Targets of Opportunity Page 15

  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.

  LIEUTENANT VAUCHON 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 gun
fire 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.

  In the midst of the uproar, Vauchon heard a man downstairs shout out a cease-fire. Suddenly an eerie silence fell over the scene until the man below hollered again. “These explosives are set and cannot be disarmed. The charges will be detonated in a matter of minutes now. Either you let us through, or we will begin firing directly at the remaining hostages.”

  Vauchon did not hesitate. “Let them go and drop your weapons, then you can all leave.”

  “You are not listening,” Renaldo said, then leveled his weapon at one of the prone bodies on the stairs. “You have five seconds to back away or my men and I will commence firing.”

  ————

  What Renaldo did not remember in the commotion, and what Lieutenant Vauchon could not possibly know, was that Adina was remotely monitoring these proceedings as he sat alone on the upper deck of the Misty II. He was receiving all of Renaldo’s radio communications, and so he heard the exchanges with Vauchon and, of course, the repeated volleys of gunfire.

  What neither Renaldo nor Vauchon knew was that Adina had arranged to have the explosives rigged with a remote-detonation option.

  At the moment of the cease-fire, Adina stared at the triggering device in his lap, listening through his headphones to the latest threat made by his men in the hopes of extricating themselves from what had become a disastrous turn of events.

  He heard Renaldo say, “You are not listening. You have five seconds to back away or my men and I will commence firing.”

  Adina shook his head sadly. Renaldo was one of his best men. He did not care about any of the others, but Renaldo’s death would be a loss. He would even feel something of a personal sorrow.

  Nevertheless, this mission had been bungled. The escape of the French soldiers from the barracks and the murder of his guards were unforgivable. Adina was not concerned about the loss of his men, but he was furious about the possible compromise of his plan. He listened intently as the French soldier replied. He decided to give Renaldo one final opportunity to remedy his blunders.

  ————

  Vauchon held firm. There would be no negotiation. He figured there were only a few more hostages still in harm’s way. Some had already been shot in the gun battle, some of those might already be dead.

  He nodded to his two men, then all three opened fire, aiming high as he shouted to the remaining Fort Oscar staff who were huddled on the staircase, “Run for it, run!”

  What ensued was utter pandemonium. The three remaining terrorists at the bottom of the stairwell returned fire, aiming at their attackers and the fleeing hostages.

  The surviving workers made their way up the stairs as best they could, screams of fear and cries of pain intermixed with the clamor of gunshots. One after the other took hits in their shoulders, legs, and backs. Still, they struggled ahead as the three French soldiers gave them cover.

  When the last of the hostages had clambered onto the landing, Vauchon reached for the man who had come through earlier, the one who had been wounded when André took out the terrorist who had been sent up first to scout out the room. Vauchon helped the worker to his feet, then, with the injured staff member in tow, he and his men herded the others to the near stairwell that led above.

  Suddenly, as the gunshots continued to fly while Renaldo and his remaining accomplices scrambled up the stairs from the lower level, a brief rumbling sound was followed quickly by the sound of a loud blast, a thunderous crash chased by a fireball that followed the three Venezuelans up the stairs and engulfed them in flames.

  Only Renaldo made it all the way to the top, where he lurched forward onto the floor of the main level. Just he and Vauchon remained there, the terrorists below having been incinerated in the blast and the surviving workers having already reached safety above. Renaldo had dropped his weapon and was covered in blood. Vauchon, who was himself injured in the explosion, leaned over him, gun in hand. The two men stared at each other and then Renaldo began to speak.

  “Listen to me,” the terrorist gasped as the lieutenant dragged him toward the staircase.

  Renaldo spoke quickly, gasping for air, barely able to complete what he wanted to say before a second series of explosions were ignited, coming from the charges on this main level, sending another roiling plume of fire and smoke upward. The sound was deafening as the series of concussive blasts knocked Vauchon backward, smashing his wounded left shoulder into the corner of a metal desk as he went sprawling onto the floor. He struggled to his knees and crawled toward the doorway.

  Renaldo was dead.

