by Gus Lee
A knock at the door. Sleepy, another blue suit, and the woman in the purple dress entered with two dual-band, 920-channel AN/PRC-77 field radios in olive drab man-pack frames. Seeing them generated memories. The woman brought a tray of more alcohol and a Pepsi. She set it down, bowed, and stood by the door.
I vented hydrogen vapor from the magnesium batteries, freed the preset lever and dialed in 35 on the kHz low band, 59 on the MHz high band, and locked them. I powered them up, checked antennas, waited two minutes for full power crank, halved the volume and keyed the hand mikes to squelch. The loud, crisp rasp of static filled the room.
“Colonel, what channel is radio station KCIA?” “Thirty-nine point seventy,” he said. I dialed it in. Bin squinted at the girl and tapped an empty glass with a pen. She jumped and poured him two inches of Johnnie Walker, her face red.
I wondered if I could master that look, that tapping. Sleepy was smirking at me. He said something beneath his breath.
“Colonel, you order your guys to kick us?”
Bin shook his head. “No. Why?”
I shouted hard and spun-kicked at Sleepy's head, stopping my kick an inch from his nose. He cried, “Uuohh!” and lost his balance, falling backwards. The door burst open and smashed him in the back of the head and he went down like a sack of rocks. Magrip was in the room, a bottle of Johnnie Walker cocked and upside down in his hand, the contents gurgling. He looked for the fight.
“What?!” he demanded.
I turned to Colonel Bin. “Sir, we free to go?”
“The rug is Persian. Whiskey is hard on its nap.”
Magrip nodded. He righted the bottle.
“My men,” said the colonel, “should accompany Captain Levine. Provide her security.”
“No need, sir. We'll call. I have your number.”
Bin looked at me coldly. “CAE-Hi, you are in my country.”
“And they are our bombs.” Magrip picked up a radio, keeping the bottle, and I took the other.
“It's been real, Colonel,” I said. “Let's get together again sometime.” I stepped over Sleepy and took my smokes and gum from his pockets. I straightened and raised an eyebrow. “I guess this means we don't have a driver anymore.”
Bin snorted, lips tight. “No. You do not.”
“Whaddya know,” said Magrip, looking upward. “There is a God.”
The north wind blew striations of ghostly snow across the headlight-illuminated road in writhing, otherworldly patterns.
Magrip drove a ROK jeep. “Fucking unbelievable. Bin yanking our chain all this time. That whole thing, a shtick.”
“I knew who he was all along,” I said. “Right!” said Levine. “You're not even sure who you are.”
“Pissed her off, huh, Kan?” asked Magrip.
“Magrip,” said Levine, “you should know I reserve such comments for men I like.”
Magrip blew out air. “Woe to those other poor sons a bitches.”
Song Sae gave directions to Magrip. When we stopped to let her out, Purvis also dismounted. “Don't wait,” he said. “I'll walk back. Don't worry. I don't think the Inmingun are after doctors.”
Eleven P.M. Saturday was nine A.M. Friday in the Belt-way and six A.M. in Mill Valley. Murray was in the office. Cara would be in deep sleep, her stubbornly curly hair adorning a lucky pillow. I hoped it was hers. I hoped no one was next to her, and that her guards were good.
37
EXTRACTION
Foss, Levine, Magrip and I were in the red-light DTOC, Ops Center's, third trailer, seated at the relief team com table. It was a radio room with vertical transparent mapping walls and a data center for ground, air, sea and weather. Dark hours on weekends were the hot shifts; it was then our enemies liked to drop off calling cards with armor and razored bayonets. Fans hummed, but the trailer was warm with bodies and electronics.
I hung up; G-2, intelligence, would research my questions on the big Asian GIs. Levine was going to call the Ninety-five Mikes.
DTOC gave me immediate access to AUTOVON. I rang Carlos Murray's office.
“Justicio, Hu. Buckle up.” He scrambled. “The Wizard knows about our Plutos. So do the KCIA and the Inmingun. An NKPA special-purpose team that's already in our Army, wearing our uniforms, is going to hit the Iron Mikes some time after midnight tomorrow.”
I held the phone away from my ear.
Levine was on the 95M emergency channel on a command radio. She broke squelch five times and waited. No answer. One minute later, she tried again. Carlos Murray was still cursing loudly.
