His people would believe what he told them, because they had no alternative source of news to counter it.
So he could tell them whatever he wanted to tell them. And they’d accept it without hesitation.
They had no clue how large the People’s Army was, or in fact how many people lived in the secretive nation.
If he told them he sent a million men to attack the United States, they’d believe him. It simply wouldn’t occur to them not to.
If he told them that he controlled the invasion, and that he invited Russia and China to help him, in limited capacities, his people would believe him. Because they’d have no reason not to.
After all, any glorious leader who could bat bullets away with his hand or stop a runaway freight train or kick a soccer ball two hundred meters into dead center of a goal would not lie to them.
Right?
Kim instructed that the one hundred men taking part in the invasion be told they were part of a million man task force.
His plan, once the invasion was over and his nation owned a piece of the United States (hopefully Texas, as he’d always fancied its wide open spaces and vast oil reserves), was to go before his people with great fanfare.
He’d tell them he, with a little assistance from China and Russia, defeated the United States.
And that the one hundred people who really went to help were heroes. They’d receive the nation’s highest military honor, the “Order of Kim Il-sung.”
He’d say that of the one million men who won the war, these were the biggest heroes.
He’d have nothing to explain why, if one of every twenty five people fought in the war, the vast majority of villages and cities could produce no veterans.
He’d have nothing to explain why he, the leader of the conquering army, only got a tiny piece of the prize. Or why the two nations which played bit parts – Russia and China – got the vast majority of the spoils.
But then again, he didn’t have to prove himself.
This was North Korea. His people would believe whatever the heck he told them.
-17-
Only the top general in the People’s Army knew the true troop strength of the invasion party.
And he’d never share it with anyone, for he knew if he did he would meet his end in a very colorful and spectacular fashion.
Oh, he probably wouldn’t be tied to a wooden stake in a packed stadium and blown to bits by anti-aircraft fire.
Kim Jong-un never did the same stunt twice. He didn’t want the executions of his enemies and detractors to get boring, and he wanted those enemies and detractors to be kept guessing.
Besides, the top general was there that day, when Kim executed his own uncle, and it was quite messy.
Thousands of common citizens in the stands were speckled with blood spatter and tiny pieces of brain matter or bits of intestines. Hundreds of them, mostly women, cheered their glorious leader even as they were retching upon each other.
Rumors were that at the next execution the prisoner would be tied to the ground and ran over by ten tanks.
The general had no way of knowing whether the rumors were true, but he didn’t want to find out the hard way.
So he didn’t tell his assistants the truth, that North Korea would only be sending one hundred men on a special assignment.
He went along to get along and briefed them the lie that the mission would encompass one million combat-hardened soldiers, each one willing to die happily and gruesomely for Chairman Kim.
One of his assistants made the mistake of saying, “But sir… we don’t have a million men. And none of our men are combat-hardened. None of them have even been in combat. We haven’t fought any wars since 1953.”
That unfortunate soul was stripped of his rank and became a buck private the following day.
He was also given a new assignment: fertilizing fields of tomatoes at a vegetable combine east and south of Pyongyang. Using, as is the custom in both North and South Korea, human waste.
But hey, it could have been worse.
He could have been the guy beneath the tank tracks.
An old saying goes “Shit rolls downhill,” and there’s nowhere that’s more true than the North Korean army.
The commanding general passed down to his staff and assistants that one million men were going on a “secret mission.”
The same word was passed down to each level until it got to the mission’s participants themselves.
Pak Chung didn’t realize he was feeding fertilizer to Bryan and the United States ambassador to Mexico.
He truly believed the invasion force was a million men strong.
It’s a sad statement to say that Bryan and Ambassador Metcalf knew more about the demographics and military strength of North Korea than one of its own soldiers did.
But that’s not uncommon in a secret society like the Democratic People’s Republic.
Something else Pak Chung was unaware of:
The ludicrous claim that a million man army was coming to attack the United States made everything else Pak had to say suspect as well.
As the ambassador saw it, there were three possibilities.
First, that Pak was merely misinformed; he was lied to. Quite possible, and even highly probable under the Kim regime.
Second, that he was lying. Perhaps he was unaware that the United States knew more about North Korean troop strength than he did. Maybe he thought claiming such a high number would render him a better chance at being granted asylum.
Third, maybe he was, as Ambassador Metcalf suggested to the Secretary of State, “as loony as a dodo bird.”
-18-
Whether he was as crazy as not one, but two birds of questionable sanity was never determined.
What was beyond question was that the Secretary of State in Washington, D.C. wanted to talk to Mr. Pak himself, to ascertain first hand whether what he had to say was credible.
At 10:30 a.m. the following morning Bryan and Pak walked through Mexico City International Airport on their way to first class seats on a flight to Washington.
