Chapter 33

Nighttime satellite images of the Korean peninsula show what appears to be a massive hole between South Korea and China. The simple fact which causes this appearance is that for the most part, the cities, towns, and villages in North Korea don’t have their lights on at night. Except for the Supreme Leader’s principal residence just north of Pyongyang, colloquially known as the Central Luxury Mansion or one of his dozen or so villas, there practically isn’t any civilian electricity at night. For most civilians, power is cut off at 2200 and isn’t turned back on until 0500. Unlike almost every other semi-industrialized country on the planet, there is no significant traffic at night. Or anytime, compared to its neighbor to the south. It would be over six hours before most residents of what was soon to be the former DPRK discovered the electricity wouldn’t be coming back on. Not for a long time.

Just a little before midnight, North Korean time, the sky was filled with a blinding flash of light. For several seconds it was a hundred times brighter than the sun. An instant later those in the center of the country were awakened by earsplitting thunder, louder than anything they had ever heard. You could feel the concussion caused by the sound waves.

Although startled and jarred awake most people, having missed what would become known as “the night of the light in the heavens,” just went back to sleep. There were a few of the more educated, geo-politically aware populace whose first thought was that something had gone horribly wrong at the recently opened nuclear power plant in Yongbyon or that a meteor had slammed into the ionosphere. Even this group dared not imagine what had happened.

There were some advantages to being a backward, technically isolated, country. If the HEMP weapon that detonated over North Korea had exploded over the United States, it would have plunged much of the country into the stone age. The entire electric grid would have had its circuits shorted and shut down. Car and truck electronic ignition and fuel distribution systems would have fried. Airplanes would have dropped from the sky when their avionics and guidance components fused. In an instant, all of this happened in North Korea as well but to a far, far lesser degree.

Civilian and some unshielded military communications were disabled, but only fourteen percent of the population had ever even used a telephone. Electronic medical equipment and physiological monitors stopped working, but hospitals were as scarce as cell towers. The blast of electromagnetic energy was nowhere near as devastating as it would have been anywhere else. But it did cripple what little infrastructure the North Koreans had. And its psychological effect, especially among the military, was staggering. They had been brainwashed into believing that no power would ever dare launch an attack on the homeland. Three generations of Supreme Leaders had assured them that the DPRK was invincible. That lineage was seconds away from becoming extinct.

The Supreme Leader snuffed out the last $47.00 a pack Yves Saint Laurent cigarette he would smoke that night. Or ever. He and his wife had just finished watching the third episode of the last season of Game of Thrones. This was by far his favorite television series. Like his father, he loved American movies, especially westerns and monster classics. His favorites were A Fistful of Dollars and King Kong vs. Godzilla.

Although it was illegal for the average North Korean to purchase anything but state-approved DVD’s, the Supreme Leader had over 20,000 in his private collection. Many of which, mostly porn, he had inherited from his father. The Supreme Leader’s wife, Ri Sol-ju, demurely suggested that it was too late to watch another episode. She was exhausted, and they should go to bed.

Early in 2018, his wife was bestowed the title of “Respected First Lady.” This was the first time that title had been officially used since his mother claimed it for herself in 1974. The couple had one son, Chang Ju-ae, a precocious ten-year-old who was never seen in public. Chang Ju-ae would be privately tutored at home until the age of twelve. Then, like his father, he would be sent to the Liebefeld Steinholzli school in Koniz, Switzerland. At least that was the plan.

The Supreme Leader’s Central Luxury Mansion lay just a little over nine kilometers northeast of Pyongyang. The sprawling palace was bordered by immaculately groomed forests on three sides and a massive manmade lake on the other. The interior of the mansion was as luxurious as any in Europe. Handwoven Persian carpets covered Belizean recovered sinker mahogany floors. Scores of original paintings hung from virtually every wall, even those in the twenty-two toilets attached to almost every room. These included works by Raphael, Degas, and The Concert by Johannes Vermeer. Not all but most of the paintings were stolen, purchased off the black market and never seen again by the public. The Concert, which hung in the main hall, is widely considered to be the most valuable painting ever stolen. There was a reported $5,000,000 reward offered for its safe return.

The Supreme Leader was also a vociferous collector of pianos; he owned thirty; cars, he had twelve Mercedes Benz one of which, a specially modified S600, cost over $1,500,000; and a personal collection of wrist watches valued at $7,000,000.

The Supreme Leader, his wife, and one hundred and fifty of their closest friends could also indulge his taste for American movies in a luxurious cinema. His personal theater was outfitted with butter soft goatskin leather MX4D seats which moved in sync with movie effects. It sported a forty-foot screen, a Sony 4K digital projector, and Dolby Surround Sound.

