Bloody Sunday

by Ben Coes

  Fusco and the three frogmen moved a few feet beneath the surface of the black water, toward the rocky shore. They were invisible, relying on GPS that was illuminated in the upper left corner on the inside of the scuba glass. Each SEAL was as black as the water itself. The commandos kicked their flippers in a steady rhythm, moving rapidly toward North Korea’s dark, unpopulated coast.

  Fusco, Barrazza, Kolackovsky, and Truax ranged in age from twenty-four to thirty-two. Fusco was the oldest, a veteran of operations in more than twenty countries across the globe. Some on land, including desert and tundra, more parachute drops than he could remember, but mostly missions having something to do with water.

  At twenty-four, Truax was youngest of the four. Barrazza and Kolackovsky were both twenty-eight. They had thick beards. Kolackovsky, at six-six, was the tallest of the bunch. At thirty-two, Fusco was considered a middle-aged man within the teams, though he was still a five-foot-eleven, 205-pound beast. They were the leading edge of America’s covert operators, men who could operate virtually anywhere in the world, under extreme duress, with little support.

  Tonight, Fusco, Barrazza, Kolackovsky, and Truax were entering a dead zone.

  They swam into a dark stretch of rocky coast several miles from the closest town, Chungsan. They moved along the wave break, scanning for signs of life. As they reached the slippery rocks, each commando removed his fins then climbed up the rocks to a dark field. They sprinted toward a tree line, ducking behind the first cluster of brambles.

  Cloaked in the shadows, the four Americans removed their scuba masks, tanks, weapons caches, and wet suits. Each man unstrapped a waterproof ruck from his chest. Inside was everything they needed for urban combat, including lightweight boots, tan tactical clothing, weapons vests, and ammo. Each SEAL strapped on nylon ankle sheaths that held combat blades. Each man removed an MP7A1-Z customized fully automatic submachine gun, retractable stock, Zeiss RSA reflex red-dot sight on top, suppressors screwed into the muzzles, then strapped the weapons over their shoulders and across their chests. They did the same with the M4s and strapped them across their backs. They fastened nylon ammo belts around their waists and stuffed them with as much ammunition as they could carry. Finally, Kolackovsky took a tin of eye black out and rubbed it into any part of his face not covered by beard and mustache. Fusco and Truax did the same. Moses Barrazza, who was black, also rubbed some in, mainly to tamper any shine that could reflect light.

  It took each of them only a few minutes to get ready. They did it all in silence.

  Finally, they put in specialized earbuds. Kolackovsky wore a device connecting the buds to one another as well as to a communications specialist aboard the Benfold. Kolackovsky turned the device on.

  Fusco had an extra set for the American they were meeting up with in Pyongyang.

  “This is Lieutenant Kolackovsky,” he said. “Benfold, can you hear me?”

  “Affirmative, officer.”

  “I have you, Benfold. We’re on shore and moving.”

  “Roger that.”

  Kolackovsky pressed his bud, nodding at the others.

  “Commo check.”

  Fusco tapped his ear.

  “Check.”

  “Got you,” said Barrazza.

  “I’m good,” said Truax.

  Fusco tapped his earbud twice.

  “Benfold, this is Fusco. Can you patch me in to whoever is running this at the CIA?”

  “Yes. Please hold.”

  A half minute later, a voice came over the earbuds of the four Navy SEALs.

  “This is Mack Perry at CIA. Is this Captain Fusco?”

  “You have me and my team. I was told we’re to meet up with Andreas. Where is he?”

  “He’s already in Pyongyang.”

  “What’s the operation?” said Fusco.

  “You guys need to get to downtown Pyongyang,” said Perry over commo. “The route is uploaded and we’ll be live in real time to guide you. Andreas will brief you when you get there.”

  “How far are we from Pyongyang?”

  “About thirty miles,” said Perry. “You’ll need to borrow some transportation. Luckily there are plenty of Mercedes and BMWs scattered around the North Korean countryside.”

  Fusco and the other SEALs—who were listening in—all laughed.

