Hunt the Dragon (18 page)

That meant that Crocker and Sam rose and hurried in a crouch thirty feet past Suarez and Akil with their weapons ready. Then Crocker and Sam knelt behind trees and provided cover as Suarez and Akil leapfrogged their position. They went through two rotations before Akil stopped, dropped to his knees, and whispered via comms, “Two pax a hundred feet eleven o'clock!”

Crocker slithered forward on his belly and from the ground beside Akil saw two guards standing by the entrance, which looked like a concrete ramp with trees and shrubs around it. No flags, signs, or emblems. Bland, hidden, and utilitarian. Akil pointed to a camouflage-colored armored personnel carrier (APC) parked farther left. Aside from the construction equipment and ventilation stack, it was the only sign that the underground complex was a significant target.

Among Crocker's weapons were eight canisters of a nonlethal anesthetic gas called fentanyl. According to the DARPA expert who had briefed him via video, the canisters when charged would release an opiate-based narcotic one hundred times more powerful than morphine and with a sharp astringent smell. It would quickly knock out anyone who breathed it—but could also cause them to stop breathing altogether.

Crocker had no way of calculating how many people would be inside the complex at night, nor did he want to risk the life of the hostage. He instructed Sam to stay with Akil while he and Suarez circled around to surveil the back.

Akil whispered through comms, “It's different from the drawing. I think the complex has been expanded, or is in the process of being expanded now.”

“Copy. Agree.”

When he and Suarez arrived at the rear entrance, they found a wider ramp with a forklift parked nearby, two large green dumpsters, and more construction equipment parked under a camouflage-pattern canopy. No guards in sight.

Crocker took photos with his digital camera, then signaled for Suarez to wait and cover him while he hurried forward and knelt behind a concrete abutment beside the ramp. Peering through his NVGs, he saw that the ramp led to a metal gate, the kind that pulled down from above.

He scanned left and right, then ran forward to check if it was locked. Affirmative. Turning back, he heard something inside the entrance beep three times and stop. His blood froze for a second, and he backed up and tumbled left to the other side of the abutment, leveled his weapon on the concrete edge, and counted. No one emerged by the time he'd counted to ten.

Tell me I didn't trip a fucking alarm.

He signaled to Suarez and they circled back to the front, where Akil and Sam lay waiting behind some trees.

“You hear or see anything?” Crocker asked. “Movement, alarms, flashing lights?”

“Negative.”

“Anyone in back?”

“Negative to that, too.”

In a matter of seconds Crocker formulated a plan. He and Akil would take out the two guards. Then, while Sam watched the front entrance, he, Akil, and Suarez would enter the complex. Akil would lead them to the printing presses on the second level. While Suarez set the charges, he and Akil would search the complex for the hostage and the lab. Once outside and away from the complex, they would fire the detonators.

“Piece of cake,” Sam whispered.

“Stay focused. Silent and quick.”

He tapped Akil on the shoulder. They moved on their bellies to within fifty feet of the front entrance, then got up and circled around the rear of the APC. Parked alongside it was a black Russian-built ZiL limousine that resembled a Mercedes. They were now at a thirty-degree angle to and forty feet from the entrance. Crocker used hand signals to indicate that he would take the guard on the right. Akil was responsible for the other one.

Both of their AKs were equipped with suppressors. As Crocker leveled his weapon until the crosshairs found the guard's chest, something moved across his field of vision. He lowered his weapon and indicated to Akil to lower his, too. A stocky Korean officer walked alongside a thinner, older man wearing a black parka and gloves. Behind them followed three younger men in dark suits who appeared to be aides or bodyguards. The two older men stopped within twenty feet of the APC and were talking animatedly in Korean. Meanwhile, two of the younger aides climbed into the ZiL. One of them started the engine.

As Crocker watched, the officer saluted the older man in the parka, who then got into the backseat of the vehicle. The officer and the remaining aide walked back into the complex as the ZiL drove off.

Akil whispered, “What the fuck was that?”

“Looked like an officer and a senior official.”

“What were they saying?”

“No idea. Stay focused.”

