The Golden Catch

by Roger Weston

  He listened to the shots. Sounded as if when lone Koreans, masked by fog, shot at the hangar, the others assumed it was enemy action--and gunfire sparked more gunfire. The same kind of confusion in the fog had cost many American soldiers their lives during the Battle of Kiska during World War Two.

  Frank quickly took advantage of the blunder. While the Koreans shot at the empty airplane hangar, he rode his horse and led Brian’s alongside, laying two sets of tracks that rounded the perimeter of North Head, a stubby peninsula on the north shore of Kiska Harbor.

  That done, he threaded erratically between a few of the numerous lakes that saturated the terrain. When the shooting stopped, he was running the horses through the low valley to the south. He let Brian’s horse go, creating a separate set of tracks.

  When Chull-su was ordering his men to take the hangar from the rear, Frank didn’t slow down. When Chull-su was yelling, Frank answered without slowing as he continued to lay haphazard tracks all the way to Trout Lagoon and back around to a collapsed depression with easy access for his horse.

  There were dozens of caves in the soft conglomerate rock around Kiska harbor. Frank had explored several of them. Leaving his horse, he went to a cave he’d been in before. The cave was about ninety feet deep, well built with solid shoring to support the walls and ceiling, and about seven-feet tall. He followed the cave past old stocks of food, medical supplies, equipment, box springs, Japanese shoes, partial bed springs, bed matting, pipes, and bomb fragments.

  This cave was also stocked with old hand grenades and anti-personnel mines--unstable hazardous junk. He picked up an old box with Japanese writing on the side and carefully put several mines and grenades inside. He looked for anything else that might be of use, spotting a few coils of wire and white pipes, which he added to his collection. He continued searching while he weighed his circumstances.

  When he allowed Brian’s temper to stampede him, he’d made a mistake--and now Brian was dead. It didn’t matter that his guilt over Karen Nash’s death overpowered his common sense. They were both dead. Both of them. And Clay was hit.

  Frank dropped to his knees and buried his face in his hands. He remembered Luke and Ingrid and Abby and knew that even now their lives depended on him. He had to get himself together.

  Old days, whether Frank was leading third-world guerrillas on jungle raids or mercenaries on missions of terrorist cell annihilation--understanding the men and discipline comprising the force was critical. War was a killing business and there was no place for half-measures, no place for kindness towards the enemy. In battle, one man was the difference between victory and defeat. One man meant everything.

  They had to be stopped.

  In Vietnam, Charlie dreaded South Korean soldiers for their cruelty. If a South Korean soldier ever drew his knife, he couldn’t put it back in the sheath without blood on the blade. If there was no enemy, they cut themselves. Charlie stayed away.

  Frank knew these Koreans were former soldiers. In Korea, military service was not optional. These men were used to guns and violence.

  He moved down the tunnel to the entrance and froze before the wall of fog. Out there in the fog he heard movement. Someone was approaching the cave. Frank set down the box out of sight where it had ballistic protection. He lay down at the foot of the portal, elevation and angle providing him with ground cover, and sighted the trench gun. He waited . . . And a body emerged from the mist with an AK-47 leading the way.

  Target acquired.

  The report dinned home with thunderous kaboom. The man lifted up off his feet and dumped onto his back. Frank descended on him. The man was conscious, but in sad shape.

  Frank took his AK and found three extra magazines in his fatigue jacket. Frank said, “Sorry, mister but you’re hunting out of season.” He retrieved the box and hurried to his horse. He put the debris in saddle bags, mounted up, and rode out.

  ***

  Moon-gon wiped his glove across the ice on his mustache as he moved stealthily through the snow and fog--his Automat Kalashnikov assault rifle ready for action, the selector on rock-’n’-roll. Carrying his rifle like that, he was aware that someone might get hurt. Accidents happened. He tongued his frozen mustache.

  Like many of the other men, he was humiliated by the failure of the DowKai soldiers during the storm. Fresh off the boat, he and the other reinforcements would get the job done properly. Better men were on the job now, and they’d already shot two out of three.

  Moon-gon hoped to find the American himself. Bringing him in alive and wounded would win favor with Mok Don.

