Читать книгу Interception - Don Pendleton - Страница 10

The final guard had circled and climbed over the secured crates housing the disconnected rockets. The muzzle of the man’s weapon blazed a star pattern, but green tracer fire buzzed harmlessly past Bolan as he drew down and punched the man from his perch with a short burst.

Bolan did not hesitate. He sprinted forward, hurtled across the body of the second man he’d killed, and charged down the length of the flatbed. As he ran, he let the silenced AKM drop to his side and pulled his ready-prepped satchel charges from their web belt carriers and rushed to put them into position.

He moved back and forth in a huddled crouch around the ends of the rockets, working with feverish efficiency. The Semtex was such a powerful compound and he had packed so much into his satchels that the procedure wasn’t difficult. Proximity with the engines was enough, and he slapped down the charges and primed their radio receivers for his signal.

He wasn’t interrupted though he knew that with so many of the sentries missing it was only a matter of moments before he was discovered; the law of averages demanded it. He worked coolly, planting the satchel charges as efficiently as he could, then standing and sprinting for the next boxcar. Only one more flatbed to go and he would have ensured the destruction of the rocket housing, guidance systems and engines.

He turned and scrambled to the edge of the flatbed. The train swayed and rolled beneath his feet as he circumnavigated the heavy chain tie-downs and sharp-edged corners of the crates housing the rocket components. Looking back the way he had come, Bolan turned and jumped lightly across the distance between the two railcars, letting his primary weapon dangle off its sling against his torso. He caught hold of the hard steel rungs of the ladder set into the freight car and quickly climbed upward.

As soon as his head cleared the edge of the carriage, wind tore into him. He scuttled over the side, got to his feet, caught his balance and began to move forward. He ran steadily, scanning ahead and hunting for the second flatbed containing the unmarked crates and their deadly payloads. The second hand on his watch continued cutting off segments of time with irrevocable consistency.

Finally he saw the break in the row of boxcars that indicated the second flatbed. On one side of the train the mountainside, thick with evergreens and heavy bushes, rose like a retaining wall while on the other side the drop into the valley was sheer and unforgiving. Bolan’s luck had held mainly due to the relaxed posture of an army long used to a subjugated population and one too technologically and financially challenged to provide its ground units with radio communications.

Bolan stopped running and dropped to one knee, the AKM up and ready. He cursed under his breath. A curve in the track allowed him to see the boxcar directly in front of the second flatbed from more than just one angle, and the news was not good.

The final railcar was a club carriage designed to carry passengers, and on a military train that could only mean more soldiers. To reach the second rocket storage area he was going to have to cross a railroad car filled with armed men. Just that quickly the factors working against his success had multiplied exponentially. Bolan worked the pistol grip of his assault rifle as he shrugged against the weight of the modified rucksack on his back. He rose and approached the sleeper car.

THE CURVE OF THE RAILROAD track continued along an inward spiral against the side of the mountain, exposing the inside surface of the train to Bolan from his position on the boxcar roof. He saw the dark face of the passenger car suddenly split open and a rectangle of yellow light spill out. Bolan dropped flat on his belly as a dark figure stepped out onto the train platform.

Immediately, Bolan noticed that the figure was dressed in civilian clothes, a leather overcoat draped across his fireplug frame. The man was talking animatedly into a cell phone. From less than twenty yards away Bolan was immediately struck by how compact, and thus how new, the communication device was. Cutting-edge cellular phones were not available to the average Korean, or even the average military officer. By default Bolan realized he was seeing someone very important. In his other hand the man carried a black leather briefcase Bolan recognized as a laptop carrier.

Moving surreptitiously Bolan raised his night-vision goggles. He had taken off the apparatus before his swim and kept it secured while he moved along the train to avoid the depth perception problems inherent to their use. Now he moved carefully to bring it up over his eyes and then zero in with the zoom function.

The North Korean on the cell phone jumped into abrupt focus. There was plenty of ambient light coming from the passenger car for the advanced-technology glasses to bring every stark line of detail into view. Bolan played the image-enhancement lens across the man’s face and knew from accessing his mental mug shots that he was looking at a major player in the North Korean government. He dredged the name from the recesses of his memory—he was looking at Kim Su-Kweon, department chief of the Research Department for External Intelligence—RDEI. The RDEI was a nefarious and sinister organization linked to activities as diverse as creating infiltration tunnels under the DMZ and selling methamphetamines to Yakuza interests in Japan.

If the RDEI was a web, then Kim Su-Kweon was the fat spider at its center. The man turned his back to the wind, his leather satchel swinging in his other hand. Bolan knew instantly he had to acquire that laptop. If he could secure it and then blow the train, there would be every reason for the North Korean command and control to believe the device had been lost in the explosion. It would be an intelligence coup of significant proportions.

