by Don Brown
“I was afraid of that,” Gorman said.
“But I’m not here because of the attack on the Harry Truman.”
Margaret looked up at the chaplain. “What do you mean?”
“Mrs. McCormick, I’m afraid that your son appears to be lost at sea.”
“Lost at sea? What?”
“Ma’am, Lieutenant Commander McCormick was not on board the Harry Truman at the time of the attack. He’d taken a thirty-day leave the day before and had flown off the ship to Osan. He then took a private plane to Japan. The plane went down in the Sea of Japan sometime yesterday afternoon. We’ve conducted an extensive search of the area and found nothing. It doesn’t look good. I’m sorry.”
Margaret stared out across the yard, across the brown grass to the log fence. A flock of geese, flying south for the winter, flew in a perfect V-formation overhead. She let her eyes linger for a moment on the sky.
Then she looked at the chaplain. “Captain, may I ask something of you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Ask anything you’d like.”
She inhaled and exhaled slowly and wiped her eyes with the handkerchief. “If they find his body, would you come back and let me know?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll do that.”
“And one other thing.”
“Anything, ma’am.”
“I want a military service for him with full honors, with a Navy honor guard. I want a Navy chaplain officiating. Would you consider officiating at the service?”
The chaplain reached out and took both of Margaret’s hands in his. “Mrs. McCormick, I’ll give you my card with my personal cell number. When you’re ready to hold a service, ma’am, it would be my honor to officiate and to assure you that your son will receive the full military honors that he deserves. Lieutenant Roberson here will lodge your request with the admiral’s staff.”
The lieutenant nodded.
She smiled through streaming tears. “You’re a good man, Captain.”
“You and your family are in my prayers, Mrs. McCormick.” He handed her one of his cards, put his cap on, tipped the bill, and, with a nod to her, said, “Ma’am.”
Then he turned and the three men got back in the car. The white car circled back to the long driveway and headed for the gate and Pendleton Road.
Margaret watched it until it disappeared around a bend in the road.
CHAPTER 22
East coast of North Korea
along the road between Iwon and Sinch’ang
Freeze!” Jackrabbit whispered.
From inside the treeline paralleling the road, Gunner froze in his steps. Up ahead, across the road to the left and overlooking the beach, he saw the source of Jackrabbit’s concern. Three North Korean Marines huddled around a jeep, whooping it up in loud and animated conversation. They all were smoking cigarettes. One would periodically gaze out to sea with a pair of binoculars.
This marked the second such unit they had discovered. Clearly, the North Koreans were establishing watch positions along the coastline to monitor the sea.
Jackrabbit motioned his hand to the right, and the trio moved deeper into the woods, farther away from the loud-mouthed Marines. They kept moving parallel to the road, quietly moving from tree to tree, stopping for a few seconds behind each trunk, hiding in the dark shadows.
When they had gone a hundred yards or a little more beyond the North Korean observation post, the GPS showed they were just over a mile northeast of the outskirts of Sinch’ang.
As they rounded the next bend in the road, Jackrabbit held up his hand. Bright lights shone about a quarter of a mile ahead.
Another checkpoint?
Gunner brought his binoculars to his eyes.
A petrol station.
The parking lot was empty. The cigarette-smoking clerk was walking toward the lone gas pump. He threw down his cigarette, stamped it on the ground, and started fiddling with the pump.
“Pssst.” Gunner motioned for Jung-Hoon and Jackrabbit to huddle around him. “I think it’s open. I think it would be a good idea for Jung-Hoon to go check things out.”
“Bad idea, Commander,” Jackrabbit said. “I say we stay in the trees and walk behind the store and keep moving. No point in risking discovery tonight. Not with these Communist Marines hanging around.”
Gunner eyed his compatriots for a moment. “Jung-Hoon, go into the store and see if you can find anything for Jackrabbit’s gunshot wound. Alcohol. Antiseptic. Bandages. Anything. I’m worried about infection setting in.”
