Ping-Pong Heart

– 16-

Ernie and I drove to the 501st headquarters building, which was on Camp Coiner, a small base adjacent to Yongsan Compound. The camp remained off by itself with its own entrance gate, its own small barracks, and even its own flagpole, used to raise the flag at zero eight hundred every morning and lower it at seventeen hundred every evening, seven days a week.

“So what’d it say?” Ernie asked. I’d read Major Schultz’s last inspection report. Ernie hadn’t.

“The usual,” I said. “He saw plenty of duplication of effort and ample opportunity to cut the operating budget and staffing.”

“Inspection reports always say that.”

“Right. But this one had some added recommendations. Namely, that the Five Oh First had established too many branch offices.”

“Like where?”

“All over the damn place. In the Second Infantry Division along the Demilitarized Zone and at every major logistics and supply point all the way down to the Port of Pusan.”

“Did they all put up a sign saying Five Oh First Counter Intelligence?”

“No signs. These places are off base and kept completely covert. Their expense budget has ballooned because of all that civilian rent they have to pay. Usually they set up near the local AmVets Club or Veterans of Foreign Wars.”

American veterans associations are chartered by the Korean government to operate legitimately as nonprofit organizations. This gives them permission to run small bars, restaurants, and even gambling halls in addition to granting long-term work visas for the Americans staffing the organizations.

“You mean they set up operations in those little casinos?” Ernie asked.

“Not in the casinos themselves, but they rent office space in the building. They justify it by claiming that they have to be off base so the military community won’t be aware that counter-intel is operating in their midst. But mainly it’s a way to have an unsupervised office with a desk and a chair, plus a special Eighth Army phone line.”

“So they don’t have to go through the Korean telephone exchange.”

“Right. And with a monthly rent check coming in, the veterans’ organizations are more than happy to share their facilities.”

“Meanwhile, the agents of the Five Oh First can range out from there and go pretty much wherever they want.”

“Right. And their agents receive a per diem.”

“On top of their regular pay?” Ernie was impressed.

“Yes.”

“And separate rations?” Money paid by the military to servicemen who were not able to use the free military dining facilities-necessary for the 501st guys, since they weren’t on base.

“And separate rations,” I confirmed.

Ernie whistled. “And here we’ve been happy with our fifty-dollar-a-month expense account. These counter-intel pukes are pulling down more per month with these extras than we pull down in our regular paycheck. Nice deal. And if they black market on top of that . . .”

“These are dedicated counter-intel agents,” I said. “They wouldn’t break the law just for a little extra cash in black marketeering.”

“Yeah, right,” Ernie said. “So a bunch of guys were getting over. Away from the flagpole, pulling down good money. They must worship Captain Blood.”

“They do. And he’s been here for over three years.”

“Steadily building his empire,” Ernie said.

“Right. And according to Major Schultz’s inspection report, most of these policies were implemented as soon as Captain Blood arrived. The J-2 who ran things before Colonel Jameson thought Blood walked on water.”

“Max OERs?” Top ratings on his Officer Efficiency Reports.

“Every one,” I said, “until maybe the next one.”

“After Colonel Jameson reads that report.”

“Which he has. The one Strange gave us is just a copy. The official report was already submitted, just before Schultz’s death.”

“So the kingdom Blood painstakingly set up over the last three years was about to be dismantled, piece by piece, because of Schultz’s inspection.” Ernie thought about it. “Happens every day. Not exactly a motive for murder.”

“Not usually. But there’s something else.”

“What?”

“The number of North Korean spies arrested.”

“How many?”

“In the last three years, not one.”

Ernie guffawed. “That’s a lot of money spent for zero results.”

“Not zero. Over two dozen GIs were brought up on charges. Mainly for aiding and abetting enemy espionage.”

“If they didn’t collar the North Korean handler, how’d they prove that the GI was a spy?”

“They did collar the handler. In almost every case, it was the GI’s yobo.”

“Their yobo? Their yobo is the North Korean spy?” Ernie was incredulous. “You can coerce a yobo into admitting anything! They’re poor country girls. Everybody pushes them around.”

“I couldn’t agree more. They’re easily manipulated.”

