Lee sat there for a few minutes, feeling the weight of the rusted iron bar in his left hand, thinking about how he'd have to swing it as a southpaw. He got used to the feel of it, of the leverage it would give, imagining how he could wield the bar in a fight. A blow to a raised forearm would break the ulna and possibly the radius as well if he could muster enough force. He pictured a blow to the windpipe of an assailant, incapacitating and silencing his attacker at the same time. Sitting there in the darkness, he paced himself slowly through the motion. The inbound swing would be at the windpipe, while the backlash would be directed at the temples.
“Nice,” he whispered to himself. It wasn't the thought of violence he relished, rather the ability to defend himself, to wrest back the power stripped from him.
He pushed on the wooden boards, testing the nails that held them fast. There was a little flex, but he’d need some leverage to pry them away from the outer frame. The bar he'd pulled free was too thick to wedge between the boards as a crowbar, but he could use it against the other bars, jamming it between the bars and the planks of wood. Quietly, he forced one of the boards loose. It felt good to be taking the initiative. Lee peered through the crack he'd made between the boards, squeezing the bar through to stress the wood and nails, further widening the gap.
The rear of the camp was some kind of motor pool. Rows of cars and trucks obscured his view, but he caught the distinct edge of a helicopter rotor sagging under its own weight. Moonlight gleamed off the canopy of the helicopter, barely visible between the rows of vehicles. It wasn’t one of the old Soviet Hinds. This helicopter was smaller than the ones he'd seen by the coast. It was closer to the bubble shaped Bell helicopters he’d done his flight training in.
Suddenly, the ambient light in his cage dropped, and Lee felt his heart race. He turned and saw something leaning up against the bars behind him, blocking the moonlight. He scurried over to the window and pulled a pair of boots and a heavy overcoat through the bars and into his cell as boots crunched on the gravel outside, walking away from him.
“Now you're talking,” he whispered, allowing himself the luxury of excitement.
The coat was army issue and had an insignia on the shoulder, but the moon was behind the clouds so he couldn’t make it out in any detail. He put on the boots but was unable to tie the laces. Just the thought of using his right hand caused pain to surge from the bloody stumps.
Lee pulled at the laces with one hand, working them tight and looping them around before tucking them into the top of the boots. That would have to do, he thought. If he had to run, he’d make it maybe fifty yards before the laces worked loose and then he’d flounder like a goose and probably have to kick them off.
Lee sat waiting with his back against the low wall. He didn’t put the coat on, as much as he wanted to ward off the cold. He realized it was important not to get mud and dirt on the coat. If someone looked at him while he was wearing it, he had to pass for a guard or a soldier, and that wasn’t going to happen if he looked like he’d been crawling around in a pigsty.
With his left hand, he ran his fingers continually through his hair, trying to pat down the loose strands.
Dew had begun forming on the grass beyond the bars.
Lee reached out and rubbed his left hand on the wet grass and then rubbed his fingers over his face, desperately trying to clean up his appearance. He had no mirror, but he felt he needed to look as normal as possible during the escape so he worked fastidiously, somewhat manically rubbing at his face, his neck and hair. A wave of paranoia swept over him at the realization that his bid for freedom could come undone because he looked like a hobo.
“Got to get dolled up for the ball,” he muttered to himself, methodically rubbing his damp fingers on his forehead, trying to clean every inch of his unseen face.
“A mirror would have been nice,” he mumbled.
Lee rubbed softly at his cheeks, licking his hand in the hope of tasting dirt to get an idea of how clean or otherwise he appeared, but he couldn't make out any difference. He was careful not to rub so hard as to be abrasive, gently cleaning under his eyes, across his chin and around his nose. He could only guess what he looked like. After a few minutes, he decided he must look semi-presentable, but he probably wouldn’t win a beauty pageant. In the low light he hoped he could fool a guard.
