Bloody Sunday

by Ben Coes

  All eyes went to Will Parizeau from the Missile Defense Agency. He was seated across from Jenna.

  “You said there was no way to use your satellites to know when the North Koreans are getting ready to launch,” said Dellenbaugh. “Has anything changed?”

  “Well, yes and no, sir,” said Parizeau.

  “Why no?” said Dellenbaugh,

  “There’s simply no way to know where the North Koreans are going to launch from, Mr. President. We can’t simply scan for radiation and the missiles are on vehicles.”

  “So why the yes?”

  “The NSA might have a way of knowing when they’re getting ready to launch,” said Parizeau. “They’re working on it as we speak. If they can figure it out, we would potentially know when the order to launch is given. Thus far, their launch timing pattern has been the same for more than a decade. The order is made, and thirty minutes later the missile takes off.”

  “But if we don’t know where they’re coming from, what’s the point?” said Brubaker.

  “The point is, if we know when the order is made, we know how much time we have,” said Calibrisi. “It allows us to work on non-nuclear intervention up until that point.”

  “Then what?” said Tralies. “So we know when they’re going to launch, but if we don’t know where from, it’s irrelevant.”

  “It means we have time up and until they hit the button, General,” said Calibrisi. “If they don’t hit the button until noon Pyongyang time, that’s an extra twelve hours. We’re talking about millions of lives. They might not be American lives, but they’re lives nonetheless.”

  “If a North Korean nuke hits Los Angeles, millions of Americans would perish,” said Tralies.

  “I’m not suggesting we let them launch the bombs,” snapped Calibrisi. “I’m saying if the NSA program works, we have until they give the order to launch to try and stop them.”

  “Will, when will we know if the NSA can do it?” said President Dellenbaugh.

  “I don’t know, sir,” said Parizeau.

  Dellenbaugh turned to Mila Mijailovic, the secretary of state.

  “I’m curious, Mila,” said Dellenbaugh. “What have you been doing for the last hour?”

  “Without divulging information as to Kim’s health or our belief Kim is getting ready to attack, I spoke with someone high up in the Chinese politburo,” said Mila. “Someone who could let me understand where the Chinese government stands on this. Someone who could deliver a message if necessary.”

  “Interesting,” said Dellenbaugh.

  “The Chinese government will not tolerate a nuclear attack. They will move into war condition. It doesn’t mean they will respond, but it signals they might. They will, however, tolerate a non-nuclear bombing campaign. They’ll obviously come out screaming but they’ll let it go. I even get the sense they encourage it.”

  Mila glanced at Calibrisi, then Tralies. Her face was as emotionless as stone.

  “What about Seoul?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about South Korea, Mr. President,” said Mila. “They’ll go along. It’s China who matters.”

  “So you think we shouldn’t use nuclear weapons?” said Dellenbaugh.

  “Actually, no, I don’t,” said the secretary of state. She looked at Tralies, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “I agree with General Tralies. We’re at imminent risk. One of the things my Chinese contact shared is that multiple efforts have been made to speak with Kim. All have been unsuccessful. He’s burning bridges. He no longer cares. He’s dying. He is going to launch missiles. We need to act immediately. The Chinese might respond, as my source warned, but how? America will be prepared. They don’t want to get in a firefight with the United States, certainly not over North Korea. Mr. President, we need to strike right now, sir. American lives are at stake. People you pledged to protect. There’s no good reason to wait.”

  Suddenly, Jenna stood up, shooting up from her chair. Dellenbaugh leaned right, slightly surprised.

  “You, ah, wanted to say something, Jenna?” said the president.

  “There is a bloody well good goddam reason to wait!” Jenna said, her British accent rising. “Dewey Andreas is still in Pyongyang! He’ll be killed! That’s why we’re waiting!”

  The room went pin-drop quiet. All eyes were on Jenna, who was the only one standing. Even staffers off to the side were awestruck.

  “How do you really feel, Jenna?” said Dellenbaugh, smiling. He scanned the room.

