by Glen Robins
Without hesitating, I bolted across all six lanes of the nearly empty street and into the parking lot of an office building, only adjusting my speed a little to avoid the one car on the road at two o’clock in the morning. Keeping up my sprint, I made my way back to the building across from the market where I was sure the shooter had been, hoping he was still there.
In the darkness, I moved like a panther into position behind a truck in the corner of the parking lot adjacent to the two-story building across from the market where Yong Byun lay in a puddle of gore. The building was painted a burnt orange color. There was a one-meter-high cinder block wall covered in matching orange stucco that separated the parking lot from the sidewalk running alongside the boulevard. A smattering of cars took up a few spaces in the row of parking spaces just on the other side of that short wall, facing the street. One of those cars was the blue Ford with Robinson and the two FBI agents frozen and hunched down. Another handful of cars was parked pointing toward the two-story building. Thumping music and multi-colored light spilled out of a karaoke bar on the ground level. That was the likely reason for the cars in the lot at this late hour.
The other tenants on the ground floor of the building—a nail salon, a boutique clothing store, and a golf shop—all had signs in Hangul, the Korean alphabet. Only the bar had lights on. The few cars in the lot told me it was nearly closing time and not many customers remained inside, perhaps waiting for taxis because they were too drunk to drive.
Above those retail establishments were offices with windows that looked out over the parking lot and the street. The signs in the windows indicated they were offices for a law firm, an insurance agent, a CPA, and a travel agency. Most of the window coverings were closed. The ones in the travel agency were not completely. Long white vertical blinds hung across a large plate glass window overlooking the parking lot and directly across to Yeo Chae market.
The long white blinds were rustling.
I took off running, staying low and out of the line of sight. I came to the pathway along the front of the building. A wide stairway between the clothing store and the karaoke bar led to the second floor. I launched myself up the stairs, taking them quickly but stealthily, making almost no sound as I went. At the landing, I paused to listen before turning down the suspended hallway which ran across the back of the building. Each of the second-floor offices were accessed from this walkway.
The travel agency was the second door down. I slinked past the first office, an insurance agency. Matching vertical blinds adorned a window before I reached the second door. Its window coverings were partially open, allowing me a view into the space. I could see an empty desk in the front. A framed doorway with no door separated the small reception area from the main office space behind. I could just make out one of my targets crouched near the window in the back. It was a woman. She must have been so preoccupied putting something away that she had no idea I was there. Perfect.
I tested the knob. It was unlocked. I slipped the Glock out from waist band of my cargo pants. I checked the magazine, unlocked the safety, and said a prayer.
With the gun in my right hand and the doorknob twisted in my left, I took a deep breath, planning out the sequence of movements that would follow. I did a quick count to three, then in one motion, pushed the door open and hurled myself into the room. I dove forward and slightly to my left, tucking and rolling to a half-wall that separated the front reception area from the open office space behind it where my targets were.
A rustle of hurried movements gave away their surprise. I popped to one knee, aiming the Glock in the classic two-armed position as I swept the rectangular space to locate the first target. The vertical blinds swayed from the sudden movement. The two targets had leapt to opposite sides of the room. Most likely, they were expecting hesitation. Someone with less training than myself may have lost the edge in this scenario, but I didn’t flinch. The man was to my right, a straight shot. I squeezed off two rounds, both of which hit the mark. One hit his right arm, causing him to drop his weapon. The second hit his shoulder, throwing him back against the wall behind him.
High-pitched screams from the bar below filled the air.
I ducked behind the half wall in a crouch as the woman fired off several shots. Chunks of drywall and white dust rained down on my head and back. I sprang to my feet and took aim. I fired the first shot in her leg. The second one in her the shoulder. She flew back against the blinds, clutching at them as she fell to the ground. Her weight, slight as it was, brought the whole contraption down on top of her, hitting the side of her head as it fell. But she didn’t drop her weapon. Without delay, I charged at the woman and kicked the weapon out of her hand.
I moved to the man, secured his gun, and patted him down to make sure he didn’t have another one concealed. He did. It was strapped to his right calf. A Berretta Nano, the compact version of the gun he had held. A smart choice as a back-up. I hopped up and approached the woman, the Glock steady in my hand. My sites were on her the entire time I checked the guy and as I closed the three meters between me and her.
The panicked screams and crying from the bar-goers downstairs intensified. It sounded like the late drinking crowd had spilled out into the parking lot.
I quickly did the same to the woman as I had to her counterpart. She also carried a Nano around her lower leg.
As I was dragging her over by her fallen Comrade, Robinson and one of the FBI agents stormed into the room, guns drawn.
Once the two of them assessed the situation, Robinson signaled to the other guy to secure the weapons from the ground. He did. I could hear his partner outside trying to pacify the crowd by saying that there was nothing to worry about. Robinson radioed in, requesting a clean-up team and back-up.
