The air in the space was thick and smelled like an old locker room filled with sweaty clothes. Two bulbs glowed dimly on the ceiling giving scarce light to the inhabitants inside the eight by twenty foot room. Consoles lined one wall, sprinkled with gages and multicolored lights. There was a dim orange-red light from the back of the consoles where vacuum tubes glowed brightly. Heat radiated from each tube adding to the intense stuffiness in the room. The hot electronics added their own distinct odor to the mix of heat and smell.
A small duct ran along the ceiling. The room was supposed to be air conditioned, but as usual it didn’t work. The engineers designed the system to be operated with a return vent through the door to allow for circulation. But the political officer declared the mission was too secret. As a result, the vent had been plated over and barely a breath of warm air came out of the blowers.
For what seemed like the hundredth time a young technician wiped his face with a small towel. The cloth was already saturated as he laid it down on the side of his console. The man’s white shirt was plastered to his body and sweat poured from his forehead down his face, yet his eyes remained glued to his instruments checking the readings to make sure he missed nothing. His supervisor and the political officer had berated him savagely a few days before when he was caught looking away. The gauges and readouts indicated voltages, tank pressures, gyro settings, computer readiness, fluid levels, operating systems readiness and all other settings necessary to launch a rocket. In this case, he was monitoring five of them.
Showing an early talent for math and science, the technician was singled out while in his teens to attend special schools and get specialized degrees from the university. During the two years after graduation he went through even more specialized training for the rocket forces. The state had been an insistent taskmaster. He and the others learned the physics, the chemistry, mechanics and even the electronics so each could run the programs and solve problems in their sleep. They knew the systems thoroughly. In return, the state promised a life of ease. At the end of this mission each would get an apartment of their own, higher pay, access to the special stores only the elite in the party could use — all the things a young man would desire. Even better, they would continue to work in the nation’s rocket program making it bigger and more powerful.
Only one week after completing the final phase of their training each young man had been mated up with mechanics to service the rockets. They learned how to put them together and take them apart so that if there was a problem, either could easily fix it. Now they were putting all they had learned into action. In the two months leading to this day the men checked and double-checked each rocket. They ran launch drills and simulated breakdowns. Training was conducted every day.
There were twelve men assigned to this mission. Six of them were in the confined space watching their consoles while their supervisor and the political officer watched their actions. Just four hours before, the order came to prepare for launch. The men immediately busied themselves in preparing the missiles and removing the covers from the launchers. Once done, the technicians entered the control room and the countdown began.
The supervisor kept one eye on a clock hanging on the wall in front of him. Each of the six technicians began relaying status until all thirty missiles were pronounced ready for launch. There would be a timed sequence to the launch. They would not all go at once. Instead, one would be launched every fifteen seconds until they were all gone. As the second hand on the clock swept to twelve, the supervisor announced, “One minute.”
The young technician could hear one of his colleagues breathe heavily. He too felt the strain of what they were doing. In just a few minutes it would all be over and they could return home as heroes. He could almost envision himself in a fine apartment relaxing without a care in the world.
“Thirty seconds.”
The announcement shocked the technician back to the present. He checked the readings one last time. His would be the last five to fire. The pressures were good and the readings were normal. He wondered if there would be any nice looking girls around his new home.
Unlike launches in most places, there was no countdown here. The supervisor simply ordered, “Begin launch.”
The technician on the first console selected the first missile and depressed the firing key. From somewhere outside the room the men heard a rocket motor ignite with a deafening roar and then slowly get quieter as it lifted skyward. When the rocket left the cradle the technician announced, “One away. Launching two.” Watching his own counter, he selected the second rocket and depressed the key exactly fifteen seconds after the first.
The political officer was smiling broadly. This was the start of a new day for his country. Nothing would stand in the way of this signature event. He and the supervisor walked down to the consoles and watched as each rocket was fired. As the first technician completed his task, the political officer moved to the next technician’s console, soon followed by the supervisor working their way down the line.
The young technician listened for the report that the 25th rocket had been launched. Once done, he watched his clock so that he depressed his firing key for the first time exactly fifteen seconds after it. It took just one minute before his last rocket lifted off. The young man felt the elation of knowing he had performed his task flawlessly. He turned his head looking up with a wide grin to see the barrel of a silenced pistol pointed at him. The last thought through his mind before it fired was, “Why?”
The supervisor looked sadly down at the line of dead young men. The pistol was still smoking in his hand and it felt heavy as lead. He did not want to do this task, but the state demanded it. All those years and all that work was now over. After a long sigh he turned to the political officer. “Let’s go. We have much to do,” he said in a tired voice. He handed him the gun and turned toward the door.
The political officer nodded and followed him. As the supervisor stepped through the door the political officer shot him once in the back of the head. The supervisor toppled forward and out of the way of the door. Placing the gun into a pocket of his trousers, the political officer reached in, shut off the lights to the room, closed the door, and walked quickly away.
