Bloody Sunday

by Ben Coes

  A small smile, the first in weeks, came to her lips.

  “I’ve often wondered if I should have just left you alone,” said Chalmers. “After all, you’d be an MP by now. A young Margaret Thatcher, but with beauty.”

  Jenna stared at Chalmers for several seconds.

  “Are you firing me?” she asked.

  Chalmers said nothing. He held her eyes in his gaze.

  “No,” he said, finally. “But I’m reassigning you.”

  “What?” she barked. “Why? I’m the … well, let’s be honest: I’m the bloody well fucking best at what I do.”

  “You’re talented, Jenna, no question,” said Chalmers. “But you need a different platform than what MI6 is willing to provide. A broader platform.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I’ve spoken with Hector Calibrisi and Bill Polk,” he said. “They’re both familiar with your work. You’ll join the Directorate of Operations. They need an architect, badly. Frankly, it’s in MI6’s interest for Langley to have someone with your skills there.”

  “And am I obligated to tell you everything? I’m not going to be a rat of yours inside the Central Intelligence Agency.”

  “I agree. You work for them and your loyalties are to America, and, hopefully, Britain always.”

  “What makes you think I would even consider going to the CIA?” Jenna yelled. “Fuck them. Americans? Fuck all, Derek.”

  “You’ll go,” said Chalmers, looking her in the eyes and picking up his water glass. He took a sip. “We’ve leased a flat for you in Kalorama. You’ll be on triple pay. Two years. That should clear your head.”

  “And if I don’t want to?”

  Chalmers grinned.

  “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter,” he said. “I’m giving you a license to kill. At least show a modicum of appreciation, will you?”

  7

  TONGHAE SATELLITE LAUNCHING GROUND

  MUSUDAN-RI

  NORTH HAMGYONG PROVINCE

  NORTH KOREA

  A line of vehicles moved quickly through the remote hills of Chongjin, a desolate, impoverished city on the coast of North Korea. There were seven sedans and one black limousine in all. The vehicles were guarded by two extended-cab, dark-green-colored troop carriers, one in front and the other in back. Each specialized vehicle was filled with a dozen armed soldiers from the Special Guard Unit, an elite division of the Korean People’s Army.

  The limousine’s windows were tinted dark. Small North Korean flags stuck up from the front and back corners of the vehicle.

  The motorcade sped along the thin, pothole-strewn roads of the rural coast, the whitecapped waters of the Sea of Japan visible in the distance. The hills and valleys alongside the road intercut between empty land, covered in dirt and rocks and the occasional shrub or tree, and shacks, small huts, and houses made of scrap metal, wood, or concrete.

  Inside the limousine, North Korea’s supreme leader, Kim Jong-un, lit a cigarette and took a deep drag as he looked out the window. It gave Kim no pleasure seeing the thin, emaciated figures milling about ramshackle homes without electricity and food, staring back as he passed by. Yet, he also didn’t feel at all guilty or responsible for the terrible conditions of his country. The truth is, he felt nothing at all.

  Kim was dressed in a black suit with a black trench coat. His hair was short except on top, like a little tuft. He was obese and needed help getting out of the limousine. Kim had the body of a sixty-year-old, but the face of a child. He looked at the man seated across from him, Pak Yong-sik, the highest-ranking officer in the Korean People’s Army.

  Suddenly, Kim’s eyes shot to the window. A skeletal dog was traipsing along the roadside, searching for food.

  “Stop!” barked Kim.

  The limousine came to a halt. Kim pushed a button, lowering the window. He took a drag on the cigarette as he stared at the dog. Kim had a smile on his chubby face, like a young child. The dog stopped moving, staring at Kim with a nervous mixture of curiosity and fear. The dog had gray-and-black fur, with patches of bare pink skin in places. Kim flicked the cigarette out onto the road. He reached into his coat and pulled a handgun from the holster beneath his left armpit. He flipped the safety off, chambered a round, then swept the gun so that it was aimed at the dog. The dog stared back at Kim without moving. Slowly, he seemed to bow his head and then took a step closer to the limousine. Kim fired. The sound of unmuted gunfire was shocking and loud. The bullet missed.

