Korea Strait (44 page)

They pushed him into the gloom. A coaming diked six inches of rolling water on deck from a hatch leading down. Dan leaned over it, breathing the reek of rotten rice and diesel fuel and stinking bodies that flooded up from a region of dim orange light.

A shout came up, and a totally enraged-looking scarlet face followed it up the ladder. This character was shouting so loud it was deafening in the closed space. He threw a canvas bag at Dan's escorts. The next second it was being pulled over his head.

The last time anyone had put a hood on him, it'd been Saddam's Muhkbarat. Without even considering he yanked it out of their hands and whipped it out the still-open door. The sea heaved. The bag floated a moment, then was sucked down. The face in the hatch opening went from scarlet to purple, screaming. The two guys beside Dan went stiff as posts.

One thing he'd learned on this float was that Koreans feared rank and weren't afraid to pull it. Maybe the Northern brand were the same. He rounded on Red Face and shook his fist at him. “I'm not wearing that fucking hood!” he screamed as loudly as he could. He grabbed his own collar, the silver oak leaf insignia, and thrust it in the man's face. “Get that through your thick fucking head, asshole! Now get out of my fucking way!”

. . .

HE stood in the little cramped messroom, the painted cork-lined overhead low and curving, bracing himself with one hand on an overboard discharge pipe. It was weepy with condensation and rough with rust, but felt solid under his weight at each roll. Down here the stink was close and choking, the air hot and thick with diesel fumes. All the lights were twenty-watt incandescents. The bulkheads were wooden. The equipment cabinets were pop riveted, with the round black meter faces that had gone out of style in the West about 1949. It was vintage technology, and he'd have been happy in a professional way, in different circumstances, to examine it more closely.

It was also interesting to note several recent bullet-scars, gleaming raw metal that marred the paneling in the dim light. A dark red stain on the deck looked as if it had been hastily blotted up with rags.

A harsh voice. “You are American officer?”

He was surrounded, hemmed in, by extremely hostile-looking North Koreans. Two stood to either side, another behind him, between him and the access trunk. At a wooden mess table with a stained tablecloth sat three men. The one in the center, in his thirties, wore the light blue ship's coveralls. He had a hard, rawboned face, close-cropped hair, ears that stuck out like propeller blades, and black, stabbing eyes. His hands lay pressed flat on the tablecloth. The two who flanked him looked younger. One was in the same powder blue; the other wore a khaki uniform with red collar tabs. Dan did a double take when he saw their feet. They all wore white canvas slip-on tennis shoes, vintage surfer models, some very much the worse for wear.

His attention was redirected by Propeller Ears slamming his palm on the table. “I ask again! You are American officer?”

“Correct.”

“Your name.”

“Daniel V. Lenson. Commander, USN. You are the captain?
Hang-jung?”

“I am Captain Im. Political Officer Park; my second in command, Lieutenant Won.”

Dan nodded and looked around pointedly. “How about a chair?”

Won snapped an order, and a wooden one appeared. It looked handmade. Dan lowered himself, keeping his grip on the pipe. The
rolling was so extreme that the chairs and the table kept grating this way and that. He felt light-headed, a prelude to seasickness, but kept his expression impassive. He'd just come through two typhoons, on the surface. This would be much worse for them. Submerged, they'd have experienced little motion, except when they snorkeled. The pervasive sour-vomit smell didn't help his stomach, though.

Time to establish some rapport, get this on a friendlier footing than what felt like an interrogation. “Any chance of tea?” he asked. “I very much enjoy Korean tea.”

“No tea,” Im snapped. “This is not party. Are you prepared to surrender all force under your command?”

“No. But I'm prepared to accept your capitulation.”

Park and Won barked laughter; Im frowned. “That is not what you are here for. We have overwhelming force. Surrender, or we destroy all ships.”

Dan said, as deadpan as he could, “What overwhelming force? I don't see such a force, Captain. Only one badly damaged submarine.”

Im paused for dramatic effect. Then said gravely, tapping the table for emphasis, “We have
atomic weapon
aboard!
That
is overwhelming force.”

