The tunnel closed in on me. Was it getting narrower, or was it just my imagination? No, it was definitely narrower. I had to pull my shoulder in and constrict my chest, making it more difficult to breathe. For a second, I considered turning around, until I realized that was impossible. I had to go forward wherever it led, which maybe was the point of this training.
Finally, Ernie’s boots kicked back strongly and then I realized that his body was twisting upward. Ahead of him light glimmered. Then he was gone. I breathed fresh air, and strong hands were pulling me up to freedom. I inhaled deeply, enjoying the rich oxygen, my eyes squinting at the bright lights of the fluorescent bulbs overhead. We were in some sort of aid station. One G.I. lay on a cot, a blue-smocked medic hovering about him. A much larger group of G.I. s sat at two picnic tables pushed together, munching on crackers and sipping cool drinks and staring back at us, smirking.
Amidst this calm scene, Ernie was wrestling with someone.
The man went down on the floor with a thump and others started shouting, and then we had all gathered around the two wrestling men. Ernie sprang to his feet, triumphant.
“Got him,” he said.
The man lying on the ground, his eyes wide, was Caucasian, about six feet tall, and his hands were trussed firmly behind his back. The name tag on his field jacket said Amos. Medics started to shove Ernie, but I jumped in front of them and pulled out my badge.
“CID,” I said. “Back off. Or you’ll be interfering with an arrest.”
“Arrest?”
Everyone was incredulous.
Ernie pulled the handcuffed man to his feet.
“Good to meet you at last,” I said.
“Meet me? We’ve never met before.”
“But I know of you,” I said. “I’ve been studying your movements on the Blue Train.”
Then the light of understanding entered the man’s eyes. “You mean this,” he said, looking down at his field jacket. “The name tag.”
Ernie kept a tight hold on his arm.
“You think I’m Amos,” he said finally.
We waited.
“This isn’t my field jacket. It’s cold in here so I just borrowed it from Sergeant Amos. He left it here when he changed into the Warsaw Pact uniform.”
“He’s one of the two guys at the other end of the tunnel?” I asked.
“Right. But he couldn’t have done anything to be arrested for. He’s a fine man.”
“Never mind that,” Ernie said. “Which one is he? The white one or the black one?”
“The black one,” the guy said. “He’s the preacher who conducts our nondenominational services every Sunday.”
Colonel Laurel was livid. But I was pretty angry too. So was Ernie. Neither one of us really cared about whether we got court-martialed for insubordination, and we let him have it.
“The Blue Train rapist could strike again at any moment,” I shouted. “More women could be hurt. More children scarred for life. But instead, all you can think about is the insult to your integrity. I need to know where everyone has been for every minute of the last few weeks. Once I know that, I either find the Blue Train rapist or I eliminate all of your men and we go on our way.”
Colonel Laurel’s mangled jaw was clamped shut. His eyes shot blue lasers of hatred. After word spread about what we’d done, training had halted and a gaggle of Green Berets, led by Sergeant Warnocki, had escorted us to Colonel Laurel’s Quonset hut.
“Damn you!” he shouted. He paced around his office, in front of the flags of the United States, the Republic of Korea, and the United Nations. For a moment, I thought he was going to smack us. Instead, he stopped pacing and spoke.
“All right, then. You have one hour. Warnocki! Escort these men to the orderly room. Let them examine the morning report, leave records, temporary duty orders, anything that will allow them to trace the whereabouts of the members of this command. But no classified material.
Understood?”
“Understood, sir.”
Warnocki jammed his thumb toward the door.
Ernie and I saluted Colonel Laurel. He didn’t bother to respond.
It took me twenty minutes to gather all the information I needed. Warnocki slouched in a vinyl chair. Ernie gazed at me quizzically but I didn’t want to tell him what I’d found. Not yet, not in front of Warnocki.
“Let’s go,” I said.
As we walked out the door, Warnocki followed.
“Aren’t you going to report to the Colonel?” he asked.
“Later. Where will he be this afternoon?”
“Out with the haenyo. Teaching diving techniques.”
“They have scuba gear?” Ernie asked.
“Naw. He teaches ‘natural’ techniques. How to hold your breath, how to gradually increase the depth of your dives, how to use the currents to your advantage, stuff like that. The way the haenyo do it.”
Ernie and I returned to the Nokko-ri Yoguan and changed out of our muddy clothes.
The truth of the matter was that I was devastated. All of my theories had been shattered. Sergeant First Class Amos couldn’t be the Blue Train rapist, because all the eyewitness reports had agreed that the culprit was a white man. Amos was black. Since he was such a frequent rider of the Blue Train, I did briefly interview him and ask if he’d noticed anything suspicious. Although he’d heard about the attacks, he’d noticed nothing unusual himself. On the day the Blue Train to Seoul had stopped to allow the funeral procession of the late First Lady to pass, he’d been on an earlier train.
Once we changed back into our civvies, Ernie said, “Now what?”
I didn’t know. We walked out of the yoguan and I stared up at the sky. From the peak of Mount Halla, a wisp of smoke trailed lazily up into the endless blue. I thought of the commo site, and flunking an IG inspection, how seriously the army takes those things. Then I remembered something Vance had said, and suddenly I knew.
“What?” Ernie asked.
When I didn’t answer, he asked again, more insistent this time. “What?”
“Come on,” I said, “let’s find a cab.”
We were three quarters of the way up the mountain, with the same cab driver, Mr. Won, still driving his unrepaired cab and more nervous than ever. He’d made us pay triple fare instead of double. Ernie pointed. “There!”
Won pulled off at the next bypass. The three of us climbed out to get a better look. Zigzagging down the mountain, we could see him from a mile off. The quarter-ton truck from the communications site.
“That must be him,” I said. “Let’s roll the cab out here to block his way.”
Ernie jumped in the driver’s seat and Mr. Won screamed at us to stop. Oblivious, Ernie started the engine, shoved it into gear, and drove the cab across the road so as to block the way of the oncoming truck.
“He’ll have to come wide around that curve,” Ernie said. “If he doesn’t slam on his brakes, he’ll barrel right into the cab.”
Keeping the keys so the protesting Mr. Won couldn’t move his vehicle, Ernie and I trotted up the road and hid behind some rocks next to the spot where we figured the truck would have to come to a stop. Or at least slow down.
Up above, the engine roared louder.
17
The quarter-ton truck rounded the last corner and the driver’s head, small in the distance, was square and dark, almost-black hair cut very short: Ronald T. Parkwood, the ranking NCO and the only other man besides Vance stationed at the Mount Halla commo site. When he saw the taxicab blocking half the road, a moment of surprise suffused his features, but then hairy forearms took over, jerking the steering wheel to the right, rolling the quarter-ton into a skid. Expertly, he twisted the steering wheel back to the left, turning into the skid, straightening out the truck and slamming, with a horrific crash, into the rear of the little Hyundai sedan. Behind me, Mr. Won groaned.