Bolan pulled his NVDs clear of his face as Kim Su-Kweon shut his cell phone and turned toward the door leading into the passenger railcar. Bolan pushed up off his stomach and raised his silenced AKM up to cover the man.

Catching the motion out of the corner of his eye, Kim turned in surprise. He gaped in shock as he saw the black-clad apparition of the Executioner above him. He barked out a warning and dropped his cell phone, which clattered to the platform and skittered away to be pulled under the thundering wheels of the train. His hand clawed inside his overcoat as Bolan moved lightly to the edge of the boxcar roof. The North Korean intelligence agent pulled his pistol free and tried to bring it to bear.

Bolan loosed a 3-round burst into the man’s face from under six yards and splashed his brains across the steel bulkhead of the railcar behind him. The intelligence agent was thrown backward by the inertia of the heavy-caliber rounds, and his laptop case fell from slack hands as he pitched forward, then crumpled to his knees on the steel mesh of the platform. Bolan rushed forward and leaped across the distance between the two cars.

He landed hard and folded up but fought to keep his feet in the sticky pool of Kim’s spilling blood. The door opened and a uniformed soldier with an AKM in his hands appeared in the entranceway. Bolan didn’t hesitate to knock him back into the passenger car with a quick burst that clawed out his throat and blasted the back of his head off.

The man fell backward, and Bolan caught a glimpse of more soldiers rushing forward as the dead man tumbled into the car. The Executioner threw his weapon to his shoulder and poured a long, ragged burst into the tight kill zone of the passenger car hallway, chewing men apart with his bluntly scything rounds. Still firing one-handed he scooped up the fallen laptop case and raced for the metal access ladder set into the side of the railcar superstructure.

He shoved the case through a suspender on his H-harness web gear and let the silenced AKM hang from its cross body sling. He pushed himself hard, felt the laptop start to slip and stopped to shove it back into place.

Below him a burst of gunfire tore through the open train door and bullets rattled and ricocheted off the boxcar behind him. Bolan heard a man screaming in anger and more than one in pain as he lunged over the top of the car and onto the roof. Below him a North Korean soldier rushed onto the grille of the landing and swung around, bringing his weapon to bear. Bolan flipped over onto his back in a smooth shoulder roll and snatched up the pistol grip of his weapon. He thrust the weapon forward against the brace of the sling and angled it downward.

He pulled the trigger and held it back, letting the assault rifle rock and roll through half a magazine before easing up and rolling to his feet. He took two steps and the laptop case fell. He dropped with it and caught it before it bounced away. He used his left hand to unsnap the carabiner hook between his web gear belt and suspender. Quickly he hooked that through the handle of the black leather case and reconnected it to his belt.

He was almost too late.

He saw the muzzle of the Chinese AKM thrust over the edge of the railcar roof and he dived forward. He tumbled haphazardly across the roof as the soldier on the ladder let loose with his weapon. Bolan’s chin struck the metal of the carriage structure and he bit his tongue, filling his mouth with the copper tang of his own blood.

Green ComBloc tracers and 7.62 mm slugs tore past him as he slid toward the edge of the roof and the long, steep drop below. He reached out with his left hand and grabbed hold of the metal lip running along the top of the railcar, spreading his legs wide to slow his momentum. From just a few feet away he thrust the muzzle of his AKM forward and triggered a burst.

His rounds roared into the exposed weapon firing at him and ripped it from the soldier’s hands as the hardball slugs tore through the stock and receiver, shattering it beyond use. The soldier’s hand disappeared in an explosion of red mist, and his scream was ripped away by the rushing wind.

Bolan spun on the slick metal of the roof and gained his feet. He pushed himself up, fired a second burst of harassing fire, then turned and sprinted in the opposite direction. As he neared the edge of the car and the flatbed containing the second shipment of missile components came into view, he saw a North Korean soldier scramble into position while trying to bring his assault rifle to bear.

Bolan fired and knocked him spinning off the railcar. The man screamed horrifically as he tumbled over the edge like a pinwheel, bounced off the basalt lip of the track and plunged down the mountainside below like a stone skipping across the surface of a lake. Bolan leaped into the air and landed on top of the flatbed car. He ducked and slid over the side of the pile just as a North Korean soldier sidled around the end of the flatbed freight car. The soldier fired as Bolan was freeing the last of his satchel charges. The Executioner thrust his own assault rifle forward by the pistol grip, using the sling like a second hand and pulled the trigger.

