Into the Fire

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Master Chief Crabtree had come out and positioned himself just behind the coaming that led out onto the flight deck. It was here that he had a good vantage point along the starboard side of Milwaukee from amidships aft to the stern. It was a cold, quiet evening with the wind slackening from what they had experienced earlier that day. As darkness continued to settle over the island and the grounded ship, he thought he saw a mast appear in the water, but it quickly disappeared from view. It came and was gone so quickly that he was not sure it was ever there. But then he wasn’t thinking all that clearly. He’d just had a confrontation with Commander Jack O’Connor about the staging of the wounded for transfer. Crabtree had wanted to move them to where they could quickly be lowered to the rescue sub. O’Connor had overruled him. “We’re not even sure that sub is going to be here. If and when it does, we’ll move the wounded. Not until then.”

Crabtree had almost called Captain Bigelow, but going over his executive officer’s head ran contrary to what the master chief knew and liked about the Navy. The tension between the skipper and the XO was well known to Crabtree and was becoming apparent to most of the crew. It was not a good thing, to be sure, but Crabtree was not willing to jump the chain of command, at least not yet. Then suddenly, a dark form mushroomed at the starboard side of Milwaukee some twenty feet from the stern. A hatch opened just forward of the middle of the vessel, and three figures poured out. One tossed a grappling iron over the rail to hold the ASDS close alongside Milwaukee, then quickly scrambled aboard. The other two moved fore and aft, each carrying a half-inch mooring line. The forms on deck quickly made the black tube secure forward, then ran back to secure its stern. The ASDS now rested gently on the fenders Crabtree had put over the side earlier that morning.

Moments before, Lieutenant Bill Naylor had brought the ASDS to a dead stop just fifty yards from Milwaukee. Then, taking a sighting on the starboard quarter of the LCS with a periscope that had low-light-level capability, he quickly judged the distance to the ship. He then downed the scope and proceeded to bring the ASDS gently alongside the ship. He knew his craft and his boat that well.

Now that the minisub was made up alongside, more dark figures poured from the hatch and swarmed aboard. The first of them were, once again, dark forms, but these were heavily armed men with assault packs, body armor, night-vision goggles, and weapons. They scattered about the ship and took up security positions. The few who saw Crabtree waiting a step behind the coaming paid him no heed. Then a form dressed like the others but without an automatic weapon, assault pack, or body armor moved onto the deck. Like the others, his face was painted black and he carried only a sidearm — a .45 caliber automatic. The boarding had taken less than a minute.

“Ahoy there, Milwaukee,” he announced in a quiet, confident voice. “Anyone home?”

Crabtree stepped forward and saluted. “Command Master Chief Crabtree here. And you are?”

“I’m Brian Dawson, command master chief. I’ll be orchestrating your redeployment from the garden spot. Is Captain Bigelow about?”

“She’s still on the island, Mr. Dawson. Our wounded, my executive officer, and a part of the crew are belowdecks waiting for the word to begin the transfer.”

“Then we better get cracking, Master Chief. We’ve a lot to do and not a lot of time to do it.”

The transfer of the wounded took close to an hour. The first of the wounded had to be brought aft to the after-mission bay of the LCS, something Dawson immediately noted should have been done earlier. The critically wounded had to be lashed into Stokes litters and lowered out the side of the mission-bay door to the ASDS. Then they had to be unlashed and gently lowered through the top hatch, into the locking collar compartment, and aft to the troop compartment. All this required multiple hands and a great deal of coordination among the Milwaukee crewmen and the ASDS SEALs. Aboard the minisub, Greenville’s medical officer tended to each as they came through the troop-compartment hatch, dispensing meds and starting IVs. It was almost after midnight before the ASDS was loaded and ready to leave the LCS. In addition to the thirteen wounded crewmen, they were able to take only two additional members of the crew. On direct order of Commander Bigelow, Commander O’Connor and Chief Corpsman Picard were those two. Only Picard objected to this initial boarding. Lieutenant Denver remained on board Milwaukee while Petty Officer Collins stayed aboard the sub. As the ASDS took on the added weight of the passengers, close to three thousand pounds, only a skillful reballasting effort by Lieutenant Naylor kept the top of the craft awash during the transfer. Once loaded, the ASDS cast off, submerged, and made its way back to Greenville, a run of close to two hours.

Once the ASDS reached Greenville, it was quickly made up alongside. Because the parent sub had its afterdeck just above the surface, a brow was put over making the unloading much easier than had been the vertical drop from the LCS to the ASDS. It took twenty minutes to get everyone onto Greenville, allowing for twenty minutes of battery-charging time. Air hoses were also put over to top off the ASDS ballast and breathing air. Then it was away and headed back for Kujido Island.

Mike Volner split his force into two fire teams. Four of his men would remain aboard Milwaukee, where they would take up firing perches on the upper portions of the superstructure. The other three, along with Volner, made their way ashore in the Zodiac, which had just delivered another increment of the LCS crew back aboard their ship. Dawson and Carpenter also went ashore. While the JSOC men took up security positions around the cannery, the two Op-Center men stepped inside. They were met immediately by the captain of Milwaukee.

“You must be Brian Dawson,” she said, extending her hand. “Commander Kate Bigelow. I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you, sir.”

On entering the cannery, Dawson felt like he was entering some kind of medieval dungeon. He was immediately taken with the dampness and the stench of too many people kept in close quarters for too long a time. It was a cramped, depressing, unhealthy place. His first glance at Commander Kate Bigelow told him he was dealing with a courageous lady who was not too far from her breaking point. But when he made eye contact with her, he came up with another calculus. She was a leader who might be tired and beaten down, but she would never be broken. He reflexively took her hand with both of his own.

