Korea Strait

by David Poyer

  “It’s a valid concern. I’m willing to give up realism for safety.”

  “What are you offering?”

  “Guaranteed two-thousand-yard standoff, under no circumstances to be violated. That’s double what’s in the op order. Also a three-ping signal. We hear three pings active from you, the exercise is over.”

  “Safety courses?”

  “Better than that. Everyone goes dead in the water until you redistance and put up a green flare.”

  “Fuck that. I’m not cycling that fucking flare ejector again till I have the shipyard look at it.”

  “Well then, till you get your comm mast up and give us a pritac all clear.”

  “If they see a scope at all, they’re to turn and put it on their beam.”

  “If that’s how you want it. Sure.”

  “How’s the OTC gonna get this word out to his people?”

  Dan held out the third piece of paper. “Actually it’s in Korean, but it spells out exactly what happens to any CO who gets inside two thousand yards of you. Let’s just say he retires with no legs, no balls, and one eye ripped out.”

  “Now we’re talking,” said Mangum. He fanned himself with the papers, portraying Man in Deep Thought. “Well, I can’t think of anything else I can get out of you. Except what really happened with the Horn.”

  Dan was continually surprised at how many people had heard about what was supposedly compartmented top secret. As far as rumor, gossip, and backstairs intrigue, the Navy was like a small-town church choir. “I can’t tell you anything more than what you probably already heard. We figure it was a drifting mine. Just managed to save her.”

  “So why’s there chain-link and guards around her at Portsmouth Naval Shipyard?”

  “I lost some of my people. Some very good people. I hope that never happens to you, Andy.”

  Mangum regarded him for a moment more. “Well, guess what? There’s things I can’t tell you either. I guess we have to wait for our memoirs?”

  “Yeah. Our memoirs. We’re go, then? You’re back in?”

  “I guess so. But I want your TAG guys on the scope too, when they’re working close in.”

  Another tap heralded Dan’s uniform, cleaned, pressed, on a hanger. “We dried his shoes on low heat,” the crewman said. “But he’s just going to get them wet again.”

  “We got a pair of boots we can lose?”

  “Size?”

  “Ten,” Dan said.

  “Take a good look at this guy,” Mangum said to the crewman. “This is the most decorated guy on active duty in the U.S. Navy. Commander Dan Lenson. But hardly anybody knows his name outside of it.”

  “It’s a real honor, sir,” the crewman said.

  “You bilger,” Dan muttered to his classmate.

  “Hey, and maybe a worn-out set of rain gear, Cus?”

  “We’ll take a look, sir,” the crewman said. “How worn-out’s it got to be?”

  “This dude holds the Medal of Honor. That give you a hint?”

  “Message received, Captain,” the crewman said. He looked at Dan as if he were a demigod, as if he wanted to touch him but was afraid to. Dan wished Mangum hadn’t said all that.

  Mangum reached for a phone on the bulkhead. “Captain. Return to pickup point and prepare to surface. Complete three-sixty sonar search. Course into prevailing sea.” To Dan, “We’ll be there in twenty minutes. Ever seen one of these?”

  Dan said, “I’d be honored if you’d show me around, Andy. I’d like to see your—boat. But really, they don’t need to know all that stuff you were telling him.”

  “I’ll tell them whatever I goddamn well want to tell them. Who’s the fucking CO here? You or me?” His classmate punched the phone again. “XO? Everybody off watch, in the crew’s mess, ten minutes.”

  THE whaleboat, which had stood off while Dan was below, took him loping back over the waves. The rain had eased off, the squall-clouds moved on. It was smoother headed downsea. Small brown birds soared and dipped, flinging their wings over at each crest as if they too were enjoying themselves. He wiggled his toes deliriously in dry socks, in the new boots. All he had to do now was make sure the Koreans restrained themselves, kept safety in mind, and this whole thing might yet work out.

  It occurred to him that if it didn’t—if anything did happen to one of the subs, even just a bent ‘scope, anything at all from here on till the end of SATYRE 17—he could expect to be hammered, having coaxed the reluctant Mangum back into play.

  But that didn’t worry him. It was too nice a day. He even saw, gradually wearing its way through the gray denim of the departing squall, a bright patch he suspected might be the sun.

