When Bolan walked in off the street, he brought no vehicle for cleaning and left Chan Taesun outside, behind the wheel of her Elantra, the engine idling. He asked to see the manager and moments later met a thin, young man with slicked-back hair who smelled like cigarettes despite his tailored slim-fit suit sewn from a blend of virgin wool and silk.
“May I help you?” the gangster asked in stilted English.
“Absolutely,” Bolan said. “I’m here to make a cash withdrawal.”
The hoodlum blinked at him, voice hardening as he replied, “Explain.”
Bolan opened his jacket far enough to show the Glock concealed beneath it. “Nice and easy,” he suggested. “Take me to the safe, and no one has to die.”
“You’re making a mistake. A serious mistake.”
“It wouldn’t be my first,” Bolan said. “It could be your last, though, if you don’t get moving now.”
“Okay,” the mobster said. “It’s your funeral, round-eye.”
“Get in line,” Bolan advised, and trailed his captive to a backroom office, where the youngster cracked an antique-looking safe and opened it, revealing stacks of banded South Korean currency, most of the notes ranging from one thousand to fifty thousand won. One of the latter bills, as Bolan knew, was worth some forty-three US dollars—nothing to write home about.
“You have a bag?” he asked the thug. “I’d better take it all.”
“You’ve still got time to reconsider. We could just forget this ever happened and you go about your business.”
“Right now,” Bolan answered back, “this is my business. Get that bag and pack it up.”
The manager reached underneath his desk, dragged out a Gucci leather tote, of all things, and began to stuff it with currency. He muttered all the while, presumably not praising Bolan’s lineage, but kept his hands where they were clearly visible, presumably not wanting any surgery via a bullet to his brain. When he was done, the bag’s clasps barely closing over so much cash, he shoved the tote toward Bolan’s feet and asked, “Now, how do you suppose you’re getting out of here, white man?”
“Same way I walked in,” Bolan said.
The little gangster smiled for the first time. “I don’t think so.”
Bolan followed his eyes and saw three hulking bruisers waiting for him just outside the glass-walled office. Peering up at him, seemingly delighted with himself, his captive said, “You’ve still got one small chance to walk away from this—without the money, of course.” The thug started to reach toward his desk. “Now, if—”
He never finished. Bolan shot him in his gloating face and blew away whatever thought was powering his words. Outside, the three big goons were startled into momentary immobility, and by the time their brains kicked in, Bolan had swung around to bring them under fire.
The glass wall of the office didn’t save them. Head shots spattered gore across the wall behind his targets and the tiled floor of the car wash, while his adversaries dropped like falling sides of pork. Somewhere inside the place, beyond his line of sight, a woman screamed.
Bolan picked up the Gucci bag, Glock 17 still gripped in his right hand, and exited the crime scene without running.
When he slid into the Elantra, Chan asked, “Any trouble?”
“None I couldn’t handle,” Bolan said. “Let’s see a man about a plane.”
12
Incheon, South Korea
The Flying Dragon Airlines pilot was a young man in his early twenties, introduced as Jang Whi-soh. He saw the Gucci bag of currency and asked no further questions, handing over jumpsuits, goggles, helmets and the parachutes required for dropping into North Korea on the sly. While Chan and Bolan donned the gear, Jang prattled on—Chan translating for Bolan—about the route he planned to take, where they would jump and what they could expect on landing in the DPRK.
That was simple: trouble.
Armed patrols were frequent in the hinterlands north of the DMZ. Most were conducted by soldiers of the Korean People’s Army, others by the North Korean Special Operation Force or members of the Worker-Peasant Red Guards, a paramilitary civil defense force with some 3.5 million citizen soldiers enrolled. Any or all of them were prone to shooting first and asking questions never, if they found intruders—and particularly white ones—wandering around on DPRK soil.
