Chosen Path: An International Thriller

by Glen Robins

  Convinced that he was alone, Yong Byun moved quickly, feeling the pressure as time continued to march forward. He whipped open the refrigerator door and reached for the gigantic jar of kimchi. Nerves got the best of him as he pulled it from the shelf and the jar slipped through his hands and crashed on the ground, spilling its pungent contents all over the linoleum. Pickled cabbage and briny water seasoned with garlic and red pepper paste spread out across the floor. Amid the shards of glass were two quart-sized sealed baggies stuffed full of hundred-dollar bills.

  Yong Byun snatched the two bags of cash. In his haste, a piece of glass the size of a baby’s tooth, lodged into the fleshy part at the edge of his hand, between his pinky finger and his wrist. Blood seeped out in large crimson drops. He winced. A flare of pain shot through his system as salty water entered the wound. He inspected the cut and found the culprit. Using his fingernails, he dug the razor-sharp chunk of glass out and dropped it in the pile of kimchi. He grabbed a hand towel laced through a drawer’s handle and wrapped it around the hand as he dashed back out the door and jumped in the car.

  He dropped the transmission into Reverse with the toweled hand and got part way out of the driveway before he realized he was missing something. The car lurched back up the driveway when he jerked the gear shifter back into Drive just to slam to a stop a few feet later.

  Once again, he ran through the garage. As he did, it occurred to him that he had also forgotten to close the garage door on his way out the first time. Panic was setting in, causing him to slip. He needed to slow down, but how could he with the clock ticking? Someone could show up any time. Then his troubles would multiply.

  He skidded on the slick surface in the kitchen but used the counter to keep himself from falling as he ran toward the hallway where the bedrooms were. Opening the first door, he found nothing but a mattress on the floor and a few clothes hanging in the closet.

  The second room looked like the control room. Computers and monitors and wires and racks of machines with blinking lights.

  He found what he was looking for in the third bedroom. A desk was pushed under the window at the far end and another was set up along the adjacent wall. Each had three drawers. He found a dozen file folders in the large bottom drawer of the first desk. His name was on the tab of one of them. He yanked the file out and found three passports, including the one he had used to enter the United States through Mexico. Each passport had his photo but a different name. A few other documents were printed with various official-looking seals. He didn’t take the time to inspect them.

  Something underneath the file folders made it difficult to move them. It was a large lump in a brown bag. He pulled the bag out and discovered another wad of cash, eight neatly bundled stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Jackpot.

  Time was ticking, and his nerves were more on fire with each passing second, but he rifled through the other folders, noting the names on their tabs. He recognized Un-Chul’s and Jung Min’s names, but none of the others.

  A dark cloud passed through him as he thought about Jung Min, who had died because of that miserable son of the South Korean general and his interference. He bit back the rising bile as he thought about what he had had to do to hide evidence of their treachery.

  * * *

  Los Angeles International Airport

  Two hours earlier

  Following Un-Chul’s instructions, Yong Byun stopped the truck near the terminal building where they both knew from the blue prints they had memorized there was an entrance to the baggage processing area where Un-Chul could sneak through. The man must be in immense pain, thought Yong Byun. What a true hero.

  Un-Chul gingerly eased himself down from the tailgate Yong Byun had lowered. The hard plastic on the back of the black roller bag made a blood-curdling scraping sound as he dragged it across the dirt and debris littering the truck bed. He carefully maneuvered it to the lip of the gate using his one good arm. The bag nearly knocked the big guy down as it slammed into the side of his leg.

  Wincing with pain, the ashen-faced hero bid Yong Byun success in fulfilling the rest of his role in the mission and hobbled through the fog, one arm tucked carefully in his jacket, tied in place with a piece of rope Yong Byun found in the bed of the truck and had used to create a makeshift sling. The other arm tugged the handle of the heavy roller bag.

  Yong Byun shook his head in admiration and disbelief as he hopped back in the truck and once again fought the urge to speed away. It was all he could do to keep the truck under 15 miles per hour as he slowly meandered, like so many of the other vehicles in sight, toward the employee exit.

  Going from memory, he worked his way past a group of tall fuel storage tanks and turned south on a narrow access road between two employee parking areas. Weaving his way between long buildings and past rows of trucks similar to the one he was driving, hoping the whole time to not draw any attention, Yong Byun was grateful for the thick fog that blanketed the entire coastline.

  Finally, he found what he was looking for: World Way—the road in and out of LAX for grounds crew and mechanical staff. He turned west, toward the ocean and drove slowly, trying to make it look like he was going about his normal operational duties when really all he wanted to do was floor the gas and get out of there as fast as possible. He worked his way past the maintenance hangars and the security office and the other buildings that dotted the perimeter of the airport. Lucky for him, there was just enough activity to mask his escape. Food service trucks passed him going the other way, toward the congregation of parked aircraft. The pick-up truck a hundred yards ahead of him turned to the right between two buildings as another truck pulled out from his left and headed back toward the terminals. Each vehicle he saw made his breath catch in his throat.

