by Don Brown
“Pop into my crosshairs, sucker. I dare ya.”
Even wearing thermal gloves, Gunner’s hands throbbed with aching pain from the ice on the river. He breathed heavily and, frankly, found himself surprised that a shot had not yet been fired. He had slithered to within a couple feet of Frank’s body. He looked up, reached forward, and grabbed hold of Frank’s left foot.
Yoo crouched down behind the back of the jeep. His opponent was over there, somewhere. Waiting with his rifle. Watching. He sensed it. He knew it. The SEAL sniper, hidden behind one of those trees on the Chinese side, was covering for the SEAL with the death wish crawling out on the ice.
Yoo decided to pop out quickly, get a fix on the crawling SEAL, fire, and pop back behind the jeep before the SEAL sniper could react. Energy and adrenaline surged through his body. Life-or-death danger — he was born for this!
He edged to the back of the jeep and peered around the bumper. He brought his rifle to his shoulder and looked through the scope, searching for the SEAL he was about to slaughter.
Nothing at the front of the jeep, Jackrabbit decided. He swept the scope back toward the rear of the jeep again.
Yoo pointed the rifle at the body of the dead SEAL. There! Right behind the body! The target SEAL was reaching for the dead SEAL’s leg. Yoo moved the crosshairs up to center on the SEAL’s head, his finger on the trigger. Steady … steady …
There! In the crosshairs at the rear bumper!
The gunman! A rifle!
Jackrabbit pulled the trigger. A shot cracked the freezing night air.
The shot echoed several times off the frozen river. Or was there more than one shot? Had the Korean gotten off a shot? He was not sure.
He readjusted the night scope, for after firing, he had lost his bearings on the target. He found the jeep and moved the crosshairs back to the rear bumper.
There!
The enemy sniper was sprawled in the snow next to the back bumper. Jackrabbit kept the night scope on him for a few seconds to determine if he was dead.
No point in taking any chances, he decided. He pulled the trigger again. The body jumped, as if jolted by a powerful electric shock. The visual result of that shot was rather gruesome, even by Jackrabbit’s standards. If he wasn’t dead before, he was now.
“Commander, you okay?” Jackrabbit called out.
No response.
“Commander?”
Still nothing.
Then … “I’m fine.” Gunner’s voice from the river.
“Thank God,” Jackrabbit said. “Jung-Hoon, the coast is clear. How about helping the commander with the body. I’ll cover you.”
“Got it.”
Jung-Hoon and Gunner dragged Frank’s body up to the treeline. They all stood around Frank, a semicircle in the lightly falling snow. Keith and Pak fell to their knees. Pak put her arms around Keith and the two wept there, on their knees, over their friend.
Jackrabbit, Gunner, and Jung-Hoon formed a quiet, protective circle around them and gave them time.
After a few minutes, Gunner said, “Keith, Pak. We have to go. There are some people through those woods that are supposed to be waiting for us. Don’t worry. We’ll take Frank with us and make sure that he gets a proper burial back home in the United States.”
Keith and Pak stood, still arm in arm.
“If you guys help me get him up, I’ll carry him over my shoulders,” Jackrabbit said.
“No,” Gunner said, “even though we aren’t in North Korea anymore, this team is better off if you have quick access to your rifle. Hang on to my rifle. I’m sure it has more bullets in the magazine than yours. I’ll carry Frank. If he gets too heavy, maybe Jung-Hoon can help me out.”
They exchanged glances. “Fair enough, Commander.”
Jackrabbit and Jung-Hoon loaded Frank across Gunner’s right shoulder, then they all headed northwest through the Chinese forest. Jung-Hoon led the way. Gunner with Frank on his shoulder was next. Pak and Keith followed him.
Jackrabbit was the rear guard.
Yalu River Valley
People’s Republic of China
near the village of Liangshu
They trudged solemnly, at a snail’s pace, through the remote Chinese woods. Frank wasn’t a heavy man, but still, his body weight was wearing down Gunner’s shoulder, making each step harder.
“There’s the opening,” Jung-Hoon said finally. They stepped out into the opening of a valley-like field. The snow had stopped. Brilliant stars shone in the crisp black canopy above.