“Captain, you’ve made a gallant stand here. But now I think it’s time to get you out of here. I have a security team that will take over from your people. When you’re ready, I think it’s time to get all your people back aboard your ship and ready to move out.”

A short distance away, Jesse Carpenter didn’t have to be told what to do. He immediately found Petty Officer Matheson and began to set up his gear. While he did that, Kate Bigelow directed the evacuation of the cannery. Brian Dawson was never far away. The ASDS returned at 0345 and was able to take off eighteen members of the crew, including all the tech reps. This time it made for Santa Fe, which had closed to six miles southwest of the island. That left forty-three on board Milwaukee plus the eight-member JSOC team, the two Op-Center personnel, and a single SEAL lieutenant. If they were quick, they could possibly get one more pickup in before sunrise. The last run or runs would have to be done in the daylight.

In the weeks since he had met with the handler, Seung Min-jae had been a blur of activity. He told his professors at New York University that his mother was dying of congestive heart failure and that he needed to return to North Korea to arrange for her care. He also had to see to the welfare of his two younger sisters, one of whom was autistic, and his younger brother. Only then could he return to the United States and continue in his prelaw program. Seung was a bright student and something of an extrovert, a ruse he had quietly cultivated in his two-plus years at this American university. His teachers, as well as the NYU school administrators, had bent over backward to accommodate this smart, eager young North Korean student. One of his professors had even quietly asked other teachers and students for donations so Seung could pay for his airfare from New York to Pyongyang as well as his train fare from the North Korean capital to his family home along North Korea’s northwest coast.

It was all a lie, but a lie that served its purposes. Seung dropped his classes and moved from his apartment into the safe house — a fourth-floor walk-up, one-bedroom apartment in a decaying rent-controlled building in New York’s Murray Hill neighborhood. Seung lived in these cramped quarters with his four partners, three men and one woman, all students at other local universities. Now the five of them were together and fully focused on what might come next. The handler had made it clear to Seung Min-jae that they might never be called upon to carry out their mission. Yet if they were, they would be national heroes and their families would be well cared for. If they didn’t, they would return to their studies and await another assignment. Two weeks after they had begun camping in the apartment and evolving their plan, one of the other men began to complain about the uncertainty of the assignment. Seung had asked him to walk outside with him. Once on the street, Seung guided him into an alley, where they had a one-way conversation.

“You will never question me or the supreme leader again. We were selected from among thousands of equally acceptable candidates whose families had the high honor of putting them forward for this worthy undertaking. You will recall I personally vouched for you and Major General Hwa recommended you to the marshal. Do you understand what will happen to your family if you fail in your duty?”

“I … I am…” The man began to reply, but Seung cut him off.

“Shut up, you fucking coward. You will do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it, and how I tell you to do it, is that clear?” Seung barked, and as he did, he grabbed both of the man’s shoulders and roughly slammed him against the brick wall in the alley.

“Yes,” was all the man could say through his whimpering.

“Good, now go to the market and get us food for tonight.”

As the man retreated down the alley to do Seung’s bidding, the leader of the sleeper cell paused to ask himself the same question the man had asked him. When would they be called upon? One week after giving him his assignment, the handler produced a 1998 Honda Odyssey minivan for their use. The tired-looking vehicle was designed to blend into the background in New York City’s chaotic, constantly snarled traffic. But it had not spent much time in the city. The handler’s instructions had been explicit regarding where they were to buy the explosives and other materials they needed for their assignment. They had ranged as far west as northern Ohio and as far south as eastern Kentucky to carry out their duties and make their purchases. Then they had carted all this up to the already-cramped apartment, and now they slept with enough explosives to level several city blocks. They would need that much to destroy the building that was to be their target. The handler told Seung he would be informed what his target was to be “in due course,” but he did reveal that their safe house had been selected for its proximity to their intended target. Seung was well aware of the news and knew his country and the United States were in a shooting war. Though he dared not say it to the others, Seung himself was beginning to wonder when they would be called upon to act.

After receiving the eighteen crewmen from the ASDS, Santa Fe took up a patrol station west of Kujido Island. Greenville’s sister was on a heading of 030, making a mere two knots and listening intently for any surface or submarine activity between the North Korean mainland and the island. It was about to leave station and take a southeasterly heading to join Greenville, which was about to take on board yet another ASDS passenger load when the lead sonarman heard something. He listened for another several minutes to connect what he was hearing to what he was seeing on his visual waterfall display.

“Control room, sonar. I have an underwater contact at zero-one-five, range nine thousand yards.”

“Sonar, control, can you classify it.”

The sonar tech recognized his captain’s voice. “It sounds like a submarine blowing ballast, Skipper. And if I had to guess, it’s a sub that has just surfaced.”

When it comes to underwater acoustics, no one is more practiced or vigilant than the U.S. Navy. Navy submariners have always prided themselves on having the quietest submarine technology and the best underwater listening capability. But this superiority applied only to nuclear-fleet submarine operations. The one hole in their game was finding the quieter diesel submarines. Good as they are, U.S. nuclear submarines have a difficult time finding these smaller submarines when they’re operating inshore and running on batteries. And Santa Fe would not have found this one had it been more careful in blowing air into its ballast tanks to surface — that and the fact that this submarine was all but a museum piece. The captain of Santa Fe knew immediately what he had to do.

“Come to periscope depth and get the communications mast up ASAP. Meanwhile, get me a firing solution on that contact and prepare to put fish in the water on my command.”

There was a flurry of activity aboard Santa Fe, but all was disciplined and professional activity — quiet and purposeful.

