Thunder in the Morning Calm

by Don Brown

  “I’ve got a bad feeling you’re right,” Gunner said.

  The plane climbed out of the shadows of the mountains and into the late-afternoon sunshine, the bright orange ball of the sun behind them. Soon the deep blue waters of the Sea of Japan spread out in front of them.

  They crossed over the shoreline, flying to the east. The plane kept climbing, then began banking to the right, slightly, toward the southeast, headed toward its official destination in Japan.

  “Okay, we just flew out of South Korean airspace,” Jung-Hoon said.

  “How much daylight left?” Gunner asked.

  “A little over an hour,” Jung-Hoon said. “Barely enough to get to our ditch location.”

  The plane kept climbing.

  “Okay,” Jung-Hoon said, “we will be losing power soon. Doublecheck those boxes to make sure everything is secure. Don’t want things sliding around. And get them ready to unload. Once we get down on the water, I cannot take off again.”

  “Good idea,” Jackrabbit said. He moved into the back area with Gunner. “Pass me that crowbar, Commander.” He pointed at a crowbar taped to the box marked with the red S.

  Gunner reached over, pulled the duct tape off, and passed the crowbar to Jackrabbit.

  “Box with the S is our supply box,” Jackrabbit said. “The box with the W is our weapons box. Let’s start with the supply box.” He popped open the top of the crate.

  “Bonanza Whiskey-Four-Niner. Gangneung Control.”

  A voice came over the loudspeaker in English, with a heavy Korean accent. “Set course for zero-niner-niner degrees. Climb to five thousand feet. Maintain until further instruction.”

  Jung-Hoon clicked on the microphone. “Gangneung Control. Whiskey-Four-Niner. Setting course for zero-niner-niner. Climb to five thousand. Await further instructions. Roger that.” Jung-Hoon looked back over his shoulder as the plane turned slightly. “I take it they included the wetsuits?”

  Jackrabbit held up a black rubber wetsuit and examined it. “Looks about your size, boss,” he said to Gunner

  “We’d better get suited up quickly,” Jung-Hoon said. “That water is freezing.” He looked over his shoulder. “Commander, change places with me and let me get suited up first.”

  “You want me in the cockpit?” Gunner swallowed hard. “I know nothing about flying.”

  “Do not worry, Commander. Set on automatic pilot. Not enough room for three in the back.”

  “Okay.” Gunner exhaled. He crouched and slipped himself between the two cockpit seats and nestled his fanny in the right seat, opposite Jung-Hoon, who then slipped into the back.

  Gunner watched the plane’s altimeter change: 3,500 feet, 3,750 feet, 4,000 feet. The plane remained in a climb, on automatic pilot, with Jung-Hoon in the back and away from the controls. This did not resonate well in the pit of Gunner’s stomach. He surveyed the seascape below. A few ships, miles apart, cut through the water in the late-afternoon sunshine, but from four thousand feet above the surface, the water seemed calm. From the back of the plane, short zipping noises cut through the roar of the engine.

  Jung-Hoon, now covered in black rubber except for his face, which was partially covered with a black shoe-polish goo, slipped through the space between the two front seats and back into the cockpit. “You had better get your wetsuit on, Commander. We will be in the water soon.”

  “Got it,” Gunner said. He moved to the back of the cabin, where Jackrabbit, also in a black wetsuit, was applying grease to his face.

  “Your wetsuit’s right there, Commander,” Jackrabbit said. “Better hurry.”

  “Right,” Gunner said. He started with the suit inside out, put his feet in first, then peeled up the rubber, making sure it was plenty tight. A few minutes later, he zipped the suit up under his chin.

  “Here. Paint your face. It’ll help keep your face warm if you go in the water. Plus, it’ll make it harder for the enemy to find a target.”

  “Got it,” Gunner said as he started smearing black grease on his face.

  Jackrabbit opened the largest crate, the one with the letters CRRC painted on it, for Combat Rubber Raiding Craft. Inside was a model FC 470 manufactured by the Zodiac Group for the Navy SEALs and for Marines. “Perfect,” he said. “Sure need it on a mission like this one.”

  “Is the Zodiac ready?” Jung-Hoon asked.

  “It’s here. Got a CO2 tank to inflate it. Got the motor. Let’s hope that sucker inflates before the plane sinks.”

