The Threat (41 page)

Compressed air, he reminded himself. So they were still pressurized. He looked at his Seiko again. Still building up bottom time, taking on nitrogen, though he was out of the water. Seven minutes gone; eight remained.

The Koreans glanced at him as they worked. Four occupied the space, three hose divers and the stocky guy who'd come down with him on tanks. The chubby diver belted out aggressive-sounding Korean, gesturing at Dan. They reached through piping to shake hands, grinning and nodding. “Welcome,” one said, “Thank you,” said another. He waved and smiled, feeling he was intruding.

He stepped on something soft, and instinctively lifted his bootied foot. An oil-smeared, startled, wide-cheekboned face appeared. Its features were strangely delicate. It looked up at the curved ribs of the inner hull. The left side of its skull was missing. Brain was visible, but no blood. Dan stared. Then made out a shoe nearby. It was oil-stained dark, but bore a familiar boomerang-shaped logo.

“Nikes.”

“
Muarago?
What did you say?”

“I didn't know they had Nikes in North Korea.”

He followed a flaccid leg to another corpse wedged facedown behind a motor-generator. The barrel of an AK-type rifle poked out. He couldn't tell what had killed this second man. He had on a red windbreaker with a red-and-white patch. The Marlboro logo.

“Three dead,” the pudgy diver said at his elbow.

“I only see two.”

“Another there.” He pointed into the shadows forward.

“Who are they?”

“North Korea, like commando. Like SEAL.”

“Who shot them?”

“They shoot each other. Do not give up.”

“Huh.”

“
Yichoyero!
You come, see this,” called one of the others. “See what we find.”

He gave the bodies a last glance, and followed the beams of their lights.

A few feet aft the diver slapped what Dan recognized as a fairly unsophisticated-looking periscope stand, then pulled him to a little fold-down wooden table. Either a captain's station or a navigator's chart table. Dan blinked at it: cheap plywood, complete with knot holes. Everything in the space looked crude, hastily finished and covered, where it was shielded at all, with flimsy metal banged together with machine screws. He bent closer as a paper caught his eye. Someone had unfolded it carefully, so as not to tear the sodden, oilstained fibers.

It was a chart. Shivering as the cold crept deeper, he stripped off a glove and traced a coastline by the beam of a flash. Curving away, small islands … a larger island offshore. The Hangul characters conveyed nothing, but he gradually made it the Straits of Korea, if the long island was Tsushima.

He dug in with the spot of light till the lens touched the cheap shoddy paper. Was that a pencil-trace? A dead reckoning line, an advanced course? He let the chart sag where it lay. Fished in what looked like a wire wine-rack and came out with another. This was in English.
Approaches to Pusan
, it read. Next came a small book that hefted astonishingly massive. When he opened the lead covers, each soaking page was filled with tiny handwritten characters.

An exclamation from the far end of the compartment brought him back to where he was. He squinted at his watch. Twelve minutes gone, out of fifteen. He had to get out. It'd take a few minutes to get back to the bow, no, the stern—anyway back to the ascent line.

A louder gabble from the divers. He glanced their way, then back toward the black toothless maw of the chamber. A hatch at the top, another at the bottom. The inner hatch opened upward, the lower, downward. Obviously to lock out divers while still submerged.

Since it left no room for torpedo stowage, this must be the infiltration version of the sub. But what were they doing here? Trying to tap submerged cables? The U.S. Navy had pioneered it, but that didn't mean nobody else could try.

And they were almost to the DMZ. Why charts for Pusan, the southernmost port on the Eastern Sea? And why was the crew wearing clothes that must have been purchased in South Korea?

Maybe the logbook held an answer. He unzipped the top of his suit and tucked it inside, against his chest, figuring he'd turn it over to Dr. Kim when they surfaced.

The unmistakable clack of a pistol slide slamming forward snapped his attention up. He wriggled toward the others. As he reached them, his pudgy friend held up a hand. His mouth hung open. They were as far aft in the compartment as they could get. His ear was pressed to the steel bulkhead beside a heavy watertight door.

“What is it?” Dan murmured.