  “Dammit!” he yelled. “Lousy gun!”

  The dog started to move away but Kim fired again, then a third time. A bullet struck the dog in the side, knocking him to the ground, where he spasmed and writhed in pain as a low series of yelps came from his mouth. Kim fired again, hitting the dog in the head. The dog went quiet and still.

  Kim stared at the creature for a few seconds and turned to Yong-sik. He tossed the handgun at Yong-sik.

  “Terrible pistol,” he seethed. “See to it we no longer buy any by this manufacturer!”

  “Yes,” said Yong-sik.

  Kim slapped the leather seat next to him.

  “Go!” he barked to the driver.

  * * *

  Hours later, they came to a security perimeter, twelve feet high and fringed with razor wire. Small red signs indicated that it was electrified. A guard station stood before the gates. Two soldiers emerged as the limousine approached. One of the soldiers, seeing the long limo, turned abruptly and charged inside. The gates started moving aside, opening for the motorcade just in time to let the vehicles pass through.

  The two armed soldiers at the entrance hut stood and saluted as the vehicles passed through.

  Just inside the gates, a black-and-white sign read:

  Tonghae Satellite Launching Ground

  The motorcade rumbled in through the gates, where the road turned wider and smoother, as if it had been recently paved. The steel perimeter fence ran in both directions for as far the eye could see, disappearing behind sloping hills in the distance.

  Tonghae was one of two missile test launch facilities in North Korea. Tonghae was the older one, constructed in 1981 and at first consisting of little more than a circular concrete launchpad. Sohae, North Korea’s second missile test and launch facility, was located to the west and was larger and more modern—at least, until now. For Tonghae had just completed a substantial renovation, including the addition of a state-of-the-art launchpad, with a massive flame bucket beneath the pad, four-stage gantry tower and crane, rocket assembly building, and engine test stand.

  Yet, even after the renovations and new construction, it was difficult to believe that the small collection of buildings, spread out over several hundred acres of barren land, was, in point of fact, a central flash point in a growing conflict that threatened to spark nuclear war. North Korea continued to stick its finger in the eye of Japan, South Korea, the United Nations, and, most important, the United States of America, by launching test missile after test missile into the China Sea, testing and retesting, working to improve North Korea’s ability to send a missile anywhere in the world.

  North Korea already possessed nuclear weapons. One of the many ironies of the backwards country was that it was somehow able to manage the much more difficult technological achievement of nuclear fission and yet couldn’t figure out how to fire a missile more than a few thousand kilometers.

  But they were learning.

  With each successive launch, the North Koreans were gaining knowledge as to what worked and what didn’t. It was only a matter of time before the country possessed the ability to launch a missile that could strike anywhere in the world.

  All Kim Jong-un cared about was being able to hit the United States.

  Kim Jong-un’s hatred for America started when he was just a young boy, traveling with his father to towns that remained half destroyed by bombs that had been dropped almost half a century before by America. He recalled seeing his father cry on two different occasions, both times while visit
ing places his government could barely afford to feed, much less rebuild. His father, Kim Jong-il, had lived through the great war but, ironically, he was not embittered toward the United States or the South Koreans. Instead, the war gave the elder Kim a deeper sympathy for not only his people, but for his opponents as well. “To see war,” he once told the young Kim, “is to know there are no winners.” But Kim Jong-un only saw the reckoning the war left behind. A divided Korean Peninsula. An impoverished people without enough food to eat. Elderly farmers still scarred by napalm from the great war. Kim believed it was the guilt and sadness over not being able to provide for his country that killed his beloved papa. Through the distorted eyes of a child, Kim Jong-un developed the kind of pure hatred that only a child is capable of, and never had reason to abandon it. Now, this hatred guided his every move.

  The motorcade came to a large rectangle of gray concrete, elevated ten feet above ground. This was the new missile launchpad. There were several stairwells leading up to the surface of the pad. Below the concrete, a hollowed-out area—the blast bucket—was designed to create an outlet for the heat and flames from the missiles as they initially ignited.