Lee ran his fingers through his hair again and again, using what little dew there was to stick down his hair, slicking it back so hopefully it looked natural. Preparation is good, he thought to himself, preparation gives purpose.
He was ready.
No one came.
Minutes seemed like hours.
Lee got worried.
What if something had gone wrong? What if they changed their plans?
As nearly as he could tell, the painkillers had been kicked in his cage almost two hours ago. The jacket and boots had come over an hour later. What was the delay? He just wanted to get moving, to get out of his squalid, cramped prison. He was bouncing between emotional extremes, feeling a high when he pried the bar free, and a low when time dragged. Like a pendulum swinging back and forth, his emotions swung between extremes.
Lee had no way of knowing the time, and he began to get nervous. He couldn't see the moon from where he was as it had moved high in the sky, casting short shadows. At the point it reached its zenith, it would be midnight. If only he could see the moon. That one, small consolation of being able to tell the time, even if only as an approximate, would have lifted his spirits, but there was no such mercy. From where he was, it was impossible to estimate shadow lengths. It could be barely 11pm or already after midnight for all he could tell.
Rats scurried along the far wall, keeping to the shadows. Oh, how he envied those creatures, able to pass through the bars with ease, eking out an existence regardless of ideology. Life was simple, uncomplicated. They could forage or flee, mocking him with their freedom, sniffing as they crept through his cage. They could smell the blood, his blood. The thought of his fingers lying severed and cold in some garbage can, discarded like offal, caused him to gag.
“Get out of here,” he yelled, not so much as to rid himself of the rats as to distract himself from his anguish. With his left hand, he threw a handful of dirt and straw. The tiny flecks scattered across the floor. One of the rats darted away while the other turned and stared, its beady eyes locked with his, its whiskers twitching in the moonlight.
“Leave me alone,” he cried again, kicking at the loose straw with his feet and flinging another handful of debris at the rat.
Lee kept his wounded hand close to his chest. The muscles in his forearm spasmed as he sought in vain to protect his bloodied hand. His actions were a pathetic attempt at keeping the wound clean and he knew it. He could no more protect his hand than he could demand that the sun rise. Regardless of whether it was Eun-Yong or the revolutions of the planet beneath him, the cruelty of his captors or the rhythms of Earth, Lee came to realize he had no control over his own life, and that realization hurt. For a captain, someone that was in charge of a flight crew and a multi-million dollar helicopter, this was a sobering thought, bringing tears to his eyes. His heart sank in despair. This ache was a pain no other could ever inflict on him: it came from his own realization of helplessness.
“Please,” Lee said, pleading with the rat.
As a pilot, he had exquisitely tuned control over his world with just the slightest twist of his wrist. Rocking to the left as he sat there in the cockpit of his Sea King helicopter would cause reality to obey his slightest whim. Eight tons of steel would sway gently through the air in response to his touch, following his fleeting thoughts as though the craft were an extension of his body. Just the lightest of touches on the pedals would cause corrections, minute or sweeping, allowing him to perform aerial ballet. He’d been a god in the sky. Here in this prison, he had been cast down out of heaven, a mere mortal, naked and bleeding.
“Please,” he said again, his voice breaking, barely a whisper in
the night. The rat seemed to understand. It turned and crawled away, its tail dragging on the ground as it disappeared silently into the shadows.
The guards continued their routine outside, and each time they marched past on the gravel Lee listened for an extra set of footsteps, but there was only the soft rustle of the breeze through the trees looming over the barracks.
Had something happened?
Had one of his rescuers been caught?
His mind raced in panic. They couldn’t have been caught, he reasoned, as there would have been a flurry of activity from the other soldiers in the camp. Instead, a few lonely guards trudged through the night. They were still coming, he told himself.
What was keeping them?
Peering out through the bars, Lee could see rain beginning to fall. The soft patter was soothing, filling the quiet of the night with a gentle rhythm.
