by Don Brown
Gunner shrugged. “I flipped on the TV one morning and saw the commercial that said, ‘The Navy — it’s not just a job. It’s an adventure.’ Guess I missed that the first time.”
“You certainly made it an adventure the second time, Commander. Let’s see. What did it say? While attached to the SEALs, you jumped in a hole, grabbed a live grenade tossed in by the enemy, and tossed it out half a second before it exploded, saving the life of the injured Marine waiting to be medevaced out. You were cited for heroism and bravery and awarded the Navy Cross.”
“You’re embarrassing me, Lieutenant. Why do you bring this up?”
“You’re the one who said I hadn’t read your dossier. Just proving I did my homework.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
“Well, then, I’m sure you know the admiral will expect you to have these papers read prior to your meeting.”
“That your way of telling me to shut up and get to work?” He chuckled.
“That is correct,” she said. She opened the door to step out, then turned back. “I hope you will find a suitable level of excitement there.”
“You did nail me.”
She tried suppressing a smile but failed. “I’ll see you in a few minutes, sir.” She stepped out of the room and the door closed behind her.
Gunner sat down. Time to get to work. He opened the envelope and spread its contents on the table.
Date: November 17
From: Deputy Chief of Naval Operations for Information Dominance (N2/N6) and Director of Naval Intelligence (DNI)
To: LCDR Christianson Pendleton McCormick, USN, Staff Intelligence Officer, Carrier Strike Group Ten
Subj: Initial Intelligence Briefing Carrier Strike Group Ten Yellow Sea Deployment
Classification: TOP SECRET
1. Due to increasing hostilities on the Korean Peninsula, the Republic of Korea has requested joint naval exercises with the United States Navy in the Yellow Sea as a show of unity, solidarity, and force between the US and the ROK to deter possible aggression from North Korea.
2. The National Command Authority has ordered Carrier Strike Group Ten (USS Harry S. Truman Battle Group) into the Yellow Sea to conduct joint naval exercises with the ROK Navy. Commander Strike Group Ten shall be informed of these orders imminently.
3. As senior intelligence officer for the Strike Group, the purpose of this communiqué is to brief you on (a) the historical and political situation of the conflict as relevant to the Strike Group’s mission; (b) the positioning of North Korean shore batteries that may pose a threat to the Strike Group; and (c) the positioning of North Korean naval and air forces that are a potential threat to United States naval forces.
4. A summary of the historical and political background is as follows:
KOREAN CRISIS
HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL BACKGROUND
In 1910, Japan attacked and conquered Korea. The brutal military occupation ended more than one thousand years of Korea’s sovereignty as a nation and was a major source of shame to Koreans.
Thirty-five years later, Japan lost Korea in World War II. Just as Europe was divided along the “Iron Curtain,” Korea was divided along the 38th parallel into the American-backed Republic of Korea in the south (ROK) and the Communist-backed Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (DPRK) in the north. The DPRK was led by a young rebel and disciple of Joseph Stalin named Kim Il-sung.
In 1950, Kim Il-sung invaded the South to unify the country. North Korean Communist forces rapidly drove south, gaining control of almost the entire country before American and United Nations forces, under General Douglas MacArthur, executed a daring amphibious landing at Inchon, which decapitated the Communist supply lines into the South.
After Inchon, the military pendulum swung to the West. American forces pushed the Communists back, driving them back into North Korea — their goal to obliterate the dictatorial regime in Pyongyang. But the surprise entry of overwhelming Communist Chinese forces secretly crossing the border into North Korea changed the dynamic of the war. The US and Korean forces that had advanced north toward the Yalu River border with China on the western side of the peninsula were driven back by the surprise entry of Chinese soldiers, who had crossed secretly into Korea. On the eastern side of the peninsula, Chinese forces attacked the First Marine Division commanded by Major General O. P. Smith near the Chosin Reservoir on their push north. Surprised and surrounded by Chinese forces outnumbering it eight-to-one, the division, fighting in subzero conditions, rallied around General Smith and battled through Chinese fortifications, inflicting mortal damage to the enemy before returning south. Many have said that the Battle of Chosin Reservoir was the Marines’ finest hour.