Pak, of course, had no passport. There was no way North Korea would give him one. It would have been like a ticket and an invitation to defect.
As a guest of the United States State Department, though, a letter signed by the ambassador and countersigned by a high ranking member of the Mexican government was good enough.
Passport or not, Pak was scheduled to arrive at Washington’s Dulles International Airport at 4:40 p.m. local.
Then the oddest thing happened.
As Pak and Bryan walked through the terminal toward Gate 41, using handheld translation devices to help them communicate, a very attractive senorita rushing through the crowd ran headfirst into them.
Actually, it was a bit more than that.
Actually, she quite literally bowled them over, almost knocking Pak down.
Of course, she immediately apologized to them both through a combination of fluent Spanish and broken English.
Were she an ugly and aged old woman the pair might have been upset or even angry.
But men are nothing more than dogs with shoes, after all, and this was a pretty young woman.
They forgave her, helped her pick up the things which spilled from her purse during the collision, and bid her a pleasant day.
Then they proceeded to their gate, checked in and received their seat assignments, and went to the first class lounge to enjoy a last minute drink before their boarding call.
It wasn’t until they were seated on bar stools and waiting for their drinks that Pak realized he’d been scratched on the neck during his collision with the young woman.
As it turned out, the pair had time for a second drink before their flight was called.
Once they were airborne Pak, who was flying for only the second time in his life, was stunned to find out his drinks were free, part of the ticket price.
As the big Aero Mexico jet lumbered over Texas he downed his fourth and f
ifth drinks.
And his nerves were finally calmed.
Over Arkansas he finally realized that, as a man who wasn’t used to drinking more than an occasional shot of Soju, he might have overdone it.
Bryan offered to assist him, but the proud Korean waved him off.
He stumbled to the first class lavatory, sweating and looking slightly green.
A flight attendant whispered to Bryan, in his absence, “I’m a little worried about your friend. Is he okay?”
“I’m afraid he’s not used to getting free drinks, and he’s abused the privilege.”
“Would it help if we cut him off?”
“Yes. I think that would be best. He’s due to meet with some high level officials once we touch down in Washington, and it’s probably better if he wasn’t sloshed.”
She smiled and said, “Say no more. When he comes back I’ll offer him a couple of ibuprofen and some ginger ale.”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you so much.”
Over Virginia the jet descended in preparation for its final approach and the flight attendant returned to Bryan’s side. She said, “How’s your friend doing? Is he back in the lavatory?”
“Actually he never returned. I’m getting a bit worried about him. Is there any way you can check on him?”
“Sure. He’ll have to return to his seat soon so we can prepare for landing.”
She knocked on the lavatory door four times and called out to him each time.
“Sir? Are you okay? It’s time to return to your seat.”
Then she stepped aside so a male flight attendant could use a key to open up the door.
He found Pak Chung sitting on the toilet, his pants still fastened, his face an ashen shade of gray.
Deader than last month’s spaghetti.
-19-
Kim Jong-un ordered his first murder shortly after he accepted the role as Supreme Leader of North Korea in 2011.
Kim Chol was blasted to pieces by mortar shells. There wasn’t much left of him to bury.
Since then the supreme leader is alleged to have ordered the execution of thirteen other men, sometimes in very novel ways. Not because they were traitors to their nation or because they committed crimes, but because the glorious leader didn’t like them or their attitudes.
Having a bad attitude in North Korea or pissing off the leader can be hazardous to one’s health, it seems.
Pak Chung didn’t know any of that. He’d heard about some of the executions, sure. Everybody had.
But what they heard was the DPRK’s official version: that each of the men had betrayed their country and were executed for the good of all.
In 2017 a man named Kim Jong-nam was murdered while walking through Kuala Lumpur Airport in Malaysia. He was accosted by a Vietnamese woman who sprayed a nerve agent in his face.
He died not long after.
Note the victim’s name: Kim Jong-nam.
In North Korea, as in most Asian countries, the family name is listed first, then the given name. If the same was true in western nations, the name John Smith would be listed as Smith John instead.
In other words, Kim Jong-nam’s last name was Kim.
The same last name as North Korea’s glorious leader.
It wasn’t just a coincidence, for Kim Jong-nam was Kim Jong-un’s half-brother.
It is commonly believed his murder was arranged by the glorious leader, but Kim Jong-un was never arrested or charged.
In North Korea, it seems, it is forbidden to charge a sitting Supreme Leader.
Pak Chung knew nothing about the murder of Kim’s half-brother. It was never publicly announced on state-run media.
If he had known, he might have been more cautious. He might have seen it coming. He might have seen the similarities between Kim Jong-nam’s murder and his own situation.
Both had said or done something against Kim Jong-un and his regime.
Both were outside of North Korea, and presumably Kim’s grasp, and were traveling in a foreign nation.
