Red Phoenix Burning

Chapter 10 — Nightmare

They’d barely set up the command post, but Operation Backstop was in full swing, with Kevin letting his new deputy, Lieutenant Colonel Shin Sung-mo, manage the handover of the six existing camps from the ROK Army to American units. That part was going smoothly, but problems were already cropping up.

Some of the refugees refused to believe that they couldn’t bribe the personnel that managed the camps, for one. They could not imagine a system where one couldn’t buy a place at the head of the line.

That was almost comic compared to the biggest problem: the difficulty of getting the civilians properly immunized. Most didn’t trust the government to give them good health care (unless they could buy it through graft), and Kevin was spending more time than he’d like organizing classes in basic health practices, with a minor in civics.

And Southern civilians were becoming a problem as well. The camp administrators were recording names and other personal data on the Northern refugees as fast as they could, but the South Koreans weren’t waiting patiently, and even if they did wait, it wasn’t at home. Excited and hopeful civilians pestered the staff or tried to get into the camp by any means possible to search for northern relatives or northerners who might be from the same place as their relatives.

Some civilians had received word by various means that their relatives were coming, and sometimes even where they were headed. Many were convinced that their relations were inside the camp, waiting for a happy reunion. When they didn’t get an immediate answer from Kevin’s staff, they simply found a spot nearby and waited, creating a second “camp” outside the first.

Kevin was supposed to verbally report to General Tracy once a day. He had planned to make his first call this evening, so when one of the staff told him the general was calling, he knew it had to be news.

“Kevin, turn to CNN.” Like any headquarters, a TV screen was always on, with the volume muted. Theirs was set to a Korean news station, and Kevin told his staff to switch the channel.

He didn’t even need to hear the announcer. A red banner across the bottom edge flashed, “Chemical Weapons Used in North Korean Civil War.” Most of the staff came over to watch the report, and Kevin stepped away from the crowd. “Then it’s been confirmed?”

Tracy sighed. “Yes. We’ve gotten scattered but consistent cell phone and Internet traffic out of Pyongyang — or more correctly, from the outskirts of Pyongyang — that someone’s using what looks like nerve gas. It was likely artillery or rockets, since we haven’t seen much air activity, or, thank heaven, missile launches. There are reports of heavy casualties, but no numbers.” His tone changed, and he ordered, “Effective immediately, screen everyone coming out of the North for traces of any chemical agent.”

Kevin automatically answered, “Yes, sir.” They’d already been watching for symptoms and doing spot checks with detection strips, just in case, but this changed everything. They’d have to set up decontamination stations…

“And make sure all your people have their gear handy and are properly briefed, Colonel. You’re still getting organized, but we can’t discount the threat of a missile attack with a chemical warhead.”

“Understood, sir,” Kevin agreed emphatically. “And we will have to teach the civilians what to do. The medics have plenty of atropine.”

“Then what are your first impressions, Colonel?”

“Major Kae took me on a tour. He commands the infantry company taking care of the refugees here. He needs a battalion. I’ll need at least that. A lot of the civilians are still celebrating that they’re out of North Korea and not dead. And they’re getting decent meals. But there’s some serious culture shock. There are problems to solve, but we can make it work. But my prediction about the number of refugees was off, sir.”

“How far off?” Tracy asked.

“By a factor of two or three, at the very least,” Kevin answered. “It’s not just those who make it across the border on their own anymore. The South Korean army is sending empty supply trucks back loaded with refugees and prisoners. Whole villages and KPA units are being transported south. Major Kae says the army’s policy is to remove anyone along their route of advance so they don’t pose a security threat to the army’s rear, but that’s a pretty flimsy excuse.”

Tracy was sympathetic. “I can understand why. They’ve watched their relatives suffer for a long time. But I agree. You can’t support half the population of North Korea.”

“Sir, I’m hoping you can take this up the chain and we can get the government to change the ROK Army’s orders. I’ve got twelve thousand — plus in the Munsan camp alone, and at the rate they’re coming, I’ll need three times the number of camps we have now.”

