Bloody Sunday

by Ben Coes

  Dewey searched the room until he found a .45-caliber pistol in one of the soldier’s weapons belts. Dewey popped the mag and grabbed an extra from the man’s belt, stuffing them in the pocket of his vest.

  He looked up at Fusco and the others.

  “I’m Dewey,” he said.

  “Moses,” said the black man, Barrazza.

  “I’m John,” said Kolackovsky.

  “Nick,” said Truax.

  “What’s the plan?” said Fusco.

  Dewey held out his SAT phone, displaying the layout of the tunnels that led to the presidential palace. He handed the phone to Fusco, who held it so that the other three SEALs could see. The tunnels resembled a maze. Leading from the palace, the tunnel divided into three tunnels, each going in different directions. These three routes then divided into yet more paths, spreading out beneath Pyongyang, offering Kim a variety of ways to escape the city. Some of the tunnels crisscrossed each other at points.

  According to the map legend, approximately one mile of tunnel lay between where he’d entered and the palace—if the direct path was taken. It was confusing—but Dewey knew they didn’t have a lot of time. They needed to go direct.

  “How many men will they have?” said Truax.

  “There’s no way to know,” said Dewey. “Assume it’s heavy, a dozen or two.”

  “Looks like there are three different tunnels that reach the target,” said Fusco. “Question is, which one do we take?”

  “We take the shortest route,” said Dewey. “A couple of you stay here. They’re going to come looking.”

  Fusco pointed at Kolackovsky and Truax, who nodded.

  “You and I move on point,” said Dewey, looking at Barrazza. “Left, right formation with cover. We’re entering in the middle of one of the tunnels, so you,” Dewey nodded at Fusco, “need to cover behind us. Watch your fields of fire.”

  Dewey looked at Kolackovsky and Truax.

  “Kill anyone who tries to get in here,” said Dewey. He pointed at the dead soldier. “That soldier has some sort of check-in, every fifteen minutes, half hour, whatever. When he misses it, they’ll come looking. If they bring a bunch of people, you need to blow the entrance and come and meet up with us downstairs.”

  “Got it,” said Kolackovsky.

  “Let’s go,” said Dewey.

  “What’s the route?” said Fusco. “We don’t need a briefing sheet but we do need a plan.”

  “We take the main tunnel,” said Dewey. “That’s the shortest route.”

  “It might also be the most heavily patrolled.”

  Dewey nodded.

  “Do you guys understand what’s happening?” said Dewey.

  “Actually, no, we don’t,” said Fusco. “It obviously involves Kim. I assume we’re going to capture or kill him, but all we were told was to meet up with you and provide support.”

  “Kim Jong-un is about to launch a nuclear strike on the U.S.,” said Dewey, “unless we kill him.”

  The SEALs exchanged glances, all in silence. Dewey turned to the stairs that would take them to the basement. He paused and looked back at the commandos.

  “By the way, something you should know,” added Dewey calmly. “The United States will destroy Pyongyang if they launch. Our only option is to kill Kim before he launches. There’s no time for a mission plan or anything like that. We move now. We kill everything we see. We run through these tunnels like our lives depend on it, because they do. And then we kill that fat-ass motherfucker.”

  Every one of the Navy SEALs nodded in agreement.

  “Let’s go,” said Dewey.

  * * *

  Dewey looked down into the tunnel. A dull gray light shone up from somewhere below. Steel ladder rungs were embedded into the concrete wall of the tunnel. Dewey climbed down into the small space, trying not to think about Columbia, though he couldn’t help it. He’d been trapped in an abandoned water pipe beneath New York City, unable to move and barely able to breathe. He fought to push the memory away. He started climbing down, remembering why he was here:

  “If you want to live, you need to kill Kim.”

  67

  SIGNALS INTELLIGENCE DIRECTORATE

  NSA

  FORT MEADE, MARYLAND

  Samantha Stout finished constructing the algorithm. She sat back and stared at the screen.

  Bruckheimer was now coming into her office at five-minute intervals, checking her progress. Will Parizeau had called her half a dozen times.