“Is that right. May I see it?”

Consternation. They stared at each other. Then burst out arguing in Korean.

When Im turned back his frown plowed fresh grooves around his mouth. “We have nuclear weapon aboard. We will detonate it unless all South Korean bandit ships surrender to us and take measure to obey our command.”

Despite queasiness and dread, Dan felt he was tuning in to what was going on. Im was starting out hard-line, the way North Koreans always did. He was convinced he held the top hand. And maybe he did, if he was willing to die. After a lifetime of regimentation, programming, indoctrination, he probably was.

All Dan had to do was convince the commander to ignore everything he'd ever been taught was right and honorable. Persuade him there was another way out than death and war.

Right, Lenson, he thought. How tough could it be? Persuading fanatical zealots, who believed their families would pay if they failed, to give up?

He folded his arms and put on the best command face he could muster. “Why should I believe you? Perhaps you are stinking Communist liars. I want to see this so-called weapon. It is probably nothing more than a fraud.”

All three tensed. The word “fraud” meant something, then. Im barked at Won. The exec rose. When he beckoned impatiently Dan hauled himself up too.

They headed forward. At a small circular watertight door, the second in command swung himself through. Dan followed less gracefully, crouching, on all fours. There seemed to be only one deck, unlike
San Francisco.
More like World War II submarines: a single level, floored by a massive battery compartment. As they threaded a ballast control station Dan glimpsed scores of red-painted valve-wheels, a hull-penetration board glowing before a boyish crewman threw a blanket over it. The crewman's face was expressionless but his gaze followed Dan as he passed. Ahead along the passageway more blankets and sheets were being hastily pulled over what they obviously considered sensitive gear.

Forward of that was a berthing area, but all the bunks were empty. Dan wondered where the crew was. Next came another watertight hatch, massive as the door of a bank vault. Sacks of rice walled up the bulkhead around it. They were working their way free with each roll; brittle grains grated under his boots. He folded again and followed Won through, grabbing a handhold, trying it feetfirst this time.

The next compartment looked like any torpedo room on any submarine, though more cramped. The long fish lay racked and strapped aft of the tubes and the maze of valves and piping that wrapped them. But to port, as he straightened from his crouch, was a large assembly that Dan saw at once was no torpedo.

It was about twenty feet long and a yard in diameter. The exterior looked like cast steel, painted gray. He saw instantly from the shape alone that if it was indeed a nuclear weapon, it must be a gun-type uranium bomb. Two crewmen stood at attention in white paper suits, snoods, and booties. One held a Geiger counter. Won took it from his hands and snapped a switch. The clicks mounted to a roar as he passed it over the massive tube.

Dan couldn't move. He couldn't even unlock his eyes from the thing. He felt cold at the same instant sweat broke all over his body.

He'd been close to them before, aboard carriers and Tomahawk-armed cruisers. But never
this
close.
Touching
close. The thing radiated, not just gamma and neutrons, but pure, focused evil. He'd never believed
things
could be malign, cross-grained with the universe, in and of themselves.

But intellectual conviction and this feeling of absolute horror were two very different things.

“You are satisfied, then?” Won smiled, patting the massive object as if it were a prizewinning hog he'd hand-fed from infancy.

Dan nodded, taking a step back even as he tried to note everything he could about it.

“You do not want us to open? We are much happy to open. Inspect.”

He retreated another half step, till his back hit something hard behind him. If he was reading the scale on that counter right, he didn't want to spend a moment longer in this compartment than he had to. “No, no. I'm satisfied.”

Won nodded again, looking pleased. He led them in a little reversed processional back to the messroom. Dan breathed easier when the massive door dogged behind them. Now he knew why the crew stayed aft. Why everything they owned was barricaded up against the bulkhead. He took his chair again opposite the trio, set his moves out in his mind, and began.

“Captain Im. I see you are well armed and bravely determined. You have fought very well. However, it is plain you can't achieve your mission. You cannot reach Pusan.”