  “On a serious note, we’ve been scanning and it looks like there’s a vehicle about two klicks from you guys, due east.”

  “Got it, Mr. Perry.”

  “It’s Mack,” said Perry.

  A half hour later, Fusco, Barrazza, Kolackovsky, and Truax came to a small, darkened home. They didn’t need their night optics to see. The moon was almost full and cast a bluish light down. The home was one story and made of concrete. There was one window on the back side of the building. A stack of firewood was piled up high. An old pickup was sitting next to the home.

  Truax opened the door quietly and put the truck in neutral. The four commandos pushed the old truck down a dirt road for a mile or so. Truax opened the door and climbed in.

  “Which one of you guys remembers how to hot-wire a car?” said Fusco.

  “I do,” said Barrazza. “I learned when I was ten.”

  Fusco and Kolackovsky laughed.

  The engine suddenly made a diesel coughing sound and then came to life.

  “Actually, no need,” said Truax. “Keys are in it.”

  66

  PYONGYANG

  Dewey extinguished the lights of the sedan. He drove for several blocks, acutely aware of the sound of sirens roaring in the distance. He needed to get as far away from Talmadge’s building as he could—but even more important was not being seen, and when he heard the sirens—multiple now—getting closer, he started looking for a place to dump the car. He saw flashing blue and yellow lights, reflecting down an alley, as a police cruiser searched just a block away. Ahead on the left, he pulled into a parking garage. A waist-high chain-link fence was shut and padlocked across the entrance. He floored the sedan and accelerated, smashing through the fence, then stopped and got out, quickly shutting the fence and trying to make it appear as if nothing had happened. He took the sedan into the dark garage and went to the third floor, parking in a dark corner behind a van. He shut off the engine and dialed Jenna.

  “Dewey?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, but I need an extraction. What’s the plan?”

  A long pause settled over the line.

  “Well, actually,” said Jenna. “There’s been a change of plans.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” barked Dewey. “I’m in Pyongyang and I need to get out.”

  “North Korea is about to launch a nuclear strike on the United States,” said Jenna.

  “All the more reason to get me the fuck out of here,” said Dewey.

  “You don’t have time to get out of there.”

  “How the hell do you know—”

  “Listen to me, Dewey,” Jenna said. “The documents that Yong-sik sent say they’re attacking today. As of midnight Pyongyang time, we’re past the point of no return. He could launch at any moment.”

  Dewey was quiet.

  “We have two choices. Either we turn Pyongyang into a glass parking lot or we kill Kim Jong-un. You’re there. If you want to live, you need to kill Kim before the president launches a preemptive nuclear strike.”

  Dewey looked out the front of the windshield. All that was visible was a concrete wall.

  “Why haven’t we attacked yet?”

  “Because you’re still there.”

  Dewey was stunned. What had been exhaustion turned into a sense of frustration and anger. Mostly at himself.

  “You have to get moving, now.”

  “How much time do I have?”

  “I don’t know the answer,” said Jenna.

  “Okay,” said Dewey, stopping her. “Where is he?”

  “In the palace.”

  “I need a route in.”

&nbs
p; “We have a route in. It’s an escape tunnel that runs straight out from the palace.”

  “I really don’t like tunnels.”

  “Tough.”

  “Do they know about it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it will be guarded, Jenna,” said Dewey, an edge in his voice.

  “Without question,” she said. “Probably several dozen soldiers if I had to guess.”

  “I’m running out of ammo,” said Dewey. “For chrissakes, maybe you should just nuke the fucking place.”

  “You’re not giving up. We sent in a team. They’re in-country and en route to Pyongyang.”

  “Let me guess. An eighty-seven-year-old MI6 agent with a magic umbrella that shoots darts?”

  Jenna laughed.

  “Very funny,” she said. “They’re Navy SEALs. Captain Mark Fusco is in charge. It’s a four-man team. You have in-theater command. I’m uploading a map that’ll guide you to the meetup point. Now go!”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Dewey crouched in the low-hanging eave of the building. A digital map was imposed on the phone screen. According to the map Jenna had uploaded, the building across the street held one of a half-dozen entrances to a set of highly guarded tunnels that ran beneath the city.

