At a time like this, most dudes would call their parents for advice. Mine'd vanished from my life in an explosion when I was seven, leaving me to mature in the Southern California foster care system, keeping one eye open anytime I napped. A legion of guardians and bunkmates, and no family at all.
The Rangers didn't understand; I'd learned early to only rely on myself.
Headed home to pack.
Not in the mood to talk to anyone from my unit, I skipped the normal exit.
Cut through Hotel Elle. Entered from the Camp Kim side.
Most employees of populous businesses ignore people they don't know, so it's easy enough to take advantage of a service entrance or back hallway here or there. This time the only one who even looked at me as I sidestepped past the hotel's ginormous washing machines was a housekeeper.
She hopped up and down on her toes trying to reach a big bottle of bleach someone had stuck on top of the machines. About a foot taller, I just grabbed it down for her and nodded in passing.
No big deal.
That worked to cut through the hotel laundry areas. Letting the commercial door bang behind me, I stalked through the winter air.
Entered the subway from a long gray concrete walkway.
Technically the wrong direction, but that put me right on the train platform, without crossing icy streets and having to inhale diesel bus smoke mixed with kimchi's sour garlic and fish odor, ever-present in the Seoul air.
The Metropolitan Subway system is clean enough, even on a crowded Friday afternoon.
Namyeong Station is a high slanted roof projecting over faux marble floors, with wide steps and tubular steel handrails everywhere. Modern Gangnam-style.
Doubt the couple of cameras at each end of the platform aimed along rows of silver aluminum doors would provide any useful evidence in the event of a pick pocketing, let alone a more serious incident like a terror attack.
Unlike the open tracks back home, those lined up doors prevented the masses of dark-suited Korean workers from pushing each other onto the tracks before a train arrived to catch them.
During an emergency someone would surely push one of the big red call buttons stashed at intervals next to the fire extinguishers and flashlights.
It's a testament to the locals' basic law-abiding nature the Metropolitan Police doesn't get a false alarm and a stolen flashlight every half hour.
My train for home arrived. The row of double-doors opened. A rush of air and people unloaded.
Edged my way around the crowd. Stepped aboard.
Row after row of billboards flanked each group of seats in the train car. The billboard pairs alternated between advertising a slim young woman wearing a black silk dress under a casino logo with a different-yet-same model extolling the benefits of the plastic surgery South Korea is famous for.
Both industries attract wealthy Chinese. None of it attracted me right now.
Despite the crowded train, I scored a spot between billboards on a blue plastic bench seat paralleling the track.
As usual, the short Koreans surrounding the tall foreign devil shrunk back as I arrived, behaving as if I carried an infectious disease of violence.
My uniform probably didn't help their perceptions.
Our train passed into the darkness under the Han river. Banked twice.
An ancient Korean lady minced her way on wearing what must be her most formal and traditional outfit. Looked like she was an opera star.
She looked around the train car, but couldn't locate any empty seats besides the space everyone was giving the dangerous foreign devil.
Stared at me for a moment. Sighed. Grabbed onto a pole as the train started up again.
Not wanting to be rude, I stood and gestured toward the now open bench.
The Korean lady shook her head, as if the seat had been contaminated by my presence.
I took another step into the aisle. Pointed again. She finally decided there was enough of a buffer between us and perched on the edge of the bench farthest from me.
Tempted to sit back down next to her, but decided I could just stand for a few minutes.
Didn't fit in anywhere.
After a few brief sets of exhaling and inhaling passengers later, we crawled into Suseo Station.
Almost home.
I crossed two streets to the turnstile at Seoul Air Base, nicknamed K-16 during the Korean War.
My fingers began to numb from the cold, just walking outside for a few minutes. Rubbed my hands together and blew on them. Half-checked my non-existent pistol holster.
Always need to be prepared, but officers on base aren't authorized sidearms.
I'd never heard of anyone relieved of duty for standards in the Rangers where it didn't kill their career. Getting relieved was the Army's equivalent of being fired for cause, except they expected you to stick around to count spoons for the mess hall in Iceland until you finally quit.
Even if you turned out to be right later, being relieved meant your superiors thought you couldn't cut it. A nice way of letting you earn out your pension without hope of future responsibility.
Not in the Rangers, nor even back to a job as a platoon leader in the Big Army.
I've lost more families than anyone I know. It's less painful to bail out than to get trashed by your fake parents.
The Major just trashed me.
The Korean Army PFC outside the K-16 pedestrian turnstile wore a high visibility yellow coat over his uniform. Saluting being against his standing orders, he merely gave a Korean half-bow version of a head tilt, "Lieutenant Harper", eyes forward, staring at my nametape.
More security theater, as anyone in uniform with a fingerprint made from super glue and a cloned RFID badge to trigger the turnstile could walk right onto the base, only civilians got additional security scrutiny.
I trudged over to my Bachelor Officer Quarters (BOQ) apartment in building 900. 54 company grade officers, lieutenants and captains, each got 650 square feet in the vertical tan tower. That gave us a combined kitchen/living/dining room with a separate bedroom and bathroom.
