My feet slipped more than once. They hurt like hell and the feeling in them hadn’t completely returned. Mucus dripped from my stinging nose. I did my best to place the soles of my combat boots squarely on the center of the wooden steps, but the nerves that should’ve relayed sensation were faulty. To compensate, I held onto the crossbar above me for dear life. I kept at least one foot and one hand firmly gripped to something at all times. I refused to look down, but by looking up I could tell I’d made progress. I was already about halfway up the three-story wall. Occasionally, a face peered down at me. Once it was the man with the iron sickle, then it was Madame Hoh. They knew I was coming. If they decided they didn’t want to talk to me, all they had to do was take that razor sharp sickle and cut the rope. But they didn’t. Not yet.
I was about three quarters of the way up when the ladder slipped. I dropped about six feet and at first I was sure I was going to plummet all the way to the ground but suddenly the rope jerked to a halt. I held on with both hands but my gimpy feet slipped off into space.
The crowd below screamed. I managed to regain my footing and breathe deeply and steadily for a few minutes before daring to look back up. Now they were both looking down at me, the man with the iron sickle and Madame Hoh. She’s the one who cupped her hand around her mouth and shouted.
“The gun,” she said. “Drop the gun.”
I felt the.45 tucked snugly in my shoulder holster. I looked back up at them. Both were scowling. There was no question; if I didn’t drop the gun they would cut the ladder. I didn’t even have time to scurry back to the ground. I was too high and it would only have taken them a few seconds to slice the rope that stood between me and sudden death. For the first time I looked back down. Ernie and Captain Prevault and Mr. Kill were gazing up at me with worried looks on their faces.
With my free hand, I undid the buckle in front of my chest. Then I shrugged and let the leather holster slide into the air. I watched it fall.
When I had first opened the door to the Lost Echo signal truck, an odor had hit me that I’d never before encountered. Certainly, it was the odor of death, of that there was no doubt. And it was of a musty nature that told of ancient things crumbling to dust. I pulled the door fully open and stepped inside. The control panel on the right was slathered in mildew. How it lived in there, I didn’t know. Where did it get moisture? And then I realized where: from the five men sitting on steel chairs, some of them with their heads tilted down in shame, some leaning back and gazing up at the roof. Nothing more than papery skin and brittle bone, their fatigue uniforms hanging off them in strips. Teeth poked out, no longer hidden by lips or even flesh on the face. Eye sockets were filled with desiccated cobwebs. The floor beneath their feet was dark, stained. Some of their neck bones had been sawed almost in half. From the scraped mud it seemed that the men had been dragged in there, one by one. Probably the survivors of the winter of starvation, those who’d managed to feed themselves. But they’d been hunted down, one by one, and lined up in the truck like the good signalmen they were. Finally they were no longer a threat to the good people of the Taebaek Mountains.
I pushed my way through them all the way to the back and hunted amidst the bones for the chips of imprinted metal I knew I’d find: dog tags, with their names, ranks, blood types, and religions on them. I stuffed the clinking tin into my pocket.
Someone, somewhere, would like to know. And then I left.
Ernie and Mr. Kill backed away as the.45 clattered to the ground.
I looked up. Satisfied, the two faces disappeared.
When I reached the ledge, there were no hands to help haul me to safety. I reached out as far as I could on the flat stone surface. Pushing up with my legs, I leaned forward, hoping my weight would tilt me to safety, and then I slithered onto solid stone. I hugged the flat surface, feeling the firm body of the ginseng plant pressing against my chest. I wriggled forward until I was sure I wouldn’t fall. Then and only then did I look around me. At the far end of the long stone rectangle squatted the man with the iron sickle. Behind him sat Madame Hoh and Miss Sim. Behind them, bound, gagged, and bug-eyed, lay Mr. Covert P. Walton.
“Let him go,” I said. “You can keep me instead.”
The man with the iron sickle shook his head. Madame Hoh lit another cigarette.
“You’ll never get out of here alive,” I said. “What’s the point?”
“The point is,” Madame Hoh said, “the world must know what happened on Daeam Mountain.”
“They’ll know now,” I said, motioning toward the growing crowd of demonstrators below us.
“Pak Chung-hee won’t let it appear in the Chosun Il-bo.”
“He can’t stop it from appearing in American newspapers. Stringers from AP and UPI are already down there interviewing people.”
“AP?”
I explained about international wire services. When I was finished, Madame Hoh said, “How do you know they’ll write about it?”
“Because of him.” I pointed at Mr. Walton. “They’ll interview him, and he’ll talk about it, and then they’ll interview me, and I’ll tell them everything I’ve seen.”
“Your army will let you do that?”
They wouldn’t but I lied. “Yes. I’m an American. Our rules are different.”
The man with the iron sickle, apparently, understood enough of what we were saying to be skeptical. He shook his head and said, “An dei.” No good.
“You’ve accomplished what you need to accomplish,” I said. “The story of the Lost Echo will be in every newspaper in the world before the day is out. Let her go, at least.”
I pointed to Miss Sim. She snuggled closer to Madame Hoh. “Here,” I said. “I have something for you.” I reached in my pocket and pulled out the leather pouch. I placed it on the flat stone surface and slid it across to Madame Hoh. She picked it up, unlaced the bag, and the stem of the plant popped out. Reverently, she lifted the insam plant out of the pouch. Holding it with both hands, she showed it to the man with the iron sickle. He eyed it suspiciously. Then she turned back to me. “Where did you get this?”
“After you left, I escaped from the cavern and wandered down the mountain. I fell asleep and when I woke up, this plant was there at my feet. At first, I didn’t know what it was but Hunter Huk helped me harvest it.”
“You met Hunter Huk?”
“Without him, I’d still be in the mountains.”
“And you want her to have it?” She motioned toward Miss Sim.
“Yes. It will help pay for the treatment she needs. Captain Prevault, an American psychiatrist, has already arranged for her to be treated by Doctor Hwang Sun-won, one of the most famous doctors in Korea.” I didn’t know if this was true but it could be. “She needs to get out of here alive,” I continued. “And so does he.” I pointed at the terrified Mr. Walton. “They are innocent.”
Madame Hoh flicked her fingers at me, ordering me to back up. I did, crawling. She kept flicking her fingers until I was on the far side of the top of Guanghua-mun. She leaned toward the man with the iron sickle and whispered urgently. His eyes narrowed in suspicion, glaring alternately at me and then at the ginseng Miss Sim held reverently cradled in her arms.
They conversed, arguing, until finally it appeared they’d come to a decision. Madame Hoh motioned for me to return. I did, sliding on my butt as fast as I could. She opened her mouth and started to say something when her head exploded.
I leapt forward. Another sniper round zinged through the air, probably from one of the high rise buildings two or three city blocks away. It was a masterful shot but now Miss Sim was screaming, and Mr. Walton was bucking his body up and down like a terrified fish. The man with the iron sickle turned toward the rope ladder and started to hack at it.