by Glen Robins
“Working on it,” Robinson said with a frown. “We’ll run it through every traffic camera and CCTV feed in the state. With the FBI on our team, that can be done instantaneously.”
“Let’s hope he’s not holed up in some secret location for the next few weeks or months, waiting this thing out,” I said. I realized that sounded incredibly pessimistic, so I added, “But that’s not likely.” But in my head I was thinking, “That’s what I would do in that situation.”
“The odds are long.” Robinson looked out the window, slowly shaking his head. “Let’s pray for a miracle.”
We all sat in silence with our thoughts and worries. The lights below us grew closer together and more intense as we moved from desert to suburban sprawl to metro. Wide concrete thoroughfares carried a surprising number of cars for that time of night, their headlights spread in front of them like luminescent antennae. Those in their cars were oblivious to the turmoil brewing in the skies. Lights from streetlamps and shopping centers and business parks twinkled below while I thought about the proverbial needle in the haystack.
An idea struck me. Call it inspiration. I texted Stephanie, knowing she would still be awake, waiting for answers. I asked her to do me a couple of favors. She responded as I knew she would and said “Gladly.”
The pilot chimed in. “Sirs? We’ll be landing at John Wayne in five minutes.”
I furiously tapped a list of items and instructions and pushed the little up arrow, regretting the need to get my wife mixed up in this thing.
After a swift and smooth landing, we hopped out of the chopper, bent at the waist as the rotors tussled our hair and clothes. I pulled Yong Byun by the elbow and pushed his head down as I led him to a dark blue Ford sedan that waited for us twenty yards away. Two young Asian men wearing holsters and ties greeted us with firm handshakes and serious looks.
After giving the driver the address of the Korean market, we piled into the Ford and charged out of the airport and onto the empty streets of Santa Ana. The GPS informed us that it would take sixteen minutes to cover the eleven-mile distance between us and our destination. But at the speeds the driver was doing, I knew we’d be there much faster than that.
During the drive, Robinson spoke to various members of his team and I got an update from the two Korean FBI agents working on the thumb drives. They had been in contact with Agent Kwon, the woman from the conference call, who was leading the work on the captured files. We just barely had time to brief each other on the new information we’d learned before we arrived at the market.
It was nearly two o’clock in the morning when we drove past the strip mall where the market was located. Way past closing time, but the place was lit up. As instructed, the driver drove several blocks, then turned into the neighborhood behind the market and worked his way back. I told Yong Byun to get out and walk to the front of the market. The owners were expecting him.
I hopped out and went to the back door, where my coded knock was answered on cue by a kindly older gentleman wearing a sweater and thick-rimmed glasses. So far, so good. Instructions were being followed. He showed me through the storage area to the main store. I stopped there and was met by the familiar smells of kimchi, dried fish, and fresh vegetables. The small market was crammed full of dry goods, packaged noodles, snacks, and canned sweet drinks, just like the ones I remembered from home. I felt like I had stepped out of California and into Seoul.
From my vantage point, I could see through the front glass doors out to the parking area. I watched Yong Byun approach cautiously. He wore a hooded sweatshirt with the hood pulled down to hide his face. A short middle-aged woman with artificially black hair pulled into bun at the back of her head was sweeping the floor near the counter when he entered. She gasped, certain he was there to rob the place. Her hands went up, causing her broom to clatter as it hit the floor. Her eyes darted to the pocket of his sweatshirt. Yong Byun pulled the hood back and smiled so she would recognize him. She studied him for a moment, then turned and looked at me. I darted along the back aisle, then up toward the counter along a row of produce, staying out of view of the glass doors and two long windows in the front of the store.
The woman shook her head as I approached. “Who is your friend?” she asked warily. “Are you in some sort of trouble? Why did you request to pick up your groceries at this late hour?”
I spoke up from the second aisle, still out of view of the front window. While pretending to browse for snacks, I introduced myself as a local Tae Kwon Do Instructor, leaving out any details about the purpose of our visit and explained that I was Mr. Kim’s Sabum, or coach.
She quickly corrected me and said, “Oh, you mean Mr. Lee. He is a regular customer here. We look forward to his visit each evening.” Turning to Yong Byun, she said, “This is very unusual. You didn’t come at the usual time, so I worried. I came back to the store when you called me. So late. Very strange. Is something wrong?”
Yong Byun was quick on his feet. “No, no. Nothing’s wrong. I’m returning from a tournament in Sacramento. We caught the last flight, which got delayed. Noh Sabum-nim was kind enough to give me a ride from the airport. But my wife insisted I pick up her order.”
“Yes, I see,” she said. “Your wife called several times to check on you. She was very upset that you had not come by.” She bent down and retrieved two plastic bags, hauling them to the top of the counter by their handles. “There you go. Just as she requested.”
Yong Byun thanked her for her trouble and promised that it would never happen again.
She cocked her head and waved a dismissive hand, ready to move on from the ordeal. “You never mentioned that you are learning Tae Kwon Do. What level have you achieved?”