“That’s a valid point. I’ll speak to my Korean counterpart, and send it up to Combined Forces as well. Good luck.”

Tracy had signed off like he was sending Kevin into combat, but Kevin understood the general’s meaning. His own life wasn’t in danger, but lives were at stake, as well as the reputation of the US Army. He wasn’t going to take his assignment lightly.

He hung up and headed back to the far-too-large group surrounding the television. The volume was up, so he could hear the broadcast, even though the crowd was three deep and he could only see half the screen. The anchor was interviewing a senator from one of the Western states.

“… about the Chinese reaction if American forces go into North Korea?”

“If we stopped worrying about what China, Russia, and the rest of the world thought, we would already be in Pyongyang. Letting the South Koreans do it alone is a typical half-measure for this administration.”

The senator thundered, “Does anybody in the White House or the Pentagon remember that when China invaded Korea sixty-five years ago, they lost? I bet the Chinese remember.”

He paused to draw a breath. “We’ve had US troops in South Korea for sixty-five years, and fought two wars there. Now, when they’re needed to finish the job, the president gets cold feet. The South Koreans have made it plain they’d welcome our participation.”

“The Chinese ambassador…”

“Of course the Chinese don’t want us involved. They’re watching a smaller version of their own sick political system collapse, right on their front doorstep. Democracy is winning, and the president’s leaving our troops on the sidelines. My bill will force the…”

“I think that’s enough of a break,” Kevin said softly, but the colonel’s voice carried clearly. In ten seconds, the group had scattered, with the last straggler pausing only long enough to mute the broadcast.

Like the motto, special operations forces train to do the impossible. They can lay in hiding near hostile forces, reporting on enemy operations for days at a time without being discovered. They can thread their way through opposing units and attack a command post or key part of their adversary’s defenses, opening the way for friendly forces to attack with a much better chance of winning.

For most nations, special operations missions are few and far between, and a country’s special operations forces might have only one or two teams on a mission at one time — unless you were South Korea. In the event of a war with the North, the ROK Army had designed Operation Gangrim to swiftly attack over a hundred bases and installations across North Korea with special warfare troops. Their orders were to either capture or destroy the weapons of mass destruction before they could be used. It had a very tight timeline.

Nobody in the South had any illusions about Kim’s willingness to use WMDs against either the ROK Army or the cities in the South. North Korea was known to have large stocks of chemical weapons, a dozen or so nuclear weapons, and possibly even biological agents. Leaving even one depot in the hands of the regime could cause untold destruction and pointless slaughter. Rhee and the other brigade commanders understood that Gangrim was strategic, both in scope and effect.

Only the ROK’s Special Forces soldiers had the skills to operate independently behind the battle lines in small groups. But add to that was the complexity of managing many such missions at the same time. Rhee had thirty-seven known and potential WMD targets to strike in his sector, one of three covering North Korea. They were installations with suspected or confirmed stocks of WMD agents, delivery systems like heavy artillery or ballistic missiles, or both.

His field headquarters was outside the city of Sariwon, deep in Northern territory, about halfway between Pyongyang and the advancing ROK forces. The base had been inserted by air and was supplied by near constant helicopter deliveries of fuel and ammunition, and served as a staging base for ten-man teams that were airlifted to different targets.

Gangrim had been designed for wartime, and assumed an organized opposing army. The DPRK civil war worked to their advantage in some ways, for instance, the lack of air opposition. In other ways, though, it was a greater problem. The unstable, almost unreadable political situation meant there were many actors who could choose to use WMDs. At least one already had.

The use of nerve gas in Pyongyang meant that the other combatants would likely follow suit, if they could. There was no time for subtlety. Command of the air allowed the helicopters to operate unmolested, and urgency demanded that concealment be sacrificed in the name of speed. So far, the risks had paid off.

Rhee spent more time in the air then on the ground. Accompanying WMD specialists that cataloged and removed any weapons that were found, he inspected each installation after it was captured, and interviewed the team leader about the assault. In peacetime, the team’s after-action report would be thoroughly studied and the findings distributed to the rest of the brigade. That might come later, but for the moment Rhee had to evaluate each leader’s job and decide whether there were lessons to be learned. Rhee also had to judge the team’s readiness to move on to another target, often just hours later.

