normal pace. I grabbed Ernie by the elbow.
“What?” Ernie asked.
“MPs.”
“So?”
“So look.” I pointed a shaky finger. MPs climbed out of either side of the jeep, one of them tall and skinny, the other not quite as thin but shorter.
“Bufford,” Ernie said. His fists knotted.
Before I could stop him, he was staggering back toward the Bunny Club, leaning forward at the waist, his entire posture one of determination. Ernie Bascom had decided to kick some ass.
By now, Bufford and the other MP were approaching the front door of the Bunny Club. In the overhead light, I could see that the other MP was indeed the man we’d surmised had accompanied Bufford to the Forest of the Seven Clouds: Staff Sergeant Rufus Q. Weatherwax. The left side of his nose was still a dark purple from that night in TDC when Ernie had punched him. Both MPs drew their. 45s, all their attention riveted on the entranceway of the Bunny Club, and together they pulled back their slides.
Under normal MP procedure, a weapon is drawn only when you know that your life is in danger. These guys looked not as if they were worried about being hurt, but as if they’d already decided to go in firing.
I ran after Ernie, trying to pull him away.
Startled by our footsteps, Bufford and Weatherwax turned. They were about ten yards away. I grabbed Ernie’s shoulders and yanked him backwards. Just as I did so, a round was fired. I felt hot air pass above Ernie’s arm, and then we were both tumbling backward, somehow keeping our feet. Another round blasted into the night, but by now we’d slid into one of the narrow alleys running alongside of the Bunny Club. Ernie’d forgotten about kicking Bufford’s ass and he’d regained his balance-and regained his sobriety. The two of us were running shoulder to shoulder, bumping into one another, down the narrow alley. Ernie dodged to his left at the next alley, me with him, and as we did so another round blasted out, this one exploding into a brick wall behind us where we’d just been standing.
Our feet turned into flying machines. Bufford and Weatherwax stayed close. I could hear the pounding of their boots and their occasional shouted commands to one another. Ernie and I twisted and turned and dodged and since Bufford and Weatherwax had to slow occasionally to see which way we had gone, we were starting to lengthen our lead.
I wanted to keep running. Even though Ernie and I were both armed, I didn’t want to turn and fight. If, and when, Ernie and I returned to 8th Army headquarters in Seoul, we’d have enough explaining to do. I didn’t want to add two dead MPs to our list of indiscretions. Not if I could help it.
There were no streetlights back here. When I looked back I could see the beam of an MP flashlight bouncing against brick.
Ernie turned and turned again and then found a small inlet into which to dodge. We stopped, breathing heavily, listening to our pounding heartbeats. A streetlamp about twenty yards away cast a dim glow but we were hidden in shadow. Ernie pulled his. 45. If they closed in now, it would be an all out firefight. Their footsteps pounded a couple of alleys away. The steps retreated and then returned and then paced farther away in the opposite direction. Finally, after a long wait, all was quiet.
Ernie whispered, “Where are we?”
“Somewhere on the western edge of Bongil-chon, I think.”
“Can we make it back to the jeep?”
“They probably already have it spotted. Best if we catch a cab to take us to Seoul.”
We still had about another hour until curfew. Enough time to take a kimchee cab to the northern edge of Seoul. Once there we could switch cabs and head back to 8th Army’s Yongsan compound on the southern edge of the capital city.
“Okay. I’ll go first,” Ernie said.
We started to return to the land of the living when suddenly, out of the shadows, something moved. At first I thought it was simply the play of light, but then I heard the tread of shoe leather on gravel. Before I could react, cold steel pressed into the hot flesh of my neck.
“Freeze.”
The voice was low, forceful. A woman’s voice. An American woman’s voice.
Ernie raised his hands; I raised mine also. Then, I stepped away slowly and turned. She switched on a flashlight and aimed it at her highly polished jump boots. From its glow I saw the outlines of a shapely woman, a woman wearing a full uniform of pressed green fatigues, a web belt with a brightly polished brass buckle, and a black leather holster hanging at her hip. The rank insignia of corporal was pinned to her collar along with the crossed-pistols brass of the United States Army Military Police Corps. Even though the light was dim, her black helmet glistened and the big white letters MP shined like neon. But mostly I saw the unholy pit of the barrel of the. 45.
“You’ve been following me,” the voice said from behind the pistol.
I didn’t deny what she said. Neither did Ernie.
“My name is Jill Matthewson.” the voice said again. “You will keep your hands in full view at all times.” She motioned with her. 45. “Do you understand?”
Ernie and I both nodded. We understood.
12
J ill relieved Ernie of his. 45.
She didn’t touch mine but told me to keep it holstered and continue to keep my hands in plain sight.
“You have a vehicle,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Let’s go there.”
Up on the ridge on Camp Howze, roving headlights indicated that emergency units were starting to roll. I could imagine the notification over the MP radio: Shots fired. Bongil-chon.
We turned and walked, Jill Matthewson right behind us.
After all this time, I couldn’t believe we’d found her. Or, more accurately, she’d found us. But how had she known we were looking for her? How had she found us in Bongil-chon? How had she known to be waiting in that alleyway at that particular time?
These were all questions I wanted answered but all questions that would have to wait. In the distance, jeep engines roared. Probably more Camp Howze MPs pouring into the ville. I didn’t have a beef with the Camp Howze MPs but I knew that if they caught us we’d be transported back to Division headquarters at Camp Casey. That’s what I didn’t want. Warrant Officer Bufford and Staff Sergeant Weatherwax had already shown a willingness to shoot to kill. They were desperate now. They knew we were close to blowing apart their entire operation. Private Marvin Druwood and Mr. Pak Tong-i were already dead. I didn’t want Ernie and me added to the list.
Dirty streetlamps illuminated our way. I glanced back as we walked. The. 45 in Jill Matthewson’s hand continued to be pointed at our backs. It never wavered.
“How’d you find us?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I keep in contact with my friends.”
“But the women at the Forest of Seven Clouds swore to us that they didn’t know where you were.”
“They didn’t. I call them. Once or twice a day.”
I filed that one away. I hadn’t asked the right questions. Maybe, if I’d received some inkling that Jill occasionally called the women at the Forest of Seven Clouds, I could’ve convinced Blue Orchid to relay a message.
“But we stopped in Bongil-chon instead of driving straight to Seoul. How’d you know to look for us here?”
She smiled. It was a great smile, wry and wise and full of laughter.
“I hate to break it to you guys but you’re predictable. Anybody who knows you would know where you’d stop.
