Blackout (2 page)

Wednesday, July 1, 5:45 p.m. KST

Pyongyang, North Korea

The strip of paper was just durable enough to hold ink without falling apart. Any more thickness and it would lose its most important quality—the ability to dissolve if soaked in water . . . or saliva.

The characters being etched upon this paper with a fine-tip pen were miniscule and seemingly gibberish. The hand writing them was calm and steady.

The same could not be said of the rest of the author.

Kuk Ho mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. One drop of sweat could easily ruin an hour's worth of painstaking work. He stole another quick glance at the small window set in the door of his office. If he were spotted doing what he was doing, it would mean a tortured confession and death—not just for him but for the whole extended Kuk family.
I can't think about that. Just keep writing,
he told himself.

Kuk Ho had been thirty years old when the “Eternal President” died. He had taken to the streets of Pyongyang and cried his crocodile tears along with the hundreds of thousands of others. Later, he cheered and rubbed more hot pepper paste in his eyes in order to show the proper emotion at the accession of the new Dear Leader, son of the old Great Leader. He did it because that was what was expected, and in North Korea, if you didn't do what was expected, then you had better plan on an unscheduled trip to police headquarters to be asked why.

The day that Kim Jong Il had taken over, Kuk Ho's heart had broken. All hope for a new Korea had died. The failing national policy of
Juche
, or self-reliance, would continue with the new Little Dictator. Hundreds of thousands of Koreans had died of famine and disease in the past decade. The economy was failing. Public executions and prison camps were needed just to keep the ruling party in power. And the nation's foreign policy was almost begging for a United States–backed South Korean invasion.
If that's self-reliance, then give me imperialism any day of the week.

And yet, in spite of this history of failure, many of Kuk Ho's fellow countrymen worshiped the Dear Leader and his father before him as gods.
No more,
Kuk Ho had decided that fateful day that saw the ascent of a leader and the continued descent of a country.
No more will I contribute to the destruction of my homeland. No more will I turn a blind eye to the holocaust directed toward my fellow citizens.
That was the day that in his heart Kuk Ho had become a traitor.

A note slipped into the palm of an assistant to a visiting Western dignitary had sealed the deal. Six weeks later, he received his first contact.

At that time Kuk Ho was just a junior member in the Ministry of People's Armed Forces, but in the intervening fifteen years he had risen in the ranks to his current position of deputy vice minister.

There was a period when Kuk Ho had hoped his treason would be temporary—that eventually, after Kim Jong Il died, there would be hope for a new Korea. But once the Dear Leader had named his youngest son, Kim Jong Un—“Our Commander Kim,” as he was already being hailed—his successor, all hope had died. The future ruler was truly his father's son and his grandfather's grandson.

So Kuk Ho continued to use his position to get more and more important information—information that he passed on only when he was sure that the payoff would be worth the risk.

There's no doubting the worthiness of this intelligence,
Kuk Ho thought as he penned the last few characters.
How the Dear Leader let himself get talked into this scheme, I'll never know. Although, if this plan of theirs does succeed, it could mean a crippled America. And if America is crippled, there's no one to stand in the way of the Little Dictator as he mows through our southern brothers and sisters and makes them pay for what he perceives as a half century of disrespect and abuse.

Finished, Kuk Ho gently rolled up the paper and slipped it into a pliable, waterproof sheath barely larger than a wooden matchstick. The sheath was slightly perforated in three places in case it was necessary to quickly dispose of the message. Three seconds of grinding with his molars and the note would be history.

Slipping the note into his mouth, Kuk Ho used his tongue to tuck it up between his gums and right cheek. A mirror from his top desk drawer confirmed that there was no noticeable bulge, and some spoken words assured him that his diction had not been altered.

Kuk Ho reached back into his desk and retrieved his keys, then headed to the parking lot. Although his position afforded him the luxury of a vehicle, it did not provide him a driver. Today, this arrangement suited him fine.

Walking out was always the worst part. It felt as if he had
traitor
written all over his face. With every good-bye he said, he was sure the incriminating evidence would come flying out of his mouth. With every turned corner, he was certain he would face an armed guard ready to escort him back upstairs to the minister's office. Sweat rolled down his cheeks, and the moist heat from his body fogged his glasses. Pulling his handkerchief out, he toweled off his face and cleared his glasses.

Finally he reached his car—a black Pyeonghwa Hwiparam, quite a different vehicle from the vice minister's Mercedes-Benz. His glove box provided him with a fresh handkerchief, which he quickly soaked. Starting the engine, he saw that the gas gauge settled just under half full.
Good enough reason to stop for a fill-up,
he thought with a relieved smile.

