Ravi noticed the truck in which he had arrived contained the two stainless-steel flasks with the nuclear warheads. The eighteen missiles were stacked nine on each of the other two — three stacks of three, piled slightly apart, separated with timbers and wooden pallets, but lashed together with bands of sprung steel.
Ravi considered the weight, probably 18 tons per vehicle, and thought again what he had thought on the long journey to the northeast—They make a hell of a truck in Chongqing.
He shook hands with the Commandant, and he and Ahmed climbed aboard. The young bodyguard had not removed his AK-47 from the rear seat and it had not been touched. It was still loaded.
The three drivers started their engines, and in convoy, they made their way to the main entrance. The entire place was plunged into darkness immediately before the great doors smoothed their way back into the rock. All three trucks were on dipped headlights now, but no other light came flooding out into the pitch dark of Kwanmo-bong.
They drove straight out into the rain and headed for the gates, which were open and held back. The duty guards saluted as they rumbled out onto the southward track and drove noisily away from the underground factory.
Despite the presence of two good-sized, utterly illegal nuclear warheads, encased behind him, the General felt quite righteous as they began their journey. He might be planning something diabolical, but his people had a just cause and were prepared to fight and die for their beliefs, for the right to self-government for the ancient peoples of Palestine and other oppressed nations in the Middle East, which were currently forced to march to the beat of an American drum. On the other hand, the North Koreans were just racketeers. They had no plans, no loyalties, no morals, no higher creeds or beliefs, no allies. They just wanted cash for arms — arms of the worst possible type for whoever wanted to commit crimes against humanity.
The great Allah had proved to be on the side of the Hamas warriors. And He had shown it many times. Ravi knew He would accompany them on all of their great missions against the West. Of that he had no doubt.
The three trucks roared and skidded their way downwards, lurching around bends where the track attempted to follow the contours of the mountain. The surface was rough and the gradients uneven, and the rain never let up. Nor would it, all the way to the junction where the forbidden track to Kwanmo-bong joined the east coast highway.
But the gates were open, ready for them at each checkpoint, and they were not stopped by the guards. They just drove straight on through and turned south, where the rain stopped almost immediately. Heading to the capital city of Pyongyang, they swerved around south of the metropolis before picking up the new expressway to the seaport of Nampo, 25 miles to the southwest. General Ravi was disappointed not to see the urban sprawl of Pyongyang, but he understood there was something bizarre about pulling into the tourist area along the Taedong River, with three trucks filled with nuclear warheads and missiles.
Instead, the little convoy kept going, driving through the night towards the shores of the Yellow Sea. It was almost dawn now, and the sun was fighting its way towards the horizon. Daylight came as they passed through the gates into the dockyard at Nampo, the largest port on the west coast. Ravi and Ahmed, tired and hungry, were astounded at the size of the jetties, all occupied by major container ships, moored beneath great overhead cranes. Most of them flew the flags of countries in Southeast Asia and Africa, but there were three from the Middle East and one from Europe. Freighters had no difficulty entering and exiting the port of Nampo, regardless of their size, since the construction of the enormous West Sea Floodgates significantly elevated water levels and dramatically improved berthing capacity.
Ravi’s convoy pulled up alongside a much smaller ship, an old 500-tonner, dark blue with rust marks all over the hull. The number 81, just visible beneath the paint, gave little away, but the thirty-six-year-old freighter was in fact a converted ASU-class auxiliary ship originally built for the Japanese Navy, a twin-shafted diesel that now looked to be on its last legs.
The for’ard superstructure was in dire need of a few coats of paint, as was its one broad funnel. The aft area was flat and carried a hefty-looking crane, which had once lifted Japanese Naval helicopters. There had also been a small flight deck, now converted for short-haul freight.
The red-painted hull letters on its port bow were barely legible in either Korean script or English—Yongdo. Ravi had no idea what that meant. But she flew the broad maroon stripe and single star of the North Korean flag on her stern, stretched out hard in the gusty morning breeze.
The jetty was staffed entirely by military personnel, and it was not until the three army trucks came to a halt between carefully painted markings, and they all disembarked the trucks, that General Ravi noticed they were in a sealed area. A large iron gate had already been closed behind them. There was obviously no way out, and there sure as hell was no way in.
Awaiting their arrival was the ship’s commanding officer, North Korean Navy Captain Cho Joong Kun.
“Welcome to Nampo,” he said in English. “Please come aboard immediately. I have arranged breakfast and cabins. We sail tonight on the tide around midnight. As you know, it’s a two-day voyage.”
Ravi glanced down at the officer’s sleeve insignia — two black stripes on gold, with a downward line of three silver stars. In this Navy you needed to make Commodore to get four stars.
“Good morning, Captain Cho,” he said. “I’m glad to see you. We’ve been driving all night.”
“Yes, I was told. You may sleep most of the day if you wish. By the time you awaken we’ll be loaded. That crane over there will be ready for us in about three hours. It will take some time. You have a rather delicate cargo.”
“Very delicate,” replied Ravi. “And expensive.”
Barracuda II moved swiftly north, through 460 fathoms of ocean, 80 miles northwest of Okinawa, and now clear of the long chain of the Ryukyu Islands, where the ancient territories of imperial Japan had finally come to an end.
They were running up towards the line of the Japan current, which effectively provides China with a frontier for the Pacific end of the East Sea. The newly promoted Rear Adm. Ben Badr intended to stay out in the deeper water on the Japan side of the current as long as he could. Like most Middle Eastern and Eastern submariners, he preferred to run deep whenever he could, away from the prying eyes of the American satellites.
It was of course unusual for a Rear Admiral to serve as Commanding Officer, but Ben would have a full-fledged Captain on board for their next mission, and his own authority in this ship was tantamount. Anyway, the Hamas were not hidebound by the traditions of other people’s navies. They were in the process of establishing their own.
The Barracuda had cleared Zhanjiang, headquarters of China’s Southern Fleet, on Tuesday evening, on the surface, in full view of anyone who was interested. They went deep just before the Luzon Strait, which separates Taiwan and the Philippines, and were now around halfway through their 2,400-mile journey to the North.
This was the second of the two Barracuda s, which the Hamas organization had purchased from Russia in utmost secrecy. And while the Americans may have harbored serious suspicions about who actually owned it, they only knew three things: for one, Russia did not admit to selling this particular Barracuda to anyone; two, China did not admit to owning it; and three, neither did anyone else.