by Lynn Sholes
“No. It’s all good news. On all fronts.”
Cotten glanced at the Old Man. “Thank you, Ted. You’ve made me feel much better. I have to go now and get ready for the interview. Everything is a go on this end.” She snapped the phone closed.
“So, are you satisfied?” the Old Man asked.
She handed him the phone. “Very.”
detour
As evening approached, Moon sat alone in her office and watched the emails come into her inbox. Each of her satellite labs in Canada, the United Kingdom, Germany, France, Spain, Japan, and the two recently relocated in the United States reported the results of the first wave of the Black Needles bombers. Of the five hundred men and women who carried the deadly virus out to the public, 482 had reported reaching their targets—many to multiple targets. The remaining were presumed dead or incapacitated. The plan called for the bombers to release the trigger virus into large indoor gatherings such as metropolitan shopping malls, schools, grocery stores, sporting events, libraries, airports, subways—places where people gathered as they went about their lives. The first attacks had been three days ago. According to the news networks, the symptoms had already started showing up in cities around the world.
Tomorrow she would give the launch code for the next wave of attacks—these would be on basic services such as local governments and utilities, hospitals, police, first responders, and other law enforcement and emergency agencies. The bombers would simply walk into a police or fire station or city hall, ask a simple question, then cough or sneeze, and leave, touching door knobs, handrails, and any other obvious objects to contaminate.
The final assaults would come a day later. Those would strike government leaders in the United States Congress, the British Parliament, and the government centers of their allies. By the time the politicians and other leaders started showing the first symptoms of Black Needles, the general populace would already be in full panic mode as millions came down with the deadly disease. The media had already started covering it. Soon it would be a major disaster, bigger than 9/11. The entire world would freeze-frame with fear, terror, and paranoia. The threat of being exposed to the virus would paralyze every nation, making those not infected afraid to leave their homes. No one would risk going to work or sending their children to school. Commerce would shut down. Deliveries would not be made. Services would collapse. Emergency calls would go unanswered. Shock and terror would sweep through the imperialist aggressors as news of the deadly disease spread.
Moon smiled, knowing her time had finally come, her work was almost done.
She closed her laptop and rose, grabbed her overcoat and headed out of her office. She expected to sleep well tonight. Soon, there would be nothing left to do but watch those she hated most begin to fall to their knees in pain and suffering. Their deaths were inevitable.
She made her way through the winding halls, passing the different chemistry labs, cold storage systems, and surgical operating rooms until she emerged in the lobby of the facility. Moon nodded to the security guards and walked to the large glass doors leading out into the cold Korean night. One of the guards opened the door for her and walked a few steps ahead. In the twilight beyond she saw her limousine waiting as always with its dark-tinted windows and puffy clouds of condensation drifting from its exhaust pipes. The guard reached the vehicle first and opened the side door for her.
“Have a pleasant evening, Dr. Chung,” he said.
Without acknowledging him, she slipped into the back seat. The bulky Mercedes pulled away from the facility parking lot and headed down a long road that passed a number of other government buildings. It was waved through the heavily guarded security gate and preceded onto the motorway toward the city. As the darkening countryside flowed by, Moon flipped on a small, personal spotlight overhead and made a few notes in her diary.
She thought of her parents and the many sacrifices they had made for her and their adopted country. Out of habit, she pulled the old photo from her pocket. Soon, your deaths will be avenged.
Moon continued making notes with the idea of someday writing a book on how she brought the world to its knees. She was convinced that historians would want to document how such a small, frail, elderly woman could have such an impact on the future of mankind. She tapped her pen on the pad and pictured the image of so many scientists reading her words and acknowledging her achievements. That’s when she realized the car was slowing.
Although the smoked glass partition was in the up position, Moon could still make out the motorway ahead. A large box truck was stopped in the middle of the two lanes. Traffic was nonexistent this time of night, and it irritated her that she was being held up by such a trivial issue. Because of its cockeyed position across the highway, she assumed the truck had broken down. In the glow of the limo’s headlights, Moon saw a man standing in the middle of the road waving his arms.