He was returning from another inspection, with the Ninth’s headquarters in sight through the side window of his helicopter. The Ghosts’ machines were Korean-built Surions that had replaced the old American-built UH-1s. The Surion was faster, and had an advanced “glass cockpit.” The ones operated by his Ghosts had special modifications, including muffled blades and engine noise, special sensors, and protective countermeasures. His command bird was fitted with extra communications gear and a worktable that served as a flat-screen map display.

Rhee was working while they flew, assigning newly available teams to targets, when the copilot reported, “Colonel, I’ve got the team leader at Bongmu. Enemy forces are greater than expected. He reports they are getting ready to transport some of the ammunition from the depot. Brigade HQ is already tasking UAVs for air support, but he can’t wait. He intends to attack immediately.”

“How far?” Rhee asked the copilot over the headset. He could have asked to speak with the team leader, but the leader hadn’t asked for permission to attack. He’d just reported the changed situation.

He heard the copilot answer “Eighteen minutes.”

“Do it, Lieutenant.” Rhee was already dialing up the Bongmu site on the map display, and felt the machine turn and accelerate. The floor also dropped away, then rose and fell again as the pilots followed the uneven terrain. They might have air superiority, but there was no sense taking chances, either from a stray fighter or antiaircraft emplacement.

The pilot managed the actual flying, just meters over the ground or the treetops, while the copilot navigated and watched for threats or obstructions ahead of them. They weren’t maneuvering violently, but it paid to be belted in. This near dawn, they could have flown using visible light, but they kept their night vision goggles on. Obstacles had better contrast.

Rhee studied the analysis of the Bongmu weapons depot. Artillery shells with nerve gas, according to the intelligence they had, for divisional and corps artillery. The garrison was supposed to be about a company of about a hundred men, which meant only a third or so on duty at any given time. The ten-man squad would have had no problems with a force of that size. But if someone were moving WMD ammunition, there would be additional security. How much?

The swaying motion of the helicopter distracted Rhee for a moment. He wasn’t prone to motion sickness, thank goodness, but he took a moment to look up and settle his inner ear. Master Sergeant Oh, his comrade from his first mission into the North, sat across the cabin from him, securely belted in. Oh had strained his right shoulder on his second raid during Gangrim, and had been assigned to light duty until it recovered. Rhee could relate to that. Rather than send him to the rear, which Oh had loudly but respectfully resisted, Rhee had chosen him as his personal escort.

Oh could still shoot a pistol, but the sergeant’s primary task was to watch the colonel’s back in the field. Rhee always carried both a K5 pistol and K7 submachine gun, so as long as he wasn’t blindsided, he could take care of himself.

“One minute out.”

Rhee acknowledged the copilot’s message and checked his gear. “We’re being met,” the copilot reported, which told Rhee the landing zone was secure and the fight at Bongmu was over.

The helicopter set down in the clear space in front of the depot’s gate. The compound was relatively small, maybe five hundred meters square enclosed in double-layered fencing. A guard tower at each corner was anchored by a bunker built into its base. A few wooden buildings inside the wire were backed with several rows of angular concrete structures. Rhee knew each would have a heavy door and contain several hundred artillery shells loaded with chemical warfare agents. Outside the fence, the ground had been cleared, and kept clear, for a hundred meters all around. Beyond that was a ragged wood line.

The towers and a few of the buildings showed marks from the combat, and numerous trails of smoke curled and merged into a haze that filled the air and stung his eyes. Rhee didn’t see anyone in protective gear, so he assumed it was just smoke. He also noted the blackened hulks of two armored vehicles. Those were not listed as part of the depot’s garrison.

Lieutenant Gung Ji-han waited nearby on one knee. It was light enough to see his expression, and Rhee knew the news wouldn’t be good.

