Targets of Opportunity (18 page)

“Yes, we have two possible routes, once we get out of the stadium.”

“Once we get out of the stadium? I hope you have a plan for that too.” Sandor turned to Bergenn. “Knock those two out; they’ve heard enough for now.”

Bergenn, using the butt of the automatic, rendered the man on the couch unconscious with a couple of violent blows to his head, then leaned over the man on the floor and did the same.

“You’re leaving these bastards?” Zimmermann asked. Before the others could react he grabbed the large pillow from the sofa and, using it to muffle the sound, shot each of the two Koreans in the head.

As Hea turned away, Sandor stared at Zimmermann for a moment but said nothing. Turning back to Kyung, he asked, “How the hell do we do this? Drag you and Hwang down the hall past twenty soldiers?”

“No, there’s a tunnel under the stands, for government officials and honored guests.” He pointed at the smoked glass wall that separated them from the private area outside. The suite included twenty exterior seats facing the field below, but he was pointing to a door outside to the left. “There,” he said.

Sandor looked to Craig Raabe. “First we’ll wire up a warm reception in here.”

Raabe nodded and went to work, placing a charge at the entry door.

“All right,” Sandor said, jabbing his pistol into Hwang’s ribs. “Anything else you want to tell me before we say good-bye to the Arirang Festival?”

Hwang stared at him sullenly.

“Have it your way,” Sandor said as he shoved him forward. “We’re moving out.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

INSIDE FORT OSCAR, ST. BARTHÉLEMY, F.W.I.

L
IEUTENANT
V
AUCHON WATCHED
as the police captain led his two gendarmes, the injured soldier François, and the staff of Fort Oscar’s main workroom up the stairs to safety. Vauchon was left with his two men and their prisoner. He looked down at the Venezuelan, who remained on his knees with his hands clasped behind his head.

“What is your name?”

“Fredrico.”

“Well, Fredrico, you are able to contact your compatriots on this radio, yes?”

The man nodded anxiously.

“Good,” the lieutenant said. “Then it’s time for you to tell them exactly what I want you to say. You understand?”

“Our time is short,” was the nervous reply, but Vauchon shook him off.

“I’m sure we have more time than you say. After all, your men below have not even returned here, have they?” His pleasant demeanor was abruptly replaced with a brusque tone. “Now get these bastards on the radio.”

Fredrico took the radio from Vauchon, prompting the lieutenant to shove the barrel of his rifle at the man’s eyes. “Easy,” he said. “And remember, I speak perfect Spanish.”

The prisoner acknowledged this with a brief nod, then moved more slowly as he pressed the send button and made contact with Renaldo.

Vauchon said, “Tell them all their other men up here are dead and you’re our prisoner. Tell them they have no way out except through this room. They are in a dungeon, and we are now their gatekeepers, tell them that.”

Fredrico did as he was told. There was no reply.

“Now tell them we have five men positioned in this room, and the remaining members of my unit are waiting at the two doorways on the main level.” When this was greeted with a skeptical look, Vauchon jabbed the barrel of his FAMAS into the center of the man’s forehead. “Tell them,” he ordered through clenched teeth.

Again the man complied.

“Now, tell them that if they want to save their lives they must immediately release the staff and send them up here. And tell them I mean immediately.”

Fredrico again spoke into the radio and then waited, until the response finally came crackling over the handheld device. It was Renaldo’s voice.

“Tell our French heroes that unless they give up their weapons and retreat, we will begin murdering these people, one every thirty seconds. There is no time to negotiate, this is a final order.”

Vauchon did not much care for the idea of having orders dictated to him by a murderer. Concluding he had no further need of Fredrico, he took the radio from his prisoner’s hand and passed it to one of his men. Then he calmly raised the French-made rifle and brought the metal butt crashing down across the back of Fredrico’s head. As the man stumbled to the side Vauchon struck him again, this time imparting an underhanded blow with the stock of the FAMAS that caught the Venezuelan under the chin and sent him reeling backward until he hit a desk and fell to the floor, unconscious.

