Hired to Kill

by Andrew Peterson

  There was no denying it—the demons of American civilization remained a scourge upon the earth. The near-constant protesting, rioting, and political strife sickened him. Such disgraceful dissidence wasn’t tolerated in his country. The sheer number of disloyal whiners and malcontents in America never ceased to amaze him. And all of it on national television? Shameful. If the streets of North Korea ever became a freak show, it certainly wouldn’t be televised for the whole world to see. The protesters would be arrested, interrogated, and thrown into prison labor camps—where they belonged.

  The facility’s primary entrance sat inside a large nondescript warehouse, its helipad irregularly shaped and unmarked. Even the wind sock was retractable. Once a helicopter arrived, it quickly taxied into the warehouse to avoid being seen from space. To the eyes of the West, Jong Doo looked like an open pit mine—complete with earthmovers, excavators, and a waste-rock processing plant. All part of the cover. The heavy equipment was real but dated. It could be moved around to simulate a mining operation but little else.

  A few years ago, Jong Doo had nearly been exposed, but the Chinese American spy had been caught before she’d been able to report finding a series of suspicious checkpoints and security measures along the remote canyon road serving the facility. Needless to say, she’d died a protracted death.

  A few meters ahead, a vaultlike door prevented deeper penetration into the labs. He thought the biological hazard symbol above the door looked ridiculous, but it served its purpose.

  He punched an eight-digit code into the keypad, and the door hissed as it opened. A second door, identical to the first, loomed at the opposite end of the antechamber. He turned around to watch the first door close. There was no going back at this point; he’d either continue farther into the mountain or be killed where he stood. No other options were possible.

  He stared at the camera, waiting for the pleasant female voice.

  “Identification please.”

  “General Hahn, ID number eight seven blue two three five yellow.”

  He found the metallic voice of the computer strangely sexy. Perhaps the inherent danger added an air of excitement and exhilaration that would end abruptly if he misspoke a single portion of the code. He’d be allowed a second attempt. Failing that, the system would suck all of the air out of the chamber. Death from sudden decompression would be painful and grotesque as his blood turned into red foam. Still, there were worse ways to die; he had, after all, been responsible for many of them.

  The central computer identified his voiceprint, and the first of three green lights stopped blinking.

  “Please place your hand on the capacitance scanner.”

  “No problem, Mae Lee. How’s your day going?”

  “My day is going quite well. Thank you, General. How is yours?”

  This pleasant exchange always reminded him of Hal from the American movie 2001: A Space Odyssey. Who would’ve ever thought that level of technology would actually exist in his lifetime? A testament to the superior genetics of his Korean ancestry.

  “My day couldn’t be better. I’m looking forward to the demonstration.” In reality, he wasn’t.

  “Yes, of course you are.”

  Slightly nervous, he watched the middle light stop blinking, its steady glow a welcome sight.

  “How are your wife and children?”

  “They’re doing well, Mae Lee. Thank you for asking.”

  “Of course, General.”

  He was tempted to use a non sequitur, say something along the lines of orange elephants swim upside down in bathtubs, but this wasn’t the place to be a smartass. Mae Lee literally held his life in “her” hands.

  He waited for the last security measure.

  “Please blow into the Breathalyzer.”

  A small hatch opened in the keypad, and a rubber tube extended several inches into the chamber. He took a deep breath and complied. If he failed this test, he wouldn’t be summarily executed. He’d be trapped in the corridor until security arrived to escort him through the inner door. After that, he’d be placed in handcuffs and marched out of the complex. But it wouldn’t end there. A black mark would be placed in his file, despite his rank. How many black marks could you get inside Jong Doo and still keep your job? Exactly zero.

  Everyone working here knew the rules, and so far, in its five-year history, not a single individual had ever been kicked out for failing a Breathalyzer test. There were some things you just didn’t do. Liquor wasn’t allowed anywhere inside the mountain. Period. Except, of course, for the Supreme Leader and his trusted entourage.