Roger Hammond sat alone in a greasy spoon not far from his home. He stared vacantly at the plate just placed before him. It looked like the same old plate of brown meatloaf and mashed potatoes he’d eaten the night before. The only colors in the plate were the red splotch of catsup someone had obviously taken great care to glop onto the top, and a small bowl of pale green peas and orange carrots sitting in a semi-liquid. The contents of the plate seemed to sit in a runny, greasy gravy produced from a mix. There were even lumps in the gravy to accurately demonstrate the care put into its preparation. Hammond stared at the mixture with tired, sad eyes. This is pathetic, he thought to himself. It was 11 p.m. on a warm Friday night in March, and instead of being home relaxing, he was in this dive gagging down mystery meat. Almost in a daze, he worked his fork through the potatoes and stirred them around.
It was exactly 12 months since he retired from the Navy to enter civilian life and the corporate world. Hammond loved the navy, but it was wrecking his marriage. His wife had grown to criticize every aspect of their lives and gave him the ultimatum of the Navy or her. Roger loved his wife dearly, so to try and save what they had, he left the Navy even though he had been selected for the rank of Captain. He found a very good job with a very good electronics firm making twice what he was paid in the service.
Almost from day one he hated it. The political back stabbing in the corporation turned his stomach and he watched several young upstarts bully their way up the ladder to senior positions even though he knew they didn’t have any real leadership skills. Roger never liked bullys and had fought against such things all through his career. He knew his days in the company were numbered.
Roger took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Looking up from his plate, he glanced around the diner. It was one of those older 60’s style places with yellowed wallpaper, out-of-date hanging lamps above each booth, and a lot of stainless steel in the bar and kitchen area. The guy cooking seemed to be wearing the same spotted and frayed apron from the month before. A waitress was leaning on the table beside the cash register looking at some magazine. Even the customers were familiar. Leaning back in his booth, Hammond stared up at the ceiling. The tiles were different colors depending on how long they had survived the onslaught of grease and cigarette smoke from past abuse. Occasionally a darker spot showed where something leaked long ago but no one had bothered to paint or replace the tile.
Hammond sat alone. Despite everything he sacrificed, it took his wife less than a month to file for divorce. It didn’t matter about his good job, good pay or the fact that he still loved her. She met someone on that last deployment and decided she wanted a change. At first she said getting out of the Navy would make a difference, but she was still sneaking off to see the guy. Roger came home early from a trip to find them in bed. She screamed at him as if it were his fault, packed her bags and left that day. The divorce was quick and painful, but came out on his side.
Oh well, he sighed to himself. At least he had his retirement. There are more jobs out there too, he thought. He looked back down at his so-called meal and scooped up a mouth full. It even tasted the same. He stared at his plate and determined he was better than this. Better than the job, a better husband and even better than this dive he was in. He was going to take charge of his life again. He would start off finding a job that met his standards and then never look back.
Roger was half way through the second bite when the sky outside turned bright as day. At the same instant, the lights in the restaurant got bright in intensity and flickered out. At first he simply stared out the window as the light dimmed to a ball hanging in the sky. Then it dawned on him what it really was.
“Everybody down!” he shouted as he shifted out of the booth and dove under the table.
The others in the restaurant stared at him like he was some freak until a dull boom echoed from outside. It rattled the windows a little. The boom sent everyone to the floor, scurrying to find some sort of protection. After a few frightening moments, Roger eased out of his spot and looked out the window again. The ball was nearly gone and there was no light coming from outside. Even the streetlamps were out.
So this is what a nuclear war starts like, Roger wondered.
“What the hell was that?” one of the patrons asked in the dark behind him.
“Probably a transformer,” the cook called out. Roger could tell he was still behind his counter.
“That was no transformer,” Roger said. “I suggest everyone go home right now.”
The fry cook stumbled around in the dark. The swinging door from the kitchen screeched open. “Just hang on a few minutes. I’m sure the power will come back on,” the cook said. No one noticed that even the emergency lights weren’t working.
Roger knew exactly what it had been, but was leery of voicing it. He sat down at his place shoveling his dinner into his mouth quickly and drowning it with the tea sitting beside the plate. He stood again and made his way toward the door.
“You’ll have to wait till I can ring it up,” the waitress said as he came towards her.
Roger pulled out his wallet and felt for a bill. He knew it was either a $10 or a $20. He handed it over in the dark. “That should handle it all,” he said.
“But I don’t know how much this is,” she complained.
“Then bill me,” he yelled back as he went through the door. Hammond made his way to his car and opened the door. Climbing inside, he slipped the key into the ignition and turned the switch. The car turned over, but that was all. After cranking in vain for about 3 minutes, he got out of the car and looked around him. Other patrons were now in their cars doing the same thing. None of the cars would start. Roger watched as each got out and cursed their vehicle, wondering what had happened.
