“Where’d you get those?” Park asked, his eyes shining.
“My old man gave them to me, but he’s lately gotten tightfisted. He said he doesn’t know when he’ll get more, so I better make them last.” He shrugged and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Like it’s so hard for him to go to China and bring back a few cartons!”
Park stared at the pack, breathing in the smoke. He wondered what he could get on the black market for that pack of cigarettes. Enough to send for his poor parents? But Jung would never give it to him. His comrade was a good guy, but his father was a big shot in the party. He didn’t understand how hard life was for peasants.
“When was the last time your father went to China?”
“He used to go every three or four months. Geez, now that you mention it, it’s been a long time! That’s strange.”
“Not that strange. Ever wonder why we’re listening to nothing for hours on end?”
“We’re doing what we’re told,” Jung replied, with a wave of his hand. “We pick up the imperialists’ signals so we can strike the moment—”
“What signals? We got here months ago and all we’ve picked up are broadcasts on automatic pilot in languages we don’t understand and a stupid country music station. That’s it. Call me crazy, but I don’t think anyone’s alive out there.”
“You’re just saying that to scare me.” Jung took a deep drag on his cigarette.
“I’m serious, Jung. I think we’re alone. I think everyone’s dead and we’re the only ones left.”
Jung thought, This is the last time I share a cigarette with Park. He’s bad news. What he’s saying is really weird. And scary… He needs more lessons in Juche.
“Know what’s wrong with you, Park—”
“This is the Ithaca,” the speakers suddenly blared. “Calling Gulfport. Gulfport, come in. This is the Ithaca, the operation was a success. We’re returning home… (static)… half a million tons of oil. Gulfport, come in…”
The door flew open and Captain Kim rushed in, wide-eyed. He was so shocked by the radio signal he didn’t notice that his subordinates were disobeying orders, standing next to their computers, cigarettes in hand. Kim was in charge because of his rudimentary knowledge of English, the language of those damned imperialists. Through the static, he clearly made out the word “oil.” He knew what to do.
“Record that signal,” he snapped at his men. “My superiors need to hear that.”
10
Two hours later, a government car sped along the deserted streets of Pyongyang, North Korea’s capital. In the backseat, Colonel Hong Jae-Chol stared blankly out the window as the car headed for the Ministry of Defense.
All around him stretched Pyongyang, grandiose, beautiful—and sad. His car crossed one of the bridges over the Taedong River in the lane reserved for Communist Party vehicles. They had passed only about a dozen cars and trucks along the way; there were no private cars in North Korea.
As the car passed through the shadow of the nearly empty 105-story pyramid-shaped Ryugyong Hotel, he noticed that people on the street looked more downtrodden than usual. Hong spotted two people rummaging through a garbage can in an alley. He knew that his country had endured a punishing famine since the nineties, but he’d never seen such deprivation in the capital, whose residents were mostly party officials.
Colonel Hong was about forty-five, above average height, lean, with streaks of gray in his black hair. Few could say with certainty what the colonel was like since almost no one knew him well. His fellow students at officer candidate school would say that Hong was battle-tested, a manic overachiever, but reserved and quiet. Those who served under his command called him a heartless tyrant capable of pushing you until you dropped. The enemies he’d fought against had nothing to say; they were all dead. Everyone agreed that Hong was a disciplined soldier. If they ordered him to jump out a window at the Ministry of Defense, they wouldn’t have to tell him twice. He’d jump with an impassive look on his face. His fervent adherence to the Juche ideology influenced everything he did—especially its motto: Duty first.
Colonel Hong belonged to the small, elite group of officers who were aware of the horrors of the Apocalypse. He’d taken part in the airborne mission that wiped out anyone who dared to cross the DMZ or North Korea’s border with China.
His car stopped at the ministry front steps; a young soldier hurried to open the car door. Hong got out and stretched. It wasn’t too cold yet, but winter snows would start soon. In about five weeks, he’d exchange his light summer cloak for his winter coat. He wondered how the extreme cold would affect the Undead on the other side of the border. Last year it didn’t seem to have much effect on them.
“Colonel Hong?” A captain in dress uniform saluted him.
“That’s me,” muttered Hong. He was a man of few words. He stared, unblinking, straight into the man’s eyes. Some swore he had eyes in the back of his head. His emotionless gaze made people very nervous. The captain was no exception.
“Please… follow me… sir,” the captain stammered. “They’re waiting for you in the minister’s office.”
The minister himself. This was new. Hong took off his hat and cloak as he entered the building, wondering why he’d been summoned. He hadn’t been to the capital since his team carried out that cleanup in the Sea of Japan. A messy job, but necessary. The worst part was the six hundred children, but what choice did he have?
He had no illusions. He knew leading that operation had made him a marked man. Even given all the horrors of the Apocalypse, if the details of what he’d done ever leaked out, people would look at him with terror. He made his superiors doubly uncomfortable since he knew exactly who had ordered the massacres and why. When they’d summoned him that morning from the remote base where he’d spent the last several months, he suspected something big was about to happen. Hong wasn’t very imaginative, but he guessed he’d end the day either with a medal on his chest or a bullet in his head. He was surprised to realize he didn’t care which.
“Wait here, please. I’ll be right back.” The captain rushed off to the minister’s office.
Hong let his mind wander as he looked out the window. The gray, half-empty city, dominated by Eastern Bloc architecture, stretched all the way to the horizon. He tried to picture Pyongyang filled with Undead but found he couldn’t.
The captain reappeared. “Please follow me.”
Hong checked to be sure his uniform was spotless, then entered the room.
Vice Marshal Kim Yong-Chun, Minister of Defense of the People’s Republic of Korea, awaited him at the head of a long conference table. Sitting beside him were three uniformed men Hong didn’t know. With a vague uneasiness, he realized that he was the lowest-ranking soldier in the room.
“Colonel, please have a seat,” the minister said in a friendly voice as an assistant brought him a thick folder. “Allow me to introduce Generals Kim, Chong, and Li. They are part of our Dear Leader Kim Jong-Un’s advisory team for this… special mission.”
Hong sat down, not paying attention to the names. He surmised that those men were just there to witness what was said. In the end, they didn’t matter, despite their rank. He just nodded and fixed his unblinking gaze on the minister.
“Allow me to introduce Colonel Hong,” the minister began. “He is an experienced member of our special forces, with a lengthy resume. He took part in three raids south of the DMZ and another off the coast of Japan. He carried out each mission with true revolutionary spirit. I am convinced he’s the right man for this sensitive matter.”