by Ben Coes
He stepped into the living room, scanning quickly, analyzing the layout of the small apartment. Everything was ruined. The North Koreans had razed every square inch of the place and ransacked every last thing Talmadge possessed. A galley kitchen was to his left, empty. Broken glass littered the floor. He saw a doorway to the right. It was open. A dangling lightbulb in the ceiling shone down on a mattress, cut up and destroyed. With both weapons out, Dewey moved into the bedroom, a small, plain-looking room. Drawers from a dresser were scattered and clothing littered the floor. To the right was a doorway. He could see the toilet, then the mirror.
Something moved. Was his mind playing tricks? In his peripheral vision. Through the open door to the bathroom, he could see the sink and, above it, the mirror. It was where something had crossed his eyes. A small, barely perceptible flicker of shadow. Movement.
Someone was standing against the wall across from the mirror. It had to be. There was no other explanation.…
Dewey studied the wall of the bedroom, strips of wallpaper hanging down, several holes cleaved into the cheap Sheetrock. He trained both guns on the wall and started firing in a horizontal line across the wall, a fusillade of dull, metallic thwack thwack thwack. After a half-dozen shots, he heard a terrible scream. He charged for the door and knelt as he reached it, sweeping the pistol into the door and firing blindly just as unmuted submachine gun fire erupted from within, but above Dewey’s head. Dewey triggered the gun just as the line of slugs cut down toward him, then heard another pained grunt and the automatic weapon fire ceased. Dewey stood and stepped into the bathroom, guns trained on the tub, making eye contact with a man in a suit who now lay on his back, the walls splattered in crimson. He stared up at Dewey, trying to say something. Dewey fired one more time, striking him between the eyes.
Dewey stared an extra moment or two, then looked at the mirror. His face still had black on it but much of it had rubbed off. Beneath, the skin was deep red, almost a blueish hue. His hair, his face, everything was sopping wet with perspiration. He’d been here before, staring into the eyes of a dead man.
Help me, God.
He turned and stepped back into the bedroom. Yong-sik had obviously found Talmadge. What had his men been searching for?
Dewey walked slowly through Talmadge’s apartment, stepping over bodies, trying to avoid holes in the floor. The kitchen counters had been ripped out and lay on the floor in piles.
In a way, the North Koreans made Dewey’s job easier. The obvious places—drawers, a desk, inside the mattress, the floor—could be ruled out.
Dewey felt his knees begin to wobble involuntarily and he reached out for the wall but it didn’t matter. He fell to the floor. Again, his stomach convulsed, and he dry-heaved violently. As he continued to heave, he pulled off the backpack, unzipped it, and removed the SAT phone. He hit a single number and held it in, then lay on his back, listening as the phone made several clicks and beeping noises. Then Jenna’s soft British accent came on the line.
“Dewey?” she asked. Her voice had urgency and emotion in it. “It’s nearly twenty-three hours! Are you there? You have to hurry!”
“I can’t find it,” he whispered hoarsely. “Do you know if he had a hiding place?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are your agents trained to hide it in a particular—”
“No,” said Jenna.
“Are you sure you sent two?”
Jenna’s voice trailed off as Dewey’s arm became weaker. He heard her talking but couldn’t understand what she was saying, so intense was the pain now. She didn’t understand. He heard her sobbing.
“You have to keep searching,” she begged. “Please! I know you can do it.”
As blackness swept across his eyes, he dropped the phone. He curled up in a fetal position, his sight cloaked in pitch black, and again he started convulsing and throwing up. Guttural moans came involuntarily from deep in his throat as he coughed and dry-heaved onto the dirty floor.
When, finally, Dewey’s vision returned, he crawled to the bathroom, using every ounce of strength he had left. He grabbed the front of the sink and pulled himself up, looking in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. It was empty, its contents thrown to the floor by North Korean agents. Dewey looked at the toilet. The top was off. They’d searched there too. The ceiling, walls, and floor were hacked with violent axe cuts.
