The Pacific Rim Collection

by Don Brown

  They had turned in a west-northwesterly direction and were flying straight toward the North Korean shoreline. This marked their final course change. Gunner’s heart pounded, for with this turn, there was no turning back.

  Down below, swells rolled gently. No whitecaps were in sight.

  Gunner turned around and saw Jackrabbit putting gun oil on the barrel of one of the M-16s. He caressed the barrel with his hands as if it were some sort of idol-god. With the droning roar of the plane’s engine filling the cabin, Jackrabbit’s eyes danced and sparkled as they ran up and down the barrel of the rifle. And that grotesque scar on his face morphed into a wicked smile as he touched the weapon with what seemed like a sense of reverence. He almost looked like a crazed killer in a trance, Gunner thought.

  Sea of Japan, full flight path with fake Mayday site,

  North and South Korea, Japan

  Maybe that’s exactly what he was … a crazed killer in a trance. Of course, how could one serve in the Special Forces without being a crazy, ruthless killer at heart?

  Maybe there was a reason he had expatriated from the United States to Korea.

  “Hey, Jackrabbit.” Gunner broke the trance. Jackrabbit’s eyes left the gun, and the scar changed from a wicked smile to a grotesque scar.

  “What?”

  “Question.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Well, don’t take this the wrong way, but if I’m getting ready to go into battle with somebody named ‘Jackrabbit,’ I’d like to know why he’s named Jackrabbit.”

  Jackrabbit snickered, laid the gun down, and leaned forward. “It started when I was eighteen years old, just before I joined the Army. We were huntin’ for deer down around Lake Phelps, near my hometown of Creswell, North Carolina. Me and my daddy and a couple of buddies.

  “Well, we were in the corner of a peanut field, over by the edge of the woods, when out from the other side there ran up the biggest buck I ever saw. Must’ve been a fourteen-pointer.

  “It was my turn to take a shot, so I cocked that little Winchester 30-30 I’d gotten for my sixteenth birthday, and I bore down on the deer. I knew I had him good. Had his neck right in my gun sights. And just before I squeezed the trigger, something spooked him. That ole buck turned tail and ran right back across that field, zigzagging away from me as fast as he could run.

  “Well, I was mad as all get out when I looked down and saw what spooked that buck. Standing right there on his haunches beside where the buck had been, eatin’ peanuts, was the biggest jackrabbit I ever saw. At least it looked like a jackrabbit to me. Must’ve been four foot on its hind legs!

  “I was hacked off at that rabbit. So I bore my sights down on him and pulled the trigger. I thought I had him, but he danced over to the left and stood there and laughed at me. So I recocked the Winchester and fired again. Same dang thing. That ole rabbit stood there and danced to the left and danced to the right. I must’ve shot six or seven times and never could hit him.

  “So when we got back to the truck, they started calling me ‘Jackrabbit.’ Guess it sort of stuck.”

  He picked up the gun again.

  “Dang, Jackrabbit,” Gunner said, “I sure hope you can shoot better than that.”

  Jackrabbit snickered. “Don’t worry, Commander. That ole jackrabbit is the only target I ever missed. Haven’t missed anything since, and I’m not going to start —”

  The roar of the engine swallowed his last words.

  “You ever heard that story, Jung-Hoon?” Gunner asked, raising his voice to be heard.

  “Yes,” the pilot said, smiling, “many times.”

  Gunner looked out the window. A school of porpoises leaped in the water below them. They were headed toward the west. Toward North Korea.

  “One more question, Jackrabbit,” Gunner said.

  “Let me guess,” the voice came from the back of the plane. “You want to know about the scar.”

  Gunner half laughed. “Well, it’s got a history. And if I’m going into combat with a man, I figure I want to know the story behind it.”

  The porpoises had disappeared, leaving nothing below but deep blue rolling swells.

  “Knife fight,” Jackrabbit said. “Special Forces recon mission in Indochina. The jungles of Cambodia. A Communist special forces thug dropped out of a tree, right in my face.

  “Got me with his knife. I got his heart with mine. I drug his body about fifteen feet off the path. Later, when I came back through there, I checked on him. The buzzards and snakes had taken care of most of the poor sucker. End of story.”

