The work group Brandon and Gregory were a part of consisted of five hundred prisoners who were all lined up in tight formation. Soon, other work groups joined them until the courtyard was full. Whatever this was about, it was big.
Before them was the camp commandant, Jang Yong-ho, short and round. It seemed as though the higher your rank in the North Korean army, the bigger your belly. He spoke in broken English to an American named Ellis Stone, a former small-town sheriff turned collaborator and perhaps the most hated man in the camps.
Even to Brandon, the idea of American prisoners guarding one another seemed especially cruel. Perhaps it had something to do with the language barrier or perhaps it was a lack of able-bodied guards. No one could say, but he remembered reading that the Nazis had done the same to the Jews in the concentration camps of Europe during World War II, so the sight, wretched as it was, wasn’t entirely shocking.
Once Jang had finished, Ellis began to speak.
“Each and every one of you knows that the penalty for attempting to escape is death,” he said. His silver hair was tucked beneath his green North Korean guard cap. Ellis and his deputies wore a prison uniform just like everyone else, except theirs had yellow stars drawn on their chests. “We’ve recently learned of a large-scale escape plan. The ringleaders were arrested and tried this morning and will shortly be executed.”
Gregory and Brandon shared a frightened look. Could they be talking about the escape Dixon and his fellow soldiers had been planning? Brandon searched the crowd without finding his friend’s face.
Within minutes, a group of twenty prisoners were led before Jang, black sacks pulled over their heads, their hands lashed behind their backs. The camp commandant spoke to Ellis, who passed on the message.
“Before you stand the accused. Eighteen men and two women.”
Then one by one, a North Korean guard went before them and thrust his bayonet into their bellies. Their shrieks of pain filled Brandon’s heart with horror. One of those men was Dixon, he was sure of it.
Once they were done, Ellis and his deputies began clearing away the bodies.
Another twenty were led out and suffered a similar fate. Gregory had watched the first group, unable to look away, but now his eyes were fixed on the ground, his fingers in his ears so he wouldn’t have to listen to the sound they made as they were gutted like pigs. Brandon wanted to do the same, but the thought of losing Dixon kept him focused on the faceless prisoners. He was searching each of them for any kind of sign that would identify one of them as his friend.
A tug on Brandon’s tunic startled him. He turned and nearly cried out when he saw Dixon, standing by his left shoulder.
“Keep your cool, kid,” Dixon told him. “And do like Gregory here and avert your eyes. They’re trying to get into our heads and break us from the inside out. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”
“I thought you were one of them,” Brandon whispered.
Dixon shook his head. “Nah, these poor saps musta been part of another plan. There’s probably five thousand prisoners in this hellhole. Ain’t no way we’re the only ones cooking up a plan. Speaking of cooking, were you able to get what I asked you?”
Brandon had made friends with a teenage girl named Jennifer, who worked in the kitchen. Once in a while she snuck him potato skins or food discarded from the guards’ mess hall. This time she’d managed to smuggle out the bottom halves of some muffins left behind by a finicky guard at breakfast. Many of them hated American food and longed for the kinds of meals they were used to back home, but Naung-myon noodles weren’t exactly easy to find in mid-America.
“It’s back at the barracks,” Brandon said, referring to the muffin bottoms, before Dixon slapped a hand over his mouth.
“Sometimes less is more, kid.”
Brandon understood at once. Prison guards and collaborators weren’t their only concern. If someone overheard him divulge the location of contraband food, it wouldn’t be there by the time they got back. When food was scarce, national and cultural alliances didn’t mean a thing.
Dixon leaned forward and whispered, “And don’t worry, our escape plan’s coming along nicely. I’m gonna need you to keep an eye on a couple guard shifts and maybe gather some more food from Jennifer.”
Reluctantly, Brandon nodded and then nudged his chin in the direction of the pug-faced guard standing over the last of the executed prisoners. “What’s his name?”
“The one with a face only a mother could love?”
“Yeah, is he new?”
Dixon grinned. “His name’s Lee Kun-Hee. Arrived last week and real eager to prove himself. I suggest you stay away from that one. He likes his job way too much.”
“What about her?” Brandon asked, referring to a squat female guard who always seemed to be scowling.
“That little honey blossom is Yun Ji-Su. She kicked me in the ribs yesterday when we were planting soybeans in the eastern field.”
“You weren’t going fast enough?”
The smile on Dixon’s face widened. “That’s what she said. Work faster, work faster. But I think she likes me.”
Brandon wanted to laugh but held it in. “If she bashes your skull in, you might need to start looking for a ring.”
After the last of the dead were removed, Ellis delivered the commandant’s final address. “Anyone foolish enough to think of trying to escape should know this—for everyone who escapes this camp, ten random prisoners will be put to death.”
Brandon’s guts clenched into a tight ball. It was one thing to risk your own life in a bid for freedom. If they failed they’d be tortured and executed. But if they succeeded, they’d be responsible for the deaths of dozens of innocent Americans.
