Targets of Opportunity (19 page)

Hea stared at him, panic in her eyes. “Kyung is dead. So is your friend. They will kill the other one next.”

Through clenched teeth Sandor hollered, “Do what I tell you, and do it now!” Then he turned to Bergenn. “They’re coming through the door,” he said, pointing at the soldiers who had followed their route into the courtyard.

Even as Sandor spoke, a hail of gunfire rained down on the van from above. Bergenn aimed high at the snipers as Sandor fired at the onrushing soldiers on the ground, giving Hea time to swing the bus up onto the curb and head for Craig Raabe.

Raabe was in a crouch, blood visible on his shirt and pant leg as he returned fire at the men who were coming at him.

Hea may have been a reluctant driver, but once she sent Sang back to the floor and took the wheel, she steered the van dead ahead, directly into the dozen or so men who poured through the door onto the plaza. She then swerved hard to the right, giving cover to Craig and the fallen Zimmermann and Kyung, bringing the bus to a sudden stop. Bergenn and Sandor struggled to pull everyone aboard.

Raabe managed to crawl into the vehicle on his own. Zimmermann was still breathing, but only barely, and he was apparently not long for it as Bergenn dragged him inside. Kyung was dead, but they also lifted him into the van. Then Sandor hollered, “Go, go, go,” and the girl took off again, this time spinning the bus around and flying away from the gunfire, leaping off the curb and careening wildly to the left as shots continued to shatter the van’s windows and pierce its sides.

Bergenn did his best to tend to Raabe’s wounds as Sandor kneeled over Zimmermann. The big man was covered in blood, his breath shallow and arrhythmic, his face contorted in pain.

“Kurt, where’s the worst hit?” Jordan asked.

Zimmermann looked up at him through the vacant eyes of death, somehow managing one more cynical grin. “Not sure,” he managed in a raspy whisper. “It was either the fifth or the sixth shot.” Then the smile vanished as he grabbed at Sandor’s arm, squeezing it with all of his remaining strength until the grip went slack, his head fell to the side, and, with a final gasp, he was gone.

“Damn,” Sandor groaned. He turned to Bergenn. “How’s Craig?”

“He’ll make it if we get him help, but he’s done playing commando for today.”

Sandor nodded, then had a look at his friend’s anguished face. “Hang in there Craig, we’ll get you home.”

Hea had the van racing forward and they were beyond the range of gunfire for the moment. Whatever elite units of the DPRK army might be dispatched to pursue them, at least they had a lead.

Sandor stood up, holding on to a seat back to keep his balance as Hea floored the accelerator. “I don’t think they’re going to hit us with anything large, they probably still want to try and get their pal Hwang back in one piece.” He gestured toward the Korean, who was lying on the floorboard to the rear of the bus, moaning from the pain in his damaged shoulder. Sandor, in a voice loud enough for the man to hear, said, “If he moves, Jim, shoot out both of his kneecaps.”

Bergenn nodded. “Consider it done.”

Sandor went to the front of the van and kneeled behind Hea. “Nice driving.”

She responded with a slight nod.

“Do we have a plan here or are we driving all the way to Seoul?”

“Sang has two cars waiting for us,” she told him as she maneuvered her way past the outlying parking areas onto an auxiliary road, keeping her foot to the floor as she hurtled through the night.

“We’re switching vehicles?”

She nodded again, and so Sandor turned to Mr. Sang, who was still seated on the floor, his back against the front firewall, facing the rear. “You’re on our side, eh? You actually speak English?”

When the man looked up, his eyes were moist with grief. “A little, yes.”

“You worked with Kyung?”

The man was finding it difficult to speak. “My cousin,” he finally said. “Like a brother.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yes. Like a brother.”

“I understand,” Sandor said. “These men are my brothers.”

Sang responded with a look that said he also understood.

“So, how do we get out of here?”

Sang explained that there were two cars parked at the end of a deserted road. The idea was for them to split into two groups. One would make their way south, for the Yellow Sea. From there they would travel by boat to South Korea. The others would head north for the Russian border.

Those were the two options Sandor discussed with Byrnes when they considered the most logical exfiltration routes.

“We have information I need to get to my government. You understand that, right?”

