by L. J. Martin
Loading docks line both sides of the tracks, and I can only hope they’ll unload our car from the far side, the rigged side.
And hope that Jin comes to and we’re far away before all hell breaks loose — as it will, if our plan works.
But Jin’s not moving. He’s breathing and has moved his legs a little…which I hope means his neck is not broken.
A couple of hundred yards away is a farmhouse and small barn, and between us and it is an orchard…plums maybe. I see no one around, which could mean they’ve gone to town, which could be the good news. The bad would be that, if they have a vehicle, it’s likely gone with them.
But, no matter. I can’t wait more than a few minutes to get some transportation.
Although, come to think of it, if the tank farm goes up in flames, the place will be so crazy, that might be a good time for Ji Su to make an approach with her chopper.
With a glance at my GPS, I figure we’re only ten clicks upriver from the Yellow Sea. But that will mean waiting until dark.
I slip my canteen from its holster and wet Jin’s face.
But get nothing in response.
30
If there’s one thing constant about a battlefield, it’s that nothing is ever constant. It’s improvise, improvise, improvise. I hope Bo and Butch are having better luck than Jin and I…and Gun has had. I’ve been remiss not checking on them…but I’ve been a little busy. I actually caught a few minutes of shuteye on the train, as Jin and I traded off sleeping and standing watch. Sleep is a critical part of being able to stay alert later, when you’re awake.
Now, to figure out how to get Jin out of here.
Deciding I must give the farmhouse and barn a look to see if I can commandeer a ride, I cover Jin with some brush so he won’t be easily seen from the train track, and I leave an arrow drawn in the dirt and an arrangement of twigs pointing the way I’ve gone — which any good Eagle Scout would look for — and set out.
Even with my American rucksack and battle rattle belt, I’m still in a Korean Army uniform, although it’s getting a little ragged, and I’m still carrying my M4, which most North Koreans have never seen in the hands of a soldier. And I sure as hell don’t speak the language. Now with Gun dead and Jin out of commission, if I’m challenged — which I surely will be if I’m seen, as my skin color will give me away — I’ll likely have to fight. My uniform is dirty as hell, so as soon as I cross into the orchard, I find a muddy spot and apply some liberally to my too-white face and the back of my hands. I have no interest in killing some poor dumb peon of a farmer, but way less interest in being hung for a spy…so, if I’m challenged, I may have no choice than to make sure the farmer buys the farm.
I laugh at myself. I know that yeoboseyo is the greeting “Hello” in Korean, but I know that I can’t say it nearly well enough to pass for a native. Maybe they’ll think I’m a friendly Russian, but, even if so, I know every North Korean has been schooled to turn in anything and anybody suspicious…even if it’s something done by your own mother — or your own mother herself. They wouldn’t think twice about turning in a passing stranger. Dear Leader spends lots of time and effort indoctrinating every child to believe the state and he are more important than family, friends, or God. And God is a non-entity in North Korea, or so he tries to convince the people.
As I near the house, something moves on a wide front porch, and I realize that, in the deep shade, an old grandmother is in a rocking chair with a shawl over her knees. I’m close enough that she sees me, so I merely nod, wave, and walk on to the barn and out of her line of sight. She appears to be shelling peas, as there’s a bowl in her lap and one on the porch beside her.
She raises a gnarly old hand and waves…no smile, but at least a wave. And, to my relief, she goes back to her chore. I smile and wave in return.
There has been a vehicle in the barn as there are tire tracks leading out. I slide the door aside carefully. It’s dark inside, and I need my eyes to adjust, as someone could be working there. But I see nothing…then something that makes me smile again…a motorcycle parked between a scraper and a harrow. An old red Honda 90, just like one I owned thirty years ago that took me all over the Wyoming hills.
It’ll be all the little bike can do to haul Jin and myself, and Jin will have to be conscious, as it’s not like I can throw him in the back of a truck.
I check the fuel level, as there’s a fifty-gallon drum nearby with a hand pump, but, luckily, she’s full to the brim.
