by Don Brown
Jung-Hoon and Jackrabbit again eyed each other. Then Jung-Hoon nodded, yielding the floor to the American expat. “You’d need a light aircraft you could ditch in the sea. A rubber floatable Zodiac boat. Light weaponry. Sophisticated communications equipment with jammers. Maps. Dagger military GPS devices with updated crypto key. Light plastic explosives with remote detonators. Heavy-duty wire cutters. Plenty of cash. US dollars and even more North Korean won. And, of course, if you’re caught, you’re executed on the spot.”
Gunner looked at the American he had just met, then at the Korean. “I know your background, gentlemen. I know how each of you feels about the Communist regime in Pyongyang. Will you help me? I will pay you more in a month than you would make in a year.”
Eyes shifted again between Jung-Hoon and Jackrabbit. “When you’re asking for help,” Jackrabbit said, “you mean you want us to cross the lines with you?”
“Why not?” Gunner said. “Both of you have faced dangerous situations with Special Forces on top-secret missions all over the world. If the money’s right … and it will be … why not this mission? You’re both fearless. And you have a chance to accomplish something worthwhile.”
“But Commander,” Jung-Hoon said, “we are both retired warriors. I live a peaceful life running this bar. And my friend here” — he nodded to Jackrabbit — “he can speak for himself, but I have known him for years. He is trying to live a quiet life here in Korea, away from the fast life back in the USA. Besides, while neither of us fears dying, if we are caught, the stakes would be greater than our own lives. The North would claim that we are government spies and use this as a pretext for attacking the South. If that happens, innocent women and children would die. So you see, Commander, this is not only about money. Tell me why we should consider this.”
The Korean had made a good point.
Would Gunner lose his most valuable team members before even getting started? Perhaps he should go back to the Truman or spend a week or two in Seoul and then leave. He prayed for the right words.
“I’m from Virginia. I wasn’t much on reading the Good Book back then, but every night my mother made me memorize a Bible verse. One that she made me repeat every day for a year was very simple.” He paused. “Deuteronomy 6:18: ‘Do what is right.’ “ He looked at Jackrabbit. “You’re an American. You live here in South Korea now, but you will always be an American. Now I know our country has undergone considerable change.” He stopped. “A lot of that change has not been for the good. But there was a time when our government would never leave Americans behind enemy lines to rot. Politics or not, international ramifications or not, that is plain wrong. And if our government won’t get to the bottom of it, somebody must have the courage to do the right thing. Do what is right. Americans don’t leave Americans behind enemy lines to rot.” He paused. “Not in the America I grew up in, anyway. You’re a decorated war hero, and I’m just an intelligence officer. But whether you go with me or not, somehow, someway, I’m crossing that line to the North, and I’ll get some answers … even if it costs me my life.”
The whirr of the overhead ceiling fans filled the silence.
“Is this not about your grandfather,” Jung-Hoon asked, “making this a personal mission for you? Forgive my bluntness, but North Korea is a barren, famine-ravished, poverty-stricken wasteland. Your grandfather probably died long ago.”
“I understand that,” Gunner said, meeting the gaze of the Korean. “And yes, this is personal. But maybe it is for you too.” Jung-Hoon raised an eyebrow. “I’ve done my homework, Jung-Hoon. I know what they did to your brother.”
Jung-Hoon shifted on his chair.
“And also to your wife, Jackrabbit,” Gunner said.
Anger flashed across the ex-pat’s lips and eyebrows.
“My apologies for evoking bitter memories. But your brother, Jung-Hoon, and your wife, Jackrabbit, gave their lives fighting this regime. And their work was not sponsored by the government. They fought injustice out of a brave commitment to do what was right.” Gunner stopped to let them think of the past. “I don’t know about the two of you, but I’m willing to risk my life for the memory of your wife” — he eyed Jackrabbit — “and the memory of your brother” — a glance at Jung-Hoon — “and yes, for the memory of my grandfather too.”
The light whirr of the overhead fan hummed on as the triumvirate engaged in an awkward silent negotiation, each with his own thoughts of right and wrong.
