Korea Strait

by David Poyer

  “Because most of the Air Force is based in Japan,” Dan told him. “What if the Chinese say: Hey, Tokyo, we don’t want the U.S. flying out of those bases. Remember those missiles they fired over them last week? That was a signal, Joe. A clear threat.”

  “You think so?”

  “Absolutely. The Japanese already pulled their navy back to home waters. Think they’ll risk a nuclear strike on the home islands, just to help the ROK? They probably care about as much for the Koreans as the Koreans care for them.”

  “Which isn’t much.”

  “Exactly. Follow the logic. If the Air Force can’t fly—and this new typhoon won’t help—these people will get all the way down the peninsula before we can build up our heavy forces to stop them. And if they push us into the sea, it’d take a major amphibious landing to get back. Another D day. With casualties like D day.”

  “No way De Bari’s gonna go for that,” O’Quinn observed darkly. “That draft-dodging piece of shit. He’ll just bitch to the UN. They should have impeached his ass years ago.”

  Dan reflected that a sizable segment of the senior military leadership felt the same way. But right now that was beside the point. “So the Republic goes under, the Chinese move another piece forward, and we lose whatever face we have left in Asia. We’ve got to finish this group off, Joe. We can’t let a single boat get past the Strait and into open water.”

  “You told me why,” O’Quinn said contemptuously. “All of which I knew. But you still haven’t said how. Not with, what—four cans, and no helos? We’d have to get real lucky, real soon.”

  Dan rubbed his nose, wondering if he could reasonably bum another Snickers from a guy he’d never gotten along with. “Yeah. I guess.”

  “And, you know—I’m still wondering why it took two attacks to sink that one we got. Notice that?”

  “Yeah. I did.” He’d done more than wonder: he’d run the numbers. The Pk, probability of kill, for a Mark 46 on a Romeo-sized target, beam on, at four hundred feet was 0.62. Which meant it shouldn’t have taken two attacks, expending six torpedoes, to destroy it.

  “Want another Snickers?”

  He looked at it. “Uh… no thanks. Joe.”

  “Go on. I got lots more.” O’Quinn grinned and waved it, like a treat before a dog. “Got to keep that strength up.” He laid it in Dan’s lap, then sobered. As if remembering something less pleasant than ragging on his boss. “After all—we got a war to fight.”

  DAN expected Jung to send an invitation to lunch, but none came. Finally he went down to the wardroom. Plain rice didn’t revolt him, so he ate a small bowl. Then went to his stateroom. But then the candy and rice filled him to the point he found it hard to move his arms and legs. Or maybe it was just so long since he’d slept. His bunk crooned a siren’s song. He pushed his shoes off and after a moment lay back.

  A clutter of images flickered behind his closed lids. Some were of events that had happened. Others, of things that might. He tried to ignore them. He concentrated on his toes. Then, his feet. Gradually he moved up his body, tensing and then relaxing each muscle.

  He jerked fully awake, bathed in sweat, staring at the overhead and choking with terror.

  He couldn’t shake the image of the flames last night, of the men silhouetted against them. It took him back to things he’d rather not remember. The fire aboard Reynolds Ryan, before the blunt bow of a carrier smashed her under. The mine explosion aboard USS Van Zandt. The disaster aboard Horn.

  He’d seen things he didn’t like to remember. Ashore too, in Iraq and in Washington and on an island in the South China Sea. But in a way Horn had been the worst. Because he’d been the skipper. He, personally, had put her in harm’s way. He, personally, had sent men and women to their deaths.

  And yes, it filled him with terror.

  Maybe Nick Niles was right. Maybe he was a magnet for trouble, a danger to the people around him. Second-guessing those who had the experience and the rank and the perspective and the intelligence sources to know better. Setting himself up as some kind of fucking moral paragon.

  When all he was, was a jinx.

  He lay rigid, shaking. A deep breath. Another. Oxygen in. Then fear out. Again. Trying to steer his rudderless, yawing mind somewhere productive.

