Ballistic Force

by Don Pendleton

  Back in the passenger cabin, the head of the Bonifas Ranger team, Major Walt Stevens glanced at Bolan. “That could be a problem,” he said. “Especially if they show up just as we’re ready to make our move.”

  Bolan nodded. “Maybe we should hit the convoy first.”

  “How about if we do both?” Major Cook of the Zane Island Rangers suggested. “It shouldn’t take all of us to handle the convoy. We can drop one team on them and let the others stick to the game plan.”

  “He has a point,” Akira Tokaido interjected. “That’d give us a chance to scout the concentration camp and set up a perimeter.”

  The idea made sense to Bolan. “And if we take over the convoy,” he added, “we might be able to drive into the camp right under their noses.”

  “Let’s go for it,” Cook said. “My guys have been cooped up the longest, so how about if we go first?”

  “Works for me,” Stevens replied.

  Bolan keyed the intercom and told the pilot, “See if Michaels can guide you to the convoy so we can stay above the cloud line. If they can’t see the plane, it’ll cut down on the chance of them spotting our parachutes.”

  “Got it,” the pilot replied. “I’ll do what I can.”

  On Cook’s orders, the members of the Zane Island team rose from their seats and began strapping on their parachute gear.

  “I’ll stick with my guys and take the camp,” Tokaido told Bolan. “If my cousin’s there, I want first crack at getting to him. And besides, I don’t want you feeling like you have to watch my back.”

  “All right, but just so you know,” Bolan said, “if I didn’t think you were up to the task I wouldn’t have let you on the plane.”

  Tokaido grinned. “That’s what I like to hear.”

  Less than five minutes later, the pilot came over the intercom, reporting that he’d pinpointed the convoy and was adjusting the cabin pressure so the crew wouldn’t be sucked out of the plane once the door was opened.

  “Let me get down another few hundred feet,” he concluded, “then be ready to roll.”

  As the paratroopers lined up near the door, Bolan glanced at Tokaido and told him, “I know you’re eager, but make sure you wait for us.”

  “I’ll try,” Tokaido said. “Good luck.”

  ONCE HE DROPPED through the cloud cover, Bolan opened his parachute. He’d been the last one out of the plane, and the other commandos had already deployed their chutes. Directly below them lay a patch of meadow surrounded by trees. As dark as it was, Bolan could also make out a dirt road winding its way through the wooded area just north of the meadow. He couldn’t see the convoy but he figured it was somewhere on the road, heading their way.

  When the soldier landed, the tall, thick grass of the meadow helped cushion his landing. He buckled his knees and pitched forward the moment his feet touched grounded, and once he’d tumbled to a stop, he quickly shed the parachute harness and scrambled to his feet. Like most of the others, he was armed with an M-16 assault rifle. The Desert Eagle was secured in his web harness for backup. Clipped to his belt were two grenades, one packing a flash bang stun charge, the other loaded with SC tear gas. One of the other commandos was additionally equipped with a shoulder-mount rocket launcher and Major Cook had brought along an explosives strip rigged to a remote detonator. Add it up, and Bolan felt they were ready for any contingency.

  The drop had gone off without a hitch, and once Cook had accounted for all his men, he and Bolan led the way through the meadow to the roadway.

  “I think I caught a glimpse of the convoy,” Cook told Bolan as they neared the road. “We’re about a half mile ahead of them, and with that transporter in the parade, my guess is they aren’t breaking any speeding limits. Still, were going to have to set ourselves up quickly.”

  “Understood,” Bolan said.

  Soon the meadow gave way to a narrow beltway of trees situated on each side of the wide dirt road. Most of the trees were old oaks with thick, gnarly limbs that extended out over the road, creating the canopy that had helped to conceal the KPA’s clandestine shipments to the Changchon from aerial view.

  “Spread out and take both sides of the road,” Cook told the commandos as they gathered around, “and if any of you can make it up into the trees, go for it.”

  “Just watch your crossfire,” Bolan cautioned.

