From the Fatherland, with Love, page 15
The youngish woman to Ri’s left spoke again. “Excuse me. Are you Korean?” She clearly assumed they were from the South. She was wearing a cap with the Hawks emblem and eating noodles from a polystyrene cup. “No,” replied Ri. “Guess not,” said the woman to the man next to her, apparently her husband. She was still munching her noodles. “Don’t talk to the spectators,” Kim admonished his partner. “Don’t answer their questions.” The woman’s chopsticks were in constant motion as she stared at the two of them, her gaze shifting from their faces to their weapons and then back again.
“Esteemed ladies and gentlemen.” Han’s voice came over the loudspeakers. “To everyone gathered here in Fukuoka Dome,” he continued, “a very good evening to you. My name is Han Seung Jin, commander of the rebel army faction of the Special Operations Forces of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. We are interrupting the festivities here today in opposition to the dictatorship of Kim Jong Il, for the sake of peace in our Republic, the happiness of our people, and the fulfillment of their dearest wish—the unification of our Fatherland. In view of this development, tonight’s game is now terminated. I repeat: the game is now terminated.”
The response to the announcement was muted. No one seemed particularly surprised or frightened. Most had blank, uncomprehending expressions on their faces.
“My troops are all in position. We are well trained and armed with automatic weapons. For the time being, you must stay where you are. Do not leave your seats until you are told to. Under duress, we will open fire. If you engage in any sort of misconduct, we will shoot to kill.”
The players at bat came out on the field and stared up at the broadcasting booth. The umpires walked toward the booth, stopped—perhaps able to see for themselves the men or the weapons in there—then motioned to the players to return to the bench. The three infield and two outfield umps came trotting back as well. The batboys likewise disappeared, and soon the field was empty. The screen on the scoreboard continued to pulsate with the animated bird and the message GO, GO, GO HAWKS, but the sound was off and the spectators had fallen silent. A message came over Ri’s transceiver. She listened and repeated for Kim’s sake, “This is Team One. Have heard from the Japanese Cabinet Secretariat and passed on our demands. Waiting for a reply. The airborne forces are on course. Repeat. Airborne forces have been launched. All teams, report your situation.” The clock on the scoreboard now read 17:19. The aircraft transporting the four companies would be arriving in two hours, bypassing southern airspace. Tense-looking security guards in the Dome were still gathering at the gates. As part of the demands made to the Japanese government, the airborne troops were to be allowed to land safely; in addition, no police personnel or vehicles were to enter within a five-kilometer radius of the Dome. Any sign of police activity inside that area would result in the execution of spectators. Team Four reported to Jo Su Ryeon that the spectators were getting restless. Kim Hak Su too could hear murmuring from the first-base infield seats. Everyone was now aware of the armed intruders and understood that the game had been cancelled, but no one among the thirty thousand spectators had the faintest idea how to deal with the situation. Ri looked at Kim and pointed down toward the home-team dugout. The three cheering-section contingents were merging there, each group flying their big Hawks banner. A large, bearded man in front of the largest group, carrying the biggest banner, appeared to be their leader.
“What the hell?” he shouted into his megaphone, looking up at Kim Hak Su. The words prompted scattered laughter and cries of, “You tell ’em!”
