“Nine tangos dead, including these two,” Midas said. He didn’t need to say that their intel had been wrong.
“Four surviving hostages in the crew’s quarters. One lightly wounded, patched and stable,” Adara said. “The other three are fine, just shook up.”
Ding frowned. “What about the three that didn’t make it?”
“Dead before we got there,” she said. “Bastards cut their throats.” She dragged a finger across her own to emphasize the point.
Ding turned around. “Dom?”
“A simple detonator. Deactivated. A couple of bricks of C-4 are still in place in the drilling compartment, but they’re inert.”
“I found a tripwire out front, connected to a Claymore knockoff,” Jack said. “There might be more. Everybody needs to keep their eyes open. We should do a check and keep the civilians locked down until we get an all-clear.”
“Good idea,” Ding said as he stepped over to the two corpses. He knelt down, studying them.
In the silence, Jack heard the howling wind outside. Loose sheet metal rattled, chains and pulleys clanged.
Satisfied, Ding stood and turned around. “All in all, a good job, people. We saved lives and ended bad ones and somehow managed to not get our asses blown up in the process. We’ll debrief when we get back to base.”
“What’s the plan for tonight?” Midas asked. The ex–Delta recce colonel was used to being in charge, but like all great leaders, he knew how to follow orders, too, and Ding was running this op.
“Storm’s too bad to transport civvies, especially down the ladders, so we’ll bunk here tonight,” Ding said. “Midas, grab your tac light and head out to the platform and signal the Norwegians that our comms are down, and that we’re bunking here tonight with four surviving hostages. Ask them to come back when the storm breaks.”
“Roger that,” Midas said. “What else do you need from me?”
“I hate not having comms. See if you can find the jammer these assholes deployed. And check to see if the rig has some kind of communications unit.”
“On it,” Midas said. He turned on his heel and headed for the exit door.
“Adara, you head back to the hostages and do what you can for them to make them comfortable. Like Jack said, keep them locked in until we give the all-clear. Apprise them of the situation, that they’re safe and that we can’t leave the platform until the storm passes, probably tomorrow morning. You need anything else from us?”
Adara tapped her med kit. “I’m good to go.” She headed for the door near Dom, still seated, lightly brushing his broad shoulder with her hand as she passed, hoping no one else caught the gesture.
“Dom, when you’re up to speed, I want you to secure that C-4. Grab one of us if you need help.”
Dom stood, grimacing. “I’m on my way.” He stretched out some kinks as he headed for the drilling room.
“Jack, you and I will do the booby-trap search first and clear those. Then we’ll search the Green Army people for pocket litter and any other intel we can find on them, then grab fingerprints and DNA samples for the Langley crew to sort out and catalog.”
“And then we toss ’em?”
Ding nodded. “They’re chum, as far as I’m concerned. It’s not like this is a crime scene that needs to get processed.” In Ding’s mind, what The Campus did here tonight was righteous. It just wasn’t entirely legal. They had to cover their tracks.
Jack’s father, an ex-Marine, had instilled in him a deep respect for the honored fallen, but in this case he couldn’t agree more with Ding. The terrorists had almost killed him and his team. These were cold-blooded fanatics who butchered innocent civilians. They’d lost the right to be treated with respect, either in life or in death.
“You good?” Ding asked. He laid a hand on the taller man’s arm. Jack nodded, his mind elsewhere.
“Yeah, just processing.”
“Nothing else?”
Jack couldn’t lie to Ding. He respected him too much for that. “Can’t help but feel I screwed up tonight.”
“I get it. We’ll talk later. For now, we’ve got work to do.”
“Roger that.”
—
Jack vomited again, but nothing came out. The long rolling ocean swells and steady bouncing of the CB90 fast-attack craft made him seasick, but the sickeningly sweet smell from the chemical toilet he was hunched over made things even worse. It was going to be a helluva long ride from the oil rig to the Norwegian coast if he had to stare into this crapper the whole way.
A loud knock rattled the bathroom door.
“You all right in there?” It was Ding.
Jack spat and wiped away a long string of drool. “Freaking fantastic.”
“Sounded like you were choking a moose.”
Jack climbed to his unsteady feet. “Be right out.”
He splashed cold water on his sweaty face, rinsed his mouth out, and toweled off. When he yanked the door open Ding was waiting for him in the cramped hallway.
“You look like hell.”
“I just blew a plate of poached salmon,” Jack said. “But thanks.” The thumping deck beneath his feet and the close warm air made his head spin again.
“Let’s go topside, get you some fresh air.”
“Roger that.”
—
The ship’s movement on deck was more violent than below, but the cold, fresh morning air and the freezing spray against Jack’s face did the trick and his nausea subsided. He held the rail tight and watched the far horizon, almost as dark as evening with the cloud cover and polar night at this latitude. Ding stood behind him to avoid getting hit by any water—he didn’t suffer motion sickness of any kind.
Jack ran through the night’s events one more time, step by step. He was honest enough to know where his performance was up to grade and humble enough to know when he was luckier than good, especially on this op. The rescued hostages were grateful and in good spirits and would soon be examined by the medical staff at Haakonsvern Naval Base. But Adara was a terrific combat medic and she’d already treated the minor flesh wound one hostage sustained.
