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“Only the pilots,” the officious North Korean representative insisted. “No others may have permissions to fly into the great Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.”
Mickey was nearing his limits. The last time he’d slept had been along a small river upstream of Larch Creek, Alaska. He’d flown seven hours to Japan and—once the helos were unloaded and Denise had certified them for flight—three more hours across the Sea of Japan to reach Korea.
It was now lunchtime the next day and Mickey’s patience with Emily’s cryptic sendoff, Mark’s tangential evasions, and everyone else was hitting its absolute limit. Or maybe it had already passed it.
They’d clearly been relegated to the Korean equivalent of Podunk and it was named Yangyang International Airport. The one-runway field had a beautif
