Of Mixed Blood

Of Mixed Blood

Ron Penczak

Brighton Publishing LLC

435 N. Harris Drive

Mesa, AZ 85203

www.BrightonPublishing.com

ISBN13: 978-1-62183-277-5

Copyright © 2014

eBook

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Cover Design: Tom Rodriguez

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. The characters in this book are fictitious and the creation of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to other characters or to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Prologue

Irene had stopped in the doorway to his office dressed, as always, to the nines. She waved a flimsy light blue envelope. Mike, this letter came for you. I didn’t open it. It looks personal.

Still standing outside the room, Irene tapped her manicured fingernails against the brass nameplate on the wall.

Mike Temple, vice-president and program manager for air defense programs, was dog-tired and in no mood for her banter. He’d just finished a series of grueling meetings on a government air defense proposal worth millions, and he had a pounding headache.

Irene, for God’s sake, you’ve been with me more than fourteen years and you still won’t open my private mail. Mike forced a smile and motioned for her to enter. I don’t think we have any secrets.

Just figured it wasn’t any of my business, she said, stepping farther into the office and moving closer with the letter in her hand. Here. No need to bite my head off.

Mike stopped packing his briefcase to take the envelope. He wondered if he should read it right away.

I noticed the stamps, Irene added on her way out. They’re foreign.

Yep, the stamps are South Korean. Hell, I haven’t been in Korea for fifteen years. It can’t be from a friend. I don’t have any.

Irene, rolling her eyes, said, Liar. After all the time you spent in Korea, you have friends over there. From what I was told by the office gossips, you went native. I thought it was cool when Ski told me about you learning the language and customs. Your boss said you were successful because everyone liked you; especially the Korean military.

Still, it’s odd to receive a letter from Korea now.

It’s probably one of your old field engineers who worked for you and he’s putting out feelers, maybe asking you for a job.

Irene, as usual, you’re probably right. Thanks. Go. Have a good evening.

He decided that as thin as the envelope was, it wouldn’t take more than minutes to read the letter. Using his monogrammed brass letter opener, he carefully slit the envelope. Inside were several tissue-thin sheets of rice paper with small neat writing and photographs of a beautiful young Amerasian girl.

He first thought it was a sleazy marketing ploy like Let me arrange for you to meet a nice girl from the Far East.

The letter began with, Dear American Father.

Mike’s eyes jumped off the page. He stared toward the doorway that Irene had exited. My God, what’s this?

With quivering hands, he refocused on the nearly transparent rice sheets. Taking a deep breath and then releasing it, he continued reading.

My mother talked and said I should never contact you. I am in disobeyment but I write in desperation. I am your daughter that you have never seen. My mother said she never tell you about me. When she knew you and her would never marry, she go to Taejon where I be born.

Mike recalled years ago one of his employees mentioned that his old girlfriend, Yun-Jin, returned to Seoul with a baby girl. He had jokingly queried Mike if it was his kid. Mike continued reading.

"I am begging for you to allow me to join you in America. Being of mixed-blood, I am considered a defect in my country. Because my mother has daughter of mixed-blood, she is shunned by the yangban. Maybe you remember, they are the upper class, and she cannot ever marry yangban. Me, I cannot ever marry a Korean of class. You being in Korea for long time must remember daughter is lowest member of family. Being with no father and not being pure Korean, I have no life in my birth country. I am a nonexist person. I am popular in my country for my singing and my being pretty in a not Korean way. People come to see me because they are curious, especially men. When I perform, I see how men look at me. My mother would have chance to marry if I was not in her home.

Her aein, you know, her sweetheart, would marry her and they could start new life. He is retired general and powerful man. I hear talk of him telling Mother to have me work in her kisaeng house. You remember kisaeng from your living in Korea. In the event you forgot, I will explain difference between old and the new kisaeng. A kisaeng is a Korean geisha, a recreational creature. Maybe you remember the old traditional kisaeng’s who played instruments, danced, sang, and hand-fed their guests? No more is this true. Mostly after singing and dancing, men want sex. Her kisaeng house is brothel. I am too shameful to tell you more about Mother’s business. If this happens I will make my suicide."

