Into the Fire

CHAPTER TWENTY

Captain Ben Crowley had taken the C-17 Globemaster III to the end of the runway and spun it around in a tight pirouette. Then he reversed the thrusters of the four Pratt & Whitney PW2040 engines to back the aircraft up to where his wheels were on the very edge of the tarmac. He was going to need every inch of the 4,000-foot runway and every knot of the westerly 17-knot wind coming in off the Pacific. Fully loaded with 171,000 pounds of cargo and 180,000 pounds of fuel, the Globemaster needed 7,800 feet of runway to take off. But it was not fully loaded. The Advanced SEAL Delivery System and associated gear and personnel in the cargo bay weighed 125,000 pounds, and they carried but 20,000 pounds of fuel, enough to get them airborne and to cruise altitude, where a KC-135 flying fuel bowser was waiting for them. Still, Crowley knew he had a 215-ton aircraft and only 4,000 feet of runway to get it off the ground. Both he and his copilot again went through their preflight checklists. They were as ready as they could be.

“Ford Island tower, this is Air Force seven-two-six heavy. Request permission to take off.”

The response was immediate. “Roger, seven-two-six, you are cleared for takeoff. Good luck.”

Yeah, right, Crowley thought. He looked over and nodded to his copilot, who then advanced the four throttles to their stops. When the four Pratt & Whitneys were shrieking at full power, he released the brakes, and they began their roll. Both pilots’ eyes flicked between the airspeed indicator and at the shrinking length of runway before them. With seven hundred feet of hardstand left, he picked up the nose and felt the aircraft shudder and hesitate, and then they were airborne. His copilot immediately took in the gear, and they watched the airspeed indicator creep ahead as they began to climb away from Oahu. It was not until they were well out over water that they began to bring in the flaps.

“Piece of cake,” the copilot said over the cockpit intercom, trying to sound casual and almost succeeding.

Yeah, right.

The ASDS was a sixty-five-foot-long, sixty-ton dry submarine that was crewed by a pilot and a navigator. It was designed to be carried piggyback on a Los Angeles — class or Virginia-class submarine to the operational area. From there, it was to be launched from its mother sub with sixteen fully loaded Navy SEALs. It had a speed of eight knots and a range of 125 nautical miles. The original program called for six of these craft. Because of technical issues and massive cost overruns, the program was canceled. Only two of the craft were built and one of those sank in deep-ocean waters during sea trials. This left only one such boat, the one that was now winging its way west in the belly of the Globemaster.

The ASDS took up almost all the cargo space of the big transport. Just forward of the bow of the craft were assorted flyaway boxes of test equipment, service modules, and spares. Two men strapped into bench seats on one side of the fuselage were conspicuous in that they weren’t attired in blue coverall flight suits like the rest of the crew. Both wore desert-pattern fatigues and bloused boots. One wore lieutenant’s bars on his collar points, and the other a fouled anchor and stars of a master chief petty officer. Both had SEAL tridents over the name tags above their left jacket pockets.

They were an odd pair. The master chief was big and bald with a salt-and-pepper push-broom mustache. He had a shuffling, bearlike appearance and did in fact move about with a slight limp. As a first class petty officer, he had been one of the first Navy SEALs into Afghanistan after 9/11. During a firefight near Kandahar, he was shot multiple times through the legs. The engagement left him semicrippled and facing separation from the Navy when he managed to talk himself into a tour of duty with the SEAL delivery team. There, he learned the intricacies of underwater operations and the subsystems of the team’s submersibles. He quickly made himself indispensable. And while he could no longer keep up with a SEAL squad on land, he now moved like a ballerina underwater. The underwater choreography required to launch and recover SEALs from a submerged submarine was now what he did, and he did it well.

Except for the SEAL trident on his chest, the lieutenant would never be taken for a Navy SEAL. He was of average height, slightly built, and had almost feminine features. In the rigorous basic SEAL training, he managed to survive because he was a good swimmer and an outstanding runner, having placed in the top ten in the NCAA cross-county finals. His first active deployment in 2009 as an assistant SEAL platoon officer did not go well. He was well liked by everyone, but he was tentative and ineffective as a combat leader. So he was assigned to SDV Team 1, where he was then sent to the required advanced diver schools and, after that, into SDV pilot training. Some people are born to fly, and this lieutenant would have been one of them. He found his stride as an SDV pilot. The intuitive nature of navigating in a dark, liquid vacuum and balancing the delicate buoyance systems of a minisubmersible came easily to him. He was a natural. Just as the master chief was the best systems man at SDV Team 1, this lieutenant was far and away the best pilot. At the team, they were known as the pilot and the mechanic.

