by Andy Lettau
But these were not the thoughts of Pak. He was looking closely at a chart on his provisional desk, which was no more than a fold-out board fixed to the wall. The Captain had given him the chart after he had briefly explained to him how one set out a course. In Pak's hands were a compass and a ruler, in front of him the stub of a pencil. The chart covered an area of almost 2,000 sea miles and consisted of nothing more or less than scary depths across the mid-Atlantic ridges. Under the DA BAK SOL there was a real jaws of hell, a Dante's inferno of pitch black depth.
"We're in no man's land," he sighed, as he played absent-mindedly with the compass, unconsciously drawing concentric circles over the imaginary sea. It really didn't make any difference whether they headed northeast or southeast in their rickety old tub. They would without fail hit the courses taken by the cruise shipping lines, which had their floating hotels moving between New York, the Bermudas, the Bahamas, Miami, Key West and various other harbors in the Caribbean. And there they were supposed simply to wait and sink the first liner that could be identified as American - at least that was the order from Pyongyang.
Pride of America, it was going through his head. The Pride of America had already been hit. In fact, far too far off the scheduled route. Feverishly he tried to remember the route details from the travel catalogues that he had been handed at home, on condition that he memorized and destroyed them. Wasn't the Pride of America on the classic South American route ? Santiago de Chile round Cape Horn heading to Buenos Aires, calling at the Falkland Islands? Or was the voyage supposed to go from Buenos Aires to Rio de Janeiro, on to the Caribbean, and then up to the east coast of the USA ?
He thought so. The Pride of America was due to go half way around the world, the final destination of the several-month cruise New York, the center of capitalism. On board were probably showy permissive models, greedy stock market speculators and well-heeled pensioners, who had got their doubtful medals in the Korean War and had more than deserved to die.
Pak could see the images from the travel catalogues in his mind's eye. Exotic scenes, beautiful places, people dressed for parties or relaxing in the sun, walking through these ostentatious rich places as if it were the most natural thing in the world. If Yang had been able to see these places, the subject of all the things they had to do without in North Korea would surely have come up again. Conversations of the sort that were carried on only within your own four walls – best at night and in whispers.
He rolled up the chart and put the working board back on the wall. Then he moved over to the mattress, where he lay down and, as so often, stared at the shabby wall.
He couldn't stop thinking about the Pride of America catastrophe. He got the shivers and went cold when he thought about the silent voyage of the DA BAK SOL through the deep sea. The powerful American ship, sailing under the Panamian flag for reasons unknown to him. It must have been like an inferno when the wave broke through and hurled half of its human cargo overboard. Pak could easily imagine the horror on board, when the elegant giant turned over on its side and continued to move slowly but surely, which turned the luxury liner into a floating grave. How many had died inside the ship he could only guess. There must have been countless numbers of dead, the ship was equipped to take 5,000 passengers plus crew. The corpses he had seen floating in the water were surely only a fraction of them. He and Captain Ji had stopped counting at nineteen hundred.
What affected Pak most was the fact that so many young people were among the victims. He had seen children, maybe six years old. He had seen girls who were not yet adult. Many of them had been severely overweight or at least more than well-fed. A particularly malignant image haunted his memory, like the replica of some decadent hell: a fat teenage girl with bare breasts surrounded by floating refuse in the form of wet dollar bills. The Americans seemed to be rich, boundlessly rich, if they could afford to take their whole family on a trip like this. This did not fit in at all with the reports that he had to put up with in countless political education classes. According to his superiors it was only a fraction of the US population that were really rich, while most were half-starved, like his own people (even if you weren't allowed to say that at home).
Pak, without wanting to, had to think of his own parents, who lived a simple and hard rural life in Hwanghae-pukto province as carpenters and were members of the Workers Party of North Korea. All their savings had gone into bribing the right people so that their son would have an officer's career in the North Korean People's Navy. Although Pak had not been more than an average student in his training but had been quiet and respectful, his superiors assigned him to a frigate of the Najun class to defend the coast. From there he had been sent to various political cadres to educate him in the ways of real socialist party thinking.
And now here he was. On his first mission outside the territorial limits of the People's Republic of North Korea. Alone with his thoughts and wondering what it all meant and how Yang was doing. He had a good twenty minutes until Captain Ji, at his orders, put on the music and the Aegukka, the national anthem, so he reached for his pen and diary and found some release from his oppressive experiences in writing.
My darling Yang,
Today is the first time I feel strong enough to be able to tell you of more terrible things that have happened. We've seen death, thousandfold, in the form of a capsized American ship that sank to the bottom of the ocean in front of our eyes on a calm sea. Captain Ji, with whom I speak as much as I do with the local postman, called me up on deck and gave me his binoculars. I saw people who had probably clung to the railing to the last second before their strength ran out and they were swept out by the waves and drowned. A gruesome death that you wouldn't wish even on your enemies. Countless bodies in the calm sea, and I'm certain that their death is vengeance for the wasteful life of luxury they had led. They were carried off by the wave and are almost certainly dead. The Captain and I looked at each other and silently turned away. I wasn't allowed to endanger the lives of our men, but we wouldn't have found any survivors anyway. Even if we had, we wouldn't have been allowed to take them on board - they're the enemy, and I couldn't put the lives of our men at risk. It was a decision that wasn't ...