  As he moved out into the fog, his comrades were some twenty feet apart. Somehow the Aleut had vanished. Nobody understood how he got away without making tracks. They were making a clean sweep, casting a net, but after a while, the others strayed and he no longer heard their voices. Moon-gon was excited when he picked up tracks that emerged from a tunnel entrance and trailed blood. This would be easy.

  Whatever trick the Aleut used, Moon-gon was on his trail now.

  And then a gunshot cracked like distant thunder . . .

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  When Abby heard shooting in the valley below, she considered turning her horse around and riding back to the bunker. Frank and Brian would have no chance against all those Koreans.

  She kept going, riding her horse through the snowy mountain pass.

  The dead man was a grisly sight. She stopped her horse. The twisted body looked like it was frozen solid. She squeezed the horse with her knees and rode on.

  Why was it so quiet now?

  Slowly, Abby rode down through the pass toward the coast.

  ***

  Moon-gon followed the Aleut’s trail. Hiking in the snow was hard work. A little pain was nothing compared to the honor he would earn if he brought in a live prisoner.

  He licked his mustache so many times that his tongue was aching at the root. He trailed for twenty minutes before he finally saw a form in the mist. The Aleut was pointing at something. Moon-gon stood deathly still watching the vague shape of the Aleut with his gun trained and ready to fire. Moon-gon adjusted his aim carefully.

  Slowly he edged forward. The Aleut was too still. As he watched the Aleut, the surrounding fog thickened. All he could see was a fuzzy dark shape.

  As he moved closer, he felt hot blood rushing to his face. He now saw that he was stalking a rusty World War Two anti-aircraft gun that was pointed at the sky over the harbor. The Aleut’s tracks led right past the old gun and continued on, a trick to confuse pursuers. Moon-gon had lost a couple of minutes, but that’s all. He stepped past the anti-aircraft gun and plodded on.

  Soon the tracks led him past another rusty anti-aircraft gun. He wasn’t fooled this time. He approached boldly and didn’t bother to raise his weapon. He trudged on, but the fog gave him a weird sensation. The air was dead still, and it was so quiet. He listened to his footsteps as his boots squeaked in the snow. The trail he was following only showed fifteen or twenty feet ahead of him before mist obscured visibility.

  He pushed on, passing a snow-covered pile of gas drums, ruins and revetments of old structures rising like white patterns in the powder. Occasionally he heard his comrades’ voices carrying through the fog. This emboldened him. It was twenty against two.

  He drudged on for ten more minutes when he saw another silhouette in the fog. The Aleut. Seizing his moment of opportunity, Moon-gon rushed forward and halted within twenty yards.

  The Aleut turned around suddenly, looking completely surprised. He was wounded and carried only a spear. He was shot in the left shoulder, blood soaked through his jacket. Moon-gon lifted his rifle. The moment was alive and he found himself floating in clouds of possibilities. Fortune was spilling on him. He smiled despite his numb lips.

  “Drop the spear,” he said in English, “or I’ll help you by shooting your arm off.”

  The Aleut hesitated.

  Moon-gon swung the AK towards the Aleut’s shoulder and was about to pull
the trigger, when--

  Something slammed down fierce over his head and batted the rifle from his hands into the snow. He started to turn, but a hand came around his neck and dragged him downwards. Suddenly he was on his back--and a rifle butt smashed hard in his face, breaking his jaw. As the world began to spin, he heard the American say to the Aleut, “Thank God you’re alive. Take my gun and get out of here. When you’re safe, tend to your wound. You’ve got to stop that bleeding.”

  Moon-gon thought he saw the Aleut handing his spear to the American. And Moon-gon passed out. . . .

  ***

  Abby tied the reins of her horse around a rock and continued on foot. She remembered what her dad had taught her and checked the switch on the rifle. Aim and squeeze--that’s all she had to remember. Hold the rifle snug and tight. No, be quiet and stay out of sight. She didn’t want to shoot if she didn’t have to. There were too many of them.

  She hiked down out of the pass following the horse tracks. Before long, fatigue slowed her knees to a hesitant pace. Instinctively she sensed that her legs could carry her faster in the other direction. Occasionally she stopped and listened. Once she heard Frank’s faraway voice but then nothing. Now she stood where she was for several minutes, listening. She heard footsteps not far off.

