by David Poyer
“And makes the right decision.”
“The decision that turns out later was right.”
“I used to think that,” Dan said. “Yeah. That how it turned out told you whether it was right or wrong. But I finally figured out how you can tell which decision’s right earlier than that. You just subtract yourself from the equation. No matter how scared or tired you are, or how bad it might be for your career. You just do what used to be called your duty. Just do that—and no matter how it turns out, you can live with it.”
But O’Quinn was wagging his head, sneering. “Sure, if you got the wife who’s the fucking undersecretary of defense. I heard what happened to Horn You lost more guys than I did. And you’re still in. You’re Annapolis, all right. Through and fucking through.”
It was the ship’s name that did it. His temper broke like chilled glass. He pushed himself to his feet. Barely in time, Dan reminded himself that the guy was hurting. Striking out at whoever happened to be in range. He crammed his fists into his pockets, feeling his long muscles tensed hard. It would be all too pleasant to start punching. “You’re way out of line, O’Quinn. Drunk, too. I’m cutting you a break. Because I feel sorry for you.”
“Don’t fucking—”
“Shut up and listen. I know you’re not in the Navy anymore. But, you want to keep working for TAG? Don’t get in whatever this mood of yours is, again. Not with me. And not around our host-country nationals. Got it?”
O’Quinn didn’t answer. His cheeks were the color of fresh liver. He fumbled on the night table, found the pack, shook out more cigarettes. They flicked out and hit the carpet, bounced high, as if they had no mass whatsoever. He lit one, and the flame shook, making the hollows of his dead-looking eyes shiver. “I know my way around,” he said in a low voice as toneless as Dan’s. “I know what this job takes. And I’ll do it. I just want you to know you’re not fooling anybody.”
Turning away, he scooped up the bottle again. Cradling it, he muttered, to the draped and shadowed window and not to Dan: “Now get out of my fucking room.”
5
ROKS Chung Nam (FF 953)
HE paced the foredeck, feeling more like himself back in uniform than in the civilian suits he’d had to wear on the Eighteen Acres. He was glad that tour was over. TAG duty wasn’t what he’d hoped for—another command—but at least he was back aboard ship.
Even if it didn’t fly the U.S. ensign.
Shading his eyes beside the gray egg of a 75mm gun mount, he looked out across the harbor. He’d never seen ships rafted this deep, and yet more lay across the floating pier. Rank after rank of destroyers, frigates, low, fast-looking patrol craft. Or wait—yes, he had. In old photos, from wars that had strained every sinew of American industry.
The ROKN base at Chinhae had that wartime feel. Gate security had searched their car on the way in and examined the chassis with a mirror. They’d opened and inspected every box of gear and examined and photocopied their orders. Two helmeted guards patrolled the pier with M16s, and there was nothing perfunctory about the way other compact, dour-faced troops checked IDs. A quarter mile out a guard boat churned the gray-green chop of the fjord, or bay. It was walled by slate blue mountains that grew from stubby peninsulas poked out into the sea. Beneath him the deck vibrated. A thin wash of nearly invisible smoke pushed up from the stack.
The okay had come through at last. Seventh Fleet and the Japanese would both play in Exercise SATYRE 17. Now all he had to do was make it happen, deal with any problems that came up, get along with Jung, keep Carpenter and O’Quinn on the straight and narrow, organize the data collection….
“Commander Lenson! Kim tae wi” said a high-cheekboned young man in khakis, saluting.
Dan returned the salute. “Sorry. I don’t speak Korean.”
“Tae wi—Lieutenant.” His escort fingered his rank insignia. “My family name—Kim. Kim tae wi—Lieutenant Kim.”
“I see. Kim tae wi” Were they all named Kim?
“Very good! I am show you ship, engines, cabin. Start at forward.”
“That’ll be fine,” Dan told him, and followed him down a ladder.
