The Flight to Moscow
The journey from San Francisco to Moscow was long. Even a direct flight took twenty hours. ID Group’s private 737 NG was the ER variant, so it could fly nonstop, but the fatigue of such an extended flight was hard on the body. The route was therefore set to stop once in Iceland. The entourage was large. Those who boarded the private jet with Yoo Jae-won included Chief of Staff Kim Dae-seok, sixteen members of the security detail, four researchers from ID Investment, four engineers from ID Technology, and six interpreters fluent in Russian—slightly more than thirty people in total.
The security team seemed unusually large compared with a typical entourage, but Russia’s turmoil was still very much ongoing. Even after hearing that the Russian side would provide state-guest-level protection, the head of security had still pulled sixteen of his own men. It was not only Yoo Jae-won who needed guarding; the staff who would be operating separately in Russia also required protection, so sixteen was by no means excessive. Even with so many people aboard, plenty of seats remained. The first-class cabin held only eight seats; the rest were configured as business class, reducing overall capacity, yet the aircraft was still a large jet that could carry more than two hundred passengers.
The first-class section was, of course, Yoo Jae-won’s domain. Middle Eastern oil sheikhs were said to buy private jets and furnish them like homes, but ID Group’s aircraft was an ordinary plane, and the first-class cabin was likewise unremarkable. The oversized seats announced that this was first class, yet there were no private rooms or showers. The seats could be fully reclined into comfortable beds, but they could never be mistaken for actual rooms.
“Hmm.”
Seated in the plush first-class chair, Yoo Jae-won wore a serious expression as he studied his iWorks laptop. True to form, he refused to waste even flight time; he had loaded the machine with a mountain of company work. From the moment they departed San Francisco, he had been steadily clearing tasks one by one.
The first items were pleasant. The T-Touch Phone, released nearly two months earlier, had already surpassed five million units sold worldwide—an update that brought a smile to his face. The five-million figure was, of course, global. The world’s largest consumer market, the United States, had bought the most, followed by Europe; Korea ranked among the top five. By model, the six-hundred-dollar version accounted for eighty percent of sales, while the nine-hundred-dollar model with 512 megabytes of storage made up the remaining twenty percent. Silver outsold black by a factor of two; marketing’s analysis suggested that silver caught the eye more readily than the less conspicuous black.
What pleased him even more was the usage report for the App Store built into the T-Touch Phone. Starting with the T-Touch Phone, paid applications were sold through the App Store. Most of the software uploaded to the store consisted of games, and thanks to the phone’s superior specifications, users could enjoy graphics that had been impossible on ordinary handsets. True 3D games remained out of reach—the mobile application processor in the T-Touch Phone was a second-generation chip boasting more than three times the performance of the one in the Tiffany Phone 2, yet the integrated VGA module lacked a 3D acceleration chip. At best it offered 2D acceleration and video playback, so running 3D titles was simply not feasible.
Nevertheless, T-Touch Phone users enjoyed the App Store even without 3D games. The puzzle game Visuald, released simultaneously with the T-Touch Phone launch, had become the App Store’s top revenue generator. The gameplay was simple: line up three identical jewels among randomly scattered gems and they exploded. The rules were straightforward, but chain reactions and the larger explosions triggered by matching four or five jewels at once added extra fun. In truth, Visuald’s meteoric rise owed more to external factors than to its intrinsic design. Its greatest strength was its deep understanding of the new touchscreen interface.
Dozens of games had launched alongside the T-Touch Phone announcement, yet few matched Visuald’s seamless integration with the touchscreen. Visuald was a game about moving jewels on screen—an experience that utilized the touchscreen to its fullest. Moreover, every time a player selected a jewel, the game provided both visual confirmation and tactile feedback through a short vibration, the so-called haptic function. Haptics were one of the T-Touch Phone’s signature new features. With only a power button, volume controls, and a home button, the phone relied on vibration to alert users to any malfunction. Visuald’s innovations did not stop there. It supported a friends list linked to the phone’s contact book, allowing cooperative or competitive play with others. The game was the first concrete realization of the social-networking concept Yoo Jae-won had unveiled at ID Group’s new-millennium vision presentation.
All of these elements combined organically, producing an explosive surge in downloads. Timing had also been perfect: an App Store launch-event promotion was underway. The first time a user opened the App Store on a T-Touch Phone, a five-dollar coupon was generated—an aggressive move by ID Technology. With five million T-Touch Phones already sold, twenty-five million dollars had already been spent on the promotion. It was an unimaginable sum for any individual, and the expense would only grow with each additional phone sold. Yet neither Yoo Jae-won nor ID Technology viewed the coupons as a loss. The App Store’s revenue split was seventy-thirty in favor of the content creator. Therefore the actual cost per coupon was only three dollars and fifty cents. More importantly, the experience of purchasing paid applications accustomed users to spending money inside the ecosystem; once the App Store became active, the returns would be enormous. The cost of distributing coupons was therefore negligible.
The developer of Visuald had hit the jackpot precisely because the coupons were being spent on their game. Priced at a modest three dollars, Visuald had already surpassed two million cumulative downloads. Gross revenue exceeded six million dollars; after the revenue split, the studio received 4.2 million. Because App Store payouts could be withdrawn once they reached one hundred dollars, the Visuald team had already collected their earnings. The story of a developer becoming a millionaire overnight had become a major topic within the gaming industry, and developers of every size—from major studios to independents—were now rushing to create titles for the T-Touch Phone. The more developers joined, the healthier the mobile Android operating-system ecosystem would become. Even if a late entrant someday released a superior product, users would be reluctant to switch if they had already accumulated large libraries of purchased apps. Such a scenario was unlikely in the near term, but Yoo Jae-won was determined to eliminate even the remote possibility.
