Targets of Opportunity (20 page)

In the midst of the uproar, Vauchon heard a man downstairs shout out a cease-fire. Suddenly an eerie silence fell over the scene until the man below hollered again. “These explosives are set and cannot be disarmed. The charges will be detonated in a matter of minutes now. Either you let us through, or we will begin firing directly at the remaining hostages.”

Vauchon did not hesitate. “Let them go and drop your weapons, then you can all leave.”

“You are not listening,” Renaldo said, then leveled his weapon at one of the prone bodies on the stairs. “You have five seconds to back away or my men and I will commence firing.”

————

What Renaldo did not remember in the commotion, and what Lieutenant Vauchon could not possibly know, was that Adina was remotely monitoring these proceedings as he sat alone on the upper deck of the
Misty II
. He was receiving all of Renaldo’s radio communications, and so he heard the exchanges with Vauchon and, of course, the repeated volleys of gunfire.

What neither Renaldo nor Vauchon knew was that Adina had arranged to have the explosives rigged with a remote-detonation option.

At the moment of the cease-fire, Adina stared at the triggering device in his lap, listening through his headphones to the latest threat made by his men in the hopes of extricating themselves from what had become a disastrous turn of events.

He heard Renaldo say, “You are not listening. You have five seconds to back away or my men and I will commence firing.”

Adina shook his head sadly. Renaldo was one of his best men. He did not care about any of the others, but Renaldo’s death would be a loss. He would even feel something of a personal sorrow.

Nevertheless, this mission had been bungled. The escape of the French soldiers from the barracks and the murder of his guards were unforgivable. Adina was not concerned about the loss of his men, but he was furious about the possible compromise of his plan. He listened intently as the French soldier replied. He decided to give Renaldo one final opportunity to remedy his blunders.

————

Vauchon held firm. There would be no negotiation. He figured there were only a few more hostages still in harm’s way. Some had already been shot in the gun battle, some of those might already be dead.

He nodded to his two men, then all three opened fire, aiming high as he shouted to the remaining Fort Oscar staff who were huddled on the staircase, “Run for it, run!”

What ensued was utter pandemonium. The three remaining terrorists at the bottom of the stairwell returned fire, aiming at their attackers and the fleeing hostages.

The surviving workers made their way up the stairs as best they could, screams of fear and cries of pain intermixed with the clamor of gunshots. One after the other took hits in their shoulders, legs, and backs. Still, they struggled ahead as the three French soldiers gave them cover.

When the last of the hostages had clambered onto the landing, Vauchon reached for the man who had come through earlier, the one who had been wounded when André took out the terrorist who had been sent up first to scout out the room. Vauchon helped the worker to his feet, then, with the injured staff member in tow, he and his men herded the others to the near stairwell that led above.

Suddenly, as the gunshots continued to fly while Renaldo and his remaining accomplices scrambled up the stairs from the lower level, a brief rumbling sound was followed quickly by the sound of a loud blast, a thunderous crash chased by a fireball that followed the three Venezuelans up the stairs and engulfed them in flames.

Only Renaldo made it all the way to the top, where he lurched forward onto the floor of the main level. Just he and Vauchon remained there, the terrorists below having been incinerated in the blast and the surviving workers having already reached safety above. Renaldo had dropped his weapon and was covered in blood. Vauchon, who was himself injured in the explosion, leaned over him, gun in hand. The two men stared at each other and then Renaldo began to speak.

“Listen to me,” the terrorist gasped as the lieutenant dragged him toward the staircase.

Renaldo spoke quickly, gasping for air, barely able to complete what he wanted to say before a second series of explosions were ignited, coming from the charges on this main level, sending another roiling plume of fire and smoke upward. The sound was deafening as the series of concussive blasts knocked Vauchon backward, smashing his wounded left shoulder into the corner of a metal desk as he went sprawling onto the floor. He struggled to his knees and crawled toward the doorway.

Renaldo was dead.

Vauchon staggered up the stairs into the open corridor on the main level of the fort, where he stumbled to the safety of the stone floor.

