Graves nodded his understanding. Christopher continued, “That is one possible course of action, not an operational order, but you might want to think about the Wolf Pack’s role in that scenario.”
They reached the flight line and headed for a gray-painted UH-1N Huey near one end. As soon as the jeep came into the helicopter’s view, Tony heard the engines whine and the rotors began to move.
The jeep stopped, and Graves came to attention and saluted. “Good luck, Saint.”
Tony returned the salute, and answered, “Fly safe, Digger. If we do go north, get some.” He had to speak up to be heard over the rising whine.
“Even if they’re Chinese?” Graves asked, smiling.
“Especially if they’re Chinese,” Tony answered, and headed for the helicopter.
Tammy Becker was tall and blonde, which made her a standout anywhere, but in Korea she towered over most citizens. They’d set her up against a backdrop of a cheering crowd. Although she was broadcasting from Seoul, it looked more like Mardi Gras, or a Super Bowl win. Lights on the camera created an illuminated circle of celebrating Koreans behind her, waving different-sized Korean flags.
“It’s been over six hours since the death of Kim Jong-un, and the citywide, no, nationwide party shows no sign of slowing down!” She held the microphone close to her face, but still had to speak up to be heard over the singing and drums beating.
“I came here earlier today, before Kim’s broadcast. I had planned to interview South Korean citizens on their impressions and hopes for the future right after the broadcast ended, but nobody here could have predicted how it did end.
“During the broadcast, the streets of this city of over ten million were virtually empty, and here downtown, every shop or business with a television had it on. Even outside, my crew and I could watch Kim’s speech on a video screen that normally carried advertising.
“No other shows were aired. It was extraordinary for the South Korean government to allow any video transmitted from the North to be broadcast live, but given the importance of the crisis to every citizen of this tightly knit nation, the government preempted all other programming.
“Earlier in the day, I spoke with government officials who said the North Korean broadcast, whatever its content, would be followed by a rebuttal speech from the president…”
The noise from the crowd suddenly swelled and crashed over the reporter. The cameraman shouted something to her, and she nodded. The image spun and faced the street to show a military convoy, a camouflaged stream of trucks, then massive battle tanks on transporter vehicles, then more trucks towing artillery. Soldiers in the open backs of the trucks waved and shouted to the crowd, who responded as if the troops were already heroes.
Becker was shouting into the microphone now. “This is one reason the party’s still going on. Within hours of Kim’s death, military police, with some effort, cleared this major thoroughfare, the Nonhyeon-dong, and the first convoy came through.”
She pointed off camera, in the direction the troops had gone. “Every convoy we’ve seen, and we’ve lost count, is headed the same way, toward the Cheongdam Bridge over the Han River, and then north.” She paused again, drowned out by diesel engines and crowd noise. The sound became less random until finally it seemed like all Seoul had joined in a single song. It enveloped the crowd, and even if her viewers didn’t speak Korean, they would recognize the joy and triumph in its tone.
“It’s the ‘Aegukga,’ the South Korean national anthem.” She paused, letting the music fill the microphone. As the song ended, she concluded, “The South Korean army is on the move, carrying the hearts of every citizen with them.”
Kary Fowler didn’t watch the broadcast. Her experience dealing with DPRK officials had been universally bad, and the last thing she wanted was to watch, or even hear over the ubiquitous loudspeakers, the dictator, the monster himself. She was a Christian woman, and would never wish for anyone’s death, but she’d felt a deep disappointment when Kim’s survival and upcoming speech were announced.
The news of his very public death found her outside, surveying the remains of their greenhouses and fields. One of Christian Friends’ core missions was growing nutritious food to restore the physical health of the sick. Only in a land as poor as this could wholesome vegetables serve as medicine.
One of the student nurses, Moon Su-bin, found Kary inside a looted greenhouse, trying to see if it could somehow be repaired with materials from others also wrecked. “Fowler-seonsaengnim, the television—”
“You know I wasn’t planning to watch, Moon Su-bin,” Kary replied, a little sharply, but then she drew a breath and continued, “Is it over, then?”
“Over?” she exclaimed. “Fowler-seonsaengnim, the Supreme Leader is dead!” The young woman collapsed on the ground.
Moon Su-bin had volunteered at the clinic after her infant son died. With her husband in the army, she’d found friends and a home at the mission, and studied medicine and nutrition under Kary’s guidance.
Moon had brought her infant son to the clinic after he came down with a gastrointestinal infection. In spite of all their efforts, and even using precious formula, four-month-old Ye-jun had only lasted a week. Small and sickly to begin with, the child would have had health problems even in the West, but malnutrition made him vulnerable. And it was endemic. Although in her early twenties, Ye-jun’s mother would have been mistaken for a middle-schooler in the US.
Especially now, tearful and confused. Using Kim Jong-un’s title instead of his name did not surprise Kary. From birth, citizens of the DPRK were taught that the Kims, the Great Leader, Kim Il-sung, his son Kim Jong-il, the Dear Leader, and now the grandson and Supreme Leader, Kim Jong-un, were the source of all knowledge, all virtue, and all power. Hated or loved, feared or admired, the idea of life without them was incomprehensible.
Kary knelt down beside the weeping woman and lifted her, hugging her and smoothing her hair, as if comforting the child she’d never had. “Tell me what happened.”
It was hard for Moon to even describe what she had seen, watching on the clinic’s tiny television. The words themselves seemed treasonous. It was a cheap Chinese model, with a terrible picture, but it had been clear enough, and Moon Su-bin was not sophisticated enough to ask if it had been faked, or how the deed had been done. Along with virtually all the clinic’s patients and staff, she had watched their national leader die an agonizing death.
Kary struggled to understand Moon’s tearful Korean, but once it was clear there was no misunderstanding, Kary’s heart turned to ice. Disappointment at news of his survival did not become joy with confirmation of his death. She fought the fear that tried to fill her mind, and steadying herself, stood, and then pulled Moon to her feet. “Thank you for coming to tell me, Moon Su-bin. How is the laundry?”
“I was hanging it when the broadcast started…” She trailed off, and her gaze wandered as visions of Kim’s death replaced the rest of her answer.
“Moon, we need that laundry dry!” Kary shook her shoulder gently, and told her, “Get it hung up as quickly as you can, and then find Ok Min-seo. She’ll need help preparing dinner. Now go!” Nodding, the young woman hurried off.