  Cook held out his explosives strip and concluded, “Once this puppy barks, that’ll be your cue. Target the jeeps first, then take out whoever’s riding up front in the transporter. Try to keep it as clean as possible, because were gonna want the vehicles intact. Questions?”

  None of the commandos spoke up.

  “Let’s get cracking, then,” Cook said.

  The men quickly dispersed, half of them scrambling across the road, the others staking out positions along the south shoulder. Bolan grabbed a baseball-bat-size branch that had fallen from one of the oaks and followed Cook to the middle of the road. There, using the branch as a makeshift shovel, he stabbed at the soft earth, carving out a shallow trough. Once he’d dug down a few inches, he stepped back. Cook crouched and carefully set the explosives strip into the gash, then, just as cautiously, he covered the strip with some of the loose dirt. By the time they’d finished the task, several soldiers had already climbed up into the trees and were nestling into makeshift sniper posts. Elsewhere, the other commandos had already so effectively camouflaged themselves that Bolan could only spot two of them, and soon they, too, had blended into the ground cover and disappeared from view.

  “Okay, we’re set,” Cook whispered. “See you when the dust settles.”

  Bolan nodded, then moved on to the far side of the road. Cook, meanwhile, backtracked and dropped to his stomach behind the trunk of a fallen tree set five yards from the roadway.

  Crouched behind one of the standing oaks, Bolan waited and listened. At first he was aware of only an eerie, deathly silence, but as the seconds ticked by he detected a number of sounds: scattered chirping up in the higher branches of the trees, the faint rustling of leaves in the predawn breeze, the far-off pecking of a woodpecker. Now and then he could also hear a shuffling on the ground, presumably the sound of commandos shifting position.

  Less than two minutes later, Bolan finally heard the mechanical drone of the convoy. The sound gradually increased and soon he could see headlights probing the roadway. Finally the lead jeep appeared, traveling a good twenty yards ahead of the missile transporter. A second jeep brought up the rear, following closely behind the transporter. The tops were off both jeeps and as the vehicles moved closer, Bolan did a quick head count. There were three men in the front vehicle, four in the other. He couldn’t be certain, but from where he was crouched it looked as if the second jeep was tricked-up with a rear-mounted .50-caliber machine gun. He figured all the men were armed, as well, but they showed no sign of being aware that they were heading into an ambush.

  It had been a while since Bolan had seen a missile transporter, and as the vehicle rolled into full view, he couldn’t help but marvel at its size. It was more massive than a semi-truck, and its thirty-two wheels—four attached to each of eight separate axles—were almost cartoonishly large. The road was barely wide enough for the vehicle and Bolan wondered how it was able to negotiate some of the turns it undoubtedly had had to make while lumbering its way through the forest.

  As the convoy closed in, Bolan shifted slightly and raised his carbine to his shoulder. He drew bead on driver of the lead jeep and tracked him as he approached the spot where Cook had planted the explosives.

  “Three,” he murmured to himself, index finger curled around the trigger of his M16. “Two…one…”

  There was a sudden explosion and the ground trembled slightly beneath Bolan as Cook detonated the charge set ten yards ahead of the lead jeep. The driver was applying the brakes when Bolan pulled the trigger. The front windshield shattered as the Executioner’s round sought out its target.

  It turned out that one of the commandos in
the trees had been gunning for the driver, as well, and the man jerked in place behind the wheel as both bullets struck him simultaneously. He slumped over the steering wheel, his limp feet slipping off the clutch and accelerator. The jeep lurched forward a few feet before the engine stalled. By then the man riding shotgun had taken a shot to the head and the soldier in back had been felled, as well.

  The sound of more gunfire and more shattering glass continued and quickly drowned out the echoing the din of the explosion. With deadly precision, the drivers of the other two vehicles were brought down by sniper fire, and although a soldier in the rear jeep managed to swivel the machine gun into play, he, too, fell victim to a fusillade before he could return fire. In a matter of seconds, it was all over. The rattle of carbines ceased, and though both the transporter and the second jeep continued to idle, with their drivers slain, the vehicles weren’t going anywhere.