She pressed the intercom button on her armrest. “Go around him! No need to stop.”
The driver held up his hand indicating that he heard her. He stopped the car and waved for the man to get out of the way.
She watched the stranger walk toward the car. There was something about him that disturbed her. His size. The long overcoat he wore. Something was wrong.
The stranger stood beside the driver’s door and motioned for him to lower the window.
“This is holding me up,” Moon said through the intercom. “Drive on.” She heard the window go down.
The stranger’s hand slipped under his coat. Something metallic emerged. A flash and muted thump. The driver’s head slammed to the side. His body collapsed on the seat out of her sight. A spray of red coated the smoked glass.
“What is the meaning of this?” Moon screamed.
The man pulled the driver’s body from the limo and dropped it onto the pavement. Then he slipped in behind the wheel and put the car in gear. The limo’s tires squealed as the vehicle sped off.
Moon pushed the button on the intercom as if to shove it through the armrest. She was about to scream again when she heard the soft motor hum as the glass partition slid down. The driver glanced back at her. He had small, dark eyes, pasty white skin, a bulbous nose, and a bushy mustache. Obviously not Korean.
In English, she said, “Do you realize who I am?”
“You are big shot asshole doctor,” the man said as he smiled and exposed a set of tobacco-stained teeth.
“Who the hell are you?” Moon sat up straight trying to appear as menacing as she could.
“Colonel Vladimir Ivanov, former KGB, now retired.”
the bridge
Cotten had arrived only ten minutes before the Korean television crew. She watched them set up the studio lights and video cameras cluttering the already cramped bridge of the Pitcairn with equipment, reflectors, and tripods. When they were finished, the crew stood by, waiting for the arrival of the Korean leader. DPRK soldiers were positioned at the port and starboard outside entrances to the ship’s bridge, with a handful of others on the aft and forward decks.
Sitting in a chair facing a much larger one that the General Secretary would eventually occupy, she studied the notes given to her by the Department of Information. Each question led to a further glorification of the General Secretary’s accomplishments and his powerful leadership of the fourth-largest military in the world, the 1.2 million-strong DPRK army.
Over the next few hours, the ship’s bridge would be the backdrop for the scripted interview covering every major event in the Korean leader’s life. Cotten had agreed to paint him as a visionary of the Asian world and his country as a growing global power to be reckoned with. Naturally, he had composed the questions himself. Her job would involve nothing more than reading each one and allowing him to answer.
Cotten rose and went to stand beside the helm of the 165-foot ship. She looked out over the bow toward the rusting USS Pueblo docked a short distance farther
up the river—a long forgotten and deteriorating victim of the Cold War. On the other hand, the Pitcairn was still functional and well maintained. The General Secretary had chosen to keep it in proper working order to be used as part of the periodic military exercises along the Taedong River showcasing the power and might of the DPRK navy. It was also speculated that he wanted it kept in perfect condition in case he might decide to return it to Oceanautics as a gesture of his kindness and generosity.
As the hour of the interview approached, Cotten felt a fist in her chest. She wondered how much more stress her mind and body could take. What was about to happen here tonight would be her only chance to stop the global Black Needles threat. Failure meant the loss of thousands, if not millions, of lives. Her plan was thin and risky at best. At this point, she had no idea if it stood any chance at all. She hoped Ted was able to follow through with everything they had discussed, even though all she had been told was that the interview would take place on the Pitcairn in honor of the anniversary of its capture. There was no way of knowing if the plan had turned out to be feasible.
The approaching wail of a siren caused her to glance toward the shore. A small convoy of police vehicles approached along Pyong-chan Kangan Street and stopped at the entrance to Pueblo Monument Park. In the middle of the procession was a black limousine. After it parked curbside, the doors opened, and the General Secretary emerged from the limo. Accompanied by a handful of assistants that walked behind him, he made his way under the glow of the park’s lights. A few military officers exited the other cars and followed.
