Storm over Guantanamo

By A.H. Massengill

Storm over Guantanamo introduces its readers to a desert paradise where a group of international workers is threatened by a manicial terrorist. In response, Navy, Marine, and CIA operatives race to its defense. Meanwhile, in South Korea, the search continues for a lost child.

The Naval Station at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba is affectionately called GTMO. This is the acronym used by the Military Air Command to designate luggage meant for residents of the base. It is pronounced gitmo but should never be written that way.

Many thousands of people have lived on the base over the last 75 years, and the majority of us consider it to be a magical place.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 5, 2009
• ISBN: 9781733915113

Book preview

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CHAPTER 1

Seoul, South Korea. Wong Po, a tall angular man with high cheekbones and piercing eyes, stumbled over an icy pothole. Regaining his balance, he saw a rat streak across the alley in front of him. He slowed and furtively glanced about. Is someone following me?

He knew that the Itaewon district of the city never slept. Prostitutes plied their trade on Hooker Hill while food vendors hurried through the streets carrying trays of rice and garlic-filled soup. Steaming tin kettles filled with tea awaited the local merchants who hurried from the central market at Tongdaemun, carrying new merchandise—bundles of clothing, and luggage filled with purses, jewelry, and scarves.

Wong Po’s path led away from this activity. He proceeded cautiously toward the street, frequently looking over his shoulder as he dodged murky openings and doorways. His coat flapped in the wind, and his thin black hair, gelled to his knotty skull, glistened in the intermittent light. Eventually, he turned away from Itaewon and moved toward the electronics market.

In the distance he heard the song of a drunken man whose nightly companion was a kettle of soju. He instinctively smacked his lips. The drink, supposedly laced with formaldehyde, had the kick of an elephant, and left its tipplers dazed and befuddled. He knew that feeling well.

As he scuttled down the tree-shadowed sidewalk, he passed the silent gates of the American Army Garrison. He’d timed his journey to avoid the foot and vehicular traffic which would soon fill the space with blaring horns, noisy students, and chanting protesters. He didn’t want the gate guards or the riot police to note his passage because his mission was none of their business.

Once the intersection lay behind him, Wong Po’s pace increased. Mustn’t be late! He began to run. As he did so, the branches of the trees whipped in the wind creating an illusion of gnarled hands reaching out to delay him. He wiped away a trickle of sweat. I don’t believe in shamanism! AND, I don’t believe in spirits!

Just then, the floodlights around the Korean War Museum distracted him. He often ate his noon meal there, watching the children dressed in colorful uniforms romp in the outdoor exhibit areas.

He was always amused by the Americans who came to see the Korean War artifacts. The school children wanted to practice their English, get an autograph, or take a snapshot with the visitors. Often the foreigners found themselves surrounded by an excited mob. The scene was disconcerting for them, but fun for all.

There were never any demonstrators at the museum. The old attitudes of respect, gratitude, and common interest, sealed by America’s aid during the Korean conflict, wrapped the building in a cocoon of goodwill.

Wong Po fervently hoped that his meeting with the woman he called The Chameleon would also be amicable. Why can’t I stay away from the slots, he thought as he angled down a street running parallel to and behind the electronics market. He made a sharp left, and headed for the Han.

As he approached the rushing water, his pace slowed. He stopped and watched for movement under the railroad tracks that spanned the river. When he spotted a tiny dot of red, he clambered down the bank, and stopped abruptly when he saw his contact leaning against a pylon.

Po’s eyes dropped, but not before they flicked over her slim figure. She was dressed in biking leathers that accentuated her curves. Her face was framed by short multicolored hair, and her eyes were hidden behind oversized glasses. In spite of himself, the man sighed in appreciation.

He never knew what to expect. Sometimes she appeared in a sophisticated power suit. On other occasions, she wore traditional Korean dress, or drab street sweeper attire. Occasionally, she appeared in the tiger prints favored by the local prostitutes. Whatever persona she assumed, her demeanor was always the same—all business. He could ill afford to incur her wrath.

"You’re cutting it close, ajooshi!"

I’m only five minutes late, he whined. No one must know about our meetings. He paused and added the word, ajamah.

Wong Po used the word intentionally. He wanted to remind the woman that her place as an independent entity in Korean society was tenuous. He knew his friend, Pak, who accused him of having a fifteenth-century view of women, would shake his head in disgust. No matter.

The woman ignored the comment. I don’t care who sees us. You should have thought of the consequences before you stole from the Americans.

I only took a few items for the black market. Wong Po muttered. Soju and gambling will be the death of me.

You’ve probably got that right.

The woman pulled two small packages from her jacket. "Take these. Wrap them and someone one will phone you with the address. Make sure they’re mailed today!

He immediately recognized the silk embroidered jewelry pouches that could be purchased for a few hundred won in any shop specializing in the tourist trade. The flaps that covered the zippers had been carefully sewn shut.

I expect no glitches. Leave the receipts in Samgakji Station, Locker 421. She paused, and rubbed her gloved hand against a clinched fist. I’ll be tracking the packages, so don’t do anything stupid.

Will I see you again?