Despite being surrounded by a starving populace, no expense had been spared in building and continuously upgrading the Central Luxury Mansion. It was indeed a marvel of engineering and a testament to the excesses of its current and previous occupants. It was also ground zero for the third but far from last nuclear weapon to be used in war.

The Supreme Leader showed not the slightest remorse when he had a subordinate who had angered him executed in front of an audience of military officers by a specially trained pack of dogs. He had another killed by anti-aircraft machine guns in front of his wife and mother. Yet the Supreme Leader meekly complied when his wife pulled on his arm, stood him up and started guiding him toward the elevator which would take them to their bedroom. “We can watch the next episode tomorrow” she cooed. The omnipresent mansion staff would tidy up the cinema and make sure that his cigarette butts and leftover snacks were incinerated to prevent them from being sold on the black market. Anything the Supreme Leader touched could become a collectible item.

The couple exited the elevator walked down a brightly lit hall and thru the double doors of their unbelievably spacious bedroom. The mansion staff had closed the ornate velvet curtains, turned back their customized California king bed, and laid out silk robes and night clothes for both. The Supreme Leader undressed, put on his pajamas, and then padded over to a bar on his side of the bedroom. His wife walked to where he was standing, bowed slightly then kissed him on the cheek and said “goodnight my love. Sleep well. We will see what evil deeds Cersei Lannister is up to tomorrow night.” Cersei and her brother Jaime Lannister were the Supreme Leader’s favorite characters in the soon to end series. She walked across the room and quietly slipped into bed. The Supreme Leader wanted his nightly Scotch on the rocks nightcap before going to sleep. He took the lid off the ice bucket sitting in the center of a teak sideboard. The bucket was filled with cubes of ice made from bottled Fiji water, another in a long list of his extravagances. Picking up a pair of sterling silver tongs he dropped first one then another cube of ice into a leaded crystal glass. He never heard the second cube hit bottom.

The W-78 was a 350 kiloton hydrogen bomb. Its explosive power was ten times that of the weapons dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki combined. This particular bomb, delivered as one of four in the Trident missile’s MIRV warhead launched from the USS Louisiana, was detonated at the height of 500 meters directly above the Central Luxury Mansion. A low-level airburst would reduce radioactive fallout while maximizing the explosive and thermal effects of the weapon. This strategy addressed the POTUS’ order to minimize civilian casualties to the extent possible. Even so, there would be over 800,000 fatalities in and around Pyongyang over the next seven days. The fireball from this explosion was nearly two kilometers across and instantly reached a temperature exceeding 150 million degrees Fahrenheit, roughly that of the interior of the sun. In less than an hour, this scenario would repeat itself all across North Korea as the force of the U.S. Navy’s nuclear fleet was unleashed.

If the scene in the Supreme Leader’s bedroom could have been reduced into ultra slow motion, one would have seen blinding white light streaming thru the windows. This was just the visible sliver of the spectrum, from 700 to 400 nanometers. Invisible x-rays and gamma-rays also burst thru, and for just a millisecond the Supreme Leaders skeleton would have been visible inside his body. In the next millionth of a second the Supreme Leader, his entire family, and everything else within a circle over a mile across was vaporized.

In North Korea people referred to the Chang dynasty as the Mount Plaku heritage. It started in 1948 with Chang Song Il followed by his son Chang Han Un and ended with the simultaneous death of Chang Jong Nam and his son Chang Ju-ae.

In less than sixty minutes after the Commander of the USS Louisiana launched the first missile the most brutal and repressive dictatorship in the twenty-first century ceased to exist. Military headquarters from Nampo to Chongjin were erased from the global map along with every deep-water port north of the Korean Peninsula’s 38th parallel. The Americans made every effort to be as surgically precise as possible in their attacks on military targets. Even so by the time the only surviving member of the Central Military Commission of the Workers’ Party of Korea was located and signed the unconditional surrender of the DPRK over 2,300,000 people, nearly one-tenth of its population, had died.

The world held its breath. Only a hand full of Chinese, Russian, and American government officials knew of the non-proliferation agreement between the three countries. Not even the South Koreans or Japanese.

David Stakely’s idea and the Bulldog’s negotiating skills had paid off on a global scale. As could be expected, there was a sharp divide in the United States Congress and the nation in general. More than a few called for the immediate impeachment of the president. Some demanded his arrest and conviction as a war criminal. Most, both conservative and liberal, compared the action to the removal of a malignant tumor. Had this not been done, there was a very real possibility the “host” would have died.

The mood in South Korea was, to put it mildly, celebratory. In the years to come, December 26th would be recognized as an official holiday known as “geom-eul jegeohan nal” or day the sword was removed. This was in reference to the fable of Damocles, a courtier in the court of Dionysius. Damocles begged Dionysis to switch places with him for just a day so that he could experience what it was like to be treated like a king. Dionysis honored the request, but that night at a banquet he had a sword suspended by a single hair over Damocles’ head. This was to symbolize the constant state of fear Dionysis, and his kingdom had to endure. The South Koreans now referred to only as Koreans, had been living in a far worse state of fear for almost seventy years.

