“Come in, then,” replied the captain as he climbed out of the hole. “Corporal Yoon, after you get that food started, let someone else take over cooking the toki. Then go relieve Sergeant Sun. I don’t want him to freeze. He’s been out there for too long already.”
“Yes, sir!” replied the man who had skinned the rabbits. He finished cutting the meat and put it into a pot suspended above a small fire by a tripod made of sticks. “Rabbit stew in an hour.”
The captain clapped a hand on one man’s shoulder and said, “If we work hard today, we will be out of here by daybreak tomorrow, maybe sooner. Good work, men. Chaldaso!”
Marcus backed away slowly from the group and made his way to the waiting snowmobile. He took a different route, being careful to avoid the sniper in his hide, and keeping an eye out for any others.
By the time he got back to his equipment, it was nearly two-thirty. The sun had already started its descent. Its beams cast mesmerizing pink and orange flames that streaked across the sky.
The arctic winter was well known for its long dark nights. Winter solstice, December 21st, was the longest and darkest of those nights, with the sun rising at about eleven only to leave the land in total darkness before three. It was currently the 18th, and the darkness would cover him within an hour.
Marcus secured his load and headed back home. Krisler’s trap line would have to wait.
Marcus Johnson’s Cabin
Salt Jacket
16:00 Hours
Marcus left the animal carcasses outside so they would stay frozen until he got back. He started the old white Jeep CJ parked in front of the cabin to let it warm up. Once the sun went down, the temperature dropped to negative thirty. The jeep’s starter protested as it churned the engine to life. It idled high and Marcus turned up the heater to full blast to warm the interior of the classic vehicle. He ran inside the cabin to change his clothes.
Ten minutes later, he ran back out of the cabin and jumped into the driver’s seat of the four-wheel drive. The air from the heater was only just starting to warm, and the steering wheel was painfully cold to the touch of his bare fingers. Marcus put his gloves back on to protect his flesh from becoming frostbitten. He pulled the headlight knob, and the yard exploded in bright white light as his high beams illuminated the snow that lay across the open expanse.
Marcus pressed the clutch with his booted foot, slid the shifter to reverse, and backed the jeep in a wide arc in his front yard. Once it faced toward the road, he pushed the shifter into first gear and shot out onto Johnson Road. He glanced down at the fuel gauge as he pulled out. The needle pointed to the first white dash above empty.
“Damn!” he exclaimed.
Marcus rushed over to the Salt Jacket General Store and pulled up to the gas pump. He jumped from the driver’s seat and slid his bank debit card into the slot on the front of the pump, then stuffed the nozzle into the tank opening. He squeezed the lever all the way and filled his thirsty jeep as fast as the pump would pour the fuel.
As he finished, Linus peeked out through the window by the cash register, then walked out of the store. “Hey, man, what are you doing here? I thought you were out in the woods.”
“I was,” Marcus replied as he replaced the gas nozzle. He turned back, screwed the gas cap back into its place, and spoke to Linus as he jumped into the driver’s seat. “Something really important came up at the base. I’ll fill you in later, but gotta go for now.”
Before his friend could say anything more, Marcus shot out of the parking lot and bolted up the highway toward Eielson Air Force Base.
Marcus arrived at the entrance to the Air Force Base fifteen minutes later, having averaged about eighty miles per hour on the way. He pulled the jeep up to the gatehouse and flashed his red-fringed retired military ID card to the guard.
“Sir, I’m sorry, but there is an alert exercise on and we are closed to all persons except for active duty personnel with a base sticker.”
“What? Look, I need to see your base security commander to report an emergency.”
“I’m sorry, but I cannot let you on until they lift the closure.” The guard looked up and pointed to the main guardhouse fifty feet away. “You can go in there and see if the desk sergeant can help you, but I cannot let you on.”
Marcus turned his vehicle into the parking area next to the red brick building. Two windows were set high in the wall facing out from the base. Light was visible from those windows, but they were too high to see how many, if any, people were inside. Marcus went in.
