Critical Incidents: The ROK - Land of HAN (A Jack Gunn Mystery Thriller Book 1) (2 page)

I was boarding a huge Boeing 747, in Chicago, for my return to the Land of Han. I’ve been on many military planes and a few 747s, one of the largest passenger planes in the world, at the time. These jumbo jets never cease to amaze me. It was a non-stop fourteen hour flight to the Land of Han.

Settling back into the plush leather seat, the flight attendant brought me a glass of champagne before the plane departed, thanks to my first class ticket up-grade, compliments of the airlines.

Upon takeoff, the big jet seemed to lumber down the run way. The engines were screaming at full throttle. The whole plane was vibrating and shaking. It seemed like it would not get off the ground because it was so large, but suddenly the gigantic monster began to fly. The nose of the plane lifted up sharply, and in a few minutes the plane was off the ground, climbing higher and higher to an altitude of 40,000 feet. The seatbelt sign went off and everyone was free to move about.

I’ll admit, I don’t like flying because I am not in control. You are helpless if something happens. Your life is in the hands of a Pilot who you hope will know what to do in an emergency, based on his experience. Then again, he may not know what to do. He might panic and do something stupid. In any case, I like to be in control of all the situations in my life. That’s probably why it’s difficult for me to sit on a plane for any length of time.

Peering out the small cabin window, I see the endless expanse of the Pacific Ocean. There is nothing down there but water and death. If we ever went down, you can kiss your ass goodbye. I shudder to think about it because once I almost drowned when I was seven years old. Because of this, I don’t enjoy the water or swimming. If we were meant to swim, God would have given us fins and gills.       

After eight hours, the flight started to bug me. I tried to sleep, but I can’t sleep well on airplanes for some reason, so I just doze off for a few minutes at a time. After reading every magazine on the plane, I was totally bored until the guy sitting next to me started talking.

He asked, “So, what do you do for a living?”

I wasn’t paying any attention to him. I didn’t really feel like talking over the noise of the 480 mph wind flowing over the plane’s fuselage and the droning sound of the engines.

Not hearing him clearly, I asked, “What?” I turned my head peering at him, while leaning back in my seat.

He was dressed in a well-made suit with a necktie on. I guessed him to be about 50 years old because of his graying black hair, which was perfectly combed. Wrinkles were showing in the corner of his bulging eyes. His head seemed to be larger than normal, almost caveman in appearance, with a large flat nose and square jaw.  

Loudly, he asked, “What do you do for a living?”

I replied, “I work for the government.”

“I figured so. Are you in the military?”

“Yeah, that’s right.” I kept my answers short hoping he would get the hint and shut up. I don’t like talking to nosey people.

“I’m Doctor Stan Wright,” as he held his hand out for me to shake.

Anyone who uses the word doctor in front of his name has an ego problem. I hate shaking hands with most people, because I don’t know where that hand has been. He could have just wiped his ass, picked his nose, or sneezed into his hand.

I looked at him. “No offense, but I don’t shake hands. I’m Jack Gunn.”

“None taken, Jack. You must be a germophobe.”

“No, I’m just careful.”

“So, are you in the Army?”

I replied, “Yes.” I told him what he wanted to hear. It was against regulations to tell him what I really did.

“I knew it. I could tell by your shiny boots. What do you do in the Army?”

I wear ankle high leather boots with steel toes. They have non-skid soles that are good in any type of weather. I keep the boots shined so you can see your face in them. I always tie my laces with double knots. The steel toes protect your feet and provide you with an excellent weapon. The height of the boot provides you with support to help keep you from twisting an ankle. Most importantly, you won’t lose a boot in a hand-to-hand combat situation, which you might when wearing normal shoes. 

“I’m in the Military Police.” I lied, but I had to change the subject. I figured this jerk would rather talk about himself. “What about you?”

“I’m the Technical Director for Union Carbide Electronics Company.” He handed me his name card and took another sip of his drink.

He had a smug look on his face; one of self-satisfaction. I glanced at his card which read, Stan Wright, Ph.D., Technical Director.

There was silence for a few minutes until Stan commented, “You must be an officer to fly first class.”

“Yes.”

“What’s your rank?”

“Captain,” I said. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get some sleep.” I pushed the button on my seat-arm and it slide back, while at the same time the foot rest popped up.

“Sorry, I tend to talk too much.”

I didn’t reply and closed my eyes, trying to remember where I had seen this guy before. There was something about his face that was familiar. I thought about it for a while and then finally dozed off. 

The cabin bell rang, waking me up, indicating we were on approach for a landing. The flight attendant made the usual announcement about seat trays and so forth. After fifteen hours in the air, the Captain came on the speaker system advising we would be landing in thirty minutes. The flight was an hour late because of strong head winds.

The flight attendants came around asking every passenger to lower their window blind. If you didn’t comply, they would do it for you. The Captain came on the speaker system advising not to take any pictures out of the window for security reasons.

Stan bumped my arm and asked, “Why do they want us to close the blinds?”

“It’s a normal procedure,” I told him. “Is this your first time to the ROK?”

“What’s the ROK?”   

Light as a feather, the plane put down, with wheels screeching, to a prefect landing. The engines roared as the reverse thrusters were actuated.

The Captain announced, “Welcome to The Republic of Korea.”

Stan commented, “Oh, I get it … ROK.”

I advised him, “The name Korea was derived from the Chinese name for Goryeo, which was the name of the Korean dynasty that ruled the peninsula in the 10th century.  The real South Korean name is Han'guk, which means Land of the Han. Han means the same thing as the title Khan, which refers to a king or leader.”

“Well, thanks for the history lesson.”

