by Roger Weston
“What are you going to do with that?” Clay asked.
“Sending a fax to Mr. Lee. I want to find out what DowKai’s links are to political figures in Vladivostok--if any. Mr. Lee dabbles politics these days, and he might be able to help. I also want to find out more about Mok Don.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Pinisha crawled westward at 10 knots. On the bridge, Shipmaster Chung stood at his perch at the windshield gazing out across an expanse of ocean. Chung walked over and checked the radar. He looked over at Won-song, the first mate, who was studying the electronic chart like an admiral combing over his attack plan.
Chung straightened his posture and said, “We have two radar pips, Mok Don and his crew arriving in helicopters.”
“The men are looking good,” Won-song said. “Spit and polish.”
Shipmaster Chung peered at him coldly. “They better look sharp, or I’ll have them licking the chrome off the taffrail.”
“How many men is Mok Don bringing with him?”
“Forty.” Chung watched him carefully and noticed his look of surprise.
Won-song looked at Chung with and adjusted his narrow, red-rimmed glasses. “Why so many? I haven’t gotten used to having Hyun on board yet. The little creep was shooting seagulls off the stern this morning. Had a pile of dead birds on the deck.”
“I know, he threw bread to attract them.”
“He must have killed a hundred.”
“So what if he killed some seagulls. You’re talking about a man who blew up a family and bragged about it.”
“You see what I mean? We have a bunch of sickos on board.”
Chung leaned over the radar. “And here they come. Mok Don and forty more creeps.”
“I’m serious--why so many?”
“Mok Don said he had his reasons. Probably using the situation as an opportunity to promote internal cooperation. You don’t know how lucky we are to work at sea. Out here we’re insulated from all the politics. Except right now our luck is on hold.” Shipmaster Chung reexamined the radarscope. They were almost on top of him. He lifted his binoculars. There they were—two birds heading straight for the Pinisha. As they approached the Pinisha, the noise got loud. First one, then the other, landed on the aft helicopter pad. After dropping twenty men, the first helicopter lifted off again and sped towards the horizon. The second set down on the pad. Twenty-one men unloaded. Mok Don was the last.
Every six seconds, timed bursts of radio energy shot from the hidden transmitter aboard the Hector, traveled at a constant velocity of 300 million meters per second across a hundred miles of Bering Sea to a receiver in the wheelhouse of the Pinisha. Each train of pulses was coded so receiving equipment could identify the transmitter from which the code originated.
Shipmaster Chung stared down at the receiver which showed the position of the Hector as a red, flashing light. Mok Don stood next to him.
“There she is,” Chung said. “A hundred miles due west.”
“Incredible,” Mok Don said, wetting his lips with his tongue, leaning forward for a closer look. “DowKai technology at its finest.”
Shipmaster Chung looked away, embarrassed. His face twitched from tension. Finally, he said, “The uh . . . technology is excellent, Mok Don. The only problem is that it was intended for automobiles.”
Mok Don glared at him. “Automobiles and boats. Is there a problem with its performance? It appears to be working beautifully.”
“Take a look at this.” Chung led Mok Don to the Loran-C receiver. They watched numbers scramble.
“That’s Japanese technology,” Mok Don said. “I don’t see how this relates to DowKai surveillance equipment.”
“The surveillance equipment operates on the 100 Kilohertz frequency. Choosing that frequency was a poor choice. It’s the same frequency as Loran-C. That’s why you’re seeing the Loran-C receiver scramble. It scrambles with every pulse sent out by our transmitter aboard the Hector. I wish I’d have been consulted on this matter before the unit went into production.”
“You weren’t consulted?”
“No.”
“I ordered Soo-man to get your approval. This is security equipment. I specifically ordered him to do that.”
“Never heard a thing.”
Mok Don gasped. “But it still works?”
“Yes, but I suspect our receiver is also scrambling the Loran-C unit onboard the Hector. It could raise suspicions with the Americans.”
“So you’re telling me our surveillance has been compromised as a result of this blunder.”
Shipmaster Chung frowned.
