RW14 - Dictator's Ransom

by Richard Marcinko

“The Russian was a big talker, but he was a fool.”

  “He was actually Polish,” I said.

  “Kim would have had him killed as soon as he arrived.”

  “What about General Sun?”

  Yong Shin Jong didn’t get a chance to answer.

  “Truck!” yelled Junior, passing the word from one of the lookouts.

  “Ours?” I asked.

  “Can’t tell. Maybe.”

  “All right, you’re with me,” I told Yong Shin Jong.

  He struggled to get up, but clearly didn’t have the strength. I leaned over and hoisted him over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

  A heavy sack, with a chain that slapped me right across my thigh.

  “Trace, Junior, get some AKs. The rest of you—go hide in the cave. Don’t make a sound. Go, let’s go—I want to make sure these are our guys.”

  As I scrambled out to the road, I told Trace and Junior to take flanking positions and cover me. They hustled behind the rocks; I waited until they were ready and then went out into the road with Yong.

  “Sorry I have to carry you with me,” I told him. “But I don’t trust you anywhere else.”

  “I’m not going to run away with these chains on,” he croaked from over my shoulder.

  “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

  I heard the truck coming up the incline. I raised my AK47. The driver saw me as he came around the bend and slammed on the brakes.

  Sum Park, the captain in charge of the hires, jumped from the truck as it stopped. “Dick!” he yelled.

  “I got him,” I told Park.

  “Good,” said Park. He had his pistol out. “We can kill him here.”

  The rest of the company jumped from the truck, their rifles ready.

  “We’re not killing him,” I said.

  “He is the son of the dictator and the enemy of my country,” said Park. “He deserves nothing but death.”

  “You’ll kill him over my dead body.”

  “That would be a shame,” he said, steadying his pistol.

  30 The word “mercenary” seems to have acquired a bad reputation and I promised I wouldn’t use it.

  31 For obvious reasons, I’m not using his name.

  32 Obviously, I’m going to simplify all this. What do you think I am, a rocket scientist?

  33 Can’t Cunt. You ought to know that by now. Obviously, you didn’t read the first book.

  12

  [ I ]

  THE FACT THAT I’d anticipated something like this didn’t make it any easier to deal with.

  The fact that Trace and Junior were standing behind the South Koreans did.

  “Yong Shin Jong is just Kim’s son,” I told Park. “He’s nobody.”

  “You are wrong, Dick. He is responsible for many deaths. He was a member of the special forces and the secret police when he was younger. He led a mission into South Korea and kidnapped several people.”

  “That was in my youth, when I was a fool,” said Yong Shin Jong heatedly. He began speaking rapidly in Korean.

  Park answered. Yong Shin Jong shook his head.

  “He’s a liar,” said Park, explaining to me in English. “He claims his father ordered him to do it—a convenient falsehood.”

  “He may be a liar, but he’s my liar,” I told him. “Look, Park, we don’t have time to argue here. You have to let him go—it’s for the greater good.”

  “Which greater good? So you can get rich?”

  “That’s not why I’m doing this.”

  “I know you get much money for your missions, Dick.”

  “I doubt I’ll be paid for this one.”

  We could have had quite a discussion about patriotism and duty and greed if we’d wanted—and maybe we would have if I hadn’t left the other half of Park’s force back in the cave where they wouldn’t complicate things. But the discussion would still have come down to us two, staring at each other. It was a question of whether he trusted me. And there my reputation—call it fame, call it battle scars—helped considerably.

  Or maybe it was the gleam in my eye—and the reflection of Trace’s and Junior’s guns.

  “All right, Dick. I’ll trust you,” Park said finally. “For now.”

  He put his weapon away and bowed his head. I bowed in return. His men lowered their weapons.

  I will say this for a Korean—if he gives you his solemn word, you can take it to hell and back.

  Which is pretty much what I did.