My two victims groaned, almost in unison, as I rolled them onto their stomachs next to each other. I dropped to my knees, landing a kneecap into the small of each of their backs. Robinson tossed me two sets of handcuffs, which I ratcheted firmly into place in a matter of seconds. I then rolled them over on their backs and karate chopped each of them in the abdomen to preempt any counter attacks they may have dreamed up. With the two of them gasping for air, I used my thumbs to press down on the bullet wounds in each of their shoulders.
“Tell me now how to deactivate the bombs on those planes.” I was barely able to control the fury in my voice. My jaw was tight, my teeth clenched, and my words tumbled out with bottled emotion.
Neither of them answered, so I pressed harder, which brought agonized howls from each.
“Tell me now or I start peeling off your skin.” I pulled a composite combat knife from its sheath strapped to my calf and gave them a knowing smile as if to say, “Yeah, that’s how I knew about your hidden weapons.” I flicked open the blade and tested its sharpness by slicing through a piece of paper I pulled off the desk next to us.
Both sets of eyes widened.
Robinson stood over me with his gun pointed at the woman’s head. I asked him to come around and hold their legs and feet down. I didn’t want to get kicked. He gave me an inquisitive look but complied with my request.
I then repositioned myself so that I had a knee just below each of the North Koreans’ sternums, right on the solar plexus. While gasping for air, it is very difficult to maintain enough tension in the abdominal muscles to keep the weight from completely inhibiting the diaphragm’s ability to draw in air. Desperation sets in very fast when one can’t breathe. The shock from their injuries wasn’t helping matters for them. Their toughness was leaching out rapidly. It would only be a few moments before they would begin cooperating.
I hoped and prayed that they would do so quickly and that they had the information we needed to disable those bombs before it was too late.
Chapter 41
Onboard Korean Air Flight from Dallas-Fort Worth to Seoul
June 6, 5:27 p.m. local time; June 6, 2:27 a.m. California time; 42 minutes of fuel remaining
With a sigh, the pilot radioed the con
trol tower. “Incheon control, this is Korean Air 5821.”
“Go ahead 5821.”
“We are low on fuel and request permission to begin final approach.”
“Negative 5821. Permission not granted at this time.”
“Incheon, we are below minimum safety levels. If we do not initiate our approach in the next fifteen minutes, we risk the ability to carry out a successful landing.”
“Roger that Korean 5821. We are awaiting clearance from the National Security Chief.”
“My First Officer is in contact with the Ministry of Science and Technology. They have done everything they can to jam the signal. We must land, Incheon, or we will end up in the ocean.”
“Roger that Korean 5821. Still awaiting word. Stand by.”
An agonizing seventy seconds passed before Incheon Tower returned. “Korean 5821. This is Incheon Tower. Negative. Maintain high-altitude holding pattern until further notice. A more robust solution is being developed. One with a higher probability of success.”
“But Incheon, my First Officer is in contact with the ICT. They have sent him instructions to disrupt the signal. We must descend while he runs interference.”
“Yes, Captain. We are aware. However, that solution is not a perfect one. The President’s Chief of Staff has asked for more time to work on a better solution. Please await further instruction.”
“We will be dangerously close to shutting down our engines, Incheon. Dangerously close.”
“Roger that. We are aware of your fuel situation. However, the President has asked for more time. Captain, this is for the safety of everyone on board as well as people on the ground. Please be patient.”
“Patient? How can I be patient with these alarms and with empty fuel tanks?”
“You have forty-two minutes’ worth of fuel. Hang tight. We’ll get you on the ground as soon as we are able.”
Chapter 42
Garden Grove, CA
June 6, 2:41 a.m., 34 minutes of fuel remaining in the first plane
These two were harder to break than Mr. Kim had been. Neither would say a word, even as I pressed on their wounds and knelt on their diaphragms. They resisted me with everything they had. Even with my knife blade waving in front of their faces, they didn’t yield. They held contempt in their steely eyes, jaw muscles twitching. I knew they hated me. I also knew they had been indoctrinated from a tender age to hate all things Western, capitalistic, and opulent. South Korea’s success in the world was decried as gluttonous, despicable, and even fictitious. That seemed to be what was fueling their defiance.
I kept checking my watch. I knew the Dallas plane must be getting close to the end of its fuel supply. My father had told me it would run out at 3:15 a.m. my time, giving me only thirty-four minutes. Realistically, that meant I needed to get the information out of them in fifteen, max, to have enough time to convey the codes to the IT team so they could relay them to the flight crews in the air. I was stressed, and my prisoners knew it. I was acting far too erratically and compulsive. The sweat beading up on my forehead and upper lip giving away my anxiety.
I had to figure out a better way. Neither pain nor the threat of further pain was working. But with the clock running, I was feeling extreme pressure building.
The setting wasn’t the best, either. In an unsecured location such as we were in and with two federal officers as witnesses and a crowd gathered out in the parking lot, they must have guessed it was safe to call my bluff. Rightly, so.
That was a smart move on the part of the North Koreans. Their training likely included a course on the Bill of Rights and how to use it against us. Funny how they could learn about that and think negatively towards a nation that espoused and protected individual rights and freedoms—or at least claimed to. My time living around US soldiers and in the country had shown me that many of these rights were under attack from multiple angles.
