Thunder in the Morning Calm (40 page)

“I’m not leaving him!” Keith cried out.

Gunner looked around, shocked, frankly, at Keith’s outburst. He looked at Jung-Hoon, who took cover behind a nearby fir tree.

“He’s dead,” Jung-Hoon said. “We can do nothing for him.”

“Marines do not leave Marines!” Keith protested. “Dead or alive! I’m going to get him!”

“No!” Gunner said. “You stay, Keith. I’ll get him.”

“Commander, that’s suicide,” Jackrabbit said. “That sniper’s still out there, and he’s dead accurate.”

“Jung-Hoon,” Gunner said, “grab Keith. Make sure he stays put. Jackrabbit, you cover me.”

“Don’t do it, Commander!”

“Cover me, Jackrabbit!”

Shaking his head in disgust, Jackrabbit brought his rifle up against the tree and aimed again across the river, his night scope on the lifeless jeep with shot-out tires.

No sign of anyone.

The sniper was probably behind the jeep, waiting for someone to make a dumb move, like Gunner was about to do. Then he’d pop out for a shot before popping back under cover again.

In his peripheral vision, Jackrabbit saw Gunner crouching low and crawling back toward the river. He shifted his crosshairs back and forth between the front and back of the Jeep. If he got lucky enough to have his crosshairs in the right place when the sniper popped out, Gunner might have a chance. If not, in a matter of minutes, there would be two dead Americans sprawled on the Yalu River.

He brought his night vision scope onto the back of the jeep.

Nothing.

S
lowly, carefully, First Sergeant Yoo peered with his rifle around the front of the jeep. He adjusted his eyes through the night scope. One of the SEALs was crawling out to the dead SEAL. Excellent! Yoo held his fire. He retreated behind the jeep. He could get a better angle on his shot from the back bumper.

J
ackrabbit swept his scope from the back to the front of the jeep. Nothing. He knew Gunner was crawling down on the river now, but could not take his eye off the scope.

He held his scope on the front for a few seconds, just in front of the hood of the jeep.

“Pop into my crosshairs, sucker. I dare ya.”

E
ven wearing thermal gloves, Gunner’s hands throbbed with aching pain from the ice on the river. He breathed heavily and, frankly, found himself surprised that a shot had not yet been fired. He had slithered to within a couple feet of Frank’s body. He looked up, reached forward, and grabbed hold of Frank’s left foot.

Y
oo crouched down behind the back of the jeep. His opponent was over there, somewhere. Waiting with his rifle. Watching. He sensed it. He knew it. The SEAL sniper, hidden behind one of those trees on the Chinese side, was covering for the SEAL with the death wish crawling out on the ice.

Yoo decided to pop out quickly, get a fix on the crawling SEAL, fire, and pop back behind the jeep before the SEAL sniper could react. Energy and adrenaline surged through his body. Life-or-death danger — he was born for this!

He edged to the back of the jeep and peered around the bumper. He brought his rifle to his shoulder and looked through the scope, searching for the SEAL he was about to slaughter.

N
othing at the front of the jeep, Jackrabbit decided. He swept the scope back toward the rear of the jeep again.

Y
oo pointed the rifle at the body of the dead SEAL. There! Right behind the body! The target SEAL was reaching for the dead SEAL’s leg. Yoo moved the crosshairs up to center on the SEAL’s head, his finger on the trigger. Steady … steady …

T
here! In the crosshairs at the rear bumper!
The gunman! A rifle!

Jackrabbit pulled the trigger. A shot cracked the freezing night air.

The shot echoed several times off the frozen river. Or was there more than one shot? Had the Korean gotten off a shot? He was not sure.

He readjusted the night scope, for after firing, he had lost his bearings on the target. He found the jeep and moved the crosshairs back to the rear bumper.

There!

The enemy sniper was sprawled in the snow next to the back bumper. Jackrabbit kept the night scope on him for a few seconds to determine if he was dead.

No point in taking any chances, he decided. He pulled the trigger again. The body jumped, as if jolted by a powerful electric shock. The visual result of that shot was rather gruesome, even by Jackrabbit’s standards. If he wasn’t dead before, he was now.

“Commander, you okay?” Jackrabbit called out.