The woman laughed. Count on it. Our little adventure has just begun. She turned, walked to the scooter, cranked the engine, and disappeared toward the tunnels leading to the center of the city.

Wong Po retraced his steps until he reached the garrison gates. Vehicles moved slowly between the two checkpoints and pedestrian traffic was brisk. He produced his ID card and passed into the area known as South Post. Immediately on his left was the Dragon Hill Lodge a five-star hotel where he worked and stole, as the occasion presented itself.

A mile away, the leather-clad woman zipped across several lanes of traffic. At the bottom of Vegetable Hill, she made a sharp turn into a narrow passageway where a series of storage units had been carved into the compound wall of an ancient house. She glided to a stop, pressed a keypad, and pushed her scooter into the murky storage unit. When she reappeared, the spiky hair was gone, as were the biking leathers.

She jogged to the street where she joined a throng of domestic workers whose destination was Seoul Station. There, she boarded the train for Chungmuro and the city’s government center. Ten minutes later, the woman crossed a wide boulevard guarded by the statue of the legendary Admiral Yi. She smiled as she gave him a perky little salute and headed toward her destination—a red brick building which housed Seoul’s Metropolitan Police.

As she stepped into the hallway, a voice called out. "Did you scare our courier?’

I did, she laughed. Let me change and I’ll tell you all about it.

Hurry, Superintendent Lee wants to see you.

She sighed. I knew this was coming, and there’s no way to explain what happened without humiliating myself and my family. Shrugging her shoulders, she entered the locker room.

Song Kim was an inspector with the Metropolitan Police. Her ability to modify her appearance and voice made her an invaluable asset to the department that sought to control the black market, as well as ferret our clandestine agents from around the world. Surveillance was her specialty.

In this capacity, she performed as a live mannequin in a store window located in Itaewon, the international destination of shoppers from around the world. While she appeared in a kaleidoscope of outfits and moods that delighted the street audiences, Inspector Kim scanned the crowds for suspects. She’d spotted several players in the black market, but no one else.

Now’s the time to tell the Superintendent all that’s happened. She knocked on the door and entered his office. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, and her makeup discreet. Her uniform complete with ribbons and patches was immaculate.

Her boss looked up and smiled. "I’ve heard bits and pieces of this story, and now I want all the details.’’

Song blushed. You’re aware of the modeling gig?

Yes.

But do you know about my weekly trips to Ubijongbu?

He nodded. How your grandmother?

Malicious as ever. She looked directly at the Superintendent and began. My trips to see her are disasters. When I return, I don’t sleep well. She frowned. No matter how many times I tell myself to ignore her remarks, they hurt.

Lee was sympathetic. Don’t be embarrassed. Many of us have to deal with unpleasaant family situations.

Song nodded. Recently, intelligence chatter has linked the Central Mosque with activities in North Korea, so I decided to multitask. I continued to model, and used my lunch breaks to stake out the site.

Superintendent Lee cleared his throat. Be careful.

"I will. Last week I sat reading on a bench. Suddenly, someone spoke to me. He said, ‘Good afternoon.’

"When I looked up, I saw a tall, bearded man. He wore baggy pants and a long tunic; his braided hair was tucked into a knitted cap.

"I immediately assessed the situation and began to role-play. I gathered up my belongings and prepared to leave, as if I were insulted. He wasn’t deterred by my actions and continued to speak.

Your performance in the store window is very good. Can you alter your voice as well?

I nodded, and started to move away, but his next comment stopped me.

I think bills are due, and you have no money to pay them. What will happen to your grandmother?

How did he know that? Then, I realized I’d seen him somewhere before.

I have a job for you that will help solve your financial problems. It’s not dangerous, and you’ll get to use your acting skills.

I hesitated, thinking of one possibility—hooker. Not likely!

He laughed as if he’d read my mind. I need someone to mail several small packages to an international address. The U.S. Postal Service is the best way. It is quick and dependable. He paused. Do you know anyone who has a Base ID?

Yes, I said. This was too good to be true. I’ll frighten Wong Po, and find out more about this man’s activities.

He smiled. If you agree to help me, your grandmother will have food, heat, and shelter for the rest of her life.

I stared at him in feigned astonishment. There has to be a catch! Suddenly, I knew. The man had witnessed one of my grandmother’s tirade.

One horrible night the querulous old woman had stumbled into the road packed with street vendors and neighbors. I had followed. You are worthless! I don’t care what you do, she screamed. I’m tired of being hungry and cold. She took a breath and continued to rant. Didn’t your mother teach you to respect your elders? Then she hissed. Shame on you!"

After the outburst, her neighbors retreated quickly. Eventually, she ran out of steam, and I walked her home. As I did so, I saw the man who now stood before me. He had witnessed the entire fiasco from the shadows of a soju tent, and had falsely assumed that I could not provide for her.

Well?

Deciding to use his false assumption to my advantage, I responded. If I do this, will I get in trouble?

No. Let me show you. He pulled a silk jewelry pouch from his pocket. As he opened it, several beaded strands poured into his hand. Do you know what these are?

