Thunder in the Morning Calm (6 page)

“We’ve got an E-2C Hawkeye launching for Osan Air Base at zero-seven-hundred hours tomorrow. Why don’t you get me that report, pack your seabag, and go enjoy the sights of the city. Who knows? You may even pick up some intel that would help our mission here.”

“Aye, sir. I’ll have that report for you within the hour.” And Gunner surrendered to whatever fate lay before him.

“Good man.” Admiral Hampton delivered an enthusiastic slap to Gunner’s back. “You got a place to stay?”

“Yes, sir. When I was in Virginia, I took the liberty of contacting some folks just in case you approved my leave. I’ll go up and get a message off and let them know I’m coming.”

“Excellent,” Hampton said. “Keep your eyes and ears peeled, Gunner. Be safe. And don’t do anything dangerous.”

“I’ll be careful, Admiral. Nothing dangerous.”

Osan Air Base
South Korea

S
trapped into a less-than-comfortable jump seat as the plane began its final approach, Lieutenant Commander Gunner McCormick craned his neck for a peek through the third small porthole on the right side of the twin-engine E-2C Hawkeye. He caught his first glimpse of the distant South Korean landscape, bathed in the early morning sun.

As he gazed at South Korea, his thoughts reverted again to his last conversation with the admiral.

“Keep your eyes and ears peeled, Gunner. Be safe. And don’t do anything dangerous.”

“I’ll be careful, Admiral. Nothing dangerous.”

Did the admiral know something? Did he have a premonition? Lying was against Gunner’s religion. And flat-out lying to an admiral, as Gunner had done when he promised nothing dangerous, was downright stupid.

His conscience was bothering him. But this was no time to cop a conscience.

Shake it off, Gunner.

The pilot banked right, and and the twin nine-thousand-foot runways of the sprawling Osan Air Base came into view. They were surrounded by rice paddies and ran parallel to the snaking Chinwi River. Home to the US Air Force’s Fifty-First Fighter Wing, Osan was the most forward-deployed US military base in Korea, only forty-five miles south of the Demilitarized Zone. Air Force F-16s at Osan formed an aerial
vanguard to protect the capital city of Seoul if the Communists struck across the DMZ.

The Hawkeye banked again, displaying the mountainous terrain beyond the low-lying peninsula. From two thousand feet, in the midst of a sun-drenched afternoon, and in the distance, was a panoramic display of majestic snow-capped mountains.

“We’re on final approach for landing at Osan,” the pilot said over the loudspeaker. “We’ll be on the ground in about two minutes.”

Gunner tightened his shoulder harness and sat back. The plane descended through bumping turbulence and, a moment later,
bump …
A slight bounce on the runway was followed by the sound of rubber wheels spinning against concrete, and then the
whooshing
sound of a braking aircraft decelerating on the ground.

“Welcome to South Korea,” the Navy pilot said. “For those of you who’ve never been to Osan, you’ll find that the Air Force is usually accommodating. They’re supposed to have a couple of Humvees to ferry us over to Building 772. From there, you can check in if you’re staying on base or take a taxi or bus into Seoul.”

The plane rolled to a stop. The whine of its two engines diminished. Then, silence.

“One other thing.” The pilot’s voice boomed again over the PA system. “If you’re taking a bus into Seoul, they won’t take dollars. Only won. They’ll do an exchange for you there in Building 772. Cab drivers will take dollars.”

The side door opened, and the cold gust of air was like a sudden slap on the face, reminding Gunner that he was now on Korean soil. His heart was pounding. Second thoughts raced through his mind.

From his shirt pocket, he extracted the small photograph that he kept over his heart. The colors had faded over time, but the image of the young Marine officer in dress blues, seated before the American flag, helped calm his nerves. “Focus,” he whispered. “Eyes on the goal. Remember your mission.”

Another blast of cold air brought shivering goose bumps up the back of his neck. Gunner stood and donned his wool Navy bridgecoat, which knocked down the chill a bit, and then his Navy officer’s visored cover.

“Hope to see you back on board soon,” the pilot said.

Gunner picked up his carry-on, waited for the supply corps commander to leave, and then stepped down onto the gusty tarmac. Four Air Force Humvees sat parked in a half-moon formation beside the plane. Several enlisted men milled about, moving luggage from the Navy plane into the Humvees.