  Gunner shook his head. “So are you better with a knife or a rifle?”

  “Put it this way, Commander. I’ve killed more men with a knife than you’ve got toes on your feet, and I’ve killed more men with a rifle than you’ve got fingers on your hands.”

  “Dang,” Gunner said.

  “Dang is right, Commander.”

  Gunner let that thought lie as the plane flew on its course toward the North Korean coast. “Thanks, Jackrabbit. I’m glad you’re on my team.”

  “Dang straight I’m on your team. I can’t promise you won’t get killed. But I can promise you this. They might kill you, but they’ll have to kill me first.”

  What a great idea to have a deranged killer on the side of righteousness, Gunner thought. He smiled. “Well, Jackrabbit, I’m glad you’ve got my back.”

  “Bank on it, Commander. You don’t die unless I die first.”

  Corbin Hall

  Suffolk, Virginia

  In the midst of the king-sized bed, covered with satin sheets and blankets and with her head resting upon a puffy pink satin pillow, Margaret Pendleton McCormick rolled to her left. Then she rolled to her right. And when that didn’t work, she rolled to her left again.

  From this position on her left side, her ear buried deep in the pillow, she opened her eyes. The digital alarm clock on the nightstand showed three in the morning.

  Why couldn’t she sleep?

  After twisting and turning a couple more times, Margaret succumbed to the notion that sleeplessness had won the battle. She pushed the covers off, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and slipped her feet into soft slippers. She stood up and grabbed her flannel robe, draped on the recliner beside her bed.

  She had come to the conclusion years ago that when she could not sleep, the Good Lord was rousing her to tell her something. She headed for the hallway with an unexplained unease knotted in her stomach.

  She went to the kitchen, flipped on the overhead lights, then went to the den and turned on a lamp. Off in the corner of the stately room, the majestic ten-foot fir tree that her son Gorman Jr. had brought in the night before stood waiting to be adorned with the family’s traditional Christmas decorations.

  She thought about hanging a few ornaments on the tree. Her better judgment stopped her. The Thanksgiving tradition at Corbin Hall was all about the grandchildren, Tyler and Jill. The youngest grandchild always hung the first ornaments on the tree the day after Thanksgiving, and decorating the tree was planned for right after breakfast in just a few hours.

  “Leave the tree alone,” she said aloud, then plopped into the leather wingback chair and reached for the remote control. She punched the “On” button. The venerable Tom Miller, longtime CNN anchor, appeared on the screen.

  She turned up the volume. “Why’s he on air at this time of morning?” she muttered.

  “CNN has learned that a North Korean missile has hit the aircraft carrier USS Harry S. Truman. The ship is in the Yellow Sea, to the west of the North Korean peninsula.”

  “Dear Lord,” Margaret said. “That’s Gunner’s ship!”

  “The White House is reporting that the National Security Council is meeting at this hour to discuss the situation in Korea and the attack on the Harry Truman.” The screen switched to file footage of the aircraft carrier. “We’re looking at file footage here from three months ago of the USS Harry S. Truman sailing out from the port of San Diego. Accordin
g to the White House, the ship is still afloat but did sustain damage as a result of the attack. There was some loss of life.”

  The screen switched back to Miller, who was slipping on his trademark wire-rimmed glasses. “Again, the White House is reporting an attack on the nuclear carrier USS Harry S. Truman by North Korea.”

  Margaret could not control her sudden breathlessness and her pounding heart. She muted the television and fell to her knees in front of the wingback chair. “Oh, dear Jesus! I have already lost a father in that place called Korea. Please, please, don’t let me lose a son too!”

  Beechcraft Bonanza G36

  over the Sea of Japan

  The sun, now a large orange ball, was sinking below the horizon, spreading an orange carpet across the water as if guiding the plane to its deadly destination.

  “We are approaching our ditch point,” Jung-Hoon said. “I am going into a steep climb to one thousand feet. We could be detected by radar. I will do a circular glide path down to the water. The seas do not look too rough. Have all flotation devices ready. Jackrabbit, are you ready to deploy the Zodiac?”

  “All ready,” Jackrabbit said from the back of the cabin.