  “Weapons?”

  Jackrabbit opened the W box. “Rifles, pistols, bullets, grenades. Everything the commander bought.”

  “Supplies?”

  Jackrabbit checked the S box again. “GPS device. MREs. Clothes. Thermal tent. Wire cutters, et cetera. All here.”

  The radio sqawked again. “Bonanza Whiskey-Four-Niner. Gangneung Control.”

  “Gangneung Control. Whiskey-Four-Niner.”

  “Bonanza Whiskey-Four-Niner. Contact Pohang Control on frequency two-one-eight.”

  “Gangneung Control. Whiskey-Four-Niner. Contacting Pohang Control on frequency two-one-eight.”

  “Whiskey-Four-Niner. Have a nice day.”

  Jung-Hoon switched to frequency 218. “Pohang Control. Bonanza Whiskey-Four-Niner is with you at five thousand feet. Course zero-niner-niner degrees. Destination, Hamada, Japan.”

  “Bonanza Whiskey-Four-Niner. Pohang Control. Roger that and welcome aboard. Maintain course zero-niner-niner degrees at five thousand.”

  “Pohang Control. Roger that. Whiskey-Four-Niner maintaining five thousand feet at course zero-niner-niner.”

  A few moments later, Jung-Hoon asked, “Do you gentlemen like riding roller coasters?”

  “Used to ride ‘em at King’s Dominion near Richmond when I was a kid,” Gunner said. “Loved ‘em.”

  “Strap in. I’m getting ready to take us down.”

  Gunner sat in the jump seat and strapped on his shoulder harness. Clicks from latching seat belts reverberated throughout the plane.

  “Everyone ready?” Jung-Hoon asked.

  “Ready,” Jackrabbit said.

  “Ready,” Gunner said, though his heart pounded like a jackhammer within his wetsuit.

  “Okay,” Jackrabbit said, “here we go.”

  “Pohang Control. Bonanza Whiskey-Four-Niner. Still at five thousand and course zero-niner-niner. Be advised we are having electrical and engine trouble. I am concerned that we may lose power.”

  “Whiskey-Four-Niner. Pohang Control. Copy that. Do you want to set a course back to Pohang?”

  “Pohang Control. I think we need to set down. I don’t know if we can get close enough in for a glide landing.”

  “Whiskey-Four-Niner. Pohang Control. Copy that. Right now, you are still closer to Korea than Japan. If you have to make emergency water landing, you are better off closer in to shore.”

  “Pohang Control. Roger that. Request permission to set course for emergency landing at Pohang.”

  “Whiskey-Four-Niner. Go to ten thousand if possible. Set course for two-five-three degrees to Pohang.”

  “Roger that. Whiskey-Four-Niner is climbing to ten thousand, setting course for two-five-three.” Jung-Hoon pulled back on the stick. The plane began to climb. He flipped off the radio and flipped off the transponder. “I just turned off our transponder. Let me get us on the right course, and then I’ll drop us out of here.”

  He executed a wide loop to the left. The compass showed the plane changing directions: 099 degrees … 085 … 060 … 040 … 000 … 350 …

  “There, that should do it,” Jung-Hoon said. “Three-five-zero degrees sets us on a course slightly to the west of due north. Okay, hold it there.” The nose of the Bonanza locked straight out at three-five-zero. “I’ll call them and we’ll make a little dive. This will make it more difficult for them to track us via radar. He flipped the radio back on. “Pohang! Whiskey-Four-Niner! I have total engine failure! Losing power! Losing control of the aircraft! Whiskey-Four-Niner! Mayday! M
ayday! Whiskey-Four-Niner declaring emergency!”

  “Whiskey-Four-Niner! This is Pohang! Copy that. Declaring emergency. Whiskey-Four —”

  Jung-Hoon shut off the radio, silencing the air traffic controller midstream. “Okay, Commander. Let’s see if this is as much fun as your roller coaster at King’s Dominion.”

  Jung-Hoon pushed down on the stick. The plane nosed down, at first into a shallow angle, then at a steep angle. Gunner’s stomach flew into his throat. The plane shook as it dropped like a rock. Gunner looked over Jung-Hoon’s shoulder. A wall of blue-green water rushed up at them … faster … faster …

  Gunner clung to a handle bolted inside the cockpit. The altimeter kept dropping: 3,500 … 3,000 … 2,500 … 2,000 … He had not done much praying in the last couple of days, but at this point, instinct took over. “Jesus, help us!” … 1,500 … 1,000 …

  “Hang on!” Jung-Hoon shouted.

