Thunder in the Morning Calm Page 5

  The side door opened, and the cold gust of air was like a sudden slap on the face, reminding Gunner that he was now on Korean soil. His heart was pounding. Second thoughts raced through his mind.

  From his shirt pocket, he extracted the small photograph that he kept over his heart. The colors had faded over time, but the image of the young Marine officer in dress blues, seated before the American flag, helped calm his nerves. “Focus,” he whispered. “Eyes on the goal. Remember your mission.”

  Another blast of cold air brought shivering goose bumps up the back of his neck. Gunner stood and donned his wool Navy bridgecoat, which knocked down the chill a bit, and then his Navy officer’s visored cover.

  “Hope to see you back on board soon,” the pilot said.

  Gunner picked up his carry-on, waited for the supply corps commander to leave, and then stepped down onto the gusty tarmac. Four Air Force Humvees sat parked in a half-moon formation beside the plane. Several enlisted men milled about, moving luggage from the Navy plane into the Humvees.

  “Commander McCormick!” The gruff-sounding voice coming from near the tail section was barely audible against the roaring engine of an F-16 out on the runway.

  Gunner turned and saw a civilian walking toward him. The man wore a black pullover cap and a black pullover sweater under an unbuttoned black leather jacket and black pants. The two-inch scar along the left side of his jutting jaw was visible even from twenty feet away. His graying hair blew in the wind. He stuck his hand out toward Gunner. “You Commander McCormick?”

  “That’s me,” Gunner said.

  “John Davenport.” The man’s grip was like a steel vice. “My friends call me Jackrabbit. I got your message.”

  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” Gunner said as the man mercifully loosened the crushing handshake. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Davenport.”

  “Mister Davenport was my daddy,” the man responded in a gruff Southern dialect. “Where’s your bags?”

  “Just a carry-on.” Gunner lifted the seabag off the tarmac. “You prefer John or Jackrabbit?”

  “Don’t give a durn.” The man pointed at a muddy black pickup truck with a crew cab behind one of the Humvees. “That’s our ride.”

  “That’s great, John,” Gunner said. “I thought I might have to take a bus to Seoul.”

  “Like I said, my friends call me Jackrabbit,” the man snapped in an almost irritated tone. “Throw your bag in the back and hop in. Our contact is waiting for us.”

  “Roger that.” Gunner unzipped just enough of the bag to extract a bottle of water, tossed the suitcase into the bed of the truck, then opened the passenger-side door. Toasty warm air from the truck’s heater bathed his face and neck as he slid onto the seat and slammed the door.

  Behind the seat, two black automatic rifles — US-issued M-16s with magazines — lay on the floor. Jackrabbit stepped on the accelerator, and the truck moved out across the tarmac, away from the plane and through an open gate guarded by two enlisted Air Force MPs.

  Jackrabbit swung the truck left onto the main road.

  “I appreciate the roadside service,” Gunner said.

  “For what you’re paying, not a problem.” The truck rolled along a main road paralleling the runways.

  “You have any problem getting on base?”

  “Nah. Still some benefits to being retired military living outside the US.” Jackrabbit rapped the horn. “Move it, lady!” Another beep.

  The Korean woman driving the Toyota hatchback turned off the road.

  “Your dossier is impressive,” Gunner said. “Purple Heart twice. Defense Distinguished Service Medal. Distinguished Service Cross times two for service in Afghanistan. Once in Iraq. Nominated for the Medal of Honor. Special Forces. Special Ops.” He unscrewed the cap on the water and took a swig. “Remarkable.”

  “It’s a bunch of bunk.” Jackrabbit snorted. “Means I’ve been shot at a lot.”

  “Well, Jackrabbit,” Gunner said, “you’re too modest, considering your history. I’m glad you’re on our team.”

  A stoplight along the main road turned yellow, then red. Jackrabbit tapped the brakes, and the truck rolled to a stop behind an Air Force Humvee. “Look, Commander, let’s get one thing straight.” Jackrabbit looked straight ahead through the windshield. “I’m in this thing for two reasons. First, for the money. Second, to kill Communists.” An angry tone seemed to take over. “I can’t decide which I like more. Green dollars or dead Communists. Now if it just so happens that your interests … whatever they are … coincide with mine … well, then, I guess I’m on the team. But I want you to understand one thing.”

