“A crisis is made by men, who enter the crisis with their own prejudices, propensities, and predispositions. A crisis is the sum of intuition and blind spots, a blend of facts noted, and facts ignored.” ― Michael Crichton
Malcolm was on his ninetieth curl, dangling from his pullup bar in an empty three-bedroom apartment. He had moved a coffee table from the room’s window and placed it beneath the bar of the locked doorway. Malcolm’s Sig Sauer was in his right hand and at the end of each curl he was reassembling ‘Dominic’; he reached down to pick up the barrel and snapped it back into place. Dominic was complete and its camo pattern clean, yet Malcolm was still nine repetitions ahead. Beads of sweat were dripping onto the coffee table where his prized AK, ‘Crystal’, lay flat after being reassembled first by repetition sixty; her streaks of white and grey had been polished recently. Malcolm placed Dominic back on the coffee table and he admired the handiwork. Malcolm took a deep breath as fire engulfed his rocky abdomen. After a hundred repetitions, he grasped the bar and steadily uncurled his legs, landing in front of the door.
The apartment was spacious, stretching fifteen feet in length all the way to the windows, not including the spare bedroom door located to the right with the Kitchen next to the archway; the bathroom was left of Malcolm. A single full-sized bed with white sheets was placed leftward in front of Malcolm and a small green couch was in front of the TV. Malcolm stepped to the window and admired the rainy view of Camp Humphreys. There was military-timed clock, a phone for room services, and an English Korean Dictionary on top of the bedside table. The room’s only bookcase was in the spare bedroom which was empty as the crib which sat across from a useless single-sized bed.
Malcolm stepped through the two-sink washroom and dropped his briefs. Still panting, Malcolm entered the shower and turned the faucet just barely; and the ice-cold stream lathered him, chilling his seething muscles. He grabbed soap, unwrapped it and it began to dissolve as soon as the water made contact. Malcolm started brushing the soap across his figure, and he raised his face to the shower head. His respirations hit a steady pace, but he was chittering like a cricket and tapping his feet to an internal rhythm.
“…And I wonder how we got this far,
…Cause I don’t really need to wonder at all,
…Yea after all this time, I’m still into you,
…I’m still into you…Yes, despite After Laughter- “
Somebody was touching him and wrapping arms around his waist. Malcolm almost jumped, then turned, only to see no one. The shower door was soaked by now, but Malcolm could still see his wife; she was as naked as he was. But her brunette hair covered the curves of her back. It looked like she was applying her makeup, as she loved to do in the nude. Nobody was in the reflection. Malcolm pulled open the door and she vanished like a cartoon page. He scrubbed his eyes, forgetting the soapy hands. His pupils burned like acid, and he clenched. When the burning stopped, his eyes were red and foggy. He rinsed his hands and rubbed them again. This time it was worse. He took his head out of the stream and rubbed it once more. Now his eyes just itched; but he realized that it was not his vision that was red, it was the curtains and the water.
He held his hand under the falling streams and the crimson liquid parted in his fingers. Malcolm grabbed another soap and got to work on his torso. He could hear his heart thumping and it reverberated on the walls around him. And in a thump, the red on the walls was thick. The entire stream turned into a blood gush that Malcolm wore. He stopped scrubbing entirely and leaned forward, pushing his hands into the walls in front of him. He took a deep breath in, and then out as he turned the faucet off.
Malcolm stepped out of the shower. He wore the gush still; it was in his skin and fingernails. He grabbed a snow-white towel off a stack above the toilet and scrubbed his arms until the skin felt sore. The towel looked completely ruined and stained through but still the gush was in his eardrum and fingers. Malcolm finally shook his head, dislodging whatever was in his left ear as he left the washroom.
Malcolm grabbed Crystal and Dominic, laying them on the unmade bed. The couch had his Camo Army Uniform symmetrically placed for him as he ritualistically does every morning. After this, he lifted the coffee table like it was a kitchen chair and carried it back to its proper place.
He had kept the TV on for ambience. It was tuned to the local Korean News Station; Malcolm did not know the name because he had yet to study the writings of the language. It required his auditory skills to pick up what the locals were saying, but the newscasters in this country spoke rapidly.
Until now the reports were a mixture of weather updates, local crime reports and the North’s abandonment of the DMZ. It was now the ten hundredth hour as the new breaking headlines reeled in.
All that Malcolm could make out was “…New reports out of China…First since the media blackout…Shijiazhuang….” A still image of the city which was taken during the early morning hours before there was sunlight. Yet there were orange lights shining from a skyscraper and a gas station mid-explosion. Malcolm was prepping a pulled pork MRE as he kept losing track of what the caster was trying to tell him.