“I need to put him down for a minute,” Gunner said.
“Hang on, Commander.” Jackrabbit lifted the body off Gunner and laid it face up on the snowy ground.
“Look!” Pak said.
Gunner looked up. Two silhouettes approached from across the field. Gunner did not have his rifle, but reached for his pistol. Jackrabbit and Jung-Hoon readied their M-16s.
“Commander McCormick,” a male voice in Chinese-accented English called out.
Gunner looked over at Jackrabbit, who gave him one simple nod of the head.
“I am McCormick!” Gunner called back.
A second passed. “We are from underground Baptist Church in Liangshu. God bless you!”
Jung-Hoon called out, “Peace be with you!”
“And also with you!” came the reply.
“He is risen!” Jung-Hoon said.
“He is risen indeed.”
“We heard gunshots,” the voice said. “Is everything okay?”
“One dead,” Jackrabbit said. “We’re over here.” He gave them a quick shot with a flashlight, then turned the flashlight off again.
“We see you.” A few seconds later, the two Chinese Christians had joined the small group near the treeline. “I am Brother Qian.” He half bowed. “And this is Brother Wang Yong.” They both half bowed. “May God bless you all,” Qian said.
“God bless both of you too,” Gunner said.
Brother Qian knelt down near Frank’s body. “Looks like fresh wound. I am sorry.”
“He got hit by a sniper as we crossed the river,” Jackrabbit said.
“We will help you take him to our van,” Qian said. “We have a blanket that we can wrap him in. Let me call our driver. He will bring the van up.” Qian made a quick call on his cell phone, spoke in Mandarin, then put the cell phone away. “The road is about two hundred meters in that direction. The van will be here in five minutes. We should start moving toward the road.”
“I have a question,” Jung-Hoon said. “I am the pilot. Could you tell me what kind of plane we will be flying?”
“It is a Cessna 172 floatplane, moored on a dock on the river several miles southwest of Dandong. An American missionary group donated it for delivering smuggled Bibles all over east Asia and southeast Asia.”
“Cessna 172.” Jung-Hoon said. “That will be a tight squeeze for six. No chance of taking the pilot to bring it back.”
A van rolled up and stopped. “This is our van,” Brother Qian said. “We will take your friend for you.”
“Thank you.” Gunner nodded.
The Chinese lifted Frank’s body, Qian locking his arms under Frank’s armpits and carefully stepping backward, and the other man taking the old man’s feet. The sight of them trudging across the snow in an act of loving service, holding the body of an elderly American they had never met, brought tears to Gunner’s eyes.
CHAPTER 26
Road along the Yalu River
fifteen miles southwest of Dandong, China
The drive along the Yalu River during the night had been uneventful. The sun was now rising off to the east, its bright rays a near-blinding brief glare each time the winding road took them east before it again turned to the southwest.
Not much had been said except for the occasional banter from the Chinese Christians. If Keith and Pak had been in shell shock after the attack on the prison camp, the death of their friend seemed to have sent them into a deeper hole of darkness.
/> Gunner bought the plane, paying the missionaries with both Korean won and US dollars. They would leave the plane in Inchon. It would be returned to Pastor Lee’s network to be ready to help others. Gunner was satisfied that he had done everything he could.
The van slowed.
“Here is our turn,” Qian said. “This road takes us to the river.”
A couple of minutes along a winding road through the woods brought them to an opening. Before them now was a wide expanse of river flowing to the sea. Gunner looked across, to the nation that had taken his grandfather from him, and he felt an overwhelming sadness.
In front of them, a wooden pier stuck out into the river. Tied to the pier was a blue single-engine floatplane. A Caucasian man, fiftyish-looking, walked down the pier toward them.
“Fortunately,” Brother Qian said, “the river does not freeze over here for a couple more months. That is Martin Luther. He sometimes flies the plane.”
“Martin Luther?” Gunner asked.
“That is not his real name. He is an American missionary pilot, but his sponsoring organization requires him to use another name for security purposes. Officially, Chinese government is hostile to evangelical Christians.”
“I see,” Gunner said.
