completely dark, with only a few consoles illuminated. But the activity did not cease. Technicians started carrying out sound-powered communications systems, simple Korean War-era field telephones, and old-style greaseboards to replace the now-dark digital information screens. Using hard-wired analog communications systems instead of digital or broad-bandwidth systems reduced the likelihood of total destruction in case of a nearby nuclear blast…
… but it also isolated them from President Kwon Ki-chae, at least for a short time. The question is, would it be long enough?
Vice President Pak Chung-chu trotted into the president’s office then. “I was just notified!” he shouted excitedly. “General Kim and General An attempted a counterattack and were swept aside, and now Chinese troops are swarming across the border!”
“General Kim seems to have gone insane,” Kwon shouted. “He requested — no, he
“What did you order him to do instead, sir?” Pak asked.
“I ordered him to get out of the command center because I have removed him from his office!” Kwon shouted. “I don’t want that madman in my military command center! I will find a replacement for him right away.”
“But what about the Chinese, sir?” Pak asked, the panic rising in his throat. “The report said that three brigades of tanks are on the highway from Kanggye heading south toward Anju — they say Anju could be captured in three days! They have total air superiority above the fortieth parallel. What are we going to do?”
“We negotiate with President Jiang,” Kwon said. “Trying to fight the Chinese People’s Liberation Army will only result in more casualties on our side. Besides, reports from the Americans say that China only wants to destroy the nuclear weapons labs in Chagang Do province, and they will withdraw once that mission is accomplished. To tell the truth, I am not unhappy about that plan.”
“Mr. President, you cannot allow this to happen — you cannot simply let the Chinese march into Korea unopposed,” Pak said. “It is an act of war already for China to step across the border, no matter what we’ve done to them. But for us to do nothing and simply let them destroy our military facilities and labs and take whatever they please is not right! They must be stopped!”
“And how can we do that, Mr. Pak?” Kwon asked. “I have already appealed to the United Nations. The United States has asked for a special emergency meeting of the Security Council to discuss the invasion. The United States has again asked us to remove all of our weapons of mass destruction, and has agreed to set up a border monitoring system — without using American troops on Korean soil. I am going to ask the legislature to approve this measure…”
“That is all well and good for the future — if the Chinese Army will allow us to
“But what if Korean soldiers and airmen are killed trying to stop the Chinese horde?” Kwon asked. “Their deaths would be needless and tragic. They—”
“You are wrong, Mr. President,” Pak told him sincerely. “Those soldiers and airmen are there because they want to be there, fighting for their country. They trust that we will direct them in defense of their homeland. We cannot,
“What order? I have been in contact with the service chiefs and the director of National Security Planning. They offer no solutions other than appealing for aid.”
“You know the order that must be given,” Pak said in a low voice. “You know. You must attack with special weapons.” Kwon’s eyes bugged out as if he had just seen a ghost rise out of a grave. “You have to target China’s war machine, both on Korean soil and on Chinese soil. General Kim is not crazy. He knows we must act. You are the only one…”
“I will not!” Kwon shouted. “I will never give those codes! I would rather die than let myself be responsible for the deaths of hundreds of thousands, perhaps
Pak stared at Kwon for a moment, then slowly shook his head. He stepped over to the telephone on Kwon’s desk. “Send in the attache, please.” A moment later, an Army officer entered the president’s office, carrying an average-looking black briefcase. He set the briefcase on Kwon’s desk before the president, turned it to face him, withdrew a key on a band around his left wrist, then stepped back a pace. “Mr. President, open the briefcase,” Pak ordered.
“I will not,” Kwon replied. The Army officer looked puzzled, looking at both leaders in growing confusion.
Pak Chung-chu reached into his jacket and withdrew a North Korean Type 64 automatic handgun with a six- inch sound suppressor attached. The Army officer gasped and tried to reach for his own sidearm, but Pak turned and fired a single round into his heart from ten feet away, killing him instantly.
“You… you killed him!” Kwon exclaimed. “You bastard! He was innocent! He was a courier…”
“Many will die tonight — he was just one more,” Pak said coldly. He went over to the body, picked up the key, and inserted it into a lock on the briefcase. “Now you, Mr. President. Unlock the briefcase.”
“Or you will kill me too, Mr. Pak?” Kwon asked. “You seem to be in the mood for killing tonight.”
“I suppose I am,” Pak said — and he shot Kwon Ki-chae in the heart. After the initial pain of the 7.65- millimeter slug, Kwon’s face actually looked peaceful, relieved, as he collapsed to the floor and died.
Pak retrieved the second key to the briefcase from Kwon’s wrist and unlocked it. There were a series of twenty-five cards inside. Pak searched Kwon’s body until he found a small card with a series of instructions on it. Whoever was responsible for the briefcase was given a code number at the beginning of the day; his task was to apply the day’s code number and the current date-time group and come up with a code corresponding to one of the twenty-five cards in the briefcase.
Kwon had never taken this exercise too seriously — after all, the minister of defense had to do exactly the same procedure, and then it had to be entered into the computers in the command center; enough checks and balances were involved. So when he was assigned the day’s code number, he usually wrote it right on the day’s decoding instruction card — a serious violation of security procedures, since anyone with the code number could issue the execution code. But that was Kwon Ki-chae, unconcerned about such details. Sure enough, the code number was right on the card. Kwon, Pak decided, just didn’t have the intestinal fortitude to play this game.
After selecting the current date-time group, applying the numbers to the instruction card, and coming up with the correct execution code card, Pak had to contact the command center and give them the execution code and the date-time group he used to choose the card. The minister of defense then had to use the same date-time group to come up with his execution code. Then both codes had to be relayed to the command center senior controller, who entered them into the prearming computer. If the codes matched and were within six minutes of the original date- time group, the computer would allow launch commands to be issued on the special communications network to all missile units.
Pak dialed the direct line to Kim Kun-mo’s office in the command center. “It is done, General,” he said solemnly. “The execution code follows…” and he read off the execution code and the date-time group.
“You have done the right thing… Mr. President,” Kim said excitedly, and he hung up the phone to get to work on his own decoding task before time ran out.
The right thing… Mr. President. The right thing… Mr. President. Pak Chung-chu smiled at the words. They sounded good. They sounded very good. He had a lot of work to do, a lot of pieces to pick up, a lot of promises to fulfill, a lot of fears to dispel.
His first official act was to kneel beside the body of the brave visionary Kwon Ki-chae, first president of the United Republic of Korea, put the muzzle of his Type 64 pistol into his own mouth, and blow his brains out.