The diver made walking legs with his fingers. Jerked his head at the bulkhead. At the closed door.

He sucked an astonished breath. Someone still alive? A flooded forward compartment this big would take them to the bottom. But if they'd sealed off the boat in time, they could still have a bubble in there. It was just barely possible.

Only … weren't they supposed to commit suicide?

One of the divers lifted a pistol. It gleamed darkly with grease. They'd come armed. Apparently not as paranoid a precaution as one might think. But now what?

He looked at his watch again and felt fear crawl over his skin like ticks. He was into decompression time. But he wasn't sure he had enough air in his tank to get through it.

His pudgy friend slammed a wrench on the bulkhead.
“Kechokye itneonjadeol. Tohanghameon sal su yitda!”

The only answer was silence. His guy, who apparently had rank, pointed to the dogging wheel. Two divers seized it, one on either side. They braced themselves and threw it over.

“Shit,” Dan muttered. He scrambled to where the corpses lay and fumbled the AK out from under a thin arm. Oily water pissed out of the action, draining from the barrel as he pointed it down and jerked the bolt back. A cartridge flipped out and pinged away. He let go and the bolt slammed closed. But he couldn't remember which way the safety lever worked and it was too dark too see any markings.

“Yeolligoit seom ni da,”
Pudgy shouted. He aimed at the door. The others were straining at the wheel, faces going dark with blood. The dogs crept back from their locking lugs, screeching faintly, as if under terrific strain.

He realized with horror that the reason might be a pressure differential. “Goddamn it, you're going to bend us,” he shouted. “Or flood us, if that's water on the other side.”

They didn't even turn their heads.

The door slammed open with a bang like a bank vault being dynamited. His ears popped violently.

An object flew in through the opening, trailing smoke. Before his stunned mind had time even to register what it was, Pudgy scooped the grenade up and threw it back in. It exploded almost as it left his hand. The blast was deafening in the steel-walled tunnel. Fragments clanged into equipment cabinets. Explosive fumes filled the air, then thinned, pushed by the steadily inrushing compressed air toward where the air bubbled out through the open lock.

Leaning into the hatchway, Pudgy emptied the pistol through it, firing rapidly as he could, then dove in after the bullets.

A rapid, roaring clatter from the far side of the bulkhead. He had a bad feeling his stocky friend was history. The others cursed frantically. One pulled a dive knife from a thigh sheath. The other spun around and jerked the AK out of Dan's hands.

A wiry, black-haired, lithe little figure in black shorts flew through the door headfirst, as if bounced off a trampoline on the far side. It hit the deck and rolled, agile as a gymnast, and came up holding a commando-type knife that it instantly backhanded across one of the divers' face. The South Korean staggered back, shouting and pawing at his eyes. The enemy crewmember whipped the blade back to guard and faced Dan, not four feet distant. His instinctive hesitation at what he saw was almost fatal. Held at arm's length and lunged with incredible quickness, the blade drove in straight as an arrow and slammed into his chest.

The North Korean gaped, taken aback, as the point slid off, gouging black rubber with a tearing sound. Deflected by the soft lead cover of the logbook tucked against Dan's chest under the wet-suit top.

Dark eyes dropped to the AK's muzzle just as the other diver pulled the trigger.

The rifle blasted twice, then stopped, either jammed or out of ammunition. Both bullets struck the North Korean in the chest. The knife went flying. The small face contracted in pain and shock. An arm clutched small nude breasts, welling now with dark blood. She gasped, struggled to speak; then crumpled.

The diver worked the bolt frantically, watching the open hole of the door. He aimed the rifle at it and pulled the trigger again, but got only a dry click. No light on the other side. But when Dan aimed a flashlight in, something fluid gleamed back.

The water licked at the lip of the hatch like a black cat testing a treat. Then edged forward, elongated, and began pouring in. They must have cracked a valve, yielded their one unflooded compartment to the sea, when they realized someone was aboard who shouldn't be, on the far side, in the control compartment.

