by Glen Robins
However, it was well known that there were “special contributors” who garnered extra favor from the overseers. Since no one from his family had ever been chosen to become an official on any level, Yong Byun aimed to become one of those special contributors.
He had volunteered for this dangerous mission because the reward was honor, prestige, and a modicum of comfort for his family. He had been chosen because he had proven his valor and bravery repeatedly during his military service, moving up the ranks of the enlisted. He had volunteered for the most dangerous duties and had performed well, including a few incursions into the hotly contested DMZ.
When Yong Byun returned from his first DMZ mission, he was given a promotion. He spent the next two years doing more dangerous missions to prove himself worthy to participate in this, the grandest of all missions.
Now, sitting in a baking car in the middle of a barren desert, Yong Byun realized all of his efforts, his training, his dreams of a better life, were for naught. They would never amount to anything because his part of the mission had been compromised by one lousy southerner, the very man he recognized and who seemed to recognize him. For the second time in his military career, the General’s son had nearly spoiled the plan. The very thought of that man made him seethe.
Months of careful planning and training, months of learning a new language and how to blend in with the enemy’s society wasted. So much effort, so much time. The failure would be pinned on Yong Byun. He was the leader of the LAX team on the ground. His family would be eliminated because of it, a grim fact that he had to reconcile in his mind. Saving his own life seemed the only logical recourse because no one would know—or care—about Yong Byun’s quick thinking to save the mission or of Un-Chul’s bravery. If he succeeded, Un-Chul would never have the opportunity to tell the story.
Despite the apparent failure of his team’s mission, Yong Byun was proud of his improvisation in the belly of the plane. Had he not acted quickly, the explosive materials would have fallen into enemy hands. The South Korean was headed for trouble, and that was fine by Yong Byun. No one took the guy seriously. They thought he was crazy. That worked well for Yong Byun until he realized the plane would be delayed because of the intrusion.
As Yong Byun replayed the scene from earlier in the morning, he wondered if the General’s son recalled their first meeting. That night long ago was dark and the scene chaotic, but Yong Byun came into close contact with the man, close enough to see the surprise, courage, and resolve in his eyes, similar to what he had seen that morning.
Yong Byun inched the car forward in the line. Soon he would be across the border to the relative safety and freedom of Mexico. His heart felt heavy with shame and sadness, but a kernel of resolve resided there. He did not want to die. Living in America had been more pleasant than he had previously imagined, a fact he kept hidden. The prospect of being completely independent with no safety or support was a daunting one. Fleeing to Mexico was a gamble, but it was the only real choice if he expected to survive past sundown.
As he approached the guard station, he rolled down the window and knew instantly he was in trouble. The look of recognition on the guard’s face was undeniable. Before he knew what was happening, he was forced from his car, patted down, handcuffed, and led away into a building on the American side of the border.
Reeling from the sudden turn of events and despairing that, for the second time in a day, he had been within a hair’s breadth of triumph and yet had failed, Yong Byun surrendered. Exhilaration quickly turned to abject disappointment. Victory and glory had once again been snatched from his grasp. Instead of ascending to new heights, he was sinking to depths he had never imagined.
Every hope Kim Yong Byun had held for a better life imploded in that moment.
Chapter 23
Onboard Bell UH-1N Helicopter, approaching the Tecate Port of Entry Station
June 5, 7:03 p.m.
Staring out the window of the Bell UH-1N transport helicopter, two things jumped out at me unexpectedly. First, although this was desert country, I had not expected it to be so hilly. We passed several rugged peaks, one of which the pilot pointed out as Tecate Peak. That signaled that we were approaching our destination: The border crossing from Tecate, California, into Tecate, Mexico.
The second thing that struck me was the stark contrast between the US side and the Mexican side. The US side was desolate in comparison. On the southern side of the border, buildings and houses and businesses dotted the hillsides in a semi-organized fashion, whereas the US side hosted maybe a third as many of the same types of structures but spaced farther apart and more haphazardly. Tecate, California, was far less populated than Tecate, Mexico.
