by John
“That’ll be nice. Let me know what I can bring.”
The kids looked at him as if he was crazy. What could Ben Walker afford to bring? A bottle of mustard?
Walker considered asking Gomez if he wanted to share a drink with him, but then he decided the man looked too forlorn. It would be a downer. The guy had enough problems without Walker plying him with alcohol.
The Gomezes went in their house and Walker rolled his motorcycle in his garage. One thing he’d inherited from his late father was the pleasure of being an amateur mechanic. About the only possessions Walker was proud of were the many tools he owned. He had rebuilt the Spitfire when he was twenty-four and it still worked like a charm. It was fortunate he had stocked up on spare parts years ago, for today he wouldn’t have been able to buy them. Walker was also good friends with Buddy Jenkins, a guy who ran one of the few open service stations north of Hollywood Boulevard. They had a deal—Jenkins saved a couple of five-gallon cans of gas for Walker with each delivery, and Walker paid him regularly in cash. Hardly anyone used credit cards anymore. The banks simply couldn’t support them.
Could he keep up the gas payments now that he didn’t have a job?
Inside the house, he turned on his computer to check e-mail and switched on the television for background noise. Walker then went to the kitchen, removed the last bottle of Jack Daniels, and poured a glass.
He wondered if it would really be the last bottle.
On the way to the living room, he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror that hung on the wall. Walker stopped and stared at the unemployed joker looking back at him. His wavy brown hair always seemed to be too long. Those green eyes the chicks used to love when he was in college betrayed a frustrated, bitter melancholy. At least he had his killer smile.
Right.
11:00 A.M., PST.
Salmusa sat in front of the computer in his house in Van Nuys. Despite the anticipation of the day’s events, he had slept soundly. His wife, Kianna, had not disturbed him when she’d left to go to work that morning. She had a job at a donut shop within walking distance of the house. Koreans ran the bakery and they did a modest business in the weak economy. Everyone still ate donuts, and they were inexpensive.
Salmusa pursed his lips. Kianna wouldn’t have to work much longer.
He looked at his watch and brought up the web browser. Logging in to the encrypted URL with his password, he found his operatives already waiting for him in the chat room. They were physically stationed all over the United States, one each in New York, Washington, D.C., Chicago, Atlanta, Miami, Dallas, Houston, Denver, Phoenix, Seattle, and San Francisco. The men were under Salmusa’s direct control. Other sleeper cell agents of the GKR scattered across the nation followed the instructions of different handlers who held the same status as Salmusa.
Well, not quite.
Salmusa was privileged with a special rank in the echelon of Korean spies in America. He was the only one who had direct access to the Brilliant Comrade. In fact, he was the only one of the agents who reported to Kim Jong-un personally. Salmusa looked forward to their communication later that day. He missed his childhood friend. It had been too many years since Salmusa had seen him.
The man once known as Yi Dae-Hyun shook his head in amazement when he considered how ignorant and unsuspecting the Americans were. The sleeper agents lived in the U.S. for years under the government’s very nose, and no one thought anything of it. Ever since America washed her hands of the problems in the Middle East, Islamic terrorists left her alone. After time passed there was no need for the government to pour money into the anti-terrorist groups as they had in the past. The NSA downsized considerably. The CIA was in tatters. The FBI was a joke. By retreating into a state of isolationism, America left herself vulnerable. With the military reduced to a bare minimum, the power grid weakening, the social structure frayed, and the population hurting—it was the perfect time to strike.
Typing in Korean, Salmusa issued last-minute instructions to his operatives. At this point, it really didn’t matter if they were caught performing their final task. They all knew going into it that arrest or death were possibilities. But if all went well, he and his comrades would soon be rejoined with their people.
On American turf.
“Dae-Hyun? What are you doing?”
Salmusa stiffened. Kianna had returned from her job early!
She stood behind him. “I thought you had to go to work today.”
Kianna had insisted that they always speak English. After all, they were Americans. Well, she was.