Both were walking through airports and had encounters with women.
Both were now dead.
Pak Chung was dead because he didn’t have a clue about how the half-brother died. Had he known he’d have been more cautious. He’d have asked Bryan to arrange for a car to drive him onto the tarmac and directly to the airplane. And he’d have insisted on immediate medical care when realizing he’d been scratched during the encounter with the Mexican woman.
But he didn’t even realize he was in danger.
Something else Mr. Pak was unaware of was that the close surveillance of North Korean citizens does not stop when they leave the secretive nation. Not at all.
When he left the North Korean embassy in Mexico City and walked toward the shopping center that morning he was being closely watched. Just as he’d been watched every other time he left prior to that.
Just as every other member of his invasion team was watched when they left.
As soon as he deviated from his normal course and stepped into that taxi, his watchers knew where he was going.
Had they not gotten stuck in Mexico City’s horrendous morning traffic they’d have beaten him to the American embassy and would have tackled him to the ground as soon as he stepped from the cab.
United States Marine guards would have witnessed the takedown but would have been powerless, by international law, to stop it.
But Pak was lucky. He made it to the embassy and went inside thirty four seconds before his pursuers arrived.
Or maybe he wasn’t so lucky after all, for his reprieve was short-lived.
The attractive senorita who bumped into Mr. Pak at the airport was a paid agent of North Korea.
The scratch she left upon his neck was from a needle soaked in VX nerve agent. It was the same type which was sprayed on Kim Jong-un’s half brother in Malaysia in February, 2017.
Poor Pak was doomed the instant it touched his skin.
Pak was unaware that just because he was out of North Korea didn’t make him safe.
Spies and assassins, it seemed, were everywhere.
Several things happened in the secretive nation in the days following Pak’s death.
The chief and assistant chief of the North Korean espionage unit in Mexico City were recalled and arrested.
They never went to trial, but instead were declared guilty by one of Kim’s henchmen for treason, for the crime of allowing Pak to slip through their fingers.
They were shot the following day.
At the same time the firing squad was lifting their rifles, in Pak Chung’s tiny village, handcuffs were being placed upon Ri Myong-Guk.
Mr. Ri was the mayor who took it upon himself to try to keep young Pak out of the Army, the only real chance he had to succeed in life, and was the man Pak claimed was his illegitimate father.
Ri protested his innocence, of course. He cried and he pleaded and he begged.
But none of it did any good.
He was sent to a hard labor camp, where he was to die of a heart attack eight weeks later while pushing a heavy wheelbarrow full of gravel.
Pak’s unfaithful wife was also arrested.
She went to a different labor camp but had trouble adjusting.
Two months later, while working on a paving crew under heavy guard, she decided she had enough.
She broke and ran, and made it only about fifty yards before being cut down by machine gun fire.
Pak Chung paid a heavy price for his decision to defect and to warn the United States of the invasion plans. But in doing so he also got vengeance against two people who made his life miserable.
Karma works in sometimes very unusual ways.
-20-
One of the biggest curses on Washington, D.C. is any President’s ability to make political appointments.
Oh, when the framers of the constitution have him that authority, they had sound logic.
“The President should be able to choose the best and most qualifi
ed men for their jobs. He should choose men of integrity, men he can work with, men who will bear true faith and legion to these United States. Together with the Senate, who shall confirm the President’s cabinet, we should have the very best men available carrying our nation forth.”
Sure it made sense.
But like so many other things in Washington, the process was bastardized and abused and now bears little resemblance to its original intent.
Presidents these days appoint people to cabinet posts who have little or no experience or qualifications for their positions. They appoint golfing buddies and business associates and even relatives to positions they’re unqualified and not suited for at all.
A friendly Senate, which is responsible for vetting and approving candidates, rubber stamps such appointments.
A hostile Senate, under control of the opposition party, pitches a fit and complains about the quality of the President’s appointees, but almost always approves them anyway in the end.
That’s done not for the “good of the country,” as they tell reporters.
No, it’s because they know their guy will occupy the oval office again someday. And they don’t want to give their “esteemed colleagues across the aisle” a reason to retaliate later on.
These days political appointees are more likely to be indicted or to resign in disgrace than to still occupy their positions when their President leaves office.
At the time of Pak Chung’s defection, the Secretary of State of the United States was a man named Jim Morrison.
He graduated from college with President John Wright and was a member of the same fraternity. He was involved in several business ventures with Wright over the years. He socialized with the President and was in fact the man who introduced the President to his future wife.
Both men got rich dealing in penny stocks and made a fortune during the real estate bust in 2008. They weren’t invested in real estate at the time, but had plenty of money in reserve to buy up hundreds of homes and businesses for pennies on the dollar.
Now they were both billionaires.
Without Warning Page 6
