by Rawlin Cash
Kim saw it for what it was.
There was no self-reliance in his country. There was no only terror and destruction. The Supreme Leader controlled everything, and his subjects had to bow to his will.
Tens of thousands died of starvation yearly in North Korea, thousands from disease. The majority of the country's denizens lived in abject poverty—like middle-age serfs living in squalor during the black plague. They lived ignorant of the outside world. Unaware that other citizens of other countries didn't live in a state quite like this.
As KPA soldiers bulldozed his father's home and culled the four emaciated cows the family relied on for milk, Kim knew he'd spend the rest of his life trying to fight back.
The only problem, it was difficult to find like-minded individuals in North Korea. Everyone was fed the same propaganda, highlighting the brave exploits of the Supreme Leader. Most citizens believed it out of fear.
Kim wasn't going to be submissive.
He wasn't going to give in and accept it.
Another student in his school, one whose father was a soldier, noticed Kim roll his eyes when they pronounced their daily allegiance and admiration for the Supreme Leader.
The kid's name was Yong Min-ho. His father's rank in the military was relatively high. It wasn't high enough to get Yong into a better school, but it was high enough that Yong had opportunities and access to things that Kim could only dream about.
What held Yong back was the fact that he'd suffered a terrible accident in his youth and needed a wheelchair to get around. Most kids bullied Yong because of this, something that Kim did not like.
"Get away from him!" Kim shouted one day after class.
The kids had just emptied an entire bowl of porridge on Yong's head. One of the larger kids tried to fight Kim, but Kim was strong. He punched the bully square in the jaw and knocked him out cold.
After they left, Yong turned to Kim. "Thank you," he said.
"No problem."
Kim was about to walk away when Yong shouted to him. "I hate the Supreme Leader, too."
Kim stopped.
He felt a sense of shock. He'd been found out.
If Yong knew, other's would know.
Yong sensed Kim's panic. "I hate him, too," he said. "I hate this whole damn country."
The two became good friends.
Yong was naturally inclined to take electronics apart and put them back together. This predilection for electronic surgery made his father upset—especially when the electronics Yong took apart could not be put back together. Even so, Yong's preciousness around electronics allowed him even greater access to the outside world than most North Korean's.
He knew how to access internet satellites that foreign nations had put in the sky so that North Korean defectors could communicate with the West. He'd figured out how to reach out to them.
Kim joined the KPA, acting as an insider of force. He hated the KPA for what they did to his father, but he knew the only way to destroy them was to have access to within.
Both Yong and Kim used their connections and their skills to found the Liberation Force.
They didn't really believe it would turn into anything until Yong established a connection with MI6. From there, their numbers grew. But still, they had to be careful.
The Supreme Leader's cult of personality made it very difficult to find like-minded individuals.
But things were about to change.
Thanks to General Woo and the capture of the United States President, Yong saw an opportunity. He seized it.
As Kim stood on that cold beach in the middle of December, he shook his head. He hoped that Yong knew what he was doing.
Kim's gloves were worn and didn't do much to hold the cold off. He lifted his hands to his mouth and warmed them up with his breath.
He checked his watch.
Where was he?
He should have been here by now.
He was bout to leave when he heard a strange sound. It sounded like a motorboat. Thanks to the howling wind, the sound didn't travel far. No one else heard it. The beach was empty for miles and miles.
Kim walked toward the source.
The crashing waves and the dark made him nervous. He was holding an AK-47. An old model, straight from the Soviet Union and the Eighties.
The sound stopped.
So did Kim.
He froze.
Was he imagining things?
Out of the dark shadow that was cast from a large rock walked Jack Hunter. His shoulders broad, his face mean. He'd just got out of a wetsuit and had his weapons draped on his back.
Kim put his AK over his shoulder and raised his arms. He squinted and spoke first. He was told what to say. His English wasn't the best, but he was learning.
"The sun is always abstract," he said.
It was a code.
It meant he was alone.
It meant that everything was alright.
Hunter knew what to say in response. It'd been written in one of Margot's files.
"And Carbon will always prevail."
Kim smiled.
It was him.
It was the CIA operative. He lowered his hands. "Follow me," he said. "I have a vehicle waiting. You're probably cold."
"I am."
Hunter followed Kim off the beach and toward the road.
Thirty-Seven
Hunter followed Kim toward a small truck that was parked on the side of a long dirt road. He thought it strange how old the truck looked. It looked ancient. Primitive. It looked like something out of the 1950s.
"Will that thing start?" Hunter asked.
"It's a brand-new model. Of course, it will."
Hunter didn't realize that North Korea was a lot like Cuba when it came to vehicles.
One of the first automotive plants in the country was the Sungri Motor Plant. Each model that the auto company manufactures is a replica or derivative of a foreign car. The company was founded in 1950. Its first vehicle was the Sungri-58 truck, which they still produced to this day with minimal variation to the original model.
"This thing looks like it's straight from the last century," Hunter said.
