Chosen Path: An International Thriller

by Glen Robins

  After months of painstaking planning to “line up the dominoes,” as the leader of the planning council had called it, “Chammae Boksu,” the name of the mission now in question, was the North Korean dictator’s pet covert project. Chammae referred to the Northern Goshawk, the national bird of North Korea. Part of the raptor family, it was known as a fierce and resourceful hunter and revered in Korean culture and history as a symbol of strength. Boksu meant revenge. Thus, the Americans would start calling it “Raptor’s Revenge.”

  Officially, the Supreme Leader had no knowledge of this mission. Plausible deniability on his part had been fastidiously built into every facet of the mission. But in reality, everyone involved knew it was his brainchild. They also knew that anything short of flawless execution could only end in another sort of execution—one that no one would ever find out about unless Yong Byun’s bones were dug up in some remote desert decades from now.

  Inside, his emotions were like a witch’s potion brewed from all manner of toxic components. His nerves were so raw that he couldn’t discern what he was experiencing, other than dread.

  At first, it was panic. When that South Korean army man with the Dodger’s jacket showed up, Yong Byun’s whole world felt like it had imploded. He saw the guy running up the conveyor belt and into the belly of the plane. Who does that? And why? The guy came out of nowhere, demanding the very bag Yong Byun had just personally carried to the back of a nearly full rack. He had just hefted the fifty-kilogram suitcase into place when his fellow baggage handlers stepped in the way, blocking the wild man’s approach. Yong Byun had used the ensuing confusion as cover so he could pull the bag and sneak toward the open cargo door. No one could ever see the contents of that case. He had to remove it unnoticed and the confusion brought on by the group of his fellow workers provided just the cover he needed.

  The three packets disguised as portable computer battery chargers inside the black case each weighed sixteen kilos and held enough C-4 plastic explosive material to blow the plane into oblivion and, if the projections were correct, inflict significant damage when it exploded over Seoul. The blast radius was calculated to be over three hundred meters. The flying debris from the fuselage would add several hundred more meters as flying shards became deadly shrapnel.

  But that now depended on his team member finding a way to stow that bag on the plane.

  Yong Byun escaped the cargo area during the confrontation, dragging the heavy roller onto a scissor lift and lowering himself and the bag to the ground. But his escape wasn’t entirely clean. While four of his colleagues were yelling at the intruder and preventing him from getting his unauthorized hands on any passenger luggage, which could cost them all their jobs, Yong Byun caught the attention of the Korean guy in the Dodger’s jacket. He was just stacking the bag into place when they locked eyes. That’s when he realized he knew who the man was. Yong Byun wondered if the intruder recognized him. No matter. Yong Byun planned to never see the son of General Noh ever again.

  Before his narrow escape, Yong Byun had overheard the man explain to the other baggage handlers that he had knocked down two men, whom he identified as North Koreans, near the left wing. Hearing that made his heart drop. The General’s son had interfered and severely altered the plan. Each member of the team had specific assignments and if two of them were sidelined, the plan would surely fail. That was when Yong Byun realized his survival was at risk. He decided then that he would give his best effort to the cause regardless, but if he could not find a way to bring down that plane as directed by the council, he would abandon all and save his own life.

  Darting out of the plane, Yong Byun had found a pick-up truck that lacked a driver near the baggage cart tractor. He hefted the loaded suitcase into the back and surveyed the area for witnesses. Seeing none, he climbed in behind the wheel, relieved to see keys in the ignition. As he started the truck’s engine, he spoke into to the top button of his coat. “Mission compromised. Initiate counter measures and move to alternate stage. Repeat: Abort mission.”

  Each member of the team had instructions known only to them on what to do if something went wrong before the mission plan was completed. But he already knew that he had to revert to a self-preserving strategy, one he had devised just in case things didn’t work out. As the leader of a failed portion of the overall mission, there was no hope of survival if he followed the prescribed pullout drill. A return home meant shame, humiliation, and punishment. Although he had been tediously trained and indoctrinated; had professed his fervent devotion to the cause and pledged to do all in his power to make it successful, nagging doubts had crept in, forcing him to think about his own best interests—in the event he or his team failed.