In 1953, after three years of fighting, Korea remained divided in almost exactly the same place it had been divided before the war began.
The 38th parallel.
The armistice kept the two heavily armed warring armies separated, 2,500 yards apart, by a no-man’s land now known as the “Demilitarized Zone,” the DMZ.
As many as four million people died in the Korean War, which had some of the most brutal warfare the world has ever known. The US dropped nearly one million gallons of napalm on North Korea. Eighteen of twenty-two major cities in the North were at least half obliterated.
While most people think the war ended almost sixty years ago, there never was a peace treaty. More than 21,000 days later, the long cease-fire continues.
North Korea remains the most oppressive regime on the planet. Although intelligence is somewhat sketchy, best evidence from eyewitness reports suggests that North Korea maintains several dozen forced-labor prison camps, reserved primarily for political dissidents who dare to challenge the regime. These camps have been used over the years to dissuade political opposition.
Even to this day, rumors have circulated and circumstantial evidence from the North has suggested that North Korea may be holding a few elderly American prisoners never returned from the war.
“What?” Gunner mumbled aloud. He rubbed his eyes and reread the last paragraph.
Even to this day, rumors have circulated and circumstantial evidence from the North has suggested that North Korea may be holding a few elderly American prisoners never returned from the war.
“I can’t believe this.” He looked back at the communiqué.
Due to the highly sensitive political nature surrounding enforcement of the tenuous nature of the armistice, the US has been unable to confirm or deny the validity of such rumors.
“What the heck is that supposed to mean … ‘Unable to confirm or deny’?”
A knock on the door. Gunner heard someone working the combination lock, then the door opened. Lieutenant Jefferies was standing alone in the passageway. “The admiral is ready for you now, Commander. If you will come with me, please.”
Gunner stood, grabbed the folder, and joined Lieutenant Jefferies out in the hall. His briefing with the admiral would be interesting. But he knew that nothing the admiral could say would erase the idea growing in his mind.
American Marines could be alive in North Korea. And he intended to find them and bring them home.
CHAPTER 2
Kim Yong-nam Military Prison Camp
Keith knelt on the concrete floor, leaned over the cot, and laid his hand on his friend’s forehead. The skin was hot, dry. Over the last few days, Robert’s hacking cough had grown worse. His lungs sounded full of phlegm that he couldn’t cough out.
“That you, Keith?” More coughing. More wheezing. “Mama? Mama? You there?”
“He’s delirious,” Frank said. He was sitting on a bunk across the aisle.
“It’s the fever talking,” Keith said. “He’s on fire. If we don’t get his temp down, it’s over.” He lifted Robert’s wrist and felt for a pulse. “His pulse is firing like a machine gun.”
For Keith, the thought of losing Robert triggered a flash of memories — memories of bygone days when they were young, strong, and idealistic.
> Robert was a Marine. And in his younger days, he was a Marine’s Marine.
It happened in November 1950 at a place called Chosin Reservoir near the border between Korea and China. The First Marine Division was pinned down, surrounded by overwhelming Chinese forces. Their situation was hopeless. But Brigadier General O. P. Smith, the commander of the division, had rallied the leathernecks with a jolting war cry: “Retreat, hell! We’re not retreating! We’re just advancing in a different direction!”
Although the Chinese had the Marines surrounded, the Marines rallied around their general and began a daring and thunderous advance through enemy lines.
That day, Keith was covering the rear of his advancing platoon. They were moving south, back toward the 38th parallel, and his job was to provide the first line of fire if the Chinese or North Koreans attacked from the rear. He had cocked his M-1 carbine and was moving low and swift just behind his leatherneck comrades. They had just fought through a North Korean platoon when a deafening shot rang out behind his head.