  “Thank you, General. You are cleared to proceed.”

  Confirming Mae Lee’s statement, the third LED stopped blinking. Another hiss signaled the opening of the inner door. He left the small antechamber and stopped at the security checkpoint.

  The second phase of his screening always went much easier. He’d need to undergo a body scan followed by an examination with an RFD wand to make sure he had no transmitters, wires, cameras, microphones, or other electronic devices. The final touch? A thorough pat down.

  At last count, Hahn had more than three hundred people working in this facility. But only twenty of them worked in the biochem labs.

  After being scanned, he offered the female guard a polite smile and held his arms straight out while she waved the wand. After finishing with the wand, she ran her hands over every square centimeter of his body. He knew this particular security officer and appreciated her diligence. Everyone received the same treatment. Men frisked women as well. Gender played no role here.

  “Thank you, General Hahn. You’re cleared to proceed.”

  She sat down at her desk and worked the keyboard. A door to his left clicked and hissed as the internal mechanism released. He stepped through and was greeted by Dr. Soon, a small-framed man with rectangular, black-rimmed glasses. He’d always wanted to tell Soon the nerdy look didn’t project intelligence. In fact, it conveyed the opposite. He and Soon were about the same age, mid-fifties, but the doctor looked ten years younger—a result of minimal exposure to the elements.

  “Good morning, General.”

  “Doctor.”

  “This way, please.”

  Hahn wondered why scientists’ lab coats were always white. Why couldn’t they be blue or green? Tradition, he supposed. He’d never cared enough to inquire.

  They walked across a short corridor lined with flat-screen televisions displaying the surrounding forest at its current time of day—sunrise. Working in an underground facility like Jong Doo produced a certain type of stress that could be lessened with simulated day and night conditions. As artificial as the TVs were, he liked the ambience they created.

  The complex contained nearly a thousand such “windows,” and all of them showed the correct perspective of the outside world because the screens were being fed by live cameras. Every so often, they displayed a different landscape from another part of the world. He liked Zhangjiajie National Forest Park the best. Someday, he hoped to go there. The monitors also doubled as general announcement screens, site layout maps, and emergency procedure displays.

  They stepped through another sealed door and entered an open common area. Tables and chairs occupied the center of the room. Along one wall, vending machines flanked the entrances to the restrooms. The common area acted like the focal point of a spoked wheel, with each perimeter door leading to a different laboratory complex.

  Every section of the bio-development lab remained isolated from its counterparts. If a contagion or compound managed to get loose, it would be contained within its sector.

  As a safeguard, the default computer response to a malfunction, cyberattack, or unauthorized entry into the mountain resulted in a lockdown, and General Hahn didn’t possess the codes required to release it. A lockdown had to be overridden from Pyongyang via a fractal-encrypted data link. To be sure the system worked properly, it was tested regularly and randomly.

  Dr. Soon didn’t care for small talk,
so Hahn didn’t bother. There were only so many times you could ask how the family was without sounding phony. They were both here for a specific purpose, a test of the newest chemical agent in the phase-eight series. Phases six and seven had yielded satisfactory results, but he hoped this newest version would be a home run—a clichéd American expression to be sure, but appropriate nevertheless. In his opinion, baseball was the one good thing America had ever contributed to the world.

  Besides baseball, every aspect of his life involved clandestine military operations. Hahn was a secret man, working in a secret world, and he absolutely loved it. It took a toll, though, mostly in the form of troubling dreams. There were many times when he’d awaken in the middle of the night panicked that the facility had been exposed, or worse, closed down and abandoned. They reminded him of the dreams he used to have in college, where he hadn’t studied for a test or hadn’t done any homework for a class.

  He and Soon passed through another environmentally sealed door and walked down a brightly lit hall dominated by doors and lots of security cameras. No simulated windows here. Knowing his every move was being recorded, he kept his expression neutral.