Taking the radio back from his corporal, Vauchon pushed the transmit button. “You see, it is you who have no time. You are quite correct. This is not a negotiation since we do not negotiate with terrorists. Your man has already informed us that these rooms have been wired with explosives, so according to him we are all dead anyway, are we not?” He gave the man a chance to answer. When he did not, Vauchon added, “We are prepared to wait you out. We can even seal off these rooms and leave you to the fate you have created for yourselves. Our proposal is a simple one. Release the hostages and we will allow you to surrender into our custody. If you stand and fight, you will all die.”

While they awaited a reply, Vauchon instructed one of his men to try one of the landline phones again to make another attempt to contact their superiors in Guadeloupe. As expected, the phones were still dead.

“Try your cell again.”

André shook his head. “I have tried. Nothing.”

The other soldier said, “At least the automatic warning systems must have been triggered.”

The lieutenant nodded, his expression grave. “No matter. If this Fredrico told us the truth, help will never arrive in time.”

“We should go above, sir,” André said. “Respectfully, there is nothing more we can do from here that can’t be done upstairs.”

Vauchon thought that over as his other officer examined the explosives that had been rigged at strategic points around the room.

“I’m no expert,” the young soldier said nervously, “but there appears to be some serious firepower wired into this place, sir. I agree with André.”

“What about those innocent people below?”

André spoke up. “There are four armed men down there and three of us. If we attack, we’ll be ducks in a shooting gallery the moment we come through the door. Here we had surprise on our side, sir, not to mention we had seven men against two.”

Vauchon could not argue his logic. And yet, what of all those people downstairs?

At that moment the three Frenchmen were startled by the unmistakable echo of gunfire from the level below, followed by the sound of the radio in the lieutenant’s hand crackling to life. “We have killed the first hostage,” the voice announced, backed by a chorus of wailing and screaming in the background. “One of your soldiers has given his life for no reason, and his blood is on your hands. Now, are you prepared to give up your weapons and permit us safe passage?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

RUNGRADO MAY DAY STADIUM, PYONGYANG

C
RAIG
R
AABE WAS
working on the door of the suite that led to the main corridor. He fastened a simple trip wire to the door handle and connected it to one of the packages of C-4 plastique he had removed from the small of his back. It was a crude mechanism, but it would buy them some time. When he completed his work he looked to Sandor. “Ready,” he announced.

Kyung nodded. “Follow me,” he said.

Before they moved out, Sandor borrowed a strip of duct tape from Raabe and slapped it roughly across Hwang’s mouth. “You touch this tape, you die. Now let’s go.”

In a single file headed by Kyung, the six men and Hea left the suite through the smoked-glass door that led to the outer seating area of the private box, then passed though the doorway to the left that led into a tunnel that circled its way beneath the infrastructure of the arena. Each of the four Americans was now armed with a North Korean–manufactured AK-47 and extra magazines. Bergenn and Sandor also had the Type 68 pistols.

Raabe was last through the door and he again rigged a special greeting for those who would be following them. Once he completed the task, he rushed to catch up with the others.

“Only one charge left,” he called out to Sandor.

“Okay,” Sandor said. “Hopefully one is enough.”

The passageway was a dimly lit concrete channel, narrow with a low ceiling and no stairs, a winding ramp down to ground level. Kyung led them in a trot, no one speaking until they heard the distant sound of an explosion from above. All seven of them stopped for a moment.

“Our first greeting card,” Raabe said.

Sandor ordered them to get moving again and they did.

Kyung said, “Almost there,” just before they heard the second blast, this one much louder, the noise reverberating throughout the long tunnel. Seconds later it was followed by the sound of automatic gunfire, the prelude to soldiers entering their passageway.

“Let’s go,” Sandor urged them.

The group ran ahead until they reached the final turn. Kyung brought them all to an abrupt stop. He looked at Sandor. “The soldiers on the ground level will already be on alert,” he said, then pointed ahead. “The tunnel branches off in two directions from here. There are exits to the outside, left and the right.”

Sandor nodded. “The longer we wait, the worse it’ll get.” He turned to Hwang and ripped the tape from his mouth. “Since you don’t care about dying for your country, I figure you’ll lead the way. That plan work for you?”

