Ballistic Force

by Don Pendleton

  “Well, maybe as far as these defectors and the kidnapping goes, yeah,” Delahunt said, “but we still have this small matter of Kim Jong-il playing hide-and-seek with enough nukes to sprout mushroom clouds all the way from California to Wisconsin.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Changchon Mountain Range, North Korea

  Major Jin Choon-Yei was in his office conferring by phone with the tunneling crew when Sergeant Dahn Yun-Bok appeared at the doorway, carrying his instrument kit. Jin waved Dahn into the room and quickly wrapped up his call.

  “I have some preliminary findings,” Dahn reported once Jin was off the phone.

  “That was quick,” Jin said, checking his watch. “You’ve been here barely an hour.”

  “As I said, they are preliminary findings,” Dahn emphasized. “I still need to have some more sophisticated equipment brought in to verify everything, but it looks to me as if we might be able to get away with just building a reinforced collar around the area where the vault lies flush with the rock.”

  “Sounds like a big project,” Jin said.

  “Not really,” Dahn said. “We’d probably be able to do the work without disrupting any other activity.”

  “That would be preferred, of course.”

  Jin rose from his desk. Now seemed as good a time as ever to set the trap he’d planned for the MII undercover agent.

  “I’d like to go over the specifics a little more,” he told Dahn, “but I have another matter to attend to. It should take only a few minutes, so if you’d like to just wait here…”

  Dahn went for the bait.

  “I’ll do that,” he said, opening the side pocket of his instrument kit and taking out a calculator as well as a small pad and pen. “I need to take a few notes and make some calculations anyway.”

  “Make yourself comfortable, then,” Jin said. He pointed out the coffee machine in the corner of the room as well as a side table stocked with snacks. “And help yourself if you’re hungry.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jin excused himself, closing the door behind him as he left the office. He already had his keys out and he strode quickly past the room adjacent to his, then unlocked the door to a small conference room. Once inside, he made his way to a long oak credenza and unlocked one of the cabinet doors, pulling out the laptop he’d stashed there a half hour before. In less than thirty seconds he had the machine up and running and was staring at a split screen showing the view from the two minicams concealed in his office.

  The major was startled at first, because there was no sign of Dahn on either screen. Jin began to wonder if the other man had left the office right after him, but moments later Dahn appeared, rising up into view from behind Jin’s desk.

  “That would have been my first choice, too,” Jin murmured to himself. “That or the phone.”

  As if in response to Jin’s ruminations, Dahn next picked up the phone and began tinkering with the handset. From Jin’s perspective it was difficult to see exactly what the undercover agent was doing, but when the sergeant went to his instrument kit and removed a small object the size of a button, there could be no doubt but that he was planting a second bug.

  Jin had seen enough. He quickly shut down the computer and tucked it back in the credenza, then exited the conference room. He paused a moment outside his office and called across the chamber to one of his subordinates, raising his voice enough so that Dahn would have no trouble hearing him. It was enough that he’d caught the sergeant in the act of bugging his office; he didn’t want to force a confrontation here in the storage facility. Things would work out better, Jin figured, if they dealt with Dahn elsewhere.

  As he’d hoped, by the time Jin had reentered his office, Dahn had moved away from the desk and was busying himself near the coffeemaker.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Jin apologized.

  “Don’t worry,” Dahn assured him as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

  Jin nonchalantly returned to his desk, making a point not to pay any undue attention to the bugged phone or the area beneath the desk where, he assumed, the MII agent had placed a second listening device.

  “Now, about this collar around the vault,” he prompted. “Would that be a stopgap measure or something permanent?”

  “It could be either,” Dahn responded. “Up front it will truss back any loose debris, and that might be all that is needed. But if the more detailed studies show a need to wall off the area like we did elsewhere here, most likely we’d just incorporate the collar into the reinforced wall, which would, of course, wind up being more than thick enough to bolster its holding capacity.”