Two miles north northwest of Kujido Island, a Romeo-class North Korean submarine had just surfaced. This one had a large walrus nose that rose from the deck almost as high as the sail. It was a Romeo variant officially classed as a PZS-50 but known in the submarine community as the Ugly Romeo. It had more piping and valves than a Kuwaiti oil terminal. The Romeo was large as far as diesel boats went, displacing close to two thousand tons submerged. Of an ancient Russian design, this Chinese hand-me-down had been modified by the North Koreans to support the landing of special operations teams. From a deck hatch abaft the bulbous nose and another in the forward part of the sail, dark forms poured out like rats from a flooded sewer. They quickly sorted themselves out, produced four inflatable rafts, and put them over the side. After installing outboard engines, thirty-two commandos piled in and turned their small craft south. They had just cleared the side of the submarine when an orbiting Global Hawk drone, alerted by a burst transmission from the Santa Fe, spotted them. But this Global Hawk was unarmed and could only report what it saw back to its controllers.

Aboard Santa Fe, the captain was handed a message from one of his communicators. It was brief and to the point, and he permitted himself a quiet smile. Then he turned to his weapons officer.

“We still have a solution on that target?”

“Yes, sir, at least the general area. Sonar says the contact may have just submerged. They’ve now classified it as a Romeo-class boat.”

“A Romeo, huh. How about that. Recheck your solution and shoot. Two fish, slow run to target.”

“Aye, sir. Understand weapons released, two fish, slow run to target.”

Moments later, two Mark 48, Mod 7 advanced-capabilities (ADCAP) torpedoes left Santa Fe about ten seconds apart. The Mark 48s were of a basic design that was fifty years old, almost as old as the prey they sought. But they were light-years ahead in technology and design modification. Both were instructed to make their way through the Yellow Sea on a given bearing for a given distance. When they got there, they would then execute a helix-type search pattern with their active sonars. Anything they found in the water they would immediately attack and kill. While the two torpedoes made their run, Santa Fe turned southeast to take station and await the return of the ASDS.

While the two American Los Angeles — class boats went about their business, they were not alone. A Chinese Type 093, Shang-class submarine had slowly and carefully made its way into the area and was monitoring events as they unfolded. It was no small thing to backdoor an American nuclear boat in open water, let alone two, but the Shang-class had done it. It was China’s best boat, and it was skippered by her best captain. The sonar operator aboard did not detect the launch of the two Mark 48s from the Santa Fe, but he did pick up the underwater explosions as both fish found the Ugly Romeo. Had he been more experienced or his equipment more advanced, he would not have put it down to rounds falling short from the coastal artillery barrage.

The North Korean Romeo died quickly and violently. Seconds apart, the Mark 48s crashed into the amidships section of the old submarine and cut it in half. Those in the control-room maneuvering rooms died instantly. Those aft in the engineering spaces and after-torpedo room drowned quickly as the Yellow Sea poured into the aft portion of the sinking sub. But the bulbous bow of the Romeo had enough buoyancy to pop to the surface before it, too, filled with water and slipped below the surface. But five crewmen, all ratings, managed to escape with minor injuries. They clung to an old, deflated life raft; none had life vests. They were drenched in diesel oil and looked like survivors of a World War II U-boat sinking. But their good fortune was only temporary. One by one, the cold took them, and they slipped quietly away. By morning there was only the rumpled raft and an oil slick.

The ASDS had just returned from the Santa Fe and made up to the starboard stern quarter of Milwaukee. Dawn was fast approaching as twenty-two more LCS crew members scrambled aboard. With two excursions under his belt, Bill Naylor felt he and the ASDS could take a few more passengers. Before the personnel transfer, some bulky equipment, including a large, heavy canvas bag weighing upward of 125 pounds, was wrestled back aboard the ship.

“What the hell’s this,” growled Master Chief Crabtree as he and Lieutenant Denver hauled it up to the deck of the LCS.

“Something the major wanted,” Petty Officer Collins replied. He was making the runs with the ASDS while Denver remained on board Milwaukee to work that end of the exodus. When the last of the LCS crew were aboard, Collins ducked into the hatch and dogged it shut, and the ASDS was away with its third load of evacuees.

“Let’s get this thing out of sight and get below,” Denver offered. “I’ve a feeling things are going to get a little lively before too much longer.”

Earlier that morning, Kate Bigelow and Brian Dawson had been alerted that North Korean commandos were about to land on the northern shore of Kujido Island. This was not good news, but they could now at least be ready for them. And their numbers were dwindling. With the last twenty-two from the crew away on the ASDS, there were now twenty-one from Milwaukee, counting her captain, eight from the JSOC team, and three others — Lieutenant Tom Denver, Dawson, and Carpenter — left to evacuate. All were now aboard Milwaukee, but they were ready to welcome the North Korean contingent that had just invaded sovereign South Korean territory.

General Choi Kwang, marshal of the Korean People’s Army, allowed himself a tight smile. He had tried to let his subordinates come up with a plan to capture the LCS crew stranded on Kujido Island, but they had failed and failed miserably. He even allowed himself a bit of self-congratulation for his foresight. In his previous position as vice marshal of the KPA, he was the one who had made sure the Chinese hand-me-down Romeo-class submarine was retrofitted to carry commandos.

Now the Ugly Romeo, as Western navies dubbed it, had accomplished its mission. It had secretly delivered the team of commandos to Kujido Island, where they would soon take the LCS’s crew captive and ready them for transport to North Korean territory. When his commando team leader had radioed the headquarters in Pyongyang and announced that they had landed on Kujido Island unopposed, a quiet cheer rose from the command center. Choi knew success was close at hand. He needed these American sailors in his grasp on North Korean territory. Then and only then would the supreme leader be pleased with him. General Choi liked to think of himself as fearless. Yet when the prospect of failure began to stare him in the face, he knew that he, his wife, and his two teenage daughters would spend the rest of their lives in one of the North’s infamous rehabilitation camps. He knew about life in the Chongjin concentration camp, as well as in those like it, in northeastern North Korea near the Chinese border. The thought filled him with dread.

