Korea Strait (26 page)

“The U.S. contingent will stay in the op area. Do one-on-ones with
San Francisco.”

“Okay. So the plan is, we head on out and intercept these guy's extended track—”

“No. We will force them to surface and identify before they cross into our protection zone.”

“The idea being…”

A pause before the reply. “To demonstrate we have control of our waters.”

“Got it,” Dan said. Seoul was playing the same games Washington did. Jerking the forces this way and that, cracking the whip. Not too concerned with what that meant to the guys out at the tip. He just hoped it didn't leave them out here for another typhoon. Callista, this time. Brendan had been about all he cared to take.

“Anything I can do for you? Heard you were feeling below the weather.”

“Under the weather.”

“What?”

”Under
the weather,” he shouted through the closed door as another spasm started. Tin/me,. I'm just taking a fucking
shit,
okay?”

HE was back in his cabin, lying exhausted, when someone tapped on his door, then let himself in. It was a grinning little man who explained in broken English that he was “doctor.” Dan figured him for a corpsman, but went through a point-and-grimace charade that ended with the guy motioning him to get out of bed and pull down his pants. The diagnosis seemed to consist mostly in the guy's smelling his butt, but at least he was up anyway when another paroxysm hit.

The door to the head didn't open to his frantic jerk. Someone was in there. He hammered frantically on it. “Fuck. Fuck,” he muttered, to the compassionate gaze of the corpsman, who had come into the passageway after him and who stood now stroking his chin and tsk-ing sadly. Then he turned and left. The door cracked and Dan practically knocked the sailor inside down, getting past him. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

When he came out, though, the little guy was back, waiting in his stateroom with a packet of white powder. No writing on it. Just a brown packet. He pointed to Dan's sink and mimed turning the faucet,
mixing it into a glass, drinking it down. Dan nodded. When the “doctor” left he sniffed the powder. Then shuddered, and poured it down the sink.

HE was on a train trying to sell Colin Powell a piece of veal for $6.98. The train was vibrating, about to go off the tracks. Powell kept insisting a four-star general should get his meat for less.

Then someone was shaking him. He threw his arm out, over his eyes. “The fuck.”

“Hey. Dan?”

It was Henrickson. O'Quinn stood behind him in the passageway. Dan sat up, sensing how weak he was. Feeling, and hearing, the vibration all around him.
Chung Nam
was on turbines, and the sick floating feeling was her cutting through heavy seas on the stabilizers. He pulled an arm across his face, feeling grit at the corners of his mouth and eyes, hearing stubble rasp like a wire brush on rust. What he couldn't figure out was, why had Powell wanted the veal at all? “The fuck's going on?” he grunted.

“Got a little problem,” O'Quinn drawled.

“What is it? A fire?”

“Not exactly,” Henrickson said. “What it is, we've got to pack up to crossdeck.”

“Crossdeck.” He struggled to sit up. He must have a fever. Things were swimming, he felt chills. “You mean—
offload?”
The frigate leaned farther, and from down the passageway came a shout of excited Korean.

“Leakham says since the exercise is terminated they're detaching.”

He played for time, trying to get his head in gear. But his transmission kept slipping and all he could do was repeat the last word he heard. “But—detaching?”

“Correct. Pulling out of the exercise. Whatever's left of it.”

“Shit.”

“Anyway, he's sending a chopper. Wants us packed and on deck an hour from now.”

”Leakham
wants us off?” Dan frowned.

Henrickson said patiently, “That's right. Chopper'll be here in an hour.”

O'Quinn put in, “Oh—and there's now three probsubs headed our way.”

The terminology was a little archaic, but Dan understood it. “Prob-sub” was “probable hostile submarine,” the highest classification of contact unless someone had actually seen a periscope.
'Three?”

“They're not sure, that's fixed-array sound-channel data. Passed by the Japanese.”

Dan swung his feet to the deck and felt for his shoes. “Uh—here's what's wrong with that scenario. We don't take our direction from Harry Blowhard Leakham. Whatever the… whatever he thinks. In fact, whatever orders I get from that quarter, I'm going to do the exact opposite.”

