Syria points to best-case scenario for canning North Korea's Kim
Put on a novelist's hat to imagine how making the Kimster fly away would benefit long-suffering North Koreans and the world
From what we've seen so far, the way it has all ended for Bashar Hafez al-Assad in Syria may represent a best-case scenario.
And Assad's downfall, however confusingly, renews my literary imagining that the Kim Jong Un regime in North Korea might end without a nuclear war, with the ruler fleeing the country to escape the wrath of his own long-suffering subjects – leaving officials of what some have been calling an international Axis of Upheaval befuddled while the ruler's top subordinates shed few tears.
Here's the top of a bombshell news story filed by the protagonist of my 2017 novel Nuclear Blues:
NORTH KOREA SELLS DUD NUKES TO IRAN FACTION IN MULTI-BILLION-DOLLAR DERIVATIVES SCAM
By Heck Davis
AsiaIntel has learned that an American religious group’s aid ship is en route from North Korea to Iran carrying a cargo of medium-range nuclear-tipped missiles that the North Korean regime — knowing that the missiles are defective and will malfunction if launched — has sold to a militant Iranian faction.
The exporters painted Russian-language markings on the Russian-designed missiles in what an extremely high-ranking North Korean official described as a ploy to shift the blame to Moscow.
North Korean leader Kim Jong Un has plotted to create an international crisis that would undermine the creditworthiness of Russian government and corporate bonds, then cash in via insider trading in financial derivatives called credit default swaps.
After that story has broken we get to the final part of the novel set in Shenyang, a major city in northeastern China:
Mi Song picked me up outside the consulate, so excited she had to struggle to catch her breath. She was in a hurry to get somewhere and shushed me when I asked her where. She wove her Benz into a tiny gap in the evening rush hour traffic. Finally, as she waited for a red light to turn green, she briefed me: “After Jong Un had watched the foreign telly news, his aides gave him an update that made him even more upset: The tremors from the Mount Paektu eruption had reached as far as Pyongyang. The shaking had cracked Kumsusan Palace of the Sun, the mausoleum where the dead leaders’ bodies lay in state.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I knew she didn’t like it that her dad had been stuffed and kept on public display, joined in the mausoleum's next room by her elder half-brother.
“Jong Il’s body spilled out of its glass case and onto the mausoleum floor. Jong Un wanted to settle on someone to blame for that horrible indignity. To make things far worse, his aides told him that at several places around the country security forces were fighting with armed citizens who retained enough traditional mindset to see in the volcanic eruption an evil omen. Perhaps the dynasty’s obsession with nuclear weapons had disturbed the sacred mountain.
“Where did the rebels get their arms?
“Most coal miners are military veterans, retained in the reserve forces. In several towns, the miners were so fed up with an accumulation of grievances that they emptied their local armories to join the struggle. Hearing this, Jong Un was boiling mad, raving mad. That was the context for his especially brutal method of executing General Ri."
“I wonder where this is leading.”
“You’ll see, now.” Turning sharply, she whipped into the parking lot of a Korean restaurant. “General Ri’s agents in northeastern China run this establishment and his agency has its regional headquarters in another part of the building. We must be discreet, but we can watch DPRK television here."
The establishment was standing-room-only, packed with portrait-pin-wearing North Koreans. The reason immediately became obvious: There on each television screen was the young leader. Pacing like a caged animal around a luxurious office fitted with maps, screens and other command apparatus, his face mottled, he shrieked abuse at underlings. Behind him stood his unsmiling chief bodyguard, wearing the same blue shirt and striped tie I’d seen him in earlier.
Kim turned to a fiftyish general who was standing at attention in front of his desk. “The People’s Army must shoot all the protestors,” Kim ordered. The general saluted and left the room.
“The security camera was running in his office,” Mi Song whispered in my ear. “This is footage from that camera, transmitted now by national television.”
The video showed a man in a business suit entering the office. When the camera focused on his round face, I recognized him from the evening of our concert at the royal villa. It was Choe Ryong Hae — “Wanker” Choe. Wearing a stern expression, the only survivor among the designated regents was lecturing the younger man.
“I’ll speak bluntly,” Choe said as the two stood facing each other. “You have failed so miserably that if the protests cannot be put down, and if money cannot be found to replace what you have squandered, the top elite will be lucky to get out of the DPRK alive with the clothes on our backs.”
“How dare you talk to the leader this way?” Kim demanded, looking as if he would explode. “You will die and I’m sending three generations of your family to Penal Labor Colony Number 22, for life. I will assign them all — down to your infant grandchildren — to be guinea pigs in the scientific and medical experiments we perform there.”
“Your orders mean nothing now," Choe replied. "Your elders have met and decided that, henceforth, you will make ceremonial appearances but no substantive decisions. A group of us with more experience will rule.”