Gunner broke the silence. “If either or both of you gentlemen do not wish to join me, I understand. I will find someone else who will.”
He waited. There was no response. Finally he stood. “I’ll be leaving now. Jackrabbit, don’t worry about driving me back. I’ll catch a cab.”
“Wait,” Jung-Hoon said. “Meet me at Grace Fellowship Evangelical Baptist Church in Seoul. Seven o’clock tonight.”
“At a Baptist church?”
“Yes,” Jung-Hoon said. “Jackrabbit knows the church. My brother attended there. So did Jackrabbit’s wife. I do not attend, but they are good people. The pastor is closing speaker at a conference tonight. Meet me in front of the church sanctuary at seven, just after the speech. I will introduce you to the pastor.”
“Who is this pastor?” Gunner asked. “We need to be careful about who we talk to.”
Jung-Hoon looked irritated. “You asked for my help. Do you still wish to have it?”
“Of course.”
“Then trust me,” the Korean said as he stood. “We are — what do you Americans say? — on the same page here. I would not compromise the sensitive nature of these discussions.”
“Forgive me,” Gunner said, extending his hand to the Korean and bowing slightly. “Of course I trust you.”
“Very well,” Jung-Hoon said. “Meet me there. Jackrabbit will drive you.”
“I will see you at seven.”
CHAPTER 5
Seoul, South Korea
Gunner sat alone in the hotel restaurant in downtown Seoul. His American companion had dumped him at the hotel and told him to be ready at 6:30 for the drive to meet the South Korean pastor. Then he left.
Gunner tried his best to force down a Korean dinner of bulgogi and rice. Although the beef was tender, he had no appetite. His stomach churned at the thought of what the next few days might bring. He stirred the shallow puddle of cooling coffee at the bottom of his cup.
“More coffee?” The smiling young Korean waitress seemed pleased to be able to practice her English.
Gunner nodded. “Ano,” he said, taking a stab at the most basic word in his limited Korean vocabulary.
The woman smiled and half bowed, then poured more coffee into his mug.
Gunner’s thoughts focused again on the resumé of Jackrabbit Davenport, the man who could make the difference between failure and success in the next few days. Special Forces. Green Beret. Multiple kills in Afghanistan and Iraq before transferring to South Korea. Met a Korean woman. Married her. She died. He stayed. Mercenary work in Myanmar and Thailand. Then back to South Korea.
But for what? His wife was gone.
Maybe professional killers don’t talk. Jackrabbit barely said a word on their drive into Seoul. This odd-looking man, though American by birth and by appearance, seemed distant. Angry …
Gunner took another swallow of the hot coffee.
“Ready to roll, Commander?”
Gunner turned and saw the expatriate, dressed in his signature tight black T-shirt and black pants, a leather jacket plopped over his shoulder, making quick strides toward him.
Gunner stood. “Just need to pay. Then I’m good to go.”
“Make it fast,” Jackrabbit barked. “Jung-Hoon Sohn doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“You bet.” Gunner swigged the rest of his coffee.
He stepped to the counter and handed a credit card to the clerk to pay for his meal. As the clerk swiped Gunner’s Visa, the smell of beer breath made Gunner turn to see the source.
The
familiar tattooed bicep brushed against him. “Truck’s out front,” Jackrabbit announced, then headed toward the revolving door at the hotel’s entrance. “Like I said, the man doesn’t like waitin’.”
Gunner rushed back to the table, grabbed the black leather jacket he’d left draped over the chair, put it on, and jogged out the front door. Already behind the wheel of the black pickup, Jackrabbit was staring straight ahead.
“Ready, Commander?” Jackrabbit revved the engine, and the truck screeched through the circular driveway, nearly striking a bellman, who jumped aside just in time.
“Strap up, Commander. We got thirty minutes to make it through this traffic.”
The church was huge. They parked on the sixth floor of the garage, descended to ground level in a fast-moving elevator, then rode up three escalators to reach the church lobby.