One of the guards marched along the gravel, right on time, but this time he stopped beside the cell. In the dim light, Lee could see the man looking around as he stood there silently in the rain with an old carbine rifle slung over his right shoulder. Casually, the guard stepped off the gravel path and down the concrete steps leading to Lee’s holding cell.
Lee felt his heart pounding in his chest. His hand throbbed. The sound of the key in the lock teased him. He wanted to spring forward and out of the door, but he held his nerve, waiting for the guard to open the rusted lock.
“Come,” a voice said softly in Korean.
Lee crept out of the sunken basement, slipping the heavy overcoat across his shoulders as he stepped out into the rain. Although his left arm was in the coat, he struggled to get his right hand down through the sleeve. Just the slightest of touches against the rough wool sent pain shooting up his arm. He fought to curl his wrist and jimmy the coat on, trying not to let his wounded hand scrape against the inside of the sleeve.
Lee looked at his rescuer.
At first, he didn’t recognize him. The young man’s baby face looked slightly rounded and plain. His hair was hidden beneath a cap, warding off the rain. He didn’t smile. He barely acknowledged Lee at all, treating him with what seemed like disdain.
“I ...” Lee began, not sure what he was going to say, but feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude. Freedom lay a long way off, but to stand on the other side of those bars, no longer humbled by the filthy straw and the low wooden ceiling, made him euphoric, if only for a moment.
“We must hurry,” the soldier said softly.
As the moonlight lit the side of his face, Lee caught a glimmer in his eye, a glimmer he had seen briefly the night before in the light of a fire burning inside an old wooden cabin. This was Sun-Hee’s brother.
“We will help you, but you must help us.”
Lee nodded, walking alongside the young man.
Clouds passed in front of the moon and the ambient light faded.
Rain fell in a light drizzle.
Gravel crunched underfoot, revealing the distinct sound of two men walking slightly out of sync.
Lee stepped to one side and walked on the muddy grass to hide his presence from anyone sleeping in the rude buildings. He kept to the shadows that were cast by the huts, afraid of prying eyes peering out from behind their darkened windows.
“Sun-Hee and my grandfather are waiting by the coast. I will take you there. From there, you must take all of us to the south.”
“Won’t they stop us?” Lee whispered, gesturing at the gate, more concerned about getting out of the camp than getting back to South Korea. To Lee, Seoul seemed as unreachable as Mars or Jupiter. All he could focus on was the next step. Beyond that, chance would play its hand, but until then he wanted to take control of anything he could.
“Ha,” the young man laughed under his breath. “This is a North Korean army camp. We have rice, maize, fish and eggs. We keep peasants out, we don’t keep them in.”
“What about the boy?”
The soldier stopped in his tracks and turned to face Lee as he spoke. “We leave him.”
“No!” Lee replied, surprising himself with the vehemence of his response. “We have to take him with us.”
“He fell from the stars,” the guard replied, his eyes looking up at the clouds billowing across the sky. “If he can travel through space, he can care for himself.”
“He’s just a child,” Lee insisted, trying to keep his voice low. His mind brought back the eerie words the boy had spoken after his torture, speaking of his death. How could the child possibly know anything about Lee, let alone how he would die?
Perhaps he should leave him.
Perhaps he should run from such a dire prophecy?
Perhaps by running he could avert disaster?
There was something about the boy’s face, some innocence that demanded justice.
“He is under guard,” the soldier said, turning and walking on in the rain. “General Gil-Su arrived earlier this evening. Tomorrow, he will take the boy to Pyongyang to see the Great Leader. There is nothing to be done.”
“No,” Lee repeated, keeping his voice low but speaking with determination. He continued on beside the guard, his boots squelching on the sodden grass. “We cannot let that happen.”
“Why would you rescue him?” the soldier asked.
“Why would you rescue me?” Lee asked in reply. “For the same reason I rescued Sun-Hee. Because it is the right thing to do.”
“But if we are caught.”