As the cabin door opened and Rhee stepped out, Gung stood and saluted solemnly. “Mission failure, sir. At least two large trucks left the compound during our attack. An early estimate is at least eight pallets of 152mm ammunition were on them.” He pointed to a road that ran past the depot. “They were headed north. My UAV controller is trying to locate them now.”

“Casualties?” Rhee asked.

“Four of my team are wounded. Three are mobile, but Corporal Park has two bullets in the chest and my medic’s fighting to keep him alive. The medevac helicopter is en route. At least thirty KPA dead, with another fifty-plus prisoners and wounded. We know there are stragglers in the woods, but we don’t know their intention.”

Rhee nodded acknowledgment. Many North Korean soldiers had used combat as an excuse to desert, but others simply became separated during the action and might still be motivated to fight. “All right, elaborate,” he ordered.

Gung kept it short. “The trucks were already here when we landed, along with another company of troops and the two fighting vehicles. We called for UAV support, but their ETA was too long. We could see the trucks were preparing to leave, so we attacked.”

Rhee nodded his understanding. It was a difficult situation — two or three times the expected odds, and facing the immediate prospect of losing control of the WMDs. “I would have chosen to attack as well,” Rhee encouraged the lieutenant.

But it was still a loss. Forty percent casualties and they had not stopped the trucks, after all that. And Gung’s team would have to be rebuilt before they could take on another mission. He’d get a detailed debrief of the combat later, but for the moment, he would endorse the lieutenant’s decision.

Gung seemed to take some reassurance from Rhee’s statement, but there was a lot to do. “Where are your people now?” Rhee asked.

“My medic’s with Corporal Park, the UAV controller’s looking for the trucks, two are guarding the prisoners, two more are searching the woods, and the last two are checking the buildings for stragglers and documents.”

“All right, Lieutenant. Make sure your UAV controller transmits the data on the trucks to brigade. I’m going to get you some help. You can’t provide security with only six effectives. They’ll…”

A dirt-streaked trooper ran up and saluted the pair. Rhee recognized him as one of Gung’s team, but couldn’t remember his name. He was winded, and the soldier’s expression held bad news. “In the woods,” he reported between breaths, pointing. “Bodies. Lots of them.”

Rhee said, “Show us,” and they followed the soldier back at something just less than a dead run. They slowed at the wood line, moving along a path through thick brush and young trees. About ten meters into the woods, the smell reached them, and they all gagged at the stench of rot and decay.

Another ten meters brought them to the scene. A stream ran through the woods, although in August there was no water in it. The V-shaped gully, about two meters deep and two meters across, was choked with bodies. Rhee could see civilians in work clothes, soldiers in DPRK uniforms, the bright colors of both women’s and children’s clothing. His mind flashed back to the bodies he and Oh found murdered and robbed what seemed like a long time ago. If that was a crime, what was this?

Gung had turned away and was clutching a tree, vomiting and shaking with reaction. Oh had tears in his eyes. Their guide was on one knee, and appeared to be praying.

Rhee Han-gil felt the weight of his command more than he ever had. It was his job to know, and he forced himself to walk over to the edge. From that angle, he got a better view of the depth of the gully, and could see the corpses jumbled together. The ones toward the bottom were discolored from decay, and he tried to guess the number of dead. His mind rebelled, but there were at least a hundred, maybe twice that number.

His stomach churned, not just from the stench, but the thought of so much pointless death. A crime like this should reek, he decided. It should foul the air and rise until the heavens were repelled. What about the men who did this? Did they carry the smell with them?

Rhee’s emotions collapsed from a whirl of different feelings into a tight knot of anger. He ordered brusquely, “With me,” and strode quickly down the path, back the way they’d come and toward the depot. Lieutenant Gung, still wiping his mouth, followed with the others.

As they emerged from the woods, without breaking stride, Rhee asked, “Where are the prisoners?”

Gung answered, “We put the enlisted men in their barracks, and the officers and noncoms in two empty ammunition bunkers.”

“The officers, then.”

