LUKE LLEWELLYN was sitting at a borrowed desk in the security office of the American Embassy in Seoul, reading a recent issue of Sports Illustrated and trying to avoid boredom. He was not particularly successful. It was a tedious way to spend a lovely Saturday afternoon, but he really couldn’t complain because it beat most of the alternatives.
Luke had been a naval intelligence officer for nearly eight years. He’d completed three tours in the Persian Gulf, where he had logged an inordinate amount of time in the E-2 Hawkeye and other early warning system aircraft, monitoring movements of men and weapons. He’d also spent hours upon hours in front of computer terminals watching satellite feed and listening to interpretations of intercepted conversations, trying to discern plans of the enemy. The work wasn’t exactly what he’d signed up for when he applied to the Naval Academy at seventeen, but he had no doubt of the critical, life-and-death nature of his work.
However, with Luke’s last promotion, the Navy had ‘loaned’ him to the Army. What followed was the longest nine months of his life. He’d been assigned to a forward operating base in Afghanistan, where his affinity for, and appreciation of the soldiers and marines who were ‘boots on the ground’ quickly rose in conjunction with his disdain for the Taliban.
While in Afghanistan he decided it was time to consider parting company with the U.S. military, but then he’d been recalled by the Army and sent to South Korea. Compared to the Middle East, life in Korea was a cake walk. There were no snipers, no IEDs, and no suicide bombers. The weather was good and the Korean people wanted the military in country—at least for the most part. All in all it was an excellent assignment to close out his career.
As a naval intelligence officer in Seoul, Luke assisted Army personnel in monitoring the communications and activities of the North Korean regime and its allies. That position had him bouncing around the northern part of the country, mostly doing spot reviews across the checkpoints of the demilitarized zone. The DMZ was the military demarcation line between North and South Korea, dating back to the 1950s, when the countries ceased overt conflict. Technically, the war had never ended and both sides continued to heavily arm their respective borders. The DMZ was at least five miles wide and heavily mined, fenced and monitored. Luke also spent significant time at a limited-access area in Seoul’s Yongsan Army Garrison. The non-descript building on the north side of the American military installation housed an impressive bank of state-of-the-art computers. Although surveillance work could be tedious, he enjoyed field expeditions with some of the Army guys—riding in Humvees or Blackhawks. And he relished the times when the teams could pass along anomalies or surreptitious movements, alerting the ‘powers that be’ to potential threats or events which might require diplomatic or even military intervention.
In addition to his other responsibilities, Luke was required to take his turn as officer-in-charge of the American Embassy’s security detail one weekend each month, even though the Marine guards who were responsible for the embassy needed scant supervision. He was expected to maintain a presence on the embassy grounds, being called on from time-to-time to help manage issues affecting State or Defense Department personnel or problems encountered by any of the thousands of Americans living or visiting the country. Because he wasn’t needed all that often, Luke redeemed the time by working out in the embassy’s well-equipped gym, watching movies, reading or playing poker with the Marines and consular personnel. One benefit—something he always looked forward to—was the first rate food in the cafeteria.
The slow Saturday afternoon was interrupted by a knock at the open office door, and Marine Staff Sergeant Antonio Mancini entered without waiting for an invitation. Approaching the desk, Mancini waved a file in Luke’s direction. “Luke, you lucky dog,” he said. “You’ve got some customers.”
Luke remained slouched in his chair. He didn’t look up from an article describing the early predictions for the upcoming Major League season. “Customers?” He turned a page. “This is an embassy, Tony, not a department store. We don’t have customers.”
“Man, oh man,” Tony chuckled, and his chocolate-brown eyes crinkled at the corners. “There’s a couple of women in the waiting room—real lookers—who need some help.”
Luke finally glanced at the sergeant and sighed heavily in feigned exasperation. “Okay, what?”
“Seems one of the ladies’ passports was stolen last night along with her purse. She’s filed the paperwork to replace it but needs to report being a crime victim. I’ve taken her statement.” He waved the skinny file in Luke’s direction again. “Unusual situation... I’ve been here almost four years, and this is the first time I’ve seen an American woman knifed by an assailant.”
“Seriously?” Luke’s nonchalant attitude evaporated and he threw the magazine on the desk. “She was knifed? How bad?” He sat up straight and took the file.
“Luckily just a flesh wound to her arm.”
Luke skimmed the first page and memorized the basics: Mary Claire Olsen...25...Rochester, Minnesota...Registered nurse...Working a month in Korea...Single. “You said there were two. Who’s with her?”
“Her roommate—for moral support. The roomie lives here.” Tony briefed him on more of the details. “The victim is doing some sort of educational thing at Samsung Medical Center. According to her story, she was attacked by two guys last night right outside the hospital. The second page is the original police report and the third page is the English translation.”
“Actually at the hospital?” Luke flipped to the third page. “That’s in a good part of the city... It’s well lit and there are plenty of people around, pretty much twenty-four-seven.”
“Yep.” The sergeant pointed to the file. “Right there in the police report. The wound was pretty significant. It took a couple dozen stitches to sew her arm up.”
“Seriously?” Luke repeated. “Man, this is a first.” He closed the folder and stood. “Come on, Tony. Let’s go take care of our customers.”
* * *
AS TONY MANCINI FOLLOWED Luke from the room he was struck for about the twentieth time by the lieutenant’s size. He’d known Luke for a year but had known of him for nearly a decade. Luke didn’t quite rate being called a legend, but he was pretty close. Indeed, it was rare for a man from one of the service academies to be drafted into the NFL, but Luke—an outstanding football player for the Naval Academy—had been selected by one of the pro teams. Tony didn’t recall which. In the end, though, Luke had decided to keep his commitment to the Navy and the NFL had lost out.
As he trailed the lieutenant, Tony could certainly see why the NFL wanted him—the man was a barn. In his fifteen years in the Corps, Tony had never seen anyone that big wearing a uniform. The man was at least six foot six and weighed somewhere north of 260. Come to think of it, Tony wasn’t certain where Luke got his clothes; he didn’t think the Navy made standard uniforms that large.
The embassy’s Marine guard detail genuinely liked Luke and enjoyed when he was the weekend officer-in-charge. Luke took the duty seriously—some of the officers didn’t—and he didn’t look down on the enlisted guys—some of the officers did. Luke was an intelligent and affable Texan, and he’d done several tours in the Middle East—that alone had earned their respect. He was amiable most of the time, but tough when he needed to be. He played a good game of poker and was a magician when anyone was having problems with anything electronic. In addition, he was the only man Tony had ever seen actually bench-press 400 pounds. In truth, the guys were a little in awe of the big man.
* * *
AS THE TWO MEN strolled down the wide hallway toward the large waiting
