The Satan Bomb: A Thriller

By Jack Segal

The Statue of Liberty had been blown up by a knapsack loaded with C-4. Richard Jamesons retirement goals were to be a stay-at-home dad with his beloved Nassir and his wife, Marty. After saving the life of the president of the United States, he needed a long vacation from being on the job. His plans were working out until the phone rang. The best-laid plans of men and mice . . .

The Satan Bomb is a fast-paced novel which takes us from New York to Pyongyang and on to Buffalo and Toronto. A vicious international assassin has been trained to create havoc in New York City. His guile in disarming and dispatching any adversary swiftly was not only a necessity to his vocation, it was mandatory.

His methods intended to cause indescribable suffering and death to thousands. Their deaths will not be instantaneous, but they will be painful and excruciating. Will he succeed, or will Jameson triumph where others have failed?

Another attack on America in the likes of 9/11 could bring America to its knees. This time, the menace does not originate among the dictatorships of the Middle East but in the despotic regime of North Korea.

Jack Segal has succeeded in this venture, keeping the reader in shock and suspense.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532017551

Jack Segal

Jack Segal, retired educator, is an avid student of history and politics. The Satan Bomb is the sequel to Unfinished Vengeance.

Book preview

THE

SATAN

BOMB

A THRILLER

JACK SEGAL

38631.png

THE SATAN BOMB

A THRILLER

Copyright © 2017 Jack Segal.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-5320-1754-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-1755-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017903122

iUniverse rev. date: 03/07/2017

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Epilogue

TO MY LOVING PARENTS:

RUTH AND IRVING SEGAL

BELLE AND STANLEY VOGEL

"Those who deny freedom to others,

Deserve it not for themselves"

Abraham Lincoln

From behind his desk, the Director removed a black nylon suitcase. The combination lock had been reset to the numbers 9-1-1, he began. The reason is quite clear. This date was the beginning of the end for the Americans, brought about by our Muslim brothers in their struggle. Although it happened sixteen years ago, the Americans are still in fear. Westerners cannot focus in achieving goals as we Asians can. They only care about the sports standings of their local teams, or which person to screw next both in sexually and in business.

Yes, the State ALWAYS thought of everything. NOTHING is left to chance.

CHANCE LEADS TO FAILURE

FAILURE LEADS TO DEFEAT

DEFEAT LEADS TO PERMANENT ELIMINATION

CHAPTER 1

What the hell am I doing here? I go from homicide detective to changing diapers. Five years ago, I get a Congressional citation for saving President Guillermo’s skin. Today, in the Year of our Lord 2017, I am rewarded by having my son piss in my face. How the mighty have fallen!

Nassir Patrick, come on! Just one more wipe and I’m done. Come on, stop spinning! Here, hold my 18K solid gold Rolex. Don’t tell anyone it’s a knockoff and I picked it up for five bucks off a Nigerian on Forty-Seventh Street and Broadway. I could have busted him for boosting counterfeit merchandise and no peddler license, but hey, the other half has to live a little too. Jeez, maybe I’m now part of the other-half.

He finished the high tech process and placed his reward in the diaper pail. The room already reeked with the whiff of, Nassir Patrick’s perfume.

Wow, what an aroma. From the potential, changing of the guard I become the changing of the tush."

Here, hold still. Just one more tape on the side and then we’ll snap you up. I really can’t chase after you today, Nassir Patrick. Kissing you good night last night and stepping barefoot on a piece of Giant Lego. What a unique experience! The excruciating pain shot right up his leg. Thank heavens he stifled his scream, he thought.

Marty would have killed me, both literally and physically for startling the baby and awakening him. He’s a little tough guy, Jameson thought. He’s kinda like me when I was his age, a little toughie, who didn’t take crap from anyone.

Come on Nassir Patrick, up and at ’em, killer. Marty hated when he called him that.

Richard, she would always say. Please stop that.

Stop what, he would respond. But, he knew damn well what she meant.

Richard, stop calling him killer. I don’t want him to be a killer. You and I have dealt with killers all our lives. Let’s not make him one of them, nor one of us.

What’s wrong with his being one of us? Hey, we’re the GOOD guys, remember?

