by Larry Bond
The four watch officers obeyed, jumping to their feet. Behind them, the guard stiffened to attention, with his chin up and his eyes fixed on the monitor.
And Sik was in motion.
Whirling around, he punched the guard in the throat, crushing his larynx. Gasping, straining vainly for air, the soldier dropped to his knees.
Without hesitating, Sik tugged the pistol out of the dying man’s holster. He flipped the safety down and continued turning—already squeezing the trigger as he came on target.
The pistol cracked four times, deafeningly loud in this confined space.
Hit in the head, each of the four watch officers went down. Blood and brains spattered across several of the screens and consoles.
Through his ringing ears, Sik heard the music fade out and looked up in time to see a stern-faced Kim Jong-un begin speaking.
The colonel smiled. The timing was perfect.
He moved to the ventilation systems control panel, found the switch marked 1-C, and flipped it. On a dial above the switch, the needle showing air pressure in the Audience Chamber began falling.
Sik picked up the phone and punched the button that would connect him to Observation Post Nine.
“OP Nine,” Maeng growled.
“It is done, Sergeant,” Sik told him. “Tell Captain Ro to proceed.”
Without waiting for an acknowledgment, the colonel hung up and stood watching Kim Jong-un rant, promising death to every traitor and the immediate restoration of order under his unchallenged rule.
This would indeed be a great day, Sik decided.
From the time he was a small boy, the colonel had grown up believing that his father, a man he had never really known, had lived and died as a Hero of the Fatherland. Major Sik Sang-chol had been the brave commando leader who spearheaded a surprise attack on the American headquarters in Seoul. And though the raid failed to eliminate the American commander in chief, General McLaren, it had successfully sowed confusion and chaos in the enemy’s high command.
As a young soldier, Sik had been determined to honor his father’s memory by serving the regime with unswerving faithfulness and courage, even to the point of death if necessary. His loyalty and demonstrated skills had driven him ever higher in rank and responsibility, until at last he earned a post as one of the Supreme Leader’s personal bodyguards.
And then his world collapsed around him.
One of his superiors in the Guard Command had shown him the secret files on his father’s operation. It had been a suicide mission, though none of the commandos had known that. The extraction routes his father had been promised were never put into operation. Worse still was reading the evaluation attached to his father’s personnel file, an evaluation in Kim Jong-il’s handwriting.
MOST SECRET
Major Sik Sang-chol
Second Reconnaissance Brigade, Special Forces
Loyalty: High
Command ability: Acceptable
Suitability for further advancement: Nil
Recommendation: Expend him
From that moment, Sik Chol-jun had lived for one thing only—the chance to take revenge by killing Kim Jong-il’s own son, the so-called Supreme Leader. When the bomb in the banquet hall failed to kill the tyrant, the colonel had been tempted to finish him off right there in the smoldering rubble. But too many of the other bodyguards were there with him, frantically digging through ruins. Better, Sik had thought, to stay alive and act the hero—ready to play his part in the backup plan.
This plan.
Ventilator 1-C Intake, Piro Peak
Ro watched from the clump of artificial brush that concealed the ventilator shaft, one of the dozens that fed the redoubt hundreds of meters below their feet. He saw Sergeant Maeng clamber out of the observation post trench. The noncom pumped his arm twice. That was the signal.
He turned to the soldiers squatting beside the metal cylinder. A length of flexible hose ran from the nozzle of the cylinder into a small, dark opening, shaft 1-C. Ro nodded to the commando crouched right by the opening. “Test it!”
The corporal shook out three matches and lit them together. For an instant, they flared up brightly and then went out. The smoke vanished, sucked into the shaft.
Without waiting any longer, Ro dropped to his knees and started feverishly turning the valve below the cylinder’s nozzle. It began hissing, spewing its highly pressurized contents through the hose and down the ventilator shaft.
Audience Chamber, National Command Redoubt
The papers on Kim Jong-un’s podium rustled, whipped by a sudden breeze. He tightened his grip on his speech, determined not to lose his place.
