Slicky Boys

35

First we caught a cab back to Hialeah Compound. I wanted to get as far away from the U.S. Navy as possible.

After showing our ID at the pedestrian gate, we went over to the MP Station. No unusual blotter reports. Everything had been quiet on Hialeah Compound last night.

“That’s because Shipton was busy elsewhere,” Ernie said.

Busy is right. Possibly offing his sixth victim, Seaman Harrelson, of the U.S.S. Kitty Hawk, and stealing who-knows-what kind of top secret information.

I wasn’t sure what to do next. The PX office wasn’t open yet, so we finally did the sensible thing and grabbed a couple of trays at the post snack bar. We went through the line and ordered ourselves some breakfast.

As I sipped on hot coffee and listened to the tinkling of glassware and the rustling of newspapers, I tried to put things in perspective.

Shipton’s primary goal was the theft of classified documents. Who knew how much he’d gotten away with in the last three months? Maybe the suspicions of Strange and his ilk were blown way out of proportion. Or maybe they were just the tip of the iceberg. Hard to tell. But what I did know for certain was that Shipton now had access to information on “tunnels” from the army and “weaponry,” probably nuclear, from the navy. Valuable stuff.

Why was he doing this? Because he was AWOL and broke and somebody was paying him to turn over the documents. Who? Not much doubt. The North Koreans.

So why did he black-market, too? Because there was good money in it. And maybe the North Koreans paid only upon delivery. And since Shipton was probably in no position to run an auction, the North Koreans probably paid him only what they wanted to pay him. And that might not be all that much. After all, they wanted to keep him hungry. Keep him feeding them stolen information.

Maybe they helped him get the phony ration control plates. Maybe that was his payment.

But that was speculation. We had a highly trained navy commando on the loose in Korea. He was a killer, he was after top secret documents, and he would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.

Shipton knew the military community intimately and he could blend right in. Buy uniforms, obtain phony ID’s, waltz in and out of classified areas with just bluff and bravado.

What would he do next?

Probably continue to make all the easy money he could off of those ration control plates until they became hot. Did he have any idea yet we were onto him? If not, in a couple of hours, when the front doors of the PX opened to shoppers, he might stroll right on through as if he owned the place. And we could be right there to finally bust him.

Maybe. But nothing else in this case had been easy. Something told me picking him up wouldn’t be easy either.

He hadn’t been subtle with the navy. Hit somebody over the head and steal what you need. But maybe he had no choice. The Kitty Hawk was only in port for a few days. Hard to establish an inside contact in that time. Besides, Shipton was probably counting on interservice rivalry to keep our exchange of information down and make it less likely that we would link his naval activities with the security compromises in 8th Army. And he was probably right.

I didn’t think he would just randomly keep stealing classified documents and black-marketing until one day we got lucky and he got caught. Something told me there was a master plan to all this. Bo Shipton was too intelligent, too well trained, to drift along in crime without some sort of overall goal. Maybe it was just to make enough money so he could slip out of the country and retire on the Riviera. Or did the classified information he was gathering, looked at as a whole, represent some sort of clandestine mosaic?

Whatever his motive, I knew in my heart that he had a mission. I just had to figure out what it was.

On the way to the snack bar, we had stopped at billeting and shaved and now, with bellies full of scrambled eggs and hash browns, we both felt a lot more human.

“This Shipton is one bold dude,” Ernie said, his mouth full of toast.

“Killing Miss Ku. Killing the Nurse. Not very bold. They were both helpless.”

“Yeah,” Ernie said. “And he tortured Miss Ku. At least Whitcomb was more like a fair fight, wasn’t he?”

“Even that wasn’t fair when you consider all the combat Shipton has been through.”

“It won’t do him any good when we catch him,” Ernie said. He glugged down the last of his coffee. “Don’t sweat it, George.”

I checked the clock on the wall. Almost eight hundred hours. Riley would probably be in. So would Strange. We left our dirty plates on the table and walked back to the snack bar manager’s office.

He was a Korean man in a neat white shirt and tie, hunched over a stack of invoices. I showed him my badge and he pointed to a phone at a table loaded with purchasing regulations. I lifted the phone and got through to the base operator and told her what I wanted. Ernie stood in the doorway and watched the short-order cooks in the kitchen.

Strange answered on the first ring.

“Distribution.”

I asked him a few questions that he couldn’t answer, but he said he’d try to get the information and I should call back in a couple of hours. He made me promise to tell him all about the girls on Texas Street once he had what I wanted.

