Feeling Out the Options (1)
The next afternoon, I arrived in Daegu with time to spare. Kyung-tae gripped the wheel as we passed Palgongsan IC, veering east at the Bullo Bridge intersection. With the frozen stream on our right, we drove another five minutes until the boundary between developed and undeveloped land came into view. Patchy vegetable gardens dotted the landscape ahead, where a single sign rose up against the sky. Blue background, yellow letters: Hyangsan Environment. This sprawling scrapyard on the edge of Bongmu-dong was the most vital of all my operations in Daegu. It played a critical role in transporting military supplies. Originally located near Gimcheon, it had to be relocated because the site straddled a development-restricted zone.
The car came to a stop. An elderly man emerged from the container used as an office, having spotted our arrival. It was Park, the manager in charge of the scrapyard. He bowed deeply to me as I stepped out.
"Long time no see, boss. Gave us a real scare comin' without warnin'. If ya were headin' out, couldn't ya have called ahead...? Figured ya'd be off meetin' that Yankee fella."
"I was already in Daegu, so I thought I'd swing by and check on the goods. How've you been holding up?"
"Me? Same old, same old. Wanna see the underground warehouse?"
"Yes."
"Right this way."
I followed the old man into a prefabricated building with one side wide open. Soo-yeon and Kyung-tae trailed behind. Park directed his men to close the main gate while activating the hoist crane mounted on the ceiling. To access the basement, we first had to lift the stone slab blocking the entrance.
Grrrrrind—the crane's motor hummed, muffled by the scrape of concrete. As the crane slid the slab aside horizontally, light poured into the ramp leading underground. It was wide enough for a 10-ton truck.
The arsenal's massive blast door opened via a dial. Park twisted the metal handle-like dial, aligning an eight-digit code. A metallic clunk echoed from inside. He pulled the lever, and the heavy door slowly parted left and right. Lights flickered on automatically in the independently powered space.
I stepped into the arsenal. Just beyond the blast door sat a helicopter engine and parts covered in tarps—items already cleared for shipment, from what I recalled. Beyond that, sandbag walls stacked to the ceiling separated rows of shelves and wooden crates scattered about. The variously sized boxes bore stamps indicating contents, quantity, weight, and production year. Of course, my eyes could see right through to the contents. I strolled through the vast underground space like a museum visitor, but thanks to the precisely controlled temperature and humidity in every corner, not a single item was in poor condition. Anti-static measures were thorough on every shelf. There was ample empty space, enough to stockpile generously.
Park asked, "How's it lookin'?"
I met the old man's gaze. "It's good."
"Told ya. Ain't easy keepin' it this way."
No signs of tension showed in him as he spoke. I didn't visit this high-value site often, but even on a surprise inspection, this level of composure was sufficient. Truth be told, I'd come more to check the man than the merchandise. I'd seen plenty of cases where even the most desperate debtors changed over time. And a debt of life is deeply personal. Sometimes, showing your face in person reminds them the bond endures.
"That's enough here. Let's go see how the crew's doing before we head out."
The old man nodded. Including Park, twenty-two organization members were stationed at Hyangsan Environment. I'd only spot ten of them—scattered, resting, or deep in work. A small front operation, but it turned a steady profit year after year without fail. If they'd all been waiting at attention, that would've been suspicious. I greeted each of those ten one by one, handing out daily bonuses. They tensed at my arrival but looked sheepish that I remembered them. Soo-yeon had prepped the details as my secretary, of course. To my men, my visits couldn't feel like some division commander's audit—an X-factor that bred nothing but resentment and eroded loyalty.
As I headed back to the car after the inspection, Park called out to Soo-yeon.
"Hey there. Kyung-tae been keepin' his nose clean these days? Makin' sure he waits on the boss proper-like?"
Before Soo-yeon could respond, Kyung-tae grumbled.
"Aw, come on, Mr. Park. Where else you gonna find talent like me?"
"Don't gimme that. Didn't ya get smashed at the New Year's party a while back and puke your guts out right in front of the boss?"
"Ughhh! That was three years ago—three years! And that was 'cause we bet on liquor crates, okay? Haven't touched that level since. That black mark's got me sippin' half of half of half my limit these days."
"For real?"
Soo-yeon nodded to the skeptical old man. "It's true."
"Well, damn. You're growin' up."
Kyung-tae slumped at how quickly the old man bought Soo-yeon's word.
"...This is bullshit."
Park bid me farewell. "Cold out there—drive safe."
I returned the nod silently. As the car pulled away, he followed a few steps before stopping at a distance. Regret lingered in his reflection in the side mirror. In a pinch, he'd willingly take the fall—a loyal subordinate through and through.
The meeting spot with Major Walker was a luxury pension in southeastern Daegu suburbs. Operated by one of our tourism development subsidiaries, it had bought up a cluster of ruined colonial-era mansions and rebuilt them with Japanese craftsmen. GIs loved the place, ironically. For all their gripes about sitting on the floor.
I'd arrived first, sipping tea and flipping through a favorite book, when Walker entered ten minutes early. Through the closing door, I glimpsed Kyung-tae deploying a spectrum analyzer for bug sweeps.
