The Last Rainmaker (Jack Widow Book 9)

by Scott Blade

  None of this was acknowledged by the Chinese government, naturally. But it happened. Low wages. Stagnant economy in the northern, colder regions. The name of the game.

  The other truth the defectors learned was that there was no freedom for them. Not in most cases. Not twelve years ago. Maybe not even now.

  From west to east, the waters of the Yalu River swallowed the violent torrents that flowed south out of the Paektu Mountains and the Tumen River. The rivers divided the two countries.

  To the north there was one main bridge, crossing from nation to nation. It crossed over the Tumen.

  In the summer months, it helped to expedite importing and exporting between a city in China and a main village in North Korea.

  But in the winter months, it was frozen completely over.

  Widow and the other SEAL on his team were there in the dead of winter. A snowstorm had blown through only a day before.

  They had used the day after the passing storm to achieve their mission.

  This particular winter, the river waters had risen to nearly flood levels and the drawbridge was raised and the ice froze over the road top, leaving a gasping sight of two prolonged and protracted drawbridge teeth. They stood up out of the ice at thirty meters a piece, like they were the saber teeth of some unspeakable horror that lived below the ice.

  Dense and bushy mist settled from the top of the ice and plumed up into wafts of dry, white smoke. The skies were gray in the early morning hours. The sun must’ve been up somewhere because the far-off recesses of the sky were white, but nothing was blue. No blue in sight. Only the grayish-blue of dreary gloom.

  Widow’s boots sank into the beaten snow. He was nearly out of breath when he reached the middle of the distance between North Korea’s last step, just before the rocky ice on the frozen river and the edge of the highway in China.

  Before crossing the river, he had to wait and look in all directions. He had to make sure that no one was around to see him. The last thing he needed was to be seen by Chinese locals, who might call the local cops. The local police doubled as soldiers. They would send one guy out in a patrol truck with snow tires to check him out. Maybe two.

  Once they saw he was not Chinese, they would buzz him with sirens and spotlights and guns. They would cuff him, throw him in the cab of the truck and haul him back to headquarters. And that was the best-case scenario.

  The worst was they would see that he was armed with a Sig Sauer P226 Legion RX edition. Which was the same as standard, only better. His had a red dot sight and other features he didn’t care about.

  He liked the Romeo sight. It was great for nearly guaranteed accuracy.

  He also had an MP5SD, which was a Heckler & Koch submachine gun. It came suppressed. Like a default. This was an SMG made for covert ops. And he was in a covert op. No question.

  Widow had been scooped up to go active on a two-man op, which was unusual. It was almost unheard of. And it was definitely against some kind of regulation somewhere in some Navy Special Forces manual.

  This was a CIA black op. He knew that because he had met the guy in charge. A shady agent named Benico Tiller.

  When the other man in his op, a lieutenant named Chang, asked Tiller in a five-minute briefing if this op was against regulations, Tiller responded with: “Regulations are regarded more like guidelines when it comes to special ops.”

  Widow shrugged. Stayed quiet to that.

  The snowfall had stopped an hour earlier, which was good because he and Lyn were getting worried.

  The mission was to capture and extract a North Korean civilian. A scientist. The man knew something about the regime’s nuclear program. Which, at the time, the pointy heads at the Pentagon were still hoping to curtail.

  Widow never knew exactly what the guy’s function or knowledge was. It wasn’t mission critical. He and Lyn were on a need-to-know basis. And the details weren’t needed to be known.

  The guy’s name was Kweon. First name unknown. Not important. Not for identification because the guy would be defecting from North Korea by crossing over the frozen river at the coordinates that Widow was given by Tiller.

  They were given the place. They were given the time. And they were given the number of passengers.

  The guy was taking his family out with him. They were getting asylum in America. A good deal for them. They would get a relocation allowance. They would get new names.

  Widow imagined that they would be put up somewhere in Indiana or Oklahoma or Kentucky or Kansas or whatever state that was deep in the middle of the country. They would be relocated to a small town and given monthly allowances and education and, probably, a small business. They would have a good life. A real change from the horrors of living in North Korea. Especially for a guy like Kweon.

  Widow could only imagine that the guy, being some kind of important scientist, was under a big brother type of watch. From what he knew of important people in North Korea, guys critical to the success of the nuclear program, if they weren’t cooperative, then they were forced to participate.

  He could only imagine what the guy must’ve gone through on the other side of the border to get all the way to the edge and cross the barbed wires and the fences and the armed patrols.

  Must’ve taken a lot of CIA funding to get known North Korean diplomats and maybe border guards to look the other way for a small window of time, while Kweon and his family hiked across miles of rugged, snow-covered terrain, only to make the final leg of the journey to cross a dangerous, frozen river.

  Widow had been briefed on countless failed attempts by previous, non-agency important defectors.

  But it wasn’t until that moment, when he saw dead bodies frozen in the ice below, that he realized how often people died trying to escape.

  Widow stepped slowly through the snow and over the ice. He paused a beat about two hundred feet from the edge of China’s highway. He had seen movement and small figures on the horizon, through his field glasses. Back at the checkpoint.

