Thunder in the Morning Calm (7 page)

“I have heard that somewhere in the North,” Gunner said, “the Communists may be holding some old Americans captive from the Korean War.”

Jung-Hoon and Jackrabbit exchanged glances. “Please sit, Commander,” Jung-Hoon said as he pulled out a chair. Jackrabbit and Gunner both sat down.

“It is unusual for an American to hear of such things, Commander McCormick,” Jung-Hoon said. “Over the years our governments have suppressed such stories.” The Korean scratched his chin. “I am curious.” A raised eyebrow. “Where did you hear such a thing?”

“I am an intelligence officer. I have top-secret clearance and came across a briefing that mentioned the possibility.”

Jung-Hoon leaned back and crossed his arms. “You are talking about something that happened sixty years ago. With all the other issues that threaten the peninsula — a possible invasion from the North, shootings along the DMZ, North Korea’s nuclear program — tell me, Commander,
why would you come here to ask me about such rumors that so few even know about?”

Gunner leaned forward ever so slightly. “Tell me, Jung-Hoon, is it customary for such a legendary warrior of the Land of the Morning Calm to answer the questions of a lowly admirer by asking another question?”

The Korean’s stone face morphed into a chuckle. “This must be a day for rumors. The ‘legendary warrior’ story is a rumor of the past. This bar is my life now.” He grinned. And then, as quickly as the chuckle had appeared, the stone face returned. “I believe my question was … why come so far, Commander, to ask a bar owner about a rumor, a very implausible rumor?”

Gunner hesitated. He reached into his pocket and placed the faded color photograph of the young warrior in dress blues on the table. As Jung-Hoon and Jackrabbit stared down at the photo, Gunner said, “This gentleman is my grandfather.” They looked up at him. “Second Lieutenant Robert K. Pendleton, United States Marine Corps. He disappeared at the Battle of Chosin Reservoir. They never found his body. His disappearance has haunted my family for years.” He paused. “I don’t know what happened to him. But whether he’s dead or alive — and I know the chances are slim that he’s alive — I am going to find him.”

Silence.

The three men sat there, as if playing Russian roulette to see who would speak first. Jung-Hoon picked up the photograph. He held it up and studied it. “In Asia, it is noble to fight for the honor of our elders.”

Another silence.

“I’m from a place called Virginia,” Gunner said. “And in Virginia, it is likewise noble to defend the honor of our forefathers. That longing is in my blood, Jung-Hoon. My grandfather disappeared there at Chosin Reservoir and was never heard from again. And if I have to go north of the DMZ myself, I’m prepared to do that.”

Jung-Hoon studied the photograph again, then slid it back toward Gunner. “These rumors have circulated for years. Such rumors are passed on to a very few Koreans, mostly military and a few government officials with top-secret clearances. But there are witnesses who were on covert operations across the lines who claim to have credible information that this once was the case.”

Gunner looked at his grandfather’s picture. Anger shot through him. “If you believe the evidence is credible, why has your government done nothing about it?”

Jung-Hoon raised an eyebrow. “Commander. Please. The rumor was that elderly Americans were being held, not elderly South Koreans. These rumors are classified as top secret by your government and mine, as I am sure you have seen in your capacity as an intelligence officer. If there is any truth to them, doing something about them after the armistice agreement was signed would risk another war. Our governments have kept quiet partly because of the sketchiness of the data and partly because of the supposed location of the prison camps.”

Gunner let that sink in. He picked up the photo of the young Marine officer and put it back in his pocket. “What location?”

“Rumor placed the camps somewhere northeast of Pyongyang, near the city of Hamhung.”

Gunner thought about that. “I’m familiar with Pyongyang. Hamhung doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Hamhung is the capital of South Hamgyong Province.” He looked at Jackrabbit. “My friend, would you go look in the upper right drawer of my desk? There is a map of North Korea in there.”

“No problem,” Jackrabbit said. He headed back through the curtains and disappeared.