No response.

“Commander?”

Still nothing.

Then … “I’m fine.” Gunner’s voice from the river.

“Thank God,” Jackrabbit said. “Jung-Hoon, the coast is clear. How about helping the commander with the body. I’ll cover you.”

“Got it.”

Jung-Hoon and Gunner dragged Frank’s body up to the treeline. They all stood around Frank, a semicircle in the lightly falling snow. Keith and Pak fell to their knees. Pak put her arms around Keith and the two wept there, on their knees, over their friend.

Jackrabbit, Gunner, and Jung-Hoon formed a quiet, protective circle around them and gave them time.

After a few minutes, Gunner said, “Keith, Pak. We have to go. There are some people through those woods that are supposed to be waiting for us. Don’t worry. We’ll take Frank with us and make sure that he gets a proper burial back home in the United States.”

Keith and Pak stood, still arm in arm.

“If you guys help me get him up, I’ll carry him over my shoulders,” Jackrabbit said.

“No,” Gunner said, “even though we aren’t in North Korea anymore, this team is better off if you have quick access to your rifle. Hang on to my rifle. I’m sure it has more bullets in the magazine than yours. I’ll carry Frank. If he gets too heavy, maybe Jung-Hoon can help me out.”

They exchanged glances. “Fair enough, Commander.”

Jackrabbit and Jung-Hoon loaded Frank across Gunner’s right shoulder, then they all headed northwest through the Chinese forest. Jung-Hoon led the way. Gunner with Frank on his shoulder was next. Pak and Keith followed him.

Jackrabbit was the rear guard.

Yalu River Valley
People’s Republic of China
near the village of Liangshu

T
hey trudged solemnly, at a snail’s pace, through the remote Chinese woods. Frank wasn’t a heavy man, but still, his body weight was wearing down Gunner’s shoulder, making each step harder.

“There’s the opening,” Jung-Hoon said finally. They stepped out into the opening of a valley-like field. The snow had stopped. Brilliant stars shone in the crisp black canopy above.

“I need to put him down for a minute,” Gunner said.

“Hang on, Commander.” Jackrabbit lifted the body off Gunner and laid it face up on the snowy ground.

“Look!” Pak said.

Gunner looked up. Two silhouettes approached from across the field. Gunner did not have his rifle, but reached for his pistol. Jackrabbit and Jung-Hoon readied their M-16s.

“Commander McCormick,” a male voice in Chinese-accented English called out.

Gunner looked over at Jackrabbit, who gave him one simple nod of the head.

“I am McCormick!” Gunner called back.

A second passed. “We are from underground Baptist Church in Liangshu. God bless you!”

Jung-Hoon called out, “Peace be with you!”

“And also with you!” came the reply.

“He is risen!” Jung-Hoon said.

“He is risen indeed.”

“We heard gunshots,” the voice said. “Is everything okay?”

“One dead,” Jackrabbit said. “We’re over here.” He gave them a quick shot with a flashlight, then turned the flashlight off again.

“We see you.” A few seconds later, the two Chinese Christians had joined the small group near the treeline. “I am Brother Qian.” He half bowed. “And this is Brother Wang Yong.” They both half bowed. “May God bless you all,” Qian said.

“God bless both of you too,” Gunner said.

Brother Qian knelt down near Frank’s body. “Looks like fresh wound. I am sorry.”

“He got hit by a sniper as we crossed the river,” Jackrabbit said.

“We will help you take him to our van,” Qian said. “We have a blanket that we can wrap him in. Let me call our driver. He will bring the van up.” Qian made a quick call on his cell phone, spoke in Mandarin, then put the cell phone away. “The road is about two hundred meters in that direction. The van will be here in five minutes. We should start moving toward the road.”

“I have a question,” Jung-Hoon said. “I am the pilot. Could you tell me what kind of plane we will be flying?”

“It is a Cessna 172 floatplane, moored on a dock on the river several miles southwest of Dandong. An American missionary group donated it for delivering smuggled Bibles all over east Asia and southeast Asia.”

“Cessna 172.” Jung-Hoon said. “That will be a tight squeeze for six. No chance of taking the pilot to bring it back.”

