famine can be expected. There is also a marked reduction in the output of the state factories.”

The President was not convinced. “But they have a program in effect and the means to deliver a device at least to medium range. Even this Supreme Leader would not be mad enough to detonate such a device on South Korean soil and risk the repercussion of world opinion, not to mention the wrath of the United States.”

“Considering what the Western press has said about Kim Jong Un, he couldn’t care less about world opinion. Do not make the mistake of trying to assign our values to an eastern culture. But you are right. The nuclear option makes little sense in the conquest of the South. But when you look at their culture, anything is possible. China has signed a friendship pact with the South, so the pressure on the North is greater than ever before. Also, one of our assets in the US State department secured the results of a series of computer simulations the Americans ran of a second Korean War.”

“And what were the results?”

“Casualty rates that even we would balk at.”

The President leaned back in his chair. “I see.”

“What do you want me and my men to do?”

“We will assume, for the time being, that they could be the ones behind this loss. Until we find out who is behind this, leave no stone unturned with the other countries discussed. Determine, through your assets, how bad the situation is for the North Koreans and their new leadership. You have convinced me that it bears looking into. We must also follow up any leads uncovered by Sturmovic in Batumi. Deploy the available NEST Team.”

Molotov nodded, “I will recall the Los Alamos team from the United States. The American woman commanding the Los Alamos team is regarded highly. As for Commander Sturmovic, he is a good man. It would be rash to destroy his career over this. If there was a conspiracy, it should have fallen on the GRU’s shoulders to prevent it.”

This admission surprised the President. In the old days, friendship was as fleeting as circumstance.

Molotov continued, “There is one other thing, Mr. President.”

“And that is?”

“It is regarding the warhead type. The guidance packet to be specific.”

“General Molotov, if you could be more specific, please.”

“The guidance packet was the newest one.”

“The one with…?”

“Yes, the one with the Hermes targeting system.”

“General! Find those warheads.”

“Yes, Mr. President. I’m doing my best.”

CENTRAL COMMUNICATIONS ROOM, PENTAGON

FLASH, FLASH, FLASH, 08/14/14 02:00 ZULU. IDENT: PROMETHEUS

THREE WARHEADS HAVE BEEN STOLEN FROM MOBILE ROCKET FORCES BASE OUTSIDE BATUMI, GEORGIA. NO SOLID EVIDENCE AS TO PERPETRATOR AT THIS TIME. REQUEST IMMEDIATE RETURN OF NEST TEAM FROM LOS ALAMOS. REQUEST FULL COOPERATION OF STRATEGIC INTELLIGENCE ASSETS IN BLACK SEA REGION, 08/14/14. MORE TO FOLLOW.

Master Seamen Harry Bell read the note twice before grabbing his telephone and dialing Command Duty Officer Seale’s number.

“Yes?”

“Sir, I have FLASH Traffic from the Russians. It came over the hotline.

“Get confirmation. I’ll be right there.”

The hotline Teletype had been installed by the Russian and the American governments after communications difficulties experienced during the Cuban Missile Crisis. The communications breakdown had resulted in the Russians transmitting their counter proposal to American demands over the Radio Moscow antenna. The hotline Teletype was used only in event of a nuclear confrontation, even though the once powerful Soviet Union was now a fractious collection of states. People forgot that the remaining ICBMs, with the exception of the Ukraine, were still under the unified command of Moscow; a power the Russian President was still reluctant to give up to individual states.

Bell quickly typed in Russian a request for confirmation and transmitted it to Moscow.

CDO Seale arrived just in time to see the confirming message return. He tore the message from the machine and read it. “Oh sweet Jesus. Better get CINCSAC on the line.”

“Aye, Sir.” He need not have bothered. A second branch of the hotline terminated in the underground fortress of Cheyenne Mountain. Moments later, the Command Duty Officer had the voice of CINCSAC on the other end of the phone.

“Has this been verified?”

“Yes, sir. It checks out as authentic.”

“Okay, forward the alert to NSA, CIA, DIA and the joint NEST team at Los Alamos. I’ll notify the President myself.” The line went dead. CDO Seale, the black console phone still clutched in his right hand, looked down at Bell. “Send it out to NSA, CIA, DIA and Los Alamos.”

Bell’s hands began to fly over his message center keyboard.

The Russians, although possessing a fairly good telephone system for official use, could still not quite grasp the size and depth of the United States secure communications lines. The Russian FLASH traffic was transmitted almost instantly to every destination specified. The one to Los Alamos, New Mexico, did take a half second more than the two to the NSA and CIA, but even light travels only so fast. To say that the message galvanized each organization into action would be an understatement.

FLASH Traffic is the military equivalent of an ambulance going ninety with its lights and sirens on. Its contents, like any victim of dire circumstance, are checked over and possible causes of action to control damage are discussed by a trauma team. If it’s required, outside specialists are called in to consult.

The mainstay of the CIA is its ability to take large volumes of intelligence data and successfully disseminate a great part of it into useful information. To aid in this daunting task is a IBM supercomputer designated, “ASCI White,” connected to a vast network of IBM PC’s and Data Entry Retrieval consoles. ASCI White, or at least part of its vast memory core, is programmed to flag sections of incoming messages containing “Hot” words for cross reference.

The information request on Andrew Verkatt, and his dealings with the North Koreans by a Senior Officer of MI6’s South African station, contained ninety percent of words the computers needed to “Hit” and fulfill the flag criteria. The FLASH Traffic was tagged with Hamilton Smythe’s MI6 Pretoria request and processed. The request, because it was coupled with the FLASH Traffic heading and because it also mentioned arm’s trading, activated a very old, little-used subroutine called BUCKLE in the supercomputer’s core program.

The request and the attached FLASH Traffic message were sent directly to the Director of the CIA and to the Director of MI6 before the safety interlocks installed in the latest update of the main program detected the error and tried to stop the data. Sir Arthur Harris, the Director of MI6, was notified in Whitehall, London, of the Russian’s problems in Georgia and the request of the MI6 station in Pretoria at exactly the same time as the Director of the CIA.

MOBILE ROCKET FORCES BASE, BATUMI

Sturmovic looked at the four bullet-ridden bodies. Three of them were his missing officers, but the fourth was unknown to him or any of his men present. More disturbing, the corpse was dressed in the uniform battledress of a Marine Forces Major. The commanding officer of the GRU detachment, Oleg Zatolutin, stood just behind him, conducting the scene. Two men in a boat were dragging the waters beside the dock, and another four were going over the ZIL heavy truck in great detail with Geiger counters.

Hours of exposure to the water in the bay had leached the color from the four bodies and swollen their skins. The Commander felt no pity as he viewed the corpses. They had received no less punishment for their treachery than he would have carried out himself.

The base doctor, a man half of Sturmovic’s age, struggled to do a hasty on-site autopsy on the bodies. It was a desperate attempt to find any physical clue that would allow them to get to the bottom of the theft of his warheads.

“Ah, got you, you little bastard!” The doctor held a bullet he had extracted from the body of Major Pieter Boskovitch, in the ends of a pair of surgical tweezers.

The doctor turned the bullet back and forth, frowning. “That is strange. It does not appear to be Russian. The round is too light, Commander, but the corpse on the end that we have not been able to identify has stainless steel dental work.”

Only ex-communist countries used stainless steel. There had been no identification on the mystery corpse. A series of photographs were taken of the man’s swollen face, to be flown by an interceptor fighter to Moscow. The pilot had been told not to worry about damaging his engines.

The small, misshapen bullet solidified his worst fears. This was a wide-based conspiracy. Perhaps even one originating outside Russia’s shores. Sturmovic squatted down and took the tweezers from the doctor’s hand. He turned the bullet around to get a better look. Mushroomed and bent as it was, the object was still identifiable as a NATO 5.56 millimeter round.

The doctor cleared his throat, “Commander, we are lucky that the bodies were not exposed longer to the water. The fat and skin react to the moisture and create a soapy substance that would have erased the traces of this.” The doctor had cut open the sleeve of Pieter’s left arm to the forearm and was pointing with his finger at a cluster of small brown dots over the vein in the crook of the elbow. There was triumph in his voice, “Injections. Injections I did not administer. All of the others, with the exception of our mystery corpse, have the same marks.”

“Drugs?”

The doctor confirmed this. “Da, and expensive ones at that. Heroin, most likely. I would have to send the brain for study in Moscow to confirm the purity level though.”

Sturmovic shook his head. “That will not be necessary, if you are sure.”

“I am sure.” The doctor moved his finger up to a faint bruise that encircled the upper bicep. “See this bruise here? That is where the rubber tourniquet was applied. A bruise like that would suggest a large amount of injections in a small time, the sure sign of a regular user, but one thing does puzzle me.”

“And that is?”

“Well, if this man had been a user for a long time, the veins on his arms would have collapsed by now from the scar tissue created by repeated puncturing. Also, injections in this area are noticeable. Most serious addicts trying to hide their drug use inject themselves between the webbing of their feet.” The doctor pointed to Pieter’s bare feet. “As you can see, there are no injection marks there. It would have been impossible for him or any of the others to hide such a serious addiction from his colleagues.” The doctor shook his head. “No, someone gave this man a large series of injections in a short period of time. Heroin is a most addictive drug and the side effects can be horrific. Once hooked, this man, as well as the others, would have done anything to avoid the withdrawal symptoms. Did these men have any recent leaves?”

Zatolutin, who had been listening quietly to the doctor’s explanation, spoke up for the first time. “All three men were issued a three-day leave before the duty period, when they stole the warheads. I have a report from the guard at the gate that they all looked extremely worn out when they returned.”

Sturmovic felt the slow burn of anger growing inside him. Someone had used drugs to control his men and he had a good idea of who the scum was.

“There is only one man around here who deals in drugs of this type.”

Sergei Smirnoff was very well known to Sturmovic. He hated the use of drugs among his men, but there had been little he could do to stem the tide. Raids on local establishments had failed. Smirnoff was too slippery and too well-informed to allow himself to be caught. Sturmovic had been forced into a compromise that he now regretted. As long as there was no decrease in performance, he let the Sergeants and senior officers deal with transgressors in their individual groups.

“It appears that we will have to pay a visit to Comrade Smirnoff. I would love to hear his opinion of all this.” Sturmovic dropped the bullet on the chest of Pieter’s body, turned and walked away from the dock.

Zatolutin ran after him, struggling to catch up.

Sturmovic wanted to put this scene of personal failure far from him. He moved towards the only sensible clue available to him, Smirnoff. He stopped at his personal transport only long enough to grab his AK-74. The GRU commander was just steps behind him.

“Nikolay, I would be of more use to you, if you could tell me what you are about to do with that rifle.” The GRU officer was a good soldier, every bit as ashamed at his and his men’s inability to detect and stop the theft.

Sturmovic turned and looked at the man, his face dark and foreboding. “Smirnoff had something to do with this. I intend to find out exactly what.”

The GRU officer looked at the rifle in Sturmovic’s right hand. “We can’t just go and attack private citizens, Nicolay.”

Sturmovic chambered a round in the assault rifle. “Smirnoff does not readily respond to the niceties of culture and conversation.” He flicked the safety latch on. “And he has no respect for the law or the police. In this case, I agree with his assessment. The rifle is just a tool to get his attention.”

Zatolutin nodded. “Everything is always personal with you Nicolay. If Smirnoff is involved, I would think for him it will all be strictly business.”

“It is my men who are dead. For me, you are right, it is personal.”

“I would be remiss if I were to let you embark on such a visit without a security escort.” Zatolutin gave Sturmovic a sly smile.

Sturmovic smiled back. “Yes, I suppose you would be. And who would you have accompany me on this visit?”

“Myself and two very dangerous Sergeants.”

Sturmovic reached inside his vehicle again and threw his back up AK-74 to the GRU officer. They walked over to the BTR-60 guarding the road to the dock. Zatolutin waved to two burly Sergeants standing by his personal UAZ. They secured their gear and followed the GRU commander and Sturmovic.

It was a tight fit within the cramped confines of the BTR-60. Sturmovic clapped the Corporal in the driver’s seat on the right shoulder. “Head into Batumi. I’ll give you directions as we go.”

Smirnoff was enjoying himself with two of his more exuberant girls, when the door to his room was kicked in and a small olive object hurled through it. He had just enough time to wonder where his bodyguards were before the Polish-made stun grenade went off.

The explosion knocked Sergei and his companions to the floor. Deaf and partially blinded, he struggled to get to a weapon. A boot landed between his shoulder blades, smashing him to the floor. The cool steel of a rifle barrel was pressed against his head, just behind his right ear.

Nicolay Sturmovic’s voice cut through Sergei’s fog of pain. “I would consider lying very still right now, Comrade Smirnoff. Very still.”

CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

“Now you know as much about the man as I do.” Sir Arthur Harris wound up his dissertation of Verkatt’s activities, past to present, by placing his coffee cup on the cherry wood table. The current Director of MI6 could feel his fatigue growing. The flight across the Atlantic and the time difference were all playing hell with his circadian rhythms. He had been intrigued by the accident of communications, not to mention the content of the FLASH Traffic message. How much intelligence of this sort did the Americans keep from their British allies? Even though the special relationship was in place, Sir Harris knew the Americans were not candid about certain aspects of their operations.

The Director of the CIA, Gerold Babitch, a swarthy Kentuckian, sat back in his high leather chair and digested this latest information. What value it had on the FLASH Traffic out of Russia, he did not know. They paid analysts to figure out that stuff.

For years the CIA had tried to get agents of value placed in South Africa, but they were the new kids on the block and now, under the current enlightened government, it didn’t seem as high a priority anymore. The British, though, had maintained whole families of spies in the country since the time of the Boer War. The burden of intelligence gathering and when needed, counter intelligence, handed down from father or mother to son or daughter, generation after generation.

Babitch was surprised when Sir Harris flew over himself to handle the briefing on the Russian situation. Babitch didn’t particularly like Sir Harris. He found the British Spymaster a daunting figure. He reminded Babitch of an extra demanding law Professor he studied under at Harvard.

Sir Harris took a sip of coffee. “I am surprised that you were unaware of the depth of Mister Verkatt’s activities. Illegal nuclear trade is, after all, a very hot topic for your lot. You do have a mission in Monrovia, just up the coast. Surely your station in the Belgian Congo keeps tabs of North Korean activities there.”

“Thanks to budget cuts, we had to cut the Belgian Congo operation back. Add to that, Angola is about ready to come to a boil again, and there’s a civil war going on in Liberia. My manpower there is less than thin, it’s anorexic. Besides, Africa’s always been your area. You guys have always paid more attention to it than us.”

“Consider it a colonial thing, the good of the Commonwealth and all that. Our friends in North Korean are up to something in the Congo. My sources in the region say that the mission there is in a bit of a panic. Somebody high up has gone missing, and the Ambassador has been recalled to Pyongyang. Now, do you think our good friend Mister Verkatt could be involved in any of that?” Sir Harris leaned forward, his face serious. “I find events like that very odd, unlikely even. Why do you think I am here, Mister Babitch, because I like the way your secretary makes coffee? Three nuclear warheads are missing, final destination unknown. My office needs to know what is going on with your end of this. My country has had too many nasty surprises served to us over the years. We would like to avoid nuclear weapons in Piccadilly Circus if we could.”

Babitch sat back in his chair and opened the top drawer of his desk. He extracted a series of black and white photographs. “These were taken in Batumi, Georgia, in the former Soviet Union yesterday. Three of the bodies are officers from the Strategic Rocket Forces base there. The fourth? Well, nobody knows who he is yet, but it’s a good bet he’s a former citizen of East Germany, probably ex-STASI, but then who the hell his age wasn’t?” He slid the pictures across the desk to Sir Harris.

The Spymaster looked over the grainy pictures. “Professional job,” he remarked. “Not our style, you understand, but still, a professional job. If you ask me, it looks like the work of a soldier, somebody with training and combat experience.” He held out the photograph to Babitch and pointed to the bodies. “Take a closer look. See how all of the rounds struck them mid-chest? The line of impacts are the same height for all of them, the work of a single shooter.”

“So one man, possibly a soldier, did it? I have an entire team of analysts go over these and you waltz over and hit me with, ‘a soldier did it.’ The world is full of mercenaries right now. How hard would it be to hire one?”

“Quite right; not very hard at all. There are a large number of professionals out of work right now. A little side benefit of this peace dividend that your lot likes to bandy about.”

“This is way beyond anything mercs would pull,” Babitch protested.

Sir Harris raised an eyebrow and took another sip of coffee. “And why would you think that?”

“I’ve seen them in action. I doubt they could pull off a theft of this magnitude.”

“That’s strange. I can think of at least three distinct groups of your own military that could, as you say, pull this off.”

“Like who?”

“Your Green Berets, Delta Force and any one of your SEAL teams, not to mention your own CIA special teams.”

“We don’t have any special teams.”

“Of course you don’t.” Sir Harris put his coffee cup down. “Regardless, they are professional soldiers, men who your country has educated at great expense to be the best, the brightest and the most deadly.”

“And your point is?” Babitch looked at his watch in impatience.

“Any person with that sort of training could do this, any person at all. In light of the special relationship, I would like to offer two of my best men to assist you in tracking down these warheads. They are presently in Syria and I will arrange transport to Batumi within the hour.”

Babitch shook his head. “Thanks, but no. The Russians don’t want this to become public knowledge. Your organization is far from secure when it comes to leaks.”

Sir Harris kept his anger in check; it would not do to explode now. “Mister Babitch, I was playing this game while you were trying to stack blocks in your playpen. Your organization is hardly immune to leaks either. It is the nature of our business to spring leaks every now and then. It keeps us all on our toes. At least when we leak, it’s not for political gain.”

An uncomfortable silence settled between the two men. Sir Harris had little respect for Babitch. This latest slight had shown him, once again, too be much the politician, and too little the Director of Intelligence he was supposed to be.

The new CIA, under his directorship, was too busy guarding themselves against world opinion, and how their organization looked to Congress. It was as if they lost sight of the real purpose of the agency.

“You are assuming we will make this a joint operation after all.”

Sir Harris began to hate the sheer superior smugness of this man. He forced his voice to be calm and level. “Mister Babitch, you will be making this a joint operation. It is in the best interests of the special relationship.”

Babitch did not see the danger signs. “And why is that?”

“Because if you do not, we will do more than leak that warheads have gone missing from a rocket base in the former Soviet Union. We will release a flood, no a tsunami, of information, foremost of which will be how poorly you and the CIA have performed.”

Babitch shot bolt upright, anger coloring his face. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Three warheads go missing in a region populated by extremist Muslim groups. Groups who are more than capable of carrying out a suicide mission with a nuclear weapon? Throw in a South African arms dealer who specializes in the supply of strategic materials to mad bastards like the North Koreans, one of the most militant nations on this Earth.” He looked Babitch in the eye. “Just bloody try me. We’ll start with Fleet Street and the World Press. We’ll see what’s left of you after they get started.”

The blood drained out of Babitch’s face.

Sir Harris had guessed as much. “Give me the mission requirements and I’ll pass them on to my men.”

Babitch was still rattled, he pulled another file from his desk and passed it over to Sir Harris. “We already have a joint NEST team on their way to Georgia. They should be there within fifteen hours.”

Sir Harris nodded. “I’ll have my driver meet me at the front then.” He stood to leave and extended his hand towards Babitch. “Don’t feel bad, Mister Babitch. Nothing personal. It’s for Queen and country, after all.”

CARASAMBA, TURKEY

Water rose around the command bridge of the gunrunner as it sank to the bottom of the small dock. Stamopolis had opened the sea cocks, flooding her hull in a bid to hide the boat from the air and buy them some escape time. Sykes stood in silence beside him. Stamopolis watched with regret the indecorous end of their boat. As the short radio mast slid beneath the water, he had a gut feeling that they should have turned this job down, no matter what the payment was. If their contractor had arranged to dispose of the men who stole whatever was in the crates, what would there be to stop him from killing the delivery men as well?

Sykes turned and walked towards the waiting loaded trucks, impatient to be moving. Petros lingered behind and looked at the last few air bubbles breaking the surface of where his boat used to be.

“Come on, Petros, I’ll buy you ten others just like her when this is over.”

Petros turned from his now-sunken boat. As he climbed into the cab of the big Daimler-Benz truck Sykes had somehow acquired, he took the AK-74 his partner handed him. Marc was in the enclosed back, hidden just in case there were some unforeseen surprises in store on their journey to the pick-up point.

Sykes was in inner turmoil as well, though he kept it to himself. After being instructed to kill Burghoff, Sykes had little trust for the word of their employer. Smirnoff had also been targeted for elimination, but Sykes refused. It was dangerous enough transporting their mystery cargo. No need to add another clean-up job on the target’s home territory. The crates made him uneasy. He resolved to open one when the opportunity presented itself.

The dirty blue gray Daimler-Benz was an antique. Its fold-down cab was covered by a faded patchwork canvas roof. More than a few rusted bullet holes decorated its body. It had probably been left behind by the last army to retreat from this rugged, forbidding terrain. Sykes had folded down the front windshield and removed the doors on either side. Only the roof shielded them from the sun. No doors allowed fast exit from the vehicle. John had a thing about windshields. He had seen too many people blinded and disfigured by windshield glass in explosions during his various tours.

Sykes pulled out his tactical GPS unit. The airstrip pick-up point and the route they had to take were a green line that ended in a blinking purple carat.

Sykes preferred to ride shotgun, but for all of the skill Petros possessed in the handling of watercraft, he had to be the worst driver Sykes had ever seen. So Sykes was behind the wheel. He pushed the gear lever into low and popped the clutch. The truck shuddered. With a grinding of old gears, the aged hulk began to lumber down the narrow gravel track that passed for a road. He did not like traveling through this terrain. The high sloping hills, many strewn boulders and long shadows provided lots of places for ambush. The scenery moved by with agonizing slowness as the ancient truck, gears protesting every shift, moved higher and closer to the airfield.

The long shadows of late afternoon washed across the base of the valley by the time they arrived at the airstrip. The narrow dirt landing zone lay at the bottom of a canyon between three high walls of rock. The only approach route was straight up its bore. Sykes looked up the narrow defile. His first thought was, it would suit a helicopter better than any fixed-wing aircraft he could think of. A faded and tattered wind sock hung from a pole set beside a rust roofed stone hut on the north side of the strip.

Sykes turned to Petros, “This must have been one of the strips used to drop off supplies to the resistance during the Second World War.”

Petros scrutinized the area with a practiced eye. “Well, the smugglers wasted no time in taking this place over.” He looked over at the wind sock that hung limply from its pole.

Sykes also looked around. Everything looked disused, but something did not click. It took a good five minutes and a closer look at the ground beside the landing strip before he realized what it was. Every ten feet was a small hide large enough for three or four men to crouch in. The hides were covered by a woven screen camouflaged with scrub to look like clumps of brush. It was pretty obvious close up and in daylight, but at night, they would be nearly invisible.

There was little wind and only a few clouds; that was good. Conditions could change in the mountains at this time of year with sudden violence. Sykes checked his watch; the plane wasn’t due to land for another four hours. He chafed at the delay. They had made good time through the mountains and every hour brought the chance of pursuit that much closer.

The three men gathered by the tailgate of the truck. Sykes climbed into the back. He had time, however unwanted, to satisfy his curiosity. He dragged back the canvas flap on the rear of the truck and tied it up to give himself some light. “I want to see exactly what it is we are smuggling.”

Marc joined him and the two men used the tailgate winch to pull one of the transport cases to the tailgate. The first thing to go was the gun tape patch. Sykes sucked his breath in sharply when the international radiation symbol was revealed underneath.

“What the fuck is this?” He undogged the latches and swung the heavy lid up. Sykes looked at the wide metal cylinder nestled in its hard foam cradle. The only break in the cylinder’s face was an inset plug at what was probably the base end for some kind of computer connection. He reached out and ran his hand over the polished silver finish of the face. It was warm to the touch. Sykes jerked his hand back. This was bad, very bad. He leaned back against the side of the truck, his insides churning. With Sykes out of the way, Marc Reoum got his first good look at the device inside the case.

“Merde.”

Sykes nodded, “Too fucking right mate.”

“This is not good. One would be bad enough. What do they need three of these things for?”

Sykes pulled out a battered packet of cigarettes and held it out to Marc who took one. Sykes lit both with his Ronson. His hands were shaking. He had been in the shit before and his hands had never shook. This was really bad.

“Bulk order, I guess.” Sykes’ attempt at a joke landed flat.

Petros had never seen a tactical warhead before. His partners’ reactions worried him. “What is it? What have we stolen?”

“It’s simple, Petros. Our bloody cargo is three nuclear warheads. Our anonymous employer has made us party to the theft of three nukes.” Sykes thumped his fist in frustration on the side of the truck bed. “Shit.”

Petros knew what his partner was thinking and shook his head. “It was a mutual decision, John. The money was very good. If not us, it would have been somebody else.”

The ex-Marine looked at Petros in disbelief. “I don’t care about these things. What worries me is our employer had me kill the Russians and Burghoff when they were no longer needed. This guy covers his tracks. We’re the next rung in the ladder. What’s to stop him from taking care of us once our part is finished?”

Petros shifted from foot to foot. “I think you are being paranoid. This is not our first time working for this particular client.”

“But it was going to be out last, wasn’t it?”

Petros had no answer to that.

Sykes’ mind raced. “Marc, set up a shooting position. Give yourself a good clean field of fire, covering as much of the airfield as you can.” He turned to Petros and pointed to a clump of vegetation beside the far side of the strip. “You may be right and it’s all on the up and up and I really hope you are. In which case, Petros my friend, you may label me a paranoid but, if this is a trap, it would work to our advantage to have you get in one of those hides. It’ll give you a good angle to pop up and get a few shots off into the side of the aircraft as he turns to set up for takeoff.”

The stares of his two partners were grim. “Best we can do for now. If we end up in the shit, they’ll know they were in a fight.”

The two partners moved into position. If Verkatt had sent a hit team out with the plane, Sykes had little doubts about their chances of survival. Now all there was to do was wait. The Kalashnikov came apart easily in his hands as he field-stripped and cleaned it.

A faint drone in the distance snapped Sykes out of a light doze. He locked and loaded his battle rifle. The safety was off and he prayed the batteries would hold out on his night vision goggles. Two dull flashes of light came from the nose of the aircraft. Sykes answered with two return flashes from an infrared flashlight he carried. They had poured gasoline in two tracks on either side of the strip about half an hour ago. Sykes walked over and lit one of the tracks. A line of orange fire took off down the length of the field. Petros did the same to the track in front of his hide.

The pilot was an expert. Side-slipping to lose altitude, he lined up on the two lines of fire and set down at the far end of the runway, bouncing his way towards Sykes. The roar of reverse pitch on the engines was immediate. The aircraft, a turboprop equipped DC-3, came to a stop fifty feet from Sykes’s position. The pilot dropped the starboard engine back to regular pitch and swung the aircraft about for takeoff.

The two side doors were in a perfect firing position for Petros. The twin radial engines coughed down into silence as the pilot cut power. Sykes cursed himself. Of the three of them, he was in the worst position to do anything. The huge tail of the Dakota was ahead of him, denying him a decent field of fire. The only thing to do was be bold. He jumped into the cab of the truck. Miraculously, it started on the first try. Sykes drove it to the front of the DC-3. He kept the lights off. No need to add illumination to any coming fight.

Sykes moved down from the cab and waited. A small hatch in the bottom of the fuselage just behind the pilot’s station fell open. A tall man dropped to the ground through it. Sykes could see that he, too, wore night vision goggles, but no weapons were evident. It was the first good sign. Still, an armed party could be waiting in the cargo section. He watched the man stretch himself before he walked towards Sykes. This was either a very cool customer or there was no trap. Sykes started to have a little hope.

SYRIA

Harris reached down and gave Addison’s shoulder a push. Sean’s eyes snapped open. He relaxed when he saw it was Harris. “What’s up, mate?”

Harris’s face was grim. He handed Sean a message flimsy. “We’re on our bike. Things are really in the shit.”

Sean’s eyes moved down the page. “When did this come down the pipe?”

“One of the comm. lads brought it to me just after midnight. You were still sleeping off your orange pop binge. Took me till now to decode the damn thing. These bloody burst transmitters are wonderful when you’re sending info, but they stink when you are on the receiving end.”

Sean checked his watch. It was just after three in the morning. He looked up at Harris and smiled. “So how’s your Russian?”

“About as good as yours.” Harris slapped Sean’s foot. “Come on. Grab your kit and pull your finger out. Shute said it was okay to nab one of the Land Cruisers. They can grab it back from the airport later.” He pointed to the flimsy in Sean’s hands. “Were thumbing a lift with Aeroflot.”

Sean swung out of bed and began to stuff clothes into his duffel bag. He stopped and looked at Harris. “Gear for an op wasn’t mentioned.”

Bill shrugged, “Short notice. It’s scrounger’s rules until this NEST lot can fully equip us. A big smart ape like you can dig up something.”

Sean frowned. “No gear, no plan, that’s just fucking typical. What the hell are they sending us up for? Do the brains in Whitehall think it was terrorists?”

Harris moved to the door, stuck his head round the jamb and peered down the hall. “What with the crap that’s going on these days? You know as much as they do, anything can happen.” Harris looked back into the room. “You not done yet?”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. Where’s your gear?”

“Already loaded in the back of the Toyota.”

Sean shook his head and chuckled. “You know Bill, you make me look bad.”

“Don’t I though?”

Sean opened his door, “Once more into the breach.”

The trip to the airport from the Hilton where the UN observers were quartered was uneventful. Local authorities had learned to leave the white vehicles and their occupants alone, unless they were moving into a sensitive area; then they were like fleas on a dog’s back.

Getting into the airport turned out to be another matter.

“Papers please.”

Sean looked at the guard on gate duty, a pretty sorry specimen in anyone’s Army. His uniform was rumpled and soiled, the red checked Kafiya on his head, grimy and spotted. Personal hygiene did not look to be his strong suit. Sean held up his UN pass. It was supposed to guarantee access to any part of Syria, no matter how sensitive. In reality, it was not the most effective key.

The vigilant guard looked at Sean as if he were patently mad and, in his halting English, began his demand again. “Papers please.”

Sean’s knuckles grew white on the steering wheel. He suspected that teaching the gate guards this one phrase of English was a subtle ploy by the local government to drive the UN operatives mad. Harris got out of the Land Cruiser and walked to the guard. The guard tried to bring his AK-47 rifle to bear, but Harris was too fast. He jerked the weapon by the barrel from the man’s hands. Still holding the AK’s barrel, Harris drove the butt stock into the Arab’s chest. The guard went down in a whoosh of expelled air. Harris flipped the rifle around and pulled back the cocking lever. The guard had not even had the foresight to charge his weapon. Harris placed the barrel of the rifle against the man’s forehead. The guard had regained enough of his lung capacity to realize what was going on and he started to plead in rapid fire Arabic for his life. Harris kept the barrel leveled at the man’s head for a few long seconds before pulling the clip out of the gun and throwing it into the weeds. He ejected the round from the breech and threw the useless rifle at the guard’s feet.

“Next time, figure out who you’re dealing with.” Harris walked over and lifted the barrier to let Sean through.

Sean looked up and down the flight line for an Aeroflot plane. There were a number of Russian Air Force cargo planes lining the runway. They were supporting their country’s presence as part of the UN monitoring force. All of them were painted in a mottled dull socialist gray, red stars emblazoned on the fuselage and wings. The hammer and sickle flag on each tail had been painted over with the new red, white and blue tricolors. It was as if the Russians did not trust themselves to stay on the new path of capitalism. The old symbols were kept on the aircraft, hidden by layers of paint, just in case.

Only one of the aircraft on the flight line had its interior lights on. Sean had to hand it to the Russians, their cargo aircraft designs really stood out. He steered the Land Cruiser towards the hunchbacked shape of the Aeroflot An-72, parked at the far end of the flight line. The STOL aircraft had two Lotarev D-36 turbofan engines mounted on the far forward and top of its high wing. This strange design quirk protected the engines against foreign object damage and gave the plane its characteristic appearance. The door on the forward port side was open. He parked the Land Cruiser to the rear of the plane.

The two men, with what little gear they had, got out. A gruff, unshaven man with unkempt blond hair and grease-stained coveralls, which might have been white once, met the two men at the door.

“Da?” Despite what they might say in mixed company, Addison and Harris were fluent enough in Russian to get by.

Sean answered in Russian. “We are the passengers you are expecting.” He and Harris showed him identification. The two cards were glanced over. Their grimy host grunted once and motioned them inside. The interior of the small cargo bay was padded in a vain attempt to reduce cabin noise. Small, red bulbs ran the bay’s length, providing just enough dim light for the men to avoid smashing their shins on whatever cargo they were flying with. There were no visible windows.

Harris wrinkled his nose. “Smells like a barn in here.”

Sean shrugged. The plane’s interior did have the pungent smell of a cattle truck about it but, then again, it was a cargo plane and not all regions of the ex-Soviet Union were accessible by road. Harris folded down a canvas jump seat from the side of the bay. Straw fell from behind the seat to the floor. He grinned at Sean in the dim light of the bay and, in a deadpan voice, said, “Always nice to see that one is appreciated by one’s hosts.”

The cargo officer came to check that they had strapped themselves in correctly for takeoff. He tugged at each harness once. Satisfied, he grabbed a hard-wired headset with a mike, which was hanging from a peg on the forward bulkhead, and he spoke rapidly. The engines started to spool up seconds later. His last act, before strapping himself in, was to throw two sets of bulky ear protectors to Sean and Harris. The noise inside the bay continued to build. Even with the protectors on, it was still bone-rattling loud. With a soft jerk, the pilot let off the brakes and started to taxi to the runway.

Sean hated takeoffs and landings. The flying part in the middle didn’t bother him, and he rarely ever landed in the planes he took off in, but that first and last minute of flight were not his favorite. He gripped the hardwood sides of his jump seat and braced himself.

It amazed Harris that his friend could throw himself out of an airplane at thirty thousand feet, freefall almost all the way to the ground, open his chute and purposely steer into trees, but was worried by something as small as takeoff. But even Harris was forced to wonder minutes later, when the pilot put them through the most gut wrenching and violent takeoff, either one of them had ever endured.

BATUMI, GEORGIA

Sergei sat in the middle of a bare-walled concrete room, naked and tied to a chair. He stared with utter hatred at Sturmovic and his men. “Is this how you treat honest citizens of a free Georgia?”

Sturmovic stared down at the exposed and immobile Georgian. “Not free yet, and if you are honest, Smirnoff, I will eat one of my missiles from fins to nose.” The Colonel shook his head slowly. “No, comrade.” The words came out as a curse. “We will discuss your involvement in the deaths of three of my men. They received two series of injections. One was heroin, which you administered, and the other was lead. Those who administered the lead, we are still looking for.”

Sergei’s denial was emphatic. “I deal in whores and grass, not heroin.”

Sturmovic raised his eyebrows. “How would you explain this?” He held up an empty syringe. “This was found in one of your more foul smelling rooms, under a much stained cot.” Sturmovic held it under Sergei’s nose to give him a solid look. “I doubt you have taken to giving your guests clandestine vitamin shots. If I were you, I would save us all some time and yourself a great deal of pain by telling us all you know.”

Sergei spat at Sturmovic. “I will tell you nothing, you Checkisti bastard.”

Sturmovic motioned one of his men over. He handed him the syringe as he took the soldier’s rifle. He felt the heft of the gun, then turned and brought the butt of it down hard on the bridge of Sergei’s right foot. The bones broke with an audible “Crunch.”

Sergei screamed. Color drained from his face as the shock of the blow raced through him.

Sturmovic looked at the drug dealer as he strained at his bonds. His voice was a steel instrument made to break a man’s will. It cut through the fog of Sergei’s pain. “That was really too bad, comrade. You’re probably going to need some physiotherapy for that foot, not to mention a cast.” Sturmovic leaned forward, putting more weight on the gun. He twisted the stock savagely.

Another strangled scream broke through Sergei’s clenched teeth.

Sturmovic’s tone was clinical as the Georgian tried in vain to pull his body free. “How many more bones do you think I will have to break before you tell us all you know?”

SOMEWHERE IN ZAIRE

With the cuff of his battle dress sleeve, Sykes wiped at the sweat that ran from his forehead and stung his eyes. The stink of aviation fuel hung in the humid air of the jungle. The start of a massive headache was well on the way.

All three of the mercenaries and one of Benjamin’s Filipino kickers were perched on the wings. Fifty gallon drums sat on the ground under each wing fuel port. Motorized pumps on each drum fed precious aviation fuel through rubber hoses into the wing tanks. Benjamin and the other kicker watched the pumps.

The drums had been rolled from a storage shed well-hidden by the jungle growing at the edge of the narrow landing strip. The pilot and the kicker swapped the pumps from drum to drum as needed.

Sykes shook his head to try and clear the pain; it only made the throbbing worse. Sleep had been a commodity hard come by in the uncomfortable, noisy confines of the DC-3. This was their second stop for fuel. The last one, according to Benjamin, had been in southern Libya.

They had been airborne now for more than sixteen hours. The sleep-robbing events the preceding day and the acquirement of the cargo were taking their toll. It was clear that fatigue was a very real danger for all three of them. Sykes worried it would rob them of the ability to react. He and Reoum had functioned on less sleep before, but Petros, a dangerous man in his own right, was woefully out of sorts on land. Sykes could not shake his gut feeling that their employer would try to silence them the same way he had the Russians. It was logical. A link back to whoever commissioned an illegal sale of this magnitude would be personally disastrous to them. The only question that remained was, where? When would be as soon as the warheads were delivered and safe in their employer’s hands.

His thoughts were interrupted, as aviation fuel spilled from the now-full tank and ran down the wing in wide rivulets. Thank God, the engines were cooler now. Hot metal and AV gas was never a good combination. At least the newer turboprops weren’t as prone to engine fires as the old twin Wasp radials.

Below the wing, Benjamin swore, he had been dozing in the heat. The pilot shut off the supply pump below Sykes’ perch.

Sykes, glad to be rid of the fumes, closed the fuel port. The discarded hose slid down the wing to the ground. He walked back along the wing to the root and slid down the hot metal to the ground. Benjamin and his other kicker shut the remaining pumps off one by one as the rest of the tanks topped off.

The two kickers started to coil the hoses, preparing to move the equipment back to its hiding place. The lanky American turned to Sykes. He wiped the fuel residue from his hands with a dirty rag. He looked as tired as Sykes felt.

“I’m beat. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to stop here for a few hours and grab some sleep.”

Sykes was relieved, but wanted to see what Benjamin’s full commitment was to his boss. “Won’t the man paying for this be upset at the delay?”

Benjamin spat on the ground in reply. “Screw him. This cargo is no good if it’s spread all over the landscape ’cause I fell asleep at the wheel.”

“Fair enough, I’ll post a guard.”

Benjamin shrugged. “Suit yourself. Worried I’m gonna set you up?”

“Shit happens. It never hurts to be ready for it.” Sykes watched the kickers wheel the empty drums across the narrow landing strip back to the shed. He wondered who filled the things up again. “You have any idea what the cargo is on this run?”

Benjamin ran his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, I know what’s in them but the boss pays me well enough I don’t give it any further thought. This is strictly a personnel and cargo pick-up for us.”

Sykes’s face hardened. “I’m sure you can feel the weight in those three crates when you fly.” Faded blue eyes locked onto Benjamin’s face. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have had your kicker place them over the wing root.”

“That’s just standard procedure man. It keeps my trim easier to maintain.”

“You the only one who flies into that strip?”

“Well, yeah, but I don’t see.”

Sykes cut him off. “You’re the only one this local talent Sergei Smirnoff ever sees, right?”

Benjamin shook his head. “If I were you, I’d quit while I was ahead and didn’t know any more than I did.”

“I see.” Sykes nodded. “It’s a bit late for that, sunshine. We had orders to kill Smirnoff. Clean up any trails, so to speak. So just who are we working for?”

“Listen, you definitely don’t want to go there.”

The barrel of Sykes’s battle rifle jabbed into Benjamin’s stomach. “Let’s get one thing clear here.” The Marine leaned forward until his nose was almost touching Benjamin’s. “I really hate surprises. We had a look at what was in the crates earlier. Three nuclear warheads was a very bad shock.” The snap of the safety coming off was loud. “Made me all nervous. How about you? You hate surprises my American friend?” He stabbed the barrel further into Benjamin. “We’ve done a few jobs for your boss and he’s never had us take care of the delivery boys before. This makes me think he doesn’t want anything leading back to him. Does that worry you? Because it fucking worries me. Moving drugs about is one thing but this? This is a very dangerous cargo, there’s all sorts of bad shit tied up to these things. If he’s selling them to the Hadjis? Well I might not be in her Majesty’s armed forces anymore but I’d have a hard time handing these things over to a bunch of radical Islamic nutters so my mates could get vaporized.”

Benjamin felt like he had swallowed a bowling ball. “Verkatt’s never sold to the Arabs.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah, pretty sure. Look, all I know is this is a special delivery. A real rush job, that’s it. It’s as much as I know. Honest.”

Sean pushed the pilot back. “It doesn’t bother you flying with those things on board?”

“They ride on a rocket all plugged in ready to go, why should I worry about them lying unplugged in a crate?”

Sykes had to admit, he hadn’t thought about that. “And you’re not worried Verkatt will try to kill us once he has his hands on the warheads?”

“Sure, I’m worried.” Benjamin shrugged. “But what do you want me to do? I figured I’d cross that bridge when I got to it.”

“You’re pretty trusting for a merc.”

Sweat rolled down Benjamin’s face. Fatigue flickered under the surface of his skin. “What do you want me to say? He’s paid my way for the last five years and he’s never fucked me over like the guys in the Company ever did. I can’t see him throwing me away just like that.”

Sykes snorted in disbelief. “You believe what you want.” He tapped the barrel of his rifle. “Myself, I like an ounce of prevention.” Sykes stepped back. “Sweet dreams, mate.”

Benjamin watched Sykes pull himself up into the DC3 through the rear door. He waited till the Brit was out of sight before he leaned against the side of the DC-3 with a body that suddenly felt heavy as lead.

CIA SAFE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, DC

Aidan Forest stared at Chun through the one-way glass. The glass was so cliché, even Hollywood had abandoned it. The Korean defector sat, staring at the smoke curling through his fingers. Chun looked up at Aidan through the mirror. There was no way the Korean could see him and the room was soundproofed, so he could not have heard him. The Special Case Officer found Chun’s steady gaze through the glass unnerving.

Forest opened the door and entered the smoky room. Being chosen to debrief one of the most important defectors in CIA history was a daunting task. Forest’s Doctorate in Far East studies, three well-received books on North Korea, his fluency in the language and his close ties to the CIA, had made him the most obvious choice for the job.

The safe house, located in one of the poorer sections of DC, was small and dingy. Chun’s presence here showed the borders of North Korea, physical and political, had become very closed indeed. Forest placed his briefcase on the desk and sat down.

First came the pleasantries. “Good morning, Comrade Kyun.”

Chun’s eyes narrowed at Forest’s form of address in his native language, but he did not look up. “Mister?”

“Forest.”

“Mr. Forest,” Chun took a long drag on his cigarette. “You are not now, nor will you ever be, my comrade.” He exhaled the smoke through his nose and mouth in a heavy sigh.

For that split second, Forest saw the strain Chun was under. The professor struggled not to cough, but the blue cloud of Chun’s smoke stung his eyes and made them water. Forest decided to go with the strictly business approach. “Fine, then we can leave the introductions as being dealt with.”

“As you wish.”

Forest opened his briefcase and extracted a tape recorder. A redundant move; the room was already bugged, but Forest was old-fashioned and sometimes the tape machine could pick out nuances of speech that the bugs missed. The record and play buttons were depressed on his old machine and the microphone set in front of Chun. Forest reeled off Chun’s name and former status for the benefit of both the room’s and his own recording.

“Why don’t we start at the beginning?” Forest said.

“No.” The word spoken in English hung in the air between them.

It was obvious Chun was going to assume the control position in this debrief. Unless Forest won him over quickly, hostility to his adopted hosts would downgrade the usefulness of the man’s observations. World political events could degrade as quickly as the value of the information Chun possessed inside his head.

Forest answered in Korean. “Pardon?”

Chun, dark eyes burning, glared at Forest. “Are you deaf as well as stupid? No. It is the first English word every Korean learns. It is denial. You have the plans. They are self-explanatory. As a gift to save my life, they are yours, but I will not give you a so-called chapter and verse account of my country or even my own involvement in any covert or official operations. I was promised a new identity and obscurity in your country. It is time to give me my new life,” Chun snorted in contempt, “in your American dream.”

Forest was little more than a hermit crab to Chun. At the first sign of trouble, into his shell he would go. The Korean did not expect the reaction he received. Forest started to laugh, deep body-shaking guffaws. Chun felt his anger building at this new humiliation foisted upon him.

Forest dabbed the tears from his eyes. “Please, do not do that again. It is quite painful.”

Chun sat in burning silence.

Forest had studied in depth Sun Tzu’s “Art of War.” Master Tsun had discussed the use of the unorthodox at great length in the chapter, “Emptiness and Fullness.”

“Mr. Kyun, the plans you have supplied us notwithstanding, you yourself know the importance of up-to-the-minute intelligence data. Do you think because of the plans, you have provided us, your place in our country is secured? They could be complete fabrication. Disinformation on a massive scale. How would we ever confirm their accuracy?” Forest leveled his gaze at Chun. “You are a wanted man without a country. Only the United States can offer you the anonymity that you so desire, but our American dream still lies just outside your grasp. Unless of course you can convince us of your worth.”

Chun’s face turned ashen. “You government bastards are the same the world over. Promises in one hand; a dagger in the other.”

“Maybe so, but all the same, here we are and my superiors have questions. You see, I have studied your country and its history in great depth. I find that your people have great strengths and long suffering tolerance. It is unfortunate that the West is so unobservant. We can continue in Korean but it would be easier for the transcripts if we switched to English.”

The last five minutes were forcing Chun to change his first impression of the thin, owlish Forest sitting before him. He obviously possessed great intellect. Chun would have to watch every word said. “As you wish, if this is to be my new home, then I must polish my skills in your language.”

Forest clapped his hands together. “Excellent. Shall we start again?”

Chun knew defeat was his. The final weight of what his country had tried to do to him and the full scale of his retaliation against that act crashed down upon his soul. No matter what he did now, he would always be seen in the eyes of his country as a traitor.

