The Repairman- The Complete Box Set

by L. J. Martin

  He would be useless if that happened, and he could die if his core temperature fell to that level.

  The sun was nearing the western horizon, and he had nearly four hours before he started upstream to his meet. But he decided he must warm up first. He always carried a tiny magnesium bar and striker in his rucksack that he could use to start a fire. If he had fuel of some kind.

  Up above him, on the shore, above the ruins of the dock, were the remains of a metal building. It would hide a fire, and he could recover some body heat.

  If he could get there without being seen from watercraft.

  There was a twenty-five-foot-wide clearing, up a ten-foot-high bank, from the edge of the water to the building. That’s all, and that seemed so much at the moment, as his teeth were chattering, his knees watery, and his confidence waning. He wanted to wait until after sundown but decided that would be too late.

  So, moving like an alligator through the water, he moved to the river’s edge, listened for a long moment for the beat of diesel engines, and, hearing none, scrambled on all fours, dragging his rucksack with some survival gear, including some energy bars, and his M4 up to a wide sliding door, and was quickly into the building.

  He sat and shook for a few seconds. Then he began collecting anything that would burn. A table, smashed so it folded in the middle, provided some chips, and four legs and some soiled and torn pamphlets, showing pictures of farm equipment, would flame easily.

  With chattering teeth, he moved to the far end of the hundred-foot-deep building and came to a large, iron, welded boiler, luckily with one end laying nearby like a huge bowl. It was perfect, and he climbed inside and used his Ka-bar to shave some magnesium from the bar, formed some kindling around the shavings, and, with the first strike of the steel, it flared. With its super hot flame, he had a fire. As soon as he got the four two-inch-thick legs going, he stripped the wetsuit off.

  The boiler was the perfect shelter and directed the heat at him. As he warmed, he couldn’t help but remember the Robert Service poem, “The Cremation of Sam McGee.”

  There are strange things done in the midnight sun

  By the men who moil for gold;

  The Arctic trails have their secret tales

  That would make your blood run cold;

  The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

  But the queerest they ever did see

  Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

  I cremated Sam McGee.

  For the first time in hours Bo smiled, amused at the recollection. He’d learned that poem in the eighth grade and received an “A” for reciting it in class. However, he sincerely hoped he met an entirely different end than did old Sam.

  Then he stiffened…voices!

  35

  It’s getting dark — a little too early for the sun to have set — and then I realize it’s the smoke from the fuel dump blocking the setting sun. I’m wondering if we’ve messed our own nest, as, if Ji Su can’t see the deck, she can’t land. And if she can’t land, we’re dicked. Half the NK Army is looking for whoever sabotaged their Navy base and fuel dump.

  All we can do is hope the smoke stays high enough that she can sneak under, or clears enough that she can see the meadow. But if anything, it seems to be getting thicker.

  It’s close to time to give the TOC a call, as I can see a clearing up ahead. As we near, I see it’s a football-field-size meadow…the football-field-size meadow we’ve been directed to, I hope. But presuming our GPS locators are still active, it doesn’t matter. For it’s ten times bigger than what Ji Su needs to put down. And the meadow’s covered in deep green grass, late for green, but the meadow is likely sub-irrigated. The grass is so thick I’m hoping we won’t leave tracks, and charge forward, leading Jin out into the open meadow, stomping to make sure I leave a trail.

  “What the hell are you doing, Big Foot?”

  “Making tracks easily followed, that’s what.”

  “I thought the object was tough to follow?”

  “Hell, a blind man could follow what we’ve been leaving. So, let’s use it to our advantage.”

  “How so?”

  “Just try and keep up. I don’t think we have much lead on the tangos.”

  “We’re circling back.”

  “Yep, if you can’t outrun them, we’ll let them slip past. I saw a cave in that pile of rocks and ledge we had to skirt around. Looks like home to me, and least until we get a ride. So, step lively now.”