Mok Don turned and walked across the bridge. As he turned and walked back to Chung, his face transformed to a platter of contained fury. “Once again Soo-man has screwed up. Where is he now?”
“The exercise room.”
Mok Don stared at Chung. “He’s exercising? Do you mean to tell me, Shipmaster Chung”--Mok Don suddenly began screaming--“that DowKai is crumbling beneath his colossal blunder, and his only concern is exercising.”
“It would appear so.”
Mok Don chuckled slightly and shook his head. “Shipmaster Chung, you’re a history buff, aren’t you?”
“I read history, but I’ve yet to find your equal, Mok Don.”
Mok Don solemnly bowed his head just slightly forward. He slowly rolled his head on his shoulders. He thought for a moment and said, “Historically, what would you say is the harshest form of shipboard punishment? Something that would impress upon the men with the importance of diligence, loyalty, and efficiency.”
***
Lying on his back, fully pumped with Deca-Durabolin steroids, Soo-man heaved at his fourth set of 240-pound bench presses. Sweat dripped from his entire body. Forcing one rep after another, he grunted and strained. Veins swelled in his arms.
And then the message commanded over the ship-wide intercom system: “This is Mok Don speaking. All hands on deck. All DowKai personnel on deck. Everyone will be present for the keelhauling of Soo-man.”
The barbell slammed down on the supports with a loud clank and rattle.
Soo-man sat up. What was a keelhauling? He reached for the white towel and wiped the sweat off his huge muscles. Keelhauling . . . He wasn’t even summoned for an explanation.
He had a good idea what this was about, though. Mok Don found out about the problems with the receiver. It wasn’t Soo-man’s fault. Sure, Mok Don had told him to run all the specifications by Shipmaster Chung and other DowKai captains. But at the same time he demanded an unrealistic completion date. Soo-man, not wanting to be blamed for pushing the project beyond its completion date, gave his approval. It was a lose-lose proposition--and he was the loser. His one hope had been that DowKai’s engineers would get it right—without glitches. What kind of engineers were they? Or did Mok Don find out about Soo-man using his daughter?
Soo-man stood and slipped on his sweats. He left the exercise room, descended three stairwells and stepped into the bitterly cold wind on the main deck. The sweat covering his body began to freeze, and he began shaking.
The crew was conglomerating on deck. He saw the little Hyun next to
Chull-su. Mok Don’s forty DowKai soldiers were standing around on deck, all wearing their blue DowKai jumpsuits. Several looked at him. Seamen rushed around preparing for the keelhauling. And there was Shipmaster Chung, supervising the operation.
“Man the crane on thwartship track,” Chung yelled, swinging his arm around. “Get into that nest now.”
A seaman up on the crane deck climbed into the crane operator’s cabin.
Shivering harder now from cold sweat, Soo-man approached Shipmaster Chung. “What’s going on? What’s a keelhauling? This your idea?”
“Mok Don’s orders.” Chung said it with cold indifference.
The words sank like daggers, the reality of them cutting deep. The crane hummed and the boom lowered. The cable and hook dangled over the starboard rail. Soo-man examined the hook’s position
in terror. What on earth did they have planned for him? Never mind that. He was disgraced before the group. He wouldn’t squeal like those cowards he dropped overboard last year. He would maintain his personal honor by showing courage. With his arms crossed he dropped to his knees, the rail providing some shelter from the glacial wind.
Looking forward, he saw four sailors running toward him along the rail on his side. They carried the end of a cable that ran over the side, into the icy sea--and under the Pinisha. Soo-man wanted to scream. Where was Mok Don? His head darted around. Nowhere. He looked up at the wheelhouse. Behind the window, a black figure loomed ominously. The men with the cable stopped in front of Soo-man. It felt like a rock turned over in his stomach. He would face it, whatever it was, like a man, without protest. He began to crumble inside, but he got up on his feet.
“No,” he mumbled. “Not the sea.” The faces of dead men raced through his mind. Men he had dropped overboard were laughing at him. “No,” Soo-man yelled.
Twenty DowKai soldiers encircled him; behind them, stood Hyun, Chull-su , and several seamen. Realizing he was under the eyes of the group, he fought to control his emotions. Shipmaster Chung stepped forward, his shoes clicking on the steel deck.