And if a prowler lived to be arrested, matters went downhill from there, with methods of interrogation being harsh and brutal, whether practiced by the skilled hands of commissioned army officers or by some band of peasants who had joined the WPRG because they liked the uniforms and guns.
The bottom line: contact with any watchdogs on the wrong side of the DMZ was dangerous, and fighting past them was their only hope of coming back alive.
To that end, Bolan brought along his Daewoo K-1 carbine and his Glock, sorry to leave the USAS-12 behind, but shedding it because it weighed too much. Chan brought her submachine gun and her DPK-5 pistol, passing on the Glock 19 since she was running low on .40-caliber ammo and had no realistic hope of finding more once they crossed the Parallel.
Their aircraft was a venerable Cessna 206, described in some brochures as “the sport utility vehicle of the air.” Introduced in 1964, the plane was discontinued between 1986 and 1998, when manufacture of it was resumed and carried forward to the present day. Jang’s 206 had been around, and then some, but the pilot gave his word that it would carry them into the north and see them on their leap into the Great Unknown.
Unless, of course, the engine failed, some other working part gave up the ghost or they were blasted from the sky by one of North Korea’s MiG-19s or Shenyang J6/F6 fighter jets. In either case, an air-to-air missile would blast the Cessna into fragments, ending Bolan’s mission with a literal Big Bang.
No pressure, then. They simply had to sit and wait while they flew into hostile airspace, with a total stranger at the frail Cessna’s controls, then leap out of the airborne frying pan into the fire below, no lights to guide them down, and everyone they met a likely enemy.
They took off from the private airstrip, circled once above it like a bird of prey, then soared off for their wide loop over the dark waters of the Yellow Sea. Jang did his passengers a favor and refrained from chatting once they were airborne, leaving them to go back over details of their plan, such as it was, and then to brood in silence while the Cessna crossed the Parallel’s deadline and started back toward land.
Chan leaned in close to Bolan and said, “I shouldn’t tell you this, but I am frightened.”
“So am I,” Bolan replied.
“Not you!” She seemed sincere in her surprise, no hint of mockery.
“You bet. Fear’s only natural,” he said. “It’s how you handle it that makes you who you are.”
“And who are you?” she asked.
“Just a soldier,” Bolan answered, “getting ready for a leap into the dark.”
SSD Headquarters, Pyongyang, North Korea
MAJOR ROH TAE-IL had thought his only audience would be his colonel, Paik Sang-soo. Instead he found himself seated before a troika of high-ranking officers in full dress uniform. Aside from Colonel Paik, Roh recognized Lieutenant General Im Nam-jun and Major General Baek Ho-ki. None of them smiled or greeted him by name as Roh sat in front of their table, stared into their glaring visages and told his story of Shin Bon-jae’s death.
They listened stoically, the generals jotting notes from time to time on yellow pads. Roh might have read their comments upside down, a talent he had cultivated over time, but he dared not appear to spy on them or to offer a suggestion of defiance when he knew he was on trial.
Of course, the officers had to know he bore no personal responsibility for what had happened in the South, but a disaster always called for a scapegoat to be chosen, and Roh was the logical selection in his role as Shin’s SSD handler. As he wa
tched the solemn faces, wondering how many of his words the three absorbed in fact, Roh knew he might not leave the room alive.
When he was finished with his scripted recitation, they began to question him. Paik was the first to speak, asking him, “When did you first realize that Shin was compromised, Major?”
“Only when I received word of his death, sir.”
“And the captain you assigned to handle him, this Park Hae-sung...” Im Nam-jun said. “You trusted him?”
“Sir, he gave me no reason to feel otherwise.”
“In retrospect,” Baek Ho-ki asked, “do you believe that was a wise decision?”
“I still have no reason to suspect he was a traitor,” Roh replied.
“But Shin Bon-jae mistrusted him,” Paik said. “You trusted Shin?”
“I did. Yes, sir.”
“Is that not contradictory?” Im asked. “You trust both men, but one believes the other has betrayed him. How do you decide which one deserves more trust?”