After a few more minutes, as breakers were manually reset at the power company, lighting and power were restored around them. Roger watched as streetlights first came on, then lights in the buildings and homes. The restaurant lights flickered but were a little dimmer. Some had burned out in the flash. He could hear the waitress trying to operate the cash register inside. Her complaints to the cook on how the machine was “busted” became loud and vocal.
Hammond noticed the patrons from other establishments filing out and making their way toward their cars. Like Roger, each tried in vain to start them.
Perfect, Roger thought to himself — a faint smile crossing his face. He chuckled under his breath. “Electro-magnetic pulse,” he muttered.
He reached back into his car and tried turning on the radio. Like before, nothing happened. He turned it back off and removed his keys. Looking around at the confusion in the parking lot, he shook his head and resigned himself to being on foot. Luckily he was only about four blocks from his home. He thought a moment about the possibility of fallout, but decided that since he had no shelter it really didn’t matter anyway. While the people around him wondered aloud what had happened and what to do, Roger eased his way past and began his trek home. His own problems had just been put on hold.
President Steven O’Bannon was in a fine Irish temper. He was only three months into his presidency, having defeated a one term liberal who decimated a number of programs, including defense, and now he was stuck with a nuclear war. He sat with his teeth tightly clenched. It was bad enough he had to clean up the mess, but getting blamed for a war he didn’t start was a political nightmare.
The President ran on a platform of national security and cleaning house. He was tired of seeing countries ignore human rights, instigate military buildups, and aid in the proliferation of terrorism while the US stood by and watched. He wasn’t alone. Nearly every American demanded something be done. That had been his rallying cry. The previous administration was still closing bases, cutting defense programs, and using the saved funds to build government instead of returning it to the taxpayers, even up to the day of his inauguration. What’s more, the opposing party was blocking his appointments and delaying his programs. Now he was sitting alone in a bomb shelter and everything had come crashing down.
The President had just settled down in his bed for the first good night of sleep in almost a week, when the Secret Service agents burst into his bedroom and almost physically threw him and his wife into an elevator. Their two children were hustled in within seconds, each with a look of horror on their face. The doors closed and everyone went weightless as the elevator dropped rapidly to a place four hundred feet below. He remembered his wife clinging to him and the frightened whimpers from his children as the elevator fell.
Just as quickly the elevator began to brake and slowed to a stop. The doors opened into a sterile world better known as “the sub-basement.” Secretly built during the Truman presidency while rebuilding the interior of the White House itself, the sub-basement was in actuality a bomb shelter for the chief executive.
Secret Service agents helped them out of the elevator, ushered the family to their suite of rooms and the President to his office. Though the walls were wallpapered and looked like any other room in the White House, the facilities were dated and clearly showed that, except for the basics, they hadn’t really been updated in more than a decade. At first, the only thing the President knew for certain was that missiles were incoming. Now he was in his office, in his pajamas, sitting in front of a tan colored rotary telephone, waiting for the end. He was twisting a wooden #2 pencil he found on his desk — anything to take off some of the stress. He squeezed it hard enough to leave indentations in the wood.
O’Bannon expected the telephone to ring — if for no other reason than to begin a retaliatory strike. But the instrument remained silent. He picked up the receiver and tried to get a line. That was when he discovered his very sophisticated telephone system could call anyone he wished — within the bunker. There was no working outside line. That realization brought on a torrent of curses which might have alerted the staff if the place hadn’t been soundproofed. He rang for a Secret Service agent.
“Ross here, sir,” came the reply.
“Ross, I need you to get hold of whoever you have to and get me a line to somewhere outside these walls. I don’t care where it is. I would prefer the Pentagon, but I’ll take anything right now,” he sputtered in anger.
“I’ll do what I can, sir,” came the reply.
For a moment, the President stared at the other three telephones in his office. He was very tempted to pick one up and ask what the hell was going on, but knew he shouldn’t. So for all practical purposes, he was alone — something a President never needed to be in a crisis.
The President sat staring at his desk in a slow simmer until he heard a tapping at his door. “Come in!” he shouted, much louder than he had meant to.
Captain Jim Butler stuck his head around the door. Captain Butler was a 25-year naval officer assigned to the White House during the closing days of the previous administration. President O’Bannon kept him on because he liked his no-nonsense style, frankness and professionalism. Butler wasn’t like the other advisor “weenies” that prowled the White House corridors more into politics than getting their jobs done. On a number of occasions he had been called into the Oval Office to give his advice. In every case, the advice Butler gave was 100 percent on the mark. President O’Bannon was never happier to see anyone in his life.
“Jim! Get your ass in here,” the President said with some visible relief on his face. “I hope to God you have some information on all this.”
Butler smiled at his boss. They had hit it off almost immediately and even shared an interest in fishing and basketball. Butler couldn’t have cared less for the political job, but he liked the guy and would do anything to help out. Butler also didn’t care about promotion or sucking up to the admirals in the Pentagon. So he just did his job and let the chips fall. At least this President was a good one.
Butler stepped into the office and walked up to the desk. “Mister President, I think we’re in a shooting war. Too bad we don’t know who’s shooting at us,” he said.
