Korea Strait (9 page)

“Some can be that way.”

O'Quinn scratched grizzled stubble and half grinned. “Like I said. No offense.”

“None taken.” But Dan didn't buy it. The guy either was deliberately being offensive, or had been hiding behind the door when they were passing out social skills. He'd met men like that. Some surprisingly senior. Either way, the only way to meet it was to be just as blunt as they were. “How about you, Joe? I heard what happened on
Buchanan
. A lot of guys would have just quietly slunk away after something like that. But here you are. Still on the government payroll—or wait, no, it's Titan, right?”

The older man stubbed the cigarette out. His face was controlled. “Joe O'Quinn never slunk away from anything,” he said at last. “What'd they tell you happened?”

“Just that there was a collision. Guys died.”

“Not in the collision. Which was the freighter's fault, by the way. Failure to keep a proper lookout. Henrickson say they died in the collision?”

“No.”

“'Cause they didn't. They drowned because I locked down on them. The pumps were falling behind. Firemain pressure, zip. I had to keep her afloat. The sea was too cold and too rough and we were too far out, this was way down in the South Atlantic, even to think about abandoning.”

O'Quinn was staring at the drapes. Dark plush maroon, they were drawn against the light, against the jagged mountain panorama Dan knew lay on this side of the hotel. He wondered what the older man saw against that screen. O'Quinn drank out of the can, hesitated, then added a solid slug from the bottle. Amber drops bounced on the carpet. “Unfortunately, I should have waited and seen if the flooding reports were right. Yeah, there was a court. And yeah, I ended up on the beach. You were a skipper. Ever had to make a call that turned out wrong?”

“Yeah. I have.”

“And lost people 'cause of it?”

Dan nodded again. You could argue they'd had to die, it was just the mission. Or that it was the commander's lack of resourcefulness, seamanship, judgment, that had doomed them. You could talk about risk analysis too. The line was there. But sometimes it was buried in darkness, and all the analysis went to shit, and shit happened. And in the dead watches of the night, faces and screams drifted back and woke you, if you'd been able to close your eyes in the first place. Now he knew why O'Quinn slept alone. If he slept at all. He cleared his throat and scrubbed his hand back over his hair. “I know what you mean. It's not an easy row to hoe. So I might have a little more sympathy than—”

O'Quinn jumped off the bed and thrust his face into Dan's. Pepsi and rum spattered brown foam on the bedspread. “I never asked for your fucking
sympathy
Mister Annapolis. Mister fucking
hero
How many lives did that Medal of Honor cost you?”

“You'd better shut up,” Dan said. His hands were claws around the armrests. “And back off. Sit down, O'Quinn.”

The older man laughed as if he didn't care anymore. “Fucking ay
I will. Don't worry. I'll keep it shut around the boys. I just want you to know I see through the act. What's a fucking hero, anyway? Just whatever dickhead's at the right place at the right time.”

“And makes the right decision.”

“The decision that turns out later was right.”

“I used to think that,” Dan said. “Yeah. That how it turned out told you whether it was right or wrong. But I finally figured out how you can tell which decision's right earlier than that. You just subtract yourself from the equation. No matter how scared or tired you are, or how bad it might be for your career. You just do what used to be called your duty. Just do that—and no matter how it turns out, you can live with it.”

But O'Quinn was wagging his head, sneering. “Sure, if you got the wife who's the fucking undersecretary of defense. I heard what happened to
Horn
You lost more guys than I did. And you're still in. You're Annapolis, all right. Through and fucking through.”

It was the ship's name that did it. His temper broke like chilled glass. He pushed himself to his feet. Barely in time, Dan reminded himself that the guy was hurting. Striking out at whoever happened to be in range. He crammed his fists into his pockets, feeling his long muscles tensed hard. It would be all too pleasant to start punching. “You're way out of line, O'Quinn. Drunk, too. I'm cutting you a break. Because I feel sorry for you.”

“Don't fucking—”

“Shut up and listen. I know you're not in the Navy anymore. But, you want to keep working for TAG? Don't get in whatever this mood of yours is, again. Not with me. And not around our host-country nationals. Got it?”