“You really from North Korea?” the bearded man shouted. “Your girlfriend up there—she in one of the Dear Leader’s Joy Brigades?” In response to this, a roar of laughter came from as far away as the outfield bleachers. The guards joined in too. It wasn’t that the man’s remark had struck anyone as genuinely funny. Kim recognized this laughter as an attempt to release tension and suppress fear. The series of advertising messages on the enormous screen continued automatically, and the voice of the man with the megaphone reverberated around the stadium. Handing his banner to a fellow member of the cheering section, he began walking slowly toward Kim and Ri, dangling and swinging his megaphone. Over the transceiver came Han’s voice saying: “Team Two, can you hear me? Stop those people in white!” Ri asked Kim what they should do. “If they come any closer,” he said, “we’ll order them to stop. If they don’t obey, we’ll fire warning shots in the air. Don’t fire at their feet. The bullets might ricochet.” The groups in white had converged and were filing into the aisle behind their bearded leader. “How many do you think there are?” he asked Ri. “Two hundred fifty to three hundred.” There were no heroes here, thought Kim. This fool may think he can shout into a megaphone and swagger up to armed soldiers, but that’s only because he doesn’t know danger when he sees it. He’s an idiot, like that clown in the hotel. The bearded man reached the bottom of the stairs, where a guard tried to restrain him, only to be sent flying. “Hell!” the man shouted at him. “Why don’t you lot go up there? North Korea, my ass! Nobody messes with Fukuoka!” Again the stadium erupted in laughter. Players came out of the dugouts to watch. With his retinue in tow, the bearded man began to mount the stairs one by one. “Stop! If you come any closer, I’ll shoot,” Kim shouted. People in the crowd moved out like widening ripples on water. “Go ahead and shoot!” the man yelled, thumping his chest and taking another step as though to call Kim’s bluff. Again there were cheers.
If he fired warning shots, fools like these would probably just keep coming. Inside, they were terrified, but extreme fear can drive people over the edge. If he shot him in the legs, he might ignite that fear and cause a stampede. If they all rushed them at once, he’d have to use the machine gun, but killing several dozen of them would make negotiations with the government more difficult. These people were like kids throwing a tantrum—or worse, zombies who’d lost touch with their real souls. At moments of crisis, people who just couldn’t deal with the stress often did things that were suicidal. A child you could just take in hand, but how do you get people like this in touch with their souls? They had to be shocked back to their senses, but how do you do that? How do you get a herd of zombies to go back into their graves?
“Take cover, down there!”
So saying, Kim picked up the RPG that lay at his feet. To avoid the back-blast, he stepped away from the wall and ordered Ri to load the weapon. “What’s the target?” she asked. “Never mind. Just load it!” He raised the muzzle to an elevated position, knowing the outer limit of the weapon’s range. “Loaded!” said Ri, and Kim pulled the trigger. An explosive blast ripped through the stadium, followed by a powerful shock wave as the rocket soared above the playing field toward the huge electronic scoreboard. A second later, half the scoreboard was reduced to shreds of plastic and glass, as gray smoke poured from what remained and sparks shot toward the roof. The crowd was hushed, all faces frozen. Now at last they knew where they stood. Kim put aside his RPG and, descending the steps, approached the cheerleader. “Well? Shall I shoot you?” he asked, pressing the muzzle of his pistol against the bearded man’s pale forehead. The man only moaned, a damp stain spreading on his white trousers. “Now go back to your seat!” Kim commanded him. Bobbing his head liked a chastened child, he did as he was told.
4
ANTONOV AN-2S
April 2, 2011
KAWAI HIDEAKI’S immediate thought on hearing about the occupation of Fukuoka Dome by North Korean guerrillas was, “Why does it have to be Saturday evening, of all times?” There were always a few people at work on weekends and holidays in CIRO to cover in case of emergencies. Kawai wasn’t on the emergency shift, but he’d been bothered by reports of the Korean People’s Navy amassing a range of vessels at the Nakwon and Mayangdo bases over the past day or two and had come in this afternoon to check his email. Satellite images from the US Department of Defense showed that most were transport ships, not warships. North Korea had few large battleships, and those they did have were mainly used for maneuvers off the coast.
According to one email from the Korean Intelligence Division, around a hundred ships had assembled and were preparing to sail. It was the first time anything like this had happened. Kawai had hastily contacted informed sources in Korea, China, and the US, but was still none the wiser and had been just about to go home when NHK broadcast the newsflash. Reports were coming in that Fukuoka Dome had been occupied by an armed group right in the middle of the opening game of the season, but it was not known whether they were Japanese extremists, an organized crime syndicate, or foreign terrorists. Other TV stations also soon began interrupting their programs to relay events in the Dome. The game was not being shown live, but all the stations had cameras set up there that were capable of live broadcasts.
