From our concealed vantage point, Joon-ho and I monitor the feed, our focus laser-sharp on the figure of Sue as she nears the water's edge.
Her routine is unvarying, a dance of survival and necessity. Yet, today's choreography includes an anomaly: our message, disguised amidst the natural debris. The moment she notices the drone, her body tenses, a visible ripple of alarm. Is it danger? A new threat? Her world, fraught with uncertainty, allows little room for benign surprises.
However, curiosity, that deeply human trait, prevails. She edges closer, her movements cautious yet compelled. Observing her, I feel a surge of empathy. This woman, who has endured so much, now faces another test, another leap into the unknown. When she finally retrieves the message, her eyes scan the contents, a frown etching her brow, which soon relaxes into comprehension, perhaps even relief.
There is a palpable shift in her demeanour then, a transition from wary scepticism to a dawning realisation of the opportunity at hand. The message, our carefully worded outreach, has bridged the vast distance between us.
Sue's response is swift, the instincts of survival dictating her actions. She scribbles a reply with an efficiency that speaks of her military background, her note concise yet potent. Tying the paper to the drone with a precision that belies her flustered start, she sends it back to us.
Back in our secluded hideout, the drone hums gently as it lands, carrying with it the weight of Sue's words. With cautious hands, I untie the note, unfolding it to reveal her hurried yet clear script. Joon-ho leans in, his expression a mix of anticipation and concern.
The message strikes a chord, resonating with a mixture of professional clarity and personal recognition. "Minjun," it begins, anchoring me to our shared past, a time of sweat and perseverance in the gym, a time before the world turned on its head. She remembers me, not just as a face in the crowd, but as an individual.
Her situation unfurls in hastily penned words, a narrative of her intended journey to Busan, a city rumoured to be a stronghold amidst the chaos, where the remnants of government and military promise a semblance of safety. Yet her journey was brutally intercepted, her freedom snatched away by Jae-sun's group, her destination now a distant dream.
The note trembles in my hand, the ink bearing her fear, her resilience, and her undiminished hope. She was not merely surviving; she was enduring, clinging to the possibility of escape, of making her way to Busan once more.
I craft a response, one that conveys both reassurance and urgency. "Sue, we are committed to aiding your escape. We need detailed information about Jae-sun's group, their numbers, routines, and any security measures in place. Be discreet; we must minimise our communication to reduce the risk of detection."
I watch as Joon-ho carefully attaches the note to the drone, his movements precise, the gravity of our mission mirrored in his focused expression. The drone ascends once again, a silent messenger darting through the veil of dawn.
Hours later, it returns, its mission completed, carrying Sue's reply. Her intelligence is invaluable, detailed observations that speak of her acute awareness and her will to fight. She describes the group's structure, their patrol timings, and their weaknesses, all penned with the clarity of someone who understands the stakes.
"Jae-sun's group is larger than we anticipated," she writes, "but they are complacent, overconfident. I've noted gaps in their patrols, and there's a section of the fence to the west that's poorly maintained."
Joon-ho and I exchange a look, a silent acknowledgment of Sue's courage and acumen. Her information offers us a tangible edge, a means to strategise her extraction with precision.
"We limit further communication," I decide, voicing the unspoken agreement between us. "Each message risks exposure, and we've got what we need to plan."
We set to work, poring over Sue's details, mapping out the camp's vulnerabilities, and devising a rescue that leans on stealth and timing. The coming operation will be perilous, a calculated risk that holds the promise of reuniting with Sue, of altering our shared fate.
The final message to Sue is succinct, a blueprint of our rescue distilled into essential steps, every word heavy with the weight of impending action. "At dawn, three days from now," it begins, underscoring the precise timing, "be ready."
I outline the plan with the meticulous care of a strategist laying out the path to victory. "Joon-ho will initiate a diversion to the north of the camp, drawing attention and resources away from your location. This will be your cue. Move swiftly to the western fence, where you've indicated the maintenance is lax."
My hand doesn't tremble as I pen the instructions, though my heart races with the adrenaline of what's to come. "I will be waiting beyond the fence with an electric bike. Its silence will be our ally in your escape. Once you reach the fence, signal with three short whistles. I'll be there."
The drone, our steadfast intermediary, delivers the message and returns without incident, the calm before our orchestrated storm.
On the designated morning, everything is set and straightforward. Joon-ho heads off to create a distraction at the north side of the camp. His task is clear: start a fire to draw attention and manpower away from where Sue will make her escape.
I'm positioned near the loose part of the fence on the electric bike, keeping out of sight and waiting for Sue. The bike is quiet, ideal for a quick getaway without drawing attention.
As planned, the distant sound of confusion signals that Joon-ho has successfully ignited the diversion. I'm alert, focused, watching for Sue's signal. Time passes slowly, every second stretching out until, finally, I see a figure moving quickly and quietly towards the fence. It's Sue.
She reaches the fence, finds the weak spot, and slips through. I hear the three short whistles we agreed on. She runs towards me, and within seconds, she's on the bike behind me. There's no time for celebration or relief; we need to get out of there fast.
I kick the bike into motion, and we glide away silently. As we put distance between ourselves and the camp, the initial tension eases slightly, replaced by the urgency of our flight. We don't speak; we just focus on the path ahead, moving as quickly as we can away from the danger behind us.
The camp and its threats become smaller and smaller in the distance, and soon, we're alone in the quiet of the morning, speeding towards safety and a new phase of our mission.