The Golden Catch

by Roger Weston

  Chull-su peered into the fog and suddenly lifted his AK-47. “You hear that?”

  “You didn’t hear anything,” Hang Doo-hee said. “If he was that close, I’d kill him.”

  Chull-su motioned to proceed.

  “Slowly,” Hang Doo-hee said, “very slowly.” As they started back down, he walked backwards against a rear assault.

  Back at the beach, wavelets foamed up on the sand. The noise irritated him because it was more difficult to listen for noise. On the other hand, the water hid the sounds they were making walking along the shore. The fog thickened. The snow continued to fall. They didn’t worry about cover. They’d practically have to bump into Murdoch to be seen.

  All of a sudden Hang Doo-hee heard something up ahead of them. The moment was shattered as automatic fire blared out from behind him.

  He hit the dirt.

  “Die!” Chull-su yelled as he blasted his AK-47 blindly into the fog. “Die, you decadent pig!”

  Then the shooting stopped. Hang Doo-hee heard his comrades shouting in Korean. “Get down,” he yelled at Chull-su. Hang Doo-hee rolled over and saw Chull-su dive to the ground.

  A moment later several bursts of return fire clattered out. Then there was more yelling.

  “Who’s there?” Chull-su said.

  “It’s Hyun. You nearly killed us! You hit one of our own.”

  Hang Doo-hee and Chull-su found his brother and a new guy who was quiet and jumpy. Hyun was staring at the body. “He’s dead.”

  “He shot first,” Chull-su said.

  Hyun nodded. “We saw the American a few minutes ago. We were following his tracks in the sand when this fool panicked.”

  Hang Doo-hee listened to all this with mounting disgust. “You want him, you’ll have him. I’m going after him alone.”

  ***

  After Hang Doo-hee left, Chull-su split them into groups of two. “You head up the hill,” he told the others. “Hyun and I will sweep the beach behind Hang Doo-hee.”

  They were turning to go when Chull-su heard a strange whipping sound. He immediately dropped to his knees. The others followed his example. An earsplitting gunshot rang out. A rumbling was getting closer.

  A scream.

  A horse charged out of the fog, running. The rider sprayed the beach with his AK on automatic.

  There was just enough time for Chull-su to dive out of the way. He rolled twice. When he looked up, he saw a body dragging on a rope. For just a second, he made eye contact with Hang Doo-hee. He saw a look of sheer terror--a grotesque curse twisting on a doomed face as Hang Doo-hee slid off into the fog. Chull-su heard another scream. He lay there in shock for several moments, listening to shots out in the fog.

  He was drawing in strained breaths, but the air was too cold and he started coughing. After several minutes of that, he motioned for the other two men to fall in behind him. They followed the American’s trail for about five minutes before they found Hang Doo-hee’s body in the sand, the rope still around his neck. He’d been shot.

  Chull-su heard something down the beach. He turned and saw something moving in the fog--an old gas drum rolling down the embankment.

  “Take cover,” he yelled.

  Automatic fire clattered out--drawing a line across the rolling barrel. A tracer hit.

  Whump!

  The sky ignited.

  A firestorm burst forth. Everyone was knocked down by a stunning concussion. Chull-su landed hard. Fire rained around him. He turned over and the beach was burning in flaming streaks and patches. He saw the quiet new guy thrashing in the sand, his clothes on fire. The man got up, ran for the water, and dove in. Only then did the man scream. He thrashed wildly and came out of the water as rapidly as he’d gone in. How badly he was burned Chull-su didn’t know, but his face looked alright and he went for his weapon.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Chull-su said. He got up and led a charge down the beach in the opposite direction.

  Suddenly a barrage of gunfire erupted, spraying the area and cutting them off. All three hit the ground. Sand spit up all around them. Nobody moved except to ball up. Chull-su reached for the walkie-talkie to tell Mok Don they were pinned down, but he thought again. A burst of gunfire was followed by several more. Hyun and the quiet one returned fire now. Chull-su emptied another thirty-round clip into the fog. The quiet one screamed again.

  Then piercing silence . . .

