Rogue Warrior: Dictator's Ransom Part 29

"I never renege on a contract," I told Sun.

"Where is the prize?"

"Around."

"Around?"

"An American expression that means we complete the deal to my satisfaction, or you don't get him."

"The arrangement was that we would not kill you if you completed the mission," he replied.

"The price has gone up."

"The value of your life has gone down."

"All the more reason to renegotiate."

Sun turned and walked away. I started to follow but the guards blocked my way, then closed the door.

It reopened a minute later. Sun wasn't there, but the guards' att.i.tudes had changed; they were now almost polite, their scowls professional rather than personal. They bowed their heads slightly, then turned without a word. I followed them through the hall, back upstairs, and then outside and across to the main door of Kim Jong Il's palace bunker. Here I was turned over to two sumo wrestler types who frisked me, then took me into the bowels of the underground McMansion. We eventually reached a suite several levels below street level, where a svelte Korean woman greeted me with a silent and discreet nod. Before I could construct any fantasies, she extended her arm, gesturing toward the bathroom.

"You will shower," she said in English. Her accent made her sound as if she were from one of the wealthy London suburbs. "Fresh clothes have been hung on the rack."

"No bath?"

"You may draw yourself a bath, if you prefer," she said, her tone extremely serious.

"Will you draw it?"

"The handles are not hard to turn," she said. "But one of your escorts will draw it for you if you wish."

"They're not going to scrub my back, too, are they?"

"If that is what you wish."

"I'd rather you did."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible." Her tone was so serious she could have been one of my accountants talking about the fine points of depreciating an M16. Then she smiled ever so slightly. "Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Rogue Warrior. You will find me quite on my guard."

Mr. Rogue Warrior opted for the shower, with no back scrubbing and the door locked. Just in case, I was careful not to drop the soap.

A set of black ninja clothes hung on the rack near the towels, a Korean imitation of SEAL ops wear. They were looser than anything I'd wear on a mission, but comfortable; if the tailor ever leaves Kim's employ, he should start his own clothes business in the West. There were thick socks but no shoes or boots; grip pads on the soles kept me from sliding on the marble floor.

Smelling like the proverbial daisy-the soap was scented-I presented myself to my Korean escorts. They took me to Kim's den, the place where we had had our little drinking contest during my first visit. The Great Leader himself was standing over the snooker table, deep in thought, either contemplating a shot or trying to levitate the b.a.l.l.s with mind control. Four or five men, all dressed in military uniforms, were standing behind him. Two waiters with trays of drinks hovered nearby.

"You exaggerate what you write," said Kim without looking at me. "Your stories are exaggerations."

"Usually I leave the really weird stuff out. Fact is always stranger than fiction."

"You should never lie," said Kim, looking up.

It was a true Dr. Phil moment-the world's greatest living sc.u.mbag was giving me a lesson in morals.

"I'll try to remember that," I told him.

"Still," said Kim, leaning over to line up his shot, "there must be some truth in what you write. You have done a remarkable job on this trifling business."

He fired the cue ball at its target. The b.a.l.l.s rebounded around the table, but none fell. Even so, the others promptly applauded.

"Good shot," I told Kim.

"We both know it was a terrible shot," said the dictator. He smiled confidentially. "They're all just toads."

I glanced over at the men, who didn't seem to mind the slur.

"None of them speak English. But it wouldn't matter if they did." Kim laughed. "Have a drink, d.i.c.k. The Bombay Sapphire is well stocked."

He raised his hand ever so slightly, and one of the waiters stepped forward.

"I believe I will make Bombay Sapphire the national drink," said Kim, laughing. "In your honor."

"Thank you." I took the gla.s.s from the tray.

"I always like to be nice to a man on the day he dies."

"I'll be sure to give you a call."

"You misunderstand. Today is the day." Kim turned back to the snooker table. "We're never ready, are we?"

"It'd be a shame if I died before telling you where your son Yong Shin Jong is."

Kim frowned, but I think his reaction had more to do with where the b.a.l.l.s were lined up than what I said. As he stared at the table, one of the bookcases on the far wall moved, revealing a pa.s.sage. General Sun entered through it, went to Kim, and whispered some sweet nothing in his ear. Kim nodded, then took his shot. One of the red b.a.l.l.s fell and the a.s.sembled stooges gave another round of applause.

"So you have brought my son," said Kim, looking up. "Where is he?"

"I have him available. I'll turn him over once we work out a deal."

"In that case, I will change my mind. You will not be shot until after dinner."

[ II ].