Without missing a beat, Yong Byun responded, “Sa-Dan Black belt.” This indicated that he had studied the martial art for at least four years and had acquired a significant level of combat skill. As he said it, he shot me a loaded look that told me he wasn’t fibbing.
If this was supposed to intimidate me, it failed. Jin Sook had made it a point on our Do Jang’s website and on our brochures that I was a “Sa Seong,” a Grand Master holding the ninth level of black belt.
The nice lady behind the counter looked appropriately impressed at Yong Byun’s pronouncement. “That is quite an accomplishment, Mr. Lee. I presume you did well in your competition.” Then she looked to me with new-found admiration.
“Yes, ma’am. Thanks to Noh Sabum-nim.”
“You must be higher, no?”
I gave a half smile and a half nod, showing the appropriate amount of humility. This was not lost on Yong Byun, who held a long blink in acknowledgement.
“So, my wife sounded upset?” Yong Byun asked.
“Yes, of course.” she said, glancing at the clock on the wall behind her. “Her first call was right on time. She usually calls around 6:30. Tonight, she called every thirty minutes to check on you.”
“Did she say anything else, like where to meet her?”
A puzzled look crossed her face. “No. Why? What’s going on with you two?”
This was going in the wrong direction, so I interrupted. “Can I see your phone?” I said. She gave me a curious look, then handed me the handset set. I thumbed the buttons to look for incoming calls. There were a handful from the same number. Indeed, someone had called roughly every half an hour since 6:30 p.m. I called Robinson, who sat in the car less than forty meters away. “You have the tracing equipment ready?”
“Sure do. Why?”
“I have the woman’s number. I’m going to dial it now.”
Chapter 37
Cheongwadae Complex, Jongno-gu, Seoul, South Korea
June 6, 5:00 p.m.
Every national and international news outlet was clamoring for more information. Their primetime newscasts needed the latest update on their breaking stories, each given a different, yet similar headline: “Crisis in the skies.” “Danger Above.” “Incoming.” “Enemy Attack.”
President Jang ha
d acquiesced to the pressure and called another news conference to give them the latest information. Once again, the President said he would start things off with an overview and then turn it over to the General for the specifics.
“They’re going to need more than generalities,” said the President over the phone. “It would be wise to be upfront with them. Give them the illusion of transparency by sharing enough to satiate their need for the latest, most current information. But do not give them so much as to create panic. That will only make the situation worse.”
The time had arrived. Each station would cut to the President at precisely two minutes after five o’clock. Before exiting his office, General Noh popped two antacid pills in his mouth and chewed the chalky capsules in seconds.
Despite the fact that he had no confirmation from his son, General Noh decided to trust that his son would be successful in his pursuit of the alpha team leaders in Southern California. There were no other new facts that would make this situation look or sound any less terrifying to the general public.
The President wrapped up his brief synopsis of the facts as they currently stood, thanking the press for keeping the nation informed and up to date. Before turning things over to General Noh, he pleaded with Koreans, especially those in and around Seoul and Incheon International to please stay indoors until the crisis was over.
General Noh stepped up to the bank of microphones lined up across the wooden podium with the Presidential seal emblazoned across its front. It was time to face the throng of reporters and state the problem, allude to the solution without giving away strategic or tactical information, and show appropriate concern while projecting an air of genuine confidence that the course they were on was the best one available under the circumstances. It was a tightrope act, higher and more dangerous than any he had performed in his long career. The press was like a school of piranha, ready to rip and tear the flesh off anything that smelled like food.
“Thank you for your attendance here today. Undoubtedly, you will have many questions. Please hold them until the end of my brief statement. At that time, I will provide whatever answers I am able to without compromising our strategic or tactical plans. The top-ranking security council personnel, as well as many of our allies, are working hard to resolve the current situation.
“Many of you have heard the reports coming out of Los Angeles about a potential terror threat to one of our Korean Air Lines passenger planes. Regretfully, I am here to confirm those threats are real, based on intelligence obtained by our best field operatives. We have recently learned that four other planes have also been targeted. Our intelligence community is working to establish the credibility of those reports. They have been working closely with the FBI and TSA in America. At this point, we are proceeding as if the threat is real and that five planes in total may be carrying explosive devices.” An audible gasp rose from the assemblage of reporters.
General Noh continued without a pause. “Because of the work of our intelligence officers, we are able to take steps to minimize loss of life and destruction of physical assets. The borders of our nation remain fortified and secured. Our people remain safe.” The attendees whispered among themselves, many of them scribbling notes or typing furiously as they listened.
“Our best and bravest pilots flying our fastest and most technologically advanced fighter aircraft are patrolling the skies above to protect our country. No doubt many of you have seen and heard our jets flying overhead. Other military assets remain, as always, vigilant and prepared to meet and repel any threat to the safety of our people and the sovereignty of our nation.”
The General continued, explaining that the situation was evolving as new information came in. He promised to call another press conference to keep the nation informed.