The soldier left to return to his duties, while the lieutenant increased his pace to take the lead. As they entered the camp, another trooper ran up to the group. He was heading for the lieutenant, but stopped when he saw the colonel, bracing and saluting crisply. “Sir, Private Geun Seo-bin.”

Rhee returned his salute. This soldier wasn’t as distraught as the first, but obviously had disturbing news. “Report.”

“Sirs, I think you should see what we found in the officers’ quarters.” He pointed to a wooden structure next to the headquarters building. Rhee was in no mood for distractions, but the trooper’s expression was earnest and grim. The North Korean officers weren’t going anywhere.

It was only a few meters to the small building. The door was intact and the walls unmarked. There had been no fighting here. A short corridor led to four doors, two to a side. All four had evidently been locked, because they were now kicked in.

Private Geun led them to the first door on the right. “This is the commander’s quarters,” he explained. Rhee saw something that reminded him of a poor student’s dormitory room. A bed, little more than a cot, occupied the opposite wall, while a desk and battered chair stood next to a window on the left. The drawers had all been pulled out and their contents dumped in the search for documents. The wall to the right was filled by a wardrobe, ransacked, and two wooden footlockers, side by side. Both had been padlocked, but the hasps were now broken. The private walked straight over to the nearest footlocker and opened the lid.

Rhee and the lieutenant could see bundles of currency, watches, cell phones, and other electronic devices. A metal circle that might hold keys was strung with rings. The colonel reached over and opened the second locker. Its contents were identical.

There could be no mystery where it had come from. Rhee had actually felt his anger begin to subside as they inspected the officers’ quarters, but at the sight of the looted wealth, it returned and flared into a white-hot rage.

Wordlessly, Rhee turned and headed back outside. Gung and Master Sergeant Oh hurried to follow him. “Which bunker are the officers in?” the colonel demanded.

Still trying to catch up, Gung answered, “Number four, in the back row.”

Each bunker was a little larger than a two-car garage, made of roughly cast concrete, with a wide metal door. The uneven surface was unpainted and weathered, the only marking a large black number on the gray-painted door. While the other two readied their weapons, Lieutenant Gung opened the latch. “We broke the one on the inside, so they couldn’t get out,” he explained.

Gung had to pull hard to swing the heavy door open. The space inside was much smaller than its outer size would indicate. About four meters square, the bare walls and floor were harshly lit by a single fluorescent fixture. There was room for four or six pallets of artillery ammunition, but it was empty.

Four men sat on the floor, against the side or rear walls. They didn’t rise or do more than turn their heads toward Rhee and the others. Rhee could see that while they were disheveled, none were wounded.

One looked older than the others, and was a captain, according to his collar tabs. Rhee asked Gung, “Is this one the senior officer?”

“The depot commander,” Gung confirmed. “We captured him trying to escape into the woods.”

Rhee and the others still held their weapons at the ready, and he motioned with the muzzle, pointed toward the captain. “You. Get up.”

The North Korean pointedly ignored the order, turning his face away from Rhee, but Rhee lunged forward and grabbed the front of the man’s fatigue shirt and dragged him out of the room as if he was a bag of potatoes — a small bag. As Rhee stepped outside, he ordered Gung, “Shut it.”

Using both hands, Rhee roughly pulled the man upright, then slammed him back into the side of the bunker. “The bodies in the woods.” Rhee spat out the words, not bothering to phrase it as a question.

“I don’t know…” was as far as the captain got before Rhee jammed his forearm into the other’s throat. Rhee held it there, watching the prisoner weakly struggle, until he could bottle up the anger again, and stepped back. The North Korean fell to his knees, gasping and rubbing his throat.

“Tell me.” Rhee wasn’t wasting words.

Coughing and rubbing his throat, the captain looked to either side. A lieutenant stood to one side, weapon not leveled, but ready. A sergeant stood farther back, watching the woods but also quite capable of shooting him, if he made a break toward that direction. Their expressions did not have the fury of the colonel, but they looked more than willing to kill.

Rhee started to move, but the captain forestalled him by speaking quickly. “Our orders were to kill anyone who approached the depot, or who we thought was trying to go south, or any deserters.”