O'Quinn smiled darkly; Henrickson blinked. “Uh, my understanding, Dan, the SATYRE's been called off. Real-world operations. No point in us staying around.”

“Jung put it on hold for forty-eight. Not shut it down.”

“Well, technically you're right. But the Australians pulled out, the Japanese are gone, the U.S. squadron's on its way over the horizon, and the Koreans are steaming away from the op area at twenty-five knots. So you could argue pretty conclusively SATYRE 17 is in fact dead.”

Dan was out of his bunk by now and trying to stuff his legs into his trou. They kept getting tangled up. Finally he realized he had one shoe on. That was why it was so hard to get his foot through the pants leg. He kicked it off savagely. “Uh,
technically,
Monty, if the South Korean Navy's on its way to intercept, force to the surface, and identify three unidentified submarines, most likely Russian Kilos, don't you think the U.S. Navy Tactical Analysis Group would like us to observe the action?”

“Uh… guess it could be tactically interesting…”

“Bet your ass. And it'd test pretty much exactly what this exercise is actually supposed to—”He bit his tongue; Owens hadn't cleared him to share their actual mission with the rest of the team.

Fortunately they didn't seem to notice his sudden self-censorship. “We could get some interesting recordings,” O'Quinn put in. “I know we don't have much on these new diesels. Even less on the new torpedoes the Russkis are putting out. This new Shkval, now there's a—”

“See, Joe agrees with me.” Sorry already for his tone, he slapped
the little analyst on the shoulder. “Now help me get up to the bridge, Monty, okay?”

As Dan slid past, O'Quinn seized his shoulder. Said close to his ear, “You sure about this?”

“You can take off if you want, Joe.” Dan raised his voice. “You too, Monty. Hear me? You guys want off? Helo's on its way.”

“The team should stay together,” Henrickson said.

“We don't all have to stay,” Dan told him. “Joe? You want to go, go.”

“Go where?” O'Quinn laughed, hoarsely, as if it didn't matter, as if nothing mattered. “There's nobody home waitin' dinner for me.”

“If you stay, we all stay,” Henrickson said, sounding more determined.

“You sure, Monty?”

“I'm sure. The team stays together.”

He thought about ordering them to go, but that didn't seem right. If they wanted to stay, why not? It'd simplify their travel arrangements. And they could keep better track of the gear if they all went home together.

Topside it was night. The frigate heaved as she rushed through an immense darkness. Dan found Jung's chair empty, but Yu silent and motionless in his. He cleared his throat. “Skipper?”

“Commander Lenson. You have gear together? Are ready to be take off? We will come to course for helo approach when they notify us inbound.”

“I've decided to stay aboard, Captain.”

“You say, stay aboard?”

“That's right. We can't take off just when things might be getting interesting.”

He expected questions, but Yu just sat silently. Finally Dan added, “With your permission, of course.”

Yu still didn't answer. He just unsocketed the Pritac handset down off the overhead and handed it to him.

Dan checked the call-sign board behind him, dimly lit from behind and glowing ghostly in the black. CTG 75.1, Leakham, was Quebec Quebec tonight. “Quebec Quebec, this is TAG coordinator. Over.”

The response was already distant, fading. VHF voice didn't have a very long range. “Quebec Quebec. Go ahead. Over.”

He didn't recognize the voice. Not Leakham; one of his staff. “This is TAG coordinator, aboard Lima Alpha. My team is not debarking at this time. Thanks for your offer. You can scrub the helo. Over.”

A short pause. Then, “This is Quebec Quebec. That was not an offer. That was an order. U.S. contingent has signaled finex and is proceeding outbound at this time. Stand by for helo at time four zero. Over.”

“This is TAG coordinator. Quebec Quebec is not in our chain of command. Over.”

“This is Quebec Quebec. Be advised, Quebec Quebec actual was acting on recommendation from Seventh Fleet that all national forces evacuate Korean waters at this time. Implementing that directive, he instructs you to crossdeck your personnel now aboard ROKN units at this time. Over.”

Standing in the dark, knees shaking with weakness, he frowned, sensing a darkness that wasn't night. “This is TAG coordinator. Interrogative, why the evacuation order? Over.”