I viewed my actions and demeanor from the perspective of these two captured combatants and realized my anger was getting the best of me. I wasn’t thinking straight, and they were picking up on it. How could I expect them to cough up vital information so quickly when surely they had been taught, trained, and even threatened to never reveal the details of the operation. I seethed but hearing the klaxon sound of approaching sirens in the distance, I was forced to back off.
The incoming police presence and the murmuring of the gathering crowd outside forced me to think quickly. My opportunity to save hundreds of lives was slipping away. I thought about my conversation earlier with my father-in-law. He said to use whatever means necessary. I took that literally, knowing that if the police showed up, there would be even more eyeballs to witness what I had in mind and even more delays as the conglomeration of law enforcement worked through the layers of bureaucratic nonsense to figure out what to do next. We’d be forced to wait for an ambulance, then forced to wait for the sedatives and pain killers to wear off before we could speak to the then-protected terrorists.
The passengers onboard those flights didn’t have that kind of time. Another glance at my watch reminded me how little time I had to save that first plane. I needed to take action and I needed to do it right away.
A thought crossed my mind, causing me to snap my head to face the TSA Director. I jumped to my feet, pointing toward my victims. Agent Ahn, who had accompanied Robinson and I in the car, nodded his understanding and stepped into their view, his FBI-issued Glock 19M cocked and ready. “Director Robinson, may I have a word with you privately,” I asked.
He followed me into the empty reception area. “I need to question these two—alone. Can we arrange that?”
“I don’t know,” he said, furrowing his brow as he thought about what I was asking. “The first thing we need to do is get them medical attention.”
I wagged my head and sucked in a breath to show my incredulity. “You’re the Director of the TSA. You have a direct line to the Secretary of Homeland Security, do you not?”
“Yeah, sure. What are you getting at?”
“Can’t you order an ambulance staffed by your own people to come pick up our suspects and take them someplace where they’ll get the treatment they deserve?”
“Mr. Noh. This is the United States of America, not some lawless bush league frontier. We have laws to protect people’s rights—”
I cut him off. I didn’t have time for a speech on the virtues of the criminal justice system. “Don’t you have laws that protect the rights of people whose lives are in imminent danger? I know you have rights for criminals. What about rights for innocent victims?”
“What you’re asking me is against the law. I could lose my job for a stunt like that.”
“You should lose your job if you let all those people on those planes die without doing everything in your power to save them.”
“That’s just it. It’s not in my power—”
The sirens outside grew louder. “Never mind. I understand your position. Let me just ask you this: Are you willing to sit back and let this become a huge international incident? Can you imagine what your President will do when he finds out North Korea infiltrated this country and put bombs on the planes of a strategic ally? Can you imagine him not calling for a full-scale military strike? Can you imagine him laying off the impulse to nuke them to oblivion? We’re looking at an incident that could alter the world as we know it. Hell, it could end the world if China gets involved and starts launching nukes, too. You know they whole-heartedly support North Korea, don’t you?”
I held Robinson’s gaze, but he said nothing. He just shook his head slowly and shrugged.
“OK,” I said. “Let’s just get these guys in the car before they bleed to death.”
“We can’t—”
I was taking control of the situation and he needed to know it. I was playing by a different set of rules that he would have to come to grips with later. “I know you have your procedures. This is one of those cases where we have to alter the procedures out of urgency.” My eye
s were filled with rage. “In the end, the means will be justified.”
He inhaled and held it, slowly nodding his head as he let the breath out. He didn’t say anything.
“Just help me get them to the car before the cops arrive,” I said.
“I can’t do that,” Robinson said, standing still and looking defeated.
“You’re right. You can’t.” I pulled out the handgun he had given to me and instructed Agent Ahn to drop his weapon, away from the North Koreans. He did so. I motioned for him to come closer with his hands in the air. I spun him around, grabbed his handcuffs off his belt, and pushed him face first into the wall. I grabbed one of his wrists and one of Robinson’s and cuffed them together. Then I grabbed the second set of cuffs that every agent carries and cuffed their other wrists, so they were back-to-back.
Robinson gave me a knowing look and said, “Hurry, would you?”
Wasting no time, I spun on my heels and practically jumped toward the two prone figures on the carpet.
Ahn started to protest, but Robinson stopped him.
“Mr. Noh has been duly authorized,” Robinson said. He didn’t finish the thought.
Ahn looked out-of-sorts but stopped struggling.
I suppressed a smile. Robinson and Ahn looked pathetic. Robinson squinted at me, and said, “God help us all. You’d better make this right, Mr. Noh,”
I nodded my silent commitment to finish what we had started. “I will do everything in my power to save those passengers and prevent the outbreak of World War III.”
Before leaving, I rummaged through drawers and cabinets until I found a roll of duct tape. A strip of the magical grey adhesive went over each mouth, Robinson’s and Ahn’s. Then I wound it several times around their ankles. That would show the next group of law enforcement that they had been forcibly removed from the situation and had nothing to do with what I was planning.