  Silence short-lived. The quiet one cried out in pain. A bullet had pierced his hip. He moaned and made hoarse curses. Chull-su crawled over to the man, who now managed to contain himself. Every breath came like a grievance.

  “As soon as we capture him, we’ll get you back to the ship. We have to keep moving. I’m taking your gun.”

  “You can’t leave me here without my gun.”

  Chull-su jerked the rifle from his hands and crawled back to the others. He motioned for them to follow and he got up. “Stay low,” he told them.

  “Don’t leave me,” the quiet one said. “I’ll freeze.” This from a man who was just on fire. “Please, I need help. Oh, please, he’ll kill me. I’m part of the group. At least leave my gun. At least do that. Have mercy, please. Please!”

  Chull-su led the men about thirty feet down the beach and then dropped to his belly. He motioned for the others to get down. Hyun crawled up next to him.

  “What are we doing?”

  “Listen to him moaning in pain. In this pea-soup fog, I can just barely make him out from here. The American will come to finish him off. Then we’ll hit him.”

  “It might work,” Hyun said, the material of his surgical mask stretching from his smile.

  Chull-su waited. The wounded man’s pleas grew morbid. Chull-su watched the fog beyond him and falling snow illuminated by the flames. He waited for a shadow to emerge from the fog. Never came. Ten minutes passed.

  The others said nothing. They waited another five minutes, but still the American didn’t show. “Let’s stick together,” Chull-su said.

  He was in the middle as they patrolled down the beach. They’d just found two bodies by the old Japanese submarine when someone called to them in Korean.

  “It’s Soo-man. Don’t shoot.”

  Three DowKai men and a woman emerged from the fog, led by the muscular security director. “Look what we found,” Soo-man said. “Abby the archaeologist.” He slapped her bottom.

  Abby was brought to Chull-su. He slapped her hard across the face. “You try something, I’ll hurt you bad.”

  “You’re disgusting,” she said

  Again he slapped her, this time even harder. He almost knocked her down. “I don’t like you.” He slapped her again.

  Soo-man said, “Keep her pretty.”

  Ignoring him, Chull-su kicked her in the gut. She let out a loud shriek.

  “You hear that?” Chull-su yelled into the fog. “We have the woman. Give up or she dies.”

  No answer . . .

  Slowly, Chull-su turned his head toward Abby. While he waited, his stare began to crumble with his growing smile. “Give up,” he yelled.

  No answer . . .

  Chull-su looked at the others and grinned. Soo-man grinned. Chull-su dropped his rifle and lunged at the woman. She screamed when he grabbed her jacket, tearing it. He tackled her. Again she screamed and fought back, but Soo-man dropped his gun and pinned down her arms.

  “Let her go,” the American said, his voice near in the fog.

  Soo-man grabbed his gun and swung it around while staying on his knees.

  Chull-su was startled by the sudden proximity of the threat. He rolled off Abby with his nerves bristling and dragged her up onto her feet. He grabbed her by her brown hair and yanked her head back. Pointed the AK-47 at her skull. “I’ll kill her.”

  The American emerged slowly from the fog, anger burning in his green eyes, his gun aimed at Chull-su. “Let her go,” he said. “Now.”

  Chull-su let go of her hair and reached around her neck, pulled her tight and began choking
her. “I’ll kill her. Give up.” The woman was gagging, tugging at his arm.

  The American stepped closer in the fog with his gun aimed at Chull-su’s face. “Let her go. I’ll tell you where the treasure is.”

  Chull-su loosened his hold on her throat. She gasped for air.

  The American raised his gun slightly. “I’ll shoot you straight in the eyes. Let her go, or I’ll blow your head off at the count of three. After she leaves, I’ll go with you. One--”

  Chull-su let the woman loose. She picked up her jacket and staggered over to the American. He leaned over and whispered into her ear without taking his eyes off Chull-su.

  “No, Frank.”

  “Do it!”

  The woman glared back at Chull-su , then walked off into the fog.

  “Now we’re giving her time to clear out of the area,” the American said.