And once he had accomplished this mission, he knew he had to turn his attention to the other task the supreme leader had assigned to him. He had delegated this undertaking to his protégé, Major General Hwa, and had Hwa giving him almost daily updates since he had activated the cell several weeks earlier. Choi was well connected enough politically to anticipate it would not be long before the supreme leader would seek retribution for what the Americans were doing.

But that was not his immediate concern. He needed to hear from his commando team leader again — and soon.

The focus of the North Korean commando element was the cannery. Two men were sent to the beach to put eyes on the hulk of the Milwaukee, but the balance of the force made for the cannery. The structure had a carefully blocked rear door and front entrance served by a makeshift door of hinged plywood. The windows were covered with blankets, but there was evidence of lights burning inside. A generator purred by the side of the building with a heavy power cord that snaked in through a window. A radio played South Korean music from within. From the perspective of the North Koreans, it was an unsuspecting enemy camp. They moved in quietly and set up for a classic compound assault. There was a security element, a blocking element, a command and control element, and an assault element. The commando leader waited until there was just enough light for his men to clearly see their targets.

“On balance, they don’t seem to be too bad,” Mike Volner said in a professional tone. “That’s just about the way I’d do it.”

“What are they waiting for?” Brian Dawson asked.

Volner leaned forward to adjust the tough-book computer screen. “Not all of them have night-vision goggles. I think they’re waiting for more daylight. Don’t forget: They want prisoners, not casualties.”

Not fifteen minutes earlier they had tossed a hand-launched Raven drone from the flight deck and put it into an orbit around the cannery at about one thousand feet. Its low-light video feed gave Volner and Dawson a clear picture of the North Koreans’ movements.

Suddenly, the van of the assault element, some eight men in all, kicked in the plywood partition and stormed into the cannery. Nothing happened for several seconds, then there was a blinding explosion from within. Greeting those first men in the door was an arc of three command-detonated claymore mines that literally shredded them. Six were killed outright, while another two would soon bleed to death. Then more claymores skillfully attached to the sides of the building began to cook off in sequence, tearing into those exposed supporting elements. Within ten seconds, fully half of the North Korean force was dead or incapacitated. Yet the North Koreans, like the special operations professionals they were, carried on. Men with lungs pierced and useless limbs helped those more seriously hurt to a more comfortable position while they bled out. There were few cries for help or from pain; they were a stoic and disciplined lot. Those uninjured or slightly wounded redistributed ammunition and looked to those officers and sergeants still alive for direction. Yet none of them moved with the same élan and sense of purpose as they had when they came ashore.

Back on Milwaukee, the JSOC snipers, well placed on the bridge wing of the pilothouse and on the signal bridge, each took a shot. They were armed with Stoner SR-25 semiautomatic sniper weapons, but neither needed a second shot. The North Korean commandos sent to watch the ship were center-punched and died where they lay in their observation posts.

“Help! This is Commander Bigelow, captain of Milwaukee. We are under attack from the North Koreans. They are overrunning our compound. We will soon be taken prisoner. Can anyone hear me? We need help, please! This is Commander Bigelow. We can’t hold out much longer!”

It was Kate Bigelow’s voice, and it was indeed being broadcast in the clear of a UHF emergency channel, but she was no longer on the island. This and two other calls for help had been recorded by Jesse Carpenter and were now being transmitted remotely from a radio hidden on a shallow rise some sixty meters from the cannery. On the ground below, the wounded leader of the commando element was crouched beside his radio operator, trying desperately to make communication with his mainland headquarters. But an Air Force EC-130H electronics-warfare aircraft orbiting over Inchon, South Korea, was putting a great deal of electronic energy into the air, blocking all frequencies but that one coming from the radio with Bigelow’s recorded message. Realizing his radio was useless, the commando leader quickly searched the cannery and found it empty. Isolated and with only half his force effective, he immediately turned his attention to Milwaukee.

Above the island, the Chinese Lijian drone had just taken station at a leisurely twenty-five thousand feet. Its controller was bringing the cannery and Milwaukee into partial focus. Then sun was just up, but patches of low fog still obscured much of the island. Yet the weather was improving. The prospect of further clearing promised a good day of visual observation, but that was still perhaps an hour off. Meanwhile, unknown to the Lijian drone or its controller, a single F/A-18E Super Hornet from USS Ronald Reagan was on patrol just sixty miles south of Kujido Island. The Lijian was the reason it was there. The Super Hornet could not see the drone with its radar, but the E-2D Hawkeye aircraft, also from Ronald Reagan, could. The Hawkeye, a further ten miles to the south, passed along the range and bearing of the drone to the pilot of the F/A-18E. Moments later, two AIM-120D AMRAAM air-to-air missiles dropped from the under-wing pylons of the jet. The drone was well within the missiles’ one-hundred-mile range. Accelerating quickly to Mach 4, it took the AMRAAMs less than thirty seconds to cover the distance. It was not until they were within ten miles of the Lijian that the two birds acquired the drone on their active radars. But their vector was good, and they had to alter course and altitude only slightly. One missile cut the Lijian in half, and the second, knowing it now had one of two options, tore into the larger section of the wreckage. In the control bunker on the Chinese mainland, the Lijian controller looked away from his scope for just a second. When he looked back, there was nothing but electronic snow.