“Did your orders include robbing them?”

“They didn’t need it anymore,” the captain answered.

The anger in Rhee’s chest filled him like cold liquor, burning even as it chilled. Without thinking, he drew his pistol and racked the slide.

“Colonel, stop!” The shout caught Rhee with the pistol’s muzzle inches from the captain’s forehead. He kept the weapon pointed at the officer, but turned his head to see Master Sergeant Oh, walking quickly toward them. “Don’t do it, sir.”

Rhee swallowed hard, and looked at the piece of human filth in front of him. Oh’s shout was unheard of, a serious breach of military discipline, and it was that as much as his words that had made the colonel pause.

“He’s a prisoner, sir. It’s not worth your career.” Oh spoke softly, but his tone was a little different than one a noncom would use addressing a colonel. They were also comrades, who served together and trusted each other completely.

His mind processed the sergeant’s words, and Rhee realized he didn’t need to kill the North Korean anymore. The fury drained away, leaving him almost weak for a moment. He turned to the lieutenant and ordered, “Put this gesekida back in his hole.”

Gung, looking both horrified and relieved, motioned with the muzzle of his K7. The prisoner slowly stood and walked back toward the front of the bunker, Gung three paces behind.

Holstering his pistol, Rhee sighed and said softly, “Thank you, Master Sergeant. I lost control, and was a fool.”

“You were closer to him than I was, that’s all, Colonel,” Oh answered. He added, “We need you, sir.”

Gung returned and stood silently until Rhee noticed him. “The prisoner is secure, Colonel.” He said it so carefully that Rhee knew the lieutenant was almost as traumatized as the North Korean.

Rhee gathered his thoughts. “Before we were interrupted, I was going to get you some additional security while we moved the remaining WMDs out, then we’d abandon this place. Now that’s changed. We’re going to hold it. I’ll bring in regular infantry as well as an additional team from the Ninth, and specialists to take out the WMDs, per normal procedure. And I’m going to bring in investigators from the Judge Advocate General. You are not to remove the prisoners until I say so.”

“You want them to remain here?” the lieutenant confirmed. Standard operating procedure was to get the prisoners out of the way as soon as possible, usually on the same aircraft that brought in the WMD and ordnance disposal experts.

“That’s right. Use them, especially that shipcenchi of a captain and the other officers, to remove the bodies from the ravine. That will take quite a while, and I’m sure the JAG investigators will want to take them into custody after that. With luck, they’ll die in front of a firing squad.”

It didn’t look like a gas station, but the farmer they bribed with the last of Cho’s yuan notes insisted that if anyone had gasoline, it would be the restaurant north of the Baesok train station. He’d been quite precise, and even given Cho a map and a note.

“For that much money, he should have filled the tanks with his blood,” Cho grumbled as they approached the location.

“I think you did well to get any information at all,” Kary remarked, “much less a place where we can get fuel for three trucks.” She sounded optimistic. Cho reserved judgment, watching the fuel gauge. They’d had to siphon fuel from the other two trucks to keep the flatbed going, and if they couldn’t find fuel somewhere, they’d all be walking.

Traffic was light, and three trucks in company should have attracted more attention, but there were few people about, and the military units they’d passed on the road had ignored them, headed either north or south at speed. The country looked empty. They were still about a hundred kilometers from the southern border by road. The advancing South Korean army was closer, maybe half that distance. Kary wondered how many people had left their homes to go south or just avoid the fighting.

They’d been stopped twice at checkpoints, but Mayor Song’s paperwork and a story about orders to take an American woman south had been enough to get them through, along with a few bills as bribes. North Korea might be in upheaval, but people always needed money.

Kary, comparing the farmer’s map with the landscape, announced, “Here.” They turned off a two-lane macadam road onto gravel. The restaurant, if that’s what it was, sat alone a hundred meters off the main road, surrounded by cultivated fields. Most held ripening crops, although more than a few were fallow. It was a low, one-story building, but large enough, with thankfully plenty of space for the three trucks to park.