Because of the cramped quarters on the Pitcairn’s bridge, the assistants and officers remained behind in the park. The General Secretary, along with a woman dressed in a green army uniform, moved up the gangway and onto the ship. Cotten returned to stand beside her chair once she heard the approaching footsteps on the metal deck outside.
Showtime.
With a dramatic flair, a soldier opened the steel door to the bridge. He bowed at the waist and waited for his commander-in-chief to enter. Cotten had to admit that the General Secretary exhibited an impressive air of confidence about him as he stepped onto the bridge. He was shorter than she expected and wore a plain crisp uniform surprisingly void of any rank, medals, or decorations. His heavy-framed glasses looked old fashioned, and the thick lenses made his eyes appear to bulge.
After taking in his surroundings, he moved beside the overstuffed leather wingback chair in the middle of the circle of lights. Two photographers who came with the original TV crew moved around him with endless shutter clicks and camera flashes.
The General Secretary’s interpreter stood beside him. She was shorter than Cotten—her uniform consisted of dark green pants and a lighter green shirt and tie under a green blazer with red epaulettes. She held a notepad and a small English dictionary tight against her chest. Once the photographers had finished documenting the event from every angle, a silence fell over the bridge.
In what Cotten felt was a surprisingly thin voice, the General Secretary spoke for thirty seconds. When he finished, his interpreter said, “Dear Leader wishes to welcome the honorable and noteworthy television journalist, Cotten Stone, to this most significant exclusive interview.”
He raised his hand slightly in acknowledgment to Cotten.
The interpreter went on, “Tonight, on the one-year anniversary of the capture of the imperialist aggressor’s spy ship, Pitcairn, we will discuss the important issues dealing with our glorious nation and the future plans to reveal to the whole world how the great Democratic Peoples Republic of Korea will play a primary part in tomorrow and beyond.”
The General Secretary nodded before dropping down into the big chair. Cotten took this as a sign she could sit, too.
She heard the television crew confirm that they had camera speed and audio levels. When the interpreter indicated to her to begin, Cotten read the first question. “Dear Leader, please tell us about your birth at Baekdu Mountain and how it was heralded by the appearance of a double rainbow over the mountain and a new star in the heavens.”
The interpreter did not bother to translate. Without hesitation, the General Secretary began an answer that took fifteen minutes to complete, interrupted often by the applause of the television crew and soldiers on the bridge who appeared on the verge of near rapture.
The next question dealt with his involvement in the Korean Children’s Union and the Democratic Youth League. As before, the answer was lengthy. Number three covered his Marxist studies in college and his joining the Worker’s Party of Korea after graduation. As he was finishing his reply, the door to the bridge opened. He paused and looked toward the sound, obvious irritation in his glare.
Cotten followed his gaze and saw a silver-haired woman enter, followed by a figure in a long overcoat who closed the door behind him. Cotten’s eyes grew wide at the sight of Colonel Vladimir Ivanov.
The deck suddenly vibrated with a deep, throaty rumble as the Pitcairn’s engines came to life.
The startled General Secretary shot a look at his soldiers, who appeared confused as if waiting for a command.
But before the soldiers could comprehend what was happening, Colonel Ivanov shoved Moon aside and swept an automatic pistol across the face of the interpreter with enough force to send her sprawling backward onto the floor, crashing into a cluster of lighting tripods. In one swift motion, the barrel of the gun came to rest against the North Korean leader’s temple.
In almost the same instant, the door leading to the ship’s aft compartments burst open. Victor, Krystof, and Alexei rushed onto the bridge, their silenced, automatic weapons flashing, looking to those on shore and deck no different from the camera flashes moments earlier.