The President looked puzzled. “You mean we have no clue?” When the realization struck him he threw down the pencil and sat back in his seat, disgusted.
Captain Butler shook his head. “Not a one, sir. I had just come on watch when it started. Just before I put out the alert we saw multiple launches from about 50 miles off both coasts. Looked just like submarine launched ballistic missiles, but there’s only one thing wrong. Nobody has that many, sir.”
“What do you mean they don’t have that many?”
“Just that. The Russians have only two missile subs at sea, the Brits have about four, the French, one. On the other side of the world, the Chinese have three of those kinds of boats, but they’re in port. No one else has any worth mentioning,” he briefed. “There’s nothing on the threat board right now, yet we counted over thirty missiles coming in from each of five launch points. That’s more missiles than a Trident carries, so that leaves us with a big goose egg for information,” he said a little disgusted and frustrated himself. “I guess whoever it was could have multiple boats launching from the same point, but like I said nobody’s got that many underway,” he said almost with a sigh. “I wish I could tell you more boss, but they dragged me down here right after you. I’ve been trying to get hold of anyone I could but … nothing. My fear is the bombs have dropped and no one is up there to answer, sir. Even the direct lines to the Pentagon and NORAD are dead.”
The President shook his head as if to wake up from a bad dream. “Shit,” he said in disgust. “So now we sit it out a few weeks before trying to pick things up. By then, our country will be practically dead.”
Butler nodded. “Whoever thought of this did a good job. We didn’t have any time to react,” he said, “and we don’t know who to react to.”
The President could tell Butler was pissed off. He could tell it in his voice and the way Butler’s eyes seemed to flash when he spoke. The man didn’t know — and he told him he didn’t know. Not knowing made it worse. The President motioned to a chair.
“Sit down, Jim. It’s just us for now and I know we’ll work something out in all this.”
Butler appeared to sag a little. The black and gold shoulder boards inched downward slightly and he eased himself into the wooden chair in front of the President’s desk.
“What do you think happened to our phones and the other comms?” the President asked.
Butler grunted, “You can blame your esteemed predecessor. You remember all the changes he ordered early in his term?”
“Sure.”
“Well, he said the military should not have anything better than what the general population had in its operations. He said it would save lots of money. When Bob Nichols over at Systems Command tried to remind the President about the problems in a nuclear confrontation, he got laughed out of his office. Bob told me the President said nuclear war was a thing of the past,” Butler almost spat. “Now we’ve got one and the EMP knocked out everything electronic including our off-the-shelf phone system.”
“I thought the lines between here and the Pentagon were dedicated lines buried deep,” the President said.
“Oh the lines are deep, but they bought a civilian phone system. They replaced the equipment at NORAD at about the same time. Hell, even I said something when it was installed on this end. But who listens to a captain when a truck load of admirals is giving orders.”
The President looked at his desk and the old equipment there. “Well, don’t feel bad, look what I’m stuck with.”
Butler chuckled. “At least that will work. The electromagnetic pulse doesn’t bother that old stuff in the least. It only goes after the high tech gizmos,” he said.
The President sighed. “So what do we do?”
Butler looked up at the President and straightened up a little. “About the only thing we can do for now is to sit tight and wait till the initial effects are over. I got guys trying to reestablish comms now. In a couple of hours, we might try and go topside and see how bad it really is. A lot depends on the radiation levels and how much is still standing. Our forces have probably already put themselves on high alert. I know what the plans are in a case like this. Everyone protects our shorelines and our interests until the command structure comes back online. Local commanders are in charge for now. As far as the rockets go, they are grounded until someone with authority puts out the word. Since we don’t know who did it, they are probably sitting safe and snug in their shelters deep underground,” he said almost from memory. “So Boss, it looks like it’s just you and me until we get more word.”
The sound of the telephone ringing caused the President and Butler to nearly jump from their seats. The “hotline,” actually several direct telephone lines between the White House and other world leaders, had originally been set up for direct talks to forestall a nuclear war. In some cases a translator was included on the line to make sure there were no misinterpretations. In this case the telephone from the United Kingdom was ringing and no translator was needed. The president lifted the receiver.
“Good evening, Mister President. This is Prime Minister Nickolson calling,” said the voice through the headset.
“Mister Prime Minister, you have no idea how good it is to hear your voice,” the President answered. The relief in his voice was obvious. A slight chuckle came from the other end.
“I dare say. We have monitored the wanton attack against your nation, and I have called to offer the complete support of the United Kingdom to assist you in any way we can,” he said earnestly. “I have been asked by His Majesty to relay his personal shock and support.”
“Thank you, Prime Minister. There is no doubt in my mind of your support and your kindness. Please pass along the appreciation of my nation to His Majesty.”
“I am happy to do so. I take it you are in a shelter of some kind?” the Prime Minister asked.
“Yes, Prime Minister, we are waiting out the effects of the blasts. Unfortunately, I have no way of knowing the extent of the damage to my nation since all my communications except for this one seem to have been disrupted for the present.”