“Tie lines around his hands and feet,” Chung yelled at two seamen holding loose rope.
The seamen, wary to go near Soo-man, edged forward.
Chung shouted, “Move it or you’ll be next.”
The men rushed forward and bound Soo-man’s extremities. He didn’t struggle. He would submit to Mok Don’s will.
***
Shipmaster Chung looked on Soo-man’s humiliation and downfall with pleasure. The executioner would finally get what he deserved.
The hook lowered from the crane aloft and stopped over Soo-man’s head. Chung motioned to the men with the cable over the side to move closer.
“Hurry up,” he said. “Soo-man is cold. You gonna make him wait all day?”
The men struggled fiercely against the current. The cable ran under the keel of the ship and up to the heavy lift derrick on the port beam. They fought against the friction of the Pinisha’s ten knot clip.
“Fasten those hooks,” Shipmaster Chung squalled. The men with the cable threw its hook over the ropes binding Soo-man’s feet.
“Get his hands over that hook,” Chung said.
Honorably, Soo-man lifted his own arms over the crane hook. With that done, his courage failed him. “No,” he yelled, “you’ll rip me in half.” Terror gripped Soo-man’s face. “Please, please, please.”
The crane hummed a high pitch, the hook leapt upward. It jerked Soo-man five feet in the air; the sea friction--from the cable hooked to his feet--yanked him to angling astern.
Soo-man screamed incoherently. He thrashed like a fish on the end of a line, his massive hulk of flesh flailing about. Screams, cries, squeals--he maintained not the slightest vestige of honor as he swung out over the frigid Bering Sea.
Shipmaster Chung smirked. “Down crane--up winch,” he yelled. Hydraulics whined as Soo-man dropped, thrashing all the way into the icy, sub-polar ocean. As the crane hook dropped, the winch took in the slack at his feet and dragged Soo-man into the freezing chop against the Pinisha’s ten knot running speed. He quickly disappeared with the crane line in tow. His bound hands entered the water last.
Shipmaster Chung watched his first keelhauling with a thrilling adrenaline high. The savagery of the punishment startled him. Purely barbarian. Pulling Soo-man thwartwise at ten knots would force-fill him with sea water. Shipmaster Chung could only guess at the violent forces tearing at Soo-man under keel.
“Halt crane--halt winch,” Chung said. With Soo-man dragging crosswise under the keel, the cables stopped. Chung felt goose bumps rising on his back. What impulse of cruelty made him prolong the demonstration? He felt powerful. Sexy.
Fifty cold, numb men lined the starboard rail, silenced by shock. The crane hummed, but lay idle. Wintry wind broke across the deck. Hyun laughed quietly.
Someone said, “You’re going to kill him.”
That’s right, Chung thought.
Then Mok Don’s voice thundered over the loudspeaker. “Proceed. I want him alive.”
“Down crane--up winch,” Shipmaster Chung yelled.
The pitch of the hums changed, and the cables started moving again. In unison the crew moved acrossdecks to the port rail, where the winch and heavy lift derrick reeled in the cable. At first, a form emerged beneath the dark surface, then the cable gave way to shoes and muscular, blue legs with sweats bunched up around the knees. As the cable lifted him by his ankles, his thick trunk emerged followed by blue arms and hands. A dozen crew members groaned in disgust. In two minutes, Soo-man’s appearance had altered radically. His skin was pale with a blue tinge. Blood seeped from beneath the ropes at his hands and feet, also from his nose. He looked like a corpse being pulled out of a freezer. The water instantly froze on his skin.
The derrick swung aft and dropped Soo-man on the steel deck like a cold slab of meat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
December 4th, Evening
The barometer hung at an alarming low. Frank made an entry in the log book. Then he took over the helm from the autopilot. Kiska Island lay dead ahead. They’d spent three days on the Bering Sea--a vast arctic desert of a million square liquid miles. A gray zone of water, sky, and light that cast its leaden gloom on the Hector, camouflaging the old crabber, leaving the boat a tiny gray world apart from other people, places, and all sense of civilized reality.