  Abby froze.

  The footsteps were slow and methodical. She couldn’t tell exactly how close they were but guessed over thirty yards. She remembered that her gun was ready to fire, and she lifted the weapon. The footsteps were getting closer. She could hear them getting louder, but still couldn’t see anyone. Squeak . . . thud . . . squeak . . . thud . . .

  She wanted to crouch down but didn’t dare move for fear of being heard. The footsteps were getting closer.

  She must shoot them before they got her. She aimed her weapon at where the footsteps were coming from. She had the advantage, she was ready, and she waited. And the footsteps got louder. Squeak . . . thud . . .

  She hoped the unseen person was Frank or Brian. Her heart drummed harder than the muscle ever had in her life; once it occurred to her that they might hear the thumping. That was silly with all the noise their boots were making.

  The footsteps stopped. Abby’s insides turned to slush. Her chest expanded and contracted to fast breaths. Had they seen her? It was so quiet now they might hear her breathing. They couldn’t have been more than twenty yards away. She held her breath and listened. She couldn’t hear them breathing, so she let out her breath and drew in another. She tried to breath slowly, but couldn’t. The barrel of her rifle wouldn’t hold still . . .

  If it weren’t so cold, she might have been in a giant steam bath with steam so dense she couldn’t see people she could easily talk to. Then she heard a recognizable sound and saw a spark. It happened again, only this time she could make out a tiny flame in the vapor. Somebody was lighting a cigarette. They hadn’t seen her. She trained her rifle on the person, but didn’t dare pull the trigger because if she did, everyone would know where she was.

  Did Brian smoke? She didn’t think so, but suddenly she couldn’t remember.

  The flame vanished, and the footsteps started up again. She stood rigidly, ready to pull the trigger and suffer whatever fate befell her. They couldn’t be more than a step or two from visibility. Any moment they’d step into view, and she’d see a look of surprise on their face--and she’d pull the trigger. And then it would be all over for her.

  Squeak . . . thud . . . squeak . . . thud . . .

  ***

  Jung Dae-sung followed the tracks through the fog until he came to an area where there had been a scuffle in the blood-stained snow. He stopped and his big round eyes moved slowly back and forth like wet olives. His big mouth curled slightly into a grin. He was tense with fear, but realized it was just a matter of finishing off the wounded. Mok Don had explained that these people were ignorant farmers, and could be easily handled.

  After following the tracks for a while longer, he heard an unmistakable groaning sound. He followed the trail of blood. There seemed to be two sets of tracks, but then both tracks were wiped out by something heavy that was being dragged through the snow. The groaning was getting louder, but in the fog he couldn’t see anything. One set of tracks broke away, and he followed the dragging thing toward the groaning sound.

  He hiked for a long ways and came upon Moon-gon, lying in the snow, his face a bloody mess, his mouth covered with duct tape. He was struggling, but couldn’t seem to get up. It appeared he was hurt badly, and there was a wild look in his eyes.

  “You idiot,” Jung Dae-sung said. “Shut up and be quiet.”

  Jung Dae-sung set down his rifle and got down on his knees to remove the duct tape from Moon-gon’s mouth. Moon-gon’s head jerked back and forth. Moon-gon was acting crazy, moaning even louder.

  “Shut up or I’ll leave you gagged.”

  Suddenly Moon-gon rolled over with startling quickness.

  The American was beneath him, and he sprang up. A knife flashed and rent a gaping wound in Jung Dae-sung’s shoulder. Jung Dae-sung attempted diving on the American, but instead he took a stunning blow to the side of his neck which left him disoriented. He buckled onto his side. The American leapt upon him and put a blade to his throat.

  ***

  Abby stood with her gun pointed and ready to fire. An obscure shape emerged from the fog. Her finger touched the trigger. A few more steps and . . .

  A scream shrieked in the tense stillness.

  The scream was quite a ways off, but Abby gasped and reflexively crouched a few inches. The vague shape made a sudden movement. Abby drew in a deep breath of air. She shifted the rifle slightly. But the shape disappeared. She heard footsteps pounding off into the distance.