  The checkpoint was two klicks behind him.

  That’s where Lyn waited. He was posted on the roof of the only structure within ten square miles. It was part of the remains of a hardware store. That had been closed, abandoned, and looted a decade in the past. Like the rest of a small enclave on the side of the highway. Originally, it was a lived-in small town on the route to the next city. Now it was abandoned and long forgotten. Perfect for them to set up camp the night before.

  Lyn was in Widow’s ear on a tiny wire receiver. The wire was tucked away behind Widow, down to a small radio rig, strapped to the side of his rucksack.

  He and Lyn were decked out in all white and blacks to camouflage them with the terrain and the snow.

  Widow’s face was painted in blacks.

  Lyn watched him from the checkpoint through a rifle scope.

  He took his fingers away from the trigger housing and squeezed the talk button on his laryngophone, also known as a throat microphone. A mic rig that’s circular and fits around an operator’s throat. It’s ideal for covert work in harsh weather conditions.

  He said, “Scorpio, do you see them?”

  They were using zodiac animals as call signs for the mission. Widow had been born in November.

  Widow pulled down a white bandana that was covering his mouth and nose so he could breathe in the icy winds.

  He took a breath and pressed the talk button on his laryngophone. The transducers kicked to life and picked up his voice, crisp and clear against the beating white wind.

  Widow said, “No. I can’t see a damn thing out here. Just lots and lots of white.”

  Silence.

  Widow asked, “You got them still?”

  “I see them. About sixty, maybe fifty yards ahead.”

  Widow let go of the MP5SD and let it fall back on a sling over his back. Out of the way.

  He held one hand up over his eyes. Scrunched it into a visor. He stared off into the gloom.

  He waited.

  He clic
ked his throat mic and said, “I don’t see anything.”

  Static fired over the receiver in his ear. And then a long pause. He heard Lyn breathing like someone about to say something, but holding onto the last breath.

  “About twenty-five yards now. To the northeast. Over the snow bank.”

  Widow turned. Saw the direction he was saying. He paused. And then he heard noises. Frantic. Like heavy breathing. And whimpering.

  Widow clutched his talk button and spoke.

  “How many?”

  “Four. Yeah. Four. Two are small. That’s gotta be them.”

  “Okay. I’m going to meet them at the bottom of the hill.”

  Widow clicked off and Lyn said nothing.

  Widow stepped forward, leaving the bandana loose on his neck. The wind batted against his face. Gusts slapped hard several times. He felt his breath ripped out of his face.

  After seven minutes of carefully stepping and sliding through snow and ice, he made it to the bottom of the hill. He set up for an ambush. If necessary. A precaution.

  He planted one boot in the snow and went down on one knee. He held his M5SD up and out. Kept the muzzle pointed at a forty-five-degree angle, muzzle down. He didn’t want to accidentally shoot whoever was walking over the snowbank. Or scare the family he was there to rescue away. He didn’t know if they knew who they were meeting. He didn’t even know if they spoke English.

  A mistake that just hit him. He clutched at his throat mic.

  “Chicken. Come in.”

  Rooster was Lyn’s technical zodiac, but not his assigned code name for this op. His code name was the American calendar year’s counterpart.

  Since he was Chinese and born in the right month and right year for it to apply, January 1982, Widow was just having fun with him.

  Widow heard static. And a puff of air, like exhaling. And Lyn’s voice.

  “It’s not chicken. It’s Capricorn. We’re using America astrology signs.”

  “Didn’t know we had come to a decision on that yet.”

  “What is it? You see them?”

  “Not yet. But I just realized, why am I down here and not you? I don’t speak Korean.”

  Lyn was Chinese, but he was a polyglot. He spoke Chinese, Korean, English and Japanese. Which made him a damn valuable member of the SEALs.

  “That’s because you never studied any other language.”

  “So why am I out here instead of you?”

  “Cause you can’t shoot a sniper rifle for shit.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Ten seconds. You’ll see them.”

  Widow stared up at the top of the hill. He slipped a quick hand into his coat pocket and slid out a device that looked like a cell phone. Only this one cost about ten grand. It was a military device. Like a cell phone, it was also a multifunctional device.

  He clicked on the home screen and thumbed to a photograph of what Dr. Kweon looked like. The photograph was dated. It was taken from the eighties. A close-up of a class photo. In order to learn the trade of nuclear weapons and technology, Kweon had to go outside of North Korea. He attended school in China.

  The image was black and white. Widow had to tack on decades in his mind. But he had a clear picture of what Kweon should look like today.

  He took one last look at it and memorized it and slipped the device back into his pocket.

  Lyn said, “Just repeat to them what I tell you. It’ll be fine.”

  Widow stayed quiet.

  Just then, he saw them.

  Four figures climbed up over the snowbank. Panting and sweating and breathing hard, like they had been running for their lives. Which they had.

  First, Widow saw a tall figure. He checked his mind’s photograph of Kweon. Waited. After a moment, the tall figure came closer and into view. It was the father.

  He wasn’t tall by nature. He was tall because he was holding a young girl. A teenager. Thirteen. Maybe.