As we approached, Robinson pointed to a white building with a red-tiled roof, ringed with trees. “That’s the border inspection station. Built in the 1930’s and modernized over the years. It’s now somewhat of an historic site. That’s where they’re holding our man, the one you saw in the cargo hold.”
I nodded my understanding and approval as I surveyed the scenery.
The helicopter descended. Dust and debris swirled into a cloud under the powerful wash of the helicopter’s rotors as we touched down in a fenced-in yard near behind the historic border station. As the engine began to wind down, Robinson nodded to me, a wry smile spreading across his face as he spoke into the microphone of his headset. “This is it, Mr. Noh. This is our border with Mexico. Not quite the DMZ, I’d imagine, but a border nonetheless.”
I peered out the window at the rocks and chaparral that dotted the rugged landscape. “Slightly different environment, same goal, I suppose. We have similar mountainous terrain, you know. Just more vegetation to deal with. And I doubt you have the snow and freezing temperatures around here that we have to deal with in Korea.”
A twelve-foot-high metal barrier topped with razor lay a hundred meters to our south. It spread east to west as far as I could see. A ribbon of dark asphalt ran southward fifty meters to the west of the landing pad. A line of cars backed up beyond a grouping of guard huts and gates as they passed through the border check point.
Robinson and I were greeted by two smart-looking Border Patrol Guards as the door slid open. They wore crew cuts, wrap-around black sunglasses, and Colt M4 Carbine sub machine guns slung across their shoulders. We received snappy salutes and were escorted quickly to the rear entrance of the characteristically southwestern adobe-style building a few meters away. At Robinson’s insistence, I had replaced my Dodger’s jacket, jeans, and Nike’s with desert camo cargo pants, black boots, and a black synthetic polo shirt with the DHS logo stenciled on the left breast. I looked official but felt like an imposter.
As soon as I stepped out, I felt heat. Although the sun was low in the western sky, the heat came from all sides, including upward from the ground. The asphalt of the helipad and the clumps of rocks strewn throughout the small yard radiated a long day’s worth of pent-up solar energy. The helo’s rotors simply moved the hundred-degree air around, along with a cloud of dust, causing the grit to stick to my skin as I ran across the dirt lot. Droplets of sweat began to form and capture the swirling dirt before I even reached the building entrance.
“Right this way, sirs,” said the tall one with the spiky black crew cut, perfectly squared in the front to match his imposing jaw line and strong chin. He opened the door and stood aside as we entered a reception room. The blond guard entered after us and closed the door behind him. He stopped abruptly and remained at the door. Black Hair nodded at him, then led us down a hallway tiled with large dark brown adobe squares to a closed office door. He knocked, pushed the thick knotted pine door open far enough to stick his head in, then closed it again.
The alcove near the office was furnished with two wide chairs. Both were upholstered in a southwest design and pushed up against an adobe wall. A rustic end table adorned with magazines occupied the corner. Our escort motioned for us to take a seat. “Sergeant Lewis will be with you in a moment.”
We waited less than two minutes in silence.
When he appeared in the doorway, Sergeant Lewis filled it almost as well as the door itself. He was tall and thick with broad shoulders that barely tapered to a sturdy waist. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him from what I could see. From the look of him, he could have been made of steel. His face had a no-nonsense scowl permanently etched into it. “Pleasure to meet you Director Robinson,” he said in a deep baritone voice. His hand engulfed Robinson’s as they shook.
“Sergeant Lewis, we appreciate your cooperation, especially at such short notice. This is Commander Noh, formerly with the South Korean Border Patrol. He’s joined my team today to help interrogate the suspect.”
Lewis nodded his approval with a tightening of his mouth and jaw.
I gave him a perfunctory bow. Force of habit, I guess.
