by Unknown
“What the fuck is that?” came the voice of Private Ricks.
“What do you see?”
Ricks was staring out his port watching a small red light blink in a watch tower. As the Master Sergeant watched, it was picked up by the next tower, and then the next along the line.
“I don’t like this,” said Hufham as he reached for the portable battle phone on the wall. He began turning the crank furiously.
The explosion knocked the three men off their feet as the tower shook beneath them. The second sent shrapnel through the wooden floor from below. The tower, built of reinforced concrete, actually began to tilt backwards. The men inside scrambled to maintain their footing as the structure seemed to bend in half at the waist in slow motion almost as if bending over to pick something up from the ground. It stopped when the roof of the structure finally struck dirt.
Gunfire suddenly erupted outside and bullets began pinging against the side of the structure as Hufham grabbed Ricks and pulled him toward the roof hatch. He yelled at Masters to join them as he kicked the hatch open, glanced out to see that there was still some cover from the rain of lead outside, and then shoved Ricks through it. Turning for Masters, Hufham saw he was not nearby. He quickly scrambled over to where Masters had been. He found him lying in a heap in one corner. Feeling rapidly around his body, he found a two foot piece of splinter from the floor sticking up through Masters’ chin and out the top of his head. Cursing aloud, Hufham grabbed Masters’ rifle, sidearm and ammo packs, and then dashed through the hatch into the compound and the hail of bullets outside. Rifle fire seemed to come from everywhere. Luckily, the way the tower fell afforded some shelter, but not enough. He caught a glimpse of someone crouching behind the small latrine built for the guards. In a brief lull in fire, he dashed over to find Ricks taking cover, scared to death.
“Come on Ricks,” Hufham shouted. “We ain’t gonna die behind a shithouse!” Grabbing Ricks by the collar the two dropped to the ground and crawled from cover to cover trying to avoid the now withering fire coming from a few places in the opposite trees. Most of the fire was concentrated at the tower and a general spraying of the compound. Just after they left, explosions from a couple of grenades blew the flimsy latrine apart.
Once deeper in the woods, Hufham raised up to get a look at the situation. None of the gunfire was now directed at them. It appeared whoever it was still thought they were in the tower. From the explosions and gunfire along the Zone it was obvious there had been a well coordinated attack on each of the outposts. He saw the outline of a man with a gun move across the compound and fire into the hatch of the now smoldering tower. He then motioned for some others and they began to join him and fan out to look for survivors.
The Master Sergeant eased back down into the thick scrub and saw Ricks raise his rifle and aim it toward the oncoming soldier. Hufham placed his hand on Ricks’ gun, pointing it down and shaking his head. “Better part of valor son,” he said in a whisper. They hid silently as the soldier passed. Whoever it was didn’t appear to be anxious to find anyone and soon turned back to the compound as the other soldiers congregated and signaled across the Zone with a flashlight.
Silently, Hufham and Ricks crawled through the woods away from the compound. Once clear, they made their way just below the top of the ridgeline and began the descent to the next valley. More hills would be beyond that. At one point near the base of a mountain, they were close enough to the road to hear heavy vehicles moving along it. Hufham left Ricks to get a look and was surprised to see heavy trucks full of soldiers tearing down the road followed by a couple of tanks and other equipment. The trucks did not have white stars on the side like he was used to seeing. More to the point, they were entering the regular road from a side road that looked very new.
Those trucks have to be coming from somewhere, he thought. Hufham followed the new road back a few hundred yards and saw his answer. A steady stream of trucks seemed to be coming up from a hole in the side of the mountain. With all these men and equipment, the allied forces would have a rough time.
Resisting the temptation to take out one of the trucks to slow the flow, Hufham eased back to where Ricks was waiting and the two men made their way deeper into the hills away from both the road and the DMZ. After running and walking about six miles up and down the hills, Hufham signaled for them to stop. “OK, let’s get our bearings. We both know the outposts are gone. I found out why the fire came from behind us, not across the Zone. Now we need to get this information back to our people.” He had already told Ricks about the tunnel.
“But how?” Ricks asked almost pleadingly. Hufham could tell he was still scared to death, but the training he had received had him reacting like a soldier instead of crawling in a hole to hide.
“Just follow me,” Hufham said quietly. He knew a calm voice was needed and that, coupled with reason, would make a big difference in how Ricks operated. “There is a motorpool about six miles down the way. Let’s make our way there and see what’s available.”
“They’re probably there already. And these guys aren’t going to let us just drive down the road,” Ricks said nervously.
“True, but if they are like those guys…” he said pointing back toward the compound, “…they will probably kill everyone and move on. I have a feeling this thing is on a strict timetable and there won’t be time for prisoners or holding ground. Those trucks are heading somewhere quick and the quicker we get to where our guys are, the better off we’ll be,” he said. Then he put his hand on Ricks’ shoulder. “Besides, I’ve been here so many times I can tell you where the roads are and where the roads are,” he said indicating he knew some “shortcuts.”
The effect on Ricks was almost amazing to see. He straightened up and looked around. Now he had a chance. The Master Sergeant knew his way around and had a plan. That was good enough for him. “Which way do we go?”
