Thunder in the Morning Calm (31 page)

Admiral Rhee picked up the container and examined it. Like most senior military officers in the DPRK, Rhee could understand enough English to comprehend what he was reading.

Three large letters, “MRE,” were printed across the top of the sealed bag.

Just under the letters was a sketch of two men sitting with propped-up guns. And to the right of the sketch were the words “Menu #19 Beef Roast with Vegetables.” Below that, the words “US Government Property” were followed by “Ameriqual Packaging, Evansville, IN.”

Rhee slammed the MRE down on his desk. “So it
was
the Americans!”

“Yes, Admiral,” Captain Choo said. “Because we found three of these packages, it had to be the Americans. There is no other explanation as to why these were found floating in the water. And this finding, sir, corroborates the theory that SEAL-team commandos blew up the ship. It weakens the submarine-torpedo theory. Submarines have regular food on board. They do not use MREs. They would not eject sealed MREs into the water.”

“Yes, I am beginning to give some credibility to that theory,” the admiral said. He turned and walked back over to the portraits. He crossed his arms across his chest and tipped his head to one side as he looked up at the portrait of Dear Leader. He tapped his chin with his fist. “Assuming that we are right and this crime is the work of Navy SEALs, then we must ask this question: Is this a one-time hit against our ship? Perhaps in retaliation for our attack on their carrier? This I would guess to be the case.”

He did an about-face, pivoting back to face Captain Choo.

“If it is a one-time hit, then we have to assume that the SEALs headed out to sea, presumably to rendezvous with a Los Angeles – class submarine.” He picked up the glass of soju and took another swig. “But
if not … what if they are not finished? That is a question we must examine. Would you not agree, Captain?”

“Yes, that is a good question, Admiral.” The captain nodded, as if in relieved agreement that the admiral was seeking his advice rather than preparing to order punishment.

“What if,” Rhee continued, “they were on a reconnaissance mission to infiltrate our beaches, but the
Najin
got in their way?”

“A good question, Admiral.” Captain Choo nodded again.

“Or what if … what if their mission was twofold? First, to sink the
Najin
, to make it appear that a sub had done it, and then to infiltrate our coastline?”

“An even better question, Admiral,” the captain said, becoming more enthusiastic as he realized the admiral was no longer focused on him. “We must consider this possibility, sir.”

“They had hoped to secretly attach explosives to the hull of the
Najin
and not be seen, thus making us think a torpedo did it. But” — Rhee held up his index finger — “but things did not go as they planned. They were spotted by the crew of the
Najin
. A firefight broke out, and during the firefight, they dropped evidence in the water, which we have recovered, and now we know they were there.”

“Yes, and may I add one other observation, Admiral?” the captain said.

Rhee finished off the soju and poured another glass. “Yes, go ahead, Captain. What is it?”

“It would seem to me, sir, that a SEAL team going in for a quick hit-and-run mission would not bring a supply of food. As I said, sir, we discovered three of these floating on the surface, and we assume they have more in their boat. To me, sir, this says they are on a longer mission.”

Rhee took another sip. He was beginning to feel the warming effect of the soju. The captain was beginning to make sense. “This means, Captain, that somewhere along a … say fifty-mile stretch of coastline, is an American Navy SEAL team, a team of professional killers with the expertise to sink a mighty warship and the marksmanship skills that pose a threat to anyone in the DPRK, including Dear Leader. They are either preparing to hit our beaches or already have hit the beach.”

“Yes, I think that is a reasonable assumption, Admiral.” The captain nodded.

“We must be ready,” Admiral Rhee said. “Post Marine units on the coast at one-mile intervals along a stretch of beach starting at” — he walked over to the wall beside the inside door to his office — “Tanch’on, north of the attack on our ship, and southwest along the coast all the way to Hongwon . That is a stretch of about sixty miles. If the SEALs attempt to come ashore, we will give them a royal dose of hospitality, courtesy of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.”

“Yes, my admiral. And if I may add, sir, this is an example of brilliant leadership under fire, sir. This is another example of why Dear Leader appointed you over your rival admirals to command the East Sea Fleet. Your superior leadership, sir, will soon lead to your ascension to command over the entire Navy!”