  The light turned green, and the truck accelerated through the heavily guarded gate leading off base.

  “What’s that?”

  “If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, you’re flirting with a suicide mission. See, for me, it’s a sport. Killing Communists. I don’t care if they kill me. But Commander, you’re a younger man than me. You’ve not lost what I’ve lost. If I were you, I’d think long and hard before I went through with this. It’s not too late to change your mind.” They came to another stoplight. “We drive through this light, we’re on the freeway to Seoul. I can still turn back around. That Hawkeye can take you right back out to the carrier, and you can celebrate the weekend in a warmer spot.”

  Gunner let that thought sink in. Call it off. He’s probably dead. Why risk your life? Why risk war? He thought of his family, fourteen hours behind on the other side of the International Date Line, getting ready to celebrate the most American of holidays, Thanksgiving. Soon his mother would be putting the turkey in the oven to roast overnight. Then she’d be up early to prepare the rest of the feast.

  For a moment he felt a twinge of homesickness. He reached back into his pocket and pulled out the faded color picture of the young Marine and just looked at it. His mother swore they had the same eyes, the same facial features. Indeed, he had part of the man’s name.

  The not knowing was the worst. Someone had to reach out. Someone had to get some sort of an answer. It was obvious the government was not going to help. He put the picture back into his pocket. “Let’s roll, Jackrabbit. If we die, we die.”

  “Rock ‘n’ roll, Commander. Rock ‘n’ roll.” Jackrabbit popped the clutch, the truck jumped, then sped onto the ramp headed north for the Korean Expressway.

  In less than an hour, they arrived in Seoul. The black pickup weaved its way through crowded streets full of brake lights and small Korean cars, all beeping their horns and flashing their taillights. The colorful, chaotic swirl of early morning metropolitan Asia revealed an ultramodern city that seemed visibly torn between her Asian roots and an ever-present Western influence.

  Gunner looked up and saw a street sign written in Korean, Chinese, and English. The English proclaimed: “Parking Lot Street.”

  Jackrabbit rapped down on the horn. “Move, lady!” he yelled at the car ahead, then pulled the pickup over in front of a parking meter and turned off the engine.

  “Let’s go,” he said as he opened his door.

  Gunner stepped out onto the sidewalk into the hustle and bustle of olive-skinned humanity, students with book bags, jacketed men with briefcases, and black-haired Korean women with shopping bags moving in every direction.

  “Where are we?”

  “Seoul. Hongade Section. Real posh section of the city. Over there’s Hongik University. Real artsy private university. Follow me.” They stepped into an old brick building and got into an elevator. Jackrabbit pushed the button for the third floor. The doors closed. A moment later, the doors reopened on a hallway with an old stone wall lined with photographs and rusted steel plates covering the windows.

  “This way,” Jackrabbit said. They turned right and walked down a few paces to the entrance of a bar-restaurant.

  “What’s this place?”

  “This is Moonyang Bar. Popular hangout with the locals. You got to know about it to find it.”

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bsp; “They open this early?”

  “Nah. The place isn’t open yet. Don’t worry, you’ve got it all to yourself for a while.”

  They walked through two glass doors into a darkened lobby where, off to the right, unmanned electronic cash registers sat on a counter in front of black-and-white photographs hanging on a back wall, presumably of famous Koreans who had frequented the joint. The front of the place was barely illuminated by subdued light from the hallway. A couple of candles flickered on the counter, their flames twisting under a slight breeze generated by a couple of ceiling fans. To the left of the photographs, carefully placed in dozens of iron racks bolted to the wall, were hundreds of liquor and wine bottles.

  More light seeped in under a door toward the back of the building. To the left of the door, black-and-gold curtains hung, leading into another area in back of the bar. A faint light glowed behind the curtains.

  The place was empty.

  Gunner followed Jackrabbit to a small table way back in a corner. A pitcher of water sat in the middle of it, and three glasses of water had been poured, as if someone were preparing for a meeting. “Have a seat,” Jackrabbit said. “Be right back.”

