by Ben Coes
Dewey holstered one of the guns and took the SAT phone from his pocket. There were no messages. They were now out of range, though their earbuds would continue to work in-theater. They could talk to one another.
Dewey stared at Fusco, then Barrazza.
“Welcome to North Korea,” he said.
Barrazza laughed. Fusco grinned slightly, then cut to the chase.
“Nick, John, you guys commo?”
“Yeah.”
Fusco looked at Dewey. All the SEALs were listening.
“So what happens if you get shot?” said Fusco.
“I get shot, leave me,” said Dewey blankly. “Anyone gets killed, you leave them. We’ll come and get you later. There’s only one objective. Kill Kim. Got it?”
Fusco nodded. He looked at Barrazza.
“Set a threader,” he said. “Over there.” He pointed at the tunnel in the opposite direction of the palace. “We can’t blow up this section, otherwise Nick and John won’t get through.”
“Got it,” said Barrazza.
Barrazza took two grenades from his vest as he walked up the tunnel, away from where they were going. He took a spool of thread and looped one end around one of the grenades. He set it down along the base of the floor. He set the other grenade on the other side of the floor then took the thread and wrapped it around that grenade until there was tension—enough to keep the thin, nearly invisible thread in the air above the concrete. Finally, and very carefully, he pulled the pin from one of the grenades. He went to the other grenade and, as gently as he could, pulled the pin from that one as well.
Anyone coming from behind him would run into the thread, causing both grenades to explode. It wouldn’t do much to the tunnel itself—but it sure as shit would fuck someone up.
Barrazza pocketed the pins and ran back to Fusco and Dewey.
Dewey looked at Barrazza.
“One by ones,” said Dewey. “What side do you want?”
“Left,” said Barrazza.
Dewey looked at Fusco. “You ready?”
“Yes. I have your back.”
“You guys upstairs, we’re moving.”
Dewey clutched the silenced SIG P226. He started a fast jog down the tunnel with the gun out in front of him, toward the palace. He ran for several hundred yards, seeing no one, and came to another tunnel that shot off to the right. He stopped and crouched as, behind him, Barrazza approached. Dewey took a step, sweeping the weapon across the other tunnel as Barrazza sprinted by him and took point, charging down the tunnel.
Barrazza’s eyes caught a momentary modulation in the light in the distance, someone passing beneath one of the halogens. There was someone ahead. They were a good distance away, but it was unmistakable. He stopped and held up his right hand, warning Dewey.
Barrazza could see the opening into another tunnel up ahead. He tucked flat against the wall and skulked forward until he came to the opening. He waited, then snapped his fingers as he put his finger to the trigger of his silenced MP7. After a few long, quiet moments, the sound of steel-toed boots came from the side tunnel. Barrazza moved in front of Dewey, pushing against the right wall, out of view of the oncoming soldier.
The soldier didn’t say anything—he didn’t call in whatever he suspected the noise was—but he heard something.
The steps along the concrete grew louder. A shadow crossed the tunnel light. Barrazza heard a dull, almost imperceptible metal friction: a safety being moved off. Then came a few more steps, getting closer. The moment was coming when the North Korean would cross the opening into the main tunnel, just inches from where Barrazza now lurked.
Whatever weapon the North Korean was carrying was no doubt trained on the opening in front of him.
As the first patch of leg crossed into the opening, Barrazza fired, hammering the soldier before he knew what hit him, lighting him up in lead. The soldier crumpled to the ground as blood sprayed the concrete behind him.
Barrazza looked at Dewey.
“Subtle,” said Dewey.
73
SITUATION ROOM
THE WHITE HOUSE
Every OLED screen in the Situation Room started flashing red. The word “ALERT” cut on and off across the screens.
A moment later, the screens cut to a live video feed. Samantha Stout from NSA was on-screen.
“The North Koreans initiated the launch order,” said Samantha. “Mr. President, you have twenty-six and a half minutes until the North Korean missiles take off.”
Dellenbaugh stared into the screen. After a moment, he turned to the table.