  Dr. Soon opened the last door on the right, and Hahn followed him inside. Facing a large ballistic glass window, eight chairs were arranged in two rows of stadium seating. On the other side of the glass, a small white room held three men and one woman, all seated around a metal table. All four lingered on the edge of starvation. In baggy jumpsuits with their wrists manacled to rings protruding from the table, they looked terrified. They obviously knew they weren’t here for a gourmet meal. As with the previous test subjects, each of their jumpsuits was numbered from one to four. The room’s door had no knob or handle. Once closed, it couldn’t be opened from the inside—something the prisoners had to be acutely aware of. Looking like a ship’s porthole, a small glass hatch sat in the middle of the door.

  Simultaneously, the prisoners looked at the door. Normally there’d be sound piped into the viewing room, but Hahn didn’t like hearing the demos. Besides, everything was being recorded. No need to listen live. Once had been enough . . .

  A few seconds later, the door opened, and two armed guards entered the chamber and stood at either side of the table. A third guard came in and barked some orders. The first two guards leveled their weapons at the prisoners, who didn’t move as their handcuffs were removed. Then, as quickly as they’d arrived, the guards left.

  To Hahn, it felt like watching a silent movie. Above the viewing window, six monitors showed the quartet from various angles. The large digital timer was currently dark.

  “How is it delivered this time?” Hahn asked.

  “Grenade,” Soon said. “Same as the last time.”

  Hahn found himself holding his breath. No matter how many times he watched these demos, they never got easier to stomach. He gave the cleaning crew credit. Not a trace of what had happened last time was evident.

  In the corner above the door, a red beacon began turning, making the room pulsate in crimson flashes. Hahn suddenly felt nauseated. Waiting was the worst part. He understood the purpose of the beacon. If anyone was in the room who shouldn’t be, they’d better use the intercom right away.

  The flashing stopped.

  Hahn adjusted his weight and stared at the hatch.

  It opened.

  A grenade came through.

  It closed.

  Hahn counted down from three.

  Startled, the test subjects looked at the small cylinder but didn’t initially react. In their defense, it didn’t look like a fragmentation grenade. It looked more like a small can of spray paint: same shape and size.

  The grenade jumped, then began spinning as one end acted like a miniature jet engine. The digital timer began, its bright red numbers announcing each passing second.

  “Tell me what you notice,” Dr. Soon said.

  “The gas element. It’s harder to see.” The last time he’d witnessed this, the deadly vapor had looked like fog.

  “Correct,” Dr. Soon said. “It’s more effective if people can’t easily see the agent. It allows the maximum amount of contamination before anyone realizes they’ve been compromised.”

  Hahn nodded. “How long will this variant take?”

  “Two to three minutes.”

  The digital clock passed the eight-second mark.

  Hahn asked, “It’s also spraying microdrops of the compound like last time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Same dispersion?”

  “Yes, but most of the casualties will still result from inhalation. In a crowded area, we estimate a grenade of this size will yield two hundred and fifty to three hundred deaths. I think we can count on the same amount of nonlethal exposures resulting in brain damage, comas, or vegetative states. A few will get very ill but suffer no long-term complications.”

  Hahn watched as the test subjects acted restless and annoyed.

  At twenty-five seconds, three of them began rubbing their hands over their faces as if trying to brush off ants.

  Soon spoke calmly. “As with the previous agents, this one also produces an irritating effect on their exposed skin.”

  At thirty seconds, all of them were desperately rubbing their faces and eyes.

  One of the men jumped up from the table and charged the door, beating on the porthole with both fists.

  Showing a mouthful of rotten teeth, the smallest prisoner turned toward the viewing window and snarled. Hahn leaned back in his seat as the man charged the one-way glass and pounded with his fists. The subject then turned away, grabbed a chair, and hurled it with all his strength. The ballistic glass made a muted thumplike sound as the chair harmlessly bounced off its surface.