O'Quinn didn't answer. His cheeks were the color of fresh liver. He fumbled on the night table, found the pack, shook out more cigarettes. They flicked out and hit the carpet, bounced high, as if they had no mass whatsoever. He lit one, and the flame shook, making the hollows of his dead-looking eyes shiver. “I know my way around,” he said in a low voice as toneless as Dan's. “I know what this job takes. And I'll do it. I just want you to know you're not fooling anybody.”

Turning away, he scooped up the bottle again. Cradling it, he muttered, to the draped and shadowed window and not to Dan: “Now get out of my fucking room.”

H
E paced the foredeck, feeling more like himself back in uniform than in the civilian suits he'd had to wear on the Eighteen Acres. He was glad that tour was over. TAG duty wasn't what he'd hoped for—another command—but at least he was back aboard ship.

Even if it didn't fly the U.S. ensign.

Shading his eyes beside the gray egg of a 75mm gun mount, he looked out across the harbor. He'd never seen ships rafted this deep, and yet more lay across the floating pier. Rank after rank of destroyers, frigates, low, fast-looking patrol craft. Or wait—yes, he had. In old photos, from wars that had strained every sinew of American industry.

The ROKN base at Chinhae had that wartime feel. Gate security had searched their car on the way in and examined the chassis with a mirror. They'd opened and inspected every box of gear and examined and photocopied their orders. Two helmeted guards patrolled the pier with M16s, and there was nothing perfunctory about the way other compact, dour-faced troops checked IDs. A quarter mile out a guard boat churned the gray-green chop of the fjord, or bay. It was walled by slate blue mountains that grew from stubby peninsulas poked out into the sea. Beneath him the deck vibrated. A thin wash of nearly invisible smoke pushed up from the stack.

The okay had come through at last. Seventh Fleet and the Japanese would both play in Exercise SATYRE 17. Now all he had to do was make it happen, deal with any problems that came up, get along with Jung, keep Carpenter and O'Quinn on the straight and narrow, organize the data collection….

“Commander Lenson!
Kim tae wi
” said a high-cheekboned young man in khakis, saluting.

Dan returned the salute. “Sorry. I don't speak Korean.”

“
Tae wi
—Lieutenant.” His escort fingered his rank insignia. “My family name—Kim. Kim
tae wi
—Lieutenant Kim.”

“I see. Kim
tae wi
” Were they
all
named Kim?

“Very good! I am show you ship, engines, cabin. Start at forward.”

“That'll be fine,” Dan told him, and followed him down a ladder.

ROKS
Chung Nam
was an Ulsan-class frigate. At first glance, as he came down the pier, she'd reminded him of the old Leahy-class guided-missile cruisers. Closer in, though, he'd seen the Korean was smaller. About the size of
Renolds Reyan
his own first ship—which would make her a bit over two thousand tons. She was flush-decked, with a towering superstructure, two pyramidal masts, and a single large stack aft. The gray paint job with low-contrast bow numerals were just like U.S. practice. She was much more heavily armed, though, than a NATO warship of comparable size. Two automatic cannons, where an American frigate carried one. Four antiaircraft guns, twenty- or thirty-millimeters in tubs; Perrys carried none. Crisscrossed gray tubes aft of the stack were Harpoon surface-to-surface missiles. She probably carried some sort of short-range antiair missile as well, for point defense.

On the other hand, he didn't see a helicopter hangar, nor was there anything like the Perrys' Mark 13 launcher, the “one-armed bandit,” which reloaded automatically with a choice of several missiles from belowdecks. She sounded different too. Quieter than the constant whoosh and whine of a U.S. ship, though the familiar clatter of a chipping tool echoed from somewhere forward.

Now, following his escort down into the forepeak, he submerged into hot air and smells. The boatswain's locker reeked of paint and thinner. No surprise there. But the next compartment aft was packed with nylon bags bearing bright labels. Rice gritted underfoot in forward berthing too. As enlisted men came to attention he caught other odors. Close-packed men and damp bedding. The man-smell was like turpentine and radishes, sweat with an undertone of mold and the spoiled-milk odor of latex paint. He wondered what he smelled like to them. They were striking more rice below. A human chain swayed thirty-kilo sacks from one bent, nearly child-sized sailor to the next,
between racked pipe bunks down to a storage area he glimpsed, leaning over a hatchway, on the next deck down.