  “You ready, Commander?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Beginning ascent.” Jung-Hoon pulled back on the yoke. The plane nosed up into a steep climb, pushing Gunner back into his seat. He looked at the instruments and saw the numbers on the altimeter beginning to increase.

  100 feet …

  200 feet …

  250 feet …

  NKN Frigate Najin

  the Sea of Japan

  The North Korean Navy frigate Najin, on patrol off the North Korean coast, was 328 feet from bow to stern, had a maximum speed of 25 knots, or 28 miles per hour, and carried a crew of 180 black-jacketed sailors and officers of the proud North Korean Navy.

  As the sun began setting below the horizon of the darkening waters of the Sea of Japan, all over the ship, from the bridge to the engine room, from the forward to the aft watch, the news spread like fire upon a sea of gasoline. The Najin’s comrades serving in the Western Fleet of the North Korean Navy patrolling in the Yellow Sea had delivered the first fatal blow to a powerful United States aircraft carrier!

  The excitement from the news had spread throughout the crew, but was soon dampened by frustration. The announcement by the ship’s executive officer over the ship’s loudspeaker system thirty minutes ago was proof that all the action was taking place on the west side of the peninsula, in the Yellow Sea, not on the east side, where the Najin was stationed.

  The brave crew of the Najin was anxious to get into the fight with the Americans. They wanted to show the Yankees that their superior naval force could teach the Americans the folly of sailing the waters off the Democratic People’s Republic, for the Navy of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea was a great tiger ready to roar.

  This fervor for war swept into every crevice of the ship. In the Najin’s radar control room, Petty Officer First Class Jong Tae-se, distracted by the news, tried to concentrate on the boring sweep of the empty black-and-green radar screen, which continued to show that the Najin was alone in this sector of the Sea of Japan.

  Sweep … Sweep … Sweep … Round and round and round.

  Like a fast-moving, lit-up green electronic second hand sweeping around the black face of a round and numberless watch, the sweeps for ships and planes came up empty.

  Sweep … Sweep … Sweep … Still nothing.

  If they were in the Yellow Sea at the moment, he thought, the sweeps would be lit up with American warships and planes. Their fire-control radars would be fixed on the enemy. The crew members of the Najin would be poised to take their place in history — indeed, in destiny.

  The Yellow Sea fleet always seemed to get more money and glory, he thought, than ships like the Najin in the Sea of Japan. Did those in Pyongyang not remember the fact that Japan remains a strong ally of the hated US and as such is an enemy and poses a threat to the Democratic People’s Republic? Could it be that the Yellow Sea fleet got all the attention because Pyongyang, and thus the Dear Leader himself, is much closer to the Yellow Sea than he is to the Sea of Japan?

  But Jong’s duty was not to question, but rather to continue watching the ship’s radar screen. Sweep … Sweep … Round and round and round …

  Beep beep beep beep beep beep beep …

  What was that?

  “Lieutenant! Over here! Something just popped up on my screen!”

  Beechcraft Bonanza G36

  over the Sea of Japan

  The altimeter on the instrument panel kept climbing. As his heart pounded like a submachine gun firing on full automatic, Gunner kept his eyes on the plane’s altimeter as it climbed to a thousand feet.

  “Going down now,” Jung-Hoon said. “Get ready to inflate that Zodiac.”

  “It’s ready.”

  The blanket of tension that descended on the cockpit was as real and as thick as choking smoke. With the last few minutes of sunlight casting an orange reflection on the Bonanza’s yellow wings, the altimeter began reversing itself, then dropped fast.

  Gunner processed the mental checklist of his duties when they splashed down. Jackrabbit would open the door and deploy the Zodiac. Once deployed and secured by a temporary line inside the plane, Jackrabbit would get in and they would quickly load the gear. That was the plan anyway.

  500 feet …

  400 feet …

  300 feet …

  “I’ll cut the engine at fifty feet,” Jung-Hoon said rapidly. “Can’t have the engine running when we hit or the prop might flip us. Hang on.”

  200 feet …

  100 feet …

  The roaring engine went silent. Air whisked past as the water rushed closer to the wings and the nose started to come up … then SPLASH!