Once safely airborne, the lieutenant took out a five-dollar bill and handed it to the master chief. He took it without looking and stuffed it into the pocket of his blouse.

“Thank you, sir. Told you we would make it.”

The lieutenant shrugged. “It was still an even-money bet. But how would you have paid off if we’d crashed?”

“We’d have at least made it to the water and crashed at sea. And you know full well master chiefs walk on water. I’d have carried you ashore and paid up.”

The lieutenant pursed his lips as he considered this logic. “But of course,” and they settled into a companionable silence, save for the whine of the engines, as the big cargo plane clawed for altitude and its rendezvous with the tanker.

The original manning of the ASDS called for two pilots. One was to be a Navy submarine-qualified officer and the other a Navy SEAL. Now that there was but one boat, the driving chores would be handled by these two SEALs. This lieutenant and this master chief were the most experienced ASDS pilots in the Navy. Basically, they were the only ASDS pilots in the Navy. They were both competent with the Mark 8 boats, but they represented the corporate knowledge when it came to the larger and more complex operations of the advanced SEAL delivery system. It would require other SEALs and technicians to marry the ASDS to its parent sub and a crew of SEALs and divers to launch and retrieve the craft. The personnel for those duties could be drawn from the SDV Team 1 platoon on Okinawa.

After refueling and reaching a cruise altitude of 42,000 feet and a cruising speed of 450 knots, one of the aircrew came to the two Navy men and offered them each a box lunch. The lieutenant accepted his, while the master chief waved the airman off. And while the lieutenant picked through an assortment of dried chicken wings, a hard-boiled egg, a bologna sandwich, and a small bag of chips, the master chief took a Philly cheesesteak from an insulated carry-on bag. It was smothered with Dijon mustard, horseradish sauce, and grilled onions. The smell filled the bay of the Globemaster. He tucked into it with relish. A half hour later, they were both sound asleep.

While the two SEALs slept, it was early evening and all was quiet at a small command module at Nellis Air Force Base just outside Las Vegas. That was about to change. A young second lieutenant recently out of the Air Force Academy was monitoring the approaches to the North Korean naval facility at Haeju from an altitude of 58,000 feet. Actually, that was her vantage point, not her physical location. She was the Global Hawk’s controller, seated comfortably in an air-conditioned space while the outside temperature still hovered in the mid-eighties. It was still dark in the Yellow Sea, and there were multiple layers of clouds between the Global Hawk and the surface of the ocean. It was a dirty night on the water, one that made those who wished to remain undetected safe. Yet with her forward-looking infrared sensor pod, the young lieutenant watched as two patrol vessels emerged from the naval port and made their way into Haeju Bay. On reaching the mouth of the bay, they turned south and came up to forty knots. They were now clearly headed for the Yeonpyeong Island group some forty-five miles away. She was not the only one who saw this. Analysts in the intelligence section at Seventh Fleet in Yokosuka and at the National Security Agency were privy to the download from the Global Hawk. She signaled for her supervisor.

“What’ve you got, Allison?”

“Major, it looks like two patrol craft have just sortied from the Haeju Naval Base. My bird is in position and armed. I’m ready to drop on your authorization.”

“All right, stand by and continue tracking.”

The major turned to a bank of phones at his watch station. He was about to pick up the handset that was a dedicated secure link to Seventh Fleet, but it rang before he could reach it.

“Nellis control, Major Duncan, speaking.”

“Major, this is Commander Rich Sargent at Seventh Fleet Operations. Through your Global Hawk downlink, we’re seeing two patrol craft from Haeju entering the northern Yellow Sea. You have them?”

“Roger that, Commander. We have them, and our bird is armed.” Duncan knew he hadn’t the authority to hit these boats, but the man on the phone did. “What are your instructions?”