Salmusa felt only the slightest touch of remorse as he spoke in Korean, “I am working, Kianna. Today is the most important day of my job.”
She was confused by his switch in language.
“Darling? Is something wrong? What’s that on your computer? Who are you talking to?”
Salmusa quietly opened the desk drawer in front of him and removed the Daewoo 9mm K5 semi-automatic. It was already equipped with a suppressor. He held the pistol close to his chest out of her view.
“Dae-Hyun? I asked a question. What are you doing?”
Salmusa took a breath and answered, “Preparing for the new dawn.”
He then turned and calmly shot his wife in the chest.
The suppressor silenced the gunshot well enough. Surely no one outside the house heard it.
Salmusa stood and stepped over to his wife’s body. Although blood spread across her blouse, she was still alive. Kianna looked up at him in surprise and shock.
He pointed the gun at her forehead and said, in Korean, “I never loved you.”
The Greater Korean Republic’s most senior sleeper cell agent in America squeezed the trigger again, pleased that he didn’t have to use the M9 knife he kept strapped to his calf.
It was time to commence Execution Phase One.
WALKER’S JOURNAL
JANUARY 15, 2025
I did it, just like I said I would. I quit my fucking job. Now I can sit down with my bottle of Jack and get drunk with no remorse.
Actually I feel pretty weird about it. Was I crazy? I don’t know.
Hey, the old Ben Walker gut told me to do it, so I did. Sometimes the gut is right, and sometimes it isn’t, but it’s my gut and I usually listen to it.
Saw the Gomezes outside just a while ago. Ouch. Rudy didn’t look too good. He’s had a lot of shit happen to him, so I guess I can’t blame him acting like Death. The only things missing were a black cloak and a scythe. Luisa and the kids seemed okay, though. Or else they’re just good actors.
Hell, in the words of everyone else in the country … “Who gives a shit?”
Let’s see, as I look at my digital clock in the kitchen, I see it’s early afternoon. What else could possibly go wrong today?
Time for a drink. Or two.
FOUR
JANUARY 15, 2025
3:45 P.M., PST.
Salmusa parked his Hyundai near the intersection of Hollywood and Vine. Making sure the car was properly locked, he swiped the Meter-Card in the appropriate box. Even though in a few hours it wouldn’t matter, Salmusa always made it a point to obey the city’s traffic and parking laws. It had become a habit, simply because he never wanted to call attention to himself throughout his years of residency.
Walking to the boulevard, Salmusa carried a silver metal briefcase containing a package that had been delivered to him from Pyongyang. It had come through Ready-Electrics, the Korean electronics firm for which he worked when he was undercover. Similar briefcases were distributed to his operatives around the country. Salmusa felt confident his men were, at that moment, also carrying the cases to their targets.
He wanted to sneer at how easy it was to smuggle the C-4 explosives into the country. Salmusa had spent several months researching the efficiency of America’s security operations and had determined that they were at an all-time low. After the RDX—cyclotrimethylene trintramine, the explosive ingredient in C-4—was combined with the binder and
plasticizer, his company made several trial runs by transporting harmless electronic components in ordinary shipping containers across the Pacific. C-4 could be molded and shaped into any crevice or hole, so hiding the stuff inside electronic consoles was perfect. When the C-4 finally arrived, no one at the Port of Los Angeles examined the cargo. The manifests indicated there was nothing inside but parts, cellphones, the new holographic television sets (intended for those wealthy enough to afford them), video game machines, and other home entertainment odds and ends. The bombs inside the briefcases were assembled at Ready-Electrics and one was tested in the Mojave Desert just a month earlier. Salmusa was there to witness it.
It blew a hole in the ground the size of a strip mall parking lot.
In Salmusa’s jacket pocket was a cellphone that acted as a remote control transmitter. An old-fashioned method, to be sure, but effective. All he had to do was punch the correct numbers and the timer inside the case would start.
He walked west on Hollywood Boulevard, wincing at the grime and filth that surrounded him. The city’s smell had certainly grown worse since the cuts in utility services. Salmusa didn’t doubt the reports that Hollywood had become rat-infested. There was enough garbage on the streets to feed all the rodents in China.
