The Delta Force CO checked the geocoords at the six-mile mark. He scanned the dark horizon north and spotted a row of palm trees planted alongside a new highway — a road to nowhere, since the Islamic State and local tribesmen cut it off from the oil-rich towns.
Amid the chaos of the Syrian civil war, Damascus claimed to the UN that the new road was a “feeder” highway for farmers. But US intelligence knew better. The Syrian military had built the road with the plan to transport arms and supplies to the missile launch site that was under construction, while it built up an array of camps to launch an offensive against ISIS when the time was right to drive the terrorists from the eastern border region.
The Delta Force CO split his team in two. He sent one cell along the east side of the road, while leading the other cell down the west side, with both cells to converge in the middle of the road, until they located the catch basin that held the real Kim Dong-Sun.
By the time they reached the two-lane highway, with gutters and culverts yet to be completed, a pair of headlights, like beady snake eyes, slinked down the road from the west.
The DF CO hid his cell behind crates of materials and precast concrete pipe. The other Delta Force cell, unable to find similar cover, hit the ground and rolled into a swale, lying flat on top of their weapons so that the metal wouldn’t catch or reflect light as the vehicle drove by.
For a long, tense moment they kept still, feeling their hearts race, listening to the vehicle approach, the tires whining louder and louder across the concrete pavement, the light beams expanding wider, until the vehicle passed by as if riding directly over them. It would be another minute before the vehicle drove far enough down the road to where the commandos felt secure to climb to their feet and move on to search for the catch basin.
Delta Force knew that the highway ended a mile or so from where they stood. If those in the vehicle conducted a patrol from inside the cab, they would return by the route they came in short order. By the time Delta Force reached the manhole cover on the side of the road, they saw the vehicle headlights begin turning around in the distance to head back.
A pair of commandos pried opened the manhole cover. The DF CO stuck a snub-nose flashlight down into the catch basin, made sure there were no booby-traps and that the hostage was alone. The flashlight lit up the gritty concrete box. In the corner sat a bound and gagged Kim Dong-Sun, her pants caked with mud from washout sediment that gathered on the concrete floor.
The tired, frail North Korean engineer shielded her eyes from the bright light.
One by one, Delta Force commandos lowered into the catch basin. They understood if Syrians in the vehicle spotted them slipping into the hole or stopped to inspect the catch basin, the operation would be blown and they would likely die in a firefight, trapped below ground in a concrete coffin with the North Korean scientist the CIA had kidnapped.
Delta Force CO pulled the manhole cover back in place as the headlights straightened down the road and beamed on the catch basin. He stepped down, shut off his flashlight, and waited. The commandos hunkered down, aiming their assault rifles at the manhole cover, saying not a word. Shafts of light flickered through the finger holes in the manhole cover. The vehicle passed by without stopping.
Another minute ticked away before the DF CO signaled the field medic to check on the condition of the hostage engineer. The medic, with the help of another Delta member, gave Kim Dong-Sun water, setup an IV drip in her arm — she was dehydrated and shivering. After five minutes, the medic gave her a sedative to put her out for a few hours. He let the IV run its course for another few minutes — making sure she would be alive when they crossed back over the border — before he removed the needle, swabbed the puncture, pressed a Band-Aid, and then put her 105-pound body in a sling.
Commandos lifted her up to the manhole, as the others raised her out of the catch basin.
With an all-clear signal, Delta Force hauled the North Korean engineer from the area. Four men carried the sling for a klick, and then the other four Delta Force warriors carried the load for the next klick. Each cell took turns carrying Kim Dong-Sun the six miles back to the border crossing and into Iraq, where they rendezvoused with a Humvee.
CIA operator Alan Cuthbert ended up driving the North Korean engineer to a waiting helicopter that would fly them to a secret CIA drone base in Saudi Arabia. Upon arrival at the base in the Saudi mountains, CIA agents prepared to interrogate the real Kim Dong-Sun for days.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Night. Four hours after the Black Hawk landed at the main road border crossing in Diyala, Iraq, a squad of Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps piled out of two army trucks.
A cordon of US marines backed by a Kurdish battalion escorted Kim Dong-Sun — a.k.a. CIA agent Jenny King — to a Kurdish leader named Behar. In the dim light, Jenny noticed that Behar’s face was scarred. She wondered what caused it, pointing to the wounds. Behar looked at her, and after a pause, said, “Chlorine gas. Barrel bombs dropped from Russian helicopters.”
Behar walked Kim Dung-Sun over the border and handed her North Korean passport and papers to the lead revolutionary guard, a tall, bearded man with sun-creased face. He reviewed the papers, handing it back to his assistant. She gulped, waiting for the papers to be confirmed. The assistant whispered in the unkempt lead guard’s ear; he nodded once and waved the North Korean engineer to follow him to the trucks.
Agent Jenny King walked now into enemy territory, about to be driven deep into Iran.
Keeping her undercover act in line, Jenny knew better than to look back at Behar or the US marines who ferried her to the Iranian border. Such a glance would raise a flag with the revolutionary guards, and maybe plant a seed of suspicion about her true identity.
Waving a flashlight, the lead guard put the North Korean engineer in the back of the truck with a squad of bearded soldiers. The truck turned around with the second army truck and drove Agent King on her way deep into Iran, heading up the mountain pass in darkness.
CIA Agent Jenny King wouldn’t know her destination until she arrived. She estimated that it would be sometime the following day, if she was lucky.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Night fell on the Sheikh Pass in Somaliland.
Nico had spent most of the day in the surveillance nest passing time, waiting for something to happen. Hurry up and wait was the SEAL motto he recalled on surveillance ops. Like most of the dreary assignments, he knew not much happened over long stretches of time. He setup a mini tripod with a webcam that digitally captured activity inside the compound gate of anyone entering or exiting the mountain hideaway.
After Nairobi had arrived, Nico saw little activity at the entrance, other than a changing of guards. Only later did one other vehicle show up, around dusk. Nico replayed the video, watching it on a smartphone. It showed a slight man with Arab features wearing glasses step out of a jeep. The SEAL CO found that odd, since almost everyone in the compound was of African origin. And here arrived a Middle Eastern businessman, well dressed in a gray tunic and wearing glasses.
The sight of Bahdoon arriving at Korfa’s compound threw Nico off. The CO replayed the video, trying to see if he captured a clean shot of Bahdoon’s face for a screen grab, so he could run the image through the DIA, Office of Naval Intelligence, the CIA, and FBI terrorist databases to see if there was a match, and with it a name and background.
Nico knew whatever was taking place inside the compound had to be important. What he couldn’t figure out: What side was Nairobi on? Did she serve two masters? The CIA and the Somali pirates? He didn’t know, but he recalled Merk’s caution.