“You don’t have the authority to make such a decision.” Kim Jong Un’s blotched face showed his anger. Quick as a Western gunslinger — all his practice at shooting ranges in his villas had paid off — he pulled the pistol from his shoulder holster and shot Choe dead.
Kim then turned to his chief bodyguard and said, “Call General Dong back. I have new orders for him. As my grandfather and father taught us, the best defense is a good offense. Finally, we’ll make use of our nukes. Our first targets are Seoul and the American bases on Guam and Okinawa. A final war fought to the bitter end is what the People’s Army and the people need to restore unity at this dangerous moment.”
The bodyguard placed the call, but advised Kim that the general’s phone didn’t answer. Kim named two other generals, and the bodyguard tried, but he said he was unable to raise them, either.
Kim changed his mind on the spot, with remarkable alacrity giving up his chance for swift martial victory or martyrdom. “I don’t like the looks of this,” he barked. “Prepare the Number One train and guard the route to China with maximum air and land protective escort from the bodyguard service — not from the regular military. Assemble the Number One household and my other usual traveling companions immediately for departure within the hour.” Apparently, his father’s fear of flying suddenly made sense to him.
“For how long an absence from Pyongyang shall they prepare, sir?"
“Perhaps a long one. It appears things here are getting out of control. I don’t know who is trustworthy — besides you, of course. Where are the generals when I need them?” He raised his voice, his wattles swaying as he spoke.
“It turns out that starting a nuclear war is not really just a matter of pushing a button, after all. I have a feeling the generals who aren’t taking my calls are turncoats, busy joining traitorous reservists and elderly civilians to move against me.” He looked down on the floor and kicked Choe’s blood-soaked body so hard it flipped over and we could see the dead man’s face.
“If I can’t take the honorable warrior’s way and win or lose on the battlefield, the best I can do as the third-generation Kim ruler is to continue living to fight another day. I have enough secret funds stashed abroad to finance a long absence while we await a signal that my bad luck has turned good.”
The bodyguard nodded and stooped at a desk to begin phoning instructions.
Watching this on the TV screens, many of the Koreans in the restaurant looked uncomprehending, stunned.
“Jong Un is superstitious,"Mi Song whispered, "like his father and like those protestors in the provinces. He thinks he is having bad luck.”
As she walked off toward one group of officials, I glanced at another group, sleek-looking fellows huddled in one corner who appeared deeply grief-stricken. Maybe they were General Ri’s security operatives, whose futures now suddenly looked bleak. Would they have to answer for oppression they’d enthusiastically helped their boss inflict?
Mi Song returned quickly. “He is already crossing the river,” she whispered. “Never mind. It is better to encourage him to slink away. Letting the news out that he has turned tail will be more effective in solidifying public opinion than sending him back to face the music. We may count upon him to set up housekeeping abroad so lavishly as to provide our citizenry with an endless supply of unflattering news about his life in exile.”
“What if he gathers resistance forces around him abroad and returns to fight?”
“Off the record” — she looked into my eyes with a hint of amusement — “one of his traveling party is a member of our secret group. That person will hide out with him. All we shall need to do if the circumstances arise is send word and Jong Un will be dead.”
Some of the people in the room were responding to the ruler’s behavior with nervous smiles as they swapped comments with their companions.
“Are the soldiers out shooting protestors now?” I asked Mi Song.
“General Dong Chung Hee, leading member of our secret group, was the one you saw receiving that order. He ignored it and staged the coup that we had been planning for some time. He is chairing an executive committee drawn from our group of reformers.”
As if on cue, the TV announcer introduced General Dong, speaking from military headquarters as the country’s new top leader. The short-haired, uniformed, square-jawed military man spoke briefly. “Kim Jong-un has fled abroad after betting many billions of dollars of the country’s money on a scheme that my spokesman will describe. He lost his bet. The country must move quickly to avert financial catastrophe worse than any we have ever experienced. The Committee for National Regeneration, of which I am chairman, is in charge. As my first official act today, I have canceled the former leader’s order to shoot civilian protestors. As my second, I am ordering the military storehouses opened. We will distribute a million tons of war-reserve rice to our long-suffering citizens — soldiers and civilians alike, with priority going to victims of the volcanic eruption and earthquake.”
There was scattered applause from around the room. The expressions and demeanor of around half of those present suggested guarded approval while a smaller percentage were poker-faced, probably keeping their options open. The sleek, worried fellows in the corner continued to huddle.