“Major, we have IDed these as Shershen-class torpedo boats. If they come within twenty-five miles of the Yeonpyeong Island group, lethal force is authorized by the commander, Seventh Fleet. If they get that close, sink ’em.”

Duncan repeated the order and the authorization and added, “If they reach the twenty-five-nautical-mile mark, we will make the drop.” Then he stepped back to his controller.

“You get that, Allison?”

“Yes, sir. If those boats get within twenty-five miles from the island, we go to war.”

They said very little as they watched the two craft continue south in the Yellow Sea. It took them just over twenty minutes to reach the twenty-five-mile range. The major continued to study the ghostly IR video presentation for a few more seconds, and then said, “You are cleared hot. Drop authorization is granted; weapons free.”

“Roger that, sir, weapons free.”

The lieutenant slewed a cursor slaved to an airborne laser on the Global Hawk onto the lead craft. She quickly received a tone from the warheads of the specially modified Hellfire missiles. Both missiles indicated their eagerness to seek out any target illuminated by the laser. The designers of the Hellfire assumed the target would be a tank or a bunker or a structure. But the Hellfires themselves didn’t really care. For them it was all about the reflected energy from a laser beam. A moment later, one Hellfire dropped from the left under-wing pylon of the Global Hawk and began its descent. Two seconds later, a second Hellfire left the right pylon, following its brother down. Each in turn fired its rocket motor. The 2.6-second burn time accelerated the missiles to Mach 1.4. The young lieutenant kept the laser cursor on the lead enemy craft. It took close to twenty-five seconds for the first missile to travel the ten miles from the Global Hawk to the first patrol craft. She placed the laser well abaft of the bow so the warhead struck just forward of amidships. With the flair of the initial strike, the controller immediately slewed her laser designator back to the second boat, again just forward of amidships. The second Hellfire obediently turned for the second boat.

Aboard the two Shershen-class boats, there was none of the orderly exchange that had taken place at the Nellis control facility or the Seventh Fleet headquarters. It was a sledgehammer blow. One Hellfire took the lead boat in the pilothouse, killing the helmsman instantly. The patrol-boat skipper and the lee helmsmen were instantly blinded by the flash and had their eardrums imploded by the concussion. Both were rendered unconscious and shredded by shrapnel carried through from the roof. Both would live, but both would carry visible scars for the rest of their lives. The Hellfire is an antiarmor weapon, so most of the force of the explosion is linear and carried through the main deck to the keel, where most of the force of the warhead was absorbed by an auxiliary generator. This bought them time. The men in the troop compartment were shaken but unhurt and began an orderly evacuation of the sinking boat.

The second Hellfire struck just behind the pilothouse in the troop compartment of the second boat. One soldier was decapitated and another had his arm severed at the shoulder. The expended warhead passed through to the keel, where it opened a gaping hole in the craft. There was no orderly evacuation here. Following the flash of the impact, blind and wounded soldiers began to grope their way across the blood-slick deck for the escape hatches. In the ensuing panic, only a few made it out. As the second Shershen boat sank, clawing and screaming soldiers clogged the way out, dooming those behind them

“Nicely done, Lieutenant,” the major said. “Very nicely done.”

The second lieutenant and her major, along with those at Seventh Fleet and NSA, watched as several life rafts were inflated and a great many blurred figures scrambled into them — far more figures than were needed to man two fifty-year-old torpedo boats. The two boats were packed with a commando force, the remnants of which were now slowly making their way back to the north. One of the boats sank immediately while the other remained afloat for another hour, then it, too, was gone.

“Well, Allison, how do you feel about your first two kills?”

She thought about this a moment. It was not, she thought, all that different from her training — it was still a video game, and she said as much.

“Well, maybe,” Duncan replied, “but you don’t get a DFC for playing video games.”

A Distinguished Flying Cross, she mused. She shook her head, Only in this woman’s Air Force. Then she took her Global Hawk back up to Haeju Bay and began to search the area for more surface contacts.