“…General Evacuation…” caught Malcolm’s ear as he was dawning a new pair of briefs. He looked back to the TV and more still pictures followed. Arial captures showed car headlights on every expressway leading outside of the city and the inward lanes empty except for the occasional police vehicles. More captures of Shijiazhuang’s financial districts depicted a coagulation of black smoke from pockmarked fires and silver smoke from tear gas choked the street grids in between skyscrapers. The flashing lights scattered throughout proved that the police were heavily active, but the pictures showed no ‘protesters’ or the “…extreme violence…” that the announcer had just mentioned. Malcolm slid his right leg into the camo trousers.
…So, is it Tiananmen Square for real, or just a riot.... There aren’t any tanks or machine guns, so I’m guessing it’s the latter. Why are they evacuating over a riot? Rubber bullets and a curfew are all it takes to quell those.
He tore open a Pork MRE and gobbled a quarter of it in two gulps as the caster said something about Pyongyang and the ‘riots’ that reported last week which preceded their media blackout last month. The caster continued. “…surrounding China cities…. Beijing...” Malcolm cocked his eyebrow.
…Is Beijing locked down or rioting? Does it INCLUDE Beijing or did this report COME from Beijing? Speak slowly goddammit!
Malcolm was disturbed by rapping on his door. He walked to answer while looking back at the still frames taken over Shijiazhuang. New photos taken as dawn was breaking over the East. Fires were more pronounced, and it looked like the expressways leading out of the city were in pandemonium. The rapping on the door was louder. He heard a yell, “NELSON!”
Major Mendez was his greeter, suited up for a formal setting instead of his traditional camo. Mendez was Malcolm’s direct intermediary to the battalion leader, Lieutenant Colonel Clemens. Captains Tolbert and Thompson stood off to his left and right. Malcolm saluted as he sucked on clumpy strings of pork like it was a linguine.
“Why the fuck are you not ready!?” Mendez barked. “This is it! Get your shit together!”
Malcolm raised a brow. “What’s it, sir?”
“I told you to get your shit together!” Mendez grabbed the door, slamming it in Malcolm’s face. He stood there, gulping the last of his MRE. Malcolm threw it away in the trashcan and turned the TV off as he dawned his camo shirt with ‘Nelson’ across his right breast. He opened the top drawer on his dresser which was where he kept his pistol holster, his helmet, a bowie knife he called ‘David’, the strap for his AK and an I-Pod Shuffle for which he kept his emo rock/metal ‘Battlefield Playlist.’
He grabbed the Shuffle for safekeeping and placed it in one of the small satchels on his belt. All that was left was to equip his size eleven boots. With his self-registered AK over his right shoulder and Dominic in his holster, Malcolm was the picture-perfect embodiment of the call of duty.
When he left the room, Major Mendez was left knocking two doors down with Captains Tolbert, Thompson, and Kemper. The elevator behind them was being entered by Major Douglas and his merry band of Captains.
“Nice to see you’re not the sore thumb, Bannon!” Mendez redirected his attention to rapping at the door.
“I’m coming.” Was bellowed from the other side. The nasally faced Captain Bannon popped the door and gave a sarcastic salute. “Sir, what the fuck is the emergency? Sir.”
‘This is it! We are rolling North.” Mendez ignored the elevator and opened a side door leading to a square spiral staircase that went down thirty stories to the ground floor. “Your companies are already in route! You’ll be meeting up with them at Camp Casey!” He began a hasty descent down the stairs.
“Just so we’re clear,” Malcolm started “By North you mean-”
“Beyond the parallel!” Mendez interrupted, “There’s still been no sign or word of the gook sentries at the DMZ for two days. The First Stryker Brigade has already secured Panmunjom and one the Cavalry Brigades says that lots of refuges are in route to the demarcation line. All on foot.”
“HA! They finally got sick of Kim.” Said Tolbert.
“Or they’re more scared of these terrorists the briefings speculated on.” Malcolm retorted.
“How are the rebels terrorists? We aren’t even at war with them.” asked Tolbert.
Malcolm almost gave a hang dog look. “They’re using violence and disruption to achieve a political goal, the definition of terrorism. And we don’t even know what this objective is. Those people remember what happened last time American troops attacked, what makes less sense is for a civil war to start in Pyongyang of all places! People there have it best off and therefore the most to lose. Every terrorist cell we’ve ever fought in the middle east was made up of pissed off teenagers with nothing to lose because their village got destroyed. The Kim Dynasty and its army is the only thing that’s rebuilt after we dropped more bombs than-”
“Space Dog!” Mendez interrupted, “I swear to god if I hear you speaking Korean next, I’ll have you sent to Guantanamo.”
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Malcolm was annoyed. “Am I the only person in this whole fucking army who reads about the countries he serves in?”
“You’re the only one who rants when he isn’t even giving a speech.” Kemper stated.
Malcolm sighed. “I’m just pointing out that we may be dealing with a schism in the Korean government, or a radical movement which will definitely want to shoot us on sight.”