  Bolan stared hard through the darkness, but he saw no survivors. Still, he kept his M-16 at the ready as he rose from a crouch and stepped onto the roadway. One by one, Cook and the other Rangers emerged from cover, as well, and approached the ill-fated convoy.

  “Good work, men,” Cook called. “Now we just—”

  Cook fell silent when he was interrupted by a sudden burst of gunfire. One of the Rangers to his immediate left let out a pained yell as he slumped to the ground and another commando several yards away similarly toppled over.

  “What the hell?” Bolan scrambled away from the road. More gunfire sounded and bark flew as rounds from the unseen enemy chewed at the tree he’d sought cover behind.

  Baffled by the turn of events, the Executioner moved to other side of the tree and peered back at the convoy, trying to trace the trajectory of the shots still being fired at him and the Rangers. He heard the cry of another wounded commando, then, turning quickly, he spotted the telltale discharge from a rifle being fired from beneath the missile transporter. And from the sound of it, the concealed rifleman wasn’t alone. It seemed as if there were at least two other gunmen using the oversize tires for cover as they continued to snipe at their ambushers.

  “Back away!” Cook shouted to his men as he fled to the side of the road. The commandos on the ground followed suit. Their colleagues up in the trees stayed put, but from their lofty positions they were unable to see the enemy, much less fire at him. That was left to Bolan.

  The Executioner aimed his carbine and fired at the underside of the transporter, then sprang forward, bolting onto the road and taking cover behind the lead jeep. Enemy fire plinked off the vehicle’s metal hide and tore up the earth around it. Bolan cautiously dropped lower behind the jeep, finally settling onto his stomach and peering past the underside of the chassis. At first he could barely make out the transporter, but once his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw not only the massive hauler but also the silhouettes of at least three men positioned directly beneath it. Bolan wasn’t sure how they’d gotten there. Thinking back, he couldn’t remember seeing anyone riding outside the transporter before the ambush. And even if they had been, how could they have avoided the Rangers’ sniper fire?

  Then, moments later, he saw a pair of legs drop into view beneath the transporter, and soon yet another enemy gunman had joined the others, who continued to fire at the Army Rangers on either side of the road.

  Bolan was mystified by what he was watching. It was as if the missile aboard the transporter had sprung a leak, only instead of fluid it was armed men that were dripping to the ground. It made no sense, and yet as Bolan watched, still another Korean soldier lowered himself to the ground. Bolan knew that he was the only one who could see what was happening, and, given his vantage point, for the moment he was the only one that could do anything about it.

  Rising to his knees, Bolan reached for his munitions belt and unfastened the stun grenade. He waited out another round of gunfire aimed his way, then twigged the pin and stood long enough to heave the grenade at the missile transporter. The projectile landed just short of the rolling behemoth, then rolled beneath the elevated chassis.

  Even before the grenade discharged, Bolan was circling the jeep and clawing at his belt for the tear-gas canister. He activated the second grenade, then bowled it beneath the transporter before stepping back and yanking the slain driver out from behind the jeep’s steering wheel. He took the man’s place and quickly turned over the engine.

  “Hold your fire!” he shouted to the Rangers as he put the jeep into gear. He had to pull ahead a good twenty yards before he could turn the vehicle and aim its headlights back at the missile transporter. Once he’d managed it, Bolan saw, to his amazement, at least a dozen uniformed Korean soldiers evacuating the underside of the larger vehicle, hacking and wheezing. Some were armed and quickly fell to Ranger gunfire, but the others were quick to put their hands atop their heads in surrender. Some of the gas wafted up from beneath the transporter, and soon the Rangers in the trees were practically falling to the ground in their haste to escape the stinging cloud. When the breeze shifted, carrying the tear gas Bolan’s way, he was forced to shift into neutral and abandon the jeep. Coughing, eyes stinging, he staggered toward the side of the road. Cook stepped forward and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him to cover. The fight had gone out of the Koreans, however, and neither Cook nor Bolan had to concern themselves about being shot at any further.

  “Quick thinking,” Cook said once he was sure the coast was clear. “You saved our bacon.”

