Hamilton had pushed Will the hardest. It wasn’t the weeks of swimming in the pool, or the laps underwater holding his breath. He had pushed Will through all of the SEAL training, with the constant threat that one failure, one letdown, would lead to his recommendation to kill the mission. BUDS training (his second time through) seemed much more difficult than when he’d been younger.
It was the final week that pushed Will to his limit.
“Come with me, sir,” Hamilton said, almost gleeful. He led him out of the FBI building and crossed to a helicopter landing pad behind the main center.
“What’s up?” Will asked, unsure what to expect.
Hamilton only looked at his watch. They stood there in silence for a short while until they heard the whoomp-whoomp of a low-flying helicopter. The Blackhawk cut over the tree line, just above the top branches, churning up the leaves in its wake. As it landed, Hamilton pointed to the rear.
“Get on board, boss.”
As they strapped into the bird, it tilted up and then nosed down into forward movement.
“Here’s a wet suit, mask, and snorkel. You better go ahead and change quickly,” said Hamilton.
The helicopter flew across the base and then well out over the Chesapeake Bay. Far beyond the sight of land, it stopped, leveled low, and hovered.
“We’re exactly twenty miles out. I’ll see you when you get back.” Hamilton pointed with his hand to the open door.
Damn, Will thought as he stepped out of the helicopter and plunged fifty feet into the cold water. The helicopter soon disappeared over the horizon.
All right, get a direction, feel the current, he thought as he began to move to the west. Conserve energy. He knew the wet suit would give him the vital buoyancy he needed to survive the long swim. But quickly he discovered that Hamilton had given him a rather thin wet suit—less insulation from the cold water and less buoyancy. Hypothermia would now be a risk. Hamilton had thrown everything he could at Will.
It took most of the day and well into the night for Will to make it to shore. He stopped at a farmhouse and called a taxi, which took him the final thirty miles.
“Mr. Hamilton,” he said on his return to Quantico, “you owe me fifty dollars for the taxi.”
Hamilton smiled as he reached into his wallet.
In fact, the whole team had trained him well. In a week, he knew, he would leave Quantico and each of his trainers would disappear, moved by Krowl to some distant post. Punaros would be retired. Darlin would be reassigned to Afghanistan or Pakistan. Underwood, who’d overseen Will’s twice-daily workouts, would be sent to the ends of the Earth. And Hamilton would be assigned to a SEAL team on a submarine, kept out of contact with the world for months at a time. All would work far from one another so as to leave as little trail as possible. Mi’s fate was the most precarious.
But of all the training, running remained the most critical. If Will engaged the North Koreans directly, he would fail. If he could flee, he might succeed. His physical training had given him the ability to run twenty to thirty miles at a pace pursuers would not expect. Adrenaline would push him faster and farther. And he had not yet reached his limit.
* * * *
“Mornin’,” said Will, who seemed to startle the agent at the elevator. He was leaning his chair back against the wall.
“Oh, hey. Good morning.”
After several months, even the best security would relax.
Will saw the agent radio the crew on the main floor. “He’s coming down.” As always, two agents would be waiting downstairs, the black Suburban running. Mi would also be on the ground floor, ready to go. She had not missed a step yet. Even on the longest runs, she had remained just one pace behind.
Downstairs, she waited in front of the elevator.
“Good morning,” she said. “You have your final class with Gunny Punaros today.” She had gotten into the habit of calling Punaros by the affectionate Marine Corps title of Gunny.
She and Will had worked together for some time, now. The full leap of trust had not yet been made, but Will had gained respect for her, despite knowing that she called Krowl periodically to report his every move. It’s not as though she had a choice in the matter. Most of all, he appreciated her bright mind and curiosity. In some ways, they were kindred spirits. He liked to imagine that Mi was finding it tougher and tougher to call in those reports to Krowl.
“We have to go to a different TA,” she added, referring to another training area.
The black Suburban took less than half an hour to get to an unfamiliar wooded area at the far end of the Marine base. The SUV turned off the main road onto a gravel path and passed through a gate with an armed guard.
Will looked up, taking note. In the past several months, he had met the gunny at either the pistol range or the rifle range several days a week. Will had become a far better shot, an instinct shooter who didn’t simply take aim, but felt the shot.
Punaros had taught Will to fire the DPRK’s best pistols and rifles. Most were Korean remakes of other weapons from around the world, like the type-64, a 7.62-mm pistol and a Korean remake of the old Browning 1900; and the Korean TT-33, another 7.62 pistol. Punaros wanted Will to be comfortable with anything he found en route.
Then he’d have Will perform the same exercise at each session. Giving him a Makarov 9mm pistol with a fully loaded clip of eight rounds, he would tell Will to lock and load the first round. Then he’d turn Will around, grab eight dimes, and yell, “Turn!”
He’d toss the dimes high into the air, and in the brief flash of time during which they fell, Will fired eight times. First, he hit four of eight, then six, then all eight. Now, he would hit eight with regularity.
