by Cliff Happy
Kristen hoped this was just good-natured ribbing. She stifled a yawn. “I might have, sir,” she paused and then added with cautious levity, “but women aren’t allowed in the SEALs.”
“I’ll be buggered,” O’Rourke chuckled with a smile, surprised to find a mere Nub with the backbone to tease the captain.
Brodie nodded his head and offered a rakish smile. He was as filthy as the rest of them, and looked even more exhausted, but there was an amused look in his eyes. “You don’t strike me as the type of woman to let a little thing like that stand in your way, Lieutenant.”
Kristen came to attention before departing to leave the three men in privacy. “No sir, I’m not,” she replied and then added, “Good day, gentlemen.” She didn’t salute since they were indoors and uncovered, but Brodie responded with what might have been a half-hearted tip of his hat as if he had been wearing one.
Kristen felt good about her effort over the previous evening. At times she’d felt almost as if those around her were accepting her being on board. But she couldn’t be sure. As she walked away, she could hear the three men chuckling behind her. A part of her hoped they might be laughing with her, but she’d been through too much to believe it and assumed the worst.
One night’s work wouldn’t win her acceptance here.
Chapter Six
Musudan-ri, North Korea
Doctor Dar-Hyun Choi pushed himself away from his desk, removed his glasses and rubbed the sore bridge of his nose and his tired eyes. He allowed himself to close his eyes for a few seconds. He was tired. More tired than he’d been the previous evening, far more so than a year ago.
How much more tired shall you be tomorrow?
He considered the hollowness in his chest. The vigor of youth was long gone, and he knew—even with the best medical care available in the People’s Democratic Republic—he wouldn’t last another year. Time was now his most precious commodity, and he was running out of it rapidly. He checked his wristwatch and sighed. His day was done. Doctor’s orders. In his youth, he’d worked twenty hour days, seven days a week and his superiors had supported this. But even the draconian leaders of his government recognized his frailty and no longer pushed him as they once had.
He considered the program running on his computer screen, saved his latest design ideas, and then powered down. Even here, at his country’s most important rocket testing facility, electricity was a precious commodity. He stood, feeling the weakness in his limbs and the light headedness that came with sudden movements.
He clicked off his office light as he opened the door to exit.
Waiting outside the door were his “escorts.” This title was far preferable to the term “handlers” or, perhaps more accurate “jailers.” There’d been a time, during the reign of the first Supreme Leader, that he’d enjoyed relative freedom, and even after the Leader’s death, Dr. Dar-Hyun had enjoyed significant liberty, especially when compared to his fellow countrymen. He’d only been assigned handlers after he’d returned from visits to Russia and Iran. But now, apparently, the latest leadership’s skepticism regarding his loyalty was waning.
“Good evening, Comrade Doctor,” one of his guards greeted him politely. They were soldiers. Part of the security regiment assigned to guard the Musudan-ri facility. “How are you feeling?”
The standard question. Even the lowly privates and corporals assigned to keep an eye on him were aware of his ailments. A heart transplant had been considered the previous year. Arrangements had even been made for him to be taken to Beijing, China where a hospital and a competent set of surgeons would have performed the operation. But he’d been too weak, and the doctors had decided he wouldn’t have survived the procedure.
“I am fine,” he answered as usual. One led the way while the other followed Choi out of the hardened office complex. The administrative building at Musudan-ri where Choi worked was made of heavily reinforced concrete to help protect the valuable research being conducted there in the event the United States or the traitors in the South launched an attack to cripple the Republic’s rocket program. At the exit, he paused long enough to don a heavy winter coat and felt hat.
Once appropriately dressed, Choi stepped out into the cold before pausing long enough to hear screeching as the heavy steel door was slid back on rusting rollers. He almost laughed, knowing that if the United States wanted to destroy the facility, the three-foot thick concrete walls would be no impediment.
Unlike the dank, stale air in the administration building, the air outside was quite refreshing. Choi took a few deep breaths while the door behind him was sealed. He always loved this time of night. After twelve hours locked away in his office and labs, it was nice to smell the sea air and imagine it was free air, too.
As with the previous evening, and every evening since he’d returned to Musudan-ri after his doctor’s prognosis had been made a year earlier, he turned toward the sea for his daily allotted exercise. In his youth, the long walks had helped stimulate his thoughts and he’d developed some of his best ideas during his nightly excursions. But like his lost virility, he’d run out of new ideas. Despite the years of work, efforts at foreign espionage, and the purchase of rockets from abroad, the latest round of tests were not hopeful. The reasons were legion, but none more so than a complete lack of resources. Whereas western democracies might use ten to twenty test rockets before fielding a viable prototype, the People’s Republic could afford no such waste. One rocket had to equal success. Then, even if said rocket failed, the results had to be successful. Propaganda was, after all, about managing the truth, not speaking it.
He buried his hands in his pockets, wondering briefly as he smelled the salt air if this might be the night…
“Good evening, Doctor,” came a familiar voice.
