Stubbornly sticking with a failed mission was stupid, but as Michelle said, I didn't always make the smart decision.
At 30 mph, only needed fifteen minutes to reach the railroad bridge.
The ancient steel span crossed at a steep and narrow part of the river, twenty-five feet above the water.
Two tiny guard tin-roofed shacks blocked out the elements, one at the top of each river bank.
Reaching the bottom of the eastern span, I parked my board at the bottom. Put it in station-keeping mode, so it'd fight the current to stay in one place.
Reached up and grabbed the edge of a steel beam. Pulled myself up.
Walked one foot in front of the other to the river bank; to where the beam connected to a concrete pad. No way to climb higher using the bridge.
No, I faced more frozen mud.
Picked a path clear of vegetation. Dug my toes into the steep bank. My shoes cracked through the thinly frozen surface, but slid down.
Not enough purchase to climb away from the concrete pad.
I shuffled to the side. This time picked a path full of bushes and reeds. Used my hands to grab them while I dug my heels into the muddy bank.
Slipped, slid, but also made progress.
Inch by inch, foot by foot, I reached the top. Peered over the edge.
The guard from the shack stood there watching me.
A conscript, the lowest of the low in the People's Army, he didn't shoot me. Spoke urgently into a brick of a radio.
I lunged forward. Tackled him at the waist.
He put out his arm, tried to stiff-arm me, to keep me away, fend me off.
Slapped his arm aside. Lifted behind his knees. Dumped him backwards. Knocked him into the gravel behind him. The back of his head bounced off a railroad tie.
Instant concussion. His eyes rolled up into his head.
Still breathed. That was something.
Stripping his belt, I wrapped up his arms and legs. Smashed his radio with my muddy heel.
Took three tries. Kept slipping.
Train due any minute. What to use to stop it?
Back in the train yard, the most common cause of a train derailment was a broken rail or weld. Didn't take much of a rail misalignment in the right location.
I picked up the guard's cheap rifle. No bayonet. The stock was practically balsa wood.
The People's Army hadn't even issued him any bullets. Guess that explains why he didn't shoot me.
Shortage of bullets behind the lines.
Examined the guard shack. Found a tall steel pipe used to carry smoke out of the roof. Some wood for a fire. Old rusted rail spikes.
With a heave, I toppled the shack over and across the tracks.
Not enough, but a start.
Twisted and turned the pipe. Broke it out of the crushed ceiling.
Took the best-looking spike. Hammered it with the pipe at a forty-five degree angle beneath the right-hand rail.
Deep into the weakest spot, the transition from dirt to bridge, where the dirt eroded, but the steel bridge stayed strong, creating a gap between the two.
Lifting the pipe, I strode back a dozen measured steps along the top of the river bank.
Ran forward.
Slotted the pipe over the spike.
Jumped. Just like pole vaulting back in high school.
The force of my run combined with the momentum of my weight.
I flew up and over.
The pipe twisted the railroad spike below it.
Forced the top forward. The bottom backward.
The spikes at the base of the rail broke through the rotten wood of the railroad tie.
I landed awkwardly, the railroad resistance turned a smooth landing into a series of small jerks and thumps.
My knee twinged. Shoulder burned.
Couldn't do that again.
Replaced the spike deeper into the gap.
Fitted the pipe over it as a lever. Used all my weight to push it down.
Expand the gap.
Got it low. Jumped up and down on it.
Winced. Refit the spike. Sat on it.
Did it all again.
Slowly, shifted the steel rails apart.
A border guard truck's engine screeched in the distance. The same soldiers from earlier; I'd know that stuck gear shift anywhere.
Didn't have long.
The rail on the bank vibrated. A low rumble approached.
I glanced over to make sure the enemy soldier was out of the path. Looked groggy, but his tied up prone body lay well clear of the tracks.
The train came around a curve. Full speed ahead.
Guess they hadn't gotten the word.
Stuck the spike into the ground in the center of the gap I'd created. Put the pipe over it, sticking straight up.
That by itself might be enough to derail the train, but the right-hand rail on the ground and the rail on the bridge no longer lined up.
Pretty sure that'd do it, as long as the train didn't stop and the border guards didn't undo my work.
No time for second thoughts. This train carried data which the DPRK's leaders could use or sell to kill millions in the years to come.
Even lead to world nuclear war.
I ran onto the bridge.
Truck a hundred meters away.
Train? Two hundred meters, clanking with a steel rhythm.
Truck's driver was more intent on not getting in the train's way than in catching me. Skidded to a halt on the gravel road.
Soldiers poured out the back.
First two out took aim.
Fired.
Bullets pinged off the bridge around me.
Air brakes puffed. Whistled.
The train's wheels screeched against the rails.
Engineer had seen the shack. Maybe the pipe.
I dove off the side of the bridge. Sucked in a breath on the way down. Splashed into the water.
My wake pushed my board from me.
I broke the surface.
The squealing hit a high note.
Climbed onto my board.
Aimed it away from the bridge.
Turned on the power. Leaned forward to counter-balance the propeller's power.