  “I … I’m sorry, Mr. President,” said Jenna, sitting back down.

  Dellenbaugh chuckled. He looked around the conference table.

  “I agree with Jenna,” the president said calmly. “We’re not abandoning Dewey. It’s that simple.”

  “We have no choice,” said Tralies, pointing at Jenna in frustration. “The North Koreans are going to drop a nuclear bomb on the United States, probably more than one! Is Dewey Andreas’s life more valuable than the lives of a million people in Los Angeles or San Antonio or Phoenix or Guam or wherever these crazy bastards decide to target?”

  “We have eight hours,” said Jenna. “We’re talking about the man who risked his life for this country in order to retrieve this information. We have eight hours until it’s midnight in Pyongyang.”

  “What if he decides to launch it earlier?” said Brubaker. “You heard Parizeau: we don’t know where their missile vehicles are! We won’t be able to detect it, and then it’s a live operation! We’re relying on untested technology!”

  Jenna looked around the room, a slightly confused look on her face.

  “What if there was another way, Mr. President?” said Jenna, glancing at Calibrisi, then turning to President Dellenbaugh.

  The chairman of the Joint Chiefs started speaking, his face going red.

  “We can’t—”

  Dellenbaugh held up his hand, shutting Tralies up.

  “Go on,” said Dellenbaugh, looking at Jenna.

  “Dewey is in Pyongyang,” she started. “He’s inside the city. What if Dewey could get to Kim?”

  “And do what, talk him out of it?” said Tralies.

  “Kill him,” said Jenna coolly.

  The room was silent.

  “How exactly would Dewey do that?” said Dellenbaugh.

  “I don’t know. Not yet anyway.”

  Tralies shook his head in disgust.

  “This is ridiculous,” said Tralies. “Kim could be fueling up those missiles as we speak. You heard the secretary of state.”

  “It’s not Sunday,” said Jenna.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Did you read his statement, General?” said Jenna sharply. She slid the document across the table. “It will be on a Sunday. Only on a Sunday. Bloody Sunday.”

  “I know what the damn document says,” barked Tralies.

  “Enough, General,” shot the president. He stood up. “Everyone listen carefully. We will not allow the North Koreans to strike the United States. Make no mistake: if we get to midnight, option three is the obvious choice. But we’re not moving earlier. At midnight Pyongyang time, we strike—unless the NSA can allow us to know when the order is made to launch from Pyongyang. In that case, we play this out until the last possible minute. Dewey Andreas is in Pyongyang and—as long as we’re objective about it—we’ll wait until the last possible moment before we strike. Is that understood?” He looked at Jenna. “Jenna, design an operation to take out Kim. Will, keep on top of the NSA. We’ll reconvene in half an hour—unless the shit hits the fan before that.”

  * * *

  Jenna walked outside and sat down on the South Lawn. She went past a tall, manicured hedge, out of sight from the Oval Office and West Wing. She removed a pack of cigarettes—Marlboro Lights—and lit one. She hadn’t smoked in over two years but she took one of the cigarettes and lit it.

  How can we kill Kim? Think, Jenna.

  Her cell phone started beeping. She looked at the number. It was Derek Chalmers. She took another puff
, exhaled, and answered.

  “Hello, Derek,” said Jenna.

  “Hi, Jenna,” said Chalmers.

  “How are you?”

  “I received your email,” said Chalmers evenly.

  “Talmadge is being flown to Heathrow,” said Jenna. “I’m very sorry, Derek.”

  “He was my recruit,” said Chalmers quietly.

  “I know.”

  “Was his life worth it?”

  “Yes,” said Jenna. She held up her phone and brought up the email client.

  “I’m sending you the results of the operation. Please don’t share with anyone. Kim has cancer. He’s getting ready to launch a nuclear attack on the United States. Talmadge was critical and he executed his role perfectly. But they caught him. He deserves an agency wreath of arms, Derek, perhaps even a knighthood.”

  “I’ll see to it. Now what happened?”