Forest saw the realization cross Chun’s face and the change in demeanor as the impact of events hit him. It would go much smoother now. The strongest ones nearly always broke the fastest.

Chun lit another cigarette with hands that shook slightly. He leaned forward and began to talk into the microphone. “My name is Chun Seng Kyun, Deputy Director Supply Section 3rd. Engineering Section….”

SOMEWHERE OVER THE PACIFIC OCEAN

The Gulfstream G650ER jet knifed through the frigid high altitude air at maximum cruise speed, six hundred and fifty knots per hour. A calm ocean, lit by a full blue-white moon unhindered by clouds, passed by far underneath. The pilots had been told to waste no time getting to their destination.

Gayle sat in one of the cabin’s plush chairs with her head leaned against the small window. The cold outside bled through the Lexan. It was a poor attempt to cool her overheated mind. Sleep was not going to come. The Mission Brief lay open on the table before her, discarded in frustration. The security measures at the Russian base had obviously been inadequate. It took bureaucrats to make so little seem like something solid as they struggled to prove fault lay elsewhere. The real questions and problems, as usual, remained unaddressed. Who did this, and why? What country, faction or terrorist group were the warheads destined for?

The three warheads were physically small, easily transportable if you had the right vehicle. Each one had enough destructive power to rival Hiroshima. This team had been formed with just such a situation in mind. Deep down, she’d hoped her duties would be limited to the dismantling and destruction of existing weapon systems in a secure facility or location. Only utter morons would allow an incident like this to occur. Gayle felt her anger begin to grow again.

Field Operations had informed her in very diplomatic terms, due to her inexperience, that the operation was to be a joint one with the British, of all people. A placating bone had been thrown to her. Officially, she was in charge. This netted her an uncomfortable bonus, but one she could get used to. Gayle fingered the brand new Captain’s bars on her uniform collar.

The Brits had a two-man team from their Special Air Service in Syria. It was almost too convenient. She had been assured they would be there only in an advisory position. She’d heard stories about the SAS in action, and considered them more a dangerous liability than an asset. As a lone woman in a field dominated by men, Gayle knew just how far they would try to push their advisory role.

The Sergeant’s service dossiers, supplied by the UK’s Department of Defense, were very thin. Both men had extensive combat experience, though the references were vague. Nowhere was it mentioned if either had any experience in nuclear emergency situations.

She held the grim, unsmiling service photographs of Sean Addison and William Harris. They looked exactly like what she considered them to be: the drawn weapons of covert policy.

Captain Yevgeny Alexandrov, the ranking officer of the Russian group, sat down beside his colleague so deep in thought. He put his hand on top of hers. As usual, he spoke in Russian.

“One so pretty should not look so burdened,” he said.

Gayle, slightly annoyed at the intrusion, detached her hand. “One so married should not be so forward.”

Yevgeny smiled, his dark eyes flashing. “My wife is a very understanding woman.”

“She would have to be. Anything new on the fax?”

“Nothing since the last one received.”

“The damned Brits are going to get there first.” She rubbed at her eyes. “There’s no telling the damage they could do.”

Yevgeny turned serious. “I read their dossiers. They both speak Russian and I know Sturmovic, the base commander, well. He commanded the first unit I was assigned to.” He chuckled. “An ironclad bastard, if there ever was one. One of the old guard for sure, right now he is tearing the base and town apart. These two SAS men, if what I hear about their training is right, are as close to his way of thinking as you can get.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“The same place as before. Playing, as you say, catch up.”

Gayle frowned. “That is a game I don’t wish to keep playing. Do you think Sturmovic or these two will get anywhere?”

“Have some faith. We are not on this plane just for show.”

“Go get some sleep, Yevgeny. Another six hours and we will be there. I just hope we can repair any damage done by these advisors.” She turned back to staring out at the moonlit ocean far below.

BATUMI, GEORGIA

Sean and Harris sat in the jump seats of the An-72, swallowing repeatedly, trying to equalize the pressure on their ear drums as the pilot lined up for final approach and the aircraft dropped altitude like a winged brick.

The landing was as violent as the takeoff. Both men unbuckled immediately and stood on shaky legs, eager to be out of the flying barn. The four-hour flight had seemed an eternity.

The Loadmaster, who Sean could have sworn was even dirtier now, muttered something in Russian too fast for either man to catch. He pushed a few controls on his master panel and the rear clamshell doors split open. Outside, it was still dark. They had been running from the sun.

On the tarmac, they were greeted by a young GRU lieutenant. “Please, you men will to come with me.”

Sean answered him in Russian. “You are from the base?”

Relief flooded across the young man’s face. “Yes, the Commander is busy in town right now. He asked me to take you to the base and find you quarters.”

Sean slung his kit bag in the back of the UAZ. “What’s he doing in town? Isn’t there enough to do at the base right now? I mean, is he getting drunk?”

The officer stiffened. “No, that is not the way the Commander deals with his problems.”

Harris looked up from securing his own bag. “Bit of a hard charger is he?”

The young officer’s face went blank. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“Likes to take matters in his own hands.”

The officer stayed silent, but his eyes gave him away.

Harris looked at Sean. Sean stepped in front of the officer. “Is your Commander involved in activities related to the theft of the warheads, right now?”

The Russian looked away.

Sean didn’t want to bully a confession out of this kid, but he would if he had to. “Look, if it’s related, it’s important to us. We can’t help if we’re stonewalled right at the start. If your Commander is involved in anything that your bosses might frown upon, we’ll see what can be worked out to cover him.”

The officer still looked uncertain.

Sean tried another track. “I know it’s his career over this. That’s not what we’re here for.”

The young officer got behind the wheel of the UAZ 469. Sean and Harris pulled open the flimsy side doors and got in as well. Ten minutes later, they pulled up in front of a seedy looking building in a downtrodden part of Batumi.

The lights of the building were all burning, and guards holding AK-74s stood on either side of the main door. A BTR-60 sat parked at an angle in front, its heavy cannon aimed down the street at an unseen enemy.

They got out of the UAZ. Sean and Harris were led up a flight of stairs to the second floor. The stink of urine was strong in the air of the stairwell. Sean felt the shape of an automatic pistol slip into his right hand. Trust Harris to find them weapons on the drive from the airport. He put the pistol in the front pocket of his jacket. It was a bit amateur, but it would have to do.

Weak groans and the sound of a fist striking flesh filtered through the door at the far end of the dim hallway. It was to this door that the GRU officer led them. As the three men entered the room, they were assailed by the smell of stale sweat, fear, vomit and blood. The distinctive tinge of explosive propellant still hung in a faint pale blue fog around the lights. Sean looked at the floor and saw a blackened flash circle on the carpet. They must have used a stun grenade.

The source of the groans sat tied naked to a chair in the center of the room. The man’s right foot was horribly swollen. From the look of the bruises on his face and chest, he had been beaten repeatedly. Two large Sergeants in battledress, with GRU shoulder boards, stood in the far corners of the room. Both were armed with the AK-74U sub machine guns.

Sturmovic loomed in front of the man tied to the chair. It had to be him. A large uniform jacket of the Soviet Rocket Forces hung across the back of a nearby chair, between him and the two British soldiers. From the look in his eyes, and the blood spattered in drops across the front of his uniform, this was his interrogation.

Harris spoke in Russian before Sean had a chance. “Having some fun with the locals?”

Seconds ticked by. All movement in the room stopped.

Sturmovic looked the two men over. “And just who the hell are you?”

Sean cut Harris off before he had a chance to reply. “We’re janitors, here to clean up your mess. Let’s start with the sorry bastard you’ve got tied to that chair.”

Sturmovic’s face darkened. “I will handle this in my own way. Besides,” he sneered as he stared at the two men in their civilian clothes. “I would not have asked for two useless diplomats. Now leave me. I have more questions to ask my guest.”

Both men moved their feet slightly apart. Sean spat on the floor. “You shouldn’t let appearances fool you. Leave your guest be for the moment. Who is he? Is he related to this cock up of yours?”

Sturmovic spun around on Sean, fists ready to pound into him. It was the wrong move. Sean drew the Tokarev pistol from his jacket and had the barrel against Sturmovic’s forehead with one fluid movement. “Move any further and I’ll spatter your brains all over the back wall.”

Harris had his pistol out and was covering the two Sergeants. “Keep your hands where I can see them.” The two men kept their hands in plain sight.

Sean stripped Sturmovic of his service automatic. Smirnoff, bound in his chair, watched the whole altercation through swollen eyes.

Sean’s voice was low and dangerous. “Now, one more time.” He nodded towards Sergei. “This man, is he involved?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“He is a drug dealer. He is the one who used drugs to get three of my men to steal the warheads. We found hypodermics upstairs. My base doctor told me my men were not the type of addicts their physical examinations would first lead you to believe. Their bodies did not have the telltales of long time abusers of heroin.”

Sean looked at Sergei’s bound form. “He’s still worth more alive. Your men, where are they now?”

“The base morgue. We found their remains in the bay this morning, by a little-used part of the docks. There was one other body who we suspect is East German. They were killed by someone like you. Somebody who knew what they were doing.”

“You have made your point. The guns and theater are no longer necessary.”

Sean lowered his pistol. Harris did the same.

Sturmovic took a step back and looked appraisingly at the two men. “Which unit do you represent for your country?”

“Special Air Service.” Sean looked at Sergei. “This party’s over. Get him cleaned up and seen to. The NEST team is going to want to question him.” He looked at Sturmovic and smiled. “Cheer up, Colonel. I just saved you from a firing squad.”

Sean untied Smirnoff and got most of the blood off the man’s face before a medic arrived. He’d been unimpressed with the Soviet medic’s attempts to clean up Smirnoff and treat his wounds. The man had been sent downstairs to join his Commander and the GRU troops. Sean didn’t imagine the Russians were enjoying themselves. Batumi was in Georgia and the Russians had become the loud guest who has outstayed his welcome a long time ago.

Sergei’s broken foot was splinted as best Sean could with the materials he had. Harris stood to the side, pistol ready, just in case. Sean looked over his handiwork. “Well, you’re not going to win any beauty contests.” He turned to Harris and spoke in English. “Fucking amateurs. He’s pretty lucky. They gave him a real doing; beat him past the pain threshold.”

“Think he’ll talk?”

“He’s got a pot full of morphine in him right now. Beating the shit out of him won’t get us anywhere. I doubt he’d feel it. It couldn’t hurt to ask him a few questions.” Sean looked back a Smirnoff, “Though I don’t know what good the answers are going to be.” He switched back to Russian. “What’s it going to be, Comrade? You going to talk to us or do we give you back to your Russian playmates?”

Sergei glared back out of his right eye. The left one was swollen shut. His voice was thick and raspy. Sturmovic had probably broken a few teeth. “Why should I help you English?”

Sean shrugged, “The choice is up to you. Just remember, we stopped them from beating you into paste. If you don’t want to help us, I’ll be forced to give you back.”

“We make a deal and maybe I’ll talk.”

“You’re not in any position to cut a deal.”

Sergei spat towards the door. “Then give me back to the Russians.”

“He’s a hard one,” Harris said in English behind Sean’s back. “See what he wants.”

“Okay, what kind of deal are we talking?”

“I tell you everything I know. You let me go.”

“You must be joking.”

The Georgian leaned over and broke into a wet, broken cough that moved through his body in spasms. When he looked up, his lips were red with blood. “Like you said, I am not in a position to lie.”

JUST NORTH OF CAPE TOWN, SOUTH AFRICA

“Bzzzt!” Benjamin hit the shut off for the “Waypoint achieved” buzzer on the GPS. The small VDT screen gave him the next indicated heading. A brief listen to the Flight Services radio frequency out of D.F. Malan International gave him the necessary altimeter setting, wind speed and direction. He switched his radio to scan. It would not do to fly into an incoming 777 at this stage in the game. To get out of the traffic pattern, six hundred feet in altitude had to be lost. Benjamin hoped the trees had not grown much since the last time he did this run. The American nosed the modified DC-3 over in a hard dive for the deck. The maneuver should shake off any stray search radars from the Army station on Tabletop Mountain that may have painted the old warbird’s skin. His transponder was already off. It was doubtful airport radar had picked him up. Thirty seconds later, Benjamin pulled back hard on the flight yoke and leveled off. Now came the dangerous part. He turned on the cabin intercom Sykes was plugged into. “Last leg, I’m going in, couple of minutes till landing.”

Sykes’s voice came back, disembodied by static, “Roger.”

Andrew Verkatt stood beside a heavy truck and scanned the skies for any sign of his cargo. The truck was kept in a warehouse on the outskirts of Cape Town. From time to time, the South African required its services to move certain more unsavory cargoes his government should not know about. He turned his head towards the faint drone of twin turbofan engines. It had to be the American. Unconsciously, he licked his lips in anticipation.

Benjamin was a full day late. It had taken a great deal of effort to placate the time-conscious Koreans, but better late than never. Verkatt knew his life would have been forfeit if Benjamin or Sykes had failed him. The North Korean political situation was deteriorating at an incredible speed. At least, that was how it appeared from Verkatt’s viewpoint. His part though was near its final act.

Benjamin pulled on his night goggles one more time, and hit the Infra-Red spotlight repeater switch.

The spotter beside Verkatt, a harbor black he hired from the Cape Town slums on a regular basis, stared out into the gloom through a lowlight scope. The man let out a short cry. He had seen the American’s signal. Two regulars at either side of the runway touched off the gasoline channel guide strips.

Benjamin watched the twin lines of fire flash into existence on the ground ahead and adjusted his heading. This was one of his most common drop spots. The fact that Verkatt worked on the fringes of the legitimate government had its advantages. He lined up for final approach.

Sykes looked at Reoum. The Frenchman sat in the jump seat praying, eyes closed to the gloom of the cabin. Reoum crossed himself and then shrugged in embarrassment when he saw Sykes was watching. The ex-Marine gave a slight nod and smiled back. Whatever got you through. Sykes could not remember the last time he had seen the inside of a church. It used to be a regular thing, every Sunday with precision, but three tours in Ireland, followed by a divorce, two more tours in the Rock pile otherwise known as Afghanistan to the uninitiated and its end result. God seemed a very distant being these days.

Stamopolis sat beside Sykes, carving a piece of wood he had picked up at the Congo stop.

The wheels hit hard and they all grabbed the bench sides to keep from being thrown forward as Benjamin threw the twin props into reverse pitch. The wood and knife in the Greek’s hands vanished into a pocket, to be replaced with his assault rifle. Sykes pulled on his own night goggles. He checked his rifle and moved to crouch at the cargo entrance. His partners followed suit. The two Filipino kickers stood by the rear doors, waiting for a signal from Sykes to open them.

The events of the warhead theft and the speed of their escape had robbed Sykes of essential planning time. Because the job was contracted on such short notice, details for final receipt of goods had not been fully discussed. Details Sykes hoped the American pilot could supply him with were denied. The only information Benjamin possessed were these landing coordinates. What waited on the other side of the doors, Sykes had no idea. Visions of the Russians and Burghoff, their bodies spinning, broken and torn, into the bay, were still fresh in his memory. He gripped his assault rifle tighter and nodded to the two kickers. Both cargo doors were undogged and thrown open. Poised to jump, Sykes checked himself just in time. Harsh white light flooded the cargo bay through the open doors and uncovered windows that lined the sides of the fuselage. The sensitive optics in his night goggles were blinded. Sykes flipped the useless optics up, blinking rapidly, swearing inwardly as he tried to get his eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness. His heart hammered against the inside of his chest at the closeness of the last call. Verkatt had robbed him of his first plan, to dive out of the open cargo doors into the darkness and then assess the situation from a position of stealth.

“Mr. Sykes, so good of you to finally arrive.” Even through a bullhorn, Sykes knew that voice. The arrogance of Andrew Verkatt was a palpable thing.

“I’m here Verkatt, with your cargo. Kill that light and then we talk.” The light went out. Everything plunged back into darkness. Sykes flipped his goggles back into position. The violent changes of light and dark gave him a headache. He yelled out the open doors. “Our pay, the other provisions, have all been made?”

“But of course. The money has been transferred to Swiss accounts in your new identities. I also have your new passports. I am an honorable man of business, after all.”

“I doubt Burghoff and the Russians feel the same way.” Sykes grabbed the cabin intercom headset hanging close by. “What do you see, Benjamin?”

“Not much. Looks like it’s just Verkatt, a couple of men and a big truck.”

Sykes looked back at his two partners. “Benjamin, I’m going out there to talk to Verkatt. Do you have enough room to get out of here if you have to?”

“It’s not going to happen, man. I’m at the end of the strip now. I’ve gotta turn this bitch around to get out of here. Besides, there’s not enough fuel left to get us anywhere.” Benjamin leaned his head back against his pilot’s chair. “You think he’s going to try something?”

“At this stage in the game, I don’t know. You can’t see any more than Verkatt and two men?”

“Even with the goggles, it’s pretty dark out there.”

Sykes looked at Stamopolis. “If he kills me, you shoot the hell out of those crates.”

Stamopolis grabbed Sykes’s arm. “Don’t do anything rash, my friend. We will be waiting.”

Sykes gripped Petros’s forearm in return and grinned. “You worry too much. Back in a flash.”

Verkatt barely saw Sykes’s camouflaged form slide out the door of the transport and walk towards him. The harbor thug beside him moved his hand to the holstered revolver on his hip and looked expectantly at his boss. Verkatt shook his head and lowered the bull horn from his face. Frustrated, the man moved his hand away from the gun. As Sykes got closer, Verkatt could see that he was armed and wearing night goggles.

Sykes eyed the man beside the South African and positioned himself so that he could cover the two of them with his rifle. “You lied to us, Verkatt.” The accusation hung in the air between them.

“Mr. Sykes, after all of the business transactions we’ve conducted, I’m shocked at your accusation. In what way did I ever lie to you? All I ever wished to keep my identity and involvement in all of this a secret from certain governments. You knowing what you were smuggling was not in anyone’s best interests.”

Sykes chuckled, low and dangerous. “You’ve got that right. If I find out you’ve sold these to the Hadjis or anyone like them. I’ll be back to slot you myself.” One of Verkatt’s thugs started forward at the threat. Sykes pointed his assault rifle at the man’s chest. “Don’t be stupid. Keep your hands where I can see them.” The goggles turned back to Verkatt. “The same goes for you, Andrew. In case you have any ideas about shooting me in the back, my partners will shoot into the cargo. I have no idea what will happen if it comes to that, but one would guess, nothing good.”

Verkatt held his hands out from his sides. “Mr. Sykes, your lack of trust amazes me. I assure you, these devices are not destined for the Middle East or any of their proxy. Are all mercenaries as paranoid as you?”

“Just the ones who are still alive.” Sykes watched the green-white moon of Verkatt’s face for any inkling of what would come next.

Verkatt shook his head. “For the money I am paying you, I trust you will be discreet about these devices. It would be bad for all involved, myself included, if certain knowledge made it into the wrong hands now.”

“Discreet is my middle name. The papers?”

“Of course.” Verkatt extracted a heavy-looking manila envelope from his briefcase and handed it over.

Sykes checked its heft and took a step back. “You have more men than this?”

“Two more.”

“Get them to back the truck to the side of the plane. They’ll need the hoist. These things are heavy for their size.”

Verkatt turned to the still-immobile helper beside him. “You heard the man. Get the others and unload the aircraft.”

Through the goggles, Sykes saw the brief look of hatred in the man’s eyes. “I would watch that one if I were you.”

“Mind your own business, Mr. Sykes. This is my country, not yours. They expect nothing less from the likes of me.”

“We need fuel.”

Verkatt was dismissive. “The American knows where it is.” The truck beside him rumbled to life. “Mister Sykes, I would love to stand and chat all night but, as they say, time is money and you are a day late.” The truck started to back up towards the plane. Sykes walked backwards, keeping a careful pace. A few feet from the aircraft, the driver stopped long enough to let the other two helpers climb into the DC-3. Sykes stuck his head around the door to give Petros and Reoum a thumbs up. He moved around to the front of the truck to keep an eye on the driver.

The driver sat in the cab, smoking a cigarette. Sykes put the barrel of his rifle at the man’s throat and released the safety. “Put that bloody thing out, you idiot.” The offending cigarette was stubbed out with a shaking hand.

Sykes moved back beside Verkkatt.

It took forty minutes to transfer the cargo. It was a much different load from the usual guns or drugs. A thump on the back of the cab was the signal that all was finished. The driver restarted the truck and pulled away a short distance. Verkatt’s two other men jumped out of the DC-3, lifted the tailgate into place and climbed in the back.

Verkatt turned to Sykes and held out his hand. “A pleasure doing business, Mister Sykes.”

Sykes did not take it and, after a moment, the meaty paw was lowered and wiped on Verkatt’s pant leg.

“Very well then, good-bye.” The arms dealer left them standing and got into the cab of the truck. With a crunching of gears, the vehicle lurched away from the plane. In minutes it was little more than a fading tan dust plume receding into the night.

Sykes jumped when Petros put a hand on his shoulder.

The Greek stared at the fading truck. “Do you think he came through with the rest of the money?”

“He’s no fool. He knows we’d come after him, not to mention the bad press he’d get if we weren’t paid.” Sykes moved to go inside the plane, “Come on, let’s grab the yank, find that gas and fuck off into the never never.”

BUILDING 213, NATIONAL PHOTOGRAPHIC INTERPRETATION CENTER, WASHINGTON, DC

“Gotcha!” Sergeant George Chatham sat back in his chair and rubbed at his eyes. He had spent the last twelve hours in the bowels of NPIC’s windowless monolith going over downloaded material from a surveillance satellite known only as Bird 202.

Bird 202 was in a near-perfect high latitude orbit. This orbit allowed it to move across the CIS, China and Canada. Its route covered the naval port of Vladivostok, most of what used to be the Eastern USSR and the rich oil regions and refinery plants there. Bird 202 also covered most of China and the Far East. The small polar orbit meant the passes were frequent. The amount of data to be sifted through was huge, even with the help of the building’s three CRAY supercomputers.

Chatham suspected from the clarity and quality of the data he was given that it came from a KH-14, a surveillance satellite about the size of a small bus that used a synthetic aperture linear scan radar to generate its pictures. The radar did a minute rapid-line scan of everything under it. So sensitive was the system, it could discern a height difference of just a few inches. Because it was a synthetic aperture, the width of the picture could be set for feet or miles. The strip pictures were then downloaded into one of the CRAY super computers kept in the sub-basement euphemistically called the “Dungeon.” There, they were converted into three dimensional computer images. The final image could then be turned on a terminal screen in any axis by an analyst.

Chatham’s labors yielded him a small boat, unrecorded in any of the region’s regular marine traffic logs. It was the wrong size and shape to be a fishing vessel. He leaned closer. With a rapid series of clicks on his mouse, the vessel was enhanced until it filled almost the entire screen. Another click and the color image rolled onto its horizontal axis until he had a good profile. Chatham manipulated the image further, until it was just a series of lines. Each one based on points of height, length and width. He now had a line drawing of a boat with long sleek lines, most likely some kind of drug runner.

Using a scaling subroutine program, the CRAY was able to assign a rough estimate of length, beam and possible draught of the vessel. This took a little over an hour and a half. A mind-numbing process to be sure, but Chatham, an avid solver of jigsaw puzzles, found work like this to be the ultimate jigsaw. He maximized another set of menus on his screen. The line drawing of the boat was fed into a search program and the CRAY began to compare it with every type of known ship the world over.

Chatham went back to the original program while the search was in progress. The image in its original form was called back to the screen and the lines of latitude and longitude were overlaid in faint green lines. A separate line with degrees, minutes and seconds was attached to the boat’s image. Bird 202 had a rotation period of three hours. Using the initial time of fix, Chatham proceeded to scan the block of video data, plus or minus fifteen minutes, to the next approximate fix. This took another two eye-straining hours, but at the end, he had the entire ingress track of his mystery boat through the Black Sea.

Unfortunately, the Bird’s last three hour pass did not allow him to see which port the boat had called in. It was too hard to pick its shape out of all of the ground clutter at the water’s edge of the Georgian coast. All he had was the vessel heading away from the coast on its egress track. The true beauty of the radar scan pictures were that they ignored things like night and cloud, giving reliable images regardless. In this instance, the skies were beautifully clear, but the Bird had not been tasked to use its Infra-Red cameras. Frustrating but only to a secondary degree.

A small yellow box flashed on and off at the top of the screen. The CRAY had finished its search of possible boat types. Chatham left what he was doing for the moment and called up the subroutine. A series of boat types, arranged from most to least probable, scrolled down the screen. The list was mercifully short, and started with a World War Two era British MTB patrol boat. The protocol for the next step was complex. All boats in that class had to be accounted for. That meant an interface with the Royal Navy Admiralty computer and its archival files. The boats, which had not been destroyed or scrapped post-war, then had to be located, and their owner’s political and criminal records checked for ties into drug or gun running in the Black Sea or Mediterranean area.

The trick to being a good data analyst was not knowing what questions to ask, but knowing how to craft a search program that would enable the CRAY to look for the information required. A skill in short supply at NSA, but Chatham had a real feel for the CRAY’s mindset. If the initial search turned up nothing useful, then he would go to the next boat type on the list and repeat the whole process. With a click of the enter key, the program was sent on its merry way. With luck, it would have something by Chatham’s next shift.

The scent of the hunt in his nostrils, he went back to the time search. Another hour and he had the egress track nailed down as well. This time, luck was with him. The vessel had diverted from its previous straight track. The next pass caught it just outside a small port town on the coast of eastern Turkey, marked by a small black x. He fed the town’s coordinates in and got the name: Carasamba.

The geographical location interface stated it was a fishing town, but was suspected of being a major stop on the drug trail heading west.

Chatham enhanced the image of the boat at its present position again. If it was a patrol boat, it would have little, if any, cargo space. Any cargo would be lashed to the deck somewhere. Chatham made a diagram was of the vessel in a stripped down form. The Sergeant then lay the first drawing over the last. One would cancel the other and all that would be left would be the size and shape of the cargo if it were indeed lashed to the deck.

He placed the image of one boat over the other and hit erase. A long, oblong box was left. He changed the box lines to a light green so that they would stand out and recalled the boat line image. Once again, this was super imposed on the initial video footage. Sure enough, outlined in light green lines, was a rough gray oblong that had not been there before. Chatham tried to enhance the picture of the box. Anything that could be gained at this point was a bonus. Unfortunately, the program was at its limits with the width of the beam to enhance any further. Chatham had his orders. He picked up the phone beside his terminal to notify the Duty Officer that he had a probable.

CAPE TOWN, SOUTH AFRICA

“We have the goods. Be ready for us.” Verkatt turned off the small cellular phone and closed it with an enthusiastic snap as he put it back in his coat pocket. In ten minutes, his troublesome cargo would be in the hands of his clients and he would be a much richer man. The Koreans would see him as a man who could get the impossible done. His future with them was very assured.

The Park and Sons warehouse was in a flurry of activity. A North Korean freighter was alongside the wharf, ready to take on its cargo of “used farm equipment.” Word from on high was that no mistake would go severely unpunished. Members of the People’s Security Service brought in on the ship, stood in plain view as a reminder of this.

Frank Weston and Don Evans were once again in their cramped offices, watching every move the North Koreans made. A freighter in the berth automatically doubled their workload. They monitored the comings and goings of every person who came in and out of the warehouse. Watching for attempts to put “illegal” agents in place. So far it had been routine. Nobody but the Captain and two of the bridge officers had left the ship for port call.

Though the two men were grateful for this, it was odd enough to be noted in the daily logs. The false telephone box gave the remote IR camera a very good view of the ship. Very little was obstructed by the warehouse building.

Evans had a run of bad luck, and lost at poker. He now had the two AM until morning shift. The freighter had been busy all day preparing to get underway. Activity on the deck had just picked up about five minutes before. A heavy truck pulled up to the side of the ship. The watcher trained a telephoto lens on the cab, and almost fell out of his chair when Andrew Verkatt got out. Evans blinked, and looked again. Verkatt still stood there. A North Korean security type whisked Verkatt inside the warehouse before he could shake Weston awake.

“What?” Weston’s voice was still thick with sleep.

Evans kept one eye on the IR monitor. “Verkatt just pulled up in that Lorry down there and now they’re craning some crates out of the back onto that ship.”

Weston sat up, all traces of sleep gone from his voice. “You’re sure it was Verkatt?”

Evans nodded.

“What’s the communications traffic into and out of the place, prior to that fat bastard’s arrival?”

Evans shot a look over to a graph that drew a line that went up when radio or any kind of electronic traffic came from the warehouse. “Looks like a real short message went out, about two minutes ago. There was an increase in activity on the ship, just a little after as well.”

Weston looked at the small video screen. The first crate swung lazy circles underneath the pivoting crane arm as they loaded into the hull. The lines around his mouth tightened. “Shit. These damn lenses are at the wrong angle for a good close up shot. There’s only one way to get a better look.”

Evans turned to face his partner, “Then we both go.”

“What for? No use risking the both of us.”

Evans was adamant. “We still both go and we go armed. You can be sure that whatever Verkatt is dropping off at this time of night, it is not food and clothing for the hungry children of North Korea.”

Weston shook his head. He knew that arguing with Evans would get him nowhere. The man had a stubborn streak a mile wide. From a small cupboard tucked away in a corner of their cluttered office, he took out a pair of Berretta 92S automatics, with silencers attached. The men loaded an additional two clips each. “I really hope we don’t have to use these.”

Evans nodded as he grabbed a high end DSLR. The camera was specially modified to take pictures in extremes of low light. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to blow the cover for this set up.”

“If we do, better hope they kill us.” The door closed softly behind them.

The resident Mr. Park stood by the window of his office and drank in the activity. The long-awaited call had finally come from the South African. The far-reaching sword of the Supreme Leader’s displeasure that hung over his head since this mission started had been stayed for the time being. As soon as the weapons were on board and the freighter was well out at sea, homeland bound, the sword would be withdrawn for good. Park had no doubts now about Verkatt’s acquirement abilities. For all his arrogance and capitalist grubbing, he had come through with shining colors. The phone on his desk buzzed. Park picked it up.

“Yes?”

The leader of the facility’s security team was on the other end. “They have arrived. The loading is under way.”

“Excellent. Have Mister Verkatt escorted up to my office.”

“As you wish.”

Park lowered the phone onto its cradle and took a last look out the window. The activity on the ship had increased to a frenzied pitch. There was a soft knock on the door.

“Enter.”

One of his own security team opened the door with a worried looking Verkatt in tow, flanked on either side by two more security men. Park waved the security detail away to Verkatt’s obvious relief and stepped towards the South African, hand outstretched.

“Mister Verkatt, you have done a great thing. My country is forever in your debt.”

Verkatt took the proffered hand and shook it. With a slight bow of the head, he acknowledged the magnitude of his feat. “It was my pleasure, Mister Park. If, in the future, your great country requires systems or equipment, feel free to contact me at any time of the day or night.”

“After your performance in this matter, I would think that my country would be remiss not to do so.” Park picked up a manila envelope from the top of his desk and handed it to Verkatt. “Inside are the access numbers to an account in the Cayman Islands holding your reward for such outstanding work.”

The envelope was plucked from Park’s hand and spirited into a coat pocket with a speed that Park would not have thought a man of Verkatt’s size could possess.

“I thank you once again, Mister Park, but I must take my leave. I have a meeting in Pretoria later today.”

“Of course.”

The distance to the import warehouse was a short one. It needed to be. Distance degraded the clarity of monitored signals. The docks of Cape Town, once bustling with cargo en-route to Europe from the Far East, no longer saw vast quantities of goods piled high on her docks. The Suez Canal, South Africa’s apartheid past and ensuing backlash of world opinion had eroded the importance of the Cape of Good Hope as a route to Western markets. Street lights and general upkeep of the older areas had fallen far down the list of concern to the municipal government. Things were coming back as the country’s economy improved but in this section of town, any face at night, let alone a white one, was still a rarity. The two watchers, fully conscious of this, pulled the collars of their coats up and moved silently through the deep shadow of the night time street.

The warehouse was a stark contrast to its dark surroundings. The old building and the wharf beside it sat encased in light. Whistles and commands in harsh rapid fire Korean rose in the still night air above the clank and whine of the freighters’ cranes and winches as the crew struggled to load Verkatt’s cargo.

On the edge of the barrier of light, Evans and Weston stopped in their tracks. The front door to the import office opened and Verkatt’s bulk walked out onto the street. The South African made a perfect silhouette in the doorway. Evans fought the urge to draw his gun and shoot the bastard. A lot of pain and misery in the world would be eliminated with the death of Verkatt.

The door closed behind Verkatt. Park walked over to the phone on the secretary’s desk and punched in an intercom number. It was picked up immediately. “Are they ready yet?”

“Five more minutes, sir. The tide is still high enough that she can sail as soon as they have secured the load.”

“Very well. Waste no time.”

Verkatt turned to his left and began to walk to the wharf to retrieve his truck. Evans turned to Weston and questioned him in a whisper. “Well, what now? Do we tail him or do we keep going?”

“We don’t do anything. Get back to the office and call this in to the duty officer. Tell him the name of the ship. Give me the camera. I’m going to see if I can’t tail him for a bit, get a shot of him and the truck.”

“Why bother? We’ve got enough to go to the South African government to get a conviction.”

“A conviction for what? You can be sure the man has covered his tracks. No, we call this in and let the boys in Pretoria figure it all out.” A heavy truck engine throbbed to life by the ship. Weston gave his partner’s shoulder a small push. “Go on, I’ll be fine.”

Evans headed back to the office at a quick jog. Weston moved quickly around the circle of light until he was just to the right of the exit of the wharf, hidden beside the road behind some conveniently stacked crates. If Verkatt was as cagey as Weston thought, he would leave the truck’s lights off until he was a good distance away from the warehouse. His observation proved correct. A minute later, a late-model Mercedes six by six truck pulled slowly onto the street from the wharf, its lights off. As the truck turned and went by his position, Weston moved out of hiding, grabbed the tailgate and swung himself up onto the heavy bumper. He changed hands and drew the silenced automatic out of his coat pocket. With the hammer cocked, he used the barrel of the gun to pull aside the canvas gate hanging down over the back of the vehicle.

Verkatt’s helper was startled when the rear flap was drawn back by Weston, but not so startled that he did not try to get rid of the watcher. He grabbed for an ugly-looking knife in a scabbard at his hip. Weston shot the man twice in the chest, a difficult maneuver, holding on one handed from the tailgate of a moving truck. The grinding gears of the motor drowned out the twin pops. The African dropped his knife and fell forward onto the floor. Blood began to pool in a spreading dark stain under the body.

“That tears it, stupid bugger.” Weston pulled himself into the back of the truck and looked down at the dead man. He rolled the corpse over. The face was unfamiliar to him. A quick search of the man’s pockets revealed little in the way of money or identification. The only information on the man at all was a tattered slip of paper with a prefix that Weston recognized as a Pretorian phone number, most probably Verkatt’s. The scrap went into a coat pocket for further scrutiny by the lab. He took another look out of the back of the truck. They were almost at the outskirts of Cape Town. There were too few houses to offer any cover and the truck was moving too fast for Weston to jump off safely. At the city limits, the driver slowed the truck and stopped. Weston heard the passenger door open and someone get out. He brought the pistol to bear on the tail of the truck. The cab door slammed shut and the truck started to lurch around in a tight turn, heading back into town. Weston moved to the back and pulled back the canvas flap. He could see Verkatt standing by the road waiting for something. Seconds later, a helicopter dropped like a locust out of the sky and picked the arms dealer up. Weston brought the camera, all but forgotten, up to his eye and got off a rapid series of shots at the aircraft as it rose quickly and took off in the direction of Pretoria, following the N1 highway. A rough plan formed in the agent’s mind. It was all very illegal, but then the best plans always were.

The freighter slipped her berth and headed into the dark Indian Ocean. Park stood at his window and watched the ship’s rust-seamed bulk move slowly away, until distance overwhelmed her dim navigation lights. Park stood at the window a long time, staring at the dark sea. The world had just changed once again. He had been there to see and feel it move under his feet.

The truck pulled to a stop. Weston waited by the tailgate. He heard the driver’s door open and a name, followed by a string of commands in Afrikaans. He waited. The name was repeated, this time followed by a string of abuse. Over the idling engine, Weston could just hear footsteps on gravel walking up the driver’s side towards the rear of the truck. The rear flap was pulled back hard and the driver stuck his head in to give his partner hell for falling asleep on the drive back. The words died on his lips as he saw the body lying on the floor of the truck. Weston put the barrel of his gun against the frozen man’s temple.

“That’s right, don’t you move. We have a lot to talk about, you and me.”

BATUMI, GEORGIA

Sean felt his heart sink in his chest. He and Harris had been thrown cold into this mess. Not all that unusual; he was required to adapt to any situation. The regiment prided itself for that ability. Lack of intelligence was a way of life. But HQ had omitted a major fact this time. The team leader was a woman and the Captain’s bars on the lapels of her uniform were new. This operation was being led by a Lieutenant with brand new Captain’s bars.

Sean and Bill were dressed in well-worn Russian camouflage battledress. The two men looked no different from any other Soviet soldier on the base, though a closer look would reveal no insignia or rank bars on their uniform. Even Captain Yevgeny Alexandrov had mistaken the two for Sturmovic’s bodyguards.

Gayle stopped in front of Sturmovic’s desk and saluted the base Commander. “Captain Gayle Ecevit, United States Air Force. I am the NEST team leader.” She looked at the two SAS soldiers standing behind Sturmovic. “You are Sergeants Addison and Harris?” Both men nodded. “I want to make it clear from the start, this is my show. You gentlemen are only observers.”

Sean looked her in the eye. “Of course we are.”

Gayle sucked air back through clenched teeth. “I’m not sure I care for your tone, Sergeant.”

“I’m sure you don’t.”

Harris stabbed a thumb in Sean’s back to shut him up. “Sergeant Bill Harris. You’ll have to excuse him. We only let him out of his cage when there’s a particularly nasty bit of work to be done.”

Yevgeny stepped up to cool things down. “Please, it was a long flight. We are all tired and under the situation, not ourselves. I am Captain Yevgeny Alexandrov of the GRU. Your SAS is similar to our Spetsnaz units.”

Sean and Harris shook his hand, eager to put their brief skirmish behind them. Sean answered. “Essentially, yes.”

The GRU Captain introduced the two remaining team members. “Lieutenant Griegory Valotsin, GRU. Lieutenant Valerie Borodin, GRU. You will be hard pressed to find as exemplary officers anywhere.”

Gayle’s voice cut into the proceedings. “We should compare notes. Every second puts more distance between us and the warheads.” She turned to Sturmovic. “I understand, Commander, you have a suspect you are interrogating. I will need to see the man and, if needs be, interrogate him again.”

Sturmovic looked at the two British soldiers. “Will you tell them or shall I?”

Gayle’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me what?”

Sean was matter of fact. “We let him go.”

“You what? He was our only witness and you let him go?”

“Yes.” Sean pointed his thumb at Sturmovic. “The good Commander was in the process of stomping the man’s shit into oblivion when we arrived.”

“How the Commander chose to handle the situation is his concern, not ours.”

Sean was aghast. “You’re saying torture is okay with you?”

“We need information. Thousands of lives depend upon retrieval of these units. I don’t like the methods, but I need results. I need to know the score.”

Sean took a step forward. His face was white with anger. “I don’t give a shit what you want, Captain. I will not condone or allow torture of anyone in any form on my watch. The damage done is amateur and pointless. By the time we got on the scene, Sturmovic here was really on a roll. The source would have been dead in another twenty minutes.”

Gayle bristled. How fast these people started to push. “Sergeant Addison, may I remind you that I command this team and expect you, in light of the circumstances surrounding this incident, would want to give full cooperation in the investigation.”

Sean gave the back of Sturmovic’s chair a small shove and spoke to the Commander in Russian. “He didn’t tell you anything, did he?” Sturmovic shook his head. Sean looked back at Gayle. “Do you understand? He didn’t tell them anything. Give her the tapes, Bill.”

Harris produced three cassette tapes from his chest pocket. “These are Smirnoff’s confession. He gave us as much information as he could. The man behind all of this compartmentalized everything very well. Sean and I have run across his handiwork before. He’s a South African, an arms dealer called Verkatt. This was a contract job, far too organized for terrorists, even well-funded ones. We have map notations and possible pick-up zones as well. Sean’s right, beating him wasn’t the answer. It was all something he could deal with. We gave this Smirnoff character a way out and he went for it.” Harris smiled, “There really is no honor among thieves, you know.”

Sean broke in. “So there it is. Bill and I have been out of communication with our superiors for nearly two days. Has your CIA or State Department come up with any other additional leads?”

“One of our analysts at NPIC thinks he found the boat the warheads were transported on. From his time code, they have a huge leap on us. He thinks the units were transferred to a truck and then airlifted out. He was following up on it.”

Sean looked at Harris. “Bill, why don’t you fill Captain Ecevit in on the autopsy results.”

“Okay.” Harris walked over to the chalkboard on the wall beside Gayle. “The autopsy and our own inspection of the bodies show that they were shot with 5.56mm NATO rounds fired from an East German modified version of the AK-74. Divers recovered one from the waters beside the wharf where the bodies were found. Judging from the pattern of hits, the men were standing in a group when killed by a burst of fully automatic fire from a single rifle. The remaining dead man, killed by a three-round burst to the chest, has been photographed and the film sent to the Moscow headquarters of the GRU. The East German dental work of this individual suggests that he is a national. They would have the best chance of telling us who he could be from their own files. As Sergeant Addison has also stated, Andrew Verkatt is a known South African weapons dealer. From time to time he has dealings with the drug trade. Otherwise Verkatt deals in strategic materials, specifically through the Congo, but Zimbabwe and Angola have been used as well. This would be the first time he was suspected in selling stolen nuclear warheads. Sergei Smirnoff was approached by an employee of Verkatt’s, an American named Benjamin Johnson, to use drugs to coerce three individuals from this base to steal three warheads and their navigational packages. As a known trafficker in the Soviet drug trade, Smirnoff had almost unlimited access to personnel of this base. Many of the men here are vets of Chechnya. A lot of them came back with more than just war stories.”

“Did Smirnoff give you the location of the landing site?” The GRU Captain Yevgeny Alexandrov had his hand on Sturmovic’s phone.

Harris nodded. “He gave us the one he used most often when this Johnson fellow was flying in trade.”

Alexandrov picked up the phone and started to dial. “I will scramble a pair of helicopters to check it out. The coordinates please.”

Sean shook his head. “It won’t do you any good. The airfield is in Turkey.”

Gayle checked her notes. “Is it by Carasamba?”

“Yes.”

She produced the photo facsimiles from NPIC. “The NPIC analyst was able to plot the egress track of this vessel to the port of Carasamba. He figured from there the warheads were transported by truck to an airstrip and then flown out.”

The quality of the pictures was amazing. Sean and Harris were both impressed. Sean pulled out a terrain map of the area and clipped it up on the wall. “Here’s your next piece of the puzzle, Captain. If Bill and I can have access to the com gear on your jet, we can get all the gen MI6 has on Verkatt. These things are probably heading for South Africa right now. If we don’t get them there, who knows where they’re going to turn up.”

MI6 HQ, PRETORIA

Alan Barnes sat at the night officer’s desk, cursing his section leader, Edward Travis. This was the eighth time in two weeks that he had drawn night officer duty. Travis hated Barnes’s intellect and his ability with computers to extract valuable pieces of intelligence. It was clear the man had it in for him. With the Soviets not as active any more, the night desk was not as demanding as it used to be.

This was a godsend, in a way. It gave Barnes a large block of time to work on breaking the North Korean daily code algorithm. The night desk had a Data Entry Retrieval Terminal. He could interface with his files and programs in the mainframe.

At least he was not the only one stuck with night duty. As per regulations, there were two other members of A4 branch on call, just in case of emergency. These were few and far between these days. In fact, Barnes had heard rumblings about the possible closure of the Pretorian operation. He hoped they were only rumors. As the saying went in all sectors of covert service, “No good deed would go unpunished.”

South Africa was a player on the world markets and it had to be watched. Barnes’s thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the secure phone.

“Night desk. Barnes,” he answered.

“Don Evans, 4024. I need the section head A4, now.”

Barnes checked the name and verification number on a list kept beside the night desk’s phone. “One moment.”

Evans leaned back in his office chair. The dark of the watcher’s office broken only by the grainy images on the video monitor in front of him. There had been no change in activity. They could not have seen him or Weston.

The phone was cradled against his left ear. He faced the front door, gun cocked and aimed. It took a full minute to reroute his call through Foreign Offices’ secure system. After four rings, the phone at the other end was picked up.

“Anthony.” The watchers A4 section head put on his glasses and squinted at the digital readout of his clock radio. It was just after three am.

Don kept his voice low and urgent. “Sir, it’s Don Evans, Cape Town docks operation. Andrew Verkatt pulled up to the freighter docked beside the North Korean operation a short while ago in a heavy truck. Three crates were unloaded from the back of it onto the ship. Weston is trying to tail Verkatt as he leaves.”

“How big are the crates?”

“Roughly three feet wide by five feet long by about eighteen inches high, but we had a bad view of the things. We tried to get a better view from the dock itself, but the place is lit up like a carnival, and crawling with North Koreans. Verkatt left the building just as we got there. Weston decided it was better I notify you and he try to find out where Verkatt was heading.”

“Well, you and Weston both did the right thing. Has he returned yet?”

“Not yet.” Evans watched one of the monitors. Lights started to go off on the ship, degrading the picture quality as the lenses struggled to adjust to the low light. Hawsers were being thrown onto the dock. It was clear the ship was leaving. “Damn!” Evans’s frustration was clear.

“What?”

“The Korean freighter … it’s putting out to sea.”

The crate size rang alarm bells in Gene’s head. “You’re absolutely sure about the size of those crates? It’s all on tape, right?”

“As sure as I can be, sir, and yes, we got it on tape. Sorry I can’t be more specific.”

“Not much we could do about that, I’m afraid. So, Mr. Verkatt is still in the business. I’ll send out some relief immediately. Get yourself, Weston and whatever tapes you have out to the usual place at the airport as soon as you can. Oh, and good work, the two of you.”

“Will do, sir, and thank you.” The line went dead.

Gene Anthony, A4’s section leader, sat up and swung his legs over the side of his bed. He pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and rubbed at the sleep in his eyes.

