Chapter 17. End of the Party
Intense sunlight pierced through the gap in the curtains.
The chirp of new birds.
I clutched my throbbing head, which felt like it had been shoved into a press, and barely managed to open my eyes.
"Ugh, ugh. Water..."
I looked around, and there was a glass of water on the bedside table. I gulped it down in one go, and gradually my mind cleared, my vision sharpening.
"Fuck, that was rough."
Damn it.
The spacious bed held only me.
But the traces of that fierce... close-quarters combat were impossible to miss, even if my eyes were buttonholes.
What the hell did I do last night?
Right, so—
Dorothy looked straight-up thrilled just to have someone listening to her story.
How shitty this era was. Just like I was saddled with penalties for my skin color, being a woman—and a mixed-blood one at that—was plenty of handicap to justify a lifetime of bullshit.
"As you said, what we need most right now is a base to produce firearms, right?"
"Guns are just a bonus. I'm convinced war is coming, and I need the reputation of having prepared 'innovations' for that war in advance."
"Then how about I talk to my father? He's already got a good impression of you anyway. So—"
"Eh. Whether it's help from that Chinaman or from your father, isn't it all the same in the end?"
There was a bit of a difference, sure.
But unexpectedly, she shook her head firmly.
"No, it's not. That Charlie Song you mentioned, Sun Yat-sen's collaborator, right? I've heard of Sun Yat-sen too."
"Yeah?"
"Yes. Father mentions him sometimes. Says he's the red commie ringleader stirring up revolution in China..."
This was straight fire.
If Senator Curtis was calling Sun Yat-sen a commie, that was the real deal.
I couldn't wrap my head around it, but at least in the eyes of D.C.'s high-and-mighties right now, Sun Yat-sen was a red.
And if I wanted to rise as a soldier, I could never—not even on my deathbed—get tangled with commies. Hell no. In my military life where I had to watch out for falling leaves, no commie taint could mix in!
I'd nearly jumped into a pit of hellfire without knowing. If not for Dorothy, I might've been truly fucked.
Relief washed over me automatically. With the tension gone, craving nicotine was only natural.
"Mind if I light one up?"
"My father puffs on the strongest cigars right next to me a thousand times a day. It's fine."
Kkuh. What consideration.
As I put the cigarette in my mouth, her gaze turned oddly intense. Like—
"Want one?"
"Pardon??"
Obvious as day. Smokers can spot it in each other's eyes: that guy's out.
I offered the pack, and she looked flustered as hell.
"Is that really okay?"
"What's the problem?"
"No, really, a woman smoking? You're fine with that?"
Ah, right.
This was that era.
Hell, even in Korea in the '90s, folks were like, "Where's a lady puffing away like that?!" 1912? No contest.
Instead of answering, I handed her a cigarette, and she took it quick.
Her hand brushed my knuckles as she grabbed it. Goosebumps. Felt like I'd lose it.
But her form putting it to her lips was clumsy as hell. Guess she wasn't a regular smoker.
She bobbed the cig in her mouth all cool-like, and it was adorable, like a kid playing grown-up. I smirked. As I went for the matches tucked in my pocket—
Crack!
The match head snapped perfectly and flew off into the distance.
"Ha, and that was the last one."
"Come here."
She beckoned.
Right, she had fire. On the cig in my mouth.
As I went to take it out— she leaned in smooth—
"Ah, aaaaaaah, aaah—"
I'm gonna lose my mind!
I could've happily forgotten this memory!
Fucked up.
I'd messed with a bigwig's daughter. What now?
Images of that burly Curtis senator storming in with a double-barrel shotgun auto-looped in my head for 15 seconds. Even Dad would bow and say, "He had it coming. Sorry for the trouble my boy caused."
I tried lighting a morning cig, realized I'd run out of matches—that's how the mess started—and sighed heavily as I headed out. Time to bum a light from the idiots.
"There you are?"
"Yeah. Head's splitting."
"Hmmm..."
"Huuuuhm..."
What the?
The three morons huddled together stared at me funny.
"What? Quit humming and gimme a light already."
"Why didn't you come back last night?"
"Huh? Last night? Woke up in the garden. Must've gotten wasted."
Ike snorted like it was ridiculous.
"Bullshit. You reek of perfume."
"Wipe that red lipstick off your mug first, dumbass."
I wiped my face quick, but the second they burst out laughing, it hit me. Played!
"Kuh, kuhahaha!"
"Kuh, kekekeke!"
"Pay up three bucks. Pfft!!"
"Fuck! FUCK!!!"
Tricked. Omar... you bastard, Omar!
How many wins and losses in this damn Kansas now?
"So, how was your fiery first night?"
"Share the battle report quick. Light up."
"Fuck off... you evil shits..."
They circled me in a scrum, and a wave of heavy perfume hit my nose. These guys?