If there was one boat in the undersea fleet of the U.S. Navy that was said to have been snake bit, it was USS Greenville (SSN-722). She was a Los Angeles — class nuclear attack submarine and just shy of her twenty-first birthday. But the boat had packed a great deal of misfortune and controversy into those twenty-one years. In February of 2001, she was operating off Oahu with several reporters on board. In an emergency surfacing demonstration, the sub had come up under the Japanese fishing boat the Ehime Maru, sinking the vessel and killing nine of the crew, a crew that included four teenagers. Then, scarcely six months later, Greenville found herself aground while entering port on the island of Saipan. The damage to her rudder and propulsion intakes, while minor, required the boat to be dry-docked. Only six months later, the submarine collided with USS Ogden, a Navy amphibious ship, during a personnel transfer in the Gulf of Aden. The collision resulted in a rent in the side of the Ogden, spilling thousands of gallons of fuel into the Gulf. Since that time, Grenville had served without mishap and with distinction, earning high marks for readiness and tactical proficiency. But no matter; the boat was considered something of a Jonah by submariners around the fleet.

Greenville was returning home to Pearl Harbor following a ninety-day patrol. The crew was homesick, and the boat was ready for an in-port restricted availability and some minor but much-needed maintenance. They were west of Japan when the boat came to periscope depth and slowed to lift its communications mast. It was only near the surface for a few minutes to collect the burst transmission that contained several days of message traffic. Amid the many routine and a few priority messages, there was one that trumped all others.

Commander Allen Baumstark was attending to paperwork in his small stateroom, anticipating hearing from his wife in the “famlygram” that accompanied these normally routine communications downloads. This one would be loaded with family news for the homeward-bound crew. He was in tune with his boat and had already felt her return to cruise depth and accelerate to her transit speed of twenty knots. Suddenly, his lead comm tech burst in.

“Excuse the interruption, sir, but you better look at this,” he said, and handed him a hard copy of the transmission.

Baumstark studied it for a moment. “Christ on a crutch. What now?” After a moment’s reflection, he took the handset from the wall-mounted communications box and cranked the small handle. It was already set for the control room.

“This is control.”

“Control. This is the captain. Return to periscope depth and prepare to raise the comm mast for an outgoing transmission.”

“Uh, aye, aye, Captain.”

He scratched out a brief cryptic reply.

He handed the message to the tech, then called him back and added a line to the message he had written, “Please advise Greenville wives and families as situation allows.”

He again called the control room and told his officer of the deck to pass word to the executive officer, the chief engineer, the navigator, and the COB (chief of the boat — pronounced “cob,” as in “corncob”) to meet him in the wardroom. Unlike the wardroom on Milwaukee, Greenville’s wardroom was more like a stockbroker’s cubicle. By the time Baumstark had finished briefing his key senior leaders on what little he knew, Greenville would be on a course of 250 at two hundred feet at a speed well in excess of thirty knots. That alone made them uncomfortable. Submariners are listeners. They rely on their ability to hear in the same way that blind animals rely on smell. At this speed, they were deaf, but at this speed, they would be off the White Beach Naval Facility in eighteen hours.

“I know this is going to be difficult for the crew,” Baumstark concluded, “but we wouldn’t be tasked like this if it wasn’t important.”

“Don’t worry about the crew, Skipper,” the XO replied. “They know it has to be some kind of real-world mission tasking. You can count on them.”

“Think it has to do with this business with North Korea?” asked the navigator.

“Perhaps,” Baumstark replied, “but we’re headed for Okinawa, not the Yellow Sea.”

“Any idea why they might want us?” the chief engineer asked.

“Haven’t a clue. I guess we’ll find out when we get there.” But he did know, or at least he thought he might. “Thanks. I’ll let you return to your duties. When I know something, you’ll know something.” But at this speed there was no chance of any contact with the outside world. “COB, you want to stay back for a moment?” The COB had been on board longer than anyone else and knew more about Greenville than any member of her crew, including her captain.

“Sir?” He was a master chief petty officer and had spent more than fourteen years of his twenty-six-year Navy career underwater.

“You thinking what I’m thinking, COB?”

“I think so, Skipper. Could be that we were just the closest boat, but I don’t think so.” Both of them knew Greenville was one of the few Los Angeles fast-attack boats that had carried the ASDS. “We got nothing to do for a few hours. Let me get together with a few of the old hands and we’ll start thinking about this — just in case.”

