allow such a puzzle to remain unanswered.
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
HAL BROGNOLA RUSHED into the War Room as fast as he could, out of breath thanks to his race from the helipad.
“Has he crossed yet?” he asked.
Barbara Price shook her head, watching the transponder on the enlarged map. Grimaldi was still some distance away from North Korea. “They aerially refueled Dragon Slayer just a few minutes ago when they hit the Tushima Strait.”
Brognola inhaled deeply and watched as the helicopter wended its path slowly north. “If the Koreans or the Chinese catch wind of this…”
“Mack sanitized Dragon Slayer, and we have his and Jack’s cover identities ready for a system purge if anything goes wrong,” Price explained.
“I know procedure,” Brognola grumbled. He took out a cigar and clamped it between his teeth, working out tension as he ground the butt. “We’ve gone over it too many times before.”
Price let her boss blow off some steam. When it came to Brognola’s friendship with Mack Bolan and Jack Grimaldi, there were few ties stronger in the world. The thought of having to sever all ties with the men and allow them to fall into enemy hands galled the head Fed. She knew that all three of them would move Heaven and Earth should the others fall into trouble. That kind of loyalty could become a liability to the Sensitive Operations Group at Stony Man Farm, but so far, they had weathered every storm.
“It’s just a routine invasion of a hostile, sovereign nation, Hal,” Price said, ignoring the irony of her own statement. “Jack and Striker have done this hundreds of times before.”
Brognola’s jaw clenched, and Price knew that he was remembering every time the warrior and his pilot had been captured or injured. Price did everything in her power to keep such memories at bay, but even though she had been the mission controller at the Farm for years, there was no way she could match the depth and breadth of Brognola’s relationship with Bolan.
“Why are they approaching from the East Sea?” Brognola asked. “That wasn’t in your briefing.”
“Aaron cracked the hard drive Bolan recovered from the Koreans’ submarine. They were en route to Wonsan to look up a General Chong.”
“Anything on that yet?” Brognola asked.
“We have NSA satellites checking the area out, but no obvious activity so far,” Price responded. “Jack’s going to drop him off and then pop back down to a naval observation craft we’ve got parked offshore in South Korean waters.”
Brognola frowned. “Make sure they don’t get too close. Just remember the Pueblo.”
Price nodded. She knew of the U.S. naval intelligence ship that had been seized by aggressive patrol boats from the North Korean navy, decades ago. It had been a black eye to the United States, and another incident, with a high-tech prize like Dragon Slayer on board, would turn Southeast Asia into a powder keg.
Mack Bolan wasn’t walking the razor’s edge now. He was cutting his feet on the blade, and only his and Grimaldi’s skills could keep his blood from spraying the U.S. government in the fallout.
It was risky. And when Bolan called Stony Man Farm for the intelligence update and to inform them that he was going into the enemy nation, it wasn’t to ask permission. Such a request would have been construed as nothing less than an act of war, even if it was in utmost secrecy.
The Executioner wasn’t a government employee, and there was a conspiracy summoning him into the depths of an enemy stronghold.
And he either succeeded, or the world would be drawn into a war that could explode into a three-way conflict with China.
Brognola chewed on his cigar, reminding himself to breathe as he watched Dragon Slayer close with the Korean coastline.
Tongjosun Bay, North Korea
IF THERE WAS ANY POINT where the Executioner would have had the option of turning back, they’d long passed it as Jack Grimaldi skimmed the helicopter along at more than 200 mph, its belly only a few feet above the bay, racing parallel to the coastline toward the crook of its elbow. Bolan was dressed in black, simple peasant clothes stuffed into his waterproof backpack. A Beretta 93-R knock-off made by the Red Chinese NORINCO company nestled in his underarm holster, loaded with a flat-based 15-round magazine. A second holster rode on his right hip, but that would disappear completely under baggy pants and a jacket. The big man tilted his head back and placed in the brown contact lenses that masked the piercing cold blue of his eyes, then tested the feel of the semihardened prosthetic appliqués to the orbits of his eye sockets, to duplicate the epicanthic folds of an Asian. He checked the mirror, and his dark-tanned face and Asian eyes made him appear less likely as an American intruder. Bolan’s command of Korean was sketchy at best, though, and he was too large and powerfully built to make a convincing Korean. However, with his paperwork, a much better knowledge of simple Chinese, and his mastery of Vietnamese, he would be able to pass himself off, for a few moments, as a Chinese citizen of ethnic Vietnamese descent. He’d be treated like a third-class citizen if he was noticed.
“It’s pretty thin, Sarge,” Grimaldi said.
“Thicker than what we usually have, Jack,” Bolan replied.
“You sure you don’t want to pop back to Pattaya and load up with some AK-47s with grenade launchers?” Grimaldi asked.
Bolan patted the Beretta knock-offs in his holsters. “I have more than enough for this. I’m on a quiet probe, not a full-fledged invasion. If the North Koreans figured out we were on to their smuggling operation…”
“Yeah,” Grimaldi replied. “Nothing on our scanners, and nobody’s lit us up with surface-to-air missile radar.”
Bolan’s lips were drawn tight as he opened the side door. Dragon Slayer’s stealth capabilities were second to none. There was no sound from the rotors as it blazed along. Infrared baffles, a Kevlar-coated hull, and dark paint robbed the enemy of its ability to make a visual identification of the phantom war bird. Without running lights and operating under starlight scopes, the aircraft was a shadow that sliced over the water. Anyone seeing it might take it for a UFO…
That brought Bolan back to the mutilated cattle. He had encountered enemies with stealth helicopters before. Untrained observers had taken them for unidentified flying objects, and assumed them to be alien visitors.
You don’t get more alien than me in North Korea, Bolan mused mentally. He tensed as he continued his internal countdown, settling his goggles over his altered eyes.
Dragon Slayer flared to a halt, centrifugal force struggling against Bolan’s nylon harness, trying to hurl him out into the gulf. As the momentum bled off, Bolan unsnapped and launched himself out the side door, spearing into the water in a graceful dive.
Grimaldi spun the stealth helicopter away, automated mechanisms closing the side door.
No words of encouragement were necessary, and none were spoken.
Instead, the Executioner swam for the shore, fifteen yards away. No boats floated in the darkness, and nothing moved on the beach. If North Korean forces were perched in wait beyond the tree line, rifles trained on whoever would come from the surf, they would cut Bolan apart effortlessly.
It was a risk that Bolan was willing to take. Something stirred behind the Bamboo Curtain, a monster that reached its tentacles from Thailand to, possibly, North America. Finding its heart would give the Executioner the opportunity to kill it, or at least to slow it so that Hal Brognola could mobilize Stony Man Farm and the United States government against whatever insidious plot lurked in America’s backyard.
Bolan padded up onto the sand and crossed the beach, his waterproof backpack bobbing on his back. He was free and clear, for now.
Unfortunately, getting into North Korea was only the beginning.
He still had miles to go before he reached the smugglers’ destination.