The ranch had been prepared to give the Koreans a taste of Texas life. They crossed a cattle grate to enter the property, then switched to pickup trucks. Again the Senator traveled with the Minister, while the rest of the group followed in a four-door work truck. They took a road of sand and shale, and they passed through wind-bent bushes and gnarled trees that looked burned and split, with even their tall branches twisted to the ground. There was a field of spiked plants, their shark claws aglow. Each was alone in the way it groped from the rocky earth, looking to Jun Do like gestures from those buried underneath.
During the ride to the ranch, the Americans seemed to ignore the Koreans, making comments about cattle that Jun Do could find no sign of, and then slipping into a shorthand of their own that Jun Do could make no sense of.
“Blackwater,” Tommy said to Wanda. “They your new outfit?”
They were heading toward a stand of trees from which blew white, vinalon-like fibers.
“Blackwater?”
“That’s what your hat says.”
“It’s just a free hat,” she said. “Right now I think I’m working for a civilian subsidiary of a government contractor to the military. No use trying to keep it straight. I’ve got three Homeland passes, and I’ve never set foot in the place.”
“Headed back to Baghdad?” he asked.
She looked across the Texas hardpan. “Friday,” she said.
The sun was direct when they climbed down from the big truck. Jun Do’s dress shoes filled with sand. A table had been set up with a barrel cooler of lemonade, and three gift baskets, each wrapped in cellophane. The baskets contained a cowboy hat, a pint of bourbon, a carton of American Spirit cigarettes, some beef jerky, a water bottle, sunscreen, a red kerchief, and a pair of calfskin gloves.
“My wife’s doing,” the Senator said.
The Senator invited them to retrieve the hats and gloves from their gift baskets. A motorized saw and weed cutter had been set out, and the Koreans donned safety goggles to cut brush. Dr. Song’s eyes, through the plastic, were seething with indignity.
Tommy pull-started the weed cutter and handed it to the Minister, who seemed to take a strange pleasure in moving the blade back and forth through the dead brambles.
When it was Dr. Song’s turn, he said, “It seems I, too, have the pleasure.” He positioned his goggles, then raced the engine through brush and stubble before stalling the blade in the sand.
“I fear I have little aptitude for groundskeeping,” Dr. Song said to the Senator. “But, as the Great Leader Kim Il Sung prescribes, Ask not what the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea can do for you; ask what you can do for the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.”
The Senator sucked air through his teeth.
Tommy said, “Isn’t he also the great leader who regretted that his citizens had but one life to give for their country?”
“Okay,” the Senator said. “Let’s try our hand at fishing.”
Poles had been laid out at a stock pond fed by well pumps. The sun was relentless, and in his dark suit, Dr. Song looked unsteady. The Senator took two folding chairs from the bed of his truck, and he and Dr. Song sat in the shade of a tree. Though he fanned himself with the hat as the Senator did, Dr. Song did not loosen his tie.
Tommy spoke low and respectfully to the Minister. Jun Do translated.
“Cast beyond the trunk of that fallen tree,” Tommy suggested. “Jiggle the tip of the pole to make your lure dance as you reel in.”
Wanda approached Jun Do with two glasses of lemonade.
“I have once been fishing with cables of electricity,” the Minister said. “Very effective.”
It was the first time the Minister had spoken all day. Jun Do could think of no way to soften this statement. Finally, he translated it to Tommy as, “The Minister believes victory is at hand.”
Jun Do took the lemonade from Wanda, who had an eyebrow raised in suspicion. It let Jun Do know that she was no clear-complexioned stewardess offering drinks to powerful men.
It took the Minister a few casts to get the knack of it, Tommy pantomiming advice.
“Here,” she said to Jun Do. “Here’s my contribution to your gift basket.” She handed him a tiny LED flashlight. “They give ’em away at the trade shows,” she said. “I use them all the time.”
“You work in the dark?” he asked.
“Bunkers,” she said. “That’s my specialty. I analyze fortified bunkers. I’m Wanda, by the way. I didn’t get to introduce myself.”
“Pak Jun Do,” he said, taking her hand. “How do you know the Senator?”
