OSAN
SOUTH KOREA
The flight from Macau took a little under four hours. Dewey turned off his phone the entire trip. It was Fields who woke him, shaking his shoulder gently.
“We’re getting ready to land.”
“How long?”
“Ten minutes,” said Fields. “They’ll have a pack waiting for you. You’re leaving for North Korea immediately after we get there.”
Dewey shook off his sleepiness. He felt better. The fever was gone. But in the back of his mind he knew that meant he was getting closer to dying.
“How am I getting inside the country?” said Dewey, rubbing his eyes. “Truck? Car?”
“Chopper,” said Fields.
Dewey had a slightly surprised look on his face.
“How’s that going to work? They’ll shoot it down.”
“I don’t know the details, but you’re getting briefed on the tarmac.”
Dewey wasn’t worried about dying. Truth be told, he wasn’t thinking—not much, anyway. He was trying to live his life in minutes now, trying to focus on every second as it passed, rather than contemplate what he would need to do if he wanted to stay alive. He had to infiltrate a dead zone—a hostile country where he’d stand out if anyone saw him. He needed to get to Pyongyang and somehow make contact with the in-country asset, Talmadge, who’d apparently gone missing.
Dewey had infiltrated China two years before. He’d been disguised as a Chinese agent. At the time, the idea of penetrating China had seemed incredibly challenging, the odds of success frighteningly small. He now realized China had been easy compared to what North Korea would be like. After all, there were Westerners all over China, millions of them. In North Korea, Westerners numbered in the hundreds, if that.
There was no time to devise a disguise, certainly not a good one. More than six hours had passed since the needle hit his chest. That meant less than eighteen hours until he was dead. There was no time for clever disguises and complicated operations. He needed to get to Pyongyang—and quickly.
The jet touched down at Osan Air Force Base at six in the morning. The sky was a gray yellow. The jet came to a loud, fast stop and taxied down the runway, stopping next to a helicopter, whose rotors were cutting slowly through the air as Dewey climbed down the jet’s stairs: a SH-60 Seahawk.
Two men, both in military uniforms, approached Dewey as he took the last steps onto the tarmac. One of the men—the older of the two—extended his hand.
“Hi, Dewey, I’m Mark Prestipino,” he said, yelling over the din of the jet’s engines and the helicopter’s now slashing rotors, which blew a steady wall of wind at the three men.
Prestipino was bald, with a large nose. The other man had blond hair that looked a little too long for a military uniform.
“Charlie Macavoy,” barked the younger man. “I’m your pilot.”
Dewey shook their hands.
“How you feeling?” said Prestipino.
“Okay,” said Dewey.
“You’re leaving right now,” said Prestipino. “There’s a ruck in the back of the chopper with SAT, guns, grenades, food, water, and some basic first aid. You’re flying north. Charlie will set the course, put the chopper on autopilot, then jump before the chopper reaches the border. You and the chopper will fly on auto pilot for about fifteen minutes. You’ll be crossing into a remote area. KPA will pick you up on radar immediately. They’ll launch missiles. But by the time the missiles reach you, you’ll be inside the country and close to Pyongyang. They will shoot you down, so you’re going to need to get off by the fifteen- or sixteen-minute mark, got it?”
Dewey nodded.
“Seventeen minutes is an estimate,” added Prestipino. “That means keep your eyes peeled for SAMs, Andreas. Don’t assume we’re right. After you jump, the helicopter will keep going for a few more minutes, before they either shoot it down or it crashes. After twenty minutes, autopilot will turn off. The helicopter will begin an uncontrolled descent and crash.”
“If they don’t find any bodies, they’ll start looking for me.”
Prestipino glanced at the chopper and then at Macavoy.
“They’ll find bodies,” said Prestipino. “Two of them, in fact. They’re already on board. The chopper should get you within about fifty miles of Pyongyang. You need to get going.”
* * *
Dewey and Macavoy climbed into the SH-60. Dewey climbed into the cabin in back, behind the cockpit.
The helicopter’s interior lights were extinguished but Macavoy rotated a knob that illuminated the cabin. A body was strapped to a canvas troop-carrier seat along the far wall. He was olive-skinned, his head leaning to one side, limp. He was already dead.
“There’s another strapped up front.”
Dewey looked at Macavoy with a blank look on his face. He didn’t need an explanation.
“They were flown in from Manila,” said Macavoy. “Part of an Al Qaeda cell. They go down with the chopper. KPA will think they killed two men.”
Macavoy pulled the helicopter door shut.
“By the time they do any sort of forensic work you’ll be long gone.”
Dewey reached for one of the corpses’ mouths, opening it. He took a cursory glance.
“Are you kidding? Any idiot will know that guy’s not U.S.”
“It’s the best we could do,” said Macavoy.
Dewey patted Macavoy on the back.
“You’re right,” said Dewey. “It’s not bad. It’s just not perfect.”
Macavoy exited the cabin, climbed into the cockpit, and strapped himself in. A moment later, the fearsome whirr of the rotors took over the air. The chopper lifted from the tarmac and quickly arced left, moving away from the air base toward the north.
Dewey sat down on the floor of the cabin and pulled the rucksack in front of him. In the cabin’s low light, he inspected the bag. On the outside was a small parachute, barely bigger than a bedsheet. This was a specially designed parachute made for extremely low jumps, from choppers, enough to cushion the blow but not much more. He reached inside the duffel. There were two handguns along with several extended magazines. A bottle of water was in the bag, and a few plastic bags filled with food—dried fruit mostly, along with some carrots, crackers, and nuts. A first-aid kit was stuffed into a larger Ziploc bag, bandages, a suture and needle, small packs of medical alcohol, and a few premade, pinkie-sized plastic needles, caps on, which held morphine.
A pair of knives were attached to the outer part of the duffel. Both were SOG SEAL Pups. One was fixed-blade combat, the other was a folding SEAL Pup.
Dewey went to the window and looked out. Macavoy had the running lights off and all Dewey could see was blackness below, an occasional small cluster of lights around someone’s home in the mostly uninhabited northwest corner of South Korea.
Dewey watched as the pilot seat was lowered to allow Macavoy access to the cabin. Macavoy climbed over the pilot seat and back into the cabin near Dewey, hunched over. He tightened the parachute on his back. He looked at his watch.
“Thirty seconds,” said Macavoy, stepping to the door and pulling it open. Wind rushed in.
Macavoy looked at Dewey, then at his watch again.
“It’s on autopilot,” said Macavoy. “Start timing now. KPA will pick you up immediately. They’ll launch missiles. Seventeen minutes is when the missiles will reach the helicopter. You need to jump before seventeen minutes; in fact, if it were me, I’d get out of here at fifteen or sixteen. And just to remind you, at twenty minutes, the chopper’ll drop to the ground like a pile of bricks.”
Dewey nodded, saying nothing.
Macavoy handed him a small tin of eye black.
“Thanks.”
“Good luck, Dewey,” said Macavoy, reaching his hand out and shaking Dewey’s. “See you on the other side.”
Dewey said nothing, watching as Macavoy turned and charged toward the open door, jumping out into the black sky. He opened the tin and started rubbing his face with war paint. He looked at his watch. Then he stepped to the door. He looked down on the passing carpet of trees and uninhabited land.
No one know when they’re going to die, and this might be the day. He remembered the words from training. It might not be today. But it might. Until you know it’s not today, you have to believe it might be.
Dewey leaned into the cockpit and glared down at the dead jihadi strapped into the copilot chair.
“So, you here on business or pleasure?” said Dewey.