Wednesday, July 1, 6:30 p.m. KST

Pyongyang, North Korea

Pak Bae's adrenaline started rushing as soon as he saw the car in line. It wasn't the vehicle itself—Pyeonghwa Motors was the only manufacturer licensed to sell cars in North Korea.
I still don't know how the Reverend Moon was able to pull off a deal that allowed the Unification Church–owned company to be the sole carmaker in officially atheistic North Korea,
he thought.
Money and influence allow for strange bedfellows.
No, what drew Pak Bae's notice were the driver's frightened but hopeful eyes, partially hidden behind thick black glasses and set deep in the jowly face. Frightened eyes were not unusual in North Korea. Nor were angry, sad, resigned, or empty eyes. Hope, however, was not an expression one saw every day.

Pak Bae knew that much of this man's hope was resting on him, and he was determined not to let him down. Trying to keep his focus for the next two customers would not be easy, but he knew he couldn't show a thing.
Steady face, no emotion, business as usual.

Finally, the nameless man in the black Fiat knockoff pulled up to Pak Bae's pump. Pak Bae waited patiently as the man reached into his glove box to retrieve the key for the gas door. As the window began descending, the man in the car sneezed into his hand.

“Wihayeo,”
Pak Bae said.

The man acknowledged the blessing with a curt nod of his head as he passed the key out. Transferring the key to his left hand, Pak Bae moved toward the rear of the car. Suddenly, he coughed, covering his mouth with his right hand. As he did, he slid a moist, waterproof sheath into his mouth, tucking it between his gums and his right cheek.

After keying open the gas door, Pak Bae pretended to have difficulty removing the gas cap. This allowed him to pull off the five 1,000-wo˘n notes that had been taped to the inside of the small door. Finally, with the nozzle inserted, the gas flowing, and the money safely tucked in the pocket of his coveralls, Pak Bae was able to start planning ahead.

Although taking the money always made him uneasy, he knew it was necessary for him to carry out his link in the chain. But never let it be said that he was doing this for his own financial gain. No, every wo˘n, every last cho˘n, would be put toward accomplishing his mission.

Pak Bae prided himself in being a patriot, but his loyalty was to the old Korea—the Korea his parents and his mother's parents had told him about when he was a child and the family sat around the huge stew pot in their little corner of the village. That was a Korea of culture, of hope, of faith. When he called himself a Korean, that was the nation to which his loyalties belonged.

Not this new country—this plaything for the powerful. When Kim Il Sung had inexplicably allowed Korea to become a pawn in the chess game between America and the Soviet Union, Korea had been shattered, Pak Bae's family along with it. On the day the border was permanently sealed, Pak Bae's grandfather on his father's side was in Seoul, along with two of Pak Bae's great-uncles. The family had never seen nor heard from them again.
These Kims do not serve Korea; Korea serves the Kims. Well, this is one Korean who will not bow down in his heart to these criminals. If I and my whole family must be sacrificed in the name of a restored homeland—a Korea we can once again be proud of—then so be it!

After work, Pak Bae would stop at the market and use the 5,000 wo˘n to buy some medicinal herbs, a new pair of glasses for his uncle, Sam-chon, and a new stew pot for his mother. Then, when Sunday came, he would stuff the pot with the herbs, glasses, and some other items that were hard to get in the rural areas, go to the train depot, and begin the hot, muggy journey north to the border county of Chosan. By the time he arrived in his hometown, he would have only an hour before he had to begin his trip back to the big city. That would give him just enough time to pay his respects to his family, deliver the supplies to his mother, and slip a certain waterproof sheath to his cousin.

Pak Bae knew why he risked what he did, but as he watched the black car drive off, he couldn't help wondering why that man would jeopardize so much.
Most men in such a high position follow the party line. Why does he chance losing his job, his comfortable living, his family, and even his life?

A horn pulled Pak Bae out of his reverie. He gave an apologetic wave to the driver of the next car in line and hurried to the descending window.

Tuesday, July 7, 10:00 a.m. MDT

Parker, Colorado

Riley Covington's body was burning, but it was a good burn. With his toes balanced on a large blue physio ball, he was seeing how many push-ups he could do in sixty seconds.

“Look at the boy go,” said Keith Simmons, his fellow Colorado Mustangs linebacker, kneeling about fifteen feet from Riley. Keith had just finished a second set of eight reps on the cable row and was drying his face with a towel.

Riley turned and gave him a wink, then began adding claps to his push-ups.
Let's see the old guy do this,
he thought with a smile. He knew that Keith, who had played in the Professional Football League four years longer, was really starting to feel these off-season workouts.

Suddenly, in the middle of a clap, his body crashed to the ground.

“In the old country, we call that the Persian Flop,” said a laughing voice behind Riley. “But you do it pretty well for a Wyoming farm boy.”

Riley rolled over and spotted Afshin Ziafat just in time to see the younger linebacker rifling the exercise ball back his way.