Dewey stared at the mirror. The wall around it was a filthy brownish tan. A small line around the edges appeared cleaner, as if Talmadge had scrubbed it. Dewey grabbed the door of the medicine cabinet and ripped backwards. A dusting of Sheetrock tumbled from the wall around the steel cabinet. He pulled even harder, yanking the entire cabinet from the wall, letting it fall next to the sink and smash.
In the recess where the cabinet had been, Dewey saw something. It was a long, thin syringe. A thin needle jutted from the end. Dewey reached for it just as his legs again went weak. He clutched the syringe as he fell to the ground, slamming the needle into the center of his chest and pressing the end of the plunger. A sharp, electric burn shot through him. His eyes went back in his head as his skull slammed to the hard linoleum floor, motionless, unconscious.
61
KPA HQ
PYONGYANG
Yong-sik paced back and forth inside his office at KPA headquarters. Every once in a while, he looked out the window. In the distance, he could see the lights adorning the roof of the presidential palace across the city. Pyongyang was dark, but the palace’s lights stayed on no matter the time, and no matter what the cost. The rest of Pyongyang was forced under penalty of law to abide by energy-saving rules prohibiting lights after ten P.M., but not the palace.
KPA was also allowed to keep the lights on, no matter the hour.
Yong-sik was consumed in thought. He remembered an expression he had read, something said by the Englishman, Churchill.
“A riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.”
That was how he felt at this moment as he juggled so many thoughts and feelings.
Will someone find out about what happened in Macau? Will they find evidence of the documents I sent?
Yong-sik knew that, if discovered, he would be executed immediately. He didn’t understand technology and computers as some did, and knew that the government computer investigative teams might—probably would—find out he’d sent the email.
Now, the helicopter and the footprint found in the forest. It only added to his sense of uneasiness and frustration.
On his desk was the initial report from the crash site. There were more than thirty photos of the two badly burned corpses. The bones themselves were so charred the reconnaissance team couldn’t even estimate the size of the two dead individuals on the helicopter. It seemed so straightforward, and yet it wasn’t. His mind went back to the dental work. There was just no way either of the dead men were Americans.
It had to be related to him. But how? Was it the documents? Were they trying to send a team to kill Kim?
It didn’t matter any longer. If the Americans attempted to stop Bloody Sunday, it would soon be too late. Midnight would soon be here. All Kim would have to do is issue the final order.
Yong-sik had no one he could confide in. How could he explain to anyone what he’d done? He was a traitor. To save his own neck he’d given them everything he knew, and he wanted to tell someone, to ask for guidance, to confess. But he could not. He was utterly alone.
His eyes flashed to the window. He stared at the presidential palace. A sharp wave of anxiety swept over him.
Bloody Sunday.
Yong-sik shuddered as he realized it wasn’t the helicopter that worried him now. He could care less if the Americans were here. It didn’t matter. It would all soon be over. Everything would be gone. Kim would launch the nuclear device. It was inevitable now, and when that happened, Pyongyang would be erased from the earth. The supreme leader wanted to start World War III but all that would happen is the destruction of North Korea and then it wo
uld all be over.
He put his hand on the side of his desk to steady himself as he finally allowed himself to admit the truth. That Kim was mad. Yong-sik understood this now. Kim had terminal cancer and he would soon be dead and now he believed the only way to live was in infamy. Kim would destroy his country to live in infamy. Was it really so surprising?
“Should I do something,” he said aloud to no one. “Should I try to talk to Kim?”
You already did something. You sent them everything and now they know.
“I did it to save my country,” he whispered.
He shut his eyes and rubbed them. He felt ashamed for what he did. He’d sworn an oath to live and die for his supreme leader.
But did everyone have to die for Kim? Did an entire people need to die for Kim’s … insanity?
Bloody Sunday.
Yong-sik’s mind swirled with emotion, confusion, and a sense of helplessness. At this moment, he wished he could simply be a citizen, that he didn’t know what he knew. He usually liked making decisions. But the conflict that faced him now was one he wished was someone else’s. What did love of country mean? Did it mean blind loyalty to the supreme leader?