The plan Chase Williams had outlined to rescue the LCS crew was moving forward, and the Op-Center director had dispensed with his POTUS/Eyes Only memos to the president. He now called the president on a secure comm line whenever the situation warranted. The president had canceled all his appointments and spent his time shuttling between the Oval Office and the Situation Room. Now he sat in the Oval Office with his national security advisor. Williams had just called, and the president had Harward listen in on this latest update.

The situation could not have been more complex. Trevor Harward had become a fixture at the president’s side, discussing options, weighing alternatives, determining which allies to consult and which ones would have to wait for later. Other than the imminent rescue of Milwaukee’s crew, the other bright spot was that, for the moment, cooler heads had prevailed and common sense seemed to have replaced bluster. It did not appear that South Korea was going to preemptively attack the North in retaliation for North Korea’s moves against Kujido Island. The president had personally appealed to South Korea’s president, and his counterpart had, in turn, reined in General Kwon Oh-Sung, at least for the moment.

But that was where the good news ended. The United States and North Korea were at war by any definition of the term. Soldiers and sailors on both sides had died and, given the marshaling of forces, more were likely to die. Worse, now China had entered the picture. While China’s premier had personally assured the president China had no intention of interfering with the rescue of the LCS crew, he had made it clear activity in the northern Yellow Sea was clearly within China’s sphere of influence. “China,” he contended, “has rights and historical interests going back several millennia.” The premier had even obliquely mentioned his willingness to rein in North Korea’s leader, but Midkiff knew the chances of this happening asymptotically approached zero.

“I don’t know if we’ll get the entire crew off the island, Trevor,” the president offered. “It looks like every time we do something, North Korea ups the ante. We could still lose part of the crew, and this entire situation could spin out of control.”

Harward found himself in the unusual position of defending Op-Center. “Mr. President, Chase has his best people on scene, and I think we have a better-than-even chance to extract the entire crew. The North Koreans haven’t thrown anything at them yet they can’t handle.”

“I know, but it’s clear they want our people and they want them badly, even though we’ve made it known in every way possible way we’re not going to support their seabed claims under any circumstances. We’ve even hinted to them, as well as to the Chinese, we know why they felt the need to extend their territorial-water claims. It just makes no sense they are still trying to keep us from extracting our crew.”

“If we were dealing with almost any other nation, I’d agree with you, Mr. President. But don’t forget that this is North Korea and that China needs what they have. And if we retaliate against the North in any substantial way, it might play into China’s hands. They could move in and claim the disputed area for themselves or pretend they’re establishing some sort of protectorate. If you look at it from that standpoint, it’s not too much of a stretch to understand why they are playing this the way they are.”

As the president paused to consider this, his secretary came in to tell him that Chase Williams was again calling on the secure line. “Put him through, please.”

“Chase, I’ve got Trevor with me on speakerphone. What do you have for us?”

“Mr. President, I don’t have a great deal more to report since we spoke a short while ago. We’ve turned back the initial North Korean commando attack, and Admiral Bennett’s submarines have sunk the North Korean submarine that deposited them on the island. We’ve killed many of the commandos on the island, but not all. It’s still a standoff with the rest of them for the moment. I’ll keep you updated as I hear from my people on the island.”

“Yes, Chase, please do.”

“There’s more, Mr. President. As you know, I’ve been working closely with Admiral Bennett to neutralize the North Korean air and maritime forces until we get all our people back. But we do know the Chinese have been secretly providing them intelligence. We did take out a Chinese Lijian drone that was anchored over the island, but only when it was able to visually scan our rescue effort in the daylight. And my people here at Op-Center have just learned they were also downloading data to the North Korean special operations compound at Nuchonri Air Force Base. You should have all this through your normal military reporting channels.”

“We knew of the drone, Chase.” It was Harward who replied. “But this is the first we’ve heard of the North’s special operations connection to Chinese intelligence.”

“As you can appreciate, Mr. President, it’s one thing to take out a Chinese drone, especially since we’re virtually certain there are no fingerprints that can tie the shoot down directly to us. But it will be another if we get in a shootout with a manned Chinese asset.”

“I know that all too well, Chase. I’m assuming anything we do to another Chinese asset will be strictly in self-defense.”

“Absolutely, Mr. President. That’s all I have for now, sir. I’ll report again once we have the next batch of the crew off the island.”

“Godspeed, Chase,” the president replied as the line went dead.

“That was reassuring, Mr. President.”

“It was, Trevor. So where were we?”

“Sir, that’s about it regarding rescuing our hostages, but you did say you wanted an update on our efforts to censure the North Koreans at the United Nations. I’ve got our ambassador standing by in New York for a call anytime. Shall I get her on the line?”

“Yes, please do.”

For those aboard Milwaukee, it was a waiting game. The North Korean commandos, what was left of them, were trying to work their way from the cannery to where they could make an assault on the ship. But the JSOC-team snipers owned the high ground, and each time the commandos crept close enough to even put eyes on the LCS, they came under fire. The Raven had been pulled into a higher orbit with the growing daylight, but Mike Volner still had a visual command of the beachhead. It was a standoff, and, unless the commando unit could be reinforced, any assault of the ship was doomed to failure. Volner and Dawson knew this, as did the leader of the North Korean commandos. It was a standoff that might have gone on indefinitely but for a strange turn of events. One of the commandos had a cell phone that found a hole in the EC-130H’s electronic blanket. The commando leader was able to get through to his command and tell them what he would need to successfully attack the ship and take the crew hostage.

