Like his teacher had pointed out, he wasn’t Carl Vadym Kostenko anymore. He would never be that person again.
So, as he lay on his moldy mattress and listened to Morozov move around the cabin, Richard Ammon had already made his decision. He wouldn’t go along with their plan. At the first chance, he was leaving. He would find a way to escape. He would leave this world of fighters and flying, spies and lying, danger and deceit far behind.
He lay in the darkness and planned his escape.
And prayed they didn’t know about Jesse.
It was still early morning. The sun was just beginning to paint the eastern sky a thin pink as it made its way over the mountains. A heavy dew had moistened the valley floor and left a silvery coat of wet droplets on the maple leaves and thick bushes that surrounded the cabins that looked down on Lone Pine.
Jesse Morrellay sleeping, her long legs kicked out from under her covers, her brown hair flung across her face. The cabin was very quiet. The bedroom, decorated with framed pastel water colors and light-blue wallpaper, was just beginning to brighten with the morning sun. But still the shadows lay deep and heavy. A squirrel pattered across the roof of the cabin and scrambled onto a tree branch that brushed against the wooden shingles. The alarm clock next to the bed read 6:23.
Jesse’s breathing was measured and long. Her eyelids fluttered lightly, then came to rest, motionless and calm. Her hair settled to one side of her face as she buried her head into the pillow. Her lips began to tremble as she dreamed of unseen creatures in the dark. She drew her legs up under the covers and wrapped her arms around herself.
On the night stand next to the bed was a stack of letters, neatly arranged and placed in chronological order in a small silver box. They were the letters she had received from Richard Ammon since he had been away in Korea. They were faded and wrinkled from frequent reading. The top letter read:
Dear Jesse,
Once again I find myself in a foreign land, a new home and unfamiliar surroundings. I suspect at times that it is my ordained lot in life to always be a wanderer, never able to set down any roots, although I now find that is my strongest desire. When I awoke this morning and looked at the sun as it rose over the green hills that surround Osan, I couldn’t help but wonder what you were doing. I knew it was early evening in California. I figured you would be out on the back patio, tending your roses, and it comforted me some to know that, though half a world away, we both shared the same spot of light.
I’ve been in Korea for almost a week now. I suppose I am feeling a little bit homesick. If this letter appears a little melancholy, you will forgive me. It’s not that I am unhappy or sad. I guess I’m just missing you.
I had my first flight here last Friday. It was good to be in the cockpit again after almost a month without flying. I flew with a guy named Ken Russell. He is the squadron ops officer, so I will be working for him. A decent fellow, he is one of the few guys here who was able to bring his family, so of course there is a certain envy factor for those of us who go home to lonely Q rooms and empty beds instead of going home to our wives.
More than anything, I have been struck by the pace and tempo of the flying operations. Being this close to the North Korean border has real implications for our day-to-day operations. Everyone takes their job very seriously, and people are wound just a little tighter. That is especially true of the South Koreans. All of the South Korean officers that I have met have been very aggressive and hard chargers. Someone told me the real reason we Americans are here was to keep the south from invading the north, not the other way around. After just a week here, I am beginning to believe that might be true.
My first flight was only a familiarization ride, an opportunity to see the area and get a little bit of my bearings. As I flew along the demilitarized zone, I could look across the border into North Korea and watch the surface-to-air missile batteries as they tracked us across the sky. It was a little unnerving, but Lt Col Russell assured me I would quickly get used to it.
On Saturday, three of us new guys took the train into Seoul. It turned out to be a miserable day, rainy and windy and cold. I did make a couple great buys, though. You should see the solid brass beds you can get here for only a few hundred dollars. And real cashmere is as cheap as cotton. I’ve ordered you a full length cashmere coat. I really think you will like it. At least that is what I am hoping. It is one of my greatest ambitions to, one day before I die, buy you a piece of clothing that you actually like.
I also had my first taste of authentic Korean Kimchi, an experience I will liken to the explosion of Mount St. Helens. Some of us decided that, should there be a war here on the peninsula and should we ever run out of bombs, we could always drop Kimchi instead.
After spending the day shopping and seeing the sights, we had dinner, then got on the late train for the hour-ride back to Osan. As I was sitting in my seat, I looked out on the platform and saw a pitiful sight. A tiny little girl, she could not have been more than five, was walking through the crowd with an old felt hat, begging for money. She was thin and frail, one of the Cho’Sans, or refugees from the civil war in Burma. The only thing she was wearing was a tattered, oversized shirt that hung down to her ankles. No shoes. No jacket. In one hand she held out her old hat, in the other she was clutching a tiny, worn-out, stuffed-toy rabbit. As I watched, someone brushed her aside, knocking her to the platform floor. Coins spread in every direction, scattering among the crowded floor.
Jesse, if you could have seen her, if you could have watched this poor little girl as she scrambled to find her money, still clutching her old floppy rabbit, it would have broken your heart. I know it broke mine. It was such a sad thing to see. No one could have seen this and not have been touched.
Anyway, I felt I had to do something. I got the two other guys I was with to give me all of the cash in their wallets. Together, we had about fifty bucks. We all started tapping on the window, trying to get the little girl’s attention. She looked up and saw us, and I started waving the money around, extending my arms out to her, hoping she would understand the money was for her. She picked up her hat and started to make her way toward us. But then the train started to move. All three of us climbed on our seats, trying to open the windows, but they were never designed to be opened. As the train pulled away from the station, we watched in silence as the little girl faded from view.
It reminded me, Jesse, that many of us are orphans. Some literally. Some figuratively. But for whatever reason, many of us have spent years on our own.
I remember when I was very small, my aunt used to tell me old folk stories; stories with witches and wizards and fairy godmothers. Later, after I was sent to the school, as I lay in my bed at night, surrounded by snoring classmates and fearful for what the next day might bring, I remember thinking, if there is a God, I wish he would send me a fairy godmother. Or maybe even an angel. Either one, it didn’t matter. I just remember feeling that, since I no longer had a mother, I needed someone. Someone with magical powers, to make everything all right.
But as I grew, I quit asking. After all, I was a grown man, a soldier, a combat warrior. I didn’t need anyone, Jesse. I was trained to be on my own.
But that has changed. And now I do.
I need you, Jesse. I miss you. At times, the memory of the happy moments we have spent together washes over me, and I feel very grateful for the moments that we’ve had, and I can honestly say, my life’s only regret are the times when we cannot be together.