“We all need to eat well and restore our bodies because we have a huge task ahead rebuilding what each and every countryman realizes is a sick and broken economy,” General Dong said. “We need every pair of hands for this task. We cannot afford to waste our energy and resources on antagonizing other countries. Thus, while keeping enough strength to guard our borders and maintain our independence, we will shrink the military. The discharged soldiers will go back to school or switch to productive labor. Discharged officers will be retrained for important roles in the civilian economy.
“We welcome assistance from international institutions and from other countries, including our neighbors. We need to develop our own economic strength before we will be ready to discuss reunification with our Southern brothers. In exchange for appropriate assurances of non-intervention and the withdrawal of sanctions, we are prepared to halt the nuclear, chemical and biological weapons programs and divert resources to programs for peaceful development.”
In the restaurant, that elicited more applause. At the same time a couple of uniformed officers with rows of medals on their tunics exchanged downcast looks. Maybe they suspected that the perks they’d received were a thing of the past.
The television screen switched to scenes of provincial North Koreans celebrating the new regime by knocking down propaganda boards that praised the second- and third-generation leaders. The crowds conspicuously exempted the founding Kim. “At the request of General Dong, these people have now gone home to prepare for participation in the new society,” the announcer intoned.
“Let us go.” Mi Song turned to me. We squeezed our way out of the room. As we drove off, she resumed talking. “Most of the military is coming around. Some ten thousand armed security officers from General Ri’s agency are resisting. They calculate, correctly, that they would fare poorly under the new administration. General Dong’s soldiers will make short work of them. The lucky ones among them are those with foreign postings, like those fellows we saw in the corner of the restaurant. Being in China already, they have a head start to seek asylum in Eritrea or some place.”
“Is democracy on tap?”
“First things first. For now, what the people would really appreciate is not democracy. They have never experienced such a thing. Cut off as they have been from the rest of the world, they have practically no idea what ‘democracy’ means. What they want is economic competence and an end to corrupt officials’ constant demands for bribery. Nevertheless, the new ruling group is made up of relatively cosmopolitan people whose own inclination is to end our isolation — to open up. When the people themselves feel enough of those subversive breezes from outside and decide it is time for democracy, we shall work with them to achieve it.”
“I heard him say you’re not ready for reunification.”
“That is mutual. Until we come much closer to catching up with South Korea economically, there is no way the South will wish to take on the horrendous costs of reunification. Fear that the South would bankrupt itself by bearing that burden is why the sketchy early news of the collapse of the Kim regime was extremely bearish for the Seoul markets today. Too bad we had not bought up a large credit default swaps position. We could have made a killing.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“Another reason not to reunify for the present is that Northerners are proud people who are unwilling to become second-class citizens, a menial underclass wiping South Korean babies’ bottoms in a unified Korea. South Koreans who are competent in business, especially including defectors from the North, will be welcome to come up and help us build — but only if they refrain from taking advantage of our people’s naiveté through such predatory behavior as property speculation. We shall remain separate for the time being, negotiate peace treaties with the United States and South Korea and in due course negotiate to turn the DMZ into a public park and wildlife preserve. Panmunjom will be kept intact, as a living museum.”
Army of hackers
Now, if what youve seen of the plot interests you, you may be wondering why you haven't been exposed to Nuclear Blues before.
My answer: Like Assad, Kim Jong Un is a truly vicious son of a bitch who enjoys the bloodless nastiness as well as the bloody.
Besides hordes of nuclear weapons developers, he employs an army of hackers – as I was reminded in 2016 when a pair of US federal agents visited my office to warn that, on account of my Pyongyang-watching work, my email had been targeted by "state-sponsored forces in the Far East."
Kim by then had struck fear into the hearts of New York publishers and Hollywood filmmakers alike with a 2014 hack retaliating for a Sony movie he didn't like, "The Interview." The damage, some reports said, ran as high as half a billion dollars.
I didn't really think through how I, personally, might be affected by that development – until my manuscript went to market. No agent or publisher would touch it. I had to self-publish. Despite many glowing reviews, Nuclear Blues, like most self-published volumes, has sold few copies. This year I tried again, contacting a big-time Hollywood agent with a proposal to make the story into a streaming series. No way, the agent replied: Hollywood is still scared shitless a decade after the hack.
While the Kimster would deserve the Assad treatment in any case, personal experience clinches the case in my mind.
I have a message for you, Kim. Assad's cultivation of Tulsi Gabbard – my wacko former congresswoman and, now, Donald Trump's nominee for national intelligence director – didn't protect him. Likewise, your own bromance with Trump won't protect you from the wrath of your people.
Sooner or later they're likely to be coming for you, Kim. Fly away!
Besides Nuclear Blues, Bradley K. Martin is the author of the nonfiction book Under the Loving Care of the Fatherly Leader: North Korea and the Kim Dynasty.
Better watch out for General Dong. Or just hang out at the Young Dong Disco.