Stephen Mertz - The Korean Intercept

Trudging along, Kate found herself to be fully awake. Next to her, Paxton muttered his surprise at the sight suddenly revealed to them. They picked up their pace by unspoken mutual consent, the dead weight of Scott being carried between them. On their way into the camp, they passed sentries who shouted familiar greetings to Han, and made obvious sexual insults directed at Kate. For the first time since this ordeal had begun, she was glad that she didn't speak their language.

They passed scores of bandits, some cleaning their dismantled weapons, others lounging or seeing to various tasks. At least fifty men were visible at any given time, but no women. A surly, mismatched crew, each man was heavily armed; she saw pistols, rifles and automatic weapons of every description. Bunkers were along the edge of the cliff. She observed four-barreled anti-aircraft artillery. She saw a pair of military half-ton trucks parked at a big hole that had been burrowed into the face of the cliff. Behind the trucks was what looked like a well-stocked arms and munitions depot.

The center of activity was the mouth of a cave in the rim-rock formation. Their group was led into the cave, entering a natural corridor of stone, large enough to drive a car through. Like the terrorist caves that the American military had gone after in Afghanistan, this cave complex was cut deep into the mountain to avoid flyover thermal detection. The air in the tunnel was fresh, which bespoke hydroelectric power that ran a ventilation system and kept the lights on.

Several yards in, they came to a well-lighted, spacious cavern with a naturally vaulted ceiling, and an impressive if primitive array of appointments, such as animal skin rugs and rough-hewn, bulky wooden furniture, all of it well-lighted by oil lamps affixed to the cavern walls.

The sole occupant of this cavern was a man who lounged indolently on what could only be described as a throne-a tall-backed chair on a raised dais-set against a wall opposite the entrance. The man took a long pull on an aluminum can of beer and tossed the empty can over his shoulder. He wiped the back of a soiled sleeve across his bearded mouth and observed Han Ling and his men as they herded the three Americans in. Like Han, the man on the throne was not Korean, and he was older than any of the other men, in his mid-thirties. He had the more finely-boned physique of the Chinese, but because of his muscular build, he presented the impression of being a large man. Kate wondered what his background could be. There was about him the animal aura of the meanest dog in this pack, and yet she sensed a classical sensibility not far below the surface. This was a man of sharp wits and schooled intelligence, as well as of animal cunning and brute force. There was an old knife scar; five inches in length and a quarter inch in width, bisecting one side of his face. A headband held back long hair that glistened with grease.

When the Americans could advance no farther without tripping onto the dais, Han shouted what was obviously an order for them to halt. Without losing his indolent posture, slumped with one leg tossed out straight, both hands on the arms of his throne, the man issued a quiet directive. Han moved with dispatch to return with a metal folding chair that he set down for Scott. Kate and Paxton managed to get Scott into a sitting position on the chair.

Kate straightened, feeling renewed energy flowing back into her psyche and her body now that she had been unburdened. She and Paxton both stretched their overworked muscles, but they had been trained to endure rugged physical challenge. She stood at Scott's side with her arm on the flight commander's shoulder, so as to steady him from falling. Scott groaned fitfully, exhibiting no indication of regaining consciousness. She lifted her chin, making eye contact with the man on the throne.

"I don't know if you speak English, but I want to thank you for this small courtesy." She nodded to the seated, unconscious Scott. She realized belatedly that her hands were clenched into fists. She unclenched them and continued in what she hoped came across as a cordial, reasonable tone. "We are American citizens, and we-"

"I know exactly who you are, dear lady." He spoke with an Oxford accent that sounded weirdly out of place. "Would you like to know, perhaps, who I am?"

She tried not to appear taken aback at the culture and sophistication in his voice.

"Of course."

"I am Chai Bin. I command here."

"I had assumed that much." She meant to reflect his coolness. It was an impossible task, of course. Panic was a mad beast gnawing at her sanity.

He arose from the throne. Paxton, standing directly before the dais, his face bloodied and nose puffy and inflamed, flinched before the abrupt movement as if he'd been physically slapped. Chai sniggered. He shifted his attention to the woman. He easily saw through her facade of outer courage. And yet he found himself entranced, if that was the word, for she seemed at once a female combatant while exhibiting the maternal instinct, resting her hand on the shoulder of the unconscious man. Chai found himself strangely infatuated. It had been so long since his days at Oxford that he had almost forgotten the confidence and forthrightness of Western women, behavior unknown, unthought of, by the women of his culture. He had often wondered what he would have become if he had stayed in the West. A successful, married, driven capitalist, perhaps? His family in Beijing had purchased for him the best education the world could provide, thanks to considerable bribery and bureaucratic sleight of hand between Beijing, Hong Kong and the West. But after his return to China came enlistment in the military, the career expected of a young man of his class. He'd shown scant capacity for military discipline, yet it was wholly in his nature to command.

He pounded his chest with the palm of his hand. "I am a renegade from the Chinese army. The North Koreans have had a reward on my head for years. The Chinese and North Koreans both call me brilliant… and insane, yes. But they have never come close to apprehending me. My men do as they wish along both sides of the border." He saw no reason to brag of his primary source of revenue. He personally oversaw the raising of poppy plants, the production of opium in the fields and the product's transportation and ultimate sale. This revenue subsidized food farms in the region, and the food farms sustained his men. Chai said abruptly, "Identify yourselves."

"I am Kate Daniels, co-pilot of the space shuttle Liberty." The woman steadied the unconscious man, propping him in an upright, sitting position in the chair. "This is our commanding officer, Flight Commander Scott." She eyed Paxton, who stepped back a pace under Chai's glare. "And this frightened fool is Specialist Robert Paxton."

Chai chose to address the woman directly, something he would hardly have done had an able-bodied man been present. But their commander was unconscious, and Paxton reminded him of a frightened toad. "And now that I know who you are," he said, "I wish to know precisely where your aircraft is. And you will tell me."

She stood with her feet firmly planted, evidencing a backbone that could have been made of iron. "I don't think I want to tell you, unless you promise to help us."

He sensed that she was gaining inner strength with every passing second. There was something about this foreign Western woman, who had so literally dropped into his world from the sky, that simultaneously provoked, infuriated and aroused him. Chai concealed his aggravation beneath a mien of indolence. "If I do not find your space shuttle, miss, the Chinese army or the North Korean army will. Would that be any better for the United States?"

"That's hardly my decision to make." She indicated the unconscious man beside her. "Commander Scott needs medical attention. We need your assistance. Sir, in the name of the American government, will you help us?"