Point of Contact

8

They met in the underground bunker deep beneath the drab and unassuming five-story granite building on the outskirts of the city, far from the central government district. Nominally it was the subheadquarters of the State Ministry of Fisheries, just another administrative organ in North Korea’s micromanaged, state-owned command economy.

Aboveground, harried black-coated technocrats exerted enormous bureaucratic energies administering the regulations and procedures of the vast ministry, which, unsurprisingly, had very little productive impact on North Korea’s fishing industry. Most of the bureaucrats’ work was designed to justify the generous food ration cards they received, the less cramped public housing they lived in, and the meager but regular salaries their privileged jobs paid them.

What these bureaucrats didn’t realize was that both their work and their lives were meant only as camouflage. Neither the building nor the ministry appeared to have any strategic significance and therefore would hardly qualify for targeting by American or South Korean military planners. But down here, in the nuclear-proof bomb shelter that served as one of the regime’s many secret conference rooms, the truly important business of the state was being conducted. Chairman Choi Ha-guk met with his most trusted civilian and military advisers. He trusted them only because they feared him. The three empty chairs around the long teak table were a grim reminder of the cost of failure.

Unlike his cousin Choi Ji-hoon, Choi Ha-guk was a seasoned military officer, leading the elite Army unit that had killed Ji-hoon’s bodyguard two years earlier in a violent coup and overthrown the young, spoiled fool. Choi Ha-guk’s father, Choi Sang-u, was freed from his labor camp and installed as the new supreme leader of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. But years of forced labor had destroyed his father’s health, and within weeks of leaving the camp, he died. With his father’s blessing and the Army behind him, Ha-guk’s unanimous election to the nation’s presidency, the chairmanship of the party, and promotion to the supreme marshal of the armed forces was assured.

The chairman’s first order of business was to repair his relationship with China, grossly undermined by his idiot cousin. Having trained with some of China’s top military units and fluent in Mandarin, the chairman had deep personal and political ties with key members of the Chinese Politburo and PLA staff officers.

Changing policy course was vital but difficult. Undermining his cousin’s failed initiative potentially delegitimized his own position. Choi Ha-guk was careful to preserve the hagiographies of his violent predecessors — a cousin, his father, his uncle, and his grandfather. North Korea was the inheritance of the Choi family, and he would do nothing to risk that inheritance for himself or his own children, who stood in the line of succession now that his uncle and cousin were dead.

But Choi Ha-guk also had a vision. He knew he was destined to play a decisive role on the world stage and finally elevate North Korea to its rightful place among the nations. Kant and Hegel were essentially right. All of History was marching toward an Idea. What neither philosopher realized was that he, Choi Ha-guk, was that Idea — at least in Asia.

But all of that was at risk now. His next decision would determine the fate of the country, he was certain.

Sitting at the head of the table, Chairman Choi Ha-guk surveyed the row of grim military officers on his left, each stern face directed toward him, their spines stiff, hands neatly folded in their laps. Their hair was cropped uniformly short in the regulation military style and their broad caps stood in a perfect row in front of them down the table — with the exception of the missing officer and his empty chair. A man who had recently disappointed the chairman.

Each military uniform was resplendent with hard-won badges, medals, and ribbons from the shoulder tabs to the hems of the coats — enough “fruit salad” for a dozen wars and a hundred battles. But not one of them had served in the great Fatherland Liberation War or in sustained combat of any kind.

But the chairman knew these were hard men, highly trained and motivated — one of the great legacies bestowed upon him by his uncle and grandfather. Each of these admirals and generals had been vetted and monitored for their ideological fervor and political reliability, both of which were reinforced by the privileges and perks of their positions, and the extensive kinship networks that linked them by blood to the dominant Choi family.

But even more important, these flag officers were part of North Korea’s great warrior class, the sons and grandsons of DPRK troops who fought and sacrificed valiantly, fanatically, and skillfully against the South Korean bandits and later against more heavily armed American and UN invaders. Family honor and patriotic pride drove these men seated at the table like Harpies’ whips. They were the Spartans of Asia.