  He was two minutes early for the meetup with the SEALs who were supposed to be here. Dewey had worked with a lot of SEALs. His best friend was a former SEAL. Still, he didn’t see any signs of life on the empty street. Were they late? Had they been captured? He needed a team if he was going to kill Kim. There were simply going to be too many people with automatic weapons for one man to make it through.

  Dewey heard sirens in the distance. He put the phone back in his chest pocket. In the dim light of the alcove, he rechecked his weapons set. He needed to understand—to be absolutely positive about—the number of rounds he had, down to the last bullet.

  Dewey had two guns: a 1911 and a SIG P226. Both guns had suppressors threaded into the muzzles. He popped the mag on the Colt. It was an eight-round extended mag. There were six bullets left in the mag, along with another already chambered. He slammed the mag in and ejected the SIG’s magazine. There were four bullets remaining plus another bullet already chambered.

  He had twelve bullets left.

  On his left calf: Dewey’s Gerber combat blade, eight inches of black Japanese steel, double-serrated, a patina of scratches and wear, his initials engraved into one side; the word “Gauntlet” on the other.

  The sound of sirens grew louder.

  From the dark alcove, Dewey stared left and right. The thin city street was empty for the night. He studied the windows of the apartment building across from him, looking for signs of life in the building—someone watching or a light on—but he saw nothing but darkness. In the dim reflection from the building’s windows, he tried to see into the building above him, searching for lights, seeing none. Both apartment buildings seemed abandoned, the gray concrete and small glass windows lifeless and spectral.

  The sirens again, closer this time. He needed to move.

  He saw movement to his right. A faint shadow of a glimmer in a window. He raised the Colt and moved silently to the corner of the building. He waited ten seconds, and then ten seconds more. Then the glimmer again. He was closer now and he heard the faint whisper of a shoe on concrete.

  Dewey lurched around the corner, gun high and trained straight ahead. The end of the suppressor found the forehead of a man who was clutching an MP7, now aimed at the ground.

  “I’m Fusco,” said the individual whose forehead Dewey was holding a gun against.

  Dewey swept the pistol aside. Fusco appeared calm but was breathing rapidly.

  “Where are the other three?” said Dewey.

  “Hidden,” said Fusco, pointing to three different points of egress within a block of where they now stood, two doorway alcoves and behind a garbage Dumpster. Dewey couldn’t see any of them. “Let’s get inside first. Here.”

  Fusco handed Dewey an earbud. Dewey put it in his ear, then tapped. “Check.”

  “Commo.”

  “I got you,” said Fusco quietly. “Guys, you hear that?”

  “Check,” said Truax.

  “I’m good,” came the deep baritone of Barrazza.

  “Check,” said Kolackovsky.

  Dewey nodded and moved ahead of Fusco.

  * * *

  They walked across the empty street, a lone lamppost hitting their dark silhouettes, casting shadows along the façade of the building. They came to the building entrance—a set of double glass doors—Fusco scanning the street as Dewey looked through the glass, inside the building. They saw no one. Dewey took two steps back then charged, right foot thrusting forward, kicking viciously. The doors buckled slightly inward and he repeated the kick, two, three, four times, each time sending the doors a little more inward. Finally, the lock snapped where the two doors met. Dewey yanked one of the doors open and stepped inside, followed by Fusco, who closed the door quickly, in silence.

  “Okay, I want ten-second staggers on my go,” said Fusco. “Moses, Nick, then John. One, two, three … move.”

  The lobby was empty and dark and Dewey held a gun in each hand. The forced entry was loud enough to be heard, though he saw no one, just a set of stairs, a wall covered in mailboxes, a table against the wall. Dewey charged across the lobby, past an elevator, and came to a steel fire door with Korean writing on it. He saw light at the seams of the door. He pressed his ear against the door, listening.