  We work our way in a forty-yard diameter half-circle and luckily come out of the meadow heading south on a dry streambed, with lots of rocks, and we’re careful to keep hard surfaces underfoot. After a hundred yards going back south, we leave the bed and head east. My dead reckoning is right on as we come out atop the ledge and rock pile. We slither over and drop fifteen feet, and I find the deep, dark opening I saw. It’s only two feet high at the mouth, nicely hidden by brush, and we slither in. The good Lord is on our side, as it’s more than twenty feet deep and opens to more than five feet of clearance.

  Now, if only the NK dipshits don’t have dogs.

  I dig the SATphone out, hit the “1” key, and send. Pax answers before the first ring is complete. “Chee,” he says.

  “We’re playing football, only about that length Dixie from there. But we’ll soon have company…two dozen if my estimation is right.” I know he knows “Dixie” is “south.”

  “We’re thirty minutes out. Keep your heads down.”

  “We?” I ask.

  “I told you, you ain’t having all the fun.”

  “Roger that.” Then I’m forced to whisper. “Got to go,” and I disconnect, as I hear voices. And they’re way closer than they would be if they were following our track forty paces away.

  Bo quickly extinguishes the fire, as the voices he’s heard raise in volume. He slips out of the boiler and pulls his wetsuit back on. In moments, he sees two raggedy young men at the far end of the building.

  He remains unseen, hiding behind some tractor-size equipment that’s rusted and disassembled.

  The two are not soldiers — in fact, they seem to be wayfarers. Hopefully, the NK version of hobos. Even better, military deserters. Like him, they are chilled and begin to build a fire, and one of them begins plucking a pigeon-sized bird. Looks like it’s supper time.

  They’re busily talking about stealing some vegetables from a nearby farm, as Bo slips up behind them and speaks in his good Korean.

  “Hello.” They both nearly jump out of their skins. Seeing the M4 he’s carrying, both fall to their knees and start begging forgiveness.

  They are surprised when he starts to laugh, and both their faces go blank. Then, when he reaches in his rucksack and hands them each an energy bar, he gets a tentative smile.

  “You have stolen a bird,” he says, and their smile fades again; he laughs. They nod and smile. Bo says, “I am no longer with the Army. You do not tell about me, and I will not tell about you.” Both nod enthusiastically.

  “We caught this grouse wild. We would not steal — ”

  “Even the vegetables you were discussing stealing?”

  “We are very hungry,” he says, looking sheepish, and adds, “and you will share our bird.” This time, the nods are less enthusiastic, but still nods.

  As they eat a few bites of roast bird and energy bars, they ask about the strange suit he’s wearing. He explains, “I am, like you, hiding out, and this black suit is hard to see in the dark.”

  He doesn’t think they are buying his BS, but they don’t challenge him, nor do they ask about the re-breather on his back. He figures they must think he’s an alien from outer space and are afraid to antagonize him.

  He moves back and retrieves the waterproof rucksack he’s left by the boiler and returns. They’re fascinated as he pulls out his GPS and checks the time and his distance to the bridge and his dark-thirty contact, but they have no idea what he’s up to.

  He has three hours to kill. But the company, if
strange, is fine. And, not threatening.

  From the depth of our cave, I can see a squad of NK soldiers who don’t seem overly interested in the hunt. Six of them are nearby, standing in a circle, smoking, and, I would guess, either telling dirty jokes or speculating on what they’ll do to us if caught. I prefer to presume the former. They are laughing and elbowing each other.

  I’m praying they don’t see the odd imprint of our boots where we might have missed a hard surface while hunting for the cleft under the ledge we now occupy.

  Hoping they leave, as I may soon want to catch a ride home from a location clearly in their line of sight, I’m disappointed when they not only don’t leave, but four of the six take a seat on nearby boulders. I wish I could translate what they’re saying; Jin could do so easily, but he reclines in the deep darkness of the cave, trying to recover from the crack on the noggin, and I don’t want to drag him forward.