I said the Wizard planned to start a world war. That the Plutos had to be extracted immediately to beat tomorrow's strike date and that Levine was sending the sapper extraction order.
I looked at her; she shook her head. No acknowledgment. I said I had promised a shaman, in return for learning about the enemy raiding party, that I would not arrest or harm the Inmingun.
Murray took a breath. “This is a joke, right?”
I said it wasn't.
“Urchin, what the hell you going to do with them?”
The North Koreans, I said, were Communists but also profoundly shamanistic. If the mudang would take their oath to stay at Jungsan until they died, I wouldn't have to kill them.
“I get it. This part is the joke, right?” I said it wasn't. “I don't have time for this, Jackson.” “You got that right, sir. Out here.” Murray had to get the Joint Chiefs to agree. And Nixon.
Ten minutes later, Levine began talking. “Five-Five Zulu, this is Annette of the Mickey Mouse Club. Join the talent roundup now. I say again, join the talent roundup now. RSVP, over.” She sent the identical message three times at one-minute intervals, then stopped. She flipped to a new tab in her ops binder.
She called the Nuclear Surety Agency and announced a red alert 95M extraction protocol in the Republic of Korea, 37° 65’ North, 127° 5’ East, grid 42103220 on sheet L 752/3121, NE Camp Casey.
Nuclear Surety would call the extraction op order to the Seventh U.S. Fleet elements in the Yellow Sea and Tac Air Command in Osan Air Force Base, a hundred klicks southwest of us.
Levine put a green headband around her short hair, pulled a face paint can from her fatigue blouse and greased her face, neck, back of hands and throat, doing it faster than most men. She pulled her trou from her jump boots, strapped on the ankle holster for the snub.38, inserted the revolver and Moused the trou with a boot garter. She completed her accessories with a cartridge belt bearing a canteen, first aid pouch, magazine ammo pouch and a service.45.
Outside, vehicles gunned cold engines and Eleven Charlies, heavy infantrymen, moved mortar tubes and base plates.
The door opened. Major General Michael Peters and Brigadier General M. John Mann, his ADC-M, Assistant Division Commander, Maneuver, entered. They wore helmets and sidearms.
The DTOC shift commander greeted them. The staff ignored them as they had ignored us. Levine showed them what I guessed was a DA nuclear authority letter and briefed them. BG Mann was the officer who had direct tactical authority over the 95M bombs. The CG had authority over BG Mann, Casey, DTOC, the bombs and, potentially, Levine and me.
“Captain Levine,” said the CG, “you're telling me this is a joint extraction operation run by the Navy. That members of my command are probably Inmingun but we're going to negotiate with them and not do anything so decisive as, say, arrest them.” “Roger that, sir,” said Levine.
The CG and his deputy exchanged a glance. “Pen-tagon,” sighed the CG.
“The Navy,” said Levine, “supplies top cover for air superiority and AW ACS to control the air show and coordinate the extraction helos. Air Force provides outer perimeter close ground support. Your air battalion provides interior ground support. And Ike's atomic grenade throwers end up in Navy billets on the USS Coral Sea Battle Group. Effective now, you are without tactical nukes.”
“Michael John,” said the CG to the ADC-M, “step up our tac readiness profile, clear the air, commit the gun-ships
needed. Get us out of her way. Then get chief of staff to call an emergency commanders’ conference.”
BG Mann held up two fingers; the shift commander called for a DTOC backup team, hung up and pulled his top NCOs from chairs. BG Mann made phone calls, then began briefing them, everyone taking notes. Still no answer from the Mikes.
Levine looked at her watch and pointed at the radio operator, who began another ten minutes of one-minute-intervaled five-squelch breaks.
The backup team filed in, tense and shaking off sleep.
The CG stood near, making entries in a notepad. BG Mann watched the shift commander brief the backups while the G-3, Operations officer, asked questions and wrote the extraction timetable.
Levine looked at me and then briefed Magrip and Foss.
“Lemme get this straight,” said Foss when she was done. He chomped on a decrepit cigar, his eyeballs flitting between Magrip and Levine. Levine stared at his stogie. “The lady's in charge.” He coughed. “Two squelch breaks on freq forty-two point forty-two means we found the Ninety-five Mikes, and they are deploying to the landing zone.”