Abdulla was coming unglued. His plans and his dreams of becoming the next Caliph, of reuniting all of Islam into a global Caliphate, a new world order seemed to be crumbling. How could it be? He spoke to the Archangel every single day, almost constantly when he was alone and not talking to someone else. He no longer had to wait for the dreams to receive directions, the voice was always there now. Sometimes whispering sometimes roaring.

It had been a week since the Great Satan had attacked and destroyed the DPRK. Neither the Russians nor Chinese had so much as lifted a finger to interfere. There had been no retaliatory strikes against the Americans. The Chinese had dispatched a contingent of its military to key spots along its southeastern border. This was ostensibly to provide aid and comfort. In reality, it was to stem the flood of would-be refugees into China.

But even worse, news agencies had reported that both Chinese and Russians, along with Japanese, Koreans, and even Swiss were already inspecting former biological and chemical weapons factories. According to one talking head, these would be converted to, or back to, drug and fertilizer production plants. Everything was coming apart.

But there was still the presidential inauguration. He and his team could still inflict unprecedented pain and fear among the American government. Maybe after the new president, and everyone within fifty feet of him was killed they would still lash out at their old enemies. Maybe, just maybe, the Caliphate could still be salvaged. These thoughts along with smoldering anger and fear raged inside Abdulla as he walked to his car. Not fear in the normal sense. It was fear of failure. For Abdulla that was the worse kind.

January was always cold in Washington, D.C. At least it wasn’t raining. Or snowing. Snow could really screw up the traffic, and it was going to be bad enough as it was. It was January 2, the day after the Americans celebrated the beginning of a new year. Most were still recovering from their drunken New Years Eve parties. These dates meant nothing to Abdulla or any other Muslim. In Islam, the new year begins on the first day of Muharram, the first month of the Islamic calendar. The Islamic year began in 622 AD when the prophet Muhammad traveled from Mecca to Medina. To Abdullah January 1 was just another day. It held no significance.

Nonetheless, he had given his mortar team time off ever since the Christmas Eve massacre. He wanted them to spend extra time with their families and to prepare themselves mentally and spiritually for the grand finale. The “coup de grace” delivered to the nest of infidel snakes that is, soon to be “was,” America.

Abdulla pulled into far left “Loading Zone Only” space in front of Carson Deliver Services. A Buick and a Focus belonging to his two team members and the open top panel truck occupied the spaces to his right. He was running a little late this morning, out of character for him, and his team was already here. Probably brewing a pot of tea and smoking their tenth cigarette of the day. No matter, they had become more than proficient in their knowledge and simulated use of the huge mortar and its GPS aiming computer. And they were ready and willing to sacrifice their lives for Islam. Let them smoke. Let them have a plate of bacon for that matter. He smiled at his unspoken blasphemous humor.

Walking to the door, he unconsciously tried turning the handle. It was locked, as it was supposed to be. Abdulla took out his key, unlocked the deadbolt, and then did the same with the lock on the door handle. He opened the door and stepped inside. As he was closing the door, he saw the figure standing behind it. “Ya ilahi, Khalid you scared me half to death. What pray tell are you doing here? You are supposed to be in Riyadh! It’s no wonder I haven’t received a phone call or Dmail from you lately.” Khalid was wearing a full-length, dark gray wool overcoat and black, kid leather, gloves. There was a copy of the Washington Post in his left hand, folded as if he was going to swat a fly. His right hand was in his coat pocket. It wasn’t the least bit cold in the Carson Delivery Service front office, but Abdulla had not had time to evaluate any of his observations yet. His pulse rate was only now beginning to return to normal.

“Abdulla, the Sovereign Council of the maharib alsamt, sent me. They are extremely disappointed in the recent turn of events. Disappointed is not the right word. They are outraged. Rather than initiating a war among the infidel superpowers and bringing about the rebirth of the Islamic Caliphate we have made heroes of our most reviled enemy. Heros even among their rivals. We have elevated the Americans even beyond their previous status. And our actions have resulted in eliminating a major thorn in their side. Things are not good Abdulla. I am sorry.”

Khalid removed his hand from his pocket revealing a long barrel 22 caliber revolver. Abdulla knew that it would be loaded with rounds of subsonic ammunition. They weren’t powerful, but they weren’t loud either. And at this range, they were extremely lethal. An assains weapon of choice in close quarters.