I hung up and thought of calling Riley. But what would I tell him? That Shipton was more dangerous than I’d figured? Besides, we weren’t supposed to be on the Kitty Hawk at all-supposed to go through channels for that sort of thing-and I didn’t want to mention our little naval adventure if I didn’t have to.

We walked around the compound for the next couple of hours, keeping our eyes open, until the PX manager unlocked the front door of the store. Korean dependent wives streamed in, along with a few GI’s, but nobody who looked like Shipton. Ernie found a secluded spot across from the parking lot, and I went in the back door to use the nervous manager’s phone.

He wasn’t happy to see me again but was relieved that this time I didn’t want to go through the cards. I borrowed his copy of the AAFES phone directory and started calling PX managers in the compounds leading north from Ptisan.

At each place I got a raft of shit, but gradually I convinced each manager that he’d be in serious trouble if he didn’t cooperate. If someone else was murdered, I promised to put the blame directly On him. In the end, each consented. Most even gave me a Korean secretary, who took down the four stolen RCP numbers Shipton was using and promised to check all the ration cards before they left the store. If they found anything, they would call me here at the PX manager’s office.

The calls took over an hour. When I finished, I told the manager that if I received any calls he should keep the person on the line and bring me to the phone right away. I’d be in the parking lot or in the store somewhere.

He frowned but agreed.

I grabbed a couple of paper cups, filled them with coffee from the manager’s large urn, and carried them out into the parking lot.

Ernie was still slouched against the cement wall.

“If we were on the black market detail,” he said when he saw me, “we could make a year’s worth of quota today.”

I handed him the coffee and turned to look at the GI’s and Korean women pushing carts of merchandise out of the store toward the line of PX cabs. ‘They’re at it hot and heavy.”

“This is a big city,” Ernie said. “Only one military base. A big demand.” He sipped on his coffee. “I think we’re wasting our time here.”

“I do, too.”

“After a big score like the Kitty Hawk,” Ernie said, “Shipton wouldn’t take any chances. He’d leave Pusan.”

“You’re probably right. But where would he go?”

“Depends on what he’s after.”

“Yeah.”

We finished our coffee. As goods were loaded into the backs of taxis and customers climbed aboard and sped off, more people filed into the end of the cab line. It was endless.

“Maybe I ought to call Riley,” I said.

“Maybe you should.”

“You want to go in? It’s cold out here.”

“No. I’ll wait. You’re better with the bureaucratic bullshit.”

“Thanks for the compliment.”

“You deserve it.”

I went back inside, and after my talking to the Korean female operator and listening to a lot of clicking and buzzing, the phone rang and someone picked it up.

“Criminal Investigation,” the voice said, but it wasn’t Riley. It was the First Sergeant.

“This is Sueno.”

“Where in the fuck are you?”

“You know where we are,” I said. “In Pusan. Doing our job.”

“Is that what you call it? Now listen to me carefully, Corporal Sueno…” The First Sergeant always used our ranks when he was busy trying to cover his own ass. “I want you and Sergeant Bascom to hop on the first train heading north and get back to Seoul ASAP! You understand that?”

“Understood. But why?”

“Because I say so! That’s why. The head shed is just about to shit a brick. Two army investigators aboard a goddamn naval vessel!”

“What are you talking about, Top?”

“Don’t give me that innocent shit! I know it was you two shitheads. Nobody else would be stupid enough to pull such a stunt.”

“But we’re onto something here.”

“Who cares? Get your tails back here!” He paused. “What are you onto?”

At least the First Sergeant was enough of a cop to suppress his bureaucratic instincts for a moment and show some interest.

“We know Shipton is here. He could turn up any minute.”

“The MP’s down there have his photo and they’ve put out an alert for him. You’re not needed there, Corporal. If he turns up, they’ll find him.”

Not likely, I thought. Not unless he jumped up and down and shouted his name and the date he went AWOL at them. They mostly had their thumbs up their asses.

“We’re more effective down here,” I insisted.

“You’re more effective where and when I tell you to be goddamn effective.”

Another phone rang. The Korean secretary picked up, listened for a moment, and glanced at me. She pointed at the receiver and mouthed the word “Taegu.”

“Just a minute, Top. I have another call coming in.”

“No ‘just a minute’ about it! You and Bascom get your asses back here and you get them back here now! You read me, Corporal?”

