by Tom Wheeler
“See for yourself,” he said, clicking the mouse to pull up a black-and-white image of what was obviously the inside of her body.
“What’s that?” she asked, pointing at the x-ray from her seat.
“Your ribs.”
“No, that,” she said, lifting her rear just off the seat and putting her finger on the spots that ran across her vertebrae.
“Islet cell tumors.”
“I thought you said they were gone,” she griped, sitting back down. The doctor clicked the mouse again.
“This image was taken when they added your plates. As you can see, the tumors are gone,” he said as Rihanna stood, moving her head toward the screen and squinting at the image.
Her eyes widened.
“They’re really gone?” she asked as a feeling of euphoria was beginning to overcome her, the hairs on her arms and legs involuntarily erect.
“Has anything changed in your life lately?”
Rihanna hesitated, tears welling in her eyes.
“Rihanna?”
“Umm, no. Just the fall,” Rihanna said, unwilling to share her mysterious encounter with Mason and the human truck that had plowed her down, apparently after yanking her helicopter from the sky. After her pithy exchange with Mason, she had looked up the Grand Book, read what it meant to become a born-again believer, and prayed the prayer to accept Emmanuel into her heart. Telling this doctor, although she was dying to do so, might be a literal death sentence. Which sounded good in theory, but not in fact.
“Have you had any of the previous digestive issues?” Dr. Noroozpur probed. A tear fell from Rihanna’s eye. Her normally hard expression was replaced by warmth.
“No, come to think of it, I haven’t,” she replied, wiping the tear away with her bare arm.
“Well then, you can thank Allah,” the doctor said with a slight smile. “I trust you are Muslim?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Of course,” said Rihanna, who moved her upper lip under her lower one for a nanosecond, then swallowed hard, well aware that more than 90 percent of those diagnosed with pancreatic cancer die of the disease within five years.
“Take off your shirt, what there is of it,” the doctor instructed with a look verging on disgust, envy, and lust. “Let me look at that incision.” As Rihanna complied, he attached his glasses, pulled back the bandage covering the incision, and inspected it from inches away.
“How does it feel?” he asked.
“Fine,” she said, smiling. “I don’t like cancer.”
“Nobody does. But you don’t have it anymore. You can put your shirt on. I’d like to see you back here in two weeks. In the meantime, take it easy. Your ribs are healing but are still weak. No heavy lifting and, in your case, no climbing. I wouldn’t want you to fall again.” He removed his glasses and looked her in the eyes. “Perhaps a heavier outer covering would help?”
Rihanna’s lip curled, her eyes rolling, although her euphoria outweighed her desire to rebuke the doctor.
“Right, thanks,” she said, biting her tongue. She drew herself up and headed for the exit of the building, elated by the news. “Thank you, Emmanuel! Let all that I am give You praise!” she repeated to herself, shaking her head in disbelief. She jumped into her white Saipa Pride and immediately found herself stuck in a parking lot of congested traffic on Valiasr Street in downtown Tehran. But today she didn’t care. Her cancer was gone.
15
Plucking the Rose
September 3
Pyongyang, North Korea
The sun had not yet risen.
Lights from a traditional streetlight illuminated a lone guard at the north end of the supreme leader’s home. Nero, a.k.a. Maxey, approached slowly and carefully, peering over his shoulder as he moved his feet more like a lion than a man.
He took a step, then another, and another, while Crane’s heart raced as he watched from Washington. Several moments later, Maxey’s left hand found the smaller man’s chin, the other his head. In a fraction of a second, he simultaneously bent and wrenched the beleaguered man’s head with a swift jerking motion. The sound of the man’s neck cracked in Crane’s ears, locking the general’s face and stopping his heart before his eyes skittered quickly away from the monitor. Maxey mechanically lowered the still-convulsing man to the ground, then dragged him with one hand into the far bushes as his eyes scanned the area. He moved the Type 73 light machine gun off the body and slung the weapon around his shoulder, then headed back to take the man’s post. When Crane looked back at the monitor, Maxey was in position at the northern gate of the Ryongsong Residence of the Rose, Pak-un, supreme leader of North Korea.
