Hail took his finger off the gun trigger and told Knox, “Start cutting again. Our friend is gone.”
Renner turned the gas back on, and Knox pressed the ignitor and lit the torch. Knox repositioned the torch an inch under the third side of his vertical cut, so if any metal had fused back together, the flame would separate it again.
Hail checked the time. Seven minutes had elapsed. It was 3:38 a.m.
Hail told Renner, “Gage, break open Blondie and get your pilots ready to fly. We’re running out of time, and as soon as the hole is open, they need to be in the air.”
“Understood,” Renner said.
He accessed Blondie’s command and control systems and pressed an icon.
Back in the dark field, both of Blondie’s cargo doors began to open. Tiny electric motors barely made a sound as they lifted the counterbalanced thin sheets of carbon fiber from Blondie’s back. Once the doors had fully opened, the motors stopped and the drone became perfectly silent again.
Renner got up from his station and walked into the middle of the mission room. He stepped up onto the next tier where the analysts were stationed. The young pilots were looking at him and awaiting their instructions.
“We’re going to do this exactly as we performed it in the simulator,” Renner began. “Each of you has a drone assigned to you as well as a specific location where to land your drone. Our time frame has tightened up, so instead of one drone at a time, we’re going to fly in pairs with less than a minute between launches. Are there any questions?”
Twelve pilots looked at him, and none of them spoke up. Renner felt that was a good omen.
“Starting the last cut,” Knox reported, moving his control stick to the left to complete the box. Sparks, smoke and red-hot goo fled from the cutting torch.
“Less than one minute,” Hail said. “I think you can get them in the air, Gage,” Hail told Renner.
“Roger that,” Renner acknowledged. “Pilots one and two, you are good to liftoff.”
Pilots one and two happened to be the most experienced junior pilots on the ship.
Oliver Fox and Paige Grayson prepped their stations and ran full systems checks on their drones.
Inside the belly of Blondie, sixteen drones sat waiting to get airborne. Each of them was stacked on one another, four stacks, four drones per stack. None of the drones was anything special. They were designed with just enough battery power to get them to their LZ and nothing more. They were provisioned with large motors and wide propellers to carry their payload. They had nothing other than a lightweight low-resolution camera.
“Are we ready to fly?” Renner asked Fox and Grayson.
“Yes, sir,” they both reported.
“Oliver, go,” Renner said.
Fox pulled the trigger throttle on the drone called Thing 1.
Fox watched his video monitor as his drone cleared Blondie’s cargo bay doors. Once it had risen four feet, Fox swiveled his controller in the direction of the warehouse. The video on the drone spiraled into focus. In front of Fox sat a well-lit warehouse.
“Moving toward the wire,” Fox announced.
“Go, Paige,” Renner ordered.
Trying to stay close to her flight partner, Paige pulled the trigger and began swiveling her drone toward the warehouse before it had even cleared the hatch. As soon as she saw the warehouse lights, she tilted her drone forward and began to make up ground on Thing 2.
“The cut is almost done,” Knox reported. “Only one more inch.”
Hail didn’t know how much noise the metal flap would make when it came loose, so he checked BEP’s camera inside the warehouse to confirm that the room was still unoccupied. The two by two-foot piece of metal could fall inward or outward, and they had to be ready for either contingency. If it fell inward and landed on something flammable, they had to have all their drones inside and in place before the warehouse became an inferno. If the flap landed on the outside, then Knox had to make sure that it didn’t damage his drone. Either way, Knox understood that once the cut had been made, he had to move Men at Work out of the way to make room for the dozen drones headed toward the new opening.
Knox didn’t have long to wait. Five seconds later, the torch found its starting point and the metal sheet dropped away and fell inside the warehouse.
Hail brought up Black Eyed Peas’ control panel. He accessed the camera pan head and rotated it 180 degrees, so the lens was pointing toward the back of the warehouse. The steel beam that BEP was resting on blocked some of the floor of the warehouse below, but Hail could clearly see a gaping black hole cut in the wall at the end of one of the wide aisles. He watched the new opening for a moment, waiting to see if there was a flare-up of smoke or fire.