  Standing on the launchpad were dozens of uniformed soldiers. The soldiers stood in neat lines, as still as if they were statues, each man’s right hand raised in a salute to Kim as the limousine approached.

  In the middle of the gathering of soldiers, at the center of the launchpad, stood a shiny white missile that jutted seventy feet into the sky, clutched on two sides by the gantry tower.

  The limousine came to a stop and Kim climbed out.

  General Yong-sik emerged from the opposite side of the limo. He joined Kim at his side and walked toward the crowded launch platform. Kim and Yong-sik walked to one of the stairwells and climbed slowly up. It took Kim several minutes to climb the twenty or so steps. When he arrived at the top of the platform, his face was red, though a smile appeared. He stood and caught his breath, then raised his hand, saluting the soldiers who’d gathered for him.

  A loud, cacophonous cheer suddenly came from the brigade of soldiers:

  “Kim! Kim! Kim!”

  One of the soldiers approached Kim and handed him a wireless microphone.

  “Good morning, soldiers of the Korean People’s Army,” bellowed Kim. “Today, we launch the first test missile of the Taedondo-3! It is with the Taedondo-3 that North Korea will at long last be able to attack our mortal enemy, the United States of America!”

  The soldiers began cheering. They shouted “Long live Kim!” again and again as Kim handed the microphone back to one of the soldiers and turned to walk down the stairs, followed by Yong-sik.

  “Long live Kim! Long live Kim! Long live Kim!”

  Kim and Yong-sik climbed back inside the limousine, which moved slowly away from the launchpad and along a winding uphill road, passing several armed gunmen. The limousine stopped at a small, two-story glass-and-concrete building that sat atop the highest point of land for several miles. Kim and Yong-sik climbed out and walked to the building. An armed soldier opened the door for Kim and Yong-sik, who stepped inside.

  The room looked like a control tower at an airport, with various workstations arrayed with radar screens, computers, and other devices. A large window covered the front wall and offered a panoramic view of the Tonghae facility. The launchpad was below them, down a steep hill. Soldiers were moving in lockstep away from the launchpad. Beyond, the Sea of Japan appeared through a haze of thin fog and gray clouds.

  Three individuals were inside the control tower. Two engineers sat at tables before a wall of controls, dials, and screens, wearing headsets. A third man was standing at large window, looking down at the launchpad. He had on thick glasses, a white lab coat, and was speaking in a low voice to someone over his headset. He was holding a clipboard.

  “Dr. Cojin,” said Yong-sik.

  The man turned. He suddenly caught sight of Yong-sik and then Kim. After a surprised moment, he immediately dropped to his knees and bowed.

  “Your Excellency,” said Dr. Cojin. “It is a tremendous honor to have you here today.”

  Kim removed a pack of cigarettes, pulled one out, and lit it.

  “Are we ready, Cojin?” said Kim. “After one hundred million dollars and three and a half years, I trust the answer is yes.”

  Cojin stood up. He nodded.

  “Yes, it is all ready, Your Excellency.”

  Kim took a deep puff, exhaling, filling the small control room with smoke.

  “Yes, yes, get on with it. I don’t have all day.”

  “If everything goes correctly, as it should,” said Cojin, “I would like to introduce you to the individuals who made today’s launch possible.”

  Kim dropped the cigarette onto the floor and stepped on it.

  “The state is not a place of individual achievement,” said Kim loudly. “We build weapons of glory not because we want to celebrate the men who built them, but because we want to advance the great cause of the North Korean people and to be able to strike the evil enemy, the United States of America!”

  Cojin bowed. “Yes, of course, Your Excellency. Of course.”

  “Tell us about Taedondo-3,” said Yong-sik.

  Cojin pointed out the window to the launch platform. The final row of soldiers was moving down the steps and away from the platform.

  “Taedondo-3 is a multiple-stage, solid-fueled hydro rocket, capable of reaching distances of up to ten thousand kilometers. Today, we launch Taedondo-3 with an expected flight path over the Sea of Japan. If all goes according to plan, it will land in the Pacific Ocean approximately one thousand miles from the coast of Mexico. It would represent the greatest length achieved in flight by a North Korean missile, Your Excellency.”