"That's because it is," Kim said. "Welcome to North Korea."
Both he and Hunter entered the vehicle. Kim in the driver's side, Hunter in the passenger's.
"Your English is impressive," Hunter said. "I wasn't sure if language was going to be a barrier."
"I've been told that most Americans think they're smarter than everyone else," Kim quipped. "How is your Korean?"
Hunter smirked. "None existent." He was beginning to like the kid already. He had a dry sense of humor and wasn't going to be bullied around.
"So where are the rest of the Liberators?" Hunter asked. "I was told you had a small force."
“They’re in a small village. It's called Wung. That's where our headquarters is. That’s where I am taking you.”
"Good," Hunter said, although he did notice a slightly nervous look on the kid's face. "You know where the President is being held?"
"Yes," Kim said.
"Where is he?"
Kim looked at Hunter, and his eyes widened. "You'll learn everything from our leader. His name is Yong. Trust me."
"When someone says 'trust me,' I get nervous."
Kim laughed. "You're in North Korea. If you're not nervous, you're an idiot."
Hunter chuckled.
He looked at the kid. Based on his physical shape and outfit, he was military. He probably had connections to the higher-ups. He'd worked hard. He'd been given things other North Korean civilians could only dream of. Still, he was risking everything for something that most likely seemed like a dream.
"You're a soldier?" Hunter asked.
"Yes," Kim said. "I'm a First-Class Officer."
"And you're helping the Liberators?"
"I helped found them."
Kim placed his foot on the gas and guided the truck away from the beach.
"You better not be
lying to me about knowing where the President is," Hunter said. "I was just fired from a torpedo launcher and am not in the mood for any more games."
Kim's skin turned pale.
He focused on the road.
Wung was fifteen minutes from the beach.
The road was quiet. There were no other cars for miles.
Hunter stared out the window and looked up at the stars. He hadn't seen so many since his time in Siberia. As Kim drove, he checked his duffel bag to see if any G-12 vials had fallen out of his stash. They hadn’t.
He could feel his heart beat in his chest.
Things were going to get worse before they got better.
Thirty-Eight
Back on the S-91 Triumph, Margot breathed a sigh of relief. Hunter's biometrics were showing that he was alive. He'd made it to the shore. The BDV would soon self-destruct, and Hunter would be on his way to save the President.
She turned to Captain Murray and nodded. "It's worked. He's there."
Gus smiled. "Good, I'm glad he's gone. That son-of-a-bitch was getting to me."
Margot rolled her eyes. Gus's jealousy always got to her. She thanked the captain for her help and made her way to her sleeping quarters. There wasn't much for her to do now. She just had to rely on Hunter to get the job done.
Gus caught up with her as she walked through the narrow passageways of the sub.
"You guys have a connection, eh?"
She ignored the stupid question. She'd hoped that Gus would get the hint. He didn't.
"Hey," he said. "Are you just going to ignore me? We've got another three days on this sub together. The least you can do is tell me the truth."
"There's nothing to tell," she said. "I needed you to help. You have connections to the Royal Navy. I used them."
"Is that all I am? A tool?"
Margot stopped walking. A smirk crept along her face, and she turned around to face the man she'd dated for six months six years ago. "You need to get over me," she said. "What we had will forever stay in Italy. I'm sorry."
Gus's face grew red. He stormed off, stumbling into a crew of submarine personnel on their break.
Once Margot got to sleeping quarters, she locked the door shut. She'd pulled so many strings to make this happen. She needed it to happen. If Hunter succeeded, the dominoes would start to fall. With an alliance of Western-friendly nations in Asia, the West could finally pressure China to change.
As she lay in her sleeping quarters, she thought about Hunter. He was a broken man, but there was something there. The way he looked at her before he strapped himself into the BDV. She felt her heart crack. He was risking it all.
"What the hell did they do to you?" she asked aloud, knowing that no one could hear her.
She'd heard about secret divisions within the MI6. Divisions that specialized in advancing human reaction time and strength. It sounded mostly like hocus-pocus. But Hunter, he was living proof of both the good and the destructive effects of such a program.
Margot had grown up in Manchester to a single father. Her mother died when she was very young—breast cancer. While her father did everything he could to support them, he had problems of his own. He had a predilection for alcohol, and he lacked the ability to stop at just one drink. Still, she admired her father. He worked two full-time jobs at once for most of her childhood. A day shift and a night shift. He slept for three hours between each shift. He did that so he could pay for Margot's fancy private school. He knew she was gifted.
She was just like her mother.
Margot's mother, Genevieve, came from British Upper class. Her grandfather, Albert Cunningham, the Fifth, disapproved of her parents' marriage. He regarded her father as a yob—a layman—a term rich snobs and the elite use to classify working-class British folk.
Despite all his misgivings, and he did have many, her father was a damn hard worker.
After Margot graduated top of her class in mathematics and language, she got a top job at a financial institution. Her father got sick shortly after that. His stomach had turned on him, and he was gone in three months.