Aft, to a compact wardroom. The table was covered with green baize just as it would be on an American ship. An ornate silver box squatted at its geometric center. Kim lifted the lid for a cigarette from the stock inside. As he lit it Dan saw a coffeemaker, but the burners were empty. “Hey, Kim
tae wi.
. Any chance of some coffee before we see the rest of the ship?”

“Coffee? No coffee. Sorry.”

“I see that, yeah. But maybe they could make some.”

The lieutenant didn't seem to get the picture. Dan rapped on the galley door. The slider clacked open. A steward in a white smock peered out. He did a double take when he saw Dan. There followed some moments of low comedy as he tried to communicate what he wanted, while the steward tried to convey something else; exactly what wasn't clear, except it didn't seem to involve Dan getting what he wanted.

“Can I help?” said someone behind him.

“May I present Captain Yu,” said his escort.

Dan shook hands with a grave, wizened little man in ironed khakis. He looked older than Jung, which Dan thought odd. He was smoking and at once offered a cigarette. Dan mustered his first try at Korean, a phrase he'd picked up from Hwang.
Aniyo, kam sa ham ni da.”
He hoped that came out somewhere in the vicinity of “No, thanks.”

The Koreans oh'd in surprise. Yu's cheeks wrinkled in what was either pleasure or an intestinal cramp. He clutched his middle as if adjusting a cummerbund. “Ah, you speak Korean. And so beautiful!”

“I've just used all I know.”

“But you speak so great. You must have study very hard.”

He had to grin. The Koreans were 180 degrees out from the French. Even a couple of words, no doubt grotesquely mispronounced, elicited delight. They also seemed to appreciate compliments, so he ladled on some honey. “It's a difficult language, but very beautiful. Perhaps I can master a few more words before I have to leave your ship. Which is very impressive. Very advanced.”

Yu touched Dan's Command at Sea pin. “You too have commanded ships. Destroyers? Which ones?”

“Destroyers—yes. USS
Horn
” He tensed, waiting for the questions that usually followed, but Yu didn't seem to recognize the name. Instead he gestured around him. “What you think? Are ship well kept?”

No doubt about it, the skipper's English wasn't in the same league as Hwang's or Jung's. His accent was so thick Dan had to process for a second or two to get the gist. “Uh—yes, very well kept. Well painted, nice brightwork. The watertight doors seal very well.” His own quick benchmark for how well the details that mattered at sea were attended to.

“And now you here from TAG. Run exercise.”

“Uh—correct.”

“Welcome to
chung Nam
. So, what you think of Ulsan class? First destroyer ships build here in South Korea. Hyundai Shipyard. Like the car.”

“A very powerful warship. You must be proud to be her captain.”

They discussed the tactical data control system, which, Dan had read in
proceedings,
had given trouble early on. Yu stubbed out his cigarette and took another from the box, which seemed to be open to all comers. The
tae wi
was there instantly with a gold-toned Zippo. The captain leaned into the flame and exhaled luxuriously. Then they both stared at him, holding their cigarettes in exactly the same manner, the European style that looked fey to an American, between thumb and forefinger.

Dan broke the pause. “So, Captain—I was trying to see if I could get a cup of coffee.”

“I don't permit my officers to have coffee.”

“I'm sorry? I don't—”

“It's not good for them.” The Korean leaned to flick ash off his butt, then took another deep drag. “Young men. Very bad healthwise. So I forbid. You understand?”

They regarded each other. A couple of possible retorts crossed Dan's mind, but he decided on diplomacy. “Well, Captain, we drink a lot of coffee in the U.S. Navy. And we plan to be up for long periods of time at night monitoring these exercises. We'll need to be alert. You understand? Any chance I could persuade you to bend your rule for us? For me, and my men?”

After a moment Yu shrugged. He said a few words to the steward, who bowed hastily several times before slamming the access shut. “He'll make some for you,” he told Dan.

“Thank you.”