“I left that up to Shin, sir.”
“Shin is dead now,” Paik reminded him.
“They both are, Colonel, based on what I’ve heard from the police in Seoul. If Park was dangerous, in fact, he’s been eliminated.”
“But by whom?” Baek asked. “And why?”
“Those answers are unclear to me, sir. I am making every effort to resolve them. Inquiries across the DMZ and—”
“But you have no answers, do you, Major?” Im challenged.
“Regrettably, no, sir.”
“Regrettably?” Im fairly spat the word, as if Roh had insulted him. “Is this all that we may expect from you, Major? Regret at having failed so miserably?”
Roh knew he should keep silent, but he felt his anger mounting and replied, “How have I failed you, General?”
Im leaned forward, elbows on the table, gray eyes boring into Roh’s. “How have you failed us? Let me think, Major. Our most important and most influential contact in the South is dead, murdered by persons still unknown. The plan that you devised with him, seeking reunion of the Motherland, is now in total disarray. Shin’s empire, from which we derived substantial covert profits, is now leaderless and likely lost to us entirely. Yet you sit here with the raw audacity to ask us how you’ve failed?”
Roh swallowed hard, replied, “Sir, if I may—”
“You may not!” Baek snapped back at him. “Unless you can explain these losses in detail, there’s nothing more for you to say.”
That time, Roh kept his mouth shut tight.
“We have considered your behavior and its ultimate results,” Paik. “It is our judgment that a full court-martial shall convene in one week’s time to hear charges of dereliction and malfeasance lodged against you. Naturally, you will be supplied with legal counsel for that trial.”
A shyster chosen in advance to set him up, Roh thought, but offered no protest. Instead he nodded meekly and began to say, “Gentlemen, if I may—”
Paik cut him off again, saying, “The only way to help yourself, Major, is to identify the individuals responsible for killing Shin and ruining your plans. If that is possible, and you achieve it, there is hope—no guarantees, but hope, I say—for your retirement with an honorable discharge from the service. Otherwise...”
Paik left the sentence hanging, images of gallows, riflemen, a flashing sword, shifting behind Roh’s eyes. “If I may be excused, sir, to continue with that work...”
“You are dismissed,” Im said, “but not excused.”
Roh stood and left the chamber, stiff-backed, focused like a searing laser on the steps that he had to take to save his life.
South Hwange Province, DPRK
THE CESSNA 206 had not been fitted out for HALO jumps—high altitude, low opening—but it was good enough for night drops. Bolan and Chan were dressed in black, their jumpsuits over standard North Korean camouflage fatigues, with black-matte parachutes to blend in with the sky and be invisible to watchers below. The Cessna could be heard by people on the ground, of course, but it was running without lights for now, around six thousand feet, until its passengers bailed and Jang turned back toward home.
Bolan went first, air whipping at him through the Cessna’s open starboard door while he stepped out, right hand clutching the wing strut, while his left foot came to rest atop the landing gear’s cowling. There were no lights below him, only dark and open fields that could be concealing anything from barns to barbed-wire fences, even livestock on the prowl. He pictured landing on a startled cow and almost smiled before he gave Chan Taesun a thumbs-up with his left hand and pushed off into space.
The wind pushed him away from the Cessna’s whirling propeller, then he plummeted, lips clenched to keep his cheeks from flapping as he fell. Somewhere above, Chan would be poised to make her leap, unless she fell into the grasp of second thoughts and changed her mind.
Unlikely, he decided, though he couldn’t rank it as impossible—nor would he blame her, if she chose not to pursue a jump into the dark unknown with killer odds against her on the ground and only trouble waiting, if and when she tried to make it back across the DMZ.
Putting his partner out of mind for the time being, Bolan found the handle for his rip cord, tugged it and was jolted as the special chute blossomed above him. In addition to the black-matte fabric, he and Chan were using SOFTAPS systems—Special Operations Forces Tactical Advanced Parachutes—with rectangular maneuverable canopies to aid in pinpoint landings.
