Rogue Warrior: Dictator's Ransom Part 12

A small caliber peashooter, not that size is important.

"I'm not going," said Yong Shin Jong.

"Now listen, Jong. I'm not a big fan of your father's either. But even if you're not a prisoner here, you're not safe. The Chinese will sell you out as soon as the price is right. Come with me and I'll get you to a place where you'll be okay."

"Why should I trust you?"

"I have a friend with me." I pointed up at the he li copter, where Cho Lim was standing in the doorway.

If you've been reading along carefully, gentle reader, you've noticed the averted eyes, sighs, and quickness of breath every time Cho Lim heard Yong Shin Jong's name. More than likely, you're expecting some big Hallmark scene here. Yong Shin Jong will see his erstwhile lover standing in the doorway of the helicopter, drop his weapon, and raise his arms to her. Cho Lim will bend down and scoop him up with one hand-maybe two; she's kind of small-and together they will fly off into the sunset. Meanwhile, I'll jump up on the wall and leap toward the helicopter skids, barely managing to hold on as Polorski-aka Tall, Dark, and Polack-flies us over to the secluded airstrip we carefully staked out, where our fully fueled Embraer EMB-120 is waiting to whisk us away, not to Pyongyang but a small airport in j.a.pan, where there will be leisure for the love birds to enjoy their reunion in bliss-and for me to pump Yong Shin Jong for information about Kim's underground palace.

But neither Yong Shin Jong nor Cho Lim had read this book. Instead of the neat little story arc that I laid out, they went completely off rail, improvising their own plot twist: both took aim at each other and fired, Yong Shin Jong with his small pistol, Cho Lim with her considerably more potent submachine gun.

Cursing in two languages, I dove at Yong Shin Jong. Once again we fell back into the pond. As we did, Cho Lim fell as well. Yong apparently hadn't won his trophies for target shooting just because he was the dictator's b.a.s.t.a.r.d son. If the bullet didn't kill her-though it was a small caliber round, it was probably aimed at her head-the fall probably did.

I was too busy trying to get Yong Shin Jong out of the water to figure out exactly what had happened to her. The gunfire at the front of the house had increased-two battalions of Chinese army regulars were now arriving via truck and armored personnel carriers.

We had gone well beyond the SNAFU stage, directly to FUBAR-f.u.c.ked up beyond all repair.

Trace had heard what was going on over the radio, and after neutralizing the machine gunner on the top floor she came downstairs and out the back. She and the three men with her immediately got into a firefight with two of the motorcycle riders, who'd skipped around into the rock garden after being ambushed by our b.o.o.by trap and Doc's men.

Out on the road, Shotgun and Mongoose had ambushed the arriving Chinese army, hitting them with flash-bang grenades and then submachine-gun fire as they started to get out of their trucks. Stunned or at least slowed by the grenades, the soldiers were promptly pinned down. But my guys were outnumbered and outgunned-the biggest weapons they had were the MP5s-and at best they could supply only a short diversion.

"It's time to go, d.i.c.k!" yelled Trace from the other side of the pond. "Let's go! In the helo!"

A pair of Chinese jets streaked overhead, emphasizing the point.

"I don't have time to argue," I told Yong Shin Jong. "Grab the line from the helicopter and we'll talk about this later."

"No." Yong Shin Jong still had his gun in his hand. He raised it-and pointed at his head. "I'd rather die here than go back to my father."

"We can do it that way if you want," I said.

"No bluff," he said, pushing the gun next to his skull.

I held up my hand, trying to think of something to say that would not only persuade him to come but could be heard over the explosions and gunfire. I've never been good with the touchy-feely stuff, and the best I could do was to tell him we'd work it out. That convinced him so completely he put the gun in his mouth.

"Yong. I'm your friend. Take the gun out of your mouth."

Out front, the Chinese were regrouping for a counterattack. Our forces were split up-Doc and a few of Lo Po's men who'd been watching the perimeter headed toward their designated pickup down the road, while Mongoose and Shotgun came through the house. They ran for the helicopter, which was now so low that I thought I was going to get a haircut any second.

"d.i.c.k! Time to go!" yelled Mongoose. "We're the last ones through."

"Chinese are behind us, d.i.c.k!" Shotgun sounded happy as he leaped for the chopper's door.

The jets pa.s.sed overhead again. The boys had sprinkled some b.o.o.by traps on their way through the house, but the Chinese soldiers were already in the back room.

"It's your call, Jong," I said, sidling toward the helicopter.

He stared at me, the gun still in his mouth. Finally I decided I had no choice. I jumped up and grabbed the chopper skid as it whirled around, trying to duck the approach of another Chinese jet. At the same time, Shotgun started firing his submachine gun from the door of the helo, sending the two soldiers who'd come into the patio back into the house.

Yong Shin Jong threw down his pistol and put up his hands, trying to tell the Chinese not to hurt him.