Afshin was a rookie—twentieth player taken in the draft—and Keith had taken the younger man under his wing.

Initially, Riley had struggled with having Afshin on the team. But soon he came to realize that his hard feelings toward the kid were based solely on his name and Iranian heritage. After Riley had done some serious repenting to God and apologizing to Afshin, the two had become fast friends. Now these three linebackers, who shared a mutual faith in addition to a love of the game, had bonded to form a team within the team.

“Now, Z, that's what I'm talking about when I say you've got to think ahead in the game,” Riley said, using the ball to lift himself up. “You're two exercises behind me doing what?”

“Physio ball push-ups.”

“Which is done with . . .”

“Uh . . . a physio ball?” Afshin responded with a barely suppressed grin, knowing where this conversation was going.

“Exactly,” Riley said, bouncing the large ball next to him. “Two exercises from now you will be doing . . .”

“Okay, Pach, I get the point,” Afshin said as he watched the ball bounce up and down.
Pach
was Riley's nickname from his time playing with the Air Force Academy Falcons and came from a comparison to the fast, hard-hitting Apache attack helicopter.

“You will be doing . . . ,” Riley repeated, forcing an answer from Afshin.

“What you were just doing—physio ball bridge push-ups,” Afshin quietly answered, still grinning.

“Which means that I have two opportunities to get you back in painful and borderline evil ways, and which makes you . . .”

“El Stupido?”

“Si,”
Riley said, drilling the ball back at his friend, then moving to his next exercise.

“Come on, amigos, this is America. Speak American!” Keith complained as he grabbed the v-bar for another set of kneeling rows.

“Lo siento,”
Riley called back as he placed his face between the split pads for the first of four directions on his neck machine. The conversation ended as each man worked through his set.

While the workout room at the Mustangs training center in Dove Valley was bigger and better equipped, it also tended to be loud and crowded. So two years ago Riley had converted his basement guest suite into a weight room. It wasn't huge, but it was big enough, and it had all the equipment Riley needed for his off-season workouts. Along with the weights and workout machines, he had installed a booming sound system and a large-screen television that he usually kept muted and tuned to ESPN or FoxNews so that he could watch the crawl.

Off-season workouts were required four days a week by the Mustangs organization, but they didn't necessarily have to take place at Dove Valley. So Mondays and Wednesdays, Riley, Keith, and Afshin worked out down at the training center. Although the training center wasn't as convenient as Riley's basement, they wanted to keep their connection with the team. Tuesdays and Thursdays, however, they met at Riley's.

Since they all played the same position, the workouts, while varying from day to day, were identical for each man. They started with movement exercises—deep squats, diagonal arm lifts, rotational stretches—then moved on to strength training: weights, kettlebell exercises, and ab work, as well as presses, pull-ups, and push-ups. Finally, they'd end with a restoration period that included a hurdle series, Gatorade recovery shake, stick and soft tissue work, and then a 3x cold tub–hot tub contrast, which could best be described as misery to ecstasy to misery to ecstasy to misery to ecstasy in one-minute intervals.

Now, as he rested between sets on the neck machine, Riley bobbed his head to TobyMac and Kirk Franklin singing about not wanting to gain the whole world while losing their souls. From the first time Riley had heard the song, it had resonated with him. As a professional football player, it would be easy to get caught up in himself—to believe his own press.
It takes a lot of prayer and perspective to keep your head small enough to fit through a doorway when everyone's calling you a hero and telling you how wonderful you are,
Riley thought.
And it takes good friends like Keith and Afshin, who are more than happy to make sure I stay humble.

After finishing his last neck set, Riley sat down on the padded floor to do the exercise he hated most—Russian twists.
No wonder they call these Russian twists; they're worse than being sent to the gulag!
Picking up a medium-size weight ball, Riley lifted his legs and his upper body, balancing himself on his rear. Then he held the ball out at arm's length and began twisting his torso side to side. He counted to himself as he touched the ball to the ground on either side,
one, one, two, two, three, three,
all the way up to fifteen. When he was done, he collapsed to the floor.

“I hate them; I hate them; I HATE THEM!” Riley yelled, while his abs and obliques screamed.

“Oh, come on! Man up, pansy-boy,” Keith taunted from the neck machine.

Riley shot him a dirty look and saw Afshin watching him from the corner of the room while quickly finishing the last of his physio ball sets. “Don't worry, Rook,” he called out, “I won't mess with your ball. I'm much too creative to do something that obvious.”

Afshin slid off the ball and stretched out on the floor. “Oh, great—now I'm going to have to be Mr. Paranoid, watching your every move. Can't you just get it over with? Here,” he said, putting his feet back on the ball, “come and get me.”

“Sorry, son; don't play the game if you can't pay the price,” Riley said as he picked up the ball for his second and final set of twists.