The captain of the Shang-class Chinese submarine was not entirely sure what the two American submarines were up to, but his orders were to find out. All submarines have signatures, and veteran sonarmen have learned to distinguish between classes of submarines and even individual subs. He knew he had two American Los Angeles — class boats operating nearby, but there was a third acoustic signature with which he was totally unfamiliar. Periodically, one or the other of the American boats would activate a beaconlike underwater transponder, as if it was attempting to mark its position. Then there was what seemed to be a third craft in the area that was electronically very noisy. According to the Chinese sonar technicians aboard, it appeared this third submarine was emitting navigation-sonar transmissions. But the emissions were beyond anything they could classify.

Not wanting to guess wrong or appear unknowledgeable to his superiors, the captain came to periscope depth and raised his communications mast. He reported only that the two American boats, and possibly a third, were maneuvering south and west of Kujido Island — nothing more. He was ordered to press in closer to determine what the Americans might be up to. This sketchy and imprecise information was immediately passed to the North Koreans.

But the Chinese submarine running at periscope depth for the time it took to transmit its message and receive instructions had not gone unnoticed. It had lingered near the surface just a few minutes too long. The sky high above the northern Yellow Sea was now a debris field of orbiting satellites, with more being repositioned each day to cover the crisis. The submarine had been seen by a keen-eyed Key Hole KH-12 high-resolution satellite, and that sighting had been confirmed by a Lacrosse 2 radar-imaging satellite. Both relayed their findings to the NSA. That information was immediately relayed to Seventh Fleet and to Santa Fe when it surfaced to receive what it hoped would be its last complement of the Milwaukee crew.

Yet with the daylight, there was no hiding from Chinese surveillance satellites. And since time was more important than stealth and the risk of detection by North Korean coastal radar, Santa Fe had closed to within four miles of Kujido Island for this final transfer. It was indeed spotted on the surface by an orbiting Chinese surveillance vehicle. But unlike the flow of information from NSA to Seventh Fleet to the operational units at sea, this sighting was processed by one bureaucracy and only grudgingly made available to another. This critical piece of intelligence would not arrive at the headquarters of the Shenyang Military Region of the People’s Liberation Army until later that afternoon. It was the Shenyang Military Region that was responsible for the northern Yellow Sea.

Greenville, too, still had another load of refugees to retrieve and a minisub to recover and make fast to her hull. It had closed to within six miles of the island. But the Santa Fe was now a free, fast-attack, hunter-killer sub, albeit a very crowded one.

At the North Korean special operations compound at Nuchonri Air Force Base, some forty miles northwest of Kujido Island, a North Korean colonel did something most uncharacteristic for a senior military officer in his army; he made a decision without going to his superior to ask permission. He was experienced enough to know his superior would have to ask his superior and that the moment would be lost. In that case, his men on the contested island and their objective of capturing the American crew would be lost. The fact that he would be blamed for the failure, whether he acted or not, helped him to come to this decision. His commando team’s assault on the island had started well. The submarine had successfully delivered them to the island, where they landed unopposed. They had located the American sailors in an abandoned building and had stormed the building successfully, or so he was led to believe. They had picked up radio broadcasts from the American ship’s captain, a woman, if that could be believed, who said they were being overrun. It seemed that his commandos had been successful. But since then, nothing! His commando team leader was under strict orders to check in hourly and report his progress, both to him and to military headquarters in Pyongyang. But that call had been long overdue. When a call finally came, it was not by radio but by cell phone. The assault had been a trap, and half of the commando force was out of action. It was from this cell-phone call that the colonel learned of the setback and what still might be done to overcome the American crew that had now reboarded their ship for a final stand.

His quick-reaction force was standing by, and the flight crews were on alert status. All he had to do was give the order, which he did. Moments later, two Russian-made MI-24 Hind helicopters lifted off and streaked at low level for the island. Each carried a dozen commandos, but these men were armed differently. In addition to their normal combat load and AK-56 assault rifles, each carried an RPG-89 grenade launcher and several rounds of grenade ammunition. As for the Hinds, they had a dual mission. They were to serve as troop transports and as attack helos. Their primary mission this day was to deliver their cargo to the island. Then they were to remain on station to support an assault on the ship.

The Air Force AWACs aircraft orbiting over Seoul picked up the helos shortly after they lifted off from Nuchonri. But at their top speed of two hundred knots, they were barely twenty-five minutes from Kujido Island. Alerted by the AWACs and half a world away, two Predator drone controllers saw the inbound helos just as they cleared the coast. By then, they were but fifteen minutes from a touchdown on the island. Both Predators were armed with Maverick missiles, but neither could engage a moving airborne target. All they could do was arm their missiles and track their targets. The two helos touched down several hundred yards from the cannery about fifty yards apart. The commandos were able to clear the aircraft and safely make for cover, but the aircrews had no chance. One was turning on the ground while the other had just lifted into a hover when the Mavericks slammed onto them, creating two giant fireballs that were clearly visible to the JSOC snipers on Milwaukee.

Several decks below the sniper perches, Brian Dawson and Mike Volner were joined by Kate Bigelow to watch the new batch of commandos disperse across the island. They moved in pairs, so no raining death from the sky could get more than a few of them in a single strike. The Raven drone had long since expended its on-station time and was allowed to drop into the sea. A Global Hawk with a downlink created by Jesse Carpenter had been brought down to fifteen thousand feet and now orbited the island. The presentation on the small computer screen was not as precise as that of the Raven, but then the distance was much greater.

“Well, this kind of ups the ante,” Dawson said. The North Korean commandos had fanned out and were moving like a troop of rats to the island’s southern strip of beach. The RPG launch tubes were clearly visible on their backs. “Can we hold them?”