  Over the next hour, there were some distant pleas from the wounded, but nobody helped them. The gun was pointed at Chull-su’s head. But power was about to change hands.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Frank walked out in front of the swarthy thugs and every step seemed to have consequence. His cheeks were heavy and he could feel the sag in his face. He felt dark and cold as if his soul had died, like the batteries were ripped out. The Koreans talked loudly and angrily. The snow was blowing down harder now in the gusty wind.

  There would be no eulogy, no epitaph, no last words. The Koreans owned him now, and he was all they needed or wanted. At least Frank had something left to bargain with. If he told them where the gold was, he could save the lives of the others. He would do everything he could to save Luke, Abby and Ingrid.

  Two of the Koreans walked behind him with their rifles trained at his back. They directed him into a large, motorized skiff. They rode over the waves with cold wind blowing in off the mournful sea.

  With eyes closed and chin on chest, Frank thought about Luke, Abby, and Ingrid. Trapped in the dark of the bunker, huddled around the fire.

  The engine cut, and Frank opened his eyes as the skiff coasted the final stretch to the boarding ladder on the ship’s leeward side. Chull-su led the way, and Frank followed him up the ladder.

  Four men climbed onto the stern after them, and Frank heard the skiff motor shoreward. Two brawny Koreans approached the group and excused the land party. They seized Frank by the arms and ushered him down the catwalk and into the accommodation. An elevator let them off on the second deck, where they locked Frank in a luxurious stateroom. He heard Korean chatter out in the hall, the two brawny men on guard duty.

  The cabin was fully carpeted in forest green. Furnishings included a large bed, Persian-silk upholstered divan, antique table, Dutch captain’s desk, Russian lacquer seaman’s closet, and mini-refrigerator. He opened a door and found a sparkling full bath. What a way to die. When a man created his own hell, no earthly comfort could ever give him peace. Even unto death.

  The round porthole opened to seaward. Gray water and gray sky converged into distant gray clouds.

  He sat down on the bed. The door swung open and a swarthy Korean man walked in followed by the two guards. The man had gray hair and cold, obsidian eyes that shifted stealthily before freezing on Frank. “So you think you can fight Mok Don and get away with it,” he said.

  Frank returned his glare. Mok Don’s eyes were like beholding black ice.

  The man dominated silence. He waited as though expecting some grand gesticulation from Frank, perhaps a bow or some motion of deference. Frank waited. Finally Mok Don grew impatient and spoke.

  “Where’s the gold?”

  “And if I tell you?”

  “I’ll let your son live,” Mok Don said quietly. “I’ll let the women live. And maybe you too.”

  “North of here in a cave.”

  Mok Don’s eyes narrowed to cracks of shiny blackness with crow’s feet. He began eagerly unfolding a map, walked over to Frank, and laid it out on the bed.

  “Show me.”

  “There.” Frank pointed to Musashi Inlet.

  Mok Don took a deep breath and spoke softly: “And the cave?”

  “You’ll find it.”

  “You better hope I do, or I’ll kill your son,” Mok Don said, as though murdering children was in the normal course of business. He folded the map and walked out of the cabin, closing the door behind him.

  Ten minutes later, Frank heard them heave anchor followed by the grumble of marine diesels. He was being led to the sepulcher; but worse, his life had been a complete and evil failure. He had prematurely ended Brian and Karen’s lives through the choices he had made. He felt low. He had many successes in life, yet in the most important things, his history was marked by failure on the road to doom. He remembered the day he first entered the treasure cave with Luke. He recalled the volcanic rumblings and his hellish visions of the molten depths. How appropriate, he thought. Even the grimmest destiny couldn’t be any worse than how he already felt.

  Soon the Pinisha again dropped anchor. Frank didn’t get up and look out the port hole. He couldn’t stand to look at Kiska, his home, where Luke, Abby, and Ingrid waited for him in a bunker. Only they didn’t know he’d never return. Luke needed a father. Frank wasn’t much of that, but Luke needed him. He couldn’t let his kid down. The boy’s faith in Frank was both heartening and humbling. Today the thought of it felt like an indictment.