“My ministers have informed me this might be the case. I have with me my Minister of Defense and First Sea Lord. If you like, I will conference us all together to give you as much information as we currently have.”
Captain Butler jumped from his seat and hurried to the door. “Get hold of some stenographers and my staff and get them here right now!” he anxiously whispered to the agent guarding the hallway. The agent nodded and picked up a telephone as the Captain returned to his seat.
“We are getting a few people here to take it all down. I have my naval attaché here at present. Captain Jim Butler has my complete confidence. I believe he met your Defense Minister and First Sea Lord last month at our summit.” The president motioned to the little box on his desk that made it a speakerphone. The box was pushed and the regular receiver returned to its cradle.
“Good evening Prime Minister, ministers,” Butler said a little anxiously. He had never really cared for politics or speaking to political animals, but at least two of these men he had met and they were military types like himself.
“Glad you are there, Captain Butler, good to have our navies well represented.” It was the voice of the First Sea Lord. They had instantly liked each other when they met at a reception just the month before. It resulted in an invitation to the First Sea Lord’s manor just outside London and a discovery that both enjoyed, among other things, an evening playing poker. When the bombs had gone off, Butler had been the first person he had thought of.
“Thanks, sir. I hope you can shed some light on all this.” Butler briefed on what he knew. By the time he finished, the small office was filled with people, paper in hand, taking down every word. Two stenographers were there to complete the process.
“I believe we can add a little more,” said the Defense Minister. “It seems that the weapons were set to explode between altitudes of 75 to 100 miles. Except for two of them, they were within that range. There were two ground explosions on the cities of Memphis, Tennessee, and Dallas, Texas. The other cities were….” He began listing all of the cities where an explosion occurred and the number of devices used if more than one had been targeted in one place. But Captain Butler reacted after the information about the altitude. He quickly stepped from the room and grabbed one of the Secret Service agents.
“Come on, slick, let’s get topside,” he said taking the man by the arm.
“But sir, what about the damage — or the radiation,” the man stammered. It was clear he didn’t have any problem taking a bullet for the President, but the idea of turning bright green from radiation exposure was something else.
Butler smiled at the man. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you,” he winked. “But if it’s what I think, there won’t be either damage or radiation.” He stopped at a closet outside the elevator. Inside he grabbed a small instrument and flipped a switch. Luckily, the activation light came on. Then both men entered the elevator and pressed the button to ascend.
When the elevator approached the top both men held their breath. The door opened to the lower level of the White House. Several people were using it as a shelter. Everyone began talking at once. Butler motioned for them to keep quiet.
“Just wait here. I’ll be right back,” he told them, as he rushed to the stairs. Two flights later he entered the main reception area of the White House. A few more steps and he was standing under the portico looking out over Washington. There were no cars moving, and it seemed a peaceful night.
EMP. They used the EMP, he thought.
The agent appeared beside him. There was a bewildered look on his face. “But there was no explosion,” the agent slowly said.
One of the security guards ambled over. “You missed all the fireworks Captain,” he said with a grin. “Just a while ago the whole sky lit up. We even heard the rumble and felt a little heat.” Then the man got quite serious. “Captain, are we dead?”
Captain Butler turned on the Geiger counter and held it out. There was nothing except for the usual readings. He ran it over the guard’s clothes. Again there was no change. “Well Jack,” he said reading the name from the guard’s badge, “I don’t know what initial radiation you might have picked up, but from what I’m seeing, you’ll live to be 100,” he said, a slow smile widening on his face.
The guard extended his hand and Butler took it. “Makes me feel a lot better, Captain.” There was a look of relief on his face.
“Hang tight out here. We will probably be getting a lot of people coming to the White House tonight,” Butler said.
“I figured so after that,” the guard said pointing toward the sky. “I was on a carrier back in ’84 so I have a feelin’ you guys are up to your asses in alligators right now. Cabinet and Pentagon types?” he asked.
“That’s it. Be a little while since the phones are out, but just be ready.”
“I’ll pass the word.” The guard said turning with a wave and heading toward the guardhouse near the street.
Butler looked at the Secret Service agent. He was nervous and still confused. “In answer to your question, there has been a nuclear explosion, just not the kind we all thought.” He shook his head in disgust. It was perfect, he thought. They knocked us out without killing everyone. Brilliant. He looked at the agent again. “We need to find out what’s working. Get some people down in the underground garage and see what vehicles will start. Then get them up here to run messages to all the offices. I’m going back down,” he said to the agent as he went back into the White House.
Captain Tien Sohn was staring into the face of death. More precisely, into the barrel of a Russian made pistol aimed directly between his eyes. His political officer — an obnoxious, arrogant toad who made his life miserable — was holding the pistol. He recently replaced Sanh Fing, the political officer who had been aboard for the past ten years. Fing had become a good friend and loyal ally. The crew learned to respect the man and to listen to his political teachings, simply because he made the politics make sense. On several occasions Fing stepped in on behalf of the crew when something from the central government or local leaders caused problems. Fing had common sense and could explain why changes in political decisions were necessary. The crew missed the man.
