The Pacific Rim Collection

by Don Brown

  “Let’s hope for the skipper’s sake that’s the case,” Mack muttered.

  “Yes, sir,” Arthur said.

  “Now,” Mack said, “what are we doing to make sure our carrier isn’t threatened again? Because, gentlemen, I will not be the first president in United States history to lose five thousand sailors in one swoop.”

  Another brief pause. Then Arthur spoke up again. “Sir, the carrier strike group is under the command of Rear Admiral James Hampton. Admiral Hampton himself is an ex-carrier commander and shares everyone’s concerns about making sure that no more missiles get anywhere close to the Truman. He’s already repositioned most of our ships, except for one, out to the east of the Truman to provide additional missile screens in the event of another attack.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Mack said. “We’ve now got all our ships between the carrier and the North Koreans, except one. And that one is supposed to screen against the Chinese on the other side in the event that the Chinese decide to attack?”

  “Mr. President,” Jones said, “Admiral Hampton is taking a calculated gamble that the Chinese won’t attack. He feels that the ships should be positioned in this array to best protect the Truman if the North Koreans fire another missile.”

  Mack stood up from the table and folded his arms. “What ship is flanking the Truman on the left?”

  “USS Hue City,” Arthur said. “Ticonderoga-class cruiser.”

  “Another Ticonderoga-class cruiser,” Mack said, “with the same suspect SM-3s, just like the Lake Erie?” As an ex-naval officer, the president had a good understanding of what had just happened and the deadly risks of faulty weaponry. “I suppose that’s the right decision,” he muttered. “But if the Chinese attack our carrier, it’s the start of World War III.”

  “Yes, sir,” Arthur said.

  Mack looked at the two admirals. “Tell every skipper of every surface ship in this task force to use every means available to defend against any missile attacks, and that means I expect them to employ the Aegis system if an attacking missile comes within range.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jones and Arthur said almost simultaneously.

  “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” Mack said. “As an ex-naval officer, I take it real personal when someone tries to attack one of our ships. No one attacks a US warship, especially a nuclear-powered aircraft carrier, without paying a heavy price.” He paused. “Admiral Jones, what nuclear subs do we have near North Korea at the moment?”

  “USS Virginia is in the Yellow Sea with the carrier strike group. USS Boise is in the Sea of Japan, sir.”

  “Admiral Jones, contact the skipper of the Boise and tell him he’s got an assignment. By order of the president, he is to hunt down and sink the nearest North Korean Navy frigate that he can find.”

  “But, Mr. President,” Secretary of State Robert Mauney said, “the State Department’s concern would be that this could lead to unnecessary escalation. I recommend that we first try to open a dialogue to Kim Jong-il to defuse the situation diplomatically.”

  “Humph. Diplomacy. After they tried to sink an aircraft carrier with five thousand men aboard?” The president looked at the secretary of state. “Dear Leader will understand, in no uncertain terms, that when he tries to toy with the United States Navy, he will pay a heavy price.”

  Mack then turned to Admiral Jones. “And while you’re at it, Admiral Jones, tell the skipper of the Virginia that he is to hunt down the nearest North Korean Communist frigate in the Yellow Sea, to follow it like a bloodhound on the trail of a bleeding deer, and if I decide to give the order, he is to send that one to the bottom of the sea too.”

  “Yes, sir,” the chairman of the Joint Chiefs said.

  “But, Mr. President,” Secretary of State Mauney said, clearly agitated, “if we take out one and possibly two North Korean vessels, not only have we escalated this thing, sir, but I’m sure North Korea will ask for an emergency meeting of the United Nations Security Council. At the very least, the council would introduce a measure to condemn the action. I’m afraid that taking these retaliatory measures without first consulting the UN will make it much more difficult for us to build a consensus of nations against North Korea to condemn their attack.”