“Oh, come on, Commander, that isn’t necessary.” He reverted to his whining, country-boy, redneck tone. “I told you I splashed a little saltwater on it earlier. It’ll be fine.”
“Sorry, Jackrabbit. I’m paying for this trip, and I’m just protecting an asset. I’ve seen the way you shoot, and I need to make sure you keep both arms. I don’t want to have to become the number-one sharpshooter around here. Besides, Jung-Hoon might be able to gather some valuable intel.”
“But —”
“No buts.” This time Gunner held up his hand in a that’s-enough gesture. “I’m sure Jung-Hoon can take care of himself for a few minutes while we hang in the woods and pop popcorn or something.”
Jackrabbit shook his head. “Jung-Hoon, are you okay with that?”
“That’s an excellent idea. I will be back shortly, if you can make Jackrabbit behave himself while I am gone.”
“Need me to take that?” Gunner asked, pointing at Jung-Hoon’s rifle.
“Good idea.” Jung-Hoon handed him the M-16 as Jackrabbit kept shaking his head in protest.
“Got your .45 locked and loaded?”
“In the back of my belt.”
Jung-Hoon pulled a bottled water from his pack, poured some in his hands, and slapped his face to wash off the final residue of black grease he had not gotten earlier. Then he squatted down and scooped up some snow and rubbed that against his cheeks.
“You’re going to get frostbite,” Gunner said.
“Here’s a rag,” Jackrabbit said. “I don’t like this whole idea, but at least finish getting that grease off your face.”
Jung-Hoon took the towel from Jackrabbit without comment and wiped it hard across his face like a wash rag. Then he handed it back to Jackrabbit.
Gunner patted Jung-Hoon on the back. “See you in a few minutes.”
Jung-Hoon stepped out from behind a fir tree and headed for the gas station, walking along the bank of the ditch that ran next to the road.
Corbin Hall
Suffolk, Virginia
Gorman sat in the large wingback chair at the back of the house and sipped a brandy in stunned disbelief. Just yesterday, they had celebrated a joyous Thanksgiving together. Of course his mother had gotten a bit sentimental at first about her father — the grandfather he never knew — but after that, aside from Gunner’s absence, it had been one of the more enjoyable Thanksgivings in several years.
And now this.
For Gorman, reality had not yet melted away the stunned disbelief at the fate of his younger brother. Gorman had always been more stable, the serious family man determined to come home after Virginia Tech to run the family business and take care of his mother. Gunner was five years younger. They never attended high school or college together. While Gorman returned to his peanut-farming roots, Gunner was bent on sowing his wild oats. In the Navy, then in New York. And back to the Navy.
The brothers were never at odds with each other, as brothers from well-to-do families sometimes can be. But then again, their relationship was never close.
Gunner was closer to his niece and nephew, Jill and Tyler, than he was to his own brother. In fact, although Gorman was back here running the farm and Gunner was off playing Navy, Gunner was the mama’s boy. Go figure. Gorman didn’t think he was jealous. He sipped more brandy and stared out through the large window overlooking the pool and beyond that to the acres of peanut fields, now dormant.
Sipping on the warm brandy, trying to
control his thoughts, he suddenly felt a wave of regret. Perhaps, under the surface, he always justified their less-than-cozy relationship as being Gunner’s fault. Gunner was the one who left Virginia. If Gunner had wanted a relationship or if he had been interested in farming at Corbin Hall, he would have come home and done his part rather than play sailor.
As he sat there, looking out, Gorman’s regret turned to guilt. The preacher last week at First Baptist Church had quoted David and said that “life is like a vapor. Here today. Gone tomorrow.”
Did the preacher have a premonition?
His cell phone rang.
“Scott and Stringfellow” popped up on the screen.
The day after Thanksgiving? Why would his broker be calling today? Aren’t the markets closed? Odd. Let it go to voice mail, he thought.
