There was a second roving patrol. Another Korean-American team he would have to deal with. This was a potential problem, but he didn’t doubt his ability. The training the South Korean Air Force had given him when he joined four years earlier had been a joke compared to the harsh training he’d received in the North Korean Army, and he’d worked hard to maintain his level of physical conditioning and martial skill. He just had to find his enemy.
Five minutes later he located them walking along the perimeter wire circling the airbase. As expected, they were talking to one another as they walked, their rifles slung, and their hands buried deep into their pockets for warmth. Yong-sun wondered if the realization that the morally corrupt and physically weak South wouldn’t be able to fight as well in the harsh winter had been taken into account as part of the grand plan. But, of course, there could be no doubt.
He approached them, his hands behind his back. They saw him from afar, but other than being slightly curious, neither was overly concerned. “Where’s Rogers?” the American asked as they got closer.
Yong-sun didn’t answer.
“Is he off taking a piss?” the American asked as they got closer. “That lazy shit will do anything to get out of the cold,” the American added.
Yong-sun was ten feet away when he brought the pistol up and around. The silencer was of his own making, one of many skills he’d had to learn for this mission.
“What the—” the South Korean sentry managed to say before Yong-sun opened fire. Two shots to the head for each of them. Neither even managed to pull their hands from their pockets. The American managed a stifled cry of alarm, but other than Yong-sun, there was no one within ear shot to hear it.
He kept his pistol trained on the dead men as he closed the distance and verified the kill by firing a final round into each man’s misshapen head. He took their ammunition and radios, adding them to his growing collection. Now, with the perimeter sentries silenced, he moved back toward the east side of the base and beyond the end of the main runway. He moved at a steady jog, checking the time and knowing he was a few minutes ahead of schedule.
The eastern gate was seldom used and not manned. Instead, a motion sensor on the gate, and a single security camera guarded the gate. Yong-sun’s combat knife was enough to cut the video feed leading from the camera back to the base security, where Yong-sun knew—from firsthand experience—there was a single, sleepy American monitoring over forty camera feeds. That was of course if he wasn’t reading a magazine or taking a nap. The motion sensor was next. It operated off a simple magnet. As long as the magnet was engaged to metal, the alarm wouldn’t sound. He defeated this in less than thirty seconds by using a slender piece of metal he slipped between the magnet and its contact. The alarm bypassed, he moved to the empty gate house. It was made of reinforced concrete and had bullet resistant glass. He turned on the light in the gatehouse, and then waited.
He was thirty minutes ahead of schedule, but apparently his fellow soldiers were equally anxious to fulfill their mission because within a minute of the light being illuminated, he saw the dark-clad force approaching on foot. Their faces were covered in camouflage paint, and they were armed with an assortment of weapons, explosives and grenades.
A pair of bolt cutters snipped the lock in less time than a key could have opened it, and the gate swung open, allowing the rest of the infiltrators in. Members of the North Korean Maritime Special Operations Forces, Yong-sun knew these twenty were just the tip of a very large iceberg of specially trained commandos currently spreading out across South Korea heading to their targets. All part of the master plan. Yong-sun, for security reasons, was only privy to his small part, but soon the entire South would be aflame. Or so his training had assured him.
No words of greeting were exchanged between Yong-sun and his fellow commandos. Instead, he handed over the spare security radios that would allow the various infiltration elements to monitor the base security net. There were a few brief words of final coordination, and then the team split into multiple elements. Yong-sun led a five-man element back toward the security barracks where the twenty-four man guard force, their quick reaction vehicles, and their arsenal were stored. This was the immediate threat to the mission’s success. Yong-sun and the five men with him would have to eliminate this force. Once this was accomplished, the base police force—another potential threat—would be hard pressed to prevent the catastrophe befalling the air base.
Yong-sun moved fast, skirting security cameras as he led his team. They ran the mile distance between the gate and the security barracks in just under nine minutes, avoiding every camera between themselves and their target. One hundred meters short, they paused, checking their weapons and preparing for the final rush. Grenades and automatic weapons in combination with surprise would allow their small force to overwhelm the larger force resting inside. They just had to get beyond the sentry manning the entry point to the barracks. Protected by reinforced concrete and armored glass, this sentry controlled all access into the barracks. To gain access, Yong-sun would have to bluff his way in. This was something he was certain he could do. He was trusted, after all.