The shots were hasty and he was off balance as he fired, but he hosed the area in a spray-and-pray maneuver designed to force the man backward. He rolled over, feeling the hard edge of the wooden crate bite into his hip, and squeezed the trigger again, then broke off, recentered and fired once again.

The bullets caught the North Korean soldier center mass and he staggered under their impact, his weapon tumbling from useless hands as Bolan let the muzzle recoil climb so that bullets chewed the man apart, drilling him from sternum to skull in a staccato hail of slugs.

Bolan turned and slid the last satchel into place, keying up the transponder for his electronic signal. Soldiers rushed to the edge of the roof of the boxcar next to him and started firing down at him. Wood splinters flew in the air as a fire team of North Korean soldiers shot at him. He ducked behind the end of the crates and threw his rifle to one side. Green tracer fire burned past his position as he recentered the shoulder straps of his specially outfitted rucksack.

He pulled the transmitter out of its pocket as more and more rifle fire drew down on his position. Grabbing hold of the electronic device, he turned toward the edge of the train overlooking the open valley. He sucked in two quick breaths and sprinted out from cover. Three hard steps and he was on the edge, then he kicked off and threw himself out into space. Behind him the withering fire petered off as the uniformed men on the train watched him fall, hypnotized into stunned amazement.

Bolan felt the air rushing up into his face with surprising force. He saw the snakelike twisting of the Yellow River five hundred feet below him, then turned and hit the button on his detonator. There was a pause half a heartbeat long, then the train was blown off the mountain at the two flatbed points containing the rocket bodies and engines. A yellow ball of fire rolled out from the mountain and a wave of heat descended on Bolan as he fell.

His fist came up to his left breast just beside the suspender of his H-harness web gear and jerked the D-ring handle. There was a pause that lasted for entirely too long in his racing thoughts as he plunged below three hundred feet and the dark water of the river came into sharper focus.

The minichute, also called a stunt chute—of the kind used by BASE jumpers—rushed out and caught. Bolan was jerked to a stop for a moment, then gravity reclaimed him and he began to fall toward the river again, his descent slowing modestly. At fifteen feet above the surface, when the dark water of the river filled his vision beyond his dangling feet, Bolan hit the cut-away and dropped out of his harness to fall like a stone.

He struck the cold water for the second time that night and felt it rush in over his head. Letting the current take him, his hand went to his waist where he shrugged out of his web gear and let it float away, keeping only the laptop carry case. He kicked for the surface and deployed his final piece of gear, a life vest designed to keep him buoyant in the water.

Above his head the side of the mountain burned. Working quickly, he swam to the shore and pushed the black leather case out of the water. Putting one knee down on the gravel against the current, Bolan opened the case to make sure it had kept the water out and then resealed it. Moving quickly, he used the air-tight pouches that he had used to transport his satchel charges to insulate the carry case then, after securing it to himself, he swam back out into the fast-moving current.

Forty minutes later he activated his emergency beacon and let the river carry him out toward the Sea of Japan.

When Jack Grimaldi got the signal, he flew the seaplane in low under the radar and put the pods down on the choppy water beyond the breakers fronting the rocky shoreline. He knew North Korean naval units were responding as he pulled Bolan out of the situation, but aggressive electronic jamming by units of the U.S. Air Force based out of the Japanese mainland easily outclassed their counterparts in the DPRK.

SIX HOURS LATER the Stony Man cybercrew cracked the encryption security on the laptop and things really began to roll.

The first of the hijacked information was the most important.

Under Kim Su-Kweon’s control, his intelligence agency had forged an alliance with the Hong Kong triad known as the Mountain and Snake Society. Mostly the deal had involved the laundering of forged American money and as a secondary outlet for North Korea’s prodigious methamphetamine production operation. But Stony Man had discovered that the use of the triad cutouts extended far beyond that.

The Mountain and Snake Society had aggressively expanded its influence, most commonly by brute force, into any area on the global stage where there was a Chinese population presence or criminal activity already in existence on an international scale. The waterfront areas of Split, Croatia, had certainly qualified on the latter if not always on the former, and North Korean intelligence had entered into an arms trafficking enterprise with Russian oligarch Victor Bout through intermediaries of the Mountain and Snake Society triad.

The triad subsidiary had then taken it upon itself to expand its own business interests and began performing mercenary criminal functions for Chechen, Russian and Azerbaijani mafia-style organizations. Most significantly to Stony Man had been the triad’s agreement to provide a safehouse for and act as intermediaries to, the kidnapping of the daughter of an American official in Split.

The disappearance of Karen Rasmussen had baffled American security services who had focused their resources on known terror organizations in the area, leading them up one blind alley after another. Kim had known exactly where the young woman was being held and what was to become of her.

Now the Executioner did, as well.