  WE LOADED UP the truck and headed west. Sum Park had refilled the gas tank at Songchu, which gave us enough fuel to make Pyongyang without stopping. Since I didn’t know what Polorski’s arrangement with Kim had been, I decided my best bet was to follow through on my own deal with Sun. Though the terms of Yong Shin Jong’s return had not been specified, I interpreted our arrangement to mean that I should bring him back to Kim’s compound.

  The guards at the outer gate stood at attention when I drove up, not even stopping me. But the second set were much more demanding. The machine guns that flanked the roadway were turned toward me, and a guard demanded in very belligerent Korean that I step out of the truck.

  “How do I say, ‘No fucking way’?” I asked Sum Park, who was listening over the radio.

  He supplied me with a few choice Korean words. Then I told them who I was, and that if they didn’t let me through, Kim Jong Il was going to be very angry with them.

  That worked with that set of guards, but the final group I met in front of the entrance to the Kim’s complex were not persuadable. They surrounded the truck, flashing a variety of weapons, including two grenade launchers and a Minimi, the Belgian cousin of the M243 machine gun. I kept my hands on the steering wheel, and said in very calm, very slow English, that I was Richard Marcinko and had come to see the Great Leader.

  They answered in very excited, very rapid Korean that I was a piece of worm shit and should get out of the truck immediately.

  “I will get out, if you tell the Great Leader that I am here.”

  More Korean. More excitement. The grenade launcher was pointed at my face. It’s my belief that a round from an RPG-7 when launched at that close of a range will merely blow right through you without igniting, but I decided this wasn’t the time to test the theory. The Korean reached to the door and I stepped out, hands spread wide.

  More guards arrived. I was poked, prodded, and searched. If I’d been a mass murderer in America, I’d have had one hell of a case against the cops for violating my civil rights. But in North Korea I was an honored guest, and the mass murderer was my host. The Koreans rough housed me into a low-slung building across from the main entrance to Kim’s humble abode, pushing me down the stairs and into a hallway to a windowless room that smelled of rat urine.34 When the door was closed I was left completely in the dark.

  I was there for about a half hour. The place was so dark and quiet that my senses shut down. I stood at the door and began visualizing what was going on outside, trying to project myself out into the corridors. Before I managed to reach the proper state of concentration, the door snapped open. The light practically blinded me.

  “Richard Marcinko—you have returned!”

  General Sun stood sneering behind the guards who’d opened the door.

  “I never renege on a contract,” I told Sun.

  “Where is the prize?”

  “Around.”

  “Around?”

  “An American expression that means we complete the deal to my satisfaction, or you don’t get him.”

  “The arrangement was that we would not kill you if you completed the mission,” he replied.

  “The price has gone up.”

  “The value of your life has gone down.”

  “All the more reason to renegotiate.”

  Sun turned and walked away. I started to follow but the guards blocked my way, then closed the door.

  It reopened a minute later. Sun wasn’t there, but the guards’ attitudes had changed; they
were now almost polite, their scowls professional rather than personal. They bowed their heads slightly, then turned without a word. I followed them through the hall, back upstairs, and then outside and across to the main door of Kim Jong Il’s palace bunker. Here I was turned over to two sumo wrestler types who frisked me, then took me into the bowels of the underground McMansion. We eventually reached a suite several levels below street level, where a svelte Korean woman greeted me with a silent and discreet nod. Before I could construct any fantasies, she extended her arm, gesturing toward the bathroom.

  “You will shower,” she said in English. Her accent made her sound as if she were from one of the wealthy London suburbs. “Fresh clothes have been hung on the rack.”

  “No bath?”

  “You may draw yourself a bath, if you prefer,” she said, her tone extremely serious.

  “Will you draw it?”

  “The handles are not hard to turn,” she said. “But one of your escorts will draw it for you if you wish.”

  “They’re not going to scrub my back, too, are they?”

  “If that is what you wish.”

  “I’d rather you did.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” Her tone was so serious she could have been one of my accountants talking about the fine points of depreciating an M16. Then she smiled ever so slightly. “Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Rogue Warrior. You will find me quite on my guard.”