  The plane dropped like an out-of-control roller coaster. Gunner saw Jung-Hoon pull up on the stick.

  “Respond! Respond!” Jung-Hoon said.

  … 750 … 500 … 250 …

  The rotation of the altimeter slowed, and the Bonanza’s nose seemed to come up as the plane’s angle flattened out.

  … 200 … 150 …100 …

  Gunner looked out. They were still racing at the water, but at a shallower angle now.

  … 75 … 50 …

  The Bonanza leveled off and now flew just over the water, so low they seemed to be skimming the waves.

  “Thank God,” Jung-Hoon muttered. “I am going to have to bring us down a little lower to make sure we stay below shore radar.” He feathered down on the stick just a touch.

  … 50 … 35 … 25 …

  “Okay, that puts us at twenty-five feet over the water,” Jung-Hoon said. “That’s a risky altitude at this speed, but that should keep us below their radar.”

  Pohang Airport Control Tower

  South Korea

  He declared an emergency and went into a loop to head back here. When he reached three-five-five degrees, he started losing altitude.” The air traffic controller kept his eyes on his radar screen as he explained this to his supervisor, who was peering over his shoulder. “At that point he reported power failure and continued dropping. We lost communication with him, and we lost him off the radar screen.”

  “Pass me your microphone,” the supervisor said. “Open emergency frequency to all planes.”

  “Yes, sir.” He passed the microphone back to the supervisor.

  “To all planes in the area. This is Pohang Control. Be advised that we have lost contact with a yellow Beechcraft Bonanza en route to Hamada, Japan. Call letters Romeo-Hotel-Xray-Whiskey-Four-Niner. The plane disappeared off our radar two minutes ago. Coordinates thirty-six degrees, thirty-four minutes, eight seconds north latitude, one hundred thirty-one degrees, two minutes, fourteen seconds east longitude. Repeat, all planes in the area, be on the lookout for yellow …”

  British Airways 777

  en route from Tokyo, Japan, to Seoul, Korea

  Repeat, all planes in the area, be on the lookout for yellow …” Captain Martin Fletcher, the RAF veteran in command of the Boeing 777 owned and operated by British Airways, looked up and checked his coordinates. “By golly that looks like about ten miles from here,” he said to his copilot, Commander Todd Hemmings.

  “Looks about right,” Hemmings said. “About ten miles to our south and about ten thousand feet below.”

  “Be on the lookout. These single-engine puddle jumpers have no business over international waterways, if you ask me,” Fletcher said. He looked out and down. Mostly blue water below. A few clouds a thousand feet below, blocking visibility down to the surface.

  “You really think a Beechcraft Bonanza is a puddle jumper?” Hemmings asked.

  “Any rotary aircraft that tries to jump across international waters with only a single engine in my book becomes a puddle jumper.”

  Silence.

  “Hey, I think I see something down there!” Hemmings said.

  “Where?”

  “Check this out.”

  Fletcher jumped from his seat on the left side of the cockpit and rushed over to the right side. He peered out over the shoulder of his copilot.

  “Where?”

  “Down there.” He pointed down, almost right below the aircraft. “Looks like a small yellow single-engine aircraft.”

  He removed his aviator shades. “I see it.” From their altitude, it looked almost like a small plastic toy plane skimming across the water. But definitely, there was something. And then it disappeared behind the clouds.

  “What do you make of that?” Hemmings asked.

  “Don’t know,” Fletcher said, “but we’d better report it.”

  Pohang Airport Control Tower

  South Korea

  Pohang Control. British Airways Golf-Echo-Bravo Four-Eight-Heavy.” “Bravo Four-Eight-Heavy. Pohang Control. Go ahead.”

  “Pohang Control. Be advised, we had a visual on an unidentified aircraft, fitting the description of the Bonanza you called in. The aircraft was below us, ten to twelve thousand feet, so it was hard to get a good look. We lost it under the clouds, but it was heading almost due north when we lost visual contact.”