His wife stirred in her sleep, woken by her husband’s movement. She reached out a slender arm and touched his back. “Trouble at work?”

Gene nodded, still rubbing at his eyes. They had been married long enough that they had few secrets between them. What he did for a living was not one of them. “Couple of the lads out at Cape Town just confirmed something the Chief briefed me on this afternoon.” He deserted the warmth and security of the bed and began rummaging through the piles of clothes that marked his side of the room, trying to find some clothes that were not wrinkled. “It’s going to be a bit of a crisis. I probably won’t be back for a few days. If you need to get me, just call the office.”

His wife rolled onto one elbow and watched her husband struggle into his pants. “Timothy is going to be disappointed. You told him you would go fishing this week.”

“I know, but defense of the realm and all that.”

“Is it as serious as that?”

Gene looked back at his wife from the head of the stairs. “This time, I’m afraid, it looks like it is.” Once he was in his Range Rover and on his way to the “office,” he attached a small scrambler unit to the side of his smartphone and dialed the station head’s number along with his personal four-digit code. The code verified who he was and a small box in the basement of the director’s house activated a similar scrambler. Now anybody trying to listen in would just get electronic garbage for a signal.

The phone was picked up almost immediately. “Yes?”

“Gene Anthony, sir. There has been a development in what we discussed this afternoon. I would prefer to brief you at the office as soon as possible.”

“Are you sure?”

“It comes from good sources.”

“Very well. At the office then.” The line went dead.

Gene made another scrambled call to the night officer’s desk.

“Night desk. Barnes.”

“Anthony 7942. Send the two watchers on call to the Cape Town operation. They are to relieve the team there. Get Vic Holst in K branch to go with them, just in case. This is important. They are all to be armed and are authorized to use deadly force if necessary. I want Travis out of bed and down to the office pronto. If he moans, tell him it’s on the Chief’s orders. Oh and Barnes, any luck with our friend’s mail?”

Barnes checked the confirmation code before answering. “A few phrases. Nothing really substantial yet, but I’m getting close.”

“Good man. I’ll need you to bring what you have to me as soon as I get in. Get the watchers on their way, put some coffee on and get cracking on the rest of their mail. It’s serious now.”

Fifteen minutes later, Gene sat in the conference room of the communications company MI6 used as a front for its Pretoria operation. At least Barnes could follow orders. He took another sip from his cup, and he made a pretty good cup of coffee. Five minutes later, the Station Head arrived, briefcase in hand, with a rumpled-looking Travis in tow.

Hamilton Smythe sat his briefcase in one of the conference chairs. The Chief was not one to beat around the bush with subordinates. “All right Anthony, what do we have on the Koreans that can’t wait until nine?”

“Verkatt. Two of our watchers in Cape Town spotted him at three am this morning dropping off some crates.” Gene looked down at his notes. “The crates were three feet by five feet by eighteen inches high. They were loaded into the hold of a waiting freighter of North Korean registry. It put to sea shortly after our watchers alerted us. I’ve got two watchers en route to Cape Town and the two there on their way back with everything they have on this.” This was the tough part. “I’ve authorized the use of deadly force if necessary.”

Hamilton Smythe raised his eyebrows at the last statement, but kept his silence.

Gene took that as a good sign.

Travis sat sprawled in a chair. He had been present at the afternoon briefing on the Russian situation, and put little stock in the human surveillance Gene’s watcher section provided. Travis preferred to rely on the ELINT his section was responsible for. His voice was nasal and grating. “So you drag us down here in the middle of the night over a mysterious phone call from Cape Town?”

Gene looked down at Travis. No wonder the people under him despised the man. Gene deliberately used Travis’s first name. “Don’t forget Edward. If it wasn’t for my section doing the bugging, wiretaps and exotic stuff, you would have a very hard time doing your job at all.”

Smythe lit his pipe and cut off the argument before Travis made a total fool of himself. “Who was on station?” Smythe was old-fashioned. He liked to think that he knew all of the men under his command. Travis, cut off from any support from Smythe, lapsed into sullen silence.

Gene chose to ignore the communications head and turned back to the station Chief. “Evans and Weston. They’re two of our best.”

“Quite. So you think it has something to do with our little problem in Georgia?”

“I think there is a good chance.” Before Gene had a chance to elaborate, Barnes came running into the room, a sheet of fax paper in his hand.

“Sorry, sirs. Flash Traffic from London.” Barnes handed the flimsy to Hamilton Smythe.

“Thank you, Barnes.” The young man left the room. Smythe scanned the sheet before looking at Gene. “Well Gene, looks like your men have just been vindicated.” He held the sheet out. On it was a copy of a satellite photo with the crates on the deck of a boat. Underneath were possible dimensions. They matched the crate sizes given by the Cape Town crew. “That, gentlemen, is enough evidence to board that freighter. I had better put a call into the Royal Navy and hope they can interdict the ship before we lose it completely.” The station head sucked hard at his pipe, trying to keep the tobacco burning. “What I want from A4 right now is absolute confirmation that this freighter has those crates on board.”

Gene nodded. “Well the size is right. Evans and Weston are bringing the video tapes in for analysis. They should be in by this afternoon.”

Smythe took another heavy drag on his pipe, but it had gone out. “Damn.” He pointed the stub of his pipe at Gene. “The Americans will have to be notified at the same time as London.”

“Yes. After all, it’s going to end up their show. What are the Koreans up to?”

Smythe shrugged. “Perhaps they have some old scores to settle. More than likely, they’re trying to reverse engineer the warheads to prop up their own program.”

Don Evans was worried about his partner. Watchers, as a rule, usually did not involve themselves in actual physical contact with people they were watching. Weston had always been a wild card. He and Evans had been hauled on the carpet a number of times for Weston’s engineered fiascoes. The surprising thing was that the majority of those times ended in career enhancement and citations. As hard and good a man as Weston was, Evans knew that Verkatt had a reputation for ruthlessness. It was a relief when he heard the front door to the building downstairs open. The relief was short lived when he heard more than one set of shoes climb the stairs. Evans brought his still-cocked gun to bear on the middle of the open office door. The steps continued slowly up the stairs. They paused at the landing and Evans heard the unmistakable metallic click of a gun being cocked. He moved behind his desk for cover. The steps stopped just outside the open door. Then, from the other side of the jamb came Weston’s voice.

“Don?”

Evans let out the breath he had been holding. “How’s Mother, Frank?”

“Mother’s just fine, Don. She sent me back with a guest for tea.” Weston stepped into the doorway, pulling an African with him. The man’s hands were Zip tied behind his back.

Evans stood up from behind his desk. “Jesus, you had me worried. Who’s the guest?”

“The driver. Had to kill the swamper in the back. Verkatt got out at the city limits and caught a helo back to God knows where, but it was following the highway back to Pretoria.”

Evans clicked his gun’s safety home. “HQ is sending out relief. We’re recalled. They want us at the company hanger right away. Barnes wants the tapes for verification. I’m sure our guest will be appreciated too.”

“No time to waste then. Might as well take the truck. We can hide it at the airport operation. We’ll drop the body in the back somewhere over the Svelte.”

“Suits me.”

Weston jerked his charge back the way of the stairs. “Come on. Looks like you and your mate get a helicopter ride. Too bad your friend’s going to have to get off mid-way.”

Evans grabbed the tapes and secured the office before he followed his partner. Sometimes Weston took it just a little too far.

“The crates. What was in those crates?” Joseph Mbuttu’s mind raced after the thought, but never quite fast enough to catch up. At a glance, the man would just have looked scared. Sweat ran down his skin in thin rivers, but a look under the worn table where he sat, hands clenched tight before him, and you would see. He shook. His knees quaked. The lean hard muscles of his body vibrated with fear.

He had good reason. He’d seen his partner dead, lying face down in a pool of blood.

The passage here had been rough, a blur of travel ending with him being shoved blindfolded into this room. Removal of the blindfold had revealed nothing but a few rough chairs and a table for company. Then all the pieces fell into place and the awful realization hit. BOSS had him. The dreaded South African internal security organization. His life was forfeit. Verkatt wanted him dead. Why was he still alive? BOSS should have killed him in Cape Town.

Joseph sucked air into his lungs with a start, when the room’s door swung open. A dark silhouette stood there. Later it would occur to him that he never even thought about escape. When the man spoke, it was with a definite English accent, not the Cape Town accent Mbuttu was used to.

“Time to talk.” There was no challenge in his words. It was a statement of fact.

Joseph licked his lips, his throat suddenly dry. There was a set routine to this. Both sides knew it. The shadow moved into the room, taking on feature in the dim light. The man was average size, with fading blonde hair that receded at the temples, but his body was trim and muscular. He read from a clipboard he held in front of him. “Joseph Mbuttu, aged thirty two, father of three, truck driver for Macron Industries seven years.” The man paced slowly back and forth in front of Joseph as he spoke in a slow, pedantic voice. “Suspected ties to drug and contraband smuggling.” Gene Anthony stopped pacing, turned and looked at Joseph. “But nothing anybody could prove, until now.”

Joseph sat in silence, waiting.

Gene stopped pacing and smiled at Joseph, but there was no warmth in it. He pulled a packet from a pocket and held it out. “Cigarette?”

Joseph took one from the offered pack, and the intelligence officer lit it. The smoke was welcome. Joseph was steadied by it, drawing strength with each pull.

Gene watched the man’s demeanor change. That was good. The cigarettes had been treated with a commonly administered psychiatric drug. It would make Mbuttu more tractable to questioning. When he had finished the cigarette, Gene lit and offered him another. Tentative, Joseph accepted it. He waved it around.

“This is not like BOSS.”

“You have been questioned by BOSS before?”

Joseph shrugged. The drug was starting to take hold. “A couple of times, but you know that.”

Gene shrugged. “We don’t care how many times BOSS got their hands on you. I want to know what you were doing by that Korean import dock at three in the morning with Andrew Verkatt.”

“Hey, I was just doing a delivery. Sometimes Mr. Verkatt needs things delivered. The hours aren’t the best, but the money is good.”

“I see. So you run drugs for him regularly?”

Joseph’s eyes grew wide at the accusation. “No, no man. No drugs, never!”

Gene leveled his voice and stared hard at the man. “Verkatt deals in drugs, when he has to. You work for him, so you transport drugs. Open and shut case really.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Of course, for information about Verkatt’s activities…” Gene looked back at Joseph with raised eyebrows.

Joseph was not a stupid man. With a sudden deadly clarity, he knew, this was not BOSS, but something infinitely more dangerous. His solid composure vanished as quickly as the cigarette smoke drifting to the ceiling. “Who are you?”

Gene was impressed. Even lightly drugged Joseph had made the connection quickly. He brushed the question aside. “Look around you. Who we are is not important. What you know about Verkatt is. Cooperation would be very beneficial to your continued well-being.”

“And if I am not?”

“Remember your friend?”

BATUMI, GEORGIA

Alexandrov walked into the Base Commander’s office and tossed a manila file folder on the desk in front of Gayle. “Heinrich Burghoff, ex STASI Colonel.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and winced. “It’s like you Americans say. Everything comes back to bite you in the ass one day.”

Gayle opened the file and leafed through it. “I guess it does.”

Addison and Harris came through the door. “Well, it’s not good,” Sean said.

Gayle leaned back in her chair, put her hands down to the small of her back and stretched. “Let me have it.”

“Verkatt’s gone into the trucking business. MI6 Pretoria says he offloaded three crates at a North Korean-owned dock early yesterday morning. The good news is the A section lads there were able to grab the driver of the truck. The bad news is, the freighter the crates were loaded on has sailed.”

Gayle bit her lip. “Damn.”

Harris spoke up. “They dispatched HMS Bloodhound to intercept and board the freighter. They were operating a little ways up the coast, but the weather is pretty bad down there right now. It’s making the search pretty difficult.”

Gayle looked around the room. “Well gentlemen, what do you think we should do?”

Sean shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what we think. It’s your call.”

“Everybody out to the jet. Looks like we’re going to Cape Town. We’ll take it from there once they tow the freighter back in.”

33°S LAT., 42°E LONG.

The Captain and bridge crew of the aging ship, DPRK Nung Il Yeung, struggled to hold their position in increasingly heavy seas. The latitude and time of year made this mission very dangerous. His crew, while politically reliable, were not a seasoned group accustomed to these ocean conditions. His navigator, face growing greener by the minute, attested to that fact.

The Captain wondered just how long his ship’s diesels would hold out. The push out from Cape Town had been a hard one. They had driven out due south from the Cape at twelve knots, full speed for the Nung. They had then looped back on an Easterly course up into the Indian Ocean. The distance to the rendezvous point, just South of Madagascar with the evasive maneuvers, had been done in just over two days. The rough weather had actually helped. Search flights from Antananarivo or the South African mainland, if there were any, would have been grounded. The Captain smiled. He was also sure that no ship or shore-based installation had seen them on radar. The Nung Il Yeung’s passive radar detectors had remained silent the whole trip. Without radar, anybody would have a hard time finding them indeed. The only other ship with knowledge of their destination was the submarine they were to rendezvous with. Hopefully, they had as good a navigator as his.

On board the submarine, DPRK Great Leader, Captain Pak Kil-yon was more concerned with the water conditions above than the abilities of his crew. The Great Leader was the most secret of secrets and the pride of his country’s small submarine fleet. A revolution in modern diesel submarine design, it was sixty five meters long, with a beam of eight and a half meters. The Great Leader’s cigar-shaped hull and squat sail looked very much like the Alfa class attack submarine it was modeled after. Twin diesel power plants incorporated a rebreathing Lithium Hydroxide Oxygen system. North Korean intelligence had liberated it and the plans for the Leader from a Russian submarine research facility at Sevastopol.

The new system allowed the battery power plants to recharge while the sub was still submerged. Snorkeling and exposure to surface search radars were no longer a worry. The improved lithium polymer battery system allowed the Leader to run virtually silent for longer periods. If needed, they were capable of generating a speed of 22 knots dived. The Russian Beluga class working prototype was just now entering sea trials. The North Korean engineers had done a spectacular job at producing a functioning war-capable submarine in far less time.

As a diesel, the Great Leader was quieter than its nuclear cousins. The diesel electric sub was also a great deal cheaper than the nuclear alternative. It’s only true problem was range and dependency on refueling as opposed to a five-plus year life of nuclear fuels. The Great Leader’s range at ten knots maintained was roughly fifteen thousand miles or thirty days submerged. More than enough fuel for their present mission. The Leader was designed as a hunter/killer, a defender of North Korean shipping lanes.

It was because of this distinction as a hunter, the sub’s Captain chafed at the role of being a mere delivery truck. But their orders had been specific and he was too much a patriot to question them. He and his crew had sailed at flank speed from Wonsan to their present position. The plan was to rendezvous with a North Korean freighter and transfer top secret cargo on board. The Leader was then to race, again at flank speed, back to North Korea. Success would gain admiration from his peers and recognition by the government. Should he fail, his body and that of his entire officer group, would become fish food in the Sea of Japan, an unspoken but expected outcome. Fear was a great motivating factor with any man.

To make sure that he and his socialist brothers did not falter at the gate, not the usual one, but two political officers had been sent along. Pyongyang need not have bothered. The Captain and his officer group were committed to the aims of Kim Jong Un and the interior council.

The layout of his new sub was much different than of earlier copied versions of Soviet, Whiskey and Romeo classes. Although somewhat cramped, the interior was intelligently laid out. The sonar operator’s position was in front of the raised platform that made up the bridge. This allowed instant communication between the Captain, the sonar operator and the helm controls to the side of the sonar station. Because of the narrow beam and lack of height in the sail, the Leader’s periscopes were woefully short. The Leader had to be almost surfaced to use them. They had been waiting on station now for the last two days. Boredom could be just as deadly an enemy as the sea sometimes.

The sonar officer raised his hand for complete silence, as he fought to isolate the sounds of a ship’s screws out of the wave clutter on the surface. “Twin screws.” His hands made tentative adjustments to his console controls as he tried to align the hydrophones on the sound source. After another thirty seconds, he was satisfied. “Range fifteen thousand meters, bearing two nine one, making just enough turns to keep him stationary.”

The Captain knew they had to get closer. The ship had to be confirmed as the one they wanted. On a mission such as this, caution was advised. “Present speed, helm?”

“Making turns for six knots, sir.”

“Make turns for twelve knots. Bring us within two thousand meters and then up to periscope depth. Hold at that position.”

“Aye, sir.”

There was a brief surge of motion as engineering brought the boat up to the speed called by the helm. The Captain turned to the political officer standing just behind him watching his every move. “We will be moving into swells soon. It would be best if you stood by the railing and kept out of the way.” The officer glared at the Captain but moved to the railing. Regardless of the power political officers held on land, at sea the Captain was still the ultimate leader.

Captain Kil-Yon remembered seeing this one shoveling food down at breakfast. Well, he was going to pay for that very soon. “I hope you had a light breakfast, Comrade. My sonar officer tells me things are quite rough above.”

As if in answer, the boat started to roll slightly from side to side as they moved into the bottom of the large surface swells. The political officer, who had worn a sardonic grin while the Captain admonished him, started to take on a green tinge as his inner ear and eyes refused to agree on what was seen and what was felt.

The Captain and his crew had been through it all before and knew how to lessen the effects.

“Periscope depth achieved, Captain,” the helm announced.

“Target bearing three six zero, firing solution calculated, tubes one and two loaded. No radar sets in evidence,” sonar followed.

The Captain smiled. A firing solution had not been asked for. It showed his crew appreciated and respected him. In return, he would not let them down. “Excellent. Scope up full.” He doubted in this sea that a fully extended periscope would be seen. The view through the periscope augmented the disorientation felt by his body and eyes, but the ship dead ahead in the scope view was a freighter. With the thumb wheel on the left hand grip, he increased the magnification until he could read the name and registry. He stepped back and slapped the grips up, “Down scope. Excellent work, comrades. Prepare to surface, and helm, keep us pointed into the waves.”

The diving officer took over and barked out the proper sequence of commands to all crew concerned. The Captain struggled into his wet weather gear as he stood under the bridge hatch and waited. The all clear sounded. The ladder to the bridge was short. The hatch undogged and pushed open easily. Sea water trapped in the locking ring poured over the Captain. Another baptism done, he clambered up onto the small open-air bridge.

All around, the sky was dark and leaden. A squall line was moving in from the south. They would have to work fast before the squall overtook them and made the transfer an impossible task.

The brisk sea air and salt spray were welcome sensations after the stale metallic air and cramped confines of the Leader. The Captain breathed them all down deep. With his bridge key, he unlocked the watertight container around the bridge intercom system. He put the headset inside on, over his Captain’s cap, and started to relay commands to the helm. The freighter loomed ahead of them, a dirty wall of white paint, rust and neglect. Because the Leader had a single, centrally mounted screw, which was partially exposed when surfaced, the boat’s surface speed was not as fast as the Captain would like. The Leader’s round, cigar-shaped hull caused it to roll considerably when topside, even in moderately rough seas.

He gripped the small helm wheel at the front of the open-air bridge. “I have the helm. Ahead full and get me a signalman up here.”

“Transferring to bridge helm control. Aye, sir.”

The signalman arrived on the open bridge in record time. The Captain gave him a moment to also savor the fresh air before giving him the message to send. It was little things that made a crew go the extra distance for you. “Tell them to start their replenishment at sea drill. I will pull into their lee side. When we have matched speeds, I’ll draw alongside.”

The signalman began to clatter out the Captain’s message on his signal lamp. A few minutes later, the Nung Il Yeung started to come to starboard, bringing her in a parallel path with the sub. Large bumpers were lowered from the freighter’s deck. There to protect the sub’s anechoic tiles. It took nearly forty minutes of messages and curses before the two vessels were parallel in a way the Captain of the Leader was happy with. The sea was calmer in the lee of the Nung.

A narrow black channel of water sluiced between the two crafts; a reminder that the sea around them was ever ready to claim another of the unwary. This close to the freighter and in the lee, the roar of the wind sucked the power out of all voice. Yelling was not the Captain’s style. He tapped his signalman on the arm with the back of his right hand.

“I need to know the number and size of the transferring cargo.”

The signalman nodded and started on the new message.

The Captain waited for his answer. Signaling Morse with a light was not the most rapid form of communication. Four minutes later, the signalman handed the Captain the freighter’s reply. He read it. “Those idiots!” He keyed the intercom, “Get me the political officer up here, now!”

The officer climbed through the man way before the Captain’s hand had left his throat switch. He had been waiting at the foot of the ladder. The Captain fought the urge to kick the political officer in the head as he climbed out. Instead he thrust the message sheet in front of the man’s face. “What the hell were you people thinking?”

Political officers, used to being in the position of power, do not scare easily. “Do not forget who you are talking to, Captain.”

“I ought to throw you and your friend over the side!”

The officer pulled himself onto the small and increasingly cramped bridge. He straightened his wet weather gear as he spoke in a bored tone, “What is the problem?”

“Read the sheet, man. Read the sheet.” He thrust the message at the officer again.

He read it. “I still fail to see the problem.”

It was too much. The Captain grabbed the officer by his tie and pulled him towards the circular hole of the weather bridge’s circular hatch. With his free hand, he pointed at the offending opening. “One meter by a half meter high? Do these crates bend like rubber or were you going to use magic to get them inside my boat? Our dear Leader will be more than pleased with the extent of your planning.” He let go of the man’s tie.

The officer stood up, his face purple, trying to stammer out a reply, “I, I …”

“Don’t even bother to try explaining, Comrade.” He spat out the last word. “I have a plan, but if one of my men is hurt or killed carrying out what we must do, I swear you and your friend go swimming as enemies of the People.”

The political officer was still breathing heavily. “But how will … You just said?”

“Be very glad, Comrade officer. Be glad you have me and my crew here. Your cargo will have to be loaded through the torpedo bay hatch.”

The man’s eyes widened in disbelief. “In these seas? Beside that thing?” He turned only to watch a wave break around the bow of the freighter. “We will swamp and sink for sure.”

The Captain yelled to the signalman, “Tell them we will have to make the transfer with their crane though the front torpedo loading hatch.”

With a nod, the signalman set about relaying the new set of instructions.

The Captain clicked his throat mike. “First officer, we’re going to have to manage the transfer through the front torpedo hatch. Get the men in place and things underway.”

The reply was a tinny “Aye, sir” over his headset.

The Captain pushed the political officer to one side, so that he could view his men at work. A hatch at the forward base of the sail swung out and a seaman appeared with a line tied about his waist. He started down the twenty meter distance, to the edge of the forward torpedo loading hatch. In his hands was a metal post. Another seaman appeared at the sail hatch. His job was to keep the line tight and provide a point of balance for the steadily advancing man.

The submarine and the freighter took on a steady, rhythmic roll. The iron wall of the freighter appeared to be stationary to the sailor’s eye while the inner ear told the body a different story. His efforts became more forced as he neared the hatch.

The Captain was relieved to see the heavy duty bumpers deployed were doing their job, saving their anechoic tiles from damage. The seaman made it to the torpedo hatch. He slid the base of the post into a socket beside the hatch and, with a twist, secured it in place. Untying the line from around his waist and holding the post for support, the line was threaded through an eyelet at the post’s top. The seaman at the bow waved back to the one waiting at the sail hatch, who pulled the line tight and tied it off to the bulkhead. He and three other seamen clipped safety tethers to the line and moved to join their comrade. They took more poles and line to secure a safety barrier around the forward hatch. More precious minutes were lost while the cordon was erected around the still-closed hatch. They waved back to the bridge when they were ready.

The Captain called to the signalman. “Tell the freighter to keep our speeds matched.” He relayed the speed required for the next set of maneuvers by intercom to his first officer. “Make turns for four knots. Open the forward torpedo loading hatch when we are at speed.”

The signalman turned to his Captain, “They are signaling they will comply, sir.”

The headset buzzed in his ears, “Fours knots, sir.”

“Good, we’re coming alongside now. Open the forward hatch.”

The forward hatch began to hinge upwards on hydraulic supports. The four seamen took up positions at each corner of the hatch. The roll of the sub made walking too deadly a risk. If a man slipped or fell, he would be crushed between the two hulls or cut to bits by the leader’s screw.

Guide lines thrown down to the four waiting men uncoiled with a hiss in the air. The cargo crane wasted no time. It began to hoist the first box of its cargo up and over the side of the ship. Each man at the hatch grunted with effort as they fought the swaying motion of the crate. Each crate contained eight hundred kilos of mass. It was a true struggle to bring them down. The first made it to the hatch unscathed and disappeared into the forward torpedo room.

Flight Lieutenant Martin Weaver scanned the water forward and below his helicopter as it battered its way through the rough air of the Indian Ocean. A freighter of North Korean registry had, according to the ship’s intelligence officer, slipped out of the port of Cape Town six nights previous with a suspected cargo of embargoed military supplies. So far it had eluded the search efforts of himself and Tom Blackthorn, his navigator.

They had just turned to a heading that would bring them on the fourth of six, fifty kilometer long legs of their three hundred mile search pattern. The powerful Sea Spray Mark One Radar Set, capable of spotting the thin shaft of a periscope, was giving back nothing but wave clutter. Even the “Sea Owl” thermal imaging system was virtually useless in this muck.

Weaver looked at his fuel state. He had little over two hours’ worth left. Just enough for two more legs and a hasty landing on the Bloodhound if the weather held up. He peered through the drizzle-spattered windshield. That did not look too likely. He could see the gray line of a squall approaching on an intercept course from the south. Weaver brought the Sea Lynx onto the new heading. Time to let Flight Ops know what was going on.

“Bravo one to Fox-trot Oscar, over.”

The answer was riddled with static, a sure sign of deteriorating weather conditions. “Fox-trot Oscar, go ahead Bravo one.”

“No joy this run. Starting next leg, over.”

“Meteorology reports an increase in storm activity. Request you return now, over.”

“Weather situation is manageable here. We’re still dry. Request return at my discretion, over.” This time he had to wait for a reply.

“Captain says it’s your funeral. Good hunting. Fox-trot Oscar out.”

Weaver looked at the place where the Heads Up Display used to be. A good thing Flight Ops didn’t know it had packed it in on the last run. The weather was a good lot fouler than he had just said. The horizon of sky and sea were blending into a solid wall of slate gray. Rain pelted across the windscreen. A dangerous situation. Lose place with where you and your machine were, and you could find yourself swimming. Weaver and his navigator had been briefed on the freighter’s possible cargo. Even if they ended up swimming back to Bloodhound, it was worth it to keep the search going.

With the HUD out, Weaver was on instrument flight. He keyed the intercom to talk to his navigator. “Tom, looks like we’re only going to get in one leg before this lot really lets loose.”

“Roger skip. Radar is still giving me nothing. We should have spotted the damn thing on our last pass. I say the Foreign Office has us on a wild goose chase. I say we should pack it in and have another go once conditions have improved.”

The Sea Lynx shuddered, caught in a sudden updraft. Weaver gritted his teeth as he fought through it with his power and collective controls. “Nobody said it was going to be easy.”

Tom was right, and Weaver knew it. The freighter would be a wallowing tub at the best of times in good weather. In crud like this, she would be slower. All right angles and flat planes, rocking back and forth like a mirror in the sun. Easy picking. The Sea Lynx’s radar should have picked her up. Tom had the set at maximum width and full power. Still nothing.

The rain started to drum with purpose on the windshield. Heavy enough now that the wipers could not cope with it. Forward vision went to hell. Weaver always felt windshield wipers on a helicopter designed to go over two hundred miles an hour were a bit extraneous. He took them even lower into the murk, so they could at least see the ocean.

“Hang on, I’ve got something.” Tom bent closer to the eye cover over the radar set and adjusted the power and gain settings, trying to get a clearer reading on whatever it was. “Solid return! Steer one nine two, and drop your airspeed when I tell you.”

Weaver might be the pilot, but on a mission like this, Tom was the eyes.

Tom shook his head, “Not sure what it is. The storm is starting to play merry hell with my set, but the returns are strong and angular.”

Weaver shot a look at his fuel pounds. They were well under the two hour mark. Must be stronger winds than he first thought. “Better make this quick, Tom, or we’ll be rowing the last bit home.”

The Captain watched the whole process with pride in his crew and their abilities. Each man on the Leader’s bow would receive a commendation, he would see to it. All was going well until the third crate. As the men were lowering it, the freighter was hit by a bad swell. The movement was too sudden and violent for any of the sailors to control the sudden swing of the crate. The box slammed into the side of the Nung with a hollow thud. The crane operator lowered his cargo faster, in a desperate attempt to decrease the period of the swing. It worked, but not before the crate struck the side of the freighter again, with enough force to splinter its transport container. At last it too disappeared below deck.

“Airborne search radar!” The cry came from the freighter. Loud enough that even the Captain heard it. So had the men on the Leader’s bow. The guide lines of the cordon were quickly cut and pulled into a ball, which was then thrown through the still-open loading hatch. Out came the stanchions. They went over the side. Three of the men then dropped, one by one, through the hatch.

As the fourth man, the same one who had made the first walk to the bow, turned to make his way back to the sail, the loading hatch began to close.

The Captain eased the sub away from the freighter. He would not panic and submerge. Never would he leave one of his men at the mercy of his eternal enemy, the sea. The Captain of the Nung began to turn into the waves. The Leader was being robbed of the protection of its lee side while there was still a man on deck. The Captain watched in horror as the freighter began to make full steam.

His man made it to the hatch and closed it just as a huge swell broke past the stern of the Nung and ripped across the bow of the Leader. The Captain tore off his headset, threw it into the small watertight locker and slammed the small door shut. He turned to the two men on his bridge.

“Gentlemen, to your stations.” The signalman saluted and disappeared through the man way. The political officer had regained his composure with the securing of his all-important cargo. He unzipped his jacket and reached inside. The Captain half expected to see a gun, but reason prevailed this was his crew. They would tear this man limb from limb if he was harmed. Instead, the apparatchik produced an envelope with the seal of Kim Jong Un, the Supreme Leader himself.

“I was ordered to give this to you upon completion of the loading of the cargo. I apologize for my earlier conduct. Our great country profits from you and your crew’s expertise. Considering the present circumstances, it may be best if you read this now.”

The Captain took the letter and looked at the freighter as it struggled to distance itself from the Leader. “If you don’t mind, comrade, I will read this below.”

“It’s them.” Tom punched up the thermal display on the central CRT screen. The Nung appeared in reversed black and white. “Bingo! He’s seen us! They’re turning in.” Tom turned back to his radar display. “They’re increasing speed and turning. What the?” Tom turned to Weaver. “I’ve got a second return, low in the water by his stern.”

“What?”

Tom slewed the thermal scope to the stern of the freighter and aimed it at the sea there. The two men watched the sail of the Leader slip below the waves. Before either one of them had a chance to comment, the helo was gripped by the fingers of the forward fringes of the squall as it cast about for victims not suitably impressed by its growing power. Weaver fought it with rudder pedal, collective and thrust.

“Damn! Get in touch with Bloodhound. We’re going to have to get a boarding party to this ship and inspect it. Get confirmation on what they want to do about the sub. You’re going to have to trust the MAD gear if they want us to bag them and Tom, it’s going to have to be real quick. We are bingo for fuel.”

It is with a heavy heart that I write these orders. You and your men were chosen to serve on our most advanced and secret submarine, because of your political dependability and outstanding military careers. What I must now ask you to do will go against the grain of all of your experience and learning. I must stress, the mission you are on is a matter of utmost national security and I do not exaggerate when I tell you our country’s very survival, indeed our glorious way of life, depends on its success. The capitalist dogs of the West and their lackeys cannot be allowed to catch scent of this mission. It is under my orders then that you are to sink the Nung Il Yeung. Do not think I take this lightly. It will haunt me till the end of my days.

Kim Jong Un.

The Captain folded the note. On the bridge, his face impassive, he gave the orders. “Periscope depth, ahead one half. Navigator, plot a firing solution to the freighter. Helm close to five hundred meters.” Activity on the bridge stopped as the men all turned to their Captain, stunned by his orders. His tone of voice told them all this was not a practice drill. “You have your orders. Stop gawking and move!”

The helm, sonar and the fire control officers worked together to plot a course and firing solution to the target. Each man wondered at how quickly the freighter had gone from being their countrymen to their target.

At twenty two knots, the submarine closed rapidly with the freighter. The Leader did not need to be at Periscope depth to fire, but if the Captain was to be responsible for the death of so many of his countrymen, good reason or not, he had to be sure. Helm had again done a masterful job bringing them into an almost beam on firing position.

“Five hundred meters, Captain.”

“Up periscope,” the Captain said. The periscope slid up into his hands. The freighter sat dead ahead and then he saw the helicopter with British Royal Navy markings. “Down scope, fire one and two.”

The fire control officer looked sick as he pushed the launch studs for the two torpedoes.

With a “Chunk!” and scream of steam-powered screws, the two torpedoes burst out of their launch tubes and sped off towards the Nung. At this range, it was unlikely they would miss. Still, the Captain did not give the order to cut the two guidance wires trailing the weapons. Even with the enemy helicopter there, he had time. The Nung would not know until the last moment of the torpedo’s existence.

The fire control officer called out the distance to target. In his right hand was a stopwatch, to make sure of a more accurate entry in his log. “Two hundred meters, one fifty, one hundred, any second now.”

Weaver had the Sea Lynx head on to the freighter. Tom had the video camera going. One more pass before they headed back to the Bloodhound. An explosion of water and flame erupted amidships of the vessel, followed by a second as the Leader’s other torpedo hit.

“Bloody hell!” Weaver swore as the Lynx pitched back from the shockwave. He regained altitude and both men looked out on the destruction.

Tom called it in. “Bravo one to Fox-trot Oscar. The freighter has been destroyed by an explosion. Possible submarine attack. Request weapons free.” There was no response. The center of the Nung Il Yeung had ceased to exist. Flame and smoke billowed from the ship’s two broken halves as they sank. There was little left; only bodies and debris showed there had been anything there at all. “Bravo one to Fox-trot Oscar. The freighter has been destroyed by an explosion. Possible submarine attack. Request weapons free.”

The reply came back laden with static. “Fox-trot Oscar. Bravo one, weapons free.”

Weaver could see men in the water, but few were moving. The frigid waters would claim them as well. He hated himself for it, but he did not have the fuel to rescue any. But he could destroy the sub that killed them.

“Did you get that?” Tom shouted.

Weaver flipped the arming switch for the torpedo to the on position. “Not much time left.”

Tom shot a worried glance at the fuel indicators and nodded. “I’ll be as quick as I can.” He brought the MAD gear online. The results were immediate. “Two contacts. Must be what’s left of the freighter.”

Weaver’s mouth hardened. “Shit! Set it for submerged search and send the fish anyway. There’s no time.”

Tom looked at the pilot, but he knew better than to argue with Weaver when he was like this. Besides, luck might be with them.

It was the first and only time the Leader had fired live torpedoes. The Captain could imagine the grisly aftermath. Kim Jong Un may have issued the orders, but it was he and his crew that were going to have to pay the price of being the assassins. His throat was thick, burning but he had to issue the next orders.

“Diving officer, get us below the thermal layer. Navigator, set a course for the homeland. Helm, make turns for eighteen knots.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Transient!” The sonar officer covered his headset to better sort the noise out of the surface clutter. “Bearing is one seven two. It’s a torpedo and it’s active.”

The bridge sprang into action. The Captain barked out his orders. “Launch a noisemaker. Hard to port, ninety degrees. Full thrust for six seconds and take us down to four hundred.” The Leader turned hard. The six seconds of full thrust would leave a knuckle of turbulence in the water. In that knuckle, the noisemaker would use compressed air to simulate the sound of a submarine.

The mark forty six torpedo dropped by the Lynx slammed into the noisemaker thirty seconds after activation. The Leader was rocked, but not damaged by the explosion. It slipped deeper into the depths, turning down and away from the carnage caused on the surface. Hundreds more feet below them, what was left of the Nung Il Yeung and her crew continued their debris-shedding trip to the bottom.

The Lynx crew saw the geyser of foam shoot into the air. There was no apparent wreckage with it. Tom shook his head. “Looks like the bastard got away. Better head back before we end up like that lot out there.”

Weaver did not need to be told twice. He applied full power. The blades bit into the air, clawing for altitude, away from the gray violence beneath them.

Miles away from her struggling helicopter, HMS Bloodhound plowed through the dark water of the Indian Ocean. Sir William Henniker, her Captain, sat in his bridge chair and watched his crew in the dim red light as they kept to an intercept course with their helo.

The weather, though ugly, was not bad by the Atlantic standards her crew was used to. The worst sea state he had been through had been during his tenure as first officer on the Leander. He had been posted to her a week before she had sailed to fulfill her part in the Falklands. The early winter storms off the coast of the Islands had tossed the ships around so violently, some of the men in the bow sections had vomited blood.

The bridge phone rang beside him. He answered it, “Henniker.”

“Communications, sir. Bravo one is inbound. Lieutenant Weaver stated results from the torpedo were inconclusive and that he would give you a full report upon arrival.”

Henniker’s answer was gruff. “Very well. Set a course for their last known contact and let me know when they are ten miles out.”

“Yes, sir.” The line went dead.

Henniker peered out at the encroaching murk. “I hope that young fool Weaver has enough gas to make it back.” He had written letters of condolence to new widows more times than he cared to remember. As advanced as modern helicopters were, as skilled as the pilots of the Royal Navy had to be, the sea took great pleasure at knocking them out of the sky.

Bloodhound and her helicopters had been providing C^3I, command, control, communications and intelligence to a group of Royal Marines and a small medical unit as well as anti-piracy operations. The medical unit was working to provide relief to some of the more outlying townships of Somalia and the Marines were there to make sure it could happen. So far, the Marines had provided some very nasty surprises to some of the local warlords. Unlike the Americans and the Italians, they had avoided the bulk of any press coverage.

The British armed patrols had been a shock to many of the villagers. A fast liaison of the medical group, with a struggling civilian relief effort already in place, had produced quick results.

The orders from the Admiralty had been unexpected, but specific. Find a Korean freighter and find it fast. He had been forced to quickly brief the Americans on their Somali operations and then leave Somalian waters with the Americans holding the reigns of the British contingency. Something that was no doubt going to give the American command grief.

The orders had contained a full brief on what the freighter was expected to have in its hold. Henniker was leery about bringing fissionable material on board his ship. If the Koreans were actively pursuing this route as the fast track to operational nuclear weapons, and he had no reason to believe otherwise, then the world at large was in serious danger.

It amazed Henniker it had taken the superpowers almost fifty years to dynamically seek the reduction and, in some cases, outright destruction of nuclear weapons. Britain, in a burst of old-style colonialism, right or wrong, refused to give up her few sub-launched missiles. Few that was, compared to the combined amounts of the US and Russian land and sub based arsenals. Henniker shook his head at the thought. It probably had more to do with the French and their token arsenal, but then Europe was all one big happy family, now wasn’t it? Of course every Tom, Dick and Harry in the Third World wanted to own the filthy things to prove that they were every bit as clever as their First World cousins. Well if there were warheads and they were now on a submarine, that made it a lot harder to make the world a safer place.

Things were going from bad to worse on board the Sea Lynx. The airspeed indicator had died. The altimeter hands were frozen and fuel was becoming a critical issue. Amazingly, the radar still worked. If they got back, Weaver was going to personally write Ferranti and congratulate them on a rugged system. If they got back.

Tom was able to call out course correction and at least the artificial horizon still worked. Weaver looked at the blinking red fuel displays. The remaining mark forty six torpedo they carried had to go. Even though it was quite small, its weight, once released, could give them the slim margin they needed to live through this. Safeties or not, he did not relish the thought of smacking down X amount of tons of helicopter on anything with one hundred kilos of explosive wrapped in metal, strapped to the starboard side.

“Tom, we’ve got to ditch some weight. Drop the other fish. Let it run out a few hundred meters before you detonate it, just in case.”

Tom nodded and gave Weaver a thumbs up. He flipped the “Safe” cover off the launch button and let the torpedo go. It dropped in an arc towards the water. Halfway down, a small parachute deployed to put it at the right insertion angle. With a small splash, it hit the water and was gone. Tom let it run out for ten seconds before punching the abort button. The water ahead of them foamed and spray burst from the surface with a roar as the torpedo annihilated itself.

On board the Bloodhound, the sonar operator in the Combat Information Center heard the explosion. He turned to the Command Duty Officer of the watch.

“Sir, torpedo in the water and immediate explosion off the port bow. Sounded like a forty eight.”

The OD was beside the sonar console immediately. Bravo one could be in trouble. He knew the ASW helicopter carried two mark forty eights as part of its standard load.

“Any secondary explosions or sounds of impact?”

The seaman shook his head. “No, sir, just the sound of screws and then the explosion. The water state is going to hell. I can’t be sure the hydrophones would have picked them up if they had crashed.”

Henniker picked up the bridge phone on the first ring, “Henniker.”

“CIC, we just picked up an explosion off the port quarter. Sonar reads it as a forty eight.”

“Thank you.” On his intercom, Henniker punched in the code for the communications room. “This is the Captain. See if you can raise Bravo one.”

“Yes, sir.”

So far, the Bloodhound had been observing EMCON, broken only by the few transmissions between her and Bravo one. Henniker had a difficult choice to make. If he ordered the search radars activated, everybody from Madagascar and along the East Coast of South Africa would know there was a British warship off their coasts. The Admiralty had not been specific on the point of how classified this mission was. Henniker did not see it as being worth the lives of two of his men or the loss of an expensive helicopter. He called back the CIC.

“Power up the search radars and turn on all exterior lights. I’m on my way down.”

“She’s dead ahead, two thousand meters. Whoa! They just turned on the big array.” Tom turned to Weaver, “I’m getting them on com. Can we make it?”

Weaver looked at the fuel readout. “Tell them yes, but get a crash crew down to the flight deck. Better get Flight Ops on the line. They’re going to have to talk us in. The artificial horizon just packed it in.”

“Your status. Fox-trot Oscar to Bravo one, what is your status?”

Tom gave it rapidly to the air controller. “Bravo one, HUD, airspeed, altitude and artificial horizon are all out. We are on reserve fuel. Require you to steer us in and talk us down.”

“Roger, Bravo one. Stand by for instructions.”

The strain was starting to show on Weaver. “They had better hurry up or we’ll be landing without their help.”

Tom put his hand on the pilot’s shoulder. “Hang in there, mate. We’re almost down.”

“Bravo one, steer two zero zero, and reduce forward speed on my command.”

“Roger.” Weaver moved onto the new heading.

The crash crew stood on the pitching flight deck in silver, flame resistant suits, every man’s face hidden and his speech muffled by a bulky fireproof helmet. The pelting rain ran off their suit folds in rivers. All of them had been through numerous safety drills, an annoying and necessary part of shipboard life, but this time it was real. Two of their own were struggling to get down, down to the safety of their ship, the only port in this storm. Each man said a silent prayer, crossed fingers or rubbed his lucky charm for the safety of the helo crew and their own, should something happen to turn the Sea Lynx from a helicopter into tons of falling destruction.

“Tom, I can see the lights.”

“Yeah, I’ve got her.”

“Bravo one, reduce forward speed now.”

“Roger.”

The landing pad pitched and rolled thirty feet beneath them. It was going to be a hook, line, and sinker landing. “Get the landing hook ready, Tom.”

Tom put his hand over the cable release lever. He hoped the crash crew was using a wooden pole. In this air, the rotor blades would be building a substantial static charge into the airframe. “Hook away.”

Weaver let the air controller know. “Fox-trot Oscar, hook is down and ready.”

“Roger, Bravo one, do you have visual reference?”

“Roger, I can see the landing pad clearly.” Weaver moved the helicopter over the center of the landing pad. The extreme low fuel light went on and a warning beeper filled the cockpit with an annoying warble. Weaver had less than one minute flight time left.

“Bravo one, you are over the center. Drop the hook.”

“Drop the hook, Tom. I hope to God they get it first time.” Weaver fought to keep the Sea Lynx centered on the pad.

“Hook away.” Two crash crew broke from their line and rushed forward with a wooden-handled grab. The winch cable was snagged as it dragged across the heaving deck. With the end of the grab, one of the men thrust it into the bear trap. In a mad scramble, they both got clear and waved to the air controller booth on the side of the hanger.

“Hook is in the trap, Bravo one. You are clear to land.”

Weaver slapped the winch down lever to full pull. They slammed down onto the pitching flight deck. Weaver’s hands moved quickly, locking the winch in position and shutting off engine power. The flight crew could worry about getting the thing in the hanger. He looked at Tom, his face pale and drained in the weak light. “Next time you say we go home, we go.”

Tom, struggling with his flight helmet, smiled. “And come back empty handed? Not bloody likely.”

Henniker held the phone to his ear.

“Flight Ops, sir. The Sea Lynx and her crew are safely down. No casualties.”

“Good, tell Weaver and Blackthorn I want to see them in my ready room as soon as they get cleaned up and changed into a decent uniform.” He punched up the ship’s Combat Information Center.

“CIC.”

“Captain Henniker. Resume EMCON and get those damn lights off.”

“Yes, sir.”

Henniker watched as the lights outside his bridge windows blinked out. Once again, his ship was just a shadow in the darkness. He turned to his second officer. “The bridge is yours, Victor. I shall be in my ready room if anything should come up. Get the galley to bring up some sandwiches for the bridge and CIC.”

The ready room two levels below was small by cruiser standards. The usual issue Admiralty prints were secured on the bulkhead walls. It’s only furnishing was a large bottom-weighted oak table on gimbals surrounded by ten chairs. One for each of the section officers. Any visitors would have to stand. A tea pot and hot plate sat just behind Henniker’s chair at the head of the table. Normally the tea would be served by a steward during briefing, but it was the evening, “White” watch and they had not anticipated the ready rooms use. Henniker would have to brew his own tea for a change.

The minor pampering one grew used to as a Knight and Captain could be somewhat of a burden, but only when it was not there. He turned on the kettle and spooned the dried tea leaves into a silver sieve as the water heated to a boil. The simple act of making tea was relaxing after the incident with his helicopter.

He really would have to talk to Weaver. The trouble with all young men, pilots especially, was they seemed convinced of their own immortality. Henniker knew from experience that cheating death more than once in one’s lifetime was just asking death to keep trying harder.

The water started to boil. He poured it into the teapot painted in royal blue and gold, with the ship’s crest displayed on both sides. He had just put the sieve in to steep when there was a knock at the door.

“Come.”