“Once again,” Dellenbaugh said, “what is the flight time from the submarine to the target for our missiles?”
“Three minutes,” said Tralies.
Dellenbaugh looked at his watch. He took a pencil from the conference table and grabbed the closest piece of paper he could find, a newspaper. He started scribbling down numbers.
“We launch at ten minutes,” said Dellenbaugh.
“But sir,” yelled Tralies. “They issued the order!”
Dellenbaugh gave Tralies an icy stare. The president said nothing, waiting for Tralies to finally understand the order.
“Ten minutes,” said Tralies. “In the meantime, per protocol, we need to open the football, sir. There are a number of logistical steps—”
“I know how it works,” said Dellenbaugh. “In the meantime, convene a call with Putin and Xi. Invoke the Emergency Council if you have to.”
The Emergency Council was created by Woodrow Wilson more than a century ago. It included the leaders of three countries. One of the most secret programs in the world, it involved an agreement that superseded political boundaries and could be initiated only by its members, the leaders of the three countries, even in times of war between the parties. When a council member called for a meeting, the other two members were obligated to drop whatever they were doing. The three members of the Emergency Council represented more than 90 percent of all the world’s wealth and most of its land. It was the last bastion of protection, a council at the end of the day committed to fighting true threats to mankind. There weren’t many members: China, Russia, and the United States of America. In essence, the Emergency Council was the big kid on the playground.
Dellenbaugh understood that he needed to let them know he was about to wipe out a country. He wasn’t asking permission, but he was taking the time to notify them.
Two minutes later, a voice came over the phone console.
“This is Scarlett four four blue,” came a European-sounding female voice. “You have the president of the United States, the president of Russia, and the president of the People’s Republic of China.”
Dellenbaugh stepped to the table as all eyes were on him.
“Vladimir, Xi, nice talking with you,” said Dellenbaugh. “I’ll keep it brief. In a few minutes the United States is going to initiate a preemptive nuclear strike on North Korea. It’s our only option at this point. Thank you for your time.”
74
PYONGYANG
Dewey and Barrazza plowed down the tunnel, taking turns running point, switching when they come to a side tunnel.
Fusco moved behind them, eyes and weapon trained backward. He’d switched weapons, taking out the M4, sweeping it across the tunnel behind them, looking for lurkers.
Fusco stepped over the bloody corpse of the dead soldier. He kept moving back but saw a shadow. He stopped. He crouched down low and pressed against the wall of the tunnel, waiting. He heard the faint scratch of material, the sound of someone inspecting the dead man. A moment later the silhouette became clearer, the dull light illuminating him. Fusco aimed the rifle and, as the soldier stepped into his sight line—swinging his gun toward Fusco—fired. Fusco’s slug ripped the North Korean in the middle of his forehead, dropping him.
Dewey and Barrazza were now a good distance from Fusco. They moved past another tunnel opening without seeing anyone and Dewey took point, running down the tunnel, gun extended. They ha
dn’t even come to another opening when they both heard the sound of a soldier speaking Korean.
The words were incomprehensible. The tone was frantic.
Dewey tucked his gun in the shoulder holster and reached to his leg, taking out his combat blade. The soldier was just ahead but out of sight, in the lee of the next turn. Just as the soldier stopped talking, Dewey broke into a desperate sprint. As Dewey hit the turn, he saw him clutching an UZI. He swung the blade, slashing the knife from left to right as, with his outstretched left hand, he reached for the muzzle of submachine gun. Dewey’s blade caught the soldier in the neck in the same moment his hand grabbed the muzzle. Dewey ripped the blade sideways as the soldier panicked, attempting to react. But the stab was far too deep and the soldier’s hands let go of the gun and reached for his neck. He let out a low, pained groan just as the blade tore horizontally across the nape of his neck. He went tumbling down to the concrete, unable to trigger the gun even once. The gash was deep and jagged, severing half the gunman’s neck. Blood started flowing immediately, as if an envelope suddenly opened up and spilled out a gurgle of crimson. Dewey kept the UZI.