Just inside the door, a
counter
stretched the length of the drab room. Every solid surface was painted an eggshell white color. The only exceptions were a single brown wooden office chair and four brown wooden picture frames on the wall in back. The picture frames contained plain white sheets of paper with typed writing too small to read from in front. A bored-looking Air Force Security Police Staff Sergeant in camouflage BDU’s with his back to Marcus stood hunched over stuffing a large wad of Copenhagen tobacco into his lip.
Marcus caught a strong whiff of Jack Daniels whiskey as the staff sergeant closed the round cap on the alcohol-marinated tobacco.
“Good evening, sir,” the security policeman said with a slow southern drawl. The bulge of tobacco, combined with his drawl, made him sound like he had a speech impediment, or as it was called in a previous generation, he seemed slow. “ID card, please.”
Marcus showed his card, and the staff sergeant glanced at it and said, “I’m sorry. The gate is closed to all but active duty personnel. You’ll have to hit the commissary another day.”
“I’m not going grocery shopping. I need to talk to the OD for base security.”
“What for?”
“To report a security incident. Now get me the OD.”
“Sir, the officer of the day is busy, and unless I can justify disturbing him, I am not going to. Tell me your incident. I may be able to help you right here.”
Marcus was frustrated at being retired. His standing in the Corps as an E-8 Master Sergeant, Force Recon Marine had allowed him the luxury of direct access to people who could act swiftly. That luxury was gone the day he walked off the grounds of Camp Pendleton for the last time. Marcus was no longer a link in the chain of command.
“All right, Staff Sergeant.” Marcus made an effort to calm himself and explained, “I was running a friend’s trap line on the back of the base when I came across a group of what appear to be North Korean Special Forces attempting to dig into an underground bunker. There are about a dozen of them, maybe more. They are armed and have several snipers posted, guarding whatever it is they are doing. Based on what I heard them say to each other, they are nearly halfway done with their job and expect to be out of there by early tomorrow. I rushed back here as fast as I could and recommend that you get a security team out there ASAP.”
The security police staff sergeant stood frozen with his eyes wide open in an expression of unconcealed disbelief. His mouth hung stupidly open. A dribble of tobacco juice overflowed the edge of his lips and ran in a brown line to his chin. He blinked rapidly as he processed the information, then wiped the brown tobacco drool with the back of his sleeve. “Uh huh. North Korean Special Forces on the back of the base, digging into an underground bunker.”
“You heard me, Sergeant,” Marcus said. “Now, get someone on the horn who can do something about it.”
“Right.” The staff sergeant picked up the receiver of the phone behind the counter and punched in a five-digit extension. He glanced sideways at Marcus, wiped the spittle from his chin again, and spoke into the line.“Sir, there’s a fella up here in the guardhouse who would like to speak to you.”
A pause as he listened.
“Yes, sir, I understand, but this is something about North Korean Special Forces infiltrating our base.” He nodded his head up and down. “Yes, sir, North Koreans.”
The staff sergeant glanced over to Marcus and pointed to the phone receiver, mouthing the words “O.D.”. He smiled belittlingly at the retired Marine. His expression displayed a distrust of Marcus’s mental state. He returned his attention to the phone. “I don’t know. Maybe it is part of the exercise, but I don’t think so.”
The staff sergeant nodded and said, “He doesn’t seem to be, but you never know. His breath doesn’t stink.” He paused again. “Okay, sir, I’ll ask.” He turned back to Marcus. “Uh, sir, the captain asked me to ask to you if you are drunk.”
Marcus’s face reddened as anger seethed within him. “No!”
Turning back to the receiver, he replied, “He says no, sir.” He turned back to Marcus and asked, “What is your background that makes you think you saw North Koreans out there?”
Marcus rolled his eyes impatiently. “Twenty years of Marine Force Recon, that’s what. I just retired last summer.”
Into the phone, the country boy staff sergeant said, “Twenty-year Marine. Force Recon, he says. Yeah, could be.” The staff sergeant nodded his head in agreement to something he was hearing. “Well, sir, I’ll ask him.”
He turned again to Marcus and wiped tobacco drool from his chin. “Could you point it out on that map for me? The location where you saw them? ”
He motioned to a map on the wall that showed the boundaries of the whole of Eielson Air Force Base, as well as parts of Salt Jacket and Moose Creek.