  Vauchon staggered up the stairs into the open corridor on the main level of the fort, where he stumbled to the safety of the stone floor.

  ————

  Adina put down the remote detonator on the table beside him and removed the earphones. He could no longer hear his men, their communications having been destroyed. The sounds of gunfire, the explosions he had triggered and the wretched screaming of his innocent victims instantly vanished. He picked up his drink and took a long swallow.

  It was his intention to create chaos in the balmy and peaceful Caribbean, and that had been accomplished. The loss of so many key men was an unfortunate consequence. His purpose was to send his enemies scurrying about these islands, searching for a connection between the downing of the airliner and the destruction of the communications center at Fort Oscar, all the while distracting them from any sense of his true intentions, his catastrophic plans for the southeastern United States.

  He took another drink, uttered a sigh, then lifted the receiver that connected him to the wheelhouse.

  “Weigh anchor,” he told them, and hung up.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  IN THE COUNTRYSIDE, OUTSIDE PYONGYANG

  HEA DROVE THE bus to the end of a quiet, secondary road. She had long since switched off the headlights and, as far as Sandor could tell, had been guiding them forward by some innate radar. She now turned into a wooded area, making her bumpy way through trees and shrubs where there was barely enough room on either side for the small bus to pass, eventually coming to a stop beneath a canopy of large poplars.

  They had successfully outdistanced the soldiers who made the first attempt to chase them. Given the element of surprise and the fact that Hea and Sang had already mapped out a circuitous escape route, they took and held an early lead. In the past few minutes they heard the sound of helicopters, but now their van was hidden from an aerial view in the darkness of this thickly forested glen. Sandor stepped into the cool night and saw, just a few yards away, two parked cars hidden under a spread of well-placed boughs.

  “So,” he said to the girl as she followed him out onto the soft ground, “when you get to the States you can race Danica Patrick at the Indy 500.”

  Hea responded with a blank stare. “You have a very American sense of humor, I think.”

  “Is that good?”

  She forced a smile. “Let me just say, it is confusing.”

  Bergenn joined them now. “Don’t worry,” he said in response to Sandor’s look of surprise. “I tied our friend Hwang to the seat in the back.”

  “We’re just about to get the lowdown from Hea.” He pointed to his right. “There are the two cars. Which way is home?”

  The girl resumed her serious demeanor as she laid out their plans. “Most people escaping my country travel east to the Sea of Japan or west to Korea Bay. The only possible way to safety is by water; the border with the South is too heavily guarded.” Both men nodded their understanding. The border between North and South Korea is the most heavily fortified crossing in the world. “Since this is well known, the shores are constantly un
der observation by the military. This makes the shorter routes to water also very dangerous.”

  Sandor frowned. “So what do you suggest?”

  “I suggest surprise,” she said proudly.

  Sandor stifled a smile. “We’re all ears.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I mean, we’re listening.”

  “I see. Well, it is less than seven hundred kilometers from here to the Russian border at Khasan.”

  “Four hundred miles,” Sandor said thoughtfully.

  Bergenn responded with a concerned look. “Four hundred miles by land? In North Korea?”

  “This was our fallback route according to the DD,” Sandor explained.

  “There are also troops along that border,” Hea went on, “but it is much more open because there are many railroad lines passing back and forth between my country and the Khasansky district.”

  “And because it’s not a border with South Korea.”

  She responded with a respectful nod. “There is a rail bridge across the Tumen River. We can get through on the railroad cars or beneath the bridge.”

  “Sounds like fun. What’s the other option, tie that little sedan to a hot air balloon and float into China?”

  “No, the other plan is to drive south, right through Pyongyang. They will not expect this. Then go west to the Yellow Sea, where it is a short boat trip to the South.”

  “It certainly is bold, I’ll give you that.” Sandor turned to Bergenn. “Name your poison.”

  “Your mission, chief, you give the orders.”

  Sandor looked behind him, as if someone might be coming. “Whatever we do, our lead is going to evaporate quickly.” He nodded to himself, as if confirming his decision. “You go south. Take Sang, let him do the driving, he’ll know the way.” He turned to Hea. “Sang can be trusted, yes?”