“He visited Baghdad, and I gave him a tour of Saddam’s Saladin Complex. A very impressive structure. High-speed rail tunnels, triple-filtered air, nuke resistant. Once you see someone’s bunker, you know everything about him. You get news of the war?”
“Constantly,” Jun Do told her. He clicked the light on and cupped his hand over the beam to measure its brightness. “The Americans use lights in tunnel combat?”
“How could you not use lights?” she asked.
“Doesn’t your army have goggles that see in the dark?”
“Honestly,” she said, “I don’t think Americans have done that kind of fighting since Vietnam. My uncle was one of them, a tunnel rat. These days, if there was a situation underground, they’d send a bot.”
“A bot?”
“You know, a robot, remote controlled,” she said. “They’ve got some beauties.”
The Minister’s pole bent as a fish ran with the lure. The Minister kicked his shoes off and stepped ankle-deep into the water. It put up a tremendous struggle, the pole moving this way and that, and Jun Do thought there must be a more placid variety of fish to stock a pond with. The Minister’s shirt was soaked with sweat when he finally reeled the fish close. Tommy landed it, a fat, white thing. Tommy removed the hook, and then held it high, for everyone to see, a finger in its gaping mouth to demonstrate the jaws. Then Tommy released the fish back into the pond.
“My fish!” the Minister shouted. He took a step forward in anger.
“Minister,” Dr. Song called and rushed over. He placed his hands on the Minister’s shoulders, which were rising and falling. “Minister,” Dr. Song said more softly.
“Why don’t we move right along to target practice,” the Senator suggested.
They walked a short pace through the desert. Dr. Song had a difficult time taking the uneven terrain in his dress shoes, though he would accept no help.
The Minister spoke, and Jun Do translated: “The Minister has heard that Texas is home to a most poisonous snake. He desires to shoot one, so that he might see if it is more powerful than our country’s dreaded rock mamushi.”
“In the middle of the day,” the Senator said, “rattlesnakes are down in their holes, where it’s cool. In the morning, that’s when they’re out and about.”
Jun Do relayed this to the Minister, who said, “Tell the American Senator to have his black helper pour water down the snake’s hole, and I will shoot the specimen when it emerges.”
Hearing the answer, the Senator smiled, shook his head. “The problem is the rattlesnake’s protected.”
Jun Do translated, yet the Minister was confused. “Protected from what?” he wanted to know.
Jun Do asked the Senator, “From what is the snake protected?”
“From the people,” the Senator said. “The law protects them.”
This was found most humorous by the Minister, that a vicious, man-killing snake would be protected from its victims.
They came to a shooting bench with several Wild West revolvers lined up. Various cans had been placed at a distance as a shooting gallery. The .45 caliber revolvers were heavy and worn and, the Senator assured them, had all revoked the lives of men. His great-grandfather had been a sheriff in this county, and these pistols had been taken as evidence in murder cases.
Dr. Song declined to shoot. “I do not trust my hands,” he said, and sat in the shade.
The Senator said that his shooting days were behind him, too.
Tommy began loading the weapons. “We got plenty of pistols,” he told Wanda. “You going to give us a demonstration?”
She was refastening her ponytail. “Who, me?” she asked. “I don’t think so. The Senator would be mad if I embarrassed our guests.”
The Minister, however, was in his element. He set about wielding the pistols as if he’d spent his days smoking and conversing and firing at things propped in the distance by his servants, rather than parked at a curb reading the daily Rodong Sinmun, waiting for his boss Dr. Song to finish with his meetings.
“Korea,” Dr. Song said, “is a land of mountains. Gunshots bring swift responses from the canyon walls. Here, the bang goes off into the distance, never to return.”
Jun Do agreed. It was a truly lonesome thing to have such a commotion be swallowed by the landscape, to have the sound of fire make no echo.
The Minister was surprisingly accurate, and soon he was feigning quick draws and attempting trick shots as Tommy reloaded for him. They all watched the Minister go through boxes of ammo, firing with two hands, a cigarette in his lips, the cans popping and leaping. Today, he was the minister, people drove him around, he pulled the trigger.
The Minister turned to them. He addressed them in English. “The Good,” he said, blowing smoke from the barrel, “the Bad, and the Ugly.”