“This is Quebec Quebec. Be advised: This is not a secure net. Stand by for helo at time four zero. Confirm wilco. Over.”

“What the fuck?” somebody muttered behind him. Dan thought it was O'Quinn. “You hear this shit? Evacuating Korean waters? What the fuck is going on?”

Yu's profile was motionless, listening. Dan dragged a hand over his forehead. It came away dripping. Maybe he should have taken whatever the doc had tried to give him. He tried to discipline his thoughts. Get them in some kind of logical order.

U.S. forces were departing the theater. Obviously they knew something he didn't. Something the staffer couldn't even allude to over an uncovered circuit. So Leakham wanted them off. Wanted them back on a U.S. deck.

But something obdurate in his heart had no intention of leaving. Whatever Leakham said. The fat commodore had tried to dick with him ever since he got here. He had no idea why, but TAG had sent Team Bravo here to evaluate shallow-water antisubmarine tactics. The Joint Chiefs wanted a readout on what league the South Koreans could play in. And it looked like some real-world ASW might be on its way. The Koreans were tough, smart, aggressive operators. Whatever was coming toward them, he wanted to find out what it was.

Unless he was very wrong, the Navy would appreciate having a professional observer on the scene.

But again, that didn't mean they all had to stay. And what he was hearing made him less certain they should. Leaving the transmit button up, he muttered, “Monty, Joe, I'm not sure what's going on. Some kind of recall message. Leakham thinks it applies to us.”

Henrickson said, “Seventh Fleet's the theater commander—”

“So what?” O'Quinn broke in. “Not here. We're under CFC's Op-con.”

Which was General Harlen. Dan gnawed his lip. The point could be argued, but he thought O'Quinn was closer to the truth. Especially as the threat became more dire. A TAG team was too small an element to be officially transferred to a combatant commander. But it seemed counterintuitive to pull his people back just when it looked like there could be action.

Or was he just being pigheaded? Mavericking it yet again? Letting himself be attracted to danger like some twentysomething jaygee? Looking at it as objectively as he could, he didn't think so. Tactics development was TAG's mission. And you never got the mission done by turning tail.

Probably the most accurate assessment would be that whatever he did, he'd have to justify it somewhere down the line. So finally he said, “Well—I don't think it applies to us. The recall, I mean. I'm going to stay.

“But, again: you're free to go. In fact, it'd be better—you're neither of you in an active-duty status. Pack up the nineteens. Get all the data back to TAG. I'll stay and see how this plays out.”

They both muttered that they were staying too. Dan gave them a second or two to change their minds, wishing he could contact the guys on the other decks as well, Carpenter and Oberg. But he couldn't. There wasn't time. When they didn't, he keyed the handset again.

“Quebec Quebec, this is TAG coordinator. Belay the helo transfer. If you send it, we will not board. I say again, if you send it we will not board. Stand by to log this, and inform TAG and PACFLEET: Team Bravo is remaining with the ROKN aboard units of ASWRON 51 as observers, at the direction of the TAG coordinator. Over.”

There. That'd cover his guys if things went wrong. Then there'd be only his ass to fry, if it all death-spiraled butt-ugly

That was fair. More than fair.

The radio said, “This is Quebec Quebec. Be advised, I will advise Quebec Quebec actual and higher authority of this conversation. Over.”

“This is TAG coordinator. Suggest you do exactly that. Over.”

He listened for a moment more to the hiss of empty air, hoping he wasn't charging off over a cliff.

Utterly unforeseen, coming out of nowhere, in that fraction of a moment the sudden recognition hit that
he'd done this all before.
He'd stood on this bridge, in this darkness, committing these men and himself to an irreversible decision. It was utterly convincing. He
knew.
Beyond question or doubt.

But when he searched he couldn't recall
how.
Whether it'd been in a dream, a previous life… or if he'd just glimpsed this inevitable moment out of its ordained sequence, by some mysterious foreknowledge inexplicable by his culture's conventions of time and reality. He groped, bewildered, but found no explanation. Only a label—deja vu—which explained nothing. Fancy? Delusion? No. It felt too meaningful, this unremitting moment. These waiting, expectant faces. He'd seen all this before. He'd
been here.