He smiled at the thought—pretty soon rats would be the dominant species in America.
The Los Angeles Metro Rail services had deteriorated exponentially with the failing economy. Nevertheless, thousands of citizens still rode the trains daily. The Red Line, the oldest subway in LA, was a decrepit, often dangerous piece of junk, and Salmusa almost had to force himself to go down the steps at Hollywood and Highland to board. He grimaced as he observed how rundown and puny it was, especially compared to the clean and modern rail lines that now existed in Korea. Every surface was covered with graffiti. Bills that called for a revolution against the government, generated by radical groups, were glued on the walls. Product advertisements were obscenely vandalized. More homeless people camped on the platforms, begging more affluent waiting passengers for money or food. One hapless musician who played a violin surprisingly well was ignored, his tip cup empty.
A person took his life into his own hands riding the LA subway, and that was during daylight. Salmusa could only imagine what horrors lurked down there at night.
After dutifully paying the fare—an outrageous $9.50 for a single ride—Salmusa stood on the platform for the train heading back in the direction from which he’d walked. He waited only a few minutes before it screeched into the station. It was packed full of passengers, all looking harried, uncomfortable, and miserable.
Good.
He glanced at his watch. It was four o’clock on the dot.
Everything was going according to plan.
Salmusa stood at the open doors as a few people shoved their way off the train, and then he calmly boarded.
The car smelled of body odor, urine, and cheap perfume. Disgusting.
As the train pulled away from the station, Salmusa set the briefcase on the floor and leaned it against the side of the car. He pushed it back with his foot, out of the way. There were so many people in the train that no one noticed.
He purposely avoided looking any passengers in the eye, but he could see who they were. Men and women, commuting to or from work. Some mothers with children. Teenagers—probably gang members—trying to look tough. And the usual allotment of homeless souls who had nothing better to do than ride the trains back and forth between stations.
Salmusa thought—soon they’ll be free of their agony.
It didn’t take long for the train to reach the Hollywood and Vine station. Salmusa allowed himself to be pushed out of the car with the exiting throng. Once on the platform, he made his way to the staircase and ascended to the street. As soon as he was outside, he removed the cellphone from his pocket and dialed the number he had memorized. Salmusa then held the phone to his ear, pretended to talk, and walked toward his car. Just another ordinary citizen.
Before the Red Line train reached the next station at Hollywood and Western, Salmusa heard the muffled, but distinctly devastating boom underground. The sidewalk shook as if another minor earthquake had hit Southern California. Pedestrians reacted to the noise, but they were clueless as to its origin. Salmusa stood by his car and waited to see what kind of pandemonium would erupt as soon as the news of what happened reached the street. For fun, he watched the seconds tick by on his watch. It took exactly twenty-five of them before black, billowy smoke gushed from the Hollywood and Vine subway entrance. This was quickly followed by people running and screaming from the station.
“There’s been an explosion! Call 911!” someone cried.
Given the reputation of LA’s emergency services, Salmusa knew the response would be slow and disorganized. But in an hour, the police and fire departments would have their hands full.
Perfect.
Now to give America a few hours to reel from what had just occurred in LA, New York, Washington, and the other cities where his operatives performed their duties. Then, in the midst of the chaos, Phases Two and Three would be implemented.
Salmusa got into his car and drove away before the sound of sirens penetrated the dark, cloudy air.
4:20 P.M., PST.
Dressed only in boxer shorts, Walker sat on the sofa in front of the television, a glass of Jack in one hand, the remote in the other. Ever since he’d come home from the Celebrity Trash office, he’d done nothing but make a short journal entry and work on the whiskey. He’d had the sense to have a bite to eat, and now the crumbs from the microwaved pizza littered his lap.