“Okay, Colonel, come on,” said Punaros when they arrived. He too couldn’t seem to stop himself from calling Will by his rank.
“No rank!” This mission had nothing to do with one’s rank.
“Got it.”
He led Will into the woods, while Mi waited in the Suburban. She and the driver would not leave unless instructed by Punaros.
In a small clearing, a table had been set up with a DPRK type-64 pistol. It had a long silencer attached—one of the few DPRK pistols machined to accommodate one. “The one problem with training,” said Punaros, “is that it can’t replace the experience of a bullet coming at you. We can spend all day long on a range, but what happens when those targets shoot back?”
Will knew Punaros was right. He might fire some of the best shots on the range, but miss the side of a barn when shot at.
“Here’s how this one works.” Punaros lifted up a clay target the size of a basketball. “Five of these are out there in red. There are twice as many orange targets. You’ll be heading toward the red ones, but the orange ones will be in your way. Some are high, some are low. There are five live snipers on this course. You’ll be traveling through the field of orange targets.” He paused. “And they don’t care if you get between them and the target. If you’re shot dead, the incident will be written up as a training accident.”
Will imagined the newspaper headline as it would appear on page ten of the local paper: Marine Killed by Errant Weapon Discharge in Training Accident. Few would read it.
“The course is one mile long,” Punaros continued. “Once you hit a sniper’s red target, he can no longer shoot at his orange ones.”
Punaros, clearly concerned, looked Will directly in the eyes. He wanted Will to have the best chance, both on this test and in-country. As the training advanced, he had become less jocular. He was dead serious today.
“Now, this is a layout of the area,” said Punaros. He pulled a board from the side of a small field table, featuring a large aerial photograph with a laminated cover. Taped on the lamination were yellow strips, forming a box. “Look at the terrain. You may not even have this much advantage when you’re in-country.”
; The Virginia forest retained some of its summer vegetation, but the changing colors would give Will some protection during this dangerous exercise. He saw a rolling terrain that led down to a deep ravine at the end of the box. Two streams twisted through the base of two shallow ravines before reaching the last, deeper one.
“I get it. Essentially, hitting their red target is a kill.”
“Exactly, sir.”
“How much time?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Okay,” said Will.
“And each orange is set up with the red in such a way that you can’t hit the red without being in the path of the orange,” said Punaros.
Will knew this came as close as possible to simulating combat. The bullets would be hot, low, and indiscriminate.
“Here’s an extra clip. Each holds eight.”
The 7.62-mm bullet was larger than most pistol rounds and made a deep, whomping noise when fired.
“The boundary of the course is marked by yellow tape. And, Will?”
Will looked up at the unusual mention of his name.
“They want you available, and they got a lot invested in your training.” He handed Will a black, sleeveless ballistic vest.
Will was astonished by the vest’s weight and size. It was as thin as a paper pad and light—comparable to a sweater in size, weight, and weave.
“It’s made from an experimental spider silk called Biosteel. Ten times lighter and tougher than old Kevlar. Virtually impregnable, but it protects only vital organs and doesn’t do anything for that beautiful face of yours.”
Only a Marine gunny could make Will feel so comfortable about getting his head blown off. But the risk of that newspaper story was still there. Will slipped the vest over his PolarTek top. He was surprised at how unrestricted he felt. Other vests made movement awkward and slowed you down.
“And, sir,” said Punaros, “their weapons are a mix of North Korea’s. They’ve got their type-58s, -68s, and a Dragunov. The sound, the shells, everything will make you feel like we’re doing this just north of the border.”
The 58 was another North Korean knockoff of the AK-47, and the 68 was a reproduction of the Russian AKM assault rifle. But it was the Dragunov that caught Will’s attention. The Dragunov was a SVD sniper rifle that could knock the nose off a squirrel at 800 meters. In all his months of training, during which he’d shot every weapon, the Dragunov had most impressed him.
“Let’s go,” said Will.
“The clock starts now.”
Chapter 20
A Range on the Back Side of Marine Corps Base, Quantico
Will took off like a flash, heading into the woods. His only advantage was a brief element of surprise—the snipers had been sitting in their positions for some time. Perhaps he could use his speed to get through the first few of them.
He ran straight for a large boulder, slamming to the ground just as the loud whack of a bullet flew past him. One orange target was only a few feet from his head.
Will paused, judged the angle of the shot, sprang up, and fired as the sniper sighted him again. As if piercing a heart, the bullet from Will’s pistol split the red target.
He didn’t stop or hesitate. Spotting the small stream below, he ran and jumped across it. Heading up the other hillside, he spied a flash of red at the base of a tree atop the next ridgeline. One shot popped the target before the sniper even sensed his movement.
“Come on,” he whispered to himself as he moved across the slope.
Again, he heard the whack of a bullet above his head. It was an AK-47–type round. Will never stopped, knowing from combat that a fixed target meant instant death. He dropped to one knee, looked up, saw a flash of red, and squeezed the trigger. He had sixteen rounds in the two clips, but through three targets, he had fired only three rounds.