  Jenna told him everything. The Macau operation, the documents, Dewey being poisoned.

  “You were right to use Talmadge,” said Chalmers, “as much as it saddens me. So what’s wrong?”

  Jenna told Chalmers about the operation she now had approximately ten minutes to design.

  “I don’t know what to do, Derek,” she said, her voice trembling. She looked as if she might cry. “I’ve fucked it all to hell. Not only Talmadge, Dewey.”

  “He knew the dangers of being exposed to the poison,” said Chalmers. “In the meantime, I’m going to send you a document.”

  “I don’t have time—”

  “In 1972, Kim’s grandfather built a series of escape tunnels from the palace,” said Chalmers, cutting her off. “He was concerned about a possible coup. The design is simple. Get Dewey into the tunnels. He moves to the palace and kills Kim.”

  “It’ll be heavily guarded,” said Jenna.

  “If you want to kill Kim, it’s the only option, other than leveling Pyongyang. Dewey knows how to penetrate a crowded security knot. Just lay out the design to Hector and President Dellenbaugh. They’re the only two in that room that matter. They will make the call. Trust yourself, Jenna.”

  57

  PRIVATE RESIDENCE

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  Dellenbaugh stepped off the elevator inside the private residence. He was still dressed in his running gear, along with the blue sweater. He could smell himself. He needed a shower.

  But he had to get back downstairs.

  He opened the door to his daughters’ bedroom. Both girls were asleep. They didn’t awaken or move as he stared at them for several moments, lost in thought.

  Dellenbaugh walked through the living room and down the hallway into the large master bedroom. Despite the late hour, Amy Dellenbaugh was awake, lying in bed, reading a book. She looked up. Instinctively, she knew something was wrong. Their eyes met. But Dellenbaugh said nothing. He looked shell-shocked.

  Amy put her book down and sat up.

  “Is everything okay, J.P.?”

  He met her eyes with a distant stare. He said nothing.

  Amy threw the blanket aside and stood up. She walked toward him. He stood still, staring into Amy’s eyes.

  “What is it?” she said. “North Korea?”

  Dellenbaugh nodded.

  “The North Koreans are going to launch a missile. We don’t know where it will be aimed. Los Angeles, San Diego, Houston. We don’t know. There might be more than one.”

  “How do you know they’ll really do it?”

  “We don’t, not until they actually launch it.”

  Amy put her hands around him.

  “The only way to prevent it is to…”—Dellenbaugh paused—“… to do something horrible, Amy.”

  “To bomb them first, right?”

  He nodded as she leaned closer and kissed his neck.

  “You’ll know what to do. It’s why you’re the president. It’s the reason Americans elected you. Why they love you.”

  Amy put her hand to his cheek, comforting him.

  “Dewey is there,” said Dellenbaugh, looking at Amy.

  “Oh, J.P.,” she whispered.

  She took his hand and moved it to her cheek.

  “Go back down,” she said. “You can’t rest, not now. You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

  58

  HWANGJU, NORTH KOREA

  SOUTH OF PYONGYANG

  Dewey crouched at the fence and looked in both directions, searching. He saw something far in the distance to his right, perhaps a mile or so, a tiny object alongside the roadway. He stepped back into the trees and started moving parallel to the chain-link fence, hidden from view. He ran at a medium-paced jog, trying to will himself to go faster, but he couldn’t. Still, he kept going until he was close. Through the trees, he saw a small gas station on the side of the road. It looked like it was built in the 1950s, a simple concrete building and a lone gas pump. He watched as a young North Korean man walked to a car and began pumping gas into a small white sedan.

  Dewey started climbing the fence when he overheard the distant hum of a helicopter. He quickly climbed back down and sprinted to the line of trees a few dozen feet behind the fence, lunging for cover behind the trunk of a tall pine tree. He looked up and saw the black apparition as it approached from the east, moving low over the roadway. The helicopter grew louder. Several cars moved to the side of the road as it coursed just a few dozen feet above the lanes of traffic. The chopper slowed as it came to the gas station. It hovered overhead for several moments, circling and searching. Then it bent left and swooped back above the road, continuing on its mission.