The Globemaster chased the sun across the Pacific but could not catch it. It landed a few hours after dark, as planned, and was directed to a section of tarmac adjacent to the hangar occupied by the JSOC flyaway element. Brian Dawson waited with Lieutenant Denver while the big cargo plane taxied to where they stood watching. Denver had shed the blue jeans and sweatshirt and was now in fresh desert-pattern fatigues, cap, and bloused boots.

“How many SEALs will be with the minisub?” Dawson asked.

“Just two.”

“Just two?” Dawson echoed.

“My guys will see to getting the ASDS deplaned and over to pierside. And about half of them will go aboard to serve as deck crew for the launch and recovery of the boat. But the two who will see to the actual operation of the ASDS are very special SEALs.”

“Tell me more,” Dawson prompted.

“Master Chief Harlan Mecoy has been at the team for more than twelve years, and he knows just about everything there is to know about the ASDS. He’s the corporate knowledge. He will supervise the launch and recovery of the boat. Once away from the parent sub, he will then serve as navigator and copilot for the boat. He will basically be in charge of the operation start to finish. In short, he’s the best there is. We call him the mechanic because he will direct the preparation, loading, launch, and recovery of the ASDS.”

“Your pilot is Lieutenant Bill Naylor. Billy has only been with SDV One for two years, but he’s the best there is at what he does. Nobody can drive an SDV or an ASDS better than him.” Denver had come to know Brian Dawson and knew of his Special Forces background. “Think of all the helicopter pilots you’ve known at the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment. Can you name one or two MH-60 pilots you would ask for by name if you had to go in on a really hairy mission?” Dawson nodded. “Well, at SDV Team One, Billy Naylor is that pilot.”

The aircraft was met by the entire Okinawa detachment of SDV Team 1. The SEALs and their support technicians swarmed aboard the C-17 and set about the business of easing the ASDS from the fuselage of the big aircraft and preparing it for land travel. Mecoy and Naylor made their way over to where Dawson and Denver waited. Introductions were made, and they all retired to the hangar. There they were joined by Jesse Carpenter, Hector Rodriguez, and Major Mike Volner. Over coffee and a detailed chart of Kujido Island, they went over the operation — as Dawson and Rodriguez envisioned it and as Mecoy and Naylor would have to execute it. Mike Volner and Jesse Carpenter figured into the scheme, but it was all about the ability of the ASDS and its operators to make it happen.

“So that’s how we see it unfolding,” Dawson concluded, “but the question is, Can you execute it? Is this doable, and can you do it?”

All eyes were now on Master Chief Harlan Mecoy. He permitted himself a small smile and took a sip of coffee.

“All these years, we’ve been waiting on a mission for the ASDS. And all these years, I thought it would be some secret harbor penetration or sneaking a squad of SEALs into a denied area and waiting offshore while they scrambled over the beach to execute an important covert operation. And now that it’s finally here, it’s a lifeboat mission. But saving those American lives is probably more important than anything else I may have had in mind. Getting in close enough with the parent sub may present problems, but I don’t see any problem with making the operational runs, do you, Lieutenant?”

“If we can get the boat prepped and the big sub can get us on station,” Naylor replied, “I can fly the mission.”

“So to answer your question, sir, it’s doable, and we can do it. But the successful execution is all in the details. Keep in mind this is a complex prototype system and we have to anticipate the operational and mechanical problems that are sure to arise. And we have a ton of work to get done if we’re going to get aboard the parent sub and away from the pier before the sun comes up and Chinese satellites are overhead.” The master chief took out a notebook and began working his way through a series of details that included the slow, sixteen-mile journey from Kadena to the pier at White Beach, the mobile crane services on the pier that could handle a sixty-ton submersible, and the estimated time of arrival of Greenville. After another fifteen minutes of discussion, they broke from the meeting. There was indeed much for all of them to do before sunrise.

“Major, let’s take a walk outside for a few minutes,” Dawson said as he and Volner left the others.

