After a moment, they heard hurried footsteps outside. Sun saw a flashlight approaching from a nearby tent. "Colonel, are you all right?"

Kong stepped beside the flap, the Tokarev and his own 17mm pistol both pointing toward it.

The Colonel moved his arm so the gun was once again pointing at Ki-Soo's head. "Tell your orderly that everything is fine."

Fighting back the pain, Ki-Soo said, "I-- I stubbed my toe."

"Do you need to find something, sir? I have a flashlight."

"No! Thank you, I'm fine."

"Yes, sir."

The orderly turned and went back to his tent.

Sun glared down at the officer. "Kong, tear off a piece of the bedsheet and wrap his hand."

"Stay away!" Ki-Soo hissed. He pulled off his pillowcase and pushed it against his hand.

Sun gave him a moment, then said, "My next shot will be higher. Now, Colonel, the code."

Ki-Soo was struggling to stay composed. "Five-one-four-zero in the bottoni row lets you get into the system. Zero-zero-zero-zero in the middle row erases the coordinates and allows you to change them. Once you've done that, any code you pick for the bottom row will lock the coordinates in."

The coordinates. That was something of a joke in the South. The American-built systems were operated by built-in topographic maps and photographic images provided by aerial or satellite surveillance. These missiles were able to find a particular jeep in a busy camp and could be dropped in the lap of any of the passengers. Conversely, the Nodongs could be aimed in 360 directions, and the elevation was selected by how many miles away the target was. Targeting specific city blocks was virtually impossible.

But Sun didn't need to hit a specific block. He just needed a particular city, and anywhere in it would be fine.

"What time do the men in the hills change shifts?" Sun asked.

"They'll be relieved at eight."

"Will the officer in charge report to you?"

Ki-Soo nodded.

Sun said, "I'm leaving Kong with you. The flap is to remain closed, and you'll receive no one. If you do anything but what you're told, you'll die. We won't be here long, and when we're finished your camp will be returned to you."

Ki-Soo winced as he used the thumb of his right hand to press the pillowcase into the wound. "I'll be disgraced."

"You have a family," Sun said. "You were right to think of them." He turned to leave the tent.

"The missiles are aimed at Seoul. What target can be more important?"

Sun said nothing. Very soon, Ki-Soo and the rest of the world would know.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

Wednesday, 7:10 A.M., Osaka

"General Rodgers, I thought the pilot was flying us into some warm sunshine!"

Even over the roar of the engines, Lt. Col. Squires along with the rest of the Striker team could hear the slashing rain as they crossed Ise Bay on their approach to Osaka. Rodgers was always fascinated and impressed by imbalances of that sort, like hearing a harp in the midst of an orchestra. In a way, it was similar to the philosophy behind the formation of the Striker unit. From David and Goliath to the American Revolution, size did not always mean dominance. Playwright Peter Barnes had once written about a puny weed that split the walk, and that image-- not just the Andrew Jacksons and Joshua Chamberlains and Teddy Roosevelts of history-- had kept Rodgers going in some of his darkest days. He'd even had his sister stitch the design onto his duffel bag, so he'd always be reminded of the image.