“Commander McCormick!” The gruff-sounding voice coming from near the tail section was barely audible against the roaring engine of an F-16 out on the runway.

Gunner turned and saw a civilian walking toward him. The man wore a black pullover cap and a black pullover sweater under an unbuttoned black leather jacket and black pants. The two-inch scar along the left side of his jutting jaw was visible even from twenty feet away. His graying hair blew in the wind. He stuck his hand out toward Gunner. “You Commander McCormick?”

“That’s me,” Gunner said.

“John Davenport.” The man’s grip was like a steel vice. “My friends call me Jackrabbit. I got your message.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Gunner said as the man mercifully loosened the crushing handshake. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Davenport.”

“Mister Davenport was my daddy,” the man responded in a gruff Southern dialect. “Where’s your bags?”

“Just a carry-on.” Gunner lifted the seabag off the tarmac. “You prefer John or Jackrabbit?”

“Don’t give a durn.” The man pointed at a muddy black pickup truck with a crew cab behind one of the Humvees. “That’s our ride.”

“That’s great, John,” Gunner said. “I thought I might have to take a bus to Seoul.”

“Like I said, my friends call me Jackrabbit,” the man snapped in an almost irritated tone. “Throw your bag in the back and hop in. Our contact is waiting for us.”

“Roger that.” Gunner unzipped just enough of the bag to extract a bottle of water, tossed the suitcase into the bed of the truck, then opened the passenger-side door. Toasty warm air from the truck’s heater bathed his face and neck as he slid onto the seat and slammed the door.

Behind the seat, two black automatic rifles — US-issued M-16s with magazines — lay on the floor. Jackrabbit stepped on the accelerator,
and the truck moved out across the tarmac, away from the plane and through an open gate guarded by two enlisted Air Force MPs.

Jackrabbit swung the truck left onto the main road.

“I appreciate the roadside service,” Gunner said.

“For what you’re paying, not a problem.” The truck rolled along a main road paralleling the runways.

“You have any problem getting on base?”

“Nah. Still some benefits to being retired military living outside the US.” Jackrabbit rapped the horn. “Move it, lady!” Another beep.

The Korean woman driving the Toyota hatchback turned off the road.

“Your dossier is impressive,” Gunner said. “Purple Heart twice. Defense Distinguished Service Medal. Distinguished Service Cross times two for service in Afghanistan. Once in Iraq. Nominated for the Medal of Honor. Special Forces. Special Ops.” He unscrewed the cap on the water and took a swig. “Remarkable.”

“It’s a bunch of bunk.” Jackrabbit snorted. “Means I’ve been shot at a lot.”

“Well, Jackrabbit,” Gunner said, “you’re too modest, considering your history. I’m glad you’re on our team.”

A stoplight along the main road turned yellow, then red. Jackrabbit tapped the brakes, and the truck rolled to a stop behind an Air Force Humvee. “Look, Commander, let’s get one thing straight.” Jackrabbit looked straight ahead through the windshield. “I’m in this thing for two reasons. First, for the money. Second, to kill Communists.” An angry tone seemed to take over. “I can’t decide which I like more. Green dollars or dead Communists. Now if it just so happens that your interests … whatever they are … coincide with mine … well, then, I guess I’m on the team. But I want you to understand one thing.”

The light turned green, and the truck accelerated through the heavily guarded gate leading off base.

“What’s that?”

“If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, you’re flirting with a suicide mission. See, for me, it’s a sport. Killing Communists. I don’t care if they kill me. But Commander, you’re a younger man than me. You’ve not lost what I’ve lost. If I were you, I’d think long and hard before I went through with this. It’s not too late to change your mind.”
They came to another stoplight. “We drive through this light, we’re on the freeway to Seoul. I can still turn back around. That Hawkeye can take you right back out to the carrier, and you can celebrate the weekend in a warmer spot.”

Gunner let that thought sink in. Call it off. He’s probably dead. Why risk your life? Why risk war? He thought of his family, fourteen hours behind on the other side of the International Date Line, getting ready to celebrate the most American of holidays, Thanksgiving. Soon his mother would be putting the turkey in the oven to roast overnight. Then she’d be up early to prepare the rest of the feast.

For a moment he felt a twinge of homesickness. He reached back into his pocket and pulled out the faded color picture of the young Marine and just looked at it. His mother swore they had the same eyes, the same facial features. Indeed, he had part of the man’s name.