"Yo, you assholes stink of perfume too."
"Huh? Obviously."
"All three of us... ahem."
"And you want me to share tips?!"
"You're the only one who actually had a first night."
"Hahaha!! HAHAHAHA!"
James rolled on the floor laughing, and Ike and Omar trying to haul him up ended up clutching him and chuckling too.
Bastards. Gonna get even.
Not friends—straight-up enemies.
"Pardon? He's gone?"
After a simple breakfast to settle my gut, I hurried to see Senator Curtis to dodge the shotgun ending.
But the senator was swamped with business—showed his face briefly yesterday for constituency work, then jetted to the next spot.
"Yes. Didn't even say goodnight."
Dorothy said it with a cheeky grin.
My head throbbed again.
"Brother and sister have their own schedules too, so it's just me here."
"Uh, then—"
"You weren't planning to leave me alone, were you? Ah, no wonder my whole body's sore—"
"I'll... attend to you..."
Fine, fuck it.
Democrats, Republicans—on this vast American land, how many Korean guys were there?
A guy like me could end up single for life and die alone. A girl from a good family, loaded, pretty, into me? Saying "Hmm, sorry, my politics..." would make me the crazy one.
Decision made, the world looked beautiful—even the sun broke through clouds, blessing my path with bright rays.
"Let's head out then. I could use some movement too."
"Where to, miss?"
Couldn't crash at Ike's, but no regrets.
Beats getting gang-groked by those doe-eyed Bambi-lookin' tall bastards demanding "Spill! Spill it!"
Pretty girl, one-on-one? Way better.
Still an insane opportunity.
When Woodrow Wilson's 8-year reign ends and the Republicans take over.
If I nailed war hero status and solid influence by then, our dear Dr. Rhee was done.
Dared to fuck with me? No more. Let's see if his connections bite a Curtis son-in-law.
The day his use ran out, I'd happily recycle that U-nam bastard.
Of course...
Assuming no shotgun.
The vacation was a blast.
Dorothy clicked with me way more than expected.
"Hmm. Top of the army as an Oriental."
Obviously, Dorothy and I were dating now.
We'd stuck like glue day and night for days—natural outcome.
If her heart changed, it'd be a Christmas fling, but... era being what it was.
Anyway, she was the first to hear my ambition, churning only inside me, unspoken.
And her reaction? Priceless.
"Know what my dad's goal is?"
"Hmm... no clue?"
"White House."
"Whoa. Big leagues."
"Right? If you'd aimed for just 'getting stars,' I'd have told you 'Man up' myself."
Did guts run in the family?
Instead of shock, she muttered casually, "Gotta be that big to be my man," and I sighed inwardly in relief.
Second life.
At first, just snag some stars, live sweet.
But the harder I pushed, the higher I saw.
MacArthur, Marshall, and...
Realms I'd never dreamed of in my past life—within reach if I played it right. Greed stirred.
"Visit West Point?"
"Don't push."
And Dorothy?
Casually fanned my raw ambition: "Army chief? No White House interest?"
Having a supporter who got me? Pure relief.
"Haha, we'll keep watch."
"Eye on another girl? We'll call right away!"
"Rest easy!"
"You guys... ease up..."
Damn idiots treated her like sis-in-law, all devotion.
Call her properly—sister-in-law.
Thus, 1912 ended, 1913 dawned, we returned to West Point, time flowed smooth.
First thing: Tell Song Qingling no dice.
Next? Dorothy, duh.
Letters every three to seven days—heavy on affection. Antique charm from a century ago.
I slaved over replies. Letter fluffing skill leveling fast.
Had to touch base with Korean National Association too.
Dosan An Chang-ho, separate from Syngman Rhee, obliged my request.
Factory? Hold off, scout more. Found a Korean handy with guns, passed my designs.
Months of letter exchanges—no proper product. Too ambitious.
Barbed wire progress was comfort.
My "Yun-shaped barbed wire" patented under bro's name, tiny factory trial-producing. Finally relaxed.
Born minority, Korean community was my untouchable base—unless I washed Japanese. With Rhee backstabbing daily, no peace. This showed his character.
Best counter: Own business, be employer. Korean chaebols owned regions.
Bro soldier, lil bro entrepreneur. Perfect American Dream pitch. Backing secured—no "family massacre" worries.
Gun biz would've locked it faster... Knew it was tough, but hadn't fully quit, so regret lingered.
And our Dr. Rhee.
He'd think light jab; to tender sprout like me, it was heavy. Nearly KO'd!
Sent him youthful bravado letter; to Dad, detailed poison chalice from Rhee, teary paper.
Clumsy but steady prep.
WWI bet shock faded; time for next big buzz, raise profile.
October 1913, end of junior drills, classes resume.
The second massive shell I fired slammed West Point.