Commander Kate Bigelow had been sleeping fitfully on a mattress pad brought from the ship when she was suddenly fully awake. She pulled on a layer of foul-weather gear that by now was exceedingly ripe. Something wasn’t right, and she instantly knew what it was. The shelling that had been with them since they abandoned Milwaukee had suddenly stopped. That was certainly a welcome change but somehow ominous in its sudden cessation, like a two-day storm that had suddenly blown itself out. She was grateful for the reprieve but wondered when it would begin again. Or was the quiet a prelude to some form of waterborne or aerial attack? Nonetheless, she was aware of the break in the shelling within only minutes of the last round dropping. She immediately sought out Master Chief Crabtree. Like her, he wondered if the break in the barrage might signal an attack from a North Korean army contingent. To her relief, Crabtree had just doubled the roving patrols about the cannery complex, not that they could do much if there was such a move against them. It would be dawn in a few hours, so they made a slow circuit of the interior of the building while most of the crew slept. The crew had segregated themselves into small enclaves that reflected their watch sections aboard ship. They had fallen into something of a schedule that, while not shipboard routine, was of some comfort to those who had grown used to daily military procedures.

Just after dark the previous evening, the master chief and a work party had returned to the ship on yet another scavenging mission.

“Skipper, there’s not much left that is of any use to us. Of course, it would be helpful if we knew how long we’d be here. Food is not an issue, given our stock of MREs and the canned goods we’ve taken out of the galley. In about another three days or so, fresh water will start to be a problem. To stay ahead of it, and as long as the artillery holds off, I’ll send a working party back out to replenish our empty containers each evening. Our freshwater holding tanks are down to about a third — that is, those that weren’t damaged by gunfire. I’ve been rotating the personnel in the working parties. I give them each a few minutes to go to their personal lockers and get what they might need ashore. And, uh, Skipper, we’ve moved our dead shipmates into the cold-stores locker. It’s … it’s not a pretty sight, them stacked in there like that. For now, it’s cool if not cold, but there’s not much else we can do.”

“No, there isn’t,” Bigelow replied. She was silent for a moment, then said, “What about that other portable generator?”

“It’s ashore and we’re holding it as a backup. Fuel is an issue, so we’re only using one. I hope it doesn’t come to that, but we’ve got fuel for about another four days, and then that’s it. No more power.”

“Thanks, Master Chief.” He turned to go, but she called him back. “What’s she look like? I haven’t wanted to be away from here and the radio. How’s Milwaukee holding up?”

“Well, ma’am, she looks to have been hit several more times. There’s been no more fire, but the damage from the missile hit is pretty apparent. It’s, well, it’s a sad sight. She’s got a twenty-degree starboard list and is well down by the stern. Skipper, Milwaukee is the crew here in this concrete bunker; it’s no longer that hulk out on the beach.”

“I hear you, Master Chief. And thanks — thanks for everything.”

Just after first light, Bigelow was making a slow circuit around the facility, chatting with individuals and groups of crewmen. No matter how many times she did this, and she did it often, they still had questions. And now, more than ever, they looked to her for answers — answers and leadership. She was speaking with a group of gunner’s mates when Jack O’Connor rushed up and interrupted.

“Excuse me, Captain, but there’s something you should hear on the radio.” She followed him over to where Petty Officer Matheson had set up their makeshift shore-based radio central.

“What do you have, Matheson?”

“Ma’am, I tuned into this about twenty minutes ago. It’s on the international-distress frequency, and it’s a UHF / line-of-sight transmission, so it’s probably not reaching anyone but us. It’s repeated every five minutes with a time interval between each transmission for a reply. It’s not a recording but an English speaker reading the same message each time — I’m sure of it. Wait, here it comes again.

This is a message for the crew of the American ship now stranded on Kujido Island. This is the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea and we are most concerned for your welfare. After your shipwreck on this island, you must be in need of food, water, and medical aid. A humanitarian rescue mission sent by the People’s Republic has been turned back at sea by your government. Our only concern, however, is for your welfare. Ask those in your government and the aggressors in Seoul to allow for us to bring you aid. I say again, our only concern is for your welfare. Please acknowledge this transmission. And please let us come to your aid.

“That’s it, Captain. The same message every five minutes or so.”

“Okay, Petty Officer Matheson, call Seventh Fleet Operations and let them listen to the next transmission using the Iridium sat phone. We’ll see what they think of this. Meanwhile, I’ll want to in no way let them know that we are even hearing that message.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

“And tell Seventh Fleet that we have no intention of taking them up on their offer, but some fleet guidance would be appreciated.” She left Matheson with O’Connor at her elbow.