The Korean stared at him coldly. “You are all dead men.”

“So you keep telling me, but I think you should go first anyway.” Sandor grabbed Hwang by the collar and looked to Kyung. “Which way?” he asked.

Their mole in Pyongyang ignored the angry glare of his superior officer in the DPRK as they stood in a tight circle under the murky lights of the narrow corridor. “I had planned our escape to the right,” Kyung said, his admission of complicity in this American incursion now complete. “But I never expected this much resistance. I am not sure what we will face.”

Sandor was tempted to laugh. “What we will face, my friend, is a vigorous counteroffensive.” They heard the first echo of dozens of footfalls on the concrete ramp behind them, which now grew louder by the second. “Let’s stay with your plan.”

Kyung said, “We have one thing in our favor—they will not want to kill Hwang.”

“Great,” Sandor said with a wry grin, “at least we’ve got that going for us. Now lead the way.”

Kyung took off toward the right and they all fell in behind him.

Strange, Sandor thought as they raced toward the door. The group chasing them from above would have had the chance to radio to the ground patrol. Why had they not entered the tunnel ahead of them, positioning themselves at this junction where they would have had the superior position to attack Sandor’s team? It might just be that Kyung was right. As they reached the exit door, he said, “Our friend Hwang really is valuable property, eh?”

Kyung responded with a nod that appeared more like a lowering of his eyes in deference to the other Korean.

Sandor turned to Bergenn, who had come up just behind him. “This could work,” he said, then without hesitation he stepped forward and kicked the door open, one hand holding his submachine gun, the other swinging Hwang in front as a human shield. To his amazement, there was not a single Korean soldier in sight. In fact there was no one at all on the small plaza. “Snipers,” Sandor said to Bergenn. “They’re not going to risk hitting this sonuvabitch in a firefight, they’re going to try and pick us off.”

As Bergenn passed that information back to the others, the sound of the onrushing soldiers from above grew louder.

“Time to get going, chief,” Bergenn said.

Sandor nodded. “Where to?” he asked Kyung.

“Your van, you see it there?” He pointed across the courtyard to the familiar bus.

“Not bad,” he told Kyung. “What about the driver, Mr. Sang?”

Kyung nodded. “He is one of us.”

Sandor smiled. “Nice. So then, all we have to do is get across the plaza, board the van, and not stop for red lights.” With the soldiers above fast approaching, Sandor knew they were out of time. “All right everybody, stay low, move fast, and let’s try to get there in one piece.” He looked at Hea. “You know how to use this?”

She nodded, so he handed her the automatic rifle and removed the Tokarev from his waistband.

“There are probably snipers all around,” he told them, “three-hundred-sixty-degree coverage from above. Allow everyone a few paces before you move outside. Don’t give them any cluster targets. Let’s go.”

Sandor moved first, shoving Hwang forward and breaking into a run toward the small bus. The shooting began immediately and any ideas Hwang might have had about resisting Sandor’s push forward vanished in an instinctual drive for self-preservation. Sandor knew his handgun was all but useless against the fusillade of automatic fire, so he concentrated on running as fast as he could to the vehicle.

His men, armed with the automatic rifles taken from the Koreans, managed to give him some cover, and he made it to the relative safety of the van without being hit. Hwang was not as fortunate, taking a round in his right shoulder. As Sandor and his wounded prisoner dove into the bus, they found Mr. Sang crouching on the floor beside the driver’s seat.

Bergenn quickly followed them on board, Hea close behind.

“Damn,” Sandor growled as he scrambled to his knees and had a look at the fighting on the plaza. He saw that Kyung had been struck in the crossfire and was lying on the ground. When Raabe made a move to reach him he was also hit. Zimmermann, trying to take aim at the sniper above the parapet who was doing the most damage, was caught in a fusillade and spun to the stone floor in a bloody heap.

Sandor snatched the rifle Hea was holding and yelled at Sang, “Get this damn thing going.” Then he turned to the girl. “I have a better idea, you drive. Jump that curb there and circle back so we can get those men on board.”