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That afternoon, under unfiltered sunshine, Seok Kang-Ho’s team walked along the ridge.
Seok Kang-Ho and Choi Jong-Il led the way, and Gérard and Woo Hee-Seung brought up their rear.
Meanwhile, Kang Chan kept a sharp eye on his surroundings, his index finger on the trigger loop. They were taking a roundabout way up the mountain. Nevertheless, they only had sixteen hours to trek it. Otherwise, they wouldn’t make it in time.
If they weren’t doing this for their country, this would’ve been the perfect time to quit.
Kang Chan’s eyes darted back and forth, surveying the men.
The 606 were clearly well-trained. Given the current condition of the counter-terrorism team, no one would deny that.
Kang Chan grinned to himself. Why the hell were there so many of these soldiers in South Korea?
At this rate, he might start going around saying, “I’m sorry, Mi-Young! I’ve given my life to my country and men!”
For three hours now, they had been walking with twenty kilograms of equipment—including rifles, pistols, bayonets, grenades, magazines, and ammunition—strapped to their bodies. They felt as if they could actually taste death now.
They could feel indescribable pain in their backs, knees, thighs, and feet.
Thud, thud.
Nevertheless, not a single person fell behind. The weight on their shoulders was likely keeping them on their toes.
Behind them, thirty men would soon be facing two hundred Quds.
Thud, thud.
The gruesome battle that the Jeungpyeong special forces team had ahead of them kept the counter-terrorism team members moving.
Keep your heads up. We can’t fall here.
Listen to the desperate...
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