“We haven’t caught it,” Chaz said. “Not yet. I assume that’s what we’re here to discuss.”
“Affirmative, sir,” General Boosalis said. “We’ve put together several mission packages for your consideration. Option number one is code-named Brilliant Thunder…”
CHAPTER 3
Major Pak Myong-sun stood at the sink of the cramped washroom compartment and thought about vomiting again. He hated the idea almost as much as he hated actually having to do it. He knew he’d feel better afterwards, but the notion of (yet again) huddling on his knees in front of the metal toilet was humiliating — as an officer, as a soldier, and as a citizen of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.
Pak prided himself on never revealing such weakness in front of his men. Even so, he must have lost nearly ten kilos since the beginning of the voyage. His face, which had been lean to begin with, was becoming almost skeletal. As members of the Maritime Special Operations Force, his men were trained to be observant. They couldn’t have failed to notice their leader’s sickly complexion, or the fact that his carefully-tailored uniforms now hung loosely about his frame.
His squad had been on this byung-shin ship for nearly forty-one days, and Pak’s stomach had refused to acclimate itself to the ceaseless lurches and rolls of life at sea. They had all trained for seaborne missions, of course. But MSOF soldiers did most of their work from Sang-O class submarines, and the older subs that westerners called the Romeo class. Maybe an hour or two on the surface every now and then, pitching and rolling with the waves, but the majority of time spent running deep, free from all the queasy motions of the ocean’s mixing layer.
As far as he could tell, his men had conquered their own stomachs within a few days. And here was Pak Myong-sun, still waiting for his gut to accept the transition; still fighting his body’s desire to blow rice and kimchi all over the deck. He’d always assumed that he would eventually acclimate, given enough prolonged exposure to shipboard motion. But that didn’t seem to be happening.
He should probably get it over with. Bow to the inevitable, and surrender his latest meal to the rusty steel bowl of the toilet.
He settled for washing his face in the sink again. It was time to recheck his men. The Aranella was only about seven hours from port, which meant that the American retaliation would happen within the next two or three hours.
They would try to seize control of the ship; he was sure of that. If they wanted to destroy the Aranella, they would have done it already. Sent in jet fighters to pulverize the old freighter with anti-ship missiles.
Same thing for a torpedo attack from an American sub; if it was going to happen, it would have happened already. That meant they were going to try for another boarding, probably backed up by helicopters and a surface ship or two. Things would get ugly, but Pak’s men had some nasty tricks lined up. And if the American attacks could not be repelled, there was a plan for that too.
Swallowing a belch flavored like stomach acid, he reviewed the timeline in his head. Starting the clock at the first attempted boarding, it would have taken the American government two or three hours to decide on a plan of action. Then, roughly eight to twelve hours to prepare a response force. Add another thirty hours at twenty-plus knots to move their surface assets into position. That should put their earliest attack window somewhere around two hours from now.
Not that Pak was foolish enough to rely on his own mental estimates. The Americans would attack when they were ready, with no regard for any calculations or predictions he might make. His squad needed to be prepared for immediate action.
He swallowed another nasty belch and backed out of the washroom. His rifle, a stubby close-quarters version of the Norinco CQ, lay on his bunk next to the handheld radio and the gray plastic shape of the initiator unit.
He was slinging the rifle strap over his shoulder when the radio crackled with an incoming signal. “Sojwa! Sojwa!” (“Major! Major!”)
It was the voice of Lieutenant Gyo. Pak listened, waiting for the man to continue his report. Nothing else came. The only sound from the radio was the quiet sizzle of background static.
Pak picked up the radio and squeezed the transmit key. “Chungwi, bogoseoleul jegonghabnida.” (“Lieutenant, make your report.”)
No reply.
He squeezed the transmit key again. “Modeun jig-won-eun jigeum bogo!” (“All personnel, report now!”)
More dead air.
Years of training asserted themselves automatically. Senses sharpening of their own accord, he felt his body begin to prepare itself for combat. His pulse rate accelerated and adrenaline flooded his bloodstream, driving all memories of seasickness from his mind.
He tossed the radio onto his bunk and drew the Type 66 Makarov from the holster on his hip. His left palm wrapped around the slide of the pistol, muffling the mechanical sounds as he racked a 9mm round into the chamber.
Moving as quietly as his boots would allow, he cat-footed across the small cabin and pressed his ear against the door for several seconds. He heard three or four distant thumps, spaced fairly close together, like someone using a hammer. Suppressed gunfire? Or just one of the engineers banging on a clogged fuel purifier? The Aranella was a noisy old pig, so he couldn’t really tell which.
Possibly he was overreacting. Possibly there was nothing more going on here than a simple radio failure. Possibly…
Makarov at the ready, he opened the door a couple of centimeters and peered out through the crack. The poorly-lit passageway was empty.
He slipped out through the door without consciously deciding to move. Padding quickly and quietly down the dim corridor, ears straining to pick out any sounds not natural to the heartbeat of the ship.
There was another cluster of muted thumps somewhere off in the distance, still not clearly identifiable as gunshots.
Pak reached the stairwell at the end of the passageway. The battered aluminum stairs led to the decks above and below. He began climbing, moving toward high ground with the Makarov pointing the way. His goal was one of the catwalks that ran along the exterior of the freighter’s superstructure.
He wanted to get topside, to check for signs of swift boats, or helicopters, or any other indications that the ship had been boarded. He also wanted to check on the lookouts he had stationed on deck, and get a peek through the bridge windows, to make sure that control of the ship was still in friendly hands.
Another cluster of muffled bangs, definitely from above him this time. There was no longer any doubt; they were gunshots.
He reached the deck above and was about to start up the next set of stairs when something large came tumbling down the steps toward him. Even as Pak was leaping backward out of the line of fall, he realized what the something had to be.
Sergeant Mok’s body struck the landing and lay unmoving on the faded deck tiles, blood trailing from a tight grouping of bullet holes in his chest. The veteran soldier’s sightless eyes were wide with shock.