————

Adina put down the remote detonator on the table beside him and removed the earphones. He could no longer hear his men, their communications having been destroyed. The sounds of gunfire, the explosions he had triggered and the wretched screaming of his innocent victims instantly vanished. He picked up his drink and took a long swallow.

It was his intention to create chaos in the balmy and peaceful Caribbean, and that had been accomplished. The loss of so many key men was an unfortunate consequence. His purpose was to send his enemies scurrying about these islands, searching for a connection between the downing of the airliner and the destruction of the communications center at Fort Oscar, all the while distracting them from any sense of his true intentions, his catastrophic plans for the southeastern United States.

He took another drink, uttered a sigh, then lifted the receiver that connected him to the wheelhouse.

“Weigh anchor,” he told them, and hung up.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

IN THE COUNTRYSIDE, OUTSIDE PYONGYANG

H
EA DROVE THE
bus to the end of a quiet, secondary road. She had long since switched off the headlights and, as far as Sandor could tell, had been guiding them forward by some innate radar. She now turned into a wooded area, making her bumpy way through trees and shrubs where there was barely enough room on either side for the small bus to pass, eventually coming to a stop beneath a canopy of large poplars.

They had successfully outdistanced the soldiers who made the first attempt to chase them. Given the element of surprise and the fact that Hea and Sang had already mapped out a circuitous escape route, they took and held an early lead. In the past few minutes they heard the sound of helicopters, but now their van was hidden from an aerial view in the darkness of this thickly forested glen. Sandor stepped into the cool night and saw, just a few yards away, two parked cars hidden under a spread of well-placed boughs.

“So,” he said to the girl as she followed him out onto the soft ground, “when you get to the States you can race Danica Patrick at the Indy 500.”

Hea responded with a blank stare. “You have a very American sense of humor, I think.”

“Is that good?”

She forced a smile. “Let me just say, it is confusing.”

Bergenn joined them now. “Don’t worry,” he said in response to Sandor’s look of surprise. “I tied our friend Hwang to the seat in the back.”

“We’re just about to get the lowdown from Hea.” He pointed to his right. “There are the two cars. Which way is home?”

The girl resumed her serious demeanor as she laid out their plans. “Most people escaping my country travel east to the Sea of Japan or west to Korea Bay. The only possible way to safety is by water; the border with the South is too heavily guarded.” Both men nodded their understanding. The border between North and South Korea is the most heavily fortified crossing in the world. “Since this is well known, the shores are constantly under observation by the military. This makes the shorter routes to water also very dangerous.”

Sandor frowned. “So what do you suggest?”

“I suggest surprise,” she said proudly.

Sandor stifled a smile. “We’re all ears.”

“Sorry?”

“I mean, we’re listening.”

“I see. Well, it is less than seven hundred kilometers from here to the Russian border at Khasan.”

“Four hundred miles,” Sandor said thoughtfully.

Bergenn responded with a concerned look. “Four hundred miles by land? In North Korea?”

“This was our fallback route according to the DD,” Sandor explained.

“There are also troops along that border,” Hea went on, “but it is much more open because there are many railroad lines passing back and forth between my country and the Khasansky district.”

“And because it’s not a border with South Korea.”

She responded with a respectful nod. “There is a rail bridge across the Tumen River. We can get through on the railroad cars or beneath the bridge.”

“Sounds like fun. What’s the other option, tie that little sedan to a hot air balloon and float into China?”

“No, the other plan is to drive south, right through Pyongyang. They will not expect this. Then go west to the Yellow Sea, where it is a short boat trip to the South.”

“It certainly is bold, I’ll give you that.” Sandor turned to Bergenn. “Name your poison.”

“Your mission, chief, you give the orders.”

Sandor looked behind him, as if someone might be coming. “Whatever we do, our lead is going to evaporate quickly.” He nodded to himself, as if confirming his decision. “You go south. Take Sang, let him do the driving, he’ll know the way.” He turned to Hea. “Sang can be trusted, yes?”