The van, with the driver’s window partially down, rolled to the edge of the pier. Martin Luther walked up to the driver’s window and leaned his head into the van. “She’s gassed up and good to go,” he said, speaking English in a Southern accent. “Who’s flying?”
“Me,” Jung-Hoon said.
“I understand you’re flying dead-reckoning to Inchon. I’ve plotted the course and it’s waiting for you in the cockpit.”
“Thank you,” Jung-Hoon said.
“We’ll help you load her up.”
They got out of the van and exchanged hugs with the Chinese Christians. Then they proceeded to board. Jackrabbit shoved the rifles and a backpack with the rest of the C4 and other gear into the back, ready to be dumped in the sea, then sat up front with Jung-Hoon. Pak sat on Gunner’s lap behind the pilot. He wrapped his arms around her waist because the seat belt would not click across them both. Frank’s body, wrapped in a blanket, was laid on the floor between the seats. Keith strapped into the seat behind Jackrabbit.
Martin Luther untied the plane, and he and the Chinese pushed it out into the river.
Jung-Hoon hit the starter and the engine started immediately. Its powerful roar shot an unexplained surge of confidence through Gunner. They were going home.
Jung-Hoon pushed down on the throttle and the Cessna moved on the water, gathering speed, then nudged into the air, rising for a few seconds to about ten feet over the water, and then banked upward, climbing higher above the river. They took off to the south, the brilliant sun shining in from their left. A few minutes later, they were flying over Korea Bay, and from there, to the Yellow Sea, and from there, God willing — to freedom.
US Navy F/A-18
over the Yellow Sea
Lieutenant Commander Corey “Werewolf” Jacobs, USN, had been confined to the ship for a brief JAGMAN investigation, which found that he and his wingman, Lieutenant Bill Morrison, had operated properly within the rules of engagement when they shot down the two North Korean MiGs.
Jacobs was glad to be back at the controls of his F/A-18 and in the air again on this glorious sunny morning. His assignment was to patrol the sector north and west of the Harry S. Truman. The CAG had put more pressure on the fighter squadrons to guard that sector after Admiral Hampton moved the frigates to the east of the Truman to guard against any more missile attacks from North Korea. Still, despite the added pressure, getting back in the air felt like a refreshing swim in the waters of freedom — the exhilarating feeling that only a fighter pilot could understand.
Beep-beep-beep-beep …
Jacobs checked the sweeping radar screen. The radar showed an unidentified aircraft approaching from the direction of the Chinese – North Korean sector, altitude 1,000 feet, speed 100 knots.
Its course would take it directly over the Harry S. Truman.
“Truman Control. Viper Leader. I’ve got an unidentified bogie entering the sector. Course one-eight-zero. Range thirty-five miles. Entering our airspace and headed our way.”
“Viper Leader. Truman. Proceed to investigate and report. You have your orders. If bogie continues on present course, take it out.”
“Truman. Viper Leader. Roger that.”
Jacobs pushed on the throttle and hit the afterburners. The jet shot through the air like a rocket. “Estimated time of intercept, one minute.”
The Super Hornet descended … 1,500 … 1,200 … 1,000 feet. Jacobs made a large sweeping motion and came up behind the much-slower-moving aircraft.
There. One o’clock.
Visual contact.
Jacobs reduced airspeed to match the bogie’s speed, closing to about two hundred yards behind the plane.
“Truman Control. Viper Leader. I’ve got a visual on the bogie. We’ve got a single-engine Cessna seaplane. Looks like a 150 or 172. Chinese markings on the tail. I’ve got it in my gun sights and can take it out if necessary.”
“Viper Leader. Truman. Attempt to contact Cessna to determine intentions. Instruct to divert. If no response by radio, send IFF. If no response to IFF and no change of course, assume the ID is foe, not a friendly, and take it out.”
“Truman Control. Viper Leader. Roger that.” Jacobs switched to a universal frequency. “US Navy warplane to Cessna. You are approaching airspace controlled by the United States Navy. Please identify yourself and identify your intentions.”