  Jin chuckled lightly. “I’m sure all of that might make sense to another engineer, but you’ve lost me with all the jargon.”

  “The matter will be taken care of,” Dahn said. “That’s really all you need to know.”

  “Of course,” Jin said. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “Perhaps,” Dahn said. He lowered his voice and leaned forward slightly, then said, “I know this is a little off topic, but as I was riding here in my motorcycle I passed by the opium fields, and I couldn’t help noticing the number of women at work there. One or two of them seemed attractive, especially for prisoners.”

  Jin smiled faintly. Dahn was playing right into his hand. It almost seemed too easy.

  “There are some choice ones there, I have to agree,” he told Dahn. “And from what I hear, they can be most accommodating. With the right persuasion, of course.”

  “Of course,” Dahn replied with a grin. “The thing is, I’d just returned from another assignment when I got the call to come here, and its been a while since I’ve had a chance to, well, I think you understand my plight.”

  “All too well,” Jin said. “And it should be an easy enough matter for you to have your plight addressed.”

  The major picked up the phone, again showing no sign that he was aware it had been tampered with, then told Dahn, “I’ll put in a word for you with the commandant. By the time you reach his bungalow, I’m sure he’ll be ready to take care of you.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Zane Island, Pacific Ocean

  After a short, uneventful drive, the two-vehicle caravan carrying Mack Bolan, Jayne Bahn, Ed Scanlon and Major William Cook’s hastily assembled strike force reached the airfield leased out to the island’s cargo carriers. Cook was behind the wheel of the Hummer, with Bolan riding shotgun. Bahn and Scanlon shared the rear with two Rangers, while the rest of the special ops was concealed beneath the canvas shell of the second truck.

  The watchman tending the front gate recognized Cook as soon as he stopped the Hummer and lowered his window. And, as predicted, the major had little trouble convincing him that he was making just another routine army drop-off.

  “We’re running a little late, though,” he added, “so if we could just scoot on through…”

  “Sure thing.”

  Foregoing any inspection of the vehicles, the guard stepped back and opened the main gates, then waved Cook and the other driver through.

  “What if he’d asked to check the vehicles?” Bolan asked as they drove onto the premises.

  “Come off it,” Cook scoffed. “We own this place, remember? When the landlord asks a favor, what the hell’s a tenant supposed to do except go along with it?”

  “Far East is a tenant,” Bolan reminded the major, “and I don’t know about you, but my guess is they aren’t going to be as easy of a pushover.”

  “They’re an exception,” Cook replied with a grin.

  As they made their way toward the hangar facilities used by the various cargo companies, Bolan stared out at the nearest runway, watching a C-5 cargo plane pick up speed and take to the air just as it was about to run out of tarmac. It continued to gain altitude as it flew out over the Pacific and banked slightly, righting its course for a flight to the States. Seconds later another cargo jet was already coming in for a landing, lining up with a second ru
nway that angled slightly away from the one used by the C-5. Bolan knew that soon it would be the plane carrying the Project Kanggye Team defectors that was touching down on the island. If he and the others wanted to have a trap set by then, they were going to have to make their move quick.

  Following a narrow spur road flanking the runways, the caravan was soon approaching the warehouse and hangar facilities for Global Express Cargo Lines. The Far East Trading Company complex was another hundred yards down the road, with the control tower rising up from behind the FETC’s main hangar.

  “Here’s where it gets tricky,” Cook said.

  Following customary procedure, a Global Express officer standing by the turnoff to the GEC complex waved to the approaching Hummer and then motioned for the vehicle to turn into the lot. Cook ignored the man, however, and drove past, as did the truck bringing up the rear. The GEC official shouted out and waved his arms frantically as he broke into a jog, trying to keep up with the errant caravan.

  “Give it a rest, buddy,” Cook muttered, eyeing the official in his side-view mirror. “You don’t have to alert the whole goddamn island!”

