Red Ice

The trip back to Korea was sobering and lonely. Once there, I learned we had developed a disciplinary problem. Puckins and Wickersham had given the KCIA people the slip during the “rest” period and flown to Japan for the remaining days, returning only hours before me. They refused to explain their unauthorized absence. Questions from Dravit and me only met mischievous grins and hard silence.

The breach of discipline didn’t disturb me as much as the breach of security. Clearly we had a spy and saboteur in our midst, and though I had known both Puckins and Wickersham for over a decade, no one was above suspicion.

“Captain Dravit, make sure these two are kept busy until our departure. It seems that when they get bored they get the urge to go globe-trotting. Chiefs and first-class petty officers notwithstanding, I believe a good healthy dose of weapons maintenance and barracks cleaning would be in order.”

Puckins and Wickersham’s faces fell.

“And maybe they ought to re-pine-tar all our skis. When they finish that, let them shovel a walkway from here to Seoul.”

“But, sir…” one of the culprits started.

Nine sets of weary faces and bloodshot eyes manhandled personal gear onto an old bus and ordnance onto one of the Mercedes trucks. That three-day party must have been something. Tiny Gurung would start laughing uncontrollably for no reason at all. Kruger wore a pair of pink lace skivvies over his shirt pocket like a decoration for valor. Lutjens and Alvarez walked as if they were made of glass. Even Matsuma, who had fallen into the martial way of things, grinned whimsically when he thought no one was looking. The only one untouched by the graduation festivities was Chamonix, whom I’d never seen smile.

Most of the men slept as the bus raced south through the snow-covered countryside, slowing only as it entered an occasional village. Not until we reached the long tunnel that marked the entrance to Chinhae did everyone become alert and begin to sense the full impact of what lay ahead. As we cleared the gates of the navy yard, the men speculated on where we were going and how and why. The consensus was that we were going to Red China since our equipment was primarily Chinese, and we were going by ship since our destination was Chinhae, Korea’s naval center. No one had a clue as to why we were going.

We stopped at the end of one pier at a deserted portion of the base as instructed. The truck pulled in ahead of us and we began to unload it. Between the scuba tanks and the ski gear, the truck looked like a mobile sporting-goods store.

There was no submarine in sight. Several patrol boats lay at anchor in the evening haze. There didn’t seem to be anyone around interested in doing anything.

At about 2000, two patrol boats rumbled to life and came alongside the pier. A crewman dogtrotted over to us. “You come,” he said. “Now?”

Puckins had the men transfer the gear with painstaking care to the two boats. I noted that the boxed ordnance seemed excessive. The Korean crews looked bored, as if this sort of smuggler’s transfer was becoming wearisome. If that’s what they thought, they kept it to themselves.

“Did we order all this ordnance?”

“I did,” Dravit said, inviting no further discussion. No use questioning the inventory. After all, he was the professional ordnance salesman.

Since their punishment detail, Puckins and Wickersham had become very formal and ill at ease. I couldn’t tell if I had been too hard on them or if they were up to something. The transfer was too hectic to watch them carefully.

The patrol boats took in their lines and soon we were cutting through the wintry chop and dodging the tiny islands that freckled the harbor.

“There it is,” Dravit called out. I moved to the lee rail of the boat for a better look.

The submarine lay dead in the water, dull black and menacing. Its bold, sleek lines seemed poised for attack. Forward of the conning tower, a single five-inch gun thrust ahead determinedly. Emblazoned on the conning tower was a large red star and identification numerals—in Chinese characters, not the way they would do it, but confusing nonetheless. According to these markings, this was a Chinese “Romeo” class patrol submarine. Yet the hull configuration and superstructure were all wrong for a Chicom boat. Furthermore, few modern subs carried deck guns and seldom so large. There was something faintly familiar about this sub and it disturbed me. A lone silhouette in a bridge coat descended from the cigarette deck to meet us.

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Frazer. You like our artwork?” he said, pointing to the markings. “They were applied especially for your cruise.

“Would you and your men kindly follow me below? A working party will stow your equipment for you. I expect you will want to leave one man to supervise the transfer?” the round-faced Korean officer said in matter-of-fact tones.

“Gurung, keep an eye on the unloading of the gear,” Dravit, behind me, ordered.