“Looks like we’re good,” Hail said. “Good job, Alex,” he told Knox. “Now you need to move your drone out of the way so the Things can get in.”
“Will do,” Alex said, discarding the screens that dealt with all the cutting tools and pulling back up the flight control screens. He pressed a few icons and wrapped his hands around the control sticks and lifted Men at Work off the ground.
“It’s a lot lighter without the gas,” Knox commented.
“Where do you want me to set it down, Marshall?”
“I’d like to get some eyes on the front of the warehouse. Why don’t you go over the top of the wire and set it down in the weeds where you can get a good visual of the main gate.”
“OK,” Knox said and pressed the throttle and watched the drone gain altitude. As Men at Work cleared the razor fence, Knox saw Thing 1 and Thing 2 pass over the fence about five yards away, heading in the opposite direction.
“Wow, it’s getting so busy around here that we’re going to need a flight controller,” Knox joked.
Fox and Grayson flew their drones up to the hole Knox had cut in the warehouse. Very carefully, Fox maneuvered Thing 1 through the opening, followed immediately by Grayson’s Thing 2.
Hail watched closely, understanding that the first nine drones were the most important. Each one of them carried the two-pound shaped charge of RDX, or cyclotrimethylenetrinitramine, as Terry Garber liked to refer to it.
Fox carefully flew his drone down the aisle, staying low in case of a malfunction or a communications problem. If Thing 1 was going to fall to the floor, then Fox wanted to make sure it was a short distance in order to minimize the noise of impact.
Directly behind him, Paige mimicked his movements and direction.
“Get the next set in the air,” Hail told Renner.
“I’m on it,” Renner confirmed.
Very close to the front office, Fox spotted his designated landing zone. He applied more power to the propellers and climbed five feet in the air before turning to the right at the end of the aisle. Fox flew Thing 1 directly over the top of one of the large individual sections of the missile. Making very small control stick adjustments, Fox positioned Thing 1 in a hover over the top of his designated section of an ICBM. He then slowly eased off the throttle. The drone dropped a foot and then gently touched down, resting on top of the massive piece of metal.
Paige’s target was the missile section in front of the stage Oliver had landed on. She climbed at a 45-degree angle and brought Thing 2 into a hover. She then set her aircraft down on her assigned landing zone without incident.
By the time Thing 1 and Thing 2 had touched down, Thing 3 and Thing 4 were already inside the warehouse and floating down the aisle.
Wonsan, North Korea—Warehouse
The sound of a ragged running truck motor woke Victor Kornev. It was a loud diesel engine that sounded as if it was ready to puke out a chunk of iron on the side of the road. But to Kornev, it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.
Besides sound, the first waking sensory input that Victor noticed was that he was drenched in perspiration. He wiped liquid from his forehead with the sleeve of his already wet shirt. The next sense to wake up was his nose. He breathed in the scent of his own spoiled musk. It w
as revolting. He could never remember being so dirty. The next item on the waking parade was his stomach. He felt like he wanted to throw up. And he couldn’t figure out if he wanted to throw up because of the heat, or his smell, or because of all the disgusting North Korean dishes he had been consuming during his stay. But none of that mattered now because the truck was here.
Kornev unfolded himself from the short back seat of the UAZ in which he had been sleeping. He groaned as his paralyzed extremities came back to life. Once he was seated upright in the back seat, Kornev pushed the front seatback forward and reached for the door handle. He gave it a tug and used the handle to pull himself up and out of the Russian military vehicle.
He took a moment to get his bearings. He glanced toward the closed front gate and saw the diesel rig sitting patiently at a standstill, waiting for someone to let it in.