  “Well, here goes,” she said.

  In order to test her work, Samantha ran the raw data from a single order to launch, selected at random from the catalogue of launch sequences Rolex had learned from. It was a launch order made four months ago by the North Koreans, exactly thirty minutes prior to the test missile lifting off and flying into the Sea of Japan.

  She started the feed of data, this time with Rolex looking at it armed with the new algorithm.

  Her heart was racing as the line of code that demarcated the order to launch appeared on the screen, a series of zeros and ones that scrolled down the screen in rapid formation. She looked at the timer on the computer screen, counting the seconds, praying.

  After a minute, she stood up, too anxious to watch anymore. What had she done wrong? It should have triggered the algorithm by now.

  “Come on, you little bastard,” she whispered.

  The first minute turned into two, then three. She finally moved over and, in resignation, got ready to type. She needed to go back into the algorithm and understand why it wasn’t—

  A sharp chime sounded on the computer just as the entire screen started flashing. The word “ALERT” flashed in bright red. An automated voice came on the computer speaker.

  “Sequence active,” came the voice. “Twenty-six minutes, twenty-nine seconds until missile launch.”

  Jenna sat back in shock. Just then, the phone on her desk buzzed.

  “Will Parizeau is on and he says he’s with the president,” said Samantha’s assistant, Rudy.

  Bruckheimer suddenly stepped into her office, his tie off, sleeves rolled up, and a layer of perspiration on his face.

  Samantha grinned and leaned forward, hitting a button on the phone.

  “Hey, Will,” she said as Bruckheimer stepped to the side of her desk.

  “Sam,” said Parizeau on speaker. “I’m in the Situation Room. Unless you found out a way to do this, they’re about to wipe out North Korea.”

  “I got it,” said Sam. She scooched her chair in and started typing. “We can now detect as of three minutes after they give the order to launch. Every launch sequence from the North Koreans has a thirty-minute fail-safe.”

  “So we have twenty-seven minutes,” said Parizeau. “Excuse my language, but are you fucking sure?”

  “Positive,” said Samantha.

  “What if they decide to just launch, without the fail-safe?” said Parizeau.

  “That’s a risk,” said Samantha. “But every missile launch they’ve ever done has the thirty-minute fail-safe. I don’t have a Ph.D. in electrical engineering, but the delay might be structural. They might not be able to do it faster than thirty minutes.”

  “That’s a big risk,” said Parizeau.

  “You don’t understand risk then,” said Samantha. “It’s never happened before. I do have a Ph.D. in economics. From a risk perspective, there is none, other than a black elephant.”

  “A what?”

  “A black elephant,” said Samantha. “An anomaly. Now let me go. I need five minutes to upload it to the satellite. It’ll be live then.”

  “Live-wire the priority feed into Janus 49, that way we can see it when it happens. Oh, and Sam?”

  “Yes?”

  “Nice work.”

  Samantha continued typing, glancing up at Bruckheimer, who looked relieved. Bruckheimer didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. Samantha understood how proud he was.

  “I nailed it,” she said.

  “Yes, you
did,” said Bruckheimer, patting her shoulder.

  68

  SITUATION ROOM

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  Jenna watched the scene with fascination. She had lived through other operations but never one with such incredible ramifications. She was observing people, trying to figure them out. Tralies was a huge presence. His words carried meaning and he was straightforward and tough. She didn’t agree with him on the idea of hitting immediately, but she agreed with the macro idea Tralies was fighting for: that the country’s citizens must be protected and that saving American lives was all that mattered.

  Jenna wanted to save American lives, but it was Dewey Andreas and the four Navy SEALs who were foremost in her mind.

  The president was just as she’d heard and read—a cool operator with a hard nose for details, willing to listen, to take risks, to shut down people he thought were being arrogant. Dellenbaugh was the first true leader she’d ever seen during a crisis and, without showing it, Jenna was impressed.