Finally, I thought, leaping from the chopper. For the third time, I knocked him into the pond. But three was the charm-he was so surprised that he couldn't struggle, and I managed to hook my left arm under his without a problem. Mongoose tossed a rope down from the interior of the helicopter. I grabbed it with my right arm and held on as the helicopter jerked upward. We just barely cleared the wall of the garden-something I was thankful for, as the masonry began splintering from rifle fire. But my arm felt like it was about to fall off.

"Pull us up, pull us up!" I yelled, but as the rope began edging upward, the helicopter pitched sharply on its side. Yong Shin Jong and I spun so violently I lost my grip. We fell into the low brush outside the compound's double fence. Head spinning, I grabbed my reluctant rescuee and dragged him with me down the hill toward the road. The helo circled, ducking another pa.s.s by the fighter jets, then came back, dropping until its wheels were practically on the pavement. I pushed Yong Shin Jong into the belly of the aircraft and dove in behind him as the chopper took off. Mongoose grabbed my shirt as we pitched once again; if not for that I would have rolled out onto the ground.

"I thought you knew how to fly helicopters!" I yelled into the c.o.c.kpit.

Polorski was too busy cursing to answer. The Chinese jets were Shenyang J-7s-rebranded MiG-21s, not state of the art, but more than enough to take down our Aerospatiale Cougar.

The Chinese pilots were flashing by us, but not firing, maybe because they realized that we had Yong Shin Jong, or maybe because they knew China is a really big country and there was no way the helicopter could fly far enough to get away.

"Take us to the backup site," I told Polorski. "Don't go to the airport."

"Yeah, that's a good idea. Hang on."

"Hang on" apparently was Polish for "now I'm going to pull some really harsh maneuvers." He jerked the nose of the helicopter straight up and twisted the craft around, changing direction as the fighter came on. I can't say how successful he was at ducking them because I flew into the back of the bird, bouncing against Mongoose and landing on Yong Shin Jong. I managed to get back upright and pulled Korea's prodigal son to his feet, sitting him in the bench seat at the side of chopper cabin.

"What is going on?" he demanded.

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," I told him. "Are you a guest of the Chinese, or a prisoner?"

"Guest."

"Then why are they trying to shoot you down?"

He didn't have much of an answer for that.

"Why did you shoot Cho Lim?" I asked.

"Cho Lim bad news. Very bad news," said Yong Shin Jong.

"She wasn't your girlfriend?"

"Ancient history."

Another hard turn and spin sent me sprawling back against the seat. I have to admit, Polorski was an accomplished helicopter pilot. His maneuvers at treetop level had been enough to get us out of the sights of the fighter jets, and we were so low that neither their radars nor the local air traffic radars could see us. He sped along a rail line to our backup rendezvous point, a small garage south of Botu. Meanwhile, I tried questioning Yong Shin Jong again. But he answered my questions with one of his own: "Did Sun send you?"

"You mean General Sun?"

That was all I said, but apparently it was enough for Yong Shin Jong, who smiled wryly and folded his arms, signaling he wouldn't be talking anymore. I decided I'd have plenty of time to change his mind under better circ.u.mstances later on; I got him a blanket to dry off with, then found one for myself.

I was lucky just to be wet. Two of Lo Po's men had been injured, one with a busted arm and the other with bullet wounds to his thigh and b.u.t.tocks. Trace bandaged them up as best she could. The one with the bullet wounds had lost a good deal of blood and was light-headed, but his injuries didn't seem life threatening.

We landed in an empty field about ten minutes later, rendezvousing with Lo Po's helicopter, which was also just setting down. We'd parked a bus near the road. As far as I could tell, the jets had lost us somewhere to the north. I told Mongoose and Shotgun to go and watch the road while we loaded the wounded into the bus, then "volunteered" two of Lo Po's men to help me with the wounded and Yong Shin Jong. In the c.o.c.kpit, Polorski was telling Trace to go with us while he got rid of the helicopter.

"What do you mean?" she said. "We're leaving the chopper. Come on."

"I'm afraid I can't."

Trace sensed he wasn't worried about losing his deposit when he pulled his pistol.

"What the h.e.l.l is going on?" she said.

"Out, darlin'," snarled the Polack. "And don't try anything or I'll shoot you."

Trace was in a state of shock, but I doubt she would have left the helicopter voluntarily, even with the gun pointed at her. The door opened behind her and two arms reached in to pull her out. Trace, still stunned, began to fight back, but found her face filled with tear gas.

I was all choked up myself. Six men in black coveralls and gas masks had emerged from the garage on the other side of the field after we landed, firing the gas point-blank at and into the chopper. Instinctually, I tried to cover my face, then I realized that was the wrong thing to do.

But it was too late. One of the men had already grabbed Yong Shin Jong from my grip and thrown him to the back of the helicopter. Before I could turn around, the helo was airborne.