“Captain,” he said quietly once they were out of earshot, “do you think this is a good idea? The North Koreans have a beef with South Korea, and we seem to be caught in the middle of it. Shouldn’t we at least consider it? Chief Picard says we could lose one, maybe two more people if we don’t get some help.”

Bigelow measured him. “Jack, the North Koreans shot the shit out of us at sea and pounded us here on this rock. You really think they want to help us?”

“I know it’s risky, but we’re in a tough spot here. We have wounded; we’re stranded here; and it seems our own Navy either can’t or won’t help us. We’ve done enough; this crew’s done enough. I think it’s time we put their welfare first. If there’s a chance to get them some help, we need to take it. I mean, we should at least talk to them.”

“Okay, Jack,” she began in a measured voice. “Your concerns are duly noted. But first of all, I don’t trust the North Koreans or their crazy leader. The crew of Pueblo didn’t fare so well, and I don’t see them being any nicer to us. Secondly, you’re forgetting the second paragraph of the Code of Conduct: ‘I will never surrender of my own free will. If in command, will never surrender the members of my command while they have the means to resist.’ No, Jack, they’re not offering to help us; they’re asking us to surrender.”

“What’s the difference?” he persisted. “You said it yourself, we have no means to resist. We’re hiding in a fish factory with a bunch of sailors who are by and large technicians, not infantrymen.”

“Listen to me, Jack. As long as we hold up here, we deny them the ability to parade us on TV as captive war criminals. We deny them the leverage of holding Americans as prisoners of war. As long as we can hang on here, we are resisting. And as long as I’m in command, or until directed otherwise by higher authority, we’ll do all in our power to continue to hang on here, is that clear?”

“Yes, that’s clear.”

“That’s clear what, XO?”

“That’s clear, Captain.”

“Thank you.” She brushed past him and headed for where the wounded were being cared for. It was time she took up a matter with her chief corpsman.

General Choi Kwang, marshal of the KPA, burst into his command headquarters. The destruction of Shershen-class torpedo boats by an American drone, if that’s what it was, had shown their intel was imperfect at best. One of Kim’s subordinates, this one even more junior than the first, had called to tell him of the supreme leader’s displeasure. He told him there would not be another failure. That was more than an ominous sign; it was a prelude to a death sentence. Immediately after that call, Choi had his driver take him to his quarters on a false pretext and told his wife to begin preparations to leave the country. He summoned the senior naval officer, Rear Admiral Reeh Sun-oh to his side.

“Admiral?”

“General, the Americans surprised us with what we believe was a drone strike. Though we lost both of our patrol boats, most of their crews and almost all of the commandos were able to escape. Other naval vessels have picked them all up. We estimate they will arrive back in Haeju in about—”

“Stop! I don’t need an after-action report of yet another failure by your naval forces. How many ways can you find to screw things up?”

His number 2 stepped in to try to defuse the situation. “Marshal, Admiral Reeh has another plan.”

Choi valued Chung’s counsel and above all his loyalty, and he didn’t want to treat him poorly or cause him to lose face in front of this admiral. But he had endured enough half-baked plans and heard enough pathetic excuses. “I think not, General Chung.” Now he turned to the navy man, and the full fury of the moment exploded. “Admiral Reeh, you are relieved of your duties. Leave this command center immediately.”

“Yes, Marshal,” was all the man could say.

“General Chung, get me the senior navy submarine commander at headquarters as well as the Special Operations Force officer. This time, we will go with my plan.”

After speaking with her supply officer regarding daily rations, Kate Bigelow finally made her way to what was now their land-bound sick bay. She moved from cot to cot, taking a moment with each of her wounded crewmen. Three were sedated, and two of those three were still critical. One of the wounded had died during the previous day, and he was zipped into a body bag and taken back aboard Milwaukee to be with the rest of their fallen shipmates. That was the tenth crew member who had perished. Chief Carol Picard followed her commanding officer on this circuit at a respectful distance. Then the two of them stepped off to one side.

“Okay, Chief, where are we on the condition of our people?”

“Well, ma’am, the two still in critical condition will probably die unless we can get them to an urgent-care-type facility and get them there soon.”

“How soon?” Bigelow interjected.

