RYONGSONG RESIDENCE
PYONGYANG
With the suppressor still pressed to his eye, Yong-sik felt for his walkie-talkie and lifted it to his ear.
“Stop the missiles!” he yelled. “Now! Stop them! Cancel all launch sequences, per order of the Supreme Leader!”
Dewey lifted the pistol from Yong-sik’s eye socket as, with his free hand, he picked up Yong-sik’s walkie-talkie and pocketed it. He kept Yong-sik dead center in the firing line of the pistol. He tapped his right ear three times.
“Alpha.”
“Get me the president,” said Dewey as he looked at Yong-sik. “This is Dewey Andreas.”
As Dewey waited, he walked over to Yong-sik, who Barrazza held in the firing line of his submachine gun. Dewey motioned for Barrazza to lower it, signaling that now Yong-sik could be trusted—even though he knew it wasn’t true. Yong-sik was still on his back, on the floor.
Dewey came up to Yong-sik and crouched down.
“Hey, General, don’t be so down,” said Dewey, patting Yong-sik’s shoulder as gently as he could. “You just saved at least a million lives, including yours, and more importantly mine. Buck up, hombre. You got fucking blackjack, buddy. You see, today is your lucky day.”
Dewey heard a click in his ear and stepped away from Yong-sik, looking around the room, catching the eyes of Fusco, Kolackovsky, Truax, and Barrazza as he waited for the president to come on. The four SEALs held the room in a tight cordon, weapons moving slowly across the air, surveilling.
“Mr. President,” came a voice over Dewey’s commo. “We have Dewey Andreas.”