Outside the barracks, waiting under an awning, were the armored Humvees of the quick reaction force. Once in possession of those vehicles, Yong-sun and his team would wreak havoc on the base, spreading confusion and drawing off other security personnel from the main attack.
There was nothing to stop them now.
Yong-sun stepped out from the darkness and moved toward the barracks. As soon as he left the shadows, he would be visible on a pair of security cameras monitoring the area around the barracks, but he wasn’t too concerned. He knew the name of the sentry guarding the access point, and he was confident he could get in. Once the heavy door’s electronic lock was disengaged, he would hold it open as the rest of his team rushed the barracks and joined him. He just had to cross the last few meters.
The unexpected wailing of the alarm claxon caught Yong-sun off guard, and for a moment he thought he was imagining the distinct cry of the base general alarm. Routinely tested, Yong-sun had heard it a hundred times over the last few years, but never in earnest. What had gone wrong? Had they been seen? Yong-sun was certain he’d avoided the security cameras. Then he thought of the other infiltration teams. They were heading for the multiple targets on the base including the main fuel depot, as well as the hangars where the fighter aircraft were housed. Had one of those team’s been spotted? Had they tripped an alarm?
He would never know.
Realizing the crucial element of surprise was lost, he shouted to his men and directed them forward. They had some explosives with them, but it would take time to blow the door, and during that time, the men inside would be arming themselves and preparing to sally forth. In training, it took less than two minutes for the quick-reaction force to reach their vehicles. But there was only one way in and out, and his men could cover the door killing anyone who dared show their faces.
Yong-sun turned toward the armored Humvees. Each one had a machine gun mounted in the turret and hundreds of rounds of ammunition. But, as he turned toward the row of vehicles, he saw a smoldering cigarette butt ember coming from a figure clamoring onto one of the trucks. Yong-sun opened fire with his M-16 at the unexpected opposition. One of the men on the guard force had apparently stepped out for a quick smoke and had been sheltering himself from the wind between two of the hummers.
Bullets ricocheted off the tough skin of the nearest Humvee as Yong-sun took a knee to gain a better aim. Forty yards separated him from the barracks and the rows of hummers. If the sentry reached the armored turret and the machine gun inside, Yong-sun and his men could be cut down in a hailstorm of bullets. He hesitated long enough to acquire his sights before squeezing off a burst.
The man was struck and collapsed on the top of the Humvee and then rolled off the other side. Yong-sun recognized the man as one of the Americans from the guard force. His name was Taylor and he was always talking about someplace called Chicago. Whether or not Taylor was dead, Yong-sun couldn’t be certain. What was certain was the delay Taylor had created was enough time for the first members of the quick-reaction force to appear.
Yong-sun, caught out in the open, went prone and opened fire, emptying the rest of his magazine at the doorway, striking the first two men to appear. The rest of his team were now firing as well. Yong-sun rolled slightly to one side as he ejected the spent magazine and reloaded as the men inside the barracks, realizing they were in dire straits, returned fire from inside as best they could.
The sound of an explosion somewhere behind them was welcome, as Yong-sun inserted a second magazine, and sent the bolt home. One of his men rushed forward, readying a grenade while the rest provided covering fire. But the grenadier made it barely ten meters before, from the direction of the hummers, the sound of a pistol was heard and the North Korean commando pirouetted as he was hit. Yong-sun saw his man go down, grimacing in pain as the grenade rolled free. Yong-sun ducked instinctively and the grenade exploded, sending shrapnel in every direction. Yong-sun felt something hit his armored shoulder and his helmet, but he felt no pain. He rolled, and turned back toward the hummers where he saw, firing a pistol over the hood of one of the vehicles, was the stubborn American, Taylor.
He opened fire on the American, emptying another magazine. All around him, his men were firing, and slowly moving forward toward the barracks. The pesky Taylor went down in a hail of bullets that spider webbed the armored windshield of the hummer and peppered its hood with bullets. With this distraction now dealt with, Yong-sun reloaded and returned his attention back to the barracks where firing was still coming out of the open door.
