by Dalton Fury
Hawk looked at Jerud, sending a silent but deadly warning with her eyes. Jerud obviously wasn’t worried, or he couldn’t effectively gauge the coiled snake, taunted by an intruder, through his beer goggles.
Jerud leaned into Hawk, his eyes turning savage and his lips now bunched. Hawk froze, turned her face away from his beer breath, and stuck in an elbow just below the floating rib.
“Enough already!” Hawk said.
“Relax, baby,” Jerud said, “you might like it.”
Jerud reached up with his right hand and squeezed Hawk’s right breast.
Son of a bitch! That’s it!
Hawk raised her right arm high and circled it over Jerud’s left arm, coming down with enough force to break his touch and trap his left hand under her right armpit.
“Now you’re talking,” Jerud slurred. “You like it rough, huh?”
Instantly, Hawk let go of the half-empty bottle of Taedonggang beer she was nursing in her left hand and made a half fist, leaving two fingers sticking out. She looked Jerud in the eye.
“Yes, I guess you could say that, college boy.”
Hawk spread the two fingers and jammed one in each of Jerud’s eyes. Jerud’s head bounced back and he let out a raging cry. Still controlling the left arm, Hawk slipped out of her chair and in one smooth motion delivered a face-palm with her left hand, just below his freckled nose, then pulled his left arm forward and to the right.
Defenseless, Jerud fell out of his chair and doormatted to the car’s white-tiled floor, flat on his back. Hawk stood, catching the other partiers out of the corner of her eye, now standing as well. They were screaming something, likely wanting to see what the chaos was about, but Hawk ignored them, focusing instead on the correct attack angle.
Controlling the left arm from the right side of his supine torso, Hawk stepped over Jerud’s chest with her left foot and simultaneously jumped into the air. She fell back on her ass and brought the arm with her, locking her left leg over his chest and her right leg over his face. Not entirely textbook, given the alcohol, but the arm lock was good enough to hear Jerud squeal.
Hawk turned Jerud’s thumb upward toward the obshchiy passenger car’s white ceiling, centered by a gaudy brass chandelier, and aligned the elbow joint as she gave slight pressure.
“Now, Jerud, you have a choice,” Hawk said as the other college kids were fumbling with their cell phones, probably to capture the scene on Instagram. “You can go back to the frat house with a broken arm, or you can go back to your sleeper for the rest of the night. Your choice.”
“Let go!” Jerud screamed. “Get this girl off me!”
“Nope, Jerud, that isn’t one of your choices,” Hawk said as she applied more pressure to the elbow joint. She didn’t want to break the kid’s arm; in fact, even though Jerud and his friends didn’t know it, Hawk was just bluffing. She knew he was just another hard-up spoiled frat boy used to getting his way, not a hardened terrorist intent on jihad.
Jerud screamed again.
“Choose, Jerud,” Hawk said, just before hearing one of the bimbos screaming.
“Get off of him,” she said. “Oh my God!”
“Which one, Jerud?” Hawk asked again.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” Jerud said as his face tightened in obvious pain. “I’ll leave your ass alone, let’s just get back to the game.”
“Broken arm or sleeper car?” Hawk said.
“Okay, shit, fucking shit, man, I’ll go to my sleeper,” Jerud resigned himself to say.
“You’re familiar with the honor system, right, Jerud?” Hawk said. “You leave your sleeper before the sun comes up and you’ve sobered, and I’ll break both your bony-ass legs, got me?”
“Okay, okay, honor system,” Jerud said. “I got it.”
Hawk rotated Jerud’s arm to allow it to bend at the elbow, gave up wrist control, and somersaulted backwards. Just in case the asshole had any thoughts of immediate retaliation, she put some distance between them.
If this wasn’t Whistle-stop, assholes, I’d—
Before Hawk could finish the thought, two Korean customs officials corralled her, bookending her on both arms, and practically lifted her off the ground while dragging her toward the end of the car.
She turned back toward the table and the college bimbos who were huddling around Jerud now, babying him like a first-grader just hit with a wild pitch. Hawk saw Jerud look up, still half bent over and holding his left elbow with his right.