As SEALS, they'd been trained to execute their missions without emotion. “Keep a cool head and warm feet and heart,” went the Shinto saying that Crocker repeated in his head.

He waited for the officers to enter, took a deep breath, and whispered, “Engage in three.”

Three Mississippis later, two quick bursts from their AKs caused the guards to jerk backward and crumple. Akil's guard opened his mouth to shout something, but before the sound could come out, they both fired at his head so the noise he made sounded like a cough. They were onto the bodies in a flash, making sure the guards were dead, then dragging them inside with them and leaving them in a dark space behind the entrance.

The dimly lit vestibule was clear. Crocker gave the signal and Suarez ran to join them, carrying the pack filled with bricks of CL-20. He and Crocker followed Akil down a flight of metal stairs and into another foyer-type area with a hallway that led right and another, wider one to the left.

“That wasn't in the diagram,” Akil whispered, indicating left.

“Noted.”

“One flight down.”

They turned right, proceeded another twenty feet, then followed Akil down a stairway, making sure to rest their weight on the balls of their feet to make the least noise. The facility seemed empty and hollow.

The walls were made of concrete that had been covered with a coat of sealant or shellac to give it a dull yellow tint. The floors were covered with dark-blue linoleum, cracked in places. Fluorescent bulbs buzzed and flickered from the middle of the ceiling, which stood tall at roughly ten feet, made of concrete and painted gray. It felt more like a prison than a workplace. Cold, drab, and sterile. The hallway walls were bare except for the occasional warning sign in Korean, which Crocker couldn't read. Akil reached the second level and pivoted right. The second door on the second-level hallway was wider than the first. He stopped and tried the knob. Locked.

Suarez stepped forward and popped it open with the thin iron bar he kept in his pack. Inside, Crocker did a quick inspection. Two large intaglio presses. Long, tall beige-colored machines with six rows of trays and stainless-steel rollers. Check. Stacks of clothlike paper wrapped in bunches. Check. Bottles of ink. Check.

“This is Target One. Start laying charges. Akil and I are going to look for Target Two and the hostage.”

“Copy,” said Suarez. “Take this.”

He handed him the metal bar, which Crocker tucked under his right arm.

Akil went out before him and was already inspecting the other two doors along the opposite side of the hallway. Crocker jimmied open the first on the near side. Storage, mostly—stacked with boxes. Ripped some open and found ink and paper. The second room contained a toilet, sink, mops, and cleaning supplies.

“What'd you find?” he asked Akil.

“Paper and random shit. Nothing that looked important.”

Crocker pointed up.

They climbed to the next level and started checking the rooms there, one on one side, one on the other, knowing that every minute that ticked by put them in more peril. This inspection was aided by the fact that some of the doors contained windows. Through them they saw offices with desks, chairs, flags, maps, and framed photos of the Supreme Leader.

The hallway narrowed, with more rooms farther along.

Crocker whispered, “You continue. I'm going to check the other side.”

“Roger.”

He hurried across the central atrium with its two large elevators and down the wider corridor. Up ahead he heard the shuffling of feet; backed up and squeezed himself against the wall at the corner. Someone was coming up the stairway to his right. He heard the person stop and strike a match. Then the individual continued, humming to himself—sounded like a lament. The song echoed up the stairway, then stopped. The man seemed to be calling someone on a radio. He called again. No one answered. He continued, closer and closer, until he emerged and was standing so close that Crocker could smell him—kimchi (sweet-and-sour cabbage) and cigarette smoke mixed. Smelled like a fart.

The North Korean grunted something, then stepped past Crocker. He was a short, wide man in cheap civilian clothes and worn black shoes. Crocker considered detaining him for a second and asking about the location of the U.S. engineer, but the language barrier made that problematic. So he came up behind him, slapped his right hand over the man's mouth, the left under his jaw. Pulled his head up and twisted violently until his spine snapped and the man's body trembled and went limp.

Sorry, bud.

He dragged him by the back of his collar into the stairwell and left him there, then proceeded down the hall. The doors here were metal, with no windows. He used the metal bar to pop the lock on the first. Saw a large lab/machine shop, mechanical parts lying on tables. He saw what looked like a gyroscope on one of them.