“No Khalid, we still have one more…..” Two perfectly spaced holes appeared slightly below Abdulla’s nose and above his upper lip. The subsonic bullets would not make an exit wound. Instead, they passed thru the medulla oblongata causing what snipers call flaccid paralysis. This resulted in a total and complete loss of muscle control and signals from the brain to the rest of the body. Instant death.

Holding the pistol, Khalid counted to thirty. He didn’t want to desecrate Abdulla’s body further, but he did want to ensure he was dead. Thin trickles of blood started to ooze from the two holes in Abdulla’s face. Khalid put the pistol back into his coat pocket, grasped Abdulla’s pants at each ankle and started dragging his body across the office and into a back office.

There, laid neatly next to a wall were the bodies of the other two members of the mortar crew. Khalid positioned Abdulla’s body next to his teammates then went to a key box mounted near the office door. He retrieved a set of keys to the Carson Delivery Services truck. Khalid went out the front door, opened up the back of the truck, and for the next twenty minutes worked to pile the mortar tube, its base plate, the ten mortar rounds and bags of propellant onto the bed of the vehicle. He went back inside collected the wallets, cell phones, and two Baek-du San 9mm pistols from the bodies and put them in a plastic Walmart bag.

Khalid moved quickly but thoroughly and with a purpose born from experience. While waiting for Abdulla he had mentally gone over the office layout, his recollection of the weapons and explosives that would be there, and every step he had to take to “sanitize” what would eventually become a crime scene. Although it wouldn’t matter, it could be weeks before anyone would come nosing around an obviously closed office. There was always a good possibility a neighborhood “citizen” would break into the building looking for petty cash or office equipment to sell for drug money. They would find the bodies then shit all over themselves trying to get out the door, but they would not call the police.

Kahlid had taken a cab to a church four blocks north of the Carson Delivery Service office and walked the rest of the way. He didn’t want to be encumbered by a having to return or dispose of a rental car. After he had finished loading the weaponry into the truck, Khalid made a final sweep of the offices, the three vehicles outside, and the bodies. He found nothing that would, even under FBI scrutiny, link Abdulla and his team to the church massacres or airline attacks. It had been less than an hour since Abdulla had, at last, joined Allah.

After locking the front door, Khalid got in the truck and started heading north toward Baltimore. He would wind his way out of D.C. stopping every few miles at one of the ubiquitous fast food joints along the way. There were several things that every greasy spoon eating establishment had in common besides bad food. They all had easily accessible dumpsters and $11.50 an hour employees who didn’t give camel’s butt what went inside them. Or who put it there.

He would pull up next to a dumpster, grab a couple of the plastic bag wrapped smaller items he had loaded into the truck, and toss it into the garbage. It would take him several stops and over an hour, but by noon he had disposed of everything but the mortar tube and its base plate. Way too big, heavy, and conspicuous for a dumpster. Driving like a nun, Khalid left the city and headed north on I95. Getting out of the perpetually clogged traffic surrounding Washington he took the Stansfield Road exit and headed west. He wound around the Scotts Cove Recreation Area then turned south on highway 29. A few minutes later he pulled into the breakdown lane on the bridge crossing the Patuxent River. He put on his emergency flashers and opened the rear panel door to shield him from passing southbound traffic. Grabbing first the mortar tube and then its base plate and tossed them one at a time into the river.

Khalid got back into the truck and continued south on highway 29 until he could loop back onto I95. Once on the southeast side of Baltimore, he would exit I95 and drive to Eastern Ave. He would park near the Esperanza Center, leave the truck’s keys in the ignition, and catch a cab to the Amtrak terminal. The truck may sit there for a couple of days, but by the end of the week, it would be sitting in some innercity chopshop slowly being converted into spare parts and scrap metal.

Khalid took the train to Pennsylvania Station in New York City and stayed two nights at The New Yorker on 8th Ave. After catching up on his sleep and buying some new traveling clothes Khalid, using a hotel kiosk, purchased a Delta flight from JFK to London Heathrow airport. By 0630 the next morning he was in London, the first leg of his journey back to Riyadh. The Sovereign Council of the maharib alsamt was humiliated at the trust they had placed in Abdulla’s vision and devastated that once again the dream of a new Caliphate had been dashed. However, they were more than pleased with Khalid’s performance. He was indeed a warrior. As for Khalid, for the first time in a long, long time he felt a twinge of sorrow. He tucked this away and never spoke of it to anyone.

The inauguration of the President of the United States went off without a hitch. There was the Inaugural Parade, and the parties, and ball after ball. No one ever knew how close they had come to yet another slaughter. In time, a surprisingly short period, the horrors of the five plane crashes and the church bombings went away; except for the friends and families of those who were killed or mangled.

It’s an odd faculty homo sapiens seem to have. Something that on one day is the most horrific event imaginable, in an amazingly short period that memory fades away. Then, like gazelles on the Serengeti after a lion kills a straggling baby, the herd moves on.