“I make this pledge to you, the people of our beloved fatherland. This gang of criminals and traitors, these murderers and paid mercenaries of the evil Americans and their puppets, will be destroyed! Even the memory of them will be erased from history! They will vanish like—”
A gob of spit flew from his mouth and spattered across the page.
Kim’s left cheek twitched suddenly, contracting so sharply that some of his teeth were visible for an instant.
He fought to regain control, aware that his hands were trembling. The words of his printed text swam in and out of focus. “I make this pledge to you—” he repeated thickly, desperately trying to swallow the saliva and mucus clogging his mouth and throat without choking.
The air carried a trace of the faintly cloying smell of rotting fruit.
Behind him, Kim could hear the sounds of choking and retching from the assembled audience of military officers. He scowled, furious that the uniformed puppets he had made were ruining this moment. Would he have to order another round of executions so soon?
Then he groaned, thrown against the podium by a convulsion so powerful that it tore him from the brace propping him up. The wig concealing his head injuries slipped off and fell to the floor. Another spasm ripped through him, tearing open some of his wounds. Once-white bandages began to redden.
Slowly, wrapped in terrible agony, Kim turned his head. Most of those in the room with him were writhing on the floor, gagging and clutching at their throats. A few, still able to move, had ripped the red silk wall hangings down and were pounding frantically on the blast doors that sealed this chamber off from the rest of the redoubt. But they were weakening even as he watched, slumping to their knees, coughing uncontrollably as they drowned on their own saliva and secretions.
Beyond the power of speech now, Kim Jong-un lost his grip on the edge of the podium. Twitching and shaking without volition, he slid to his knees and then fell onto his stomach. More sutures ripped open. A fiery wall of pain roared through him, forcing a shrill, bubbling scream past his clenched teeth.
Millions of North Koreans and millions more around the world watched in horror and amazement as Kim Jong-un, the Supreme Leader, convulsed and writhed and groaned and tore at his clothes and bandages.
They were still watching as he died, along with most of the members of his new, handpicked regime.
Six hundred meters above the Audience Chamber, Ro listened in satisfaction as the last of the sarin nerve gas they had pumped into the ventilator shaft hissed out of the cylinder. The sound faded.
It was finished.
Chapter 6 - Whirlwind
21 August 2015
Kunsan Air Base
Gunsan, South Korea
Brigadier General Tony Christopher stared at the television screen, frozen by sheer surprise and the horror of what he’d just seen. The cameras were still working, one facing the podium, and two others covering the crowd. They continued to pan slowly across the room, or zoom in and out. There was one close-up of Kim Jong-un’s face that lasted at least a minute. He’d died in mid-spasm, and blood spattered his chin and the floor where he’d fell. Tony could not look away, or even close his eyes.
Everyone—the guards, the audience, and of course Kim—lay unmoving. In the back of his mind, Tony kept expecting the picture to go dark or turn to static. Did this mea
n the assassins controlled the television studio? That they were choosing to transmit these pictures as proof of their success? Or was there nobody left alive to hit the “off” switch? There certainly weren’t cameramen moving the cameras back and forth, not in that room full of poison.
The question was enough to kick-start his frontal lobe. Shaking off the images that crowded his mind, he turned to look around him.
News of Kim Jong-un’s survival had reached him yesterday, in the middle of a tour of the air bases and units in South Korea. As deputy commander of the Seventh Air Force, Tony Christopher was supposed to report to his boss on any problems that had surfaced because of the mobilization during the crisis. With the expectation that the DPRK announcement signaled the end of the crisis, he’d elected to continue the tour—the mobilization had been a good real-world test.
And he’d been especially reluctant to cancel the tour right then. The next stop on the schedule was the Eighth Fighter Wing, at Kunsan. He’d served and fought in the 35th Fighter Squadron, based at Kunsan, back in the day. He’d chosen to watch the speech in the squadron’s ready room.
