Bloody Sunday

by Ben Coes

  Inside, he flipped on the lights, then placed the syringe on the sink. He rolled up a sleeve and stabbed the needle into his forearm. He felt an immediate sensation of coldness, ice-like, and wondered if perhaps he’d been double-crossed. But the cool feeling soon ebbed into something different, a slight euphoria, and he closed his eyes as the fever—like a bad hangover, the soreness, the indescribable fatigue—all washed away. He broke the needle off and flushed it down a toilet, then pocketed the empty syringe and plunger.

  Downstairs, Yu-min was standing in exactly the same spot.

  “Take me to the security room,” said Yong-sik.

  A floor below, Yong-sik followed Yu-min to the security room. It was small, dimly lit, and windowless, with a checkerboard of TV screens. Every one of the screens was shut off.

  “As you requested,” said Yu-min proudly.

  The security guard looked up at Yong-sik, immediately recognizing him, then bowed several times in obedience.

  “Put them on again,” said Yong-sik.

  The guard flipped a series of switches and the screens came to life. They were small, and showed live black-and-white footage from various points both inside and outside the museum.

  “Show me the cameras in the portrait gallery.”

  The guard pointed to one of the screens. The camera slowly swept across the empty room where Yong-sik had just been.

  “There,” said Yong-sik just as the camera came to the bench where the antidote had been planted. “Stop it. That view. I want the last seven days of tape sent to my office at once.”

  41

  OSAN

  SOUTH KOREA

  The flight from Macau took a little under four hours. Dewey turned off his phone the entire trip. It was Fields who woke him, shaking his shoulder gently.

  “We’re getting ready to land.”

  “How long?”

  “Ten minutes,” said Fields. “They’ll have a pack waiting for you. You’re leaving for North Korea immediately after we get there.”

  Dewey shook off his sleepiness. He felt better. The fever was gone. But in the back of his mind he knew that meant he was getting closer to dying.

  “How am I getting inside the country?” said Dewey, rubbing his eyes. “Truck? Car?”

  “Chopper,” said Fields.

  Dewey had a slightly surprised look on his face.

  “How’s that going to work? They’ll shoot it down.”

  “I don’t know the details, but you’re getting briefed on the tarmac.”

  Dewey wasn’t worried about dying. Truth be told, he wasn’t thinking—not much, anyway. He was trying to live his life in minutes now, trying to focus on every second as it passed, rather than contemplate what he would need to do if he wanted to stay alive. He had to infiltrate a dead zone—a hostile country where he’d stand out if anyone saw him. He needed to get to Pyongyang and somehow make contact with the in-country asset, Talmadge, who’d apparently gone missing.

  Dewey had infiltrated China two years before. He’d been disguised as a Chinese agent. At the time, the idea of penetrating China had seemed incredibly challenging, the odds of success frighteningly small. He now realized China had been easy compared to what North Korea would be like. After all, there were Westerners all over China, millions of them. In North Korea, Westerners numbered in the hundreds, if that.

  There was no time to devise a disguise, certainly not a good one. More than six hours had passed since the needle hit his chest. That meant less than eighteen hours until he was dead. There was no time for clever disguises and complicated operations. He needed to get to Pyongyang—and quickly.

  The jet touched down at Osan Air Force Base at six in the morning. The sky was a gray yellow. The jet came to a loud, fast stop and taxied down the runway, stopping next to a helicopter, whose rotors were cutting slowly through the air as Dewey climbed down the jet’s stairs: a SH-60 Seahawk.

  Two men, both in military uniforms, approached Dewey as he took the last steps onto the tarmac. One of the men—the older of the two—extended his hand.

  “Hi, Dewey, I’m Mark Prestipino,” he said, yelling over the din of the jet’s engines and the helicopter’s now slashing rotors, which blew a steady wall of wind at the three men.

  Prestipino was bald, with a large nose. The other man had blond hair that looked a little too long for a military uniform.

  “Charlie Macavoy,” barked the younger man. “I’m your pilot.”

  Dewey shook their hands.