Pak-un had been chairman of the Workers’ Party of Korea, or supreme leader, since his father Kim-un’s funeral in 2011. Though Pak-un appeared erratic and childlike, nobody questioned his authority since he had executed his own uncle, Jang Hong-theek, in 2013 and then had his own brother, Kim Dak-un, assassinated in 2017. Like him or not, most knew you’d better be on Pak-un’s good side if you wanted to wake up tomorrow. That didn’t mean he no longer had opposition amongst the ranks, of course; it just meant they kept their dissent to themselves until they saw an opening to strike. This was standard protocol for dictators: kill dissenters or be killed.
“Lieutenant Kwang-jin. Neo ansim haess-eo. 6 beon yeog-eseo,” an approaching soldier said to Maxey. English translation told Crane that he had come to relieve Maxey (Lieutenant Kwang-jin) to station 6. Crane held his breath.
“Ne, jung-wi nim.”
Crane watched as Maxey headed toward Pak-un’s residence rather than the next assignment. The general’s eyes widened. Before Crane let the air out of his lungs, the soldier yelled toward Maxey.
“Hei! Ibwa, eodi gani?”
Crane’s heart rate increased, the air still in his lungs.
“Na jasin-eul pul-eo jwoya hae,” Maxey responded, telling the man he had to relieve himself.
The soldier laughed as Crane let the air out of his lungs with a whooshing sound. He held his forehead in his right hand briefly before returning his eyes to the screen.
Maxey stopped just outside Pak-un’s residence in what appeared to be a safe place. Then he waited. Crane felt his heart thud hard. He dug into his pocket for the aspirin container, wondering if that thud warranted another of the small pills. He remembered that one aspirin thinned his blood, but a second could be toxic, although he’d taken more than one before without incident. He chugged a bottle of water instead, knowing he had to get something to eat. Crane pushed the intercom and asked his assistant to bring him a turkey sandwich, which he would wolf down before he watched something else that might make him vomit. He confirmed the order as, via Maxey’s eyes, he saw Pak-un being escorted down the main stairs of the Pyongyang compound.
Although Crane had no intelligence about the specific comings and goings of Pak-un and his right-hand man, General Hwang Byong-so, satellites revealed patterns of behavior, which was how they had deduced that the supreme leader would be at this facility today. They were also fairly certain this was not Pak-un’s look-alike, although that intel was unconfirmed. Fifteen minutes passed before Crane saw him: Hwang Byong-so, deputy director of the Organization and Guidance Department (OGD) and loyal head of the General Political Bureau—the North Korean military.
16
Take Down
General Crane watched General Hwang Byong-so exit the car and bow before Pak-un. The two men walked side by side down the walkway just below the marble stairs at Pak-un’s residential facility. A couple of crows squawked in the background on the 60-ish-degree morning with crystal clear skies as the sun continued to rise. The men passed a small yew tree manicured in the likeness of the head of Pak-un. A bronze statue of Pak-un riding a bucking horse loomed in the distance. Maxey’s facial recognition confirmed that the man with General Hwang was Pak-un. Since
the supreme leader had a double, it was important for Crane to be sure.
“What have you heard from the American president?” asked General Hwang in Korean, translated into English as Crane listened.
“President Crumpler had a massive heart attack. Tense is acting president,” said Pak-un, his eyebrows pulled together at the news. “Crumpler was a troll; Tense was his sycophant, or appeared that way as vice president,” he said, pausing. “I suspect Ahmadi triggered war nonetheless.”
“I thought Ahmadi’s religion prohibited use of nuclear weapons,” General Hwang replied as the two men stopped in front of another one of the groomed trees.
“He didn’t set it off. I warned him of the consequences.”
“Then who did?”
“Hassan bin Laden; the only man who repeatedly disregards consequences,” said Pak-un, taking out a cigarette as Crane’s eyes widened. General Hwang quickly pulled something—a lighter—out of his pocket and lit Pak-un’s cigarette. Pak-un inhaled a drag from the white stick and then blew it out in the opposite direction, the wind dispersing it quickly into the atmosphere.
