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LOCATION: SINO-KOREAN FRIENDSHIP BRIDGE
CITY: DANDONG, CHINA
DATE: APRIL 16, 2026 | TIME: 2100 HOURS
The driver of the box truck, Chen Guo, had been making this run five times a week for three years now.
He would show up at the SF Express warehouse in Dandong at 9:00 PM, and receive two cargo manifests: one to show to the Chinese customs officials on this side of the border, and the second to show to the North Koreans on the other side.
Then, he would climb into the cab of the Foton Aumark box truck and make the drive across the Sino-Korean Friendship Bridge to the government bonded warehouse in Sinuiju.
There, he would wait while the cargo was unloaded and inspected, and then drive the empty truck back.
Round trip could be anywhere from one to six hours, depending on how feisty the inspectors on either side were.
Guo had access to an envelope in the glove box with a discretionary fund he could use to move things along quicker if needed.
But he'd only needed to use it twice in all this time.
Once was because his wife wasn't feeling well, and he wanted to get home to care for her.
The second time, well, his back hurt, frankly. And he didn't feel like playing games.
He never asked any questions. Never looked at either of the manifests to see why they needed two versions of them.
He was paid well enough to keep his head down and just do the job.
On April 16th, he arrived at the SF Express warehouse at the usual time. Today, however, two men who looked like government types stood by his truck.
They introduced themselves as belonging to Ministry of State Security. No names.
Guo took a step back, sweat already forming on his forehead.
"I… I've never said anything—"
One of the men laughed.
"You're not in any trouble, Mr. Chen. You're a good man. Reliable. One we know we can trust."
The tone in his voice made clear this was less a compliment than a not-so-veiled threat.
"Today, there are two envelopes in the glove box," the man continued. "One is your regular discretionary fund. The second is for you. For your family, and for your future."
"I… I don't understand," Guo stammered.
"Today," Li Wei's deputy from Beijing said, "we're going to need a little more from you than the usual."
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TEAM: MOUNTAIN TEAM ALPHA
CITY: RIWON, NORTH KOREA
DATE: APRIL 16, 2026 | TIME: 2200 HOURS
After splitting off from Team Bravo at the shore, Alpha moved fast under the forest canopy, the sea's damp salt replaced by the musk of pine and cold earth.
Through gaps in the heavy tree cover, they spotted a military motor pool and logistics depot squatting beside the main road. A handful of guards loitered at the gate, their rifles slung loose.
The team's sniper, a Korean operator who'd topped every marksmanship trial in the Peacekeeper Tutorial, slid the suppressed rifle from his shoulder and knelt. His breath steadied and six muted cracks whispered into the night. The three guards dropped within seconds of each other, double-taps drilled into their foreheads.
The SEAL team waited, and the forest held its breath with them. No alarms. No running feet. Nobody coming to investigate.
Only the far-off groan of a truck engine somewhere in town. They stayed still for five long minutes before moving.
Alpha Team fanned out, rifles up, slipping from tree to shadow until the gate loomed before them. Floodlights sat cold in their housings, the yard lit only by the pale wash of moonlight.
The three Korean SEALs searched the fallen men, taking the military IDs and the thin wad of worn banknotes from the pockets. They dragged the bodies back into the treeline, laying the bodies down among the roots where no passing headlights would see.
The others found an armored transport with mud crusted along its wheel arches. The keys dangled from the ignition. They climbed in, two of the Koreans taking the front seats with their new IDs pinned where any casual glance could read them.
The truck rumbled to life and rolled northeast toward Iwon Airport. The road was just as much crater as it was pavement, but the mud was still hard with frost, and the all-terrain tires clawed through without too much complaint.
By 2330 they reached the airport's edge.
Sentries paced their posts, flashlights cutting pale arcs through the dark. Power rationing had left most of the facility in shadow, making the spaces between light pools their best cover.
Alpha Team split into three pairs.
The first team angled northwest, keeping low as they circled toward the fuel depot. Four squat storage tanks loomed ahead, their steel skin mottled with rust. High Endurance and Dexterity pushed the two men to a fast, steady run, staying well clear of the runway's occasional light.
They crouched at the northern side of the tanks. Each man produced two bricks of C-4, pressing them into place beneath the corroded emergency relief valves where no casual inspection would notice. The trigger timers nestled inside were set to the agreed upon time.
The second pair crossed the runway at its midpoint, hugging the shadows until the control tower rose ahead. Two patrolling sentries met at its base, shared a smoke, and split off again. The SEALs waited, motionless, until the guards turned their backs.
At the tower's main electrical conduit, they taped a shaped charge in place, then planted three more along the structure's legs. Enough to drop it south across the runway like a fallen tree.