  The plane hit nose first with a shocking thud. Dark water rushed over the windshield. Icy seawater streamed in around the doors …

  NKN Frigate Najin

  the Sea of Japan

  Lieutenant, the blip is gone!” Petty Officer First Class Jong Tae-se shouted at the radar officer.

  “What do you mean it’s gone?” The radar officer looked over his shoulder.

  “I tracked it about ten miles west of our position, and it disappeared as quickly as it appeared.”

  “That is strange,” the radar officer said. “Mark the coordinates. I will notify the captain.”

  Beechcraft Bonanza G36

  the Sea of Japan

  The water pouring in around the edges of the aircraft door was icy cold. The cabin, still submerged in the sea, was pitch dark. The nose of the plane, buoyant with the air trapped in the cockpit, started rising, then popped straight up out of the water. Graying light of dusk streamed into the cabin. Outside, the wings were a couple of inches under water, but the plane was still afloat — for now.

  “We gotta move,” Jackrabbit said. “I’m going to open the door and inflate the boat. Once it’s up, Commander, move in the back and start passing me supplies. We’ve got to move fast. This plane could sink to the bottom any second.”

  “Got it,” Gunner said.

  Jackrabbit turned the cabin latch counterclockwise and pushed the door open. Cold air rushed into the plane. Some water sloshed in from the wing.

  The waves were long and rolling, and the plane rode them up and down.

  Jackrabbit quickly unrolled the black rubber raft out on the partially submerged wing. A long black hose tethered the raft to a CO2 tank inside the plane. The uninflated rubber floated gently on top of the cold saltwater.

  Jackrabbit pivoted back toward the CO2 tank and turned a valve.

  Hisssssssssssssssss …

  Nothing. No life in the raft. Nothing. Just more seawater sloshing in. The Zodiac remained a flat, uninflated sheet of rubber floating over the wing.

  “Come on, dang it!” Jackrabbit uttered an obscenity under his breath. “Something’s not right. Let me check
the line.” He shut off the valve. The hissing stopped. “Hope I’ve not used up all the CO2.” He started tinkering with the line between the CO2 tank and the boat.

  The plane rose on a long swell. Then it dropped down into the trough of the swell. Slooooooooooosh. Water rushed into the cabin, and then, as the plane rode up again on the next swell, the water that had just sloshed in, or most of it, drained back out.

  “Late afternoon breeze picking up at sundown,” Jung-Hoon said in a voice so calm he could have been ordering a Big Mac in the drive-through at McDonald’s. Gunner shook his head. The total lack of fear displayed by both men was amazing. It was as if they were both unfazed by the fact that they were on a sinking aircraft on a faraway sea thousands of miles from home, and if that CO2 tank didn’t work soon, they would never see home again.

  “You boys might want to get life jackets on,” Jackrabbit said as he twiddled with the line.

  Another large swell lifted the plane up toward the darkening sky, followed by another dip down into the trough of the swell, followed by another sloooooooooshhhh.

  More water in … more water draining back out.

  But each time, more water stayed in the plane. By now, about a half inch covered the floor of the cabin. To make matters worse, the nose of the plane had sunk several inches lower into the sea.

  “We are starting to sink,” Jung-Hoon said, again in a voice of calm.

  “Hang on, boys,” Jackrabbit said. “I’m working on it.” He kept fiddling, twisting something attached to the long black hose.

  The plane started rising again on the next swell. Sloooooooooooshhhh. Another sheet of cold water sloshed in.

  “There’s a bad connection where the hose from the tank is screwed into the extension hose. Hang on.” Slumped over, Jackrabbit moved across the watery floor of the plane and put his hands on the valve of the CO2 tank. “Let’s hope this works or we’re gonna have a long swim.”

  Let’s hope … and pray, Gunner thought.

  More water sloshed into the cabin. Jackrabbit twisted the valve again.

  Hissssssssssssssssssssssssss …

  The graying skies and twinkling starlight cast a grayish but still visible hue on the lifeless rubber form floating on the water. Daylight had surrendered to nightfall. But the fading vestiges of dim light revealed that the boat remained a useless, lifeless sheet of rubber floating about an inch now above the sinking wing.