“Perhaps,” Rhee said, knowing the captain’s comments were mostly about protecting his own future. The captain hoped to become the senior aide to the general admiral of the Navy and to become a fleet commander himself. “But you’re wasting time, Captain. Get those Marines posted. Now.”

“Yes, Admiral. Right away, sir!”

“Also, get as many boats into the area as possible. Continue search activities in the East Sea throughout the night. There may be other survivors. Resume search by air first thing in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Also notify Army Command. I don’t need General Sokcho up in a wad and complaining to Dear Leader that the Navy is overstepping the Army’s boundaries by posting Marine guards along the coast without consulting him. In fact, tell him that we would request and welcome the assistance of some of his National Guard units, despite their incompetence, along the coast at points north of Tanch’on and south of Hongwon . That will make them feel like they are part of the operation and give them something to do but will keep his bumbling tin-horn soldiers out of the way of our Marines, guarding sections of the beach that this SEAL team is not likely to land on.”

“Understood, sir.”

“That will be all, Captain.”

“Aye, sir.”

The aide turned and left Rhee’s office.

Rhee looked at the red telephone on his desk — the secure telephone
to Pyongyang. He grabbed the bottle of soju, sat down in the swivel chair behind his desk, and commenced a bottoms-up maneuver. He would need every drop of soju to calm his nerves for what he was about to do.

To break the news to Dear Leader that the Navy’s pride-and-joy flagship had been sunk by American Navy commandos? Or even to tell the general admiral? To admit that he had failed?

His last act had been to give orders. And indeed, he knew these were good orders that would be carried out. These were the correct orders under these circumstances of colossal failure.

But hope? Where was hope? His destiny, always, had been to become general admiral of the Navy.

And now? With the flagship of the East Sea Fleet sunk on his watch? With 180 sailors and officers drowned in an instant?

Often he had wondered why Communism had officially banned Christianity all those years ago. Was Marx right? Was Christianity really the opiate of the people? At least those fanatical Christians had something to hope for, even if their hope was in a man who had been crucified so long ago … a man they claimed rose from the dead. How could that be?

He finished the soju.

Was it so wrong to give someone a bit of hope? No. Not wrong. Especially if that hope could somehow deaden the pain.

Soju deadened pain. But not enough. Soju was temporary. It could not alter reality.

The admiral opened the center drawer of his desk. His pistol was loaded and ready to end his pain. If only …

He thought again of what the Christians said. Would Christianity have given him hope? Could it now give him hope? Were the Communists liars? Would he ever know the truth?

He closed the drawer and sat there, his head down. He leaned forward, staring down at his desktop.

No hope.

His career was finished.

Indeed,
he
was finished.

No reason to live.

He opened the center drawer and pulled out his pistol.

He cocked it, put the barrel in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

East coast of North Korea
along the road between Iwon and Sinch’ang

T
he snow had started falling a little while ago and was getting progressively heavier as the three-man invasion force moved parallel to the road, along the edge of the treeline. They had been on the move for the better part of an hour. According to their GPS handheld, they had covered five miles and were less than five miles from the town of Sinch’ang, their first destination point. They were headed toward Hamhung, which was in the general area where the prison camps were rumored to be located.

The distance between the edge of the treeline and the side of the winding, two-lane coastal road had narrowed. The men were moving through snow accumulation on the side of a ravine next to the treeline, perhaps twenty feet from the road’s edge.

The temperature hovered just below freezing. The wind had died down, which helped them stay surprisingly warm in their thermal winter gear.

Based on what he had seen so far, Gunner had come to one of two conclusions. One, either they had landed in a desolate and isolated section of the North Korean coastline, or two, North Koreans do not drive much at night. Since the close call with the two North Korean National Guardsmen back on the beach, not a single vehicle had passed them.

He then came to another conclusion — nature called, and it called with a vengeance.

“Hey, Jackrabbit,” Gunner said, still walking in line between Jackrabbit and Jung-Hoon.

“What, Commander?”