No, Todd Stacks was a longtime friend. It might be important. He answered the phone. “Todd? … Not too well … Hang on a second, will you?” He stepped out through the glass French doors, out onto the back deck around the pool. “Sorry, Todd, I didn’t want the kids to hear this yet.” He told him the news they’d received that morning, then listened as Todd gave the reason for his call. “What? Say that again…. How much? … When? … Yesterday? … Yes, I’ll let you know if we hear anything else…. Right away. Thanks, Todd. Thanks for calling.”
He stuck the phone in his pocket and walked back into the house, past the sunroom where the kids were decorating the tree, and then up the grand staircase.
He knocked twice on his mother’s bedroom door. “Mother?”
“Come in.” Her voice was weak, tired sounding.
Margaret sat in the chair beside her bed, her Bible in her lap, still holding the chaplain’s handkerchief as if it were a security blanket. She looked up at him through glazed, reddened eyes.
“I got a call from Todd Stacks, Mother.”
“From Todd? Today?” A curious look crossed her face. “I thought the markets were closed today.”
“They are.” He sat at the end of the king-sized bed. “Todd called because his computer alerted him about a large transfer from Gunner’s trust account yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” She cocked her head to one side. “How much?”
“Six hundred thousand dollars.”
“What? That’s almost his entire cash reserve!”
“That’s right, and it looks like he drained another two hundred thousand in cash before he deployed.”
“Why would Gunner withdraw that much without telling anyone?”
“I have no idea about the withdrawal, but Todd checked the wire transfers, and a large sum was wired to a private airport owner in South Korea. Todd made a few follow-up calls and found out that money went to buy an airplane.”
“An airplane?”
“In Korea.”
“Korea?” Her face contorted. “Why would Gunner want an airplane? I never heard him say anything about wanting to fly.”
“I have no idea. Gunner’s always been more of a daredevil. He always came up with these harebrained ideas. Maybe he wanted to take flying lessons. Maybe he took thirty days off and decided to buy an airplane. And the plane goes down. I mean, what other explanation is there? The timing fits.”
Margaret wiped her eyes. “That makes no sense. I mean …” She buried her face in her hands and started weeping again.
East coast of North Korea
along the road between Iwon and Sinch’ang
The falling snow was much thicker now. Visibility was down to about a hundred yards, or the length of a football field. Jung-Hoon was almost to the parking lot of the petrol station.
He stopped at the edge of the parking lot to check the area. He saw one clerk inside, a young man who looked to be in his twenties. The clerk stood behind the counter, smoking a cigarette.
How strange, he thought, that the place remained open so late at night in such a remote area in a nation that does not embrace capitalism. Where there are no cars out this late.
Jung-Hoon walked across the snow-covered parking lot and pulled open the front door of the store.
“Ahn-yahng haseo,” he said, the Korean greeting for “Hello.”
“Ahn-yahng haseo,” the clerk replied with an expression of surprise.
“Are you open?”
“Do I know you?” the clerk asked. “You do not look familiar.”
“I am a loyal follower of Dear Leader,” Jung-Hoon said. “What else do you need to know?”
The clerk squinted his eyes and sucked on his cigarette. His black eyes danced nervously from the area outside the station, to the door, and to this unknown standing before him. “We are not normally open this late. In fact, I had closed and gone home for the night. But the local provincial leader called and ordered me to reopen in case military vehicles needed petrol. They are doing some kind of military exercise along the coast tonight.” Another drag on the cigarette. “So here I am. What are you looking for tonight? Soju? Beer? Can’t sell you petrol. Not tonight. That is for military vehicles only.”
“Actually, comrade, I am a political officer from Pyongyang, assigned to help oversee political control of the military operations for the night. One of our young privates stupidly cut his hand on a piece of metal. So I ventured out in the dark and in the snow to find some alcohol and perhaps a bandage. I would rather be out in the cold and snow than listen to the stupid private whine and squeal like a stuck pig. Do you know what I mean?”
“Ha! Ha! Ha! Yes.”
Good. A laugh.
“I wish I could help you, comrade, but I am afraid that we have nothing here. No medical supplies. No bandages. No medicine. Mostly liquor, cigarettes, and petrol. The only place nearby with such supplies is Hongwon . Too far to walk. But, if you would like, I can sell you a bottle of soju. That has enough alcohol in it to help ‘til you can find medical alcohol.”