Not wanting to alert grandma — not that I think she could hear, anyway — I push the Honda out, pause at the barn door, and look for life. Seeing no one, I roll the little bike to the orchard, being careful to stay out of sight of the front porch, and push it on through until I’m a full hundred yards from the buildings. Only then do I switch her on and kick the starter. There is a motorcycle god. She fires right up. I kill her and go on pushing until I’m close to where I left Jin, as close as I can easily push the bike. Then I go downhill through the brush on foot.
I’m hoping against hope that I’ll hear a huge explosion coming from the base in short order, but, right now, I’m disappointed. I’m thrilled to see Jin sitting upright, holding his head in his hands. And he has the presence of mind to have his weapon in hand.
“Thought you ditched me,” he says.
“Nah. I need you on the back of the motorcycle I just hooked. If they shoot at me, I want your fat ass to block the bullets.”
He smiles and then winces, as it obviously hurts to even grin. Then he asks, “No, shit? You got a motorcycle?” Then he remembers our adopted mission. “Any boom from down the base way?”
“Not even a pop. But if they’re unloading, they’ve got to get to it. A half-dozen cars ahead of our favorite one.”
He tries to stand but flops back down, holding his head with both hands. “Concussion, maybe,” he mutters.
“Well, I can bury you right here, or you can catch a ride with me. Your choice.”
“Do we want to try to ride out in the daylight?” he asks.
“Whoever owns the Honda might come home, and we’d have to stitch a farmer if he followed the easy trail the bike left coming through the muddy orchard. Or he might just call the police to track us down. Now that we’ve got the ride, I don’t think we’ve got any friggin’ choice.”
“I’m dizzy as hell, so lend me a shoulder, and lead the way.” I help him to his feet this time, pick up his M4 and re-sling it, and we work our way slowly through the underbrush to the Honda.
“You call that a motorcycle?” he says. “It sucks.”
“Yeah, but gear adrift is a gift. I’ll wait here if you want to go steal us a Harley.”
“I’d probably have to break into Dear Leader’s garage to find a Harley…and if I did that, I’d go ahead and steal us a Ferrari or a Lamborghini.”
“I love the thought, but not likely. As it is, embrace the ‘suck.’ This is our last easy day. I’m gonna check in.”
Digging the SATphone out of my thigh pocket, I hit the “1” and the dial button.
“The lady is standby for another run,” Pax answers, without bothering with a
“Hello.”
“You got a location on us?”
“Sure. You’re an anemic red dot on the screen, unless someone has hooked your GPS.”
“No time to chat. There’s a road, not much more than a two — ” I don’t get the sentence finished when a small explosion echoes up the hillside from the direction of the base. I hold my breath for a few seconds, and, sure as hell, a much larger one follows…large enough that we can feel the shock at our half-mile distance.
“It’s a fine fucking day,” Jin says, and I laugh. “Good shot, Jinny.”
“What the hell was that?” Pax asks.
Before I can answer, we are rocked by four or five secondary explosions.
“It’s friggin’ Fourth of motherfriggin’ July,” I say. “Our ride was filled with artillery and mortar ammo, and we rigged it so the
longshoremen would get a surprise. And the base warehouse is flanked by fuel tanks. We’re as good as a flight of Stealth bombers. We gotta haul ass.”
“Call back in twenty if you get clear of all the action. Juliet can’t come in till dark, if at all...trouble with CIA shitheads. But Ji Su and the tweety is ready and willing.”
I shrug, even if Pax can’t see me. I guess “tweety” will work for “bird.”
Feeling the need to make this quick, I talk machinegun fast. “We’re hauling ass toward the briny blue, but we just put out an all-points-bulletin on ourselves. Half this shithole of a country will likely be here as quick as they can get here. We’ll be the center of the bee hive, so it’s sure as hell x-ville.”