The not knowing was the worst. Someone had to reach out. Someone had to get some sort of an answer. It was obvious the government was not going to help. He put the picture back into his pocket. “Let’s roll, Jackrabbit. If we die, we die.”

“Rock ‘n’ roll, Commander. Rock ‘n’ roll.” Jackrabbit popped the clutch, the truck jumped, then sped onto the ramp headed north for the Korean Expressway.

In less than an hour, they arrived in Seoul. The black pickup weaved its way through crowded streets full of brake lights and small Korean cars, all beeping their horns and flashing their taillights. The colorful, chaotic swirl of early morning metropolitan Asia revealed an ultramodern city that seemed visibly torn between her Asian roots and an ever-present Western influence.

Gunner looked up and saw a street sign written in Korean, Chinese, and English. The English proclaimed: “Parking Lot Street.”

Jackrabbit rapped down on the horn. “Move, lady!” he yelled at the car ahead, then pulled the pickup over in front of a parking meter and turned off the engine.

“Let’s go,” he said as he opened his door.

Gunner stepped out onto the sidewalk into the hustle and bustle of olive-skinned humanity, students with book bags, jacketed men with briefcases, and black-haired Korean women with shopping bags moving in every direction.

“Where are we?”

“Seoul. Hongade Section. Real posh section of the city. Over there’s Hongik University. Real artsy private university. Follow me.” They stepped into an old brick building and got into an elevator. Jackrabbit pushed the button for the third floor. The doors closed. A moment later, the doors reopened on a hallway with an old stone wall lined with photographs and rusted steel plates covering the windows.

“This way,” Jackrabbit said. They turned right and walked down a few paces to the entrance of a bar-restaurant.

“What’s this place?”

“This is Moonyang Bar. Popular hangout with the locals. You got to know about it to find it.”

“They open this early?”

“Nah. The place isn’t open yet. Don’t worry, you’ve got it all to yourself for a while.”

They walked through two glass doors into a darkened lobby where, off to the right, unmanned electronic cash registers sat on a counter in front of black-and-white photographs hanging on a back wall, presumably of famous Koreans who had frequented the joint. The front of the place was barely illuminated by subdued light from the hallway. A couple of candles flickered on the counter, their flames twisting under a slight breeze generated by a couple of ceiling fans. To the left of the photographs, carefully placed in dozens of iron racks bolted to the wall, were hundreds of liquor and wine bottles.

More light seeped in under a door toward the back of the building. To the left of the door, black-and-gold curtains hung, leading into another area in back of the bar. A faint light glowed behind the curtains.

The place was empty.

Gunner followed Jackrabbit to a small table way back in a corner. A pitcher of water sat in the middle of it, and three glasses of water had been poured, as if someone were preparing for a meeting. “Have a seat,” Jackrabbit said. “Be right back.”

Jackrabbit stepped over to the wall and flipped a switch. A globe light hanging on a chain over the table came on. He then disappeared through the hanging curtains at the back of the room.

Gunner barely had time to look around before the curtains stirred and Jackrabbit walked back in. Behind him was a Korean man,
fifties-looking, of average height. He had on a black T-shirt and looked pretty muscular for a man of his age. He walked over to the table, but did not sit.

“Commander, this is Jung-Hoon Sohn.”

Gunner stood and extended his hand. “I’m Lieutenant Commander Gunner McCormick, United States Navy. I’ve heard of you, Colonel Jung-Hoon. It’s an honor.”

The Korean bowed slightly but did not take Gunner’s hand. “How may I help you, Commander?” His voice was low and his English was nearly impeccable. He had piercing black eyes.

“I want to talk to you about North Korea. There are rumors I have heard. They come up occasionally in discussions about the North —”

The tattoo on Jung-Hoon’s bicep sprang forth like an angry rattlesnake. Gunner’s eyes shifted back and forth between the identical tattoos on the biceps of the Korean and the American. The Korean’s tattoo was smaller than Jackrabbit’s, but it obviously was the product of the same skin artist. The flag in the tattoos had three horizontal stripes — blue, thicker red, small blue — and in the midst of the red field, a white circle, and in it a red star. The flag of North Korea. Just above the flag was the image of a man shoveling dirt on the North Korean flag.