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.