Missile Intercept

At least these executions were more entertaining than the last batch, Yi thought. Those had been carried out with an antiaircraft gun, leaving the hapless general and his assistant little more than misshapen piles of bones and flesh on the firing range. It was like using a sledgehammer to smash a mouse.

One of the Dragon’s remaining opponents assumed a fighting stance, his fists outstretched.

The Dragon smirked, continuing his steady advance.

His opponent lurched forward and threw a high roundhouse kick, which the Dragon brushed away with a casual flick of his hand.

The man twisted, executing a spinning back kick.

Instead of blocking the blow, the Dragon stepped inside the arc of the kick, letting his opponent’s leg curl around him. The Dragon’s hands were a blur as they struck the man’s exposed neck, the tandem blows leaving his head flopping like a broken doll’s. He slipped to the ground, a trail of blood leaking from a corner of his mouth, his eyes open and sightless.

The Dragon’s last opponent glanced around nervously, but the stone walls of the garden were high. There was no place to flee, yet he tried, turning and running away at full speed. The Dragon pursued him, closing the gap easily and then leaping into the air, his left leg tucked, the right cocked and ready. The Dragon’s right foot shot out, clipping the back of the running man’s neck. He fell face-first onto the hard ground as the Dragon landed lightly on his feet.

After grunts of approval, the country’s leader and his entourage stood and filed out of the garden without so much as a word, heading to the front of the building for the commencement of the Victory Day parade.

Yi surveyed the carnage. The last remaining members of the freighter that had been seized in the Panama Canal now lay dead. Such was the price of failure in the march toward victory. Yi glanced at his watch. It had taken the Dragon just over three minutes to dispatch them all.

The colonel knew his fate would be similar if he failed in his mission. It had been a warning as well as an example. “The bungling incompetents have disgraced us with their failure,” his immediate supervisor, General Song Hai-Son, had said. “They will be dealt with immediately prior to the parade, and then our supreme commander will be informed of your coming mission.”

The juxtaposition of the two events was not lost on Yi. Mission failure was not an option. Any outcome except total and complete success would be considered an affront to their leader’s authority, and whether the transgression was real or imagined did not matter. To fail was a death sentence.

“Colonel Yi,” a voice called from the arched doorway.

He turned and saw General Song standing by the ornately fashioned arch. Yi approached him, stopped, came to attention and saluted.

“Yes, General.”

Song snapped his fingers at the soldier standing beside him. The man remained at attention, motionless.

“Go tell our supreme commander we will soon be on our way,” the general ordered.

The soldier saluted, replied in the affirmative and left with crack precision.

“The Black Dragon looks ready for the coming task,” Song said.

“He is always ready, sir,” Yi replied. “As am I.”

Song nodded and grunted his approval. “Good. Come, let us proceed to the balcony. The Victory Day parade is about to begin.”

He began walking slowly down the long hallway toward the elevators.

“I have gone over your plan,” the general said. “I have some concerns.” His face puckered into an expression of displeasure. “It seems overly complicated.”

Yi had expected as much. Their current leader, like those before him, had surrounded himself with men essentially lacking in both cunning and guile, in an apparent attempt to minimize disloyalty and the possibility of deceit. Thus, military tactics had been degraded to the most basic. Such limited imagination engendered incompetence.

The colonel knew if he were to say that to Song, it would be tantamount to holding a pistol to his own temple. Instead, he applied a bit of deference.

“I agree, General, that it is complicated, but may I remind you that it is as you have said in the past. The clever warrior uses subterfuge and deception to minimize his expenditures and maximize his strengths.”

The general lifted an eyebrow, appeared to contemplate, and then smiled fractionally.

Yi had fictitiously attributed the dictum to Song, but also knew the false attribution would be welcomed and accepted by the vain officer. Yi’s father, who had fought the Americans decades before, had taught his son the lessons of war and of mastering an opponent. Deception was imperative in both instances.

“When I was a young boy,” Yi continued, “growing up in the military camp near the DMZ, there was an old man who would amuse the soldiers with a game using three walnut half shells. A shell game.”

Song’s eyes narrowed. He said nothing.

“The man would place a dried pea under one of the shells, then move them around. The soldiers would try to guess under which one they would find the pea. They would wager on it.”

The general’s visage twisted into a scowl. “They were gambling?”

“Only with cigarettes.” That was basically true, because none of the soldiers had any money, but Yi left that part out. “But the man with the walnut shells would never lose.” Yi paused. “The dried pea was concealed in his hand the entire time, and was never truly placed under one of the shells.”

The general’s eyes widened. “Deception.”

“The principle is the same in this instance,” Yi said. “The three ships are under way.”

“And the other?” Song asked. “The Iranian?”

“Some of our agents are with it now. Soon the Black Dragon and I will be under way, as well.”

“I do not trust these Iranians,” Song said, his face puckering again. “Such religious fanaticism hardly inspires trust or reliability.”

“They hate the Americans,” Yi replied. “And as the saying goes, the enemy of our enemy is our friend.” He knew the deal of appearing to share their nuclear capabilities with Iran was a necessary evil. For all their failings as a culture, they had the one redeeming feature that made the association necessary: money.

The two men reached an elevator and entered. The doors closed and the elevator car ascended. As they rode upward, Yi wondered if his story had achieved its purpose. Seconds later, he knew it had.

“Subterfuge and deception,” the general repeated, smiling now.

Yi smiled, too. He had assuaged Song’s doubts about the plan. All that remained now was the implementation, and the new era would begin.

“I trust that your travels will be both expeditious and fruitful,” Song said.

The elevator doors opened, and Yi could hear the cheers from the crowd below through the portals of the balconies. He could not help but feel a swell of pride as he anticipated the procession of marching soldiers, the lines of tanks and the massive array of intercontinental ballistic missiles. The people’s army, his army, was ready to fight to the death on command, each man’s leg kicking outward in precise unison with the others, their AK-47s held at port arms without deviance, their faces turning as they passed the buildings. Yi felt the surge of pride in his army, his country...

Another set of missiles passed, and Yi knew that soon the Americans would be driven off the lower peninsula forever, once the ICBMs were transformed into the new dragon ships, once they had the technology capable of maintaining the missile trajectory upon reentry to the atmosphere.

Soon, he thought, the world would bow before North Korea’s might. The puppets in the South would be overthrown, and not even the Chinese, who had for so long cast their dominant shadow over the Korean peninsula, would be an equal.

He closed his eyes and pictured the long-ago sea vessels, a huge dragon’s head rising from the armored bow of each, striking fear into the hearts of the hated Japanese and Chinese. These vessels, once the most powerful ships to roam the seas, had been conceived and piloted by his ancient namesake, Yi Sun-Shin. Soon these new dragon ships would restore his country to its proper place of prominence. It would be one Korea, unified and under Communist rule, no longer a small fish dominated by whales.

Soon...

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Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico

Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, and his team were spread out in the darkness along the tree line, about thirty yards from the high cyclone fence that surrounded the facility. The remote grounds, once the site of a Jesuit monastery, now housed a warehouse for the Sinaloa Cartel. Just outside the fence were the crumbling ruins of the old church.