The door opened. It was Weaver and Blackthorn. The two had changed into clean flight suits and did not look the worse for their close brush with eternity. “You wanted to see us, sir? I am sorry, but we haven’t had time to finish debriefing or our report.”

Henniker waved his free hand in dismissal. “Don’t worry about that. You did cut it a bit fine that time though, Mister Weaver, don’t you think?”

Weaver looked at his feet. “Yes, well, the head winds were a bit stronger than we were prepared for.”

The Captain looked at the two men. “It came very close to me having to write your families a letter tonight. In the future, I would appreciate that you avoid that from occurring.”

Both men looked sheepish. Weaver spoke. “We’ll do our best, sir.”

“See that you do.” Henniker pulled the sieve out of the teapot and lifted the pot to eye level. “Care for a cup?”

Both men nodded.

Henniker poured the cups himself and doled out the appropriate portions of sugar and milk. “Now tell me what you found out there.”

Weaver let Tom handle the debrief, because he was the systems man. It took the navigator about ten minutes to go over the mission details and the location of the freighter they suspected was the Nung.

Henniker sat at the head chair of the table and sipped on his tea between questions. “So you are almost positive this is, was, the freighter?”

Tom nodded. “As positive as we can be. Most cans don’t have a habit of blowing up the minute we find them. It was where the freighter would have been. Intelligence will have to check what ships were in this area within the last two days. Who has reported in and who has not.”

“Quite, but what puzzles me is our mysterious submarine.”

“Well, to be honest, sir, it puzzles the hell out of me as well.” Tom took a gulp of tea. A frown crossed his face. “But one thing is for certain, that ship was torpedoed … twice.”

For the first time, Weaver spoke up. “The way I see it, they were transporting more than just your run-of-the-mill weapons, sir.”

Henniker looked over his teacup at the young man. “You do like to tread on dangerous ground, don’t you Weaver?”

Weaver smiled. “If you say so, sir.”

Henniker looked into his tea cup. His grandmother used to read tea leaves, sometimes with an eerily accurate account of the future. At times like this, he wished he had her gift. The two fliers gulped down the last of their tea and waited. The Captain looked up. “Very well, gentlemen. You deserve at least a partial explanation. MI6 fears the North Koreans may have stolen three nuclear warheads from Russia. You most likely interrupted them during the transfer of the warheads to a submarine. I will consider what you have told me. If you could, finish your reports before you sack out. And, I trust you to discuss this with nobody. That will be all.”

“Yes, sir.” The two men left Henniker to stare back into the depths of his cup.

Were the warheads on the bottom of the ocean? Henniker wondered. Or had they most likely been transferred successfully to the submarine? Still, if the vessel had been destroyed, was it to deny witnesses or evidence? Was the submarine hit by Bravo one’s torpedo? Sound travels three times faster in water than in air. If the conditions were right, the noise of the sub’s destruction could have traveled as far as any of their present position. There could be something on the passive sonar tapes in the CIC. He went to the bulkhead phone and punched up the Command Information Center.

“CIC, Officer of the Watch, Garret.”

“Henniker. Garret I want you to get sonar to go over our tapes from just after Bravo one requested weapons free. They are to check for an explosion and hull-breaking sounds. It should register at extreme long range.”

Garret sounded uncertain, “Are you sure, sir?”

“Dammit man, are you deaf? Find that explosion and when you do, call me right away.” The phone went off with a click.

Garret looked at it in amazement. The old man must be going off his nut. He looked over at the two sonar operators on watch. “Well gents, orders from on high. Pull the sonar tapes from Bravo one’s request for weapons free. You get to go over them, looking for a dying sub that is, and I quote, ’at extreme long range.’”

The two operators looked at each other and groaned.

NEST TEAM, OVER MADAGASCAR

“I see. No, we’ll decide a course of action from here. Tell Bloodhound they did their best. Addison out.” Sean pulled the communications headset off and finished his notes. Gayle was in her chair near the front bulkhead of the Gulfstream. Sean held the bad news in his eyes and face. “Bloodhound’s helo found the freighter.”

“And?”

“Looks like the North Koreans torpedoed it just as their bird got on the scene. The navigator reported a probable radar fix on a conning tower in the water beside the ship. Said it looked like an Alpha’s sail.” Sean rubbed at the grit of fatigue around his eyes. “If that’s the case, things are really serious. Alphas are a fast boat. At least that’s what I read about them. They helo crew dropped a torpedo, but couldn’t guarantee a hit. They were low on fuel and in degrading weather. Whoever survived the sinking didn’t survive the sea. It looks like the warheads are on a sub heading back to the homeland.”

Gayle let out a long breath. “Damn, and your Navy is sure about there being a sub?”

“As sure as they can be. Things could have been better. The Koreans had the weather on their side. Rain and wind can play hell with those search sets. It makes the waves high and random.”

She looked up at Sean. “Is it always this hard?”

He sat down in the chair across from her and shrugged. “The only time it’s harder is when the bastards manage to get a shot off and do some real damage.”

“Has that ever happened to you?”

“Not yet. Bill and I’ve been lucky so far. Though it’s come right down to the wire a few times.”

Gayle stretched in her chair and looked at the graying skies outside the window. “And how do you see this mission?”

Sean looked around the cabin at the other men. Some were sleeping. Harris and Alexandrov were playing cards in the far corner of the passenger deck. “This one’s going to be a photo finish. I know this thing goes a hundred times faster than a submarine, but it’s a big deep ocean out there. This guy was cool enough to evade a torpedo at close range. He’s a player, not an amateur. More than likely, he’s going to make it to some port and that’s where we’re going to have to go to get this under control.”

Gayle shook her head. “And you think all of us could pull that off?”

“No, but with a team of your Navy SEALS helping us, perhaps we could.”

“Perhaps? I suppose you have somebody in mind.”

“Actually, I had a whole team in mind. SEAL team three. Did some training with them in Burma last year. They’re a good lot and they know their shit.” Sean smiled. “Of course, I’d prefer if it was a bunch of the lads from my group, but how would that look to the press of the world? Contact your Special Operations Command and tell them what they want to hear. Let some general decide for you. If it all goes to shit, it’ll be our asses anyway. You have nothing to lose and some very serious firepower and skills to gain.”

Gayle’s brow furrowed in frustration. “It’s like we’re always one step behind.”

“Get used to it. These things are never easy. Something always goes wrong, no matter how well you plan. It’s always the little details. It’s like Father Henry used to say to me, ‘God is in the details.’” Sean’s pale eyes locked on to hers for a split second. “Do you believe in God?”

The question was so out of place with the conversation, it took Gayle a moment to refocus. “I don’t know. I suppose. It’s not a subject I’ve given much thought to. What about you? I mean, it’s an odd question.”

Sean smiled. “No it isn’t. Millions of people ask it each day.” He put his feet up on the table between them. “See, I never gave God much thought either.” A wry smile crossed his face. “Too young and stupid; full of piss and vinegar. Then I got into the Brigade. After a while, I started to see a bigger picture. It came through in dribs and drabs after many ops in Afghanistan. The regiment is a small group. Everybody knows everybody else. We know each other’s families, their kids and we all look out for each other.”

“And when did you figure you believed in God?”

Sean’s eyes went dark. “The first time I killed a man up close.”

DPRK SUBMARINE, GREAT LEADER

Condensation dripped from an overhead coolant line. It created a growing puddle beside the metal toilet, which was stuffed into the cramped cubicle. Seaman Chin Jea Rhee leaned over the head’s smooth silver edge and threw up. He was far too occupied with controlling his stomach’s rebellion to notice the dampness that spread across his knees.

It must have been something he ate, or maybe he picked up some kind of virus before they left port that was only now making itself felt. Another bout of heaves surged over him. His gums ached. Chin rested his forehead against the cool metal rim of the bowl. One of the freighter crew, that was it. He must have picked up the bug from one of them when they pulled those crates on board. How, was anyone’s guess. There had been no physical contact, just the transfer ropes thrown back and forth during the move of the crates.

Every rest period, Rhee had been staring at the mysterious crates from his cot in the forward torpedo bay. What was inside them that was important enough to send the Great Leader and his crew halfway around the world to get them? It had been the quiet topic of discussion in the forward torpedo bay since the crates had come on board. The loading, followed by a live torpedo launch, had left little doubt in the minds of the crew as to just how important these three simple crates were to the homeland.

The exposed symbol on the side of one of the crates puzzled Rhee. The six triangles arranged in a circle, alternating yellow and black. An interesting pattern, it was not as comforting as the symbol of the Yin and Yang that adorned the wall of his grandfather’s house, but still it spoke of other universal properties. Another wave of nausea washed over him.

“Are you sure? Absolutely positive?” The Captain scrutinized the political officer and the boat’s doctor.

The doctor, a man of rapid and unpredictable motion, nervously cleared his throat. “He came in on the morning sick call. At first I thought it was just a virus, but no other symptoms normally associated turned up. Swollen glands, roughness of the throat… none was evident. I took a blood test. The results were sobering. His white blood cell count is dramatically up. His gums are swollen and his joints ache. It can be nothing else. I have never seen a case myself, but all of the symptoms…”

The political officer interjected, “There must be a small leak in one of the containers, Comrade Captain.”

The Captain was perturbed that the doctor had gone to the political officer first, instead of notifying him. But who could fault the man? He was just covering his own political backside. As always, his thoughts were with his boat. “And the rest of the bay crew, how are they?”

The doctor’s head bobbed up and down. “I have taken the liberty of subjecting them to a blood test as well. You must keep in mind that Rhee’s bunk was closest to the devices brought on board. He is sick, yes, but I would expect short term recovery within three days, full recovery within the week. It is only a mild case of Radiation sickness, although long-term effects will take some time to manifest themselves. Still, I will have to watch the others closely for symptoms.”

The Captain turned to the political officer. The blame for this lay somewhere else. All he was interested in right now was a solution. “Well, to quote one of your lectures, what is to be done?” The Captain’s gaze narrowed. Too often, political officers were just bloated appendages of the central party. This one was going to find that on a submarine, everybody depended on each other.

The political officer was as oblivious to his plight now as he had been on the open air bridge. “I am afraid, Comrade Captain, that this is beyond my expertise. It will have to be up to you and your patriotic crew to find the proper solution.”

How the Supreme Leader could support their great country with deadwood like this moron before him was beyond the Captain. If it were not for the power putrid individuals such as this and his pole-faced lackey wielded, he would have loaded both of them into torpedo tubes and fired them into the clutches of the sea. “Thank you for your candor and your faith, Comrade Officer.” The rest came through clenched teeth, “You are dismissed.” He turned to one of his junior officers, ignoring the political officer. “Get the Engineering Officer to the bridge immediately, please.”

“At once, Captain.”

Two minutes later, the Chief Engineer arrived from the bowels of the Leader’s twin diesels. So rare was he seen in his uniform that the Captain had finally suggested that he should just transfer his rank and insignia to his coveralls. The man stood on the raised bridge area, wiping at his hands with a soiled cloth. Captain Kil-Yon could not tell if he was transferring grease from his hands to the rag or the reverse.

“You wanted to speak to me Captain?” The Engineer rarely used the standard Comrade before a higher rank, preferring to use it only with men of lower rank than himself. The engine room had received an extremely high efficiency rating during the last set of work-ups and the Captain always gave a certain amount of latitude where important areas of his boat were concerned.

“Yes, Chief, but I will have to speak to you about it in my cabin.” This earned a quizzical look from the Chief, but the Captain’s reasons for any action were always sound.

Once they were inside the small cubicle the Captain called his cabin, and the door was closed, he told the Chief about the problem. “As you know, we transferred some important cargo from a freighter off the South African coast a few days ago.”

The Chief’s answer had hard edges. “Important enough to send her and her crew to the bottom.”

A shadow crossed the Captain’s face and he looked away for a moment. It was then the Chief knew that the order to sink the freighter had not originated with his Captain. All sailors, whether above or below the sea’s surface, have but one enemy away from land’s embrace.

“That does not matter, Chief,” the Captain said.

The Chief took that message to heart. Do not fool with or underestimate the security forces on board.

“What matters is the cargo we transferred on board. There are three nuclear warheads and one of them has a leak.”

“So that’s what is wrong with Rhee.” There were few secrets on a submarine. “Radiation sickness.”

“It looks that way. What I need from you is some way of containing the radiation. Any ideas?”

The Chief stroked his chin and stared at the ceiling of the small cubicle. The Captain let him take his time. Most of the Chief’s technical solutions were unorthodox, but he had never failed any task assigned him. After three minutes of staring into space, with a grunt and a nod, he looked back at his Captain and began to elaborate on his plan to store the three warheads.

Eight hours later, the Captain looked dubiously at the large pile of spare batteries that encased the three warheads, and now dominated the far corner of the torpedo bay. Three seamen were in the process of swabbing down every surface of the bay, just in case some dust had gotten loose from the bomb casings. Only the Captain and the Chief really knew why the batteries were there. He looked over at his Chief, “And you’re sure that will do the job?”

The Chief grunted assent, “Should do. Those batteries are nothing more than a collection of lead plates in acid. Everything I’ve ever read about radioactivity said that lead was the best shield, next to gold of course. Besides,” he flashed his Captain a toothy grin, “with these things out of storage, now I have somewhere to play cards.”

The Captain smiled back. “Good work, Chief.”

The Chief saluted him. “A pleasure to do my duty for our country.”

The Leader slid through the depths, every mile, a bit closer to home and her final destiny.

ANATAVARIO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, MADAGASCAR

They had set down to refuel and change flight crews. The plane had been in the air for over ten hours. The limits of their equipment and the team were being pushed to the maximum. Gayle sighed to herself. There was no other way. If they burned up the jet, they burned up the jet. Now was not a time to worry about one aircraft.

Two new blue suiters came through the port-side door. The current flight crew briefed them and left. When the new crew had come aboard, they had been all smiles. When they sat down and started the preflight, their faces were stony and ashen. A Marine Sergeant climbed up the entryway steps. In his right hand was an aluminum-sided briefcase. He looked around the passenger cabin. His eyes flicked over the sleeping members of the team and finally settled on Gayle.

“Captain Ecevit?”

Gayle stretched in her chair. “Yes?”

He held up the briefcase. “Delivery ma’am.” He put the case at her feet and held out a clipboard. “If you could just sign for it.” She signed the release form and the young Sergeant left.

Gayle looked at Sean Addison. He was asleep in the chair across from her. No need to wake him or anyone else, unless the contents of the briefcase were important. Even asleep, Addison looked dangerous. The man was a bomb waiting to go off. Whatever had happened to him in Afghanistan and Syria had wound him pretty tight.

Was that a bad thing or a good thing? As for Harris? The chips still were not in on him. Gayle shook her head. The mission, that’s what was important. Unit integrity was not a lesson she had learned yet.

The dispatches inside the case were grim. The Koreans were at a heightened state of alert. The usual political posturing had gone further than normal this time. Kim Jong Un was solidifying his hold on the military and the government. His public appearances had fallen off dramatically, leading to speculation both wild and uncertain that he was dead or under house arrest.

At least naval support would not be a problem. The third fleet was already in the Straits of Korea, just in case. SEAL Team Three was on its way as well. As a contingency, they were bringing the Hind helicopter element of their OPFOR group. Gayle wasn’t sure what good the Hinds would be, but you never turn down anything offered by higher command. They might not offer it again. The last brief was the most welcome one of all. The man who had been in charge of securing materials for the North Korean nuclear program had defected. Gayle read through the brief bio of Chun Seng Kyun. The details of his escape were vague, but North Korean fatalities were mentioned.

32°N LAT., 128°E LONG.

The images on the Tactical Information display performed their intricate electronic ballet. Each small cluster of pixels was a ship or aircraft of Carrier Task Force 61. Bright red showed the cover zones of the AEW aircraft. Faint blue showed the projected ranges and arcs of the passive radar systems of ships under his command. Bright green lines and script were the ship or unit’s name, its speed and current heading and, if it was an aircraft, altitude.

Admiral Douglas Abrahams looked down at the symbols in the TID. It was a far cry from the multicolored grease-pencil markings on the acetate board maps of his youth. Abrahams preferred the chaotic scrawl of the past to the new clinical data transfer of the present. In the old days, the ships and crews had been small. If a plane was being scratched from the roster, you knew the man. There was a good chance you had met his wife and kids. It was a human touch. Now, computers read an IFF code and your ship or unit became just another code, a data packet. If you were lost, your file was deleted as a matter of routine. But with command came distance. It would be impossible for him to know each and every one of the five thousand men aboard this ship, let alone all the ships of his task force. Abrahams shook himself out of his reverie.

“Jesus, I’m getting morbid in my old age,” he thought.

CTF 61 formed a picket line that ran from the Korea Straight to one hundred miles past Cheju-Do Island in the Yellow Sea. The ship dots were spread pretty thin. Air cover was doing its best to fill in the gaps between the lines. His flagship, the Dwight D Eisenhower, was dead center, just behind and below the display’s illustrated picket line. This new display was state of the art. Far better than the older displays with their raster graphics and only four colors. Each ship type on the new display was represented by a different color and high definition. The Eisenhower’s symbol was a white box with a gold anchor superimposed on its center and CVN69 underneath. The anchor designated it the flagship. If the Eisenhower was damaged in combat and the Admiral was forced to leave the ship, the anchor would be moved to his next command vessel.

It had been fifty years since any Admiral had been forced to move his command during an engagement. Abrahams had sworn that would never happen to him. The new toys of naval combat made even the sixteen-inch guns of the big battle wagons pale in destructive capability. He scanned the display, looking for the dark shark-gray shapes of his subs, a color Abrahams felt was most fitting. They were, after all, his sharks, cruising the depths looking for unsuspecting prey. Their mission premise made the indicated plots on his display a rough guess at best.

The Eisenhower had been at a state of General Quarters for almost a week. The atmosphere in the Combat Information Center was fifty percent caffeine and fifty percent adrenaline. It was taking a visible toll on the carrier’s crew and command staff.

The North and South of Korea were once again at a state of high alert. A series of priority orders and briefings from the Pentagon and CINCPAC had moved his ship from her normal state of alert for this region from DEFCON 4 to DEFCON 2. DEFCON 2 was right on the edge of a full on shooting war.

Abrahams had been through the long protracted conflict of the Vietnam War as a very young Lieutenant on board a Destroyer Escort. He had little wish to see his country resume hostilities with the North Koreans. He considered the South recalcitrant in its duties. Another Asian megalith that flooded the States with expensive smartphones and useless luxury items at the expense of human rights. The Admiral felt wars in the Far East were better left to combatants who had a physical claim to the region. Combatants with the ability to move their own men and materials into any ensuing fray. The Far East had expulsed more invaders from different parts of the world than history could or cared to remember.

Abrahams was not an isolationist. He merely loved his country and hated the effect that unchecked trade of American jobs for cheaper manufacturing costs was having on companies and technology that had made America great. There was a deeper, darker reason: the personal aftermath of another later regional war. A war fought against a rarely seen enemy who left nothing but booby traps and carnage in its wake. His son had returned from Afghanistan minus the lower half of his left leg and part of his left hand thanks to an IED. Fortunes of war.

DEFCON 2 was a weapons free situation. At his or the Commanding Deck Officer’s discretion, any craft approaching by sea or air that failed to identify itself with proper IFF codes would be destroyed by his air cover or ship-launched missiles and Phalanx fire. Two groups of F-18 Hornet fighters were providing BARCAP. The Barrier Combat Air Patrol line was set at twelve miles from his task force. Four E2C Hawkeyes provided Airborne Early Warning capability, as well as Command, Control, Communication and Intelligence, called simply C^3I. The Hornets were the warning buzz and, if needed, the sting of the Carrier’s Task Force, BARCAP. The eight aircraft provided protection to all ships over the entire far flung length of the picket line.

There would be no repeat of the USS Stark disaster on Abraham’s watch. If any object moved within the Eisenhower’s sphere, it would be tracked. If it proved to be hostile, it would be destroyed.

To the north, outside his narrow picket line, closer to the shores of North Korea, a series of small blips indicated DPRK naval units. The number of real combatant ships in the North’s arsenal were unconfirmed. The North had a few aging Soviet- and Chinese-built Destroyers and Frigates. Most of their inventory was made up by small, Fast Attack Missile boats. A concept the Russians had always embraced and the Americans had shunned since the Second World War. A surprising move considering the success of the PT and MTB boats of the US and British Navies during that period.

Small missile boats could launch swarms of anti-ship missiles and decoys to fool countermeasures. A well-concerted attack by a force of them and one or more of the ships under his command could go to the bottom in a hurry. Abrahams wished that he at least had some Corvettes to round out his forces and engage the Koreans in shallower waters if the need should arise. But the Navy had a thing about size, and a Corvette was not a very sexy ship. The result? Over time, they had gotten into the world’s most expensive pissing match in naval forces. He knew the logic behind creating such an apparently weak force. If your country wasn’t operating in deep blue water but the so called brown water of your coastline and estuaries, they were the cheap and cost effective alternative. With enough mosquitoes, even the blood of an elephant could be drained. It frustrated nearly all of the bridge crew. All they could do was spy on the naval forces of the North. Defense satellites and observation aircraft equipped with their synthetic aperture, side-looking radars gave an accurate idea of the North’s shore line defenses. Any ship caught in the cone of detection could later have its radar cross section analyzed to determine its type and purpose. Being forewarned was being forearmed.

The political posturing surrounding this whole incident was pure bullshit. Beltway bureaucrats safe in the inner rings and sub-basements of the Pentagon sat on the fence and on information until it was too late to save a bad situation. Things did not get much worse than this.

The North Koreans had signed a nuclear non-proliferation treaty with the South. This gave the United Nations, on paper at least, access for study teams. A first chance for the west to get a good look at the North Korean Nuclear Research facilities and assess their present capabilities.

Abrahams had read “Mao’s Little Red Book, The Art of War,” and the collective writings of Ho Chi Min. The mindset of move and countermove was not foreign to him. He felt the Treaty was a ruse. Upon its inception, he had written a paper outlining concerns to this effect. Unfortunately being the Commander in Chief of a Carrier Task Force took him out of the careful and pedantic machinations of the Pentagon loop and its inner circles. His paper received a lukewarm reception from his peers, and then carefully pierced by other adversaries, it sank into the morass of Pentagon politics without a trace. Abrahams would love to say “I told you so” to those polished bastards. But an attitude like that could and had ended many budding careers, in no short order. He had seen it done to men far better connected than him. “God hath no wrath like the ring on a witch hunt.”

So the North had waffled and stalled the UN’s best efforts for the last year, hanging on to their beleaguered regime by sheer grit and determination. To apply pressure, and remind the North just who had the bigger stick. “Team Spirit,” annual exercises held by US and South Korean forces, had been resumed. It was as good a cover as any to allow temporary bolstering of American assets in the field along the thin border of the Demilitarized Zone.

It had been tense, but things had stabilized and the North moved back to the table in Geneva to discuss their so-called concerns. Then disaster struck. An independent newspaper in Seoul published the diary of a top defense official in the South Korean government. The diary excerpts outlined the South’s development of a nuclear weapon. The weapon would be used against the North in the advent of resumed hostilities. The North had demanded an immediate political apology. The South rejected these demands. The North’s answer to the snub had been given a week ago. This time, Abrahams had the grim feeling it would go all the way.

A seaman standing in the corner watching the air displays called out, “Sir, the Airboss says a COD is inbound from Japan.”

Abrahams frowned. “There isn’t one due for two more days till the Mail Run.”

The seaman glanced down at a checklist on his clipboard. “Yes sir, no delivery scheduled for another forty eight hours.”

“Well get on the horn and see what Okinawa has coming out here.”

“Aye, sir.”

Abrahams turned back to his Tactical display. What the hell was so important that a COD would be sent out with no notification to Flight Ops?

“Uh, sir?” The young seaman was back.

Abrahams did not look up from the display. “Spit it out seaman.”

“Pri Fly says to expect visitors. That’s all the information they could get out of the COD’s pilot.”

“Thanks.” Abrahams dismissed the man. Probably another Senatorial junket out to see their tax dollars at sea. No, that was a best case scenario and Abrahams had not risen through officer ranks by always going for the best case. He turned to the Eisenhower’s Captain, Tom Mulray. “This doesn’t look good, Tom. I’m going to head down to Pri Fly and see what else the Airboss has. Take care of the fleet for me while I’m gone, will you?”

The Eisenhower’s Captain moved over to the TID. “Something not right?” There was worry in his voice. If it bothered the Admiral, it bothered him.

“I don’t know yet. I’ll keep you posted.” Abrahams left the CIC and made his way down and then back through the carrier’s sail to the air control perch known as Pri Fly, the dominion of his Airboss.

It may have been his fleet, but the Boss sure as hell made sure command knew who stopped his gung ho young pilots from spreading themselves all over Eisenhower’s nice clean flight deck.

The soundproofed confines of Pri Fly reduced the roar and thunder of twin engine F-18C Hornets to a dull rumble in his chest. Abrahams loved that feeling. It was pure, unadulterated power. The planes rocketed off the steam catapults into a darkening sky. As one left, the crunch and squeal of another hitting the arrestor wires could be heard.

Commander Bob Garfield was in full swing when Abrahams arrived. The small Midwesterner was fully engrossed in the intricate ballet of getting the planes he had just launched and was still launching into the stations of exhausted flight crews who were bringing their fuel-hungry birds home to the Eisenhower’s roost.

Abrahams was used to his Air Commander’s quirks. Garfield put in incredibly long hours. The man seemed tireless. What drove him, Abrahams could only guess, but the man’s record spoke for itself. Since he had been the Airboss on the Eisenhower, her safety record was the best in the entire Navy. With a record like that, Garfield was destined for Gold and Anchors.

The Commander got the last of his birds into the pattern and handed control over to one of the freckle-faced air controllers. The young seaman did not look old enough to control a school crossing, let alone be responsible for the safe landing of multi-million dollar aircraft. Just looking at the number of young faces in this room made Abrahams feel old.

Garfield turned to face his Admiral. His accent was a droll twang. Midwest for sure, but where was anyone’s guess. He knew exactly why Abrahams was there and answered his question before it was spoken.

“I don’t know what’s with the COD. They won’t talk to me. Just some babble about need to know. If you ask me, sounds like spooks.” He held his hand up, still keeping Abrahams at bay. “But on their present inbound track and speed, it will come in just behind our birds returning from BARCAP and then you can ask all the questions you want.”

“How long will that be?”

Garfield looked down at one of the radar sets. “Give me forty minutes to recover our birds. That should cover any bolters.” He gave Abrahams a, “Don’t you have anything better to do?” look.

Abrahams laughed, “Bob, don’t ever change.”

Garfield just snorted and waved his hand at his commanding officer. “Go do some Admiral shit will you, or a bunch of our guys are going swimming.”

Abrahams left Pri Fly and made his way down to an open air observation deck just above the main flight deck. He grabbed a pair of ear and eye protectors from the rack by the door. The sun was setting. Gold and red fire tinged with purple clouds arched across the horizon. It looked like the squall the Met section had reported on earlier was making its initial moves. To the aft of the flight deck, he could see the nose gear landing light of a Hornet as he lined up for approach. He frowned in frustration. Just what the hell was going on? Unannounced visitors on a Task Force at DEFCON 2? He had an ominous premonition. As bad as it was now, ten minutes after that COD landed, it was going to get a world worse.

When the news came, it was far more terrible than even he had imagined. “What!” The word smashed off the walls of the Admiral’s cabin, causing Gayle to flinch in spite of herself. Abrahams leaned over his desk and waved the briefing file Gayle had given him. “This is accurate?”

Gayle swallowed hard. “To the best of our knowledge, it’s backed up by the NSA and Military intelligence sources.”

Abrahams thumped back in his chair. “Military intelligence? Don’t swear around me Captain.”

Gayle suppressed a smile, “No, sir.”

“And you are positive about the warhead type?”

“I personally verified it at the rocket site in question.”

Abrahams suddenly looked very tired. “And I would guess that you and your stone-faced partners are aware there are reports of the North Koreans having a SCUD delivery system variant with a one thousand kilometer range.”

Gayle met the Admiral’s gaze, “We are aware.”

He looked back down at the report. “And these three devices are most likely on board a DPRK submarine?”

“Yes sir. As you can see by the notes, a Lynx Helicopter from the HMS Bloodhound spotted a freighter of North Korean registry holding station off the coast of South Africa, in what they described as heavy seas. They were almost at the ship when it exploded and sank. Unfortunately, due to weather conditions and lack of fuel at the time, they could not locate and destroy the sub. A torpedo was dropped. It failed to hit the target. The sub, as far as we know, escaped.”

“Have the President and the Joint Chiefs been briefed yet on this situation?”

I assume so. We have been submitting regular reports back to Washington. For the most part though, we’ve been on our own.”

“So you don’t know for sure that your reports are getting to the President.”

“Sir, this is a top priority mission. I’m sure the President is getting a regular brief on this situation.”

“Well, Captain, before I go hunting for this sub and possibly restart a war, the Joint Chiefs and the President will be personally updated by me.”

Gayle started to protest. “But I…”

Abrahams’s face darkened. “Captain, you have obviously been running on fumes for some time now, so I will just chalk that up to fatigue and let it slide. I understand your concern, but don’t worry, I will deal with the sub as best I can right now. These are my ships, my men and my responsibility. Our government trusts me to do what is right and has trained me to that end. You, I am sure, are very good at what you do, but I doubt you would be very good at what I do. This is my piece of ocean and I know not every solution is a military one. Politics lurk in every fold of a wave out here.”

His expression softened. “You and your partners look beat. One of my stewards will escort you to the guest staterooms so you can clean up and get some rest.”

Gayle looked like she was going to protest again.

The Admiral made a calming motion with his hand. “Relax Captain. One of my men will notify you the moment something develops.”

Abrahams leafed through the last pages of the NEST report. It was a frightening document. With the present capability of North Korean Rocket Forces enhanced SCUDS, his task force, in fact any ships operating from the South China Sea right into the Indian Ocean, were in danger of a nuclear attack. If it had been any other country seeking to secure this kind of capability and join that most exclusive membership in the nuclear club, Abrahams would have been inclined to dismiss this kind of paranoia. But these were North Koreans and they were a very serious people. Still frowning, he picked up his phone and dialed the bridge.

“Bridge. Commander Sorra.”

Abrahams’s voice was grave. “Jeff, looks like we have a situation brewing. Get Tom and everybody together in the briefing room.” He checked his watch. “By twenty-one hundred.”

“That bad, boss?”

Abrahams was suddenly very tired. “Yeah Jeff, looks that way. Better tell the Skips on all of our Oliver Hazard Perrys to get their birds up and dipping to the west of us. I want every Orion they can throw out of Kadina in the air and in front of my task force. Tell them they can start dropping sonobouys from the end of the runway.” He looked down at the file again. With a heavy sigh, the die was cast. “Ah hell, better get the boys rounded up now. This can’t wait.”

“Aye, sir.” The line went dead. Abrahams punched up the Central Communications Room.

“CCR. Master Seaman Donaldson.”

“Abrahams, get me CINCPAC now.”

“Aye, sir.”

Seconds later, he was patched through a secure military communications satellite to the offices of the Commander in Chief Pacific Forces. CINCPAC had gone home for the evening, so the Admiral’s call was forwarded through the Base Exchange to his house.

Vice Admiral William Collingsworth was hosting his usual Saturday night poker game. He was not impressed when his wife came to the doorway with a cordless phone in her hand.

She held the phone out, with her left hand over the receiver. “It’s for you, dear.”

Collingsworth pushed his reply around his cigar. “Tell ’em I’ll call ’em back.”

“It’s Doug Abrahams.”

“Damn!” He threw his hand down on the table. His bluff had been on the verge of succeeding. “I’ll take it in the den, Grace.”

He sat behind his sea desk and picked up the phone. To Abrahams, Collingsworth always sounded like a bulldog chewing on nails. “Collingsworth. This had better be good Doug. You cost me some money.”

“Sorry, Bill. Did I screw up a really good hand?”

Doug Abrahams had been a Saturday night regular at the Collingsworth home. He knew how serious the boss took his Saturday nights. Collingsworth regarded Abrahams as one of the finest young Admirals in the fleet. For him to call, it had to be a very serious situation indeed. “Don’t worry about the game, Doug. What’s on your mind?”

Abrahams got to the point. “What do you know about a phantom North Korean submarine loaded with nuclear warheads?”

Collingsworth looked to see that the incoming call was scrambled. “Jesus, Doug, who told you this?”

“A little bird in Air Force blue just handed me a very complete file. Why wasn’t I notified by the joint chiefs about this?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. When Collingsworth spoke, it was in careful and measured tones. “We weren’t sure the warheads didn’t go to the bottom with that freighter. The joint chiefs didn’t want to do anything that might inflame the Korean situation.”

Abrahams kept the anger in his voice barely in check. “So you were prepared to sacrifice my fleet instead?”

“Of course not, Doug. I take it you have taken precautions.”

“The alert boosted our status to DEFCON 2 and I now have a North Korean sub with nuclear warheads on board heading right towards my picket line. You’re damn right precautions have been taken. I just put a call out to Kadina and told them to get every Orion they have in the air on their way to our positions. Sonobouys are going to be in short supply if you boys expect me to nail this guy. I’m going to need you to release at least one AWACS for command and control. My E2C Hawkeyes aren’t up to the task of running the show if we get into a full scale countrywide fur ball out here. With the fighter wings out at Pusan, and Kadina on alert as well, the unfriendly skies could get real crowded. I want to only splash bad guys, not friendlies. If that sub is out there, it and its cargo are going straight to the bottom.”

“It’s your call, Doug. Do what you think best. I’ll try to get a couple of A3s released out of Okinawa, but it could be iffy. It’s bad enough having your carrier group out there, and AWACS floating around outside of NK airspace could set the bastards off. Washington still doesn’t want to jeopardize any talks. It’s still going to be your call. Any decision you make, I will back to the hilt.”

“You mean that? Because if it hits the fan out here, it’s likely that the whole mess is going to blow up in our faces.”

“I realize that, Doug. So do the chiefs. The problem lies with the higher court. The boss and his flunkies are still in a bind over the UN and the ISIL thing. They don’t want to sully their hands in this mess. The more the NK’s stall for time, the further this falls from the political eye. They’re really going to hate your guts for dragging them kicking and screaming back to it. To top it all off, that court decision about that poor Japanese kid’s killing in Louisiana did nothing for relations with our Japanese allies, so State is going to be even more reluctant than usual to stir anything up over here.”

“Those AWACS are critical, Bill.”

“I realize that, but it is still a political situation so far, not a military one.”

“So my people are going to have to start dying before all of this gets taken seriously? Does the President even realize what is on that sub? I have a NEST team on board the Eisenhower right now and their team leader sure as hell is taking this whole thing seriously.”

There was a long pause at the other end of the phone. “The President has been briefed on this…”

“He has been, but Babitch?”

“…That asshole?”

“Asshole and Director of the CIA, which pretty much go hand in hand as a job requirement. Regardless, Babitch had his nose put out of joint by the head of MI6. Something about stalling on notifying the Brits of the situation. The scuttlebutt is their head man flew over and threatened exposure of the whole thing unless some Brits were assigned to the NEST team mission.

“I’ve met them, they’re serious customers.”

“The word I get from the inside ring is our illustrious head of Christians In Action wanted this to be strictly a joint op between us and the Russians, and he’s been downplaying it to the President in his briefings ever since.”

Abrahams was insistent. “Bring the President up to speed on this, Bill. Cut Babitch off at the knees. We’re heading into a full on shooting war here. Get the joint chiefs to crucify the condescending bastard if you have to, but make the President aware of what’s at stake.”

“I’ll nail Babitch and tell the President, but it could mean the end of any advancement for you.”

“Screw the advancement, Bill. I’m no good behind a desk anyway. You and I both know that. And Bill, thanks for all of your help. It means a great deal to me. You’d better get back to your poker game.”

“You had better get back to yours,” Collingsworth growled back.

“Aye, sir.” Abrahams put down the phone with a heavy hand and said a silent prayer.

On the other end of the line in Okinawa, Vice Admiral William Collingsworth, Commander in Chief of the Pacific Fleet, knew exactly what he had to do next and it was going to end his career as surely as it was going to end Doug Abrahams’s.

Like Abrahams, he had been in Vietnam. He returned the phone to its cradle, got up and walked into the next room. The poker game was still in full swing. One of the Captains sitting behind an impressive pile of chips started to say something, but it froze on his lips when he saw the look on the Admiral’s face.

“I just spoke to Doug Abrahams on the Eisenhower and what I am about to tell you all is well above classified. The situation in North Korea is deteriorating. We have good intelligence that the North Koreans have acquired three advanced SCUD warheads in the fifteen to twenty kiloton range, and that they are on board a DPRK sub of unknown type heading for a home port. I don’t need to elaborate what those warheads will be used for. I need you and your men at your ships and ready to sail as soon as possible. Right now, Task Force 61 is covering only one section of the approach to the Korea Straits. If the Koreans decide to take this to the wall, there is every possibility that they will launch some kind of amphibious attack on the east coast, probably Pusan because of our air base there. The Eisenhower is our only aircraft carrier in this area, so I’m going to have to ride shotgun on one of your cruisers. Don’t worry; I’ll fly out after you all sail. There is something I have to do first. The poker game is over gentlemen. Good luck, good hunting and God speed.”

It felt like Gayle had just closed her eyes when the knock at the door came. Her uniform felt gamy as she pulled it on. God only knew how it smelled. She pulled open the stateroom door and was saluted by a Marine Sergeant.

“Ma’am, the Admiral requests the presence of you and the rest of your team in the ready room. I am your escort.”

Gayle stepped over the raised sill of the door and smiled at the young Marine. “Lead on. God knows this thing is big enough to get lost for days in.”

They started to thread their way through the myriad corridors, stopping only to pick up the other team members. A short time later, Gayle found herself standing in the command ready room being introduced to the command members of the Carrier Task Force by Admiral Abrahams.

“Gentlemen, this is Captain Gayle Ecevit USAF. She holds doctorates in mathematics and quantum mechanics, and she is currently attached to the Department Of Energy and is the leader of a joint US, Russian Nuclear Emergency Search Team. I will let her brief you on why she and her team are here.” Abrahams looked around the room. His voice took on a serious tone. “I will trust that you reserve your comments and your candor until she is finished. Whatever your feelings about what she is about to tell you, understand that I have already taken this matter up with CINCPAC.” He turned to face Gayle and gave her the podium.

Gayle, direct as always, skipped the pleasantries and went right to the point. An hour later, she had finished her brief uninterrupted. She had expected cries of disbelief or at least denial. Not this silence.

Abrahams quickly moved to take the podium. “Thank you, Captain. If you wouldn’t mind taking a seat with your team, I’ll take it from here.”

Gayle left the front of the room and sat down, wondering what to expect next.

“Well, there you have it. Most of you, at my general insistence,” smiles and polite laughter moved around the table, “have studied in some depth the history and traditions of this region. I trust it was informative as well as enjoyable reading.” The Admiral looked down at the podium for a moment. Gayle saw his forearms bulge with the pressure from his hands gripping at its sides. No laughter now.

When he did speak, it was like Moses from the mount. “You are all aware of why we are here and the current recalcitrance of the North Koreans to honor the conditions of the agreed Nuclear Proliferation Treaty. And now we are given the news that there is the good possibility of a submarine heading our way with nuclear weapons on board. Our friend, the Supreme Leader, will have sent his best men and their best sub on this mission.” His fist smashed down on the podium top. Everyone jumped. “Absolute dyed in the wool, die hard workers paradise communists. Committed, well-motivated and well trained. Not,” he held his hand up with one finger extended to make his point, “not some ill-fed, ill-treated, snot-nosed camel jockeys with more ambition than brains.”

He paused to let that one sink in. “If you screw up and let this bastard line you up in his fire computer, you have not just jeopardized yourself, but you have killed your men. I want that sub found and I want it sunk, period. No ifs, no ands and no buts. Is that clear?”

Gayle was deafened by the chorus of “Aye, aye, sir.”

The Admiral’s smile was grim. “Good. God be with you. That is all.”

24°4’22” N LAT., 122°12’13” E LONG.

The thin reed of Great Leader’s search antenna cut a narrow wake through rolling gray waves. A lone antenna sniffing for stray emissions from airborne and surface search enemy radars.

Two hundred miles off the port quarter of the Leader’s stern lay the island of Taiwan. To their starboard side lay the Ryuku Islands archipelago. Underneath the waves, the Leader’s bow-mounted passive sonar array translated distant pings of American ship sonar and sonobouy nets into a cascade display of electronic light on a CRT screen above the sonar station. Underneath, two of the Leader’s sonar officers sat, headphones clamped over their ears. Long, thin fingers made delicate changes to the audio receivers. It was a constant struggle to sort out a picture of what was going on above and below the surface from pure noise.

The proximity of the Leader to the surface did not help matters. A great deal of information was being lost in the wave clutter.

Captain Kil-yon leaned over the illuminated map table, studying a series of RORSAT-generated maps so detailed that they showed every bump and ripple in the ocean floor from Indonesia to the Sea of Japan. Currents, their depths and calculated salinity levels were shown with transparent overlay bands of different colors.

American Naval Intelligence would have given a great deal to find out how these maps had been acquired for the North Korean Navy through a series of cut out companies from a subsidiary of the same French company that supplied satellite reconnaissance of downtown Kuwait to the Iraqis during the first Gulf War. The North was still a closed society to the west. Try as they might, spies of any consequence were few and far between. Most of the information garnered by western intelligence services came from Japanese sources laid down in the Second World War during their occupation. A dubious information source at best. In fact, all of the American intelligence community would have been fascinated at just how advanced the North Korean sensor, fire control and command suites were for such a small, diesel submarine.

Thanks to a worldwide recession, like-minded European and American companies would sell to anyone, restrictions or not, if the paperwork was in order. Secret trading partners waved the ways if the means of wealth were justified. The submarine’s builders had used this greed to purchase the absolute best off the shelf western technology they could lay their hands on into his hull. The Leader’s Captain knew this and planned to exploit the enemy task force commander’s lack of information.

The young lieutenant monitoring the search antenna looked up from his display. “No airborne search radars, sir.”

The Captain acknowledged this with the barest of nods, his eyes and brain still mapping the threats to his sub and possible routes through the American picket line. He silently gave the enemy task force commander grudging credit. “Helm, all stop.”

“Helm answering. All stop.”

The Americans had extensive sonobouy nets lining all the approaches. The DICASS nets were a real problem. Command activated and directional, they had the ability to extend their hydrophones below fifteen hundred feet. The drawback of using the DICASS type buoy to the Americans’ was its duration of only thirty minutes. Short life or not, they could seriously hamper his approach through deep water to the strait.

Once in the strait, he would be more at the mercy of buoys that had shallower depth ability but greater staying power, some as long as eight hours. The Americans could turn buoys from passive to active at the press of a few buttons. The buoys moved with the currents. Each one had a location marker that allowed a computer to plot each net’s progress. The Leader could pass under a net and not realize it until high frequency pings were reverberating off her hull and torpedoes and anti-submarine weapons were splashing into the water.

The Captain hoped the silence of full stop would allow his sonar officer to get a better picture of just how many ships were involved in whatever the Americans were doing. He turned to his sonar officer. “I need an approximate tally of the number and type of ships that we may be facing.”

“Aye, sir.”

The Captain hoped that none of the Oliver Hazard Perry Class Frigates were detected. Their SQS-5 sonar array worked extremely well in shallower waters. He hoped the shallow strait between the lower tip of Japan and South Korea would degrade American sonar performance enough to let him slip through, but that belief had slipped from his grasp at the first distant pings.

The strait was at the end of the long flat underwater Yellow Sea plain. A crevasse at its base ran deep from between Taiwan and mainland China, gradually getting shallower as it closed on the tip of South Korea. The flat shelf of the Korea straits, in some places only six hundred feet deep, ended at the edge of a cliff that dropped down into the deep abyssal of the Sea of Japan. The sheer-faced underwater mountains, the deep waters of the Sea of Japan and the tectonic instability of the sea floor in that region were the Leader’s ticket home. The Captain knew that with his skill and a little luck, he could avoid the surface ships and lurking submarines of the Americans. His real worry were anti-submarine warfare aircraft equipped with Magnetic Anomaly Detection equipment. These were sensors on long booms that extended behind an aircraft which detected the magnetic disturbance a large, ferrous metal object like a submarine would cause to the Earth’s magnetic field. There were many wrecks in the region that he could use as decoys to hamper the effectiveness of the American search.

His thoughts were interrupted by his sonar officer. “High frequency sonars to the port bow, sir. I count at least three. Screws turning for ten to fifteen knots. It’s at the extreme range of my hydrophones, so I can’t be sure.”

An active search pattern. “Damn!” the Captain tried to keep his consternation to himself. Were they looking for him? They must be. That blasted helicopter back at the freighter transfer and they had dropped a torpedo, not that it had even gotten close. Still, there was no way they could know it was a Korean operation. Unless it had been compromised from the start.

He was going to need a diversion if he was going to get through. He scrawled a brief message on a sheet of paper, folded it in half and handed it to an ensign. “Get that to communications. Send it out by burst transmission. Move quickly, man, we haven’t got all day.”

The ensign dashed off to the CCR.

His best chance lay in following the thermocline that ran along the long shelf that spanned the Philippines tip right to the bottom edge of Japan. He could use the layer between the two different water temperatures to mask his almost-silent running signature. The thermal layer would protect them from bow- and hull-mounted passive sonar. Ships equipped with dipping- and towed-array sonar were a worry, but their own passive sonar array had shown them to be at extreme distance.

Still, if they were trolling with their towed array positioned in just the right place and detected the Leader’s presence, their reaction could bring patrolling American submarines, the greatest underwater threat.

Another sub was the only weapons platform truly effective against a submarine threat and the Americans always had their underwater dogs patrolling the yard. If all these dangers could be avoided, all that would be required for assured success would be a quick race through the shallow waters of the Korea Straits into the deeper and safer waters of the Sea of Japan. The American commanding officer maybe expected him to run as close to Pyongyang as possible, right through his picket line. The Captain shook his head. That made little sense. The Yellow Sea was a large, flat, shallow area. The Leader would be easy picking. They did not have the true number of enemy ships nor their positions. One thing was clear: there were many ships, but they were used to peacetime waters. Submariners the world over were used to operating in an environment that was as close to a war footing as could be achieved. The Captains of the American ships would be tacticians, not warriors.