Kornev walked briskly toward the main gate, only to discover a North Korean guard sleeping soundly against the fence only twenty feet away. He walked over and nudged the soldier with his shoe. The guard awoke and quickly jumped to his feet. Kornev pointed at the gate and told the man in Korean, “Let the truck in.”
The soldier nodded many times and bowed many times. Kornev guessed that the man would like to keep his unapproved nap just between the two of them.
The soldier fumbled with his keys for a moment before finding the correct one. He plugged it into the padlock and gave it a turn. The guard unthreaded the chain from the gate and swung it open.
Kornev stepped to the side and motioned for the truck to come in. As the truck passed, he jumped onto the cab’s step and pointed the driver toward the entrance of the warehouse. Glancing back, Kornev verified that indeed the driver was hauling the last section of the missile. He could have kissed the driver or shot him. Either way, he was happy because he knew he would be out of the country in a matter of hours.
The truck crossed the dirt yard and came to a stop in front of the closed warehouse doors. Kornev jumped off the step and walked over to the office door. A North Korean soldier was guarding the door. This man wasn’t asleep. The soldier bowed to him and opened the door to the office. Kornev stepped in and found Trang Won Dong sleeping in his hard chair. Kornev shook his head at the sight, mystified how the man could sleep so soundly in that position. The Russian walked over and tapped the bottom leg of the chair with his foot. Trang let out a large snore and then a cough and then his eyes snapped open. He looked up at Kornev with reverence, as if he had materialized before him from thin air.
“The truck is here,” Kornev said in English. “I have your man opening the warehouse doors.”
He nodded sleepily and tried to stand. He wobbled for a moment, unsteady on feet that were still sleeping. The small man picked up his big hat from the desk and placed it on his shaved head. Both men walked out the front office door and turned to the right. The soldier that had been at the front door was now wrestling to open the massive warehouse doors that apparently hadn’t been oiled in the last century. One door was open, but the other was stuck. Kornev went over to help the guard get it rolling on its track. The tall sheet metal door squealed and then there was a crack as a rock was pulverized under its wheels. The pushing eased and the door slid open the rest of the way without any other issues. He hoped that this would be the last of his menial tasks before he got paid and left North Korea.
Then Kornev noticed that the truck’s crane was located on the back of the trailer, instead of the front, which meant that it was pointing the wrong direction. In order for the crane to reach the area they had reserved for the last missile section; the truck would have to be backed in.
Kornev walked over and climbed back onto the cab’s stair and told the driver in Korean, “Sorry, you need to back it in.”
The driver nodded and he stepped back down.
To Victor Kornev, it seemed as if he’d been sucked into a time-warped universe where one minute in his old universe took five minutes in this new one. Either everything took longer to accomplish or it simply appeared that way. Sure, Kornev was hot, thirsty, hungry and needed a shower, but from Kornev’s perspective it took the truck driver ten minutes to circle the lot and back the big rig into the warehouse. It was at that point that Kornev decided he wasn’t going to wait for the unloading process. The way these people moved, that process could take a decade.
Kornev walked over to Trang and said, “All the parts are here. If you don’t mind, I would like to get paid and leave your wonderful country.”
The minister was pleased that Kornev had a great admiration for his country. He nodded his head, smiled widely and grunted, “Very good,” in English.
The two men left the warehouse without ever noticing the strange contraptions that were sitting on top of each of their coveted missile stages. Grey, relatively flat and inconspicuous, the drones were easy to miss.
The office was even hotter than Kornev remembered, and it stank of just about everything that had ever had an odor associated with it.
Trang walked to the corner of the office and removed a section of the wooden floor. Under the square section of flooring was a small safe that was cemented into the slab beneath it. He began to twirl the combination lock this way and that. Again, the weird Pyongyang Time warp played on Kornev’s nerves. It shouldn’t take as long as it was taking for the dignitary to open a safe.
Kornev was considering actually timing the extraction of the diamonds from the safe to verify he hadn’t lost his mind when his phone rang.
It was a call from a number he didn’t recognize.
“This is Victor,” Kornev answered.
