Summer Of The Dragons (eBook)

1

When Jesse Cullen arrived back in the country, he noticed things had changed. He had changed. He’d just finished a three-year tour in Washington, DC, a choice assignment at the Defense Intelligence Agency headquarters. Choice, that is, if you liked politics, politicians, and ass-kissing. Jesse Cullen was an aficionado of none of those things. He was back in the field, where he wanted to be, where he needed to be in a place he considered home.

He stopped at a fry stand, one of many scattered among the streets and alleyways of Itaewon, a little section of Seoul outside the soon-to-be former US Eighth Army headquarters, and politely asked the elderly vendor for a bag of fried dumplings. She looked up and smiled at hearing him speak her native language. “You are a gentleman,” she said, nodding her head up and down to affirm her analysis.

“I try to be, grandmother,” he said, smiling back at the wrinkled and weathered face, his eyes beaming with admiration. He popped a warm, crunchy dumpling into his mouth and grinned as he looked at the greasy bag, constructed from the cast-off pages of an American army field manual, that held the rest of his meal. Recycling at its best, he thought.

Jesse embraced and relished the street aromas of stewed kimchi, fish cakes, thick rice noodles in sweet and spicy sauces, fried donuts, and stewed pork feet that most Americans in the country loathed. The verbal chatter of vendors hawking their wares lingered in the humid air like fireflies as it mixed with the rock and rap music pulsating from the clubs.

He appreciated people like the fry stand grandmother, who was a dying breed. She and her generation accounted for only thirteen percent of Korea’s population. She still remembered the Korean War and the sacrifices made by American soldiers and her countrymen to save her nation from the brutal North Korean invasion. Jesse saw the appreciation in her ancient, misty eyes, but knew her grandchildren viewed the American soldiers now stationed in the country more as occupiers than protectors. “Stay in peace, grandmother,” he said, bowing respectfully as he turned to leave. “Go in peace,” she replied smiling.

He continued up the hill on his way home, passing GIs and expats moving in and out of the clubs that lined the avenue. As he approached the oncoming cross street christened Hooker Hill by American soldiers, Jesse spotted the corner sign that simply said Doc’s Place. The music was pumping and the clientele were jumping as he entered the most popular GI bar in town.

The tables and chairs were bolted to the floor so they couldn’t be used as weapons in case a disagreement broke out, which it frequently did among the various military units that frequented the establishment. All drinks were served in plastic cups to alleviate the potential of the glass being weaponized. Jesse carefully maneuvered his way through the throng of red Solo cup-holders, hoping to avoid a beer shower. It was only 1800 hours and already Doc’s was packed for another Friday night of fun with a group of GIs swigging down beer and singing along to Garth Brooks’ “Friends in Low Places.” By 2300 hours, Jesse knew this place would be a disaster and the military police would be hauling some of the patrons to jail. Hooker Hill and Doc’s Place-a perfect marriage.

“Where’s Doc?” Jesse asked the bartender.

“Who?” the newbie replied with a blank stare.

Jesse turned away from the backlit bar and bartender to survey the dimly lit interior. One of the tempting local girls smiled at him, displaying a row of perfectly capped white teeth, and asked him if there was anything he needed. Her silicone breasts barely stayed in place by the thin straps of her tank top as she wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling him close to her. “No, I’m good for now, honey,” he replied good-naturedly. The shock in her eyes was palpable. She disappointedly moved on to find another potential client. He found his target sitting at a corner booth with two babes and a bottle of Don Julio Real.

David Bradford, aka Doc, had been a military buddy of Jesse. Although they’d taken different career paths, they had stayed in touch as brothers-in-arms do. Doc had been a Signal Corps officer at Fort Bragg attached to Special Operations Command. He had worked mostly with the CIA, NSA as well as some other federal government agencies. Doc’s motto had been “In God we trust, all others we monitor.” His first and last military assignment had been in South Korea, where he retired as a young major on a medical discharge caused by an ISIS sniper’s round imbedded in his back during Operation Inherent Resolve in Iraq. The bullet couldn’t be extracted without a chance of permanent paralysis. Doc knew paralysis could happen without warning, so he ensured he lived his life to the fullest. He was now making loads of dough as the owner of a GI bar, holding sway over his little kingdom with far less stress.