The Captain’s obsidian eyes traced the jagged black line on his map again. It could be an admirable attack, one that would bring great prestige to him and his crew. Still, to flaunt the power of the American presence, to approach their fleet out of bravado or pride. Well, that way lay assured detection and destruction. No, the more daring move through the Korean Straits was actually safer, for all its inferred risks. But no risk was too great to ensure the delivery of his cargo and the continuation of his country. It was a move more worthy of a master, worthy of the Captain, his crew and his boat. He tapped the route he had marked out with his finger. Time to cast the die.

“Secure from charging stations. Send all communications,” he said.

The communications officer transmitted the burst message containing all the coded details of their progress to date. Their chances to inform higher command of their status, receive intelligence and ask for tactical support would be few, if any. The report also included crew commendations for bravery and ingenuity. If he and his boat failed to get through the American line, he wanted the families of his crew to know what their fathers, brothers and sons had done to further their great country and the Supreme Leader’s wishes.

They would move to periscope depth at a later, prearranged time to receive the coded reply. Remaining this close to the surface to wait for a reply was too dangerous.

“Take her down to three hundred meters, ahead one quarter, Mister Hyun. Torpedo room, prepare countermeasures. Load all four tubes. If we are forced to engage, the less they hear of us the better.” He paused. “And Gentlemen, we are now in silent running conditions.” He motioned over the navigator who had been waiting respectfully to one side while his Captain secured the course of their future.

“Study this well and make sure your number two is as familiar as yourself.” Captain Kil-Yon traced the route one more time. “It is a long road, Comrade, and a dangerous one. Sleep will be little. We will need bolt holes the entire length of our journey. Our country depends on us to deliver that which so many have died for.” He looked the navigator in the face. “Do you understand?”

The navigator gave a single sharp nod of his head and saluted, “Absolutely, Comrade Captain.”

“Good.”

The teardrop hull creaked and groaned as it took on the gradual pressure of the ever-increasing depth. The Captain knew that outside the Leader’s pressure hull lay the real foe, one the Americans would like to release inside the Leader. He would use all of his ability to stop that from happening.

CIA SAFE HOUSE, EAST COAST, US

Aidan Forest, accelerator almost to the mat, pushed his old and battered Ford sedan down the DC express beltway at speeds it had not seen in a decade. A voice in the back of his mind chided him for the lack of attention given his vehicle over the years. He silently promised it a tune-up and oil change as soon as was possible.

The phone call in the dead of the night summoning him to Langley resulted in a disturbing meeting with the Director of Operations. Forest had been briefed at length about the backroom dealings of the North Koreans in their quest to secure restricted weapons technologies. It had taken the Director over an hour to explain a whole new background in Korean history to a man who preferred the certainty of the past. The last chapter had been the most chilling of all.

It was an embarrassment that Chun Seng Kyun’s debriefing had been lost in the immense paper shuffle bureaucracy of Washington. Kyun was the only man who could fathom how his own deputy’s mind worked. Forest cursed himself, the debrief had focused mainly on Chun personally and it had only progressed as far as Kyun’s tour of observation and trade during the Vietnam War.

Forest knew he should have brought the focus of the debrief on the present and not the past, but Chun preferred to talk about his career. Forest, being a historian, was rapt by this new information and insight. Forest, as Chun’s controller, had established a good working relationship with the man. Unfortunately, Forest’s controller was not a strong or intelligent man. He was somebody who delegated more than dictated. Forest suspected after this latest screw up, the man’s career was over with no further advancement. In the CIA, only at the top were you allowed to screw up more than once.

Forest swerved to avoid colliding with a Hyundai that had cut him off. Not even time for a muttered obscenity or angry hand gesture. He squinted into the glare of oncoming headlights. The density of traffic was unbelievable. It was as if every idiot with a license in the DC area was out and about tonight and every other one had his high beams on.

Forest rarely ventured out of his apartment after nine o’clock on any night of the week. Most nights would find him engrossed in a new book, historical paper or surfing the web.

The drive to the safe house was dangerous for anyone who got in his way tonight. Twenty heart stopping minutes later, he shut off his lights and turned into the front driveway of the rundown building. His car was here so regularly that most of the neighbors just thought their new neighbor had a night job with a really weird shift. The agency prided itself on low profile. It was not the bungling group of incompetents that the movies and press had made it out to be. Not that the perceived image hurt them. In the intelligence community, a bungling image was almost better than a nonexistent one.

His electronic pass key got him through the myriad of discretely hidden and disguised motion and body heat sensors. With a soft click, the deadbolt slid back and Forest opened the door to step inside.

Chun was poised warily at the foot of the stairs, a kitchen knife held palm down, blade up, in his right hand. Chun’s shoulders relaxed when he saw it was Forest. The knife disappeared from view so quickly that Forest was not sure it had ever been there at all. He made a mental note to mention that Chun was to be regarded as armed at all times and then dismissed the thought as fast as it had come.

He had a sinking feeling that wherever Chun would be within a day or two, that being unarmed would be detrimental to his health. But the trick with the knife proved that the man was still what he had been all his life: a soldier. The question was, would he be willing to risk his life for his newfound country or would he continue to honor the North’s impossible iron dream?

Chun looked Forest over with a probing eye. “Mister Forest, you should have called and saved me some worry. Late night visits in my country rarely end well.”

Forest pulled off his overcoat and hung it on his usual hanger in the front hall closet. “I’m sorry Mister Kyun, but something has come up. I was just briefed at Langley. There was no time to call.”

“So this time, it is business and not reminiscing?”

“Yes.”

If Chun was bothered, he did not show it. “Very well. Come, let us go into the kitchen. I will make some coffee and you can tell me of this new world order I hear so much about, and where I stand in its scheme.”

Forest sat at the Kitchen table and watched Chun prepare the coffee. At least the agency wasn’t a big fan of instant. Chun set the steaming mug of black liquid in front of Forest. He sat back and lit a cigarette. His original store had run out weeks ago and he had taken to smoking lethal French Galois that Forest bought him at the corner store. He was courteous enough to direct his smoke away from the man handling his debrief.

“So tell me what my new masters have in store for me.”

“I can only give you the major details. A great deal of this contains blanks that we hope you can fill in.”

Chun took a long pull on his cigarette and shrugged. “I will do what I can, but there are things my country does that even I was kept out of.”

“It appears that somebody of great influence manufactured your demise in the Congo. Someone close to the Inner Council. Kwan Te Sung, your deputy?”

“My friend, our Ambassador to the Congo, informed me differently. He also assured me that his source was seldom incorrect.”

Forest looked down at the tabletop. “I am afraid that our sources in the region indicate that the Ambassador returned to North Korea, citing reasons of health.”

Chun felt his stomach go cold. He knew all too well what that phrase meant: another old soldier fallen in the pursuit of the Worker’s Paradise. He looked away from the table for a moment. “Good-bye old friend,” he said quietly.

Forest saw the cold glint in Chun’s eyes. “I’m sorry to have to bring you the news like this, but there are other questions and time is of the essence.”

Chun stubbed out his cigarette and lit another, his hand tight around the lighter. “Tell me what you know and ask what you will. This news changes things a great deal.”

“Very well.” Forest pulled out his tape recorder and a thick manila-bound file with TOP SECRET: DEEP GREEN CLEARANCE EYES ONLY.

Chun looked at the tape recorder with distaste. “Is that still really necessary?”

Forest looked up from his preparations. “Hmmm? Oh I suppose not. Force of habit. Langley would have my balls if I missed something that their own bugs failed to pick up.” Forest pulled out five photographs from the file folder and laid them on the table top in front of Chun. Four of them were obviously autopsy photos. “Can you identify any of these individuals?”

Chun pulled them towards him one at a time. After a moment, he shook his head and pushed only one back towards Forest. “Sorry, but Sung’s is the only face I recognize. Who are the others?”

“Well this one,” Forest tapped the photograph closest to Chun’s elbow, “is one Heinrich Burghoff, an ex-Colonel in the East German STASI. The other three are officers of a Soviet Rocket Forces Technical team, specializing in SCUD missiles and the upkeep of their nuclear payloads.

Chun’s eyes narrowed, “Of course there is more.”

“Yes, there is more. The commander of the local Mobile Rocket Base discovered three complete warheads of at least fifteen kiloton yield were missing from three of the missile carriers.”

“Taken by these three?” Chun ran his finger over the photograph of the dead Soviets.

“That is correct. They were reported as leaving the night before. All four of these people were found floating in the waters off Batumi, a Georgian port on the Black sea.”

“Shot?”

“Yes. A heavy truck with papers for a supply run into Batumi was parked nearby.”

“So the warheads were loaded on to a boat of some kind?”

“Our people at the NSA were able to find a boat capable of such a thing on one of our satellite passes over the region. We were able to back track its progress. Its point of origin was most likely Batumi.”

“And this boat went to?”

“Carasamba, Turkey. We believe the devices were then flown out of there.”

“Interesting, but what does Comrade Sung have to do with all of this?”

Forest extracted another set of photographs. “Recognize him, and where he is?”

Chun spent a much longer time looking at the photograph than he had the other three. “Andrew Verkatt, entering our warehouse in Cape Town.” He looked up. “So what? It could be nothing more than a routine request from my government for more materials.”

Forest shook his head and gave Chun a grave look. “That photograph was taken by British intelligence while you were still the man in place in the Congo. Verkatt, according to our sources, dealt exclusively with you. A drug dealer in Georgia who was interrogated in connection with the deaths of the three Soviet officers gave up only one name: Andrew Verkatt. Walking into the operation at Cape Town is not what I would call discreet, and from what I have been told, discreet is a way of life with him.” Forest slid another photo across the table. “British cameras caught this man on film one week prior to Verkatt’s appearance. I’m sure you will recognize him.”

It was Kwan Te Sung. It took all of Chun’s control to stop from crumpling the picture into a ball and hurling it across the room. Instead, he bore down on his anger, saving it for another time. When he finally answered Forest, his voice was flat and emotionless. “My deputy. It would seem your sources are correct. I never knew he was in Cape Town. No doubt solidifying his presence with the operation’s executive.”

“MI6 shows the previous resident was transferred back to Pyongyang and replaced.”

“Sung showed me a report listing the man’s shortcomings. I had no choice but to recommend his replacement.” Chun hung his head. “Sung chose his successor. Had I known then, what I know now, I would have taken more effective steps to protect myself.”

Forest felt bad for Chun. It is not easy to have an apprentice betray you. “You guarded yourself as best you could. Your Congo posting removed you from party politics for too long.”

“Pah, I never cared for the politics, only for my country. The things I built were for Korea, not for the damned party.”

“And it is two of those buildings you built that Langley is interested in.” Forest extracted copies of the Yongbyong and Pakchon nuclear facility plans. “Right now, your country is in the gravest danger it could ever face. It is believed that the three devices are on board a submarine bound for North Korea. We are all worried at the speed and style of the acquirement of these devices. Langley feels that they will be used on the new long range SCUD E or Nodong-2. For what, nobody but the North’s leadership knows, but with a state of alert in effect along the DMZ and tensions at their highest in years, you don’t need a doctorate to figure an outcome.”

“My country’s back is against the wall. Why does not matter, but they are like a cornered rat. I would draw a two thousand kilometer circle from the southernmost point of North Korea and consider everything in it a target.”

“That is not a great deal of help.”

“What do you want me to say? For years I have watched you Americans and your European counterparts carry on in your blind business-as-usual policies. A reaction to reports, generated only when an area erupts in violence and revolution. Look at Iran and the Embassy bombing in Lebanon. Even that Pan Am flight that went down in Scotland, the Twin Towers. You had ample warning, but you chose to ignore the signals.”

“You are not exactly one to talk,” Forest snapped back at Chun.

Chun merely shrugged. “I am just a man. If I make a mistake, it will be me who pays the ultimate price. If a government makes a mistake, how many pay that same price?”

“So forget this and tell me about Sung. If he is in charge, what is his intent?”

Chun lit another cigarette with the smoldering stub of his previous one. Blue smoke hung about his head in a smog halo. “He thinks he is, but the ultimate power will lie with Kim Jong Un, the Supreme Leader. If an idea is outlandish or ambitious enough, he will play out the line to the underlings like the greatest of fishermen. If all goes well, he pulls in the rewards. If the underling fails, the line becomes a hangman’s noose. Comrade Sung is playing a very dangerous game with his life as the collateral. The man’s character? He is intelligent and ambitious and apparently ruthless. I did not see that side of him when I gave my recommendation for the job of my deputy. If I had, neither one of us would be sitting here. The warheads could be to provide our own engineers with another Russian model. Much can be studied and reverse engineered with the production of a locally produced warhead in mind. I was engaged in securing triggering devices; Kryton switches from a source in the Middle East.”

Forest’s eyes went up in alarm.

Chun saw Forest’s distress. “You can relax, Mister Forest. My attempts at procurement were all unsuccessful. No doubt Sung used that particular black mark on my career in my undoing.” Chun leaned forward and stabbed the air with the glowing end of his cigarette. “If the North is ever to be taken seriously in the world political arena, we cannot allow ourselves to be portrayed in the same light as the likes of Saddam Hussein or Mohammar Gadhafi. I always sought to purchase all materials through standard procedures. It is painfully obvious to me now that is not what my country had in mind for acquisition of strategic assets.”

“Do you feel the warheads will reach their destination?”

“If you are sure they are on a submarine, then yes.”

“Why?”

“Commando raids are carried out continuously on southern installations close to the sea on both coasts. The commando units are delivered almost exclusively by submarine. Our sea floor maps of the region are extremely detailed. Not a single one of our subs has been intercepted in the area since the program was started.” Chun left the table to get another cup of coffee. He continued talking while he did this. “Besides, our subs are old and few, all diesel boats. The crews and Captains are the very best our country can provide. They have to be. Southern patrol boats would give them no quarter if a mistake was made.” Chun paused to take a sip of coffee. As he sat down, his eyes took on a faraway look and then snapped back to the present. “I did, however, hear of a secret submarine project dealing with a new class capable of recharging its batteries without having to surface.”

“Any idea of the range of such a sub?”

“Rumors had it between three to five thousand miles. Remember, engineering is my specialty, not ship design. You would be best served by discussing this with other experts.”

Forest felt awkward, but he had to ask for the next step, a step full of risk for all sides. “Chun, Langley has told me to ask if you are willing to help our NEST team retrieve the warheads in Korea.”

“That will mean going into the North.” It was a statement, not a question.

“That is correct.”

“And what do you think would entice me to do something so foolish?”

“Five million dollars.”

“If I am captured, they will execute me as an enemy of the state.”

Forest shrugged, asking men to go to what was most possibly their deaths was an experience well outside of his understanding. “If you go, I know it will be for your own reasons and not the money.”

Chun nodded. “Then you understand me far better than I suspected. Tell your people I will go, but only if I am sufficiently equipped. I will not go as some sacrificial lamb to the slaughter. The security forces of my country are formidable.”

Forest started to put items back in his briefcase. His finger on the stop button of his recorder, he decided to ask one more question that had been bothering him all evening. “This Sung character, if he is running this whole thing, what acts, exactly, is he capable of?”

Chun’s eyes were cold points. “Anything at all.”

ALBATROSS 4, 200KM NE. OF EISENHOWER

The E2C Hawkeye moved through the sixth circuit of its racetrack flight pattern. Twin Allison Turboprops droned on in the thin air of twenty thousand feet. Albatross 4 was a command aircraft, one of three other Airborne Early Warning and Control aircraft. Albatross 4, 7, and 9 were arrayed in a staggered one hundred and eighty degree arc in front of the Carrier Task Force. The aircraft monitored the North Korean coastline and out into the Yellow Sea from the safety of South Korean airspace.

The E2C’s flight crew had a pilot and co-pilot. In her dim-lit bowels lived a Combat Information Center officer, an air control officer and the radar officer. The radar officer found the threats, the air controller directed a sufficient response and the CIC officer controlled the entire deadly ballet. He would intervene if additional threat types appeared.

Eight FA-18 Hornets of VFA-242, “Bats,” were engaged in barrier combat air patrol. Broken into two flights of four aircraft and bound by the rules of engagement, they were under the direct control of Albatross 4. Because of the threat posed by numerous North Korean missile boats sitting just on the other side of the dividing meridian. Four of the Hornets were loaded for air/sea combat with two Harpoon anti-ship missiles mounted on the inboard pylons flanking the extended range fuel tank. The load out was completed with six AIM-9M Sidewinders on the outboard and inboard pylons. The other four Hornets flying top cover had AIM-7 Sparrow missiles on the fuselage rails. The Sparrows were a medium-range missile equipped with a semi-active radar guidance system that used the Hornet’s radar to home in and acquire the target.

The radar operator’s head snapped up at the surface threat buzzer. He hit the acknowledge button on the keypad of his AN/APS-145 Advanced Radar Processing system and scanned the incoming data. The system’s IFF interrogator failed to detect any friendly transponder code on the surface ships detected by the large Radome turning overhead. Should the operator be a total moron, the system also highlighted the new threats in red. The passive detection systems began to illuminate activated surface search radar sets, showing their scanning cones and threat areas in faint yellow.

The CIC officer spun around in his chair. “What do you have?”

The E2C crew was a tight unit. Formalities of rank meant little in such cramped confines. “Missile boats on the deck. They just illuminated their surface search radars. From the size of the return, they look like Square Tie sets, probably OSA ones.”

“Why would they light up? They’re way out of range of the task force.”

“A drill?”

“And give their position away?”

“So what do we do?”

“Check it out, I guess.” The CIC Officer looked over at the air controller. “Get Reaper to check these boys out.”

“Reaper one. Albatross four. Dinghies on deck just turned their lights on. Vector three two four point five. Visual from your position in three minutes. Engage only if fired upon.”

“Albatross four. Reaper one. Roger.”

“Eisenhower on the horn, boss.” The air controller doubled as the radio operator.

Albatross 4’s CIC officer punched up Eisenhower’s command communication frequency. “Albatross four CIC Officer Pelente.”

“Commander Kirkland, Surface Warfare Officer. What’s up?”

“Missile boats on the deck just illuminated their surface search sets, sir. Reaper flight is checking them out.”

“Very well. We’ll monitor from here. If it gets hairy, we’ll throw everything but the kitchen sink off the deck.”

“Thank you, sir.” The CIC officer turned to AC officer. “You heard the man. Patch them in.”

The radar officer watched a series of long dots blink into existence on his display and called out in alarm. “Eight bogies. Looks like fast movers just came off the deck about three hundred and fifty K’s out and closing on our position.”

The atmosphere in the Hawkeye came alive.

The AC officer was quick to inform his flights of this new wrinkle. “All Reaper flights, all Reaper flights, eight bogies, fast movers coming through Angel’s twelve, five hundred knot overtake. Repeat, eight bogies, fast movers coming through Angel’s twelve, five hundred knot overtake.”

“Reaper five, flight moving to intercept bogies. Give me a vector to bogie.”

The AC read off the coordinates, “Vector two nine five, Angel’s fourteen.” He then switched to the frequency for the two other Albatross aircraft. They had a wider radar angle on the approaching aircraft. “Seven and nine, tell me what you see.”

“Albatross seven, I’ve got fourteen bogies in tight formation.”

“Albatross nine, we roger that. Fourteen bogies.”

“Albatross four copies fourteen bogies.

The CIC officer checked the radar screen and weighed the odds in his head. Even with four fighters on the bogies, the odds were not good, and if the bogies were hiding others by flying in close formation, they were considerably worse. He called to the air controller, “Retask those first four birds away from the missile boats.”

“Reaper one, cancel recon on the missile boats. Provide support for reaper five. New vector, three nine point two, Angel’s fifteen.” He switched to the guard channel. “All Reaper flights, bogie count is now at fourteen.”

“Reaper one, roger out.”

The AC looked over at the CIC officer. “It’s the Air Warfare Officer, sir.”

“Patch him over.”

“Kirkland here. The big boss says as long as the bogies remain in North Korean airspace, do not engage, but if those bastards step one foot over the meridian, the ROE’s are to be enforced in full. Weapons are free. Knock them out of the sky.”

“Yes, sir. I advise you launch the ready five aircraft.”

“They’re already on their way, son.”

Pelente switched comm channels. “All Reaper flights, be advised Rules of Engagement are in effect. Weapons are free over dividing meridian.”

A series of “Rogers.” Filtered through the CIC’s headset.

The F-18C pilots all moved their weapons selectors switch from safe to armed. Reapers one through four wheeled hard over on the new vector, tailpipes spouted pale orange fire as they engaged afterburners. If the North Korean Mig fighters were on a hostile mission, they would have to be intercepted a good distance from the Hawkeyes. Reaper one hoped the Migs weren’t equipped with HARM missiles. With that great big Radome on top of them, the Hawkeyes were sitting ducks.

The Eisenhower’s Air Warfare Officer did not want to lose any of his forward radar capabilities or the E2C’s valuable crew. He made the only sensible call. “All Albatross flights, fall back to position Delta. Eisenhower out.”

The CIC officer patched into the pilot’s intercom, “Did you catch that? Time to turn tail and run. Head for Delta.”

The pilot had been listening in to the radio traffic from the back seaters. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Pelente felt the deck surge and twist under his feet as the pilot wheeled the Hawkeye, Radome and all about on a course back to the safety of the Eisenhower’s ready five air protection. The drone of the engines climbed in pitch as the turboprops surged to full power.

At fifteen thousand feet, Reaper one and his three partners had a better radar position to count the number of Migs closing with the other Reaper flight. A loud buzz sounded in Reaper five’s headset. Radar guidance, damn. He snapped the fighter over and down in a barrel roll, launching chaff and flares as he went. The maneuver worked. A missile streaked overhead, passed through the expanding cloud of chaff and exploded. Not a good way to start any aerial engagement.

The fur ball erupted in earnest. Communications became crowded with voices as each pilot tried to convey vital information to his buddies.

“Three, check your six.”

“Fox one, Fox one.”

“Two, he’s going left. I’m going for the shot. Fox one, Fox one.”

“It’s a hit. Splash one bad guy.”

“Albatross four confirms that as a kill.”

“Three just took a cannon hit on the port side. No, no, he looks okay. Engaging. Fox two, Fox two.”

No bad deed should go unpunished. The North Korean Mig that had fired first streaked by Reaper five on his port side. Five fought his way through a blood-draining eight-G turn, at full afterburner, to try and keep his airspeed up and line his missile pipper on the threat box surrounding the Mig. The small carat locked on the Mig. A steady tone filled Reaper five’s headset. The Mig pilot, the warning warble of a radar lock in progress filling his ears, now found himself the hunted. The pilot tried desperately to shake Reaper five. Mottled camouflage wings jinked left and right across five’s heads-up display, but the Mig was unable to out turn his opponent. Chaff and flares spewed in a steady stream from the rear of the North Korean aircraft. It would do him no good. The latest family of Sidewinders were smart enough to ignore all but the most sophisticated counter measures. Five’s finger tightened on the firing stud.

“Five, incoming Mig your one o’clock. Watch out.”

He had no more than a second to glance up. Another Reaper jinking crazily blasted across the airspace directly in front of his plane, a North Korean Mig hot on its tail. Twin streams of 23mm cannon shells blazed from under the Mig’s green and brown nose. Reaper Five heard and felt the spent shell casings impact along the length of his Hornet’s fuselage. Struggling to maintain control, he shot through the tunnel of roiled air left in the wake of the near collision. A quick check over his left shoulder showed a descending black trail of debris that had been a man and aircraft only seconds before.

As each side fought to lock up and launch, there was no way to pause and check if fallen were friend or foe. The fight was so rapid and vicious that no parachutes had a chance of being deployed. The amount of chaff that littered the sky made any kind of radar return suspect, but five was close enough on his prey’s tail to get a solid heat lock again. The “shoot” prompt blinked on in his HUD. “Fox one, Fox one.” Another Sidewinder was sent on its fiery way.

Seconds later, it exploded just behind the jet exhaust of the Mig. The Mig’s tail disappeared in a cloud of shredded aluminum. The ailerons buckled and tore under the incredible force. With a massive explosion of black and orange, the destruction speared through the engine to the main fuel tank. There had been no time for the pilot to eject. Another black funeral pyre made its way earthward.

The fourteen vintage Mig 23s proved no match for the modern air-superiority fighters. As good as the North Korean pilots had been, the tighter turn radius of the F-18s, their better avionics and the advantage of smarter missiles decided the outcome of the battle before it had begun. When it was over, all of the enemy had been destroyed with only two of the Hornets damaged by cannon fire.

Six of the eight hornets formed a protective echelon around the two wounded birds and turned for the Eisenhower. They had just enough fuel to get them to a tanker.

Reaper one called it in, “Reaper flight reports all bogies splashed. Two of our birds damaged. Returning to Eisenhower. Will need to tank before landing. Reaper one out.”

“Roger, Reaper flight. Confirm you inbound with priority to your wounded birds. Contact Albatross four for vector to tanker. The big boss says good work. Eisenhower out.”

“Albatross four, Reaper flight vector is one seven two, one six zero kilometers, Angel’s fifteen.”

The sleek jets turned slowly onto the new heading.

Miles ahead of them, Bob Garfield the Eisenhower’s Airboss was in the middle of launching a squadron of additional F-18s to take up the now-empty BARCAP stations. The Hornets were armed with Phoenix air-to-air missiles, radar-guided missiles with over-the-horizon strike capability. The next set of Migs launched would be destroyed before they even saw their killers.

The Commander in Chief Combined Forces Korea had been notified of the altercation. American and South Korean troops along the DMZ were now on full alert. Flight on flight of F-16 and F-15 fighters had been launched from their bases at Pusan and Kadina. The North Korean move had brought the beginning moves to a whole new level of hostilities. As far as anybody knew, they might just have tripped into a war.

Abrahams sat in the CIC and looked at the large central overview situation screen. What the hell had just happened? The yellow, red and green symbols of aircraft and ships, the black lines that bisected and curved across its representational grid, had become a cryptic cipher of the events leading to and following the air battle.

The North Korean attack had been unprecedented. There were no reports of any fighting along the DMZ or any other aircraft encounters in the same region. And yet, for an unknown reason, a group of missile boats had illuminated their surface search radars, giving away their position. This being rapidly followed up with a fighter strike apparently aimed at destroying their E2C. God he wished the JSTARS program hadn’t been canceled. An aircraft like that could give them a really good look at what the Koreans were up to on the ground. Still, there were other options that could be exercised. He called over the ship’s Captain from the other side of the CIC where the Captain was checking over sonar plots. “Tom, got a minute?”

Tom Bennet moved his stocky frame through the maze of equipment and operators. “What’s up, Doug?”

“I’m not sure. What do you make of all of this?” Abrahams swept his arm in front of the tactical screen.

“A diversion of some kind maybe. I just checked the plots to see if anything was picked up, but so far they look clean. No doubt we’ll be getting a call from CINCPAC pretty soon. One of the operators held up a ship’s phone.

“CINCPAC on the line, sir. He’s asking for you, Admiral.”

Abrahams looked at Bennet. “Speak of the Devil. I’ll take it in the ready room.”

“Aye, sir.”

Abrahams was in the ready room seconds later. He picked up the phone sitting on the teak meeting table. “Abrahams.”

Collingsworth sounded pleased. “Well, Doug, it looks like the North Koreans just saved both our careers. Word is that Babitch is fit to be tied.”

“News travels fast. I haven’t even filed an action report yet.”

“Yeah, well fleet has been listening in on everything as it happened. The minute your Hawkeye picked up those search sets, I had the whole thing patched right into my office. It gave me the leverage to get on the horn, go right over that prick Babitch’s head and look like I was just doing my job. Pusan, Kadina and every swinging dick on the DMZ are on full alert, but reporting no action. I just wanted to talk to you and let you know that the President is finally being brought up to speed as fast as possible. Fast enough that there are six patriot batteries en route to Seoul right now. In fact, it looks like at least one unit of light infantry is being sent to bolster the troops at the DMZ.” There was a pause. “Under the guise of a joint military exercise, of course.”

“Of course.” The relief Abrahams felt was immense. “Thanks Bill. Listen, I have one more thing to ask. I need an overflight of both coasts with a couple of the Dark Star Stealth Drones you have stashed away at Kadina. Just a regular recon run of the ports.”

“You don’t ask for much do you? I’ll see what I can do. Your orders are now to move the task force one hundred miles closer to the meridian. The joint chiefs are worried that last attack was a probe of our defenses around Seoul. They feel with the present situation that the North might try to invade.”

“That’s nuts! If they were going to invade, they wouldn’t tip their hand like that. No, you just convinced me of something that Tom Bennet just said. This thing smacks of a diversion. They want to draw us away from the Straits. That sub has to be out there.”

“Orders are orders, Doug.”

“It’s going to leave my rear exposed. That sub could slip through. At best, he could be picked up by one of the sonobouy nets and we’ll be too far away to do anything about it.”

“Look, you have a couple of L.A. class subs at your disposal. Task them to finding the damn sub. Your career is back from the brink. Don’t piss it away.”

Abrahams’s “Aye, sir” was flat.

“I’m sorry, Doug, but that is just the way it has to be. I’ll have the official set of orders transmitted. If it eases your mind any, Piper Rhodes and the boys in his squadron have moved into the Sea of Japan. If this bastard sub squeaks through your net, the next one should scoop him up.”

“I hope so Bill. I really hope so.”

COD EN ROUTE TO USS EISENHOWER

The ungainly twin-engine transport lumbered through the night, its navigation lights off. Inside their cockpit, the flight crew kept careful vigil. Word had come down that they were as close to a shooting war with the North Koreans as they had been since the fifties. If they got bounced by some hot or even lousy North Korean fighter jock, well the COD was a good transport, but as maneuverable as an elephant on Valium in a dogfight. That they were up at all told them that the two men in the back were spooks, or at least spook related.

“Eisenhower, Hotel six four. Request clearance to land.” The COD’s pilot checked his fuel gauges. Enough left for another three hours of flight.

Eisenhower was quick to reply. “Negative Hotel six four. We have an emergency in progress. Turn to two four zero, maintain speed and altitude, stay on this channel, you will be advised when the emergency is over.” The channel went dead.

The copilot turned to his partner. “Jesus. I wonder what the hell is going on.”

The pilot kept his eyes forward. “Somebody’s upping the ante on this whole mess. Better tell our guests in back the bad news. Then get back here and watch the radar. I don’t want any NK fighter jock jumping my ass.”

“My ass too, Skip.”

“Sorry. Our ass.”

The copilot slid his seat back and moved through the cargo area companionway. It was silent on the other side of the cargo door. That suited the copilot fine. With customers like these, the less he knew the better. He swung the door open and looked down on the two men.

“Sorry to disturb you gentlemen, but we have a problem at the carrier. They have an air emergency. They’ve vectored us into a holding pattern so sit tight and the stewards will be around to take your drink orders in a minute.” When that did not get a laugh, he turned and left. These guys were too serious.

Reaper eight’s bird was a mess. One of the North Korean Migs had gotten in a lucky burst during a head-on pass of the dogfight. Eight’s cockpit was a shattered ruin. His starboard CRT display was a blackened hole and the central display gave nothing but glitch-ridden garbage. The remaining port CRT display worked, but his flight computer was suspect. The engine fire light would come on, stay lit and then go out. Radar was down, diagnostics were down, and his artificial horizon just did slow rolls. A piece of armor-piercing shell had sliced along the top of his right thigh. He could feel blood pooling in his flight boot.

This bird was not going to make it back to the nest and night was fast approaching. Just ahead in the encroaching murk, he could make out his flight leader’s navigation lights. They were his only tenuous grip on where he stood in the world. Eight tried to raise Reaper one on the radio, but all he got was white noise. The transmitter was a write-off as well. With no way to judge where he was and with no way for his flight to communicate, he would have to hold out as long as he could, eject and then hope to God his Emergency Locator Beacon was not shot to hell as well.

The COD landed right behind the last F-18 of Reaper flight. Minutes later, a Sea King helicopter touched down at the far end of the flight deck. A large group of medical personnel swarmed up to the side door of the helo and pulled out a body on a stretcher. The stretcher and trauma team rushed off of the flight line and headed below decks. Chun and Forest stood beside the COD and watched the whole episode unfold.

A purple-skirted crewman, his head encased in a bulky sound-dampening helmet, appeared beside the group. He had to shout over the near-constant roar of jets thundering off into the night sky, “Sirs! Sirs! You’re to follow me. Captain Ecevit is waiting for you at the island. Everybody has to hold hands.”

The two men linked hands and fell in behind the crewman. Gayle and a hulking Marine Sergeant met them at a hatch door halfway down the island. Gayle held out her hand. “Glad to finally meet you Mister Kyun. I didn’t know you were working for us until a few hours ago. We should get inside. Met says there is a storm closing from the southwest.”

As the Marine escort led them through the maze of corridors, Gayle filled the two men in on events of the past few hours. “Two hours ago, a bunch of our F-18 fighters got into a fur ball with North Korean Migs.”

Forest nodded. “That must have been the tail end of it we saw on the flight deck just now.”

Gayle nodded. “Right. That was the only casualty on our side. The Admiral and the Captain both feel that it’s a diversionary tactic, but the joint chiefs want to make sure Seoul has enough air cover in case the North decides to launch an attack across the DMZ in retaliation. Right now, this ship is heading into the Yellow Sea.”

The Sergeant led them through a bewildering series of turns and passages before he stopped at a nondescript gray door, which he opened with a pass key. On the other side of the door was a cramped but passable wardroom with just enough room for the five other members of the team, Gayle and her two guests. Once they were all seated, Gayle continued with her update.

“As I have said, there is a storm approaching. The search for the North Korean sub has been active for the last forty eight hours. So far there has been absolutely no confirmed contact. The storm has hampered any efforts to search the southwest quadrant. Heavy seas sink our sonobouys as fast as they are put in the water. Admiral Abrahams feels the sub will try to slip through behind us.” She looked around the table. “I think we all agree with him, but if that does happen, there is another task force waiting to engage the sub on the western side of the Straits of Tushima.” Gayle smiled. “Of course, the North Korean sub has to get past two Los Angeles class subs and three Japanese subs waiting for him in the straits.”

Chun lit up one of his foul-smelling Galois and kept his silence.

Harris’s response to Gayle’s information was droll. “Well then, they don’t stand a chance in hell of making it.”

Sean put his hands together on the table in front of him. He flicked a brief glance at Chun before looking back at Gayle. A frown creased his forehead. Something was being missed and it was important. The uneasiness showed in his voice.

“Look, as far as I can tell, this thing is going to go the distance. I have this sinking feeling that whoever is driving that sub out there, is the absolute best the North Koreans could come up with.” Sean got up from his chair and walked over to the relief map draped across the bulkhead behind Gayle. “These people know the waters around here like the back of their hand. They run covert ops in this region all the time. Commando raids, spies, you name it…” Sean searched for the right words. “Look at it this way. This sub Captain, he gets through the gauntlet. How doesn’t matter right now. He gets through. Now I’m not a sailor, but my guess is he going to head into one of their less-obvious ports. These warheads are no good unless they are sitting on a missile. If they are going to be used on Seoul, they’re going to have to be transported overland. We need to nail down the transfer point and hit it with us and SEAL Team Three.”

“And if it does come down to an insertion, there will be only minutes, not hours, to disable the things.” Yevgeny Alexandrov spoke before Gayle had a chance to answer. His voice made it clear that rendering the warheads inert would not be an easy task. “We need as much time as it takes. If you handle the process incorrectly, you run the risk of contaminating the whole area, including yourself.”

Sean was not done yet. “Wouldn’t a shaped charge be enough to detonate the high explosive shell?”

Yevgeny tapped the table to emphasize his point. “And you have just contaminated a large area with plutonium.”

“Maybe, but the warhead is useless and if the housing is cracked, they couldn’t get near enough to salvage any of the material anyway.”

Yevgeny turned to his countrymen. The exchange in Russian was too rapid for even Sean to follow.” Gayle joined in. Sean could not tell what she thought of what he said. The discussion rose to a crescendo. Some kind of accord must have been reached because everything just stopped.

Yevgeny turned back to Sean. “This action you propose is a sledgehammer approach, Sergeant. It carries high risk and we would prefer to keep it as an absolute last option. But you are correct, we should assume that the worst case scenario will come to pass and plan accordingly. If this submarine is intercepted at sea, our job is done for us. We will calculate from what we know where to place the charges, with the least risk to ourselves, if such an eventuality arises, but we are only human. If a sizable reaction takes place, the location will be uninhabitable until late in the next millennium.”

One of the other Russians interjected, “If the sub manages to escape the search. How can we be sure of where the warheads are to be removed from the submarine?”

Harris nodded towards Chun and Forest. “Don’t worry, mate. That’s the easy part.”

Sean nodded. “Bill’s right. Captain Ecevit, perhaps it is time to introduce Comrade Chun Seng Kyun and Doctor Aidan Forest.”

Gayle was wary of including her new guests. Her request had been for information, not for their actual involvement. “Mister Kyun, Everything I have read about you has been from intelligence releases. I must admit that your presence here comes as a surprise.”

Chun gave a slight bow of his head. He kept his eyes almost closed. “I have some unfinished business with my country, Captain. I could not spend the rest of my days as just another feather in the cap of the CIA.”

“So, is Sergeant Harris correct, do you have some idea of where the warheads will be offloaded?”

“I do. It is my estimate they will be offloaded from their present transport at the port of Chanjon. It is a naturally deep harbor and is close to rail, air and road access. I used this port for sensitive material transfer myself, on numerous occasions. It is also known to my deputy director, the person responsible for my current status.” Chun held up a finger of caution. “However, there are risks with this site. It is only thirty miles from the Demilitarized Zone. The South mounts constant patrols of the water, as does the North around the border. The T’aebeck Sanmeak range to the rear of the bay provides near-perfect protection against air and land assault from that direction. If you mean to infiltrate the port, it will mean an almost direct insertion.”

Gayle slid her chair back. “Excuse me for a moment.” She opened the wardroom door and addressed the Marine still standing there. “You may as well make yourself useful. Go to Photo Intelligence Section and have them give you the latest shots that they have on this list. I want all pertinent maps, as up to date as we can get. As soon as possible, Sergeant.” The door closed on the man’s face before he had a chance to protest. Gayle sat down again. “I’m sure we’ll be able to formulate a better plan if we at least have an idea of the terrain that we’re going to be dealing with.”

Harris leaned forward. “What do you mean we?”

Gayle was aghast. “You don’t obviously mean to pull that kind of sexist crap with me, do you Harris?”

“What kind of crap would that be, Captain?”

“That I’m a woman.”

“Sorry, but you have the wrong century. I’ve worked with women operatives before. I don’t trust you because you’ve never been under fire.”

“I am in command. If you try to undermine me one more time, you had better watch your back.”

“Bill, back off.” Sean looked at Gayle. “Fine, you’re in charge. Don’t be so easily led to argument next time.” Sean looked back at Chun. “Why not unload at Wonsan instead? It’s farther from the DMZ and even closer to air assets. Apart from the one air battle, this conflict has been played out in the diplomatic arena. Why run the risk of unloading so close to the border?”

Chun pulled out a fresh cigarette and used the glowing stub of his previous one to light it. “I’m afraid it’s much more complex than that.”

Forest pulled a dossier out of his briefcase and slid it across the conference table to Gayle. “He’s right. The Japanese and the Koreans have been enemies for a very long time. Each has always seen the other as the aggressor. Don’t forget that even the South Koreans named Japan as an antagonist in one of their recent white papers on defense. The North has been secretly building a launch complex for static launch versions of the Nodong missile at Chanjon. Though it is nowhere even close to complete. Washington believes that the proximity to the China Sea is an excuse for such a facility. It is, after all, on the other side of the peninsula from Seoul. Chanjon is one of the most southern points of North Korea. It is well within the range constraints of the Nodong to strike at mainland Japan. A mobile launcher can be set up with a minimum of time from a pre-surveyed site. Washington feels that there is a good possibility of there being sites with launchers on them. Current intel suggests the North Koreans have not yet completed the first series of prototype Nodong launchers. Judging from the warhead types taken, it is a very good chance the missile bodies will be on standard TEL mobile launchers associated with the SCUD variant of missile.”

Chun continued from where Forest left off. “Our weapons program was proceeding with enough speed to not warrant the purchase of these warheads. My only stumbling block was not being able to get my hands on the needed Krytron switch technology. There is only one plan of action that Comrade Sung could have sold the Supreme Leader on: a plan of invasion.”

Yevgeny was shocked. “You’re saying that they intend to use these warheads? Not study them for reengineering?”

Chun turned to the Russian, “What did you think, Comrade? We would sit idle while your empire went through the last stages of disintegration of the glorious dream? That we would let you sell us out for a few creature comforts? That we lacked intelligence to follow our own path? Did you see how fast your resplendent dominion came down around your ears? Your government could not even rule effectively through fear. All that time of worldwide dread, and in the end, Russia was just a paper threat. The people finally saw through the facade and burned it to the ground. All they ever wanted was food. When they opened the state coffers, all they found were weapons. They stole back this nightmare built for them and sold it to all who wanted it for themselves.” Chun’s clenched fist crashed down on the table. “Now they sell death paid for in their own cold dark blood to any who can pay, because it is all they have to offer.” Chun turned his back on the Russian. His words resonated off the cold steel wardroom walls. “You were always a country of peasants. A Czar by any other name is still a tyrant.”

Yevgeny’s hands gripped the edge of the table hard. He answered Chun through clenched teeth. “Better a peasant’s grave than a traitor’s.”

The wolf flashed across Chun’s face. When he grinned, there was no warmth. “Perhaps you are right. But of one thing I am sure: Pyongyang means to start the next war with a big bang.”

A long silence descended on the gathering as this last piece of information was digested.

Sean turned to Gayle. “We need to brief the Admiral on this. It’s beyond the boundaries.”

Gayle nodded. “The joint chiefs and the President should be notified as well.”

The Marine Sergeant was annoyed when he returned to find the wardroom empty. A note pinned to the door told him to bring the maps and photos to the Admiral’s wardroom.

DPRK GREAT LEADER

The sonar officer sat hunched over his control panel. The Leader’s depth was just under the convergence zone. Her towed array was limited in the extreme because of the Leader’s small size. He could not be sure, but he thought that there had been some explosions at extreme distance to the northwest of their position. American active sonar had increased dramatically after. He made another notation to the marks on his plotting table.

It was definite: the Americans were moving deeper into the Yellow Sea. It had to be so. The proof lay before him. Still, there were waiting American subs and ASW aircraft to worry about. They were still a long way from home.

A ship, by its very nature, is a noisy beast. A submarine, by contrast, is a ghost. Anti-submarine aircraft are the fish hawks. The Americans made the best subs in the world. They could afford to. The workmanship on the Leader was the best the Democratic People’s Republic could muster. Still, it was a boat with systems and equipment from several different countries including some components from America. Their hull design was only partially tested. An American hunter/killer could be running a firing solution on them right now. His tubes already flooded, so there would be no warning. Only the… He shook his head. Fatigue was making them all jumpy. He shot a glance at his partner. The strain was evident there as well.

Captain Kil-Yon sat in his command chair. It had taken twenty hours to get to their present position. So far, there had been no further contamination of the forward torpedo room reported. That would change if the Americans found the Leader and they could not escape. Of course, if that happened, contamination would be the least of their worries. Kil-Yon was surprised at the ambivalence he felt towards their current situation. All his life, he had trained for war, schooled and steeled himself for the ultimate test, and now that moment was upon him. There was not even an increase in heartbeat, no sweaty palms… nothing.

His sonar officers had done a fine job of locating many of the sonobuoy nets strung by the Americans hoping to ensnare them. The Americans were still blind to the Leader’s position and bearing. There had also been no active sonar detected under the three hundred and fifty meter level.

The Koreans were leaving the safety of deep water behind them soon. They would continue to hug the sea bottom in an effort to avoid detection. The Carrier Battle Group now to the northwest of them was still a threat, albeit a misguided one. Still, the gauntlet left to run was formidable.

The sonar officer leaned further into his console. Had he heard another explosion? No, this was farther to the south of their position. He waited, ears hunting for the sound to be repeated. There, there it was again. But it was in the surface clutter, and again. It wasn’t explosions; it was thunder.

He turned to his Captain, face triumphant. “Captain, there is a storm moving in from our stern. It sounds like a big one.”

A thin smile cut across the Captain’s face. “Excellent. How soon will it be over our position?”

“A moment please.” The officer did some rapid calculations. “I would estimate about two hours.”

“Is it violent enough to mask our passage from the Americans?”

“Those above the surface, sir. Underneath I cannot be sure.”

“Still, it is good news. We will make our own arrangements to make us invisible under the water as well.” He bounced a clenched fist off the armrest of his command chair. “Helm, all stop.”

“Helm answering. All stop.”

The Captain was decisive as he issued his next commands. “Take her to fifty meters. Radio operator to the control center. One more favor to ask the mainland before we catch our ride home. XO, prepare to charge the batteries as well. I want us ready for all possibilities.”

TUSHIMA STRAIT

The hunters tracked their prey, as any good hunter does, with his ears and his nose. The sonar operators on board USS Miami sat at their consoles and waited for the smallest telltale sign of the ghost Korean sub they had been tasked to find. If any boats could find the thing, it was Miami and her sister, Topeka. The building storm topside was not making their job easier. It had raised the background noise of the surrounding ocean considerably. It was like listening for a whisper in a room of talking people. The waterfall displays were frosted with green hash across all of the bands. Odds were the Korean sub was a diesel electric, the utter bane of a nuke. Miami trolled along at a bare four knots, making just enough turns to keep them aligned in the current and the towed array deployed. The crew had been briefed on the threat. There were few secrets on a submarine. Miami was at General Quarters, running silent with torpedoes loaded and waiting in the forward tubes. If the Korean sub was detected, the orders were clear: sink it.

The boat shifted under them as they started a new leg. Every movement of the Miami in water this shallow was a delicate ballet. The Los Angeles class had been built for speed in the deep, not to limp along in shallow water. With only three hundred feet of water under their keel, a sharp pitch up would be very bad indeed. The swells topside were starting to make themselves felt in what was normally the steadiest of worlds. That was bad. It was going to degrade the passive sonar performance even more.

The driver of the North Korean Bear bomber could not believe his orders, but belief in the DPRK forces did not matter, only abeyance. The Bear plowed through what was the most disastrous weather the pilot ever had the misfortune to fly in. The bomber’s four contra-rotating propellers on full power were just able to keep them at cruise speed.