Anyway, we turned away and left the horror scene behind us. The Pride of America is now history. We too will write history with the DA BAK SOL, because our voyage is being continued. The sky is still red above and it's unbearably hot. We still have no contact with the outside world. We've seen no other ships or even airplanes. We've paid our last respects to the dead and buried them at sea. It was an oppressive ritual, attended by the rest of the crew on deck. Nobody said a word, and I didn't hold a speech. Afterwards there were hours of silence.
Darling Yang, the earth seems to have become a lonely place since I left and we last kissed, and there are only the two of us still on it. I miss you.
I'm pining to hold you in my arms again and feel you, to smell the fragrance of your skin and see the laughter in your eyes. If only we could sit next to each other and enjoy a special meal. Samgyeopsal would be nice, our butchers have so much pork. And the way you prepare it is how I like it most. Ad a glass of hot Soyu, with your permission.
My beloved Yang, there would be so much to tell, so far from home. But in a few minutes I have to address the crew and give them hope that our mission will soon be over. I will tell you more later, when it's all over and our mission is successfully completed. Our engine is fixed and we can go full speed ahead.
I think about you and your child all the time, every minute. You are in my heart and I can see you sitting in a small boat laughing, and I'm rowing you across the Taedong. We tie up at Ssuk and lie down on the grass. I pluck a lotus for you and put it in your hair. You look so beautiful.
My darling Yang, we'll see each other again soon!
Thousand kisses - I love you!
Pak walked with Yang in his thoughts a moment longer across Ssuk island in the middle of Pyongyang and then returned to reality. He put his diary away,
looked at his watch, went over to the small mirror and made himself look presentable. He then opened the bulkhead to the dark narrow corridor, where he was greeted by the smell of diesel.
The cook came up to him, carrying several bottles of mineral water into his small galley and not without bowing deeply to Pak. Pak dispensed with any form of greeting and looked at how he was stacking the bottles on a simple shelf. The water bottles had been fished out of the sea by Pak himself as they made their way through the mountains of bodies and fuel left by the Pride of America's catastrophic demise. He simply ignored the many dollar bills floating around in the water while he was doing this. Captain Ji too had let slip the opportunity to gather the useless money of the class enemy. His look behind his protective goggles was as always impenetrable; his face was one solid frozen mask.
Having arrived on the bridge set in the semi-oval, Pak looked at the Captain's back as he went about his work. Ji turned slowly around on his own axis with the periscope clearly extended.
Glowing red light appeared through the scratched bull's eyes. The unusual light from outside made the bridge look more like a workplace in front of a furnace in a steel works than a submarine of the North Korean navy.
"Now, Comrade Captain, what is there to see outside?", asked Pak in a firm voice. The helmsman and two members of the crew turned round immediately, because they hadn't seen him coming. Curt and snappy greeting were exchanged. Captain Ji dispensed with the military ritual and rubbed his chin. He answered Pak's question instead with a counter-question.
"You are punctual to the minute, Comrade Pak. Shall I play the national anthem? We are looking forward to your political instruction. What is your subject today? The great maritime successes and the achievements in military technology of our Beloved Leader?"
Pak thought he detected a clear ironic undertone, but was not sure. Perhaps it was due to the narrowness of the ship that he was slowly beginning to see ghosts. When he thought of the almost celibate abstinence of all those weeks, the loss of several crew members, the oppressive closeness and uncertainty about the general state of things - it was almost a miracle that there are had not been any conflict or even mutiny. Pak only hoped that the Captain was not the first to crack.
"Now, Comrade Captain, I will in fact say a few words about our Beloved Leader. About his heroic acts and his many medals and distinctions, which should spur us all on. I want to tell you about the Great Cross for Services to the Nation and the medal for his 65th anniversary of the Great Patriotic War and his honorary chairmanship of the Association of Applied Ecology. If I have time, I will also tell you of the medals that he wears as Defender of Justice and Peace. I can assure you it will be a short and very informative hour for us all here."
"I'm sure it will," was the succinct reply of Captain Ji.
"So, put the periscope away and play the anthem," Pak ordered his counterpart.
Yong-Jo Ji took the grip of the periscope and was about to put it away, when something in his field of vision caught his attention.
"What the hell?"
The Captain looked intensely into the apparatus and made a half turn in slow motion. He brought his head back to rub his eyes. "This can't be true," he said involuntarily.
Pak stepped up beside him, wanting to know what could be seen in the water that was so interesting.
"Is that an American cruise ship I can see in the periscope?"
The Captain made a low whistle. "Look for yourself, Comrade Political Officer!"
Pak put his face close up to the periscope. His eyes needed a while to get used to the clearness above the water. A whole minute went by, in which he was incapable of movement. As if he had been hypnotized, he detached himself from the periscope and looked at the Captain.