Volner didn’t answer for several moments as he made a professional assessment of the video presentation. “Yeah, maybe, but it will be a close-run thing. A lot will depend on their orders. They probably think all of the crew is still aboard. Are they here to take hostages, or are they here to kill us?” He leaned in and continued to study the screen. Neither Dawson nor Bigelow spoke. Both knew from here on, no matter what happened, Major Mike Volner would be in charge. “Okay, this is how we’re going to play this. I want all your people ready to go when that ASDS returns. Keep them well to the starboard side of the ship as close to the skin of the ship as possible. I want everyone in flak jackets and helmets. Those RPGs will go through the skin of this ship like it isn’t there. If the warheads have any kind of a delay, one of them could get through. I’ll need two of your gunners and one of your deck people to help me defend and delay what’s going to come at us in short order.” He looked to Dawson. “I’ll be occupied keeping them off the ship. Let me know when that ASDS gets alongside and then again when you and everyone but my people are aboard.”

“Are we going to be able to get everyone on board?” Bigelow asked.

“Don’t worry about that right now. You just focus on getting your people and yourself aboard. Our job is to keep them off the ship until that ASDS is loaded and away.”

The ship suddenly shook as a rocket-propelled grenade slammed into the port side of Milwaukee. It was a solid hit, opening yet another gaping hole just below the pilothouse. But the shooter paid for it with his life. Rather than ducking for cover, the commando couldn’t help but watch the impact of his rocket. One of the snipers quickly traced the rocket trail back to the missileer’s firing position. He was lying prone on the beach berm just down from the bow of the ship. The JSOC marksman took him with a head shot.

The call with his United Nations’ ambassador had, at least for the moment, cheered the president and reminded him why he had selected her for the assignment. While there was no chance of getting a Security Council resolution to censure North Korea for attacking Milwaukee, as China would certainly have vetoed that effort, the General Assembly was another matter. Japan, South Korea, Indonesia, Malaysia, and other Asian nations had had their fill of North Korea’s intransigence. Under her leadership, they had joined America in a coalition of the willing to censure the Hermit Kingdom. North Korea’s aggression and violation of international norms would be fully exposed in the General Assembly. And once the LCS crew was safe, the president himself was going to address the United Nations.

The ASDS arrived back at the Milwaukee midmorning to find a ship under siege. Volner had partially offset the commandos’ use of the RPGs by mounting two of the ships .50 caliber machine guns fore and aft, where they could rake the beach with their heavy fire. They were manned by two of the ship’s gunner’s mates. But automatic-weapons fire from the beach and the RPGs had forced them to periodically abandon these partially exposed emplacements. Now one of the gunners had been wounded, and his gun was inoperable. But only once had the North Koreans tried to cross the beach. The machine-gun fire and precision shooting of the JSOC team had driven them back. But the one operable .50 caliber still in action was beginning to overheat, and Volner’s men were now rationing their ammunition. Both the commandos and defenders knew it was but a matter of time until the North Koreans were able to cross the beach, put grappling hooks over the bow, and board the ship.

“Mike, this is Brian,” Dawson said over the team tactical net. “The last of the crew is just now boarding the ASDS. I’m here with Captain Bigelow. What’s next?”

“Get aboard. I’ll send the remaining gunner down to you. I want no one aboard but me and my team. Let me know when you have everyone else aboard the ASDS.”

Kate Bigelow refused to leave the deck of Milwaukee until every member of her crew was in the minisub, including the two gunner’s mates, Jesse Carpenter, Lieutenant Tom Denver, and her boatswain mate chief petty officer, who had been tending the ship’s Zodiac that was now tied off on the side of the LCS. It was a tight fit, but they crammed everyone aboard, with pilot Bill Naylor fighting to control the buoyancy of his overloaded craft. Brian Dawson sat on the hatch coaming of the ASDS and slipped through just ahead of Milwaukee’s captain.

“Mike, Brian here. We’re ready to shove off. Sure you don’t want a ride? Room enough to squeeze in one or maybe two more.” There was another flurry of gunfire coming from the shore, and it was a moment before Volner replied. “They’ll be aboard any minute now, Brian. Get the hell out of here. With any luck, I’ll be aboard Greenville before you.”

“Good luck, Mike.”

“And you, Brian.” And he was gone. Now it’s up to me, Mike Volner said quietly to himself. Just cover their escape. Once they’re gone, you can get out yourself. But cover their escape!

Dawson closed and secured the hatch, then nodded to Master Chief Mecoy. A moment later, the ASDS slipped from the side of the LCS for the last time. Still tied to the side of Milwaukee was the last Zodiac. But the previously mounted OMC twenty-five-horse outboard that was clamped to the transom had been jettisoned for a 110-horsepower Mercury that was purring impatiently at idle. The main and cross tubes had been topped off so they were now rock hard.

Each member of Mike Volner’s JSOC team knew exactly what he was to do. One at a time, they dumped their magazines on rapid single fire, turned, and raced along a predetermined route to the waiting Zodiac. The first man there stowed his weapon and took charge of the outboard engine. Then, one at a time, they made the edge of Milwaukee’s aft mission bay and the open mission-bay door, and Volner directed them over the side. They came in the sequence he had expected, but number six did not appear. When the last man, his senior sergeant and a burly veteran, arrived, Volner knew he probably had a man down.

“Carson, Volner here. Where are you?” Volner and his sergeant heard a mic being keyed, but there was no voice transmission. “Carson, this is the major. Are you there?” Nothing. He turned to the man at the outboard. “In sixty seconds you go, with or without us, clear?”

“Clear, sir!”