  Mok Po had been lucky to stay afloat. Whoever caught the next attack might not be. Not if their enemies carried wake-homing torpedoes, and their own weapons had some obscure flaw. It had happened in previous wars. Torpedoes were notorious for not performing in combat the way they’d worked in tests. And if they couldn’t stop this wolf pack…

  He blinked in the dim light at the life jacket someone had hung on his locker during the night. Not an inflatable, the kind you wore at general quarters in the U.S. Navy. These were the bright orange, high-collared, high-seas flotation devices that would keep an unconscious man’s head out of the water.

  At last the shaking eased. The fear stepped away. He just couldn’t lie here, though. No matter how tired he was. He swung his feet down and slipped his shoes on. Searched his eyes in the mirror. Glanced again at the life jacket.

  After a quick shave he went up to the bridge, leaving it hanging on the locker.

  THE sky had clouded over since the night before. The wind was stronger too, humming in antennas and lines, buffeting at the pilothouse windows as the frigate rolled, stabilizers off. He wondered if the concrete and timber bracing of their makeshift hull repair was up to another typhoon. The waves were the color of pneumonia victims. Their dull surfaces sucked in what light remained. He watched them, gripping the splinter shield. Down on the forecastle the deck gang was renewing the lashings on the ground tackle. Brass gleamed at the 40mm mount as the loaders wiped down ammunition. The.50 on the bridge wing was manned too. The wing gunners had on helmets and life jackets, and all three held binoculars. They were searching the horizon with the soul-riveting attention he recalled from old movies about convoys, about ravening U-boats and flaming tankers: the concentration of men whose lives hung on what they saw or failed to see.

  He leaned on the shield, trying again to relax. The sky gave him back no assurance. It was dark as the sea, its dirty clouds warped into what looked like black corrugations, as if the world were ceilinged with scraps of cardboard box impregnated with roofing tar. Far to the west starless mountains rose like a rampart, keeping the Eastern Sea from pouring away over the edge of the world.

  He was still trying to figure out what had gone wrong with the Mark 46s. They were the most common acoustic homing torpedoes used by U.S. and allied navies all over the world. They had a passive mode, but usually you set them to active search before firing. They didn’t carry a huge warhead, but it was enough to rupture a pressure hull. The sea would do the rest. Tube-launched or air-dropped, they ran out to a preset range and bearing, then switched on their sonar and began a spiral search. You didn’t have to know the target’s exact depth; you simply preset the top and bottom of the search. The torpedo started at the upper limit, then spiraled downward, pointing its beam around in a 360-degree circle. When it got a return ping, it homed in.

  His first suspicion was that someone had entered the presets wrong. If the torpedo started searching too deep, it’d miss a target running shallow. But he had to admit, that was just a guess. They might be defective. A crewman might have failed to arm the warheads. They might simply be old, with expired batteries and components—he didn’t know what vintage the ones Chung Nam had fired were. The more he thought about it, the more likely an explanation that seemed. A programming error, an arming oversight, or ordnance beyond its shelf life.

  What worried him more was what would happen the next time they attacked. If it was really a wake homer that had mutilated Mok Po, they’d have to reassess their tactics. But he couldn’t think of any way of finding out what kind of torpedo the enemy was carrying, other than to go back in and make them fire more. Which would be a dangerous experiment.

  He stared out at the leaden sea, the bizarre lightless li
ght that seemed to hover over it and shine up through the waves. Somewhere past that horizon their quarry was slipping quietly south. Every mile gained brought them closer to their goal. Whatever that goal was. But they couldn’t stay down forever. Very soon now, they’d have to at least poke up a periscope, take a tentative peek above, then send up the hydraulic mast with the snorkel. Crack the intake valves, start the diesels, and recharge.

  When they did, Jung would have to move in, regardless of what his casualties might be. Dan didn’t think there was much chance of the guy hanging back. If the decorations Jung wore were real, if the scuttlebutt about him was true, the problem would be to keep him from charging in too fast, without doing his homework.

  Which was what he and his guys could contribute. And about all they could do, as far as he could see. He rubbed his face, trying to pull his thoughts together. Trying to concentrate, as the gun crews were, on what was out there, and how they could stop it from killing them.