“What’s up, Jess?” He smiled, his arms draped around the two beautiful Korean ladies. “You want to join us?”

Jesse could only sigh. Doc was a great asset when coherent and had been one of the best in his field when operational. But now he just wanted to make a buck, drink, and get laid every night. And he made the most of each time as if it were his last because he knew but for the grace of God that it could be due to his condition.

“Can you take a break? We need to chat,” Jesse asked, admiring Doc’s Hawaiian shirt and the Ray-Bans perched on top of his blondish-white mane. Doc had those droopy eyes like Robert Mitchum and Sylvester Stallone that women were drawn to like moths to a flame, and many women had been burnt when they got too close to him.

“No problem. Ladies, see if you can help some of the patrons.” Doc winked at them as he helped them up. “You slumming tonight, Jess?” he slurred a bit. “It seems you only stop by when you need something. I feel used.” He chuckled.

“Hey Doc, I don’t want to sound like your ex-wife or mother, but you should slow down on that tequila.”

Doc pretended not to hear while waving him into the booth. He poured them both a shot, placed the glass to his lips, savoring the liquid that cost $400.00 a bottle. Only after he slowly sipped, inhaled, and tasted the elixir, did he ask, “what do you need, my friend?”

“I need everything you can get on Moon Moo-hyun. I know he’s KN sourced,” Jesse said, using the initials that military intel analysts used for North Korea. “Can you do that for me, Doc, or get your buddies at NSA to do it?”

Jesse knew Doc could do it, but the question was, would he? Although retired from the military, Doc was occasionally sought out by US federal agencies, whose existence was only known to a select few, to perform electronic surveillance. But non-sanctioned surveillance on a Republic of Korea (ROK) citizen, even if he were linked to North Korea, could bring down a world of hurt on Doc and Jesse if discovered. It would be easier all around for Doc’s buddies at Fort Meade to do the job. Doc was not a fan of US involvement in anything, but when the big boys called he did what they wanted. It was much less stressful to do their bidding than be a target of the US government’s investigations if you did not comply. Jesse didn’t much care where the intercepts came from as long as he could get them.

“For you, mother dearest, I would do anything!” Doc announced wholeheartedly. He leaned closer and Jesse read concern in his bloodshot eyes as Doc asked, “Why don’t you resign from this bullshit that nobody really gives a damn about and join me as my partner? You can make a great living, don’t be a chump.”

“I can’t do that, Doc, as much as I would like to,” Jesse replied regretfully. “Perhaps someday when the time is right.”

“At least stay and have some fun,” Doc insisted as he called the girls back to the table.

Jesse poured another shot and slammed it down. “Let me take a rain check on that, Doc,” he said standing up, wondering if he’d made the wrong decision as the two smiling beauties slid back into the booth. “You’re supposed to sip it, you philistine, and don’t be such a fucking choirboy!” he heard Doc yell as he stepped outside into the early humid evening. He spotted three locals loitering about the club’s front, who began following him as he made his way up the street toward home.

They were street punks looking to roll a foreigner for a few bucks, and most of the foreigners in the area were American GIs. Jesse didn’t look like a soldier in his polo shirt and blue jeans. He sported a two-day growth of beard and his chestnut brown hair flowed over his ears and shirt collar. Not only did he not look like a soldier, but he often wondered how he had ever ended up as a career military intelligence officer instead of an academic at some university. He knew his personality type and background had a lot to do with it.

Jesse stepped into an alley, turning to face his new fan club. He didn’t speak but only stared at them.

They were tall for Koreans, about his height. An inch or so over six feet. Two were broad-chested and muscular, the third a little less so. Jesse figured they were in their late twenties. The punk with cauliflower ears spoke first and Jesse could tell he was a fighter and the group leader. He’d seen the type before, brawling freestyle, using mixed martial arts in bars and rings throughout Asia. If necessary, he would hurt him first as an example to the others.

“Hey, asshole, give us your wallet,” Cauliflower Ear barked in...