“Within twenty-four hours, forty-eight at the outside. As for the others, under these conditions, only time will tell. Most will continue to gain ground unless some infection beyond the reach of our antibiotics sets in. There’s always that chance. This place is not a good patient-recovery environment. It’s a petri dish, ma’am. The sooner we can get them out of here, the better off they’ll be.”

You can say that for all of us. Bigelow was silent for several moments while she considered this. “Very well, Chief, this is about all I can tell you. I don’t know when or how we’re going to get out of here. We could catch a break and the medevac helos from Osan could show up at any time, but I wouldn’t count on it. I’m not getting a lot of direction or information from the powers that be. For now my job is to hold on here, report changes in conditions and our situation here up the chain of command, and await events. Your job is to do your level best to care for our shipmates for as long as it takes. I wish I could tell you more, but I can’t. Meanwhile, we carry on as best we can. Keep the XO advised of any changes and come straight to me if there’s an issue he can’t resolve, clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Bigelow had been watching Picard closely during the exchange so she was ready when her chief corpsman continued. “And ma’am, about what happened aboard ship and my, well what I had taken…”

“Chief, let’s not go into that. We will talk about it later, but not now. I told you I’d give you a second chance, not out of charity but because I need you and, more importantly, my crew needs you. There won’t be a third chance. I need you, and these patients need you. It’s my sense you’re straight now, is that correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then do your job. What you did was wrong. You know it, and I know it. I can’t say that what took place will not come back on you, but a great deal of how that will be viewed will depend on your performance from here on out, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“All right, then. Carry on.”

As she turned from Picard, a young seaman came rushing up. “Captain, Petty Officer Matheson needs you. He has Seventh Fleet on the line.”

It was but a few steps over to where her communications petty officer was waiting. He held the Iridium satellite phone with one hand over the speaker end.

“It’s Seventh Fleet Ops, ma’am. They asked for you directly.” She took the handset and headed for the door, both for the privacy and the better reception.

“This is Commander Bigelow.”

“Captain, this is Commander Sergeant at Seventh Fleet Ops. How’re you doing there, ma’am?”

“Well, we’re cold, wet, tired, and getting sick of MREs. I’ve got wounded that need more attention than we can give them here. And my senior medic tells me that two of my crewmen will be dead within forty-eight hours — perhaps sooner — if they don’t get better care. Past that, we’re holding on. So, Commander, what have you got for me?”

“First of all, we are going to ask you to do just that — hold on for just a little longer. Last night the North Koreans tried to slip a commando team onto your island by small craft. One of our drones spotted them and sunk both boats. So as for their concern for your welfare and offer of help, well, we think that’s a lot of crap. Our intel shop and the agencies up the line believe the attack on your ship was all about taking hostages. And we think that’s why they stopped the shelling; they want you alive. It’s the Pueblo all over again. But you’ve managed to outrun them and, so far, out-think them. We now have the Reagan strike group sitting off in the Yellow Sea, out of range of their land-based air and their cruise-missile envelope. So it’s a standoff. We will not let anything get to you, and yet we can’t risk sending the carrier strike group north without risking ships and the safety of your crew. But we do have a plan.”

Bigelow listened for several minutes, and she liked what she heard. It was not the six or eight H-60 Blackhawk transport helos she was hoping for, but it was at least something.

“So, Captain. When the submarine is on station, you will be getting a call on this line from a Mr. Brian Dawson. It will be his people coordinating the operation, and you’ll take your direction from him. Your wounded will be moved first, then the rest of the crew.”

“We’ll be ready, but who is this Dawson and who is he with — some special operations outfit?”

“We don’t really know, but it’s some kind of special, quasi-government operation. And they have support from across the DoD spectrum and from the president. But they do seem to know what they’re doing. Meanwhile, is there anything you need medical wise that we can help you with? We have a new Predator drone coming on station about every eight to ten hours. We can get you about forty pounds of medical resupply in precision airdrop if that will help.”

“Let me check with my corpsman and see what we need. I’ll get back to you. When do you think this rescue craft might get to us?”

“They will be on station in about twenty-four hours, but we will have to wait until after dark to begin making transfers. But, again, Dawson will call you when he and his submarine are on station. Good luck, Captain.”

“Thanks. Bigelow, out.”