Hunt the Dragon (19 page)

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.

Akil screamed in his ear, “Boss! Boss, we heard gunfire! You read me?”

He had no time to answer. The officer limped thirty feet ahead, the remains of his right hand dangling from his wrist. He was holding a walkie-talkie in his left and frantically speaking into it.

Seeing Crocker, he dove into the stairway. As Crocker took aim, something metal rolled toward him from behind and a volley of bullets ricocheted off the walls and floor. He turned and went prone onto the cold tile only to confront an olive-green RGD-5 grenade, the pin pulled. All he could do was kick it back with his left foot as he squeezed off a buzz of AK fire.

He covered his head and face with his arms as the explosion rocked the hallways and deafened him. Shards of the RGD-5 fragmentation cups ripped his vest and tore into his shoulders and arms.

Someone ahead was screaming like a dog on fire. He needed to finish the fucker off and get Dawkins, but wanted the officer in the stairway first. So he turned and followed the trail of blood to the steps he'd descended earlier. Heard a man grunting and cursing above. Then a round of bullets careened off the concrete walls. He pushed himself upward until he saw the uniformed legs past the metal posts to his right, and squeezed the trigger of his AK. More glancing bullets and sparks, then the officer collapsed onto his knees, and grimacing, twisted onto his back. Crocker stood over him as he reached for a Czech CZ 82 pistol at his left side.

He kicked it away.

“General Chou Jang Hee? You the Dragon?”

The general hissed through a mouthful of blood, “Fuck United…States.”

“Not this time, asshole.”

Crocker put two rounds between his eyes.

Blood dripping from his neck and shoulders down the inside of his smart suit, he went back down and retrieved Dawkins. The injured man at the end of hallway was still shouting, and the alarm was reverberating loudly. Halfway up the stairway, his heart pounding, Crocker remembered something and stopped.

Turning to Dawkins, he asked, “Any other hostages here?”

Dawkins looked confused.

“Scientists? Engineers? Americans?”

“No, no. There was an Indian gentleman, but he left. No one else that I know of.”

They hurried up the remaining stairs past the first guard's body, into the atrium, and outside. Both of them were very happy to be out of there. A strong breeze greeted them, like some weather was blowing in.

“Boss, behind the APC to your right,” he heard through comms.

Adrenaline blotting out the pain, he joined the others—Sam, Akil, and Suarez—all coiled and ready to spring.

“Good. Charges set, left side and right?” Crocker asked, trying to catch his breath.

“All set,” Suarez answered. “You okay?” he asked, pointing to Crocker's bloody neck.

“Nicked a little. Fuck that.”

“This the hostage?” asked Akil.

“Name's Dawkins.”

“Hey, Dawkins.”

“Let's get back to the boat!”

They cut through the woods in the same formation as before, with Dawkins in the middle, half in a crouch, stumbling and falling.

Crocker said into his mike as he helped him up, “Tiger One. Coming your way. Three minutes! Fire it the fuck up!”

Akil shouted, “Boss! Vehicle right!”

“Everybody down. Down!”

Through the trees he saw headlights coming around a bend two hundred meters away. He made lightning-quick calculations. The vehicle was likely on its way to the complex, probably responding to the alarm. If they let it pass, the soldiers inside it would find the bodies. It would take them a few minutes at least to discover the explosives.

They could either engage them now or let them pass.

“Stay down,” he instructed. “Let the vehicle pass. Soon as it does, we cross the road and continue as quickly as possible. Suarez, the moment it goes by, I want you to start counting. When you reach three minutes, fire the detonators and let it blow.”

“Copy.”

W
hen Suarez
raised his right hand and held up three fingers, they stopped and went down in the grass. Dawkins wheezed beside Crocker, trying to catch his breath. Even though he wore no coat or sweater and the temperature hovered around fifty, sweat poured off his forehead. “Why…why…we stopping?”