“That bitch is crazy!”
EIGHT
Sixty-two kilometers east of Poltavs’ka, Ukraine
“My damn leg has been asleep for two hours now,” Slapshot said.
“Be glad you have two legs,” Digger replied.
“It’s like listening to Ralph and Norton,” Kolt said, wondering how the hell he scored the spot on the rear cabin floor between his two mates. “I’m tired of being all pretzeled up myself. My pistol light is killing me.”
“What squadron are they in?” Digger asked.
“Ralph and Norton? The Honeymooners,” Kolt said.
“What, they gay?”
Kolt rolled his eyes. “One of these days…”
It had been just under five hours since the three newest members of Noble Squadron had landed in Kiev and off-loaded at the end of a discreet and fogged-in runway. Dressed in roughs, T-shirts over jeans, they shouldered their packs and hoofed it into the shadows before turning to watch the contract Embraer ERJ 135 extended range, painted in civilian colors, execute a three-point 180, power the twin Rolls-Royce engines, and tear down the runway to depart in the opposite direction on a moonless night.
Within a minute, a midsize cargo truck, sporting four bald tires and sounding like it had seen better days, had appeared from an unseen road. Its headlights were off as it pulled onto the asphalt apron, and seconds after Digger offered two flashes of a red-lens flashlight, the driver flashed his headlights twice, completing the signal that it was safe to load.
“Fucking reeks in here, man,” Slapshot said. “Smells like death.”
“Indeed, brother,” Kolt said, trying to brace in anticipation of the next pothole. “We’re probably inside a field ambulance.”
“Shit!” Digger said. “The floor is sticky on this side.”
“Any reason we don’t have more support here?” Slapshot asked.
Kolt sighed. It was the age-old lament of every soldier everywhere. “We were supposed to, but Dmitry’s boys are turning a target tonight.”
“It couldn’t have waited?”
“No. They got something actionable on Marzban Tehrani. A courier he uses is supposed to be somewhere near Donetsk, three hundred klicks east of the safe house.”
“Lovely,” Slapshot said.
A knock on the front cab’s rear window ended their bullshitting in the rear. More than a knock really; more like a warning.
“There is an auto in the road ahead,” Olga said. Her companion, Dmitry, continued driving.
Kolt and the others had heard rumors that Ukraine’s antiterrorist unit, officially named “Alfa,” had women in their secret ranks, but linking up with one face-to-face was still a surprise. Kolt quickly got over it. He knew the opposite sex definitely had its advantages, staving off scrutiny in certain circles. The SBU, the odd acronym of the Security Service of Ukraine, had only established Alfa in 1994, their activation a result of presidential decree. Delta turned seventeen that same year.
What the hell is taking our graybeards so long to see the value of female operators?
Kolt looked to his right and left, taking in the black smudges of his mates’ heads. He was confident that they didn’t consider Olga inferior simply because she was dickless. Sure, Olga was hard on the eyes, but her sunken cheeks, dark and cold eyes, and proud chin under razor-thin lips represented a fighting spirit. Kolt himself had done a double-take when he noticed her dark hair bunched up inside a pleated denim hat with a small bill, something similar to what a train conductor from the
Wild West might wear, which made her all the more hardened. She had a look that told others she had seen the elephant.
Not feeling the truck stop, or seem to slow its pace, Kolt turned to the window.
“I thought there were no checkpoints on the back roads?”
Kolt fingered his mini SureFire on, holding the red beam of light an inch from his folded acetated map, trying to determine exactly where they were. He knew they had passed the town of Poltavs’ka an hour or so earlier, the spot where Dmitry had said they would have to sacrifice the luxury of fast-moving asphalt roads for the security of the back roads. After that, he could only swag it.
“No checkpoint. Just headlights,” Dmitry said from behind the wheel.
“What about the curfew?” Kolt asked.
“Ahhh, some don’t bother,” Dmitry said.
“Shouldn’t we turn around?” Kolt asked, uneasy that their Alfa escorts didn’t seem too concerned.