“Hmm.” Jung-Hoon mulled over the suggestion. “How much?”
“Fifty thousand won.”
“That’s expensive, isn’t it?” Fifty thousand won was equal to roughly twenty US dollars.
The clerk grinned. “Hey, it’s late. Not supposed to even be open.”
Twin beams of bright lights shown in through the window as Jung-Hoon heard the sound of heavy wheels against ice and gravel. Outside, a North Korean military jeep was pulling up to the single petrol pump.
“Here is fifty thousand won.” Jung-Hoon slipped the North Korean currency across the counter, keeping his eyes on the jeep through the glass.
“I will get your bottle.” The clerk walked into a back room.
As one of the soldiers pumped petrol into the jeep, two others stood outside talking, gesturing with their hands. One checked his watch, then started walking toward the store. His comrade turned and followed him.
Jung-Hoon stepped back from the counter, back away from the front door of the store. He felt for the gun stashed under the belt in the back of his pants.
He could take them all out. The three soldiers. The clerk. The jeep would come in handy.
The door was flung open. “Hey, comrade, we’re getting petrol and we need six bottles of soju,” the first soldier yelled out.
“Right away, Sergeant,” the clerk said nervously. He sheepishly proceeded to take multiple bottles off the shelf and cradle them in his arms.
As the clerk made his way around the end of the shelf with the bottles, the sergeant spotted Jung-Hoon.
“Hey, Comrade,” he said to the clerk, keeping his eyes on Jung-Hoon, “you have a new employee in here tonight?”
“No employee,” the clerk said. “He’s with the officers’ group.” He stood the bottles up on the counter, one through six. The bottle for Jung-Hoon stood alone.
“Hey, Comrade,” the North Korean sergeant said, clearly speaking to Jung-Hoon. “Where are you from?”
“From Hongwon,” Jung-Hoon replied.
“Interesting.” The soldier picked up one of the bottles from the counter, unscrewed it, and took a sip. “Wh
at are you doing all the way out here so late at night?”
“I am here to purchase soju, just like you, Comrade Soldier,” Jung-Hoon said.
“Special rate for Korean Army tonight!” the clerk said, sounding as if he was trying to defuse trouble before it started.
“Interesting, Comrade. I am from Hongwon .” He stared at Jung-Hoon. “I have never seen you there.”
The front door again swung open. The third soldier, the driver, walked in. “Don’t you have soju yet? We must get moving.”
Jung-Hoon’s fingers itched to reach for the gun hidden under his jacket. Control. He needed to hide his hatred of the swaggering soldiers. It would be so easy to pull his gun and squeeze the trigger — easy as shooting baby ducks in a pond.
He halfway hoped that the bantam rooster would dare to push the issue, to give him an excuse to blow his brains out. He snapped back at the solider. “In my line of work, Sergeant, there would be no reason for you to ever see me.”
“Is that a fact, old man?” the interrogator continued, swigging his soju. “Well, since there would be no reason for me to have seen you before, it would seem to me that now would be the perfect time for us to get acquainted.” He sported a cheesy grin, then his face went stern. “Show me your papers!”
“What did you say to me?”
“I said, Show me your papers.”
“You do realize that you are speaking to an officer of the National Security Agency who reports directly to Kim Jong-un, the son of Dear Leader himself?”
The sergeant’s face took on a pale look of stunned bewilderment. “If you are with the National Security Agency, then why would you be here?” The voice had lost its prosecutorial edge.
Too bad.
Jung-Hoon thought about his brother. Then he remembered why he had agreed to come on this trip — to kill North Koreans for killing his brother.
“Why I am here is none of your business, Sergeant. But know this. Both Kim Jong-un and Dear Leader himself have an interest in knowing how Dear Leader’s military performs on domestic missions in guarding the coast. Tonight I, and others like me, am the eyes and ears of Dear Leader to watch and report back on the performance of soldiers like you. Now” — he paused — “do you have any other questions?”