  HE was in Sonar, on the phone, trying to get production dates on the torpedoes from the ASW officer, when the radioman came in. “Commander Renson? Message.”

  It was in an envelope, which none of the others had been. He couldn’t read the stamped red-inked Hangul. But beneath it, in carefully crafted block letters, someone had printed SECRET/RELEASABLE TO US/ROK ONLY.

  It was addressed to him, or as close to a personal address as you could get in message traffic. “TAG Rep Embarked CTG 213.3.” 213.3 was Jung’s designation as commander of the new task group, reinforced by the additional pair of frigates from Squadron 11 out of Donghae.

  Dan read it. Then dropped his feet to the deck and read it again, not believing what he saw.

  “National technical intelligence sources” had identified what the message called the Whiskey/Romeo Group East, or WRGE for short, as a neutron emitter. In view of this, CFC and CNFK operations in the China Sea should be reevaluated. CTG 213.3 was directed to take appropriate action.

  He felt as if the world had been taken apart and put back together again sideways. As if something in his inner ear, or maybe his brain, had diswired. If one of these subs was a neutron emitter, he had to revise everything. Starting with where they’d first been picked up: so far to the east the Japanese had first stumbled on them, not the Koreans. He’d puzzled about the dogleg so far out to sea, when the optimal tactic for a stealthy transit would have been to stick to the peninsular shelf, snorkel by night and lie low by day.

  But if they were carrying a primitive nuclear device… something so massive and clumsy it had to be loaded, maybe even built into, a submarine…

  Henrickson was on the starboard wing, boot propped on a cable run, scribbling in a wheelbook. Dan handed him the message, making sure Monty had it in his fingers before he let go; he didn’t want the wind grabbing it away.

  The analyst looked up, eyes blown wide. “Holy shit.”

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  “This means… shit. No way they’re going to bring the carriers in with this thing out there.”

  He hadn’t thought of that. A sizable amount of the scheduled air sortie generation was Navy, off the carriers. But then he remembered. “Uh, that’d make sense if these guys weren’t still headed south, Monty. They’re not out here to keep the carriers out.”

  “Unless there’s more of them we don’t know about.” Henrickson read the message again, glancing at the.50 crew, but they were still intent on their search of the passing waves. “Why’s it say, Whiskey/Romeo Group East? Unless there’s another one on the west coast?”

  “They don’t mention one.”

  “Isn’t there an amphib group coming down the west coast?”

  “But no report of any subs with them. They might just be saying that in case another one comes on the screen.”

  Through the window Dan saw Hwang in the pilothouse. He noticed them and cracked the door. “Commander,” he said. “Your presence—”

  “Is requested in the commodore’s cabin,” Dan finished for him. “Monty, how about you come along too, and help me out on this.”

  JUNG’S cabin was pitch dark. Dan stood lost. Then a light clicked on by the desk.

  The commodore had been sitting in the dark. He was in khaki trousers and zoris and a white V-necked undershirt. Dan noticed that it was monogrammed, and that dark sweat ringed his armpits. An identical buff envelope lay on his desk, opened.

  “Seoul has ordered Watchcon I,” he said. “A clear and immediate threat of attack. The first time it has ever been issued.”

  “That’s not good news, sir.”

  “No, it is not. They are considering evacuating the capital. I am afraid there will be panic.”

  “I don’t think your people will panic,” Dan told him. “They seem very disciplined to me.”

  Jung tried to smile, but it wasn’t convincing. “Thank you. You’ve seen the message?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “How do you read it?”

  “One of these transiters has nuclear material aboard. We have to assume, a nuclear device.”

  The chief of staff cleared his throat behind Dan. “Why just one, Commodore? The way I read the message, it is the group that’s the emitter. It’s not a… point source. So there could be two, or three. Or more, if we haven’t detected all the intruders.”

  Dan nodded. “It’s possible, sure. But I’d bet on just one. Kim Jong n can’t have that many of these things. What I’ve seen in our intelligence estimates, when I was at the White House”—he hesitated, then went ahead and told him—”no more than ten.”

