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  “I understand,” Gunner said.

  “Still,” the pastor continued, “as dangerous as this route is, at least there is a chance, and with a little luck and a lot of prayer … If you try to cross the DMZ, you’ve got no chance.”

  The pastor paused.

  Jung-Hoon looked at Gunner. “If you undertake this mission, I wanted Pastor Lee to get you to understand how deadly dangerous it can be, and, if you do decide to go ahead” — he turned from Gunner to Pastor Lee — “to see if the church might provide assistance, either intelligence, or manpower, or other means.”

  “Hmm.” Pastor Lee crossed his arms and rocked back in his big black leather chair. “I have heard the rumors of these secret prison camps,” he said. “And I believe them to have been true. At least at one time, I think they were true. And I believe the few members of the church who are involved in these rescue efforts would be sympathetic to your mission. But your proposed mission is different in several respects from the basic model under which we operate.”

  “I think I understand those differences,” Jung-Hoon said, “but perhaps you could explain them to the commander.”

  “Of course,” Lee said. “First, it seems that yours would be a paramilitary mission. Forgive me, but you would be crazy to undertake this type of rescue attempt unarmed. Is that correct?”

  Gunner said, “You’re right, Pastor. My team will need to be armed.”

  “Well,” Lee responded, “our rescue missions do not carry weapons. Our weapon is cash. Bribes go a long way in cash-starved countries like China, Laos, Thailand, and North Korea. But no guns. Not for a church group. We rescue. We don’t kill. Also, we don’t cross the border into North Korea. We send messages through secret Christian networks to families there who wish to escape. But our people go only as far as the North Korean – Chinese border. The refugee has to cross the river, then we help them to freedom. But I imagine that you will have to cross into North Korea to search for what you are looking for.” Again he looked at Gunner and waited for a reply.

  “Yes, Pastor. We will cross into the North.”

  Lee seemed to think for a moment. “I would not hesitate to rescue an American or anyone else held in that place. But your proposed mission does not match our model. I do not know how members of the committee would react.”

  “But what do you think about it?” Jung-Hoon pressed the issue.

  “I don’t know,” Lee said. “I’d have to know more about it, and I’d have to pray about it. What did you have in mind, Jung-Hoon?”

  North Korea with Hungnam, Hamhung, Kimch’aek, Pyongyang, Seoul

  “Well, the commander here says that money is no object. Thus, I propose that we infiltrate by a combination of air and sea, striking the coastline somewhere northeast of … could you put the map of the border back up again, Pastor?”

  “Certainly.” He retrieved the map.

  “Now, then,” Jung-Hoon continued, “without getting into any details at this point, my plan involves striking the coast along the Sea of Japan, somewhere between Hungnam and Kimch’aek, then heading inland toward Hamhung. These camps are rumored to be in that area. We don’t need the church’s help to get in. It’s your contacts on the ground in North Korea and the getting-out part that I want to explore.”

  “I take it your escape route would be into China?” Pastor Lee asked.

  “As you pointed out, Pastor,” Jung-Hoon said, “crossing the DMZ is suicide. And somehow, I do not think we will be purchasing a one-way ticket out of Sunan International Airport. That leaves China as the logical choice.”

  “Even if you make it into China,” Lee said, “you are still far from the arms of safety.”

  “True, Pastor,” Jung-Hoon said. A pause. “Which is why we are here. If I can get the commander into North Korea without us all getting shot, your network of Christians is the best-equipped contact organization for escape out of North Korea through China.”

  “I see,” Pastor Lee said. “Hmm.” He looked at the map. “Where would you propose crossing into China?”

  Jung-Hoon walked over to the map.

  “Here is a grease pencil,” Pastor Lee said as he handed a pencil to him.

  “Thank you,” Jung-Hoon said. “We come in from the Sea of Japan, then head toward Hamhung. If we find what we’re looking for, then we could head for the border somewhere just to the west of Kanggye. Perhaps something like this.” With the grease pencil, he began outlining an escape route.