Levine nodded. “Roger.” Magrip said, “Check.”
“We break squelch three times, it means the helos took all team members and their ordnance and lifted off clean.
“But if we squelch four long ones, it means Tiger Tails got us in deep kim chi and I need help mos tic. Then we switch to channel 2, the KCIA frequency, and send them four long ones, too. Then I dial you back and send details in an open transmission.” Levine nodded.
“Now, if Kan squelches us four, it means he couldn't contain the Tiger Tails on Jungsan and they're after us.”
“Maja-yo, Major,” said Levine. “We'll make a fine team.”
“Lady,” said Foss, “Fm just a cop. I don't have high-grade Infantry crew-served crap to fight a buncha Tiger Tails.”
“Major Foss,” said BG Mann, “Captain Levine has op con”—operational command—“of a cavalry squadron, a Ranger company and a heavy-weapons platoon.” That meant a scouting force, a strike force and portable artillery.
“DivArty, gunships and slicks, are on call.” Meaning division artillery—the big guns—as well as attack helicopters, helo transports and dustoffs were standing by. “Captain Levine, you will have control in the field.”
Levine nodded. BG Mann added, “Once you find our boys, we will have Navy, Marines and Air Force on the scene with more firepower than the Inmingun can handle.”
“Levine, what about the ROKs?” asked General Peters.
“Sir,” said Levine, “they're on our side, but we're not playing with them tonight.”
“Is that from the top, or your call?” asked the CG.
“My call, sir, under the protocol. Major Foss,” said Levine, “the ROKs are not to even see the bombs. And KCIA thinks the Iron Mikes are on freq fifty-nine point three-five.
“They don't know Iron Mike channel one, forty-two point forty-two. We get the ROKs on the hook only if we're hurting. Given this firepower, I can't imagine why that would be.”
MG Peters nodded. “I'll have hell to pay at the I Corps conference with ROK Army. This is no way to treat our host.”
“No, sir,” said Levine. Foss chewed, made ready to spit and stopped. “Kan, you're Asian. Don't you trust the ROKs?”
“I trust everyone not involved in murder, drugs or atomic bombs. You guys okay with the command arrangement?”
“It's too dark,” said Foss as he and Magrip began applying face paint, “for any of them to see they're being led by a skirt.”
“Stow it,” said Magrip. “She's in charge; back her up.”
Foss blew out air, studying Magrip. “Okay.”
“If you see the Wizard,” I said to Levine, “take him down. You find McCrail, give him a ride home.”
She nodded and put on her helmet.
“Levine.” She looked up. “Compared to Niagara, this is nothing.” She smiled. The generals saluted Magrip, who wiped his hands on his trou and nodded. I watched them leave and noted the time: 0100 hours, Sunday, 19 January, Lunar New Year's eve.
I had set a Sunday breakfast meeting at the CG's Mess at 0800 in the morning. Magrip, Levine, Purvis, Song Sae and I would plan the meeting at Jungsan with the mudang‘s twelve patients at their medicinal tea. Song Sae would be key.
By then, the Ninety-five Mikes should be having breakfast with the Navy. An hour passed. A line flashed. Carlos.
“Urchin, we will extract the Plutos according to the protocol. I am recommending the SADMs stay out of the Korean Peninsula forever, but things are a little loco in Washington right now. Hard to get straight answers. But I am optimistic.”
“You always are.”
“Now, Urchin, am I to assume the Wizard is in custody, and that you've tied up all legal loose ends? Urchin? Hello?”
38
ALL YOU CAN BE
Sunday, January 20
I prescribed class A as uniform of the day. We looked official but not hostile. The PRC-77 radio sat silently by my chair.
Seven hours had passed. No one had called in, and here I sat, having breakfast with a radio at a tableclothed table in the CG's mess, rich with the scents of cooking eggs, sausages, waffles, pancakes and bacon. The coffee was strong. I was the only captain in a field-grade mess, and I was an IG; I had the table to myself.
Somewhere out there in the snow were Sergeant Major Patrick T. McCrail and Colonel Frederick C. LeBlanc and practically everyone else I knew in Korea.
I was about to negotiate with twelve North Koreans and Song Sae and Purvis were late.
I dialed Purvis. No answer at his quarters. The gate said neither a Purvis or a Moon had entered post. I called the med. Purvis was there as a patient.