  “How you feeling?” said Prestipino.

  “Okay,” said Dewey.

  “You’re leaving right now,” said Prestipino. “There’s a ruck in the back of the chopper with SAT, guns, grenades, food, water, and some basic first aid. You’re flying north. Charlie will set the course, put the chopper on autopilot, then jump before the chopper reaches the border. You and the chopper will fly on auto pilot for about fifteen minutes. You’ll be crossing into a remote area. KPA will pick you up on radar immediately. They’ll launch missiles. But by the time the missiles reach you, you’ll be inside the country and close to Pyongyang. They will shoot you down, so you’re going to need to get off by the fifteen- or sixteen-minute mark, got it?”

  Dewey nodded.

  “Seventeen minutes is an estimate,” added Prestipino. “That means keep your eyes peeled for SAMs, Andreas. Don’t assume we’re right. After you jump, the helicopter will keep going for a few more minutes, before they either shoot it down or it crashes. After twenty minutes, autopilot will turn off. The helicopter will begin an uncontrolled descent and crash.”

  “If they don’t find any bodies, they’ll start looking for me.”

  Prestipino glanced at the chopper and then at Macavoy.

  “They’ll find bodies,” said Prestipino. “Two of them, in fact. They’re already on board. The chopper should get you within about fifty miles of Pyongyang. You need to get going.”

  * * *

  Dewey and Macavoy climbed into the SH-60. Dewey climbed into the cabin in back, behind the cockpit.

  The helicopter’s interior lights were extinguished but Macavoy rotated a knob that illuminated the cabin. A body was strapped to a canvas troop-carrier seat along the far wall. He was olive-skinned, his head leaning to one side, limp. He was already dead.

  “There’s another strapped up front.”

  Dewey looked at Macavoy with a blank look on his face. He didn’t need an explanation.

  “They were flown in from Manila,” said Macavoy. “Part of an Al Qaeda cell. They go down with the chopper. KPA will think they killed two men.”

  Macavoy pulled the helicopter door shut.

  “By the time they do any sort of forensic work you’ll be long gone.”

  Dewey reached for one of the corpses’ mouths, opening it. He took a cursory glance.

  “Are you kidding? Any idiot will know that guy’s not U.S.”

  “It’s the best we could do,” said Macavoy.

  Dewey patted Macavoy on the back.

  “You’re right,” said Dewey. “It’s not bad. It’s just not perfect.”

  Macavoy exited the cabin, climbed into the cockpit, and strapped himself in. A moment later, the fearsome whirr of the rotors took over the air. The chopper lifted from the tarmac and quickly arced left, moving away from the air base toward the north.

  Dewey sat down on the floor of the cabin and pulled the rucksack in front of him. In the cabin’s low light, he inspected the bag. On the outside was a small parachute, barely bigger than a bedsheet. This was a specially designed parachute made for extremely low jumps, from choppers, enough to cushion the blow but not much more. He reached inside the duffel. There were two handguns along with several extended magazines. A bottle of water was in the bag, and a few plastic bags filled with food—dried fruit mostly, along with some carrots, crackers, and nuts. A first-aid kit was stuffed into a larger Ziploc bag, bandages, a suture and needle, small packs of medical alcohol, and a few premade, pinkie-sized plastic need
les, caps on, which held morphine.

  A pair of knives were attached to the outer part of the duffel. Both were SOG SEAL Pups. One was fixed-blade combat, the other was a folding SEAL Pup.

  Dewey went to the window and looked out. Macavoy had the running lights off and all Dewey could see was blackness below, an occasional small cluster of lights around someone’s home in the mostly uninhabited northwest corner of South Korea.

  Dewey watched as the pilot seat was lowered to allow Macavoy access to the cabin. Macavoy climbed over the pilot seat and back into the cabin near Dewey, hunched over. He tightened the parachute on his back. He looked at his watch.

  “Thirty seconds,” said Macavoy, stepping to the door and pulling it open. Wind rushed in.

  Macavoy looked at Dewey, then at his watch again.

