by Gus Lee
“God, what's happening to the world? I was only locked up for seven years. It's gone to hell, it has.”
I had twenty-six hours before midnight Sunday, the first hour of the New Year and the Year of the Tiger. I needed a solution without knowing the extent of the problem.
I pulled out my notepad.
“Kan, put a fork in it,” snapped Magrip, unsure of the food, coveting the sergeant major's meal. “We're done.”
The notes began with flights to Korea, six days ago, when I spent easy California nights in deep, untroubled sleep with a tall, very American woman who looked deep into my eyes before drifting off. I found the mudang's description of her patients’ symptoms.
Irritated, discolored skin with growing rashes on body and extremities; profusion of nose, gums, mouth and GI bleeds; unresolved phlegm production; diarrhea; night sweats; elevated pulses; weight loss; baldness and loss of hair in clumps; unresolvable dizziness and headaches.
These symptoms had killed one of the mudang's thirteen bulky patients. It was hard to believe that they had suffered weight loss, but there had been a gaunt aspect to their mass.
Purvis was talking to Song Sae. Min was studying the ceiling. It took a few tries to get Purvis's attention.
“Doc, picture twelve Korean males, twenties to forties. Weight lifters who use anabolic steroids, with these symptoms.”
I gave him the list. He put on metal-framed glasses. He read it twice—and I had good handwriting. He traded seats with Song Sae.
“You're in a sensitive area,” he whispered. “Drop it.”
I gave him the Richelieu letter. ‘Tell me what you know.”
He read it, sighing from the trap of higher command. “Tell me everything, again,” he whispered in my right ear.
I did. He rubbed his forehead. I took the letter back. The music seemed louder. Purvis whispered, “All twelve are Korean? See, I got fourteen guys I medicate and check once a month.” He licked his lips. He looked at me, eyebrows inquisitive.
I waited. “What medications?”
“Androgenic masculinizing anabolic steroids. A somatic tissue builder. Thickens vocal cords, enlarges larynx, lowers body fat, raises muscle bulk, raises libido, aggression.”
“Ethnic Koreans?” I asked.
“No. Standard-issue U.S. All colors, with a Samoan. Huge guys with a skinny commander who won't take steroids.”
Henry Jubala, Dr. Death, and their steroidal troops. The men who, by my concurrence, I had never seen. “Why?”
“I've wondered. You know the tune: I just follow orders.”
“Doc, you check them monthly. For what?” I could barely hear him: “Radiation levels.” “Rad badges? Why?” Nuke systems in Korea were too risky.
“I've wondered. These symptoms suggest systemic, occult cancers from massive ionized radiation.”
“Like from nuclear reactor leaks?”
“No. Plutonium-based weapon detonation. Hiroshima. Big boom. But of course, that doesn't add up.”
I looked at him for a while. “We got two Doppel-ganger teams of steroidal weight lifters. One's American. The other ethnic Korean. The Koreans have been radiated. Right?”
“Dae-wi,” said Song Sae softly, her brows knitted. “Something is wrong.” She touched me, wanting reassur-ance.
Table conversation had stopped.
“You asshole. You're finding another mission, right?” growled Magrip, banging down his beer.
“Jackson, bring it to the table,” said Levine. “We cannot simultaneously eat and eavesdrop.”
Outside, men were trying to walk quietly in the snow and slush. Magrip heard it, too. He picked up his handguns.
Min was gone.
I pulled the Browning from my belt, unsafetied, and moved to the window as Levine drew her snub.38. I moved around the waiter as he cleared plates, and stiffened as a cold steel muzzle pressed hard against the base of my skull.
34
A MATTER OF THICKNESS
“Drop gun.” Two voices saying the same thing. I thought of Song Sae. I dropped. So did Magrip. When Levine dropped hers, the waiter called out. I turned. Five Korean men in dark suits rushed into the quiet cafe.
One of them was about five-eight, medium, athletic build. The fellow who had been trailing us since Kimpo.
He had sleepy, half-hooded eyes and the soft warmth of a Komodo dragon. He picked up the Browning and enjoyed taking my knife from my boot. I slowed my breathing and felt stupid as he handcuffed and blindfolded us. They frisked me thoroughly, taking wallet, spare magazines, gum, cigarettes and change.
