And now the men and women of Stony Man Farm were waiting to see the executive order carried out.
Even as they were staring intently at the screen, half a world away a USAF F-117A Nighthawk was bearing down on the DMZ, its laser-tracking instrumentation locking in on the rooftop of the building in Propaganda Village reportedly housing the launch pad facilities. Although either of the Nighthawk’s two GBU-27s was capable of leveling the structure, that wasn’t the objective. Instead, the Nighthawk crew’s mission was to, in effect, peel the roof off the building so that the NSA sat-cam could have a look inside and transmit its findings back to Earth. Sat-link arrangements had already been allowing both Russia and China to witness the success or failure of the Nighthawk’s mission, and in both Beijing and Moscow the leaders of the two Communist nations were now watching the same image as that coming in over the monitor at Stony Man Farm. In a matter of seconds, it would become clear whether Russia and China would stand by the U.S. or back off and leave America lacking the global support deemed necessary to stop North Korea in its tracks.
Hal Brognola had already mangled two cigars while awaiting the outcome, and he was reaching into his coat pocket for another when, for a flashing instant, the monitor screen whited out. Seconds later, the view of Kijongdong came back into focus, and once a wisp of smoke breezed clear of the target building, Brognola joined the others in the room in letting out a triumphant cheer.
“Bull’s-eye!” he shouted, shaking a fist in the air, then spreading his fingers and giving John Kissinger a high-five. All the while, his eyes remained on the monitor. Where there had once been a newly installed roof, the upper reaches of the would-be Propaganda Village Mall had been laid bare, and within the walls of the otherwise still-standing building, the transmitted sat-cam image clearly showed a previously concealed missile launch facility.
“You think that’ll be proof enough for them?” Kissinger asked above the cheering of his colleagues.
“It sure as hell better be,” Brognola said, tempering his euphoria for the moment, “because we’ve just put our necks on the line and committed an act of war.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Changchon Rehabilitation Center, North Korea
Once the shooting had begun, the Rangers had taken out the sentries posted in the watchtowers closest to Akira Tokaido, as he circled the perimeter fence, making his way toward the foothills that led to the mines. He could see several other Rangers up in the hills, firing down at the remaining camp security forces from behind rocks and a few tall trees. At one point he caught a glimpse of his cousin and the other kidnap victims, but as the fence led him up farther into the mountains, his view of the encampment became obstructed. Major Walt Stevens was following close at his heels, and the two men were close to reaching one of the rail lines leading into the mines when a hail of gunfire suddenly slanted down at them from another of the watchtowers. Both men instinctively dived to the ground and crawled for cover. Tokaido made it to an untended ore cart, but Stevens was struck twice in the thigh before he could reach a cluster of boulders rising up from the loose ground. He let out a scream of pain and straggled the last few yards, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.
Tokaido glanced back to make sure Stevens had reached cover, then rose to a crouch and peered over the rim of the cart. He had a clear shot at the tower where the shots had come from. Once he spotted the section of wall the shooter was hiding behind, he fired through the wooden slats, striking his target. The sentry cried out and sprang to his feet, taking aim at Tokaido with his rifle. Tokaido was ready for him, though, and squeezed off another round, nailing the sniper in the chest. The man fired wildly, then lurched forward. His momentum carried him over the railing and he lost his grip on the rifle as he flailed his arms like a small bird failing its first flight. He struck he ground headfirst, snapping his neck, then lay in a dead sprawl near one of the tower’s wooden uprights.
Tokaido waited until he was sure there were no other sentries in the tower, then scrambled to Stevens’ side. The officer had already ripped open his pant leg to inspect his wounds. They were deep and only a few inches apart, and Stevens grimaced as he pressed against the holes with a scrap of cloth from his pants.
“I’ll be fine once I can stop the bleeding,” he told Tokaido. “Go ahead and finish this up.”
“In a second,” Tokaido said. He quickly tore at Stevens’ pant leg until he’d come up with a few more strips for the officer to use on his wounds. “Keep pressure on them as best you can.”