Yes, I remember. You remind me of that fact each and every day. But to many people, we’re not the good guys. THEY are.

I don’t want to hear any of that psychobabble. I know that we’re on the right team.

Richard, can we continue this conversation not in front of the baby?

Sure, anything you say. I don’t want to upset you. I’m sorry.

O.K. Come on kil—, catching himself. Nassir Patrick, go get those Fisher-Price little devils. NO Nassir Patrick, not in your mouth. Everything is oral with you. I’ll bet ten bucks, when you grow up, you’re gonna be a dentist.

Richard, grow up he could hear her say as if she was in the room. Maybe it’s time he should. At sixty-one years of age, perhaps it’s time he acts his age and not his shoe size. But, it gets more difficult every day. Marriage and fatherhood is quite the opposite of the single life. Sure, a good hot breakfast and a good hot body next to you at night are better than Frosted Flakes and jerking off. But they do have their negatives. Marty and Nassir Patrick were the best things that ever happened to him. The dating scene is over, he thought. Anyhow, the goal to get into their pants was becoming more and more elusive as the years went by.

He had heard from his friends that the same happens in Holy Matrimony. He remembered the joke that Sam Cohen, one of the cops he worked with in his rookie year told him. How do you stop a Jewish girl from screwing, he used to say.

Marry her, was his answer.

Poor Sam. He was gunned down on patrol in Jamaica, Queens, about five miles from where they were living today. They never caught the guys, never OFFICIALLY that is. The D.A.’s office said it was the Black Tigers but no one was ever apprehended. All he knew was that they found the body of two young gang bangers, each with a bullet in the back of their head on Rockaway Boulevard near J.F.K. airport. They had long rap sheets and no one would miss them. Story had it, that contact was made with the local connected guys from Howard Beach and they did the hit as a favor.

All the guys at the precinct would offer similar complaints about their spouses-no matter what their respective faiths were. He and Marty weren’t in a platonic relationship, not by a long shot. But, the hot and heavy carnal copulations were replaced by either of the following Bartlett quotations:

Not now Richard, the baby will hear us, or I’m tired, I have to get up early.

The best one was, Richard, two nights in a row. Take it easy. You don’t want to give yourself a massive heart attack.

His answer to the last one always was the same. How about let’s do it slowly and I can handle a teeny heart attack.

Marty always laughed, they kissed each other goodnight, and it was lights out. If this keeps up he thought, "My right hand will fall off. Don’t these women ever get horny?"

He refused to frequent the Flushing massage parlors with their corny names-Best First Massage, Heavenly Hands, or Korean Delights. The bars in Jamaica were also out of the question. Too many of the clientele would recognize him as a cop. Besides, he took his marriage vows seriously and coming home with the clap, like two guys he knew was not in the cards. Penicillin shots or worse, AIDS, was not something he wanted in his future. Blown opportunities, he smiled at the play on words was better than full-blown HIV.

Sex wasn’t that important to him. If it were, he would have stayed single. He remembered the line in the Broadway show Jersey Boys, which he had seen years ago. Women, if you’re single they have sex with you and then they break your balls. If you’re married, they just break your balls.

But, this was all bullshit. He laughed. Marty was the best thing that ever happened to him. From the time, he first laid eyes upon her, he knew, this was the one. She had the body that could kill, and the face of an angel. And, oh those lips. Forget it; he could have been dating, single and UNHAPPY forever. He would never, ever find a girl so perfect.

They weren’t kids anymore. He wasn’t a stud, and she a young mare. They weren’t ready to be put out to pasture yet either. But, they both had matured. This wasn’t a Frankie Avalon and Sandra Dee movie, nor was it Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. No, it was just two people who met on the job. In between murders, assassination attempts, germ warfare, and being shot and stabbed, they both fell in love. It must have been the magic potion of the curried goat.

She had been through more than enough. The fates had thrown her a double whammy. To have lost a spouse in the prime of life, not to mention a hundred thousand tons of concrete and steel collapsing on your head on 9/11 was not a positive incident in one’s life. The shock caused her to suffer a miscarriage. No, she did not have a cakewalk. He prayed the years would be kind to her and help her to forget. She still suffered from the crying bouts, the shaking and the anxiety attacks. He begged her to see the N.Y.P.D. shrink or the one assigned to the Feds.