  HE ducked his head going into CIC, missing the air duct that’d creamed him before, and caught Henrickson’s eye. The analyst looked unwontedly grim. He said a word to the sonarman he’d been talking to, patted his shoulder, and got up and came Dan’s way, carrying a clipboard. “A word?”

  “Hey, Monty.”

  “How’d it go? Heard you went over to San Fran.”

  “On the whole good, I think. She’s back in the game, given some additional precautions. What is it? O’Quinn?”

  “What? No.”

  Henrickson handed Dan the clipboard. He ran his finger down the message headers. It was from CTF 74—the U.S. task force assigned to the exercise, that would be Harry Fatass Leakham—to COMTAG, Commander, Tactical Analysis Group, Little Creek, Virginia.

  4 (C) Safety is paramount in all exercise operations. It is the concern of this commander that the personal direction being exercised on COMASWRON 51 by the TAG representative is prejudicial to the safety of maneuvers. Numerous close passes at dangerously high speeds inside danger zones have been noted.

  5 (C) It has also been observed that a close relationship seems to exist between the senior TAG team member, CDR. D. V. Lenson, USN, and COMASWRON 51, Commo. Jung Min Jun, ROKN. This unprofessional relationship operates to the detriment of the US components in the exercise.

  6. (S) It is therefore proposed that CDR Lenson be immediately relieved as exercise director and replaced either by this commander’s chief of staff or other TAG personnel now on scene.

  The betrayal and outrage felt like incipient lightning. Like a day, out sailing, when he’d bent to run out more scope of anchor line as a thunderstorm came on, and felt the electrical charge thrilling up his fists from where they gripped the sea-soaked nylon. “Unprofessional relationship”? That could only mean one thing in this context. He’d suspected Leakham had a hard-on for him, but this was out of the ballpark. He looked up. “How’d we get this, Monty?”

  “Came in while you were over there.”

  “Has Jung seen it? Yu?”

  “No. At least, I don’t think so. Their radio guys are supposed to bring our traffic right to us. And not keep any copies.”

  “Does this happen often?” Dan asked him. “The fucking U.S. commander tries to get you relieved?”

  “There’s friction, sure,” the analyst said, not meeting his eye. “Shouting matches, even. Once, off Sardina… but this is the first time I’ve had anyone ask for the director’s head. And you’re right, this reads ugly.”

  “What is it with this idiot? You dealt with him before?”

  “No, but you must’ve. Sounds like he’s got it in for you, all right.”

  “I barely know the son of a bitch,” Dan muttered. He reread the message, nauseated now. It wasn’t often you got stabbed in the back like this in the Navy. Especially when you were actually doing your job reasonably well. As he’d thought he had.

  “Political?” Henrickson prompted.

  Dan was about to answer when he realized he didn’t really know much about Henrickson either. He worked for TAG, of course, but who else? How plugged in was he to the rest of the Navy? And which Navy? The Vatican had no monopoly on heresy, schism, inquisitors, and Martin Luthers. He raised his eyes from the message to stare into his face. Henrickson looked evasive, but then he often did. Probabl
y he was just what he said he was. Just another civ-mil contractor, though it was odd, now he thought about it, to see a full PhD out in the field.

  Because just that one word, political, had bungee-corded him back to a mind-set he’d hoped to leave behind. With a pullout from Korea at stake, there might be forces at work beyond the usual multinational-exercise tiffs. Things that might go up the line. Things that his wife, Blair, part of the current administration, after all, might find not as puzzling as he did.

  Or maybe he was being too suspicious. So in the end he didn’t say anything. Just lowered his head slightly. Henrickson blinked, looking bewildered, as Dan folded the message twice, neatly, carefully, making his face noncommittal, unconcerned, and slipped it into his shirt pocket and buttoned the flap over it.

  Sealing it in, as if against the possibility it might escape.

  8

  THE commodore’s cabin was furnished more spartanly than he’d expected. Jiang was well connected, smart, obviously a comer. But his cabin contained only a desk, an office chair, a low table, on which they were now eating lunch, and a plain reed tatami. A framed family photo was taped down on the desk, next to a notebook Toshiba and an empty in-box. A leather sample case sat on the deck, and on the bulkhead hung a calendar with a reproduction of a temple scene somewhere in the mountains. It looked as if the task force commander could throw it all in the case in sixty seconds and be ready to walk off the ship.