The flight engineer kept a wary eye on the engine temperatures, the pilot, and an even closer eye on the altimeter. This was an old plane and they were only four hundred meters above sea level, right in the thick of the maelstrom. The airframe bucked and surged around him. One good downdraft and it would be a long swim home… if they survived.

The navigator sat between the pilot and copilot seats. His was the most important job of all: keep them on course.

The electronic warfare officer came alive behind the pilot. “Eisenhower has us on radar. They want us to identify.”

The pilot swore under his breath. So it was going to get even harder. “Launch a barrage of chaff on my order.” He looked over at his copilot. “We go lower when the chaff is away, understand?” The copilot, too scared to speak, just nodded his head. The pilot steeled himself. “Now!”

“Chaff away!”

The pilot pushed the heavy steering yoke hard forward. The Bear plunged ever deeper into the murk, rain sheeted off the windscreen. They had turned the wipers off long ago… the wipers did no good and there was nothing to see anyway. The lumbering bomber leveled out at one hundred and fifty meters. The battering at the airframe increased in volume. At this altitude, there was absolutely no hope of surviving a crash. Now if Eisenhower wanted to find them, they would have to use their bigger radar array and that would give away the flagship’s position. The pilot wrestled the Bear along, his hands locked onto the steering yoke. “How long till the first drop?”

The navigator checked his watch and chart. “Fifteen more kilometers.”

“Open the bomb bay doors.”

The copilot pressed a stud on his steering yoke. They surged sideways as the wind caught hold of the new expanse of surface area.

The pilot struggled to keep the aircraft trim. “Any more sign of Eisenhower?”

The EW officer shook his head and then realized the pilot could not see him. “No. We seemed to have confused them. No sign of airborne search radars either.”

“Good.” The pilot glanced at the navigator. “On your mark.”

“Entering the drop zone. Standby.” The navigator counted off the last seconds on his chronometer. “Mark!”

The pilot thumbed the drop button on his flight yoke. Depth charges and noisemakers knifed into the water below. The release times were random, but he could not come to a new heading until six of each were dropped.

The navigator kept one eye on the drop indicator and one on his stopwatch and map. Only when the sequence was done did he speak. “Come to new heading one six zero.” The Bear banked in compliance.

The pilot called out the new heading. “Heading is one six zero.”

The navigator never took his eyes off the chronometer. “Again on my mark. Mark!” Another series of counter-measures splashed into the gray waters beneath them. These units were programmed to all go off at the same time. Everything depended on the navigator’s timing. “Series complete. New heading of one four zero, drop on my mark.”

“Heading one four zero.”

“Mark!”

The Bear was getting lighter by the minute.

The EW officer cried out in alarm, “Airborne search radar to our rear! Missile lock! Launching chaff and flares. Counter measures ineffective. There’s more than one lock.” His voice cracked with fear, “We’re dead…”

The pilot flicked the Master Arm switch to, ‘ON’ and armed the remainder of the load. The navigator read out the next heading. “Come to zero nine zero. Drop on my ma…”

The Bear exploded, vivisected in midair as three Phoenix missiles found their target. The wreckage tumbled down and was swallowed by a hungry sea.

“Conn, Sonar, Sierra one! Multiple transient contacts bearing two seven three, it’s on the roof.” The Sonar Supervisor relayed the information to Miami’s Captain and then took a look at his operator’s scope on his own screen. Damn the storm anyway!

“Conn, Sonar, Sierra two!” Similar series of transients bearing two three five.”

The supervisor watched the straight lines drag their way across his CRT Waterfall display. An icy chill began to crawl up his spine. The contacts were swinging onto their heading.

“Conn, Sonar, Sierra three! Whoa!” They all heard the explosion and then the impact of the Bear’s wreckage on the surface directly above them.

The sonar supervisor tore his earphones off and yelled at his men to do the same. “Get your phones off! Shut down the passive arrays and get the towed array pulled in! Conn, rig for impact! Something big just landed on the roof and I think we have depth charges on the way down.”

At four knots, the Miami was a sitting duck. The Captain acted as fast as he could. “Ahead flank, come to two nine zero.”

The helm relayed the command, “Ahead flank, come to two nine zero. Aye, sir.”

Miami’s screw surged in rotation to push her from a sluggish four knots up to thirty, but it was too late. A large piece of the Bear’s starboard wing sliced through the towed array’s cable, dragging both to the bottom.

“Conn, Sonar, towed array just went dead!”

Luck was not with the crew of the Miami. The remains of the Bear’s fuselage slammed across their bow before breaking in half and sliding away. Those standing clawed for any available handhold as the Miami rolled hard on its port side.

Captain Garret Billings held his seat, but his favorite mug detonated on the far side of the bridge in a spray of coffee and ceramic shrapnel. “Damn! Get us out of here. Chief! I want a damage report and I want it now!”

“Aye, sir.” The chief of the boat held the sleeve of his shirt above his left eye. Trying to staunch the flow of blood from the gash he received when Miami rolled. Piece by piece, the boat’s situation came in over his headset. “No apparent damage forward, sir, but we must have lost a bunch of tiles.”

Billings took it in stride. “Thanks COB. Launch a noisemaker. Make a hard ninety to starboard. Back us off to one quarter ahead once we’re on the new heading.”

“Coming to new heading, zero two zero. New heading, zero two zero, ahead one quarter. Aye, sir.”

Billings called over to his sonar supervisor, “Sonar! I need you up and running.”

“Sonar, aye, sir!” The supervisor turned to his men. “You heard him, get yer ears on. Get a fix on what’s out there.” Headsets were donned and systems powered up just in time to hear the depth charges and noisemakers the Bear had dropped earlier go off.

Three hundred feet beneath the Miami’s stern, the surviving depth charges in the Bear’s fuselage also went off. A huge cloud of gas bubbles soared upwards. The bubbles robbed the water of buoyancy. Miami’s stern section, caught in this saturated cloud, dropped violently. Its screw began to cavitate in the less dense mass of the infused water.

Billings, still in his seat, could not believe this was happening to him as the front of the control center shot up at a harsh angle and the sub began to move backwards. “Son of a bitch!” What the fuck was going on? With a violent jerk, the sub began to level out. “Sonar! Do you have anything?” The lights went red as the primary power shut off and the auxiliary kicked in.

The supervisor answered, “Negative, sir. Both rear lateral arrays are down and the port forward array is intermittent. Towed array is also down, presumed lost, but with the amount of noise being produced out there, it’s doubtful that our Korean friends can hear us either.”

The fire klaxon erupted. A shaft of ice shot down the back of every sailor on board. Fire is a greater fear for a submariner than even the sea. Fire lives and breathes the same air you do, only far faster. Billings turned to the Chief, who was relaying orders into his headset’s mouthpiece.

The Chief looked up, “Fire in the power-plant area, sir. It’s out. A nexus blew after that last explosion. No one injured. They’re in CHEMOX gear for the moment until the air clears a little bit.”

Billings glanced over at the remains of his mug. “Well, that’s the first good news I’ve had all day.”

“Comrade Captain! Definite metal transient bearing one zero, range indeterminate, but whatever it is, it’s under two kilometers.

The Great Leader’s Captain moved to just behind his sonar officer’s shoulder. “Can you be any more specific than that Comrade Syunmin?”

“I apologize, Captain, but the water conditions created by the storm and by our aircraft before it was shot down have made any definite solution impossible.”

“Shot down?”

“Yes sir. I heard a faint explosion over the surface noise and then the impact.” The officer shrugged. “It was very close. As I was saying, all of these factors have degraded our sonar’s passive performance greatly. We are blind.”

The Captain put his hand on his officer’s shoulder, “Very well then, Comrade. Do your utmost best to keep us alerted.”

Syunmin nodded, “Yes, Captain.” A look of consternation returned to his face as he tried to make sense of the sonic garbage outside. It was nearly impossible to hear anything, the water was so worked up. The noisemakers sent out an unending barrage of bangs and thumps. Their activation and shut down periods were totally random. The depth charges were the icing on a muddled cake. But, there had been an unmistakable, large impact; definitely metal on metal. A large explosion and multiple blade cavitation along almost the same track as the first transient had followed thirty seconds later. The operator chewed at his lip. As bad as the water conditions were now, there had been intelligence rumblings that the Americans might possess an extreme low frequency version of active sonar. Still, that transient had been definitely metal on metal. Then an explosion. Could the sub be sunk? He shook his head. No, it was still out there and probably not alone.

He turned to the Captain, “Comrade Captain. I urge caution. There is a good chance that the Yankee sub is ahead of us. I just heard a metallic transient, followed by extreme cavitation.”

Kil-Yon steepled his hands in front of his face and rested his chin on them. His dark eyes were sunken, but not tired. “Noted, Lieutenant. Plot a firing solution on that point, based on your best estimate. If the cavitation was a ruse, I want them busy, very quickly.”

The First Officer’s thin hands moved from pocket to clipboard to pocket, looking for a pen that was not there. “But Captain, there must be more than one submarine out there. A torpedo launch would reveal our position to them and we would be destroyed.”

“If the waters were in a normal condition, yes, I would be concerned, but with the amount of noise present in the water right now, it is a risk I am prepared to take.”

The First Officer gave a bow of his head. “Of course, Comrade Captain.”

The Captain gave the briefest of nods in return. “Of course, Xian, you are only doing your job.” He turned to the helmsman. “Let’s make the best of all this noise while we can.” He leaned back in his command chair. “Steer one one zero. Make turns for five knots.”

“But Captain! That will take us right towards the sonar contact.”

This time the Captain did not bother to look at his First Officer. “And precisely where that Yankee sub will not be.”

The situation on Miami was going from bad to worse. The control nexus fire in the power-plant room was bad and nothing was more useless than a deaf sub.

Their screw, an incredible piece of large scale machining, had been designed to prowl the deeps at a variety of speeds in silence. It and the shaft that turned it were a perfect pair. The delicate collection of bearings and seals that lined the length of the shaft had been compressed and flexed in the most violent manner. The shaft had been warped and the blades of the screw were damaged. A harmonic could now develop at any speed. In the slang of submariners, the sub would sing. In the silent world of the deep where every whisper is heard for miles, singing is a capital offense.

Miami drifted with the current, making the barest possible amount of turns to keep them steerable and the water flowing into the cooling ducts for the nuclear power-plant. There was no judging how much damage had been done to the passive and active sonar systems in the bow or down the sides of Miami. The sonar techs were still going over each system one at a time. After all that had happened today, Miami’s skipper wanted that North Korean sub stuffed and mounted over his fireplace.

“I hope Topeka remembers where the hell we are,” he thought to himself. “Sonar!”

“Aye, sir!”

“You hear so much as a grouper fart out there, I want a solution on it.”

The sonar officer grinned. “Aye, sir.”

The Captain got up and moved to the plotting table. That bastard has to be out there. He traced a finger along their search track. He knew this was the best route. He could feel it in his bones. Why run the risk of being that close to the South Korean shore? This was the best way, no matter what. Still, the NK sub had to know Miami and her sister were waiting for them. After that God awful bang, every sub from here to India must know their position. The Captain rubbed at his chin as he tried to work through the tactical puzzle. There was a chance the Korean sub just thought Miami was the bomber breaking up or even one of their own dropped noisemakers. No matter how he looked at it, damaged or not, his was still the best position. The bomber had proved that. He could ask for assistance. Nobody would fault him. But he had never been one to share the glory. Topeka covered the South Korean side of the narrow pass and if he was just plain wrong, then that crew would claim their just rewards. But, and he knew it was a big but, if he was right, then the Koreans would not be expecting them here and the tactical advantage would be his.

“Five degrees up on the planes helm. Take us up to two hundred.” The Captain wanted the Leader between the surface and the first thermal layer. His gamble was the Americans would, out of habit, stay beneath the first thermal layer.

The layer acted as a natural barrier against detection by passive sonar systems. With the sea in such a state as it was right now, Captain Kil-Yon knew it was too rough to deploy sonobouys and surface-mounted towed arrays. If the Americans played true to form, they would sit below the thermal layer and wait for him to come to them. The Great Leader took on a medium slant as it moved into the bottom area of the surface waves.

“I want silence, comrades,” said the Captain. Talk dropped into silence, broken only by odd mutters as orders were conveyed and equipment stowed and secured. The Captain looked to the sonar officer. The officer shook his head. No contacts yet. “First officer. Are the torpedo tubes flooded as ordered?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Captain sank back into thought. This was the worst part; the wait for contact. It was also the best part; the anticipation of the hunt. Another glance at the sonar station, another shake of the head. He motioned his first officer over. “Have the Chief Engineer make sure the cargo is still secure and safe.”

The First Officer left the bridge. Still nothing from the sonar. The Captain wished that they had a longer towed array. Then he would have been able to move over the thermal layer, duck under it and then move back over it to give his array a good listen. The longer the array, the longer it would linger under or over the thermal. But now was not the time for wishful thinking. It was time to be bold. The Americans were expecting them to slink through their lines like a cur dog. That was definitely not the way of a true warrior. At first he had been satisfied to passively slip through, but had his country not been able to supply them with the needed confusion of the depth charges? Had they not already been able to slip through the lines of the great American defense? And how? With boldness. The pilot and crew of the bomber had given their all to help the Great Leader accomplish its task. The Captain would honor their sacrifice by doing the same. “Sonar, plot a firing solution to that last transient contact.”

The sonar officer turned around, his face drained of all color.

Had his leader gone mad? “Sir, I was only able to guess at the range and bearing of that contact. We could be shooting at nothing and giving away our position.” There was an audible intake of breath on the bridge.

The Captain smiled with his mouth at his officer’s question. When he answered, his voice was level with intent. “Do you fear death, comrade?”

The man stiffened in his chair. “No Captain.”

Kil-Yon nodded, “Of course you don’t. Do you not trust my judgment?”

“Your judgment has always proved correct, sir.”

“Then you are only doing your job and advising me of the situation?”

The officer took the proffered out. “Of course, Comrade Captain.”

“Then proceed with the calculation to as close as you feel is accurate, Comrade.”

“Sir.” The sonar officer bent over his workbench to calculate the solution.

The Captain turned to the other side of the bridge to allow the sonar officer to wipe the sweat from his brow. He disliked such shows of rank, but it was necessary at times. He could not have his crew cracking under the strain of what he was going to subject them to in the next five hours. He turned to his Second Officer. “Mister Tan, tell the engineer to get the diesel ready to run. I may need all of the power we can spare, very soon.” His number two disappeared, much like the first officer, through the hatch at the other end of the bridge. The Captain turned back and glanced at the now furiously at work sonar officer. “Well?”

“Well?”

The Miami’s sonar supervisor shook his head. His uniform and face coated in residue from burnt wiring insulation from the starboard lateral array processing nodes buss. “Sorry sir, but the lateral arrays took a pasting on that last explosion and the fire in the power-plant caused a surge that hit one of the processor nodes. Minus our towed array and the starboard rear sensors, we’re deaf as a post in our stern section. If they get into our baffles, we’re done.”

The Captain rubbed at his temples. “Well looks like the NK’s really did a number on us.”

“Blind luck, sir, on their part. Just plain bad, on ours.”

The Captain moved over to communications. “Anything new on ELF?”

“Negative, sir.”

“Load up a SLOT buoy with our present situation and launch it. Abrahams is most likely having a fit right now anyway.” The Captain turned to go, but stopped. “And son? Don’t be too kind. Tell them how it is. Maybe it’ll stop them bitching about how we have it so easy down here all of the time.”

The Radop smiled, “Yes, sir.”

Abrahams could not believe his ears. “I command one of the most powerful surface fleets in the world, and you’re telling me that this Korean sub Captain will succeed and we will fail?”

Chun answered the question, “He knows what his plans are. You can only guess.” A knock at the wardroom door stopped the conversation.

“Come!”

The door opened. “Transmission from the Miami, Admiral.”

Abrahams waved the ensign over. He signed for the message and began to read after the young man had left. Like all of the other news he had received this day, it was not good. “Well, things just keep going from bad to worse.” He tossed the file folder onto the tabletop, got up and began to pace the room. After two minutes of this, he stopped and looked directly at Chun. “Miami got hit by the remains of that Bear we shot down. The sub is a mess, but her Captain is keeping it on station just in case. I’m going to message Topeka to leave station and join the Miami.” He looked down at the carpet. “But it’s probably going to be too late to do any good.” Abrahams waved a hand at the weather outside. “And because of this crud, I can’t get anything up to hunt this bastard down. He’s running shallow, I can feel it in my bones. So that leaves our battle group in the Sea of Japan.”

Sean spoke up, “We do have an idea of where they will be offloading the units, sir.”

“Where?”

“Chanjon.”

Abrahams raised his eyebrows in surprise. “That’s close to the DMZ isn’t it? With the present level of tension…”

“Mister Chun should fill you in on the details.”

“I’m all ears.” By the time Chun was finished, the Admiral was incensed. He turned to Forest, “How long has the CIA known this information?”

All Forest could do was shrug. “I’m sorry, Admiral, but all I do is handle the debriefing. The first I heard of Mister Chun was about a month ago when I was put on his case.”

“And you, Captain Ecevit?”

Gayle also shook her head, “Sorry, our group is just there to clean up the nuclear mess. Usually that’s supposed to happen before the fact. A mission like this is a first for everyone.”

The Admiral sat back down. “So your recommendation is?”

Gayle laid it all on the table. “A tactical insertion with an aim to retrieve or disable the devices in such a way as to render them inoperable.”

Abrahams thought the option through. “And it will be your team that will do this?”

Gayle bristled at the stab. “No sir, we will have to activate the Special Operations Command contingency plan.”

“They have a plan in place?”

“They have a plan for everything, sir. This show belongs to you, as long as it stays on the ocean. But we have to address the fact that if the North Koreans do succeed in getting the devices to port, an insertion will have to be made and made fast. I’ll need Flash Traffic sent.”

Abrahams got up and walked to the room’s only porthole. Rain pelted at the outside of the thick glass. A gray sea, full of secrets, crested and surged beyond the boundaries of the Eisenhower. Things were not good. His assets were meant to project his country’s power. The ships under his command were deep water, open ocean ships. In narrow straits and basins, they were far less effective. The Korean was right; Abrahams respected the people and their abilities. If the North Korean sub Captain was the best man for the job and the conditions not right for technology to win the fight, he would get through. How much more would the Koreans be willing to sacrifice to help that happen?

Sean broke into the Admiral’s silence. “Admiral, we have to do this now. If we don’t, it will be harder to put the genie back in the bottle later. At least right now, he’s still just pushing at the cork.”

The motion of the waves was decreasing. The Great Leader no longer rolled and swayed with every swell. That was bad news. The storm was fading. Soon the Americans could launch aircraft able to find the Leader or worse, direct subs to their location. The First Officer was again at his Captain’s side. The two political officers had decided that their presence would best serve the crew elsewhere.

“Captain, the storm is lessening topside. We should go deeper. What if the Americans have been able to launch anti-submarine aircraft?”

The Captain shook his head. “Not yet, Xian. We are still not past the American subs. We must run the risk and stay in the noise clutter of the surface a little longer.” He looked at his sonar officer one more time. The man was scanning the calculations he had just completed. One great thing about fear was level of dedication to precision it produced.

The noisemakers had begun to fail one by one as their batteries and supply of compressed gas wore out. The echoes and rumblings created by the explosions were also dying down. Soon, the Leader would have to rely on skill and not water conditions to see them through. But the Captain had thought of that.

“Sir, I have the solution calculated and loaded into the computer.”

The Captain kept his eyes on the front of the bridge. “Very well. Relay the range to the forward weapons room and tell them to rig the torpedo to run at our depth.”

“Yes, sir.” Seconds passed. “Forward Weapons Room reports all ready, sir.”

“Rig for battle stations.” Hatches were closed the length of the Leader. If there was a hull breach, it would now only flood a small section of the sub. Unless they were deeper of course; then the hull of the Leader would split like an egg as tons of water would rush into its hull.

The First Officer donned his command headset. He was now responsible for relaying all the Captain’s commands to the crew throughout the boat. A brief exchange crackled in his ears. “All sections report at action stations, sir.”

“Fire tubes one and two. When the torpedoes are near the coordinates, make them active and cut the guidance wires.”

“Firing one.” With the thump of compressed air and a scream of high speed screws, the five hundred and thirty three millimeter torpedo rocketed out of its tube. “Firing two.” Its brother quickly joined.

The Captain thought a second. “Load two more,” and then to no one, “just in case.”

Miami’s sonar supervisor sat bolt upright in his chair. “Conn, sonar transient bearing two niner two. High speed screws. Torpedoes inbound, sir.”

Miami’s Captain looked at the sonar supervisor. “That’s not good enough. I want range.”

“Four thousand meters and closing, sir.”

“Launch a noisemaker. Helm, take us below the thermal. Come to a heading of two zero zero once we’re under and make turns for one quarter ahead.”

The COB listened to his headset and then relayed the weapons room information to the Captain, “Noisemaker released, sir.”

The helm was next. “We’re below the thermal. Helm coming to two zero zero. Ahead one quarter.”

The sonar operator turned in his chair, “The torpedoes just went active Captain!”

Miami’s Captain kept his composure, but he knew if the torpedoes were able to acquire, it did not look good for Miami. “Steady, Mister Goulding. You’re still our ears.”

“Captain! I have a steady contact bearing one one two sir. Strong and constant. Must be a noisemaker.”

“Range?”

“Under four thousand meters.”

“Good.” the Leader’s Captain turned to the weapons officer. “Cut the wires.”

“Yes, sir.”

Miami’s Captain tightened his grip on the arms of his chair. “Do they have us yet?”

“Not yet, sir, but I don’t think they bought the noisemaker. These suckers could be wire guided just like our forty eights. They probably cut the wires right after the things went active.”

It was a tough call. Launch another noisemaker and risk being acquired or stay on his present course and risk being found when the torpedoes started their circular search pattern.

The pings of the high frequency sonar used by the Russian-copied torpedoes remained constant. If the interval between them started to get shorter, that would mean they had been located. Miami’s Captain had some idea of what his adversary was up to. The torpedoes were not just to flush them out; they were also to keep them busy while he slipped through. If the Korean torpedoes did manage to acquire, their sonar officer would be able to use the strong returns from their sonars to generate new firing solutions. It was a good plan and so far it was working. But the Miami was not finished yet.

“Navigation, what’s our distance to the bottom?” The navigator looked at the computer-generated terrain review on a CRT beside his station, and then at the depth gauge above his head. The navigation fix was updated by the second based on the ships inertial systems. Two hundred feet sir.”

“Present depth, helm?”

“Six forty feet and steady sir.”

“Sonar, anything happening with those torpedoes yet?”

“Negative, sir. They haven’t acquired.”

“Ten degrees down on the planes take us to the bottom. Hold at seven fifty. Get another noisemaker in the tube and this time I want it to sound like it’s hurting. Helm, prepare to turn to a heading of two zero zero and accelerate to flank at my command. Navigation plot the new course.” He turned to his XO. “We’re going to make a knuckle right down in the basement and give him a good strong return to go after. I’m hoping his fish will hit the bottom and detonate. He’ll assume he got lucky and we’ll pop up behind him and clean his clock.”

The XO smiled back at his Captain. It had been a bad day for him as well. He wanted this Korean just as much as his Captain. Of course, this new tactic would bring them within dangerous distance of the ocean floor. If Miami nosed up suddenly, the stern would slam into the bottom and tear open the pressure hull. They would be just as dead as if the Koreans had killed them.

The Leader’s weapons officer stood beside the sonar station with one side of a headset held to his left ear and a stopwatch in his right. The Americans were very good. They had managed to avoid the two torpedoes. The sonar officer had directed the bow-mounted hydrophones at the track of the two torpedoes. Their high-speed thrum filled his left ear. He could also hear the high frequency pings of the sonar seekers, but the pings remained constant. The Captain’s ruse had proved ineffective. No, that was not correct. It had just failed to generate the hoped-for results. The weapons officer had been hand-picked by the man and would not give in to doubts about his commander’s abilities. The headphones went silent. The torpedoes had run out of fuel. He turned to his Captain. “Torpedoes ran out of fuel, Captain. No contact.”

The Captain took the news in silence. Perhaps he was too hasty. The Americans might have been too badly damaged and withdrawn from the area. He shook his head. No! That was not the way they thought. They were a nation that hated to lose. That sub was still out there and now they knew for sure that the Leader was out there as well. Every kilometer counted. Time to put distance between the indestructible and elusive American sub.

“Helm, come to a heading of zero eight five. Five degrees down on the planes. Take us to three hundred.” The order had just left his lips when the sonar officer spun around.

“Sir, I have a transient bearing one one six. Range about twelve hundred meters. It is running deep.” The man pressed the headset closer to his ears, trying to get a better idea of the sound. “Definitely mechanical. It could be that the Americans sustained further damage avoiding our torpedoes sir.”

“Are the tubes still loaded?”

The weapons officer nodded. “Give me a solution, then flood the tubes and fire.”

“Conn, sonar contact. High speed screws.” The Sonar Chief smiled from ear to ear as he turned to face his Captain. “They’re coming in from a high angle, heading right for the knuckle and the noisemaker. No active pings. The guy is so confident he has us he’s smoking them right in by wire.”

The Captain allowed himself a smile. “Helm, new heading three two five, five degrees up on the bow planes. Sonar, did you get a fix on his depth?”

“Around three hundred, sir. Hard to tell for sure. He’s hiding in the surface clutter.” An explosion vibrated through the hull. The Leader’s torpedoes had found the bottom. Silence settled on the command center. All eyes were on the silent figure of the Captain, waiting, hoping for the command.

“Give me a bearing, sonar.”

“One one six at three hundred and fifty feet. Range about two thousand.”

“Five more minutes on this heading helm, then come to one one six and take us up to four hundred.” The Captain looked over at his Chief. “COB have them load all of the forward tubes with high speed fish. We’ll wait till we’re in his baffles before we flood the tubes.” He studied the plot in front of him, looking for any mistake on his part. It looked solid. “Now let us see how you handle yourself, my North Korean friend.” He thought to himself.

The minutes crept by. The Helmsman kept a close eye on the clock over his station. At exactly five minutes after the Captain’s command, he turned to the new heading. Ever so gently; they were still very close to the bottom. “Turn completed Captain.”

“Take us to four hundred. Nice and slow Bob. We don’t want to give him any hull noises. We’ve all had enough surprises for one day.”

With a twist of his wrist, the dive officer released small amounts of compressed air into the ballast tanks. Water was forced out and the Miami began to climb out of the rock strewn bottom and up to the greater room of four hundred feet. They had little left in undamaged sonar, but through luck and only luck, its forward left array had escaped damage. They had a better chance than before of finding the enemy sub, but like a dog, Miami would have to swing its nose about to sniff for the scent.

The Leader’s Captain walked over beside the sonar station. “Any sounds of break up?”

The sonar officer shook his head. “No Captain. The American has eluded us again.”

The Captain kept his anger to himself. Blast the Americans. Even with a crippled vessel they were still an equal match for his crew and equipment. Now it came down to who could take the biggest risks and still remain undetected. The Captain was back in his command chair in three strides. “First officer! Battery status?”

The officer, his hands still in nervous motion, appeared beside his commander, the ever-present clipboard clutched in his right hand. The Captain doubted the man could function without it. “Ninety two percent, Comrade Captain.”

“Excellent. Have the weapons room prepare a noisemaker.” The First Officer disappeared down the forward companionway. He did not want to drain the batteries too much and he wanted the Americans to have an absolute fix on his position. “Navigation, show me our present position on the chart table.” He turned his chair around and moved to the navigation table. He stabbed a finger at the end of the fresh line. “And you are sure of this position?”

The answer was in chorus. “Yes, Comrade Captain.”

The Captain looked up from the chart and smiled. “You have done very well, gentlemen. Very well indeed.” Only a few more miles and they would have the help of numerous comrades. The mission was almost over. The Captain shook his head. Such soft thoughts. Not until the Leader was safe in its reinforced pen could the Captain relax. He climbed once again into his chair and addressed the crew. “You have all done well, comrades. The Americans, with all of their high technology, now know what it is to feel the sting of a determined foe. There is one more supreme effort that we must make. A fast and hard sprint into the waters of the other side of this straight. There our fellow submariners wait to mislead the Americans and their anti-submarine attacks.” His voice rose. Its power filled the room. “We will not fail. We cannot fail. Our homeland depends upon us. You are the best crew a Captain could ever hope for.” The Captain began to snap out commands. He turned to the sonar officer standing a rigid attention. “Retrieve the towed array. Engineering, prepare to start the diesels. I want full speed ahead. Helm at my command. I want you to turn ninety degrees to port, cut power back to one quarter and give us ten degrees down on the planes until we are at five hundred feet. Weapons Control, launch the noisemaker the second I give the command to turn.”

Miami’s Lead Sonar man called out from his console. “Conn, sonar! Sierra one. Got him, sir! Six degrees off our port bow at about three thousand. Rapid screw noises.”

Miami’s Captain shot up. He had been slouched over in his command chair from the sheer fatigue the day had rained on every one of the crew. “He’s making a sprint for it. Fire control! Get me a solution.”

The fire control party sped through the calculations. “Solution up and running, sir!”

“Flood tubes one and two. Fire one and two!”

PING!

“What the hell?”

“Conn sonar, Sierra two. Active sonar off the port quarter. Damn! Sierra one just dropped a noisemaker.”

PING, PING!

“I have two definite active contacts.”

The Captain was pissed. The Koreans were a determined bunch, but he had had enough. It was time to show them what sea power was all about. “Fire control, get me solutions on the new targets. Weapons room, fire torpedoes. Hopefully that last solution will be good enough. Cut the wires once the fish are past that noisemaker.”

The Captain gripped the arms of his command chair in frustration. “Move it people. We don’t have all day on this.” The active sonar lashing was unnerving.

For the North Korean subs sent to act as decoys for the Great Leader, their sonar pings, were also their death knell. The situation had become a quick draw contest. The winner would be the one who could do the math first. Miami had the advantage of being able to run multiple solutions, but the North Koreans only had one target.

“Solutions up and running, Captain!”

“Fire tubes three and four at Sierra two and tubes five and six at Sierra three, now!”

“Firing three. Firing four. Firing five. Firing six. All fish are away.”

“Ahead one half.”

“Aye, aye, ahead one half.” There was no contest. The second Miami launched torpedoes, the two North Korean subs took evasive measures. Any chance of a North Korean firing solution was destroyed in those critical seconds. Training and skill once again beat dogma.

All four of the Miami’s mark forty eights found their targets. The sailor’s enemy won another two victories, but it was a double-edged sword. The destruction of the Korean subs once again muddied the sound picture. The Great Leader used the fog of battle to vanish once again into the black heart of the sea’s embrace.

C-17 TRANSPORT, EN ROUTE TO PUSAN, SOUTH KOREA

Donovan checked the cargo ties holding down the two Hinds for the nth time. They had been attacking a blue armored position in the middle of the night when both he and Mac had been recalled to base. The members of SEAL Team Three had also been pulled. They were following them in a C-17 of their own.

The two Hinds had been a tight fit. The outboard wings had to be unbolted, as well as the main and tail rotors. The stripped down helicopters just fit inside the cavernous hold of the Globemaster. The helicopters, minus their wings, were just under six feet wide. Their thirteen foot height fit inside with feet to spare between them and the top of the deck. Two sets of detached wings, four full sets of rotor blades, main and tail assemblies and enough live soviet ordinance to stop a brigade, filled the remaining bay space. Donovan had figured it was all just for a drill, until he saw the live ordinance.

Sealed orders were given to all of the command officers in midflight. The briefing had been intense. The plan was full range. There were enough assets to pull it off.

Not too many in the military saw the current President as decisive, he needed a win of this caliber. All of the men on this flight hoped that he had been briefed by the best. The word had been given; this was as black an op as they came. If they were killed, they would be denied any involvement. Donovan looked through the pitted Perspex cover of his helicopter and a dark thought crept into his head: “Just like the Kamikaze, we’re already dead. The only way were going to live again is to come back.”

USS EISENHOWER

From his bridge, Abrahams stared out at the distant coast of South Korea. Miami had put into port at Okinawa to undergo temporary repairs that would allow it to get back to Bangor for the even more extensive reconstruction it required. The way Congress was dragging its feet on budget issues these days, Abrahams would not be surprised if they scrapped the sub. The Admiral turned from the view. This time, the sea had been a cruel mistress and luck had never entered into the equation. Abrahams had received orders through the joint chiefs informing him SEAL Team Three was en route with equipment. Skirmishes or not, he still did not want to set off a full blown shooting war in Asia. America had been involved in enough fighting and dying there by in the previous century. Abrahams would be responsible for C^3I to both the team and all other elements of this mission. If you could call it that at this point. Hell, there wasn’t even a code name for the operation. He let out a heavy sigh; one less thing to deny.

Abrahams looked up from his desk at Ecevit. Her team stood behind her, trying to look unobtrusive in the cramped confines of Abrahams’s office. “So Captain, what do you have for me?”

Gayle extracted a pair of ten by twelve photographs from her briefcase and handed them to the Admiral. Abrahams lay them down side by side in front of him. Each had the distinctive lined look of an aerial infra-red camera. “Mr. Chun is right about the location of the transfer point.” Gayle pointed to the photograph on the left. “That one was taken two weeks ago by a stealth drone out of Kadina on a coastal reconnaissance flight.” She tapped the photograph on the right. “This one is from about oh-five hundred this morning. I count at least six Fan Song radars and anti-air batteries that weren’t there two weeks ago.”

“It could be because of the heightened state of alert.”

Gayle moved her finger to one of the ships alongside the dock. “Your own air intelligence section identified that as a diesel sub tender.”

Abrahams took a magnifying glass out of his desk drawer and held it over the ship. He looked at the image for a long time. “Yeah.” He looked tired; tired and old. “It’s a sub tender.” He pointed to the visible missile sites. “The way they have the SA-6 launchers deployed in this half arc. Well it looks like they want to defend against incursion from the sea or the DMZ.” Abrahams leaned back in his chair and stared at the flat-painted ceiling of his office. “They know we’re out here and they know they’re safe as long as we sit in this position. So far, we have just been bumping edges. They just use the bumps to their best advantage. Trouble is, the North Koreans like to rely on the diplomatic process too much. Hell, look how far they’ve managed to drag this inspection thing out and we’re no further along now than we were when all this started.” Abrahams tapped his chin with one finger. “All along, we have been playing their game.” He looked at Gayle. “So the question is, Captain, what are they really up to that they need these nukes? They must have at least one single-stage nuke. Hell, any high school kid with a head for the math could make one.”

Gayle looked at Chun, who just shrugged. Not that she had expected any more from him. He had been removed from the inner sanctum for some time. He was using them and their skill and not the other way around.

Yevgeny cleared his throat, “In light of past and recent history, there are only two really obvious targets: Seoul or mainland Japan. Unconfirmed reports from our Chinese sources tell us that they have at least one such crude device. They could fire such a device from a standard artillery piece into the heart of the South Korean capital. It is only thirty seven miles from the DMZ. Any heavy howitzer can throw even an extremely heavy shell that far.”

The Admiral nodded. “Sure, that makes sense. They’ve been at each other’s throats for a long time. So let’s examine the other option. Why attack mainland Japan? It’s not like they are overtly threatening the North right now. Hell, there are at least a million North Koreans living in Japan right now. It’s where young Kim Jong Un gets almost all of his foreign currency and luxury goods. He has to realize that if he hit Japan, we would wipe his country from the face of the earth.”

Gayle saw Chun’s face stiffen at the Admiral’s last comment. Oh well, now was not a time to watch people’s feelings. She spoke up, “To be honest, Admiral, it is not our problem to figure out motive. Ours is the problem of eliminating those warheads from ever being used.”

“Of course you are Captain and I’m trying to assist you as much as I can.”

Gayle’s face hardened at the rebuff. She kept her voice calm. Now was not the time. “Yes, sir.”

PORT OF CHANJON, DPRK

Sung stood beside his UAZ 469 jeep and watched the last of the long line of trucks carrying the civilian contingent of Chanjon disappear in a green gray smudge of canvas and dust. Members of the Combat Engineer unit had strung concertina wire and erected barricades across the road before the dust had settled.

“Your men work very fast,” Sung remarked to the Engineer Colonel who stood beside him as his crew, done with the road tasks, began to erect a temporary guard post out of sandbags and boards.

The Colonel acknowledged the compliment with a nod of his head. “It is our job to be fast. Anything less would be a failure for all.”

“And the anti-air defenses?”

“All in position and functioning.”

“And…”

The Colonel held up his hand. “Comrade Sung, there has been no increase in activity nor have we detected anything that would indicate an interest by the Americans in this place.”

The man’s confidence grated on the director’s nerves. “Colonel, I cannot stress the importance of your mission here. Security must be maintained at all costs. The very future of our country depends on it.”

The Colonel smiled. “Comrade Sung, we control all you see and a great deal you do not. Trust me, if there is an attempt to compromise your mission, we are up to the task of dealing with it.”

“I hope, for your sake, you are right. The Supreme Leader does not suffer failures lightly.”

PUSAN AIRBASE, SOUTH KOREA

The C-17 Globemaster landed hard. It had been a long fight and the pilots were tired. The huge cargo plane was hooked to a tow cart minutes after landing and pulled to a large remote hanger at the far end of the base.

Donovan and his flight and engineering crews swarmed down the ladder to the two Hinds. Outside, through the minuscule porthole windows, other ground crew could be seen attaching power and hydraulic umbilical lines to plug-in points on the aircraft fuselage.

The Colonel cupped his hands around his mouth to be heard over the din that now filled the bay. “Okay people! Okay! Settle down. You know what has to be done. Now we only have fifteen hours to get these two birds back together and in flying condition.” He cracked a smile. “And seeing as how we’re not going to be able to take a test flight beforehand to check out your work, it had better be up to scratch the first time.” Scattered chuckles bounced off the cargo bay walls. Donovan looked at his chief engineer. “Because, if you fuck this one up, I’m gonna be real busy haunting all of you.”

The Chief whirled around and got his men moving. “You heard the man. Let’s go. Move it!”

Donovan nodded to Mac and pointed at the rear door. Both men moved towards it. He had to find the SEAL Team leader and whoever their liaison was over here. They had a mission to plan and he still didn’t know what the hell was going on.

The SEAL’s C-17 landed about ten minutes after Donovan and his group. Their equipment load out was based on the operation they expected to find. The orders had at least told them it was a combat insertion. The Globemaster’s hold was filled with all manner of weapons and explosives. The load master and his crew made it plain; they could hardly wait to offload the stuff.

Hunter stood watch by the now-open rear cargo door. All sixteen members of SEAL Team Three were present. There had been no discussion of volunteering from Special Operations command. That gave Hunter no comfort. SOCOM’s orders had been vague and very thin on intel.

“Lt. Commander Hunter?”

Hunter turned to see at the bottom of the ramp, a fairly attractive, dark-haired woman in a uniform green, flight suit coverall. He spotted the gleam of Captain’s bars by her throat right away. He also took in the two men behind her. One was in a Russian uniform. The other was in non-descript camouflage work dress. They came across as competent, at anything. Hunter smiled. He knew the type and then he recognized one of the faces and got a nod followed by a shake of the head. What the hell was Sean Addison doing here?

“Yes ma’am, I’m Hunter.”

She strode up the ramp, the two men right behind her. Gayle held out her hand. “Gayle Ecevit. I’m the NEST Team leader.”

“I see.”

Gayle pointed to her two partners. “Captain Yevgeny Solikov, GRU. Sergeant Sean Addison, SAS.”

Hunter ignored the two men and cut to the chase, “So who is going to tell me what the hell this is all about?”

Gayle handed him a thick file folder. “That’s your target information and you already know we’re going to use the Hinds as part of the insertion. Initial mission briefing is in two hours.” Gayle frowned. “I know this is all on very short notice, but I’m also sure that you watch the news.”

Hunter grinned. “It’s been a long time since I was in Korea. Hell, I’m even in the friendly part this time.”

“In two hours then Lt. Commander.” Gayle turned to leave. Yevgeny moved to follow.

Sean held back. “Just want to check some of their ordinance, Captain.”

“Just stay out of trouble, Addison,” she shot back over her shoulder. Sean waited till she disappeared from the circle of light around the rear of the aircraft.

“I thought you were dead?”

Sean shrugged. “So did I at one point, but we were able to tag an AWACS and they routed one of your rescue choppers in to get us out.”

“How bad was it?”

“We lost two.”

Hunter spat out on to the tarmac. “That’s a bitch.”

Sean nodded slowly, remembering. “Eddie was one of them.”

“Fuck. How?”

“Lucky shot. They were hosing us down pretty good at the LZ. He took one in the chest just before the chopper landed. The helo’s door gunners blasted the crap out of the perimeter. I’m pretty sure they got most of the attacking patrol.”

Hunter shook his head. “Even so. Did you at least get your primary?”

“Yeah. Turned into a real hornet’s nest after we blew them. At first we were just going to take out the command module in the TEL’s, but Eddie figured we could slap a chunk of PE4 with a timer on the rocket body for a bit of an added bang. He rigged up some kind of two-stage unit. The first charge punched a hole in the skin and the second set the whole thing off.”

Hunter grunted in approval. “Talk about your scorched earth policy.”

“Staff seemed to think so. Eddie got the DCM out of it. Bill is here too, by the way.”

“Harris?” Hunter chuckled low in his chest. “How much of our gear has he filched?”

Sean grinned back at him. “Hunter, you’ve only been here for half an hour and already you’re blaming us for kit you must have lost in transit?” Both men had a good laugh, then the tone grew serious.

“So, how do you guys put it? What’s the flap?” Hunter said.

Now it was Sean’s turn to shake his head. “Not here. This stuff is way too hot. Can we kick the pilots off the flight deck for about an hour?”

Hunter looked grim. “That bad huh.” He tugged at Sean’s arm. “Hell, if it’s gonna be my ass I sure as hell don’t see why not.” Hunter turned around and shouted to his Second in Command. “Dice. I have to go talk to the Sergeant here. If you see another asshole dressed like him going through our gear, shoot him.”

Dice smiled and turned back to what he was doing.

Sean followed Hunter towards the front of the aircraft. He saw a SEAL field stripping one of the navy MP5N submachine guns. “Nice to see you still get all of the nice toys.”

Hunter glanced over. “Oh those? Yeah, we just got them a while back. It’s a sweet bit of gear. You guys still using the Armalites?”

“They work well. Our MP5s are a little different of course. They just gave us the 10mm version to play with.”

Hunter’s eyebrows perked up. “How’s that one to fire?”

“Very nice. Better stopping power as well. I’m tempted to favor them over the 9mm. Besides, with the way your lot sucks up the ammo, it’s easier for me to get brass for them.”

Hunter climbed the short stairs to the flight deck and went through the small bulkhead door. Snippets of mumbled conversation drifted through the thin aluminum barrier. The flight crew emerged, climbed down the stairs and walked outside. Sean clambered up to talk to Hunter.

The Seal Commander was sitting in the pilot’s chair. Sean sat down next to him in the copilot position. Hunter twisted sideways so he could watch Sean’s face. “So spill it. Mission objectives and most important, what are we up against?”

Sean took a deep breath. “It’s not good. The NKs managed to steal three SCUD warheads from a Russian base. Tactical warheads, Bob. Their latest stuff. How doesn’t really matter at this stage. The warheads are on a sub. It managed to get by your Navy’s picket line and our main intel asset feels they are going to offload the units at the port of Chanjon. Photo reconnaissance of some anti-air stuff that sprung up overnight by one of your stealth drones backs this theory up. The Whitehouse and Whitehall have called for complete and assured destruction of the warheads’ arming, detonation and guidance units. The Russians and their lot have agreed. It’s a complete balls up, Bob. We could hit the sub in port with some of your stealth fighters out of Pusan during the unload, but the men in suits want confirmation.” Sean stared out of the cockpit window. “Hands-on confirmation. They want us to take the units out in person.”

Hunter stayed silent for a long time as he worked things through in his head. “So what’s the catch?”

Sean’s left hand moved over the copilot flight yoke contours. “We’re completely deniable. If this turns to a ball of shit, nobody knows anything. Not us, not the Koreans, nobody.”

And then came the last question; the only one that mattered. “Mission survivability?”

Sean just shook his head. “Your guess is as good as mine. The odds are against us on this one.” Sean shrugged. “I still think it can be done with the right set of lads.”

Hunter’s jaw took on a firm set. “I see.” The SEAL let out a low, deadly chuckle. “Well, it’s not the first time we’ve had shit odds.”

Sean wanted to smile but couldn’t.

Hunter reached inside his battledress tunic and pulled out a slim flask. “Personally, I hate the waiting.” He uncapped the flask and took a long swallow.

Sean took the flask from Hunter’s outstretched hand. It was bourbon. He took another swig to keep the first company. “I hate the waiting too.” The flask was passed back. “But what I really fucking hate is the insertion. Take offs and landings. They give me the bloody willies. I’ve never gotten used to my life being in the hands of somebody else.”

The cabin grew quiet as each man lost himself in the past for a moment. Faces and places long forgotten, dead men best left at rest. Each one, in some way, a personal failure.

Hunter broke the reverie with another question. “What do we have for support?”

Sean was glad to get back to business. “Your two Hinds, for starters. They’re going to paint them up in North Korean colors as soon as they’re put back together. There’s a huge power grid to the North of the town and a rail nexus pretty close to that. One of the cruisers in the Straits is going to take care of them with cruise missiles. If we could guarantee a night op, a couple of your stealth fighters would have done it, but we just don’t know where this sub is going to turn up. We’ll have to take out a couple of the SA6 sites and their command and control nexus by ourselves on the way in. Not my usual cup of tea, but what the hell. The two Hinds are going to destroy as many of the ground positions as they can. They will also provide us with our EXFIL route. Last of all, a couple of your Harrier’s are on call just in case we need to blow the living shit out of whatever.”

“And we’re just going to waltz in and steal everything back.”

“That’s the plan,” Sean said. He got the flask for another swallow.

“I bet you came up with this brilliant piece of work.”

“Does it show that much?”

“You’re still fucking crazy, Addison.”

Sean had a quiet laugh. “Seriously though, Bob, we try to take the units when they transfer them to the dock. That way all of the things are sitting in one place and out in the open.”

“And that doesn’t worry you?”

