Korea Strait

by David Poyer

  When he wiped his shaking hands on his jacket they left sticky smears.

  He suddenly folded, hands to his knees, and leaned in a corner, shaking, fighting not to cry, not to vomit, not to scream. His head felt separated from everything below it, as if it were connected only by wireless. From outside, through the crash and howl of wind and sea and a hollow clanking as the crippled sub rolled, came the nasal staccato honks of the whaleboat’s monotonously insistent horn.

  The Afterimage:

  ROKS Chung Nam

  DAN stood on the flagship’s bridge wing two hours later, watching the somber shape that wallowed downwind and downsea a quarter mile off. Only two men were left aboard, and both were dead.

  Won stood beside him, hunching his shoulders nervously and pondering his watch. The South Koreans had given the sub’s Northern exec a wide berth when he’d stepped aboard a few minutes before—the last soul off the doomed boat. Captain Yu had ordered the master at arms to cuff him. Dan had thrust a protective arm in front of the North Korean, and said that wasn’t part of the deal. The two Koreas were not yet at war. But even if they were, the Romeo’s crew were his prisoners, not Yu’s.

  He had no illusions about how long he could keep the reins. Eventually he’d have to turn them over to military intelligence. Though even there, he’d do his best to get them into Combined Forces custody rather than Korean. He just didn’t care for what he’d seen of that bunch.

  Of course they had to be kept away from any weapons. But aside from that, he wanted them treated as guests, not prisoners. Especially the exec. His cooperation in the surrender aside, he could be an invaluable intelligence source down the road.

  Won looked anxiously at his watch again. “How much longer?” Dan asked.

  “It should happen now.”

  It didn’t, though. Dan started to wonder if it was going to happen at all. So did Won, if his fidgeting was any guide. But at last a rippling thud drummed across the sea. It was so muffled that if they hadn’t been facing it they might not have heard. A puff of thin black smoke whipped away off the top of the sail. It didn’t seem like much. But the North Korean seemed to settle down.

  Nothing changed for some minutes. Then, very gradually, Dan noticed that the sail’s swings were growing less violent. Less of the hull showed aft, too. The seas swept over her whale’s back, breaking into white foam, then hissing and swirling around her in shades of jade and emerald under the gradually lightening sky. The sun wasn’t out yet, but at least now he could tell where it was. Before too long it might break free of the overcast.

  Beside them Jung cleared his throat. The commodore tapped out a silver-tip and ducked into the lee to light it. He glanced at Dan, then at the Northerner. After a moment he held out the pack. Neither man’s expression altered in the least, but Won took one. He borrowed Jung’s lighter, too, and squatted in exactly the same way to touch flame to it.

  When Dan looked back the hull was submerged. The last Romeo was taking her final dive. Her sail was nearly vertical; the battle flag, which Won had insisted remain hoisted, was still flying. Then she slowly tilted forward. Dan had never thought of submarines as graceful, as seacraft went. But it was with a surpassingly elegant inclination that the black fin glided slowly forward into a breaking wave. The wind-starched ensign of the People rose above it; dipped beneath another, and rose, yet not quite as high.

  It nodded into a third swell, and did not emerge again.

  The gray-green sea rolled empty of the least particle of debris or slick of oil. Barren of any sign of man. Save the unscrolling smoke trail of a low-flying patrol plane, making a last pass over the final datum of what Won told them had been submarine S-13.

  Too late, Dan remembered it was taking something of his along in its plunge to the floor of the Eastern Sea: his USS Horn belt buckle. He’d worn it to remember the men, and women, who’d died under his command. Without thought, he raised his hand in a curl-armed, bent-handed Navy salute.

  Not to the Communist ensign, an emblem of tyranny and hatred. But to the brave man who’d captained her; to all the bold sailors, from whatever side and state, who carried out their duty, even for causes unworthy of their sacrifice. Sometimes orders were wrong, crusades misguided or even evil. But always there was duty.