It also seemed to be abandoned. There were no other vehicles nearby, nobody outside or visible through the windows, and no smoke coming from the kitchen’s chimney in the back. Painted a faded yellow, the sign in Hangul under the obligatory photo of the Supreme Leader simply read “Good Food.”

Picking up a small medical bag, Kary said, “I’ll check on my patients while you see if anyone’s home.”

Cho put a hand on her arm and asked, “Why don’t you come with me? That farmer kept glancing at you while he dickered with me. A beautiful, exotic American woman might help with the negotiations.”

Kary nodded, but was a little flustered. She hadn’t paid any attention to her appearance in a long time. And Cho was smiling as he said it. Was he joking? What if he wasn’t?

As the two got out of the truck, others hopped out from the other two cabs and the back. Moon Su-bin and her cousin Ja Joon-ho were in the second truck, and Kary told them to keep everyone close while they looked for gas.

A thick man in his mid-forties stepped out of the front door and looked over the group. “We’re closed,” he said harshly.

Cho nodded his understanding, but approached and offered him a paper. “I have a note from Do Han-il.”

The man pursed his lips, and took the note Cho offered. He asked, “Is he getting any business at that run-down appliance shop?”

Did he glance in Kary’s direction? He has to be curious about who I am, she thought.

“He was a farmer when I talked to him,” Cho answered.

“All right.” The proprietor seemed satisfied. “I might have enough for all three trucks, but it will cost you.”

“I have the money.”

“Let’s see it.”

Cho showed him the corner of a single American twenty-dollar bill. “Let’s see the gasoline,” he responded.

The man stepped back inside, and came out with a twenty-liter plastic jerry can. “One bill, one can.”

“We need six cans. Two bills.”

“Five is all I have. Four bills.” He definitely looked in her direction. Kary wasn’t thrilled at being a negotiating tool, but it was for a good cause. And she was glad Cho was handling the negotiations. She’d learned how to dicker well enough, but lacked a lifetime of experience.

“We’ll take them all. Two bills.”

The gasoline dealer remarked, “Why do I get the idea you only have two bills?”

“Forty US dollars is going to be worth a lot, unless you’ve got South Korean won,” Cho countered. “Yuan notes will be worthless after the South Korean army gets here.” He pointed south. “They’ll be coming up that road tomorrow or the next day.”

The man shrugged. “Then why not just wait?”

“We’ve got injured and sick people,” Cho explained. “We can’t wait.”

“And the Southern army is really coming?”

Cho took out his satphone and called up pictures and maps that showed the progress of the ROK forces.

“All right, I’m convinced. Four cans for your two bills, and that’s my final offer.”

They were on their way twenty minutes later. Grateful for the gasoline, nobody had asked about food. As Cho started their truck, Kary leaned over and tapped the gas gauge, hoping it was stuck. It was up from near empty, but read just a little over half full. “It should be enough,” she said hopefully.

“It has to be,” Cho answered, “since I’m now out of both Chinese and American currency.”

“I’ll repay you,” Kary assured him.

He waved it off. “Don’t be silly. It was the Russians’ money, anyway.” After a short pause, Cho asked, “Have you given any more thought to calling your father?”

Kary shrugged, hoping Cho would let the question pass, but he pressed his point. “You said he was a very powerful man in the American government.”

“Yes,” she answered simply, but did not elaborate. She knew where the national security advisor fit into the US government, but she’d remained willfully ignorant of his exact duties. After a pause, she added, “He’s retired now, anyway. He’s head of a foundation somewhere.”

Cho sighed, and she could hear his frustration. They’d driven through the night, talking to keep each other awake. Cho had kept his promise. She’d asked her questions about who Cho Ho-jin really was, and after getting over her surprise, learned about his youth and the reasons for spying for the Russians.

That had led to stories about her growing up with a famous father, who’d been gone too much and whose business seemed to be imposing American power on the rest of the world.

Her generation had grown up with armed conflicts on the television news every night, and she hated the images of shattered families and wounded innocents. Unlike many around her, the people suffering on the screen were never foreign or strange to her. They needed her help, and at the earliest possible age, she’d joined Christian Friends, already experienced from work she’d done with refugees during summer breaks from college.