  One of the talkative ones, who must be a sergeant or some higher rank, walks nearer and bends with hands on knees, studying something on the ground. I can only surmise it’s our footprints. I’m strung as tightly as a fiddle.

  I bring the M4 to shoulder and track him as he moves back to his charges. His voice raises, and he sounds excited.

  Switching the M4 to full auto, I drop to a prone position and wonder how many of the six I can take out before the narrow cleft of the cave entrance buzzes with AK47 stingers.

  36

  Pax sucks it up as Ji Su flies so close to the deck that spray flies from the bird’s downdraft, and she’s moving at two hundred fifty knots, if the airspeed indicator is correct. She takes a course directly east to the shore of South Korea. Then she gains a hundred feet altitude and turns back northwest, staying below the altitude of a shoreline cliff and the hills beyond.

  She’s concentrating on her flying, so Pax remains silent. Then she turns to him. “We’re in the DMZ…and,” she hesitates a few seconds, “now in North Korea. I’m going to circle the dam at the mouth of the Potong, as if we’re some brass inspecting the progress. Even though it’s dark, they are working twenty-four-seven. Then we’ll take a course upriver as if we’re heading to the capital. Short of it, we’ll swing north to pick up Mike and Jin.”

  “Roger that,” Pax says, and lets her return to concentrating. After they’re fifteen clicks into North Korea, she climbs to a thousand feet and cuts her speed back to a hundred sixty knots so she’s not so obvious to radar…and flying at two fifty or faster would identify her as not being an NK bird. Too damn fast.

  In minutes they drop to two hundred feet, slow to eighty knots, and see the dam below, well lighted, and a beehive of activity. Only one other bird is airborne, and it’s a twin-rotor Russian crane, carrying a load of construction material.

  Some of the workers look up and wave as they circle. She makes three full circles from one end of the long dam to the other, and then regains altitude to head up the Potong toward the capital. In ten minutes, she has dropped again to less than two hundred feet.

  Pax taps her on the shoulder and points to oncoming lights at about their same altitude. She nods. “I’ve had him on the radar since we left the dam.”

  She climbs again to four hundred feet, and a military chopper, bristling with cannon and rockets, passes below. She drops again and turns due north.

  Pax is watching the other chopper and sees he’s turning as well, and pats her again. “He’s coming back.”

  She nods but continues to watch her surface radar and ahead, and she’s right. The other chopper is retracing its path along the river.

  “You think they’re hunting Bo and Butch?” I ask.

  “Bo, maybe. Sounds like Butch has played the sacrificial lamb.”

  “I hope not, but it sounds that way. What’s our ETA?”

  “About twelve minutes. Try to raise Mike.”

  Pax picks up the SATphone and pokes in a “2,” and it’s four rings before Reardon picks up, and he’s whispering.

  “Chee here. Keep it short.”

  “Twelve minutes.”

  “Kill time.”

  “Roger that. How many mikes?”

  “Fifteen extra, unless I call.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Pax turns to Ji Su. “He wants us to kill fifteen mikes. And he was whispering.”

  “Then we kill fifteen, but I’m going to put her down so we conserve fuel.”

  “Risky,” Pax says.

  “Help me hunt a clearing. There’s hardly enough wires or high-lines in the whole damn country to worry me much.”

  “The hilltops look to be pretty barren.”

  She turns to starboard, slows almost to a hover, drops, and switches on her landing lights, but only for a literal second.

  She speaks without taking her eyes off the chosen LZ. “We’re good a hundred feet ahead.”

  “Your lips to God’s ears,” Pax says as she drifts the bird forward, flares, and gently drops — throwing up a cloud of rotor wash dust — until the skids settle on the hilltop, and she cuts power.

  Pax inhales, and realizes he’s been holding his breath. “Nicely done,” he says.

  “Piece of cake,” she says. “I saw nothing of civilization, but keep a sharp eye, as there could be a house a hundred yards away. No power in this crummy country. We don’t want a bunch of farmers thinking we’re in trouble, and charging in to help.”