An hour later the Hector idled into Opelia Harbor channel, and for the first time in days, the view offered more than gray. Icy, black water reached inland two miles. Slow moving ice chunks bobbed in the chop. Birch logs from Kamchatka, brought by the Japan Current, littered rocky, black-sand beaches. Jagged lava rock walls rose behind stretches of black sand, where seagulls screamed and seals played.
Startled by a sound, Frank spun away from the helm and reached for his shoulder holster. Recovering from the surprise, he let his hand fall to his side.
“Relax, man. It’s just me.”
Brian walked into the wheelhouse to the port-side consul and set down a cup of coffee. He stripped off his gloves and looked at his hands. They were white. He tried bending the fingers, but movement was restricted.
“Good to be back,” he said. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.” He lifted a mug of coffee with both hands and squeezed it. Finally he took a long sip.
Something banged against the hull. Frank glanced at the fathometer. It was high tide and plenty deep.
Brian walked to the side window and looked down. “Just a small chunk of ice,” he said, rotating the steaming cup in his hands, squeezing it from all different angles.
Frank looked back at Opelia Channel unwinding before them. Black water curved between jagged crags on either side, giving way to stark, rocky hills and rolling tundra.
Brian sipped his coffee and looked down the channel. Frank edged the wheel to port and watched the fathometer. He had to keep a safe distance from a rocky ledge that reached out into the channel up ahead. He glanced over at the barometer, which was still dropping.
On his way out, Brian said, “I’m going on deck to get ready for docking.”
Frank navigated the Hector for another half mile before he reached into his pocket and pulled out the little old bottle he’d brought up from his office. He looked into the old bottle at the seed. What a simple thing it was, a little brown seed. He jingled it around a couple of times to a chime. He dumped the seed into his palm, set down the bottle, and looked at the seed. It was amazing that a little seed could grow into a huge tree. Frank could not pay the seed to grow. He could not threaten it. All he could do was plant the seed and believe in it. Faith was a simple idea in a complicated world. It seemed almost naïve in some circumstances while logical in others. Frank felt detached from simplicity. The world pulled him in another direction. The kind of men he’d often dealt with in the past could
not be trusted in to do the right things. They had to be bribed, blackmailed, or threatened. What kind of a man had Frank become? A man who dealt with reality perhaps.
For years he had studied histories of Machiavelli, The Corsican, Hannibal, Clausewitz, Plutarch, and the others. He’d saturated his mind with a range of philosophies. But now, he was worn down by it all. A whisper calmed him. He wanted to live peacefully and simply. He wanted to sleep soundly at night. But, he still lived in a very complicated world, and he had to deal with situations in a realistic way. Frank dropped the little seed into the antique bottle and shoved it into his pocket.
Misty Butte rose broad on the port beam, her high peak lost in gray cloud cover. Dead ahead, a wide swath of shoreline separated Brian and Clay’s log homes at the end of the protected harbor. Behind them, the Snowy Mountain Range rose like the teeth of a saw, two-thousand feet, to dramatic, stark peaks and serrated ridges. Fresh snow dusted the mountainsides, frosting them white at the upper reaches. On the starboard bow, at the foot of gentle hills of brown tundra sat Casa del Norte, the home he built for Melody and his son. All this he absorbed with exhilaration, and yet he found himself gripping the helm tensely.
Karen Nash greeted them at the old wharf.
Brian and Clay manned the deck; Frank, the foc’sle crane. Working together they offloaded the pallets of supplies onto the dock and hand carried the boxes into the wharf shack. They were finishing up when Abby climbed onto the dock, her hair pinned up in a bun. Frank introduced her to Karen, and they talked for a while. Finally, Clay slung his caribou-hide backpack over his shoulder and started down the beach.
With darkness setting upon the island, Brian threw off the hawsers, and water churned as Frank eased the Hector away from the pier.
Came a dusky stretch tugging along the shore under shadowy silhouettes, tugging across the calm, protected harbor to the landing pier at Casa del Norte. Luke and Ingrid were waiting in the dim of nightfall to belay the lines.