Startled, he pivoted and brought his carbine into firing position.
A Chinese soldier lay dead on the ground from a bullet to the head. Robert was off to one side, pistol in hand, barrel still smoking. That sight would forever be burned in Keith’s memory.
Somehow, the Chinese soldier had slipped into the Marines’ rear guard and was about to shoot Keith in the back of the head at pointblank range when Robert fired, killing him. Robert saved his life.
They left the body on the ground and moved out, trying to catch up with their platoon. But suddenly, out of nowhere, they were surrounded by Chinese soldiers with rifles aimed right at them.
Had the Chinese witnessed Robert shoot their buddy, both Keith and Robert would have been shot. Instead, the Chinese turned the two Americans over to the North Koreans, dooming them to an eternity of hell on earth.
At first, hope lived. Hope of release. Hope of a rescue. Hope of a prisoner exchange.
But as months turned into years, and the years into decades, their hopes and dreams of freedom faded and finally vanished. America, the beacon of light among nations, the hope of freedom on earth, morphed into a faint and distant memory. Images of family frozen in time at first haunted the deep recesses of their minds. Crazed wonderings — whether family was dead or alive, whether a spouse was remarried or still waiting, whether markers had been placed on their empty graves in some lush green war cemetery somewhere back in a place they once called home — had once tortured them. But as the decades passed, their thoughts of ever returning home had dimmed.
Now they had only each other — Keith and Robert and Frank. They had become closer than brothers.
Two quick knocks on the door brought Keith back to the present. The door swung open and a swirl of snow rode in on a gust of cold air. Two guards were standing out in the yard smoking cigarettes. A petite woman, perhaps midthirties, walked in with a large wooden tray that held three bowls of beans and rice and three tin cups of water from the trough. She held out the food and said, “Eat, eat, eat.”
Keith’s eyes met the woman’s, and he said, “Ahn yang haseo, Pak.”
“Hello. Hello. You hungry?”
“Very sick.” Keith pointed to Robert, who groaned and rolled over toward the wall, away from the food and the water.
“Oh, sick?” Pak leaned over and touched Robert. She frowned and looked concerned. Pak had been bringing them food for the last few years, and unlike the whipmaster and the other uniformed guards, she often showed kindness to the men, but only when the guards were not looking. “Oh, hot,” she said. “Needs drink.”
“Right,” Keith said. He took a jar of water and put his hand behind Robert’s head. “Can you lean up, buddy?”
Robert’s head shook and bobbed as Keith raised him to a slight angle off the hard pillow. Fighting the burning pain in his own arms, Keith brought the jar of water to Robert’s lips.
“Take a sip,” Keith whispered, tilting the jar up. A small amount, maybe two or three tablespoons, drained into Robert’s mouth. A gulping came from his throat. “That’s good. Drink some more.” He tipped the jar again.
“Uh-kuh … uh-kuh …” Water poured from the sides of Robert’s mouth. Keith jerked the jar away.
“I think he got some in his lungs,” Frank said. “Easy. It’s gonna be okay.”
Keith eased Robert’s head back down to the pillow.
“Uh-kuh … uh-kuh …”
Keith rolled Robert on his side and popped him between the shoulder blades a couple of times. More coughing was followed by fast, heavy breathing. “You’re going to be fine.”
“Keith, your foot.” Frank pointed down.
Keith looked down. “Oh, crap.” Blood oozed from the lash mark on the top of his foot. “I must’ve caught it on the edge of that steel bar under the bed.”
“Here, here.” Pak removed her apron, knelt on the floor, and pressed the folded cloth down on the foot.
“Thank you, Pak,” Keith said. “I’m okay.” He reached down and pushed the apron against his foot and looked into her black eyes. “Please, Pak. Robert is sick. Can you get medicine? Please.”
She stood up. Her face flashed a nervous look.