“Then hit the trail,” Pax says, and I can hear the worry in his tone. “Take the road just west of your now, direction from Lost Wages to L.A. There’s a small range of fuzzy bumps between you and the Yellow Sea. In four clicks, turn toward Frisco, away from the crick, for a half-click. There’s a Dodger’s size…looks like on Google Earth. Look skyward. Pop canary if you have to, if it’s sunshine time, when you see a wasp snooping around.”
I know he’s trying to confuse anyone lucky enough to have broken the encryption on our radios, but it all makes sense to me. Looks like we’re gonna get a ride, if we can get to the clearing as big as Dodger Stadium. A mostly yellow bird, as sleek as a wasp. Ji Su.
This leg of the journey will start with a kick-start, so I do so, and Jin straddles the rack on the back and holds onto me like a bitch on a Harley.
“Fuck, I’m dizzy,” he complains but hangs.
We kick mud out behind, and we’re doing some cross-country scrambling until we find the road.
Grandma watches us go by but barely looks up; then she returns to her peapods.
I glance to the southeast after we clear the farm buildings and am a little astounded by the hundred-foot flames and billowing black smoke reaching to the heavens.
Heaven sent, I’d say. And pure hell for anyone anywhere near.
Of course, speaking of heaven, when I look up, I scan all directions, I spot a half-dozen fighter jets and a pair of heavily armed choppers converging on the base.
We’ve attracted lots of interest.
Time to get the rubber on the road.
31
Bo has decided to hole up and has grounded the SDV underwater, near the remnants of a pier…a series of pilings sticking up four feet above the surface. He’s perched behind one, ducking below the surface with his re-breather each time a surface craft passes. The river is more than two hundred yards wide, but it’s covered with fast-moving patrol boats and other craft, and all of them seem to be searching for the invader.
Overhead, a helicopter passes every few minutes. It’s obvious there is an intense search underway.
Butch thought he was doing Bo a favor by leading his pursuers away, but the fact is he is verifying the fact there were interlopers on or in the river. And probably they — whoever they are — are responsible for the destruction of the Pueblo.
Bo slips underwater again as he hears the beat of a diesel engine, waits for it to pass, and then slowly rises so his eyes and nose are above the surface but hidden behind a piling. He feels the vibration of his SATphone and digs it out.
“Speak to me,” he answers.
“Status?” Pax asks.
“Down one. Pard decided he’d play decoy.”
“Fuck! His status?”
“Unknown. Heard lots of lead flying in the direction he left, one rocket flying, and a patrol boat went up. The ol’ boy deserves a Medal of Honor. You know better than me.”
“We saw you’d parted ways. His marker was still for a half-hour. It moved a little at a high rate of speed but then went dead.”
“As is he, I fear,” Bo said.
“So, now you got room for a passenger?” Pax asks.
“Are you fucking nuts?” Bo replies.
“Asset needs an extraction.”
“You’re fucking with me!” Bo says, incredulously.
“Nope. A half-mil bonus, you get him out. Just got a call from the company. Can you get back under the over-the-water, number three against the push from you, for a dark-thirty pickup?”
“You know, I’m way past x-ville. My Dräger is about history. If I make three or four clicks against push, I’ll never have juice to make my extraction.”
“We’ll recon a place for a snatch, a place you can reach.”
“Who is this fucker?” Bo asks.
“Spotter who gave us the go-ahead, at great risk to himself. Goose likely cooked if doesn’t fly. A farmyard goose, way out of his element.”
“Same shade as D.C. house?”
“Yep.”
Bo wanted to ask why the fuck a white guy was in the center of Pyongyang. But now he knew it was a white guy, probably an American, who was needing extraction. What the fuck? he thought. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“I’ll hang. Stupid, stupid, stupid, but I’ll hang. Text me the name of the over-p so I don’t make an error that I can’t afford.” He presumed the meet was the Choyngu Bridge, back upstream, but wanted verification.
“Ten four. Probably better not to move.”
“Yeah, yeah. I get it. How will I recognize?”
“This ain’t L.A. Won’t be any homeless hanging under the over-p.”