There was nothing but crap on TV. If it wasn’t an idiotic game show, it was a talking head blabbing about America’s problems. Soap operas were a thing of the past, but there was still “women’s fare” such as cooking shows in which housewives were shown how to make complete family dinners out of practically nothing. Religious-themed stations dominated the cable channels; even Saint Lorenzo had his own talk show. The movie channels broadcasted decades-old features. That was fine by Walker, but nine times out of ten he’d seen whatever was showing. The big three networks—NBC, ABC, and CBS—barely had the funds to keep operating, but they managed to do so. Nothing in their lineup was aimed at an intelligent audience anymore. Even the news programs were watered down, full of half-truths and feel-good pep talks about how “things were getting better.”
At the moment, Walker was watching one of the so-called “entertainment” programs, on which undeserving celebrities were profiled or interviewed. He’d just poured another glass of whiskey when a news bar appeared at the bottom of the screen. As it rolled, he read: “BREAKING NEWS—EXPLOSION IN LOS ANGELES SUBWAY. AUTHORITIES ARE INVESTIGATING.” Walker didn’t think much of it. There was always something.
He continued to watch the program, but a few minutes later another news bar appeared. “BREAKING NEWS—EXPLOSION REPORTED IN NEW YORK CITY SUBWAY.”
Walker blinked and sat up.
This was immediately followed by “BREAKING NEWS—EXPLOSION REPORTED IN WASHINGTON, D.C., SUBWAY.”
Hold on. What the hell?
Walker used the remote to change channels. He found a dedicated news station and the story was front and center. A popular anchorman relayed the disturbing news as images of fire, death, and destruction flashed on a screen behind him.
“—as we are receiving it. Again, we have reports that deadly explosions have occurred on at least three major U.S. city mass transportation systems. In Los Angeles, at approximately four o’clock Pacific Standard Time, a bomb exploded on the Red Line Metro. The death toll is estimated to be a hundred or more. In New York, a similar, simultaneous explosion occurred on the Number One subway at approximately seven o’clock Eastern Standard Time. In Washington, D.C., at the same time, a bomb went off on the—hold on.” The anchor put a hand to his earpiece. “I am now receiving a report that a bomb has exploded in Dallas, Texas, on a DART train, and in Atlanta, Georgia, on a MARTA train.
Wait—oh dear Lord, there’s one in Miami, too. A Metromover in Dade County was … And in Denver, Colorado …”
Stunned, Walker sat with his jaw open. What the hell was going on? There hadn’t been terrorist attacks in the country for over a decade. The fundamentalist Islamics couldn’t be back, could they? And why? America had left the Middle East. There was nothing for them to bitch about.
Who was behind it?
For the next hour, he stayed glued to the set as reports came in. Just when he thought it was over, another city was named as a target. Obviously, well-executed, well-planned, simultaneous attacks had occurred all over the country. Twelve major cities, all on mass transit systems. Most of the explosions were on trains, a couple on buses, one on a streetcar. Hundreds dead. Hundreds injured. Mass confusion and panic. Emergency services were pushed to the brim.
Somewhat sober now, Walker managed to stand, walk outside onto his deck, and look over the hills toward the city. He heard sirens in the distance. He thought he saw a couple of dark clouds of smoke over Hollywood, but compared to the haze that normally hung over the area it was difficult to tell for sure.
Feeling a chill, he returned inside and went to his computer. He browsed some of the blogger websites that tended to focus on the realities of the world. Discussions of the attacks were all over the Internet. Conspiracy theories abounded. The fundamentalist Muslims were back. It was the Koreans. Angry radical revolutionaries in America were responsible. Washington was behind the attacks in an attempt to rally the people to a common cause.
Behind him on the television set, the president appeared to deliver a short address from the Oval Office. He urged the public to remain calm and pledged that the government would do everything in its power to find the culprits and bring them to justice.
No one listened to the president anymore.
Walker grabbed his cellphone. He had a sudden compulsion to call his ex-wife, Rhonda, to whom he hadn’t spoken in ages. But when he dialed the number, the network was busy. He tried again a few minutes later with no luck. He finally gave up the attempts after an hour.