As soon as the guerrillas began their statement with the phrase “Esteemed ladies and gentlemen,” Kawai’s heart sank. As head of the Korean Affairs Section of CIRO’s International Division, it was immediately obvious to him that this was a North Korean group. Many members of their Special Forces and State Security Department’s Reconnaissance Bureau had learned Japanese, but they were unfamiliar with contemporary Japan and tended to use old-fashioned words and phrases rarely heard these days. “Esteemed ladies and gentlemen” was followed incongruously by “To everyone gathered here in Fukuoka Dome, a very good evening to you,” which brought sniggers from a few of the assembled CIRO staff who’d gathered in front of the TVs. But then the announcer identified himself. “My name is Han Seung Jin, commander of the rebel army faction of the Special Operations Forces of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.” A momentary hush fell over the room, and then everyone rushed back to the phones and computers on their desks, keeping one eye on the TV. No one was taking it lightly, but the reality had not yet sunk in and the atmosphere was largely one of sheer astonishment. Kawai grabbed his own phone and called a contact in the South Korean intelligence bureau. The office at the other end of the line was already in uproar. As soon as the contact came on, he wanted to know what the Japanese government intended to do about the situation. Kawai had been hoping to find out what was meant by “rebel army faction” and who Han Seung Jin was, but here the Koreans were already wondering what his own government’s response was going to be! “Have they made demands of our government?” Kawai asked back.
There was a stunned silence before the contact read out the guerrillas’ list of demands. No police within a radius of five kilometers from Fukuoka Dome. Disable all air-defense systems around Kyushu and ban all activity by the Air Self-Defense Force for two hours, beginning now. If these demands are not met, fifty people at a time will be executed in Fukuoka Dome. Who on earth in the government would be dealing with this, wondered Kawai. The Chief Cabinet Secretary was back in his provincial constituency for the early summer elections. All three deputies were in Tokyo, but he didn’t know whether they were at work right now. He asked his contact about the “rebel army faction” and their commanding officer. The man told him that the North’s Committee of State Security had already issued a statement through their embassy in Beijing, saying this armed group of rebel officers was acting independently and without the sanction of either the North Korean government or the Korean People’s Army. And Han Seung Jin, he added, was a political officer in the Eighth Corps. Kawai’s head reeled. Things were moving too fast. Any official statement from the DPRK about unidentified or spy ships would usually come a few days after the start of an incident, if not several weeks later, so why had it been so quick this time? “You mustn’t give in to the guerrillas’ demands!” insisted the contact angrily. “Even if it means sacrificing some of the people in Fukuoka Dome, demands from the North must not be met!”
Nobody higher up had yet contacted Kawai, which must mean that the Cabinet’s crisis-management room was not yet functional. He hung up and turned again to the TV, which was repeating the guerrillas’ statement over and over again. “We are interrupting the festivities here today in opposition to the dictatorship of Kim Jong Il, for the sake of peace in our Republic, the happiness of our people, and the fulfillment of their dearest wish—the unification of our Fatherland…” As Kawai listened to each phrase enunciated in strangely imperfect Japanese, the reality of the situation began to sink in, removing any last remaining doubts that this could actually be happening. He reviewed the list of demands. He could understand their not wanting to allow police access, but what to make of the other condition regarding the air-defense system? Were they planning to launch a missile? But surely a rebel faction wouldn’t be capable of that—if they could lay their hands on a missile launcher, then they couldn’t possibly just be insurgents. So what on earth was their objective? Money? An aircraft to make their getaway?