The plane landed at Incheon International Airport, which is 40 miles from downtown Seoul. The other major airport is Kimpo, which is located closer to the city. Kimpo was the only major international airport until Incheon was built, but now it’s only used for domestic flights and some from Japan. 

I was arriving here almost one year to the date since my last visit, and twelve years since my first tour of duty. In the military we call it the “ROK.” That stands for Republic of Korea, but it also has another meaning. South Korea has the most highly guarded borders in the world. It is almost impossible to smuggle anything in or out. It’s like being in a big prison similar to Alcatraz, which is also called the “Rock.”

Security in South Korea is always high because of the continuous threats it receives from communist North Korea, which is fifty miles north of Seoul, the capital, and largest city in South Korea. The Seoul general area includes Incheon and Gyeonggi Province, which has a population of 25.6 million people.

There are always incidents taking place along the border. Many times North Korean Agents have infiltrated into the south. Most of them are spies but some come for other reasons. Some are assassins and a few are actually defectors. Their crazy dictator, Kim, is always stirring the pot trying to create problems between the two countries. Why he does that, is beyond all logic. Kim is definitely a dangerous nutcase, who could ignite another Korean War. Many believe that is what he wants. Make no mistake, the north wants to gain control of all Korea since the south has a well-developed economy. People in the south are very well- off compared to those suffering in the north. South Korean citizens enjoy a lifestyle very similar to that of the United States.

As the plane taxied up to the gate, Stan asked, “What’s the security like going through customs?”

I said, “Very tight. They check every bag.”

After fifteen minutes the plane rolled to a stop, and we were free to stand-up, collect our bags, and prepare to disembark.

Stan looked at me and grabbed his back as he tried to lift a bag down from the over-head. “Jack, would you please give me a hand, and get these two bags down for me? I have a bad back.”

I reached up and pulled down a leather briefcase and a small flight bag. They weren’t heavy at all. “Here you go,” as I handed the bags to him. Stan had three bags in his hands.

I only carry a briefcase so I can move quickly off the plane and through the airport. There’s no sense in lugging a bunch of crap around.  

“Do you mind carrying this briefcase to customs for me?” he asked.

Ding, ding, ding, a bell rang in my brain. His request spelled trouble. Everyone knows not to handle any bags that are not yours. You have no idea what’s inside.

“Sorry, Stan, I can’t do that. I go through a different customs station than you do. Besides that, I’m in a hurry, people are waiting for me.”

“In that case just take it with you. There’s nothing important in it, just some technical papers. I’m staying at the Chosun Hotel. We can meet later and have a drink, so you can return it.”

“No can do, Stan. That’s totally against the rules.” This guy was weird thinking that I’d take his stuff through customs and have a drink with him. But he was smart because he knew that most likely customs would not check the bags of an Army Officer.

A flight attendant overheard us and she volunteered to help him out, if he waited until everyone was off the plane. Without saying another word, I proceeded off the plane and headed to diplomatic customs clearance counter. It’s a considerable walk in this huge airport.

No one was in line as I approached the diplomatic counter. Pulling out my diplomatic passport and ID badge, I placed my briefcase on the counter. When you have a diplomatic passport, customs cannot open any of your bags or check a person in any manner. After checking the computer to confirm my identity, the customs agent glared at my face, and waived me through. Little did he know what was inside my briefcase.

Walking through the customs exit doors, there was a wall of people standing there waiting for someone. They are waiting for a relative, friend, or business associate. When one of these large planes land there are 400 people disembarking, and probably another 400 standing outside of customs, in the arrival waiting area. There can be three to five planes landing in a thirty minute time frame. That means a few thousand people could be milling around in the arrival zone.

It’s a big crowd with everyone pushing and shoving for a place in front of the line to obtain a better view of who is coming out of customs. If you don’t spot the person you’re there to pick up, then you may not find them in the crowded mass.

I noted there was an ample supply of security police around carrying sidearms and submachine guns. The airport security police are dressed in typical army combat fatigues. Like I said, security is tight here.

I scanned the crowd looking for my contact, while slowly walking towards the airport exit doors. Maybe my contact left since the plane was late, but I didn’t think so. It was already 9 pm Korea time, which is a twelve-hour time difference from Eastern Standard Time. Because of usual terrible traffic jams in Seoul, I probably wouldn’t arrive at my hotel until after 11 pm.

I spun around, searching for my friend in the sea of faces. I didn’t see him, so I went outside to the pick-up zone to take a look. The smell of the air was different here. There were all types of odors, some good, and some not so good, such as burning wood, garlic, and who knows what else. Just the smell told you this was a different country.

I lit up a smoke. Going more than a few hours without one makes me nuts. After taking a few deep drags, I heard someone yell my name. Turning, I spotted my old friend’s smiling face.

Quickly walking up to me, he said, “Jack, Annyonghashimnikka (Hello, how are you)? Pan-gapsumnida (Nice to see you).”

We bowed to each other and shook hands, “Annyounghaseyo (Hello, how are you)? Pan-gapsumnida (Nice to see you also),” I replied.

Koo Young Lee, I just call him “KY” for short using his initials, is one of the most loyal friends a man could have. He keeps his word and you can trust him with your life, which I have done several times. We’ve been friends for over ten years. Even when I am not in Korea, we stay in touch by email.

KY is the same height as me, standing six foot, and is about the same weight. He’s a good looking man with black hair and dark brown eyes. He takes care in his appearance, always wearing a suit and tie. Being one-hundred percent Korean, he is very loyal to his country. KY is also grateful to the United States for providing a buffer zone with trip-wire troops that keep the North Koreans from crossing the DMZ. He fully understands what would happen if U.S. troops were not based in Korea.