  After what felt like an eternity, Yong Byun arrived at the unmanned security gate. He swiped his badge, knowing there were cameras that his tech guys had probably not disabled. They were probably on the run. The original plan called for Yong Byun and his team to exit through this gate much later in the morning. His face would be seen, but there was nothing he could do about that. Escape was the only option. The sooner, the better.

  Yong Byun exited the airport onto southbound Pershing Drive, a road that skirted the airport’s western edge. He applied the gas in an even acceleration until he neared Imperial Highway, where he turned left to head east, parallel to the southern runways.

  Yong Byun continued east as Los Angeles’s newest freeway, Interstate 105, rose from ground level to several stories above Imperial Highway. Driving in silence, thinking through his escape plan, Yong Byun then turned right from Imperial Highway into the maze of industrial buildings that ringed the southeastern flanks of the country’s third busiest airport. The structures along Imperial Highway were mostly tilt-up concrete affairs, new and well-lit, with corporate names and logos proudly displayed in plain view. Many of the larger airlines had operations buildings in this area, as did many of the food service providers for the airlines. Two turns onto smaller side streets brought him into the less flashy part of the warehouse district, where the structures were older and the signs were faded and the company names unrecognizable to the common citizen.

  Halfway down the block of one of these side streets, a twelve-foot chain link gate surrounded a squat concrete building, its paint faded and peeling. The faux stone veneer around the front entrance spoke of its early 70’s construction. Its decorative rock and juniper landscaping riddled with weeds and litter gave an air of neglect. This had been their rented mission headquarters for the past four years. Yong Byun thumbed a code into his phone and the gate lurched and shuddered as the ancient motor tugged at the wheeled assembly at its base. He pulled the truck into the crumbling, deserted parking area and around the side of the building. A large roll-up steel door was set into the north side and a glass entrance framed in aluminum faced the street. Yong Byun tapped his phone again and the corrugated steel entry rolled upward, and he idled the truck into the darkened warehouse. Another t
ap and it closed behind him.

  Yong Byun sighed as he killed the motor, concerns over the success of their mission pulling down his emotions like a drowning victim in a whirlpool. Shoulders hunched forward, head lowered, he shuffled across the dusty concrete floor to a row of red fuel jugs lined up under a filthy window.

  He pulled the top off of one and let its contents run out as he traced a line around the inside perimeter of the building. It took two jugs to complete the task. The third jug was poured out inside the office space in the front of the building. With the fourth jug in hand, he lumbered back to the truck. He pulled back the tarp and stared for a moment at his dying Comrade. A fresh pool of blood encircled his head like a black halo. The man moaned as Yong Byun began pouring gasoline on him, soaking his clothes.

  After saluting Jung Min, Yong Byun hopped down from the truck bed, created a small lake of fuel on the ground near the gas tank, and continued pouring out a line of gasoline, creating a sort of fuse. He closed his eyes and shook his head. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. The Supreme Council had guaranteed success. Every detail had been planned meticulously. A member of the Council, rumored to be a close relative of the Supreme Leader, had given a speech to the team before they departed their homeland. “Have no fear, Comrades,” said the mission leader. “The victory you shall win will bring the respect our country deserves. The whores of the South will have no choice but to bow to our demands.”

  Yong Byun pulled a lighter from his jacket pocket. He lit a cigarette, took a long drag on it, trying to steel his resolve. This one last act was partly for the cause and partly for himself. It would be a worthy distraction that he hoped would buy him enough time to get to the border.

  He inhaled another lungful of smoke, then unceremoniously flicked the burning cigarette onto the liquid fuse. It pained him to do so, but he had to destroy all evidence, including his Comrade.

  Yong Byun turned his back and climbed into the team’s white Honda Civic and drove it out the rolled-up door. Smoke was just starting to billow from the truck bed as he checked his mirror.

  By the time Yong Byun was climbing the eastbound on-ramp to 105 Freeway, a black mushroom cloud was spreading into the sky above the warehouse he had just left.

  Chapter 13

  Interrogation Room, Los Angeles Airport Police Station

  June 5, 2:14 p.m.

  Even though I expected the question to surface at some point, it still rattled me. Why was I exiled from the country I loved and had devoted my life to serve?

  It felt like my insides had been stung by a swarm of bees. Despite the stinging going on inside, I did my best to maintain a stone-cold exterior. I couldn’t afford to crack now, not with all these eyes on me and not at this crucial moment.

  The answer, however, was not simple. It never is in cases like this. The story was laced with complex interdepartmental situations, cultural expectations, military hierarchal traditions, and, not least of all, my father’s political ambitions. My answer was an over-simplification to say the least, but completely true and honest at the same time. “It was the only way to save face.”

  Robinson cocked his head, studying me. “Explain.”

  “In my country, there is a concept called kibun. Ki-bun, in a few words, is one’s personal honor, dignity, and public image. It’s very important to Koreans. Americans don’t understand it because their culture is so much different. In America, someone’s truth sometimes destroys another person’s reputation. In Korea, someone’s reputation often stifles someone else’s truth. I got caught somewhere in between those two forces.”

  Robinson motioned with his hand that he understood and wanted me to go on.

  “When you boil it all down, it was my word against theirs.”