  Jackrabbit stepped over to the wall and flipped a switch. A globe light hanging on a chain over the table came on. He then disappeared through the hanging curtains at the back of the room.

  Gunner barely had time to look around before the curtains stirred and Jackrabbit walked back in. Behind him was a Korean man, fifties-looking, of average height. He had on a black T-shirt and looked pretty muscular for a man of his age. He walked over to the table, but did not sit.

  “Commander, this is Jung-Hoon Sohn.”

  Gunner stood and extended his hand. “I’m Lieutenant Commander Gunner McCormick, United States Navy. I’ve heard of you, Colonel Jung-Hoon. It’s an honor.”

  The Korean bowed slightly but did not take Gunner’s hand. “How may I help you, Commander?” His voice was low and his English was nearly impeccable. He had piercing black eyes.

  “I want to talk to you about North Korea. There are rumors I have heard. They come up occasionally in discussions about the North —”

  The tattoo on Jung-Hoon’s bicep sprang forth like an angry rattlesnake. Gunner’s eyes shifted back and forth between the identical tattoos on the biceps of the Korean and the American. The Korean’s tattoo was smaller than Jackrabbit’s, but it obviously was the product of the same skin artist. The flag in the tattoos had three horizontal stripes — blue, thicker red, small blue — and in the midst of the red field, a white circle, and in it a red star. The flag of North Korea. Just above the flag was the image of a man shoveling dirt on the North Korean flag.

  “I have heard that somewhere in the North,” Gunner said, “the Communists may be holding some old Americans captive from the Korean War.”

  Jung-Hoon and Jackrabbit exchanged glances. “Please sit, Commander,” Jung-Hoon said as he pulled out a chair. Jackrabbit and Gunner both sat down.

  “It is unusual for an American to hear of such things, Commander McCormick,” Jung-Hoon said. “Over the years our governments have suppressed such stories.” The Korean scratched his chin. “I am curious.” A raised eyebrow. “Where did you hear such a thing?”

  “I am an intelligence officer. I have top-secret clearance and came across a briefing that mentioned the possibility.”

  Jung-Hoon leaned back and crossed his arms. “You are talking about something that happened sixty years ago. With all the other issues that threaten the peninsula — a possible invasion from the North, shootings along the DMZ, North Korea’s nuclear program — tell me, Commander, why would you come here to ask me about such rumors that so few even know about?”

  Gunner leaned forward ever so slightly. “Tell me, Jung-Hoon, is it customary for such a legendary warrior of the Land of the Morning Calm to answer the questions of a lowly admirer by asking another question?”

  The Korean’s stone face morphed into a chuckle. “This must be a day for rumors. The ‘legendary warrior’ story is a rumor of the past. This bar is my life now.” He grinned. And then, as quickly as the chuckle had appeared, the stone face returned. “I believe my question was … why come so far, Commander, to ask a bar owner about a rumor, a very implausible rumor?”

  Gunner hesitated. He reached into his pocket and placed the faded color photograph of the young warrior in dress blues on the table. As Jung-Hoon and Jackrabbit stared down at the photo, Gunner said, “This gentleman is my grandfather.” They looked up at him. “Second Lieutenant Robert K. Pendleton, United States Marine Corps. He disappeared at the Battle of Chosin Reservoir. They never found his body. His disappearance has haunted my family for years.” He paused. “I don’t know what happened to him. But whether he’s dead or alive — and I know the chances are slim that he’s alive — I am going to find him.”

  Silence.

  The three men sat there, as if playing Russian roulette to see who would speak first. Jung-Hoon picked up the photograph. He held it up and studied it. “In Asia, it is noble to fight for the honor of our elders.”

  Another silence.

  “I’m from a place called Virginia,” Gunner said. “And in Virginia, it is likewise noble to defend the honor of our forefathers. That longing is in my blood, Jung-Hoon. My grandfather disappeared there at Chosin Reservoir and was never heard from again. And if I have to go north of the DMZ myself, I’m prepared to do that.”