Mike’s breathing accelerated. He had a daughter who was contemplating suicide. No way. This had to be a ruse or she had written to the wrong man. Yun-Jin would not be a madam under any circumstances. She was too classy a lady.

He continued reading. I am good student. I am fifteen years and in high school. If you take me to America, I will be obedient, study hard, and I will never bring you shame. I am placing my pictures with letter. I do not think I am ugly. Maybe because I am not American, you are already made ashamed of me. I read America is good place to live for people from all over the world, and I am wishing you are of open mind and will bring me to your country. I am sorry for my poor English and my poor writing, but I have only practiced in my classes.

The letter was signed, Respectfully your daughter, Victoria Kim.

Mike studied the photographs of a beautiful girl who appeared to be over twenty-one, not the fifteen-year-old she claimed to be. One photo, a close-up, emphasized her hair, which was blacker than the sky on a moonless night, hanging down to her shoulders. Bangs covered her forehead like a tailored cap, stopping just short of her eyebrows. Her eyes were not slanted, yet not round either. Maybe she was one who had the operation to make her eyes rounder. No, that couldn’t be. She was of mixed-blood. That’s the Caucasian in her. The blackness of her hair accentuated the softness of her face, giving her the appearance of a porcelain doll without a blemish. She was too perfect; perhaps it was the makeup that hid the flaws.

Her second photograph was full length. It was taken in a park and showcased the girl’s figure, which was not of an Asian origin. At least it did not look like the ones that he’d remembered from his years in the Orient. Her turquoise cheongsam with its high collar set off a proud aristocratic face. But it was the slit in the dress, probably cut higher than it should’ve been, that instantly brought his eyes to her straight shapely legs. Moving his gaze up, the tightness of the dress gave the impression that her hips were rounder than they should’ve been for a girl of her age. They were emphasized even more so by her tiny waist. As Mike’s eyes continued to advance upward, he couldn’t help but notice the fullness of her breasts stretching the material of her cheongsam. Without a doubt, she was a pretty young thing.

What the hell am I thinking? She’s my daughter. But she can’t be. MaryAnn and I have been married seven years and trying to conceive the whole time, but we haven’t come close.

The phone rang, snapping Mike out of his reverie. He answered it on the fourth ring. Irene must have left or she would’ve picked up.

Mike Temple.

Mike, its Cyrus Vance.

Mike almost stood at attention as he squared his shoulders. Mr. Vance, what a surprise. Good to hear from you. Are congratulations in order? Will you be the next secretary of state?

Mike, thank you, and the answer is yes. But right now, the subject is you. I’m calling on behalf of Jimmy Carter. First, let me thank you for your support during the campaign. The president-elect certainly appreciated your assistance and support in helping him beat Gerald Ford. Your technical know-how helped prepare Jimmy to handle questions on US defense policy.

Mr. Vance, I appreciate the kind words. I’m sure many of us in the defense industry helped Mr. Carter to develop a vision on his defense policy.

Vance responded, Jimmy liked your position on limiting the world’s armaments to those weapons necessary for each nation’s own domestic safety. In fact, he liked it so much that he is planning on using those exact words in his inaugural address on January twentieth.

I’m honored.

There’s more, continued Cyrus Vance. Jimmy Carter wants you to be his secretary of defense. There are a couple of others in the mix, including Harold Brown, but, the job is yours. Of course, Jimmy has to listen to those who helped him get elected. It’s politics, and he has to go through the motions. Hey, believe me when I say, he wants you. Let him go through the exercise. My question is, Mike, are you interested in being secretary of defense?

Mike’s pulse accelerated quickly, reaching the rate it would have been if he’d run two fast miles. His brain felt like a bunch of shorted-out wires while he tried to decipher the call. For years, he had fantasized about something like this happening but never believed that it actually would.

What seemed like an eternity was only moments before Mike answered, Mr. Vance, I’d be honored to be considered for the position of secretary of defense.

