Korea Strait

KOREA STRAIT

Previous Books by David Poyer

Tales of the Modern Navy

The Threat
The Command
Black Storm
China Sea
Tomahawk
The Passage
The Circle
The Gulf
The Med

Tiller Galloway

Down to a Sunless Sea
Louisiana Blue
Bahamas Blue
Hatteras Blue

The Civil War at Sea

That Anvil of Our Souls
A Country of Our Own
Fire on the Waters

Hemlock County

Thunder on the Mountain
As the Wolf Loves Winter
Winter in the Heart
The Dead of Winter

Other Novels

The Only Thing to Fear
Stepfather Bank
The Return of Philo T. McGiffin
Star Seed
The Shiloh Project
White Continent

KOREA STRAIT

DAVID POYER

This is a work of fiction. Characters, companies, and organizations in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously, without intent to describe their actual conduct.

KOREA STRAIT
. Copyright © 2007 by David Poyer. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York. N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Map by Paul J. Pugliese

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Poyer, David.

Korea Strait: a novel/David Poyer.—1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN-13: 978-0-312-36049-8
ISBN-10: 0-312-36049-5

1. Lenson, Dan (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. United States.—Navy—Officers—Fiction. 3. Korea Strait—Fiction. I. Title.

PS35666.O978K67 2007
813'.54—dc22

2007032497

First Edition: December 2007

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To those who return, but not whole

E
x nihilo nihil fit
. For this book I owe thanks to Keith Adams, Barbara Breeden, Kyung “KC” Choi, Dick Enderly, Sean Gillespie, Adam Goldberger, Young P. Hong, Bill Hunteman, Chong Su Lim, Bill McQuade, Charles L. Owens, Patti Patterson, Laura Plattner, Warren L. Potts, Daniela Rapp, Sally Richardson, Matt Shear, James P. “Phil” Wisecup, and many others who preferred anonymity. Thanks also to the Eastern Shore Public Library; the Joint Staff College Library; Commander, Naval Surface Forces Atlantic; the Maritime Museum of San Diego; the Nimitz Library at the U.S. Naval Academy; Commander, Naval Forces Korea; and the officers and crew of ROKS
Chung Nam,
my shipmates some years ago, who bear little or no resemblance to their fictional counterparts created here—though we did go through two typhoons together,
that
much is true. My most grateful thanks to George Witte, editor of long standing; and to Lenore Hart, best friend and reality check.

The specifics of personalities, locations, and procedures in Korea, Japan, and Washington, and the units and theaters of operations described, are employed as the settings and materials of
fiction
not as reportage of historical events. Some details have been altered to protect classified procedures.

As always, all errors and deficiencies are my own.

In every battle, the eye must first be deceived.

—Flavius Vegetius Renatus,
Epitoma Rei Militaris

T
HE tall American moved stiffly, but his gray, observant eyes never stopped as he came down the jetway. He wore civvies: slacks and sport shirt and light Windbreaker. He wore a stainless-steel diver's watch, a heavy gold ring, and a wedding band with the traditional star and anchor. He carried a black briefcase, and a notebook computer was slung over his shoulder.

The huge concourse murmured with coughing and talking, the despairing screams of children, the human zoo-noise of thousands of other journeyers inchworming through baggage-dragging lines or perusing flickering monitors. The summer sun blazed through acres of vertical glass. Dan Lenson blotted his stinging eyes with the back of his hand. Every Korean on the 747 from Chicago had chain-smoked through the thirteen-hour flight. The concourse too milled with a blue murk through which people pushed, making the smoke eddy and whirl like the wakes of small boats in a crowded basin.

The customs agent looked up from the inspection table. He pointed to the sealed manila envelope in Dan's briefcase. “Take out, please.”

The outer envelope was unmarked. It enclosed another, wrapping the contents in two layers of kraft paper. Dan had kept the locked briefcase wedged under his knees all the way from Washington, DC.

“Open, please.”

“Sorry, can't. Classified material.”

He dug out the letter. Headed with the Department of Defense
seal, it designated Commander Daniel V. Lenson, USN, a command courier, authorized to receipt for and carry classified material up to and including Top Secret to Pusan, Korea. He snapped his russet official passport, his orders, and his Navy ID on top of it. The agent examined the letter and the ID. He compared the photo with Dan's face. Then reached for a stamp and nailed the envelope.

“Your computer. It is classified too?”

“That's right.” Dan unzipped the carry case, opened it, and turned it to face him.

The agent didn't ask him to turn it on. Maybe he saw shielded Compaqs with encrypted comm capabilities and classified hard drives every day. He just stamped a paper label and stuck it to the case beside the red-and-white Top Secret stickers. “One thousand Republic of Korea won for domestic air tax. Two thousand for terminal fee. Three thousand won, please.”

Dan handed over the limp colorful notes they'd issued him along with his travel orders. He got a receipt, closed and stowed the computer, the envelope, and the letter. Then headed out with the ebbing tide of jostling, chattering Asians, looking for the taxi desk.

DAN
had spent most of his career at sea. Except during the Gulf War, when he'd been part of a Marine Recon team. He'd come out of that with a medal some thought was the only reason he was still in the service at all. Since then he'd commanded a destroyer in the Red Sea, then served on the White House staff. He'd hoped for another command after that, but things hadn't gone well in the East Wing.

Sitting in the cab, watching the buildings go by, all concrete and glass and balconies and all exactly the same, he remembered his last talk with “Nick” Niles.

He and Admiral Niles went way back. But Niles was no admirer. Quite the opposite. He'd leaned back and gotten that look he always had when they butted heads. “Why is it that wherever you go, Lenson, things go to shit? Carrying the football for the president—even I thought there was no way you could screw that up.”

“I think I did all right, sir. The assassination attempt failed.”

The flag officer's expression made it clear what he thought about that outcome. No president in living memory was so loathed by the armed services as the one whose life Dan had managed, at the last moment, to save. But all Niles said was, “Who do you think was behind it?” Then swiveled his chair and looked out his window at tomb-stones on a green hillside.

Dan had no doubt Niles knew. The guy was too smart, too well connected, not to. No, what he wanted was to find out how much Dan knew.

So Dan told him.

When Niles swung back, his heavy face was blank as polished onyx. “I don't believe it. To think that… impossible. Not in this country.”

“Then why'd General Stahl resign?”

“Health reasons. Like the press release said.”

“I see. And the others?”

Niles waved it away. “Doesn't matter. That's all gonna get settled behind closed doors. Way above both our pay grades, Lenson.

“Question remains: What do we do with you? How about putting in your letter? That'd be the best thing. Like I been telling you for a while now. There's your spine—they tell me you fucked that up on
Horn.
. And you didn't do it any favors jumpin' out of that chopper either. Medical retirement. Full base salary. I know a guy over at Battelle. You can double-dip, make a good living—”

“If the Navy wants to fire me, Admiral, so be it. But I'm not resigning.”

“So we put you on the shelf. Then you go public about the stuff you've been involved in….”

“I know how to keep quiet, sir. Most of it, no one'd believe, anyway.”

“True…I guess.” Niles sucked his teeth. Grimaced, in neither a smile nor a frown. Then leaned, and pushed the jar of Atomic Fire-balls that was always on his desk forward an inch. “Want one?”

“No, thanks.”

“How's Blair takin' all this?”

“She says however it turns out, she's on my side.”