“I need to make a head call, man.”

“A head call?” That announcement brought the moving line to a halt. “You Navy guys. Hmmph.” Jackrabbit stopped and turned around. “Only the Navy and the Marine Corps would call a latrine a head. Okay, make it quick.”

“Got it,” Gunner said. He stepped into the woods and then …

Headlights!

Twin light beams shot out from around a corner.

“Hit the deck!” Jackrabbit said.

Gunner dove facedown in the snow.

Vroooooooooooooooom …
They heard the roar of a truck and the crunching and whining of gear shifts as the vehicle shifted down to keep moving on a steep section of road. The truck was coming right at them from the direction of Sinch’ang, the town they were headed toward.

Just inside the treeline, Gunner kept his head down. He wanted to grab his M-16. It had fallen in the snow a couple of feet away. But he resisted the temptation to avoid any movement that might be spotted from the truck.

As the truck rounded a bend in the road, its headlights flashed all around and over the men, hidden behind tree trunks and old snow drifts.

The roar of the truck engine and the crunching rumble of tires on pavement grew louder and louder. There was more than one truck. A troop transport! Only twenty feet away!

“North Korean military,” Jung-Hoon said. “Stay down!”

A small convoy of four vehicles crept up the coast, toward the northeast. Just as the convoy had passed Gunner’s position, brake lights flashed in the night. The last truck rolled to a stop in the road.

“Shhhhhhhhhhhh!”

Doors slammed. The sound of voices. Gunner brought his NVDs to his eyes. Three soldiers with rifles slung over their shoulders were standing outside one of the the covered troop transport trucks. One was waving his hands and pointing, as if he was giving directions. The other two fired up cigarettes, the orange glow of burning tobacco casting a dim light on their faces as they sucked in.

“I heard something about a checkpoint on the ocean,” Jung-Hoon whispered.

“Maybe they’re looking for something in the water,” Gunner whispered back.

“Or for somebody,” Jackrabbit said. “Gotta keep moving. Stay low. Stay inside this treeline until we round the next bend. Let’s move.”

Corbin Hall
Suffolk, Virginia

T
he morning sun blazed in a clear blue Virginia sky. Wearing comfortable old blue jeans and the red sweater Gunner gave her last
Christmas Eve, Margaret McCormick walked out onto her front porch, highly sweetened coffee in hand, and gazed across the large lawn of brown grass, beyond the long drive that led to the brick-pillared gates on Pendleton Road.

She hoped that the warm sunshine on a cool morning would calm her raging nerves. Her hands shook as she gripped her steaming cup of coffee.

Her stomach, churning like a tornado, had whirled all night. At six, she had called Gorman. He already had heard. As a good son would, he had tried reassuring her. “Don’t panic, Mother. Gunner’s probably fine. He doesn’t work on the flight deck of the carrier and would have no reason to be down there where the missile hit.”

Still, nothing had calmed her — not Gorman’s reassurances, not the morning sunshine, not even the cozy feel of the sweater that Gunner had given her last Christmas.

She turned around and walked back inside the grand entrance of Corbin Hall.

The cinnamon smell of warm apple cider, a Friday-after-Thanksgiving tradition for the grandchildren, permeated the downstairs and seeped up the curved staircase of the house.

Margaret walked into the kitchen and poured herself half a cup of cider. The warm cider soothed her throat, and the sweet apple flavor gave her the sensation of an energy burst.

The doorbell rang.

She checked her watch. For the first time in hours, she felt a smile creep across her face. What a tonic for a bad day. Her grandchildren could make her smile no matter what.

She walked back out of the kitchen, cider in hand, and opened the front door.

“Granny!”

“Grandma!”

From both sides, they wrapped their arms tightly around her waist. “Okay, okay,” she said. “Grandma has to breathe.”

“Let’s decorate the tree!” Jill said.

“No! I want apple cider and cookies!” Tyler tugged on her dress.

“Okay! Cider’s in the kitchen,” Margaret said. “I’ve got a batch of chocolate-chip cookies too. Go help yourselves. Grandma needs to talk to Mama and Daddy.”