  Kim nodded and smiled. A moment of childlike glee hit his face. He clapped once.

  “Excellent, Cojin!” said Kim. “Now let’s do it, shall we?”

  Dr. Cojin turned. He looked at one of the engineers seated at the control station.

  “Kawau,” said Cojin. “Commence firing sequence.”

  Without turning around, the young engineer nodded and began typing.

  “Commencing firing sequence,” said Kawau.

  A low, soft boom echoed from down the hill. Kim, Yong-sik, and Cojin stepped to the window and looked down at the launch platform. It appeared as if nothing had occurred, and then a few puffs of smoke ebbed out from the base of the missile. A louder explosion followed, then came a high-pitched sizzling noise, followed by a cacophonous boom, and all hell broke loose. Flames and smoke shot out from the missile as it started to rise in the air. The gantry tower fell back and away as the missile slowly lifted into the air, a trail of smoke and orange flames behind it, the noise deafening. The missile climbed into the air, its velocity increasing with every passing second until, at some point, a massive boom again rocked the air and the missile’s speed went from fast to supersonic and it shot up into the sky.

  Kim and Yong-sik started clapping, and Kim even yelled “Hooray” as the missile climbed higher and higher in the sky.

  Then something went horribly wrong.

  “Oh my God,” groaned Cojin.

  Violent clouds of red and orange flames shot in every direction as the sky filled with fire and falling debris, chunks of missile caught in burning, fuel-soaked flames, raining down from the sky into the distant ocean.

  Cojin stepped behind one of the engineers, leaning forward, trying to read the instruments, trying to understand what had happened.

  Yong-sik looked at Kim, who stood motionless in front of the window. Finally, Kim met Yong-sik’s stare. He had a dumbfounded, angry look on his face. Kim turned and walked past Cojin and the two engineers, almost stumbling in shock as he made his way to the door. When he reached the door he paused. He reached inside his coat to remove his gun from his shoulder holster, but it wasn’t there. He looked at Yong-sik. Yong-sik unbuckled a holster at his waist and lifted his handgun and handed it to Kim. Kim raised the
gun and aimed it at the young man on the right, whose back was to him. He fired, striking the man in the back of the head. Cojin and the other engineer turned. Kim fired at the other engineer. The bullet ripped into the young man’s forehead.

  Cojin held both of his arms up in resignation.

  “I am sorry, Your Excellency—”

  The third bullet struck Cojin in the chest, kicking him sideways and down to the ground.

  Yong-sik stood at the window. He had a blank expression on his face. He stared at Kim as Kim watched Cojin fall to the ground. When Kim’s eyes met Yong-sik’s, they stared at each other for several moments. Kim moved his arm to the right and trained the gun on Yong-sik. His hand was shaking as he held him in the firing line. Finally, Kim lowered the gun.

  “It’s not your fault,” said Kim. “But now we do it the way I said. You will call the Iranians and we’ll do what we should’ve done years ago.”

  “Yes, my leader,” said Yong-sik.

  8

  RYONGSONG RESIDENCE

  NORTH KOREA

  Yong-sik walked down the corridor. As always, he wore a khaki military uniform adorned with medals and other insignia.

  The hallway spread a hundred feet across. The ceiling was thirty feet high. Every surface was composed of rare crimson-and-white marble. Great tapestries hung along the walls, interspersed with massive paintings, each one a portrait of the same individual—a young, black-haired North Korean in various settings. One painting showed him atop a horse, sword raised high, surrounded by bodies on the ground. Another scene showed the man in the cockpit of a fighter jet, flames coming out the back, missiles just fired now soaring toward the ground where a small American flag was seen. Still another portrait showed the man performing surgery on a fallen soldier in the middle of a battlefield with mushroom clouds from nuclear explosions visible in the background.

  This was the hallway that led to the official residence of North Korea’s supreme leader, Kim Jong-un.

  General Yong-sik arrived at the door to the suite of rooms. Two men in military uniforms, both of whom, technically, worked for the general, looked evenly at Yong-sik, scanning him from head to toe, Kalashnikovs trained on him at all times.