PUNGGYE-RI, NORTH KOREA
The town of Punggye-ri spread out over more than fifty square miles. Despite its vast size, Punggye-ri had precisely zero inhabitants.
A long, winding dirt road cut through an area at Punggye-ri’s eastern border. The land in this part of the town was barren and flat. What little vegetation there was consisted of a few patches of scraggly-looking scrub brush. Because of this, the small building at the end of the winding dirt road could be seen—on a clear day—from miles away. This was no accident.
The building was the control tower.
It was a simple, windowless structure, constructed of corrugated steel. It stood ten and a half feet tall and had a flat roof, on top of which were several large antennas. Other than a small parking area, which was empty, the control tower was the only man-made object in any direction for several miles—at least, the only man-made object aboveground. Exactly four hundred feet from the control tower was a small mound of dirt that arose a few inches in the air. This mound of dirt marked what had been the opening to a tunnel that was now plugged with sand, gypsum, and gravel. The tunnel was 772 meters deep. About halfway down the tunnel, a lead-lined canister held diagnostic equipment.
At the bottom of the tunnel sat a twenty-kiloton nuclear bomb.
The control tower was surrounded by four massive but shallow craters, each several hundred feet in diameter. The craters memorialized the locations of North Korea’s four previous nuclear tests.
Six kilometers away stood another building. This was the surface control bunker. Like the control tower, it was off on its own, at the end of a dirt road. The surface control bunker was made of concrete and had three large windows that faced the control tower in the distance. Inside, there was one room—a large observation and management area filled with tables, computers, diagnostic equipment, and more than a dozen high-powered cameras. Several dozen people stood behind the window, each with a set of binoculars, watching the control tower in the distance.
Dr. Yung Phann-il, the man responsible for North Korea’s nuclear weapons program, removed the binoculars from his eyes. He looked at a young engineer who was seated before a control screen. Phann-il nodded to the man.
“You have my permission to proceed,” said Phann-il.
“Yes, sir,” said the engineer.
The young man reached forward and lifted a small metal compartment. Beneath was a red switch. He waited one extra moment, glanced at a digital clock on the screen in front of him, then flipped the switch.
“Ground zero in five, four, three, two, one…”
Boom.
It was less of a sound than a bump beneath them, followed by a weak tremor that grew stronger and stronger. In the distance, the air near the control tower went dust-filled and wavy. Everything inside the bunker shook and rattled. After just more than twenty seconds, everything stopped.
The entire room full of scientists, engineers, and military officials looked at Phann-il. His face was as blank as stone—and then it flashed into a wide smile.
“Success!” he yelled … and the room broke into a chorus of cheers.