“Please,” Keith pleaded. “Whatever you can bring. We won’t say anything.”
Her eyes shifted to the left and then to the right. “I try,” she whispered, then turned and walked out of the barracks.
“She’s worried about sticking her neck out,” Frank said. “I don’t blame her.”
“Me neither,” Keith said. “Let’s pray she does it, though.” He dabbed cold water from the jar on a towel and laid the cool, wet towel on Robert’s forehead. “I’m worried about him making it through the night, let alone dealing with Sergeant Jack-Thug when he barges in here in the morning.” He pulled the blanket up and covered Robert’s neck, leaving only his head exposed. “Robert’s in no shape to march down to the pig trough, and that guy’s gonna have to back off.”
“Maybe he’ll cool his jets by morning,” Frank said.
“Somehow I doubt it. We’ll see.”
Colonel Song Kwang-sun, the senior commander and military warden of the prestigious Kim Ying-nam Military Prison Camp, opened his eyes and squinted at the shapely silhouette hovering over him. When his blurry vision sharpened, he saw a smiling Mang Hyo-Sonn leaning up, her chin supported by her hand and her long hair draped over her shoulder. She gazed at him with the look of a teenager in love.
Colonel Song pulled clean white sheets up over their shoulders to break the slight chill in the air. He looked into Mang’s black eyes and gently pushed a lock of brown hair from her face.
As she gazed into his eyes, a slight smile teased the corners of her mouth. “Have I not been enough to keep you warm?” She ran her fingers across his arm and moved her lips to his. Her kiss, as luscious as the sweetest vial of pure honey, made him feel half his age.
“You are more than enough to keep me warm, my dear, but that is not the question.”
“No?” She toyed with his chin. “Then what is the question?”
“The question is whether I keep you warm,” he said, chuckling at himself.
She smiled and whispered, her lips right next to his ear, “Of course my big strong man keeps me warm.”
“This is good to know, but just in case” — he pushed himself up and reached for the clear bottle half full of soju on the small table beside the bed — “have another sip.”
“Thank you, my colonel.” She took a gulp. “You are a most generous commander.”
“Of course I am.” He laughed. “Give me that.” He snatched the bottle from her and brought it to his lips. Delicious, potent soju poured down his throat. He capped the bottle and turned to Mang, his aide and his lover.
“I have a prison to run. We must return to work before someone suspects something.”
“Of course, my colonel,” Mang said, running a soft hand across his forehead.
He sat up on the si
de of the bed and stuck his legs through his long Army-green uniform trousers. His feet went into his boots. He stood up and put on his Army jacket, buttoning it carefully and adjusting the red pin bearing the photo of Kim Il-sung, the “Eternal President” of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. Finally he buckled the shiny belt carrying his holstered pistol.
“Get dressed. I will leave first. Wait ten minutes, then leave. Make sure that no one sees you.”
“Yes, my colonel.”
Song stepped into the hallway and turned right. He headed for the WC to get rid of some of the soju.
Pak walked into the commander’s office. A silent testament of braggadocio adorned the walls, various photographs of goose-stepping soldiers, military medals and citations framed in boxes, and pictures of a younger Colonel Song Kwang-sun smiling and shaking hands with dignitaries and accepting whatever awards they gave out to high-ranking Communists of the North Korean Army. His sharp eyes, emanating a steely and evil glare, seemed to follow her from every photograph.
“They are only pictures,” she mumbled softly. “Fear not, for I am with you.”
She glanced at the clock on the wall. Three o’clock. She knew the colonel usually was out of his office at this time of the afternoon. Still, she needed to hurry. He was not far away.
The worst-kept secret in all the prison was Colonel Song Kwang-sun’s daily rendezvous with Mang Hyo-Sonn, the twenty-two-year-old North Korean flower half his age. A staff sergeant, Mang had been detailed as a guard in the military prison system. But because there were no female prisoners to guard, Mang served as administrative secretary to Song. She arrived a month ago.