14 The possibility exists that he obtained this information using means that would not meet the approval of the U.S. justice system. But since I wasn't there, I am convinced that the data simply fell from the sky, and you should be, too.

PART TWO.

DEEPER & DEEPER.

"We are opposed to the line of compromise with

imperialism. At the same time, we cannot tolerate the

practice of only shouting against imperialism, but in

actual fact, being afraid to fight it."

-KIM IL SUNG.

5.

[ I ].

YONG SHIN JONG, Polorski, and the six ninjas were all gone. Tears streaming from my eyes, I yelled at Shotgun and Mongoose to shoot the d.a.m.n helo down. Then I ran toward the other helicopter, hoping to go after them.

By the time Mongoose and Shotgun realized what was going on, Polorski had put two hundred yards between them and the helicopter. Just as Shotgun raised his gun to fire, the helo started banking back in his direction. He couldn't believe his good luck and started emptying his magazine at it.

Mongoose grabbed his friend's shirt and pulled him down just in time to avoid the RPG round that flew from the door of the helicopter. The rocket-propelled grenade exploded close enough to shower them with dirt, though fortunately far enough away not to hurt them.

I had just about reached the other helo when a second RPG round flew from Polorski's craft and struck the tail. At first, it looked as if the grenade had only pa.s.sed through the metal and not exploded. Then there was a burst of light and the tail flew to the ground, the rotor still spinning. Lo Po, who'd been securing the c.o.c.kpit, dove out headfirst, rolling on the ground as the grenade sparked a fire. Two of his employees, the last men in the chopper, jumped out as well. One of the men's pant legs was on fire, but he patted it out before it spread to the rest of his clothes.

Miraculously, Polorski's ambush hadn't cost us any serious injuries. What really hurt my pride was the fact that I had not seen this coming. I should have known better than to trust a dumb Polack. As a crazy-a.s.s Slovak myself, I should have learned that long before.

But if I was mad, imagine what Trace Dahlgren felt. Her rage went beyond volcanic. Beyond nuclear. Beyond supernova.

"I am going to kill that motherf.u.c.ker with my bare hands," she said softly when I caught up to her in the field.

And that was all she said on the subject, which is what really worried me. (Remember her artful performance on a SEAL turncoat in Vengeance? Imagine something worse . . . ) "Into the bus, into the bus," I told her.

"We can't let him go."

For the moment, though, we had to. I tugged Trace with me toward the bus. I've p.i.s.sed off a lot of women in my life, but I've never seen one as angry as Trace was. The only sign of it, though, was in her eyes-they looked as if they could burn a hole through granite.

Despite the fact that he had caught a good dose of tear gas himself, Doc had taken the wheel of the bus. Not necessarily the best driver under good circ.u.mstances, Doc is even worse when he's having trouble seeing. We careened through the dust as he found the hard-packed road, bouncing through the ruts and sc.r.a.ping the stone fences on either side as we went. Lo Po stood up next to him, providing directions via his GPS device. We were about ten miles from the airport, but the roads we'd mapped out were narrow and mostly dirt, so it was going to be a long drive.

The jet that had hara.s.sed us earlier took another pa.s.s but seemed to lose interest. Doc's driving got progressively better as we went; finally we hit a macadam roadway.

"Two miles, straight on," said Lo Po.

Doc ground the gears and began to accelerate. I started to relax, thinking of how we might track Polorski, when I heard the sound of a jet streaking nearby.

Awful close, I thought.

"Watch out!" yelled Lo Po as the fighter appeared in front of us.

Whatever constraints he'd been under earlier not to use his weapons apparently no longer applied-he lit his cannon. The bullets tore through the road alongside us.

"Enough of this bulls.h.i.t!" yelled Shotgun, jumping up from his seat.

He ran to the front of the bus, pushed open the door, and held his submachine gun up toward the sky. Doc swerved sharply as the plane came into view for another pa.s.s. Shotgun nearly flew out into the road but Mongoose, who'd trailed him to the front, leaped over the forward pa.s.senger rail and caught him, clinging to the restraining pole with his foot. Shotgun began firing, emptying a mag and slamming another in while halfway out of the bus.

You know and I know that Shotgun's gunfire was a wasted gesture; those 9mm bullets had about as much chance of hitting the plane as spit, and probably wouldn't have done much more damage. It's likely the pilot never even saw Shotgun firing at him. But I'll be d.a.m.ned if the plane didn't turn off and not come back.

Mongoose pulled Shotgun back into the bus, cursing at him for being a fool. Shotgun got a s.h.i.t-eating grin on his face and asked for more bullets.

"Here we go again!" yelled Trace from the back of the bus as another plane came up from the rear, guns blazing. Doc pushed the bus right, out of the path of the bullets, but into a huge ditch, where we stalled out. The airport was a few hundred yards away.