The image of the dictator was replaced by a bearded man in his fifties, sitting across from the anchor. “We are joined by Dr. Russell Hayes of the Brookings Institution. Doctor, you’ve heard the recording. Do you think it’s authentic?”
Hayes nodded. “It sounded authentic. I’m sure our intelligence agencies are analyzing the voice. But I’ve listened to dozens of his speeches. And he’s been much more public than his father or grandfather. The phraseology, the inflection, all sounded correct to me. Deception always remains a possibility with the North Koreans, but the timing also supports this broadcast’s authenticity.”
The anchor looked confused. “In what way?”
“If someone was going to air a fake, they could have done it much sooner, before the situation had degraded so badly. It’s been five days since the bombing, and my hypothesis is that it’s taken this long for Kim to recover from his ‘minor’ injuries and be able to speak.”
“Is this the end of the coup, Doctor?”
Haynes nodded again. “Most likely, unless his security organizations are too badly damaged. The biggest question for the last five days has been whether or not Kim was dead. That has now been answered. For three generations, North Korea’s people have been conditioned to follow the Kims. And now that he’s made his appearance, the plotters will have to admit they’ve failed.”
“You’ve been following the reports of bloodshed in the capital and elsewhere. Will this broadcast put an end to that?”
Hayes sighed. “End the bloodshed? No, unfortunately not. It will only change its nature. I believe we’ll see the rebel versus loyalist and army versus army fighting replaced by a massive wave of arrests and executions, including anyone even remotely connected to the plotters. That may go on for months.”
The anchor looked genuinely shocked. “What’s your estimate of the casualties so far?”
The analyst shook his head in frustration. “We’ve got information on Pyongyang, mostly from foreign embassies, and the dead are easily in the thousands. Several times that are wounded, but given the dismal state of North Korean hospitals, their chance of survival is based more on luck than receiving decent medical care.
“And we’ve got nothing from the countryside at all,” Hayes continued. “Returning Western aid workers were a good source, but even though the State Department has recommended that all US citizens leave the DPRK immediately, few have, mostly because they can’t. The airports and train stations are closed.
“All we can hope is that with someone in charge, the situation will stabilize, and the danger of the fighting spreading outside the North’s borders will be much reduced.”
The anchor summarized, “So we’re likely to see a bloodbath, then a return to business as usual.”
Haynes scowled but reluctantly agreed. “If Kim really is in charge, yes.”
The thickly forested granite slopes of Myohyang-san, “the Mountain of Mysterious Fragrances,” rose sharply in multiple peaks one hundred and twenty kilometers northwest of Pyongyang. Famous for its roaring waterfalls and the ancient Buddhist temples and hermitages built into its sheer cliffs and slopes, in more peaceful times the mountain was a magnet for travelers and hikers. In the narrow river valley below, the Kim dynasty kept its vast treasure trove of precious gifts from foreign leaders in the one hundred fifty rooms of the International Friendship Exhibition.
But there were no travelers or hikers on the mountain now. Nor were there any chattering bands of tourists snapping pictures of the armored train car given to Kim Il-sung by Mao Tse-tung, or the limousine presented by Stalin, or the gem-encrusted silver sword from Yasser Arafat.
Instead, hurriedly dug trenches and rolls of razor-edged barbed wire ringed the base of each peak. North Korean soldiers in full combat gear lined these new fortifications, manning machine guns, mortars, and carefully sited antitank missile launchers and guns. Tanks and heavier artillery pieces were concealed in the surrounding forests under camouflage netting. SAM teams were deployed on the upper balconies of the pyramidal Hyangsan Hotel.
From time to time, the officers and enlisted men laboring to turn the mountain and its environs into a fortified camp turned nervous glances on the looming spire of Piro Peak. Climbing nearly two thousand meters up the Chilsong Valley, it was the highest point on Myohyang-san.
These men knew they were under constant observation from that peak. The slightest misstep, the smallest mistake, was taken as proof of treason. The firing squads were kept busy around Myohyang-san. And every day, the heaped mounds of earth marking mass graves spread wider.
Buried deep within Piro Peak’s layers of rock lay North Korea’s National Command Redoubt, a labyrinth of concrete- and steel-lined tunnels, bunkers, storehouses, armories, and living quarters — sealed off from the world and danger by gigantic blast doors. Built over more than a decade at enormous cost and in great secrecy, the redoubt was designed as a nuclear bomb — proof shelter and command post for the Kims and their favored retainers in time of war or unrest. It contained an array of electronics, surveillance, and defense equipment that surpassed anything else in the Democratic People’s Republic.
And now it was being put to the test.
Carved out of granite six hundred meters below the summit, the Audience Chamber, already quite large, was given the illusion of even greater size by a massive mural that filled the entirety of one wall. Larger-than-life figures of Kim Il-sung and Kim Jong-il were depicted on the slopes of the mountain, exhorting vast masses of joyful, cheering soldiers and peasants. Floor-to-ceiling red silk hangings lined the other walls, covering cold gray concrete surfaces and steel doors. Ventilators on the ceiling pumped in cool, fresh-tasting air.
Kim Jong-un stood stiffly behind a podium, facing two television cameras. He wore a long black overcoat. It hid both the metal brace being used to prop him up and the thick bandages wrapped around his chest and stomach. A wig concealed the shaved patches and wound dressings on his skull. Skillfully applied makeup added color to his sallow, fleshy face.
He ignored the low murmurs from the generals and marshals in full dress uniform lined up behind him. They were nothing more than window dressing for the live, televised broadcast he planned to make — a visible sign of the control he claimed over the nation’s armed forces. Most of them were new faces, a cast of less senior general officers rapidly promoted to fill the gaps torn in his inner circle by the same bomb that had almost killed him.
Kim gripped the podium as a wave of pain rippled through his body. Those who had betrayed him had come close to success. Believing him dead in the rubble of Pyongyang, the traitors and those they had duped were locked in battle with loyal troops across the whole of North Korea. Soon, though, they would learn the bitter truth. Once the people and the armed forces saw him alive and in command, the rebellion would collapse, dissolving from within in the revelation of its own lies and folly.
And then there would come a reckoning, he thought coldly. He would cleanse the nation of the traitors, their families, and other vermin. His nets would be cast widely. It was better that a million should die rather than risk leaving alive anyone who might challenge him.
Kim squinted at the clock mounted on the opposite wall and frowned. Its hands swam in and out of focus, impossible to read. “How much longer?” he muttered to the young, grim-faced officer at his side.