I called Foss, who sent me a jeep with a working heater. I drove to the Ville, the Browning in my belt.
No one answered at Song Sae's hooch. The families were at the community water faucet. I pointed at her door. The women looked to an elder; she made the uni-versal shrugging of shoulders.
I drove to the Strip. It was a little after eight on a Sunday morning. The Vegas was dark, silent and smelling like human regret. A Blue Heart looked at me blearily and tried to adjust ruined hair.
I asked for Mrs. Cho. She waved toward the back. Mrs. Cho sat at a table, working a ledger and smoking. I greeted her. She took my arms, feeling lucky.
“Ah, dae-wi, you wakee up this morning, think of my girls!”
“I need a translator. I will pay.”
She cackled. “Of course you pay.”
I had no cash left. “Will you take a check with ID?”
“Chinese men all bankers. Neh, take check. You wait.” I looked at my Samsung watch. Time passed slowly. I paced.
A clatter of heels and protests. Onto the floor came a bevy of puffy-eyed, hung-over, unhappy women in an assortment of frayed Frederick's of Hollywood presentations. They looked like bruised fruit. They stood shoulder to shoulder with the enthusiasm of mafiosi in a dawn lineup. I felt sorry for them.
Mrs. Cho barked, making them stir. “You talkee best!”
“Hi, big boy,” said the first one absently.
“I love you too muchee, honcho man,” intoned the second.
“I give best hum job, make you feel so happy. I speakee English best, numbah-one,” said the third vapidly, smoking.
“Oh, the hell she does,” said the fourth, chewing gum.
“I need you now,” I said. “Dressed for church. Fast.”
“Kinky, dude!” She was Miss Oh, code-named Catalina, and she looked like a starlet gone wrong. She returned in a black leather coat, tight, plunging black sweater, microskirt, black fishnet stockings with heels and a cigarette, chewing gum.
“This far-out? This numbah-one threads.”
“They're fine. Can you ditch the smoke? Let's go.”
She dropped it. “Gum's okay, right? Takee away bad taste. You know, is most groovy right-on. Cool have job, use English.” She ran after me. �
��You in big-time damn hurry, yes?”
“Yes. Fasten the seat belt. Where'd you learn English?”
“All my yobo AFKN disc jockey, talk good, deep voice like you, big boy. But they breakee my sad heart and give me big ugly turd downer. Get too muchee sick tired, ask GI if married! They all lie through teeth, yes?” She studied me. “So, honcho dae-wi most big boy, you married Stateside, have rug rat?”
“Six kids.” I drove hard, like Bin.
“Oh! You like play hide salami! You want sweet-time with me?”
I told her what was going to happen at Jungsan. I asked her to translate and interpret what the mudang and the twelve big Korean men said. “First, say what they said. Then tell me what you think it means. For a hundred bucks.”
“I can dig it!”
I asked her to wait in the jeep.
Purvis's head was bandaged. He lacked the attentive presence of the gravely concerned and slept deeply. The chart said, “Concussion. Frostbite. Needs rest. Do not disturb”
I poked him. His eyes opened. He grimaced. “He took Song Sae.”
My heart sank. “Who took her?” Notepad out.
“Don't know. American. Senior officer. I told CID. Six feet, one ninety, about forty-eight, silver hair, at her hooch.”
“You ever meet the Wizard?”
“Oh, man—was that him? You mean a lawyer did this to me?” The realization seemed to worsen his injury. “Said I'd get the clap running with a harlot. He said, Is that all you can be? A whoremonger? He pulled out an M-16 with a short barrel.” A CAR-15, an Armalite cousin to the M-16, prone to jams.
“Told him Song Sae was a religious assistant who worked for a holy lady. Not a Blue Heart.
“He said he knew she was the kidaey that she worked the ‘pagan sciences’ during the day and seduced Blue Hearts at night.
“I said something clever like ‘You can't talk like that.’ He butt-stroked me. I dodged. He was after my eyes.” A pause. “Had four Korean GIs with him. When I came to, she was gone. Saw snow trails—they dragged her.”
I could've arrested him. I had waited to do the paperwork.
“Maybe,” I said, “she won't be in immediate danger. He knows the mudang’s kidae is a shield, a free ride into any rural village in Korea.” He knew her rank but had called her a whore.
