cracked the hard drive Bolan recovered from the Koreans’ submarine. They were en route to Wonsan to look up a General Chong.”
“Anything on that yet?” Brognola asked.
“We have NSA satellites checking the area out, but no obvious activity so far,” Price responded. “Jack’s going to drop him off and then pop back down to a naval observation craft we’ve got parked offshore in South Korean waters.”
Brognola frowned. “Make sure they don’t get too close. Just remember the Pueblo.”
Price nodded. She knew of the U.S. naval intelligence ship that had been seized by aggressive patrol boats from the North Korean navy, decades ago. It had been a black eye to the United States, and another incident, with a high-tech prize like Dragon Slayer on board, would turn Southeast Asia into a powder keg.
Mack Bolan wasn’t walking the razor’s edge now. He was cutting his feet on the blade, and only his and Grimaldi’s skills could keep his blood from spraying the U.S. government in the fallout.
It was risky. And when Bolan called Stony Man Farm for the intelligence update and to inform them that he was going into the enemy nation, it wasn’t to ask permission. Such a request would have been construed as nothing less than an act of war, even if it was in utmost secrecy.
The Executioner wasn’t a government employee, and there was a conspiracy summoning him into the depths of an enemy stronghold.
And he either succeeded, or the world would be drawn into a war that could explode into a three-way conflict with China.
Brognola chewed on his cigar, reminding himself to breathe as he watched Dragon Slayer close with the Korean coastline.
Tongjosun Bay, North Korea
IF THERE WAS ANY POINT where the Executioner would have had the option of turning back, they’d long passed it as Jack Grimaldi skimmed the helicopter along at more than 200 mph, its belly only a few feet above the bay, racing parallel to the coastline toward the crook of its elbow. Bolan was dressed in black, simple peasant clothes stuffed into his waterproof backpack. A Beretta 93-R knock-off made by the Red Chinese NORINCO company nestled in his underarm holster, loaded with a flat-based 15-round magazine. A second holster rode on his right hip, but that would disappear completely under baggy pants and a jacket. The big man tilted his head back and placed in the brown contact lenses that masked the piercing cold blue of his eyes, then tested the feel of the semihardened prosthetic appliqués to the orbits of his eye sockets, to duplicate the epicanthic folds of an Asian. He checked the mirror, and his dark-tanned face and Asian eyes made him appear less likely as an American intruder. Bolan’s command of Korean was sketchy at best, though, and he was too large and powerfully built to make a convincing Korean. However, with his paperwork, a much better knowledge of simple Chinese, and his mastery of Vietnamese, he would be able to pass himself off, for a few moments, as a Chinese citizen of ethnic Vietnamese descent. He’d be treated like a third-class citizen if he was noticed.
“It’s pretty thin, Sarge,” Grimaldi said.
“Thicker than what we usually have, Jack,” Bolan replied.
“You sure you don’t want to pop back to Pattaya and load up with some AK-47s with grenade launchers?” Grimaldi asked.
Bolan patted the Beretta knock-offs in his holsters. “I have more than enough for this. I’m on a quiet probe, not a full-fledged invasion. If the North Koreans figured out we were on to their smuggling operation…”
“Yeah,” Grimaldi replied. “Nothing on our scanners, and nobody’s lit us up with surface-to-air missile radar.”
Bolan’s lips were drawn tight as he opened the side door. Dragon Slayer’s stealth capabilities were second to none. There was no sound from the rotors as it blazed along. Infrared baffles, a Kevlar-coated hull, and dark paint robbed the enemy of its ability to make a visual identification of the phantom war bird. Without running lights and operating under starlight scopes, the aircraft was a shadow that sliced over the water. Anyone seeing it might take it for a UFO…
That brought Bolan back to the mutilated cattle. He had encountered enemies with stealth helicopters before. Untrained observers had taken them for unidentified flying objects, and assumed them to be alien visitors.
You don’t get more alien than me in North Korea, Bolan mused mentally. He tensed as he continued his internal countdown, settling his goggles over his altered eyes.
Dragon Slayer flared to a halt, centrifugal force struggling against Bolan’s nylon harness, trying to hurl him out into the gulf. As the momentum bled off, Bolan unsnapped and launched himself out the side door, spearing into the water in a graceful dive.
Grimaldi spun the stealth helicopter away, automated mechanisms closing the side door.
No words of encouragement were necessary, and none were spoken.
Instead, the Executioner swam for the shore, fifteen yards away. No boats floated in the darkness, and nothing moved on the beach. If North Korean forces were perched in wait beyond the tree line, rifles trained on whoever would come from the surf, they would cut Bolan apart effortlessly.
It was a risk that Bolan was willing to take. Something stirred behind the Bamboo Curtain, a monster that reached its tentacles from Thailand to, possibly, North America. Finding its heart would give the Executioner the opportunity to kill it, or at least to slow it so that Hal Brognola could mobilize Stony Man Farm and the United States government against whatever insidious plot lurked in America’s backyard.
Bolan padded up onto the sand and crossed the beach, his waterproof backpack bobbing on his back. He was free and clear, for now.
Unfortunately, getting into North Korea was only the beginning.
He still had miles to go before he reached the smugglers’ destination.
Bolan nestled in a copse and changed into his peasant gear and a wide-brimmed hat to further obscure his western appearance. A fast check of his disguise prosthetics, and he knew that he was in business. The Beretta pressed against his ribs under the baggy, shapeless gray jacket, its twin cinched against his hip under his belt.
But those were only to come out when he found the heart of this operation, if he got that far.
Throwing the sack over his shoulder, and leaning against the walking stick, Bolan stooped enough to seem a full foot shorter and began his march toward the smugglers’ destination. It was a simple disguise, making him enfeebled and bent with age. His paperwork, battered as if it were twenty years old, would pass a cursory inspection, and his knowledge of Southeast Asian languages would carry him even further.
It had been a long time since the Executioner had disappeared among the teeming masses of the Orient, but he still knew all the tricks of role camouflage that had proved a far more effective weapon than a handgun or a sniper rifle.
As prepared as possible, Bolan disappeared into North Korea.
“WE’VE GOT TROUBLES, Doctor,” General II-Raye Chong said into the phone.
“We, General? You’re the one discussing things on an open line.”
“I’m sorry, Doctor. Our ship out of Thailand was intercepted by the United States Navy.”
“And