A van rolled up and stopped. “This is our van,” Brother Qian said. “We will take your friend for you.”

“Thank you.” Gunner nodded.

The Chinese lifted Frank’s body, Qian locking his arms under Frank’s armpits and carefully stepping backward, and the other man taking the old man’s feet. The sight of them trudging across the snow in an act of loving service, holding the body of an elderly American they had never met, brought tears to Gunner’s eyes.

Road along the Yalu River
fifteen miles southwest of Dandong, China

T
he drive along the Yalu River during the night had been uneventful. The sun was now rising off to the east, its bright rays a near-blinding brief glare each time the winding road took them east before it again turned to the southwest.

Not much had been said except for the occasional banter from the Chinese Christians. If Keith and Pak had been in shell shock after the attack on the prison camp, the death of their friend seemed to have sent them into a deeper hole of darkness.

Gunner bought the plane, paying the missionaries with both Korean won and US dollars. They would leave the plane in Inchon. It would be returned to Pastor Lee’s network to be ready to help others. Gunner was satisfied that he had done everything he could.

The van slowed.

“Here is our turn,” Qian said. “This road takes us to the river.”

A couple of minutes along a winding road through the woods brought them to an opening. Before them now was a wide expanse of river flowing to the sea. Gunner looked across, to the nation that had taken his grandfather from him, and he felt an overwhelming sadness.

In front of them, a wooden pier stuck out into the river. Tied to the pier was a blue single-engine floatplane. A Caucasian man, fiftyish-looking, walked down the pier toward them.

“Fortunately,” Brother Qian said, “the river does not freeze over
here for a couple more months. That is Martin Luther. He sometimes flies the plane.”

“Martin Luther?” Gunner asked.

“That is not his real name. He is an American missionary pilot, but his sponsoring organization requires him to use another name for security purposes. Officially, Chinese government is hostile to evangelical Christians.”

“I see,” Gunner said.

The van, with the driver’s window partially down, rolled to the edge of the pier. Martin Luther walked up to the driver’s window and leaned his head into the van. “She’s gassed up and good to go,” he said, speaking English in a Southern accent. “Who’s flying?”

“Me,” Jung-Hoon said.

“I understand you’re flying dead-reckoning to Inchon. I’ve plotted the course and it’s waiting for you in the cockpit.”

“Thank you,” Jung-Hoon said.

“We’ll help you load her up.”

They got out of the van and exchanged hugs with the Chinese Christians. Then they proceeded to board. Jackrabbit shoved the rifles and a backpack with the rest of the C4 and other gear into the back, ready to be dumped in the sea, then sat up front with Jung-Hoon. Pak sat on Gunner’s lap behind the pilot. He wrapped his arms around her waist because the seat belt would not click across them both. Frank’s body, wrapped in a blanket, was laid on the floor between the seats. Keith strapped into the seat behind Jackrabbit.

Martin Luther untied the plane, and he and the Chinese pushed it out into the river.

Jung-Hoon hit the starter and the engine started immediately. Its powerful roar shot an unexplained surge of confidence through Gunner. They were going home.

Jung-Hoon pushed down on the throttle and the Cessna moved on the water, gathering speed, then nudged into the air, rising for a few seconds to about ten feet over the water, and then banked upward, climbing higher above the river. They took off to the south, the brilliant sun shining in from their left. A few minutes later, they were flying over Korea Bay, and from there, to the Yellow Sea, and from there, God willing — to freedom.

US Navy F/A-18
over the Yellow Sea

L
ieutenant Commander Corey “Werewolf” Jacobs, USN, had been confined to the ship for a brief JAGMAN investigation, which found that he and his wingman, Lieutenant Bill Morrison, had operated properly within the rules of engagement when they shot down the two North Korean MiGs.

Jacobs was glad to be back at the controls of his F/A-18 and in the air again on this glorious sunny morning. His assignment was to patrol the sector north and west of the
Harry S. Truman.
The CAG had put more pressure on the fighter squadrons to guard that sector after Admiral Hampton moved the frigates to the east of the
Truman
to guard against any more missile attacks from North Korea. Still, despite the added pressure, getting back in the air felt like a refreshing swim in the waters of freedom — the exhilarating feeling that only a fighter pilot could understand.