Driving at night, with no light but the dashboard and headlights in front of them, it had been easy to talk, to tell Cho about things she hadn’t spoken of in years, and later of things she barely admitted to herself. Cho had also been open with her, glad to have someone to trust after many years of being more than just alone.

“When was the last time you spoke with your father?” Cho asked in a noncommittal tone.

“A few months ago. Early June, on his birthday.”

“I wish I could do that. I don’t have many memories of my father. Like yours, his duties kept him away from us, but I remember my mother being very happy when he was home, and his plans for me. He never returned from the war. Once it was clear the North had lost, he was simply arrested and shot as a traitor. There’s no grave that we know of. He’s lost to us forever.”

Kary could feel the weight of his arguments, but procrastinated. “He’s been out of the government for twenty years. And I’ve always been the one pushing him away. I’d thought about reconciling with him when I went home for my next visit, but I can’t just phone him up and say, ‘Hi, I need your help.’”

Cho shrugged. “Maybe it’s different in America, but in Korea, you go to family first. Families fight with each other, and do foolish things, but they are still family. And the help isn’t for you personally.”

His final point made her reluctance look selfish. Swallow your pride, girl.

By now she had learned how to operate Cho’s phone properly, and she dialed her dad’s number in Indiana. It was late there, but her father often stayed up into the small hours.

It only rang twice. He was awake. “Blake Fowler here.” His tone was cautious. She didn’t know what his caller ID said, but it would not be a familiar number.

“Dad? It’s Kary.”

“Kary? Thank God. Where are you? Are you safe?”

“I’m still in North Korea, but we’ve left the mission and we’re heading south. I’ve got some injured people with me and we hope to reach the South Korean army later today.”

“But you’re not hurt?” he said hopefully.

“No, Dad, I’m fine, but we have patients with us who were gassed. A friend thinks it was something called ‘sarin.’” She looked over to Cho, who did not speak English, but confirmed her pronunciation. “Somebody used a lot of it in the fighting in Pyongyang. There are so many dead, Dad.”

“I’d heard that, but we still don’t have a clear picture of what went on in the capital. Would you be willing to describe what you saw to someone I know?”

Irritation flared inside her. All he could see was the big picture. “Dad, I’ve got three trucks full of injured and wounded, who haven’t eaten anything since yesterday morning…” She felt a hand on her shoulder, and Cho’s gentle pressure calmed her, reminding her of why she was calling. He didn’t pat it or try to soothe her. She might have lashed out at him if he’d done anything like that.

“Dad, I’m sorry. I’m tired and scared, and some of my patients might not last the day.” She paused, and then added, “And yes, I’ll talk to anyone you want. The world should know what’s happening there.”

“And I’ll talk to some friends I have in Korea. Where are you, exactly?”

She told him, using the phone’s map, where she and their ragged convoy were and their planned route. “The South Korean army is somewhere ahead of us. We don’t know about any Northern soldiers.”

“I’ll tell the ROK government where you are and that you need urgent medical assistance. At a minimum, I can make sure they know you’re not an enemy unit. With a little luck, you will be met. And Kary, anything you can tell us about what happened in Pyongyang will be a huge help to everyone, not just in the US, but in Korea as well. There haven’t been a lot of eyewitnesses.” He sounded very grateful that she was one of them.

“Just tell anyone you can to send everything they can.”

“All right, Kary, let me hang up and start making some phone calls. Stay safe, and can you please call me later today, to let me know how you are?”

“I promise, Dad, I’ll call later today.” Suddenly, she was reluctant to end the call. “Dad, I’m so sorry I haven’t called before. If you’re mad at me, I’ll understand.”

“I won’t deny I’ve been worried, but all I am right now is very, very happy. Let me make these phone calls and get things moving. I love you, Kary.”

“I love you too, Dad. I’ll call you soon.”

She sat quietly, crying again, and patted Cho’s arm in thanks.