Hufham grinned. “Follow me, sport.” He led the way down a small trail across the next hill. Ricks couldn’t know Hufham had used this trail when he had been stationed here before to sneak away to a little bar he knew. The bar was long gone, but he was using the trail now for the same reason – mainly because he had never seen anyone near it and it was not marked on any map.
Atlantic Ocean
Captain James McPherson was a troubled man. He was troubled about the safety of his ship, its cargo, and the crewmembers he had grown to admire and respect. A veteran sailor from a number of merchant ships, McPherson had proven his skills time and again, starting as a deck hand and quickly rising in rank. He had been noticed by one of his captains and given the opportunity to attend a Merchant Marine Academy. As an officer, his career continued to grow with several notable exploits where his actions had either saved lives, cargoes, ships, or all three.
McPherson seemed to have that rare quality of being able to “feel” a ship and its moods. Better yet, he was also a good judge of character for the men and women in his crew. He could tell just how far he could push without breaking down his crew’s spirit or morale. He always seemed to have a happy ship – and one that could be relied upon to make port safely and with cargo intact.
Two years ago he had been made the Master of the largest cargo ship in the company’s fleet. The M/V Isle of Wight was huge. Over 400 meters long, she could carry 14,000 TEUs (20-foot containers) or more than 150,000 tons of cargo. Right now, her huge 14 cylinder turbocharged diesel engine was muscling the giant ship through the sea at a little over 25 knots.
Normally, the Isle of Wight would be going only about 15 knots, but over the past few days the world had changed. He had doubled his normal number of lookouts. No telling what might be out there. Before leaving port the urgency of his mission had been stressed several times. He gazed out the large bridge windows at a bright, clear, empty sea. The ship felt good and his crew was happy, if not a little on edge. The trouble in America had caught everyone by surprise and suddenly the cargo destined for India had been removed and new containers rapidly l
oaded.
McPherson gave off a small chuckle. His ship had been chosen to bring life back to the U.S. – something the U.S. had done for Great Britain in two world wars. No, the U.S. wasn’t dead, but it was having trouble speaking. He was returning that voice. Inside the containers on his deck were hundreds of transmitters and several hundred thousand radio and television receivers. Along the sides of the containers he read the names of hundreds of electronics companies from around the world. When the cry had gone out from his government, the response had been quick and generous. Names like Philips, Telefunken, Harris, Surrey, Bosch, Marconi, Siemens and many others emptied warehouses to rush equipment to Southampton where the ship was loaded. It had happened within 48 hours. Everything arrived, was packed tightly into empty storage containers and loaded onto the ship. The Isle of Wight had containers stacked to just below her bridge windows. There was not one square inch of her cargo decks that was not filled. It was the largest haul the captain had ever seen, and he was determined to get it to its destination ahead of schedule.
McPherson looked over at his first mate, Donald Winston, who was straining his eyes through a pair of binoculars scanning the horizon. None of them had liked the order to run without radar. They all knew the stories of ships making errors and colliding because they had not used the equipment, or because it had been used improperly. No one wanted another Andrea Doria. After a minute Winston lowered the glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. McPherson walked over to his second in command, glancing at his watch. “Almost time for you to be relieved, isn’t it?” he asked.
Winston gave a weak smile and a tired nod. “Yes, sir. It’s been a long morning,” he said. “I checked our position and, if we keep up this speed, we will make New York early tomorrow. None too soon by my thinking.”
McPherson nodded. “Yes, it’s been a strange voyage this time out, but a good one.” The Captain grinned. “I like being the cavalry coming to the rescue, as the Americans say. I doubt the Portsmouth Lass could make this kind of passage,” he noted with a gleam in his eye. The M/V Portsmouth Lass was a sister ship which had a long standing rivalry with his own.
“True, Captain,” Winston grinned. “The last I heard, she was on her way to the Middle East with a cargo of agricultural products and fertilizer. I dare say it is an uneventful transit.” Both men shared the moment until a voice interrupted their thoughts.
“Sir, I have something in the water two points off the starboard bow,” the lookout shouted. Both men nearly ran to the bridge wing. “What is it?” the Captain shouted.
“I’m not quite sure sir. It is like something lying flat on the water, but I can see a couple of men on the top.”
His eyes straining through his binoculars, the Captain could barely make out what appeared to be a piece of bread with some small figures standing on it, sitting on top of the water. Waves were washing over the structure and both men were waving frantically.
“Shipwreck?” Winston asked
“I’m not sure. But let’s not take chances. Order the men to action stations and lay us on a course to see what it is,” McPherson ordered.
The First Officer sounded the alarm and the 40-man crew began rushing to their stations. The wheel was spun over and the great ship slowly turned in the direction of the object. The ship’s engine slowed, but the momentum of the ship kept it going at a rapid pace. Through the skillful maneuvering of the crew they had the object in sight from the deck within 10 minutes. More men appeared on the object and soon there were about 12 shouting and waving toward the containership. The Captain almost immediately recognized the object as containers welded or lashed together. More troubling was one of the corners of the makeshift raft was much lower than the rest. He brought the big container ship upwind of the raft and let the winds blow the ship down on it.