“So that’s no kind of credible evidence. How come we never heard about this?”

“The proceedings are conducted in camera.”

“What’s that mean?”

“In secret. Classified. And CID didn’t have a need-to-know.”

Ernie shook his head. “The court-martial boards went along with this?”

“Not always. Sometimes they let the guy settle short of criminal prosecution. Take a bad discharge, leave the service. Most of them jumped at the chance. A few of them fought it and ended up serving time.”

Ernie took a deep breath, his hands clutched on the steering wheel. We stopped at the main gate of Camp Coiner and I handed the MP our dispatch. He glanced at it.

“Destination?” he asked.

“None of your freaking business,” Ernie growled.

The MP stared at him, bug-eyed. His right hand slid toward his holstered .45. “Destination,” he repeated.

I grabbed the dispatch back. “Five Oh Worst MI,” I said.

Suspiciously, the MP stepped back and waved us through. Ernie wound through the tree-lined lanes. “What it looks like,” he said, “is these counter-intel losers were setting up bogus arrests just to make their stats look good, so they could keep on drawing their per diem and living in the lap of luxury.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

“But that’s where Major Schultz was headed,” Ernie said.

“No question about it,” I replied, “if the J-2 has the balls to follow up the report.”

Ernie gunned the engine and rolled up a ten-foot incline into the small parking lot in front of a long wooden building with a white placard out front that said headquarters company, 501st military intelligence battalion. We climbed out of the jeep and walked toward the double front door. The firelight beneath the awning shone yellow. A man in fatigues and highly spit-shined jump boots opened the door before we could get there. Massive arms were folded across a broad chest.

“Get the fuck off my company street,” he said.

The embroidered nametag on his fatigue blouse said Blood, rank insignia Captain. From around the edge of the building, four more GIs appeared. Two of them held M-16 rifles.

Slowly, I pulled out my badge and held it up to what little sunlight filtered through the overcast sky. “Eighth Army CID,” I said. “Agents Sueno and Bascom, here on official business.”

“I don’t give a fuck who you are. Get off my company street.”

“You don’t seem to understand,” Ernie said. “We’re here conducting an official investigation.”

Captain Blood motioned with his forefinger. All four GIs rushed us. One of them I recognized. Specialist Four Fenton, the guy who’d been harassing Miss Kim, the one who Ernie’d called a twerp. He didn’t seem like a twerp now. Reinforced with backup, he took the lead and reached out to shove Ernie, but Ernie sidestepped him and cracked a left hook into the side of his head. His black helmet liner flew off his skull, but then the other three were on top of us; screaming and shouting, trying to overpower us with their sheer weight. It was foolish for two of them to be carrying rifles if they didn’t intend to use them. They tried to shove me with the weapons, but I lowered myself and rammed one fist, then another into their unprotected midsections. After a few seconds of cursing and grunting, first Fenton, then two more of them went down. The last one stepped back, unsure of himself, and aimed the M-16 rifle at us. This focused our attention. Ernie and I stepped back and raised our hands. Captain Blood continued to stand on the porch, feet shoulder-width apart, arms crossed. During the entire fracas, he hadn’t moved.

“You’d better have him put that rifle down, Captain,” I said.

In the dim light, I thought I saw a smile crease his broad cheeks. After a pause, he said, “Stow it, Benson.”

Private Benson lowered his rifle.

Two of the men on the ground shoved themselves back to their feet. The twerp, Specialist Fenton, appeared to be out cold.

“Get Fenton out of here,” Captain Blood said. The three of them picked him up and carried him over to the back of a three-quarter-ton truck. They tossed him unceremoniously in the back. Once they drove off, Captain Blood said, “If you wanna talk that bad, then we’ll talk.”

He turned and strode back through the building entrance.

Ernie and I glanced at one another. Captain Blood had known he’d eventually have to talk to us; he’d just wanted to put us through some sort of macho “test” to see if we’d stand our ground and fight, or run back to the head shed for reinforcements.

I wasn’t sure if we’d passed or not. But frankly, I didn’t give a damn what he thought. We trudged up the steps and pushed through the big double doors.