  Mr. Rogue Warrior opted for the shower, with no back scrubbing and the door locked. Just in case, I was careful not to drop the soap.

  A set of black ninja clothes hung on the rack near the towels, a Korean imitation of SEAL ops wear. They were looser than anything I’d wear on a mission, but comfortable; if the tailor ever leaves Kim’s employ, he should start his own clothes business in the West. There were thick socks but no shoes or boots; grip pads on the soles kept me from sliding on the marble floor.

  Smelling like the proverbial daisy—the soap was scented—I presented myself to my Korean escorts. They took me to Kim’s den, the place where we had had our little drinking contest during my first visit. The Great Leader himself was standing over the snooker table, deep in thought, either contemplating a shot or trying to levitate the balls with mind control. Four or five men, all dressed in military uniforms, were standing behind him. Two waiters with trays of drinks hovered nearby.

  “You exaggerate what you write,” said Kim without looking at me. “Your stories are exaggerations.”

  “Usually I leave the really weird stuff out. Fact is always stranger than fiction.”

  “You should never lie,” said Kim, looking up.

  It was a true Dr. Phil moment—the world’s greatest living scumbag was giving me a lesson in morals.

  “I’ll try to remember that,” I told him.

  “Still,” said Kim, leaning over to line up his shot, “there must be some truth in what you write. You have done a remarkable job on this trifling business.”

  He fired the cue ball at its target. The balls rebounded around the table, but none fell. Even so, the others promptly applauded.

  “Good shot,” I told Kim.

  “We both know it was a terrible shot,” said the dictator. He smiled confidentially. “They’re all just toads.”

  I glanced over at the men, who didn’t seem to mind the slur.

  “None of them speak English. But it wouldn’t matter if they did.” Kim laughed. “Have a drink, Dick. The Bombay Sapphire is well stocked.”

  He raised his hand ever so slightly, and one of the waiters stepped forward.

  “I believe I will make Bombay Sapphire the national drink,” said Kim, laughing. “In your honor.”

  “Thank you.” I took the glass from the tray.

  “I always like to be nice to a man on the day he dies.”

  “I’ll be sure to give you a call.”

  “You misunderstand. Today is the day.” Kim turned back to the snooker table. “We’re never ready, are we?”

  “It’d be a shame if I died before telling you where your son Yong Shin Jong is.”

  Kim frowned, but I think his reaction had more to do with where the balls were lined up than what I said. As he stared at the table, one of the bookcases on the far wall moved, revealing a passage. General Sun entered through it, went to Kim, and whispered some sweet nothing in his ear. Kim nodded, then took his shot. One of the red balls fell and the assembled stooges gave another round of applause.

  “So you have brought my son,” said Kim, looking up. “Where is he?”

  “I have him available. I’ll turn him over once we work out a deal.”

  “In that case, I will change my mind. You will not be shot until after dinner.”

  [ II ]

  WHILE THE DEAR Leader and I were spending some quality time together, Doc and the others were still sitting on their thumbs aboard the Greenville. The submarine was sitting a few miles from the Russian merchant ship, just at the edge of North Korea’s territorial waters. They’d been there long enough that the captain’s suggestion that he would shoot them out the torpedo tube was starting to look like an offer rather than a threat. But before Shotgun could finish measuring his shoulders to see if he would fit, the Greenville’s captain received new orders.

  With Polorski now neutralized—polite Washington-speak for being fried to shit—Jimmy Zim had convinced his superiors that now that the deal had been squashed, it was safe to take over the Russian merchant ship and inspect it. This was actually a cover-your-ass move—if the exchange had already been made and the ship got away, the CIA would naturally be blamed. Saying the ship should be inspected shifted all potential blame to a much larger organization—the navy, which of course would have to carry out any such boarding.