The Pitcairn’s bridge flashed with gunfire and the deck bloomed with scarlet ribbons of blood as one-by-one the soldiers were taken down before they had a chance to react and shoot back. In quick succession, muted thuds from the KGB agents’ guns cut down the Korean TV crew scrambling to escape. Cotten heard bodies fall onto the steel floor, bringing with them the crash of stands and equipment. It took only seconds for the carnage to end and the ship’s bridge to fall quiet.
underway
“Are you insane?” the interpreter said, trying to lift herself up as blood dripped from her lip. She looked around at the dead bodies with fear in her eyes. “Do you realize what you have done?”
Colonel Ivanov kept his pistol pressed against the General Secretary’s head as he glanced at her. “Speak again and we will need new translator.” He looked at his friends. “Okay lazy bastards, must get ship underway.” He grabbed the General Secretary by the arm and hoisted him up from his chair. “Bullshit interview over.” He shoved the Korean leader up against the back wall of the bridge and forced him to sit on the floor.
Alexei and Krystof kicked bodies out of their way as they yanked cables from the lights and smashed cameras, leaving the bridge lit only by one remaining TV light and the glow from the ship’s instruments.
Ivanov forced the interpreter through the door to the outside deck facing the park. “Tell soldiers Korean boss wants to go for boat ride. Tell them cast off lines.” He emphasized his words by squeezing her arm.
“I will not!” She stood defiant until he pulled her wrist behind her and into an awkward position up her back. She groaned.
“Last chance to translate for Vladimir.” He jerked her arm higher, causing the woman to bend over with a shriek.
“All right,” she said, breathless, and shouted the orders in Korean.
Cotten watched the soldiers along the deck hesitate as if uncertain what to do. It also attracted the attention of the men in the park. They turned and stared toward the ship, obviously confused by the fact that black smoke poured from the exhaust funnels as the engines roared.
“Tell them get off ship,” Ivanov said, shoving her arm upwards.
Cotten expected to hear the
woman’s bones breaking at any second.
The Korean called out the orders again, and the soldiers began making their way down the gangway to the shore. Others ran to pull the heavy cables off the dockside mooring posts and drop them into the water.
Ivanov heaved the woman back through the door to the bridge. “Clear,” he called to Victor.
Cotten watched the former Russian destroyer captain jam the throttles forward and spin the wheel to port. She heard the sound of metal grinding and ripping as the gangway pulled free of the deck and fell with a huge splash into the river. The bow of the Pitcairn inched away from shore and moved past the stern of the Pueblo, missing the old ship by inches.
Through the window overlooking the park, Cotten saw the officials running around in panic as they must have finally understood what was happening—their Dear Leader was taken hostage. It was then that she realized something was wrong—someone was missing.
Cotten turned and scanned the bridge, counting heads and searching faces. “Where is Dr. Chung?”
Ivanov jerked up as he looked around the shadowy confines of the ship’s bridge.
Cotten spun back to the window. In the glow of the spotty streetlamps beyond the park, she saw a black Mercedes limousine shoot away from the curb. In an instant she knew the Black Needles mastermind had escaped.
___
Moon’s anger blazed as the accelerating car slammed her back into the leather seat. “Faster!” she screamed to the young soldier she had commandeered from the park. The Stone woman was about to ruin everything. All of Moon’s plans, her years of work, teetered on the brink of collapse. She pounded her fist into the armrest. How could this have happened? How could Dear Leader have put so much trust in the mysterious Old Man and allowed him to bring that vile woman into their midst?
All Moon needed to do was get back to the lab and give the final attack commands. And that was what she intended to do. Two days premature should not make a difference at this point. The result would be the same—fear, panic, death. She did not need Dear Leader. She was the avenging angel about to strike. From her fingers, she would send the computer message and launch her terrible plague. She did it for her country. For her parents. The imperialist aggressors would pay for their crimes. She was judge and jury. And she had reached a verdict.