  His time in America had opened his eyes to new possibilities for his life. A newfound hope had sprung up inside and survival instincts had edged into the space where the desire to kill the enemy had resided. Over the past several weeks, as the final pieces of the mission came together, Yong Byun had experienced pessimism about its success, which blossomed into full-blown fear for the first time since he volunteered for it. There were too many variables and too many unknowns and the grand council was pushing too hard to make it happen on June 6, the South Korean Memorial Day. Contingencies had begun to manifest themselves, making him realize that each step in the plan was lined up just so. If all went right, no problems. But it would only take one misstep and things would collapse like a row of dominoes. That one misstep had occurred with the unexpected appearance of General Noh’s son. Now, if Yong Byun was going to survive past the end of the week, which he wanted to do more than ever, he realized he had to devise a strategy to save his life in the event he could not return home a glorified hero.

  “Raven, this is Eagle. Raven, this is Eagle. Do you copy?” Yong Byun heard the words through the comm unit in his ear.

  “Copy Eagle. This is Raven.”

  “Confirming two Comrades down under the port side wing. Evacuate them immediately. Repeat: evacuate downed Comrades immediately.”

  “Roger. On my way.”

  Yong Byun’s heart sank, the last rays of hope obscured by a new kind of fog. If two of his men were down and unable to escape on their own, let alone function according to plan, the mission was surely destined for disaster. This knowledge only fueled the growing desire to break away on his own and start a new life. But he couldn’t just abandon his teammates. It would hurt his chances of escape. The gears in his head spun and caught and began to churn out new ideas even under the pressure from his collapsing mission imperatives.

  Yong Byun threw the truck’s gear lever into “Drive” and maneuvered toward the underside of the left wing. His blood ran cold, and his hands shook as he realized everything he had worked for was unraveling and he would soon have to launch himself into unchartered territory.

  There must be a chance to score a victory for the homeland, he thought as he drove the truck toward his fallen Comrades. Maybe, just maybe, they could make something work. Maybe he could salvage this thing and return home with honor despite the setback. He tried to keep hope alive in those few seconds.

  As he steered the truck around the tail of the plane, Yong Byun’s heart dropped. His two incapacitated teammates lay on the ground, a pool of dark blood under the smaller guy’s head. He knew that wasn’t a good sign. But Un-Chul, the big guy, was struggling to get up. He was in a bad way when Yong Byun arrived on the scene, but at least he was moving. He cradled his right arm with his left hand, pinning it against his body as he knelt with his forehead against the pavement, struggling to breathe. When Yong Byun helped him to his feet, the man hissed and grunted in agony. All the while Jung Min was motionless, spread eagle on his back.

  Un-Chul was no help to him as he wrestled the smaller man’s frame into a position where he could get a better grip on him. Moving and lifting the dead weight of the unconscious man was difficult, but years of rigorous training had made him strong and the surge of adrenaline did the rest. By the time he had maneuvered the
inert body into the bed of the truck, the big guy had scooted his hind end onto the tailgate, a grimace of pain etched on his pale countenance. With significant aide from Yong Byun, he was able to get his legs and torso into the back of the truck. After pushing Jung Min’s legs to the side, Yong Byun covered them with a tarp.

  Before leaving the scene, Yong Byun pulled a large orange water jug from its rack in the truck’s bed and poured its contents on the spreading pool of blood. A broom in the truck bed helped him scrub the stain and spread the water around, dissipating the colored liquid across the dark grey concrete. No sooner had he closed the tailgate, then the Airport police came rushing past with their red and blue lights flashing through the fog.