On Choi’s right sat his equally focused civilian advisers, each wearing identical Mao-styled black jackets buttoned to the top of their throats and short-cropped hair like the military men. It would be easy for outsiders to dismiss the civilians as bureaucratic sycophants, but they were each as talented, driven, and proven in state security matters as their military counterparts were. Two of the seven chairs on the civilian side were empty. Failure came at a high price.

What each man in the room knew was that, unlike his predecessors, the chairman eschewed fawning subservience. Instead, he demanded flawless performance from his subordinates, a far more difficult and dangerous proposition than effusive boot-licking.

In the back left corner of the room was a secretary who was seated at a small desk, recording the proceedings on a shorthand machine. In the back right corner of the room opposite the secretary sat a young man in a single chair. His face and body screamed military, but he wore civilian clothes. The anonymous man was unknown to everyone but the chairman. He sat in a silent, disquieting strength.

Choi Ha-guk turned toward one of his key spymasters, the new head of the RGB — Reconnaissance General Bureau. “When was this confirmed?”

“My South Korean informant confirmed it yesterday.”

“And he is reliable?”

The RGB minister resented the question. The clandestine bureau had spent decades successfully cultivating a vast network of highly placed and reliable South Korean agents. “Perfectly reliable, sir. She is a secretary in the president’s travel office.”

“How can we be certain she isn’t a double agent?”

“She is a loyal daughter of our glorious revolution, working tirelessly for our imminent reunification with the bandit South. But it is also true that her great-uncle is a pensioner in one of our senior public housing units, where he is well cared for by our benevolent government. She has expressed her undying gratitude for his continued well-being.”

The chairman nodded. “Very good.”

The RGB minister continued. “She forwarded this by courier.” The minister passed the single-page document to the man on his left, who in turn passed it along, one after another, until it was carefully placed in front of Choi Ha-guk. He left it on the table in front of him, unread.

“Do we have any specifics about the summit? What is it they plan to talk about? What do they want to accomplish?” Choi turned toward the head of the 225th Bureau, one of several overseas covert operations departments at his disposal. The 225th Bureau’s target was South Korea, infiltrating operatives across the border and recruiting South Korean agents.

“Unknown at this time, sir.”

The chairman glanced around the table. “Anybody?”

Heads shook.

Choi sighed, frustrated. “We know that the Chinese called the summit, and we know that the Americans and the others can’t do anything without their permission or cooperation.” He turned to his foreign minister. “So the questions are: What is Beijing up to? And to what lengths will they go? What will they permit the Americans to do to us?”

“I have spoken with the Chinese foreign minister. He was very vague and expressed his government’s displeasure at the firing of our MIRV’d SLBM.”

That was surprising news to the chairman, but his stoic gaze didn’t betray him. His cousin had grossly overreached in his desire for long-range ICBMs that could hit the United States. How could President Ryan not respond to such a strategic threat?

But apparently, he himself had also miscalculated the effect that a medium-range MIRV missile test would have on the superpowers. That was troubling, in part, because the technology had come from friendly Chinese sources.

Either the power struggle on the mainland had intensified or his so-called Chinese friends had set him up for a fall. Either way, his situation was untenable.

“What assurances regarding our interests did he give you?”

“None.”

Another surprise. Choi’s gaze held steady. “That’s disturbing news.”

China had always been North Korea’s advocate and shield on the world stage, even when they misbehaved. China shed more than a million lives in the great Fatherland Liberation War after the Americans intervened and threatened to cross the Yalu River. The mutual sacrifice and shared ideology formed a strong bond between the neighboring dictatorships, particularly among the militaristic factions.

Strategically, the North Koreans played a key role in China’s foreign policy, keeping Japan and South Korea on edge and at the same time currying Chinese favor to intervene against Pyongyang’s ambitions.

But two years ago, President Ling and President Ryan had conspired to initiate the overthrow of Ji-hoon and his reckless policies. Fortunately, the replacement of President Ling by President Zhao had given Choi time to consolidate his position.

What were the two great powers up to now?

We must assume, then, that regime change is their unstated goal,” Choi said. “How will they try to overthrow us? War?” War was always on the forefront of Choi’s mind as the commander-in-chief of all military forces and as an ardent student of history.