  Something like that must have been going through Won’s mind too, because as Dan dropped his salute he saw the North Korean drop his too, and turn away, and cough, and under cover of the cough, rub his eyes. Jung seemed less affected. He was staring at the empty, heaving surface, eyes dull, jaw slack, exhaustion in every line of his body. He was just standing there smoking.

  Hwang slammed the bridge door open, breaking the moment. He reported to Jung with a quick bow. With a side glance at Won, they conferred. Then moved off behind the.50 mount where they could not be heard.

  Left alone with Dan, the North Korean looked nervous once again. “I should be with my men. “I must make sure they are treated well. What do you suggest I do?”

  “They’re having dinner now on the mess decks,” Dan told him. “You’re welcome to join them if you want. Actually that might be the best idea—I don’t think Captain Yu’d react well to my inviting you into his wardroom.”

  “But what do you prefer me to do?”

  “It’s up to you,” Dan told him, wondering if even a little liberty was going to be too much for this guy. Well, he’d just have to learn how to deal, like everybody else. “As far as I’m concerned, until we get back into Chinhae, you and your guys are on your own, as long as you stay out of trouble. Maybe I can get some of the ship’s people to talk to your men. To sort of get them prepared. It’s going to be different where you’re going than where you came from.”

  Still looking uncertain, Won said all right; he’d be down on the mess decks if anyone needed him.

  Dan lingered on the wing, looking down at the sea. It was slipping past more rapidly now, the diesels throbbing louder. Chung Nam was turning. Aiming her stem homeward.

  If he’d left something of his own aboard S-13, he carried part of her with him too. Wrapped in a towel under the bunk pad in his stateroom was one of the laminated tiles from the sail. It had hung half torn off near where he’d waited for the whaleboat. He’d grabbed it while everyone’s attention was on the approaching boat, and bent it back and forth and finally torn it free of whatever glued it to the steel.

  He’d examined it in his cabin. The metal laminations were soft. He could bend them with his fingers. Aluminum? Lead? If used as deck coatings, you wouldn’t be able to walk on them without deforming them—unless you wore something like… tennis shoes. The foils wouldn’t last long in salt water either. They were already corroding. The system didn’t look practical for long patrols. But he had a hunch that the precisely spaced laminations would trap and absorb the exact wavelength produced by the seeker head on the Mark 46 torpedo.

  It wasn’t anything he’d ever heard of before. But the tech guys back at TAG might be interested.

  Come to think of it, they might want to sit down with Won, too. If, after getting acclimated, he was willing to talk.

  Hwang came back. The chief of staff nodded to Dan. “We reported to Seoul.”

  “Reported destruction? Or capture?”

  “The commodore gave me the exact wording. I think you’ll be satisfied. Seoul will release the news immediately. They won’t mention anything about the crew, or what was aboard.”

  Dan told him thanks. Hwang stood with him for a moment. Then said, “The commodore was quite angry with what you promised them.”

  “They wouldn’t have surrendered otherwise.”

  “Oh, I know that. I pointed out how unreasonable he was being. And how this could have turned out much worse for everybody. I think he’ll come around.”

  Dan nodded. Hwang waited a moment more, then left again.

  He felt desperately tired, but still too wired even to think about sleeping. Instead he went down to sick bay. As the “doc” cleaned up the lacerations
on his palms, and applied antibiotic salve and bandages, he sat watching O’Quinn breathe. The older man was still unconscious. He seemed no worse, though Dan had no medical qualifications. Beneath the oxygen mask he might even be regaining some color. But Dan couldn’t tell if he truly was better. At least he was still breathing.

  Without a word, Dan took the hand that lay on the bed. It was still stained with oil, and the fingernails were torn up pretty badly. O’Quinn must have literally clawed his way through to get to the man he’d saved.

  “You did all right, Joe,” Dan muttered. Not really to the man beneath the hissing mask, though he supposed it was possible O’Quinn might hear. It was to remind himself to never write a man off. Even the disgraced, the lost, the destroyed, still might find a way back. If they could find the courage; even if once, they hadn’t displayed enough.

