William Weber - Turning the Tide

“Already done, boss,” Moss replied.

John grinned and clapped him on the back as they headed in that direction.

When they arrived, they found a dozen officers tied to poles. According to Gregory, these men had executed Dixon and countless others. Hearing that made John pause. His time in Iraq and warzones around the world continued to torture him to this very day. He couldn’t imagine what his son had seen in this terrible place and how that might impact him down the road.

“Where are the rest of the guards?” John asked.

Moss shook his head with disgust. “They’re all dead. Fought to the last man or shot in the back trying to run away. Most of these clowns we found hiding under desks or in crawl spaces.” He pointed to a small group of Americans huddled together with the remaining North Korean guards. “And I don’t have words for these ones. Prisoners tell me they’re American collaborators.”

John shook his head. “What about the camp commandant?”

Moss pulled him forward. “We caught him in the process of changing into prisoner’s clothes. Thought he could pull a fast one on us.”

“He speak English?” John asked.

Moss shrugged. “Don’t think so. I slapped him around a few times and all he does is grunt.”

“He does speak English,” Gregory said. “He’s the one who traded me for Brandon.”

“What’s his name?”

“Jang Yong-ho,” Gregory said, struggling with the pronunciation. He pointed to one of the North Korean guards they’d rounded up. “And that guard’s name is Pug Face. He’s the commandant’s pit bull who killed Dixon.”

Moss smacked the guard across the face with the butt of his rifle.

Jang Yong-ho looked on with a blank expression.

“Where are the Americans you conscripted?” John asked the commandant, who didn’t speak. John asked the man next to him. Again, no answer. “Cat got your tongue? Well, maybe you will all understand this. You’re hereby charged and deemed guilty of war crimes. Care to know what your sentence is?”

Moss and the other soldiers stared at John. “Are you sure about this?” his second-in-command asked.

John pointed a finger toward the cornfield. “You walk out that gate and in two minutes you’ll see a pit filled with dead Americans, all killed on this man’s orders. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. Freeing ourselves from oppression will mean doing things we might not be proud of. But saving the things we love sometimes requires us to suspend the very ideals this country was founded on. Execute them now, on my order.”

At once, dozens of rifles were raised up, Rough Riders as well as prisoners wielding North Korean rifles.

Jang Yong-ho and Pug Face screamed right as the men fired. John thought Gregory would look away, as he’d done many times in the past when he witnessed violent acts, but his son watched each of the men slump as they fell dead.

John drew in a long, ragged breath. “Leave them there, as a reminder of what will happen to anyone who murders innocent Americans.” After that he got on the walkie and ordered his men to collect the wounded and pull back to the treeline. They were heading home.

Berry Field Air National Guard Base

“When I was growing up in a small village along the banks of the Yellow River, my grandmother loved to tell the tale of Kua Fu Chasing the Sun,” General Wei Liang said as he removed his hat, set it firmly on his desk and used the palm of his hand to tame a stray tuft of thinning hair. Standing before him were his four aides and all of them, including his most trusted, Colonel Guo Fenghui, wore blank expressions.

“You’ve not heard it?” the general asked them. He was a natural-born storyteller and might have pursued a life in the theatre had his father not pushed him to enter the military academy at a young age.

Colonel Guo shook his head.

Liang smiled. “It’s an ancient and delightful tale. Long before humans, giants roamed the earth. Their leader Kua Fu was sworn to protect his people. One year the weather became incredibly hot, scorching the crops and subjecting his followers to torturous heat from the sun. Kua Fu vowed to catch the sun and bind it to his will. He chased it like the wind as it fled across the sky. As he did, the dust from his shoes became the hills and his walking stick the forests and the trees. After nine days and nights, he finally caught up to the sun, but its fire was too intense and it made him thirsty. Kua drank from the Yellow and Wei Rivers, but it wasn’t enough and before he could reach the Great Lake, Kua died of thirst.”

His aides continued to stare at the general, befuddled. If there was a lesson he was trying to get across, they weren’t getting it.

“We owe a lot to Kua,” Liang told them. “He’s given us trees and land, but he had one weakness which led to his death.”

“Arrogance,” Guo replied.

A grin appeared on Liang’s round face. “Yes. The Americans remind me in many ways of the giant Kua. They are big and powerful and capable of accomplishing many extraordinary things, except like Kua, the Americans were blinded by their own arrogance. This was why the attacks of 9/11 were so successful. Who would have thought that such a low-tech attack could be pulled off with such great effect? And wasn’t the same true of our own bold attack? America’s faith in her multi-layered naval and nuclear defenses led her to believe she was invulnerable to invasion. That attitude was exactly what gave China and Russia the advantage we needed. Long ago, Sun Tzu wrote, ‘Pretend inferiority and encourage his arrogance.’”

Now his subordinates understood where he had been heading and many of them were nodding in agreement.

A knock came at the door and General Liang asked them to enter.

In came Colonel Li Keqiang, head of military intelligence, and the deathly paleness of his face wiped the pleasure from Liang’s lips.

“What is it?”

Colonel Li handed the general a note and bowed his head.

General Liang opened the paper and read what was written. His eyes passed over the words more than once and his ears turned a slight shade of pink.

The concentration camp near Jonesboro had been overrun by a group of American insurgents. Not only had all the prisoners been released, a battalion of North Korean forces stationed nearby had nearly been wiped out when they attempted to respond. Liang kept reading and as he did his anger blossomed into a boiling rage.

“They killed the camp commandant and all of his men?” Liang asked, not entirely believing it.

Colonel Li nodded, careful not to make eye contact.

They had a handful of secret agents spread throughout what remained of the American-held territories, and none of them had warned that this sort of operation was underway. One by one the Americans had been unmasking the Chinese operatives in the field, making the collection of information more difficult. It also increased the importance of the few who remained.

“Any word from Phoenix?”

“None,” Li said. “Our last report was about the attack on the truck depot near Jonesboro. The information was passed along to the commanding officer in the region.” Li checked his notes. “A North Korean colonel named Chung Eui-Sun.”

“The same Chung whose forces were just beaten by a group of resistance fighters?”

Li nodded. “Yes. Apparently he dismissed the threat.”

“We were kind to bring our North Korean allies into the fold and yet since the beginning they’ve done nothing but disappoint us.”

The room grew quiet. One of General Liang’s four aides was a North Korean major from Pyongyang and, judging by the stoic expression he now wore, he knew better than to openly show offence at the general’s comments.