  The air traffic controller turned and waved at his supervisor. “Hey, boss! We have a call from a British Airways 777. The pilot thinks they saw something. Small yellow plane way below them. They said it was flying almost due north, then disappeared behind low clouds.”

  The supervisor rushed back over to the controller. “When did they spot it? Before or after we transmitted our emergency call?”

  “I am not sure,” the controller said.

  “What do you mean, you are not sure?” the supervisor said, raising his voice.

  “I assumed the spotting must have come after because the call came in right after our emergency notice went out.”

  “Did you not clarify?” the supervisor screamed.

  “No, I assumed,” the controller said.

  “Look, I know you are new to this job, but you cannot assume! Lives depend on accuracy! Give me that microphone.” He snatched the mike from the controller. “What’s their call sign?”

  “British Airways Golf-Echo-Bravo Four-Eight-Heavy,” the controller said. “British Airways Golf-Echo-Bravo Four-Eight-Heavy. Pohang Control!”

  “Pohang Control. Bravo Four-Eight-Heavy,” the voice came back in a distinctive British accent.

  “Following up on your report. Did you spot the unidentified small craft before or after our emergency notice?”

  Static.

  “Pohang Control. Bravo Four-Eight-Heavy,” the British voice said. “We estimate that we spotted the unidentified craft one minute after you aired the emergency notice. Hope this helps.”

  “Bravo Four-Eight-Heavy, thank you for clarifying. Let us know if you see anything else.”

  “Bravo Four-Eight-Heavy. Will do.”

  The supervisor set the microphone down, his voice tone now having morphed from anger to curiosity, which brought a temporary sense of relief to the controller, who had for the moment worried about losing his job for not asking a simple question.

  “It makes no sense,” the supervisor said. “Why would they be flying north more than two minutes after declaring an emergency?”

  “Perhaps the plane that the 777 spotted was not the Bonanza,” the controller said. “After all, the 777 was two miles above the surface of the water. Depending on the aircraft’s altitude, and with low cloud cover, a positive visual identification from that altitude would be a challenge.”

  “Perhaps,” the supervisor said. “But yellow is an unusual color for an aircraft. This would make an identification a bit easier. And why would any small aircraft be flying that low so far out? And why heading north?”

  “Good questions, boss,” the controller said. “If the heavy did spot the Bonanza, it is possible the Bonanza lost ability to steer the plane and could fly i
n only one direction. He was making a loop back to the west but was headed north when he declared an emergency and we lost him.”

  The supervisor seemed to think about that for a moment. “That is possible, I suppose.” He put his hand on Kim’s shoulder. “I am sorry for raising my voice. This is a tense situation.”

  “I understand, boss.”

  “We need to message the ROK Navy and all vessels operating in the area to be on the lookout for wreckage.”

  “Right away, boss.”

  Beechcraft Bonanza G36

  over the Sea of Japan

  The Bonanza raced north, just over the surface of the water under a slight cloud cover. Rays of midafternoon sunshine streaked down through the spotty clouds. Patches of orange-blue sky colored the horizon to the west.

  Gunner and Jackrabbit had again switched places. Gunner moved to the right cockpit seat and Jackrabbit moved to the back of the plane, where he continued unpacking the supplies and weapons in the three wooden crates, getting them ready for transfer to the Zodiac.

  No boats or ships were anywhere in sight, which was a good thing, Gunner thought, relieved that they seemed alone in the world, undetected by enemy eyes.

  Not much had been said since the fake power loss, as if each man had reverted to self-reflection.

  “What’s the game plan, Jung-Hoon?” Gunner asked. “How much longer until we ditch the plane?”

  “Our speed is two hundred miles per hour, and we have enough fuel for five hundred miles. We will continue on this course for one hour and hope that we are not spotted by surface craft. This course will keep us between ninety and one hundred twenty miles off South Korea’s coastline. Our main risk comes in about twenty minutes, when we will fly twenty miles east of Ulleung-do Island, which is seventy-five miles from the South Korean coastline.”

  He punched a button and a GPS map appeared on the screen.

  Flight path in Sea of Japan past Ulleung-do Island

  “This is our flight path,” he said. “Bottom of the arrow is where we started our fake crash. We are flying at twenty-five feet on a course just west of due north, low enough that it is impossible for shore radar to pick us up.