A pause …
Then a squawk over the radio, and then …
“Cessna to US Navy warplane. I am Colonel Jung-Hoon Sohn of the Army of the Republic of Korea …”
USS Harry S. Truman
the Yellow Sea
Captain Charles Harrison sat in his captain’s chair in the center of the bridge of the Harry S. Truman, drinking his second mug of black coffee of the morning when his communications officer rushed onto the bridge.
“Skipper, you won’t believe this,” the officer said.
“Try me,” Harrison said, then took another swig.
“The aircraft that Lieutenant Commander Jacobs is tracking is asking for permission to land in the water.”
“Land in the water?”
“Yes, sir. It’s a small Cessna floatplane. They’re also requesting helicopter rescue assistance. Pilot claims to be a Colonel Jung-Hoon Sohn of the ROK Army. They claim to have an American POW from the Korean War on board. They also claim to have … get this … Lieutenant Commander Gunner McCormick on board.”
“Say what?” Harrison said. “That’s crazy. McCormick went down in the Sea of Japan.”
“Understand, sir. But Commander Jacobs is right out there on top of him, and he thinks it’s credible. In fact, he says the plane is already making the approach for a landing.”
“XO, scramble two choppers out to the intercept position for this Cessna. Let’s see what we’ve got.”
“Aye, sir.”
“And Lieutenant?” He addressed the communications officer.
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell Commander Jacobs to order that plane down. And if it gets within a twenty-five-mile zone of this ship, tell him to splash it. The last thing we need is to get fooled by a Communist kamikaze plane masquerading as a social project.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Chinese Cessna 172 floatplane
the northern Yellow Sea
Jung-Hoon flew low over the water, watching the powerful Navy F/A-18 Super Hornet one hundred yards off his left wing. The radio squawked again.
“Cessna 172. This is US Navy warplane. You are ordered to commence water landing immediately. Rescue helicopters are en route.”
“Yes!” Gunner pumped his fist in the air. Even Pak smiled.
“If you proceed much farther on course, you will be shot down.”
“US Nav
y warplane. Cessna 172. I’m putting her down now.” Jung-Hoon pulled up on the stick, raising the plane’s nose, and cut back on the throttle. “Hang on, ten seconds to splashdown.”
The Cessna dropped gradually. Gunner wrapped his arms tight around Pak’s waist. A second later, a swishing noise, and the sound and feel much like water skis being pulled behind a powerboat. Jung-Hoon cut the engine. They were floating silently somewhere on the Yellow Sea.
Jackrabbit worked his way back to the weapons and the remaining gear. In case of a second water landing, he had put together a plan B. They could not take the chance that the plane would remain afloat and become treasure for the North Koreans. He lashed everything together, checked the timer on the explosives, and grabbed the remote.
After everyone was off and safe, he would send the plane to the bottom of the sea.
US Navy SH-60B Seahawk
the northern Yellow Sea
Over there!” The chopper’s copilot, Navy Lieutenant (JG) Bill Jonson, pointed off to the left.
“I see it,” said veteran Seahawk pilot Navy Lieutenant Bill Cameron. The blue seaplane was riding the shallow swells about three hundred yards off their port side.
“Okay, let’s drop a couple of swimmers in the water out to the right of the plane. Tell the chief to get ready to lower the life basket.”
“Got it, Skipper.”
Chinese Cessna 172 floatplane
the northern Yellow Sea
The familiar roar of US Navy helicopters filled the air. Gunner leaned over and saw the gray SH-60B Seahawk with the word NAVY painted in black along the tail fuselage and the name USS Harry S. Truman in black letters just behind the pilot.
The chopper descended about a hundred yards out to the right of the plane. It hovered at ten feet. The cargo bay opened. Two SAR swimmers in black thermal gear leaped, feet first, into the water. The chopper ascended again as the swimmers surfaced and headed toward the plane with powerful freestyle strokes.
The chopper climbed back to about one hundred feet and feathered over to one side of the plane.
“Attention, Cessna aircraft.” A voice boomed from the Seahawk’s loudspeaker system. “This is the US Navy. We are lowering a rescue basket from the chopper. Two swimmers are en route to your plane. Stay put. Follow their directions. This is the US Navy.”