“Do the Americans suspect the nuke came from us?”
“It’s a reach for any of them to believe we have the know-how to build such a bomb,” said the supreme leader as he looked General Hwang directly in the eyes, his cigarette held by the index finger and middle finger of his left hand, his arm half bent. “But that was our plan. I just didn’t expect Ahmadi to give the bomb to Hassan after we delivered it to him. Now, what are your plans to combat an invasion?” he asked as they continued to walk.
“There’s our proof,” said Crane, rising from his desk and rushing out to the waiting chopper that would take him to the White House.
“You sure, General?” asked the president as they sat alone in the Situation Room just 20 minutes later, turning their heads to the screen, watching Pak-un and his top military advisor, General Hwang, part.
“Yes, sir,” Crane said. Through Maxey’s eyes, they watched Pak-un return to his Ryongsong Residence as General Hwang jumped into a car, heading back to what Crane assumed to be his KPA headquarters in Pyongyang. Maxey moved toward the edge of the compound in pursuit of his target. He stayed out of the main area as he synchronized all the soldiers in the perimeter.
“Okay. Do it,” the president ordered as their eyes returned to the large screen.
Crane didn’t react. The only action required on his part would occur if the mission was aborted.
“Eodi gani?” the guard on the perimeter yelled at Maxey, who immediately replied.
“Choego jidojaga jeoleul jubyeon-eulo bonaessseubnida.” Crane wiped his right hand on his pant leg. Maxey told the soldier he was going to the perimeter at the request of Pak-un while he headed straight toward the soldier. As soon as he was upon him, Maxey smashed his elbow into the man’s head, breaking his skull in half.
“Oh my God!” said the president, wincing at the sight of the man’s head cracking like a watermelon, his brain falling to the ground from some 4,000 pounds of pressure coming from Maxey. Maxey dragged the dead body by its feet, kicking the brain in the same direction until both were hidden in the bushes. He then made his way around the perimeter to Pak-un’s residence, walking slowly and casually up the steps as if to relieve the guard on the hour as expected. Crane’s eyes were glued to the screen, his mouth hanging open, his lips quivering as the president stood up abruptly, put his hands on the table as if he was about to get sick, and then turned away from the screen.
Maxey entered the house, making small talk on the way up the next set of stairs. Within moments he saw three guards outside the supreme leader’s door. All three names appeared on the screen, along with their ranks. President Tense turned back to the screen.
Without hesitation, Maxey smashed his foot through the first guard’s chest while butt-stroking the other guard in the face. Shots were fired by the soldier he had passed on the stairs. He ignored the fire as the eyes of the Korean soldiers widened. Then he broke through the door to Pak-un, who wore an expression of fear and shock etched on his face. Maxey raised his weapon and fired one shot, hitting the Rose in the forehead. The godlike leader fell to the floor just as Maxey leapt through the window, landing on the grass below as gunfire followed him. In the background a siren rang out, indicating a breach in security.
Maxey ran straight through the compound with dozens of soldiers in pursuit, several jumping into vehicles moving toward the exit, where he noticed General Hwang Byong-so’s SUV. Maxey aimed his arm, firing a shoulder-fire sized missile that sent the general’s vehicle exploding into the air. The android then dashed toward the area where he had stashed his jet pack, bent down and grabbed it, flung it over his back, lit it, and took off over the fence and trees surrounding the compound as hundreds of artillery rounds were fired from the compound.
“Oh my God!” repeated President Tense, putting his hand on his heart as he fell into his chair with a look of shock frozen on his face. Crane blinked hard. The last thing they noticed was the sound of an RPG hitting somewhere around Maxey, but missing him as he continued to fly through the North Korean sky into neighboring South Korea, where he disappeared.
“Holy mother of God,” said the president. “I had no—”
“I know, sir, nobody does, until they see them in action,” Crane interrupted.
“I’m literally shaking, General.”
“Me, too, and this isn’t my first rodeo.”
