Rhee shrugged. “They could have scattered, back to their homes, but it’s more likely they’re headed for the Chinese border. It’s only eighty kilometers from here. I’ll bet there are a few trucks missing. Those bodies haven’t been dead more than twelve hours. If they did this last night, maybe about the same time we landed, they could be at the border now. And who’s going to stop a couple of army trucks?”
Oh’s eyebrow’s went up at the idea. “I pity any checkpoints they reach.”
“Let’s get out of here. I want to find out what’s going in that garrison.”
The master sergeant added, “And sooner or later, they’re going to wonder why nobody here is answering phone calls. We shouldn’t be here.”
They almost sprinted back to the hillside. As they reached the wood line, Rhee used his tactical radio. “Pack up. We need to move away from here. I’ll explain why later, but KPA units are likely to come and search this area any time now. And tell Ma to prepare the radio. I’ll want to sent a message.”
Guk replied immediately. “Understood. I was about to call you. You won’t believe what’s going on in that cantonment.”
“I will now,” Rhee answered.
Chapter 5 — Breeze
Cho Ho-jin had scouted out the spot before darkness fell across the city. It was a government building, officially part of the Education Ministry, but now it lay in ruins after being battered by tanks and heavy artillery. It was hard to believe that the educational apparatus represented a target for either loyalists or rebels. Then again, he thought sourly, in Kim’s regime there was no guarantee that the building had ever been remotely connected to education. It was just as likely to have been a state security prison or a special weapons laboratory.
The gutted concrete shell had burned out, but the ashes were still smoking. There were dozens of such ruins across Pyongyang, some much more extensive. Since reaching the capital yesterday, Cho had heard tank fire and the rattle of small arms almost constantly.
On reaching Pyongyang, he’d changed his identity from that of an agricultural inspector to a factory executive. He needn’t have bothered. Government offices were closed or outright abandoned, and official commerce had virtually ceased.
He’d made a report to his handlers in Directorate S while still outside the city, describing what he could make out of the ruined structures, and even taking pictures of the smoking skyline with his Chinese cell phone. The device had been modified by the Russians with a better antenna and an encryption chip that was triggered by a special prefix when he sent a text message. It was also untraceable. Its location couldn’t be fixed, even by his Russian masters, and the phone did not store messages or photos. If it was taken from him, it would tell his captors nothing of what he’d sent or received.
At Telitsyn’s prompting, and with reluctance, Cho had entered Pyongyang proper, trying to scout the situation without drawing attention to himself. Fortunately, the fighting between the warring factions was such a huge distraction that nobody had questioned his coming and goings, and many citizens had eagerly shared information in the hopes he’d do the same. Slowly, Cho had built up a picture of the battle and its effects.
Every part of Pyongyang had seen fighting, with regular army, internal security, and police units fighting each other, attacking government and commercial buildings that either served as centers of political power or had been turned into military strongpoints. Casualties could only be estimated, but he was certain they were easily in the thousands — and more likely in the tens of thousands. No attempt had been made to count the dead. No one had even bothered to put out most of the fires, treat any of the wounded, or rescue those certainly buried in the shattered buildings.
Then had come Kim’s broadcast.
Cho had been waiting in a food store near the edge of town, withdrawing from the danger near the city center. The proprietor was openly selling his goods at wartime prices, accepting only yuan or dollars, but he had food to sell, and he had plenty of customers. Like everyone else, Cho had come for the chance of a meal, and to learn what he could.
While he waited, the speaker mounted on the wall of the store, silent for several days, suddenly crackled to life. There was one like it in every factory, commercial establishment, and school, as well as most homes. In ordinary times these speakers played patriotic music, culturally uplifting plays, and carefully regulated news, especially about Kim Jong-un’s many accomplishments.
But now they heard the Supreme Leader’s voice. Instantly, silence had fallen across the little store. Everyone had stood motionless, staring at the speaker in disbelief.
Kim’s short speech had been followed by a standard song, “Labor toward Self-Sufficiency”—just as if there’d been no four-day interruption. The reactions in that little store had been very strange, Cho remembered. Before Kim declared himself alive, the people waiting in line for their turn at the counter had chatted, sharing concerns and gossip and news. Afterward, they had stood in complete silence.
Later, he’d joined the others outside, sitting quietly and wolfing down his tiny portion of rice and pickled vegetables. Listening for any scraps of conversation, he noticed that the gunfire was much reduced, more an occasional staccato burst than a constant drumbeat. And by the time he finished, the sounds of combat had almost vanished entirely.
That had to have been the result of Kim’s speech.
Was the military standing down, he wondered? Would the fighting in Pyongyang end?
But the people around him hadn’t looked relieved. Surely, for most of them, a cease-fire was good news. And yet they had still looked troubled. Finishing their own small meals, they had drifted off in ones and twos, as though afraid of attracting attention.
Now, in the gathering dusk, Cho watched the street carefully, but Pyongyang’s residents were already at home or hiding in shelters. The reactivated loudspeakers had proclaimed a nighttime curfew, but that was unnecessary. Several days of civil war had taught civilians caught up in the fighting harsh lessons. Anyone moving after dark, or worse yet, showing a light, risked becoming a target. None of the combatants had shown any concern for collateral damage.
The streets were clear and quiet. In the fading twilight, Cho picked his way into the ruined government building, choosing his path carefully, until he was in a part of the structure that was only scorched, and didn’t seem in danger of collapsing.
Sitting down, safely away from observing eyes, he began composing a very long e-mail to Moscow. He had a lot of information to send Telitsyn and Malikov — the identities of some of the army and security units involved in fratricidal combat, what he’d learned about the extent of the destruction, and most importantly, Kim’s speech and the reaction to it by ordinary North Koreans.
That, he thought grimly, was the key.
Before Kim spoke, Pyongyang’s inhabitants had been worried about the war raging around them. Now they were worried about what came next.
The news anchor’s image shared the screen with file video of Kim Jong-un inspecting a military unit. A brightly colored banner across the bottom read “Breaking News.”
“A little over two hours ago, the Voice of Korea, North Korea’s official news station, transmitted a short speech claimed to be by North Korean leader Kim Jong-un. Lasting just a little over five minutes, the speaker claimed to have been nearly caught by a ‘cowardly attempt’ on his life, but escaped with only minor injuries. He claimed that criminals and foreign sympathizers were attempting to disrupt the government, but that they were now being arrested, having done little damage. He called on the army and all loyal North Koreans to obey the orders of all lawful officials. He also promised another broadcast in the near future.”