“We’re getting closer,” said Barrazza. “Lighting’s better, more soldiers.”
As they continued down the tunnel, they heard a walkie-talkie: words in Korean. Dewey stopped walking. He went back to the soldier and took the radio from his belt. Someone was calling the soldier. It didn’t sound urgent—until the second squawk a few seconds later. Dewey put the radio in his pocket.
“We need to move faster,” said Dewey.
Dewey and Barrazza started a hard sprint, running towards the remaining gunmen who stood between them and Kim.
A bolt of cold fear hit Dewey. He realized that the North Koreans knew they were there, and why they were there. Talmadge, the dead men at Talmadge’s apartment, the takedown of the tunnel entrance. They understood that an invader was in their midst. An invader with one objective: assassinate Kim. Kill the supreme leader.
“Faster,” said Dewey, pushing the pace of their hard run. “Faster. We need to move faster!”
75
PYONGYANG
Truax heard it first. A door moving. He looked at Kolackovsky. A half second later they charged for the hatch that led to the tunnel, just as automatic gunfire sprayed the door and the sound of boots echoed in between the low-pitched din of the submachine guns.
They went through the interior door and slammed it shut. Truax pulled a small object from his vest pocket the size of a pack of cigarettes as Kolackovsky ripped a spiderweb of red, green, and black wires from his pocket. Truax tore off a layer of black, wet-looking plastic from the object. Beneath was a small brick of Semtex. Enough Semtex to take down the first three floors of the building. He placed it gently against the seam of the door hatch and pressed slowly against it, smashing the clay-like material in place. Kolackovsky inserted the wires, one of which was attached to a tiny copper switch. He taped the wires next to the steel hatch so that when it opened, the wires would fall. He pressed a small button on the side of the copper switch, initiating a single-purpose motion detector.
Then they fled.
Down the tunnel ladder, Kolackovsky in front, each man scrambling as the sound of automatic-weapon fire grew louder above them. They could hear shouting in Korean, high-pitched orders punctuated by yet more gunfire.
Kolackovsky and Truax reached the concrete floor of the tunnel and started sprinting, just as the explosion mauled the air. The air pressure threw each man off his feet, kicking them forward. The tunnel behind them collapsed beneath the weight of the falling apartment building. The sound of bending metal and the choke of slurry dust washed over them.
Kolackovsky was the first to his feet. He grabbed Truax by the front of his weapons vest and pulled him up.
“Let’s go,” he yelled.
76
RYONGSONG RESIDENCE
PYONGYANG
Fusco felt a small rumble and heard distant thunder. Someone had triggered the grenades, he guessed.
Barrazza, on point, stopped mid-run, holding up his hand.
He smelled the faint aroma of cigarette smoke somewhere ahead. He kept moving, going slower, taking each step in silence. He saw a shadow dance across the concrete wall ahead. It was a soldier smoking. He was just past a slight curve in the tunnel.
Barrazza switched weapons and got down on his stomach. He skulked slowly along the ground, inching around the bend, holding the M4 out in front of him as he crawled. Before he saw the gunman he saw the entrance to the side tunnel. The soldier was stationed there, absentmindedly guarding the juncture between the main artery to the palace and the side tunnel.
He heard the low din of a radio playing some sort of music.
Then, the walkie-talkie in the man’s pocket crackled. Someone came on and started speaking in a panicked voice.
Barrazza knew what it meant.
They know.
He got to his feet and charged forward just as the soldier swung his submachine gun toward him and triggered the weapon. But Barrazza was already triggering the rifle by the time the soldier reacted. The suppressed bullets spat from the rifle—thwap thwap—and they ripped into the soldier’s stomach, kicking him forward. Barrazza pumped one more bullet at point-blank range into the soldier’s forehead.
“Very nice,” said Dewey, looking down at the mangled, bullet-ridden corpse. “Martha Stewart–esque.”