ROKS Chung Nam was an Ulsan-class frigate. At first glance, as he came down the pier, she’d reminded him of the old Leahy-class guided-missile cruisers. Closer in, though, he’d seen the Korean was smaller. About the size of Renolds Reyan his own first ship—which would make her a bit over two thousand tons. She was flush-decked, with a towering superstructure, two pyramidal masts, and a single large stack aft. The gray paint job with low-contrast bow numerals were just like U.S. practice. She was much more heavily armed, though, than a NATO warship of comparable size. Two automatic cannons, where an American frigate carried one. Four antiaircraft guns, twenty- or thirty-millimeters in tubs; Perrys carried none. Crisscrossed gray tubes aft of the stack were Harpoon surface-to-surface missiles. She probably carried some sort of short-range antiair missile as well, for point defense.
On the other hand, he didn’t see a helicopter hangar, nor was there anything like the Perrys’ Mark 13 launcher, the “one-armed bandit,” which reloaded automatically with a choice of several missiles from belowdecks. She sounded different too. Quieter than the constant whoosh and whine of a U.S. ship, though the familiar clatter of a chipping tool echoed from somewhere forward.
Now, following his escort down into the forepeak, he submerged into hot air and smells. The boatswain’s locker reeked of paint and thinner. No surprise there. But the next compartment aft was packed with nylon bags bearing bright labels. Rice gritted underfoot in forward berthing too. As enlisted men came to attention he caught other odors. Close-packed men and damp bedding. The man-smell was like turpentine and radishes, sweat with an undertone of mold and the spoiled-milk odor of latex paint. He wondered what he smelled like to them. They were striking more rice below. A human chain swayed thirty-kilo sacks from one bent, nearly child-sized sailor to the next, between racked pipe bunks down to a storage area he glimpsed, leaning over a hatchway, on the next deck down.
Aft, to a compact wardroom. The table was covered with green baize just as it would be on an American ship. An ornate silver box squatted at its geometric center. Kim lifted the lid for a cigarette from the stock inside. As he lit it Dan saw a coffeemaker, but the burners were empty. “Hey, Kim tae wi.. Any chance of some coffee before we see the rest of the ship?”
“Coffee? No coffee. Sorry.”
“I see that, yeah. But maybe they could make some.”
The lieutenant didn’t seem to get the picture. Dan rapped on the galley door. The slider clacked open. A steward in a white smock peered out. He did a double take when he saw Dan. There followed some moments of low comedy as he tried to communicate what he wanted, while the steward tried to convey something else; exactly what wasn’t clear, except it didn’t seem to involve Dan getting what he wanted.
“Can I help?” said someone behind him.
“May I present Captain Yu,” said his escort.
Dan shook hands with a grave, wizened little man in ironed khakis. He looked older than Jung, which Dan thought odd. He was smoking and at once offered a cigarette. Dan mustered his first try at Korean, a phrase he’d picked up from Hwang. Aniyo, kam sa ham ni da.” He hoped that came out somewhere in the vicinity of “No, thanks.”
The Koreans oh’d in surprise. Yu’s cheeks wrinkled in what was either pleasure or an intestinal cramp. He clutched his middle as if adjusting a cummerbund. “Ah, you speak Korean. And so beautiful!”
“I’ve just used all I know.”
“But you speak so great. You must have study very hard.”
He had to grin. The Koreans were 180 degrees out from the French. Even a couple of words, no doubt grotesquely mispronounced, elicited delight. They also seemed to appreciate compliments, so he ladled on some honey. “It’s a difficult language, but very beautiful. Perhaps I can master a few more words before I have to leave your ship. Which is very impressive. Very advanced.”
Y
u touched Dan’s Command at Sea pin. “You too have commanded ships. Destroyers? Which ones?”
“Destroyers—yes. USS Horn” He tensed, waiting for the questions that usually followed, but Yu didn’t seem to recognize the name. Instead he gestured around him. “What you think? Are ship well kept?”
No doubt about it, the skipper’s English wasn’t in the same league as Hwang’s or Jung’s. His accent was so thick Dan had to process for a second or two to get the gist. “Uh—yes, very well kept. Well painted, nice brightwork. The watertight doors seal very well.” His own quick benchmark for how well the details that mattered at sea were attended to.
“And now you here from TAG. Run exercise.”
“Uh—correct.”
“Welcome to chung Nam. So, what you think of Ulsan class? First destroyer ships build here in South Korea. Hyundai Shipyard. Like the car.”
“A very powerful warship. You must be proud to be her captain.”