"Tell me that I'm mistaken!"
Ji tightened his lips. His answer was no more than a whisper. "You are not mistaken, we have both seen the same thing."
Pak looked again through the prism mirror. If what he saw outside was not an hallucination, they had just sighted the wreck of an airplane floating on the water. An airplane with the legend United States of America on the fuselage and the Stars and Stripes on the tailwing. A white-blue painted Boeing 747, on which a striking coat of arms had been painted.
There was no doubt that it was a government plane, but not just any one. It was the plane of the American President. Air Force One.
CHAPTER 8
Atlantic Ocean
American submarine USS George W. Bush
28th December
The President has a firm handshake and looks agreeable. A regular guy. He really shook my hand and called me by name, which he read on the name tag on my chest in the half-dark. I'd never have dreamed it. Unfortunately I can't impress anyone with it. Everyone with me on this last voyage has enjoyed the same privilege of his presence.
O’Brian's thoughts were still in turmoil when he took fifteen minutes that evening to bring his diary up to date. He simply had to write down what had happened to him during the course of the day. The President's speech had been a major event. The speech - and a small dog.
The morning after his rescue the Commander-in-Chief held a speech that touched everyone on board. Not an easy task in this hopeless situation, O`Brian thought.
The President made no bones about it - everyone on board would die sooner or later, unless a small miracle were to happen. All the supplies would soon run out, first the meat and vegetables, then the rest. The reactors would be the last to stop, but by then nobody would notice. In order not to simply give in to this fate, he, the President of the USA, would examine all alternatives as closely as possible with his staff. Although Johnson tried not to raise too many false hopes, he ended his speech by estimating that the situation was serious, but not hopeless.
In Ted's case it was the handshake with the President after the speech that inspired him with new energy. He wrote it all down in his provisional diary:
I now have a new task. Small, but one that promises a certain amount of variety. It was given to me by the highest authority: the First Lady herself. Her poodle has a crush on me. And at the moment she's got other things to think about than playing with the little white rat and talking him for a walk. It's a mess, having an animal on board. Of course, right after the festivities, he went and crapped in the corner of the upper gangway and I had to go and wipe it up with kitchen roll. Could have kicked the shit out of him, but he looked at me so innocent with his big black button eyes. As much as to say: "It's not my fault, what else was I supposed to do?" He's right, of course. He can't help it that there's no lawn and what's left of America is swimming around in the ocean as a concentrate in a metal container. The little guy's really afraid of all the equipment and control lights. The strange noises spook him. I have to carry him over the open mesh flooring.
As he was writing down the events of the day, he couldn't help grinning about the dubious privilege of looking after the dog of the Presidential couple. But when it first happened, he felt as if he'd been ambushed.
"Oh, he really seems to like you", the First Lady had said when they first met, as Pinky sniffed all over O'Brian's trousers and let himself be chucked. "Normally he's quite shy. Shy and of course very choosy."
Of course ...
"I see a great task of national interest coming your way. I hereby promote you to his bodyguard."
O`Brian had not known what to say. He also hadn't had enough presence of mind to clarify the question of whether he had won the lottery or the Asshole of the Week award.
"Oh really, Mrs. President? Do you think that I'm the right person for the job?"
"Oh yes, Pinky and I know people. You have a soft heart and an alert attentive look. Also you have a clean job down here and obviously not much to do. This is exactly what we need in this situation."
"Mmm... if you're really willing to trust your little darling to me, then it would be, mm ..., a great honor. I won't let you down."
"I'm sure you won't."
The rest of the encounter, in retrospect, was like something out of a cheap slapstick comedy movie. The President had just come around the corner with Captain Hudson and almost knocked his wife over. One of the high heels of his wife just missed stabbing Pinky's paws. O`Brian was quick enough to pull the dog away to one side.
"Oh", the President apologized with his best statesmanlike smile. "You've just saved world peace. At least the peace between my wife and myself. You have to understand that Pinky means everything to the First Lady."
"Oh yes?"
After a firm handshake from Johnson, O`Brian learned something new, namely that Presidents too could have sweaty hands, spoke of their wives in the third person and fateful encounters could happen in fractions of a second.
So the meeting ended before it had really begun. And O`Brian had been nominated by pure coincidence the First Dog's bodyguard.
Actually O`Brian didn't really like this kind of dog much. As far as he was concerned poodles were totally overbred and stupid creatures. This went double for the white ones, even triple. But the little beast was now sitting in front of him, staring up at his new master with tongue hanging out and gleaming eyes, unremittingly.
"What's your name again? Pinky. Pinky, be a good boy, your new master's got to work."
Pinky followed him under his instrument board, the whole time wagging his little tail. When O`Brian got down on his back to work on a few relays, the dog's tongue was all over his face like a mop.
"No, Pinky, no slobbering. Stupid dog!"
O’Brian had had enough of his overhead work and decided that dog walking would make a nice change. Let someone else try this nerve-racking work on the sonar! The First Officer looked at him contemptuously, and a few others started to whisper - he could live with both!