by Glen Robins
When I paused, Robinson cocked his head and said, “I’m listening. Go on.”
“I decided at a young age that I wouldn’t live my life in his shadow. I’d do things my way while maintaining the family name—the family pride, you know? I love my father and would never want to bring dishonor to him or to the rest of my family. That included not taking the easy way out and just going along with the safe assignments that would likely be offered. No. Instead I signed up for the border patrol as an enlisted man. A normal grunt.”
“Why didn’t you go to Officer Candidate School?”
“I didn’t want any type of favoritism. When I was in high school, my father had been promoted to Lieutenant General and was handling press relations and liaison duties with the American Armed Forces stationed at various bases north of Seoul. He helped coordinate the training exercises as well as communicate with the Americans, the press, and the National Assembly.
“I was always intrigued by the stories he would tell us, when he could. Most of his stories, I found out later, were highly classified. But the stories he could tell us were all about the men who patrolled the DMZ and their great acts of valor and bravery. He would praise those men saying they represented the best of our country.”
Robinson squinted at me. “So, you chose to go into one of those units to win his praise?”
“I guess you could say that. His and my friends’ praise, both Korean and American. The Korean friends would all go on to do other things after the military. Some became doctors, many went into the high-tech field, some went into animation or game design or started small businesses. But in my family, the military is what you do. My father, my grandfather, and even his father, were all military officers. It was almost as if I had no choice, so I made the one choice I felt was open to me: I signed up for duty in the Lightning Brigade.”
“They’re the border guards, are they not?”
“Yes. They live in the most remote parts of the country, isolated in the mountains, patrolling the fences, and occasionally receiving and returning fire with the North Koreans.”
“So, not the best conditions?”
“Not at all. It’s very cold up there in the mountains during the winter and very hot and humid and swarming with mosquitoes in the summer. It’s the most miserable place in our country. The gear we had to wear weighs over 22 kilos – that’s 48 pounds of armor, weapons, ammunition, and supplies. We train in that gear sometimes eight hours a day, sometimes eight days in a row with no break while on field operations.”
“I take it you wanted to prove that you’re tough? That you’re not some pampered son of a high-ranking officer?”
“I guess so. Mostly, I wanted to serve my country and bring honor to my family.”
“Did you ever regret your decision?”
I paused. It was a loaded question. I could feel the eyes boring into me, both from Robinson and from the other side of the glass. My credibility rested on what I said next. “I had days where I questioned myself, but there was really no time for that. Conditioning, training, and rigorous field exercises kept me focused on the task at hand. Most mornings, I arose thirty minutes before anyone else and did push-ups, sit-ups, and isometric strength exercises. I also listened to American talk shows on my headphones while I worked out. Being fluent in English would help me shine. My goal was not just to survive those grueling tests; my goal was to rise to the top. I wanted to be the best by a long shot, so I had no time for regrets. That’s not the way I want to live my life.”
“And from your file, I know that’s what you did. You have commendations up the Ying Yang. ‘Fastest recruit to ever reach Sergeant Major,’ it says here.”
I didn’t say anything, just nodded my head in the obligatory humility hard-wired into Asians.
Robinson continued. “From there you were sent to Officer Training School.”
Again, I nodded.
“You graduated with honors, passing both physical and academic requirements with flying colors. On top of that, you passed all English fluency tests, no problem. Seems your hard work paid off.”
“Hard work comes with the territory. It runs in the family.”
“Ah, so you do take after your father?” Robinson peered at me in disbelief before he dropped the proverbial bomb. “Then why did he have you court marshalled and essentially exiled?”
Chapter 11
Laguna Niguel, California
June 6, 2:12 p.m.
Stephanie Noh was winding her way up the hill toward her parents’ house, passing one stately home after another, when the call came in. Matthew was asleep in his car seat. Sophia was happily engaged at her daycare center at the base of the hill. It was time for Stephanie to confer with her father and let him in on what was happening. She needed his support, if nothing else. Ever the optimist, he had a way of coaching Stephanie through every difficulty she had faced.
The morning had been nothing but bad news. Any information, comfort, or guidance she could get from her dad might help replace the feeling of being in the dark and helpless. She had made phone call after phone call trying to learn something, anything, about what was going on with JT and with his flight. Korean Airlines, the LAPD, the TSA, and the Korean Embassy had all given her vague non-answers, each saying things like, “There is an active investigation. We are unable to share any information with you at this time.”
Her best hope for information was for the first call she had made to be returned. It was a shot in the dark, a calculated gamble, that could upset everything. Or, it could illuminate everything.
What she learned through the numerous phone calls was that the plane had been delayed but was in the air. However, no one would confirm whether her husband was onboard or not. She had been told multiple times that they were not allowed to give out that information. Not knowing where he was or what he was doing compounded her sense of disconnectedness.
