The Pukkuksong-1 had an estimated range of just over 333 miles, posing no threat to the United States. In comparison, America’s Trident II SLBM had a range of more than 4,000 miles. The DPRK land-based systems were more potent. The Taepodong-3 had an estimated range of 8,000 miles.
Today’s launch, no doubt, was to confirm the Gorae’s capability, but equally important, it was meant to send a signal to the United States and its regional allies that the DPRK was now in the submarine-launched ballistic missile club. It would take several more years for the North Koreans to build enough SLBMs to alter the regional balance of power. But when the North Koreans mounted a nuclear warhead on the Pukkuksong-1, the strategic situation in Asia would shift forever. According to the most recent DIA and ONI estimates, that was still several years away.
“She’s launched!” the executive shouted in Symonds’s headset.
The commander knew the first stage of the missile’s flight out of the launch tube and into the water was a cold launch. Instead of firing the missile’s engine — and risking a catastrophic explosion that could destroy the submarine — the missile was expelled from its tube by a separate noncombustible gas generator, like a spitball through a straw. A few seconds after the missile safely cleared the surface, its first-stage engine would ignite.
“I’ve got it.” Symonds watched the missile’s growing smoke trail climb into the dull gray sky. Several seconds passed. She handed her binoculars to a nearby sailor. The missile was moving too fast to track through the glasses. It was easier to trace the smoke trail with her naked eye.
“Mach One achieved,” her executive said. “Vehicle attitude and flight path are as expected.”
Symonds’s head bent upward as the missile climbed higher.
“Captain, something’s wrong,” the executive said.
“What is it?”
“The flight path — it’s not right.”
“I’m on my way.”
Symonds bolted for the CIC.
What the hell was going on?
The steely-eyed People’s Liberation Army Rocket Force (PLARF) major stared at the satellite-tracking display, his face illuminated by the monitor’s amber glow. “First-stage separation completed. Two hundred and sixty-four kilometers and climbing.”
A PLARF captain seated at the adjoining console confirmed, adding, “Terminal velocity achieved, four thousand four hundred meters per second, and holding.”
A PLARF colonel stood above them, beaming. “Excellent!”
“Second-stage burn time, sixty seconds and counting,” the major said.
The small contingent of PLARF officers were clustered in a secured section of the civilian facility. They tried to contain their excitement. In less than a minute, the Americans were going to be very surprised.
The North Korean missile, misnamed by the Americans as the Pukkuksong-1, was performing exactly as designed. They should know.
They designed it.
In an adjacent room, a civilian engineer was also tracking the missile, avoiding the watchful gaze of the senior supervisor, a hard-line party official. The engineer lifted the receiver of his secured landline. He dialed a number, trying to hide his fear. The call he was making could land him in a secret PLA slave labor camp for the next twenty years — or worse. He let the phone ring exactly three times, then hung up.
He hoped the message got through. That call might have just cost him his life.
The SBIRS GEO-3 infrared missile-warning satellite stood high in geosynchronous orbit over the Asian continent, monitoring the flight of the same North Korean rocket.
The SLBM’s trajectory and flight data displayed graphically in real time on the wide wall monitor in the SWS tracking facility, but in accordance with standard procedure, relevant data points were read aloud by the noncommissioned Air Force officers stationed in their specialized departments.
“Second-stage fuel burn complete.”
“Altitude four hundred miles.”
“We have warhead separation.”
The sergeant standing next to the commanding officer, a major, whispered aloud, “Hope it’s a dummy.”
The major ignored the comment. The sergeant was a real motormouth, especially when he was nervous. Of course it was a dummy warhead. This was a test launch, not a first strike.
She studied the warhead’s seven computer-generated probability tracks, each color-coded. The farthest reach was twelve hundred nautical miles from the Sinpo launch point, approximately six hundred miles due east of the northern Japanese coast.
The major frowned. She knew the performance specs for the Pukkuksong-1. That outer track was far and away beyond what she was expecting today from the compact SLBM.
“Major?” the sergeant said, alarm cracking his voice. But he didn’t need to say anything. Everyone in the room was watching the wall monitor, including her.
“Missile warhead appears to be breaking up.”
The major stepped closer to the monitor, shaking her head. “Holy crap.”
“Sir?”
The major was too busy to reply. The seven color-coded tracks suddenly split into twenty-one. She knew the flight was being monitored by U.S. air and ground stations around the world, but the SOP required her to pick up the phone and dial the wing commander now.
That warhead wasn’t breaking up.
5
The mixed-martial-arts dojo was located in a strip mall not far from the community college and less than two miles from The Campus’s safe house. A light, cold rain fell outside, but after the last training exercise in the North Sea, it felt like the Bahamas to Jack.
The dojo was owned by Hector “Bruiser” Martinez, a former Navy SEAL chief petty officer and now a Brazilian jiu-jitsu black belt who trained a team of heavy-hitting MMA competitors dominating the professional circuit.
Martinez often used other instructors to round out the martial-arts sparring opportunities for his students. He sometimes invited his friend Dom Caruso to train his team in Krav Maga. Dom first learned Krav Maga from his mentor and friend Arik Yacoby, the former Israeli Shayetet 13 naval Special Forces operator, in Paravur, India — slaughtered along with his family by a bomb detonated by an Iranian-led hit team.
Dom wasn’t a certified Krav Maga instructor, but his skills on the mat and his real-life combat experience counted for more than a piece of paper. Dom enjoyed teaching eager young students in the world’s deadliest and most practical form of unarmed self-defense, developed through hard years of street combat by the Israeli Defense Forces. Teaching Krav Maga was also his way to honor his dead friend.
Like everybody else, Jack had been exhausted on the long flight home from Norway to Virginia on the company’s luxurious Gulfstream G550. But he had a hard time sleeping. He kept running what he now called the “blonde scenario” in his head. Yeah, she’d distracted him, but he had to admit there was something about that knife. Two hours before they landed at Reagan International, Jack woke Dom up with a shake of his lapel. “Need a favor.”
“Sure, cuz. Name it.”
Jack had trained in hand-to-hand and close-quarters combat, but he wanted to be better prepared the next time he faced a bladed weapon. He asked Dom for help.