  The table was at an awkward height: too high to eat from sitting on the floor Asian-style, yet too low to be comfortable from a chair. The result was that Dan’s back hurt as he hunched, hunting with his chopsticks for something edible.

  It was two days after his jaunt over to San Francisco. The exercise had gone smoothly since. He’d heard nothing from TAG about Leakham’s message. Or if there’d been a response, he, the on-scene director, hadn’t been one of the addees. Which left him in a position that made him furious, but that he couldn’t do anything about. Other than stew, so he tried not to think about it. Which of course meant he couldn’t get it out of his head. Being isolated aboard Chung Nam, unable to talk to anybody except by official message, made it worse. He wished he could get Blair’s take on it. That always seemed to put things in perspective. But he couldn’t; they were as out of touch by phone as every other way.

  He didn’t even know, come to think of it, whether the man tucking into the noodles across from him knew his American adviser’s own senior officer was trying to have him recalled. Even if he’d read the message, had it back-channeled to him out of the radio shack, the broad face across from him was well able to keep whatever secrets it concealed.

  Lunch, like breakfast and dinner, came in tiny porcelain bowls. Each contained two or three tablespoons of… matter. Dan picked and dabbled, trying to feign interest, or at least conceal disgust. Pickled seaweed, pickled fish, pickled radishes sliced fine, pickled grated carrot with some spicy sauce. There were several varieties of kimchi—fermented cabbage—with chili peppers, turnips, and other, unidentifiable ingredients. He loaded up on the steamed rice, but you couldn’t eat just rice. Not with Jung.

  “Try some of this,” the commodore said, dropping a wad of what looked like cow-cud on Dan’s plate.

  He chopsticked it up—every Academy grad knew how to use chopsticks; the dividers you practiced with in nav class operated the same exact way—dented it as little as possible with his teeth, and gulped it whole. If he was careful he could miss actually tasting it. “Uh—interesting flavor. What is it? Seems a little like—pork?”

  “Very good! That is close to my own family kimchi. When I was a boy we’d work at it for weeks, in the fall. The mountains of cabbages in the kitchen were taller than I was. If we kids didn’t peel fast enough, my grandmother would threaten to pickle us in the jars too.”

  Dan slurped soup, watching for bones. Too salty, but it was fresh. They’d hove to beside a fishing smack that morning and bought the catch. The ship rolled around them, making the liquids slosh in their various containers. He felt light-headed.

  “I have eaten on many U.S. ships. And at your colleges. But it’s always nice to get back to the food you’re used to.” Jung sucked air politely, or maybe the hot sauce was getting to him too. “No doubt you feel the same.”

  “No, this is good.” He’d noticed how anxious they were that he liked their food. And Jung was obviously laying it on: so many choices, so carefully presented. He fished around, got what looked like a meat dumpling, and made himself eat it. It tasted so shit-rotten he thought: God, they can’t be serious. It stank like tripe with sweet dough wrapped around it. The ship rolled again and he fought to swallow.

  Once down, though, Korean food stayed with you. He hadn’t shat once since he came aboard. What must be going on in his gut, he didn’t like to think about.

  “I can’t believe you don’t like soju.”

  “It’s not that I don’t like it, Commodore.”

  “Oh, yes, you don’t drink. Still, just a taste couldn’t harm you. Really. Could it?”

  Jung glanced to his side and the attendant poured him a small porcelain cup of the rice liquor. The commodore raised it, saluting him. Dan picked up his teacup and toasted him back. Then pointed to the soju cup and said to the attendant, ”Anyo. Kamsahamnida.”

  The sailor widened his eyes and looked to Jung. The commodore looked annoyed and waved at him to take it away. “No, no, the man cannot taste it, even for a toast. But you and your men are getting your coffee all right?” he asked, with an edge of irony.

  Apparently Yu had mentioned their little confrontation in the wardroom. “Yes, sir. We are,” Dan told him. “Thank you.”

  “No, thank Yu.” Jung chuckled at the pun. “The exercise this morning. Combined torpedo-attack countermeasures. You do not think we reacted too slowly? When Chang Bo Go fired at Gushing?”