WHILE THE DEAR Leader and I were spending some quality time together, Doc and the others were still sitting on their thumbs aboard the Greenville. The submarine was sitting a few miles from the Russian merchant ship, just at the edge of North Korea's territorial waters. They'd been there long enough that the captain's suggestion that he would shoot them out the torpedo tube was starting to look like an offer rather than a threat. But before Shotgun could finish measuring his shoulders to see if he would fit, the Greenville's captain received new orders.

With Polorski now neutralized-polite Washington-speak for being fried to s.h.i.t-Jimmy Zim had convinced his superiors that now that the deal had been squashed, it was safe to take over the Russian merchant ship and inspect it. This was actually a cover-your-a.s.s move-if the exchange had already been made and the ship got away, the CIA would naturally be blamed. Saying the ship should be inspected shifted all potential blame to a much larger organization-the navy, which of course would have to carry out any such boarding.

But this fell afoul of the State Department's earlier concerns about s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up the nuclear treaty. Some bright bulb at the NSC realized this and referred the matter to State as an "advisory." In less time than it took to put a red "Eyes Only" sticker on the paper file, word came back from a State Department lawyer that the matter had to be reviewed at the highest level. This of course was the nuclear bomb of CYA statements, shifting the matter up through the food chain to the political sharks at the top. And in good political shark fashion, the matter was then sent for "input."

To the CIA.

I'll spare you the rest of the back and forth and around. In the end, the action was approved-provided "international legal concerns" were satisfied. These concerns could be boiled down into a single sentence for us laymen: don't seize the ship while it is in North Korean waters.

Goodness no, why would we do that?

Maybe to grab any sort of incriminating evidence before the people aboard had a chance to destroy it? Or grab the people themselves before they realized there was a problem and escaped? Or just to stop fooling around and get the d.a.m.n thing done?

Nah.

The Greenville's captain held a conference to discuss the situation. The Russian ship was about a half mile inside the territorial limits. Once it moved over the line, the SEALs could take it over.

He looked at Doc as he said this. He didn't have to say it twice.

"Captain, I've been wondering if we could arrange for some extended PT," said Doc. "The boys and I are getting a little restless, and obviously we can't be running laps through a nuclear submarine."

"And what would you have in mind, Chief?" asked the captain.

Once a chief, always a chief as far as the navy is concerned.

"A little swim, just to get the blood flowing."

Their blood was flowing pretty well a few hours later as they slipped out of one of the SEAL Delivery Vehicles and began a leisurely underwater stroll in a direction that just happened to take them to the Russian ship. As they swam, lo and behold, they happened to come across a large chain in the water.

Odd, a chain in the water. Definitely something to investigate.

Like Jack and the Beanstalk, Doc, Sean, Shotgun, and Mongoose climbed up the chain. But instead of finding a castle in the clouds, they discovered a ship, sitting at anchor. Being curious souls, they decided to investigate.

Mongoose figured that with his relatively recent service as a SEAL, he had pride of place in the detachment: he wanted to be point man. This amused Shotgun and Sean no end, but not nearly as much as Mongoose's curses when he reached the top of the anchor chain.

Even Sean wouldn't have been tall enough to reach to the ship's railing from the hole where the anchor chain came through the hull, and there was no room to crawl in through the opening to get aboard. So they had packed the large suction cups I mentioned earlier as an alternative ship-boarding device. Mongoose had placed his too close to the chain and now couldn't get it to budge so he could move it higher.

You couldn't blame this on Mr. Murphy. Ol' Murph had been snoozing soundly so far, and was still cutting Z's when Mongoose began hammering on the release tab to get the cup undone.

"What the f.u.c.k is going on up there?" growled Doc, several links below. "Let's go, s.h.i.tforbrains."

"I'm f.u.c.kin' working on it, Chief. c.r.a.p."

"Don't c.r.a.p me. Just get the d.a.m.n thing done."

"You think I'm jackin' off up here?"

"Maybe that would help," suggested Sean.

Shotgun, who was right below Mongoose, thought this exchange was the funniest d.a.m.n thing he'd ever heard. Of course, he couldn't laugh out loud, so instead he clamped his mouth shut and pressed it against his arm, shaking so hard he practically laughed himself back into the water.

"You take over," said Mongoose finally. "Use your f 'ing cup."

The only way for Shotgun to get into position was to climb up and over Mongoose, which naturally added injury to insult. He stuck his suction cup into place, gave Mongoose a wide a.s.s grin, then stepped on his shoulders and climbed over the side of the ship.