The new political officer insisted on being called Mister Lieu. He had never been on a ship before and worked his way up from smaller provinces and a lot of bureaucracy. He expected instant obedience. The pistol he held didn’t move and the smile on Lieu’s face was frightening.
From the very beginning the captain had his suspicions about his orders. First was the decision to load the ship in secret with containers carrying cargo he and his crew were not allowed to inspect or to even go near. Every inquiry was met with the answer, “It is a matter of state security.” Then there was a special set of containers joined side by side with a sort of corridor and special bracing. They had been placed at the aft end of the cargo hold and connected to the ship’s electric supply. The containers had a crew of 12 that kept inside the thing. Occasionally he would see someone open an upper hatch and stand on top to smoke or get some air. Despite a storm while transiting the Straights of Magellan, they seemed to have come through with no casualties. Again, the crew had not been allowed to have contact with the men.
His orders had been to sail his ship to a specific latitude and longitude and remain there until told otherwise. The ship had arrived two days before and had been cruising in circles ever since. Upon arrival, Lieu ordered the men to remain in their quarters except to stand their watch or to eat. There had been a flurry of activity as the crew in the containers moved around the ship, going in and out of the other containers and doing whatever task they were told. That ended just 30 minutes before as Sohn saw first one flame and then another engulf the cargo areas. The missiles had cracked through the flimsy fake coverings of the containers and risen into the night sky. The noise and flames lasted for over seven minutes. The captain had been sitting in his chair reading messages when it started and he ducked under the sill as the flames licked at the bridge. From there, he watched helplessly as the missiles lifted off.
When the last missile left, Sohn raced to sound the emergency alarm, then bounded to the main deck to see what damage the missiles had caused. The paint was burning in a number of places on what was left of the containers and the inside of the cargo areas. In some cases, the flimsy materials used to make the containers had begun to burn. Fortunately the interior walls of the holds were mostly rust. As the crewmen assembled, he directed their firefighting efforts, quickly attacking the flames.
He needn’t have bothered. The force of the missile exhaust sprang rivets, split welds and in places melted the steel in the ship’s hull. Water was quickly filling the hold. Normally, the empty containers would have provided some buoyancy, but these now had neither bottom nor top. Captain Sohn returned to the bridge to get the engineers to put the pumps on full, but there was no response from the engine room crew. He watched in horror as hoses held by the men fighting the fires went slack as the water pressure slowly went away. Despite all his calls and efforts, the water remained off. The crew was forced to stand helpless and watch the fires smolder and burn.
It was the noise of hollow thumping that had gotten the Captain’s attention. It had started on one side of the ship. When the captain arrived, he could see one of the lifeboats with holes knocked neatly into the bottom. Rushing to the opposite side, he saw the political officer slamming an axe into the bottom of the remaining lifeboat with all the strength he had. Just as quickly as the captain realized what was happening, the axe dropped to the deck and Lieu produced the pistol. The captain backed into the pilothouse as Lieu followed, stopping at the doorway.
“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” Sohn demanded; his hands in the air.
Lieu continued his evil smile. “The State does not wish to have any witnesses to what it has done,” he said slowly. “This ship will sink, and I will make sure no one else is left,” he said.
“My crew is to die at your whim?” The captain almost shouted. The full realization hit him like a brick. His country had started a war and they were the first pawns to be sacrificed.
“Your crew, comrade captain? These men and this ship belong to the state. You will make the ultimate sacrifice for that State!” he screamed. “I have already taken care of the engineers. The rest will soon join them!”
Captain Sohn watched as the pistol steadied again after Mister Lieu’s ranting. He was sure it was the last thing he would ever see. Something moving caught his eyes behind Lieu. Just as he tensed to squeeze the trigger, an axe appeared above Lieu’s head. Sohn watched as it came down and seemed to cleave completely through the political officers skull and come to rest in the middle of his chest. Lieu’s lifeless body slumped and crumpled to the deck, surrounded by an ever-widening pool of blood.
Chief Engineer Hahn let go of the axe and stood resolutely at the door, staring at his handiwork. “Pig!” he spat. Hahn stepped over the lifeless form to report to the captain. “He shot up most of my men before I was able to get a few out. The fire systems are back on now, but unless I’m mistaken, our ship won’t survive,” he said.
The lights were turned on around the deckhouse and surrounding the cargo area. Both men could see the ship had settled deeply in the water and the hold was nearly filled. Groans could be heard as the seas continued to move the ship. It wouldn’t be long before the keel would crack and the ship would break in two.
The captain ran to the radio room to send out a distress signal. He could have saved his time. The radio operator had a hole through the back of his head and the equipment was smashed. It was obvious the radio would never be fixed.