A panicked knock at the door. Yong-sik looked up.
“Enter!” he barked.
One of Yong-sik’s deputies, Kwon, came in. He was breathing rapidly, his face flushed with excitement.
“General Yong-sik, the apartment of the reporter—” Kwon stammered.
“What about it?”
“They stopped communicating, sir,” said Kwon.
“Every one of them? That’s impossible.”
“Yes, General, every man.”
The red phone on Yong-sik’s desk rang. Yong-sik and Kwon’s eyes went immediately to it. Kim was calling.
“Send in a team immediately,” barked Yong-sik before placing his hand on the phone.
Yong-sik did not pick up the red phone even as it pealed for the fourth time.
“Yes, sir,” said Kwon.
“Every available man. Bring the dogs. Search the building and then fan out from there.”
“What are we looking for?” said Kwon.
“Get out!” yelled Yong-sik, purposefully ignoring Kwon’s question.
He picked up the phone, covering the mouthpiece.
“Now!” he screamed, waving his hand, telling Kwon to leave.
“Your Excellency,” he said into the phone.
“I must speak with you,” said Kim. His voice was hoarse and his words a little slurred.
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“Have the nuclear devices been attached to the missiles?” said Kim, barely getting his words out before he started to cough—a violent, phlegmy cough that sounded as if Kim was choking. It continued for nearly half a minute.
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“I’m dying, Pak. Please, come to the palace.”
62
CVN-76 USS RONALD REAGAN
OFF THE COAST OF NIIGATA, JAPAN
SEA OF JAPAN
Rear Admiral J. J. Quinn entered the hangar bay. Other than the aircraft carrier’s small exercise room, the hangar bay was the best area on board to exercise. For several minutes, he watched. Sixteen men were running wind sprints. The pattern would vary—one lap, then a short rest, followed by three laps and a rest, then sit-ups or push-ups. They looked like they’d been doing it for at least an hour.
The pace was intense. The men were struggling. Yet not one of them stopped. It didn’t surprise Quinn. After all, all of them were from SEAL Team 6.
The frogman running the exercises was also participating. His name was Mark Fusco. He barked out orders that he and the others then followed.
Finally, Quinn stepped toward the group. Fusco saw him as he and the fifteen other SEALs were running across the length of the big bay. When Fusco reached the wall, he leaned over, hands on knees, catching his breath.
“Take a break,” yelled Fusco to the other SEALs.
“Hi, Mark,” said Quinn.
“Admiral,” said Fusco, straightening up. “What can I do for you?”
“I need you to pick three guys,” said Quinn. “You’re going to the Benfold. Osprey leaves in ten minutes.”
Fusco nodded.
“Unless I’m mistaken, the Benfold is in the Yellow Sea?” said Fusco.
“That’s right. From the Benfold, your team will boat to the coast of North Korea, then move by land to Pyongyang. You’re meeting up with a guy from Langley named Andreas. He’ll have in-theater command control, but not until you meet up.”
Fusco wiped perspiration from his face.
“J.J.,” said Fusco. “What are we doing?”
“That’s all I know,” said Quinn. “That being said, American missile defenses were raised last night. This is an Emergency Priority order. I’d take your three best men—and some ammo.”
“Understood, sir.”
Fusco turned to the group of SEALs now hanging out near a stack of tires.
“Truax, Barrazza, Kolackovsky: get your shit. We’re going to see the Rocket Man.”
63
47 MORANBONG STREET
PYONGYANG
Dewey heard the faint click of a door latch. Slowly, he opened his eyes. He was lying in the hallway just outside the bathroom. His face was against the floor.
He took a few seconds to look around. He saw a dead soldier, then his eyes shot to his own chest. The syringe was still sticking out. He was alive.
There was a voice, then shouting from the entrance to the apartment.
Dewey felt around for his gun, finding it on the floor near his leg. He heard footsteps and more voices, all speaking Korean. There was more shouting—orders being barked.