Her answer was always the same, Drugs and a psychiatrist are not going to bring them back. I have to work this out myself.

Only her beloved Nassir Patrick and time would control the beast in her. His name meant, One who brings peace. He hoped with all his heart that their beloved Nassir Patrick would bring true peace to his beloved Marty. He cried for her and the weight she carried since that horrible day The Towers collapsed.

He loved Nassir Patrick as much as Marty. Who would have thought that he would ever have an heir? Of course Nassir Patrick still had a ways to go. He concentrates now on eating like an eight pound Oreck vacuum, his penee and his sphincter muscle. But, eventually he hoped this would all change.

He couldn’t wait to play roly-poly with him on the living room floor. Next, would be having a catch in the backyard. He’d have to remember to keep the tosses short. Too much enthusiasm would cause the ball to sail over the fence into Mr. Rothstein’s yard. Hopping a fence is one thing, avoiding two gluttonous pit bulls is another. He’d love to get his Glock and pump a couple of rounds into each of those canine devils. The result of that act would be six months at Rikers for cruelty to animals, imposed by some lib. judge.

What the hell has happened to the Big Apple?

No, not New York, but to the whole country! Now, you have to be scared shit to shoot a vicious hound. Who’s more important, the safety of those four-legged Hounds of the Baskervilles, or his family?

Thank you, he said aloud.

I believe the offspring of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, take precedence over the child of Marty and Richard Jameson.

What a totally fucked-up society!

I am beholden to my neighbor, he thought for picking this exemplary breed of canine over the other hundred and fifty AKC categories. Why didn’t that old bald headed S.O.B. get a Cocker Spaniel or a Chihuahua? The guy down the street had a magnificent English Springer Spaniel named Jody. She was liver and white with a great disposition. His other pooch was a "Heinz.’ Her name was Daisy. She looked like the dog Sandy in Annie. Both these pets would lick you to death when they passed you in the street. The Springer’s tail never stopped wagging. Her fur was like creamy velvet. Just my luck these two next door would devour you at the drop of a pin.

Oh, oh, the baby’s crying. What’s the world shattering crisis, now?

CHAPTER 2

Hey, it’s ten o’clock. Time for the high point of my day; the zenith; the epitome; the crescendo of my life’s experience. It’s time for the weekly trek to the supermarket with Nassir Patrick. First the ground rules of dressing him. No matter how cooperative or uncooperative he is, keep him occupied. The best thing for that is food. Any snack, cookie or otherwise would calm him down for the two to three minutes needed to complete the dressing of the prince. He loved the four c words, cake, cookies, chips and of course candy. Nassir Patrick would literally crawl through a flaming hoop for M & M’s.

Any outfit he picked would serve the identical response when Marty walked in the door.

Allah be praised. Are you blind? He doesn’t match!

What’s the problem, he responded. If he tried to color co-ordinate everything, she would comment, Richard you must be color-blind. Those blues clash. Why didn’t you put on the blue top with the beige pants and the beige sweater I left for him?

His answer was always the same. I thought this looked better on him.

He didn’t want to admit he was getting just a tad forgetful and color blind. Two hints of the ensuing aging process were progressing. Anyway, what’s easier, putting on a one-piece dungaree stretchy on Nassir Patrick or struggling with the big-man-on-campus, infinite snaps, layered look.

Okay. Time to survey the checklist.

Nassir Patrick’s dress and coat on. CHECK!

T.V. off, coffee maker unplugged (it was sparking last week). CHECK!

Radio volume up to keep away the potential intruders. CHECK!

The neighborhood was changing-buzz words for minorities coming in from Jamaica. Hell, he was the minority not them. Since marrying Marty, he was more tolerant of the myriad groups in New York City, but the vestiges of the old Richard were still there.

Besides, he didn’t care what fuckin’ color the perp. was who entered his home. They could be as white as Ben and Jerry’s vanilla, black as Rocky Road, or any combo thereof. He would just whip out his off duty Glock and pump two rounds into them.