“We have to save what’s left of the crew!” the captain shouted. He lurched toward the pilothouse, across it to the door and gazed at the lifeboat. Nothing would allow the normally sturdy craft to float now. There were three large jagged rents in the area of the boat’s keel.
“The other’s just as bad,” the Hahn moaned. “Let’s try an inflatable,” he suggested. Both men ran to the area aft of the funnel where the inflatable life rafts were sealed in their capsules. The engineer slammed his hand on the release and kicked the capsule over the side. A cord attached to the ship released the raft as it fell and popped the capsule. There was no way to describe how the men felt when the capsule opened and there was no raft inside. The two halves fell harmlessly into the water. A similar effort on the other side produced the same results.
By now the ship was beginning to wallow heavily in the seas. The bulkheads started to buckle back and forth on the sides as the two ends of the ship were trying to keep the vessel afloat with 30,000 tons of water and containers weighing down the center. Already water was nearly up to the main deck. Most of the crewmen were clamoring toward the bridge — knowing the ship was doomed and clinging to the idea they might survive, if even for a few more moments.
“Will the aft end of the ship float?” the captain asked his engineer.
“It might for a while, but if the ship breaks up, it will probably spring almost every joint. Even then, the forward bulkheads aren’t designed to take on any kind of sea,” he said sorrowfully. “With luck, we might have a day or so before something gave way. But when things do break loose, I have no way of knowing whether this half will remain on an even keel. The engine won’t do us any good and the generators may not work at any big angle,” he said looking at his captain in the face. “We’re in for it.”
The captain nodded. He knew the engineer was right. He also knew North Korean shipbuilders were not known for their workmanship. His ship would go down like a stone.
There was a loud metallic groan and then a gigantic bang. The crew watched as a crack appeared in the main deck, just in front of the after superstructure. The sounds of ripping steel and grinding metal accompanied a large surge of water from the crack that poured into what was left of the hold. The men watched in horror as the front end of the ship seemed to move to one side and peel away from where they were standing.
The seas continued to work the ship’s hull, first opening the crack, then slamming it shut again for several agonizing minutes. The crew stood petrified as the sounds tore at their ears. They watched in the glow of the ship’s exterior lighting as it illuminated the gaping jaws of the crack that seemed to be feeding on something in the dark water. Finally the crack began to open again. This time it didn’t stop. In a loud snap, the keel finally gave up and let go. The lights on the forward part of the ship went out as the electric lines severed. Just as suddenly, the men felt the deck beneath them heave upward as the last of the sturdy steel plates gave way and the forward end of the ship began to drift away. The men struggled to get back to their feet, having been thrown around the deck by the sudden movement. They saw the cargo area of the ship slide under the water. The bow of the ship began to angle upward, not lifting from the water, but simply tilting like it was going to hang there. Through the dim illumination they watched the bow slowly disappear, being dragged down by the cargo holds and the remaining containers. What appeared to be steam began whistling out of the hatches and windows and a froth of bubbles appeared around the remaining hull as it slid into the water. The bubbles continued to churn the water after the bow had gone from sight.
The Captain stood with tears in his eyes as he watched part of his beloved ship sink. He felt someone place a hand on his shoulder. Soh the old cook stood beside him. Both men just stood and shared the moment of sorrow, neither speaking, just being there.
“It’s floating,” said one of the crewmen nearby. The words broke the captain out of his private thoughts and into the present. He looked down where the man was pointing. There, riding easily in the water was the section of containers that had held the launching crew. It floated freely on the water. There was light coming from a small fixture on the top next to the hatch going below.
The Captain sprang into action. “Get some lines on that thing and guide it to what’s left of the ship’s side!” he yelled. The remaining crew sprang to life, rushing to break out the nylon mooring hawsers stored just aft of the superstructure on the main deck. Once removed, one end was lowered to the containers as they bumped along the forward remains of the ship. A crewman expertly slid down the line to the top of the containers and a loop at the end of the line was threaded through an attachment ring and secured. Another line was lowered and the crewman attached it on the other end of the containers. With great effort, the crew began to ease their makeshift raft to the side of the ship and secure it.
Half way through the process the engineer ran into the pilot house. “Captain! The engine room’s flooding and we won’t be able to stop it. When the bow tore away it sprung plates back another ten feet beyond the aft bulkhead of the cargo hold. I can give you lights for maybe another 20 minutes, then the water will be up to the generators,” he said in the confusion.
The captain nodded and pointed to the containers being moved around to the side. “See the light? This thing may have its own generator onboard. If it does, we need to get fuel to it and see about water. That’s our lifeboat, Hahn. Let’s make the best of it till the power goes.”
The engineer nodded and ran to the side. “I need to get down there,” he said. The leading seaman nodded and grabbed a smaller line, throwing it over the side and tying it to a bulkhead cleat. “We’re holding this thing right below,” he yelled. “Climb down while we finish pulling it around.”
The engineer slapped the man on the back and grinned. “If this thing starts to sink, don’t forget to leave me a line,” he said grinning. He then grabbed a flashlight just inside the pilothouse, took the line in his hands, and eased over the side and out of sight.