Choi turned and saw General Cheong-In, head of the DPRK’s strategic rocket program, and Choi’s superior. Choi paused, wondering just what the general’s unexpected presence might mean. Choi knew he was under suspicion. Why else was he being guarded wherever he went? Was the general here to arrest him? Doubtful. Despite the regime’s concerns regarding Choi’s loyalty, they still needed him, which was saying quite a bit considering how frivolously the regime squandered the lives of its citizens.
Choi had seen the dead on the streets of Pyongyang, the capital of the “Great Worker’s Utopia.” Most had literally collapsed from starvation. Others had frozen to death during the long winters. As a young man, Choi had assumed such incidents were normal, and he hadn’t considered it anything to be alarmed about. He’d been a good, loyal worker struggling to advance the revolutionary goals. But then had come the need for him to travel, and with that, the exposure to the other world; the world outside the DPRK. It had been, to say the very least, an eye opening experience. Moscow had been devoid of such misery, and while in Iran he’d seen that everything beyond the borders of North Korea were not the wasteland the Supreme Leaders had insisted. It had been in Moscow, while studying the Soviet Union’s rocket technology, that he’d first begun to question. Not that he could voice his thoughts in any way. In North Korea, after all, freedom of thought was the greatest crime. The regime knew what was best for the people who were to simply obey, smile, and be happy.
“Good evening, Comrade General,” Choi greeted. General Cheong-In wasn’t here to check up on Choi’s health.
“Might I walk with you this evening?” the general asked. He was short, even for a Korean, but unlike most of the people in Korea, the general clearly ate well as his protruding belly indicated.
“You would be most welcome, Comrade,” Choi lied. He’d gotten quite good at it over the years.
The general smiled and waved away the handlers, allowing him to speak privately with Choi as they walked. The handlers didn’t go far; they simply followed from a discreet distance. “How are you feeling, Doctor?”
Choi had long ago grown tired of the inevitable question. “I am fine.” He gave the same answer he always did, both men knowing full well he
was lying.
The general wasted no time getting right to the point. “We need another test.”
Choi exhaled tiredly as he turned down a sand and gravel road toward the rocky beach where he walked each night prior to retiring for the evening. “The last test was only partially successful,” he tried to explain.
“We know,” the general replied.
Choi was only too aware that the DPRK could hardly afford to waste limited resources retesting a flawed design and he said as much. “General, what would the point be in that? We have retrieved all the test data from the previous launch and have yet to correct the design flaws. The third stage separated, but the rocket barely reached orbit, and was off course when it did.”
“I am well aware of the flaws,” the general insisted, “but we have our orders.”
Choi didn’t understand. Not that he truly understood his country any longer. He’d long ago stopped trying to justify the actions of a regime he no longer believed in. But he asked, “Does this have anything to do with the mobilization orders?” He’d learned, quite by accident, that his country was mobilizing their entire army under the pretense of an exercise.
“That is not your concern, Doctor,” the general reminded him.
Choi had little to lose, and they couldn’t threaten him anymore. He briefly thought of his wife, and immediately felt the tightness in his chest. He missed her terribly. He looked wistfully out toward the sea, just a few hundred yards away, and again wondered if this night might be the night…
“What is it, Doctor?” the general asked following the doctor’s gaze.
“Another test will prove nothing and be a waste of State resources,” he argued gently, not really caring.
“Regardless, you are to prepare all the rockets currently at Musudan-ri for immediate launch.”
Choi suddenly felt alarm. As a child, he’d been taught that his country faced imminent invasion. It was the undeniable fact that the United States and their puppet regime’s in the south ultimate goal was to crush the DPRK and enslave the people there under the yoke of capitalism. He’d begun to doubt this rhetoric as he got older when the impending doom of invasion never materialized. But the general’s tone caused the old fear to well up with in him. “What has happened, Comrade General?”
“Don’t concern yourself about things beyond your control, Doctor,” the general dutifully corrected. He then added in the event someone might be listening, “We all have our orders.”
Choi had no access to the world outside North Korea. He could only listen to the official news broadcasts and read the government newspaper. None of which he trusted any longer. But, despite this, he knew his country’s missile and nuclear tests had caused alarm in the West. The Western response had been harsh sanctions that exacerbated the chronic shortages of the bare necessities of life such as food and fuel for heat. “But, what has happened?” he asked again, pressing his luck. There’d been a time when such a question would have been unthinkable to ask. Choi had been a father and a husband. He’d had his entire life ahead of him. But his life was now in the past, as was his family.
Another twinge of discomfort.
“Our nation is threatened from all sides,” the general responded automatically. “Our strategic rocket arm must be ready to rain destruction on our enemies if provoked,” the general added, glancing back at the two handlers with a hint of nervousness. In the DPRK, nothing and no one was exactly who they appeared to be. A smile often hid a snarl; a polite greeting could be the harbinger of death; the open hand of friendship might conceal the knife. For all Choi knew, one of his handlers was actually a member of the secret police, and everything the two men were discussing would be reported. The general had to be careful; he was still relatively young.
Choi knew there would be no arguing with the decision. He would supervise the preparations of the remaining rockets, well aware they would fail as their predecessor had. “Very well, General. How long before they must be ready for launch?”