With their prize gone and half the North Korean Navy-such as it was-nearby, the Russians had posted a minimal night watch. There was no one on the forward deck, and the nearest man in fact was sleeping, though of course Shotgun didn't know that as he boosted himself over the gunwale and rolled onto the ship with a splat. He groaned, then sprang to his feet, pulling his MP5N out of its waterproof bag and taking a last look around before giving the all-clear.

"Yo, Blankethugger-you stepped on my hand on the way up," said Mongoose once he was on board.

"Want me to kiss it and make it better?"

"Shuddup and get with the program," said Doc. "Shotgun, take care of that anchor chain. Sean, Mongoose, you're with me."

The Russian ship was oriented almost perfectly perpendicular to the Korean coast. All it had to do to get into neutral water was to "drift" backward exactly a quarter mile. It would drift a little faster if the engines were on and the screw turning in reverse. Losing the anchor would help even more.

Doc and Sean followed Mongoose at point. They got inside the ship without being seen, stopping near the ladder as a pair of sailors pa.s.sed by, one deck below. Mongoose slipped down after them, but they'd turned the corner and were gone.

There should have been an officer or at least some sort of watchman in the engine room near the control station on the compartment's upper deck. But either he was sleeping somewhere, or hiding, because neither Doc nor Mongoose could spot him as they snuck down the pa.s.sage into the s.p.a.ce. The overhead lights were off, and the room was filled with a reddish glow cast from the night lights and instruments. Though the ship was probably twenty years old, whoever owned it had retrofitted it with new engines and controls within the last few years. While its exterior was covered with thick rust, the diesel-electric motors and apparatus below practically sparkled in the dim light. A large computer screen sat at the left end of the panel; this showed the operator the status of the systems at a glance. The propulsion controls for the ship's two screws were at the center of the board, their black ball-topped handles looking like Tootsie Pops standing above the wheels.

"Tell Shotgun to cut the chain," Doc told Sean, studying the panel. "And hold on."

Doc stared at the panel. Had this been a vintage sixties control system-or even the original one put in the ship-he would have been fine. But Doc and computers don't completely mix. Whether that was a problem or not, he had trouble getting the engines cranking.

Meanwhile, Shotgun was running into his own problem up at the anchor chain. The plan for taking out the anchors was simple-a dab of plastique on each, ignited by remote control. A certain level of skill was involved, of course: Shotgun had to be fairly judicious in measuring out the explosive, since too big a blast would put a hole in the bow. But otherwise the job was fairly easy. As the last man up, Sean had applied the first charge when climbing aboard; all Shotgun had to do was put the charge on the other chain and push the b.u.t.ton on his igniter.

It was at this point that Murphy decided to wake up the watch hand who'd been snoozing earlier. Then he whispered in his ear, sending him forward to check and make sure that the shadows he saw near the bow were just shadows.

There was very little room for a normal person to hide where Shotgun was, and even less for someone Shotgun's size. Shotgun raised his gun to pop the man, then heard someone calling to him from the distance. Deciding now that hiding was his best option, he hid in the only place available-on the anchor chain over the side.

Unfortunately, he forgot how far it was between the gunwale and the anchor. He was already hanging over when he realized it; thinking he could grab the chain as he fell, he let go.

They don't teach you much in the army about ships, and apparently even less about gravity. The latter pulled him down so quickly there was no way for him to get a handhold and he plummeted into the water.

Shotgun surfaced right next to the anchor chain. Unsure whether he'd been seen or not, he began shimmying up the chain, climbing up to a good spot to leave the explosives. He strapped them in place, then continued top-side. But having used his suction cup earlier to help Mongoose, he was stuck below the rail.

As Shotgun contemplated his situation, he saw lights flash on the nearby North Korean ships. His first thought was that they had spotted him; then he realized they were moving away. General Sun had alerted the North Korean Navy that there was no longer any point in watching the Russian merchant ship; the deal was off and the navy could go home. Shotgun didn't know this, of course, but he did realize that the Russian ship would start moving soon as well. He pulled up the microphone to the SEAL radio he'd borrowed and contacted the others to let them know what was going on.

"Shotgun to Doc-yo, the other ships are moving."

"Clarify?" said Mongoose. All four of my guys were on the same circuit.

Knowing Shotgun, he probably made some comment about Mongoose suddenly using big words. But in the version of the story I heard, all he did was explain what he meant.

"Screw that," said Doc, who at this point hadn't gotten the controls to work. "Are the anchors blown or what?"

"I'm working on it."

"Blow them now! Jesus."