“The war almost destroyed the city,” Jung-Hoon said. “They rebuilt Hamhung during the midfifties and early sixties. Then, in the nineties, a great famine struck North Korea, which devastated Hamhung more than any other city. Thousands died of starvation. Dear Leader could not feed his people. There is talk of rebellious factions within the city.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Some reports claimed seventy thousand people died during the famine. Reports surfaced of children dying of malnutrition and thousands of freshly dug shallow graves in the hillsides. In 1995, a group of North Korean soldiers began marching toward Pyongyang to challenge the government. This is the only documented challenge to the North Korean government by elements of its army. Of course the rebellion was quickly put down.”

Jackrabbit returned with a map. He spread it out on the table.

North Korea, Pyongyang,
Taedong River, Hamhung, Hungnam

“Thank you,” Jung-Hoon said. “As you can see, Commander, the Taedong River flows from the northeast to the southwest, through the capital at Pyongyang, where your ship the
Pueblo
remains, and out to the west into the Yellow Sea.

“Now if you look over here to the Sea of Japan, just south of the 40th parallel, you see the city of Hungnam. From Hungnam port, all UN forces and thousands of refugees were evacuated after the Battle of Chosin Reservoir in 1950.”

“I remember reading that,” Gunner said.

“Eight miles to the north is Hamhung, the city I told you about.
And somewhere to the west or north of that” — he pointed at the map — “are the rumored sites of these secret camps.”

“Hmm.” Gunner studied the map. His eyes fixed on Hamhung. I wonder if … He looked up at Jung-Hoon. “Do you think any camps are still there?”

“I think the camps were once there,” the Korean said, “but I doubt that they are still there, at least not to hold captured Americans. Most if not all of the Americans should have died by now.”

Gunner studied the map again, then looked up. “So … let me ask it this way. Do you think they are still holding any Americans?”

Jung-Hoon met his eyes. He glanced at Jackrabbit, then back at Gunner. “A year ago, I heard rumors that a few might still be alive. These rumors came from reports floating over from the North. Since then … nothing. But do I believe that there still may be elderly Americans somewhere behind the lines?” He stopped for a moment, as if weighing the odds. “If someone put a gun to my head and made me guess, I would say yes. I would not think many were still alive, but too many reports surfaced over the years for there not to be some truth to these rumors.”

The three men sat there, seemingly in a speechless stalemate. Gunner finally said, “How can I get into that area to find out?”

“You’d need a pile of money and a suicide wish,” Jackrabbit said.

“Money’s no problem,” Gunner said. “Let’s say I wanted to take a small team in behind the lines, unnoticed, with the mission of discovering whether these rumors are true … and, if so, bringing one or two of the men out alive.”

Jung-Hoon and Jackrabbit again eyed each other. Then Jung-Hoon nodded, yielding the floor to the American expat. “You’d need a light aircraft you could ditch in the sea. A rubber floatable Zodiac boat. Light weaponry. Sophisticated communications equipment with jammers. Maps. Dagger military GPS devices with updated crypto key. Light plastic explosives with remote detonators. Heavy-duty wire cutters. Plenty of cash. US dollars and even more North Korean won. And, of course, if you’re caught, you’re executed on the spot.”

Gunner looked at the American he had just met, then at the Korean. “I know your background, gentlemen. I know how each of you feels
about the Communist regime in Pyongyang. Will you help me? I will pay you more in a month than you would make in a year.”

Eyes shifted again between Jung-Hoon and Jackrabbit. “When you’re asking for help,” Jackrabbit said, “you mean you want us to cross the lines with you?”

“Why not?” Gunner said. “Both of you have faced dangerous situations with Special Forces on top-secret missions all over the world. If the money’s right … and it will be … why not this mission? You’re both fearless. And you have a chance to accomplish something worthwhile.”