  “That’s enough.” Mack held up his hand to cut off the arguments of his secretary of state. “I appreciate the State Department and all you do. But you know how I feel about the United Nations. From the beginning, it’s functioned as a one-world-order organization whose sole function is to look down its collective nose at the one nation that funds it, the United States. The UN has advocated the transfer of wealth out of the United States, the elimination of international borders, the establishment of a single global currency, international gun control, and the elimination of American jobs. It’s become a friendly forum for radical and scientifically absurd ideas like global warming and has advocated cockamamie international tax schemes like cap-and-trade. It has done everything it can to end the sovereignty of the United States.”

  Mack looked around the table. “Let me tell you this, Mr. Secretary, this president is an American. And I am first an American.” He was now jabbing his finger in the air. Something about the secretary of state’s comments had needled him. “This president is not a globalist and never will be. My allegiance is to the Constitution of the United States of America and not to the Council on Foreign Relations, not to the Trilateral Commission, not to the so-called Bilderburg Group, or any other group of fancy billionaire globalist financiers. They sacrifice this republic and line their pockets with their one-world-order schemes.”

  He paused. “No, sir. No one-world order. Not on my watch. We are Americans. We have been attacked in international waters. And we shall respond as Americans have responded from the beginning of the republic. We shall defend ourselves, if necessary with overwhelming force. And in the words of President Reagan, our military shall respond with such strength that no potential adversary should ever test its strength.”

  Mack sat back down in his chair. “Now, I’m going to walk back over to the Lincoln bedroom and get some much-needed shut-eye. Unless there is an attack or some other catastrophe, I don’t want anyone to wake me.

  “But when I do wake up, Admiral Jones, I expect you to bring me the news that you have put a North Korean warship at the bottom of the sea.” Mack stood, prompting the generals and admirals to stand in response. “Are there any questions?”

  “No questions, Mr. President,” Admiral Jones said.

  “Good. We are adjourned.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Approaching Tongy’mak Municipal Airport

  South Korea

  The jagged mountains off to the right cast shadows across the winding road. Contrasted against that, off to the left, as the road snaked south along the coastline, Gunner found tranquility in catching views of the deep blue waters of the Sea of Japan.

  The three men had spoken little on the ride along the superhighway through the mountainous South Korean heartland. From the front passenger side, Gunner looked over into the back of the pickup’s crew cab, where Jackrabbit was lying flat-backed, mouth wide open, sawing logs in a consistent droning rhythm. Jackrabbit, in fact, had slept through most of the winding turns along the way and was, by all accounts, oblivious or unconcerned that he would soon begin a mission that could cost him his life.

  In the driver’s seat, Jung-Hoon, wearing shades against the bright afternoon sun, seemed equally unconcerned, as if another possible brush with danger amounted to nothing more than a Sunday afternoon stroll in Central Park.

  The sun would set at 5:16 p.m. If the funds transfer had been completed, they would be airborne by three. As the black pickup got closer to the small South Korean airport, Gunner wondered what changes the dusk would bring. Would the weapons and supplies arrive? Would the plane be ready?

  “How much longer, Jung-Hoon?”

  “Five kilometers to the turnoff for airport.”

  Was this mission the right t
hing? Gunner could not get his mind off what might be happening in the Yellow Sea at the moment. Nor could he stop the tug-of-war going on with his conscience.

  Admiral Hampton had not ordered him to check in periodically, and Gunner had left his hotel as the place to contact him. Technically, Gunner had not disobeyed any orders.

  At least not yet.

  The turn signal clicked for a right turn. The black pickup sped off the main road, and the centrifugal force seemed to get Jackrabbit stirring. Another quick right turn put them on the road leading to the airstrip. Jackrabbit sat up, rubbed his eyes, and looked out just as the black pickup pulled into the gravel parking lot in front of the airport’s small terminal.

  Two other vehicles were parked there, a silver Hyundai in front of the door to the building and a white flat-nosed panel truck parked a few feet behind it. A man sat inside the panel truck.

  “Our contact has arrived.” Jung-Hoon nodded toward the panel truck. “Jackrabbit, check with the driver to verify that all weapons and other supplies are present. The commander and I will check with the airport owner about the plane.”