As he backed away from the podium hoping to dodge any probing queries, a senior reporter with a reputation for diligence and honesty stood and bowed. “Sir, how long have you known about these bombs onboard these planes? That news story from Los Angeles aired over twelve hours ago?”
“We learned about it shortly after the last plane departed United States airspace. In an effort to avoid confusion and panic, we have been working with the Americans and others to verify the nature and veracity of the threat. Since that time, we have been working tirelessly on a solution to minimize the loss of life.”
Another veteran reporter threw her hand in the air before the General finished his sentence. “The reports out of Los Angeles indicate the American TSA inspected the baggage aboard the flight from LAX to Incheon. If they re-inspected the bags, how can there be a bomb on board?”
“That is the main reason it took so long to verify the threat. We and the American officials believed that the threat had been nothing more than an elaborate hoax. Upon re-inspection, there was no trace of any type of explosive material anywhere inside that plane.”
She followed up. “What happened with the man they arrested in Los Angeles? The one who had access to the plane’s cargo area?”
“That man was taken into custody, searched, questioned thoroughly. During the interrogation, it was discovered that the man was working undercover. He alerted the American officials that he may have seen something suspicious. That is what led to the call to re-scan the luggage onboard and delay the flight.”
Then the moment he had dreaded arrived. A pesky female reporter known for being astute and asking razor-sharp questions of politicians, stood, bowed, and fired away.
“General Noh, what are your intentions with those five planes? Is it to simply allow them to run out of fuel somewhere over the ocean? Or have you ordered those fighter jets to shoot them down if they approach Korean airspace?”
Noh Tae Seong closed his eyes as he gave a slight bow. “Those are very good questions. The safety of those planes is obviously a concern. As I mentioned, we have a team of experts working rapidly to find a way to bring those planes and their passengers safely home. Our technology experts have identified possible solutions. We are working with great urgency to apply those solutions. Whatever course we follow will seek the highest likelihood of success and risk the fewest number of lives. However, until we have a safe solution, those planes will not be allowed to enter Korean airspace.”
The reporter jumped right back into the fray. “How long can those planes stay in the air, sir?”
“As you know, each plane carries enough fuel to make the long journey across the ocean plus enough to stay in the air for several additional hours. Depending on its origin, that may be anywhere from three to eight hours. Our experts are working on solutions to allow these airplanes to land safely.” He did not mention that the first plane would fail in only two hours.
Another reporter asked, “Why not instruct them to land somewhere else, like Japan?”
The General nodded slowly. “We will not jeopardize the safety of our citizens, nor our neighbors or allies. There are no locations remote enough that have an airstrip long enough to land a 747. That’s why the planes must remain in the air while we strive to implement a technological solution.”
Hushed whispers filled the crowded room. General Noh stood straight and tall, cleared his throat, and spoke with conviction and confidence. “Ladies and gentlemen, this crisis represents a serious threat to those onboard the aircraft in question, but not to our national security. Our priority is to save lives and protect our border. We are working diligently to that end. Thank you for your time. I must get back to the business at hand.”
The General made a quick exit through a doorway to the side of the raised podium and was immediately met by Mr. Park, his campaign manager.
As the two marched down the wide corridor away from the press conference, Park said, “All in all, not a bad performance. I wish we had had time to rehearse prior to your taking the stage. These appearances are critical to public perception and should not be squandered. Please work with me before you do that again.”
The General stopped in his tracks and turned on his heels to
glare at Mr. Park. “That was not meant to be a ‘performance.’ That was a press conference to address the most serious threat to our country since the invasion of 1950. Please do not talk to me about my ‘performance.’ I must focus on my job and my job is to protect our homeland.”
Mr. Park shook his head dismissively, which produced a deeper scowl on the General’s already-stormy countenance. Park held his gaze. “If you want to become the President of this mighty republic, you need to start by leveraging every opportunity you have in the public eye. Performance in front of your voters should be a high priority for you right now, despite the urgency of the moment.”
General Noh glowered at the smaller man, then continued marching towards the conference room where the other joint chiefs were gathered, doubling his pace. Park had to practically run to keep up with the older man. “I will not be made to look like one of those attention-mongering politicians. Governing a nation, especially during a crisis, is a serious matter. It requires thoughtfulness and diligence, not the ability to woo the crowd. I’m here to serve my country, not act out some scripted role for the cameras.”
Mr. Park held his peace, remaining behind the hard-charging general as he skipped the elevator and vaulted up the stairs two at a time, his hard-soled shoes booming like thunder on the metal steps in the concrete stairway.
Chapter 38
Yeo Chae Market, Garden Grove, CA
June 6, 1:42 a.m.
Robinson told me to wait for his signal before I pushed the “dial” button.
The FBI agents in the Ford were on speaker phone with their technical team. Before I dialed, the agents verified that the number in question was indeed a mobile phone, as suspected. Of course, it was unlisted. Most likely a “burner” phone with rechargeable minutes.
“OK,” said Robinson. “Go ahead.”