“We must not preclude the possibility of a full-scale invasion from the south, supported by naval and air assets from the coalition partners,” the Korean People’s Army Ground Force general said. “And perhaps with Chinese troops pouring across our northern border.”

“But it is highly unlikely,” Choi said. “There would be horrible bloodshed and widespread destruction. What would be left for them to take over?”

“Let them try. We’ll smash them all!” one of the generals said. The military heads all nodded in agreement.

“I don’t doubt our military capabilities, gentlemen. But even if we smashed them, they would still surely smash us. War is to be avoided if at all possible, if we want the Revolution to survive.” He sat back in his chair. “But as a precaution, let’s quietly redirect ten additional divisions north. We’ll use the pretense of border security and drug trafficking — no, sex trafficking — but move them at night and under cover whenever possible.”

“Yes, sir,” an Army general replied.

“What other military options do they have, short of total war or invasion?” Choi asked.

The general of the strategic rocket forces leaned forward. “If I were the Americans, I would make tactical strikes on our missile facilities and submarine pens.”

“Our underground nuclear facilities are impervious to aerial bombardment,” a technocrat said. “But the Americans will drop chemical or biological agents around our facilities to slow production and transport.”

The chairman nodded. “I’ve thought of these myself. I want a plan drawn up immediately to relocate as many civilians as we can to surround these facilities — new schools, hospitals, whatever it takes. The Americans won’t dare strike then.”

He scanned the military faces again. “So that’s it? It sounds as if the coalition’s military options are quite limited.”

Heads nodded in agreement.

Choi turned to an economic official. “Besides military action, what else could the coalition do?”

“A total economic blockade,” the minister offered. Clearly Choi already knew what the man’s answer would be.

“That would only be possible with a complete air and naval blockade,” the Korean People’s Army Navy admiral said.

“China and South Korea account for the vast majority of our imports and exports. A blockade would hardly be necessary,” Choi said. “But I would hate to lose our business with Pakistan and Iran.” Some of North Korea’s nuclear and missile technology came from them.

“Our submarines can break the back of any blockade,” the Korean People’s Army Navy admiral said. The KPAN had thirty-five submarines, many of them domestically built, and over seven hundred ships in total.

“I appreciate the gallantry, Admiral, but our subs are vastly outnumbered by their antisubmarine forces,” Choi said. He pulled out a Gitanes cigarette from a fresh blue pack and lit it. He was the only person allowed to smoke in the room. A lead-crystal Baccarat ashtray sat to one side, a gift from one of his young mistresses after her last trip to Brussels. He took a few drags, thinking. His eyes fixed on the oily smoke curling from the end of his cigarette, whisking away into the ceiling ducts by the powerful fans circulating the filtered air — a gift of the Ukrainian Communists decades ago. It gave him an idea. He turned to the foreign minister.

“What will the Russians do if we are blockaded?”

“Given their current status with the Americans, I’m certain they will gladly ignore the embargo if for no other reason than to frustrate President Ryan.”

“Contact your counterpart in Moscow. Confirm this, and find out precisely what items and services they might be willing to provide,” Choi said.

“Immediately, sir.”

Another minister spoke. “There is no question that we can survive an economic embargo. Our people are willing to make the necessary sacrifices for the sake of our country.”

Choi stubbed out his cigarette in the expensive ashtray in small, precise movements. “Agreed. We can survive their economic embargo. But I’m not interested in merely ‘surviving.’”

The paper in front of Choi caught his eye. He picked it up and read it. Another idea came to him. “We have the meeting confirmed, as well as the time and place. President Zhao, President Ryan, Prime Minister Hironaga, and President Yeo-jin will all be in attendance. Does this gathering of heads of state present us with an opportunity?”

Everyone in the room knew Choi was referring to the 1983 Rangoon bombing by North Korean agents. That attack killed several high-ranking South Korean cabinet officials, who had all gathered for a public event. Dozens of other innocent civilians died as well — collateral damage in the long march toward the Idea. The president of South Korea survived only because the bomb went off before his scheduled arrival.