More good news regarding the T-Touch Phone followed. Production could not keep pace with orders; accessories of every kind were flooding the market; hundreds of new apps were submitted to the App Store daily, overwhelming the review team. Every app had to pass ID Technology’s inspection before appearing in the store—partly to prevent data theft, hacking attempts, or illegal content, but chiefly to keep low-quality submissions from dragging down the overall polish of the platform. When an app was rejected, reviewers were required to provide a clear explanation of the reasons. Although never publicly stated, one of the most closely scrutinized issues during review was the presence of workarounds that bypassed the official payment system. ID Technology’s seventy-thirty policy favored creators, yet some developers still tried to steer users toward direct in-app purchases to avoid giving the company its thirty percent. Any such attempt resulted in immediate rejection.
All T-Touch Phone–related updates were welcome. Yoo Jae-won’s smile remained until he opened the folder containing Korean news. Headlines from Daehan Ilbo leapt off the page:
The long-simmering Daehan Ilbo case was finally reaching its conclusion. The court of first instance had confirmed a staggering 320 billion won in fines for foreign-exchange violations and the creation of slush funds by the newspaper’s founding family. The playboy grandsons who had hosted drug parties at the DH Hotel nightclub had also received seven-year prison sentences. Although they claimed it was their first offense, the court imposed aggravated penalties because the incidents involved rape, assault, and collusion with police officers.
The real problem was President Kim Dae-jung’s administration. Yoo Jae-won believed that if the fines were enforced as handed down, Daehan Ilbo would be finished. Yet the reports from Choi Kang-wook and the intelligence team were disappointing: the administration was reluctant to confront a major media outlet head-on. Determined to live up to his reputation as a “prepared president,” Kim Dae-jung had moved swiftly after taking office, forming a cabinet without the usual confirmation hearings. Ministerial appointments were confirmed unless serious objections arose after the announcement. Mindful of the “communist” label that had long haunted him, the president had chosen safe, uncontroversial figures; not a single nominee had been rejected. The same caution applied to the prime minister. Lee In-je, who had briefly served as acting president under the Tongil National Party banner, was reappointed prime minister—an unmistakable signal that the coalition between the Democratic Party and the Tongil National Party would continue.
Lee In-je accepted the post despite whatever private reservations he might have held. With the coalition commanding a majority in the National Assembly, there was no danger of the appointment being blocked. The real issue lay with President Kim himself. For the first month after the new government took office, Daehan Ilbo had remained quiet, even promoting the administration’s policies. Then, the moment the court confirmed the fines, the newspaper unsheathed its hidden blade:
Politics and money were inseparable. Gathering people and keeping them moving required funds. Those born into wealth, like Jeon Myeong-heon, never had to worry about money while pursuing politics. President Kim Dae-jung, however, was the quintessential self-made man who had endured repeated financial hardships. Daehan Ilbo hammered relentlessly at that weakness, targeting not only the president but also his closest aides. The goal was obvious: leniency for the founding family and a reduction of the fines.
Choi Kang-wook and the intelligence team reported that many officials were wavering. “Grandfather would never have flinched,” Yoo Jae-won murmured, the image of Jeon Myeong-heon rising unbidden. Had Jeon Myeong-heon still been in power, Daehan Ilbo would never have dared such an attack. “At least this case falls under the Gongsucheo’s jurisdiction. That’s a relief.”
Although the Blue House’s response was disappointing, Yoo Jae-won was not overly concerned. The drug scandal at the DH Hotel nightclub and the police officers involved were the Gongsucheo’s responsibility. The Blue House could influence the prosecution, but it had no authority over the Gongsucheo. The Gongsucheo chief’s term exceeded the president’s, and the chief alone controlled appointments of prosecutors and investigators. So long as the chief remained steadfast, neither the president nor any political faction could sway the office. Those fearing for their careers might attempt to pressure the chief, but Yoo Jae-won could neutralize such efforts—either through documents stored in the Piggy Bank Safe or by mobilizing the Tongil National Party.
“Next, the Ilseong matter?”
Besides the Daehan Ilbo coverage, the Korean folder also contained updates on the Ilseong Group. After discarding its less promising divisions and concentrating on automobiles and heavy industry, Ilseong now saw an opportunity to seize the top spot while the Mirae Group splintered over inheritance issues. Its moves were swift. While other conglomerates hunkered down during the IMF crisis, Ilseong pushed ahead with restructuring and expansion, most notably by acquiring Shinsedae Mobile Communications.
Shinsedae had been a joint venture between Kolon and Pohang Iron & Steel, yet neither parent possessed expertise in telecommunications, and the partnership had faltered. In the original timeline it had eventually passed to the Seonkyung Group and been rebranded SK Telecom. There, SK Telecom had dominated the Korean mobile market thanks to its 800 MHz spectrum. In this timeline, however, the late entrant TG Mobile and KTF had pushed it into last place. Moreover, because the Seonkyung Group had fallen out of favor under the Jeon Myeong-heon administration, it had been unable to invest aggressively in infrastructure. Voices inside Seonkyung were now suggesting that the mobile business—once seen as a golden goose—had become a burden and should be sold so the group could refocus on petrochemicals.
Ilseong’s Chairman Choi Hyun-hee had been the first to detect the opportunity and had made an acquisition offer. Recognizing that Ilseong’s future could not rest solely on automobiles and heavy industry, he had boldly entered the telecommunications sector—an audacious decision that even Yoo Jae-won had to admire.
“He’s certainly a man of action,” Yoo Jae-won remarked, though his mind was already racing through the various ways he might obstruct or simply observe Ilseong’s next moves. Despite the complexity of his thoughts, the flight itself remained smooth. No turbulence disturbed the aircraft, and the weather stayed clear. They arrived in Iceland on schedule and continued without incident to their final destination: Moscow.