No one would ever prosecute or convict an ex-cop who protected his home and family, let alone one who was a National hero. There wasn’t a judge in the five boroughs who would go up against the N.Y.P.D. or the PBA, especially after the latest rash of vigilante, brutal killings of civilians by street gangs. The populace was outraged and the politicians were starting to feel the heat.

He learned from his friends who were still on the job that the word had come down from H.Q. Clean up all the street punks. Show them who’s boss. The municipal hospitals had all suffered a spike of gang crap coming in with cracked heads and broken knee caps. The doctors had no ideas as to the causes. Rumor had it that a blue flu" had been the culprit. Even the hot shot A.C.L.U. lawyers couldn’t get the scum to talk.

Come on, Nassir Patrick. Let’s get this coat all snapped up. All we have to do is one more on the hood and we’re fin…

The phone rang. He let it ring four times and the answering machine picked up. A familiar, official voice began after the pre-recorded message.

Captain Jameson. Please pick up Captain Jameson. Captain Jameson, if you are there, please pick up the phone.

He thought, I can’t place that voice but I know it.

The recording continued but with another semi-familiar voice. Captain Jameson, please pick up the phone. This is an urgent message from the N.Y.P.D. If you are not available, when you receive this message please call this number, area code 212-330 0000. Ask for extension 425 when the operator picks up.

The line went dead. He put the receiver down. Carrying Nassir Patrick in one hand, the baby bottle, and Nassir Patrick’s supplies in the other, he walked down the steps to the kitchen. The caller I.D. on the counter displayed, private caller.

Who the hell would be calling me at home? Who knows my number? Every cop has an unlisted number. They tell you that when you’re a rookie. But, hey I’m not a rookie and not a cop anymore. I’m just a retiree collecting my pension. The Mrs. works and I’m stuck playing Mr. Mom. Shit, do I pick up the stuff at Stop & Shop or return the call?

The choice was easy. However, he had no idea the difficulty he was about to face. The voice on the other end was quite business-like. FATTF. To whom shall I direct your call?

FATTF, he thought. What the f- is that? Marty warned him not to curse in front of Nassir Patrick, he recalled.

FATTF sir, is the Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force. To whom shall I direct your call?

Jameson hesitated for a moment. I don’t know. Who’s in charge?

We have several divisions sir. We have the New York Metropolitan area, the East Coast, the Southeast, the Central—

Lady, Jameson replied impatiently, I don’t need a geography lesson.

Sir, I wasn’t finished. We also have various international desks. There is the E—

Miss, just put me through to the New York Met. office.

Yes sir.

By the way, give me a short and to the point who’s the head honcho of that desk?

We have two co-supervisors.

Is there a Mister Smith there?

Why yes, she answered. Which one, came the reply. We have two.

May I ask, what are their first names?

Jim and John.

You could have knocked him over with a snowflake. The two names brought back several pleasant and a multitude of unpleasant memories.

Would you like me to connect you?

No thank you. He hung up quickly.

Dammit, he shouted.

Nassir Patrick looked at him.

Sorry champ. I knew those guys were still around. How could I be so stupid, to think those two spooks would vanish in thin air?

Turning to Nassir Patrick he spoke softly. Here’s the deal Nassir Patrick. The choice is a tough one. Either we head to the appetizing counter for the turkey breast, roast beef and all the other stuff we need in the house, or we head towards my old stomping grounds at the Precinct.

Nassir Patrick just looked at him with his big brown eyes.

Hey, don’t give me that stare. That’s the look your mother would throw me. C’mon let it be. It will only be a couple of hours. No one will know anything about this. I’m not gonna talk and you sure as heck ain’t. Come on champ. Be a team player! If we make good time, we’ll be back before mom calls.

Nassir Patrick kept staring, not processing any of this.

Look, here’s the deal. We’ll pop into Brooklyn, and I’ll get you some Mickie D’s and some fries. If you’re really cooperating with daddy, I’ll fill up your bottle with a chocolate shake.

Nassir Patrick smiled. He knew the word chocolate.

That’s my boy. Give me a high-five.

Their hands locked in the air.