The assault team now laid down a withering barrage of fire, and Yong-sun, a grenade now in hand, came up and rushed forward. He pulled the pin on the fragmentation grenade as he ran. Forty yards was hardly a great distance, but felt like a mile as he rushed forward under fire. An explosion somewhere off to his left in the vicinity of the hangars provided him more motivation to hurry. If they could eliminate the quick reaction force, the latest explosion would be followed by many more.
The staccato burst of a machine gun off to his right caused Yong-sun to dive for the ground still twenty meters short of the barracks. He rolled to see the face of Taylor illuminated by the tongue of flame erupting from the barrel of a M240G machine gun. The American’s face was drawn back in a fierce scowl, the cigarette still clenched tightly in between his lips as he fired unleashing a scathing barrage. Yong-sun threw his grenade at Taylor, and rolled, hoping to engage before the American cut his men to pieces. The grenade struck the side of the hummer and bounced off. It exploded two seconds later under one of the vehicles, shielding Taylor from any shrapnel.
Yong-sun again opened fire on the unrelenting American. How he’d survived this long was a mystery, but Yong-sun had been taught that in combat he had to expect the unexpected. He emptied another magazine in the direction of Taylor secured in the armored turret. He saw the sparks as bullets ricocheted off the armored sides of the turret, but also saw the American spin, his face contort in pain and fall, collapsing inside the Humvee. Yong-sun would have liked nothing better than to run over and toss a grenade into the vehicle just to make certain the American was finally dead, but the men in the barracks, given a few seconds respite by Taylor’s actions, had managed another attempt to break out of the barracks. Two were outside the doors, firing wildly at Yong-sun and his surviving teammates. Yong-sun rolled to the side as bullets reached out toward him. He reloaded as he rolled, hearing more explosions coming from the direction of the hangars.
The bullet hit with the force of a sledgehammer, and he grimaced in pain, as he finished reloading. He rolled again, his training dictating his actions. How badly he was hit he couldn’t be certain, but their carefully laid plan was rapidly unraveling. He could hear the wail of multiple police sirens adding to the chaos created by the alarm claxon blaring across the base, the roar of weapons fire punctuated by more explosions. He saw one of the Americans who had managed to exit the barracks go down under a barrage of fire but the second had taken cover and was returning fire.
Yong-sun glanced back at his men. Two were lying motionless on the asphalt, but the other three were still firing. Yong-sun drew another grenade. He’d been hit, but he didn’t know how bad. What he did know, was he had to reach the barracks. With one well-placed grenade, he could end the unexpected firefight. He thumbed the clip and pulled the pin, took a breath, and came up, sprinting in the direction of the door as the second American to escape the barracks went down under a barrage of small arms fire. Yong-sun reached the side of the barracks in his first bound and saw his remaining three men, all firing at the door to keep the men inside at bay while Yong-sun moved along the wall toward the door.
The machine gun opened fire again from the direction of the hummers and Yong-sun looked to see that the irrepressible Taylor had yet to succumb. Yong-sun felt the hammer-like blow in his chest. His body armor was American made, and very good. Even at close range it could stop a pistol bullet. But the 7.62 mm bullets from the machine gun weren’t small caliber, slow moving pistol bullets. They were travelling nearly three thousand feet per second, and unlike a pistol, the machine gun was spitting out lead at nearly 950 rounds per minute. He felt the searing pain deep in his chest as he was slammed back into the wall by the first round, only to be hit again. He could see Taylor’s blood-stained face manning the machine gun.
Yong-sun tried to move toward the door, but his legs had turned to rubber and he felt himself sliding down the wall. He looked toward his three remaining men. One was still firing at the door, while the other two once more opened fire on Taylor who was firing like mad from the turret of the armored vehicle. Yong-sun hit the ground and looked down at his chest. He saw multiple bullet holes in his armored vest, and could taste the blood in his mouth. Added to the symphony of gunfire, screaming men, sirens and alarm claxons, was the sound of his gurgling chest as he tried to draw a breath.