  “There.” Jung-Hoon put the grease pencil on the pastor’s desk. “That should do it.”

  Gunner studied the map. Had Jung-Hoon actually laid out the plan? And was he taking charge of planning the whole mission? No one in all of Korea would be better suited to lead such a deadly mission than Jung-Hoon.

  North Korea with route from Sea of Japan to China,

  angling toward Hamhung

  “Interesting,” Pastor Lee said after a minute of studying the map. “Of course you understand that the escape route you are proposing is extremely mountainous.”

  “Everything in Korea is mountainous,” Jung-Hoon said. “But at least we’re avoiding population centers.”

  Gunner sensed a spark of passion in Jung-Hoon’s voice. He looked over and saw Jackrabbit nodding.

  The pastor studied Jung-Hoon’s route, then said, “I will mention this to two elders who head up our rescue program. Regardless of their decision, I want you to know that I am with you in spirit, and if you undertake this brave and daring mission, I pray that the Lord will allow us to be a part of helping you to succeed.”

  “Thank you, Pastor,” Jung-Hoon said. “When can we expect to hear from you?”

  Pastor Lee scratched his chin. “I will call you as soon as I have a decision.”

  “Thank you,” Jung-Hoon said. He looked at Jackrabbit and Gunner. “Let us return to the hotel. We have some planning to do for this suicide mission.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Corbin Hall

  Suffolk, Virginia

  The aroma of roasting turkey saturated the rooms of the house. The familiar warm fragrance of Thanksgiving brought a smile to her face. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and her feet found her slippers. She stood and reached for her robe, which she had draped over the side of the pink wingback chair.

  The clock beside the bed showed that the turkey had been in the oven on low heat for over eight hours already and had four hours to go. The house would soon be bustling with activity and laughter and fellowship. The family would begin arriving soon, and she still had tons of preparation to do. She headed for the kitchen.

  Darkness filled the small bathroom adjoining the large kitchen of the grand country home. She stepped in and flipped on the light.

  The mirror did not lie.

  Her beauty had not faded, not totally anyway, even in the more than half a century of years that would be credited to her on her next birthday. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she could produce, if demanded, information relating to the exact number of years that she had endured upon this earth. But when she hit fifty a little over a decade ago, her strong will had made her forget her exact age.

  Still, the mirror did not lie.

  The high cheekbones, once the topic of male suitors over the years, were still set against an olive skin marred by few wrinkles. Even the streaks of gray were not all that unattractive, she thought, as she pulled her hair back into a ponytail and began to apply makeup. Her hands showed the wrinkling and ropey veins of age. Her wrists were now boney. Yet arthritis had not beset her, as it had other members of her family, and she remained grateful for the strength she had heading into her sunset years.

  As she put on a comfortable pair of jeans and the red sweater Gunner had given her last Christmas, she thought about the last ten years. Had she made a mistake by rejecting two proposals of marriage after her husband died? The last one, a rather dashing and handsome suitor, was wealthy to boot. But marrying him would have required her to trade the serenity of Corbin H
all for the West Coast.

  The ties of family and the pull of Corbin Hall had never allowed her the luxury of starting anew. The new would never be like the old.

  Enough reminiscing. Today was Thanksgiving. Time to liven up. She left the bathroom and entered the kitchen. She reached for the remote control and turned on the TV. A small flat-screen television on the kitchen counter came to life with the sight of a giant smiling Bambi bobbing in the sunlit skies between skyscrapers of Madison Avenue. Ah … the sights and sounds of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in New York made her feel better. Over a light breakfast of coffee and toast, she watched the colorful floats brighten the dull gray exteriors of New York skyscrapers.

  Breakfast over, she turned down the volume and perused the checklist on the counter.

  Peel potatoes.

  Prepare dressing.

  Sweet tea … two gallons.