  “It’s on autopilot,” said Macavoy. “Start timing now. KPA will pick you up immediately. They’ll launch missiles. Seventeen minutes is when the missiles will reach the helicopter. You need to jump before seventeen minutes; in fact, if it were me, I’d get out of here at fifteen or sixteen. And just to remind you, at twenty minutes, the chopper’ll drop to the ground like a pile of bricks.”

  Dewey nodded, saying nothing.

  Macavoy handed him a small tin of eye black.

  “Thanks.”

  “Good luck, Dewey,” said Macavoy, reaching his hand out and shaking Dewey’s. “See you on the other side.”

  Dewey said nothing, watching as Macavoy turned and charged toward the open door, jumping out into the black sky. He opened the tin and started rubbing his face with war paint. He looked at his watch. Then he stepped to the door. He looked down on the passing carpet of trees and uninhabited land.

  No one know when they’re going to die, and this might be the day. He remembered the words from training. It might not be today. But it might. Until you know it’s not today, you have to believe it might be.

  Dewey leaned into the cockpit and glared down at the dead jihadi strapped into the copilot chair.

  “So, you here on business or pleasure?” said Dewey.

  42

  KPA AIR FORCE HEADQUARTERS

  KAECH’ON AIRFIELD

  KAECH’ON

  A male officer in a tan military uniform stared down at a screen. He wore a headset. The screen displayed live radar of the North Korean border with South Korea. The screen was black with digitally imposed bright green markings, showing North Korea’s borders. A small red light caught his eyes. The light was flashing. It was in South Korea but appeared to be heading directly toward the North Korean border. It was approaching near the western end of the border with South Korea, over a small inlet of water at the eastern edge of the Yellow Sea, into a province known as South Hwanghae.

  The officer, Rhee, a lieutenant in the KPA Air Force, typed quickly, zooming in on the approaching light. He double-clicked the light. In small lettering, the words appeared:

  HELICOPTER/mil

  SPEED: 261 kmh

  DIR: NNW .087

  This was not unusual. He assumed it was American. The Americans constantly tested the North Korean air defenses, but the location was unusual. Normally, the Americans came from the central part of the border, north of Osan Air Force Base. They liked to fly along the no-fly area, but never crossed into the demilitarized zone.

  Rhee locked the satellite group against the approaching chopper. It went deeper into the DMZ and came closer and closer to the border. Just when he expected it to turn, the American helicopter continued on, crossing the border. A low, dull alarm started ringing from his workstation. Rhee typed, shutting down the alarm, then pressed his headset just above his right ear.

  “This is Rhee, KPAF border systems control. We have a breach of the border at thirty-seven degrees north, one twenty-five east, near the Yellow Sea. The violator is a military helicopter moving in a northeast vector at two-five-zero kmh and is in violation of Korean sovereign airspace.”

  “Roger,” came the voice of the top-ranking KPAF on-duty officer, Colonel Rok. “Lock in missile defense systems and initiate warning.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rhee typed quickly, locking the nearest KPA surface-to-air missile battery onto the helicopter, which was now more than twenty kilometers inside North Korean airspace. He heard a high-pitched beeping noise, signifying acquisition of the target.

  He typed again, then hit Enter. This command broadcast an emergency message—in English—across all frequencies to the helicopter cockpit.

  “You are in violation of North Korean airspace. Turn around immediately or you will be shot down.”

  Rhee analyzed the surface-to-air missile battery. The computer estimated a flight time of six minutes.

  He broadcast the message three more times. The helicopter continued on a straight northward course.

  He hit his headset.

  “Colonel, the target is locked into the missile defense protocol.”

  “And you issued the warning?”

  “Yes, sir. There is no reaction from the American helicopter.”

  “Very well,” said Rhee’s commander. “Fire two missiles, when ready.”

  “Affirmative,” said Rhee. He pressed two buttons in succession on the work console just below the satellite screen, waited for a monotone, then prepared to flip a pair of switches. “Firing in three, two, one … and fire.”