“Ten-four,” Bo says and disconnects. Now all he’s got to do is wait another six hours and then make his way upstream, to find some asset…asshole…he’s never met, and then retrace his path in the current with half of Pyongyang trying to hoist his head on a pike.
So, ten or twelve hours more. Then again, fifty grand an hour ain’t bad. If he lives to collect.
Pieter de Vries and Sumi are surprised when Duri shows up at their door.
“I have come to see how Mr. Pieter is feeling?” Duri lies. “I was told he was ill.”
Sumi waves him in and offers tea, and he takes a seat in their small living room while she disappears into the kitchen.
“We must talk,” Duri says, nervously watching to make sure Sumi is out of sight.
“I’m feeling much better,” Pieter says in a loud voice. Then he whispers, “Go to the roof and wait after you leave.”
Duri nods and smiles at Sumi, who reappears with a tray, three cups of tea, and a stack of sweet and nutty gosomi crackers.
He tries one and smiles. He asks both of them, “You make?”
“No, no,” Sumi says.
“I teach,” Duri says.
“That would be nice,” Pieter replies.
They chat for a while, until the tea is drained, and then Duri excuses himself.
He’s gone only a short time when Pieter stands and stretches. “I think I’m feeling so good after that wonderful tea that I’ll get some exercise.”
“You should wait — ”
“No, I want to sweat this poison out of my system.”
“Then I’ll come — ”
“I’m going to run, and you know you hate it. What’s for supper?”
“I have a small portion of ground pork and will mix with kimchi.”
“Fine. Let’s eat early. I’ll cut my run short.”
“Be careful,” she says and seems genuinely concerned.
He heads out for the stairway but goes up rather than down. Duri is waiting for him.
“You will be extracted tonight. It is believed you will be arrested…as will Sumi. But she is not your concern.”
“Tonight?” Pieter asks, a little shocked as he thought he’d done so well with Captain Soon.
“Be under the Choyngu Bridge, on this side of the river, at midnight. Dress warmly. A boat will pick you up.”
“I think I’m doing fine and don’t need to go. I need to complete my assignment…which is two years.”
“You won’t do so fine in a re-education camp.”
“Why do they think I need — ”
“They have ears in some places we can only imagin
e. You must go. You know who I am, and you will tell if arrested.”
Pieter is offended. “I would not.”
Duri laughs, sardonically, and shrugs. “Jesus Christ himself would tell what they want to know, as even what he went through would be nothing compared to what they will do to get you to confess…and tell all you know. You must leave. For my sake, if not your own. If you do not, I have orders to make sure you never talk. I like you, Mr. Pieter, and that would make me very sad.”
Pieter gasps, looks astounded, and then sighs deeply, but concedes with a nod.
“Midnight?” he asks.
Duri confirms with a nod. Then he adds, “A man, alone, and you will know he’s there for you. In the unlikely event he does not show, do not return to the apartment. Attempt to make your own way either south or north.” Duri hands him a thumb-drive-size device. “This will help them track you, if they need to attempt another extraction. But let us pray this night will be successful.”
As he returns to the apartment, Pieter worries that Captain Soon will return before it’s time for him to leave.
32
The road we’re following was paved at one time, but much of it has been washed away, and the little Honda 90 is bouncing from side to side on deep ruts and potholes. Jin moans audibly on occasion. We’re moving along a side hill, with spotted evergreens above — but mostly stumps, as I presume the populace has cut most of it for firewood. It’s cold and snowy during NK winters, and with power out in the suburban areas…the whole country other than the capital…staying warm has to be a challenge.
Below us the hillside falls away, mostly barren, toward the river a mile or so away.
Private vehicles outside of the capital city are a rarity, other than a few motorcycles, horse or donkey carts, and bicycles.
So I’m a little surprised to see an old Toyota coming our way. If there was a turnoff before we’re going to meet, I’d take it, but it’s a six-foot bank uphill that we couldn’t traverse and one at least that distance on the downhill side; taking it would likely result in a crash, and, besides that, it would look very suspicious.