  But the one she thought about the most was Hector. What he had shown her as anger after Dewey was poisoned transformed itself, and she understood now it wasn’t anger. Calibrisi simply didn’t like seeing the agents who risked their lives for him die. He was the one who refused to let her quit, either the Agency or, more important, the operation. Hope. That’s what it was. He looked for the fraction of possibility in dire circumstances. All of it would likely be over by now had he not forced her to look for that fraction of hope.

  And the president listened to him. He trusted him.

  Jenna glanced across the table at Calibrisi. He looked up from his phone.

  “What’s up?” he said.

  “Nothing.”

  Suddenly, Parizeau stood up.

  “NSA figured it out,” said Parizeau. “We can track when they hit the launch code. From that point forward, we have twenty-seven minutes.”

  Jenna’s phone vibrated and she read the text. It was from Dewey.

  Entering tunnel. Out of range

  Jenna frantically dialed. She needed to tell him. But the message was returned with a red exclamation point.

  No coverage

  69

  RYONGSONG RESIDENCE

  PYONGYANG

  Yong-sik entered the presidential palace. Kim was alone in one of the sitting rooms, a massive room at least a hundred feet long by fifty feet wide, with four humongous chandeliers. Luxurious chairs, sofas, divans, and chaises were interspersed with tables, atop which sat large vases filled with fresh flowers—roses, lilacs, and peonies. The room was coffered and two stories high, adorned with paintings in gold frames. Classical music played in the background.

  Kim was seated on one of the sofas, clutching a glass of white wine and smoking a cigarette. There was no ashtray; several small piles of ashes sat on the table next to where Kim was sitting, as well as on the carpet and sofa.

  Yong-sik walked to Kim.

  “You wanted to see me, Your Excellency.”

  Kim smiled, then coughed. It was a small cough but it grew louder and more wet and clotty. When he finally stopped, he took another drag, exhaled, then took a large sip of wine.

  “You’ve confirmed that the nuclear missiles are ready to fire?” said Kim.

  “Yes, Supreme Leader.”

  “How many?”

  “The Iranians gave us two ICBMs,” said Yong-sik. “We have attached weapons to both of them.”

  Kim nodded, smiling. “Very good, General,” he said.

  “Thank you, Your Excellency.”

  “And how long from when I order their launch until they … take flight?”

  “From the point of initiating the launch sequence, precisely thirty minutes.”

  “What time is it?” said Kim.

  “Almost midnight.”

  “Order the launch sequence,” said Kim.

  Yong-sik nodded, but said nothing.

  “Do you not agree, General Yong-sik?” snapped Kim.

  Yong-sik took a moment. The air was tense. Kim looked angry.

  “Do you know, Your Excellency, that I was the one who introduced your mother to your father?” said Yong-sik.

  Kim took a sip of wine, a nasty, drunken look on his face. He took another puff of the cigarette then put it out on the arm of the leather sofa.

  “Yes,” continued Yong-sik. “Your father was visiting my father’s home. They were friends. My father was also a general. I knew your father had yet to find a bride. There was a girl down the road, Anye. The most beautiful girl in all of North Korea. I went and pulled her by the arm to meet your father. She was your mother.”

  Kim stared at Yong-sik.

  “Your father always said to me, ‘Tell me what you really think.’ When I first served on his staff, I would try to deflect his questions by agreeing with everything he said, but he refused to allow me to flatter him. He made me tell him what I thought. He said, ‘If you won’t tell me your opinion, what good are you to me?’”

  “Some would say this is insolence,” said Kim, threat in his voice. “Treason. Do you know what treason is, General?”

  Yong-sik met Kim’s glare with a steady, blank look.

  “It is whatever you say it is, Your Excellency.”

  Kim shifted his wineglass from his right hand to his left, then reached to a drawer and removed a handgun. He trained it on Yong-sik.

  “I can kill you right now,” said Kim.

  “Yes, you can,” said Yong-sik. “But if you launch the nuclear missiles, it won’t matter. America will destroy us. They will destroy Pyongyang and North Korea. I will be dead anyway. You may shoot me but I’ll be dead anyway if you launch the missiles. You are destroying your country. But you know that.”