  43

  KPA HEADQUARTERS

  PYONGYANG

  Yong-sik paced behind five men, each of whom was staring at a computer screen, watching the same thing: video from the portrait gallery. The job was simple. Capture and print a screenshot of every individual who sat on the bench where the antidote had been planted.

  Yong-sik didn’t tell them who they were looking for. He suspected it would be a Westerner, but there was also the possibility the Americans had an actual North Korean on their payroll.

  Since returning from Macau, Yong-sik hadn’t gone home. He wouldn’t go home until he found his quarry.

  The men fast-forwarded through their respective sections of tape. Certain sections of tape were crowded with visitors. Every time someone sat down, the photo was printed and given to Yong-sik, who studied each one carefully. But no one looked suspicious. Virtually every man or woman who sat down on the bench was elderly.

  After several hours, one of the men stood up.

  “General Yong-sik, sir,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “A Westerner.”

  Yong-sik walked behind the man. On the screen was a man with neatly combed blond hair. Yong-sik made him rewind the tape, then watched as the man sat down and slipped his hand beneath the bench.

  “Can you get closer?” asked Yong-sik.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The camera zoomed in on the Westerner’s face. Yong-sik recognized him. There were a total of sixty-one Westerners allotted work visas and allowed to live and work in Pyongyang. He was familiar with them all, if not by name at least by photo. Yong-sik was one of the people who approved the visas and then reviewed them every month. But he knew this one by name. Yong-sik had sat for an interview with him a few years before. The man was a reporter for the Associated Press.

  Talmadge.

  44

  DIRECTORATE OF OPERATIONS

  OPS C3

  CIA

  Half a dozen people were now inside the mission theater, all of them focusing on Operation Needle in a Haystack.

  The large screen in front showed a digital map, black with various lights, symbols, and words. This was the border of North Korea, the demilitarized zone demarcated in bright red. A yellow light was flashing on and off and moving toward the border. This was Dewey’s helicopter. It was displayed in real time, a mirror of the same screen that was running at that very moment on the USS Benfold, an Arleigh Burke–class destroyer currently deployed in the Sea of Japan.

  The sound of voices from the ship could be heard as the chopper was tracked. The scratchy, sometimes garbled words came through on the a
mphitheater’s speakers.

  Jenna paced back and forth in the center of the room, watching the screen nervously, glancing at her watch despite the fact that a digital clock was imposed on the screen, and despite the fact that she’d just looked at her watch less than a minute before.

  “What’s that?” she yelled, pointing at a new flash of light south of Pyongyang.

  There was a pause, then someone spoke over the intercom.

  “That’s a plane,” said someone on board the Benfold.

  “I want to know precisely when we detect a missile,” Jenna said.

  “That’s the third time you’ve told me that, ma’am. I heard you the first time.”

  “No reason to be snippy about it,” whispered Jenna to herself.

  A moment later, the voice came on speaker again.

  “We have activity,” he barked. “Thirty-eight degrees, twenty-six minutes, fifty-five seconds north, one twenty-six degrees, twelve minutes, forty-seven seconds east. That’s a pair of missiles.”

  “Where?” Jenna yelled, reaching for her phone.

  “I’ll raise them,” said the officer. “Hold. Look for a pair of green lights, moving quickly.”

  Jenna placed the phone against her ear as, onscreen, a pair of bright green lights suddenly flashed. The two lights were moving quickly in the direction of Dewey’s helicopter.

  “Answer,” Jenna pleaded into the cell as she watched the North Korean missiles streak through the sky.

  45

  APARTMENTS

  PYONGYANG

  Talmadge awoke with a start, his body drenched with perspiration. His shirt was damp. He sat up and looked at his clock. It was 3:44 A.M.

  It was the second night in a row he’d awakened inexplicably. He lifted the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He pulled off his T-shirt and dropped it on the floor. He stood up and stretched. He walked into the small bathroom and flipped on the lights. He looked at himself in the mirror for a moment, debating whether or not to take a sleeping pill or just get up, make tea, read a little, then go to the office early.