Just then, the room resounded with cries of shock and horror. The guerrillas had demolished the ballpark’s giant electronic scoreboard with a weapon of some kind. The NHK anchor reported shrilly that Fukuoka Dome had been destroyed by a missile, and there must be casualties! To the left of the centerfield screen, a plume of black smoke was rising amidst a shower of tiny sparks. Some of the spectators, women and crying children among them, could be seen staring in stupefaction at the charred remains. The explosion was shown again, and someone commented that it looked just like an action movie. On TV, the explosion wasn’t as loud or as spectacular as it would be in a movie, but because this was real, the effect was devastating. And it had come just as everyone, the news anchor and guest commentator included, had been puzzling over what the motive for the occupation of the Dome could be. The guerrillas had announced their nationality and status, and that the stadium was now effectively under their control, but their aims were as yet unstated.
People all over Japan were watching the live broadcast. The entire Cabinet—from the Prime Minister and Chief Cabinet Secretary down to all the ministers—must be scrambling to get here. But how long would it take to get a task force up and running? In the event of a major disaster or terrorist attack, the initial response would involve first collating information in the Cabinet’s crisis-management room before anything was handed up. The Deputy Chief Cabinet Secretary for Crisis Management would summon an emergency team of related agencies at director-general level, and a planning room would be set up in the Prime Minister’s official residence. Then the PM would call an emergency meeting of the Cabinet ministers in order to come up with a plan of action, and if integrated action was deemed necessary, a task force would be set up. Typically the response to, say, an unidentified ship would take about twenty hours from initial discovery to convocation of the Security Council of Japan.
*
A few minutes after the rocket explosion, Kawai’s mobile phone and desk phone rang simultaneously. He picked up the desk phone, and heard Iwata, the head of CIRO’s Domestic Division, summoning him at once to the Cabinet’s crisis-management room. An order had also been put out in the Chief Cabinet Secretary’s name for all CIRO staff to report to work. Kawai went to the bathroom, combed his hair and adjusted his tie, then picked up all the data he thought might be useful. The crisis-management room was located in the Cabinet Office, which had moved two levels underground a couple of years ago. It was built to withstand even a terrorist bomb attack—although what terrorist these days would bother to go after the Cabinet? Only the government and the media still believed that North Korea would attack high-profile targets like the Imperial Palace, the Prime Minister’s official residence, the Cabinet Office, nuclear power stations, the bullet train, or Tokyo Harbor. They were stuck in the template of all-out war between nations.
Two years ago, some of the brightest young minds in the Intelligence HQ of the Defense Agency had submitted a report saying that if North Korea ever did organize an attack on Japan, it would be on an outlying island—but they had essentially been ignored. There were some seven thousand islands around Japan, and four hundred and twenty-three of these had people living on them. There was nothing to stop a North Korean commando unit from occupying an inhabited island. All they needed to do was kill the local police, take the residents hostage, contact the mass media, and present their demands to the Japanese government. They didn’t need major population centers or key installations, just a small squad armed with automatic rifles and hand grenades. It was a nightmare scenario, but short of bringing back the draft it was impossible to guard all the islands with populations of four hundred or fewer with trained soldiers. The government therefore decided that this sort of thing could never happen, and dismissed the report.
Kawai was walking along the dim linoleum-floored corridor when a call came from the General Affairs Section Deputy Leader, Suzuki, who was on his way in by taxi. He lived out in Tachikawa on the Chuo Line, so it would take him at least an hour. Kawai lived near Musashi-Sakai on the same line, and was well aware that it was one of the most popular for suicides, which meant frequent interruptions. The train was the fastest way to get to work, but in an emergency a taxi was the safer bet. “I’m counting on you to back up Iwata till I get there,” Suzuki told him, and then asked what his view of the situation was. Kawai replied that there was so little information as yet that he couldn’t really say much, but several things just didn’t add up. Suzuki grunted agreement and said, “One thing I don’t get is this ‘rebel army faction’ stuff. What’s that all about?” Kawai was just about to answer, when Suzuki said, “Hold on a minute,” and spoke with the taxi driver. He heard the driver say that the Chuo Expressway was closed—there must have been an accident or something, or maybe it had to do with the attack on Fukuoka Dome—and they’d have to take surface streets. That meant that Suzuki was going to be even later. Kawai wondered if the expressway was closed because some Cabinet minister was heading along it to get here.