The third team made for the eastern end, where radar dishes revolved above a bank of communications gear. A single floodlight buzzed overhead, flickering in and out. One operator frayed the wiring until it died with a soft pop, leaving the array in darkness. His partner worked fast, fixing demolition charges at key junction points.
With their primary objectives set, the six regrouped along the northern flight line. Fifty aging MiGs and other fighters sat in neat rows, silhouettes black against the pale runway. Patrols swept the tarmac at intervals, their lights passing close enough to show rust spots on the steel hulls.
One by one, the SEALs moved between the aircraft. Combat knives slid under hydraulic lines, slicing them open with a faint hiss. Valve stems on tires were cut away, leaving each plane crippled.
When the last aircraft was finished, a few buried bricks along the southern side of the main runway completed the job.
The six members of Alpha Team melted back into the night, ghosts slipping silently toward their waiting transport and the next leg of their mission.
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TEAM: MOUNTAIN TEAM BRAVO
CITY: RIWON, NORTH KOREA
DATE: APRIL 16, 2026 | TIME: 2200 HOURS
Bravo split from Alpha without a word, the sound of the surf fading behind them as they moved south under the cloak of pine and shadow. Their target was miles away, but every step had purpose. Tonight, precision mattered more than speed.
A truck yard for a local fishing conglomerate appeared from the darkness. A wide, chain-linked lot stinking faintly of diesel and fish, its perimeter lit by a single, dim floodlight that painted the trucks in tired amber.
Twenty-three refrigerated box trucks sat in staggered rows, no markings on the metal, their white flanks dulled by salt spray and rusted by time.
Wire cutters made quick work of the gate's chain. The hinges gave a faint metallic groan as the SEALs slipped inside, hugging the shadows. A brief search yielded the prize they sought: one truck with its keys resting on the cracked vinyl dashboard.
Two Korean SEALs slid into the cab, the rest piling silently into the back. The diesel rumbled to life, and they rolled out toward the coastal road at a steady, law-abiding pace.
Halfway to their destination, the yellow glare of a checkpoint cut through the night. Two North Korean soldiers waved them down, their uniforms rumpled, eyes heavy with fatigue. One leaned in at the driver's window.
"Manifest," he grunted.
The driver didn't bother reaching for papers. He reached into the glove box and came out with two unopened packs of cigarettes. The kind rationed tight in this region. He placed them in the soldier's palm.
The man's expression cracked into something dangerously close to gratitude. He tapped the roof of the truck and stepped back. "Drive safely."
The road gave way to long stretches of darkness and the occasional glint of moonlight off the East Sea. Just under two hours later, they pulled the truck into the shelter of a derelict gas station, its canopy sagging, concrete cracked and overtaken by weeds. A dead sign creaked faintly in the cold wind.
Moving as one, the team cut west into the hills. The air thinned as they climbed, pine needles crunching under boots. Cresting the ridge, they saw their first target: a skeletal row of communication arrays, black against the starlit sky.
They fanned out, crouching low. C-4 charges were affixed to the main power feed and base supports. A light wind hissed through the treetops as they moved on.
Further south, the world opened into a sweeping view. The Chaho Submarine Base was lit up like a fortress.
They knew from satellite imagery they'd viewed on board the Colorado that seven Romeo- and Sang-O-class subs rested in their pens.
Even from this distance and even at this late hour, Bravo could see movement on the decks and along the piers. The base was alive, humming with readiness after the carrier strike.
But Bravo's mission wasn't inside those walls. Just beyond the perimeter lay a scattering of camouflaged munitions depots and storage bunkers, half-buried in earth and shadow.
They descended fast and quiet, using the slope's contours for cover.
At the nearest bunker, two guards stood at the rear, cigarettes glowing red in the dark. A soft thwip-thwip from the Bravo sniper dropped them where they stood. The bodies were dragged behind a berm, swallowed by shadow.
Through the gaps between stacked crates, they counted six more inside. Two men were taking inventory, two walking slow patrols out front, and two hunched over a table mid-card game.
Six targets. Six SEALs. Always nice when the math makes things easy.
The Bravo leader's System message appeared in their interfaces:
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NOW
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They broke from cover in perfect unison. Suppressed fire cut the air with soft coughs, each set of shots finding its mark.
In two seconds, the space was silent.
Inside, the air smelled of oil, metal, and cordite. The munitions locker was lined with torpedoes, crates of small arms ammo, and mortar rounds under canvas tarps. Charges were placed with surgical precision, timers set by two men while the others arranged the fallen bodies inside the bunker, out of sight.
They slipped away the way they came. The box truck waited where they'd left it, a cold silhouette against the backdrop of the dead gas station.
Without a word, Bravo rolled on toward their next objective, leaving behind a silent yard that, soon enough, would burn.