Sang nodded.

“We don’t have much time, and we need to get the message out of the country even if we don’t make it.”

“Yes,” the man said thoughtfully, “very difficult.”

Sandor paused, then broke into a loud laugh, causing everyone in the van, except Hea, to look up at him.

“Are you kidding me, Sang? We just broke into the private boxes at the Arirang Festival, took out half a dozen guards, kidnapped one of Kim’s top men, and outran the North Korean army. Now you’re telling me it’s going to be difficult to get an e-mail or phone call out of here?”

Sang nodded sadly. “Yes,” he said. “All transmissions, wireless telephone, Internet connections, all go through satellite. State controlled. Very difficult.”

The humor drained from Sandor’s face. “Look, at this point I don’t care if it’s traced, I just want to be sure the communication goes through.”

Sang nodded, but offered nothing more.

“Okay,” Sandor replied, then got up and marched to the back of the bus, where he stood over Hwang. “Listen to me,” he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. “I’m only going to explain this to you once. You need to tell me everything else you know about the deal your country has made with Iran and Venezuela. Then I need to know the fastest way to transmit this information. I have two men dead, another man down, and an entire unit of your beloved army on my tail, so I have no time for negotiations. Am I clear?”

Hwang stared up at him, his arrogance gone, his face betraying both pain and fear.

“Am I clear?” Sandor shouted at him.

When Hwang gave no answer, Sandor pulled out the Tokarev sidearm and pressed the barrel against the man’s knee and cocked the hammer.

“Yes, yes,” Hwang groaned, “I understand.”

“Then answer me.”

When he did not reply, Sandor moved the gun from the man’s knee and jammed it into his wounded shoulder. Hwang writhed in agony. Sandor pressed harder.

“Answer me.”

“I do not know all the details.” Hwang spoke haltingly. “I only know we have made an alliance with the man in Caracas.”

Sandor pressed harder.

“Oil for military aid,” the Korean gasped.

“What sort of military aid? What is the aid going to be used for?” When the man’s eyes widened, Sandor knew they had arrived at the critical moment reached in any effective interrogation. Hwang had the choice to save himself or to die an unsung hero. “Come on, Hwang, you said it yourself, we’ll never live to tell the tale.” When the man hesitated, Sandor increased the pressure on his bloody shoulder.

“Attack on your oil reserves,” the Korean blurted out. Then, as Sandor continued to prod him with the barrel of the automatic pistol, Hwang passed out.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

INSIDE FORT OSCAR, ST. BARTHÉLEMY, F.W.I.

L
IEUTENANT
V
AUCHON REALIZED
that he had run out of time and that his options were woefully limited. The terrorists below were still transmitting the screams of the hostages, which sounded like human static being broadcast on the handheld radio. Their cries could also be heard through the open stairwell, creating an eerie, stereo effect.

Vauchon could retreat, sealing off the rooms and leaving those people to die along with their captors. Or they could attack, risking their own lives in what might be a futile effort, since the explosives would likely kill them all in the end.

Vauchon turned to the younger soldier who was still examining the detonators. “You know something about these things. Is there any chance they can be disarmed?”

The junior officer shook his head gravely. “No sir, not without risk of setting them off.”

“Are they on timers, can you tell that? Or are they set to be remotely detonated?”

Again the man responded with a solemn frown. “I can’t tell sir, I’m sorry. The main devices are inside plastic housings. I can’t see if it’s on a digital timer or not.”

The chaotic sounds from below were suddenly overridden by Renaldo’s voice as it crackled over the radio. “What’s it going to be? In ten seconds we’re going to shoot another one of your friends down here.”

The lieutenant pushed the transmit button. “All right,” he said. “But you have to tell us how to disarm these explosives.”

“I told you this was not a negotiation,” came the reply. “I can delay the mechanisms down here, but in a few minutes you will all be dead if you don’t clear out.” There was a pause, then, “You simply cannot win this standoff, do you understand? You have the choice to either control the damage or cause everyone to die.”

Vauchon looked at his men. “Whatever happens, we’ve got to try to save those people,” he told them.

Both of his men nodded their understanding.

Vauchon spoke into the two-way again. “All right, we’re leaving. Bring the hostages out and we will allow you safe passage.”