“Very well,” Lewis said as he looked almost straight down at me. “Welcome to the most abused border in the world, Mr. Noh.” His mean face cracked into a wide smile. “We do our best here, but we’ve got almost two thousand miles of fence line between these two countries to protect and hundreds of thousands who want to enter the United States every year in any way possible. We’ve got a tall task, but we’re up for the challenge.” Another smile as he straightened his posture to make himself even more imposing.
Robinson chuckled. “You certainly measure up, Sergeant Lewis.” More smiles. “This assignment, I suppose, was a bit different than usual.”
Lewis cocked his head. “Very true. We’re usually trying to keep them out, not in.”
“Well,” said Robinson, “Your quick response and diligent efforts are greatly appreciated. I’m sure you understand the delicate nature of the situation. We must consider the flying public, the safety of the citizens of both the United States and our ally, South Korea. Plus, the time-sensitive nature of our inquiry.”
Lewis nodded. “I completely understand. My men and myself will remain professional and committed to the overarching goal of safety and protection.”
“Good,” said Robinson. “We don’t need word of this spreading, certainly not to the media.”
Lewis gave a deeper nod to show his understanding, then gestured for us to follow him around the corner and down another hallway. “We have your man sequestered in a special room down here.”
Two armed guards, one stationed on each side of the closed door, saluted Sergeant Lewis as we approached. One opened the door. Robinson and I followed the giant Lewis into a room that was bisected by floor-to-ceiling bars. Our suspect was sitting on the edge of a cot, elbows on knees and head in hands. His posture mimicked that of a deflated tire. He barely looked up when we entered the room. When he caught sight of Lewis, his eyes grew wide.
I chose to stay behind Lewis, out of sight, until the formal introductions.
“Mr. Lee. We have brought someone who speaks your language. He will have some questions for you. I suggest you give him your full cooperation.” Lewis stepped to the side and held his hand out, palm up, to introduce me. “Mr. Noh, if you would, please review with Mr. Lee his rights and confirm his understanding of them.”
Once again, the man’s eyes opened wide and his jaw dropped. More air escaped the tire. His gaze dropped to the floor and his head bowed slightly. I thought that was a good sign, so I did the best I could to recite the Miranda rights in my native tongue. I was reasonably close. I informed him that he had the right to remain silent and had the right to an attorney and all that good stuff. I asked him if he understood his rights. The man looked at me in disbelief but nodded anyway. “If I were you,” I added, “I would waive my right to keep silent. The things you say here could very well save you a lot of hardship and difficulty. Telling us what you know can only help you, not hurt. Remaining silent, on the other hand, could prove disastrous for you and a lot of others.”
I launched into my prepared interrogation, wasting no time, informing him that I knew that he and the two men I left for dead had conspired to plant an explosive device on Korean Air Flight 134 and that if it went off, his situation would turn from bad to extremely bad in a matter of hours. “The life you thought you were going to lead is over. You need to understand that. You will never live a free life again. Never. You can’t go home. You can’t stay here. And now, you can’t run away to Mexico as you had hoped to do. So, you can fix a very bad situation and avoid the full weight of justice and the guilt that comes with killing hundreds of innocent people, or you can take your chances on the American and Korean legal systems. It’s up to you. But, believe me, if you take down a plane, there will be plenty of hungry wolves howling for your blood. And they will rip you limb from limb. How lucky do you feel?”
A false sense of superiority overshadowed his face. “There are no innocent people on that plane. They are all thieves and gluttons.”
“Thieves and gluttons? Really? Who have they stolen from? You? Your country? The corrupt regime keeping you and your fellow countrymen starving?”
His countenance clouded over.
“Yeah, I’ve heard all the radical rants from other captives we’ve apprehended in the DMZ. It’s always the same rubbish. Your poor nation is suffering because the South is flourishing at your expense. Do me a favor. Save your tripe for the trial.”
My prisoner looked flabbergasted. I let him stew for a minute while I pulled something up on my phone.
“I’ll bet this little video here will make the case for your execution. Want to see it?” I wiggled my phone in front of him.
