The pilots were even the same height.
General Namgung studied Ri Jong-Duk and Lee Ryung, looking first at one, then at the other. The harsh overhead lights in the small underground training room turned each man’s face a fiery red.
Ryung, on the right.
Yes. That was it.
“You will take the plane,” he told the pilot. “Go.”
A broad smile spread across Ryung’s face, though he tried to keep it in check. The thirty-three-year-old turned into a teenager again, practically skipping from the room.
Ri Jong-Duk stood stoically, staring straight ahead.
“You, too, have done your duty as a Korean,” Namgung said to the pilot. He put his hand on the man’s shoulder, feeling sincere compassion. The pilot had done nothing wrong; he had in fact been as brave and courageous as his fellow.
Ri Jong-Duk remained silent.
“You will be accorded a hero’s funeral,” said the general.
He stared into Ri Jong-Duk’s eyes. They began to swell.
General Namgung nodded, then turned away. The pilot’s stoicism inspired him. It was a propitious omen, a sign that they would succeed.
Very good. He would see the plane off, then drive to P’yŏngyang to begin things.
Namgung was six or seven steps from the flight room when he heard the gunshot signaling that Ri Jong-Dak had done his duty. He quickened his pace, determined to honor the young man’s courage with his own actions.