  But the other man continued chasing the two vehicles, shouting that they’d missed their turnoff. His cries forewarned some of the workers standing outside the FETC facilities, and when one of them grabbed for a walkie-talkie clipped to his waist, Bolan was instantly on his guard. While he’d yet to see anything more than a bare-bone security force, but as Cook had cautioned earlier, intel on the carrier was limited, and given the amount of black-market cargo now suspected of being trafficked through the site, it seemed a safe bet that the operation was being safeguarded by more than a handful of rent-a-cops.

  “Let’s kick it into gear here!” he told Cook, slipping his Desert Eagle from his holster.

  “I hear you.”

  Cook gave the Hummer more gas and bore down on the FETC compound. A security guard frowned at the sight of the approaching vehicle and stood in front of the turnoff, then quickly dived to one side as the Hummer barreled past. The larger truck followed suit. It had been decided that the Hummer crew would take the hangar, so once they were on the FETC grounds, the truck veered sharply to the right and headed for the control tower.

  As Bolan had feared, it quickly became clear that taking over the facility would be no cakewalk. Several more armed security guards had already appeared just outside the hangar, and the Hummer was still fifty yards shy of its objective when at least a dozen more men rushed outside, brandishing AK-107 assault rifles.

  “Hang on, boys and girls!” Cook shouted, ducking behind the wheel as the first fusillade of enemy fire smashed through the front windshield.

  Bolan had seen the rounds coming and was bent over in the front seat, one arm raised to deflect the shower of glass. In his other hand was his Desert Eagle, safety off, ready to fire. Once the first volley had done its damage, he peered up over the dashboard and fired through the shattered windshield, nailing one of the enemy gunmen. Behind him, Bahn, Scanlon and the two other soldiers were crouching in the rear of the Hummer, ready to make their move. Scanlon had his hand on the door latch.

  “Just tell us when,” he called out.

  “Wait until we stop,” the major shouted back at him.

  The plan had been to drive up to the main entrance and then have everyone pile out, but in light of the stiff resistance they were facing, Cook decided to improvise. He yanked sharply on the steering wheel and veered left, heading toward one of the service bays where the hangar door was only a quarter of the way closed. Two FETC goons stood between the Hummer and the opening. One raised his AK-107 to fire, then changed his mind and somersaulted to his right, putting himself out of the ATV’s path.

  The other soldier froze in place, clearly caught off guard. By the time he’d pulled the trigger on his rifle, the Hummer was upon him. With a sickly thud, he was knocked into the air, rifle flying as he bounded off the right front quarter panel and was sent crashing to the ground with a shattered pelvis.

  The Hummer, barely jostled by the impact, continued to speed forward. Someone inside the hangar tried to lower the door, but it was too late. Wood and metal splintered as the Hummer crashed through the half-drawn barrier.

  Only then did Major Cook apply the brakes, skidding the massive vehicle to a halt several yards shy of a small Cessna that had been undergoing service.

  “All right!” Cook bellowed even before the Hummer had come to a complete stop. “Get to that radio of theirs, quick!”

  Scanlon heaved open his door and led the charge out of the rear of the Hummer. Bolan, meanwhile, rolled out of the front seat, dodging a spray of gunfire coming from the doorway leading to a walled-off enclosure just inside the main entrance. He dived to the concrete and rolled twice, then came up firing. A 3-shot burst took out the man who’d been gunning for him, and Bolan quickly lunged forward, hoping to reach the radio room before someone else could take up position by the doorway.

  Three other FETC goons joined in the fray, not by way of the radio room, but from behind rows of crates stacked near the far wall of the hangar. They managed to strafe the Hummer crew with a deadly spray of 5.56 mm NATO rounds from their AK-107s before they were spotted. The two Rangers caught the worst of it and died without ever knowing they’d been ambushed from behind.

  Scanlon was hit in midstride, as well, taking a slug that nicked a rib and plowed through his internal organs before lodging close to his spine. Losing all feeling in his legs, the FBI agent went down hard and fast on the concrete.