He shrugged.
“Check this out,” I said, moving closer to the bars that separated us, holding the phone at eye level for him to see.
As he watched the surveillance camera video of him escaping the airport in a stolen airport truck, the deflated tire posture returned.
I paused the video at a frame that clearly showed his face. “You didn’t know there were cameras there? That surprises me. Or did you just not know that they were High Definition?” I let it play for another few seconds. “See that? That’s clearly a body under that tarp. I’m pretty sure I recognize those shiny new boots. This is the smaller guy, right? His boots look just like the bigger guy’s shiny new boots, but this lump is too small to be that big guy.”
I watched him for signs of realization. He was hiding it well.
“Clearly, this is not the big guy, the one with the messed-up arm. I’m pretty sure this is the smaller guy. I kicked his sorry ass a centimeter short of death. Your two friends tried to ambush me right after he handed off that heavy suitcase to you under the plane. Same guy, right?”
His shoulders rose and fell with the intake and expulsion of a deep breath as I spoke, but he remained silent.
“I can also assume that the big guy is on the loose. Maybe you shot him up with some sort of painkiller or something, then forced him to take the suitcase and get on the plane because you’re too scared to do it yourself. You’re a damn coward, aren’t you?”
Mr. Lee’s jaw muscles flexed, and he stared at the wall behind me.
“You’re a little boy inside, aren’t you? Not quite a man yet. Not man enough to see this thing through. No, you’re running away like a scared child.”
Still no reaction, just a rigid posture and a stone face.
“You call yourself a leader? Do you even know what being a leader is all about? It’s not about forcing your wounded subordinate to do something you’re perfectly capable of doing. No. That’s what we call cowardice, you pathetic excuse for a man.”
The insults finally penetrated his armor. Mr. Lee practically spat as he spoke, his voice so choked with anger the words were barely intelligible. “He volunteered to go, even after I insisted I should be the one to finish the mission. Un-Chul is more of a man than you will ever be. He wanted to take the bag. He’s a hero.”
I considered him for a long moment, sizing him up and down with my eyes, letting a sneer form. “OK. So, you let a wounded Comrade step in and take over your assignment. A man suffering and
in shock and you let him fulfill your duty. So, where is he now?”
“What do you know about duty?” he spat. “Nothing. You abandoned your duty and your country.”
“This isn’t about me. This is about you and how you’re not willing to die for the cause. No. You’re too soft. Is that it? Too scared.”
“I told you already—”
“Quiet. I don’t need to hear any more excuses. It’s clear you had a plan all along to sneak off to Mexico in hopes of living out the rest of your days far away from the misery of your homeland. Tell me where Un-Chul and that bag are.”
I had him. His jaw muscles twitched, and his breathing grew sharper and deeper, his pride wounded beyond recovery.
Robinson cleared his throat, pulling my attention toward him. “What are you saying to him?”
I shot Robinson a look that said, “don’t interrupt me,” then returned my focus to the man on the other side of the bars.
“I don’t care if you think the people on that plane are innocent or not. I do want you to understand that the courts will see it as mass murder, pure and simple. You’ll be sent off to the worst jail, probably Guantanamo—you’ve heard of Guantanamo, haven’t you? It’s where the Americans send all the enemy combatants. It’s in Cuba. A different country. Therefore, they don’t have to follow US law and treat prisoners there with the same rights they have here. There’s very little oversight from what I hear. And lots of other terrorists you can play with. I hear they like Asian boys, think they’re cute and submissive. They like to share them, multiple times per day, if you know what I mean. Sounds fun, doesn’t it?”
Mr. Lee’s movements became stilted and robotic. His breathing was audible as he drew in breaths through his gritted teeth.
I proceeded slowly, enunciating each phrase and pausing to let it sink in.
“You will have one chance and one chance only to seek and gain asylum in the United States or an Allied nation, if you prefer. That opportunity will come only if you cooperate fully and completely. Any hesitation on your part will disqualify you.”