Renaldo laughed into the radio. “I will dictate the terms here. First, you and your men will toss all of your weapons down the staircase. And I mean all of them, including whatever you took from my men. Then you and your men will stand at the top of the stairs, where I can see you, with your hands raised. You say there are five of you?”

“We are only three,” Vauchon admitted.

“Where are the others?”

“They have escorted the others to safety.”

“If you are lying, more of these hostages will die unnecessarily.”

“I am telling you the truth. There are only three of us remaining.”

“And my men?”

Vauchon paused. “One is dead,” he said, “and so are your two guards at the barracks. The man called Fredrico is unconscious.”

There was silence for a few moments, then, “All right, throw the weapons down now.”

The two young soldiers stared at Lieutenant Vauchon. “They’ll murder us all,” André said.

Vauchon nodded. “You men go.” When they hesitated, he said, “That’s an order. Go. Now.”

They looked to each other, then at their superior officer. “We will not leave you here,” André protested.

“I gave you an order. There has been enough sacrifice, you’re right about that. We do not need two additional martyrs. You’ll do more good stationing yourselves outside with the others.” Vauchon turned back to the radio. “My men have fled. I am alone.” His men reluctantly turned and made their way upstairs as Vauchon stepped forward to the landing and tossed his FAMAS automatic rifle down the steps, the loud clatter on the metal stairs echoing above and below. “I have given up my weapon,” he said.

“Ah, my French hero,” Renaldo replied. “If only I could believe you.”

Vauchon felt for the handle of the pistol tucked inside his belt at the small of his back, then eyed the FAMAS automatic he had leaned behind the desk to his right. “I have done what you said,” he told them. “I am waiting.”

The door below swung open and Vauchon could see several staff members being prodded forward, one of his own soldiers at the front of the group. All of the hostages moved slowly, with their hands on their heads. He had an obstructed sight line on one of the terrorists, who was crouched in their midst, automatic rifle in hand, using the captives for cover.

As they moved up the staircase, the man called out, “Keep your hands high and do not move.”

“Let these people go and you will be allowed safe passage,” Vauchon replied.

Another of the men stepped into view in the doorway at the base of the stairs. “Of course we will,” he said. It was Renaldo, the voice on the two-way radio. “We will be safe until we are ambushed outside. Now get on your knees.”

Vauchon did as he was told as he watched the entourage move ever closer, the group reaching the landing in front of him.

“Stop there!” Renaldo hollered. Then he directed his lead man to see if there were others waiting.

The man moved cautiously, one hand on his rifle, the other clutching the arm of one of the hostages, shoving him ahead as he moved out from the protection of the small group of prisoners. He stood near the doorway and surveyed the room. “Looks all clear,” he called out in Spanish.

“Good,” Renaldo responded. “Now shoot the Frenchman.”

As soon as the order was given the hostages began shrieking again. Vauchon used the momentary distraction to roll quickly to his side and clamber behind the desk, grabbing for the FAMAS.

Before Renaldo’s man could react, Vauchon was shocked to see André step out from the far stairwell on the left and open fire at the terrorist. The man fell to the ground dead, but the hostage he had been hanging on to was also hit and dropped beside him.

When Vauchon ordered him to leave, André had actually run up the near staircase and doubled back down the other, while his young comrade had remained hidden in the first landing. Now he too stepped out, looking for a target.

The din of yelling and gunfire was deafening in the small, metal-encased room. Vauchon hollered at the top of his lungs, telling the hostages to get down. “On the floor!” he shouted repeatedly.

The French soldier from the lower level, who had now reached the top of the staircase, lunged forward and tackled two of the workers, shielding them as the exchange of shots intensified. Others fell on the stairs, their hands covering their heads. Lieutenant Vauchon was up now, taking a position off to the side of the doorway with the FAMAS in hand, sending a spray of gunfire below, shots caroming off the metal walls, hitting hostages and terrorists alike. Vauchon’s men came forward, each of them understanding that there was no turning back. Hostages were being hit, maybe even killed. He signaled to the soldier on the ground, who took the cue to shove the two hostages beneath him, forcing them to crawl forward until they all made a run for it to the staircase and safety above.