He handed him the metal bar, which Crocker tucked under his right arm.
Akil went out before him and was already inspecting the other two doors along the opposite side of the hallway. Crocker jimmied open the first on the near side. Storage, mostly-stacked with boxes. Ripped some open and found ink and paper. The second room contained a toilet, sink, mops, and cleaning supplies.
“What’d you find?” he asked Akil.
“Paper and random shit. Nothing that looked important.”
Crocker pointed up.
They climbed to the next level and started checking the rooms there, one on one side, one on the other, knowing that every minute that ticked by put them in more peril. This inspection was aided by the fact that some of the doors contained windows. Through them they saw offices with desks, chairs, flags, maps, and framed photos of the Supreme Leader.
The hallway narrowed, with more rooms farther along.
Crocker whispered, “You continue. I’m going to check the other side.”
“Roger.”
He hurried across the central atrium with its two large elevators and down the wider corridor. Up ahead he heard the shuffling of feet; backed up and squeezed himself against the wall at the corner. Someone was coming up the stairway to his right. He heard the person stop and strike a match. Then the individual continued, humming to himself-sounded like a lament. The song echoed up the stairway, then stopped. The man seemed to be calling someone on a radio. He called again. No one answered. He continued, closer and closer, until he emerged and was standing so close that Crocker could smell him-kimchi (sweet-and-sour cabbage) and cigarette smoke mixed. Smelled like a fart.
The North Korean grunted something, then stepped past Crocker. He was a short, wide man in cheap civilian clothes and worn black shoes. Crocker considered detaining him for a second and asking about the location of the U.S. engineer, but the language barrier made that problematic. So he came up behind him, slapped his right hand over the man’s mouth, the left under his jaw. Pulled his head up and twisted violently until his spine snapped and the man’s body trembled and went limp.
Sorry, bud.
He dragged him by the back of his collar into the stairwell and left him there, then proceeded down the hall. The doors here were metal, with no windows. He used the metal bar to pop the lock on the first. Saw a large lab/machine shop, mechanical parts lying on tables. He saw what looked like a gyroscope on one of them.
Gotta blow all this.
In the next lab, diagrams on the wall showed stages of a rocket.
Where’s the engineer?
As he approached a third door, with a nuclear symbol on it, he heard Akil’s voice through the earpiece.
“Deadwood, what’d you find?”
“Target Two. Tell Suarez to get his ass up here and lay more CL-20.”
“Copy, boss.”
“One dead enemy in the stairway, so don’t be surprised.”
“The officer?” Akil asked.
“Negative. An aide or guard.”
“I’ve seen no one.”
“Help Suarez with the first floor. The first three or four rooms on the left. Labs of some sort. I’ll inspect two.”
“Copy. Over.”
As Crocker entered the stairway and started down to level two, Naylor’s voice came over the radio.
“Deadwood, Tiger One. You read me?”
“Copy, Tiger. What’s up?”
“Currently got eyes on a Korean People’s Navy patrol boat moving past us in the general direction west. Approximate speed fifteen knots. Approximate distance two hundred meters.”
“Copy, Tiger. I assume the SDV is still fully submerged.”
“Fully submerged, check.”
“Keep me appraised of any changes in the PT’s course, especially if it turns north to circumvent the island.”
“Will do, Deadwood. What’s your ETA?”
“Fifteen. Start the engines at thirteen.”
“Thirteen. Copy.”
“Over and out.”
The last thing Crocker wanted to do was engage the KPN, which had a large base in nearby Munchon and could block their exfil.
Reaching the lower level and sweating under the smart suit, he jimmied open the first door, which opened to reveal a small kitchen with hotplates, cupboards, a sink, and an old refrigerator. The second room was crowded with two sets of bunk beds and a small TV. It led to a tiny bathroom with a shower. Both were unoccupied.
As he started to jimmy open the third, Akil’s voice pulsed in his ear.
“Boss, charges set on first deck, west left. Possible presence of nuclear material.”
“I saw the signs, too.”
“Location?”
“Down one deck.”
“Time on target eight minutes and counting. Probably don’t want to detonate until we’re off the island.”
“I’ll be there A-SAP. Wait in the atrium. Watch the front and back doors. Sam, you copy?”
“Copy, boss.”
“All clear out front?”
“All clear.”
“Stand by. We’ll be there soon.”
As he jimmied open the door on his left, an alarm went off-a high whining sound that hurt his ears.
Fuck!
“Boss! Boss! You hear that? You read me?”
“I hear it. Clear the complex and wait outside.”
“Boss!”
“Go. I’ve got this. Over.”
The room he entered was dark and cold. Through his NVGs, he saw a metal table and chairs. A dark liquid on the floor. Smelled like someone had gotten sick. A pair of men’s shoes. In the corner, a mattress and someone in the fetal position with his back to him.
He took a step closer and poked the individual with the barrel of his gun.
The man had thinning brown hair. Leaning closer, Crocker whispered, “Dawkins? James Dawkins?”
The man turned and looked up. He was gaunt and middle-aged, with Western features. Crocker thought he matched the photo he’d been shown at NAB Coronado.
“Can you stand?”
“Who are you?” the man asked weakly.
“Chief Warrant Tom Crocker, U.S. Navy,” he whispered back to the frightened-looking man with a missing front tooth.
“Who?”
“I’ve come to rescue you. Take my hand.”
As he reached down, he heard the click of metal behind him, followed by a blast that lit up the room and hit him between the shoulder blades like a sledgehammer. He flew past Dawkins and smacked the side of his head against the wall.
His head spinning and sharp pains shooting up and down his spine, he reached for his modified AK and pushed off from the wall. As he turned, the thin mattress slipped out from under him and a second shotgun blast flew past his head, almost taking off his ear. Pellets glanced off his NVGs and a few tore into the side of his neck.
Men near the doorway were shouting in Korean. Through the haze of burnt gunpowder, Crocker saw that Dawkins had squeezed himself into the corner. Six feet away a thin man in glasses and civilian clothes stood in the doorway struggling to reload a shotgun. He slipped the shells in and snapped it shut, but his finger remained above the trigger guard. This gave Crocker the split second he needed to rake him sternum to head with AK fire.
They were so close the bullets almost ripped the Korean in half. Smoke rose from the dead’s man’s chest. Crocker saw a larger uniformed individual in the hallway using the doorframe as cover and aiming a Russian-made Grad AR with one arm. He lunged to cover Dawkins as bullets careened off the concrete floor and tore into the walls and mattress. At least one round was stopped by the ceramic disks in the Dragon Skin armor on his chest, which had just saved him from the shotgun blast to his back.
With no time to call for help, he squinted past his shoulder through the swirling smoke and unloaded on the officer’s wrist until the Grad flew into the air and the officer screamed.
Cordite burning his nostrils, he met Dawkins’s terrified eyes and asked, “You okay?”
“I think so.”
“Wait here!”
Ignoring his body’s sharp warnings, he bounded and slipped on the blood-smeared floor, pulled himself up at the doorway, and tore down the hallway.