Wonderful, Mike. I’ll pass this news on to Jimmy. We’ll get together near term to discuss this further. Don’t sweat the stories you hear about whoever else is being considered. I assure you, Jimmy wants you. Do you read me?

Yes, sir, I do. Thank you. Can I tell my wife?

Yes, of course. I’m sure she’ll be proud of you. Take care. We’ll be in touch. Good-bye.

Mike still held the photographs in his hand. While he was known for being quick on his feet, able to make smart decisions, and to take decisive action, Mike now asked himself, What the hell is wrong with me? My brain must have been disengaged. I never should have accepted so quickly. What are the chances of my getting confirmed if the Senate finds out that I have an illegitimate daughter in Korea who I abandoned? More importantly, how do I explain the letter and the photographs to MaryAnn?

As he closed his briefcase, Mike’s mind continued racing. Victoria was a name that Yun-Jin and he had discussed. Is Yun-Jin trying to get even with me by pretending this girl is mine? And what, after fifteen years, is my responsibility if she is? I haven’t spoken to Yun-Jin since May of ’62. Hell, maybe I should just ignore the letter and not say anything to MaryAnn or anyone else. If I don’t answer the letter, this Victoria will probably think I never received it. That might be the best decision; just forget about it.

With the letter and photographs stored in his briefcase, Mike put on his overcoat. As he locked his office, Mike wondered if Victoria, supposedly his daughter, would commit suicide.

Chapter One

Mike had sequestered MaryAnn in the corner of the waiting area near the large windows overlooking the tarmac where the Boeing 707 was parked. Sure you won’t change your mind? asked Mike.

You’re not ready for marriage. Your proposal was just for effect, MaryAnn said. I do love you, but you’ve a lot of growing up to do. I’ll know when you’re ready, if ever.

It was Thursday, February 2, 1961. Mike Temple, MaryAnn DeSantis, and Mike’s parents were at Boston’s Logan Airport. Mike was getting ready to board a flight to San Francisco en route to Korea. After completing his hitch with the marines, he was hired by DefenseTech, a defense company, to be a field engineering team leader in Korea.

With a little-boy smirk, like a kid saying something he shouldn’t, Mike retaliated. What happens if I come back with a geisha?

MaryAnn countered. Dummy, there aren’t any geishas in Korea. Geishas are Japanese. Who knows, maybe I’ll marry Tommy Jordan.

Jordan! You shitting me? I outplayed him in football And remember, you went steady with me, not him. You wouldn’t marry that jerk. Mike continued, Don’t even joke like that.

MaryAnn smiled. Her teeth were glistening white. She responded, You can give it, but can’t take it, huh, big guy?

Mike’s father walked over and said, Okay you two love birds, break it up. Mike, they’re calling your flight. It’s time to board.

Mike and MaryAnn embraced. They locked as tightly together as grapevines around a trellis and kissed. As he pulled away, Mike looked into her eyes and wondered if this would be the last time they’d kiss.

MaryAnn, I do love you.

I love you more. Take care of yourself and stay away from those Asian women. With an impish grin she said, You know, those geishas.

All right, don’t be a wise ass.

Mike shook hands with his father, and then embraced him in a bear hug. He kissed and hugged his mother, gave MaryAnn another quick kiss, and joined the queue boarding the flight.

Mike spent a day in San Francisco visiting Fisherman’s Wharf. After a tour of Alcatraz, he realized that sight-seeing alone wasn’t fun. The next day he boarded the flight to Tokyo where he stayed overnight. Mike woke early to board the train to Tachikawa Air Base where he would catch his military flight to Seoul, Korea.

***

It was early morning, and Mike could see his breath in the air as he prepared to board the military flight for Kimpo Airport in Seoul, Korea. The announcement over the loudspeaker called his flight and announced that officers and civilians were to board first.

Mike thought, While in the marines, being enlisted, I always had to board last. Now that I’m the equivalent of a GS thirteen, equal to a Lt. Colonel— now I board first. What a blast.

It was a four-engine prop airplane. In the commercial airline world it was known as a Super Constellation. There weren’t any stewardesses on the flight, nor cocktails or a hot meal. A navy crewman was handing out box lunches.