  “Sharp eye, yes ma’am,” Pax says, and does, with his M4 cradled in his lap.

  I hear someone in the distance yell and watch as the six soldiers snap to attention. An officer stomps up, now barely visible to me in the growing darkness. He berates them and slaps one across the cheek…the one who appeared to be a sergeant or at least the highest ranked of all of the slackers. He takes the slap and talks like the proverbial Dutch uncle. Then the officer points, yells at his troop, and they scatter into a line twenty or so feet apart. One of them is only six feet from the cave opening. I hold my breath; then Jin, in the rear of the cave, coughs.

  I realize I’m gripping the M4 so tightly my forearms are beginning to ache.

  The nearby soldier turns, but the officer yells again, and the line moves out, crossing the meadow. The officer stands, hands on hips, and watches.

  Just as I think we’ve got a break and he, too, is leaving, the officer pulls a cigarette from a pack in his shirt pocket, lights up, and takes a seat on a boulder. Glancing at my GPS, I see it’s been nine minutes. We don’t have time for him to get ambitious. So I slip back to where Jin is prone on the cave floor, among small animal bones and other debris, and whisper to him.

  “The squad has moved off, but the damned officer has decided to take ten and poison his lungs. I may have to make sure he stays silent.”

  “Do what you gotta do.”

  Jin rolls to his belly, slings his M4, and moves along behind me as I slip up to the edge of the opening. He takes a prone position, ready to back me up. The officer is quartering away from me, at no more than thirty yards. It’s getting so dark about all I can see of him is the glow of his cig. My back is to the sundown, and I’m hopeful there’s no hint of light behind me. I’m not sky-lined, thanks to the ridge that’s at least fifteen feet high.

  Unhooking my battle rattle, so it doesn’t, I leave it and take only my Ka-bar and sidearm, and move out of the opening, where I’m shielded by some thick brush. I’m able to use it until about only ten yards from the glowing cig, and thirty feet is a long way to walk in the dark and not break a twig underfoot.

  I wish I was in my stocking feet but am not, so I do the Indian walk, putting toes down lightly first, trying to feel for anything that might make noise.

  When only ten feet, Ka-bar at the ready, I’m surprised as he stands and stretches. Then his radio crackles, and he takes it off his belt and to an ear.

  It might arouse a little suspicion if I cut his throat in midsentence, but am given some advantage as he’s yelling into it, obviously berating his troop.

  He has both hands on the unit, tr
ying to fit it back on his belt, as I close the last three paces.

  In trying to replace the radio, he’s turned a little my way and catches a sound or my movement in his peripheral vison. He swings the radio, backhanded at me, and I don’t have an opening to go for his throat, so I drive the blade under his arm, all the way to the hilt.

  He manages a loud grunt, and I shove him away and off the blade; he collapses to one knee. The next thrust takes him under the jaw, and now the only sound is a gurgle as he goes to his back, his hands on the gaping, blood-gushing hole in his throat.

  Knowing he’s going nowhere, I run back to the cave, strap my belt back on, grab up the SATphone, and raise Pax. “As good a time as ever,” I say. “Troop should be at or near the north end of the LZ. Land at the south end if you can.”

  “Roger. Give us five mikes, and be ready. Stand at the south end, ten paces apart in an east-west line so we can spot and confirm you on TIR. Our LZ should be just north of you.”

  “TIR?” I ask, searching my memory for the acronym.

  “Thermal imaging. Move it.”

  37

  Pax gives Ji Su the signal of a circling finger; she cranks on the turbojet, and, in less than a minute, they’re in the air.

  “TIR,” he says, and she switches the unit on. They cross a little more than two clicks of country and come in over the north end of the meadow. They see the heat images of over two-dozen men below, spread out over a two-hundred-yard line.

  They receive no ground fire as the troop below don’t know they are not friendly.

  Ji Su makes a half-circle and one pass over the south end of the meadow, and Pax points to a pair of heat images, men, twenty yards apart, in an east-west configuration.