“You funny,” said Sleepy. “Chicken-feather-man! Crash! Chicken go all place! Feather go all place!” He pushed me.
We were placed in what seemed to be a Lincoln Town Car and driven through Tongducheon, across a bridge, and into the stink of old industry, decayed solvents and vice. Southside.
Sleepy hauled me out of the car and led us through a teahouse reeking of cigarette smoke and barley tea. Up iron stairs, through doors, down a well-carpeted hallway. A brightly lit room. He pitched me and I collapsed into a comfortably padded leather chair.
They could be Stubblefield's employers, a prostitution and drug syndicate unhappy about our raid. Or a Korean wing of the Black Flags, the Chinese smugglers and McCrail's criminal partners. The Wizard was a better guess. I hoped it wasn't the Inmingun.
“We unlock you. Promise no fight. We have gun. You not.”
I said nothing. Someone spoke in Korean. My handcuffs were unlocked and I began to pull at the blindfold.
“Aniyo!” came the command. I pulled it down anyway and a blow exploded against the left side of my head, knocking me and the chair to the ground. I rolled up, vision blurred.
Sleepy smiled, licking his lips from corner to corner, pointing an S&W Model 41.22 competition pistol at my eyes.
We were in a light-green conference room with French crystal chandeliers, facing a long black table, our backs to the door, with ten chairs along one side of the table and the five blue suits holding Model 41s.
Magrip was two chairs from me; two chairs from him was Levine, and four away was Song Sae Moon. They were still blindfolded. There were six scenarios for get-ting out of this and all of them required some of us to die.
“Kan—you okay?” demanded Magrip.
“Fine,” I said.
“Promise no fight,” said Sleepy. “You like my high kick?”
“It was very special. Who are you?”
“Kwenchaneyo,” came a voice. An athletic, hard-faced Korean male with a short military haircut entered the room. He wore an off-season white linen suit, a crisp white dress shirt with gold cuff links perfectly presented and an aqua bow tie. He ran a hand through his hair and flexed his jaw. He snapped his fingers and pointed.
The others were freed. Levine and Magrip, angry, rubbed wrists, counting the enemy, their expressions surprisingly alike. Song Sae was calm.
Aqua Tie fixed us with brilliant and intense black eyes. He had a nervous habit of rolling his shoulders and neck while perpetually jutting his jaw, as if someone had punched him. He smiled like an old friend or a coldblooded man about to do a job he enjoyed.
He turned his back and put on glasses. He pushed something into his mouth. Stooping, he turned, flashing great buckteeth.
He bowed awkwardly. He spoke in a comically high and familiar voice. “Kan dae-wi, you, me talk American try, big-time, nehV
It was Min. Levine gasped.
“Screw me to tears in a leaky rowboat,” said Magrip.
Min removed glasses and false teeth and sat at the head, nodding as a blue suit brought him a cup of tea. He considered our amazement with imperial calm as hot tea was served to us. Sleepy spilled some on my lap. He was enjoying himself.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Min in a clipped, Commonwealth-cultured voice that suggested Canadian diction. “I am Colonel Min Oh-shik, Korean Central Intelligence Agency. My apologies for evacuating you so abruptly from the cafe. It wa
s wired to detonate, to kill you. I assume the work of Colonel LeBlanc. I know of no one else who would place old plastique in cafe ceilings.” Min winked at me. “University of Alberta,” he whis-pered. “Poli sci. Rugby.”
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” I said.
Min smiled. He had worn false buckteeth, fright glasses and clown boots. He had banded his chest and shoulders to make them appear sunken and puny and scrunched his spine into a submissive curve, shortening his five-feet-eight by three inches. He outranked me by three grades, spoke English better than most lawyers and grasped political science better than I; he had the guns.
I saw it. After Kimpo, the man who trailed us never followed when Min was driving; we escaped Naktong after Min had said to the warden: “I am KCIA. Do as I say or your family becomes dog food.”
“May I see your ID, Colonel?” I asked. Sleepy bristled.