The train's cow catcher cleared the shack's debris from the rails.
Then hit the pipe.
Banged it flat. That just shifted the rails even farther apart.
One set of steel wheels fell off the right-hand rail. Scraped along the gravel.
Train's engine tilted to the right.
Collided with the steel frame of the bridge. Rest of the engine toppled in slow motion.
Gravity took over.
The momentum of the rest of the train cars pushed the engine out and over the water. Train left the bridge at about the center. Plunged through the air. Into the river.
Each train car smashed down on those ahead of it.
A dozen meters downstream, I took a moment to watch the destruction. Needed to escape the area, but something about a train wreck is impossible to look away from.
If the data was aboard that train, they'd never recover it in one piece.
A gray patrol boat rounded the closest bend upriver.
Sixty feet long and a dozen feet wide, the speedy craft carried four indigo-clad crewman wearing orange life-preservers.
One pilot, safe behind plexiglass, controlled the water jet engines. Two crew members rode on the back, behind the radar on the roof. Carried rifles.
They'd hung a white and red flotation ring on the side of the central cabin.
The fourth member of the crew exited the hull from a hatch onto the forward deck.
Pulled an olive green canvas tarp off either a large caliber machine gun, or a small cannon mounted behind a steel gun shield on the front of the coastal patrol vessel.
I could live without finding out which it actually was. Wasn't that curious.
The wrecked train blocked most of the river under the bridge. The resulting ripples pushed my
board away.
The crew of the patrol boat pointed at the train. Yelled to each other.
The pilot, steering and paying more attention, pointed me out to them.
An obvious figure, riding above the water. Guess the slower, older-style water propulsion, the kind you took under the water, still had an advantage in visibility.
I squeezed the accelerator for top speed, away from the wreckage of folded train cars.
Hopefully, it'd take the patrol boat some time to get past the bridge. Time enough for me to get away.
Fifteen minutes later, passed the area with the long mud flats. Close to the mouth of the river.
A storm gathered ahead, right offshore. Plenty of white-capped breakers farther out.
Rounding a curve in the river, the patrol boat cut through the water behind me.
Guess it didn't take them long to clear the wreckage.
I reached the area just before the mouth of the river, at the edge of the Yellow Sea. Salt and freshwater mixed to create tall ripples where the incoming waves collided with the river's current.
The patrol boat bounced through those same ripples at about 25 mph.
At full speed, I began to pull away.
Leaned into the wind. Cut through the crests of the shallow river waves.
Crossed the open mouth of the river. Cut the power a little.
If I rode too fast into these bigger swells, I'd plunge down into the trough. Be unable to counter-balance the forward motion.
Wipe out here and that patrol boat would catch me.
It closed the distance. A rooster tail of water spewed out their rear jets.
The bow lifted into the air. The gun on the front couldn't depress enough to target me, but once they caught up to me, they'd slow down again for a steady aiming platform.
Not good.
Pushed my controller to ahead full.
Leaned left. Crossed the waves at an angle rather than straight on.
That lengthened the distance between roller-tops, but didn't cross the Yellow Sea as quickly.
The patrol boat gained on me, but slower.
Last time I'd invade a foreign country by myself again.
A gray lump on the southern horizon, hidden by the storm. I'd surf there as fast as possible.
Hope for a miracle.
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Nothing to Fear ...
"Honey, dag-nabbit, you need to jet."
Bishop never expected this day to come. Luckily, he only lived 5 minutes from the base, but that was definitely not far enough from a nuclear warhead.
His Polynesian wife stood there in their cheap off-base apartment's living room. Gaped at him.
Two beautiful teenage daughters sat at the kitchen table. Worked on the excessive homework the local American school believed necessary to keep up with their Korean neighbors.
His oldest looked up. "Dad, no swearing!"
Bishop took a mental picture. He'd remember this exact moment.
Just in case.
"Take a flight to your parents' in Tonga. I'll explain later."
If I can.
Bishop walked over to the coat closet in the front hall. Examined the family's 72-hour emergency preparedness packs.
Each held money, first aid kits, and radios; plus enough clean clothing, food, and water for three days. He'd stored his in an extra ruck pack; that could stay here.
His wife kept hers in a rolling black suitcase. Perfect for a flight.
He pulled it out. Extended the handle. "Take the van."
"What's going on? We can't drop everything. The girls have school in the morning."
"Classified. Can't tell you. You can't even tell anyone else you're going. Couldn't do my job if'n you and the girls were here. You're my first priority."
The love of his life had been a soldier's wife long enough for her mind to finally catch up with the implications of what he'd been trying to tell her. "Married this long, I won't ask you to leave your buddies. We'll be fine."
She grabbed two pink and yellow backpacks from the closet.
"Girls!"
She tossed the packs in a high enough arc that both of his adopted daughters caught their bag.
"Leave your homework. We're taking a vacation."
She was right. With her and the girls taken care of, he couldn't let down his other family, his men.