The call coming in would, she hoped, provide more information than the American officials had been willing to share. The “82” country code on the Caller I.D meant it was coming from Korea. She took a deep breath and answered with her best Korean accent. “Yeoboseyo.”
The voice on the other end was stern and official sounding. “Mrs. Stephanie Noh, please,” he said in lightly accented English.
“This is she.”
Stephanie continued driving past an estate where the gardeners were blowing leaves and pulled her minivan to the curb around the corner where it was quieter, so she could safely focus on the call.
“Mrs. Noh, please hold the line for General Noh.”
Her heart skipped a beat. She had only had two encounters with her father-in-law in the entire six years she had been married to JT. Neither one was pleasant.
The first came shortly after she and JT had eloped. Not knowing that she spoke and understood Korean quite well, he had asked his son why he had brought “this mongrel” into his house. “Mixed breeds are not acceptable, Jeong Tae,” he said. “Why do you shame me this way?” JT had glared at his father, grabbed her hand, and left the house.
She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, gently shaking her head. She let out a sigh and sucked in another deep breath.
A deep gravelly voice came on the line, speaking clipped English with an air of power that seemed to permeate the radio signal that carried his words. “Stephanie? This is General Noh. I want you to know that my office was informed of Jeong Tae’s arrest earlier this morning. We are working with the Korean Embassy in Los Angeles to make arrangements for his release.”
She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin as she spoke, projecting every ounce of confidence possible. “Thank you very much, General. I appreciate your help. Do you have any information about his condition or why he’s being held?”
“As far as why he’s being held, I’m not at liberty to say. This is a very delicate diplomatic matter. The allegations are very serious and the evidence against him immutable. However, there are special circumstances that I cannot disc
uss with you. We have certain legal grounds to challenge his detainment, so we are working through diplomatic channels to have custody remanded to his country’s embassy as soon as possible.”
The General’s tone was all-business—no small-talk or familiarity.
The emphasis on “his country’s embassy” did not go unnoticed.
She paused, clinching her jaw muscles for a beat. “I’m glad to hear that, sir. What can you tell me about his condition? Has he been harmed in any way?”
“The Americans promise me that they are treating my son well and that he is in good health and good spirits.”
“Do you think there’s any way I can talk to my husband?”
This time, it was the General who paused before speaking again.
“I can’t say. The Americans only allow one phone call, which he has already used. Unfortunately, he did not think to call me first.”
She cocked her head at that response but stayed silent.
The General continued. “Our diplomats are in constant contact with the American TSA office in Los Angeles. They will pass any information they have to my office. My office will relay pertinent information to you.”
Her eyebrows lifted involuntarily. She clinched again, then responded. “That’s very kind. I appreciate that.”
“You’re welcome—”
“There must be something I can do?” she blurted. “Do you think it would help him if I drove up there and talked with someone?”
There was a long pause. Stephanie gulped, putting her hand to her face.
“My office and the Korean Embassy in Los Angeles are working on a diplomatic solution. We have tried to make the Americans aware of Jeong Tae’s considerable prior experience and talents, as well as his status. His considerable skills can and should be put to good use in the ongoing investigation. This, we hope, will elicit his release.”
During the few conversations Jeong Tae had had with his father since leaving Korea, each had revolved around him wasting his significant talent on teaching Tae Kwon Do to Americanized kids. If this conversation with Stephanie was a boxing match, the General had scored on several jabs that connected to vulnerable spots. Stephanie’s return jabs were not as insulting.
Even though the General was busy and condescending, it was her first ever one-on-one conversation with him. Tense though it was, it was a connection, and she didn’t want to break it for fear she would never get another chance.
“Sir, I don’t know what to do. I want to help free my husband. My children need their father. I can’t have him go to prison. He doesn’t deserve that.”
Another pause. Longer than the first.
“I understand. This is a very difficult situation, but I have hope. You must also keep hope. Please do not tell my grandchildren that their father has been in prison. That would cause them shame. He will be released very soon. Let the children think he is away on business, as was planned. This is not something they need to be concerned about.”
Those words and the gentler tone in his voice stopped her in her tracks. This man had never acknowledged that her children were his grandchildren. He had only seen them twice for five minutes each time. Two disastrous attempts by JT to form a relationship between a grandfather and his grandchildren. No affection was shared other than a pat on the top of each of their heads as he said good-bye.
“OK,” she said, nodding. “I will hold on to hope. Please keep me informed. That will help.”
“Very well. We will do everything we can from the government side. Meanwhile, stay strong. Pray for him …and I will pray for him, too.”
The line went dead.
Stephanie stared at the phone, tears welling in her eyes. She put her hand over her heart and drew in another deep breath.