Min gave me his ID, his features flat. I had no way of knowing its authenticity. Levine would; I slid it to her.
She studied it. “Colonel Min is senior officer present,” she declared, giving it to me, a male, to return to Min.
“Where are Sergeant Major McCrail and Major Purvis?” I asked.
“Major Purvis is in the prostitution warehouse next door, treating VD patients. The prostitutes are our cover for being in Tongducheon. We just asked his help; he generously agreed. The sergeant major left moments before I did. I do not know where.”
McCrail was after the Wizard, hoping to dump him in the public toilet by the baths. I was glad he wasn't here.
“You are here,” said Min, “in my country. Please answer my questions. Not because we require it, but because you are our allies.”
Two of his men unrolled the Wizard's map and overlay, pinning the corners with teapots. Levine had taken them from the Wizard and Min had taken them from us.
“This,” said Min, “shows advance lines from two North Korean villages. But there are no Inmingun in those villages. They cannot even support themselves, much less a military garrison. You have studied this map. What is its meaning?”
I saw what I had missed earlier. The breadth of the lines as they intersected the DMZ. It was a matter of thickness.
The advance lines did not identify direction of march—no helpful arrowheads.
“We've presumed an Inmingun invasion of the south.” I traced a finger from north to south. “A logical presumption. The North Korean Army invaded before and is configured to do it again. But what if the line of march on this overlay is northbound?”
I looked at Min. Magrip rubbed his mouth.
“The lines could show our entry into North Korea.” I traced north from Casey across the Z. “Planners draw advance lines from them to the objective. Basic human thought-processing. The base of an advance line is always stronger than the tail. If this shows a North Korean attack on us, the deepest impression by the pencil should be at I'chon and T'osan, where the artist began his line.”
“Or her line,” said Levine. “But you drew them.”
“Lightly,” I said. “I didn't disturb the original marks. Wherever it tails off is the objective.”
I huffed breath on the map, again and again to make sure.
“It's deepest at Casey. Faintest in North Korea. These advance lines were drawn from us into North Korea.”
“Why,” asked Levine, “do the depressions thicken as they cross the DMZ?”
I darkened them, filling the depressions with black grease. I looked at Min, who nodded. ‘They're tunnels,” I said. A cheap way through the DMZ. No wire, no mines, no interlocking fires.
'They're on our side of the Z,” said Magrip. “ROKs found Inmingun tunnels back in ‘71.1 never figured we'd dig our own.”
“Why, dae-wiT asked Min. “Why would an American Army lawyer want to plan a raid into North Korea? To meaningless villages?”
“The Wizard said to me, T stand at the Z and look across the great wire and I want them to come. ‘At first, I thought he wanted to assassinate Kim. But I think he's planning his own war. Korea is one big tripwire. If he toasts two North Korean villages, it's war. And he'll be the avenging angel.”
“Who the hell'd cross the border with him?” asked Magrip.
“He has some couriers he enlisted. Not many. Twenty?”
“Captain,” said Min. “Five men with explosives at the DMZ can trigger war. The ROK Army is not deployed in depth. We are stacked on the DMZ to deliver an immediate, massive counterblow.
“And we have extremists in our own Army. Line commanders who have long militated to launch a preemptive strike against North Korea before the Inmingun come. If LeBlanc begins a military incursion across the Z, some of my colleagues will follow him.”
“On Wednesday,” I said. “LeBlanc named ten I Corps ROK commanders as his contacts in a purported search for Buford.”
It was Saturday, January 19, 1974. The Inmingun had placed twelve broad-shouldered terrorists in our own lines, perhaps to kill or to destroy. The Wizard, on the other hand, wanted global war, making him tonight the most dangerous man in the world.
Colonel Min phoned Namsan, KCIA HQ. Namsan called nearby White Horse Division's Third Brigade and ordered search teams to find LeBlanc. Doors in Kyonggi Province would be broken tonight.
“Sit.” said Min, rolling his shoulders. We sat. “You know Kim II Sung wants to invade now, while your army withdraws from Vietnam. But Nixon will not fight another war to protect Asians.” He took a breath. “We understand. Nixon cannot take Vietnam and Watergate and a new Korean War at the same time. Agreed?”