“Definitely,” Marcus replied. Relief eased across his tense body as he felt that they were finally taking him seriously. He walked over to the map, found Johnson Road, and ran his finger a short distance up the map, then off to the side, following approximately the trail he had driven that morning. His finger stopped at the
spot
at which he saw the Korean soldiers. “Right there. They are in this area, right here.”
The sergeant put the phone receiver back up to his face and said, “He’s got it, sir—section J.” He paused, squinted at the map, and
pointed
toward the section numbers on its border. “What is that number there, sir?”
“Six,” Marcus replied.
The staff sergeant turned back to the phone and repeated, “Six. J6 on the wall map in here. Yes sir, I know. I don’t see any either.”
Marcus heard the voice on the other end get loud, but couldn’t make out the words.
“All right, sir. Will do. Out here.” He hung the phone up and turned back to Marcus.
“Well?” asked the retired Marine. “Is he coming or what?”
“No, sir, he is not coming.” The sergeant shook his head. “The area you pointed out has no bunkers in it, sir. That is flat out wilderness in there. I don’t know what you think you saw, but there is nothing out there for no North Korean Special Forces to be interested in.”
Marcus could feel his blood beginning to boil. “Look, you! I know what I saw, and I am telling you that you need to get someone up there. I am Master Sergeant Marcus Johnson, USMC Special Operations Command. I would not make something like this up!”
“No, sir,” the staff sergeant replied. He wiped his sleeve across his chin again and continued. “You ‘were’ Master Sergeant Marcus Johnson, USMC. You are now Mr. Marcus Johnson, civilian. The war is over for you, Mr. Johnson. Now go home and chill out.”
Marcus’s face became hot. Veins bulged and pulsed in his temples. He slammed his hands down on the counter, barely resisting the urge to throttle the ignorant country bumpkin. The staff sergeant jumped back in alarm and put his palm on the grip of the pistol that hung from his belt. He scooted back as far as he could and stammered, “Now, you just get out of here, Mr. Johnson, or I’m going to arrest you for assaulting a police officer.”
Anything more Marcus did or said would only end with him spending a night in jail. He wheeled around and left the guardhouse.
He stormed across the parking area, steam rising from his hot, flushed skin in the frozen night air. He leaped into the waiting jeep. He slammed it into gear and shot back out to the highway. All four tires of the jeep spit a stream of sand and gravel against the wall of the guardhouse as he rocketed forward.
Marcus had to find someone who would both listen to him and react quickly. He fired the Jeep off toward Fairbanks. Half a mile out of Eielson, he was going nearly eighty miles per hour when he passed a state trooper coming the other way.
“Oh, great! Just what I need now,” he shouted, angry that he hadn’t seen the police car coming sooner.
Much to his surprise, the patrol car just kept going, as if the trooper hadn’t noticed him.
“Well, there’s a stroke of luck. Cop must’ve busy looking at his donuts.”
As the trooper car disappeared in the distance behind him, Marcus ran through a list of possible contacts in his head. Nearly all the people he could think to call in a situation like this were either in Camp Pendleton or Washington D.C., but he didn’t have access to them anymore since he was retired. Even if he could get through, it was after 20:00 on the east coast, and nobody was in the office.
Then an idea occurred to him. Although it was a long shot, there was one group he knew in town that may be able to help him if he could get there before that office closed.
Thirty minutes later, at half past five, Marcus arrived at the gate of Fort Wainright US Army post just north of Fairbanks, home of the 1/25th Stryker Brigade Combat Team. Rather than the Stryker Brigade, he was there to see a tenant of the base.
He pulled up to the guard shack, and a young soldier with an M-4 rifle slung over his in forward tactical position raised an arm, signaling him to stop. Marcus complied and showed his ID card to the guard, who smartly snapped to attention and waved him through the gate. Marcus followed Gaffney Road, the main road through the base. He drove past Basset Army Hospital, past the AAFEES BX/PX/Commissary complex, and past several sections of base family housing until he came to a non-descript concrete building nestled between a cluster of old barracks buildings near the airfield at the rear of the base. A ten-foot-wide by six-foot-tall wooden sign hung from two four-by-four posts.
3rd Platoon, E Company, 4th Marine Reconnaissance Battalion, Reserve