Which was fine, as long as they could see the target, sure. But in the middle of the night, plummeting over darkened turf with no visible landmarks, much of it came down to hoping for the best.
Bolan’s lighted altimeter, strapped to his wrist, told him when he was getting near the ground. He raised his legs enough to land in something like a crouch and waited for the impact of his boots on soil, was ready when it came, and jogged away from touchdown with his chute trailing behind him. Whipping off the harness, he began to reel it in, bundling the canopy and kicking at the dirt beneath his feet as he prepared to bury it.
Chan landed moments later, grunting as she hit the ground and stumbling slightly, but she kept her balance and repeated Bolan’s ritual of winding up the parachute. When both their rigs were planted deep enough to keep them safe from prying eyes, Bolan consulted his small GPS device and faced north toward the SSD compound, located on Pyongyang’s outskirts.
They had miles to go before sunrise, across a landscape occupied by enemies, and whether they would make it to their goal was anybody’s guess.
* * *
“YOU HEAR THAT?” Captain Du Cheong asked his lieutenant, Nam Ryu.
“An aircraft?” Nam replied.
“Undoubtedly. A small one,” Du agreed, eyes straining skyward. “Running without lights.”
“Intruders,” Nam suggested with a hint of thinly veiled excitement in his tone.
“We should investigate,” Du said.
“Yes, sir!”
As members of the Worker-Peasant Red Guards—officers, no less—they were committed to patrols along the DMZ, hunting for infiltrators, saboteurs and other counterrevolutionary scum sent from the South to undermine the DPRK’s grand society. With half a dozen noncommissioned soldiers, they had drawn the graveyard shift this night, trolling their territory in a pair of UAZ-469 Kozliks, off-road vehicles once distributed to forces of the Eastern European Warsaw Pact. Each UAZ was fitted with a Russian army-surplus Nikonov machine gun. Both Du and Nam wore standard-issue sidearms, while their troops carried a mix of AK-47 rifles and Russian KS-23 shotguns.
That was sufficient firepower to deal with any interlopers they’d encountered in the past, normally peasants trying to reach family above the DMZ after a long trek from the South. It was the WPRG’s job to arrest them, or use deadly force if they were greeted by res
istance from the trespassers. Captain Du himself had ordered twenty-five or thirty people killed during the two years he’d been active with the Red Guards and was not ashamed of it. Lawbreakers were a scourge, and they deserved no sympathy.
This night, he guessed, the aircraft that had passed unseen above them probably had dropped some kind of contraband: a load of food, perhaps, or Western cigarettes and liquor. Or, perhaps, if Du was very lucky, it would prove to be a radio, delivered to a spy already on the ground. Discoveries of that sort often meant promotion and a raise in pay, though only slight. No soldier of the DPRK was expected to get rich.
“This way!” Du used a flashlight to illuminate his compass, tapped his driver on the shoulder and pointed him in the direction they should take. The echoes of the plane, still audible, were fading toward the coastline now as the twin military vehicles churned over broken ground in their pursuit.
The plane was out of reach by now, unless a radar station of the People’s Army Air Force picked it up in time to shoot it down, but there was still a decent chance of finding something on the ground, or someone sent out to retrieve it.
Jolting over ground that had been tilled at some time in the past then left to lie fallow, Du braced himself in the vehicle’s backseat, no belts provided to restrain its passengers in the event they crashed or overturned.
“Hurry!” he urged his driver, leaning forward, shouting to be heard above the rushing wind. “We’re almost there!”
* * *
“SOMEBODY’S COMING,” CHAN told Bolan.
He’d already heard the engines revving, sounding like a pair of Jeeps running in tandem, and had paused to listen when she spoke. Now he saw headlights, two pairs, bouncing over broken ground and closing more or less on a collision course to where they stood.
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