Omega Cult. Don Pendleton
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Man to learn if anything was wrong, whether he should plan another rendezvous or just forget it.
It was his call, a failsafe built into the system when the Phoenix Program and the hardsite in Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains were first established. Bolan had been “dead” then, publicly incinerated with his old war wagon in Manhattan’s Central Park, all trace of him erased from law-enforcement records if not from old newspaper files.
For all public intents and purposes the Executioner was now a part of history. On the record, he’d gone down fighting—but in truth, he’d never stopped. The list of criminals and terrorists who’d learned that to their sorrow was a long one, growing day by day.
While Bolan waited for his meal, he watched the flat-screen television mounted in a nearby corner of the restaurant. It was tuned in to CNN, the sound muted in favor of closed captioning so diners wouldn’t be distracted from their small talk if they chose to shut the news out of their minds. This afternoon, as for the past two days, the lead story on every channel with a news feed focused on Tuesday’s LA suicide attacks. By now the butcher’s bill had topped two hundred dead, including three “suspected” terrorists. Nearly half again that number had been confined to Southland hospitals, some of them not expected to survive.
Sarin was like that, ranked by toxicologists as twenty-six times more deadly than cyanide. Certain antidotes could save its victims, typically atropine and pralidoxime, but they had to be administered without delay. The greater any given victim’s personal exposure, the more rapidly they lapsed into the final, agonizing moments of their lives. That last stage was captured in mnemonics: the “Killer Bs” of bronchorrhea and bronchospasm, coupled with salivation, lacrimation, urination, defecation, gastrointestinal distress and emesis.
In short, it was one hell of a way to check out.
The three dead men who’d gassed LA had been young Korean immigrants. According to the media, all three had entered the United States through legal channels and were known to hold steady jobs. Beyond that, any information known to the LAPD, FBI or Homeland Security was strictly under wraps. And that naturally fueled rabid speculation on talk radio, websites dedicated to conspiracies and the kooky netherworld of the Dark Net where certifiable fanatics and false prophets rubbed shoulders with self-styled psychics, gunrunners and child pornographers.
Something for everyone, from sea to shining sea.
The Asian angle fueled no end of fervid speculation as to motive and the ultimate ID of whoever had devised the lethal plot. Coordination—a conspiracy by definition—couldn’t be denied. But how far did it reach? How high? Where were the roots of the attack? So far, China, Japan and both Koreas had been implicated by those claiming to be “in the know,” while others aimed accusing fingers at the US government in Washington. It was a “false flag” plot, they said, conceived by Democrats, Republicans, conservatives or liberals, to bring on Armageddon and a state of martial law ending with tyranny.
The waitress came with Bolan’s steaming plate and he dug in after he checked his watch once more. From long experience, he knew it would take him half an hour, give or take, to finish his lunch. If Brognola had not appeared by then...
A shadow fell across his table.
Bolan glanced up, found Brognola standing over him, frowning. “Sorry I couldn’t call,” he said. “This thing is getting out of hand.”
The big Fed sat across from Bolan at the small table for two. The waitress spotted him and circled back in the hope of doubling her tip. Brognola eyeballed Bolan’s plate and said, “I shouldn’t, but I’ll have the same. Light beer for me.”
When she was gone, Brognola took off his fedora, set it on a corner of the table to his left, and said, “Three guesses why we’re here.”
“Los Angeles,” Bolan replied.
“Got it in one. Have you been following what’s going on?”
“Only what’s on the news.”
“Tip of the iceberg,” Brognola declared. “We’ve got more than the media, as usual. It’s not as wacky as the crap you’ll find if you start Googling, but it’s bad enough.”
“Tell me.”
“First up...” The big Fed hesitated as his beer arrived. He sipped it and then forged ahead. “First up, all three of the known perps were South Korean nationals. They all applied for green cards through the US Embassy in Seoul, over a span of thirteen months, and got approval from the INS as LPRs—lawful permanent residents. All settled in LA and nailed down jobs with different companies. First glance, none seemed to be acquainted with the others.”
“But at second glance?” Bolan inquired.
“As you’d imagine, we’ve put all their lives under a microscope, cooperating with South Korea’s National Intelligence Service and their National Police Agency. None of the doers resided in Seoul for more than a few weeks before they applied for their visas. All three came from different provinces. No shared addresses or employment in the capital. We did find something, though.”
“Which is?”
“Are you familiar with a cult called Omega Hoejung?” Brognola asked.
“It doesn’t ring a bell.”
“In English, that translates to the Omega Congregation, as in final. It was founded nineteen years ago by Shin Bon-jae, a self-made billionaire from Seoul who’s got his fingers in a couple thousand different pies from manufacturing and shipping on to journalism. In the States, he runs the Washington Inquirer, giving any major piece of news a right-wing twist. He sells himself as strictly anticommunist, in line with Rhee Syng-man from the Korean War, through Park Chung-hee, on down to Park Geun-hye. He hates the North Korean crowd and likes to talk about reunifying the Koreas under what he calls ‘benevolent autocracy.’ Dictatorship, in other words.”
“What’s the religious angle?” Bolan asked.
“That’s been the major snag for people trying to decide what Shin’s really about. He’s both a guru and a CEO, which seems to be a contradiction, but he’s made it work for him so far. Worldwide, he has an estimated quarter-million followers, most of them living in East Asia. But they have a good-size group in Russia—five, six thousand by most estimates—and you can find them all around the States. Maybe another six or seven thousand known to follow Shin’s lead work in upper levels of his companies and follow all the Congregation’s rituals. It’s tax exempt on this side of the water, naturally, which is helpful when it comes to money laundering.”
“For what?”
“Pure speculation at this point. None of his people have been jailed for anything, as far as I can tell, but ATF reports persistent rumors of arms smuggling. Interpol and ICE suspect Shin’s got a hand in human trafficking, moving his people here and there around the world without the legal paperwork.”
“And this ties into LA how?”
“All three perps paid their dues to the Omega Congregation,” Brognola replied. When Bolan frowned, he added, “Sure, I know. Coincidence, some might suggest. And if it was a bigger sect—Buddhism or Catholicism, say—I might buy that. But from the records I’ve obtained, they only have about six hundred members of the Congregation anywhere in California. What are the odds that three of them would get their hands on sarin and coordinate attacks on the same day?”
“I’d call it slim to none,” Bolan replied.
“Which brings us here.” The big Fed paused again to thank the waitress for his meal and watched her walk away before resuming. “The Omega Congregation has its US headquarters in San Francisco, led by Lee Jay-hyun. Officially, he ranks below the founding leader as a je yeonghon. That’s ‘second soul.’ A rank applied to what you might call generals of the sect, each one in charge of operations for a given nation. Shin Bon-jae rules over all as cha ui yeonghon, the ‘primary soul.’ According to the Congregation’s doctrine, he was visited by Jesus Christ in person on his sixteenth birthday—Shin’s,