“Yevgeny assures me that the bomb casings are built to withstand terrible air friction and even near misses by anti-ballistic missiles. He tells me the things are quite bulletproof. Besides, what are you worrying for? They’ve gone to all this trouble to get the things here. They’re not going to run the risk of blowing them up.”

“You’re going to need a man in the water or at least close by to relay the information, or give us a wave off if things prove too impossible.”

“Not this time.”

Hunter ignored Sean. “Got a guy on my team called Smoke. The fucker is as silent as he is deadly. If anybody can slip in there unnoticed, he’s the one.”

Sean shook his head. “There isn’t enough time. We’ve got to have all of our shit together now and get in place before this sub arrives.”

Hunter nodded. “So you say but, fact of the matter is Sean, you’re only here in an advisory role. I’m the one calling the shots. I don’t trust intel for shit, so my guy goes in.” He took another pull from the flask. “Trust me, you’ll thank me later. We came pretty loaded. If we can’t find enough gear, I’ll have one of my Chiefs raid the base stores.”

“How soon can you get all of your kit together?”

“Give me about six hours to secure the right gear. We get the GO code and you can figure another eight to ten hours before they get us all on the beach. I can work out the insertion points from our real-time satellite data. But until we’re on the beach, it’s anybody’s guess how long it’ll take to get into position.”

“That’s cutting it pretty fine, Bob.”

“You want to give me a better scenario?” Hunter could feel Sean was holding something back. “If everything fails, what’s plan B?”

Sean dropped his eyes. “We detonate one of the warheads.”

Hunter felt like he had lost all of the air in his lungs. “What?”

“If all else fails, we load a terminal action code into the warhead and set it off on a timer. The GRU Colonel has the destruct codes. Everybody gets a key and a set of the codes. If we get into a major drama out there and everything goes for shit, it’s up to one of us to deny the things to these assholes.”

Hunter could not believe what he was hearing. He knew he was expendable, but he had been trained to survive, at all costs. “Then why don’t we just nuke the place ourselves?”

“Authorizing the dropping of the third nuclear bomb in history can’t be too appetizing an option for your President.”

“But setting one off, while standing beside it is fine?”

Sean shrugged. “I’m not going to question the bigwigs running the show. They don’t give much of a shit about what I think anyway but they need to be sure, what if the North sold them to terrorists? What if they detonated one of these things in Tokyo or any other Japanese city? It’s got to be confirmed. You can’t be sure from ten thousand feet up.”

With a nod, Hunter acceded the point, “Yeah, you’re right. When are we going in?”

“As soon as that sub turns up. Gayle tells me the NSA has rerouted enough birds to give us almost hourly coverage.” Sean got out of the seat and moved to the cabin door. “We lost the sub on the other side of the Straits of Tushima. I’d give him about the next twenty hours to make it to port if he heads straight for it. But we probably have a little longer. The Captain of that boat is pure tactical. He knows the importance of his cargo. Plus, the NKs put a bunch of very noisy subs in the area to screw up our second task force. So far, it has worked like a charm for the bastards.” Sean put his hand on the knob of the door. “There is one other thing. We have a North Korean defector named Chun with us. He designed the Packchon and the Yongbyong facilities. He’s old, but he’s still a player. He whacked a couple of his own government’s security agents to escape. He’s going to be joining us.”

Hunter moved behind Sean. “Do you trust him?”

“As much as I’d trust any defector. I get the feeling he’s using us to get back there. I think he has some scores to settle. If he fucks off and you don’t have a clear shot, let him go. His own people are not the kindest when it comes to traitors.”

“You’re just a barrel of good news, Addison.”

Sean shrugged. What else could he tell the man? This mission had been screwed from the start. First by bureaucratic maneuvering and finally by the skill of a determined opponent. “Look Bob. I’ve said far too much already. If Ecevit knew what I just told you, she’d cut me and Bill completely out of this deal. As you so eloquently pointed out, we’re only here as advisers and that cover is wearing pretty thin.”

Addison was telling the truth. Hunter could see that. Sean could be a bastard at times, but he always gave the straight goods when it came to operations. Hunter had been on three black ops with Addison. The SAS man had always been a clean operator. Deadly and efficient. Trained to blend in, never stick out, just another face in the crowd. It was something Hunter had tried to eschew in his own team. Their own personal camouflage. Everyone had heard of the SEAL Teams Two and Six, both noted for their showdowns with local bar patrons in their home base towns. In comparison, SEAL Team Three had become a group of ciphers. Their hair was cut in civilian styles, they never let themselves be seen as they were leaving the base and they avoided confrontations with civilians like the plague.

“I’ll catch you at the briefing.” Sean disappeared out the port side door.

“Who’s the spook?” Dice said as Sean was leaving.

Hunter turned to Dice, his Second in Command. “Sean Addison, SAS. He’s not a spook.”

“A player then?”

“Three degrees colder than absolute zero. Yeah, he’s a player of the highest order. He makes Tarzan look like a first year Boy Scout in the jungle. Don’t fuck with the man, Dice, or his partner for that matter. Nothing good will come of it.”

Dice was surprised by his skipper’s tone. “Who the hell is he, James fucking Bond?”

“More like the Terminator when he gets going. I’ve seen him in action. Anyway, enough of this. If what he just told me is right, then this whole thing is starting to smell like a huge cluster fuck and I don’t feel like taking it up the ass. I’m getting too old for shit like that. Intel on this thing is nonexistent, not that we’ve ever trusted the intel boys. Get Smoke and the Chief up here pronto. Smoke’s gotta go for a little swim ahead of us. And the Chief has a bunch of gear to put together.”

Gayle put her pointer on the desk in front of her and looked out at the sea of serious faces that filled the cramped ready room. “And that, gentlemen, is what we are up against.”

Sean, Hunter and Yevgeny sat in chairs to the right of Gayle. They would start to field the operational questions. The F-22A and Harrier pilots had been briefed earlier. Everything about this mission was need-to-know. The two helicopter pilots and their crews were also present. They would be responsible for fire support and, if everything went well, the extraction. Donovan listened with a stone face but, deep inside, he gave little to their chances of getting out of this one alive. He wasn’t going to be fatalistic about it. A bad attitude seldom helped mission survivability. None of the SEALS looked any happier. They had been handed tough assignments before, but having to detonate a nuclear warhead in case things went badly did not sit well with them. It smacked of a predetermined failure.

“Morale is going to be a bitch on this op,” Hunter thought to himself. “Oh well, he hadn’t played all of his cards yet.”

Dice, Hunter’s 2IC, held up his hand. “Captain Ecevit, can you guarantee the location of these warheads?”

“We’re pretty sure that Chanjon is the place, Lieutenant. The North Koreans certainly have all the proper assets in place. The recent appearance of the SAM sites and control equipment would support our data.”

“Could it not be related to recent political events in Korea?”

Hunter cleared his throat. “Cut the lady some slack, Dice. The intel is as good as you’re going to get from the NSA. The boss has given us a job and we don’t question the boss.” The SEAL commander turned to Gayle. “Captain, with your permission, I’d like to take over the briefing.”

Gayle handed him the pointer and sat down beside Sean. Sean leaned over and whispered in her ear, “That was well done, Captain. You just showed these men that you’re not a showboat.”

Gayle ignored him, but inside, she was pleased with the compliment. She had never expected things to get this far. If only they had known the full extent of the game they were playing when they first started.

Hunter brought the pointer down on the podium hard enough to snap it in two. Everyone in the room jumped. He aimed the broken shaft into the room like a sword. “Now listen up, fuckers.” Hunter swept the room with his eyes, making sure he had everybody’s attention. “I don’t give a rat’s right nut how you feel about this job. You’ve been on tougher and you came back. You don’t come back from this one and you’re just some stupid cheese dick who should have been smarter. We don’t have much time, so doing this by the numbers isn’t going to work. The Chief has dug up a couple of South Korean PBRs. They’re going to get us into the waters on just the other side of Chanjon. Then it’ll be a nice little fifteen click drive to the beach.” Hunter smiled. “Smoke is already on his way in-country. He’ll try to make sure we don’t get too warm a reception. The minute that sub hits the dock, we nail the NKs with everything we have. Any wills you need to write or letters to prepare, you do it now. There’s not much time, so do it quick. Each one of you will be issued with a terminal action code and a missile key. If things go to shit and we can’t secure these devices and return them to a safe location, you are to get to a warhead, insert the key and punch in this code. At the very least, it will be quick. You’ll be sent off with the loudest twenty one gun salute in the history of our group.” This was getting depressing again. “Dice, I’m counting on you not to fuck up.”

“No sweat, skipper.” Dice looked like he meant it.

“Okay assholes, there it is. Square up your shit. I expect each team to have the proper ordinance load-outs.” Hunter took one last look at his men. “How many letters would he be forced to write?” He hated to think like that, but he was just being realistic. Of course, there was no guarantee he was coming back from this one either. “You’re dismissed.” The SEALS rose from their chairs and left the hanger, each one moving to their assigned groups.

“Nice speech,” Sean said.

Hunter did not look at the SAS officer behind him. “Fuck you Addison. These are my boys.” The answer was quiet.

“I know.”

Hunter turned on the Brit. “Let’s just get this straight. You and I have some history together and I know you’re a player, but if you screw up and get one of my boys killed, I’ll drill you myself. Got it?”

Sean was not fazed. He would have said the same thing if he were in the man’s shoes. Your unit was your family. Everybody looked out for everybody else. “Loud and clear, Commander.”

“What do you want anyway?”

Sean took Hunter’s arm and pulled him away from the podium and its mike. He spoke into Hunter’s ear. No way did Sean want Gayle to hear any of this. “Three things, Bob. Three little things. First, I want a couple of your M-4s with the M-203 rigs. Bill and I would prefer them to just having the M-4s.”

Hunter pulled away and looked into Sean’s eyes, but there was nothing there to give away the man’s intentions. “What the hell for, Sean? My guys on your team will give you the support you need.”

“Well, that brings me to my second request. I don’t want any of your lads tagging along. Bill and I can take care of anything on the way to the warheads. Besides, we’ll have the four Russians with us and all of those lads know how to use an assault rifle. It will free up four of your men to suppress any of the reinforcements that are sure to turn up.”

Hunter was not completely sold. Sean was right about the need for more men, but it could short change the offensive portion of the mission. “I don’t know, Sean.”

“Look, it’ll be fine. Harris and I will lug in the gear. Ecevit and her Russian buddies can do the job. Before you know it, we’re all homeward bound on the relief choppers.”

“And the third thing?”

“I want M433s for the launcher.”

“How the hell did you know we had those with us?”

“Bill had a look see in your stores when your back was turned.”

Hunter took a deep breath. “Okay, skip that. My next question is what do you need HEDP rounds for?”

“I want to be prepared just in case I have to punch holes in anything.”

“Like a submarine, perhaps?”

Sean gave Hunter a blank look and said nothing.

Hunter grunted. “Thought as much. All right Sean. You get your way. My boys are going to grumble, but you get your way.”

Sean nodded. “Good. When can I snag the kit?”

“Same time as everybody else.”

Sean made to leave, but Hunter stopped him with an outstretched hand. “Look, I’ll handle the briefing to my guys, but you had better go over this whole thing with your Russian friends. It’ll be pretty easy to lose touch in the first skirmish and, Sean, don’t piss off the good Captain.”

Sean shrugged. “I’ll cover it.”

Hunter watched Sean join Harris at the hanger door. Both men moved into the night without saying a word. “Just what did the Brit have up his sleeve?” Hunter wondered, and then he dismissed the thought just as fast. Sean was a big boy. He and Hunter had played the game in some of the worst places on earth. If he wanted the 203s just in case or to take out a Korean sub, who was he to stand in the man’s way? But a disturbing thought nagged at the back of his mind. Was Sean setting this mission up to be something else entirely?

FIFTEEN KILOMETERS SOUTH OF CHANJON

Smoke broke the surface, slow and cautious. No need to bring unwanted attention to a loud splash. The North Koreans could have their own divers in the water tonight. The last thing he needed was to get into a tangle with them.

A South Korean Special Forces Zodiac had put him and his equipment in the water just over the border. As the forward element of the SEAL team, his job was to secure the beach.

Chanjon sat on the other side of a dark peninsula that jutted out into the Sea of Japan like a broad spear point with a slight ridge in the middle. Satellite photographs had shown only the barest of tracks along a coast covered in sometimes dense vegetation. There was no evidence of habitation except in the city itself.

Smoke’s insertion point was a shallow bay on the south side of the peninsula. The apex of the bay was no more than three hundred meters from the trail that he needed to make sure was clear of any man made problems. The waterproofed night goggles that were draped over the front of his mask showed him the dim outline of the coast. Dim was a good thing. It meant that there was almost too little ambient light for the goggles to focus into a useful picture. An unaided eye would see nothing at all.

Smoke tread water with his feet. The underwater rifle held in his hands did not allow him the use of his hands and arms. Smoke had to give the Russians credit; they planned for almost any contingency. The rifle had arrived at Pusan with four others like it, and a GRU Colonel just after their C-17 had touched down. Enough ammunition had been sent for the things to kill an army of divers. The rifle was an odd-looking weapon. It had no stock; just a pistol grip at its butt end and a huge magazine that handled the fifteen 5.56mm darts it shot. The GRU Colonel had shown him how to use it told Smoke it could hit a target thirty meters away at a depth of five meters. He could spear somebody with the thing on land as well out to one hundred meters. Smoke hoped he didn’t need to go that far with the awkward weapon.

The SEAL kept his movements minimal. He needed enough time to make sure that his piece of the North Korean coastline was clear. A small light flared at the corner of his vision. Somebody had just lit a cigarette and not even tried to hide the flare of the match. Didn’t anybody ever learn? He fixed the location in his mind and slid beneath the surface of the water. If there was one person out there tonight, there were others. His orders were specific: do not engage unless it was absolutely unavoidable. A dead sentry on beach patrol could give the whole mission away. Smoke moved down to a depth of two meters. He was using a Dreager rebreather so he didn’t have to worry about bubbles giving him away. He would keep at this depth until he got to the bottom of the shoreline. Then, up to the surface again and see if he could spot his new smoking friend. The water was cool enough to remind him of the miserable days and nights spent plunging in and out of San Diego Bay during hell week at Coronado.

Water could slowly sap your strength if you failed to keep your wits sharp. The swim to the beach was a short one. Smoke brought his rifle to the ready and floated to the surface for the last time.

The beach was deserted. Hearing anything over the softly breaking surf was nearly impossible. There was no telltale glow of a cigarette’s coal from the trees at the edge of the beach. Smoke waited. Better to know where your enemy lay than to run the risk of stumbling over him in the dark. If that happened, things could turn to absolute shit in seconds.

Nothing. It had been over five minutes and there was no evidence the smoker on patrol was anywhere anymore. Smoke decided to risk it. He moved towards the shale beach until he was able to stand. Keeping his eyes on the trees and scrub, he removed each of his swim fins one at a time. His fins were made of heavy black rubber that did not float. The SEAL let them sink to the shallow bottom. Couldn’t have them getting in the way now. If things went well, he’d be flying out, not swimming. Socks, boots and his gear were in a torpedo-like sack towed behind his rebreather. The sack had a neutral buoyancy so it just went where it was pulled. Unless somebody grabbed it, there was enough line that if things got hot, it would not interfere with Smoke’s movement. Smoke pulled himself upright out of the shallow water.

It took him twenty painful minutes to get from the water’s edge to the tree line. Every movement calculated to blend in with the background. Because of the loose shale underfoot, a quick sprint to the trees would have been the equivalent of tying tin cans to your legs and shouting, “Shoot me! Shoot me!” The real trick had been maneuvering the bulky equipment bag under his left arm and still give himself the ability to fire his weapon if needed.

From the safety of cover, Smoke started to get into sneak and peek mode. First thing to go was the dry suit. Underneath, he wore a silent suit, a British-designed set of Gore-Tex long johns. The suit allowed his body to breathe moisture out while not letting moisture in. Smoke could lie in a water-filled ditch for a week and still be dry.

He pulled open the watertight sack and pulled out his jungle boots and fatigues he’d painted with broad splashes of black paint himself. Mosquito repellent was liberally applied to any exposed skin and rubbed over his fatigues. He was careful not to get the stuff on any of his kit. The repellent was noted as a terrific solvent and was hell on plastic. A few swipes of camo paint broke up the outline of his face. In the dark jungle, Smoke would be as close to invisible as possible. There were only three more things left in the sack: a small field pack with two days rations, extra ammo and, his pride and joy, an HK MSG90 rifle. He checked to see that the twelve power Starlight scope was all right. It was.

Smoke put the dry suit and the underwater rifle into the sack and pushed it under some brush, along with the rebreather. Unseen and unheard, he moved from the edge of the beach towards the trail.

THE STRIKE TEAM

Sean held on to the tether rope for balance. All four of their Zodiac inflatables were held together by the thin line. A member of the SEAL support team steered the lead boat. Once the team was on the beach, he would tow the rubber convoy back out to sea and meet the patrol boat that had dropped them in North Korean waters.

The dark outline of the coast lay ahead. Sean’s boat, the last one, held most of the NEST team. Harris was in the raft ahead. Gayle sat beside Sean, silent and tense. The first time for this sort of thing was never easy. And his first mission had been nowhere near the level of magnitude of this one. He tried to pierce the dark coast ahead and kicked himself for not grabbing a set of the lowlight binoculars. He had the night vision rig, but hated to waste the batteries over his own curiosity.

“I hope this Smoke is as good as Hunter says he is,” Sean thought to himself as he rubbed at the comlink in his right ear. It felt a size too big, but it beat not being able to communicate at all.

“Beach in sight.” The message crackled in his ear. “All clear received.”

So this Smoke character had secured the beach after all. The Russians had heard as well. Weapons were cocked as silently as they could be. Sean snapped down his goggles. Even when they were on, the coast remained a dark green smudge.

The first boat hit the shale beach with a brittle crunch. The seven-man point guard inside moved immediately towards the tree line and set up a perimeter defense. The number two boat hit the beach right beside the first. Its eight men rolled out and pulled the remaining two rafts to shore.

All of the rafts were checked for equipment left behind. There was none. The lead boat was pushed back into the water. The two support crew on board began to tow the Zodiacs back out to the pick-up point.

Weighed down with equipment, the rest of the unit made their way to the trees. Smoke emerged from the darkness, his sniper rifle in his hands. In the safety of the trees, Hunter called a quick council of war.

Smoke squatted in the circle of soldiers and relayed the ground situation to everyone. “Okay, the NKs have been pretty irregular with their patrols along this beach. Why, I don’t know, but it looks like they are keeping the majority of their men on the other side of the peninsula.” He tugged at a small branch. “The vegetation along the trail is pretty undisturbed. So if there are patrols, they’re small. The smoker I saw on my way in earlier was pretty lax in his patrol security. I’m guessing he was alone, but I could be wrong.”

Hunter took this information and broke down the plan of attack.

Smoke was back on point. The trail, a narrow mud track, snaked its way through dense-wicked vegetation. Perhaps the intel pukes had got it wrong again. It wouldn’t be the first time they had stuck it to SEAL Team Three. Smoke stopped and raised up an open hand. The rest of the team moved to the shadows at the edge of the track.

The track had changed. Two kilometers from the beach and the track had become a road. It had been widened enough to take a six-by truck. Smoke’s eyes scanned the wall of foliage on each side of the dirt road. Broken and snapped large branches at least ten feet off the ground were visible on both sides. He began to pick out the deep ruts of truck tires. Somebody had moved a lot of equipment and men up this track in a very short period of time. No weeds grew in the churned-up middle of the track. The vegetation at the edges also looked beaten down. This was not good.

Trucks meant men; well-equipped men. Patrols would start to be regular, their members professional soldiers, not local cadre like his friend with the cigarette. The local militia unit was probably filling in until enough soldiers arrived to take over. The jungle crowded in overhead. Most of the ambient light needed by the night goggles was being blocked.

On the up-side, if it was hard for him to see with the goggles on, it would be almost impossible for any unequipped guard to see him or the rest of the team behind him. As for hearing him, Smoke smiled to himself, they never did. He scanned ahead, and there it was again, the brilliant brief spark of a cigarette. Smoke slipped even deeper into the shadow of the foliage at the side of the mud track. He began to work his way forward. The mud and crushed plants of the trail muffled what little sound his feet made. He twisted his feet with every step to avoid any sucking sounds that could give him away. This was the best part of his job; absolute one hundred percent adrenaline. You could keep your stuffy soul-killing office jobs. Money, comfort or chemical stimulants could never even come close to the rush Smoke felt when he was allowed to work.

A kilometer up the trail, he came to a fork. The one to his right, according to the satellite photo he had studied in the briefing, led to the peninsula. Smoke hunkered down and felt the ground with his hands. Plenty of smooth-sided imprints of bare feet, probably kids going for a swim or… ah, there, the sharp edge of a boot print. He felt its cleated pattern. Definitely an army boot, and then right beside the boot, the flattened and soggy remains of a cigarette butt, still warm to the touch. Fuck, this dick head was lax. That was good news. Of course, you never could tell. The carelessness of one guard did not mean the rest of the man’s unit were as indiscreet. The boot imprint was angled to the left track. Smoke felt the ground a few feet farther ahead and found the other boot mark. So, the patrol route followed the trail along the coast, but skipped the peninsula. The troops on the missile battery would be regular army or even some kind of Special Forces. Best to assume the latter. Smoke decided to wait for the rest of his unit to reach him. Hunter would need to be briefed.

Smoke clicked the transmit button on his comlink three times. It was the signal to form up on his position. He moved once again into the shadows. Hunter was the first one to arrive. Smoke gave a low whistle.

“What’ve you got, Smoke?” Hunter’s voice was a barely audible growl.

Smoke held up the cigarette butt. “Our friend up ahead is a litter bug.”

The rest of the team moved to defensive positions around the two men. Gayle stayed by Sean. Harris stayed by Chun.

Hunter grinned. The commander scanned the foliage and the condition of the mud road. “And he shall be punished. Looks like our friends have been busy in this neck of the woods.”

“Feels like they brought at least one heavy truck up this way. The funny thing is that they left the peninsula alone. If it had been me, I’d have stuck at least one SAM battery there.”

Hunter nodded. “Could be that they’re too taxed on the asset side to afford another battery of missiles. And face it, they have to know that our satellites can see through camouflage netting.”

“So do you want me to catch up with our buddy?”

“No. Let him get back to where he camps for the night. They won’t be expecting anything from this direction. If we take him out before he gets back to camp or whatever, it could tip our hand. The last thing we want is for his buddies to suspect something.” Hunter motioned the team leaders closer. “I want you guys to try and take out all of the sites we come across with maximum silence, understand? We’ll use the Alfa pattern. The closer we are to Smoke, the better. Tell the others.” Hunter put his hand on Smoke’s shoulder. “You’re back on point.” Hunter looked over at Gayle. “Keep to the rear, Captain. This is our show. The last thing we need is to have any of your team hit by stray rounds.”

The huddle broke up. Each team and its leader moved into their positions in the line. Harris and Addison were the last two in line. Harris waited until everybody was facing forward before he tapped Sean on the arm.

Sean looked over. Harris handed him one of the SEAL silenced assault pistols and three clips of ammunition. Sean took the weapon and the ammo. At least this way if things went sour, he would be able to shoot back and not give away his position. Everybody was carrying a minimum of gear. Just a small rucksack for rations and extra ammunition. Speed was going to be the deciding factor in this race.

Smoke felt the missile battery before he reached it. The jungle had an unnatural silence around the SA-6 site. Perhaps it was the slight smell of gear oils, ozone and propellant that fought with the dank jungle rot. It smelled of man, and it did not belong. Smoke edged closer through the clinging jungle foliage. He could hear guttural Korean.

Thirty meters later, he reached the edge of the section cleared for the site. The jungle had been beaten down and removed. A professional job. Somewhere around the area lurked at least a platoon of combat engineers. The local population wouldn’t have been so thorough or knowledgeable in the preparation and survey of a site like this. It would have been out of character to allow the common people any closer than necessary to the secret workings of the army of the people. He slung his rifle across his back and drew his silenced pistol. No need to go loud and give the entire game away.

He quietly relayed his find. “First site located. What do I do?”

Hunter’s reply was immediate. “Wait one. I want to see it for myself.”

Smoke moved right to the edge of the cleared vegetation to get a better idea of the site layout. The surface to air missile launcher and its accompanying command truck were deployed about thirty feet apart. There was no sign of guards. He strained his ears to hear any man made sound. Smoke became part of the jungle around him.

On the other side of the clearing, a match flared for the third time that night. Smoke saw it all in perfect clarity. The soldier was facing away from him. Through the goggles, the match flare surrounded the man’s helmeted head with a green halo. He was sure it was his friend from the trail. Smoke took a step forward, so intent on the guard that he didn’t see the twig until it broke with a snap under his foot. The guard turned around. Smoke, swearing to himself for being so careless, put three 9mm hollow point rounds into the soldier’s chest. The guard went down in a heap.

Smoke whispered “base hit” into his comlink. Things were not going according to plan. His team had to know.

He ran for the communications truck, tore open the back door and sprayed the interior. Sparks and bits of hot metal flew as slugs tore off the steel walls and into the radio gear that lined the walls of the vehicle. The two men inside died without even knowing how. The remaining SA-6 crew were brought out of their tents by the sounds of destruction. The tree line erupted with muzzle flashes and the muffled pop of silenced weapons. The deadly firefly red glow of tracers streaked into the staggering forms of the Korean soldiers cutting them down. It was all over in seconds.

Hunter looked over the carnage. He nudged the dead Korean guard with the toe of his boot. “No use bitching about this. Thermite the control panels in the launch truck and cut the battery leads on the SAM igniters. Booby trap anything that looks like it could be pushed in an emergency. They’re going to send out a patrol to check out why these guys aren’t talking to them anymore and I want the jungle to swallow them up as well.” Hunter looked up from the dead Korean, right at Smoke. “Smoke, you’re back on point, but I want you to stick closer to the team.” The team leader looked hard at Smoke. “And this time, try to be quiet about it.”

Chun looked down at the dead soldier. His heart was a ball of ice. His revenge was proving to have a terrible price. Another comrade dead because of the actions of the inner circle. They would pay for their betrayal to the people.

Sean ignored the dead Korean guard. He kept his eyes riveted to the bent back of Chun. The Korean reached over and patted the dead man’s chest in consolation. If it looked like he was having problems with the mission, Sean would kill him now, where it could be done quietly. Chun straightened up and once again, Sean had a sense of some kind of resolution being made. He slid his commando dagger back into its sheath.

Any attempt made to hide the second SA-6 site had been rudimentary. The launcher sat under a camouflage net, about a kilometer away, on the curve of the bay to the southeast of the docks. Its communications truck and radar unit sat out in the open. The radar unit looked larger than normal for an SA-6. Behind the site ran a Soviet-standard, narrow-gauge railway. Sean knew from maps that a quarter mile past the railway, a winding two lane highway connected the entire east coast of North Korea.

A heavily guarded diesel electric train sat on the rails by the closest dock. The sub tender they had all seen in satellite imagery sat on the other side of the same dock. Sean started counting the number of soldiers he could see. He stopped at forty. This was not good. Sean moved up the line to Hunter. “Doesn’t look good, Bob.”

“I’ve got eyes, Addison.”

“Can your Alpha team take out the missile battery?”

“Smoke’s already on it. I told him to be quiet this time.”

Sean smiled. “Why don’t you send him our way after this and we’ll see if we can’t get him some decent training for a change?”

“Fuck you Addison.”

Sean smiled. “Maybe later, when we’re not so pressed for time. I could manage a quick cuddle though.”

Hunter smiled. “You’re a total bastard, Addison. What do you want?”

“Just need to borrow your binoculars. There’s something about that SA-6 set-up that bothers me.”

“Like what?”

“The radar unit is too big.”

“You sure about that?”

Sean shrugged. “Pretty sure, but I need to have a look with your eyes to be sure.”

Hunter handed him the Zeiss starlight glasses.

Sean hefted the compact field glasses. “Nice stuff. Not too heavy for low-light gear.”

Hunter chuckled. “It’s the upside of being on a classified budget.”

Sean panned the glasses around the harbor. “So what’s the plan?”

Hunter pointed to the dock and then to the train. “We’ve got two choices. We take them on the dock right after they offload, or we take them on the train. I’m leaning towards the dock. The fields of fire are better and we’re closer to the water if we have to beat feet in a hurry.”

Sean centered the SA-6 site in the glasses. “Okay, I’ve got me a Thin Skin height finder dead center of the site.” He swung the binoculars a little to the right. “And two Long Track surveillance units to the right of that. So far so good.” He panned back to the left. The sharp points of an SA-6 missile group sat on its launcher pointing up into the sky. Behind it was a large vehicle swathed in a heavy camouflage net. “Hold on.” Sean swung back to the center of the control vehicles and adjusted the binoculars’ focus. The offending radar dish sprang into clarity. It was dark green, oblong and stationary. “That looks more like a long range telemetry and tracking type than a fire control radar.” Fuzzy green and white soldiers moved in and out of the camouflage-shrouded launcher area. “There’s a lot more men on the second site than the one we took out earlier.” Sean focused on the launcher again. Something about the shape behind it was just plain wrong and then the pieces fell into place. “Oh Christ!”

“What?”

Sean dropped the glasses from his face. “That’s a TEL behind that SA-6 launcher. It’s a bloody TEL, they’re going to mount and launch the warheads from here.” He grabbed Hunter’s arm hard. “Call them back. Get all of them back. They’ll get cut to ribbons. Eisenhower can nail it with bombers.”

Hunter keyed his throat mike to Smoke’s frequency. “Umpire calls foul ball.” His ear piece squelched twice in acknowledgment. The SEAL commander looked at Sean. “You all right man?”

Sean looked gray and old. When he managed to smile it was just a shadow. “I wasn’t sure about it earlier, but this is my last op. I’ve been in the game too long. After all of that shit in the rock pile. The world’s not getting any better you know?” Sean shook his head. “Nah, that’s it for me, mate. After this, I’m out.”

Hunter kept his tone neutral. “You’re not going to do anything stupid are you?”

“What? Me die in a blaze of glory? Sacrifice for myself for Queen and country? That’s not on. Got my heart set on a long and glorious retirement, someplace remote and uncluttered.”

Hunter grunted. “Good. Last thing we need is a Jonah in the group.” He pointed to a cinder block warehouse close to the dock. “That sucker looks pretty deserted. Nobody has been in or out of it the whole time we’ve been here jawing. No lights either. I’ll get Smoke’s team to join up with us there. We can get ourselves set up to wait. We’ll be out of sight right up until this sub turns up. We’ll be in a perfect position to coordinate the attack.”

Sean looked at the gray slab-sided building. Rust from the tin roof had stained the cinder blocks in long brown streaks. “What about a back door?”

“What about it? When the shit dies down, we get out on our birds.”

CHANJON, DPRK

Sung tolerated the Colonel because he had to. The combat engineer platoon had surveyed the launch site for the TEL. They were also providing the security. So far, there had been little go wrong, though the landline communications to the SA-6 site out by the peninsula were down again. Sung stared out into the morning gloom. It was just getting light enough to discern skeletal substance under the gray shadows of the harbor cranes and buildings. Sung had become a nervous wreck over the last few weeks. The sub was due to arrive an hour before dawn. More than enough time to offload the devices and get them to the mobile launchers out on the peninsula. Down on the dock, a squad of engineers moved their crane-equipped trucks into position.

“Your men are doing a fine job, Colonel.”

The Colonel grunted. “They should be. They’ve had enough practice.”

“The delays were unavoidable. The Americans seem to have gotten wind of our little exercise.”

“You tell me this now?”

Sung turned to face the Colonel. The dark made it hard for him to make out the man’s face. “Don’t worry. We know they were able to slip through the naval cordon. If the Americans knew what we were up to here, they would be kicking down our door to stop us.”

The engineer Colonel produced a cigar. His weathered faced flared ruddy orange in the glare of the match. “You should not underestimate the Americans. They have resources at their disposal that we can only dream of. I must make sure my men are prepared for any eventuality. If you will excuse me, Comrade Sung.”

Sung watched the man’s back disappear into the enveloping gloom. Underestimate the Americans? Hardly. He had sent the best man and crew for the job to retrieve the warheads. In less than one hour, the cargo would be dropped on the dock. A day later, it would be detonated over Japan and the Korean War could resume again, but this time to its rightful and glorious conclusion.

Smoke and his squad joined the SEAL’s main force by the abandoned warehouse’s loading bay. Hunter did a quick head count. “Good.” He turned to the SEAL on his right. “Jones, get that door open and keep it quiet.”

Jones climbed onto the loading dock and began to work on the door. It took him less than a minute to pick the bulky lock with a lock-pick gun. He sprayed lubricant onto every rusted surface and the heavy rolling door moved back with little noise.

Smoke tugged at the sleeve of Hunter’s arm. “Why the recall?”

“It’s more than a SA-6 site.” Hunter hooked his thumb at Addison. “Our British friend here says a damn TEL is sitting behind that SAM site. It looks like these assholes are going to slap the warheads one at a time onto the rockets and fire them off to God knows where. The thing is probably crawling with NKs. You would have been killed and this whole mission would have been blown.”

Smoke looked over at Addison. “Thanks.”

Sean just shrugged. “You’d have done the same.”

Rusting, dust-covered machinery and junk littered the warehouse floor. More trappings of the successful communist dream.

“Well at least we know we’re not going to be tripping over the cleaning staff,” Hunter joked.

A mezzanine in similar condition to the building’s contents hung around the entire warehouse, like a giant suspended track in some weird communist YMCA. Grime-covered windows lined the walk-around. Light pillared down onto the rough concrete floor through rust-edged holes in the weather-ravaged roof. Eight separate staircases, evenly spaced around the outside walls, provided access to the upper track. Hunter climbed the closest. The upper deck windows that remained intact were caked with filth. The rest were little more than jagged glass maws. Hunter took a look through one of the holes. The sub tender was close enough now to make out, without binoculars, individual sailors on her decks. There was still no sign of the sub.

“Dice, grab Sparks and get the secure satellite communications rig up and running. Eisenhower needs to know about that TEL out there.” Dice and Sparks, the communications tech, moved to the far south corner of the mezzanine. “Sanchez, I want you and your spotter to set up a firing position to cover the dock with the TAC fifty. When the shit goes down, drill the guy with the most gold braids. Then proceed to fuck them up as you see fit but I want whatever brass they have out there down or scrambling.” Hunter turned to his other sniper. “Longman, you and Thumper cover the tender. Use the M-107 to take out the bridge with SLAP rounds the make it uncomfortable on the upper decks. Thumper, hit everything else with 40mm HE.”

The fire teams moved to stations along the mezzanine.

Sean grabbed Harris by the arm. “Bill, stick with Gayle and the Russians. I’m going for a look down the other end of the building and keep an eye on Chun. The bugger is up to something.”

Bill’s eye’s flicked over to Chun. The Korean was sitting on his heels with his back to the wall, staying out of the way. “He is a quiet one, isn’t he?” The comment came out under Bill’s breath.

“Too quiet, if you ask me.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him. Don’t be long. I’m starting to get a twitch.”

“Great, you and your bloody twitch.”

Harris was defensive. “It’s not been wrong yet.”

“Yeah, I know.” Sean shot back.

From the remnants of the windows in the north end of the warehouse, Chanjon looked gray and beaten. Sean needed to get a better look at the TEL launcher. He wasn’t sure why. It didn’t make much sense to him for the North Koreans to park a launcher so far from Seoul. Seoul was the obvious target. Pusan was far down the coast. The Air Force base was another good target. He put his rifle up to the window. He had meant it when he had told Hunter, SEALs got all of the nice toys. This rifle was proof of it. It was an M-4A3 and M203-equipped, but not like any Sean had ever used. Some weapons engineer had decided to bring the grenade launcher into the computer age. The scope was a new lightweight thermal sensing unit. It used a hybrid lithium polymer battery and had a sensing range up to five hundred and fifty meters. Thermal imaging without the bulky battery pack was amazing to Sean, but the gun’s real power lay in the scope’s computer. Point the aiming dot at your target, the gun scope would calculate distance and elevation. A near perfect hit every time, depending on the range. Selecting between grenade launcher and rifle was a flick of a switch. Even the 40mm rounds for the launcher were different. Hunter had called them “smart darts.” Lighter, longer and more aerodynamic, they had a greater range and accuracy than the old bull-nosed rounds.

The TEL was too far away for the scope to get a good look at what was under the camouflage netting. Sean cursed himself for not keeping Hunter’s binoculars. The site was at least a kilometer away. He could see the little white blobs that were soldiers dancing around the outside of the launcher. They were prepping the unit for a launch.

Chun had kept to the background. It was better that way, for him, for everyone. It had been wise to leave Forest on the Eisenhower. He would have turned into a liability here. The west had far too few who understood the North Korean mindset. Chun would have regretted having to kill Forest if he had gotten in the way. Sung was here. The man was too vain to let this culmination of his work go by without his hand hard upon it. Chun had to get away. The more he waited, the less chance it would be his hand that would bring the about end of Comrade Sung. Chun felt the weight of the Tokarev pistol inside his coat pocket. He had managed to slip the small pistol off of the dead guard at the other missile site. Every one of the bullets inside its magazine were for Sung. Every one.

Sean hunkered down beside Hunter at the satellite uplink. “This stinks. They’re crawling all over that TEL out there. Looks to me like they’re getting ready to launch the thing on a moment’s notice. Trouble is I can’t see the payload section well enough. But one thing’s for sure, that sub’s going to be here in a hurry.”

Hunter looked at the lightening gloom outside on the other side of the grime-streaked warehouse windows. “Well the bastard had better get here soon or we’re doing this in daylight.”

“There’s one other thing.”

“Spill it.”

Sean spat on the dusty concrete. “The TEL’s too big.”

“What?”

“It’s too big. The launcher looks longer than the ones we took out in the desert.”

“Yeah well, you know how much the NKs are into modifying their missile units.”

Sean was unconvinced. “I think it’s a launcher for one of their Nodong-2s.”

Hunter scratched at his chin. “Shit, I hope not. Those things can hit mainland Japan from here… oh fuck.”

“Oh fuck is right.” Sean keyed his throat mike. “Gayle you’d better come over here. Bring Bill and the Russians if they’re with you.”

Gayle got there first. “What’s up Addison?”

“That launcher out there is too big to be a standard TEL. I think it’s one of the new Nodong-2 launchers.”

Harris crouched down on his heels beside Sean. “I love it when research programs are ahead of schedule.”

Yevgeny nodded in agreement with Sean. “Da, of course. It would make sense for it to be this new Nodong launcher. There is nothing worth a nuclear warhead within SCUD distance of here.”

Gayle cut in, “The Nodong can hit mainland Japan.”

Hunter was puzzled. “But why? They rely on Japan as a source of hard currency. It would be like cutting their own throat.”

Sean spoke up, “It doesn’t matter why or where they want to send the bloody things to. If one of them gets off the ground, it’ll be hell to pay wherever it lands. We take out the sub, we take out the warheads, we take out the Koreans. No pissing about, no crap, that’s the game here, nothing else.”

Harris grunted agreement. “Sean’s right. The higher-ups can deal with the who’s who later.”

CHANJON HARBOR

The dark oily waters of the bay split as the thin reed of the Great Leader’s search antennae pushed its way above the surface. It was soon joined by the attack periscope.

The Leader’s Captain panned the periscope view over the dock and sub tender. “What’s our bottom, Helm?”

“One hundred meters, sir.”

“Still nothing on the threat receivers?”

“Just our own radar sets, sir, and a pair of helicopter sets to our rear. Ours as well. Definitely not American. Probably a security patrol.”

“Very well. Prepare to surface.” The periscope slid with oiled precision down into the deck. The Captain moved under the hatch to the fair-weather bridge. He was joined a second later by the most senior of the political officers. Now that the mission was nearly complete, the political officer was beaming over the career success this would bring him. The Captain turned his back to the man. “Take us to the surface. XO, you have the conn.”

“Aye, sir. XO has the Conn.”

The Great Leader started to rise under the Captain’s feet.

Donovan and Macintyre kept their Hinds low and fast. If the waves ahead of him suddenly swelled, there was a good chance both helicopters were going swimming. The two door gunners waited at the ready by machine guns slung on nylon straps, hanging from the ceiling.

It would get hot enough for everybody soon enough. A South Korean radio operator, a last minute addition to the crew sat by the front bulkhead of Donovan’s hind, just in case the NKs got curious about the arrival of the two helicopters without orders.

“Movement in the bay. Looks like a sub,” one of the SEALs called down.

Hunter nodded to the communications tech and grabbed his rifle. “Send the go code the second things go loud. I want the Hinds to nail that missile launcher on the first pass. The sub can wait.”

The SEAL observer called down his next observation to Hunter. “The NKs are forming up on the dock.”

Sounds of truck diesel engines being started rumbled through the corrugated steel walls. All of them watched as the stubby sail of the Great leader broke the surface of the bay. It took only seconds for more and more of the sub to raise itself out of the murk.

Sean sighted his rifle on the sail. “I’ve got movement on the sub’s open air bridge. Three men.” He could tell little else. The sub turned and began to nose its way towards the dock.

“Bold as brass,” Harris breathed beside him.

Sean looked at Harris. “Cheeky sods.”

Hunter checked his watch. “Looks like they’ll be at the dock in about fifteen minutes. Those warheads are going to start coming off that thing in a hurry.”

Hunter called out to his men. “Check your weapons. It’s almost show time people.”

Sean kept his scope trained on the Great Leader’s bridge. Details were getting sharper by the second. He swung the rifle down to take a look at the dock.

“Hello, what’s this?” A government sedan pulled onto the dock and parked. Sean watched as a man in a Colonel’s uniform got out, followed by a thinner man in a light gray overcoat. From the way the two were talking, Sean figured the one in the overcoat was the one in charge. “Guess who just came to the party?”

Hunter took a look at the dock through his binoculars. “Looks like that Sung guy decided to see this through.” He keyed his throat mike. “Sanchez, you have that Colonel all lined up like I told you?”

Sanchez’s voice scrambled and decoded, warbled in Hunter’s ears. “Yes, sir. He’s a Colonel in the engineers in case you needed to know.”

“Good work, son. Send your package on my call.”

“Roger that.”

At the far end of the mezzanine, Chun heard the exchange. Sung was here, as he had hoped. He began to work his way slowly towards the stairs.

The Leader continued to bull nose its way across the bay. The Captain pulled out the small steering helm and had the steering controls transferred to him. Parking a hunter/killer like the Leader was a challenge. It was also one of the Captain’s favorite times of a voyage. A final testament to his skills as a leader and as a sailor.

“Helm ahead one quarter.”

“Helm one quarter, aye,” crackled back into his ears. A smooth, black, unbroken wave rolled over the Leader’s bow. The boat’s single screw, now half out of the water, chopped the wake into gray froth sixty feet behind him. A few curious gulls slid by, checking out this bulbous newcomer.

The wheel turned easy in the Captain’s hands and the Leader turned gently to port. He would put the boat with the dock on the starboard side. The sub tender could draw itself across with a minimum of fuss. The Leader was very thirsty. The final run through the Straits of Tushima had drained much of the diesel fuel needed to sustain operations. The Captain turned to his signalman behind him.

“Flash the tender. I want him to start resupply and refueling us as soon as possible.”

The signal lamp began to clatter away in the seaman’s hands as he relayed the message.

THE WAREHOUSE – ZERO HOUR

Hunter lowered his field glasses. “He’s going to put in on the west side of the dock. Probably so the tender doesn’t have to screw around too much to get him resupplied.” The dark greyness outside was getting lighter by the second. “Shit.”

Sean knew how Hunter felt. Daylight raids could be suicide.

Gayle moved up beside the two men. “It’s getting light outside. What’s the plan commander?”

“Same as before. Just ’cause there’s a little daylight doesn’t mean we can’t pull this thing off.” Hunter pulled out his sat phone and put the call in to Eisenhower. “Home Plate, launch the Alpha two element. Wait five and launch the Alpha three group.”

“Roger First Base, Alpha element engaged. Alpha one inbound your position in twenty. Squawk secure fifteen for Alpha one.”

“Copy that, secure fifteen.” He folded the phone shut with a snap. Hunter looked at Gayle. “It’s going to get hard and fast out there very quickly Captain. Are you and your Russians up to it?”

It annoyed Gayle that Hunter had not thought to include the two SAS officers in his question. Still it was expected. All of these special warfare types seemed to belong to the same exclusive boys club. She looked at the three Russians, AK74’s in their hands. They looked capable. They looked ready.

“It’s a little late to be asking that,” Gayle shot back. “But if you want my opinion, I think my team are as comfortable with those rifles as they are with tensor calculus.”

Hunter kept his face neutral. “Sorry I asked. Addison and Harris will work out your approach to the dock. They’re two of the best and we need all of the skill we have to pull this off. What you accomplish there, God help us, is up to you and the rest of your team.” The SEAL commander turned back to the other fire teams. “Get to your positions.”

“Open the forward torpedo loading hatch. Brace for the dock.” The Captain cut the screw and coasted the last feet. The Great Leader nudged against the special fenders, which had been lowered by the harbor crews from the side of the dock. The fenders were designed to protect the special anechoic tiles that covered the Leader’s bullet-shaped hull. The Captain frowned as his eyes found plenty of bare patches on the upper deck. The tiles must have been ripped off during the harrowing moments of the cargo transfer off the coast of Madagascar. He would have to get the engineer on that right away. The dock was crowded with military trucks and soldiers. The inner circle had left nothing to chance.

The front of the Leader split open as the forward torpedo hatch dropped down into the torpedo room. The Leader’s sail was just higher than the level of the dock it now sat beside. The Captain looked at the small group of officials standing at the brick levy’s edge. They were less than fifteen feet from him.

“Comrade Sung, I did not expect to see you here.”

The Captain turned around and looked at the political officer’s beaming face. He had forgotten about his toadying dead weights.

Sung was thin, cadaverous looking for one so young. His hand moved out from his side, his palm pale, the nails bitten to the quick. “I would not miss the culmination of so great a plan.” His smile was paper thin and sharp. “Especially one I have worked so hard to bring to fruition.”