Not sure what they made the thin flooring from, just that it was a speckled black, tan and white, designed to hide dirt. All the rooms tastefully furnished in light oak particle board, with a piece of bonus foam on top of the bed's mattress.
South Korea's equivalent of Ikea must've gotten an Army contract to furnish it all.
That sounds bad. The living room's puke green couch and armchair, complete with shiny raised floral patterns, really was horrible, but compared to the sergeants without families stashed two at a time into only 220 square feet of shared space elsewhere in the building, officers had it relatively good.
Not great compared to the guys with approval for off-base private apartments, but at least if we had to get the Republic of Korea Air Force's (ROKAF) 15th Special Missions Wing or our own 2nd Aviation Regiment to give us a ride into battle, they conveniently located their Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawks within walking distance.
Definitely hearing distance at night as well.
The flyboys for SOCKOR were good guys. I'd arranged with one to bring a prototype eSurfboard with me to Korea. It cluttered up my limited closet space, but I'd stuck a local tide chart on the fridge with magnets. Planned to see if I could get out to the southern coast, or maybe Jeju Island to surf if I ever manage more than a weekend pass for leave.
Now I wouldn't be here long enough to even see the ocean.
Reeling from the reality of being relieved, I tossed a duffel on the bed and started packing. Grabbed extra uniforms and civvies from behind the sliding closet doors. Chucked them on the bed.
Dismissing my analysis without even verifying it? Had the CO even read it? Was he that afraid of upsetting our hosts?
Wasn't our mission to provide training and analysis to the ROK forces so they could improve? Did Captain Rhee have political pull somewhere I'd missed?
Stopping when I ran out of closet contents, I stared out my bedroom window at K-16'
s parallel runways. The heating unit hanging embedded in the wall's top kicked on. Its noise competed with a landing Black Hawk helicopter.
Embrace the suck.
OK, so fire me for doing a bad job on the analysis, but I knew it was accurate. Didn't the scientists in that lab deserve to have at least one person looking out for them? Making sure security vulnerabilities got remediated?
Fixing things which could get them killed?
I moved to the tiny bathroom. Decided to leave the cheap Korean tea tree shampoo I'd purchased. Those bottles always spilled in transit, even if you put them in a plastic bag.
What if someone stole their work?
Years of effort to stay ahead of our joint enemies lost. Even if they considered the scientists expendable, why didn't anyone care about their work?
Care enough to send in a red team to take advantage of my reported vulnerabilities and prove if they existed or not.
How can I fight my company commander?
Not to mention the military bureaucracy and Rhee Yun-seok's now-apparent political connections? This just wasn't a wave I could ride.
Not even the most hardcore can surf a tsunami.
Not thinking straight, I knocked over my shampoo bottle. Splattered the bathroom floor with glops of thick green liquid. The room filled with the smell of peppermint and eucalyptus.
Screw this.
What was I doing? The CO didn't say I had to pack tonight, just to report with my bags Monday morning for new orders.
Until then, I was still technically assigned to the 75th RRC, with the task to improve security for the lab. After my reception from the locals, whoever they gave that task to next would just gloss over any issues.
I dumped the contents of my packed duffel bag out onto the bed.
The uniform of the day would work well to blend in at a military-run lab, as much as a non-Korean can in Seoul. Slipped my wallet, the contact lens case I'd forgotten to return, and my smartphone into pockets.
Plenty of fun tools on my phone to get the job done.
My Gerber multi-tool might come in handy, so I slid it into a cargo pocket. I paused for a second. Stared at my bed.
Did I need anything else? Knowing I'd be walking outside, I grabbed my small black folding umbrella, just in case the frozen gods of the sky turned their back on me once more.
Needed to borrow the CIA's RFID reader/transmitter from Michelle again.
Time to get back up on the board.
With a little more equipment, I'd be my own red team and prove my lab analysis was true. Could call Michelle on the way.
Surely she'd help me out, just like old times.
What could Major Williams do, relieve me of duty for taking things into my own hands?
Chapter Nine: Risky Business
Lieutenant Kwon Chol felt a little guilty at being glad the hackers back in Pyongyang couldn't get the lab's data by traversing the American's network, but not enough to dampen his high spirits at finally leading a mission to strike a blow against the Imperialists.
He tossed his black duffel bag into the cab of the Kia KM450 all-terrain military truck. Climbed up into the passenger seat.
Their Security Forces contact in Seoul had left the truck for his team at the rice farm. In this vehicle, near the DMZ and even within the connected city, they'd be invisible, just another Southern Army vehicle in olive and brown camouflage, hauling a random cargo underneath a military green canvas top.
Sergeant Stro, also dressed in a black and green enemy uniform, took his place behind the steering wheel.
The truck bed thumped as his other five soldiers folded down the integrated wooden slat cargo fencing in the back to form troop seats. They stowed the rest of their equipment in the bed.
Stro pushed a button on the dash. The diesel engine roared to life.
He released the brake to edge forward. Drove away from the greenhouse containing their tunnel back across the DMZ. Bounced along the hard-packed dirt road leading to the railroad tracks.
Smooth ride, for a military vehicle.