Chapter 10
Back in Oneida, Diane and Emma stood on Alberta Street before the town’s newspaper office, the Independent Herald. A two-story brick building that looked about as old as the town itself, the structure was scarred with the wounds of war. The upstairs windows had been broken by a squad of soldiers who’d used the second story as a firing position. The façade itself was dotted with pockmarks where bullets had torn away chunks of brick and concrete.
Although the newspaper had closed up shop right after the EMP, Diane and Emma were anxious to get inside to see if they could find anything that might help them print the thousands of propaganda leaflets they would need. A handful of old-timers had suggested they might find what they were looking for in the newspaper’s basement.
Getting inside wouldn’t be a problem. Soldiers preparing for the attacks had blown a hole in the wall to allow for rapid movement off the main streets.
Taking a final glance over her shoulder before she and Emma disappeared inside, Diane caught sight of a dense wall of cloud coming up from the south. The sight made her think of John and the dangerous mission he’d slipped away this morning to complete. They were well into the afternoon now and he still wasn’t back.
To say she was worried was an understatement, but if she’d learned anything in these last few weeks, it was how to look strong when your very soul was racked with anxiety and pain. Gregory was still missing, along with Brandon. They’d gone off to the front in the thoughtless way so typical of teenagers with low impulse control. For reasons she couldn’t understand, they’d felt this was the only way they could contribute to the war effort. But a long, dangerous voyage west hadn’t been necessary since the war had found Oneida just fine on its own.
Diane had also learned that staying strong was just as important for the people around her. Creating a protective bubble to keep out the nagging concerns about her son’s safety had helped a bit. Keeping busy helped more. If she was lucky, he hadn’t been killed when the Chinese had smashed through the front lines protecting the Mississippi. The hope remained strong that he’d been sent to a POW camp and would wait there until a rescue could be mounted or they reached an end to this mad war. And that was why these leaflets were so important. Hope. The very thing which told her Gregory was aliv
e and that she’d see him again soon.
Diane opened her flashlight and stepped inside, her mind shifting for a moment to the Colt .45 in the holster on her right thigh. They were safe, she reminded herself. Outside, hundreds of townspeople and soldiers were working feverishly to clear the streets. Spearing the darkness with her light, she caught sight of a room littered with papers and debris. Lazy dust motes floated through her field of vision.
“I think this door leads to the basement,” Emma said.
Ever since her daughter had set herself the task of designing that leaflet, she’d started eating again―she had even put on some much-needed weight―which only strengthened Diane’s conviction that idle hands were the devil’s workshop.
“Let me go first,” Diane said, waving the flashlight beam.
The stairs creaked as they descended one step at a time.
Emma fell in behind her as they weaved past bundles of old newspapers, some dating back fifty years. They turned a corner and both saw it at once, a monster looming out of the shadows. A hand-cranked printing press. Stenciled on the side was ‘SP-15 Vandercook’ and below that ‘Trademark 1965.’
“It’s huge,” Emma said. “We’ll never get it upstairs.”
She was right. In fact, it was a mystery how they’d even managed to get it down here in the first place.
Emma took hold of the crank and tried to move it without success. “Must be stuck.”
Diane tried with the same result. “This beast’s been sitting down here for decades, honey. A bit of oil should do the trick.”
Two levels of shelving beneath the press contained ink, paper and tools for maintaining the machine.
Emma stepped around it to check the cylinder when she shrieked and stumbled back, slamming her shoulders against the wall with a boom. Startled, Diane rushed to her side.
“What is it?”
Emma raised a finger, pointing it at the Chinese soldier on the floor, his back against the side of the press. A dried pool of blood ringed his dead body. The front of his uniform had been pulled open to expose a gaping wound in his belly. She’d seen similar sights many times before in old Civil War photographs John had showed her of soldiers rifling through their own clothing searching for a wound. Back then, finding a gut shot was usually a death sentence.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get him out of here,” Diane said, removing the .45 from her holster. They left in a hurry then for fear there might be others hiding in the building who weren’t quite as dead.
Diane and Emma emerged to find Vice Mayor Ray Gruber pushing a wheelbarrow full of cinder blocks. He stopped, the smile plastered on his face fading. “You ladies all right?”
“We’re fine,” Diane told him, dusting herself off. She explained what they’d seen.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said, in the warm, gentlemanly way that often set Southern men apart. “I’ll speak with General Brooks right away about having these buildings swept again.”
Nodding, Diane couldn’t help noticing Rodriguez looking down at them from the battered second story of the veterinarian hospital. He had a strange look on his face, as though he were taking mental notes, a sight which stood out in contrast to the bustle of manual labor going on around her. Who would be sneaking around taking notes? Suddenly, a warning light went off in her head followed by a string of red flashing letters. The name that it spelled made her scalp feel three sizes too small.
Phoenix.
“Diane?” Ray asked, reaching out to touch her arm. He glanced over his shoulder, without finding the source of her disturbance. “You don’t look well.”
She slid an arm around Emma, trying to shake off the nauseating fear that the traitor in their midst had found a way to leak the details of John’s mission to the enemy. “Any word from John yet?” she asked.
Ray shook his head. “No, but spotters positioned on the water tower did see a flash in the sky, so my guess is they managed to get that A-bomb aloft after all.”