Jameson maneuvered Nassir Patrick, and the baby support ware down the outside steps to the garage. He had traded in his candy apple red Mustang when Nassir Patrick entered the picture. In its stead was the car he hated more than anything in the world. He was now subjugated to driving a Volvo! Yippee, he mused. I’m driving a friggin’ Volvo. Wow, a real family car. Boy, am I lucky!

He had no idea how his luck was going to change!

CHAPTER 3

Those stupid Americans!

The cadre of experts assembled at the People’s Struggle Center in Pyongyang for this mission had trained him flawlessly. The primary team consisted of a forger, photographer, and a handwriting analysis expert. The secondary group was to be used as the Americans call it, the wet team, assassins, martial arts and special operations.

The skilled professional on weapons was Jin Suk. A trim built individual no more than one hundred and fifty centimeters in height and forty-three kilograms in weight. He reeked of body odor but overlooking that attribute, he was considered by all to be the best in his field. His expertise in the use of handguns and knives was incomparable.

His guile in disarming, and dispatching any adversary swiftly was not only a necessity to his vocation, it was mandatory. He wasted no time to appraise the opposition, instill fear, assay the weak point and develop a strategy of attack. In the rare instance of failure, surely his secondary strategy of moving with the speed of a cheetah and effect the kill silently and mercilessly was never in doubt. It was known at the agency that he had more than fifty kills to his credit.

Suk was known to catapult himself more than two meters straight up. His K-55 black cat knife had again found its mark. The warm, syrupy life-giving liquid by now was rapidly draining from the prey. Anyone who stood in his way would meet a similar end. He could not be stopped. He was a master at teaching his students the art of attack and attack again. Defense was not his style. As he had stated deliberately at all the tedious sessions,

No one dies on the defense. You must exterminate your victim and make sure he is dead. Leave nothing to chance.

Jin Suk was an avid patriot. There was many a time when he would relate to his charges,

America will one day be brought to its knees. We here will all live to see that glorious day.

As a young child, he had been enrolled as a student in the People’s Academy of Self-Defense since the age of six. His assigned teacher/comrade had supervised him in all activities. After excelling in school in sprint races, Mr. Kwan Kim submitted his name to the People’s Patriotic Children’s Agency. The following day, he was whisked away. Separated from his parents and two sisters emotional conflict was rendering him internally. He was loyal to the state, but the demands of separation from family bonds were almost too much to bear. His family accepted this honor graciously. The next time he saw them was twelve years later. There had been a third sister. For a moment his eyes welled with tears. He was seven when she was born. The official hospital report stated that the newborn had breathing problems, developed pneumonia and succumbed at the age of three days.

However, he recalled some time later, his mother and father had a low-key confrontation. He remembered his mother asking, How could such a terrible thing have occurred? Why did G-d do this to my baby? My Jun Tu, born with both a penis and a vagina? I do not believe it died of pneumonia. Surely the authorities had it smothered!

Do not talk so, Min Liu, his father, Jen had admonished. Someone will hear you. The walls are not heavy. The authorities will take us all away including your remaining three children. Is that what you want?

He could hear the wails and sobs of his mother.

It shocked him to have a baby killed by the all-loving state. Murder a baby because of a physical freak was unforgiving. Surely the authorities in Pyongyang and the local authorities respected life more. He wiped the image from his memory as the rage in him grew. He hoped he would never have to confront the subject again, as the turmoil within him would be like that of a demon with an unquenchable taste for blood!"

His schooling had consisted of North Korean history and geography, mathematics and science. Study of the English language was an additional two hours daily. Each day was supplemented with three hours of gymnastics, wrestling, and karate. The routine was grueling. But, he was given privileges that millions of others would relish.

Three meals a day including protein with each was only reserved for the upper cadres of the Communist party and military officers of high rank. While most of the population dined on rice and fish heads, he would suffer with this fare.

Breakfast was usually mung beans ground into a thick paste served with a fried pancake. The mid-day meal consisted of either Tomi Chun-fried battered fish in sesame oil with cucumber slices or KeChiKai-stewed, salt water crabs. Dinner was always the same. Bulgogi-barbecued beef marinated in soy sauce, ginger and sesame seeds. The three daily high-protein meals were purposely meant not only for sustenance but also to maintain one’s physical strength and endurance at peak levels.