  Dewey waited until the chopper was out of sight. He moved until he was behind the station, out of view from anyone who might be inside. He climbed the fence and jumped down to the other side. He reached for one of his guns but then looked in both directions, watching as vehicles sped by. He didn’t pull the gun out. Instead, he walked with his head aimed down, slouching, trying to not look as tall as he was, or as big as he was, above all hiding his face. He crossed a hundred yards of dirt and gravel, making it to the back of the gas station. When he got there, he didn’t hesitate. He pulled out his gun from beneath his left armpit and stepped to the side of the small building. He went around the corner and walked along the front of the gas station, then ducked quickly into a grubby garage, swinging his gun in the air, scanning for people, but there was no one. He pivoted, looking at the gas station attendant. He was still at the gas pump, his back to Dewey.

  Dewey looked around. He saw a cardboard plate with a small, half-eaten sandwich on it. He broke off a piece of it and stuffed it into his mouth. He glanced back outside through the front window. The attendant was hanging the nozzle back on the pump. The man went to the driver’s window, took some money, and turned. He walked back toward Dewey.

  Dewey stood just inside the door, blocked from view by a wall. He raised the gun. As the attendant entered, he didn’t notice Dewey. Dewey wrapped his arm around the man’s neck, then lifted him up, squeezing tight. It would have been easy to simply snap the man’s neck, but Dewey didn’t. He held him up in the air for a dozen seconds, restricting his air flow. When he felt him go limp, he let him drop to the ground, then moved through the door. He walked to the small, light yellow sedan waiting at the pump. The driver was an older man, frail-looking and thin. Dewey raised his gun as he came to the window, pressing it against the man’s neck. He reached inside the car and opened the door, keeping the end of the suppressor pressed tight into the old man’s neck. He grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt and pulled him up from the seat. Dewey led him into the garage—suppressor jabbing into the man’s back—then wrapped his arm around his neck and tightened, holding the man as he tried to kick and punch at Dewey. After several seconds, the man weakened and fell unconscious. Dewey was gentler with the old man. He set him softly on the ground next to the gas station attendant.

  He bound both men’s hands and feet and gagged them. He walked back to the car, climbed in, adjusted the seat, and started driving.

>   The car was old, small, and slow, with a standard transmission. Driving it reminded Dewey of his father’s tractor, though the car was slightly faster.

  Dewey punched on the SAT phone and brought up the map Jenna had uploaded, with Talmadge’s apartment preset as the destination. He was just a few miles away. He fell into the slower lane of traffic and slouched down, assiduously avoiding eye contact with other drivers. The road took him into downtown Pyongyang, to the Taedong River, which he followed along the southern bank. The road was crowded and he slouched down even further in the seat, trying to hide his face as best as he could. When he saw the third island in the middle of the river, he took a left and drove across a bridge. He saw the arch in the distance.

  Dewey went left a block away from the building. He drove for two blocks and saw a two-story parking garage. As he pulled in, he began to feel his eyes become foggy again, then saw patches of black as the poison returned. He sped to the back of the half-filled garage and parked in the corner just as he went into total darkness. He shut off the engine and lay down across the front seat of the car, gun in hand, praying for his sight to come back before it was too late.

  Half an hour later, Dewey felt strong enough to move. He climbed from the stolen vehicle and skulked along a series of alleys until he arrived at the back of Talmadge’s building. He spied around the corner, waiting until he didn’t see any pedestrians. The sun had set and dark shadows intermingled with headlights on the busy city street where Talmadge’s building was located. Dewey was within one block when he caught something out of the corner of his eye. Parked across the street from Talmadge’s building was a white sedan. Four passengers were seated inside. One of the men was looking up into Talmadge’s apartment building with binoculars.

  59

  SITUATION ROOM

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  As members of America’s national security hierarchy filed into the Situation Room, Jenna received a quick tutorial from General Tralies on how to use the remote.