“Yeah, I got it, First Sergeant.”

Something slammed and the line went dead. I sighed, set the phone down in its cradle, and grabbed the other one from the secretary’s hand.

“Agent Sueno,” I said.

“This is Miss Chong from the Camp Henry PX. We found one of those numbers you gave me.”

“When was it used?”

“This morning. He must’ve been buying something at just about the time you called.”

“Have you told anyone else about this?”

“No. Just our manager.”

“Please don’t mention it to anyone, Miss Chong. How late do you stay open?”

“Until six this evening.”

“We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

To my surprise, Ernie didn’t seem excited by the news. Instead, he leaned against the brick building, a few droplets of perspiration dotting his upper lip. He acted as if he hadn’t even heard me.

“The Nurse’s funeral,” he said. “They’re holding it tomorrow, at a Buddhist temple. I’d like to be there.”

“You’d be about as welcome as a rat in a kimchi pot,” I said.

“Yeah,” he answered. “Still, I’d like to go.”

For the first time that morning I looked at him carefully. He seemed more pale than usual.

“You never went back to the One-twenty-one Evac for those tests, did you?”

“Who needs ‘em?”

“You do,” I answered. “You don’t look well.”

Ernie rubbed his stomach. “Probably just that cut bait we ate last night.”

Suddenly, his cheeks bulged and he swiveled and lurched away from me, clutching his stomach. He barfed his guts up, retching painfully. Finally, he wiped his mouth and turned back to me.

“So much for those scrambled eggs and hash browns.”

I examined the color of the goo. “You’re barfing blood, Ernie.”

He nodded. Then he lurched sideways. When I grabbed him, he seemed as weak as a rag doll. I helped him over to the Hialeah Aide Station.

The Physician’s Assistant there looked at me as if I were nuts. “They wanted to run tests on him at the One-twenty-orie Evac but instead he came down here?”

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“And I don’t want to hear it,” he snapped at me.

Within twenty minutes they had strapped Ernie to a stretcher and wheeled him out to a medical evacuation helicopter for the flight back to Seoul.

If I went to Taegu on my own, the First Sergeant would almost certainly court-martial me. But with only a routine MP dragnet, Shipton would find some way to slip out of the country before we caught him. He’d proved awfully resourceful so far. If he escaped, we’d never see him again and I’d have to live with what he’d done to Whitcomb and Miss Ku and the Nurse-and my part in their deaths- for the rest of my life.

I checked out of billeting, still undecided. 1 used their phone and called Strange. After running down some bullshit story about the girls on Texas Street for him, his voice shuddered and he told me two words: “Mining equipment.” I didn’t know what the hell that was supposed to mean and he hung up before I had a chance to ask.

Outside of Hialeah Compound I caught a cab and rode it to the bus station. I pushed through the bustling crowd and waited in line to buy a ticket.

If I showed some results, if I caught Shipton, the First Sergeant wouldn’t be able to burn me for not returning to Seoul. Maybe.

When I reached the window the ticket girl asked me, “Odi?” Where to? I slapped down a five-thousand-won note and bought one ticket for the express bus to Taegu. The trip from Pusan to Taegu is through beautiful countryside covered with groves of pomegranate trees and gracefully terraced rice paddies clinging to the sides of sloping hills. The trees were naked and the hills were draped with a thin layer of ice.

At about the halfway point, my bus passed the city of Kyong-ju, the capital of the ancient Kingdom of Silla. Silla was one of the powers on the peninsula, along with Peikchae and Koguryo, when Korea was divided during the Three Kingdoms period more than thirteen centuries ago.

I gazed at the blue-tiled pagodas and the upturned roof of the museum, wishing 1 could stop and spend a few hours immersed in the artwork and craftsmanship of the ancients.

Instead, I stayed on the bus. When it stopped in downtown Taegu, I caught another cab that sped me across the flat terrain of the city to the U.S. Army’s Camp Henry, home of the 19th Support Group.

On the way, I thought of Shipton and Slicky King So and what Strange had told me. No sudden insight flashed into my brain but slowly a pattern started to emerge. As 1 looked at its hazy outlines, I couldn’t believe it at first.

Maybe I’d been listening to army propaganda films too long or reading only the honeyed versions of world events in the Stars amp; Stripes to be able to believe what I was guessing. But I thought of the secrecy of the military brass- even routine crime statistics were classified-and their absolute belief in their own infallibility. Gradually, I began to think that what I was thinking might be true.