“As soon as possible. This must be your priority. Nothing else matters.”
Choi considered the possible reason for such a rash order. There were currently four rockets available for further tests, and there would be no more anytime soon. To waste even one was unthinkable. Their latest rocket tests had helped ratchet up tension on the peninsula, and Choi was well aware that war was a real possibility. Further tests might push the Americans, the Japanese or the South Koreans to launch a preemptive strike. Choi no longer feared death for himself, but he knew war would lead to even greater misery for his people. The illusion he had lived under about the North’s invulnerability had been dispelled years earlier, and he was only too aware of his nation’s backwardness.
“It will be difficult to prepare another rocket without American surveillance detecting our activities,” Choi pointed out. Such concerns had always been taken into account in the past. The Americans maintained dedicated spy satellites in geosynchronous orbit above North Korea and would see every move made at Musudan-ri.
“That is no longer a concern. In fact, quite the opposite.”
Choi continued walking but turned his significant intellect to the general’s comment. He considered many possible explanations for such recklessness. Certainly there’d been many occasions when the regime had thumbed its nose at the world community, but to tempt the wrath of the western powers was—at the very least—foolish. Choi wondered what his nation might possibly gain by such a move.
“Doctor?” the general asked after several seconds of silence.
“Are you sure this is wise?” He quickly added, “The rockets are in no condition to be used against our enemies.”
“You have your orders, Comrade Doctor.”
It made no sense. To antagonize the Americans was foolish. They’d shown their willingness to unleash their military on Iraq and Afghanistan. Choi felt he understood the power arrayed against his tiny nation better than most. Despite his leader’s bluster, the United States could destroy his tiny country easily. Certainly he never expected the regime to simply comply with the West’s desires, but to provoke an attack seemed the height of irrationality. He was a scientist. An engineer. His world was a precisely ordered place of precise angles and clear answers to complex problems. But there was no simple explanation for what the general was suggesting.
“Why?” he asked, doing something he knew he wasn’t supposed to do. “What can we gain by wasting our rockets in a futile display of our incapability?”
The general looked back over his shoulder, making certain the two handlers were out of earshot. “Your lack of faith in the Leader is disturbing, my old friend,” the general admitted softly. They had never been friends, but Choi didn’t point this out; instead, he listened. “We must maintain the illusion of progress here,” the general confided in a soft whisper.
This only added to the confusion Choi felt. “But surely you understand, our rockets are not yet capable of offensive use. The nose cone is ballistic, but unless there has been some breakthrough by our nuclear engineers, we couldn’t hope to deploy a warhead. Our guidance system is severely flawed and…”
The general patted him comfortingly on the shoulder. “Trust in the Leader, Comrade. The Americans are fools.”
“But none of it makes any sense,” Choi finally said in frustration, afraid for his country. “The Americans will not just sit idly by while we make overt preparations for war.”
To his surprise, the general’s expression changed to one of satisfaction. They reached the end of the road Choi walked along each night, and the general again patted Choi’s shoulder reassuringly. “Precisely.”
Chapter Seven
Wardroom, USS Seawolf
Kristen knew she would regret not taking at least a short power nap before returning to the submarine for the customary morning officers’ meeting. The meeting was held in the wardroom, which served as a combination dining hall, conference room, and recreation center for the officers on board. Rectangular
in shape, a large table was the centerpiece with enough chairs for the Seawolf’s fifteen assigned officers plus a few guests. The bulkheads were covered in fake wood paneling and the floor in blue tile. In one corner was a credenza packed with assorted junk food, a microwave, and a coffee pot. Another wall was covered in bookshelves filled with manuals she could use to help study for her exams. Near the head of the table, where the captain’s chair was waiting empty, was a pair of ship’s phones, a 1MC speaker, and microphone. Plus there was an Integrated Augmentation Display (IAD) that, when active, displayed important ship’s information such as course, depth, and speed. A television and DVD combination was mounted in a corner just below the perfunctory pipes, wiring, and duct work that were visible everywhere on board. On the remaining wall was an interactive SMART Board connected to a computer that could be used for briefings.
Kristen arrived for the meeting early, having showered and changed at her barracks before rushing back to the submarine to begin studying for her qualifications. She took a seat away from where the captain would sit, assuming the officers would be seated by seniority, leaving her at the far end of the table. The wardroom was empty, and she hoped to have an hour of uninterrupted study time.
After thirty minutes however, she was interrupted as Gibbs, the mess steward, stepped through a swinging door that led to the galley. She looked up as he entered.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he greeted her with a cheerful expression and rubbed his hands together in a hint of excitement. “I didn’t expect anyone in this early; can I get you anything?”
Kristen was starving, having missed dinner the previous evening. She’d been tempted by the candy bars in the credenza but had resisted in hopes of something more substantial. “What’s for breakfast, Mister Gibbs?” she asked recalling how the captain used “mister” whenever he spoke to any enlisted man except COB, whom he called “Spike.” However, she noticed no one else on board dared refer to COB by the nickname.