The Imperialists of the South were clever, but when his team arrived at the lab, they'd demonstrate mere material shrewdness didn't compare to the unconquerable will of the true Korean People.
Turning left to parallel the tracks, Stro deftly brought them up to 70 kph on the straightaway. A little fast for a dirt road, but the giant truck tires and suspension could take it.
Kwon spent his childhood on a farm.
He understood how much work and wealth the rice paddies they passed represented. Despite being carved out of the surrounding forest, there were enough fields in this half kilometer stretch to feed an entire village.
In winter, they lay flooded with water, probably pumped from the nearby river.
Just before reaching the river, Stro turned left onto a gray asphalt road which had crossed the railway tracks at grade. The road curved back away from the river.
Another 500 meters and they passed the entrance to Camp Greaves, a giant military sign advertising the "DMZ Experience", where civilians could stay in a barracks converted to a youth hostel and go on tours of bunkers from the war.
Stro fell in behind a bright red and white tourist bus, taking the wealthy home from touring the DMZ, where they could stare at the potential destruction prepared in their name.
Whoever heard of having fun touring a military installation, the remains of a war, weapons poised to resume the killing?
Had they no shame?
Did they glory in the destruction visited on the North by the dominationists? "Surely these tourists are the most callous of our enemy."
Stro gave him the look of an experienced sergeant straddled with an idiot lieutenant. Kwon knew it well from his early days in the Regular Army, before Meon selected him to lead a Special Forces platoon.
"Yes, sir. Wait until we get into the city, on the other side of the river. You'll see what I mean."
Kwon felt his cheeks glow. Reminded that while this was his first trip into the South, Stro had plenty of experience.
How should he respond to embarrassment by a subordinate?
Best to remain silent and observe, gaining experience during their trip.
Kwon nodded to Stro.
It's not as if he had anything to do until they reached their objective, the lab. Stro had driven the streets of Seoul before.
Kwon could rely on him.
They drove past a children's school. Reached a junction of three paved roads. They joined into one wide highway with three lanes in each direction.
Must be a major military route. Gave the name "Unification Road" sinister connotations.
No doubt unification by force.
Stro turned their truck on to the highway behind the bus.
Sedans immediately surrounded them, weaving in and out of traffic to gain an advantage over their relatively sluggish truck. Such a fine highway, with poles supporting street-lamps every 15 meters and a steel center divider.
Must be a meeting of high-ranking government officials nearby, to have dozens of newer vehicles around.
Red brake lights ahead. Cars stopped at an inspection booth.
"That checkpoint ahead, any problem?"
"We have the necessary permits and identification."
Stro lifted a clipboard from next to his seat.
"Easy for our specialists to forge, as long as no one checks against their central databases. Won't need them, though. That's a toll booth, not a security measure. As a government vehicle, we don't even need to pay."
Pulling up to the checkpoint, Stro rolled his window down.
The guard, in a dark blue uniform with a highly reflective yellow overcoat, saw an obvious military vehicle and waved them on.
"Easy enough," Kwon said. "At least we don't have to pay to use the roads. Any more like that?"
"This highway will take us all the way into Seoul. No more stops."
Kwon nodded, fascinated as they crossed the 500 meter wide Imjin River
on a massive four-lane highway bridge.
The South even had light poles staggered on both sides of the bridge. Knowing the history of the early conflict between North and South, surely their Army would have explosives in place to destroy this fine bridge in the event of an invasion.
Such a waste.
With the wicked grin of a young boy about to get away with something, Stro pushed the accelerator pedal to the floor. Their truck accelerated to its top speed of 100 kph, matching the speed limit.
Kwon rarely traveled so quickly.
Still, the private cars streamed past them on the left, each traveling at least 40 kph faster.
After another 45 minutes of highway travel, they reached the outskirts of Seoul itself.
The left-most lane became lined with blue, designating it for the matching blue government buses only. As the other two lanes narrowed, fifteen, twenty story buildings began to appear on the side of the highway.
Seoul already matched Pyongyang in size and they were only at the outskirts. Stro slowed the truck to 60 kph to keep pace with the surrounding traffic and the lower speed limit. "Almost there."
Shops everywhere, lining both sides of the street.
Intellectually, Kwon knew Seoul was more populated than anywhere in the North, therefore they must have large buildings, but he'd never seen so many places to buy different products.
And signs. Signs blazing light in every direction. Must be an important commerce district.
The area even had its own four garage fire station. That made sense, as there were so many cars everywhere. Not just cars, but motorbikes and scooters weaving in and out of the traffic, filling into the gaps whenever they reached a red stoplight.
In Pyongyang, everything was red and white. Here, a riot of colors assaulted his senses.
The Imperialists must gather all the wealth of the South to this place; otherwise, how could they afford all the goods he saw displayed for purchase?
All the hefty men and women strolling down the concrete sidewalks, wearing puffy winter coats and gloves, browsing racks of merchandise outside open door shops.
Did all the people in Seoul gorge themselves on the fat of the surrounding countryside?
Must be sick inside.
He smelled a cart with a blue and white umbrella before they reached it in the thick traffic.
Techno Ranger Page 10