“And I’m pointing out that you sound like Roger Fucking Waters, and you don’t have good music I can forgive you over.” Mendez said.
“Your also wrong.” Said Tolbert, “Their friendship with China is the only thing keeping them safe.”
“And speaking of China,” said Mendez, “Our satellite geeks told us that the Korean Armed Forces have gathered at the Mountain ranges near China’s border.”
“The Chinese forces are there too?” Malcolm asked.
“The border guard, yes.” Mendez continued, “There is light travel coming across their side, but the Chinese have been abandoning their bases in and around the Hebei Province; those armies are massing on and around the Great Wall.”
Malcolm stopped; they passed him as they were near the ground floor.
“Space Dog…” Bannon said, “No more of your shit, please.”
“Just hold up,” Malcolm started, “So this takes place while the exact same thing happening in Pyongyang is happening is Shijiazhuang?”
Mendez huffed, “And Beijing too.”
Malcolm winced. “And our solution is to charge right in?”
“What’s happening in Shijiahuaa?” Thompson asked.
“Were you not watching the news?” Bannon asked.
“I don’t watch shit I don’t understand!”
“The Iron Fishnet is falling down!” Bannon boasted, “Which we need to be taking advantage of…Nelson.”
“WALK AND TALK, WALK AND TALK.” Mendez clapped and they continued.
“Should we not be waiting and watching?” asked Malcolm.
“Waiting for what?” said Thompson.
“Maybe to hear from someone?”
“Well, it’s not what the Pentagon thinks.” Said Mendez.
They emerged in the apartment lobby at the same time as a different batch of Captains from the one they saw earlier leaving the elevators. After the checkout had been signed, they passed through the double doors to a carpool of five ATVs, two leaving as three more pulled up.
“Nobody cares where you sit but I’m driving.” Mendez told them as he circled to the driver’s seat. Bannon wasted no time grabbing the passenger door, forcing Malcolm to cram in the back with Thompson, Tolbert, and Kemper. They spun out of the carpool and took right, merging with congested traffic rarely seen in Camp Humphrey. They were taking the directions to the airfield from which more than fifty Chinook helicopters could be seen in the dark, rainy sky and more taking off; spare few were dangling Bradley class armored vehicles.
They soon passed the base’s large recreation pool, filled with grunts stationed in Humphreys; they didn’t care about rain as they ran and dived into the water. Mendez grumbled. “Those bastards get to relax while it’s been mayhem since the refugees first started coming in.”
“How many since yesterday?” Malcolm asked.
“Still just a few thousand but like I said, our reconnaissance indicated that two swarms from both Sariwon and Haeju are streaming south. There bound to be intersecting each other in Kaesong and from there they’ll be right on top of Panmunjom.”
“Define a ‘swarm.” Malcolm requested. “Are we talking hundreds of thousands here?”
“Tens of thousands minimum.”
Malcolm flashed his brows. “Which means the riots are country-wide up there?”
“Possibly, this last report said that Korean Artillery positions were shelling both cities.” Mendez answered.
“Well, how much time is there before they hit us?” Tolbert asked.
“To-fucking-day. We brought in more than five hundred at four this morning, and that was for the minute. A couple thousand are already at Yongsan up in Seoul, considering whatever the fuck may happen to you when you live in a totalitarian regime.”
“So, this is a Humanitarian Operation?” Tolbert asked.
“Oh, fuck no, this is a rollout. We’ve got a chance to reunify the peninsula, and China clearly isn’t backing them on this.” Mendez pointed to each of them. “Nelson: when you meet up with your ‘Fuckleheads’ you gonna take them to lock down the First Infiltration Tunnel. Tolbert will lock down the second while Kemper is at number three. Thompson is at number four.”
“And what are the rules of engagement when refugees come through?” Malcolm asked.
Mendez continued. “Some hysterical gooks already showed up, claiming to be deserters. They’re being taken to Camp Hovie for questioning. We’ll have our transport brigades on call if you guys get a large group.”
“How do we know if they are deserters?” Kemper finally chimed in.
“All of them are technically deserting. Though these ones outed themselves.” Mendez answered.
“And you think we’ll have it that easy?” Kemper asked.
“The North is collapsing; they’ve got nothing to fight for anymore. But if you get anybody that’s cooperative make sure you ethically detain them. The transport brigades will be on standby.”
“So, we just sit with our thumbs up our asses while the rest of the division gets to spearhead the invasion?” Tolbert asked as they were pulling onto the camp’s great airbase.
“This is a police action, nothing more. The North side of the Demilitarized zone has been abandoned for twenty-four hours, and like I said earlier, their forces are massing way north of Pyongyang. There shouldn’t be any engagements unless the rebels are as dangerous as Nelson thinks.”