  Kim’s nostrils flared with a hint of anger.

  “So what would you have me do?”

  “Simply don’t do it,” said Yong-sik. “I will obey whatever order you command, Your Excellency. If you order it, it shall be done. I care not how I die—by your gun or by an American bomb—but I will not disobey my supreme leader.”

  “And what happens when I die?” said Kim.

  Yong-sik bowed his head.

  “I don’t know the answer to that question,” said Yong-sik. “Appoint a temporary magistrate whose job it is to select another leader in your honor.”

  “You, I suppose,” said Kim derisively. He put the gun down and lit another cigarette.

  “No,” said Yong-sik. “I am a soldier, not a leader.”

  Kim stared into Yong-sik’s eyes. They were red.

  “I’m sorry, Pak, my friend,” he said in a soft voice as tears started running down his cheeks. “Thank you for all that you did for me.”

  “It was my honor, sir.”

  “Initiate the launch sequence.”

  70

  KPA HEADQUARTERS

  PYONGYANG

  Bahn-ni felt the vibration of the cell phone on his chest. He removed it and looked at the screen. It was General Yong-sik.

  Bahn-ni was in room 111 at KPA headquarters, mission control, a large room covered in digital screens and filled with workstations where young analysts monitored and controlled all military-related activities of the North Korean government.

  “Yes, General,” said Bahn-ni.

  “The supreme leader orders the missiles launched,” said Yong-sik.

  “Yes, sir. As per protocol, I am required to ask you: What is the code sequence?”

  “Eight one nine zero four one.”

  “Very good,” said Bahn-ni.

  Bahn-ni turned and looked at a young analyst sitting before a workstation.

  “Are the targets locked in?” said Bahn-ni.

  “Yes, Colonel. Los Angeles and San Francisco.”

  “Fire when ready, Lieutenant.”

  71

  PALBONG

  NORTH KOREA

  Jung-hoon steered the big rig along a dirt road. The vehicle was big and eerie-looking. A camouflaged truck with a missile on top. It was a missile vehicl
e, designed to be mobile and thus untrackable to enemy satellite systems. This one was a Russian-made MZKT 79221, with sixteen massive, rugged wheels that could absorb explosive blasts and keep moving.

  On top was an ICBM, an intercontinental ballistic missile, tipped with a nuclear warhead.

  Jung-hoon steered the rig down the abandoned country road. After several minutes he stopped. He was next to a field. He steered into the field, then backed up, then went back into the field and backed up again, turning the MZKT around in case he received the orders to move again.

  This was his job. Jung-hoon drove all day, moving the missile vehicle around a quadrant of territory in the middle of nowhere. He drove for twelve hours and then handed the keys to Sung-ho, who performed the same ritual day in and day out: keeping the launchers undetectable.

  He did a circuit check on the communications device that linked him into the men above him at KPA who made the decisions, then sat back. He turned off the lights and crossed his arms, waiting for his next orders. He thought about his wife. He would see her in only three hours. He envisioned her as he stared out at the blackness.

  When the communications device started beeping, he looked down. There were six digits running in red across the small screen. He knew what it meant.

  Jung-hoon unbuckled as an odd expression crossed his face. He opened the door and began the process of getting the missile ready to fire.

  72

  PYONGYANG

  Dewey climbed down the ladder as a dim, grayish light glowed from below. He took the ladder several rungs at a time as, above him, Fusco and Barrazza followed him down. Soon, his foot struck concrete.

  Dewey pressed his back against the wall, glancing around. He saw nobody—just tunnel in both directions, lit by single lightbulbs dangling from wires every fifty feet or so. Dewey pulled the two pistols from the shoulder holsters. He popped the mags without looking and slammed fresh mags into each gun as Barrazza and Fusco stepped off the ladder one after the other.

  The tunnel ran in the dark in either direction. It was well constructed and clean, like a mine shaft that had never been used. The ceilings were eight feet high and the walls were at least fifteen feet wide.