  “The DPRK possesses six operational nuclear weapons,” Jung said quietly.

  Dan held his eyes. By his tone, it wasn’t something he’d felt comfortable sharing either. So the South had an agent in place. Interesting. What else had the spy reported that Seoul hadn’t passed on to Washington? And did the North have agents, moles, too?

  “Still, that’s not a lot. Not to fight a war against the U.S. They’ll keep as many in reserve as they can. To deter us with. I think probably the neutron sensors on the satellite just can’t localize it that closely. That’s why they say the WRGE.”

  “There’s another possibility,” Henrickson said. All three looked at him. “That it’s not a nuclear device they’re picking up.”

  “What else emits neutrons?”

  “A nuclear submarine.”

  Dan didn’t think that was likely. Any nuke boat North Korea could buy or build would be much noisier submerged than anything they’d heard yet. And they’d already classed at least two of the boats as Romeos. Still, it was possible. Just another unknown to throw into what was getting to be a pretty goddamned murky stew

  Jung said, “What is the provenance of this data? You said satellites.”

  Dan took that one. “Most likely, sir.”

  “Can I trust it?”

  Dan organized his thoughts. He’d had access to national technical means of verification, as the cant went, as a member of the National Security Council staff. But they were very highly classified. He was still bound by that. On the other hand, who had more need to know than this man, right now? Finally he said cautiously, “Sir, if they think it’s worth sending you a heads-up, I’d say you can trust the data.”

  “Can they give me a location from these emissions?”

  He thought again, trying to remember the briefings. “That’d take more than one satellite, several passes—no, sir. It’s a good question, but I don’t think you can plan on using it as a means of localization, to prosecute the contact. If that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “All right. We have three intruders. One carries a nuclear device. Your thoughts? Ideas? Any of you.”

  Dan said, “Well—other than prosecuting when they pop up to snorkel?”

  Hwang said flatly, “Unfortunately, we can’t just attack each snorkeler.”

  Henrickson frowned. “Why not?”

  “Think about it. What will happen if we do?”

  Dan saw it
then. The chief of staff was right. It was like the old con game, where the grifter hides a pea under a walnut shell. But in this case, if they picked the one with the pea under it—“They’ll set it off,” he said.

  “Exactly so.” Hwang nodded. “Beneath the task force. We can attack the conventionally armed boats. But the minute the captain who is carrying the nuclear payload hears the incoming torpedo, and knows he cannot accomplish his primary mission—why should he not set it off? He and his crew are doomed in any case.”

  Henrickson said, “So what’s he after? The carriers?”

  Jung said heavily, “No. If that was their target, they wouldn’t be heading south. They’d wait inshore of Ullungdo and let the Americans come to them. That leaves only one possibility. They’re bound for Pusan.”

  Dan nodded slowly, the magnitude of it only now dawning. O’Quinn had glimpsed it. Only it wasn’t mines, but something even more “sneaky,” his word.

  The only deepwater port in the South. The last-stand position for the Combined Forces. A light division could deploy by air, debark at airfields and airports carrying personal weapons. But heavy armored forces couldn’t. Nor could you airlift hundreds of thousands of tons of fuel, food, ammunition, vehicles, bridging, field hospitals, everything the Army, Air Force, and Marines needed to fight a major war. In the last struggle the North had pushed them back into a fiercely contested toehold. But they’d held, reinforced, then fought their way back, not once, but twice: first against the Korean Communists, then against the Chinese.

  But if a nuclear weapon went off in Pusan Harbor, there’d be no haven. No logistic support. No heavy armor. And knowing that, with their backs to the sea and no supply or reinforcement, how long could the ROK Army, and the already bare-bones U.S. contingent, continue to fight?

  Jung cleared his throat with a grating, almost mechanical sound. “Here is what I want you to do. Commander Hwang, set up a voice link. Commander Lenson: You will call your wife, at the Pentagon.”

  Dan frowned. He hadn’t expected this. “Commodore… with all due respect, that’s not the road to take.”