  Set table.

  Set table. Yes, of course. The hard part.

  For the next several hours, she worked on her list, peeling potatoes, chopping celery and onion for the dressing, and brewing the tea. With the food well in hand, she moved to the dining room for the next step.

  The placemats, silverware, and Waterford crystal glasses already adorned the table. To be sure, she counted in her head again the number of plates she would need … Gorman and Bri, Little Tyler and sis Jill, and one for her.

  She counted again. One, two, three, four, five … plus one.

  She reached into the china cabinet and extracted six dinner plates. Five were of a now-defunct but beautiful pattern called Chinoisserie, with black-and-gold banding around the white center and colorful Japanese lettering and figurines on the black banding.

  She set four plates around the old mahogany table, then set the fifth at one end.

  One plate remained in her hand. It was different from the others. She looked at the plate and then looked at the chair at the head of the table.

  The white envelope lay on the placemat, waiting to be covered by the plate. Folded inside was the letter she penned years ago, during an hour of deep self-reflection, after some traumatic and emotional changes in her life.

  She walked to the head of the table and kissed the plate that was unlike the others. She had ordered it from the Marine Corps Exchange at Camp Lejeune several years ago. Engraved in the middle of it was a gold globe-and-anchor, the symbol of the United States Marine Corps.

  With the dignity of a soldier guarding the Tomb of the Unknown at Arlington, she set the plate down over the top of the envelope.

  There. All done.

  Back to the kitchen, back to the checklist. She reached for her scissors and snipped open the plastic bag in the box of brown sugar. She dug a tablespoon into the sugar and sprinkled the sugar on the sweet potatoes in a Pyrex bowl.

  How could she not read the letter? She had written it, and it had meant so much to her then.

  She dropped the spoon on the sweet potatoes and went back to the dining room.

  She stood at the head of the table for a moment, then sat down in the chair. Carefully removing the plate, she picked up the envelope, extracted its contents, and began to read.

  Dear Daddy,

  I was almost five years old when you went missing in action in 1950. They say you disappeared in a place called the Chosin Reservoir. Mama was left with me and my twin brother Jeffrey.

  I only remember one thing about you — your arms reaching out to me to pick me up at Thanksgiving, and I remember you holding me in your arms and smearing my face with chocolate pie! At least I think I remember. Mama is gone now too. She always had trouble talking about you. Jeffrey is gone too. I learned more about you from your brother Bill and sister Maydie than from anyone else.

  I know you were a great athlete in high school, that you were a star quarterback, and that you were a young Marine officer who loved this country. They said you’d planned on getting out of the Marines and coming back to Virginia to run Corbin Hall. They said you would return to us. I believed them.

  We moved around a lot, Daddy. We lived in Iowa, New Mexico, California, and South Carolina. Mama always said I looked like you. She never could deal with the thought of you being gone for good. She never remarried. Finally, when Granddaddy got sick, she agreed to come back to Corbin Hall to take over the business. She did a fine job. She bore the family name with strength and pride.

  I went to school in all those places, graduated from high school in South Carolina, and went on to beautician school. I practiced ten years as a cosmetologist and married Gorman McCormick, a Naval Academy grad and Navy pilot who flew in Vietnam. We married in 1968. He was a wonderful person, gave me two beautiful sons — your grandsons — but he died of cancer in 1999.

  I worked for a while after Gorman died, but when Mama started getting sick, I came back to Corbin Hall to help her with the business. Gorman Jr., your oldest grandson, went off to Virginia Tech, studied agriculture, and came back to help me run Corbin Hall. He married Brianna, and we call her Bri. She’s very pretty. From down around Edenton. She and Gorman have two great children, Tyler and Jill. They’re your great-grandchildren.

  You’d be proud of your grandsons!