  Abandoning the effort against her face, the woman began tearing at her jumpsuit.

  “The compound has entered their bloodstream, and it’s now affecting the entirety of their skin. More aggressive behavior will kick in momentarily.” Soon sounded remarkably calm, as if ordering galbi-tang from the cafeteria.

  At sixty seconds, their behavior became purely violent and belligerent. No longer concerned about escaping, they snarled and yelled at each other like enraged primates.

  The youngest man acted the most aggressively. Hahn glanced away as the man bit into the woman’s forearm. The woman fought back by continuously slugging the back of her attacker’s head. Oblivious to the blows, he kept his jaw locked on the woman’s flesh. With strength Hahn didn’t think she should have, she whipped her arm in a wide arc and slammed the man against the far wall. A third subject joined the fray, biting the woman’s other arm. With two biters to fight, she lost her balance and fell to the floor. The trio rolled and twisted, leaving smears of blood.

  Things got worse from there.

  A lot worse.

  Dr. Soon spoke again. “We wish we knew how it worked, but it’s a mystery. All we know . . .”

  Soon’s voice seemed to fade into the background as Hahn watched the subjects devolve. He couldn’t imagine this chemical agent being deployed in a crowded shopping mall or sporting event. It looked like a slaughterhouse in there. Blood fouled every surface, running down the window in rivulets. The man who’d hurled the chair joined the fight, ripping one of the woman’s attackers free.

  “. . . is that the hallucinogenic element seems to adversely target the prefrontal cortex, but we don’t know why. We can see the affected area with functional MRI scans on tightly restrained subjects, but how it works isn’t known. It’s fair to say we’ve reached a good balance with compound B82-1. If we add too much of the destabilizing hallucinogenic element, we sacrifice the neurotoxin’s effective range and lethality. If we add too much of the neurotoxin, death occurs too quickly, and we lose the chaotic effect we’ve been tasked to create. It’s relatively simple to produce a deadly toxin that kills quickly. Delaying the process is much more difficult to achieve, given all the variables: wind, proximity, objects available as impromptu weapons. It all has to be factored in
. We should begin to see the neurotoxin’s deadly effect within the next thirty seconds or so.”

  Hahn wanted to say, It can’t happen soon enough, but didn’t. Appearing weak wasn’t an option. As disgusting and vile as he found these test trials, he wouldn’t dare express his personal feelings. Life was cheap in DPRK. Human rights? Forget it. And due process didn’t exist. Anyone could be arrested for any crime. At any time. Without any reason.

  He wondered how these test subjects who were clearly enfeebled by starvation could possess such strength. It defied understanding. Hahn knew drugs like PCP, meth, and other amphetamines impaired perception, but this was something else.

  The man who’d hurled the chair at the glass went downhill rapidly. He fell to his hands and knees, then curled into a fetal position, sucking in air like a fish on the deck of a boat. The psychotropic element now took a back seat to the toxin.

  Hahn averted his eyes as the man with terrible teeth opened his mouth.

  Yes, the room had been insulated from sound, but not totally.

  The inhuman shriek penetrated the ballistic glass.

  “As you can see,” Dr. Soon said, “the toxin affects individuals at different rates of absorption. Not all of them are going down yet.”

  Hahn felt thankful for the dark viewing room. This was the most violent demo to date. He couldn’t imagine a scene like this amplified by a factor of one thousand.

  At times like this, he began to wonder if this project had gone too far. It was one thing to slaughter a large amount of people with a weaponized toxin, but making them go berserk first? How could this ever be justified? Would the Supreme Leader ever use this against the Americans? Could it somehow be traced back to him? Would he someday face war crimes like the Nazi scientists had? So many questions . . . but one thing wasn’t in question. If Hahn voiced any doubt or challenged this project’s validity, he’d find himself on the wrong side of the glass.