The room was enormous, three stories high, with a row of chandeliers hanging down from the arched ceiling. Only a few men and women were milling about, watching the activity on six large video screens mounted on the walls. The screens, all showing different angles, displayed live images of a sea of people packed into the seats in the sanctuary, all gazing up at a middle-aged man standing behind the pulpit, waving his hands as he spoke.
Gunner didn’t understand a word. “That’s some conference. There must be two thousand people in there,” he said.
“The place seats four thousand,” Jackrabbit said.
“Jung-Hoon said your wife went here. You ever go with her?”
“Nah. She came all the time. She dragged me with her once in a while. I didn’t go very much. Easter. Christmas. You know?”
Gunner glanced back up at a screen. The conference appeared to be over. One camera showed a dozen conference attendees gathered around the pastor near the pulpit. He patted some on the shoulder and leaned over to perhaps whisper in the ears of others.
“You know him?”
“Quite well,” Jackrabbit said. “Met him through my wife. He’s tried to get me to come to church, especially after she died. But I never bothered.”
“He must be a good speaker. What’s his name?”
“Lee. Pastor John-Floyd Lee.”
“Hmm. I understand the Lee part. But John-Floyd doesn’t sound Korean to me.”
“His granddaddy was American. Married a Korean lady working at Osan. He’s named for his granddaddy.”
“So he’s one-fourth American,” Gunner said.
“By blood, that’s right. Although you can’t tell it by looking at him.”
Just then a half-dozen double doors flew open all at once. The conference attendees began filing into the lobby, heading for the pots of tea and trays of refreshments laid out on tables.
“That’s our cue,” Jackrabbit said. “Let’s go.”
Gunner followed Jackrabbit into the back of the half-moon-shaped sanctuary, moving against the heavy flow of humanity pouring out. In minutes they stood in the presence of the charismatic man himself, the Reverend John-Floyd Lee.
“Reverend, this is Commander Gunner McCormick,” Jackrabbit said.
“Welcome to Korea, Commander.” The pastor’s English and his accent made Gunner think he could have been from the American Midwest. “And in the name of our Lord and Savior, welcome to Grace Church.” Lee extended his hand to Gunner.
“Thank you, Pastor. This is a beautiful church.”
“Thank you.” Lee smiled. “It is beautiful indeed, but only because the risen Lord is at work here.”
“Amen to that,” Gunner said, feeling a bit awkward. This was the only response he could muster.
“Commander McCormick is the man that Jung-Hoon Sohn called about.”
“Ah, yes.” A look of recollection crossed Lee’s face. “Jung-Hoon will be meeting us in my office. Follow me, my brothers,” he said as he headed toward a side door and led the way down a hallway.
A number of conference goers were milling about in the area, and the pastor smiled and shook their hands, but did not stop to chat. Fifty feet down the hall, they entered an elevator that took them up. A few moments later, the doors opened. Only a few people were standing in the hall.
“This is the sixth floor. The church offices are up here,” Lee said. They turned right, walked down a blue-carpeted hallway, then through a door into an office reception area.
A smiling woman sat behind the reception desk. She handed the pastor a note, he looked at it and put it in his pocket, then turned to Gunner and Jackrabbit. “Come into my office.”
The pastor’s office overlooked the boulevard in front of the church.
Jung-Hoon, who had been sitting on one of the two blue leather sofas, stood as they entered.
“Jung-Hoon Sohn.” The pastor bowed at the aging warrior.
“Nice to see you, Pastor Lee.” Jung-Hoon returned the bow.
“I look for you every Sunday,” Pastor Lee chided.
“Perhaps if you come to my bar on Saturday night, I come to your church on Sunday morning, Pastor Lee.”
Lee chuckled. “I understand you wanted me to meet with Commander McCormick.”
“Yes, I wanted him to meet you because he is proposing a mission that is similar to the mission that my brother and Jackrabbit’s wife were on.”
The pastor’s friendly expression changed, and his bubbly countenance went solemn.