I’m not leaving without all of my men! Volner raced along the route the last man should have taken, followed by the big NCO. Up a deck and in an interior athwartships passageway just inside the port skin of the ship, they found him. As Carson turned to leave his fighting position, he had taken a round under the ear, and it had unhinged his jaw. He was unconscious, and there was a lot of blood, but he was breathing. They discarded his weapon, and Volner helped the wounded man to a fireman’s carry over the sergeant’s shoulder. Then they turned and ran. Volner, a step behind, chanced to look down a port-side fore-and-aft running passageway and saw two armed men in black, ninjalike attire. His weapon was still slung so he instinctively snatched a fragmentation grenade from his vest and tossed it at them. He had nearly caught up with his sergeant and called “fire in the hole” when the blast crashed behind them. But they were now ninety degrees to the blast alleyway and escaped back across the passageway to the bay that led them back to the Zodiac.

It had been closer to two minutes than sixty seconds when the three of them reached the tethered inflatable. The man at the outboard was where Volner had left him, but two of the others had taken up security positions, and the fourth tended the little craft’s mooring line. The two on security quickly collapsed back in and were over the side in seconds. They handed down the wounded man, and the others literally dove into the boat. The man at the tiller in the coxswain’s position popped the big Merc into gear, and they tore away from the side of the LCS. While they sorted themselves out, the rest of Volner’s exit strategy began to unfold.

The controller of the orbiting Global Hawk, on seeing the Zodiac leave the side of the Milwaukee, bid the drone to signal Greenville, which was patiently waiting with a raised communications mast. Shortly after receiving the coded transmission, a fire-control technician aboard Greenville closed two firing circuits on his firing panel. First one and then a second Tomahawk land-attack missile leapt from their vertical-launch tubes just forward of the submarine’s sail. Following their precisely programmed instructions, they nosed over and flew straight for Milwaukee, each at an altitude of no more than fifty feet. Just before they reached the ship, they climbed to a terminal attack altitude of three hundred feet and detonated exactly over the ship — again the one, then the second.

Aboard the Zodiac, the JSOC medic tended to the team’s wounded comrade as best he could while the others clung to the spray tube of the pounding craft. Volner looked back across their wake to the LCS. There were waterspouts as the North Korean commandos took up firing positions along the deck. There were now a dozen or more of them aboard, most of them shooting at the fleeing Zodiac. Then came the crash of the airburst over the LCS. The force of the blast sent a pressure wave across the weather decks of the ship. It did little additional damage to the battered ship, but it swept the North Korean commandos who were topside away like grains of sand being blasted by a garden hose. Those inside were knocked from their feet, and those who didn’t go down from the first blast did so from the second.

Volner took stock of his team and his boat. They’d taken no hits, and the tubes appeared to remain firm. And the engine screamed with effortless power. He crawled forward to where his medic and his team sergeant were working on the wounded Sergeant Carson.

“How’s he doing?” he shouted over the roar of the outboard.

“If we could slow down a bit, sir,” his team medic said, “I think I can get a pressure bandage in place and stop the bleeding.”

Volner again looked back at Milwaukee. They were well out of range, but the sooner they got to Greenville, the better. Yet he estimated they were making close to thirty-five knots. The ASDS was doing no more than nine. He motioned for his coxswain to slow down.

The Shang-class submarine was moving toward Greenville at three knots and at a range of just over two miles. It was bow-on to the American boat and at its best speed for passive listening. The sonar operator aboard the Chinese boat sat concentrating, pushing his earphones tightly against the sides of his head so he would miss nothing. He had heard the two missiles leave Greenville, but, because they were launched close to the surface and there was a great deal of surface-chop noise, he didn’t know what they were. He had never heard an American cruise-missile launch, nor had the simulators where he received his sonar training prepared him for the real thing. All he really knew was that this was a loud, unfamiliar noise coming from an enemy submarine that was not only an extremely quiet adversary but one who took great pride in that silence. And there was the issue of the transponder-like pinging that in fact was a homing beacon for the ASDS. Suddenly, his face contorted in pain, and he ripped the earphones from his head. He dropped them to the deck and clamped the heels of his hands over his ears in an attempt to ease the ringing in his head. The force of the screech he had just experienced was all but debilitating.

Less than two thousand yards off the port bow of the Shang-class sub, USS Boise (SSN-764) had just lashed the Chinese boat with a highly focused active sonar pulse. A few seconds later, USS Santa Fe, hovering about the same distance off the starboard bow, did the same. The two pings rippled through the Chinese boat and were heard by all, especially the Chinese captain.

“Sonar room, this is the captain. What is happening? What does this mean?”

The sonar tech’s ears were still ringing, but he reflexively answered his captain. “Sir, this is most certainly the work of an American attack submarine. And since there were two such pings that came from different directions, two American attack submarines. They are in front of us and between our boat and what must be a third American submarine.”

Once Seventh Fleet became aware there was a Chinese nuclear submarine in the area, it had notified both Greenville and Santa Fe. Then the fleet commander ordered Boise to detach from the Reagan strike group in the central Yellow Sea and proceed north to join her sisters. While Greenville worked out the details of the last extraction and the covering action with its Tomahawks, Santa Fe and Boise, too, using Greenville as bait, planned and executed this acoustic ambush.

While the captain considered his options, two more loud pings, one from Boise and one from Santa Fe, reverberated through his boat. If he was in fact considering some other course of action, the second set of audio calling cards from the Americans put that to rest.

“Left full rudder,” he said to his helmsman. Then to his officer of the deck, “Make turns for fifteen knots and lay in a course that will take us back to Northern Fleet Headquarters at Qingdao.”

Within the hour, all personnel from the ASDS and the Zodiac were packed into the crowded hull of Greenville. It took another hour to get the ASDS secured to the afterdeck of the mother sub. Then Boise and an equally crowded Santa Fe proceeded to escort Greenville back south to the protective skirts of the Reagan strike group. And thanks to the skill of the Greenville’s medical officer, Sergeant Carson was sedated and resting comfortably and no longer in critical condition.