Thunder in the Morning Calm (37 page)

“Sounds good,” Jackrabbit said with an air of supreme confidence. “Let’s do it. Commander, quick checklist.” He sounded like a pilot preparing for takeoff. “Rifle?”

“Check.”

“Silencer and night scope?”

“Check.”

“NVDs?”

“Check.”

“Pistol?”

“Check.”

“Ammo for pistol and rifle?”

“Check.”

“Then let’s rock ‘n’ roll.”

“Rock ‘n’ roll.”

Jackrabbit opened the back van door and stepped out onto the road. Gunner followed him. They quietly closed the door.

“Stay low and silent,” Jackrabbit said, crouching and moving in a double-time jog just in front of Gunner. They quietly moved forward about a hundred yards and, at a bend in the road, Jackrabbit stopped and held up his hand. He turned and gave Gunner the
shusssh
, with index finger over lips. Gunner didn’t move as Jackrabbit advanced, crouched down to get a better look at whatever was ahead. He gave Gunner the come-on motion with his hand.

Gunner moved out and, a few seconds later, crouched beside Jackrabbit.

Before them was the prison camp. The high fence with its tangle of barbed wire at the top ran about twenty-five feet to their left, then snaked off into the woods out of view. The two guards at the front gate were about a hundred yards away, the alternating red glow of the cigarettes they were puffing on clearly marking their positions. Each flash of lightning was like a spotlight on the area.

“Okay, Commander, let’s get a bead on ‘em. You take the one on the right. I’ll take the one on the left. Get his head in your crosshairs, and when I give the go-ahead, drop him.”

“Got it.” Gunner noted that because of the angle, the guard on the right was the easier target.

“Can you make that shot, Commander?”

“In my sleep.”

“Get ready.”

Gunner braced himself on one knee and brought the M-16 with night scope to his shoulder. He brought the crosshairs right onto the middle of the Korean’s nose and watched the guard enjoy the last cigarette he would ever smoke.

“On my mark … Ready … Aim … Fire!”

Gunner squeezed the trigger. The gun jumped, but silencers muted the sound. Both guards dropped to the ground in a heap.

“Keep your gun ready in case one of ‘em is still alive. Let’s go!”

Jackrabbit took off in a sprint, rifle forward, a soldier charging the enemy camp. Gunner sprinted behind him, following him to the front gate.

Just outside the gate were the two guards, transformed into lifeless heaps. Their mouths and eyes were frozen open. Seeing what the bullets had done going through their heads nearly made Gunner sick on the spot. He took a few quick breaths and looked away.

“Good shootin’, Commander.” Jackrabbit slapped Gunner on the back. He clicked the walkie-talkie. “Phase one complete. Move in.”

Jung-Hoon’s voice came back, “Roger that. Moving now.”

More lightning lit up the snow-covered landscape. More thunder boomed and shook the earth.

Jackrabbit examined the locking mechanism on the front gate. “See if you can find a key on one of those guys, Commander.”

Gunner reached down and felt for a key, a ring of keys, anything — first on one body, then on the other. “Nothing here.”

Jung-Hoon pulled up in the van with headlights off. Jackrabbit jogged over to Jung-Hoon in the van. “No keys. Wire cutters will take too long. Grab the C4. Let’s blow this baby.”

He turned to Gunner. “Commander, we’re going to use C4. Stay back and cover us. If anybody shows, you know what to do.”

“Got it,” Gunner said.

Jackrabbit grabbed the malleable C4 and meshed it into the gate lock as Jung-Hoon strung detonator wire from the gate back to the van, about fifty feet away. They worked with amazing efficiency, not wasting a second.

“Okay, stand back,” Jackrabbit said. “Cover your ears!”

The explosion sounded like a double-barrel .12-gauge shotgun going off.

The gates blew wide open, as if the waters of the Red Sea had been parted in the midst of an ice storm.

“Jung-Hoon, you and Pak head to the colonel’s quarters,” Jackrabbit said. “The commander and I will get the guards’ quarters, over to the right of the main building. After we’ve wasted those guys, you two meet us in front of the guards’ quarters and we’ll go find the prisoners.

“One other thing. Let’s pull the silencers off. I want to intimidate the living heck out of these goons. I want ‘em to know what hit ‘em. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Let’s go!”