  Yong Byun hopped in the driver’s seat and smashed the gear shift into drive. With forced calm, he resisted the urge to tromp on the accelerator and race out of there. Instead, he let his foot off the brake and eased the truck slowly toward the next plane to the north. Checking for any signs that he was being followed and, seeing none, he continued around the tail-end of that plane and toward the next. Following that pattern until he was at the northern end of the International terminal, Yong Byun had successfully navigated to a vehicle access road just south of the northern-most runways. Lights from other trucks and delivery vehicles moved about all around him in an eerie, loosely orchestrated mechanical ballet.

  Un-Chul, the big guy, spoke through the com unit in Yong Byun’s ear. His voice was raspy and shallow. “Is the package secure?”

  “No It is in the back of the truck with you.”

  “Is it armed?”

  Yong Byun’s insides knotted. “No. I had to get out of there. I took the bag with me so it wouldn’t be discovered.”

  Un-Chul spoke with great effort. “Our mission cannot reach its glorious destiny if we do not arm the devices and load them onto that plane. Let me out here and I will complete the mission.”

  “How will you do that? You only have use of one arm.”

  Through a series of halting breaths and strained whisperings, he protested. “That is none of your concern. Leave it to me. I know what to do.”

  “I can’t leave an injured Comrade behind. Too risky.”

  A pained cough through his earpiece was followed by, “You must. I have planned for this possibility. I know what to do.”

  “You are severely injured,” said Yong Byun. “I will go and complete the task.”

  “No, I can manage with just one good arm. It must be done. There is no other choice,” Un-Chul hissed through gritted teeth, the pain obvious with each syllable. “You must report to the council. Now, go with honor.”

  “We cannot leave a trail for them to follow.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t. And you mustn’t either. Dispose of Jung Min and disappear, as planned. I will likewise disappear when my role is completed.”

  Yong Byun didn’t reply, the gears inside his head spinning but not catching.

  Un-Chul continued. “There will be no rendezvous. Trust me. I will finish the job and leave no trace.”

  Chapter 10

  Interrogation Room, Los Angeles Airport Police Station

  June 6, 1:55 p.m.

  Robinson had disappeared. He’d been gone for ten minutes. No doubt he was conferring with the others behind the glass, trying to figure out how to best apply whatever leverage they felt they had on me for some purpose I could only imagine. I was beginning to feel this situation tilting out of control. It made me uncomfortable. That and the hard, wooden chair I’d been cuffed to for the past two hours.

  This was all part of the ploy. Interrogation protocol was designed to inflict fear, doubt, regret, and impatience. Make the subject so eager to get out of that room that he’ll say anything and give up any advantage he may have had going in. Not me. I wasn’t about to fall for it. I knew better, having been on the other side of the table so many times before.

  Patience and experience would work to my advantage. After all, the ticks on the clock were working harder against the Department of Homeland Security than against me. I didn’t have to answer questions to the media or to Congress as to why the airport had been shut down for two hours or why all the bags on that 747 had to be re-scanned.

  And if catastrophe struck, at least I would be able to say that I tried my best. I also wouldn’t be the one to blame if and when that plane blew up and killed all those people. Yes, I would be devastated by the loss of those I cared about, but I wouldn’t be answering to an outraged public for not taking the threat more seriously.

  This salient fact was my main bargaining chip and I planned to use it appropriately.

  The thought of the grim possibility I had potentially uncovered made my stomach turn. There were twenty-one people on that plane I cared for, that were my responsibility. It brought me full circle, back to where I started: If something happened to them, I’d never forgive myself for not doing everything I possibly could. My best had to be better. I had to save that plane.

  A groan worked its way to the surface, but I prevented it from escaping. I needed to get out of there. I needed to find that baggage handler—the one that recognized me in the plane. My innate noonchi told me by the look in his eyes that he was up to no good and that he was scared of what I might do. It also told me he had information. At this point, that is what I needed most. That and more time.