Mike said, Hey this sandwich is cold. It’s almost frozen.

The sailor looked back and shrugged. Mike saw shades of being back in the service in the sailor’s disinterest. You want coffee, milk, or orange juice? the sailor asked.

Coffee, if it’s hot. I can use it to thaw out the sandwich. The food was bad, yet another reason to fly commercial.

Mike’s stomach flipped like riding a roller coaster as the aircraft dropped in altitude and maneuvered between mountains, positioning for a landing at Kimpo. Mike looked out of the window. My God, it looks so desolate, he thought. There was snow on the highest mountaintops, but nowhere else. The ground was without vegetation. No trees or bushes, only varying shades of brown hills blending in at the base with the frozen rice paddies.

A young lieutenant sitting next to Mike pointed to a disfigured section of a mountain that looked like some prehistoric creature had bitten chunks out of it and asked, What’s that?

Mike studied it for a few moments, glanced at the officer’s nametag, and said, That, Lieutenant Griffin, is a Peregrine missile site. See that box with the parabolic antenna? That’s the acquisition radar. The two with the Mickey Mouse ears are the illuminating radars, and you can see the missile launchers are fully loaded. The rectangular box half covered with sandbags is the battery’s fire control van, and under those tin roofs are the power generators.

The young officer said, The white things on the launchers… are they missiles?

Yep. I can’t believe the site hasn’t camouflaged their equipment. Look at how the glossy white of the missiles stand out against the drab brown of the launchers.

The lieutenant asked, How come you know about that stuff?

I work for the company that built that equipment. I’m here as a tech rep for the army. Mike, excited about seeing the equipment on a tactical site, continued talking. The North Koreans don’t need spies near the site. Any passenger on a commercial flight could take pictures as the plane lands at Kimpo.

As the plane got closer to the ground, Mike could see kids skating on the frozen rice paddies. He thought the barren hills, rice paddies, and dirt roads were just like the photographs he’d remembered seeing of the Korean War.

The aircraft hit the landing strip with a hard bounce, and as the plane was decelerating down the runway, Mike saw antiaircraft gun emplacements and F-86 Sabrejets on the ready line.

Mike went through passport control and customs without any problems. He couldn’t believe a Quonset hut was the international terminal for entering Korea. As he entered the main lobby, he noticed the numerous potbellied stoves. He also noticed Koreans, mostly women in long dresses, heavy shawls, and kerchiefs covering their heads were seated around the stoves. There wasn’t a beauty among them. Their flat faces appeared to have been smacked with a shovel.

From what he recalled from his overseas travels, each country had its own peculiar odor. Mike believed he’d just walked into a latrine where everyone had a bowel movement at the same time. That smell they could keep in Korea. The room reeked of rotten cabbage, unpleasant and strong enough to make you gag.

It just my first few minutes in Korea and I’m depressed, Mike thought. He didn’t believe he would last long in the cold, drab, smelly country. He remembered the country song, Oh, how I want to go home. My exact sentiments, he thought after being in Korea only minutes.

Hey, yo, Mike Temple. Over here.

Mike looked into the crowd and spotted a tall, heavyset man with a ponytail and a ruddy complexion. The man in his thirties wearing Wranglers and a military parka had to be Jimmy Youngblood, DefenseTech’s lead man in Seoul. There was an army private first class standing next to him holding a white placard with Mike Temple in large red letters crudely printed on it. Looking around, Mike noticed that even though the plane had been packed, he was the only one in civvies. No wonder Jimmy picked him out of the crowd.

They shook hands, testing each other’s grip. Maybe MaryAnn was right, Mike thought, I’m still a kid. Here I am, or we are, trying to squeeze the shit out of each other’s hand just hoping to see a grimace on the other’s face. Yep, she sure is right on.

How was your trip across the pond? Jimmy asked.

Yeah, the Pacific Ocean is a pond, a hell of a pond if you ask me. Not bad until I caught the Super Connie out of Tachikawa. The air was bumpy, but not bad compared to this. Hope the smell clears once we get away from here.