Crocker cupped a hand over Dawkins's mouth and pointed at Suarez, who flipped off the safety on the handheld radio detonator and got ready to push the button. Crocker shoved Dawkins to the ground and covered him with his body.

“Cover your ears!”

In his head he started to recite the Lord's Prayer. When he got to the word “art,” white light flashed around them, and a second later a huge explosion tore through the air, shaking the ground and rupturing Dawkins's eardrum. They waited as secondary explosions went off and a sharp blast of warm air blew past. Then debris started to rain down nearby.

“Fucking epic!” Akil muttered into the comms.

“Couldn't have said it better.”

Sam muttered, “If you build it, they will come.”

Crocker was amused by that. It was a line from one of his favorite movies,
Field of Dreams
.

“And fucking destroy it!”

“Let's get off the X before we all turn green.” He was referring to the possible nuclear material in the area. As he ran, holding Dawkins by the arm, he thought they had completed the hard part. Now all they had to do was get home.

Naylor crouched behind a tree near the shore and checked his watch. Hearing a rustling sound, he looked up and saw Crocker with the collar of his smart suit covered with blood.

“What happened?” Naylor asked.

“Get in the water.”

“But…”

“Turn around. Let's go!”

Naylor and his copilot, Hutchins, had already loaded the rebreathers, so they swam out to the sub. They ended up tossing the Draegers to make room, and also quickly sank their extra equipment, backup comms, med bag, spare AKs and mags.

Vice Admiral Greene, commander of the
Carl Vinson,
had promised to send an air rescue team in an emergency, but this location wouldn't work. They had to make it to one of the outlying islands at least.

Crocker helped Dawkins into a spare wet suit, and then they squeezed in even tighter than before and took off.

Unprompted, Akil started to sing “The House of the Rising Sun.” Maybe he was thinking of the female turpitude waiting for him back in Virginia, or friendly Japan, which was close. Whichever it was, Sam and Suarez joined in in a kind of celebration.

Crocker refused to let his mind wander. The mission wasn't over. He concentrated on breathing the oxygen mix and passing the mouthpiece to Dawkins, squeezed onto his lap. The edge of his pelvis tore into Crocker's thigh.

An hour or so and we'll be in position to be recovered by helos from
Carl Vinson,
if we don't stop at one of the outlying islands first.

“Tiger One, what's the opsec?” he asked through comms, “opsec” meaning operational security.

“Territorial waters extend another twelve nautical miles. That's thirteen-point-eight on land. We can't call for air rescue until we're outside the continuous zone, which extends another twelve nautical miles past that. So sit back and enjoy the ride.”

As cold and uncomfortable as he was, he'd been through worse. The bleeding from the pellet wounds to his neck had stopped. The Dragon Skin body armor that now felt like a straitjacket had saved his life.

He felt the adrenaline start to drain from his system and tried to get comfortable, which was hard with Dawkins leaning into his chest. He imagined holding Cyndi, with the sun setting in front of them, and then making love. Her skin felt like magic.

Suddenly the SDV hit something.
BAM!!!

His head jerked violently forward and back, and he braced himself for an explosion.

“Hold…!” Naylor half screamed.

A loud grinding noise blotted out all other sounds. Crocker saw the right front of the vehicle crumple like wet cardboard, crushing the copilot's legs and sending the SDV tumbling left. Wedged between Dawkins and the metal seat behind him, he couldn't move.

“Boss! Boss!”

“Fuck!”

The pressure grew more intense and cut off his breath. What remained of the SDV spun right, causing him to hit his head against the side abutment and black out. He dreamt he was swimming with Cyndi, and she was holding on to his collar. He opened his mouth to complain that her nails were digging into the side of his neck. Then he realized that ice-cold salt water was burning his wounds and he was sinking. He started kicking, when something smacked against his right side, and a hand tried to grasp his arm but slipped off.