There had been enough party fawning in these few seconds to last the Captain a week. He cleared his throat and cut in on the conversation before it got any more nauseating. “Be that as it may, I and my crew have fulfilled my part of this mission. One of my men is deathly ill and my forward section contaminated with radiation.” He leaned against the side of the open air bridge and looked into Sung’s face. “It would please me to no end to have these things off my boat.”

Sung turned to the Colonel behind him, his tone soft but his eyes hard. “I am in agreement. The good Captain has more than fulfilled his share of the mission.” Sung checked his watch. “And the next flyby of an American spy satellite is in one hour. Start the unloading at once. The units must be under cover as quickly as possible.”

The Colonel began to bark out commands to his men. The crane equipped six-by backed toward the edge of the dock in a grinding of gears. As soon as the rear wheels were chocked and the out riggers deployed, the crane swung around and its mottled steel cable snaked down to the waiting opening of the forward torpedo hatch.

Two Hind helicopters, painted in North Korean colors, rounded the point of the bay. Sung looked at the Colonel and nodded. He had to admit, the man was thorough in his job. He would have been surprised if he knew the Colonel thought Sung was the one to call in the Hinds. The deadly looking helicopters took up a low circling route around the middle of the bay.

The damaged warhead was the first out of the sub. The boat’s doctor had felt that a short exposure to the radiation that leaked from its cracked case would cause no long-term effects. The Captain watched the splintered crate spin slowly out of the hatch and hoped the man was right. It was not good to die from an enemy you never knew was there. A crew on the rear of the crane truck was waiting to snag the crate with loading hooks. It took great effort, but Sung kept his distance.

The morning sun began to illuminate the harbor with harsh gold light. Everything stood out in brilliant relief, a shining sepia-colored photograph of reality. They were down to the last crate. The sub tender had swung fuel lines across the dock space. Members of the Leader’s crew were topside assisting with refueling, as the Leader drank her fill. The Captain had retreated back inside the steel confines of his boat. He was glad that the political officers had decided to go ashore, and gloat beside their Comrade Sung.

New and disturbing orders had been issued to the Leader. The cramped confines of the officers’ mess was not the best place to hold a meeting, but there was nowhere else.

The Captain started the proceedings. “Well?”

The head engineer shrugged his grease-stained shoulders. “The tiles I cannot replace. We put to sea with no spares. This boat is so new, I doubt they even have any spares.”

“But otherwise.”

The Engineer nodded, “But otherwise, everything is okay. We took no major damage in the engagement with the Americans. Battery power should be up to full in about four hours.”

“Good.” The Captain turned to his first officer. “I wish we could give the men some time on shore, but we have orders to put to sea as soon as possible and begin attacks on shipping in the Strait of Tushima. I need to know our remaining weapons inventory.”

The last of the heavy crates from the Leader touched the wood on the back of the transport truck. The soldiers who had loaded them started to pull a heavy tarp across their bulk. Sung turned to the Colonel standing beside him.

“Excellent work, Colonel. Well under the time needed.”

“We….” The Colonel exploded, chunks of his body flying in all directions out of his shredded uniform. Everything stopped, frozen in place by the Colonel’s death. Sung could hear nothing but the blood rushing in his ears as his mind struggled to come to grips with what had just happened a foot from him.

Hunter and his team gave no pause. The political officers died next. Both were blown apart by the kinetic energy of the fifty caliber rounds striking their bodies. Sung dove for the ladder at the edge of the dock. The rough concrete ripped open his pants leg at the knee as he slid to a stop at the rail. He vaulted over the side of the ladder to the roughhewn catwalk below. The creosote boards cut at his palms, their oily shellac burned into the gash on his knee. A shower of sparks and concrete chips ripped through the air where his head and shoulders had been a second before.

Armor piercing SLAP rounds punched into the side of the sub tender’s wheelhouse. The rounds turned to superheated jets of metal plasma as they passed through the steel plate of the wheel house’s exterior. The inside of the wheel house became an incinerator. 40mm grenades began to slam into the exposed side of the ship. Red hot shrapnel rained down on the sailors manning the fuel lines. Brilliant white sparks shot off the ship’s antennas and radar as round after round of fifty caliber, armor-piercing bullets destroyed the ship’s ability to communicate.

The explosion on the sub tender was felt by all on board the Leader. There was no need to say the obvious or ask any questions.

The Captain slid back from the table. “Sound General Quarters and have the men on the deck cut the hawsers. The Americans have found us again.”

Hunter kept low. This was turning into a real hornet’s nest. Time to liven things up. “All Alpha elements, engage targets.”

Sung watched with relief as the Hinds turned from their patrol of the bay and headed towards the SA-6 site and the Nodong launchers. Sounds of intense fighting around the two sites floated across the bay. They would make short work of anyone on the ground stupid enough to be caught out of cover. Sung’s relief turned to horror when streams of heavy rocket fire leapt from the outboard pylons of the Hinds and slammed into the two weapon sites. A flat clap of thunder followed by a huge geyser of white fire erupted from under the camouflage netting. The two Nodong rockets, their bodies leaking caustic liquid fuels, leapt in flaming spirals two hundred feet into the sky and then tumbled down on the other side of the harbor into the rail yard. A huge fireball followed seconds after.

Sung, his eyes half blinded by the glowing ascent, blinked back tears and looked at the gray cloud where the SA-6 battery used to be. The screams and moans of the injured and dying filtered across the bay through the staccato pop of small arms fire. For the first time in his life, Sung knew he was out of his element. If he stayed here, he was going to die. He looked down at the Leader. It was sliding from its mooring, back into the safety of the harbor. Four sailors lay dead on its hull, the fire axes they had used to cut the hawsers still clutched in their hands. The sub tender’s upper deck was fully engulfed in flames. Toxic black smoke billowed from her deck into the morning sky. Her crew on deck were trying desperately to fight the blaze before it hit the fuel tanks.

What had gone wrong? How could the Americans have known? Sung looked around, desperate to find a way out of the killing ground.

Sean ran in a crouch through the maze of barrels and scrap that littered the streets of Chanjon. Harris kept an eye on their left. Gayle was in the middle, with the Russians bringing up the rear in a tight semi-circle. Things were going better than planned. He had expected the Koreans to pick up on the Hinds right away. Something had gone right for a change. Sean slowed. They were almost at the dock. He could see the transport truck with the warheads.

The front windshield was shattered. The driver lay slumped over the wheel, the wreckage of his head spattered across the back of the cab. There was a choking sound behind him. Sean turned around. Gayle was pale, her hand over her mouth.

“If you’re going to be sick, get it over with. I don’t need you puking when we’re in the shit.”

Gayle’s eyes flashed and color came back to her face. “I’ll be fine Addison. Just get me to those nukes.”

Sean shook his head. “I’ve got a better idea. You wait here.” He tapped Harris on the arm. “Come on, let’s grab us a truck.”

The clock was running. Hunter’s group was keeping the Koreans well-contained. Sounds of heavy fire came from all around. What the SEALs missed, the Hinds with a few well-directed commands from the ground elements, eliminated. The bay was gaining color, magic hour was bleeding into regular daylight.

Sean, Harris right behind him, ran low and fast to the parked transport. His gun tracked back and forth for a target. It was a long hundred meters. Both men slid to a stop and crouched by the front bumper. Sean looked over the whole of the dock, what he could see at least. Fighting was fierce outside the barrier of black smoke, but the acoustics of the dock made a confusing hash out of the sounds of battle. He had no idea where the fighting was thickest or even how close it was to the team.

Sean keyed his throat mike. “Hunter, we’re at the transport. There’s too much ground-fire and we’ve got no way to fix its location. We’re going to try and move the transport out of here and get to some cover, where the team can work on the devices.”

“Better make it fast,” Hunter growled back in Sean’s ear. “These boys are going to call in backup any minute now and I want to be long gone when the rest of the North Korean army shows up.”

Sean gripped his M-4 and snuck a look round the front tire of the truck. “Roger that.” Then to Bill, “You see anything?”

“Too much smoke.”

“Cover me.” Sean slid round the front tire, pulled himself up the driver’s side of the cab and ripped open the door. It took two grisly tugs to free the driver’s near-headless body from its grip of the steering wheel. With each pull, Sean was conscious of a burning between his shoulder blades. The expectant reach for a bullet that never came. The body tumbled out past Sean and landed with a wet thud on the cracked asphalt beside the truck. Sean wiped the bigger chunks of human debris off the seat with his right arm and hopped into the driver’s seat.

The engine caught, first time. Thank Christ. “Come on Bill. Quit screwing around. Harris thumped up the passenger side. He yanked open the passenger door and used it for a shield as Sean pushed the truck into second gear towards the uncertain safety of the dock warehouses. Black toxic smoke drifted across their path, obscuring the dock for seconds at a time. Sean peered through the smoke and tried to keep his bearing.

“I expected it to be harder than this Bill.” The window beside him blew in. Sean felt the hot sting of a bullet bore through his left bicep.

Harris grabbed the wheel with one hand and steadied his friend with the other. “You and your bloody mouth.”

Sean, white with shock, still gripped the wheel with both hands. He clenched his teeth, fighting the pain. “We’ll wrap me up when I get us to the others.” He gave a hard shiver. “No worries. I felt the bastard pass clean through.”

Bullets began to slap against the driver’s side of the truck, a hard rain of sideways death on the back of the cab.

Harris yelled into his throat mike. “We’ve grabbed the flat deck with the nukes on it. We’re taking fire. Give us some cover will you Hunter! It’s coming from the southeast side of the dock.”

“Roger, help inbound.”

The smoke split a moment later into curling black vortexes, torn apart by the thundering rotor wash of Donovan’s Hind. The sound of ripping steel filled the air as the helicopter’s 23mm cannons savaged the Korean troops at the far side of the pier. The armor-piercing incendiary rounds, an angry cloud of fiery white hornets, streaked into the small enclave of soldiers who disappeared in a maelstrom of dust and fire. The rain of bullets on the cab ceased. Sean risked it and pushed the truck up another gear. Seconds later, they moved into the shelter of the warehouses.

Gayle appeared out of the smoke. Her eyes passed over the bullet holes, the shattered driver’s side window and the blood and human debris splashed across the back of the cab. She said nothing.

Harris leapt out of the cab and ran round to the driver’s side. The door was stuck. One of the Korean rounds had frozen the lock. Harris turned to Gayle. He was speckled with blood. “Sean’s been hit. I’ll take care of him. Get on the nukes.” He turned back to the door and began to hammer at it with the butt stock of his rifle.

Yevgeny tapped Gayle’s arm. “There is little time Captain.”

Gayle shook herself out of her stupor. Command flowed back in. “Right. Let’s go.” The three of them pulled themselves up on the back of the flat deck.

“Keep an eye out behind us,” Harris yelled to them. “You’re sitting ducks up there.”

Gayle pointed to the damaged crate. “That doesn’t look too good.”

Yevgeny aimed his Geiger counter at it. The meter leapt off the scale. “It’s hot.”

“Shit,” Gayle said under her breath. “What now?”

The Russian Colonel walked towards the damaged crate. “Nobody promised us it wouldn’t be dangerous, Captain.” He looked back over his shoulder at her. “Considering the alternative to the world, I am willing to die for this.” He knelt by the shipping case, popped the three latches in succession and flipped up the lid. “The base housing has been cracked. There is a good possibility this one is unusable anyway. The more sensitive electronic components have more than likely been fried by neutron activity.” He took a screwdriver from his belt. “Still, we must be sure.”

Gayle knelt beside the unit closest to her and cracked open the case. The warhead lay before her. The cone was a dull dark green drab. She swallowed hard, her throat dry with fear. This was no simulator; it was the real thing. There would be no makeup test for a wrong move. She started to remove the baseplate. The screws were tight, but yielded easily to a hard twist of the wrist. Gayle wiped at her forehead with the back of her free hand.

Harris tried to turn Sean to face him in the cab of the truck. Sean, the left arm of his fatigues drenched with blood, did little to resist. Harris pulled hard at Sean’s good arm.

“Fuck, Sean, give us a hand will you? You weigh a bloody ton.”

Sean used his injured left arm to push himself around. Harris cut the sleeve away. Sean had been right; the bullet had passed clean through. The wound, two angry red holes on either side of Sean’s bicep, had not split. Blood oozed out of the openings. There must have been two rounds. The first had shattered the window, the second had continued in behind. If the first round had struck Sean’s arm after being flattened by the window, it would have blown it clean off. Harris smacked a morphine injector into muscle above the wound. “You are the luckiest bastard I have ever known.” He put sterile gauze pads soaked with antiseptic on each side of the bicep and wound a field dressing around the pads.

Sean winced as Harris pulled the field dressing tight. He prodded at the bandage with a finger. “Wonderful stuff, morphine.”

“I’ll bet,” was the dry reply. “You’re running out of luck.”

Sean shrugged. “Not as long as the good ladies pray for me. Where’s Gayle and her lot?”

Harris nodded his head toward the back of the truck. “Behind you, trying to take all of the nastiness out of our deadly little toys.”

Sean shifted in his seat. He ran a finger down both sides of the field dressing. “I can still feel the area, so I guess there’s no nerve damage.”

“All the nerve damage is above your neck, mate.”

Sean slid himself over on the seat. “Where’s my rig? We’d better keep a lookout or some of these Korean union types are going to give us grief over doing nonunion work.” He looked past Harris into the alley. “Chun is back there with them?”

Harris spun around and dropped from the cab. “No, he isn’t. Bastard.”

Sean dropped down behind him. Time was growing short. “Don’t worry about it. He’ll probably run into some of Hunter’s lads. They’ll take care of it.”

Harris shook his head. “I doubt it. He’s a cagey old bastard. He’s got his own game to play.” Harris shouldered his rifle and moved towards the back of the truck. “Cover the front and I’ll check on the rest.”

The cinder block wall Chun crouched beside felt rough and chalky against his cheek. Knee deep in revenge now, everybody was his enemy. The Americans would kill him if he returned. He had no doubt his own people would do the same. The American sniper was good, but Sung had jumped off the dock before his bullets had found their mark. Chun could feel the closeness of his ex-deputy. The old soldier smiled bitterly to himself. Perhaps that was just what he wanted to believe. He could be wrong and Sung could be floating face down in the harbor right now. He checked the pistol clutched in his right hand. Either way, there was no going back now. At least this time, the decision had been made by him and not circumstance. Chun crept towards the back of the building and admonished himself for sitting still. Sung would not come to him, not if he knew what was healthy for him. The alley split up ahead. The branch led down a narrow crevasse between soot-stained brick that had never seen the sun long enough to burn away the moisture dripping down its walls. Garbage littered the dark floor of the split. At its far end, Chun could see the burning wreckage of the sub tender. Sung was there, like a needle moving towards North, he made his way towards the burning ship.

Hunter surveyed the situation from behind his barricade of oil drums. The Korean submarine was now four hundred feet from the dock. They would be in the center channel in a matter of minutes. He couldn’t risk having them nosing about out there. He could see the two Hinds working over the missile and radar battery near the north side of the harbor, their insect-like shapes churned through the smoke and carnage they had created. He punched the secure code for Alpha one on his SATCOM.

“Alpha one, Strike element. The submarine is making a break for it. Nail them.”

“Roger Alpha. Consider them gone.” The Hinds broke off the attack and swung toward the submarine.

The water around the bow and stern of the boat began to foam. The Leader was diving. Water was already at the bottom of the short sail. Hunter had to give this guy credit; he knew his job. “Alpha one, he’s going under, fast.”

A terse, “I can see that” snapped out at Hunter from his com unit. White streaks of fire knifed overhead. The water where the Leader’s sail had been erupted in violence.

Hunted looked out at the spot. “Shit.” He switched com channels. “Ecevit, what the hell is going on over there?”

The response was so quiet he had to strain to hear. “We’re diffusing the warhead packages. I’m up to my arms in the guts of this thing. Can’t really talk right now.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. Maybe ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes?”

“It’s the best I can give you.”

“Where are you?”

“Between the warehouse where we started out and the buildings by the dock.”

Hunter glanced down at his watch. It was half an hour past dawn. His men were getting low on ammo and he doubted the Hinds could keep up the pounding they were giving the Korean ground troops. “Captain, you have exactly ten minutes. If you can’t do those things by then, go with the alternate plan and blow them in place. Do you understand?” His comlink stayed silent. “Captain. Do you understand?”

“Copy that. Ten minutes.”

The Leader’s Captain looked at his sweating First Officer. The man’s face was a blank, his ever present clipboard missing from his hand. “Notify Naval Command of the situation here.” The First Officer made no move. “Now!”

The man’s head snapped back from the force of the shout. “At once, Comrade Captain!”

“Helm, ahead full. My feeling is we should put distance between ourselves and this place.”

“Ahead full.”

The Captain looked down at the sea chart for the region. “When you are clear of the harbor move to flank.” He turned, looking for his Chief of the boat. The man at his station was a young petty officer. “Where is the Chief?”

The man’s eyes dropped to the deck. “He was killed cutting the mooring lines.”

“I see.” The Captain’s voice dropped. “He was a good man. Tell the Chief Engineer I want the diesels on-line and damn the fuel situation.”

The young officer turned and disappeared down the main companionway towards engineering.

The Captain returned to his station beside navigation. They had used up a lot of luck trying to complete this fool’s errand of a mission. He hoped there was enough left in the bottom of the barrel to scrape up and get out of this alive. He did not know how powerful the warheads he had delivered were, but he had seen enough footage of the damage sustained by mainland Japan to know he did not want to find out firsthand. It was time to throw caution out the window.

“Sonar! Active ping on the bow array.” The gong-like bong sounded through the hull. Every sub within a hundred miles now knew where they were. “Any returns directly in front of us?”

“Negative Captain. Just the floor of the harbor.”

The steady thrum of the diesels vibrated through the soles of his boots. “Helm! Flank speed, now. Get us out of here.” Behind him, the Leader’s screw bit into the ocean with purpose.

Gayle looked down into the opened guts of the warhead. Sweat rolled down her body in rivers, and her bowels felt weak. She kept her voice as calm as the situation allowed.

“Yevgeny, how are you doing?”

“This thing is a mess,” the Russian grunted. “They really must have smashed it up against something. I doubt it would have fired.”

“Hunter says we have ten minutes, or we have to go with the alternate plan.”

Yevgeny shook his head. “There is no chance.”

“And you, Valotsin?”

The young lieutenant shook his head.

“Harris,” Gayle called round the front of the truck.

Harris appeared. “I heard Hunter. Are you going to do it?”

Gayle nodded. “The clock has run out. We don’t have time to do it right.”

Harris looked dubious. “How long will we have?”

The staccato tap of distant machine gun fire filtered to them through the maze of buildings.

“Twenty minutes?” She looked over at Yevgeny.

He nodded. “Da, it should be long enough for us to get clear.”

Harris shrugged. “What the hell. The sooner we get out of this, the better.”

All three of the NEST team members pulled out the small gold key that hung round their necks. Gayle shook her head. “Leave yours alone Yevgeny. It’s too damaged. We can’t risk trying to trigger it.”

The Colonel looked relieved as he slid the key back under his shirt. “As you wish, Captain.”

The two remaining keys were inserted into the base of the undamaged warheads. Gayle watched the Cyrillic characters glow to life on the small keypad located beside the guidance buss connector. She punched in the skeleton key logic code. The panel flashed three times and then “Ready,” in Cyrillic, appeared. Gayle punched in the code that released the Permissive Action Lock. After the PAL was digested, the small readout went blank again. She could enter in any series of commands now. New coordinates or specific instructions. She punched in the yield selection code.

“Select your yield at point one KT, Valotsin.”

“Point one KT selected.”

“Enter the Terminal Action Code. Set a detonation countdown of twenty minutes.”

Valotsin punched in the time. “Twenty minutes entered.”

“On my mark. Three, two, one, mark!” They turned their keys together. Each panel flashed twice and then showed a countdown timer. Gayle pulled her key from the now-dead socket and rocked back on her heels. “It’s done.” She wanted to be anywhere but here. The thought sucked all the air out of her lungs. Harris reached up and put his hand on her shoulder to steady her.

“Easy Gayle, we’ll be out of here soon enough.” She managed to find her voice. “Is it that obvious?”

Harris smiled. “We all go through it our first time.” He gave her a gentle shake. “Come on, time to PUFO. As much as I like a good explosion, I have no wish to see your work in progress.”

“PUFO?”

Harris grinned. “Pack Up and Fuck Off.”

Sean’s voice came from the front of the truck. “Bill, I’ve got movement to our front. We should be leaving soon!”

Bill ducked round to the front of the truck. Sean was hunkered down by the passenger side tire. His M-4 tracked back and forth across the alley’s width.

“They’re running hot Sean. It’s time to go.”

Sean unfolded from his crouch and keyed his throat mike. “Hunter, you got any men to the front of us?”

“Negative. We’ve regrouped, we’re heading for the extraction point. What’s your status?”

“Looks like the Koreans have finally gotten their shit together and are grouping in front of us. I don’t think they’ve seen us yet. Hunter, we have a new clock to beat.”

“How long?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Don’t be heroes. Get to the dock. We’ll grab you from there.”

“Roger that.” Sean was quiet a second. “Bill, you get them to the dock. I’ll cover the rear.” A decision had been made. Harris could hear it in his partner’s voice.

Harris spat in the dirt at his friend’s feet. “You must think I was fucking born yesterday.”

Sean ignored the gesture. All of the grime, sweat and fear melted from his face when he grinned at Harris. “Nothing doing, mate. It’s strictly SOP.” With his left hand, he slapped the barrel of the M203-equipped rifle he held. “I’ve got the heavy weapon, I bring up the rear.”

“You’re a bastard Addison. What do you want? One of those damned plots by the wall in Heresford?”

Sean’s face darkened a little. “Get them out of here. I’ll be right behind you.”

Harris shook his head. “No, we came together, we go out together. You want to play rear man, fine, but you do it as the last man of the team. Not some lone freedom fighter. You’ve used up all of your luck mate. I don’t think there’s too much left in the pot for you to pull out.” He grabbed Sean by the epaulet on his left shoulder. “Come on. You can die a hero’s death on somebody else’s watch.”

Sean resisted, but not much.

A fusillade of bullets struck the front of the truck. Sparks and shards of hot metal sprayed across the grillwork. “Well that tears it. They’ve seen us.” Sean returned fire.

“We’re leaving, Sean.”

“Of course we are.” Sean aimed his rifle towards the end of the alley and pulled the trigger on the grenade launcher. Sixty grams of high explosive wrapped in a brittle metal shell hurtled towards the brick distance. He had the spent casing ejected and a new round slapped in place before the end of the alley disappeared in smoke and fire.

Disembodied screams echoed up the cold passage.

Sean eyed his handiwork with a clinical stare. “That should slow the bastards down.” The launcher chuffed again as Sean sent a second round after the first. After the second explosion, there were no more screams. Sean turned around. “Just to be sure.” He let the spent shell tumble out of the launcher and reloaded. “This is it for these things.”

The rest of the team were crouched by the back of the truck. Harris grabbed Yevgeny by the shoulder. The Russian did not turn around to look. Scraps and tendrils of thick noxious smoke still shrouded most of the dock.

Harris peered into the murk. “See anything?”

The Colonel shook his head. “No, it looks quiet. The Hinds gave the whole area much attention.”

“How much time?”

Yevgeny looked at his watch. “Fifteen minutes.”

“Okay, here’s the drill. I’m on point. You stay by Gayle. Addison’s going to be giving us a rear guard action. There are no friendlies on the dock. If it moves, shoot it, but remember, Addison is the last man in line.”

Hunter switched to the air channel. “Alpha one, First Base, prepped and ready for dust-off. LZ is hot, smoke will be purple. Be careful on your approach, Mac.”

“Roger that First Base. Standby for dust-off.”

COMRADE CHUN

Pale mottled light delineated the barrier of safety at the end of the close alley. Chun hung back, masked in the perpetual shadow of the alley. Quick eyes darted over all of the dock area he could see. Bodies torn and ripped lay everywhere. But in the carnage, there was no sign of Sung. None of the bodies moved or gave indication that someone, anyone, was alive in front of him. This was far worse than Vietnam, where the bodies had been those of Vietnamese or American. These were his people. People he had betrayed.

Chun fell back against the wall of the alley. A black well of despair rose inside him. The Russian had been right. He was nothing more than a traitor. All along, he had been fooling himself that his was a greater purpose at work than just that of self-preservation. It was all a lie. The dead soldiers lay in mute testimony before him. Chun steeled himself and stepped out into the light. The hoped-for shot never came. He let out the breath he had been holding and started to walk towards the rail line. He kept his eyes forward, not willing to look at the carnage beside him anymore. He had failed these men as much as Sung had. He was determined that at least one of them would pay for their sins today. Sung was a coward. He would try to flee the area. The Tokarev felt light in Chun’s hand. The air around him was soundless, as dead and listless as the soldiers who lay under its pall. The sounds of battle were distant here, the din of skirmish absorbed by the cinderblock bulk of the buildings beside him and the thick smoke from the sub tender.

There was a large volume of fire coming from the other side of the building. It was returned by the thump of a grenade launcher. “WHAP!” Shattered glass, brick dust and broken tiles from the other side of the building rained down from above. Chun pushed himself closer to the wall. Roofing tiles broke and shattered across the asphalt he had just occupied. Slate shrapnel barked and clattered around him. A flat blade of the stuff tore a thin sharp line across his cheek. Chun felt blood run down his face. With his head pressed against the cinder wall, he could hear faint screams and the odd burst of returned fire. Deafened by the initial explosion, the second explosion was a shock. He turned his face fully to the wall and covered his head with both arms. More debris rattled and slapped into and around him. When the deluge of roof and building material had stopped, the screams had been silenced.

A lone figure broke from a cluster of scrap metal a hundred feet away. The explosions had not only shocked Chun, they’d flushed his quarry. The man was now without his badge of office overcoat, but there was no mistaking Comrade Sung. The killer inside Chun roared in frustration. Ignoring the gash on his face and the pain in his knees, he lunged to his feet. Sung caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and turned his head. Chun watched his former deputy’s mouth drop open in an “O” of surprise. Sung slid to a stop by the far corner of the next warehouse. Chun aimed the Tokarev at Sung’s head and fired. The pistol’s sights were off. The small round snapped into the wall beside Sung.

“Damn!” Before he could squeeze off another, Sung disappeared.

Chun shook his head. A rain of grit and flecks of blood fell to his feet. “So close,” he thought. Sung would try to go to ground again. It was the way of his kind. A rat looking for a hole. Chun charged back towards his alley.

Gayle pulled the pin on the smoke grenade and tossed it onto the asphalt in front of her.

“Alpha one, Second Base, be advised, smoke is purple.”

“Roger that Second Base.” Donovan keyed the cabin intercom. “Hunter.”

“Yeah?”

“We’re down to the ten minute mark. I’m going to release Mac.”

“Good idea. No sense in us all getting nuked.”

Donovan switched to the secure guard channel. “Mac, head for home. I’m going in to get the rest of team. Good luck.”

“Roger. See you back at the mess. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Don’t worry.”

Mac’s Hind snapped around in a hard arc. Its five rotor blades flashed briefly in the morning sun. Donovan turned back to his instruments and looked for a patch of purple smoke. He picked it up near the end of the dock.

Less than a minute later Donovan set his Hind down hard by the smoke marker. Harris was at the side door in three bounds. He stayed to one side and covered the others as they piled in. Sean stayed where he was, covering the rear. At least, that was what he told himself.

“Time to go Sean… come on Sean… time to go!”

Sean turned and sprinted for the helicopter. He landed in a pile at his partner’s feet.

Hunter was already yelling “Go, go, go!” into the intercom.

The deck surged under Sean’s stomach as Donovan gave his bird full collective and forward thrust. He rolled onto his back and yelled at Gayle over the howl of the engines.

“How long?”

Gayle checked her watch. “Just under eight minutes.”

Nobody spoke.

Hunter put a hand over the headphones covering his ears. “Donovan says to close the doors and tie yourselves in. It’s going to be a rough ride.” Donovan relayed more instructions. Hunter smiled. “Don’t worry about getting sick. They pressure wash out this space after each mission.” He pulled off the headset and handed it to Gayle. “He wants to talk to you, Captain.”

Gayle fumbled with the chinstrap on her Kevlar helmet before answering. “Captain Ecevit.”

Donovan’s voice was calm personified. “Captain, I’ve got this baby coaxed out right now. In about fifteen seconds, we’re going to shoot over the other side of the peninsula you guys came in on. By my calculations, the best distance from ground zero I can give you is about forty five clicks. This baby is hardened against EMP but what kind of an explosive footprint are we looking at?”

“We checked the stats on these units while we were in Batumi. They’re advanced battlefield support units. They have a dial a yield warhead. We set the yield at point one KT. It’s enough to ensure the total destruction of the units. You’re looking at a primary blast circle about half a klick across. I can only guess at the outer edges of the blast circle.”

“What kind of secondary effects?”

“Keep low after you get over the peninsula. Most of the thermal pulse should be directed over our heads. There’s a lot of iron in the ground here. That should take care of the X-rays. Watch out for the shock wave though.”

“Roger that.”

Top branches snapped and bent under the vicious down blast of the Hind at full thrust. Birds scattered wildly among the cloud of torn branches and green leaves ripped from their host. Donovan kept the belly of the Hind as close as possible to the green canopy that undulated beneath him. The sub must have transmitted developments by now. There was a fighter base at Wonsan. The lower he kept, the harder it would be for them to spot him in the ground clutter. As if on cue, the E2C Hawkeye confirmed his fears.

“Hawk one. Be advised Home Plate, bogies inbound your position. Bogies are thirty klicks out, two hundred knot closure. Come to new heading one one zero on feet wet. The alert five aircraft has been scrambled.”

“Roger Coach. Acknowledge bogies inbound. Abort the alert five aircraft. Repeat, abort the alert five aircraft. We have two nukes set to go off in about…” He checked the console chronometer, “…six minutes.”

“Uh, Home Plate. Did you say nukes?”

“Copy that. There are two nuclear devices set to detonate in six minutes. You guys had better power down your dish.”

“Roger that, Coach out.”

A slate beach flashed under Donovan. The expanse of the Indian Ocean lay before him. He turned on his Hot Brick, just in case any of the NK flyboys did manage to get a fix on him, and he pushed the Hind down to the water.

“Home Plate, feet wet, coming to one one zero.”

Chun waited in the shadows. The transport with the warheads was behind him. He could see the front of it if he turned his head and looked over his shoulder. He knew that the warheads were set to explode. The five hundred kilos of high explosive would be more than enough to settle all accounts. Not even the Americans would be crazy enough to set off the weapons themselves. The truck was the ultimate lure for Sung. There were no more sounds of battle. Chung had seen Donovan’s Hind set down in the smoke. He had felt the power released into the craft as it surged away to the distant horizon. No, now that things were silent, Sung would seek out his prize.

The scuff and pad of uncertain footsteps glinted mechanically off the dank alley walls. Chun stared at the side of the transport truck. He could see the top half of the warheads resting in their opened cargo containers. The one closest to the front of the truck had its innards exposed. The footsteps paused. Chun held his breath. He wanted surprise to be on his side.

Sung, his face haggard and cut in several places, walked across the front of Chun’s alley. He turned and looked directly at Chun, but his light-dazzled eyes passed right over his former superior. Satisfied that the alley held no danger for him, Sung turned back to the flat deck. Chun heard the sharp intake of breath when Sung saw the warhead timers counting down. He turned to run.

Chun moved out of the darkness, blocking Sung’s escape, his gun aimed at the square of Sung’s chest. “Rather a fitting going away present, don’t you think?”

Sung whirled around. “You! How?”

“I am happy to see you too.” Chun motioned Sung to the back corner of the flat deck with his gun. “Things did not turn out quite as planned, did they Comrade Sung?” He shrugged. “Well, that is usually the way of these things, isn’t it?” Chun glanced at one of the weapon’s timers. It had just passed through three minutes. “Hard to see one’s life ticking away from you.” Chun pointed to the warheads. “And you went through so much to secure these toys. Was the power worth it? Was the betrayal?”

Sung’s face screwed up in a grimace of pure hatred. “You are the fool, Chung. You are the one who betrayed us. You should have just gone for reeducation and let things run their course.”

“So a man of vision like yourself could run things?” Chun shook his head. “Oh, I don’t think so comrade. I don’t think so at all.” He shot another glance at the warhead chronograph beside him. “Two minutes left to live. Who would have thought the Americans would actually arm these things?”

“We could run.” Sung was desperate.

“There is nowhere to run, I prefer to face my end. But worry not. You will not be seeing the culmination of your efforts, your betrayal. You have caused me great pains, Comrade. It is time I reciprocated.” The Tokarev cracked twice.

Sung sat down hard on his tailbone, his ability to stand removed along with his kneecaps. Chun walked over and placed the barrel of the pistol over Sung’s heart. Chun’s eyes were cold pieces of flint. “I am sure worse has fallen upon others you dealt with.”

Sung looked up. “I only….” This time the shot was muffled. Sung fell on his side, his last word frozen on his lips. Chun straightened up and tossed the pistol onto Sung’s crumpled form. It had fulfilled its part of the bargain. He pulled out his beaten pack of French cigarettes. There was only one left. He grunted in amusement. “And so it ends.” He put the rough black paper of the Galois to his lips and drew it out of the pack. He threw the rubbish at Sung’s feet and hunted for a match. Behind him, the readout on Gayle’s warhead hit zero, two seconds before its partner.

The docks of Chanjon disappeared in the silent, searing white ball of Einstein’s nightmare. Buildings vaporized, their mass consumed by an expanding atomic maelstrom hungry for energy. Those not consumed were struck by the pressure wave. The shock wall of force blew structures into chunks of superheated radioactive debris. This gargantuan wreckage, suspended within a wall of flame, tore outward through the remainder of the town. Every tree and piece of vegetation within a five kilometer radius was shredded and burned by the hellish vortex. As the mushroom cloud rose on its poisonous column, the process began to reverse itself. Debris and fire was sucked back in by the violence of ascension.

40KM SOUTH OF CHANJON

Donovan was prepared when the sky above his head turned brilliant white. The Peninsula had done its job and created an umbra of shadow. He just had time to get a good grip on his flight-stick and collective controls before the shockwave ripped over them. The sudden increase of air pressure above them caused loss of lift in the rotor blades. The Hind plunged nose down towards the water. In the cargo compartment, any gear not secured shot to the ceiling. Donovan twisted his cyclic to full collective. Forward speed dropped rapidly as the blades fought to bite down and not forward. The cockpit filled with the din of warning buzzers and his control panel lit up like a Christmas tree as the engine struggled with all it had. Donovan remembered that Soviet engines had a terrible habit of failing just when you needed them the most. Gray green water filled his entire view. The roller coaster ride bottomed out ten feet from the ocean waves. The Hind pitched and swayed like a cork in a bathtub as turbulent eddies of air snaked around them, but it held its altitude.

Donovan keyed the intercom. “Everything okay back there?”

Sean groaned as he pushed kit bags off his legs and chest. Vomit spattered everything. “Still here, I think, or heaven is really into Soviet hardware.”

Yevgeny pulled himself painfully off the deck. He pointed an accusing finger at his fellow officer. “Vasilly, you were behind the good Captain with the turn of your key.”

Gayle nodded. “I thought the blast was too small.”

Sean looked at both of them like they were mad. “Too small? Too fucking small? You just vanished a city and you think the blast was too small.” He pulled himself back upright on his jump seat, his face sullen. “Bunch of fucking nutters, that’s what you are.”

In the cockpit, Donovan smiled to himself. The turbulence had died down as fast as it had been upon them. Behind them, the remains of Chanjon rained down on the coastline. Thank God he didn’t have to explain any of this to the powers above. For once, he was glad to be the support element.

Gayle found Addison by the Eisenhower’s stern. Sean had found himself a good vantage point to watch the brilliant sunset. Black water rushed by the hull thirty below them, the wake glowed with a soft phosphorescence behind them. Sean held a half drunken glass flask in his right hand. He acknowledged Gayle’s presence with another tip of the bottle.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Sean pointed at the fire of gold and red in the sky. “And we made it.” He took another drink. “No, you made it, with the twist of a key.”

“You’re drunk.”

Sean shook his head. “Wish I was.”

“Gayle made to leave. “I’m sorry. This was a mistake.”

“What?”

“Hunting you down like this. I guess each of you have different ways of doing things after a mission.”

Sean chuckled low and dark. “You’re kidding me right? He pointed at the still-vibrant sunset. “I’m fucked up over that. I couldn’t care less I slotted a few people. That’s just my job.” He felt the bulge of bandage round his right bicep. “Hell, it’s not like they didn’t have a go at me.” He offered her the bottle.

Gayle shook her head. “I don’t like Scotch.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Are you always such an asshole, Addison?”

Sean smiled round the lip of the flask. “Pretty much. Not that it’ll matter anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

He finished the flask with one last pull and tucked it into his pants. “I’ve got one last thing to take care of and then I’ll be leaving the regiment and the Army.”

“You? Retire? What could a man like you possibly do with yourself in retirement?”

“Oh, I’ll be all right. My mum and dad left me a fair chunk of cash when they died. I think I’ll go and see some of the world without a gun in my hand.”

“Well, I just came down here to thank you for everything you did. You and Harris.”

“No thanks required, Captain. We were on the clock.”

EPILOGUE

Andrew Verkatt was a bachelor as much by choice as by circumstance. Most women found him overbearing and repugnant. He cared little of what any woman thought. Money took care of untoward feelings they might have about his needs. He kept a regular routine of fashionable call girls in and out of his estate. The Korean affair had been a rushed and tiring job, involving his own personal hand in matters he normally left to skilled underlings. For the first time in quite a while he had to take charge at the ground level. As a reward, he had given himself the last three days as a rest cure, gearing himself up for what was to be a promising year of even greater wealth in the many new markets of the world now available to his country’s arms industry. It didn’t matter who ran the country. Money was, after all, more important than political power. Verkatt would outlast the current leader as he had so many others. As it was, tonight he lay restless and alone under expensive sheets. Something had dragged him from slumber, most likely one of those damn dogs. All was quiet now though. There was an almost silent cough in the hall outside his bedroom door, followed by a long sliding thud.

A galvanizing bolt of fear shot down his spine. The Koreans were covering their tracks, the double crossing bastards. He rolled off the bed, the 9mm Berretta he kept under his pillow just in case of such an emergency in his right hand. Using his bed as a shield from the door, he steadied his aim. The door burst in, kicked open. Verkatt loosed a volley of rounds through the opening into the hall beyond. Seconds crept by. Had he hit them? Were they dead or dying in the hall? Two dark cylinders arced through the shattered doorway into the center of the room. Verkatt watched the grenades land on his perfect Persian rug, four feet from his face. He was trying to scrabble back when his world disintegrated into terrible light, noise and pain.

Addison hauled the huddled, unconscious Verkatt off the carpet and onto the rumpled bed. The South African’s hands were secured behind his back with a plastic cable tie. He was dropped unceremoniously onto a chair beside the bed.

Sean slapped Verkatt around the face with slow deliberate strokes until he came to. Verkatt’s eyes snapped open and then widened as he realized his predicament, but he said nothing. Sean got another chair, pulled it in front of the bound man and sat down. When Sean spoke, his tone was mocking.

“Very disappointed in you, Andrew. A little bird tells me you have been up to all sorts of nasty doings. Things not in everyone’s best interest.” Sean sat back and opened his arms. “So, now you and I are going to have a little chat.” Sean’s voice went cold and flat, “and you are going to tell me everything about your little foray into business with the North Koreans.”

Verkatt had played this game before, from Sean’s side. His answer was equally cold and flat. “I don’t have the faintest idea of what you are talking about.”

The rifle butt of Sean’s silenced MP5-SD3 SMG came down quick as a snake on Verkatt’s left kneecap. Verkatt doubled over in pain. Sean pulled him back upright by his hair. He pressed his face close to the sweating South African’s. “Any other time, mate, I would be more than happy to spar with you. But right now, I don’t have the time or the patience.” He pushed Verkatt back hard in his chair. Verkatt sat there, glaring and defiant.

“I still don’t know what you are talking about.”

Sean shook his head. “Why don’t I tell you what I do know.” Sean leveled his weapon at Verkatt’s chest. “You were approached by North Korea about procuring three nuclear devices. Preferably those fitted to SCUD-C rockets. You were able to steal these from a base located in the Republic of Georgia from a Soviet Mobile Rocket Forces base at the cost of three Soviet officers’ lives and one ex-citizen of East Germany. The units were transported by boat to the Turkish port of Carasamba. From there, you flew them to Cape Town, where you personally delivered them to a North Korean cover operation and where they were subsequently loaded onboard a freighter of North Korean registry. The warheads were then transferred off the coast of Madagascar to a submarine, which then destroyed said freighter. The warheads were successfully and with loss of life on both sides taken to the North Korean port of Chanjon. And if you follow the news, my bigoted friend, you know that there was a nuclear accident of undisclosed origin there.” Sean tapped Verkatt on the knee again with the butt of his SMG just to make sure he had the man’s attention. It brought a welcome grimace. Sean continued. “We have pictures, we have tape and we have your driver. More than enough to put you away for the rest of your life. Your little escapade in greed has caused a lot of misery. So tell me all that you know or I will shoot off the toes of your left foot one at a time.”

A light went on in Verkatt’s eyes. “You’re English.” His laugh was full of contempt. “It is not in your nature to torture.”

Sean did not deny or confirm Verkatt’s statement. He placed the barrel of his MP5 on Verkatt’s left big toe. “Shall we test my resolve?” He flicked his fire select switch to single shot with a snap. Verkatt twitched. “Thought as much.” Sean checked his watch purposely. “You don’t talk, ten seconds from now your rug gets a new dye job.” Sean looked at his watch again. “Five seconds, Andrew, and then this little piggy goes to market.”

Verkatt saw Sean’s trigger finger begin to tighten. Sweat popped out on his forehead. The smell of Verkatt’s fear washed off him in waves. He did a quick mental calculation. Client confidentiality aside, this had never been in the Korean contract.

It took thirty minutes for him to relay everything. His initial meeting with the deputy director’s assistant Sung in the Congo, the next surprise meeting at their Cape Town operation and his use of the Georgian drug dealer Smirnoff to speed his own and the Koreans’ ends. By the time he got to the final loading of the warheads on the Nung Il, Yeung he was spent man. Sean pressured Verkatt to reveal more, but it was obvious that the Koreans had compartmentalized. Verkatt was just the delivery boy.

Sean sat back. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Verkatt’s reply dripped venom, “It was the least I could do.”

“You know what comes next.”

Verkatt shook his head, “I will put five million dollars into any account you want if you let me live.”

Sean considered the offer for a second. “Tempting, I’ll warrant you that but if I just did this sort of thing for the money. I’d be no better than you.” He placed the silencer of his pistol against Verkatt’s forehead. “And that just turns my stomach.”

Sean pulled the trigger.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Steve Abbott has written numerous screenplays and had two feature films produced. He also wrote briefly for a Canadian “True” Ghost Story show, where he learned that parapsychology is not all it’s cracked up to be. He lives in Mississauga, Ontario with his wife, two kids and his Bengal cats. He’s also an avid Photographer and Long Distance Motorcyclist. Something that bugs his wife to no end (the motorcycle thing – she could care less about the photography stuff).

He can be followed on his blog The Rough Draft

OTHER BOOKS BY THIS AUTHOR

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Two Wheeled Maniac – Eight Years and 75,000Km on a V-Strom

Reliance

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Copyright

Devil’s Gambit

By

Steve Abbott

Copyright 2014 Steve Abbott

Published by Sabot Productions Inc.

ISBN: 9781511466288

Created with Vellum

Content

Steve Abbott
DEVIL’S GAMBIT
Edited by Isaac Sweeney

PYONGYANG, DEMOCRATIC PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF NORTH KOREA

SANTA BARBARA, CALIFORNIA

JAMRAYA, SYRIA

CAPE TOWN, CAPE TOWN PROVINCE SOUTH AFRICA

CARASAMBA, TURKEY

NATIONAL TRAINING CENTER, FORT IRWIN, CALIFORNIA

YEUN TAE. PLANTATION, BRAZZAVILLE, THE CONGO

PYONGYANG, NORTH KOREA

PRETORIAN HQ, MI6

MONROVIA, LIBERIA

BATUMI, GEORGIA, CIS

MI6 HQ, PRETORIA, SOUTH AFRICA

MOBILE ROCKET FORCES BASE, BATUMI, GEORGIAN PROV. CIS

BLACK SEA APPROACH TO BATUMI HARBOR, GEORGIA, CIS

MOBILE ROCKET FORCES BASE, BATUMI

STRATEGIC ROCKET FORCES COMMAND, MOSCOW

THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW

CENTRAL COMMUNICATIONS ROOM, PENTAGON

MOBILE ROCKET FORCES BASE, BATUMI

CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

CARASAMBA, TURKEY

SYRIA

BATUMI, GEORGIA

SOMEWHERE IN ZAIRE

CIA SAFE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, DC

SOMEWHERE OVER THE PACIFIC OCEAN

BATUMI, GEORGIA

JUST NORTH OF CAPE TOWN, SOUTH AFRICA

BUILDING 213, NATIONAL PHOTOGRAPHIC INTERPRETATION CENTER, WASHINGTON, DC

CAPE TOWN, SOUTH AFRICA

BATUMI, GEORGIA

MI6 HQ, PRETORIA

BATUMI, GEORGIA

33°S LAT., 42°E LONG.

NEST TEAM, OVER MADAGASCAR

DPRK SUBMARINE, GREAT LEADER

ANATAVARIO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, MADAGASCAR

32°N LAT., 128°E LONG.

24°4’22” N LAT., 122°12’13” E LONG.

CIA SAFE HOUSE, EAST COAST, US

ALBATROSS 4, 200KM NE. OF EISENHOWER

COD EN ROUTE TO USS EISENHOWER

DPRK GREAT LEADER

TUSHIMA STRAIT

C-17 TRANSPORT, EN ROUTE TO PUSAN, SOUTH KOREA

USS EISENHOWER

PORT OF CHANJON, DPRK

PUSAN AIRBASE, SOUTH KOREA

FIFTEEN KILOMETERS SOUTH OF CHANJON

THE STRIKE TEAM

CHANJON, DPRK

CHANJON HARBOR

THE WAREHOUSE – ZERO HOUR

COMRADE CHUN

40KM SOUTH OF CHANJON

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OTHER BOOKS BY THIS AUTHOR

CONNECT WITH STEVE ABBOTT

Copyright