  ***

  Lim Ju-jang’s head turned back and forth, his jaw rigid, his chest panting beneath his thick brown insulated body suit.

  He couldn’t see anything and had no idea where he was. The others had strayed from him.

  He kept replaying the death-shriek of his comrade Jung Dae-sung. He knew the voice all too well. Every quick breath he took was laborious and strained.

  Lim Ju-jang heard something and spun around. Nothing there. Somebody stalking him. He slunk down the gently sloping hill--movement at the corner of his eye. He turned. Nothing. Nobody. Apparition gone.

  More screams in the fog.

  Jung Dae-sung was still alive. What were they doing to him?

  Another scream--

  All the tension in Lim Ju-jang’s body welled up in a surge of anger.

  He closed in, lifting his legs in the snow, lunging forward, over and over. He would avenge Jung Dae-sung. Hatred and wrath fueled his strength. He ran, lifting his legs and lunging forward.

  Other voices began yelling out in the fog. “Where are you?”

  “Stop,” Jung Dae-sung shrieked.

  Lim Ju-jang froze. Then moved. Cautious, careful, calculating, panting.

  He closed in, his jaw stiff.

  He wanted to continue running, but he didn’t know where the Americans were. He felt the tension in his body would impair his reactions. He guessed he was within forty meters and slowed down to a cautious pace.

  He froze in his tracks. Couldn’t remember if he put a fresh clip in his gun. Double checked--clip ready.

  English to his left.

  Lim Ju-jang spun. A figure loomed in the mist. Figure turned on him. Lim Ju-jang’s gun erupted in a burst of sheer power.

  The American was blown off his feet and riddled. “I got him, I got him, he’s down.”

  His wrath controlled his faculties. He fired bursts of vengeance, his machine gun arcing as he swept the roaring weapon back and forth. He emptied the magazine, and his trigger onslaught halted.

  “American down,” he yelled. “Down hard.”

  Lim Ju-jang heard a few distant cheers of victory.

  He tromped over to the body. The snow in the area was sprayed with blood. He had wasted him with numerous hits. “Confirmed,” he yelled out.
“Confirmed.”

  But when he got closer—

  No. Couldn’t be.

  He’d shot one of their own. Shaking--fiercely.

  “He’s alive,” Lim Ju-jang yelled. “American alive.”

  He turned away from the body. On his third step, something slipped out of the fog and took him clean off his feet. He landed on his side--horrified--with a spear imbedded in his upper chest cavity.

  His gun. Where was his gun?

  “I’m down,” he screamed.

  He rolled but the pain made him howl.

  The American walked out of the fog. Calm and unhurried.

  He said, “You prey on the innocent and the helpless. You deserve what you get.” He lifted his AK at Lim Ju-jang’s head.

  Lim Ju-jang shook his head.

  The American hesitated. He lowered his AK.

  With one hand, he wrenched at the spear in Lim Ju-jang’s shoulder. Lim Ju-jang wailed in pain. More twisting unleashed agony. The spear dug in. Finally, the man dislodged it with brute strength, and Lim Ju-jang shrieked.

  The American turned away.

  Lim Ju-jang still had the 9mm in the shoulder holster. He reached for the weapon with his good arm. The American spun around and stabbed the spear into Lim Ju-jang’s thigh.

  Lim Ju-jang yelled from his gut.

  A boot slammed into his ear. He twisted on the ground.

  When he opened his eyes, the American was gone.

  ***

  Frank strapped on his snowshoes and began moving up a snow dune taking long, easy strides. He snowshoed for some time until he heard the voices of two men. Their tone was cautious, but it revealed men who didn’t understand how calm water and cold air carried sound. Frank waited and discerned their direction of progress. He began snowshoeing in their direction laying tracks directly in their path. He hiked for some ten minutes to a small hatchway in the ground, which he found easily because he marked it years ago with a tall, thin metal stake so nobody fell in. The hole was small, and snow had accumulated until it completely covered the opening. Frank pulled up the stake. He lunged over the low spot where the hole was, his snowshoes allowing a long stride. He hiked over the next ridge and entered the tunnel.