  When his own hands were fixed up he went aft to the mess decks for rice and vegetables with the North Koreans. He drank tea afterward, saying little, just looking at them now and then with a strange feeling. Of something like wonder, or almost fondness—which felt weird. Most of the frigatesmen sat apart from them, scowling and muttering. But a few already hovered at nearby tables, leaving seats vacant between, but eyeing the strangers, curiosity plain even in their frowns. The Northerners were glancing their way too. He figured they’d all be slinging the bull together before the lines went over. Won seemed subdued, but forced a smile when Dan raised his cup to him.

  Topside again, he stood on the main deck watching as dusk, then dark, came to the sea. The other frigate kept company astern. Distant lights glittered on the horizon, a wash of light that dimmed the emerging stars. A great city. Pusan. The lights rode slowly down their starboard side, then dropped astern and sank into the night. Not long after, he picked up the faraway on-and-off of the sea buoy marking the approach to Chinhae.

  Henrickson found him there watching the passing waves. The analyst congratulated him, then passed on the latest news. Shelling along the DMZ had stopped. Air activity seemed to be lessening too. The stream of aggressive pronunciamentos from Radio Pyongyang had been replaced by optimistic crop bulletins.

  “That’s good,” Dan told him. “Isn’t it?”

  “I’d say so, yeah. Maybe we put it off a few more years. The war, I mean.”

  “If we can keep on doing that long enough…”

  “Yeah.” The analyst didn’t follow that line of thought out; maybe figured he didn’t need to. Henrickson added, “There’ll be an ambulance on the pier for Joe. They’ll take him to the military hospital when we get in.”

  “Thanks for setting that up.”

  “I didn’t. Yu did that. And the commodore wants to know about the rest of us. I figure he means, are we getting off in Chinhae.”

  “That’s the plan, Monty.” He roused himself; he’d better get something off to TAG, let them know his take on events, and that they were heading home. “I’ll start getting an after-action report together. Can you start pulling data together, any observations you want in the message? And get our gear ready to go?”

  “Already on it.” Henrickson lingered, though. He scratched under his arms and added, after a moment, “I have to submit a report too.”

  “What report’s that, Monty?”

  “It’s on you, Commander.”

  Dan turned to look at him, but it was too dark to see his expression. “Oh?”

  “There’s another team at TAG we were thinking about you for. One that does different things from the others. More of an operational-side group.”

  “And?”

  “I’m going to say you need to be in it. If not in charge.”

  Dan said they could talk about that when they got back. For now, he just wanted to make sure they got the team back together, their gear broken down and backloaded, with as little fuss and trouble as possible. He wanted S-13’s crew properly handed off, with an official memo of the terms of their surrender, copies to TAG and Naval Intelligence and Combined Forces Korea. Meanwhile Henrickson could set up Team Bravo’s transport back to the States.

  And maybe after they got back he could put in for a few days’ leave. See if Blair was home. He sucked a breath, feeling eager. Almost as eager as he was to get his head down. The hunger for sleep was overwhelming now that he’d eaten. He’d go below and snatch an hour before they pulled in. No, damn it—he had that fucking message to write—

  Henrickson nodded and left. But instead of going below to work, Dan turned back to the darkening sea, the winking lights of the channel delineating the one proper and safe path.

  If only there were something like that to guide a man’s life. But it wasn’t laid out that neatly. There were twists, and turns, and unmarked shoals. About all you could be sure of was that when it all looked clear ahead, that was when you’d better check your cross-bearings. Look astern, to make sure no one was coming up your ass. Calibrate your compass, and prepare for the heavy weather that was sure to come.

  Because there were no guides, and no guarantees, and everyone made mistakes. If you just kept on, though, with faith, and the truth, and as much courage as you could muster, he was pretty sure it would turn out all right.

  Hands in his pockets, to hold up his still-beltless trousers, he stood watching as the channel opened ahead.