  Gunner worked in a fancy finance job in New York. But he quit to follow your footsteps and his daddy’s in the military. We named him Christianson Pendleton McCormick. The name Christianson came from a Marine, Stanley Christianson, who won the Medal of Honor in Korea. And of course his middle name, Pendleton, well that’s for another Marine who went to Korea, his beloved grandfather. He picked up the name Gunner when he won the Tidewater Shooting Championship sponsored by the Junior NRA at age sixteen. He became quite the marksman with a .22 rifle! You’d be proud of him, Daddy!

  He’s now an officer on an aircraft carrier named for the man who was president when you left for Korea. I expect he’ll come back and help Gorman with the farm after he leaves the Navy.

  I still miss you. You were so young and never got a chance to live.

  I know where Mama is, and I know where Jeffrey is, and I know where Gorman is. But I don’t know where you’ve gone, Daddy. So I set a plate for you every Thanksgiving at the head of the table. I do it because Thanksgiving was the last time I remember even the littlest bit about you. I don’t expect you to ever sit there or ever to walk in this house again, but I promised years ago that I would always remember you. And although my hope of seeing you has faded with each passing year, I’ll cling to the last dimming rays of a fading hope until I draw my very last breath.

  Your disappearance rocked us all, Daddy. Mama. Me. We never got over it. I love you always.

  See you in heaven, Daddy.

  Your Baby Girl,

  Margaret Pendleton McCormick

  Four fresh teardrops had smudged the blue ink on the letter.

  The doorbell rang. Then the sound of the front door opening. “Mother, we’re here!” Gorman Jr. called out.

  “We’ve got desserts!” The chipper voice of her daughter-in-law, Bri.

  She refolded the letter, slipped it back into the envelope, and laid the letter back under his special plate. She dabbed her eyes with a napkin.

  “Be right there!” Pushing her father from her thoughts, she hurried to greet her family.

  CHAPTER 7

  Kim Yong-nam Military Prison Camp

  Staff Sergeant Kang Ho-soon glanced at his watch — 0800 hours. Time to get the old dogs moving.

  He looked over at Chung Nam-gyu and Cho Doo-soon, the two comrades assigned with him to oversee the prisoners. They were drinking coffee in the mess hall and yakking. He knew they were just putting in their time until retirement. Chung and Cho had been at this job in the prison camp too long. They’d lost their ambition.

  Not so for Kang Ho-soon. Although he was new, he saw his assignment to the top-secret prison camp as a testament to the Army’s confidence in his leadership abilities. Before being considered for duty in this top-secret program, Kang had been subjected to extreme physical and psychol
ogical tests, all of which he passed. After a second round of interviews with Army psychiatrists and Communist party investigators, he received the North Korean Army’s prestigious top-secret clearance and was awarded a medal for meritorious service.

  He would never forget the day of the ceremony. They had ordered him to report in full dress uniform to party headquarters in his home city of Chongjin in North Hamgyong Province. His father and mother, both factory workers at the Chongjin Steel Company, were invited. They knew in advance only that he was being promoted to staff sergeant. But when he received the prestigious medal for meritorious service, his parents were shocked. His mother, her hands rough from years of glorious labor in service to the party, shed tears when they pinned the dangling medal with the red star on his jacket.

  Of course, his parents never knew the real reason why he had earned the medal, nor did they know that he had received the prestigious top-secret clearance. Indeed they could not know — nor could anyone else know. Perhaps one day his children would know of his new assignment.

  Kang remembered the day they led him into a secure chamber and told him of his assignment to the top-secret camp. He then had spent six months learning English in Pyongyang before reporting to Kim Yong-nam Military Prison Camp.

  At first, Kang had not understood it all. And then it hit him. He had been chosen to be among North Korea’s elite! His star was rocketing upward! This was his chance.

  Kang eyed his comrades sitting there at the table, more interested in their coffee and their bellies than their duty, he thought. Part of the problem was that the two standing guard with him were his superiors, but not by much. They were one stripe and pay grade above him. He technically was subject to their orders.