Lee held up the bloody stumps on his right hand, saying, “Too many people have died, too many people have suffered for all this to be in vain. I’m not sure I buy the whole star-child thing, but that child is in the eye of the hurricane. I can’t leave him to the storm. If they did this to me, what will they do to him?”
“He is in there,” Sun-Hee’s brother said, pointing at a nearby building.
A dim electrical light hung over the door, barely lighting the wooden steps leading to the entrance.
They walked cautiously up to the administration block. Lee wasn’t sure what Sun-Hee’s brother was thinking, but for all his bravado, it was clear he dreaded being caught.
Lee struggled to keep his nerve. At any second, guards could burst around the corner, yelling and chasing him as they had in the village. He imagined spotlights blinding him as dogs were unleashed. Doubt swept across his mind. Each step seemed to be a step too far, a step that could never be undone or retraced in a slightly different manner to reach an alternate end. He was committed, regardless, and he knew it. If they caught him trying to escape, they’d kill him, but he knew he had to rescue the boy.
The fingers of his left hand trembled, betraying the fear welling up inside him.
Lee peered through a window beside the door to the administration block.
A light flickered from somewhere at the end of the hallway, casting a dirty yellow hue across the rough wooden floor. The step beneath him creaked as he moved to get a better look. There was a guard on a chair at the end of the hallway, his head propped up in the corner, asleep. He was slouching, slumping to the point that he had almost slipped off the chair. A rifle leaned against the wall next to him.
“What’s the layout?” Lee asked. He was trying to be brave, but the tremor in his voice betrayed his nerves.
Sun-Hee’s brother pointed to an open door just inside the hallway, saying, “That’s the reception area for the camp commander. His office is through there. The next two doors are storage and filing. The guard is outside the secretary pool. That is where they are keeping the boy, on a cot in the corner.”
Lee tested the door knob with his left hand. The handle turned.
“No,” the brother said, resting his hand on Lee’s shoulder.
Lee opened the door anyway. His eyes were glued on the sleeping guard in the distance. He pulled the door ajar, just wide enough to slip through and crept inside. The hinges on the door groaned briefly as he closed the door behind him, all the while keeping his eyes locked on the guard.
A floorbo
ard creaked softly beneath his shifting weight. The guard stirred at the sound but didn't open his eyes. He rocked slightly to one side as he fought to get comfortable and drifted back to sleep.
Lee cursed himself.
If he'd thought about his predicament logically, he would have backed out of the door and fled with Sun-Hee's brother while he still could. If that guard woke, his bid for freedom was over. Even if he had a gun, he couldn't use it. The sound of gunfire would have brought soldiers running from all over the camp. Lee wasn't sure what he could do, but he felt compelled to do something. Two decades of rescuing drowning people from raging seas had given him steely determination in spite of the odds. He'd seen plenty of people survive when they should have died, and that same reverence for life drove him on to rescue the star-child. He'd risked his life before. This night was no different.
His fingers tightened around the rusted iron bar in the pocket of his coat.
Lee crept into the reception area, slipping quietly into the shadows.
Scattered clouds drifted by outside, allowing moonlight to brighten the room.
The furniture was austere. A plain wooden desk blocked the approach to the back office. There was something wrong with the desk, something out of place. It took Lee a second to realize he automatically expected a computer or a typewriter on the desk, but the polished wooden surface was bare. A couple of empty filing trays sat to one side of the desk, along with a cup holding a few pencils. Any unfinished paperwork had been cleared away.
Beside the desk, a coat and hat were perched on a rack. Gold trim wound its way around shoulder boards on the heavy woolen overcoat, while the broad military hat looked new. Lee was surprised by the hat, as nothing else he'd seen in North Korea looked new. Everything he’d observed within the camp looked tired and worn. Even the neatly pressed uniform of Colonel Un-Yong had shown signs of wear, as though it had been handed down over generations. This had to be the general’s coat.
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