  “Got it,” Jackrabbit said.

  The pickup rolled to a crunching stop on the gravel. “Wait here,” Jung-Hoon said. He opened the door, letting in a cold gush of wind, and then stepped out and walked over to the panel truck. The driver opened the door, and Jung-Hoon and the driver talked. A moment later, Jung-Hoon turned and motioned for Gunner and Jackrabbit to get out of the truck.

  “That’s our cue,” Jackrabbit said.

  “Looks like it,” Gunner replied.

  Both men opened their doors. Gunner stepped out, put on his jacket, and walked with Jackrabbit toward the panel truck. The long-haired driver had rolled the window down. He wore a black T-shirt despite the cold. A dragon figure tattoo on his bulging bicep made him look, Gunner thought, like a gang member. He was maybe in his midthirties.

  “This is Mr. Kim,” Jung-Hoon said, nodding to the driver.

  “Right,” Gunner muttered to Jackrabbit. “And I’m Mr. Smith.”

  “You better hope he doesn’t understand English.” Jackrabbit snickered.

  “Mr. Kim says everything’s here. Jackrabbit will check while we go talk to the airport owner. When we are through, Mr. Kim will help load materials onboard the plane.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Gunner said.

  “Let me see if I can get acquainted with our friend Mr. Kim.” Jackrabbit said. He walked over to the panel truck and stuck out his hand to the stranger, then launched into Korean with a Southern accent.

  “Come with me,” Jung-Hoon said to Gunner. They walked across the gravel to the front door of the small terminal. Jung-Hoon pulled the door open.

  To their left, a lean middle-aged Korean man stood behind the counter. On the wall behind him hung color photographs of airplanes in flight, mostly single- and twin-engine. This could have been any private one-horse airport in the United States except for the fact that the writing on the aviation posters was in Korean.

  The lobby was empty.

  The man shot a nervous-looking grin at them, and as they walked to the front counter, Jung-Hoon and the man commenced rattling in rapid-fire Korean. Gunner wasn’t sure who started the conversation.

  A moment later, at a pause in the chatter, the man looked at Gunner and nodded.

  “This is Mr. Kim,” Jung-Hoon said.

  “Aah, another Mr. Kim.” Gunner grinned. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “He says he has received the wire transfer for purchase of plane and he thanks you.”

  The man smiled and bowed to Gunner.

  “Tell him it is my pleasure,” Gunner said.

  More Korean. More smiling and half bowing. Gunner had a feeling that the guy understands English. The man reached under a counter, pulled out a pad, and began writing.

  “He says the plane is fueled and ready for takeoff. I told him to file a flight plan to Hamada, Japan. He is working on the flight plan now.”

  “How far from here to Hamada?” Gunner asked.

  “A little over three hundred miles.”

  More Korean.

  “He is writing my name, your name, and Jackrabbit’s name on the flight manifest, just as we discussed.”

  “Excellent,” Gunner said, as the man nodded and smiled but did not look up.

  Silence followed. Gunner’s eyes wandered around the empty lobby. In the back, behind two rows of empty plastic chairs, stood a Coke machine and a Nab machine, both with selections written in English. “Flight plan complete,” the man said.

  “So you understand English?” Gunner said.

  “Little bit,” the man said. “Come. I show you plane.”

  “I think that’s our cue,” Gunner said.

  “This way,” the man said. He stepped from behind the counter and led the men through the lobby to a glass door at the back of the building. They walked out into the late-afternoon cold onto an asphalt tarmac.

  Two planes, one a red-and-white single-engine Cessna, the other a yellow single-engine Bonanza with wings below the cabin windows, sat on the tarmac. The planes were parked about a hundred feet behind the building and to the right of a yellow hangar.

  Behind the planes, a long asphalt runway stretched from left to right. “Here is your plane.” Mr. Kim pointed to the yellow Beechcraft Bonanza Model G36. “This is my best plane. Congratulations. You will love it. I will miss it.”

  “Your English is pretty good, Mr. Kim,” Gunner said.