A few seconds went by and still no answer. Kolt resisted the immediate urge to ask again. He felt Slapshot and Digger roll from their asses to their knees. Kolt could tell they were going for their bags, likely to fumble in the dark with mating their concealed HK416 uppers to their lowers.
“Hang tight,” Kolt whispered, as the truck slowed and eventually stopped in the middle of the dirt road. “Pistols as primary. Maybe we’re turning around.”
“I fucking hope so,” Digger said, “we’re kind of flapping in here.”
“I agree,” Kolt said, as he yanked the large smelly tarp off the three of them, releasing the trapped odor and allowing them to take in some fresh air.
“Fuck, we have company!” Slapshot said as he peeked out from underneath the truck’s canvas top, letting a small beam of light penetrate the dark cabin, finding Slapshot’s red beard.
“How close?” Kolt asked as they heard the obvious sound of the driver’s side door open.
“We are on the X, boss,” Slapshot said.
Just then, from inside the cab, Dmitry shouted in his native language. Outside, in front of the truck, angry voices countered. It was heated, definitely not a friendly encounter, at least not yet. The two voices jousted, stepping on each other as the words and the decibel levels increased.
“How many?” Kolt asked.
“Don’t see any,” Slapshot said. “Just bright headlights.”
“What are they saying, Digger?” Kolt asked, knowing Digger was Russian trained in Fifth Special Forces Group before assessing for the Unit.
“Hard to understand, man,” Digger said. “Something about credentials and neighborhood. Dmitry is telling them to get out of the way.”
Kolt scooted on his knees to the opposite side of Slapshot. He peeled the tarp back a half inch or so, enough to see in front of the truck. The opposing truck’s high beams met Dmitry’s, highlighting the thick ground fog. Kolt strained to pick up movement, hoping to assess the intent of those shouting.
With their truck still idling, the driver’s door slammed shut.
“Dmitry got out,” Slapshot whispered. “He’s pushing it.”
Don’t be a dumbass, Dmitry, get back in the truck.
Kolt picked up Dmitry’s lanky body as he stepped in front of their right headlight. He barked like he owned the place, throwing both arms in the air repeatedly, his baggy T-shirt slipping down to his shoulders each time, exposing his bony upper arms. Dmitry gave another command, shooing with his hands like he was clearing a herd of cattle from an open gate.
A second later, a figure stepped into the light and buttstroked Dmitry with the stock of an assault rifle, dropping him to the ground.
“Shit! Dmitry’s down,” Kolt said. “I’ve got three, you?” Kolt took inventory of his voice, hoping the truck’s running engine was loud enough to muffle his words.
“Only see one from my angle,” Slapshot said. “Uniform and AKMS on this one, folding stock.”
“Russians,” Kolt said.
Kolt watched as one of the Russian soldiers slung his rifle. Slapshot was correct; no question they were sporting AKMS 7.62s. The Russian reached down to Dmitry, and Kolt figured he was likely turning him over to his chest, securing his hands behind him, and frisking him for identification or valuables. The other two Russians came into Kolt’s view, shouldered their rifles, aimed up at the windshield, and began yelling commands at Olga.
“They want her to get out,” Digger said as he peeked through the front cab’s back window just enough to see Olga’s head and shoulder blades. “She’s slipping to the driver’s seat.”
“This ain’t good,” Slapshot said from across the truck bed.
The distinct sound of AKMS fire broke the eerie silence. Kolt noticed Digger duck out of instinct, probably thinking the rounds were directed at the windshield. Bullets impacted the thin metal of the truck’s front end, and louder thuds of heavy rounds shook it as they hit the engine block.
The Russians yelled again.
Kolt noticed smoke billowing from underneath the hood. A second later, the truck spurted, shook slightly, and died.
“Olga kill the engine?” Kolt asked, hoping it wasn’t the 7.62 rounds.
“Negative,” Digger said.
“Secure route my ass,” Kolt whispered to himself.
Slap’s right, this ain’t good.
“She’s getting out,” Digger said. Kolt heard the sound of the driver’s side door opening again.
Olga stepped down from the truck and moved in front of it. One of the Russians grabbed her by the arm and threw her to the ground.
“She got balls,” Slapshot said, “but she just took a nosedive.”