  One of the commandos, a stocky black man—Barrazza—came in behind him, clutching a submachine gun. Dewey glanced at him, then looked back at the door. He gripped the knob and started to turn it but heard the faint scratching of footsteps on the other side of the door. He stepped quickly back, raising both guns just as the door opened. Someone was opening it, slowly and deliberately, trying to be quiet. Dewey took two running steps and kicked the door just above the doorknob. The door ripped back, striking someone in the head. The man let out a high-pitched, pained yelp as Dewey followed the door in, swinging his right arm through the air and training a pistol on the man. He was a soldier. As he lay on the ground, blood was coursing from his nose. Dewey pumped a silenced bullet into the man’s forehead, as he swept the other gun—and his eyes—across the brightly lit room.

  The dead soldier confirmed the intelligence. Jenna was right. This had to be the entrance to the tunnels. A second door was near the far corner of the room.

  Dewey knew the importance of acting quickly now. If there were more soldiers posted in the building, killing them before they could warn their superiors was critical.

  He heard yelling from beyond the second door, then the pounding of boots on concrete.

  “We got life,” whispered Dewey over commo.

  He moved across the interior door, holding the 1911 in his right hand. He signaled for Barrazza to stand behind the door, against the wall, hidden. The other commandos moved along the wall behind Dewey. The five men now surrounded the door, Barrazza on one side, Dewey, Fusco, Truax, and Kolackovsky on the other. The frogmen raised their submachine guns and trained them on the door, which was closed. Dewey held his suppressed pistol in his right hand as, with his left, he reached for the doorknob, turned it, and pulled the door open before standing back just as automatic machine gun fire erupted from inside the second room, pocking the concrete of the far wall. The gunfire continued for several moments.

  Dewey crouched and looked at Truax, who took a grenade from his weapons vest and handed it to Dewey. Dewey took it in his left hand, still crouching. As bullets continued to fly from the other room, he pulled the pin out and waited until there was a brief pause in the gunfire, then hurled the grenade inside the room.

  “Shut it,” said Dewey over commo.

  From behind the open door, Barrazza kicked hard. The door went flying shut. A second later, a loud explosion rocked the ground, kicking the door back open, as screams suddenly came from inside the second room. De
wey crabbed forward and swept his gun around the corner, firing as fast as his finger could flex. He was joined by Fusco, who stood next to him, still out of the way of the door opening. Fusco put the muzzle of his MP7 also around the corner of the door opening and unleashed a fusillade of bullets, spraying blindly into the other room.

  Smoke and dust clouded the doorway.

  As Fusco continued to blast into the room, Dewey holstered the Colt and pulled out the SIG P226. He held a finger up, telling Fusco to hold his fire. Still crouching, Dewey abruptly dived down into the doorway, pistol in his right hand out, finger against the trigger, landing on his stomach. His eyes scanned the destroyed room, looking through the smoke and debris. He counted three men, all dead. Then he caught movement in the corner. Black hair, then a face, covered in blood. The man was back against the wall, trying to push a new mag into his submachine gun. Dewey fired. There was a low, metallic thwack as the gun spat a suppressed bullet at the soldier, catching him in the top of his head, blowing a small chunk from his skull. Blood washed the gray wall behind him as the soldier was kicked backward.

  “Clear,” said Dewey.

  They entered the room, barely registering the dead soldiers. The room was large, with several OLED screens on the wall, now shattered, as well as desks with computers on them. All of it was destroyed by the grenade blast.

  They searched the room for the entrance to the tunnels. Near the soldier Dewey had just gunned down, Truax found a steel door in the floor. It was painted in bold red and covered in black Korean letters, no doubt warning trespassers away. Truax searched for a door handle, but there wasn’t one—only a small digital screen.

  “Scanner,” said Truax.

  Dewey looked down at the dead soldier. He grabbed the man’s wrist and dragged the corpse to where Truax was kneeling. Truax took the man’s thumb and pressed it to the scanner. After a few seconds, a lock made a dull noise, then the door cracked open. Dewey lifted it up. It was a ladder that led down into a dimly lit tunnel below.