  “Who are you talking about? Whose word was against yours?”

  “First in line was my CO, then everyone in the chain of command above him.”

  “Was your father in that chain of command?” Robinson’s eyes narrowed as he asked the question.

  “Yes. At the time, my father was the second-highest ranking officer in the Korean Army.” I paused while that settled in. “He was also in the process of mounting his candidacy for President.”

  Robinson shook his head. “So, you took the fall in order to save your father’s reputation?”

  “Ultimately, yes.”

  “That’s why you were exiled?”

  “I left voluntarily. I didn’t want to become a continuing story for the newspapers.”

  “I see.” Robinson tapped his index finger on the file again. “Fill in the details for me. What happened that night?”

  “My commanding officer sent my twelve-man unit through the fence on an exploratory ‘raid.’ We had confirmed sightings on our infrared satellite imagery of several individuals—what looked to be a family, including a couple of kids—breaching the restricted area between the fences, coming down from the North. I was the commander of this special tactical unit and this is what we had been trained for. As we approached the area where the group had stopped, we could see in our night vision goggles two adults and two kids huddled behind a rock. My CO was monitoring the operation back at the command center. He ordered me through the comm system to apprehend them and bring them in for questioning. Defectors were always a great source of intelligence for us, so he wanted them brought in so we could mine information.”

  “OK. So what’s the problem?” Robinson asked, trying to get straight to the point.

  “My CO wanted us to take them and return to the fence as quickly as possible. He was very impatient. The kids looked to be around eight and ten. My CO figured they were harmless, and we should minimize our exposure by hurrying. I knew better and wanted to proceed with caution. But he threatened to demote me if I didn’t obey his orders promptly.”

  Robinson held up a finger to stop me. “Why do you say you knew better?”

  “I don’t know exactly. It just didn’t feel right. Something about their body language triggered that reaction in me.”

  “I see,” he said, nodding. “Kind of like the response you had this morning?”

  “Yes. When you’ve been in the field as much as I have, you tend to err on the side of caution. That’s the best way to avoid bullets.”

  “So, you were hesitant because you felt you should exercise more caution?”

  “Yes, but I was now under orders to proceed directly to the targets and secure them immediately. So, I ordered my team into defensive formation. We fanned out and approached much more quickly than I would have liked. I was uneasy about the situation, but my CO continued to urge us to speed up before the enemy became aware of the defectors.”

  “Did you disobey orders?”

  “No. I followed them to the ‘T.’ That’s what got us in trouble. You have to understand that this was very mountainous terrain, allowing for plenty of hiding places. The body language, the stiffness, the placement of the family—it was all wrong. As my men maneuvered into position, we were ambushed. The whole thing was a set up. Men in camouflage popped up from hiding places in a semi-circle around the family and opened up. Machine gun fire came at us from all directions. Rounds tore through the dark, killing the man, woman, and children behind the rock and all of my men. I alone . . .”

  My voice trailed off, but not because of the emotional impact of sharing that story. I realized in that moment where I had seen the eyes from the cargo hold of the plane earlier that morning. Those eyes and that face had confronted me on that fateful night. The same look of recognition. The same scheming expression. I chose to keep that revelation to myself.

  “So, you were court-marshalled for a botched operation,” Robinson sighed.

  I snapped back to the present but must have sounded far away. “Yes. There were no other survivors. I was the one in charge on the ground level. The lives of those eleven men and those would-be defectors were in my hands. I was responsible for them.”

  Robinson shook his head. “But you survived? How?”<
br />
  I sucked in a breath, measuring my words. “As you noted, I had received many commendations. One of them was for marksmanship. One of them was for high scores in combat situations. They call it ‘tactical response.’ I scored very high on those exercises during training.”

  “How many ‘enemy combatants’ were there that night?”

  “I can’t be sure. It all happened so fast. I spotted three in the trees just beyond the huddled family. I took them out first. Two or three behind rocks at the three o’clock position, two or three at nine o’clock. But I can’t be one-hundred percent sure.”

  “You said you were surrounded. How did you escape?”

  I kept my eyes down, not wanting to boast or even appear to be boasting. “I dropped to one knee and spun counter-clockwise, ‘spraying lead,’ as our American cohorts like to say. There were a few rocks nearby. They weren’t very tall, but they gave me some cover. I rolled to one side, then to the other, laying down three-round bursts each time I saw movement. I heard lots of grunts and heard rounds hitting their targets. Some of them hit flesh and some hit body armor. I also lobbed every grenade I had. In the confusion, I dragged my team members to the safety of the rocks I was hiding behind. I then lobbed their grenades as well.”

  “You were able to stave off the enemy all this time?”

  “I did the best I could. Once they started moving, their heat signatures showed up on the thermal imaging read-out, which helped me target my grenades better.”

  “Were you hit during this skirmish?”

  “Yes. My body armor stopped three bullets,” I said.

  “Many people are injured despite the armor,” Robinson said, once again shaking his head.

  “Yes, the armor saves you from life-threatening injuries, but not from the pain and bruising of an incoming bullet.”

  “How extensive were your injuries?” Robinson seemed to already know the answer but wanted me to share with our hidden audience.