Hell, you’ll get used to it. That fragrant bouquet is kimchi, the most important staple of the Korean diet.

That stink is from something people eat?

Sure is. Kimchi consists of fermented cabbage, ginger, cucumbers, fish sauce, garlic, radishes, and chili peppers or some mixture thereof.

Mike said, Can’t smell any worse coming out than going in.

Like I said, you’ll get used to it. Jimmy turned to his companion. This chubby GI here is Pfc. Eric Calhoun. He’s assigned to us as our driver.

Mike, while shaking the private’s hand, figured he was about eighteen years old. He had the build of a sack of rice but was not as firm, and he had a bad case of acne that bloomed like strawberry patches across his face and throat.

Mike, my boy, Korea is one of the army’s best kept secrets. If you’ve a positive attitude, you can have a ball here. The booze is cheap and plentiful, as are the women, Jimmy announced.

You better believe it, Calhoun reiterated. Can’t get this much ass stateside. Me and my little village girl are going to get married before I rotate back to the States.

Mike answered, Good for you, but I’m not so sure about me. So far the place stinks, and if the women eat that rotten cabbage, they probably do too.

Mike thought, This guy Jimmy doesn’t even know me, and he’s talking about booze and women. No talk about work. Maybe Ski was right; this guy ain’t no manager or leader of men. Ski was Paul Dumbrowski, a retired Marine Corps Sergeant Major and DefenseTech’s Field Engineering Department Manager based out of Andover, Massachusetts. He was the big boss as far as the guys in the field were concerned.

We should head into Seoul, Jimmy said. Need to get you an ID card, ration cards, and a briefing on what to do if hostilities break out. Which, by the way, if that happens we ain’t going to depend upon Uncle Sam and his troops to save our asses. We have our own contingency plans.

Where can I make a phone call back to the States? I need to let my folks know I arrived safe and sound.

You a momma’s boy? asked Jimmy.

Already I don’t like this guy, Mike thought before responding. Don’t be an ass. I’m being fair to my folks. I lost my brother during the Korean War. He was in the First Marine Brigade and was one of the first casualties. Then, me following in my brother’s footsteps by joining the corps didn’t do anything for my folks’ piece of mind. Volunteering to come to Korea for DefenseTech didn’t help either. Besides, why the hell am I telling you this? Just tell me where I can make a call stateside.

Sorry about that. I didn’t know, Jimmy responded. We can stop by the USO. You can make a phone call there. Do you know the time in Boston now?

Don’t matter what time I call, as long as I call.

Jimmy said, By the time we get to the USO in Seoul you’re going to wake your folks up. We’re fourteen hours ahead of them. It’s after midnight in Boston.

That’s fine. They won’t mind. Besides, my dad stays up until two or three in the morning, answered Mike.

Okay, let’s get your bags and head out. After your call, we’ll go through the rigmarole of getting you checked in and registered with the US Army and everything else. We’ll stay at the BOQ—that’s the bachelor’s officers’ quarters—and head out to Anyang first thing in the morning.

Mike interrupted him. I know what the hell a BOQ is.

Okay, sorry about that. We’ll have dinner at the Kimchi Cabana Officers’ Club where they have great steaks.

Private Calhoun jumped in saying, Hey, man, that’s great. I’ll head into JV and see what I can pick up. My moose doesn’t know anyone in JV.

Mike asked, What the hell is a moose?

The young soldier laughed. Hell, that’s GI slang for a Korean girl.

Jimmy cautioned the soldier. Be careful. You catch something and your yobo will cut them off.

Mike asked, What’s JV and what’s a yobo?

Jimmy answered, JV is short for Japanese village. It’s a section of Seoul not far from Eighth Army Headquarters that’s packed full of cheap bars and cheap whores. It’s a place where the GI’s and some civilians, including our guys, go get drunk and laid. You don’t find Korean men in those places, and if you do, be careful. They’re probably looking for a drunken American to roll. Yobo is Korean for sweetheart. Boy, do we have a lot to teach you, Mikey-san.

The USO was crowded, especially around the phone booths. Mike waited his turn. He