From the bridge wing he could see that the men all looked Asian. Nothing strange for the Atlantic, but he hadn’t heard of a shipwreck. Normally an SOS would have whole fleets scrambling to render assistance. Lines were thrown down to secure the raft alongside, and a boarding ladder was lowered so the men could climb up.
They were met by willing but cautious hands as the British crew helped each man aboard. The appearance of two crewmen with automatic weapons kept the men coming aboard quiet and somber. They were all herded into a tight circle on the deck. The last man up was much older and had a book in his hand.
Captain McPherson came out of the superstructure and onto the deck as the last man came aboard. McPherson looked resplendent in his white uniform and the older man immediately recognized him as the man in charge. He turned and began to walk to him but was stopped by one of the British crew. “Hold on a mo,” the sailor said.
Captain McPherson waived the sailor back and motioned for the man to come forward. Captain Sohn looked into McPherson’s wary but compassionate stare. It was now or never. “I am Captain Tien Sohn of Democratic People’s Republic of Korea ship Baiku,” he said in very broken English. “We thank you for assistance and turn ourselves into you custody.”
At first McPherson thought the old captain had simply chosen the wrong words. Then the old man said a few words to his crew and they all placed their hands on their heads. The men looked scared to death. Bloody Hell, thought McPherson. What have I stumbled into? Regaining his composure McPherson placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Captain, are all your men aboard and safe?”
Sohn looked into the man’s eyes. Seeing no hatred he nodded his head. “This all that left.”
“How did you lose your ship, Captain?”
“Missiles burn through bottom and it sink. Only this piece float.”
“Were there no lifeboats?” McPherson asked. Something was definitely wrong. Hopefully the boats were in the vicinity and could be rounded up.
“No. Party Official make holes in all boats. Only control room stay.” Sohn’s English remained very broken, but his choice of words was screaming in the Captain’s ears. Then Sohn’s face changed to one of great sorrow and shame. “We not know start war.”
Only then did the enormity of his rescue efforts become realized. McPherson suddenly had the answers to questions that people around the world had been looking for over several days. These men knew exactly what had happened and they had surrendered to him. A part of him said to place them all under heavy guard, but another part realized that these men may just be poor sailors and not a real threat.
Things just didn’t add up exactly right. If they had done this on purpose, what was their goal? Why were they here? The first thing he thought about was their ship had sunk and an official had disabled their boats. They had been meant to die with their ship. But the man had turned himself and his men over to their custody. It was a surrender, plain and simple. There was too much to take in. Turning to a sailor he said, “Jones, take the men into the crew’s mess and give them something to eat. I want them under guard at all times.” Then turning to another, “Tell the First Officer to set up cots in the passenger lounge. Once they have been fed, take them there and keep them there. I don’t want anyone harmed in any way. Once there, we will get this all sorted out. Now get cracking.”
The group of sailors was herded into the superstructure as McPherson addressed the captain again. “Captain Sohn, is your vessel sinking?”
Sohn nodded in understanding. “Leaks too many. No more power to fix. Sink slow.”
McPherson turned to one of his men. “Bos’n, get a party aboard this thing right now and see if she’ll float. If we can, I want to tow this thing to New York.” The man scrambled to the watertight door and reached inside to a telephone. In a few minutes men were scrambling down ladders and lowering pumps.
McPherson asked if Sohn would take him aboard the vessel and take some photographs. Sohn had readily agreed. McPherson had his camera sent down and brought another crewman with one of his own. As the crew slaved to try and stem the water coming into the vessel, both men completely documented every nook and cranny of the makeshift raft while Capta
in Sohn pointed out the various equipment and publications that were inside. Photographs were taken and the manuals and other documents removed to the ship. After an hour of steady work the Bos’n walked up to the Captain. “It’s no use sir. Every time we try to patch one leak, ten more pop open. Frankly I don’t know why she has lasted this long. Every wave is popping welds. We need to leave, sir.”
Captain McPherson nodded in agreement. The level of water on the deck had not gone down, but had risen. He knew that if the Bos’n said it was no use, there was no arguing the point. The men removed the equipment and everyone returned to the containership. The lines were cast off and the little raft was left to meet her fate. As she passed astern a large wave struck the vessel and a terrible grinding and shrieking could be heard. A huge gust of air and moisture poured out of the top hatch as the makeshift raft slipped quickly beneath the seas. Captain Sohn stood on the bridge wing and watched. He mentally thanked the little vessel for saving his crew. After a moment he turned back to Captain McPherson who was watching the old man closely. “May I tell story of what happen?” he asked.
San Pedro, California
Nearly 4,000 miles away, Jack Latham threw his pencil down in disgust. Since the war started, he and his men had done everything they could to get the ships they had in the shipyard back to sea. He and the other company officials knew that the ships and any other assets had to get back online as soon as possible. Working his men at a furious pace, the jobs had gotten done. Unfortunately, no jobs were left to do. A telephone line had been reestablished between his office and the few other places that were deemed a national asset. That included other shipyards and repair facilities as well as seats of government. Now he was trying to figure out what could be done to keep his men occupied and the company going. So far, he had run up against a brick wall.