Clark had called them to offer his congratulations. The CEO of the wildcatting company was thrilled, as were the families of the survivors. By any measure they had overcome extreme conditions and perilous odds and won the day.
So why did he still feel like shit?
“Feeling better now?” Ding asked. He had to shout over the roar of the big twin V8 diesel engines powering the thundering Kamewa hydrojets.
“You have no idea.”
“Then why does your face look like you just swallowed an ashtray?”
“I screwed the pooch, Ding. You know I did.”
“Why? Because you hesitated?”
“Dom got shot, you could’ve been shot—and I had a combat knife shoved into my gut.”
“Nobody got hurt.”
“In spite of me, not because of me.”
“At least you own it. That’s what’s important.”
“If I hadn’t hesitated, if I had reacted faster, maybe I could’ve prevented all of it.”
“Was it the knife that froze you?”
“No. At least I don’t think so. It was the girl. Both women, really. I saw their coveralls and I saw the oil stains, and I ‘knew’ they were hostages.” He didn’t have to remind Ding that when they examined the women’s bodies, they discovered that the dark oil stains were actually the dried blood from the hostages they had slaughtered with the same knife used on Jack.
“From what you told me, they played their parts to perfection. They obviously planned that stunt from the beginning in case they ever got cornered.”
“Well, it worked pretty damn good, didn’t it?”
“So what lesson did you learn from this?”
“Always shoot the b
londe, I guess.”
Ding laughed. “Don’t let Adara hear you say that. She’ll kick your ass.”
Jack nodded, smiling. Adara was a CrossFit monster. She was stronger than most men and knew how to throw a punch.
“I just don’t want to ever let the team down like that again, no matter what.”
“You won’t, if you keep pushing yourself.”
“That’s the plan. I just hope it’s good enough.”
“We all make mistakes. None of us is perfect, but we can always get better.”
“Thanks, Ding.”
“The day I stop trying to improve is the day I walk. You better do the same.”
“I’ll keep pushing. You know that.”
“But there’s still one lesson from all of this I need you to drill into here.” Ding stabbed Jack’s chest with his finger. “Never forget that you never know about people. Never. You feel me?”
“Yeah, I feel you.”
“Good. Now let’s head back down to the galley for some hot coffee. I’m freezing my personality off up here.”
“You go ahead. I’m fine right where I am.”
“Suit yourself. We should be docking in an hour.” Ding clapped Jack on the back and headed below deck.
Jack turned back to the rail and faced the horizon, his arms crossed against the chill. He was trying to let Ding’s words sink in, but his mind drifted back to the night’s events, walking through them step by step, replaying the mistakes one by one, the feeling that he should’ve done better washing over him like a cresting wave. It hurt like hell, but it was the only way he knew how to prep for the next mission, whatever it might be.
4
USS BENFOLD (DDG-65)
20 MILES OFF THE COAST OF SINPO, NORTH KOREA
Commander Holly Symonds stood on the bridge, a pair of high-powered Fujinon binoculars wedged against her eyes. Her executive officer was below deck in the Combat Information Center, monitoring this morning’s missile launch on the vast array of radar and tracking displays. She was on comms with him and kept fully apprised. Symonds preferred the early-morning sunlight and the sting of the stiff breeze gusting over the slate-gray water to the darkly lit, air-conditioned CIC and the electrical hum of its glowing LED displays.
In a real combat situation she would be down there directing tactical operations, but this was a routine test flight by the North Koreans. Not that anything the North Koreans ever did was routine. Clearly they had gone out of their way to not hide today’s launch, which definitely wasn’t par for the course. Choi Ha-guk’s sociopathic predecessor had tested twenty-five rockets in the previous four years—more than the Hermit Kingdom had launched in the previous eighteen. That was a worrisome trend to the Navy brass, and anyone else within targeting distance. Today’s test did nothing to allay those concerns.
The USS Benfold was one of the Navy’s most advanced multiplatform surface combat ships. By deploying the Aegis Combat System—integrating AN/SPY-1 phased array radar, AN/UYK-1 high-speed computers, and a wide variety of missile launch platforms—the Arleigh Burke–class destroyer could track and defeat up to one hundred airborne, surface, and subsurface threats simultaneously.
But the Aegis Combat System was also the world’s most advanced antimissile defense platform. South Korea remained vulnerable to potential long-range missile attacks from the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. Until the THAAD—Terminal High Altitude Area Defense—system was fully deployed in South Korea, the United States shielded its ally with the Aegis antimissile defenses as needed.
Given today’s SLBM—submarine-launched ballistic missile—test by the DPRK, the USS Benfold was deployed as a symbol of that continued commitment despite the fact that Choi Ha-guk was unlikely to start a nuclear war today. Nevertheless, the South Koreans were nervous, and rightly so, as the North Korean ballistic missile and nuclear weapons programs continued their aggressive expansion.
“Submarine doors opening, Commander,” her executive said in her headphone. “Preparing to launch.”