The crewman who had secured the containers held the line for him and greeted him when he lit on the deck. The engineer looked around, using the flashlight to inspect some of the welds holding the containers together. He motioned the man over. “Tell the Bos’n to get some steel wire down here and run it around this whole thing to hold it a little more secure. The more the better,” he said. “I’m going inside to see if this thing will float.”
The crewman nodded and started yelling instructions up to the ship while he went over to the hatch. To his surprise, the hatch was only loosely secured. He turned the handle and pulled it open. Hahn was surprised to find the space brightly lit. Lowering himself through the hatch, his feet found the ladder and he climbed down.
He had climbed into a tomb. Scattered around the space were the bodies of the launch crew. A total of 12 men were in the spaces. Each had been shot and left for dead. After checking for a pulse on several, Hahn decided it was no use and got back to checking for leaks. Surprisingly, there were none. The spaces had been constructed to be both waterproof and airtight to protect the delicate equipment — still operating in the first open space. There was a berthing space, dining facility, kitchen, radio and communications room, and farther on a storage area and room for the generator. It was obvious these weren’t just containers welded together, but a complete unit designed and constructed to take a lot of punishment. Checking the generator room, he found the fuel tanks nearly full. Glancing around, he saw why. The generator hadn’t come on until the ship’s power had been interrupted. He ran back to the kitchen area and found the water tank. Holding about 200 gallons, it was nearly empty. Hahn raced back up the ladder and through the hatch.
“Get a water hose down here right now!” he screamed up at the men now looking down at him. “Then tell the cook to start bringing down every bit of food he can!”
The hose took about 5 minutes to hook up. Then the water poured through it nearly filling the onboard tank when the lights on the ship began to blink. They dimmed briefly, came back brightly again, then blinked one final time before going out forever.
By this time the cook had taken a party of men and brought up a number of boxes of canned food. There was also some frozen meat and fish and several containers of dry stores. Now the ship was settling deeper and tilting further forward as the water filled the engineering spaces. The captain directed the food be lowered to their new home and for the men to abandon ship.
The evolution was actually quite orderly. The food was lowered or dropped to the deck and stacked near the hatch. At the same time, the Bos’n lowered several lines, equipment, and other materials he thought would come in handy. The men were allowed to go quickly to their berthing spaces and retrieve whatever personal items they wanted to bring. These too were lowered and the men followed down the lines until they were all assembled on the deck. The captain, as per tradition, was the last to leave. He had gathered the ship’s log and lowered it with his few belongings to the crew below, then with a final look around, crawled over the lines and lowered himself to the deck with his men.
He looked sorrowfully up the side of his old ship, and then shook his head. He turned to his remaining crewmen huddled together. “We have been made fools of today. Our country wanted to sacrifice us for some purpose we are unaware of,” he said sadly. “There has never been a more loyal crew to me or the country we served. Since our country now considers us dead, we may now make decisions on our own to live.” He looked around the small deck they were standing on. “This is going to be our home until someone comes for us. So let’s make the best of it. I am sorry I let you down by not finding out the treachery imposed on us. I am sorry we were not able to save our ship,” he said before the tears began to flow. He lowered his head, unable to speak further.
One of the men came forward. “Captain, we all know you and you know us. None of us saw this coming. You have been our friend and leader a long time. That counts more to us than any political ideology. To us, you are still our captain,” he said offering a smile. The other men came forward to express their support for their captain. It was a small gesture, but meant a lot to Sohn.
“I will do my best to see that you all are rescued. I simply ask that we continue to work together until we can get back to land. Then we will decide what we do next,” the captain said. After a moment, he shook off the emotions and motioned to the men. “Let’s get all this below and stowed. Bos’n!” he called out, “cut the lines to our ship and let us drift away before she settles.”
The men went to their tasks as the Bos’n pulled out his long knife and began cutting through the hawser. In a few minutes the lines were cut away and the containers began drifting away from the ship. When that was done, a detail began lifting the bodies of the dead men out of the hatch and onto the deck. Sohn watched as each of the young technicians was gently laid on the deck. Why? he wondered to himself. Why was something like this necessary? He found no answers. Eleven were eventually brought up and laid out side by side. After a few moments of silence, each was carried to the side and lowered gently into the water.
In all, twelve of the ship’s crew were left. One of the launch crew was also found to be alive but badly wounded. In a couple of hours the inside of the container was cleaned of the blood and mess, the stores put away, and their lifeboat made ready for what might be a long voyage. It was an exhausted crew that finally fell into their bunks to sleep.
The next morning the crew watched as the after part of their ship finally slid beneath the waves. It capsized in the night. They stared at the ship’s single bronze screw sitting motionless behind the rudder, dully glistening in the morning light. Unlike the bow, there was no froth of bubbles. Instead it slid slowly away — the tip of the rudder shifting slightly as is disappeared. The men watched silently, then drifted to other parts of the deck to be by themselves.