Targets of Opportunity Page 11
Sandor nodded. “Better than what we came with. Jim, you hold the rifle, I’ll hang on to the gun. Kurt, you take the radio, should come in handy later and you speak the lingo.”
Bergenn finished wiping up the blood on the floor and against the wall. Raabe locked each toilet stall from inside, then climbed over the top of the divider.
“Okay,” Sandor said, tapping himself on the lapel of his jacket. “Time to find someone with a friendly face who’s wearing this pin.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
ST. BARTHÉLEMY, F.W.I.
THE FIRST OF Adina’s teams made its way around Gustavia harbor on foot. Led by Cardona, they strolled past the various dockside restaurants and tavernes like a curious crew from one of the yachts in residence, attracting no attention from the well-oiled patrons who were sitting at outside tables or milling about in the bars. The four men turned left at the end of the Rue des Quais, passing the Wall House, a popular eatery that was winding down its service for the night. They continued on the Rue Pitea, then circled off to the right, approaching the base of the hill that formed the westerly embankment just below Fort Oscar. As they began their climb there was nothing behind them but the peaceful expanse of the Caribbean.
The evening sky was clear, but the crescent moon did little to illuminate their ascent. The fortress loomed above them, constructed of imposing brown stones that had withstood centuries of baking sun, vicious hurricanes and foreign attacks. Their raid would not require them to breach these walls, however. They knew, from the surveillance done by Hicham and Cardona, that the exterior of Fort Oscar was no longer treated as a high-security installation, its massive profile more of a landmark than an active military stronghold.
They also knew that the nighttime guard on this side of the fort was actually stationed just inside the main wall and, even following the airliner explosion in nearby St. Maarten, Fort Oscar maintained its usual laid-back appearance as they scrambled quietly upward.
When Cardona determined they had come close enough to the entrance, he held up his hand, halting their progress, then motioned for them to stay low on the ground. They could see the entry now, but were hidden from sight amid the scruffy vegetation along the hillside. Cardona checked his watch, then held up five fingers.
————
Renaldo and his three compatriots had traveled across the harbor in a small tender, then tied it off at the far end of the concrete dock alongside a large sailboat. They had chosen this route since they were carrying most of the equipment, two of the men wearing backpacks. A late-night saunter through town lugging explosives and electronic gear might have provoked some inquiries even among the drunken denizens of St. Barths.
Once on land they hurried along the paved path that led to the southerly wall of the fortress, Renaldo timing their arrival to coordinate with the four men on the other side. As they neared the main gate, he engaged the electronic transmitter that would jam all cellular and radio phone signals in and out of Fort Oscar.
At the appointed moment, exactly 1:45 A.M., the two teams approached their respective entrances to the fort.
————
Fort Oscar has two entry points, one on the west, the main gate on the south. The fortress is a large rectangle. Inside the imposing walls is an open corridor that rings the interior structure, a smaller rectangle housing the main building with its offices, barracks, armory and the communications center below ground level.
Cardona’s men stayed in place on the hill as he stood and strode toward the small guardhouse within the opening on the western wall. The man on duty was seated at a desk. When he looked up he first saw the stocky Venezuelan, then the silenced barrel of an automatic 9 mm pistol leveled directly at his eyes.
“Do not move, do not even speak,” Cardona said in Spanish, making no effort at French. If the man did not understand him, it would be his loss. “Slowly, very slowly, let me see your hands.”
The guard had been reading a book, which now fell to the ground as he lifted his arms above his head.
“Good. Now stand, very slowly, and turn around.” When he did not immediately respond, Cardona used his left hand to make a motion directing him to get up from his seat. The man’s eyes widened with terror as he stood. Cardona said, “If I wanted to kill you, my friend, you would be dead already. Now, turn around.” The guard hesitated, then slowly showed his back to Cardona and, as he did, the Venezuelan struck him across the head with the butt of his gun, a violent blow that dropped the man to the floor.
Cardona raised his left arm and the other three men stood and hurried forward. Two of them quickly bound and gagged the guard, then all four made their way into the wide corridor.
————
At the same moment, Renaldo’s team came through the main gate, where they knew there would be two guards on duty. His men moved together, guns drawn, taking the two gendarmes before they had time to react. The sentries were disarmed and then subjected to the same fate as their comrade on the west wall. They were left trussed and unconscious against a stone wall.
Renaldo checked the time. They were on schedule so far, but they understood that breaching the interior would be far more difficult than their initial incursion. The two outer entrances were manned by local police. The lower levels, however, were protected by French military.
All eight men had memorized the schematics obtained by Adina. They knew that once inside the corridor, they would likely be detected on the security system being operated from below. Each team had one man assigned to disable the surveillance cameras, and that was accomplished without finesse, the devices being taken out with silenced gunshots. There was simply no way to hide their assault from this point forward. The best they could manage was to cut off the video feed, then move quickly to their next point of attack.