He couldn't fault them for guts. Or was it something darker, not heroism, but the unconscious reactions of automatons? He started to shake with the aftermath of terror. The wounded diver moaned, holding his gory face in one piece with the pressure of both hands. His buddy threw the rifle aside and grabbed him by the shoulders, asking something in a concerned tone.

That was when the last North Korean slid through.

She was larger than the others, more muscular than wiry. Short hair, matted with oil and sweat. Pistol in one hand, knife in the other. Smooth thick arms. Panting, with a craving for death lighting black eyes. She squinted past the flashlights. They must have dazzled her after the utter dark. Maybe that was why she didn't see Dan, standing to the side of the access. Why she focused on the South Korean bending over his wounded buddy.

Barking something hoarse, she brought the pistol around.

Dan tripped the buckle on his weight belt. The heavy nylon strap studded with cast lead slid off his hips, and he continued and altered the motion and whipped it around into the side of her head. Lead impacted bone like a sledgehammer hitting a hollow log. She went down at once. The gun hit the deck with a clattering splash. The others were on her in a moment, kneeing, shouting, kicking, punching, until he screamed at them over and over again to stop.

*   *   *

He hung on the line, only checking his watch when he couldn't help it. Decomp time passed so slowly. Shudders writhed through him. His suit leaked cold water through the rip in his chest. He yearned up at the surface. Only fifteen feet away now, a silvery rolling through which now and then shot a hot golden vein of sun. He'd spent an hour hanging on the line. Two safety divers hovered near. They'd brought down the extra air he needed.

They'd found eleven more bodies in the after compartment, all shot in the head at close range.

He twisted to look behind him. The last one alive, the woman he'd knocked out. Her hands were wired behind her. The South Koreans gripped her by the arms. They'd bundled her into the suit Dan's buddy, the dead diver, didn't need anymore, and wired her ankles and wrists together. She'd regained consciousness dangling on the ascent line. Struggled, glaring at them through the helmet port, before accepting captivity. Now she sagged in the water, slowly turning in the tidal current.

What had the Sang-O been doing? Why were they carrying charts for the Strait? Why had they surfaced? According to Dr. Kim, they'd been almost to the DMZ and safety when it had broached.

Lots of questions. Maybe she'd have some answers. Which was part, at least, of why he'd stopped them from killing her.

He checked his watch one last time. Gave it a few more seconds, just to be sure. Then valved air into his vest.

Shivering, gripping his captive's arm spasmodically, he lofted toward the shivering light. Contemplating what had startled him so much, there in the sunken pressure hull, that he'd almost lost his life. He'd only belatedly recognized it, so strange it seemed to a Western eye.

Every one of the submarine's crew had been a woman.

St. Martin's Paperbacks Titles by
DAVID POYER

THE THREAT

THE COMMAND

BLACK STORM

CHINA SEA

TOMAHAWK

THE PASSAGE

THE CIRCLE

THE GULF

THE MED

Electrifying Praise for the Novels of
DAVID POYER

THE THREAT

“Plenty of action, plot twists … frenetically paced … [an] engaging pot boiler.”

—The Virginian-Pilot

“Poyer remains the most thoughtful of the military-thriller set and a master of authentic detail.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“Poyer's forte is storytelling, and
The Threat
delivers a masterful tale that leaves the reader dazzled.”

—
Steve Berry,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Third Secret, The Templar Legacy
, and
The Romanov Prophecy

“[Fans] of
The West Wing
 … and political novels will enjoy the author's revealing portrayal of the backroom goings-on at the White House.… Recommended especially for fans of Robert Ludlum's political thrillers (although Poyer is a superior writer).”

—Booklist

“Terrific suspense … perfect authenticity … powerful storytelling and compelling characters … David Poyer is our finest military novelist and
The Threat
is simply superb.”

—Ralph Peters, author of
New Glory
and
Never Quit the Fight

THE COMMAND

“[An] explosive climax … the reader takes a well-informed cruise on a U.S. destroyer. Poyer knows the ship intimately. Vivid descriptions cover everything from knee knockers to combat information center, radar to computers, wardroom to enlisted quarters. Battle scenes in particular come alive with authenticity … and all that, and more, is in this latest chapter of Commander Daniel Lenson's contentious career.”