The Rose was dead. Killed by a rogue North Korean soldier who had escaped—at least that was the scenario the president would convince the world had happened, including his own military and Congress, ensuring satellite footage would back up his story. The fact he had mentioned this would happen in his State of the Union address would be ‘coincidental,’ a tactic he learned from his predecessor, Jordan Crumpler.
17
Searching for Hassan
September 3
Tehran, Iran
“Ali!” answered a voice before Rihanna spoke, her phone plastered against her right ear. “What happened? We got disconnected,” said the voice Rihanna recognized as that of Hassan bin Laden.
““Where are you?” she asked, knowing Ali was likely Ali Ahmadi, the other man who could pay her.
“Who is this?” Hassan asked without answering.
“Rihanna. I need my money, Hassan, particularly now that you blew up California. Where is Ahmadi?” The phone disconnected.
Rihanna starred at her phone. “Kuso kurae!” she cursed in Japanese as she redialed in a huff. No answer. She tried again. She knew Hassan would be using one of the burner phones he carried. What he didn’t know was that she had the numbers of the phones, given to her by a friend months ago, after Hassan had hired her for another job and hadn’t paid her on time. Being the Ninja has its advantages, she thought to herself, still pissed Hassan had hung up on her. She tried him one last time before parking her small white Saipa Pride.
Thank you for saving me from cancer, Almighty One. But please don’t let me be incinerated by a nuke in Iran, she prayed as she skipped across Tajrish Square back to her favorite evening hangout, the Lamiz Coffee shop. Simultaneously she glanced up to the clear sky to make sure nothing was falling.
She hadn’t realized how addicted she was to her shot of espresso until she’d gone without it for the past two weeks. It seemed like months since she’d answered the call from Hassan to fly Mason to Afghanistan. Anyway, it was a new day, a new world. She found a table and opened her iPad to catch up on the day’s news. She logged on to the BBC, and her jaw hit the floor.
“BBC breaking news: Unconfirmed reports indicate Iranian Supreme Leader Ali Ahmadi and President Akbar Ahmadinejad’s Lear jet has disappeared over the Caspian Sea. Search parties are en route.”
A shot of adrenaline flashed through her
body. Nani! she said to herself in disbelief. Dôshiyô? Now what? It wasn’t that Rihanna cared anything about the two men; rather, she knew it was part of the chain reaction over the nuke detonated on American soil, striking a greater urgency to get the hell out of the lodge, she thought, quoting a pithy American saying, although she wondered if she had it right. She knew once word hit the streets, Iran would erupt, most blaming the Americans. The ticking clock had just leapt forward to the 11th hour.
Why were they flying together? Rihanna wondered suspiciously, sipping her espresso. Ahmadi rarely traveled overseas, and those two never traveled together.
She googled a world map on her iPad and looked at what was beyond the Caspian Sea. She saw Moscow. “Russia?” she said out loud. Her mind raced, although trying to figure out what they were doing together in that jet was a form of insanity. She shot down the rest of her espresso, packed her things into her backpack, and jumped back into her car, with one other person to call—General Troy, another mysterious contact of Ahmadi’s, at least she suspected. She had found his name and number the last time she’d been in the Euro helicopter. Fortunately she’d kept it. She poked the number out on her phone.
“Blah, blah, blah,” she mocked as she listened to the excuses of Troy, whose voice was concealed as if he or she were a computer. The last words were that Troy would get her a passport to escape Iran, but without giving her the money required to make the trip. At least that was some consolation since Rihanna couldn’t travel to France without one.
“Strange,” she muttered to herself as her mind raced through various acquaintances she’d met over the years that might give her a hint as to the mysterious person’s identity. Nothing. Her mind switched to the task at hand.
If she was going to get her money and flee the country, she was going to have to steal it, something her new faith forbade—although stealing money she was owed after a nuclear attack on America created a gray area in her mind. Legally, the money was hers. Anyway, Ahmadi had probably stolen it from someone else. She remembered having told someone that anyone attempting to break into Ahmadi’s house was out of his or her mind, but that was for everyone but her. I’m the Ninja, she thought. She headed back to Ahmadi’s home, where she would wait, and watch.