They all knew him, of course, not only as deputy commander of the Seventh Air Force, but by his call sign, “Saint,” and his seventeen kills during his tours of duty in Korea and Iraq. As a distinguished alumnus of the squadron, a photo of a much younger Captain Christopher hung on the ready room’s wall, just to the right of the squadron’s emblem, a snarling black panther crouched and advancing. It showed him with one hand on the wing of his F-16, smiling, new major’s insignia on his uniform, after his fifteenth kill—a “triple ace.” The squadron still flew F-16s, although a much newer version than the “A” model he’d flown back then.
Standing up and turning, Tony faced the fighter pilots filling the ready room. Laid out like a small auditorium, rows of seats faced a large flat-screen display at the front, an unused podium pushed to one side. They sat, stunned, confused, and shocked by the wide-screen horror. Some didn’t seem to understand what they’d seen, and he could hear questions asked in quiet voices: “What was that? Did he really just die? Was that real?” The ones that weren’t talking to their comrades were looking at him or the other commanders in the front row.
Tony instinctively knew it was real. While they were all used to a stream of exaggerations and outright falsehoods from the North, a faked TV show of Kim’s death would only harm the regime, at a time when he needed to show strength. He accepted the fact that Kim and most of his cabal were dead. But what happens next?
Colonel Andrew Graves, CO of the Eighth Fighter Wing, had of course escorted Tony on his tour of the base, with the commanders of the 35th and 18th Fighter Squadrons in trail. The four senior officers had taken up the center of the front row. The colonel and his two squadron commanders were now looking at him, or more properly, to him.
Everybody in the room knew exactly as much as Tony did about the death of Kim Jong-un. In fact, most of South Korea had probably been watching, or at least listening on the radio. There would be no uncertainty this time.
Tony fought to shift his thinking. Kim’s survival and television appearance was supposed to restore his rule. Unwelcome as the regime was, the stability it offered was better than bloody civil war and a humanitarian crisis. Tony knew the Seventh Air Force was already planning to send units brought in as reinforcements back to their bases in CONUS and elsewhere, and to reduce operating tempos back to normal. He’d heard Colonel Benz, the Seventh’s operations officer, grumbling about the havoc their alert was raising with the training and maintenance schedules.
But that was ten minutes ago. He turned to the wing commander. “Andy, please find Captain Drew and my flight crew and tell them I’ll be flying back to Osan immediately.” Graves looked over at a lieutenant, who left the room at a dead run. Tony raised his voice just a little, so it could be heard throughout the room. “I won’t predict what orders my boss will send out, but ignore anything in the pipeline right now about standing down. Make sure everybody’s ready to fly.” He paused, and the wing commander and two squadron commanders all nodded solemnly. Graves gestured to his two squadron commanders, and they left, followed by the rest of the 35th’s pilots.
As the room emptied, Graves’ cell phone sounded, and after listening, the colonel reported, “Your aircraft crew is preflighting now. They’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
“That gives us five to sit and think,” Tony replied.
“The ROKs will go north,” Graves stated flatly.
“Concur, but we won’t unless our boss says so,” Tony agreed. “The best we can do is hold the fort while the South Koreans take the rest of their country back.”
The colonel asked, “Is there anything at headquarters saying the South won’t succeed?”
Tony shrugged. “The only thing that could stop them is China, and as long as we don’t go north, the Chinese may stay on their side of the Yalu.”
Graves checked his watch and gestured toward the door. They started walking, with Christopher setting a fast pace. “And the Seventh Air Force becomes a piece on the chessboard of international politics,” the colonel remarked, a few steps behind.
“An accurate, long-range, devastatingly powerful chess piece,” Tony declared, smiling. They stepped out of the squadron’s ops center into the bright, almost blinding heat. An air force jeep was waiting to take the general to his helicopter, and the two hopped in.