Dewey and Barrazza both shot their eyes down the tunnel in the same moment. They heard the faint drumbeat of footsteps coming from somewhere ahead. They stepped into the side tunnel, taking a few steps back in order to get out of the direct sight line. They heard the crackle of the walkie-talkie, this time the one in Dewey’s pocket. The words were urgent. A man was yelling into the walkie-talkie. The phrases were short and clipped: orders.
Dewey understood soldiers were coming from somewhere ahead—somewhere closer to the palace.
He looked at his watch. If he and Barrazza tried to take an alternative route through the side tunnel, they might get away. But time was their enemy. Time was all that mattered now.
“Follow my lead. Get your HK.”
Dewey went to the dead soldier and flipped him onto his stomach. He lifted the dead man by the material at the back of his neck. The North Korean was light. Dewey held him up with his left hand, facing the corpse at the soldiers he could now hear running down the tunnel toward him.
Barrazza switched weapons again, bringing out his MP7, a long, round suppressor jutting from the muzzle. He moved behind the dead soldier as Dewey held him up. Barrazza aimed up the tunnel, tucking the suppressor beneath the arm of the dead man, trying to conceal himself behind him.
The sound of boots grew louder. The point soldier ran headlong into the tunnel just fifty feet away. Barrazza held his fire. As the soldier yelled something to the dead man, a second soldier came into view, and then a third.
Barrazza triggered the silenced submachine gun. The dull metallic rat-a-tat-tat of the weapon was like hornets as Barrazza sprayed the tunnel in a killing line. There were pained groans and a sharp scream, but it all was drowned out by the sound of weapon fire. Even suppressed, it cut through the din.
The tunnel was quickly clogged in dust and debris from the pulverized concrete, from the soldiers’ uniforms as they were shredded, and from blood and body parts. Other than a short burst of bullets from one of the gunmen which struck the ceiling, none of the men had time to do anything as Barrazza mowed them down. Barrazza stopped firing when he heard the click click of the empty mag.
Dewey and Barrazza started running as fast as they could. Dewey was on point when suddenly …
A black flash—a lightning bolt—a dark ember—
It came at him from an egress in the wall, an alcove to the left.
Dewey saw the glint of the blade just as it darted from the wall. It was trained at his torso, and he was moving so fast he was running directly at it. Dewey lurched, trying to block the arm the blad
e was attached to. It was a soldier, lunging, slashing at Dewey. Dewey slammed his left wrist down on the hand clutching the knife just as the tip of the blade struck Dewey’s stomach, cutting through material and skin before Dewey could do anything. Dewey groaned and slammed the butt of his pistol into the killer’s skull, a vicious swing so hard he could hear the crack of bone breaking.
The soldier dropped, still clutching the blade. Dewey finally could make him out in the low light. He was young, with an angry look. He wore a black uniform, an elite branch of KPA, he guessed. His hand clutched a silver steel blade. He suddenly lunged again, this time at Dewey’s neck. Dewey ducked, grabbed the man’s wrist, and twisted it hard, snapping it at the elbow. Dewey wrapped his other arm around the killer’s neck. He yanked back, snapping his neck.
Barrazza watched as Dewey let the corpse drop.
“You’re one to talk.”
They were getting closer.
They ran for another few minutes without seeing any signs of life. Suddenly, two soldiers emerged from the shadows. Dewey fired twice as Barrazza stepped clear of Dewey and added a second round of slugs. The man on the right was hit in the neck, kicking him backwards. The man on the left took Dewey’s shot in the middle of the forehead and dropped to the ground.
Dewey opened his jacket and saw a large pancake of red.
“You okay?” said Barrazza.
“Fine,” said Dewey. “Let’s go.”
77
SITUATION ROOM
THE WHITE HOUSE
The president studied the countdown clock on the wall:
00:10:47
Dellenbaugh’s face was drenched in sweat. He looked calm but nervous. He caught Calibrisi’s attention.
“Is Dewey even alive?”
“We have no way of knowing,” said Calibrisi. “He and the SEALs are in the tunnels. There’s no way to know if they’ll make it to the palace. He has more than a mile of tunnel. It’s guarded, and they probably know he’s there.”
