“This is
so
screwed up,” Naoko said. “What are we supposed to do?”
“There’s nothing we
can
do,” Mitch replied. “We’re sitting in a fucking spaceship from the other side of the galaxy and there’s not a god-damned thing we can do.”
Mitch zoomed out the view. The triangle representing the plane was now moving northeast, across the Gulf toward the Strait of Hormuz.
“Where do you think they’re going?” Naoko said.
“I—”
Mitch suddenly stopped and peered at the screen.
“What?” Naoko said.
Mitch zoomed back in on the plane and said, “You have
got
to be shitting me.”
Naoko was about to say something when he saw them. Two fighter jets were now flanking the small plane.
“I’ll go get Richelle,” Naoko said.
“Don’t,” Mitch said. “Stay here. I need your help.”
“Help with what?”
Mitch marked one of the jets with a tracker. “We’re going to try every command this thing has.”
“But we don’t—”
“I don’t give a shit,” Mitch said. “In fact, I don’t care if we accidentally blow up the Middle East. We’re going to try.”
“Alright, Mitch. You need to calm down and think about what you’re saying.”
Mitch turned to Naoko. “You don’t know him. That man saved my life. As a matter of fact, he saved yours too. Now are you going to help me or not?”
For a moment it looked as if Naoko was going to walk off the bridge, then he sat down and sighed. “Alright, fine. Bring up the options menu.”
Mitch did. Of the twelve commands available, only three had been tested so far. The first changed the view between standard, thermal, infrared and two others they still didn’t quite understand. The second command tracked the selected target, keeping it centered on the screen. The third was the one Naoko had shown them earlier when he turned the Pandora into a 3D drawing.
“So?” Mitch said. “What’s option four?”
“I don’t know,” Naoko said. “It’s not a word I recognize. The fifth one says
scan
or
inspect
depending on how you use the word. Six says
establish link
.”
Before Naoko could continue, Mitch executed the command. Nothing happened.
“It says
target is incompatible
,” Naoko said.
“Fine, what about seven?”
“
Open command channel
,” Naoko said. “Eight says
redirect
. Nine says
authenticate
. The last three are just alphanumeric codes.”
“I guess that leaves four,” Mitch said. “You ready?”
“Not really.”
“Good. Here we go then.”
Mitch selected the command and pressed the button under his thumb. Again, nothing happened. “What does it say?”
“It wants you to confirm the command,” Naoko said.
When Mitch did, two symbols that he recognized as numbers appeared next to the triangle and began to count down.
“Oh, shit,” Naoko breathed.
Even Mitch suddenly appeared to be having second thoughts. He pressed down with his thumb again, thinking it might stop, but it didn’t. The double digits soon became single digits. They both watched in horror as it reached zero. For a moment it appeared the result would be the same, then the jet suddenly slowed and went into a spin. A second later the canopy flew off and the pilot ejected. They both looked at each other with wide, dumbstruck eyes.
Before either of them could say anything Almila returned to the bridge. The moment he saw the remaining jet he said, “Oh, no.”
“It’s okay,” Mitch said, but he was looking at Naoko.
“Yeah,” Naoko said. “We’ve got everything under control.”
Mitch selected the second plane, then executed the command and confirmed it. The countdown began again.
“What are you doing?” Almila demanded.
“The same thing we did to the first one,” Mitch said with a kind of lunatic triumph in his voice.
Before Almila could ask what that was supposed to mean, the second jet went into a spin and the pilot ejected.
“Tell me you didn’t just make that happen from here,” Almila said.
“It must be some kind of directional EMP,” Mitch said.
“A what?” Almila said.
“A pulse that shorts out electric circuits,” Mitch said.
By now the plane had passed the straits and was flying over open water toward the coast of Iran. Had it not been for the fact that none of it changed what had happened to Francis, the moment might have been cause for celebration.
Less than twenty minutes later the plane crossed the shoreline near the mouth of a river. The first sign they had that Titov intended to land the plane was when it suddenly disappeared in a cloud of dust that soon became a trailing line. By the time it settled and the plane came back into view, it was stationary. They watched Titov pull Francis out and lay him on the ground. They all held their breath, then collectively let it out again when he re-emerged from the plane carrying what appeared to be a medical kit. As soon as it was clear Francis was still alive, Almila left the bridge again.
“You think she’s alright?” Naoko asked.
“She’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure? She seems, you know, pretty…”
“That’s because she’s in love with him,” Mitch said. “But don’t tell anyone I said that. It’s apparently a big secret.”
“You think?”
“Oh, please. It couldn’t be any more obvious if she sent everyone a memo.”
“Go figure,” Naoko said.
On the screen, Titov kneeled and put Francis over his shoulder, then began to walk in the direction of the river.
“Do we even know anyone out there?” Mitch said.
“I doubt it,” Naoko said.
Almila returned to the bridge a minute later with Richelle in tow. She walked to the screen and stood looking at it for a long time. When she turned back to Almila she said, “Get me Caroline on the phone.”
When Almila was gone Mitch said, “What’s the plan, boss?”
She turned to him, the light of determination back in her eyes. “We’re going to find the greediest asshole in the country and make him rich, that’s the plan. If anyone doesn’t like it I suggest they keep the fact to themselves.”
Pyongyang, North Korea
Sunday 10 June 2007
1500 KST
General Rhee entered the cabinet chamber with the distinct mindset of an actor about to give the performance of his life. Of the twelve men seated behind the curved bench at the end of the sloping chamber, only five were committed members of the conspiracy underway. It would be up to Rhee to bring at least two more into the fold.
Rhee approached the bench and stood to attention. The chairman, a frail, aging man, and one of the few original members of the party to survive the now deceased leader, instructed him to sit.