“I thought,” Jung-Hoon said, “perhaps you might provide us some assistance through your network or, better yet, perhaps talk him out of it.”
“I see,” the pastor said. “Everyone, please sit.”
They sat down, and the pastor walked over and sat behind the large wooden desk flanked on each side by the South Korean flag and the white-blue-and-red Christian flag.
“Tell me. How may I help?”
Jung-Hoon said, “Pastor, the commander wants to finance a small mission into the North. His grandfather and other Americans disappeared there during the Korean War. He has heard the rumors that the Dear Leader may still be holding American soldiers, and he wants to find out for himself.”
Lee looked at Gunner. “I am sorry about your grandfather. My grandfather was American, and he too fought in the North. But he was lucky. He made it home and married my grandmother, whom he met at the American base. He died twenty years ago, but I got to know him well, and it is his memory that has inspired this special ministry of ours.”
Gunner looked at Jackrabbit and Jung-Hoon.
“Pastor, I have not told the commander about your ministry,” Jung-Hoon said, “so he does not know what you do.”
“Of course,” Lee said. “Commander, our church secretly finances rescues of our brothers and sisters from the North.”
A pause.
“Really?” Gunner said. “I’d heard of this type of activity going on, but I didn’t know …”
“Actually,” the pastor said, “we try to fly under the radar screen. Several Christian organizations are involved.”
“You go through … where? … China?”
“Exactly,” Lee said. “It is impossible to get anyone out of North Korea through the DMZ. So we use our contacts to sneak them across the border between North Korea and China. We move them through China to the northern tip of Laos, then across the Mekong River into Thailand. If we get them to Bangkok, they are usually arrested, but then they are given the choice of refuge in Europe, the USA, or Seoul. Most choose Seoul.”
“Wow,” Gunner said. “That’s got to be a couple of thousand miles from the North Korean border to Bangkok.”
“Closer to four thousand,” Lee said. “Hang on.” He reached into a cabinet and pulled out a map mounted on foam board. He set the map on an easel beside his desk.
Escape route from North Korea through China, Laos, and Thailand to Bangkok
“This map shows our rescue route through China. As you can see, our normal route takes us west of China’s major population centers, then down across the northern tip of Laos, across the Mekong River, and into Thailand. Bangkok is at the tip of
the arrow.”
Gunner got up to study the map. With his finger, he traced down the line of the arrow leading into Thailand. “That has to be very risky. Do your church members actually go?”
“It is dangerous, and yes, a small number of our members go. They risk their lives.”
Jackrabbit seemed to tighten up.
“Only a select few know about our program. Jackrabbit lost his wife on one of these missions.”
Gunner looked at Jackrabbit. “She died doing what she wanted to do,” Jackrabbit said. “A North Korean border guard shot her at the Yalu River border.”
“And I lost my brother near the same border,” Jung-Hoon said. “He was on a church mission trip too.” No one said anything for a moment. “Pastor, do you have a map of the border?”
North Korea showing border with China
“Certainly,” Lee said. He set another map on the easel. “This is the North Korean – Chinese border. It runs from the southwest to the northeast for a distance of about 880 miles. Parts of the border are fenced off on both sides and heavily guarded to stem the flow of North Koreans trying to escape. Parts of it are not as heavily guarded.
“We have established several different crossing points to make our rescue operations unpredictable. Most of the border, about five hundred miles of it, is marked by the Amnok River, as we call it, or the Yalu River, as the Chinese call it. It empties into Korea Bay, just beyond the town of Sinuiju.
“Here is another map showing just the Amnok River, or the Yalu, as you call it.
Amnok (Yalu) River on border of North Korea
“Most of our refugees have crossed this river around the midsection. Unfortunately, in recent years, North Korean border patrols have increased, making escapes much more dangerous. They’ve begun firing across the river into China, shooting at North Koreans fleeing. They sometimes have hit rescuers. That is what happened to Jackrabbit’s wife and Jung-Hoon’s brother.”
“Now you know why we hate the North Koreans so much,” Jackrabbit said.