  The Pinisha lay at anchor for twenty-four hours. From the decks alow wandered the sounds of shouted commands, of hydraulics and cranes, of the lifting and lowering of treasure. Each sound sucked life and blood from Frank; each sound confirmed his existence and his fate; each sound robbed his son a father. And he could do nothing. Hours rolled by like waves in sets as he waited. When he lay on the bed, he felt like a dirty rag. He thought of Melody, his dear sweet wife who’d given her life to him. She too was dead, and Frank blamed himself for that. He took a blanket and lay on the floor.

  He thought of Virgil: of Aeneus ready to abandon hope and he saw himself; except there was no Divine reassurance for Frank Murdoch, only black condemnation. If the Koreans didn’t hurry up and kill him, he might die of his own shame. And then came sleep, and with sleep came nightmares, horrible nightmares welling up from deep within his subconscious mind wherein was stored all the horror and disgrace of his past, all the guilt that had ruined his life and ran him through a perpetual living hell.

  He dreamt of a man in a field, lined up in the sights of his sniper’s rifle. Frank squeezed off a shot and the man buckled and dropped. Then the man’s family walked into the field wearing black. They cried and mourned. The wife looked at Frank and screamed, “You murderer! Why did you have to kill him? He was all we had. You destroyed our family!” And Frank saw the face of his own wife.

  He awoke shaking, sweating. Anger burned in him. How long he’d slept he didn’t know, but light shined brightly through the port hole. He felt like a tormented, caged animal, sapped of life and spirit.

  Soon the big marine diesels rumbled. The Pinisha sailed, her single screw shoving her seaward. The soft rumblings of the ship’s engines gave Frank at least a glimmer of hope. At last they were leaving Kiska. Luke, Abby, and Ingrid would be safe.

  Frank looked out the porthole and watched Kiska Island grow small on the gray horizon. As the island got farther away, he knew his own death was getting closer.

  The hours seemed endless, tugging by one after another as the Pinisha steamed south. Frank had no more visitors, except the steward who grew increasingly rude. Frank ate none of the meals he brought. For two nights, Frank waited, sinister thoughts polluting his mind and dimming his spirit. At times he lay on the floor, unable to sleep, tossing, rolling. He endured his miserable time in oppressive darkness thinking of how he failed his family, about how he regretted his life. But anger grew in him, anger at the vicious predators who killed the innocent, anger at terrorists who exploded bombs in crowded cities; and toward the vicious greed of scum like Mok Don.

  He studied his cabin,
inch by inch, bolt by bolt. He tried to think of a way to escape, but no plan with a reasonable chance of success formulated in his mind. The boat was full of armed men, and land, hundreds of miles away.

  Morning’s light filtered in the porthole again. Frank lay huddled on the floor, his body aching, his soul painful. Then came sleep.

  He awoke shaking, sweating.

  A knock on the door jarred his senses. A pause. The door opened. The steward walked in with a platter of food. He carried the platter to the table, set it down, and picked up the untouched one he had brought hours earlier. He shook his head on the way out.

  Frank closed his eyes, falling away, falling back into numb sleep . . . A knock on the door . . . Another knock. Had his last hour arrived?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Kiska Island

  Chull-su searched the houses of the Americans, but found no sign of the women or the boy. Tired and in no particular hurry, he slept in Murdoch’s bed. He spent two nights there resting, recovering from the hunt. Finally, it was clear that Chull-su needed to get moving.

  Unfortunately, his whiskey and cigarettes had run out, and his flesh demanded attention. Despite a spinning misery, he got up and searched the place, but found no liquor. As he became more desperate, he tore the place apart looking for hidden alcohol, but again came up empty-handed.

  He set out on foot, hiking down the beach. The fresh snow made for hard treading when he strayed from the shoreline. Before long, the pains clawed at his gut and he found himself unable to go far without stopping. To make matters worse, a chill moved over him as his under-sweating cooled. To his relief, he arrived at the smaller houses down the beach and took to searching them. In the first home, he found pelt-clothes in the closet and no alcohol. In the second, he found a case of American whiskey that they’d overlooked when they gave the American woman the humiliation she deserved. Chull-su grabbed a fifth and sucked on it. A little infusing therapy. Several more bottles went into his pack. He left promptly, well aware that the Aleut might still be alive on the island.