Now the forest crackled with arms fire. He could hear the 58, but not the Dragunov. The sniper had not been able to sense his pace, and was firing at any hint of movement. Often, it didn’t belong to Will, but to a breeze or a squirrel. And this gave Will the upper hand. From the shots, he sensed where the shooter was—near another red target.
After half a mile, the terrain fell off to a large, sandy stream a car’s length or more in width. The area was open, giving the snipers more opportunity. But movement remained Will’s best defense. Spotting a tree that had fallen across the stream, he immediately knew the target would be set, prompting him to ford the stream by the tree.
He ran at full speed, jumping the stream at a 45-degree angle, allowing his boots to hit two steps on the tree, as support, in the middle of the stream. As the bullet seared the PolarTek, he felt the heat, but adrenaline was pumping now.
Will hit the other bank, rolled, and fired, hitting the fourth red target before the sniper’s second shell was chambered in the weapon.
One left, he thought. The Dragunov.
He climbed over the next rise, moving slowly as he approached the top. It was always movement that caught one’s eye in the woods. A deer hunter would never see the deer but for its movement. With its natural camouflage, a deer was virtually undetectable until it moved.
Will moved very slowly as he pulled up behind an outcropping of rocks and trees. He peered over the ravine and saw an open field beyond the stream. The sniper would have an open space advantage to detect Will’s movement.
“That son of a bitch.” Only Punaros, he thought, would set up the last target in a way that made it impossible for him. Given plenty of time, Will could slowly cross the field like a good Marine sniper, an inch at a time. But the limited clock set stress at boiler-like levels.
Will saw movement in the tree line across the field. He stayed still, holding his breath.
The sniper moved again, very slightly, and when he did, Will saw a flash of red for less than a second. He smiled, sensing what was happening.
Punaros made this last one as tough as he could, Will thought, and then that damn Marine decided to make it even tougher.
The sniper, his body directly in front of the red target, supported the Dragunov rifle with the trunk of a fallen pine tree. For Will, the trunk blocked all view of the sniper except for the scope of his rifle and a small portion of his camouflaged head.
Will pulled back. He looked at his watch—five minutes remaining. As he looked up, he saw the yellow tape flutter in the breeze to his right.
* * * *
Although the sniper didn’t know who the target in this exercise was, Punaros had given him the authority to do whatever he thought would make it tough on his opponent. He had walked the grounds before the contest and knew exactly where the target would cross the stream: It had only one point at which one could make a successful crossing.
The sniper also knew the only approach that would work would be a run—perhaps a zigzag—across the open field. Having set himself up in front of the red target, it would be a hopeless exercise for his opponent. The target would never get the chance to fix on him, while the sniper would have at least three clear shots. Only one would be needed.
At two minutes remaining, the brush near the crossover moved, and the sniper raised his rifle slightly, placing the butt of the stock into his shoulder. He had sanded the skin of his trigger finger down to raw flesh so he could feel the slightest squeeze on his finger. He braced for movement, expecting to sight, squeeze, and reload if necessary.
Whap. He heard the clay target break apart just behind his head. Out of reflex, he started to turn, but felt the cold steel barrel of a silencer against his neck.
“Oh, shit.”
Will had cracked the target with the butt of the pistol, then turned the pistol on the sniper.
“Marine, you can assume you’re dead.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter 21
A Remote Valley North of the DMZ, North Korea
Th
e old man always knew when there was a buildup in the valley. At night, particularly during the rain, trucks would rumble down the road. Sometimes at dawn, he would hear a deep, thundering noise above the valley to the west.
He also knew of a much smaller, higher valley. It was actually more of a small plateau, about 200 meters in length. The thunder always came from that direction.
During the old man’s lifetime, the valley had rarely been quiet. Not far from both Wonsan and the DMZ, it had been a battlefield many times over. The Japanese caused the death of his first child, a daughter, caught in the shelling when they tried to flee to the mountains in the east. Later, the armies of North Korea, the U.S., China, and again the U.S. ran through his small farm. Now, he sensed trouble coming again.
Off and on for several weeks, the rumbling had occurred nightly as the weather began to cool with the change of seasons. At night, the old farmer was often awakened by the rumble. At the same time, more and more vehicles passed down the road and through the trees at the other end of the valley. He heard the thump-thump of helicopters on a daily basis. He only wanted to be left alone, but this valley seemed to have other plans for him.
The helicopter flew lower than usual, barely clearing the tops of the pine trees near the hut, scattering the few chickens pecking in the yard. As the helicopter banked in a hard left turn, the smell of spent kerosene blew down on the old man and, as it tipped up into landing mode, a convoy of jeeps sped past on the road to the landing zone. Young Korean officers jumped out of the jeeps as a much older man walked from the helicopter to the lead jeep. The helicopter passengers met the others in brief conversation.
* * * *
“General, welcome back.”
“Yes, yes, again I am here.” General Won had not expected to be back as early as he was. He had been on a vacation retreat with his wife at an official villa near Beijing when army headquarters called to dispatch him to Pyongyang.
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