  Bolan ignored the tribute. “This is surreal,” he wheezed, blinking the tears from his eyes.

  “No shit,” Cook said. “I still can’t figure it out.”

  As the tear gas began to dissipate in the breeze, the Rangers cautiously emerged from cover and approached the surviving Koreans, ordering them to drop to their knees and to keep their hands on their heads. As the prisoners were being surrounded and quickly stripped of their weapons, Cook and Bolan helped a few other commandos check on casualties. In all, nine Koreans had been slain along with three Americans. Two Rangers were wounded, neither severely.

  One of the Koreans was already willing to barter for preferential treatment. Coughing, he babbled at the Rangers, asking if any of them understood Korean. One of Cook’s men grabbed the soldier by the collar and dragged him away from the others. After a quick interrogation, the commando tracked Cook down and divulged the reason why the Koreans had nearly managed to wrangle out of the ambush.

  “The missile’s a dummy,” he reported. “Apparently it’s one of the ones they put on parade in Pyongyang during military rallies. It’s hollow inside, which is where everybody was hiding when we first hit them.”

  “Okay, that makes sense,” Cook said. “But the question is why? What the hell were they up to?”

  “Something about a coup attempt,” the other commando responded. “He says they were on their way to Changchon to put down some kind of insurrection.”

  Bolan eyed the missile transporter. “They were going to use it like a Trojan Horse,” he guessed.

  The other commando nodded. “Yeah. That was the plan.”

  “A nice plan at that,” Cook said. “And it still might just work. For us.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Camp Bonifas, North Korea

  Undersecretary Brooke Hilldecker slammed down the phone in the subterranean conference room that had become her base of operations since evacuating her quarters at the Joint Security Area in Panmunjom.

  “Doesn’t sound like that went too well,” said Joe Leeton, another member of the negotiating team Hilldecker had spent the past few months sitting on. The tall, gaunt Montana native, a top-ranking member of the previous administration’s Defense Department, was seated directly across from Hilldecker. Like the undersecretary, he hadn’t slept since coming to Camp Bonifas, and there was a trace of stubble on his squarish jaw.

  “That’s an understatement,” Hilldecker complained, refilling her coffee cup from a nearby thermos. “The Russians and Chinese are feigning concern, but when w
e try to lock them to any kind of commitment they both start trotting out all these other issues and try using them for leverage.”

  “No surprise there,” Leeton said. “You had to figure they’d sniff through this whole mess looking for bargaining chips.”

  “Yes, I’d counted on that,” Hilldecker conceded. “But you’d think that once we told them that North Korea might be itching to put its finger on the nuclear trigger, they’d cut out the bullshit and get down to business.”

  Leeton shrugged. “Well, I’m sure they’ve got their own intelligence coming in,” he said, “and until there’s some kind of irrefutable proof that the KPA has their nukes up and ready to fire, they probably figure they’ve got time to stall and play hardball with us.”

  “We just forwarded them the sat-cam footage of that transporter headed for Changchon,” Hilldecker groused. “What more proof do they want?”

  “Well, come on, Hilly,” Leeton said. “It’s just a transporter, after all. If it was a mobile launcher, it might be another matter, but they’re probably saying that nuke the KPA’s hauling around can’t do much harm strapped to the back of a truck. How are they going to launch it? By driving it off a cliff?”

  “Maybe they have launchers in Changchon,” Hilldecker countered.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Leeton said. “If those ops teams can get close enough to find out for sure, then maybe we’ll finally have the proof were looking for.”

  Hilldecker took a sip of her coffee and grimaced. “What crank case did they drain this stuff from?”

  The undersecretary shoved her coffee cup aside and picked up the phone on her desk. “At least we’ve got Japan aboard,” she said. “Let’s see what kind of muscle they’re prepared to throw behind us.”

  Hilldecker was dialing the Japanese minister of defense when there was a knock on the door. Colonel Thomas Michaels let himself in. He had a smile on his face and was rubbing his hands together vigorously.

  “Good news,” he told Hilldecker and Leeton. “You’re never going to believe what just fell into our laps.”