————
Cardona and one of his men were already racing along the wide passage, heading for the rear entry leading downstairs. The other two on his team hurried left toward the ground-level garrison. The off-duty soldiers on-site would have been asleep, but alarms would now be triggered. The two men took their positions on either side of the door to the barracks, prepared to take out anyone who might wander into the corridor.
Meanwhile, down the passageway at the steel door that provided access to the lower levels, Cardona’s man took two small charges, set them in place, and wired the fuse to a small digital timing device. He motioned Cardona back, and the two took cover around a turn. In thirty seconds the blast rocked the door from its hinges, the sound loud enough to be heard by Renaldo’s team around the other side of the wide, square hallway that ringed the facility.
That was the signal. Renaldo had his lead man set charges of his own at the southern door.
Cardona and his accomplice were already running along the corridor, again to the right, stopping just before the turn. When they heard the second blast go off they came around the corner and joined Renaldo’s group.
Cardona and his man were handed Uzis from the packs Renaldo’s team had carried. Now all six terrorists were armed with rapid-firing weapons. They also pulled on gas masks. Cardona, his man, and one of Renaldo’s team then hurried back to the door they had blown open on the west wall. Renaldo stood ready at the southern entrance. When Cardona fired a signal shot, each team leader led his men past the twisted metal of the shattered doors, through the smoky entryway and into a common vestibule with stairways on the left and right.
By now the French soldiers stationed below were girding for the attack, taking their posts at the base of the stairways, their FAMAS F-1 multifunction assault weapons raised and at the ready. But the teams led by Renaldo and Cardona had stopped at that first landing, not advancing until they pulled the pins on four grenades and tossed two down each of the stairwells. They made a chilling, clattering sound as they rattled their way down the metal steps.
The soldiers scattered but it was too late, the series of explosions coming quickly, shrapnel cutting into them from all
angles while creating chaos throughout the large room. The intruders followed this by tossing tear gas cans that exploded into a cloud of choking fog. Now the six men, proceeding from two directions, made their way carefully into the smoky bedlam below.
————
The explosions were not loud enough to carry into the night beyond the thick stone walls of Fort Oscar, but the gendarmes and soldiers who had been asleep inside the barracks had already been awakened by the alarm sent from the communications center in the basement. They had quickly dressed and started for the door, where they were greeted by an announcement from the other side, the voice loud and speaking in clear French.
“You come out here, you die.” One of Cardona’s two rear guards had given the warning as he stood off to the side of the barracks entryway. He had heard the alarm and was listening to the activity within, prepared for an onslaught from the off-duty soldiers. “There is no need for anyone to be a hero,” he told them, then punctuated his threat by reaching out and, without standing in front of the entrance, firing two silenced gunshots, splintering the wood of the door. He followed that demonstration by saying, “Your friends out here have not been hurt, just disarmed. I tell you again that no one needs to be harmed. Just stay inside and we will be gone in ten minutes.”
The barracks were presently occupied by three policemen and four soldiers. The seven had been moving toward the small foyer at the entry to their quarters until the shots were fired. Now they quickly retreated to the rear of the large room. The senior policeman looked to the ranking military officer. “What do we do?” he asked in a quiet voice.
The lieutenant shook his head. “We have no idea how many there are, or what weapons they have.” He was still shaking his head. “But in ten minutes, who knows? They might kill us all if we don’t take action.”
“What could they want here? What is it that you people are doing down there?” The gendarme was looking at the floor, as if it might hold an answer.
“I’m afraid that is still classified, regardless of the circumstances.”
“Classified. Merde,” the French cop spit angrily. “They want to kill us for something and we don’t even have the right to know what?”
As they argued their inequitable fate, the voice from the outside corridor said, “I advise you gentlemen to stand down. And maintain silence.”
The policeman shrugged his shoulders and looked at his two fellow officers. “We should do what he says,” he told the others in a whisper. “I will take my chances in here. Why should I be killed for an answer no one is willing to give me?”
As he led the other two policemen farther away from the door, the lieutenant ignored them and said to his soldiers, “Collect your weapons, see how many men here will fight with us, then we’ll sort this out. We can’t sit here hoping they won’t rush in and kill us all.”
“Have you tried your cell phone again?” one of his men asked.
The lieutenant, name of Henri Vauchon, nodded. “They must be jamming the signals. I get nothing.”
“Neither do I.”
“Well,” Vauchon said, “we’ve got to do something. The question is, what?”
————
The action on the level below had accelerated as the terrorists entered from their opposite sides in a pincer move designed to gain immediate control of the facility downstairs. Each of them stayed in a crouch as they reached the floor level, taking cover behind desks and cabinets while they assessed the situation.
In addition to four French soldiers, three of whom were bleeding from injuries sustained in the grenade attack, there were men and women who had apparently been working in front of computer screens and other electronic equipment and were now seeking refuge under tables and wherever else they could hide. All of them, military and civilians alike, were coughing and gagging in the haze of the putrid gas.