Rhee duly complied.
“Let it be known for the record,” the chairman announced, “that the man standing before us is General Seo-jun Rhee, commanding officer of the special intelligence directorate. He has been summoned before the cabinet to give evidence in the death of the supreme leader of the People’s Democratic Republic. General Rhee, are you a member of the Democratic Front for the Reunification of the Fatherland?”
“I am.”
“Will you pledge your loyalty to the party?”
Rhee delivered the absurd incantation with an air of sincerity that might have brought some of the witnesses to tears had they not all been preoccupied with the political turmoil at hand.
“Very well,” the chairman said. “You have provided a written statement testifying to your presence at the grand theater at the time of the murder.”
“That is correct,” Rhee said.
“In your testimony you further state that you saw the accused in the presence of the supreme leader prior to his death, and that he attempted to leave the premises immediately thereafter.”
“Yes.”
“You also state that you saw the accused pass something to a member of the theater staff before he left.”
“I did.”
“What was this object?”
“A syringe,” Rhee said.
“And what did you do after witnessing the incident?”
“On hearing of the supreme leader’s death I immediately had the man arrested.”
“And you assisted the police in this arrest?”
“I was present when the arrest was made,” Rhee said.
“For what purpose?”
“I wanted to ensure the syringe was discovered.”
“Are you aware that it was found to contain a lethal poison?” the chairman asked.
“I was informed by the chief of police, yes.”
“And is it your opinion, general, that based on what you witnessed, the supreme leader was in fact murdered by his own son?”
“It is.”
“And are you aware that providing false testimony to this cabinet is punishable by death?”
“I am.”
“Very well, general. You may go. Should we have need of you again you will be summoned.”
Rhee stood to attention, saluted and left the room.
Washington Post Editorial
In a development that has caught literally everyone by surprise, North Korean state television announced the death of its supreme leader shortly after 0300 GMT yesterday, calling for a month of national mourning. Although few details were given, it was claimed that the “dear leader” had been ill for some time, and had passed away during an emergency operation. As he was last seen in what appeared to be good health less than a week ago, many analysts are questioning the authenticity of the claim, insisting it may be an attempt to cover up a more sinister truth.
To confuse matters even further, his older son—widely believed to be his chosen successor—has yet to make an appearance, either in public or on TV, leading one prominent critic of the North Korean regime to go so far as to suggest both father and son may be dead. In a less surprising move, both China and South Korea have begun to build up a significant military presence on their borders, apparently fearing that a power struggle in Pyongyang could destabilize the region.
Following an emergency session of the National People’s Congress, the Chinese president appeared on television this morning to assure everyone that the buildup is strictly a precautionary measure, and should not be interpreted to mean that China has any intention of crossing the border, or interfering with matters in the North. He also made it clear that any aggressive posturing by other nations—read the United States—would only serve to make matters worse. The South Korean government, and to a lesser extent the Russians, have made similar statements. So far neither the US nor its NATO allies have weighed in on the discussion, stating only that a quick and orderly resolution of the situation is in everyone’s interest.
Based on what little we know of the internal workings of the North Korean regime, it is still too early to draw any conclusions as to what comes next. What we
can
say is that the hopes by some that this may lead to a change of direction for the rogue state are premature to say the least. So far no reports of any civil disturbances have reached the Western media. And while that may not mean much, it is far more likely to be an indication that little has changed other than the result of a desperate leadership working hard to beat down the flames of popular revolt.
Iran
Sunday 10 June 2007
1030 IRST
Francis regained consciousness for the first time that day only long enough to notice that he wasn’t dead yet. When he opened his eyes for the second time a young woman was kneeling beside him, wiping his brow with a damp cloth and murmuring what sounded like a prayer. He tried to ask her where he was, but the effort won him only a polite smile. When she was gone Francis tried to focus on what he could remember of the events that had brought him here, but with little success. The only thing his mind seemed prepared to reveal was pain, and of that there was plenty. It felt like everything from his abdomen down had been immersed in some highly corrosive acid that was now eating away the skin and slowly working its way into his very bones. He had wished for sleep then, sleep and nothing more. And, after a time, it had come. Only this was the sleep of fever, that sleep of the body in which the mind appears to have no interest.
In this particular dream a young woman is pushing a stroller across a busy intersection, her eyes darting ceaselessly in every direction, as if she suspects not one follower, but an army of them. And her paranoia is justified, for she is not pushing an innocent child through this chaotic urban jungle of impatient commuters and standstill traffic, but enough high explosive to level a city block. Her name is Louise Ortega, a recent convert to one of America’s most extreme evangelical movements. Her target: the Supreme Court justice whose recent opinion on abortion is an affront to everything she has come to believe. The questions Francis would eventually ask himself belong to a man that has yet to be born. On this day, and in this place, he represents only the other extreme in a simple equation. It would be several months before he learned that the stroller contained only baby clothes, and that the woman he had shot had no religious convictions to speak of. But in this retelling of the event he floats from his perch on the rooftop down to where her body lies, twisted and bleeding, and sees these things for himself. When he kneels beside her she opens her eyes and there is no resentment in the look she gives him, only sorrow. Not for herself, but for the illegitimate baby she is carrying. A baby whose Saudi father had deemed it politically inexpedient.
“Francis?”
Francis opened his eyes. For a moment the turbaned man looking down at him and the prince responsible for the murder of Louise Ortega were one and the same; then he saw Titov and the world reasserted itself.
“How you feeling?” Titov asked.
“Like I’d rather be dead,” Francis said.
“You came close enough,” Titov said. “This is Zahed Rahimi. He is the local mullah. His daughter has been looking after you.”
The mullah bowed his head, but said nothing.
“Where are we?” Francis said.