  Flight time between Los Angeles and Seoul was about thirteen and a half hours. I also knew that there would be enough fuel to last another three hours. So, it felt to me like an hourglass had been turned over with sixteen hours’ worth of sand in it.

  The thought unnerved me, but I was careful not to let my expression change.

  A few more precious minutes ticked by before Robinson sauntered back into the room, a trace of benevolence mixed with condescension on his face. It was all posturing. I knew it but doubted that Robinson knew that I knew it.

  Whatever Robinson had learned during his ten-minute absence would not be forthcoming. He’d bluster about how things were not looking good for me before he got around to the “big reveal.”

  As I listened, I had to suppress a smile. It was amusing to see someone do things that I had done to my prisoners in the past. Maybe these guys didn’t know as much about me as Robinson had indicated earlier. My file was three inches thick, so I’m sure no one had had the time to read it all the way through or comprehend what it meant to be the youngest-ever commander of a border patrol unit along the DMZ. When you guard the boundary between a hostile Communist neighbor who employs the largest standing army in the world, your learning curve on the job is steep. If you survive, you are forever changed and forever wary.

  Robinson had already shown his ignorance by supposing out loud that I had advanced because of my father’s high rank. In reality, the opposite was true. I could have stayed in a normal unit and been promoted even faster had I chosen to ride my father’s reputation and clout. But I had chosen the most difficult career path so as to avoid the very accusation which Robinson had hurled at me.

  No one chose to serve on the DMZ, at least no one in their right mind. The unit had the highest death rate, although that was never publicized. Suicides were more common, though swept under the rug or blamed on the enemy. Combat was far more likely as skirmishes broke out frequently in the area between the fences when the testosterone-laden, highly trained, and fully armed soldiers that patrolled both sides of the four-kilometer-wide line that divided the once-united nation of Korea encountered each other. Most young men in Korea wanted to fulfill their mandatory time in the army somewhere far away from the DMZ, learn something that would be useful in their future careers, then get out as quickly as possible and go on with their lives as normal citizens.

  I could have chosen that option. It was open to me. A life of relative ease and comfort. Had I chosen the easy route, my path to the top was all but paved. Honors, promotions, and accolades would surely have followed and all I would have had to do, really, is show up for work and do the job I knew how
to do without thinking.

  But that would have been too easy and would never have made me happy. I loved a good challenge. I loved the idea of gaining a reputation on my own. Building merit because of what I did, not because of what my father had done. Choosing the least desirable duty in the Korean military had been just the beginning.

  Robinson looked somber, resolute. The act was almost convincing. I bit my tongue as he told me that he really wanted to help me, but only if I was able to help him first.

  “Mr. Noh, you’re in a world of trouble here. You know that, right?”

  I squinted my eyes and held his gaze.

  He paused and looked as if he was analyzing my reaction. “We can do this the hard way, or we can do this the easy way. Which is it going to be?”

  I kept eye contact. “What’s the hard way?”

  Robinson shook his head as his eyes dropped to the file on the table. He waved my question aside with his hand. “The easy way is to describe for me the reasons you left a high post at the most prestigious unit of the Korean Army.”

  He glanced at me, but I kept my stone face going, so he continued. “The hard way is for me to read every word in this here file while you continue to sit in that chair with your hands cuffed behind your back.”

  I inhaled and held it. “It’s not that easy. You probably wouldn’t understand the situation with all the cultural nuances. It’s very complicated.”

  Robinson’s eyebrows rose with intrigue. “Try me.”

  I looked to the ceiling as I tried to decide how far back to go. Time was working against me—against us and the passengers on that plane—so I had to choose my words carefully while still giving him the complete story. Words were not my strong suit, even though my English fluency was very respectable.

  “In high school,” I started, “I was teased by the American kids about being a spoiled Army brat. My father was a public figure, a very high-ranking officer with an innate gift for public speaking. He was always a very visible and accessible leader. The news media loved him for it. In fact, in many ways he was the face and the voice of the Korean Army.”