Matthew squawked from his car seat behind her, snapping her focus back to the present. He was waking up from his nap now that the car was not moving and would soon be screaming. She knocked the gear shift into drive and pulled away from the curb, blinking hard.
Maybe this crisis would be the chance Stephanie needed to prove to her father-in-law that although she was of mixed race, she was not a “mongrel” or a second-class citizen.
Her father was full-blooded Korean. That should count for something. Her mother was half Thai, half African American—the result of a weekend fling between a US soldier on leave in Bangkok during the Korean Conflict and a naïve waitress. Stephanie had come to terms with her heritage and felt no shame being of mixed race. The only shame was never having known her grandfather, because her mother never met him, either. One of the many abandoned half-breeds left behind at the end of the war. The man probably never knew he’d fathered a child. According to her grandmother, there was no further contact after their encounter. She never saw or heard from him again.
Jeong Tae had told her he didn’t mind her mixed bloodlines, either. He reminded her constantly that he was intoxicated with her beauty and her “I-don’t-care-what-people-think” demeanor. She knew who she was and overcame the scorn with thoughtfulness, intelligence, and a practiced grace she inherited from her mother.
Chapter 12
Southbound Interstate 405, Garden Grove, California
June 5, 2:13 p.m.
It was a risk he had to take. There was no choice, not if he was going to escape. Chances were good someone knew. They had to know. Or at least suspect.
He had called through his comm unit to abort. The operation was botched, and everyone was now in scramble mode, acting on their own unique set of instructions prescribed by mission command. Everyone except Yong Byun. He was following a self-created plan, one that would free him from the consequences of failure as well as the dismal existence in which he had grown up. And if they knew he wasn’t where he was supposed to be, they could be at the control house, waiting for him. If so, his life would be ended. Probably in a horrible manner. And probably after weeks, if not months, of long and drawn-out tension or torture or both.
But without his passports and some money, it would only be a matter of time before he met the same fate anyway. Getting to Mexico was his best chance at survival. He had to have his passport to enter the country and he needed money to live, as well as to swap vehicles. It was very likely his control agents had a tracker in the car, so keeping it wasn’t an option. He had to chance it and try to find his papers and some cash at the safe house.
The car he drove was one of the team cars, one they kept in the warehouse near the airport, the warehouse he had burned down along with the truck he had stolen, and his mortally wounded Comrade. He had no other choice, not with a tight timeline. He hadn’t had time to follow the original guideline and sanitize the warehouse. Plus, he needed to get rid of the body. Burning the place down was the only way to hide the evidence and possibly buy himself some time.
Driving the speed limit through the neighborhood in Garden Grove, an hour south of LAX, Yong Byun passed the little house halfway down the block on his left that matched all the other little houses on the street. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. No cars in the driveway and none in front of the house. The curtains were still closed. The porch light was on. That could mean the other team members left in a hurry, or that no one had returned since the night before. As he turned at the next corner, another thought entered his frazzled mind: what if it was a trap?
If the guardians were watching, they would surely recognize the car as he drove past.
He dismissed that thought. If there was a tracker, they were already monitoring his movements, so what did it matter?
Nothing looked suspicious or out of place during his second pass, either. Even so, his guts were tied in a knot. He knew of this safe house, knew the address, but didn’t know who lived there or what function they fulfilled in the grand scheme of this operation. He knew there were “observers,” but he had never seen them. They called in his grocery order every night. They talked to people at his apartment complex. They seemed to know everything he did and everyone he spoke to.
&nb
sp; Tracked or not, he had to go inside and find the items he needed. Getting out of this country was his only hope for surviving. Even in Mexico they could find him, but he liked his chances better there.
The third time down the block, he gritted his teeth, summoned all of his courage, and drove straight into the driveway. He stopped suddenly and shoved the gear selector of the non-descript, four-year-old Honda Civic into Park. Feeling completely exposed and targeted without a weapon or body armor, he sucked in a deep breath before swinging the door open.
Yong Byun got out of the car, leaving the engine running, and listened carefully for any sounds coming from the house. All he could hear above the Honda’s idling was a dog barking somewhere in the middle distance and cars on the boulevard which was just over the wall of the tiny back yard. He carefully punched the code, which was 9948—the date North Korea became its own nation—into the garage door opener keypad. Once the door was three feet above the ground, he ducked under it and ran to the interior door, still listening for sounds of movement or activity inside the house.
At the door, Yong Byun paused fifteen seconds to listen before carefully turning the handle and pushing the door open a crack. Another fifteen seconds told him there was no one moving. His heart pounded. A patient sniper could be silently sighting on the entry, waiting for him to step inside. He held his breath and entered in a crouched position to minimize the target area.
The house was darkened. Muted sunlight entered through cream-colored drapes in an outdated living area ahead of him. To his right was the kitchen. Louvered blinds on a window over the sink created a semi-bright glow in the room.