  Jung-Hoon studied the photograph again, then slid it back toward Gunner. “These rumors have circulated for years. Such rumors are passed on to a very few Koreans, mostly military and a few government officials with top-secret clearances. But there are witnesses who were on covert operations across the lines who claim to have credible information that this once was the case.”

  Gunner looked at his grandfather’s picture. Anger shot through him. “If you believe the evidence is credible, why has your government done nothing about it?”

  Jung-Hoon raised an eyebrow. “Commander. Please. The rumor was that elderly Americans were being held, not elderly South Koreans. These rumors are classified as top secret by your government and mine, as I am sure you have seen in your capacity as an intelligence officer. If there is any truth to them, doing something about them after the armistice agreement was signed would risk another war. Our governments have kept quiet partly because of the sketchiness of the data and partly because of the supposed location of the prison camps.”

  Gunner let that sink in. He picked up the photo of the young Marine officer and put it back in his pocket. “What location?”

  “Rumor placed the camps somewhere northeast of Pyongyang, near the city of Hamhung.”

  Gunner thought about that. “I’m familiar with Pyongyang. Hamhung doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Hamhung is the capital of South Hamgyong Province.” He looked at Jackrabbit. “My friend, would you go look in the upper right drawer of my desk? There is a map of North Korea in there.”

  “No problem,” Jackrabbit said. He headed back through the curtains and disappeared.

  “The war almost destroyed the city,” Jung-Hoon said. “They rebuilt Hamhung during the midfifties and early sixties. Then, in the nineties, a great famine struck North Korea, which devastated Hamhung more than any other city. Thousands died of starvation. Dear Leader could not feed his people. There is talk of rebellious factions within the city.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Some reports claimed seventy thousand people died during the famine. Reports surfaced of children dying of malnutrition and thousands of freshly dug shallow graves in the hillsides. In 1995, a group of North Korean soldiers began marching toward Pyongyang to challenge the government. This is the only documented challenge to the North Korean government by elements of its army. Of course the rebellion was quickly put down.”

  Jackrabbit returned with a map. He spread it out on the table.

  North Korea, Pyongyang,

  Taedong River, Hamhung, Hungnam
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br />   “Thank you,” Jung-Hoon said. “As you can see, Commander, the Taedong River flows from the northeast to the southwest, through the capital at Pyongyang, where your ship the Pueblo remains, and out to the west into the Yellow Sea.

  “Now if you look over here to the Sea of Japan, just south of the 40th parallel, you see the city of Hungnam. From Hungnam port, all UN forces and thousands of refugees were evacuated after the Battle of Chosin Reservoir in 1950.”

  “I remember reading that,” Gunner said.

  “Eight miles to the north is Hamhung, the city I told you about. And somewhere to the west or north of that” — he pointed at the map — “are the rumored sites of these secret camps.”

  “Hmm.” Gunner studied the map. His eyes fixed on Hamhung. I wonder if … He looked up at Jung-Hoon. “Do you think any camps are still there?”

  “I think the camps were once there,” the Korean said, “but I doubt that they are still there, at least not to hold captured Americans. Most if not all of the Americans should have died by now.”

  Gunner studied the map again, then looked up. “So … let me ask it this way. Do you think they are still holding any Americans?”

  Jung-Hoon met his eyes. He glanced at Jackrabbit, then back at Gunner. “A year ago, I heard rumors that a few might still be alive. These rumors came from reports floating over from the North. Since then … nothing. But do I believe that there still may be elderly Americans somewhere behind the lines?” He stopped for a moment, as if weighing the odds. “If someone put a gun to my head and made me guess, I would say yes. I would not think many were still alive, but too many reports surfaced over the years for there not to be some truth to these rumors.”

  The three men sat there, seemingly in a speechless stalemate. Gunner finally said, “How can I get into that area to find out?”

  “You’d need a pile of money and a suicide wish,” Jackrabbit said.

  “Money’s no problem,” Gunner said. “Let’s say I wanted to take a small team in behind the lines, unnoticed, with the mission of discovering whether these rumors are true … and, if so, bringing one or two of the men out alive.”