Walker sat across from me with a stiff smile. "Three years since we last met in person, Chief. Sorry if I kept you waiting."
"No, I just got here myself."
Even though I'd read it multiple times, I'd only managed thirty pages while waiting. I slipped in a bookmark and handed it to Soo-yeon behind me. Eyeing the cover, the major showed half-genuine curiosity.
"What's the title? Korean's still Greek to me."
Chimpanzee Politics.
"Chimpanzee politics...? Well, politicians can be pretty animalistic. Might as well call 'em chimps."
"Not a metaphor. It's literally about chimpanzees fighting for power."
"Oh."
The puzzled major burst out laughing. "Chimps jockeying for power? Haha! That's a riot! Dressing up beasts' primitive pecking orders in fancy terms like 'power'!"
Ignoramus. I kept my thoughts hidden and elaborated.
"...Interesting? It'll be more so once you grasp how clever animals really are."
"Haha. Some of those lieutenants make you wonder if they're even human. Chimps might outsmart 'em. I'll give it a read when I get time."
If you live that long. Still, his ignorance softened the mood. Sensing I didn't care about rank, his rigid shoulders eased.
"Shall we talk business?"
I raised a hand slowly. "What's the rush? You haven't eaten yet."
No one leaves a full belly unsatisfied. Right on cue, the sliding doors parted, ushering in meat-heavy dishes tailored to his tastes.
Walker rambled on about Republicans this, Democrats that, throughout the meal. I nodded along to his error-riddled politics, ignoring right or wrong. What was there to gain from debate? After an hour of his solo enjoyment, I cut to the chase.
"As mentioned beforehand, I'm placing a much larger order this time."
Walker probed. "What, and how much?"
A brief pause, then: "Unlimited."
"...Come again?"
"Exactly that. I'll buy every weapon you can supply, without limit. Priority on high-caliber, high-impact types."
Blinking, he set down his chopsticks—held X-style despite the fork available.
"Not 'items,' but 'weapons'... Planning a war?"
He'd grasped I meant excluding duty-free goods or standard supplies. Past deals had always specified items and amounts upfront, whether I proposed or they offered surplus. So his caution wasn't surprising.
"War? Hardly."
First, ease his guard. "Our business was just too small compared to global demand. I've proven myself a safe partner for years. Time to scale up—for mutual gain."
The first scale-up was adding weapons. They'd acted like scared kittens then, too.
Stroking his mustache, Walker exhaled deeply. "So all our past deals were laying groundwork for today?"
"Conveniently, yes."
"Hm."
"We sailed through the two full audits in '12 and '17 without a hitch. Your side knows my operations are airtight. What we move vanishes into the global market like salt in the sea. Why get cold feet now?"
"Cold feet?"
His pride stung, he scowled. The years I'd named were when amateurs got nabbed. In '12, a scrapyard leaked a $100K infrared surveillance kit (TOD) for a measly $50K, oblivious to its value. It surfaced on a U.S. auction site, snaring them. '17 was worse: one idiot lined up a hundred tactical vehicles and trailers by a greenhouse, hawking them online. Amusingly, they evaded detection for three years. Cops don't care much about such spots. By the time they raided, the containers' contents were gone.
Why all scrapyards? Because the hub was the U.S. Defense Logistics Agency's (DLA) Gimcheon surplus disposal center. We usually bulk-shipped vehicles or containers from there, our orders tucked inside.
Walker warned, "Chief, you're underestimating CIDC."
CIDC: U.S. Army Criminal Investigation Command. His caution rang hollow to me.
"Not underestimating, Major. But they've got bigger fish—national security threats."
"Bigger fish?"
"What really gets them moving. Say we deal a million rifle rounds today. How's that threaten U.S. security? Enough for CIDC or CIA to care?"
He couldn't answer easily. Rifle rounds weren't high-margin for the effort but indexed overall arms trade scale. Knowledge is power. As an arms dealer versed in markets, I pressed calmly.
"Explaining America to an American is absurd... But I'm the expert on distribution. Hear me out."
"On what?"
"A million rounds? Texas gun shops sell that in a week—official sales alone."
The IRS scared no one; tax cheats thrived. The U.S. was the world's biggest black market. Official figures understated totals.
"Your homeland has over 400 million firearms; 390 million in civilian hands—registered ones only. Gun club meets burn ten thousand rounds a day easy."
Try 3.5 million at the West's biggest shoot-fests yearly, with tanks and APCs. "Your citizens buy 10-12 billion rounds annually. Pure individual: about 8 billion. Knew that?"
"...Somewhat."
"Not the details."
An American balking at American facts—almost funny.
"Spin the globe... In Afghanistan—you know it well—decent families blaze tens of thousands for weddings."
Local customs bedeviled U.S. troops; guests looked like raging militants from afar.
"Terrorists burn more, aimed at you."
"Mm..."
"China, Russia, Eastern Europe... Weapons flow to Middle East black markets like staples. Even players don't grasp the volume. Massive market, endless players."
In Korea, one gun or bullet vanishing sparks uproar. To U.S. intel, a million rounds abroad? Small potatoes.