"At I least I know you're alright," were his dying words to his daughter.
After that, Margot grew cold, stubborn, and resolute.
Her mother's family had learned of her success, and after her father's funeral, had told Margot that they were the ones who got her the interview at the financial institution.
Margot felt betrayed.
She went to a pub that night and drank four gin and tonics in quick succession. When she was done, she left the bar and stumbled home. Her high heels dug into the thick slabs of London's sidewalk concrete.
She wondered what she had fought for.
What her father had fought for.
Was it all so she could be a rich snob?
She didn't want that.
Two men approached her from a dark alley. They'd been watching her for a few blocks. They waited until she turned down a quiet street. One of them pulled out a knife.
Margot was drunk, but she wasn't that drunk. And thanks to the self-defense classes her father had made her take, she took care of the two perps relatively quickly. When the London police arrived to cuff the men and take them away, one of them noted that Margot should pursue a career in law enforcement.
She smiled.
That was her answer.
She spent the next three years of her life working as a data analyst for an intelligence company in London that had ties to MI6.
One thing led to another, and MI6 recruitment knew that someone like Margot, a woman with her brains and looks, could go far as a spy.
They brought her in, and she did what she had to do.
Like everything in her life, she passed each test with flying colors.
But then she ran into Hunter.
He was a test she couldn't pass.
He was a man who defied definition.
She went asleep as the S-91 nuclear sub sailed silently through the depths of the sea. The final thought before she lost consciousness was that she hoped she'd see Hunter again.
Thirty-Nine
The cell was dank. Raynor hadn't had anything to eat in twenty-four hours and felt weak. His stomach hurt, and his ankles were bleeding from the shackles the assholes had tied him in.
Each morning, they'd drag him out of the cell, make him hold a paper, and make a video recording that they said they were sending to Washington.
Raynor shook his head.
He should have seen this coming.
He should have listened to his advisors.
He remembered the last meeting he'd had with the Vice President. The condescending prick. Cosgrove was everything Raynor despised about the Presidency. He was a career politician—someone who made a living off of bad policy and arguments. In Raynor's mind, a career politician was worse than a lawyer.
They seemed to be growing frustrated, however.
Raynor chuckled.
He knew why.
It was because he knew Cosgrove would be doing everything feasible to hold off trying to rescue him. He knew Cosgrove wanted his position. He knew Cosgrove hated everything he represented.
The North Korean soldiers holding him hostage were probably wondering how a nation could hate their leader so much as to let him rot away in a tiny cell.
Every few days, they'd change his cell.
The last time he'd been taken out for photos, he met General Woo for the first time since the attack at the stadium.
"It's been a while," Raynor said with a wry smile. "Did you miss me?"
"You're people have abandoned you. They do not care for you."
Raynor chuckled. "My people like me. It's everyone in Washington that hates me."
"Shut up," Woo said. "I am meeting you today to tell you that in two days, you will be executed."
Raynor's smiled vanished from his face, and he stared into Woo's eyes. "You won't get what you want from this."
"All I want our people to be honored.”
"Shut up," Woo said.
Raynor rolled his eyes. “This is suicide. You do realize that, right? You'll lose.”
"Perhaps, I death is more honorable than peace.”
“You’re an idiot.”
"I want the West to realize what they've done to North Korea. Years and years of sanctions..."
"Ah, screw that," Raynor said. "You're Supreme Leaders destroyed your country. Your belief in socialism, or whatever the hell you think is socialism is what did your country in. You've had..."
Woo punched Raynor in the mouth.
Raynor took the abuse and then looked at Woo.
"Whatever you think will happen, won't," Raynor said. "If honor is what you want, then you’ll let me go.”
"Get him away from me," Woo said.
Bong-hak was standing close by and dragged Raynor to a new cell. He tied Raynor up to the walls and punched the President in the gut for good measure before leaving.
There was a comedy to the whole situation, Raynor thought, a sick irony to it all. He'd come to North Korea to create peace, and in doing so, he might have started a world war.
He chuckled.
He was tied up to the wall, his wrists latched together high above his head. His feet dangled just above the floor.
"What's so funny?" a voice said. It was an American voice.
Raynor nearly screamed when he heard it. "Who's there?"
The cell was dark, and Raynor couldn't see a thing.
"My name is Clarence Hillcock. I was a helicopter pilot. I've been here for over twenty-five years. I'm not sure the number, because I... I lost count."
"You're American?"
"Yes."
"My god... I'm sorry," Raynor said. "I'm sorry that..."
"My country left me here," Hillcock finished. He laughed. "You grow used to it. I was hoping for a long time that they'd just kill me. But here I am. Still alive. I even tried a hunger strike, but it was too hard. It's a stupid thing, y'know. I want to die, but I can't kill myself. So I just go on, accepting the dark, living in this cell."
Raynor wanted to tell Hillcock something positive, but he knew that was foolish. False hope is worse than no hope.