All the hanger bay doors were wide open, and they were totally empty for the first time in the history of Camp Humphrey. They drove alongside the airstrip until they came upon the road which stretched into a green flanked by dirt helipads containing Black Hawks. They pulled up to the first on the right chopper as the rudders were kicking up a dust cloud.
Mendez continued as his Captains scooted out of the ATV. “I’ll be in touch in case any new orders come in. If the tunnels are secure, we might be able to send you guys through; either tonight or tomorrow.” He reversed the ATV and drove away, turning left back into the camp.
Malcolm tightened the shoulder strap for Crystal as he followed the other captains onto the Black Hawk. Staying behind them to be sure he gets the sideview. The Black Hawks had room for six soldiers facing each other by three so the five of them had a spare seat in the middle. Malcolm sat on the left side across from Kemper as the rest joined. The rudders picked up speed after Kemper slapped the side and they took off.
“Kemper you’ve been mostly quiet.” Tolbert pretended to care. “What do you make of this shit?”
“The Space Dog is right.” He motioned to Malcolm. “I don’t like this shit at all.”
“Why?” asked Bannon, “It’s just like Iron Curtain coming down.”
“But why Shijiazhua?” Kemper asked.
“Shi-jiaz-huang.” Malcolm corrected.
Kemper shrugged. “Whatever the fuck it’s called. Every time China has civil disorder it’s in Hong Kong and they usually don’t have to deploy the army.”
“What about Tiananmen Square?” Thompson inserted.
“Fake News.” Malcolm chimed.
“What did Mendez say? You’ll go to Guantanamo for that shit.” Thompson huffed.
Malcolm leaned toward him. “That is not why you’ll lock me up, and you don’t get to boo me for being right. If any of you can pull up a photo of a street littered with corpses and bullet casings, I’ll shut up. While we’re talking about China, Hong Kong will be joining this rebellion, if it is one. There could be a massacre this time around.”
“If we have this wrong it could be World War Three this time around.” asserted Kemper.
“It’s not like we’re gonna see any of the fighting, we’re on lockdown duty.” Bannon complained. “Besides, the enemy forces are regrouping far away from us.”
“We should still be cautious about who we’re letting through.” said Malcolm. “If it were up to me, we would have set up a massive NATO camp right in Panmunjom after we knew for a fact that North Korea doesn’t exist anymore. Hell, far as we know the North Koreans are regrouping for a counterattack, supported by the Chinese once again. What are we gonna do then? We have no allies present and no international summit regarding this.”
“What about the Southern Army?” Thompson asked.
“I consider them closer to puppets than allies.” Malcolm answered.
“That sounds racist.” Kemper retorted.
Malcolm shook his head. “No, describing them as a ‘swarm’ is racist. I-“
“Nelson. Do not talk.” Thompson said, “You drill my fucking head numb when you drone on about your bullshit.”
“Fine.” Malcolm grumbled, “Look, I’m all for lifting these people up but we need to keep it smart. Do I think that this is gonna be anything like the First Korean War? No. If this is a rebellion than half the work is done for us and China needs us as much as we need them, so I don’t expect a counterattack from their end. This isn’t likely amounting to more than a police action, and the fact that we’ve been put on lockdown duty is kind of an honor.”
“What the fuck? They’re sidelining us with bitch duty.” Said Thompson.
“And desk duty is the next step.” Malcolm winked. “McElroy wants us to be proxies to the larger operation.”
Thompson gaffed. “I never asked for that shit!”
“If you don’t want to replace Mendez, I’m the Colonel’s favorite anyway.” Malcolm was sly.
“No, you’re not.” Said Bannon.
“How old are we, gentlemen?” Malcolm asked.
“Thirty-seven.” Bannon said.
“Thirty-three.” Tolbert chimed, echoed by Echoed Kemper.
“Thirty-Five.” Said Thompson.
“I’m still in my twenties.” Malcolm eyes turned black.
“No shit?” Kemper asked, “When’s your birthday?”
“November, believe it or not.”
“Well, whoop fucking doo for the youngster officer!” said Bannon, “Illuminate us on how we should be ‘smart.”
Malcolm’s black eyes were complimented with a grin. “Lifting others up is what a strong person does. But smart people understand the value of watching and waiting. Both strong men and smart men know that they’re strong, but the smart man knows that he’s still vulnerable. A smart man asks if his subject can stand, how well they can move, and how much he can earn out of stressing for a stranger. The smart man is sure to let the subject know that there are no options. A smart man should always know what mistakes he made and double down on what he did right.
We should’ve set up refugee camps behind the demarcation line and provided free medical assistance, food, and housing locations for however many refugees pour south. The only way to keep a foothold on the peninsula is to not have an iron cleat stubbing them. A boot must keep stomping, but a mind can project itself onto other people, lulling them into taking our firm but steady hands. And then we lift them up.”