Gotta blow all this.

In the next lab, diagrams on the wall showed stages of a rocket.

Where's the engineer?

As he approached a third door, with a nuclear symbol on it, he heard Akil's voice through the earpiece.

“Deadwood, what'd you find?”

“Target Two. Tell Suarez to get his ass up here and lay more CL-20.”

“Copy, boss.”

“One dead enemy in the stairway, so don't be surprised.”

“The officer?” Akil asked.

“Negative. An aide or guard.”

“I've seen no one.”

“Help Suarez with the first floor. The first three or four rooms on the left. Labs of some sort. I'll inspect two.”

“Copy. Over.”

As Crocker entered the stairway and started down to level two, Naylor's voice came over the radio.

“Deadwood, Tiger One. You read me?”

“Copy, Tiger. What's up?”

“Currently got eyes on a Korean People's Navy patrol boat moving past us in the general direction west. Approximate speed fifteen knots. Approximate distance two hundred meters.”

“Copy, Tiger. I assume the SDV is still fully submerged.”

“Fully submerged, check.”

“Keep me appraised of any changes in the PT's course, especially if it turns north to circumvent the island.”

“Will do, Deadwood. What's your ETA?”

“Fifteen. Start the engines at thirteen.”

“Thirteen. Copy.”

“Over and out.”

The last thing Crocker wanted to do was engage the KPN, which had a large base in nearby Munchon and could block their exfil.

Reaching the lower level and sweating under the smart suit, he jimmied open the first door, which opened to reveal a small kitchen with hotplates, cupboards, a sink, and an old refrigerator. The second room was crowded with two sets of bunk beds and a small TV. It led to a tiny bathroom with a shower. Both were unoccupied.

As he started to jimmy open the third, Akil's voice pulsed in his ear.

“Boss, charges set on first deck, west left. Possible presence of nuclear material.”

“I saw the signs, too.”

“Location?”

“Down one deck.”

“Time on target eight minutes and counting. Probably don't want to detonate until we're off the island.”

“I'll be there A-SAP. Wait in the atrium. Watch the front and back doors. Sam, you copy?”

“Copy, boss.”

“All clear out front?”

“All clear.”

“Stand by. We'll be there soon.”

As he jimmied open the door on his left, an alarm went off—a high whining sound that hurt his ears.

Fuck!

“Boss! Boss! You hear that? You read me?”

“I hear it. Clear the complex and wait outside.”

“Boss!”

“Go. I've got this. Over.”

The room he entered was dark and cold. Through his NVGs, he saw a metal table and chairs. A dark liquid on the floor. Smelled like someone had gotten sick. A pair of men's shoes. In the corner, a mattress and someone in the fetal position with his back to him.

He took a step closer and poked the individual with the barrel of his gun.

The man had thinning brown hair. Leaning closer, Crocker whispered, “Dawkins? James Dawkins?”

The man turned and looked up. He was gaunt and middle-aged, with Western features. Crocker thought he matched the photo he'd been shown at NAB Coronado.

“Can you stand?”

“Who are you?” the man asked weakly.

“Chief Warrant Tom Crocker, U.S. Navy,” he whispered back to the frightened-looking man with a missing front tooth.

“Who?”

“I've come to rescue you. Take my hand.”

As he reached down, he heard the click of metal behind him, followed by a blast that lit up the room and hit him between the shoulder blades like a sledgehammer. He flew past Dawkins and smacked the side of his head against the wall.

His head spinning and sharp pains shooting up and down his spine, he reached for his modified AK and pushed off from the wall. As he turned, the thin mattress slipped out from under him and a second shotgun blast flew past his head, almost taking off his ear. Pellets glanced off his NVGs and a few tore into the side of his neck.

Men near the doorway were shouting in Korean. Through the haze of burnt gunpowder, Crocker saw that Dawkins had squeezed himself into the corner. Six feet away a thin man in glasses and civilian clothes stood in the doorway struggling to reload a shotgun. He slipped the shells in and snapped it shut, but his finger remained above the trigger guard. This gave Crocker the split second he needed to rake him sternum to head with AK fire.