“Yes,” she told him.

“It’s a much shorter trip,” Sandor said.

“Which means a much better chance for Craig,” Bergenn agreed.

“Exactly.” Sandor paused. “He’d never survive the trip north.”

They were quiet for a moment, reflecting on the impossibility of their circumstances, not to mention Craig Raabe’s chances of making it through.

“You’re taking Hwang?”

“Yes,” Sandor said. “For whatever good it might do as a bargaining chip.”

“Remember, if he gets in your way, don’t let him get in your way.”

Sandor smiled. “Roger that.”

“So you’ll take Hea?”

“She’s been one helluva driver so far.”

“She certainly has,” Bergenn agreed.

Sandor glanced at the young woman, who was waiting patiently for these arrangements to be sorted out. She said, “You are right that time is short, Sandor. We really must go.”

“Okay,” Sandor agreed, then turned back to Bergenn. “You know, Jim, this is going to ruin your reputation.”

“How’s that?”

“Rumor has it that you always get the girl.”

“I’ve heard a thing or two about you too, chief.” He had a look at Hea. “Careful with him,” he warned.

Hea responded with a frown.

————

Sandor, Bergenn, Sang and Hea went about loading the weapons into the cars and preparing to leave. Sandor took Hwang, trussed his hands and legs with tape, and shoved him in the backseat.

Then Sandor and Bergenn faced their toughest decision.

The bodies of Zimmermann and Kyung were still in the van. There was no way they were going to leave them behind to their possible desecration by the North Korean army. Taking the bodies was out of the question.

Bergenn stood there, facing the small bus, trying to read Sandor’s mind. “Even if we set a long fuse to torch the van, once it goes off they’ll be all over it, then they’ll have our tire tracks and we’ll lose most of our advantage here.”

Sandor nodded. “But they’re going to find this van sometime.”

Hea was standing behind them. “You are right,” she said in a whisper. “But there is a paved road not far from here. We will go north and they will go south. All they will know is that there are two cars.”

Sandor grinned. “I’m getting those last pieces of C-4 from Craig,” he told Bergenn.

Craig Raabe was already laying across the backseat of the second small sedan. He parted with the explosive material and fuses as Sandor explained his plan.

Raabe responded with a weak nod. “I’ll see you back in D.C.,” he said.

“You bet you will,” Sandor told him, then hurried back to the van.

A couple of minutes later Sandor and Bergenn had rigged explosive charges to both entrances into the van. “This way,” Sandor said, “we save the fire until they find the van. And when they do…” He paused. “Kurt would have liked that kind of send-off, don’t you think? Sort of a Viking funeral.”

“He would,” Bergenn agreed. “Group cremation, where you take your enemies along for the ride.”

“Right,” Sandor said. Then they shook hands. “Good luck.”

“You too.”

“Whatever happens, let’s get as much of this information to Washington as we can.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

D
IRECTOR
W
ALSH HAD
an office full of people with staff shuttling in and out bringing him current updates. Deputy Director Byrnes was at his side as they faced the videoconference monitor on the far wall. Peter Forelli, the President’s National Security Advisor, was demanding a full explanation of everything that happened at Fort Oscar. Urgent communications were flooding in to the White House from all over the world, including Great Britain, Germany, Canada, and, of course, France. The early reports were grim and, in addition to information, President Henry Forest wanted to know just how in hell this mess had become his problem.

CIA Director Walsh told the President’s advisor that he had no answer yet.

“Well, damnit, get one. The President gets blamed for everything from floods to famine. Now he’s getting tagged because the French can’t protect their own fort, which, by the way, hasn’t seen a battle in over two hundred years.”

“You’re well aware of the operation that was in place inside that fort,” Walsh replied calmly.

“Yes, Michael, I know what was going on there. And incidentally, it was supposed to be a top-secret communications installation, which begs another level of inquiry, once the smoke on this clears.”

The DCI said nothing.

“We’ve got an airliner down off of St. Maarten and now a fort invaded in St. Barths. What in the name of all get-out is going on down there?”