He reached to his chest and yanked the syringe out, then picked up the gun and slowly turned his head just as a voice came from the bedroom, just a few feet away. Dewey lifted his head and focused his eyes, seeing legs. The soldier started shouting. Dewey wheeled the gun and fired, hitting the man in the stomach just as another soldier stepped into the room behind the first man, who was kicked backwards, doubling over and letting out a pained groan. Dewey triggered the pistol a second time; the gun spat a silenced bullet into the man’s forehead, knocking him sideways before he crumpled to the floor in an awkward spiral.
Dewey climbed to his feet and put another bullet into the first soldier’s eye, killing him. He walked through Talmadge’s apartment, stepping over bodies, calmly surveying the carnage.
He was dazed. How long had he been asleep?
One of the men’s radios squawked and a voice spoke, again in Korean.
They would be coming. Any minute.
Go.
For the first time, he heard sirens.
They’re coming.
He ran through the apartment and charged into the corridor, then sprinted down the hallway. An apartment door was cracked open and it shut quickly. Dewey kicked the door open and a woman was standing inside. She was old, dressed in a nightgown, and her hands went reflexively above her head in terror.
Dewey moved by her and went to the window. He switched out mugs on the pistols as he looked down on the street. Several military vehicles were just pulling up to the building. He watched in stunned silence as soldiers leapt from the vehicles. A block away, he saw more vehicles rolling in.
He had to get away.
Dewey moved back through the apartment without saying anything, shutting the door and running back down the hallway. He reached the fire stairs and moved up, climbing three steps at a time, passing the two men he’d killed earlier. He kept close to the outer wall of the stairwell as he suddenly became aware of the faint sound of steel-toed boots several floors below: soldiers moving up to find him.
When he reached the roof of the building, he stepped to the edge, carefully looking down. A dark sedan pulled into the alley, its headlights on. The vehicle’s doors opened and two men in dark suits rushed from the car, each man clutching a weapon, leaving the lights o
n and the engine running. He saw the men run down the alley and enter the building across the alley from Talmadge’s apartment building.
Overhead, Dewey heard the telltale electric whirr of rotors cutting the air somewhere to his left, then spotted the lights on a helicopter, cutting through the sky.
“Fuckin’ A,” he muttered.
Dewey surveyed the rooftop across the alley—the one he’d leapt from. He had no choice. He would need to make the jump again.
The chopper grew louder and louder and then a set of powerful halogen lights flashed brightly from its underbelly, lighting up the dark sky in a white searchlight that swept across the sky and found the roof—and then Dewey.
He went back to the stairwell door—he needed to go back down. But bullets suddenly erupted from inside the stairwell. A high-pitched staccato from a submachine gun. Dewey ducked and lurched out of the way just as slugs ripped the steel door. He slammed the door shut and looked for another place to hide from the chopper.
A thunderous series of booms as the chopper’s minigun began firing. Bullets rained down in a line that cut across the roof in his direction.
Dewey charged for the roof edge, running as fast as he could just feet ahead of the quickly moving line of bullets. He needed to get up enough speed to make the jump. But just as he was about to leap he watched in shock as a swarm of soldiers emerged onto the rooftop across the alley—his only escape. He was barely able to stop due to his momentum. He diverted at the last second, lurching left, diving to the ground and rolling. He trained his gun up at the chopper and fired, pumping bullet after bullet. Bullets pinged the chopper, making loud metallic thwangs, and then glass shattered. The mag clicked empty just as the minigun stopped and the chopper wheeled up and back, getting away from Dewey’s bullets, but moving into a new attack position.
The assault was furious—gunfire drowned out by the mad whirr of rotors chopping air. Sirens roared from the streets below. It was chaos.
Dewey was on his back, shielded by the eave of the roof as the soldiers across the alley fired just above his head. He reached into his ruck and searched for another mag. He slammed it into the gun and removed a third pistol from the ruck just as the door to the roof of Talmadge’s building opened and the helicopter swooped back in and the spotlight from the chopper again found him.