Two of the soldiers, off to the right and partially hidden by a half wall, immediately began shooting as Renaldo’s team entered. Renaldo called out to them, “Cease your firing, there does not need to be more injury,” but they persisted, so the six intruders unleashed a barrage that came from both sides, slaughtering the two soldiers in a rapid fusillade. Witnessing the brutal conclusion to that exchange, the other two French soldiers surrendered. They were swiftly disarmed by Cardona’s men. Cardona then picked out an older man from among the huddled workers, grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him to his feet.
“Who is in charge here?” Cardona demanded.
“I am the supervisor of these people,” the tall Frenchman replied nervously as he struggled with the effects of the tear gas.
“Well you listen to me, supervisor,” Cardona said, jabbing the barrel of the Uzi into the man’s side, “you do what I say or I’ll kill you.”
“I can’t breathe,” the man gasped, spittle and vomit running down the side of his mouth.
Cardona ignored him, shouting through his mask. “First, you tell these people to get together in a corner.” He looked around the large room. “Over there,” he motioned with his head. “They will be safe from the explosions over there.”
“Explosions?” the man asked in a quavering voice.
Cardona ignored the question, nodding at Renaldo, whose team went about attaching explosive charges to various components that appeared to be the most vulnerable and important pieces of equipment in the room. Cardona returned his attention to the supervisor. “If you don’t want me to kill you right here, you will do as I say.” When the man hesitated, followed by a nauseating cough, Cardona again prodded him with the gun barrel. “Tell them,” he growled.
The man managed to call out the instructions. The venting system was finally alleviating some of the effects of the acrid smoke, and he watched as his coworkers left their hiding places and fearfully huddled together at the far end of the room, not sure if they were being given sanctuary or herded together for ease of execution.
Cardona watched them, ever fascinated at the cowardice of people when faced with life-and-death choices. He turned back to the man in his grasp. “Now, tell me how we get below, and make sure we do not have any problems getting there. You are understanding this?”
The man nodded, his eyes wide with fear.
“I know there are more soldiers down there. We do not want to have to kill anyone else, do you understand?”
“Yes,” the man moaned.
“Good. Now lead us downstairs.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
RUNGRADO MAY DAY STADIUM, PYONGYANG
ONCE SANDOR LED his team out of the tiled restroom into the deserted concrete corridor, he knew moving around the arena would become increasingly dangerous. There were military guards posted throughout the facility, and access from one level to the next was well protected.
Sandor pointed to the right and Bergenn moved first, Zimmermann following him. They reached a portal that opened to the ramp leading above, and Bergenn gave the all clear. Sandor checked behind him, then he and Craig Raabe ran down the corridor, past the other two men, pausing at the opening, bracketing the entry-way.
Sandor nodded to Raabe, who immediately sauntered out into the open and up the incline. He was met by an armed soldier before he could reach the next landing.
The sentry showed Raabe his palm, the international signal for “Halt!” His other hand was now on the grip of his North Korean– made AK-47. “Where are you going?” he demanded gruffly in his native tongue.
Raabe, displaying no comprehension of Korean, responded with a blank stare and a shrug, then held up his ticket and offered a friendly smile.
The soldier took his eyes from Raabe just long enough to have a look at his seat assignment, but that moment was enough. The much taller American rammed his closed fist into the man’s neck, then, as the Korean reeled backward, Raabe followed him down, his thumbs pressing hard against the man’s larynx as he took him to the ground, keeping him quiet as he choked the air out of him, the soldier instinctively letting go of his weapon as
he reached for his assailant’s wrists.
The instant the others heard the first sound of the struggle they came charging up the ramp. Bergenn rendered the guard senseless with a hard blow to his left temple from the butt of his automatic rifle.
“Kill him,” Zimmermann hissed.
Sandor shook his head. “He’s out, now let’s go.”
But Zimmermann was not taking any chances. He bent over and picked up the man’s assault rifle, then made a move to step away from the inert figure sprawled on the concrete. Before Sandor could react, Zimmerman spun around and kicked the man, very hard, three times in the side of his head. “Now he’s out.”
Sandor gritted his teeth but said nothing. He ordered Raabe and Bergenn to grab the man and carry him with them, not willing to risk leaving the body in plain sight. Then, with a wave of his hand, he led them on a run up the ramp to the opening at the next level. He made a quick check to see if anyone was coming in response to the sound of the quick scuffle, but all seemed quiet. They made the turn and moved cautiously up another ramp to the elite level, where they knew the private boxes were located.
Sandor stopped a few paces before they entered the corridor. “There are going to be more men up here,” he reminded them in a hoarse whisper. “Probably teams of two.”
The other three nodded.
“Craig and I go first, you two hang back until the fun starts.”
Bergenn and Raabe dropped the dead soldier on the cement floor, then pushed him against the wall. Sandor was holding the pistol he had taken from the guard downstairs. He shoved it into his waistband and covered it with his jacket. Then, without another word, he and Raabe finished the short walk up the cement rise, holding out their tickets like two lost tourists.