  “I spent five years as pilot in South Korean Air Force,” the man said. “Stationed at Osan. Flew F-15s. Worked with many Americans. I picked up English from that. But I do not get to practice much anymore.”

  “I see,” Gunner said.

  “I love this plane more than fighter jet. Not as fast, but easy to fly. I did not want to sell it. But I thank you for your purchase. This will help save my airport. I have money problems.”

  “Glad to oblige,” Gunner said. “You said it’s ready to fly?”

  “Yes, ready. Full of gas. Extra sealing in case of emergency water landing on your trip to Japan, as you requested.”

  “Excellent,” Gunner said. “Guess we need to check with Jackrabbit.”

  “I will call him.” Jung-Hoon flipped out his cell phone and punched a button. “How does it look? All there? … Excellent…. We’ll come get the crates out of the truck.”

  “No need for that,” Mr. Kim said. “He can drive the truck back around here.”

  “Hang on,” Jung-Hoon said. “The airport manager just said that our friend Mr. Kim can drive the truck back here.”

  “Wait one second,” the airport manager said. “I will unlock gate, then he can drive through.”

  “Excellent,” Jung-Hoon said. “The airport manager is walking around to unlock the gate.”

  “I be right back,” the manager said. He walked toward the end of the building.

  “So what’s his real name?” Gunner asked.

  “Perhaps I will tell you when we get in the air,” Jung-Hoon said.

  “Fair enough.”

  A few moments later, the panel truck wheeled around the end of the building, with the tattooed Mr. Kim still at the wheel and Jackrabbit in the passenger seat.

  The truck rolled to a stop behind the plane’s left wing. Jackrabbit and Mr. Kim opened their doors and got out.

  “We got three crates, boss,” Jackrabbit said. “Everything’s here.”

  The driver opened the twin doors on the side of the panel truck. He stepped into the truck and motioned for Jackrabbit to follow. A moment later they emerged, carrying a plywood crate about the size of a small coffin. “Two more in the truck,” Jackrabbit said. “If y’all want to grab one, we’ll get this one in the plane.”

  “Got it,” Gunner said.

  At that point, the younger Mr. Kim said something in Korean to the older airport-manager Mr. Kim, and the airport-manager Mr. Kim stepped up onto the wing of the aircraft next to the door of the fu
selage. It struck Gunner that the two Mr. Kims were in on something. He hoped they did not work for the South Korean government and that they would keep their mouths shut.

  Jackrabbit and Kim the younger carried the crate to the aircraft. They passed the wooden crate up to Kim the elder, who pulled the crate into the aircraft. Gunner noticed the S painted in red on the side of the crate.

  “Let’s get another one,” Gunner said.

  “Okay,” Jung-Hoon said, and they stepped into the back of the panel truck and lifted the crate, which had a W painted in red on it. The crate was not too heavy, perhaps fifty pounds. They quickly brought it out of the van onto the asphalt tarmac.

  Jackrabbit and the two Mr. Kims formed a human assembly line — on the tarmac, on the wing, and in the aircraft. Passing the second crate up through their outstretched arms proved to be an easy task.

  “One more,” Jackrabbit said.

  “I saw it,” Gunner said. “We’ll get it.”

  He motioned Jung-Hoon back to the truck. “We gotta hurry,” he said.

  The third crate, slightly larger than the other two, had the letters CRRC painted on it. “I have this end,” Gunner said. “Okay. Lift.”

  The third crate was heavier than the other two, but they quickly got it loaded into the aircraft.

  “Y’all ready to take off?” Jackrabbit asked.

  “Are you ready, Commander?”

  Gunner savored the moment, gazing out over the small airstrip, relishing this, his last possible glimpse of a free nation, knowing that they may not return. At that moment, a car, a blue Hyundai, was speeding down the road, headed toward the airport. Suddenly, blue lights flashed from the car’s roof.

  “Police!” Kim the elder said. “Probably nothing. But you better take off.”

  Kim the younger dashed to his panel truck, started it, and squealed off the tarmac.