He handed her the minivan key. "Park it at the airport, don't worry about the fees. Flight leaves in less than two hours. I'll take the subway back to base."
She stopped next to him. Looked up.
He put his arms around her strong body. Planted an adamant kiss.
"Whew!" She smiled. "I love you. Be careful. Those daughters of mine have already suffered enough without losing you, too."
"See what I can do, but there's more than our family at stake. Love you, too. Call you later if I can."
Their daughters rose, backpacks in hand.
He pointed out at the family minivan, "Now go!"
* * *
Michelle felt the waves break against the side of the USS Michigan. They lifted her imperceptibly up and down.
Schnier and a pair of his men, both snipers, braced themselves against the side of the Dry Deck Shelters.
He'd rotated the men in his platoon through deck duty; kept fresh eyes up top.
They all looked for Sam on the water.
Michelle protected her eyes from the salty spray with a pair of binoculars one of the sailors on watch had lent her.
The three Rangers used the magnification scopes on their giant-bore rifles.
She'd never learned the exact caliber of their weapons, but overhearing their recent conversations, they were as proud of their rifle barrel diameters as they were of the stature of their packages.
Presumably overcompensating for something.
Schnier shouted over the rolling roar of the wind and waves, "Nuttin'. Dunno how much longer we can stay on station. Eventually, those lightning flashes on the horizon are fixin' to catch up."
Michelle leaned into a gust. Tracked her binoculars across the lines of breakers closer to shore.
"Sam should've met the chute already. Hasn't replied with a confirmation, but I'm sure he didn't abandon his baby to the enemy. He'll be out there."
"Sumpin's gotta give. Dunno how anyone can stand this. Worse'n playin' rodeo clown.
"Should we launch the inflatable? Go scour the shore yonder?
"Beats waiting here sucking our thumbs."
"You'd sink. Anyway, thought you didn't want to ..."
A figure crossed the line of breakers, dark against the white spray. Human-shape a quarter the size of the waves riding a dark line cutting through the water.
"There he is!" She pointed, "Just past the breakers."
Schnier and his men focused on where she'd detected him. "Sho 'nuff. Boy sure can ride a board, can't he?"
A compliment from Schnier for Sam?
She'd always taken for granted Sam's surfing ability. He'd surfed ever since she'd known him, but now she watched through fresh eyes, seeing what someone who hadn't grown up with him would notice.
The waves heaved away from the sub, toward the shore.
Sam cut diagonally up the face of a wave. The combined motion of his board and the storm surge tossed him into the air from the peak.
Used the spinning prop blades and electric motor as a counterweight to land at the perfect angle on the wave's backside while it dropped away below him.
Leaned to change the slant of his board before he hit the trough ahead of the next upsurge.
Burst through a massive tube. Shot off the crest right before it collapsed.
Spun left. Landed casually sideways.
Followed the ridge on top until he dove back down to add more momentum.
Was like he instinctively knew how the water would shift ahead of time. Anticipated the breaks and the collisions between heaving liquid volumes.
A larger shape appeared on the horizon. A North Korean
patrol boat bounced across the waves behind Sam.
It ran into the surf at a speed calculated to keep the hull suspended between at least two waves.
Michelle's stomach flipped with the heaving of the waves. "Yeah, but whoever's driving that patrol boat is no slouch, either. Overtaking him."
The boat supported a small cannon mounted between a gun shield on the bow. The bore four times wider than even the Ranger's sniper rifles.
Flame burst from the barrel. The explosive thud mixed with distant thunder to rumble across the water.
A shell exploded in the water a few meters away from Sam. Saltwater sprayed sideways onto him.
He veered away. Twirled down the backside of the wave. Kept the crest between him and the patrol boat.
His move took him sideways, foregoing forward progress, but out of his enemy's direct line of sight.
Stopped bringing him closer to the sub.
Schnier opened a hatch. Shouted down the conning tower.
Shook his head at the reply. Turned back to her.
"Captain won't bring the sub closer to shore. Any farther and we're out of South Korean waters and into the North."
"You going to let a few rules and the prospect of an international incident stop you from helping another Ranger?"
Schnier pretended to not hear her question, but his nose flared and his eyes narrowed in response.
Sam paralleled them. Only gained ground diagonally.
Too slow.
The boat would soon be at the same wave he was using to hide from the gunner on board.
Schnier took up a kneeling sniper pose near his men. Braced against the shelter wall. Sighted through his scope.
"Count of three. I have the gunner. You both take the pilot."
Timed his command for the peak of the slow wave rocking the sub, "Three, two, one. Fire."
They squeezed their triggers in unison.
Her ears rang.
Schnier and the two snipers wore active ear protection; it blocked out sharp sounds while permitting normal conversation. She needed to acquire something to stick in her ears.
A spark scraped across the gun shield protecting the enemy cannon.
The plexiglass protecting the boat's driver shattered into a star pattern. He slumped down on the wheel.
Schnier nodded. "Good hit on the pilot. Gunner still up."
The boat swerved sideways. Dropped into the valley between the next two waves. Only the radar on the roof showed above the crest.
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