“No shit,” said Magrip.
“We have indications,” continued Min, “that President Nixon put atomic bombs in our country.” He looked at me for confirmation.
The atomic bomb in Korea. It took a moment to sink in.
The rad badges. Nuclear war.
“O wa,” cried Song Sae, covering her delicate mouth with broken fingers.
“You must know this, dae-wi” said Min.
A distant explosion rumbled, shaking the warehouse. The walls groaned. Min hissed. “Some of the plastique in the cafe. We apparently did not find all of it. I pray to Buddha no one was hurt.”
I thought of the Chuns.
Levine stood. “Captain Kan doesn't know, Colonel. I do.”
35
A FIRE IN THE SNOW
I understood Levine's improbable appearance on the Z. She was a nuclear expert. I have a special skill, she said.
The mudang had sensed a mysterious power of gods hidden between the third and fourth ridges in the view from Jungsan Peak.
The old woman had seen fire in the snow.
“Jackson,” said Levine, “I'm about to disclose Top Class data. Murray said it was your call. Who goes?”
“Blue suits out.” Sleepy had poor demeanor discipline; he made a face. Min gave an order. They left.
“Let's sum up,” said Levine. “McCrail fraudulently enlisted Korean nationals to black-market half a million. Money to ransom fellow POWs held in China. When he bagged a ROK munitions train, he was arrested and explained his money-making schemes to his lawyer. The Wizard copied the scheme to buy munitions to start his own war. An MP captain got suspicious and Jimmy Buford came to Korea.
“When an IG disappears near nuclear munitions, the lights go on in the White House and the Joint Chiefs. They do not go out until resolution. Ergo, moi” She took a breath.
“The bombs are at Camp Casey. They're not strategic; they're atomic munitions with thirty-two alphanumeric digits indicating restriction to topographical applications. To blast down mountains in the invasion route in the Valley of War, filling the Ouijeongbu Corridor with boulders and gamma rays, keeping the Inmingun from flooding through the passes. The last tactical resort.”
“Ike's AGTs,” said Magrip. “His atomic grenade throwers.” He shook his head. “Had no idea they were still operational.”
“You cannot mean grenades,” said Min. “Are they in cannon shells? Why are you tellin
g me this?” He stared at Levine.
“I have disclosure authority if I think the bombs are compromised and I need help. I think they are. And I think I do.”
The porcelain tiles in the mah-jongg game clacked. Jubala and Sapolu's men were part of an Army steroid superman program. When we saw them running, Magrip and I knew they were sappers. Levine had done her best to distract me, to maintain the secret.
The bombs weren't in artillery shells. They were in man-portable rucksacks. Those overbuilt, weight-lifting troops had been trained to carry atomic bombs on their backs, ruck them into the Ouijeongbu Corridor, screw in the detonators, and bring down parts of the Taebek Mountains on top of the Inmingun as it marched south.
I remembered the SGS's hesitation to let us shower in the CG's bomb-proof gym; the field tarps covering equipment in the weight room; the hyperalertness of the behemoths as they drew high-tech weapons and issued gulag threats for my mere appearance. Under the tarps were bombs. The nicknames—‘Shroom and Dr. Death. Levine was a marathoner so she could run with the AGTs.
And now there were twelve remarkably overbuilt Koreans—a counterpart unit composed of men with deficient English and stainless-steel teeth.
I knew their mission: grab our tac atomics. Put them on their backs and run them to North Korea, probably with a submarine rendezvous in the Sea of Japan.
I looked at the Samsung watch Min had given me. We were running out of time. Twelve skin-splotched North Koreans were going to pull the tiger's tail. And yank it from its root.
“I apologize, Colonel,” I said. “Seems we left your country out of the planning.” It was a replay of the unilateral division of Korea and Dean Acheson's defense speech—setting up Korea for a nuke exchange without an RSVP.
“Again,” said Min.
“Levine,” I said, “give us the whole picture.”
She looked at me. “Ninety-five Mikes—the MOS for atomic sappers, a.k.a. Iron Mikes—are field-deployed for security. But that exposes them to a well-planned raid. We currently have two six-man teams and two officers. Total, four devices.