“But Commander,” Jung-Hoon said, “we are both retired warriors. I live a peaceful life running this bar. And my friend here” — he nodded to Jackrabbit — “he can speak for himself, but I have known him for years. He is trying to live a quiet life here in Korea, away from the fast life back in the USA. Besides, while neither of us fears dying, if we are caught, the stakes would be greater than our own lives. The North would claim that we are government spies and use this as a pretext for attacking the South. If that happens, innocent women and children would die. So you see, Commander, this is not only about money. Tell me why we should consider this.”

The Korean had made a good point.

Would Gunner lose his most valuable team members before even getting started? Perhaps he should go back to the
Truman
or spend a week or two in Seoul and then leave. He prayed for the right words.

“I’m from Virginia. I wasn’t much on reading the Good Book back then, but every night my mother made me memorize a Bible verse. One that she made me repeat every day for a year was very simple.” He paused. “Deuteronomy 6:18: ‘Do what is right.’ “ He looked at Jackrabbit. “You’re an American. You live here in South Korea now, but you will always be an American. Now I know our country has undergone considerable change.” He stopped. “A lot of that change has not been for the good. But there was a time when our government would never leave Americans behind enemy lines to rot. Politics or not, international ramifications or not, that is plain wrong. And if our government won’t get to the bottom of it, somebody must have the courage to do the right thing. Do what is right. Americans don’t leave Americans behind enemy lines to rot.” He paused. “Not in the America I grew up in, anyway. You’re a
decorated war hero, and I’m just an intelligence officer. But whether you go with me or not, somehow, someway, I’m crossing that line to the North, and I’ll get some answers … even if it costs me my life.”

The
whirr
of the overhead ceiling fans filled the silence.

“Is this not about your grandfather,” Jung-Hoon asked, “making this a personal mission for you? Forgive my bluntness, but North Korea is a barren, famine-ravished, poverty-stricken wasteland. Your grandfather probably died long ago.”

“I understand that,” Gunner said, meeting the gaze of the Korean. “And yes, this is personal. But maybe it is for you too.” Jung-Hoon raised an eyebrow. “I’ve done my homework, Jung-Hoon. I know what they did to your brother.”

Jung-Hoon shifted on his chair.

“And also to your wife, Jackrabbit,” Gunner said.

Anger flashed across the ex-pat’s lips and eyebrows.

“My apologies for evoking bitter memories. But your brother, Jung-Hoon, and your wife, Jackrabbit, gave their lives fighting this regime. And their work was not sponsored by the government. They fought injustice out of a brave commitment to do what was right.” Gunner stopped to let them think of the past. “I don’t know about the two of you, but I’m willing to risk my life for the memory of your wife” — he eyed Jackrabbit — “and the memory of your brother” — a glance at Jung-Hoon — “and yes, for the memory of my grandfather too.”

The light
whirr
of the overhead fan hummed on as the triumvirate engaged in an awkward silent negotiation, each with his own thoughts of right and wrong.

Gunner broke the silence. “If either or both of you gentlemen do not wish to join me, I understand. I will find someone else who will.”

He waited. There was no response. Finally he stood. “I’ll be leaving now. Jackrabbit, don’t worry about driving me back. I’ll catch a cab.”

“Wait,” Jung-Hoon said. “Meet me at Grace Fellowship Evangelical Baptist Church in Seoul. Seven o’clock tonight.”

“At a Baptist church?”

“Yes,” Jung-Hoon said. “Jackrabbit knows the church. My brother attended there. So did Jackrabbit’s wife. I do not attend, but they are good people. The pastor is closing speaker at a conference tonight. Meet
me in front of the church sanctuary at seven, just after the speech. I will introduce you to the pastor.”

“Who is this pastor?” Gunner asked. “We need to be careful about who we talk to.”

Jung-Hoon looked irritated. “You asked for my help. Do you still wish to have it?”

“Of course.”

“Then trust me,” the Korean said as he stood. “We are — what do you Americans say? — on the same page here. I would not compromise the sensitive nature of these discussions.”

“Forgive me,” Gunner said, extending his hand to the Korean and bowing slightly. “Of course I trust you.”