His lungs burned like hell, so he used a trick he'd learned in BUD/S—breathing out a little and releasing some of the carbon dioxide that had built up in his lungs. It worked, but he was struggling, disoriented, and couldn't see shit. Something slid across this chest. First he thought maybe it was a sea lion or a large fish, then realized it was a person, struggling to get to the surface. He linked his right arm under the other person's armpit and kicked upward with all his might. The night air above hit his lungs cold and hard. His eyes and skin stung from the salt.

He pulled the two of them up and remembered where they were—the North Korean bay of Hamgyong. Not his favorite location. He searched for his men, signs of the enemy, and wreckage of the SDV. His NVGs were missing, so all he saw was dark sky and ocean, and the reflection of the island complex burning to his right.

Nothing to his left. Nothing in front of him or to his immediate right. No flotsam he could make out. No one calling out.

Only us two?

He hadn't even bothered to check the identity of the man he was holding. In the light from the fire saw Dawkins's gaunt, expressionless face.

“You with me, Dawkins?” Crocker asked. “You okay?”

He moaned something unintelligible and seemed even more disoriented than Crocker was.

“Lay back alongside me and we'll kick together.”

Dawkins's body provided some warmth. The current was taking them past the east end of Ung-do. If it continued like that, it would pull them out to sea.

Hearing a hissing sound, he thought for a second that maybe it was someone calling for help. He stopped kicking and listened. All he heard was the wind slapping at the whitecaps in the bay, and maybe playing tricks with his head.

The best he could do was keep them afloat and hope to steer to land. When they got within three hundred meters of the east end of the island, the current started to pull them north. Now Crocker worried that it would take them back into the bay and into the hands of the North Korean People's Army. Given a choice between drowning in the Sea of Japan or being tortured, he wasn't sure which was worse.

It wasn't really up to him, because the current was too strong to fight. The best he could manage was to use his arms and legs to try to steer north and away from the island. Dawkins remained in a state of semiconsciousness. When they passed the eastern end, he saw signs of the NKPA response. Maybe a dozen military patrol boats sat in the penumbra of the burning facility along the northern shore. What they were doing besides observing the fire was impossible to tell from a distance.

He heard engines and the faint echo of men shouting, and hoped they wouldn't be spotted. Not likely, as they were at least two hundred meters away, and the northern current was growing more robust.

Seeing the boats in the distance, Dawkins shouted, “Help! We're drowning!”

Crocker immediately clamped a hand over his mouth. “Bad idea!”

He'd rather freeze to death or drown in the bay than give himself up. No way he was putting himself, his family, and his country through that.

His body was almost numb now, and as the numbness spread so did a primordial warmth, which he understood was one of the first symptoms of hypothermia. Nothing he could do except to try to stay afloat and not lose consciousness. He heard helicopter blades beating in the distance and saw searchlights exploring the water south of Ung-do. Maybe they had spotted wreckage, bodies, or survivors.

“It's a good thing we're drifting north,” he said to Dawkins's head, cradled under his right arm.

Dawkins didn't respond.

Crocker was in Alaska on a winter warfare exercise, blowing hot air into his hands. Then he was back. The sky overhead was still furry black—no moon or stars. He saw his mother knitting by the fire, glasses perched on the end of her nose. His father stood by her side, holding a ball of yarn. He thought it was his first memory, and he was going back to the beginning of his life.

Water washed over his chest and reached his mouth. He spit it out and coughed.

It happened again, and he looked left. Realized he was on land. The island of Ung-do glowed in the distance. Dawkins lay on his side like a beached fish. Crocker extended an arm in his direction, but he was out of reach.

“Dawkins. Hey, Dawkins!”

He slid over and lifted him carefully. Saw that he was breathing.

“Dawkins! You hear me?”

Dawkins blinked and looked at him with surprise. “What happened? Where are we?”

Dawkins's lips were blue, and he trembled from head to toe. Crocker wanted to start a fire or wrap a blanket around him, but realized he had nothing on him but his smart suit, boots, and belt. No body armor, no NVGs. Even the SIG Sauer was missing from its holster.