They discussed the tactical data control system, which, Dan had read in proceedings, had given trouble early on. Yu stubbed out his cigarette and took another from the box, which seemed to be open to all comers. The tae wi was there instantly with a gold-toned Zippo. The captain leaned into the flame and exhaled luxuriously. Then they both stared at him, holding their cigarettes in exactly the same manner, the European style that looked fey to an American, between thumb and forefinger.
Dan broke the pause. “So, Captain—I was trying to see if I could get a cup of coffee.”
“I don’t permit my officers to have coffee.”
“I’m sorry? I don’t—”
“It’s not good for them.” The Korean leaned to flick ash off his butt, then took another deep drag. “Young men. Very bad healthwise. So I forbid. You understand?”
They regarded each other. A couple of possible retorts crossed Dan’s mind, but he decided on diplomacy. “Well, Captain, we drink a lot of coffee in the U.S. Navy. And we plan to be up for long periods of time at night monitoring these exercises. We’ll need to be alert. You understand? Any chance I could persuade you to bend your rule for us? For me, and my men?”
After a moment Yu shrugged. He said a few words to the steward, who bowed hastily several times before slamming the access shut. “He’ll make some for you,” he told Dan.
“Thank you.”
Yu smiled coldly. He lifted an eyebrow at Kim, nodded to Dan, and left.
Kim took a last drag and ground out the butt in the silver ashtray, a little more violently, Dan thought, than was absolutely necessary. Tension between the junior officers and the captain? Well, there nearly always was. “Shall we continue? Your coffee—he will make it. We will come back when it is ready. By way: “captain” is ham jang. Kam sa, ha mi da, Hang jung nim: thank you, Captain sir. Since you are studying Korean.”
Dan hadn’t intended to study Korean, but it didn’t seem he had any choice now. He’d outsmarted himself again. “Got it,” he said reluctantly. “Thanks. I mean, kam sa, ha mi da.”
AFT again, through a narrow passageway lined with doors. Another boyish figure bowed silently, toting the bag they’d insisted on taking from him on the pier. “Your room here,” Kim said, cracking a joiner door. Dan glanced into a small cabin with a porthole, a tan plastic tatami on the floor, a single bunk spread with a bright red knit wool comforter. His Compaq was racked above a foldout desk. He reminded himself to check where the rest of the team was bunked, make sure they were comfortable and had what they needed.
They continued aft. Two General Electric LM-2500 gas turbines and two German-built diesels were shoehorned into the engine spaces. He’d read about this combination. It was called CODOG, combined diesel or gas. Both engines used JP-5, but you could loiter on the diesels for weeks at a low fuel consumption. Then light off the turbines and accelerate to thirty-four knots. Though not for long; they burned a torrent of fuel.
Up narrow ladders, forward again, and he was walled in by gray bulkheads, gray overheads, cable runs, gray diamond-checked floor mats over bare aluminum. He bent under shock-mounted panels hanging from the overhead, but still caught his scalp on the edge of an air duct. CIC, the combat information center, and a tight little one it was. The radar repeaters, consoles, sonar stacks, and plot tables were familiar makes, but crammed into half the cubic he was used to.
Up yet higher to the bridge. Again, the equipment was familiar, but wedged into half the width and height an American seaman would feel comfortable in. Monty Henrickson was out on the starboard wing, deep in discussion with a Korean. The junior officers and the enlisted bridge team were all slight and all smooth-shaven. Dan worried how he was going to tell these guys apart.
Captain Yu was sitting in a tall leather chair, still smoking. His hooded reticent gaze met Dan’s, but flicked past without change or acknowledgment.
Henrickson came over. “The rest of the guys get off all right?” Dan asked, meaning Oberg and Carpenter and Wenck, who’d ride the other ships to observe and get the data.
“They’re all installed. No problem.”
“Carpenter too? Didn’t decide he’d rather sit this one out with his mamasan?”
“I saw him humping his gear up the brow two ships over. He’ll be there, Commander. Rit may push the envelope liberty-wise, but he does his job.”
“By the way, how do we talk to our TAG riders, Marty? They’re out twenty miles away, we’re on the flagship here?”