  She was latched on to his back like she was playing a normal game of piggyback. Like they were a normal family at the lake. Minus the ice and snow and six-million-man paramilitary stretched over the country behind them that would shoot them dead.

  Widow studied the other members of Kweon’s party.

  He saw a woman and a teenage boy. About fifteen. Maybe. He was helping his mother. They were holding hands. He helped her climb the hill.

  Widow saw them. He made eye contact with the father.

  He called out the guy’s name.

  “Kweon bagsa?”

  Kweon was the guy’s name. And bagsa was doctor. He knew that. Or he thought that was right. And Lyn heard him say it. Didn’t correct him.

  Silence.

  He repeated it.

  “Kweon bagsa?”

  Widow started to raise the MP5SD. A precaution. He hoped.

  “American?” the father asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I am Kweon. This family.”

  Widow nodded and lowered the MP5SD, but did not release it altogether.

  Lyn said over the radio, “He speaks English.”

  Widow clicked the throat mic and said, “Affirmative, Chicken.”

  “What is chicken?” Kweon asked. He let the teenage girl slip off his back.

  He panted but seeing Widow seemed to boost his spirits. And then the other three followed suit.

  Their eyes opened like they had been wakened by shots of adrenaline right to the heart.

  Their postures changed. They stood erect. And their shoulders straightened. The mother seemed ten times stronger.

  She was the second one to speak. She spoke to the doctor in Korean.

  Lyn came on over the radio.

  “Get in closer. Press your mic button. I’ll translate.”

  Widow stepped closer to them. Got about three feet away from the doctor. Clicked his throat mic.

  The mother continued and the doctor listened.

  Widow studied them more. The teenage girl moved closer to her brother. Held his hand. Stared at Widow with huge volcanic eyes. They were brown. And deep. There was a fire quality to them. Like they were blazing right in front of him. Right inside of her eye sockets. Like swirling black lava. Like the center of a hurricane. Circular and unrelenting and completely hypnotic.

  She was going to grow up in America. In that undisclosed location. Probably middle of the country. Somewhere deep in Indiana or Oklahoma or Kentucky or Kansas. Growing older, she’d have to deal with local boys in those places. They’d bust down her door trying to get her to go out to the creek or the fields or the abandoned railroad or the school after closing hours or the dying shopping mall or wherever kids hung out these days, in those places.

  Her father was going to have a hell of a time keeping them in check.

  Maybe Widow could give him pointers. If he had to sit on them for several more hours until they could get the chopper to extract them.

  They had to play it by ear. Not because of the North Koreans. But because of the Chinese. The Chinese had the technology and the know-how to catch their Black Hawk on radar. Eventually. Caution was required. And taken.

  The Pentagon would play it like they were running exercises out of South Korea. Apologize for inadvertently popping up on Chinese military monitoring devices. Believable enough. Unless they were spotted on the ground. Especially by local patrols.

  Kweon said, “We all here. We ready to go.”

  “I’m Lieutenant Commander Widow.”

  Kweon looked confused. Not a military man.

  “Just call me Widow.”

  Kweon offered a shivering hand and they shook.

  “We go now. They might behind us.”

  Widow looked up and back. A long-held, innate instinct.

  He waited and stared at the horizon. Waiting for troops to be following behind them. But there was nothing but mist.

  “I don’t see anyone,” Lyn said in his ear.

  “Affirmative. Follow me. Stay close.”

  They turned and started to
trek back through the snow and over hills and across the ice.

  Kweon didn’t say much about himself. He did have a lot of questions about where they were going and if they be protected from their “supreme leader.” Which was exactly how he said the man’s title every time he mentioned it. Like a mustered-out Catholic making the sign of the cross every time he passed by a church, even though he had long since converted to nothing.

  You can take the servant out of servitude, but not the servitude out of the servant, Widow thought.

  They continued on for another twenty minutes, hiking only a mile, but they were slow moving.

  Halfway forward, Lyn came on over the Widow’s earpiece and said, “Scorpio.”

  “What is it?”

  “The mother is limping.”

  Widow looked over at her. She was limping. The son was half carrying her. But he seemed exhausted.

  Widow slung the MP5SD across his back and offered to take over helping her walk. The son let him. Happily.

  Widow helped her walk for another half mile. The mother thanked him in broken English.

  He smiled at her and they continued.

  “We go there?” Kweon asked. He pointed in the direction of the road up ahead.

  “Yes. We go there.”

  Kweon seemed half scared of the road and half accepting that it was their destination.

  He was scared of Chinese patrols. That was Widow’s guess. They were almost as bad as North Korean patrols. At least the Koreans would’ve just shot them onsite. The Chinese had clear shoot-to-kill license when it came to illegals crossing the border, but they were more famous for trying to make a buck, which made the fates of any defectors worse.

  Widow had been briefed on the corruption and illegal activity that occurred for most defectors who had been caught by the Chinese. They weren’t known for their compassion for prisoners. Especially in the region.

  Underpaid border guards had to make a buck. They were notorious for selling off the women to Mongolian sex traders. If they couldn’t bribe the defectors to pay them to look the other way, and no sex traders were interested in who they had captured, then they’d just shoot them.