Hearing a scraping noise, he lay belly-down on the sand. About seventy meters down the shore to his right, someone was emerging from the water, pushing something flat and dark. The sight was so surreal, he wondered at first if he was imagining it, like his mother by the fire. But when he blinked and opened his eyes the dark figure was still there, so he continued to make himself small and narrowed his focus. The man seemed to match a familiar shape and size.

Crocker squeezed Dawkins's arm, held a finger to his lips to tell him to remain quiet, and scooted on his belly to the shrubs along the bank. From there he made his way closer. When he was sure it was Akil, he emerged and approached, optimism surging into his system like oxidized blood.

“Akil! What the fuck took you so long?” he whispered.

“Boss? You son of a bitch…”

They embraced like it was the happiest moment of their lives—two exhausted men in shredded smart suits on a beach in enemy territory.

Akil was pulling a plastic panel that looked like it had come from the SDV, with another man on it.

“Who's that?”

“Sam. Smashed his leg and ankle. You locate the others?”

“I've got Dawkins with me. That's all.”

“Oh.” Akil looked disappointed.

“He's suffering from hypothermia,” Crocker said, pointing at Dawkins's silhouette on the sand. “I lost everything—comms, weapon, med kit, even my pistol.”

“I found this.” Akil gestured toward a backpack lying beside Sam on the plastic panel. “Don't know what's in it. Pretty sure Naylor and Hutchins died on impact. Suarez, I didn't see him.”

Crocker was already digging through the backpack, which seemed to have belonged to Suarez. He concentrated on the toaster-sized metal Personal Recovery and Survival (PRS) kit at the bottom. Inside, sealed behind a watertight rubber gasket, he found a stainless-steel mini-multitool with pliers, a wire cutter, file, and awl; a 14mm AA-liquid-filled compass; a red LED squeeze light (red to protect night vision as well as not give away your position); a ferrocerium rod with tinder tabs in a resealable bag; forty water purification tabs in an amber vial; a 2x3-inch signal mirror; two thermal blankets; fifteen feet of Kevlar cord; safety pins; a can opener; duct tape; a roll of stainless-steel wire; a fresnel magnifying lens; a pack of antibiotic ointment; two water storage bags; and a small med kit.

As he catalogued everything, he said, “We'll keep an eye out for Suarez. Your comms work?”

“What fucking comms? I lost everything except for my pistol.”

“What'd we hit?”

“The fuck if I know. Don't think it was a mine, because I didn't hear an explosion.”

“Me neither.” Crocker unfolded the blankets. “Let's get these around Sam and Dawkins. Then we've got to ditch the wreckage and find a place to hide.”

“Sure, boss.”

“We drifted northwest. Looks like the Koreans are searching south.”

“I believe we're on the southeastern tip of the Hamgyong Peninsula. Maybe half a mile from Ung-do,” added Akil.

“You're the navigator.” At the bottom of the pack Crocker located an Emerson GPS distress marker, which was the size of an iPhone and usually worn in a holder on the operator's wrist.

“Good. We've got a distress marker. The batteries seem weak, but it works. Probably should wait a night or two to use it. Find a place where the guys from the
Carl Vinson
can land. Once we got that sorted out, we'll signal them and catch a ride out of here. Meanwhile, let's keep looking for Suarez, Naylor, and Hutchins.”

“You make it sound easy, boss. You sure you're okay?”

“Fuck, yeah.”

Dense shivers ran up Crocker's legs and arms as he and Akil carried Sam on the heavy plastic-and-Styrofoam panel. Akil, who appeared to be in the best shape of the four, led the way, with Dawkins stumbling beside them, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, mumbling to himself. Crocker suspected that he and Dawkins were both suffering from stage two hypothermia.

But he couldn't worry about that now, or the numbness in his toes, or the pain throughout his body. They were moving inland to find a place to rest and build a fire pit, heal, and regroup. Even as he was drifting in and out of awareness, he managed to place one foot in front of the other down a slight incline, albeit slower than he would have liked.