“Basically we don’t, not that much, anyway. There’s PRCs—the handheld radios?—but the range isn’t that great and they’re not encrypted. There’s an exercise coordination net monitored from CIC.”
“Right, I saw that in the op order.”
“We can pass direction via that, but to be perfectly frank, by the time it gets passed phonetically by people who don’t speak English that well….”
“I get the picture. What were you doing out on the wing?”
“Installing the nineteen. These little antennas, they won’t work inside, but I don’t want the box out in the rain.”
“So?”
“So, I’m gonna need to put the antenna assembly out on the wing, or maybe up on the flying bridge. Run cable up to it. Not a permanent install, just clamps and a handful of monkey shit.”
Dan acted as a go-between, relaying the request to the captain. Yu spoke magisterially, and the Korean Henrickson had been arguing with picked up a phone.
Suddenly one of the enlisted men wheeled and shouted. At once everyone popped to as rigid a brace as Dan had seen since plebe year. He turned to see Jung threading through the rigidly unmoving junior officers and phone talkers with the gravity of a battleship approaching its mooring buoy. He came to attention too. But the commodore greeted no one, did not even meet their eyes. His PhotoGrays had gone to full dark. He took the starboard chair, the one Yu had just slid down out of, settled himself, still without a word, and gazed forward, tapping out a cigarette that one of the junior officers immediately darted in to light for him.
THEY cast off an hour later, with less ceremony than an American or British warship. The deck gang took in lines, chanting and swaying in unison. Yu rapped out a couple of commands, the deck vibrated harder, and Chung Nam accelerated out of the nest. Looking back, Dan saw their inboard companion casting off, line handlers boiling about the forecastles of the rest of the flotilla. One by one, so smoothly it was clear they were well drilled, the patrol boats and frigates peeled off and came to a course for the harbor exit.
Chung Nam inclined into a roll, then picked up the rhythm of the sea. Looking back, Dan saw they led a line of gray elephants, white bones gripped in their teeth. They ran out past Kadokto, a low rocky shadow, and the Hungnam headland, out into the Korea Strait.
It was cooler out here. He leaned against a bearing transmitter on the port wing, enjoying the sun and wind. The bow wave broke with a roar like surf on a pebbly beach. The sea’s hue deepened from coastal green to a light-filled blue that drew his eye down into it. Every so often a gust o
f stack gas whirled down, sulfurous, choking when it got dense, but at the same time comforting just for being what he’d smelled a thousand times. Sea sparrows dipped and swerved along the bow wave. From its height, and the way they cruised through the wave systems, he judged they were making in excess of fifteen knots.
The Form One—the line ahead formation—turned south a couple of miles out, the flagship leading, each ship pivoting precisely in the guacamole green rudderwash of its predecessor. Another island came into view far to port, backlit by the morning sun into a black line only faintly softened by a haze the color of barbecue sauce. He went inside and checked the chart. Tsushima, midway between the southeastern tip of the peninsula and the southern main island of Japan, Kyushu.
He went back out and stood for a long time, brain pleasantly vacant, before glancing down to see a head he recognized below him. Joe O’Quinn was standing on the main deck. The wind ruffled his thinning hair and showed his scalp. He was looking out across the sea the same way Dan was. He thought about calling down to him, seeing if his mood had improved. But didn’t. Let O’Quinn make the first move. Or let him go to hell.
Instead he turned for the pilothouse. It was time to start SATYRE 17.
THE first days’ events, kicking off Phase I, were two to four hours long, and took place within four imaginary squares. Each square was thirty minutes of latitude or longitude, respectively, on a side. Their corners met sixty-eight miles due south of Cheju-Do, Cheju Island. The area was very shallow for antisubmarine work. According to the chart, the bottom sloped from 120 meters—all Korean charts were in meters, not fathoms—at the northeast corner to only 49 meters, about 160 feet, at the southwest. But since their main goal was to test littoral sensors and tactics, that made sense.
Dan, O’Quinn, Henrickson, Jung, and the shortest Lieutenant Kim put in an hour over the chart, talking out the concept of operations. They had to start with water conditions. Water conditions determined just about everything in ASW. And to play this game, you had to understand the nature of sound.