“Roger that.” Symonds twisted the furled focus ring on her binoculars. By the naked eye the missile would have to rise some five hundred feet above the surface before she could see it at this distance, but the high-powered binoculars would shave some of that off. A night launch would have been spectacular and easier to track with her eyes. No matter. The Benfold’s automated video tracking cameras would record the launch and feed the data back to the DIA for analysis.
The sonar operator on duty this morning had ears like a vampire bat, but Commander Symonds had another tactical advantage today. The Los Angeles–class fast-attack submarine, USS Asheville, had successfully deployed an autonomous, torpedo-shaped underwater surveillance drone fitted with an array of sensors, including video cameras. The stealth drone had successfully tracked the Gorae from its dock at Sinpo to its current location. The Gorae was believed to be the first and only ballistic missile–capable submarine in the DPRK fleet. Incredibly, the Asheville’s drone was providing a live video feed of the diesel-powered sub and the images were piped directly into the Benfold’s CIC. This was a first for the Navy—eyes-on surveillance of a North Korean SLBM launch in action. Naval intelligence would feed on this data for years.
Little was known about the indigenously built Gorae, but it bore a striking resemblance to Soviet-era boats of a similar type and size. It was believed to have the capacity to launch only one SLBM at a time—the KN-11, aka Pukkuksong-1. It had successfully done so just a few months earlier after a number of failed attempts on sea-based barges. Today it was stationed only a mile offshore from the naval base at Sinpo, submerged in just fifty feet of water—an easy target for the drone’s cameras.
The Pukkuksong-1 had an estimated range of just over 333 miles, posing no threat to the United States. In comparison, America’s Trident II SLBM had a range of more than 4,000 miles. The DPRK land-based systems were more potent. The Taepodong-3 had an estimated range of 8,000 miles.
Today’s launch, no doubt, was to confirm the Gorae’s capability, but equally important, it was meant to send a signal to the United States and its regional allies that the DPRK was now in the submarine-launched ballistic missile club. It would take several more years for the North Koreans to build enough SLBMs to alter the regional balance of power. But when the North Koreans mounted a nuclear warhead on the Pukkuksong-1, the strategic situation in Asia would shift forever. According to the most recent DIA and ONI estimates, that was still several years away.
“She’s launched!” the executive shouted in Symonds’s headset.
The commander knew the first stage of the missile’s flight out of the launch tube and into the water was a cold launch. Instead of firing the missile’s engine—and risking a catastrophic explosion that could destroy the submarine—the missile was expelled from its tube by a separate noncombustible gas generator, like a spitball through a straw. A few seconds after the missile safely cleared the surface, its first-stage engine would ignite.
“I’ve got it.” Symonds watched the missile’s growing smoke trail climb into the dull gray sky. Several seconds passed. She handed her binoculars to a nearby sailor. The missile was moving too fast to track through the glasses. It was easier to trace the smoke trail with her naked eye.
“Mach One achieved,” her executive said. “Vehicle attitude and flight path are as expected.”
Symonds’s head bent upward as the missile climbed higher.
“Captain, something’s wrong,” the executive said.
“What is it?”
“The flight path—it’s not right.”
“I’m on my way.”
Symonds bolted for the CIC.
What the hell was going on?
XICHANG SATELLITE LAUNCH CENTER
MISSILE EARLY WARNING FACILITY
PEOPLE’S LIBERATION ARMY ROCKET FORCE (PLARF)
XICHANG, SICHUAN, PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA
The steely-eyed People’s Liberation Army Rocket Force (PLARF) major stared at the satellite-tracking display, his face illuminated by the monitor’s amber glow. “First-stage separation completed. Two hundred and sixty-four kilometers and climbing.”
A PLARF captain seated at the adjoining console confirmed, adding, “Terminal velocity achieved, four thousand four hundred meters per second, and holding.”
A PLARF colonel stood above them, beaming. “Excellent!”
“Second-stage burn time, sixty seconds and counting,” the major said.
The small contingent of PLARF officers were clustered in a secured section of the civilian facility. They tried to contain their excitement. In less than a minute, the Americans were going to be very surprised.
The North Korean missile, misnamed by the Americans as the Pukkuksong-1, was performing exactly as designed. They should know.
They designed it.
In an adjacent room, a civilian engineer was also tracking the missile, avoiding the watchful gaze of the senior supervisor, a hard-line party official. The engineer lifted the receiver of his secured landline. He dialed a number, trying to hide his fear. The call he was making could land him in a secret PLA slave labor camp for the next twenty years—or worse. He let the phone ring exactly three times, then hung up.
He hoped the message got through. That call might have just cost him his life.
BUCKLEY AIR FORCE BASE, COLORADO
460TH SPACE WING
2ND SPACE WARNING SQUADRON (SWS)
The SBIRS GEO-3 infrared missile-warning satellite stood high in geosynchronous orbit over the Asian continent, monitoring the flight of the same North Korean rocket.
The SLBM’s trajectory and flight data displayed graphically in real time on the wide wall monitor in the SWS tracking facility, but in accordance with standard procedure, relevant data points were read aloud by the noncommissioned Air Force officers stationed in their specialized departments.
“Second-stage fuel burn complete.”