  But this fell afoul of the State Department’s earlier concerns about screwing up the nuclear treaty. Some bright bulb at the NSC realized this and referred the matter to State as an “advisory.” In less time than it took to put a red “Eyes Only” sticker on the paper file, word came back from a State Department lawyer that the matter had to be reviewed at the highest level. This of course was the nuclear bomb of CYA statements, shifting the matter up through the food chain to the political sharks at the top. And in good political shark fashion, the matter was then sent for “input.”

  To the CIA.

  I’ll spare you the rest of the back and forth and around. In the end, the action was approved—provided “international legal concerns” were satisfied. These concerns could be boiled down into a single sentence for us laymen: don’t seize the ship while it is in North Korean waters.

  Goodness no, why would we do that?

  Maybe to grab any sort of incriminating evidence before the people aboard had a chance to destroy it? Or grab the people themselves before they realized there was a problem and escaped? Or just to stop fooling around and get the damn thing done?

  Nah.

  The Greenville’s captain held a conference to discuss the situation. The Russian ship was about a half mile inside the territorial limits. Once it moved over the line, the SEALs could take it over.

  He looked at Doc as he said this. He didn’t have to say it twice.

  “Captain, I’ve been wondering if we could arrange for some extended PT,” said Doc. “The boys and I are getting a little restless, and obviously we can’t be running laps through a nuclear submarine.”

  “And what would you have in mind, Chief?” asked the captain.

  Once a chief, always a chief as far as the navy is concerned.

  “A little swim, just to get the blood flowing.”

  Their blood was flowing pretty well a few hours later as they slipped out of one of the SEAL Delivery Vehicles and began a leisurely underwater stroll in a direction that just happened to take them to the Russian ship. As they swam, lo and behold, they happened to come across a large chain in the water.

  Odd, a chain in the water. Definitely something to investigate.

  Like Jack and the B
eanstalk, Doc, Sean, Shotgun, and Mongoose climbed up the chain. But instead of finding a castle in the clouds, they discovered a ship, sitting at anchor. Being curious souls, they decided to investigate.

  Mongoose figured that with his relatively recent service as a SEAL, he had pride of place in the detachment: he wanted to be point man. This amused Shotgun and Sean no end, but not nearly as much as Mongoose’s curses when he reached the top of the anchor chain.

  Even Sean wouldn’t have been tall enough to reach to the ship’s railing from the hole where the anchor chain came through the hull, and there was no room to crawl in through the opening to get aboard. So they had packed the large suction cups I mentioned earlier as an alternative ship-boarding device. Mongoose had placed his too close to the chain and now couldn’t get it to budge so he could move it higher.

  You couldn’t blame this on Mr. Murphy. Ol’ Murph had been snoozing soundly so far, and was still cutting Z’s when Mongoose began hammering on the release tab to get the cup undone.

  “What the fuck is going on up there?” growled Doc, several links below. “Let’s go, Shitforbrains.”

  “I’m fuckin’ working on it, Chief. Crap.”

  “Don’t crap me. Just get the damn thing done.”

  “You think I’m jackin’ off up here?”

  “Maybe that would help,” suggested Sean.

  Shotgun, who was right below Mongoose, thought this exchange was the funniest damn thing he’d ever heard. Of course, he couldn’t laugh out loud, so instead he clamped his mouth shut and pressed it against his arm, shaking so hard he practically laughed himself back into the water.

  “You take over,” said Mongoose finally. “Use your f ’ing cup.”

  The only way for Shotgun to get into position was to climb up and over Mongoose, which naturally added injury to insult. He stuck his suction cup into place, gave Mongoose a wide ass grin, then stepped on his shoulders and climbed over the side of the ship.

  With their prize gone and half the North Korean Navy—such as it was—nearby, the Russians had posted a minimal night watch. There was no one on the forward deck, and the nearest man in fact was sleeping, though of course Shotgun didn’t know that as he boosted himself over the gunwale and rolled onto the ship with a splat. He groaned, then sprang to his feet, pulling his MP5N out of its waterproof bag and taking a last look around before giving the all-clear.