If I was right, Shipton did have a goal. And maybe, if you set aside his killings, I would’ve been rooting for him to attain it.

Maybe.

Probably not.

Tunnels. Nuclear weapons. Mining equipment.

The North Koreans had dug tunnels beneath the Demilitarized Zone. No question about that. And tunnels could only be used for offensive military operations. So what were we going to do about it? Passively sit by and try to find the tunnels one at a time? Harder than it seemed. Sensing equipment was only so good. It couldn’t penetrate hundreds of feet of granite, and there were thousands of square miles of mountainous terrain to cover and no theoretical limit to how deep the North Koreans could dig. And we are Americans, after all. Everybody knows that the best defense is a good offense.

This is not to say that we were going to start a war, conduct a preemptive strike, or anything like that. Our political leaders wouldn’t stand for it. But 8th Army did have to take protective measures, didn’t they? They were responsible for the lives of fifty thousand soldiers and sailors and airmen and their dependents. Not to mention the defense of South Korea. What could they do?

Tunnels. Mining equipment. Nuclear weapons.

The North Korean mechanized armor units were overwhelming. A much greater force than the South’s. Some magazines said double or triple that of our side. Our current strategy, if the North Koreans decided to come south, was saturation bombing by B-52’s from Okinawa. But it would take time for those planes to arrive on the scene. And bombing, by its very nature, is a hit-or-miss affair. And bombing certainly couldn’t affect anything that was underground.

So maybe we were digging our own tunnels.

And what would we put in them? Maybe a little surprise for the North Koreans’ armor battalions. Maybe nuclear weapons.

Had the Kitty Hawk been transporting A-bombs? Maybe. But it was navy policy never to confirm or deny such a thing. I couldn’t possibly know for sure.

Or was I all wrong about this? Even if I was right, maybe our tunnels were just in the contingency planning stages, only on paper. But contingency or not, the North Koreans would certainly want to know. And when someone with Shipton’s training deserted his post and was wanted for murder, how difficult would it be to recruit him as an informant?

Maybe that’s why the South Koreans hadn’t told us anything. They wanted to capture Shipton themselves, interrogate him using their persuasive methods, then work backward to his controller and maybe to other North Korean agents. If they let the U.S. in on it, we’d demand he be turned over to us right away. And because we paid most of their defense bills, they’d be under tremendous pressure to comply. But if they kept the whole thing secret, we’d think that Shipton was nothing more than another guy gone native. We wouldn’t worry about him. Even if we never heard from him again.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe there was a simpler explanation for all this. But in my gut I didn’t think so.

When Cecil Whitcomb had stumbled into Bo Shipton that night, both of them stealing at the 8th Army J-2 building, he’d stumbled into a secret war that would mean life or death for millions of people. And, by doing so, he’d signed his own death warrant.

At Camp Henry I went straight to the PX. The manager and the secretary, Miss Chong, showed me the data card. It was the right number. Maxed out on the ration.

“But we got a call from the MP’s,” Miss Chong said. “After I talked to you on the phone. Apparently this person went over to the commissary using the same ration control plate and the same identification card.”

“What happened?”

“The ID card checker noticed that the photo looked as if it had been tampered with. He called the MP’s.”

“And?”

“They arrested him.”

“Arrested him? They’ve got him in custody? And no one was hurt?”

“Hurt? Of course not.” Miss Chong looked indignant.

I would’ve bet that taking Shipton down would’ve caused a slaughter.

“Where is he now?”

“At the MP Station.” She pointed. “One block down. On your left.”

I ran out the door.

The MP Desk Sergeant was surprised to see a guy toting a canvas bag and all out of breath burst into his office. I showed him my badge. “Where’s the guy you arrested at the commissary?”

“With the phony ration control stuff?”

“Right.”

“Back here.”

He led me down the hallway to a holding cell and I peered through the one-way glass.

A chubby buck sergeant in wrinkled fatigues slumped on a wooden bench, his elbows on his knees. His brown hair was cut short and a narrow mustache drooped from his round nose.

“This is the guy?” I asked.

“That’s him,” the Desk Sergeant said proudly. “Caught him red-handed.”

A wave of nausea rumbled through my gut. For a minute I thought I was going to throw up but I fought back the feeling. The head of the buck sergeant lolled listlessly from his shoulders.

He wasn’t Bo Shipton. He wasn’t even close.