  “Son of a bitch!” he yelled as he tried to crawl to cover. “My legs!”

  Bolan had been halfway to the radio room when the enemy had begun firing from behind the crates. He turned in time to see Scanlon go down and was about to backtrack to his aid when Bahn waved him off. She was only a few yards from the downed FBI agent, using the Hummer for cover as she fired back at the riflemen in the rear of the hangar.

  “I got him!” she called. “Go ahead!”

  Bolan hesitated long enough to take aim and drop one of the men near the crates, then dodged return fire and shifted back to his original course.

  Another armed guard had appeared in front of the doorway to the radio room, but he took a split second too long sizing up the situation. Bolan was able to take him out the same way he had the man who was lying dead at the guard’s feet.

  Six Rangers from the convoy truck had apparently split off from those storming the control tower and fought their way into the hangar. Four of them quickly fanned out and took up positions that allowed them to hold at bay the enemy gunmen still lurking behind the crates. Another raced to help Bahn drag Scanlon to safety behind the Hummer, while the sixth caught up with Bolan as he stormed the doorway leading to the FETC comm room.

  Only two men remained inside the large cubicle, and at the sight of Bolan and the Army Ranger, they both quickly threw up their arms in surrender. Bolan rushed toward the man sitting at the radio controls and put his gun to the dispatcher’s head. “There’s an incoming flight due here from Phoenix within the hour!” he said. “When’s the last time you spoke with them?”

  The dispatcher trembled as he stared at Bolan.

  “No English!” he pleaded. “No speak English!”

  “Don’t give me that!” Bolan fumed.

  The Ranger moved in and quickly spoke to the dispatcher in Korean. One he got a response, he told Bolan, “He says their last communication was three minutes ago.”

  The Ranger’s voice trailed off as a dispatch came through over the radio’s small speakers. Whoever was calling in was speaking in Korean.

  “It’s them,” the Ranger told Bolan. “They say they’re running ahead of schedule and want clearance to land early.”

  “We’re going to need more time. Stall them!”

  The Ranger nodded, then yanked the dispatcher out of the chair and quickly took his place. “My Korean’s not going to win any awards, but I can tell them we’re backed up and try to put them in
a holding pattern.”

  “Do it,” Bolan said.

  Once another Ranger entered the room, Bolan turned the prisoners over to him and rushed back out into the hangar. The riflemen firing from behind the crates had just been taken out and the large enclosure had fallen silent save for the clomp of Rangers searching the confines to make sure that the threat had been neutralized.

  As Bolan made his way toward the Hummer, he saw Bahn crouched over Scanlon, who was lying on the concrete, blood pooling around him. She caught his gaze and shook her head grimly.

  Bolan joined them. Scanlon was conscious, but he was fighting for each breath and spitting up blood when he tried to talk.

  “Looks…like…” Scanlon gasped, struggling for the words.

  Bolan put a finger to his lips and cautioned Scanlon, “Look, just lie still and be—”

  “P-payback,” the agent stammered. “For that guy…the one I killed in Vegas…”

  Scanlon sucked in a raspy breath, but before he could continue, the life went out of him. He died with his eyes open and his mouth askew. Bahn watched on as Bolan reached out and gently lowered the dead man’s eyelids, then eased his mouth shut. Sighing, she slowly rose to her feet and said, “Shit happens is right.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Stony Man Farm, Virginia

  “They’ve secured the airfield,” Carmen Delahunt told Hal Brognola as he stopped by her workstation. “From the sounds of it, though, it wasn’t pretty.”

  “Casualties?”

  Delahunt nodded. “Mostly on their end, but we lost a couple Rangers along with the point man for that FBI team Mack was working with.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” Brognola said.

  “We’ve got people monitoring the control tower along with their radio facilities,” Delahunt reported. “They’ve been in touch with the cargo plane and put them in a holding pattern while they clean things up.”

  Brognola rolled an unlit cigar between his thumb and index fingers as he sized up the situation. “Looks like wait and see, then.”