How easy it was to enter their beloved democratic country. The instructors had emphasized the use of stealth to transverse the border at Mexico. An Asian crossing into Texas would not blend in as easy as a Latino. These Americans were so cocap in their ways. He had to stop himself from speaking or even thinking in Korean. What was the English word-crude? Yes, they were crude and had little if any manners.

No, he would not go through Mexico into Texas. He would not make it easy on them and ruin his chances of success. The United States Border Patrol had been expanded and better-trained since September 11, 2001. Intelligence operatives had reported to Pyongyang that the southern border was now impervious to infiltrators. The recently installed security precautions had stemmed the flow of immigrants. The Americans had put in place with their Jew Israeli advisors a tiered system of measures. These had been successful in keeping out the heroic Palestine suicide bombers.

High speed cameras were coordinated with the patrol posts. Motion sensors and satellite border locations had cut the response time to less than ten minutes. The fifteen foot high fence was topped with razor wire and its foundation was reinforced concrete. Any attempt to use wire cutters was negated with sensors built into the fence which alerted the authorities. Lastly, due to public pressure and compromise, instead of placing automatic machine guns the full length of the fence, less stringent measures were used. Automatic taser guns were set up, and any moving object was rendered immobile, detained and deported. His comrades had reported that hundreds of culprits had been apprehended with over ninety-nine percent of them being coyotes, prairie dogs and snakes. He laughed. Even if he was successful, he would be left in a part of the country where he would stick out, how do the Americans say it, like a sore thumb.

If he used bribery to enlist the aid of one of the local coyotes, he had no guarantee that they would collect the large reward offered for turning in any suspicious persons. Two agents had already suffered similar fates. Under interrogation by the Border Patrol, they admitted to dispatching their traitorous guides with a single shot to the back of the head. The agents were never heard of again. They were probably incarcerated in one of the secret United States prisons that they never admitted to. No, the Southern border was not the way for him to proceed.

Working on cruise ships was difficult and demeaning. Waiting on tables of spoiled, buffoon American tourists involved too many opportunities to slip-up. His superiors at Hoo Nan had allowed him the rare opportunity to voice his opinion. They withheld their opinions, but in the end agreed with him.

The die had been cast. He would use the Northern route. It was quite simple. Even though Canada had maintained diplomatic relations with North Korea, he knew that the level of questioning at customs would possibly lead to his apprehension, let alone being under surveillance. The Canadian Secret Intelligence Service would surely key in on him. The C.S.I.S. as it was customarily called, amazing how these Westerners abbreviate everything was considered among the best of intelligence services.

The Canadians were part of the Quad partite pact consisting of the United States, Canada, the United Kingdom and Austria. The four nations had cooperated in several levels of intelligence gathering, sharing and actions. They mistakenly thought that they would solve the Korean and Iranian Problem by acting in a mutually coordinated field of attack. Little did they know how inept they were in their efforts.

The primary route was first to go from the North into South Korea. This was a relatively simple task. Tunnels had been dug using volunteer laborers. These underground pathways were ten meters below the surface. They were patterned after those of their compatriots and allies from the People’s Republic of Vietnam in the Cu Chi Province. The tunnels were two meters wide and equally high. They began at the Qi Tom military base in Kae Song Province and ended more than ten kilometers into the Southern territory. The People’s Republic had used them to infiltrate agents and to supply weapons to the numerous cells.

An indispensable part of the master plan to bring down America and its cohorts was counterfeiting and distributing dollars internationally. He did not dare to express his opinions regarding the actual miniscule effect this had on the expanding and robust South Korean economy. A silent live pigeon surpasses that of a voluminous deceased wolf. If the ruling powers want to proceed with their ill-advised plans, he would remain silent and allow them to descend into their self-made abyss. Let the next loyal party member be the martyr, not he.

No, Liu Kwan knew how to play the game. Following orders was always, the correct path. Unless it involved his undoing, derision and death, he would let his cohorts take the risk. Independent thinking was frowned upon by Communist regimes. One must ALWAYS follow the party