No sooner had Ray finished his sentence than the air was filled with the sound of a prop plane engine. Diane’s pulse began to quicken. The workers around them stopped and searched the sky, their hands propped over their eyes to block the late-afternoon sun.
Within minutes a Cessna swooped low over Oneida, dipping its wings to the roar of soldiers and citizens cheering their return. A group repairing the dentist’s office broke into an impromptu rendition of America The Beautiful.
“O beautiful for spacious skies,
For amber waves of grain…”
Emma hesitated. “You think they all made it back?” There was a touch of desperation in her daughter’s voice.
Diane couldn’t help being caught up in the moment. “I’m sure they did, honey,” she said. The jovial celebrations up and down Alberta Street were still going strong. All except for Rodriguez, who tucked away a notebook and disappeared.
Chapter 11
The conference room was far too warm and brimming with excitement. At one end of the table were John, Moss, Reese, Devon and Ray Gruber. On the other were General Brooks, Colonel Higgs and the rest of the general’s military staff.
No sooner had Billy Ray set down at the Scott Municipal Airport than a Humvee had showed up, tasked with bringing them back to the mayor’s office for a debriefing. Not surprisingly General Brooks wore the expression of a man who was about to eat his hat.
“First off,” Brooks said, “we’re glad you all made it back.”
Reese’s fingers went to his pocket before he clenched them into a fist.
“I’m sorry to say not all of us made it back,” John told them. “Jerry Fowler was killed shortly after we released the balloon. We flew out of Oak Ridge right as the enemy was overrunning the place.”
“An unfortunate, but necessary sacrifice,” Higgs said with sincerity. The colonel was looking older than usual, in spite of his short-cropped silver hair.
“Without his background in meteorology,” John added, “this operation would never have gotten off the ground. At some point down the road, when all this is behind us, it might be nice to erect a memorial for all the folks of Oneida who have laid down their lives.”
“That would be nice,” General Brooks said. “Although starting a monument might be a touch premature. Our first task is to win this war.”
“When we arrived,” John explained, ignoring Brooks’ jab, “Colonel Porter’s men were loading a steam train bound east with what looked like nuclear material and important documents. My hope is that they kept as much as they could out of enemy hands.” John paused for a moment. “What about those Faraday cages? Did they hold up all right?”
“Most of them did,” Higgs said. “A few weren’t sealed properly and everything inside got fried. Some of the telephone and old power lines also began emitting a strange glow, but that couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds. All in all, I’d say we weathered that storm rather well.”
“Thank God,” John said. “When we’re done here, I’ll have Wilbur deliver a brief status report to General Dempsey via carrier pigeon. But we’ll need to monitor things for the next few days to keep an eye out for any adverse effects caused by the EMP. We were only able to get it thirty miles into the atmosphere.”
“I’ve already got a team in place doing just that,” General Brooks told them. “There are a few items on the agenda we need to discuss first.” He glanced down at a dozen sheets of handwritten notes strewn before him. “I’ve organized work groups tasked with clearing those streets. Anything salvageable, such as high-caliber weapons, will be removed and used to bolster the town’s defenses. We’ve also collected a few hundred QBZ-03 assault rifles we can add to our weapons arsenal.”
“General, if I may,” John said, raising a hand. “I suggest you call off those teams you set to clear the streets and reassign them.”
A deep frown formed across Brooks’ brow. “Pardon me, Colonel?”
“Clearing away dead enemy soldiers and stripping vehicles is f
ine, but the rubble in the streets is a natural tank obstacle. Sure, we need to navigate through town, so perhaps some of the inner roadways can be cleared, but anything that stops a tank or an APC from breaching our inner perimeter is a good thing.”
Brooks glanced at Higgs, who agreed.
But John didn’t need to see that exchange to know he was right. Before leaving he’d felt an almost blinding compulsion to tell Brooks to stop making decisions unless he was consulted first, but needless to say that wouldn’t have gone over very well. Sometimes in the military, as in life, rank trumped common sense.
Brooks let out a long sigh. “Fine. Was there anything else you wanted to add, John?”
John fought the smile tugging at his lips. “Yes, in fact there was. Has anyone gotten an update from Dr. Coffee on the cholera outbreak?”
This time Higgs responded. “Yes, the situation has stabilized. No new patients have been reported and the number of deaths has gone down.”
“Good,” John said. “What about Huan?”
“Our POW?” General Brooks asked. “What about her?”
“Well,” John said, “I believe we’ve gotten everything we can out of her. Can she be used as a bargaining chip somehow? As it is, she’s just another mouth we need to feed.”
“And have her divulge everything she’s seen?” Brooks spat. “Don’t be foolish.”
“Has she really seen all that much?” John wondered out loud. “I mean, we’ve kept her locked in a room since we captured her. I doubt there’s all that much she could reveal. At least nothing more than those Chinese troops saw when we chased them out of town.”
“If she’s really served her purpose,” Brooks said, “then maybe it’s time we execute her.”
Last Stand: Turning the Tide (Book 4) Page 4