Guards’ quarters

D
id you hear that?” First Sergeant Chung Nam-gyu, lying on the right bottom bunk of the four-bunk concrete guards’ residence, dropped his copy of the
Pyongyang Times
on the floor and pushed up on the rack. “Was that an explosion?”

“I didn’t hear anything,” First Sergeant Cho Doo-soon said. He was reading the sports section of the newspaper.

Chung listened again. The wind was whistling around the building. Cold air seeped in through the cracks. The chimney on the stove in the middle of the concrete floor rattled as the wind shook its top.

“You two are stupid idiots.” Staff Sergeant Kang Ho-soon had become a big-mouthed know-it-all who didn’t hesitate to say whatever he wanted to say. “One thinks he heard an explosion. The other heard nothing. You idiots do not know the difference between thunder and an explosion. It amazes me how you two ever got cleared to serve in a secret and prestigious post like this one.”

Chung stared at the loudmouth. “Kang, if you do not shut up, I’ll report you for insubordination.”

“Hah.” Kang snorted. “Do it fast, First Sergeant
.
In a matter of weeks, I will outrank both of you. You are idiots!”

Chung said nothing. He watched Kang for a while, then lay back down and picked up the
Pyongyang Times
.

Another booming sound outside.

That, definitely, was thunder.

Office of Colonel Song Kwang-sun

T
hey crept forward carefully, opened the door of the main administration building, and headed down the hall.

“This is the door,” Pak whispered. “Lights are on. He is probably still in there. There are two offices. The first is his assistant’s office. That is where his girlfriend works. Colonel’s office is in the back.”

Jung-Hoon held up his .45-caliber pistol in his right hand and turned the doorknob with his left. The door cracked open. The desk out front was empty.

A jumble of giggling, groaning, and moaning came from the back office. It sounded like two voices — one male, the other female. With his pistol leading the way, Jung-Hoon tiptoed past the desk and headed toward the door to the back office, which was slightly ajar.

More moaning. More giggling.

Jung-Hoon put his hand on the door and pushed it open. Two bottles of liquor sat on the big desk. Behind it, a woman in a slinky red dress sat on a man’s lap. They were kissing passionately, oblivious to anything other than themselves.

Then the man saw Jung-Hoon.

“Who are you? What are you doing in my office?” the man demanded, pushing the woman to get off his lap. The woman flipped her head around, flopping her long dark hair across her shoulders, and stared at Jung-Hoon with a look of shock. Her mouth was smeared with bright red lipstick.

“You! In the red dress! Get down on the floor. Out here beside the desk! On your hands and knees!” Jung-Hoon ordered.

The woman scrambled off the colonel’s lap and went down on all fours, like a dog, next to the desk. She looked up at Jung-Hoon.

“Keep your head down!” he snapped.

“How dare you!” the colonel said. “Do you know who I am? I am
Colonel Song Kwang-sun of the Army of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea! I have the highest access to authorities in Pyongyang, even to Dear Leader himself! I demand that you put down that gun. Do it now! Or you will not live.”

Jung-Hoon did not blink. “Aah. You invoke the name of the almighty Dear Leader, do you? Kim Jong-il! Son of Kim Il-sung! The self-proclaimed king of the North and the Son of the Morning Calm!” He looked around. A photograph of a much younger Song Kwang-sun taking the hand of and bowing to Dear Leader hung on the wall next to the desk. “That you and your king, Colonel?”

“Dear Leader is no king. He is the
king
of kings!”

“I know some people who would disagree with that.” Keeping his gun on the colonel, he walked over to the photograph, took it off the wall, and mockingly pretended to admire it. “Dear Leader ever rise from the dead?”

“He is the immortal Dear Leader!”

“Oh, he is, is he?” Jung-Hoon spat on the picture and slammed it down. Glass shattered all over the floor.

“How dare you desecrate the image of Dear Leader!”

“Colonel, I do not believe Dear Leader would be too pleased with you at the moment.”

“What … what do you mean?”

“Being the great servant of Dear Leader that you are, it has come to my attention that you are not much of a gentleman with the fairer sex.”

“Leave her alone!” The colonel looked down at his red-dressed paramour. “She is
my
woman.”

“Oh, I was not referring to her.” He snapped his fingers twice, crisply.