“General Carter and I have discussed what to do if the ROKs went north, with or without the US. In this case, the simplest plan is to take one hundred percent responsibility for air defense while the entire South Korean air force takes on the DPRK, which they are well qualified to do. Our AEW and other specialist aircraft provide support for their offensive from across the border, heavily escorted.”
Graves nodded his understanding. Christopher continued, “That is one possible course of action, not an operational order, but you might want to think about the Wolf Pack’s role in that scenario.”
They reached the flight line and headed for a gray-painted UH-1N Huey near one end. As soon as the jeep came into the helicopter’s view, Tony heard the engines whine and the rotors began to move.
The jeep stopped, and Graves came to attention and saluted. “Good luck, Saint.”
Tony returned the salute, and answered, “Fly safe, Digger. If we do go north, get some.” He had to speak up to be heard over the rising whine.
“Even if they’re Chinese?” Graves asked, smiling.
“Especially if they’re Chinese,” Tony answered, and headed for the helicopter.
21 August 2015
CNN Special Report
Seoul, South Korea
Tammy Becker was tall and blonde, which made her a standout anywhere, but in Korea she towered over most citizens. They’d set her up against a backdrop of a cheering crowd. Although she was broadcasting from Seoul, it looked more like Mardi Gras, or a Super Bowl win. Lights on the camera created an illuminated circle of celebrating Koreans behind her, waving different-sized Korean flags.
“It’s been over six hours since the death of Kim Jong-un, and the citywide, no, nationwide party shows no sign of slowing down!” She held the microphone close to her face, but still had to speak up to be heard over the singing and drums beating.
“I came here earlier today, before Kim’s broadcast. I had planned to interview South Korean citizens on their impressions and hopes for the future right after the broadcast ended, but nobody here could have predicted how it did end.
“During the broadcast, the streets of this city of over ten million were virtually empty, and here downtown, every shop or business with a television had it on. Even outside, my crew and I could watch Kim’s speech on a video screen that normally carried advertising.
“No other shows were aired. It was extraordinary for the South Korean government to allow any video transmitted from the North to be broadcast live, but given the importance of the crisis to every citizen of this tightly knit nat
ion, the government preempted all other programming.
“Earlier in the day, I spoke with government officials who said the North Korean broadcast, whatever its content, would be followed by a rebuttal speech from the president . . .”
The noise from the crowd suddenly swelled and crashed over the reporter. The cameraman shouted something to her, and she nodded. The image spun and faced the street to show a military convoy, a camouflaged stream of trucks, then massive battle tanks on transporter vehicles, then more trucks towing artillery. Soldiers in the open backs of the trucks waved and shouted to the crowd, who responded as if the troops were already heroes.
Becker was shouting into the microphone now. “This is one reason the party’s still going on. Within hours of Kim’s death, military police, with some effort, cleared this major thoroughfare, the Nonhyeon-dong, and the first convoy came through.”
She pointed off camera, in the direction the troops had gone. “Every convoy we’ve seen, and we’ve lost count, is headed the same way, toward the Cheongdam Bridge over the Han River, and then north.” She paused again, drowned out by diesel engines and crowd noise. The sound became less random until finally it seemed like all Seoul had joined in a single song. It enveloped the crowd, and even if her viewers didn’t speak Korean, they would recognize the joy and triumph in its tone.
“It’s the ‘Aegukga,’ the South Korean national anthem.” She paused, letting the music fill the microphone. As the song ended, she concluded, “The South Korean army is on the move, carrying the hearts of every citizen with them.”
21 August 2015
Christian Friends of Korea Mission
Sinan, outside Pyongyang, North Korea
Kary Fowler didn’t watch the broadcast. Her experience dealing with DPRK officials had been universally bad, and the last thing she wanted was to watch, or even hear over the ubiquitous loudspeakers, the dictator, the monster himself. She was a Christian woman, and would never wish for anyone’s death, but she’d felt a deep disappointment when Kim’s survival and upcoming speech were announced.