The head of the Ministry of State Security’s foreign counterespionage cadre cleared his throat. “It would be nearly impossible to organize an assassination attempt on Chinese soil, especially in Beijing.”

“Nearly impossible, but not entirely impossible, correct?” Choi asked.

“Anything is possible if one has the will,” the MSS deputy, a cousin, said. “But a successful outcome would turn us into a pariah with our friends in the Chinese government.”

Choi turned to the general of the rocket forces. “What about a decisive blow from one of our missiles, smashing the summit?”

The general froze. Was he serious?

“Would it even be possible?” Choi demanded.

“Yes, it would be possible.”

The chairman shook his head. “But not probable. The Chinese air defenses are impermeable.”

“But our scientists are working tirelessly to defeat their systems,” a civilian offered.

Choi waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, of course. But that doesn’t help us now, does it?”

The man shook his head sheepishly. “No, sir.”

“Do we have any other options available to us? Something that would at least disrupt their planned summit?”

“Did you have something in mind, sir?” one of the generals asked.

Choi suggested, “Another nuclear test, perhaps.”

A civilian technocrat from the nuclear directorate answered. “We might be able to rush one forward, but we risk a failure by doing so, and that would damage our technical credibility in the international community. But if we succeeded it would only reinforce the concerns of the Americans and their lackeys.”

“Agreed.” Choi folded his hands, thinking.

The anonymous man in the rear of the room fought back a smile. The chairman was putting on quite a theatrical performance.

The room sat in silence. No one dared speak until prompted by the dictator.

“This is quite perplexing, isn’t it?” Choi finally said. “The capitalists aren’t stupid. They must surely have gone through a similar exercise as we are going through right now. Thanks to our valiant armed forces, they are deterred from significant military action. And another economic embargo won’t amount to much in the long run. They must know these things. So why have the summit? A failed summit is terrible propaganda. They must have a plan to destroy us. But how? What do they know that we don’t?”

The room waited for his answer.

“Do I have to do all the thinking? Our enemies are set to strangle us. Speak up!”

Shocked by the rare display of emotion, the officers and ministers immediately conferred among one another briefly, then silenced again, confounded.

The anonymous young man stood up, his chair scraping on the concrete floor. Every head turned in unison.

“Chairman, gentlemen, I have a slightly different view of the situation,” he began.

The heads around the table turned back toward Choi. Their quizzical faces all asked the same question: Who is this interloper?

“Gentlemen, this is Deputy Ri from the General Administrative Services Directorate.”

This answered nobody’s question. No one had heard of the obscure department. The only way anyone in the room could have known about it was to have memorized the organizational chart of the State Commission for Railroad Construction. They would have needed a photographic memory to recall that near the very bottom of that extensive document was a row of organizational boxes stemming beneath the machine tools division. Further beneath that division was the lubricants and petroleum distillates department, administered by a subunit simply abbreviated as GASD.

In reality, GASD was one of the most important agencies in the vast North Korean intelligence apparatus. GASD was so obscure that its existence was unknown even to the head of the Ministry of State Security. This is why Western intelligence agencies had no idea of its existence. It reported directly to Choi.

Choi watched the room’s unresolved confusion turn to frustration. “I trust Deputy Ri’s opinions completely.”

That was all everyone else needed to hear. The officers and technocrats turned back around and listened in rapt attention to the arrogant young GASD official.

“The enemies of our republic are many and powerful, and they are constantly plotting our destruction.” Ri spoke with command authority. The military men recognized it at once even if they didn’t recognize him. Ri wasn’t his real name, of course. In a previous life Ri had been a noncommissioned officer in one of the nation’s elite combat units, but he was plucked from his platoon when his particular genius was discovered.

“Fortunately, their great strengths are matched by a singularly cataclysmic weakness. A weakness my department is prepared to exploit. But it must be done so quickly. A window is rapidly closing.”

The chairman sat up. “With what result?”

“Two results, sir. First, the peace, safety, and security of our republic. And second, the end of China as we know it, and the West along with it.”

The stone-faced chairman smiled.