Red Ice

That sense of familiarity grew stronger and began to haunt me. I checked the frame markings. All markings were in Korean characters. The odor of kimchee-fermented cabbage pervaded the boat. Many of the fittings weren’t U.S. made, but by now I was convinced this was a U.S. submarine.

When we arrived at the control room, the round-faced officer turned and introduced himself as Commander Cho, Korean navy, the sub’s skipper. He seemed indifferent to our arrival. I supposed that we were just one of the many small military and paramilitary units he deposited yearly on hostile doorsteps. I had been aware that Korea had a submarine of some sort since my days as an adviser.

“Excuse me, Captain, but what ship is this?”

He looked at me sidelong. “This is the Korean navy submarine Taegu. You may remember it—though you seem far too young—as the USS Wahoo.”

“Damned,” Wickersham exclaimed half-consciously. No wonder she had seemed familiar. I had toured her sister ship, the USS Croaker, which was a World War II relic. But hadn’t the Wahoo disappeared years ago?

As if reading my mind, Cho added, “She sank with all hands in forty-three while in the Sea of Japan. The Japanese began salvage work a year later but had to stop at the time of the surrender.

“We took over the project in fifty-five, raising and concealing her in a remote submarine pen not far from here, she’s been used for intelligence work against North Korea ever since. Your government knows about her, but has never filed a formal protest.”

He was all business.

“My former government.”

He turned to look at me, then had his executive officer show us the troop compartment. Dravit and I shared a stateroom.

The boat began to vibrate faintly—we were under way. Hell-bent for Siberia in a flat black museum piece.

Sometimes little things should tip you off. First, I should have sensed when Wickersham and Puckins deposited two seabags with such tender loving care in my stateroom that something was afoot. Second, I should have become suspicious when those two asked Dravit to take a look at some mysterious problem in the armory. I should have sensed skullduggery on their part of unmitigated proportions. But I didn’t. Instead, I gave my full attention to charts of the Siberian coastline and English translations of the long-term weather forecasts. Then I went to the head.

When I returned, lying in my rack—nonchalantly reading a book, oblivious to the fact that we were gliding at periscope depth through the Sea of Japan aboard a vulnerable old commerce raider, crewed by eighty hard-nosed Korean seamen and carrying nine desperate naval commandos—reclined Keiko in a faded set of bell-bottoms and a dark blue turtleneck sweater. Damnation.

“Dravit!” I bellowed out the stateroom door.

“Yes?”

“Get Chief Puckins and Wickersham in here ASAP.”

Keiko looked up at me uncertainly. “Not their fault. They only suggested this stowaway after you left Hachijo. It was my fault for taking them up on it. They said it would be good for ‘skipper’s morale.’”

She rolled over to face the bulkhead.

Dravit, Puckins, and Wickersham came barging through the door. Dravit was smiling but quickly dropped the smile when he saw the wild look of fury in my eye.

“You two”—my index finger shook uncontrollably—“are hereby appointed head cleaners on this boat until further notice. If in the future you have any plans to buoy the spirits of ‘your skipper,’ or anyone else, you can take those plans and stick them…”

Dravit seized the seconds it took to fish for an appropriate receptacle to hustle the culprits out of the stateroom and added some choice advice of his own.

I went aft to the control room to tell the captain of his stowaway. The captain’s reaction, clearly, though not overtly, indicated he was of the opinion he had embarked ten rank amateurs.

The humor of the prank escaped me. My full concentration had to be on my men and the mission. There would be no second chances, no coming back to pick up forgotten items. Keiko would be a distraction—albeit a pleasant one—but a distraction, nonetheless. A malfunctioning radio or a shortage of food, it didn’t matter. I was responsible.

The submarine rushed headlong through the brooding waters of the Sea of Japan. After the prank, Dravit had limped out of the stateroom and berthed in the troop compartment. He had said, with ponderous sarcasm, that he could not abide officers who encouraged stowaways.

Chamonix and I worked on organizing the field packs so that they were both light and complete. We would darken the troop compartment and the group would rehearse assembling the folding kayaks and breaking down the weapons. We fitted the green Chinese uniforms and made what few alterations were required of the white camouflage overblouses and overtrousers.