Pak entered from the outer office, a bandage covering the cigarette burn on her neck. The colonel’s eyes widened.

“You know this woman, Colonel Song Kwang-sun? Hmm?”

“Traitor!” Song snapped at Pak.

“I understand you like to scorch a lady’s neck with the burning end of a cigarette.
Tsk. Tsk
. Surely such rumors cannot be true, Colonel. Surely not. A gentleman of such high esteem as yourself!”

“The internal security procedures of the Democratic People’s Republic are none of your concern!” Song snapped.

“Democratic? How is it democratic? Why do governments and political parties that would take everything from the people call themselves democratic?” Jung-Hoon laid the gun down on the desk and extracted a cigarette from the pack he’d gotten from Mrs. Jeong at the pharmacy. He lit it, took a drag, and exhaled. A cloud of smoke hung in the air.

“Tell me, dear Colonel, have you ever had
your
neck burned with a cigarette?” He leaned forward, moving the burning cigarette in his fingers closer to the colonel.

Song reached into his front drawer and grabbed a pistol.

Jung-Hoon snatched the .45 from the desk and fired just as Song took aim.

“Aaaaaahhhh.”
Blood flew from Song’s right hand. The pistol dropped on the desk.

“It would not be a good idea to reach for your gun again, Colonel,” Jung-Hoon said.

Guards’ quarters

T
hat
was not thunder,” First-Sergeant Chung said. Kang looked up. The idiot was right this time. He jumped off the top bunk. “That was gunfire. Something’s going on. Grab your rifles.” He picked up his AK-47 and worked the action. “Hurry!”

Following Kang’s lead, the other guards picked up their guns and snapped on ammunition magazines. Kang barked instructions. “We’ll check the guard station at the gate to make sure that’s secure. Then we’ll check the administration building, then the prisoners. If there is nothing, we’ll sweep the perimeter. Any questions?”

“No, sir,” Chung said.

Excellent. Chung had just referred to him as “sir,” a sign that natural leadership had nothing to do with technical rank. “Follow me.”

Kang opened the door. Thick snow blew in on the howling wind. The grounds were dark except for single pole lights at each building. “Let’s go,” he said. “Stay in formation. Behind me!” Moving in a triangle, with Kang at the point, they headed for the front gate.

Out of the dark a loud voice shouted, “
Sic semper tyrannus!
USA!”

Then gunfire.

“Aaahhhhhhhh!” Kang dropped his AK-47 and grabbed his hand.
Behind him, Cho and Chung were sprawled facedown, blood gushing from their heads and spreading in pools in the white snow.

Lightning briefly lit the camp’s grounds. Kang saw no one, just a blank and blinding snowscape. Then he heard the thunder.

He looked for his gun. He had to get his gun. There. Three feet away in the snow. He quickly bent down to pick it up.

Blam!
The bullet tore into the snow and sprayed ice into his face.

“Do not touch that gun!” Again, a voice from nowhere.

Kang stood and looked around. Where were they? Behind trees? Where? “Where are you?” he yelled out into the howling wind.

“We are in the wind. We’re in the trees. We’re in the snow! We are everywhere. You cannot see!”

For the first time, Kang felt fear. He pivoted around, looking … looking. Perhaps he should run, but which way? What was he to do? He must keep them talking.

“Who are you?”

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Future! And your future is not so bright right now!”

“What do you want?”

“We want to know something. Is it true that you are one who lashes old men with a bullwhip and slaps them and spits in their faces?”

Now!
He dove into the snow for his gun.

A single shot echoed in the night.

The bullet cracked the back of his head. He stood, dazed, then the world went into a fast swirl. His face hit the snow. And then … blackness.

Prisoners’ barracks

W
hat do you see out there, Frank?” Keith sat on the side of the bunk that Robert had slept in before he died. Frank was on the opposite top bunk, trying to peer through the barred window.

“Can’t see anything except snow when the lightning flashes,” Frank said. “Too dark. Can’t see a thing.”

“That sounds like gunfire,” Keith said. “And it’s too cold to go quail hunting.”

“I agree,” Frank said. “What do you think they’re shooting at?”

“I’m worried that they might have decided to finish off Pak.”

“With all those shots?”

“You know Kang,” Keith said. “He’s the crazy type to kill somebody and still keep shooting.”