He paused, thinking they might confirm that
was
their mission. But all he got was Easter Island stone faces. He went on. “As you can't fulfill your orders, my commander, Commodore Jung, proposes the following. First, that you surrender your ship and your men.”

“The People's forces do not surrender,” the uniformed guy, Park, snapped.

“I understand. Their bravery is well known even in the United States.” They seemed pleased when he complimented them; he decided to lay it on thicker. “You have sunk two ships and caused great damage to the ROK fleet. We never expected such seamanship and courage! The whole world is marveling at this moment. But even the
bravest fighter must bow to inevitable defeat. The question then becomes, on what terms to surrender.”

Park stirred again, but Dan hurried on. “Here is what I propose. We will announce that your submarine has been sunk and you all died heroically. You will receive Republic of Korea citizenship under new names. No one will ever know you surrendered. Your government, and your families at home, will remember you as heroes. As far as history will know, you will lie forever at the bottom of the Eastern Sea.”

When he stopped speaking the exec began, apparently translating for those who didn't speak English, or speak it that well. Park burst out in a storm of protest. The others scowled at Dan, but he thought he saw interest in the captain's gaze. He looked at his watch, and turned the face toward them. “That is my proposal. You have one hour to make up your minds. After that, Commodore Jung will destroy your submarine.”

“You are in us, Commander,” Im pointed out.

“I came under a flag of truce. I will be back aboard
Chung Nam
before then.”

“So
Chung Nam
is flagship?” Won wanted to know. Dan hesitated, then nodded. They'd showed him the bomb, after all.

They scowled. He stared back. He didn't want it to become a contest, so he added, “That is Commodore Jung's offer. Shall I tell him you accept?”

“It is
not
accepted. We will all die before surrendering,” Im stated. The Party guy, or whatever he was, some kind of security or commissar type, and the exec both nodded vigorously. “We will never turn over our trust to Seoul bandit running dogs.”

Dan thought about
San Francisco.
He hoped Mangum was far away by now, but maybe there was another possibility, if they hated the South so much they wouldn't even talk to them. Give them some choices, see if there was any flexibility. “Uh—then how about to Americans? Will you surrender to us?”

“Never to American imperialist pigs.” They shook their heads and looked away.

The wallowing just didn't stop. She'd take four or five bad rolls, then the next one would wind up with her just about standing on her beam ends. The table slid sideways. The Koreans grabbed it, but
slowly, uncoordinated; they were feeling it too. Park especially looked green. Dan swallowed a sudden spurt of saliva. Well, all they had to do was press a button and none of them would be seasick ever again.

To hell with this. If they wanted to die in proletarian glory, they could all fucking die. He pushed to his feet and stood riding with the motion. “Anyway, that's your choice. I'm going now. You have one hour to decide your fate.”

The commissar type reached for something at his belt, but the captain's hand got to it first. He patted Park's hand reassuringly. “You are not leaving us,” he told Dan.

“You're bound to release me. I came under a white flag.”

Park chuckled. “That is bourgeois tradition. Not revolutionary tradition.”

“Captain?” Dan addressed himself to Im, not the others.

The skipper hesitated, then waved at the chair. “Sit down. Sit down. We can talk a little more. You know, we are special trust, with what is up forward.”

“I understand that, Captain. My proposal is designed to help you keep that trust.”

Im frowned. “But how can that be? When you are enemy.”

Dan considered. What did they have in common? Only one thing he could see. It might not be much. But it was the only card he held. He passed his hand over his hair and cleared his throat, hoping he got each word right.

“I may be your enemy, Captain, but we are both seamen. I too have commanded a ship. I know what it means, to care for your crew. To put the mission first, of course—but still, to consider what happens to your men. To do what is best for them. Not for yourself.”

The dark eyes studied him. Dan hesitated, trying to piece together something convincing, then went on. “There are honorable ways to meet defeat. Without throwing away your men's lives. We are on opposite sides today, true. But I admire your bravery. You came very close to accomplishing your mission. And I can understand that you do not wish to turn such a powerful weapon over to your country's enemies. I wonder if you remember how the Germans disposed of their fleet after World War I.”