He listened to the voice on the other end.
Kornev’s face slackened noticeably as he took in the words from the caller.
Trang Won Dong finished opening the safe and pulled the top off.
Kornev said angrily, “Who is this?”
The minister turned around just in time to see Kornev run from the office and out the front door. Trang ran out the door after him holding up a black bag of diamonds, yelling, “Where are you going?”
He was shocked and confused to see Kornev jump into the UAZ, start the engine, slam the vehicle into gear and then drive out the opened front gate, leaving nothing but dust and millions in diamonds behind.
Busan, S. Korea—Aboard the Gerald R. Ford Aircraft Carrier
Lieutenant Commander Foster Nolan was crazy. At least that’s what the men in his squadron thought of him. Not just because he had volunteered to fly the suicidal mission into North Korea to take out a warehouse, but because he also harbored a vendetta. He was the squadron leader after all and could have certainly guilted one of his men into taking the sortie. But he hadn’t. When the mission had come down from the top, Nolan had accepted it even before the men in his squadron knew the mission was available.
In force, the mission was doable. But the lieutenant commander’s men knew that a single fighter flying into North Korean airspace had about as much chance as a kite in a hurricane. Five miles out to sea—no problem. Five miles on the friendly side of the DMZ—easy. Five miles into Wonsan—No Bueno. Between the radar and anti-aircraft batteries, the North Korean jets just sitting in a ready state on numerous North Korean airfields, and the North Korean pilots drooling at the prospect of getting them some American jet fighter ass, it was not a good mission at all. The probability of surviving the mission was low. The probability of dying or being captured was high. Only a crazy person would voluntarily jump into a cockpit and fly it without backup.
And his men also knew that their brave leader was crazy in another way. He was crazy for some payback. His twin brother had been killed in The Five. And ever since that happened, Lieutenant Commander Foster Nolan had become withdrawn and morose. It didn’t help matters that the American military had very little to offer in response to The Five. Two years after The Five, the best response the United States could muster was some spot bombings here and there. Nothing of any real consequence. No real enemy to go after, unless
their government made all Muslims enemy combatants. If that happened, then there would be plenty of countries to bomb. More than enough to go around. More payback than Lieutenant Commander Foster Nolan could handle in a lifetime, no matter how short that was. But that wasn’t the case. And the limp-dick response from the US of A frustrated the lieutenant commander to no end.
So, when this mission to go in fast and low, spitting missiles at the North Koreans came about, well, all his men knew why Nolan had taken the gig. He was crazy.
Lieutenant Commander Foster Nolan now sat in his Lockheed Martin F-35C, hooked into the catapult of the Gerald R. Ford aircraft carrier. The ship had just arrived at the Fleet Activities Chinhae Navy Base in Busan, South Korea.
The lieutenant commander checked his watch—3:44 a.m. One minute until blast off. Surprisingly, he wasn’t scared. He wondered if his brother had been scared when his Virgin Atlantic flight 1082 was shot down leaving Orlando International. He guessed there wasn’t enough time to be scared. Low altitude. Maybe only ten seconds until impact. Even so, Nolan was sure that his brother had been pulling on the ejection handle that wasn’t under his seat. It would have been a habit. His brother had been a jet pilot as well. The ejection handle—a magic handle that could shoot you far away from danger and then float you down to the ground. Reaching and tugging for salvation. Foster Nolan supposed he could reach his handle if the mission got too heavy in North Korea. Maybe he could blow away a few North Koreans on the ground before they rounded him up. But it really didn’t matter. He had been profoundly sad since he had lost his brother. Clinically depressed is what the shrinks would say if he’d let it all out. But he hadn’t. He had contained his ailment, his secret. And the little bugger had slowly changed over time from depression, to anger, to revenge, and now it would seem it had mutated into a death wish. That was OK as well. Hell, that’s why he was a pilot. If there wasn’t any chance of dying, then everybody would want the job.
Operation Hail Storm Page 39