  Dan played for time. Unfortunately that meant eating more, and he got one of the pepper dishes. He coughed and ate rice and swallowed tea. “Well, sir—excuse me—as you know, I’m not supposed to comment on how well things go. I explained that—”

  “This is not about the grade, Commander. I know there is no grade. I’m asking your professional opinion. Between us. Off the record.”

  “Commodore, your men are earning my professional respect. Beyond that, I just can’t comment.”

  Jung’s swarthy face went sour again. “They’re the same tactics Leakham’s using. On the whole.”

  They weren’t. Leakham depended far more on his helicopters, but Dan wasn’t going to let the guy sucker him into saying so. “Sir, as long as they’re safely executed, all I’m here for is to record them, not judge them.”

  “I’ll tell you what irritates me. That Leakham. He says he doesn’t get my directives. He gets them, but ignores them. He issues orders as if he is in command.”

  Dan kept his mouth shut. A smart commander stayed out of commodore-to-commodore disputes. Jung said, “I am the OTC, that is clearly specified. I have tactical command of all ships in the exercise, of whatever nationality. The Australians understand this. Even the Japanese. Only the Americans don’t.”

  “Sir, I’d say that’s a Harry Leakham problem, not an American problem. I totally agree with you about the clarity of the relationship.”

  Jung was nodding, clearly less satisfied than momentarily mollified. He was starting to discuss airspace management when someone tapped on the door.

  It was Captain Yu. He bowed and handed Jung a message. Bowed again, though perfunctorily, to Dan, who’d gotten to his feet as the CO entered. They waited as Jung read.

  The commodore started in Korean, but switched to English. “This will most likely mean Umigiri will be leaving. Any indication of it yet?”

  “Nothing, Commodore-mm. She still in barrier station.”

  “Uh, what’s going on?” Dan asked them.

  Jung waved the message. “The Japanese Maritime Self-Defense Force has gone to full alert. The Chinese have fired a test ballistic
missile across the island of Hokkaido.”

  At last Dan said, “Well, that’s pretty far away from our operating area.”

  Yu nodded. “That is true. Hokkaido is northernmost island in the Japanese chain.”

  Jung: “Nevertheless they have gone to full alert. Lodged a protest with the Chinese, and with the Security Council. Test or not, firing a missile over another country’s territory is a clear provocation. A strong message.”

  “But what is the message?” Yu said.

  Dan remembered the way Tomahawks had headed off on their own, early in the development of that missile. “It couldn’t be an accident?”

  “The message does not say, but I would doubt it. Not with a ballistic missile.”

  Dan wondered what the American involvement might be if there was a crisis between Japan and China. He cleared his throat. “I don’t see this as impacting our exercise. Not yet. Do you?”

  “No, I agree. The most that may happen is Umigiri detaches, and any other JMSDF units in the southern areas are called back to the home islands. We may lose their maritime patrol air as well.” Jung paused, pulling at his lower lip and blinking through the PhotoGrays. “If that happens we’ll have to redraw the plan for the free-play event.”

  “Since we won’t be able to seal off the flanks against an end-around?”

  “That’s right. Perhaps we could… move it into a sea area more tightly bounded by surrounding land?”

  Dan said that might work, though having fewer assets would hurt in other ways too. He and the chief of staff would study the problem and come up with recommendations. Fortunately they had a few days in port before the free-play phase would begin. So they wouldn’t have to pull it out on the spur of the moment. But it provided a good excuse to cut lunch short. He bowed to Jung. “I will go and look over the charts. If you will excuse me.”

  Curtly, Jung gave him a dismissive nod.

  DAN stopped on the main deck and rested his palms on the lifeline. A thrilling-faint vibration violined through it, a pulse picked up and transmitted and sung its length from the very life of the ship. The sea was more nearly smooth than it had been for the last few days, the wave heights one to two feet, no more. The sky shone the clearest blue he’d yet seen it in this patch of ocean. The sea was the deep blue of old velvet where some heavy precious object has lain for a long time and kept the cloth from fading. Bubbles rocked along its surface as the flagship leaned, so very gradually you could hardly call it a roll, under way on diesels alone at an easy eight knots. Far to the north fluffy white clouds hovered, their upperworks glowing like heated silver. If they marked land, as they often did, he guessed it’d be Cheju-Do, off the southern tip of Korea.