I looked closely at the beads, and then held them up to the light. "Yes, they’re Buddhist prayer beads. Many people call them malas.

I have a friend in the Caribbean who plans to sell them to the islanders. He insists his customers want to look stylish, and that hair weaving with decorated beads will be a big hit. The man shook his head in disbelief. He saw an article about this in a fashion magazine, and now plans to make a fortune.

I knew that portion of his spiel was true—I’d seen the same article—so I dawdled a moment and then said, I accept your offer.

He grinned, but his parting shot made me uneasy. I’ll keep an eye on you and on the contact you choose. Then, I’ll know when and to whom to send the address.

The Superindent tapped his pencil on the desk and then made a decision. I’ll have Oh follow him. He eyed Song. Wong Po may prove more helpful than we first thought. Maybe a little fish will help us catch a shark!

Song walked toward the door. "I have to get going. Wong Po has the packages, and I’m meeting a colleague at Popeye’s near the Base Post Office. I expect our dupe to show up while the Seoul American High School students take their lunch break.

******

By noontime, it was raining. Wong Po left the Dragon Hill and ran to Popeye’s. As he entered, he passed an American Army officer and a Korean woman who sat at a small table. As he did so, the woman swiveled slightly in her seat and watched him.

He approached three noisy high school boys. Positioned to overhear their conversation, she realized they were afflicted with an American malady called March Madness. The boys were interested in only one thing—predicting the victories of their favorite teams.

When Wong Po neared their table, one of them said, We thought you weren’t coming.

He bowed and handed them several packages. Mail these now, and be sure you get the receipts.

In exchange, the boys handed the man several slips of paper. He glanced at them. I’ll take care of your bets after work. Meet me here tomorrow at the same time.

Once the transaction was complete, he left the restaurant and raced for the Dragon. Meanwhile, the boys shambled along the road leading to the post office. The couple followed close behind.

The man spoke softly. He places bets for them in the local gambling parlors. I don’t care about that. However, it’s illegal for the boys to use their ID cards to mail packages for strangers.

Song grinned. I guess that’s another loophole our trusty postal inspector needs to close.

The man grimaced, but agreed. Wong Po’s in a hurry to get rid of those packages.

Yes, he is, the woman replied. I think he’s afraid of upsetting his contact. They both laughed.

The couple took a short cut and arrived in the rear of the post office before the boys entered the lobby.

As one of them opened the door, he turned and yelled. UNC’s gonna win it all!

I don’t think so! His friend banged the door against the wall. Duke has a better team.

Shh! Let’s get these packages mailed, the third boy interjected. You’re both wrong! Michigan has my vote.

As the adults watched, the boys continued to make a general nuisance of themselves. Eventually, with the customs’ receipts in hand, they left.

Song Kim shook her head. It’s hard to tell which kids are American and which are Korean, or both. They look, dress, and act the same. I wonder if they are taught respect for their elders.

While she mulled over that thought, the postal inspector retrieved the packages. They were addressed to:

Mr. T. E. Lawrence

General Delivery

Montego Bay, Jamaica

After reading the address, Song put on her coat and headed for police headquarters. T.E. Lawrence, ha! Is this a joke or a conspiracy?

CHAPTER 2

United States Naval Base, Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. High above the Windward Passage a plane banked to the west. As it began its descent, it skirted the isolated coast of southeastern Cuba, where the Caribbean’s waters pound against the rocky shore creating a seascape of cliffs, arches, and toadstool-like sculptures.

When the rugged hills were split by the mouth of Guantanamo Bay, and an ancient lighthouse appeared, the pilot executed a sharp turn and touched down on a runway. The co-pilot breathed a sigh of relief. No shots fired; no jet escorts; no glitches.

As the temperature rose in the main cabin, passengers disembarked. Officers and those with high GS (General Service) ratings were first; then, troops assigned to the naval base. Residents and visitors tagged along behind. All the passengers had to clear security, even though the sun beat down on them with unrelenting fury.

In the parking lot the military contingent boarded Navy and Marine transports, while cars carried ranking officials to pontoon boats. The remainder of the passengers climbed aboard sweltering buses headed for a waiting ferry, which took them to the windward side of the bay.

Once there, the remote desert location of the Naval base offered little but brown hills, cement-hard coral dirt, and a mix of colonial wooden structures, cinder block houses, and ancient Quonset huts. There was no mall and few amenities. The vegetation, scrubby underbrush, cacti, and an occasional dusty palm, added to the bleakness of the scene.

Long-time residents told of newcomers who had set out from frigid stateside ports-of-call at zero dark thirty, to arrive at the desert outpost in ninety-five-degree heat. Finding little to recommend the place, the few who could leave, made immediate plans to do so. Those assigned to the base, sighed and began counting, only 364 days left.

New families, contractors, and teachers anxiously gathered up their possessions and proceeded to billeting. Within a few weeks, their initial trepidation gave way to an inexplicable phenomenon. They fell in love with the heat, the pace, the quiet, and the water. GTMO had morphed into an experience they’d never forget.

The mission had changed from fleet training to detainee prison facility, so unscheduled planes also deposited visitors at all hours of the day