Kolt tensed. He realized he was breathing fast, and centered himself. They needed to do something, and quick. He knew as soon as they were done searching them, they’d be tearing into the front cab for contraband. After that, the truck bed for sure. There was no hiding, not in the back of the truck, not with just the tarps they’d hid under during the long drive so far.
“We gotta do something here,” Slapshot said, still peeking out the opposite side of the truck bed from Kolt.
“You make out any other trucks behind that one, Slap?” Kolt asked as he processed the data points he had available.
“Hard to tell,” Slapshot said. “My guess is no, or they’d have joined the party.”
Kolt couldn’t argue with Slapshot’s reasoning, but he wasn’t convinced. As Kolt thought it over he saw one of the troops stand straight up, remove his own hat, and put Olga’s conductor hat on sideways. The Russians laughed. One appeared to kick at one of the two on the ground.
They had the correct crypto loaded in their MBITR radios. Kolt could dig it out of his bag fairly easily. Maybe call the boys at the safe house near the town of Krasnoarmiisk and request some help. Fuck. Kolt remembered they were going after Tehrani’s courier and were unavailable.
Just as Kolt thought it would be a good idea to make the Mayday call anyway, he realized he had no idea how far they were from Krasnoarmiisk. The radio’s maximum line-of-sight range was limited. The signal would never reach them. He’d need to throw up a satellite antenna to make the connection, a piece of equipment none of them had deployed from Bragg with.
Damn, no good options here!
“Boss?” Digger asked, obviously wanting some guidance on where they stood. “Long guns?”
Kolt weighed their options and knew they had only one.
“Yup. Time to get into a gunfight.”
Sonchon, North Korea
The sexagenarian Kang Pang Su bent over at the waist, coughing and hacking so that his entire body shook.
Still struggling to breathe normally after his bike ride, he rolled the bicycle up the short stone-covered pathway and held it steady as he opened the front door to the traditional tile-roofed rural home with his left hand. Kang pushed it fully open, glanced one more time down the wide road lined with large plane and acacia trees with their government applied white rings.
Kang looked hard, but quick, hoping no
t to spot any of the Public Standards Police who dropped by to check the condition of the Workers’ Party–distributed pictures of the Great Leader, or one of the teenagers wearing an armband denoting them as part of the Maintenance of Social Order Brigade wanting to spot check to see if he was wearing his government badge. He knew either of the two must be following him.
Kang had grown tired of being watched. He’d decided a long time ago that a powerful nation shouldn’t be proud of a national pastime of spying on their neighbors.
Kang kicked off his vinyl loafers and rolled the bicycle’s bald tires through the doorway. He closed the door quietly, leaned the rusted light blue bike against the concrete wall, ensuring it wouldn’t fall, and headed for the kitchen sink to quench his thirst.
Kang lifted the aged small white cooking pot, the same one his wife had boiled cabbage and seaweed in for decades, and swirled the cloudy water around. He inspected it for signs of insects, then put the pot’s hard, worn edge to his lips. He tilted it high as he leaned back, not stopping until he had downed about a quart. After thirteen miles on the wobbly single-speed bicycle, of which at least four or five miles were simply precautionary, intended as a simple but prudent countersurveillance measure, Kang was ready to lather cream in his crotch before collapsing onto the flat stone-slab floor to rest his bones and lock his eyes shut.
But those decisions had been made long ago. There would be no rest, at least not until he sent the most important message of his life.
Kang had lived in North Korea his entire life and never cared much about what happened around the world. He shunned the South Korean propaganda that told of the wonders of capitalism, the freedom of expression, and the limitless opportunity. If not for the treatment of his wife so many years ago, Kang Pang Su would have spent his life in comfort and privilege like the ever-curious Pak Yong Chol and all the other party leaders fortunate to carry one of the family names somehow associated with the late Kim Il Sung.
No, when Kang’s wife passed, the mourning, hatred, and feeling of betrayal percolated to the point that Kang couldn’t control them. He hated the regime and what it had done to him, what it had taken away. At some level he knew his anger drove him to seek out the contact he’d made with the CIA all those years ago, but it was still his choice.