Roger Crossland - Red Ice

So Ackert was making his grand play. If he could bring them my head at the right moment and under a dark cloud of failure, it would keep a senator with all the perverse ambition and wrongheadedness of a soap-opera patriarch in power , a closet Marxist in influence , and a naval careerist on the inside track .

From that point on, I pulled out all the stops on training. It did not take the men long to realize they had a traitor among them. If I kept them busy, at least I could keep their minds off that threat. Chamonix stepped into the assistant patrol leader spot. Alvarez, the Cuban who had been an alternate, I added for good measure.

Skiing, running, swimming, kayaking—we accelerated to a grueling tempo. All anyone could think of was sleep. I moved everyone out of the buildings into our low-profiled Norwegian tents. Keiko was not particularly happy about this development. She felt awkward and lonely watching us from the main building. About the only time she saw me at this stage was when, out of boredom, she strolled to the firing range, and I showed her how to fire an AK-47 and the recoilless rifle.

There are limits to what you can demand of men in a training situation, so I knew they were glad to hear about the submarine. A message brought word that it would pick us up at Chinhae in four days.

By way of graduation, Kim arranged for a three-day party for the troops—a three-day knee-walking binge, I suspected. There were a few loose ends I could only tie up in Japan, so I was permitted to break isolation and arrange for a flight to Japan for Keiko and myself. A “last good-bye” trip it could have been called, if I had allowed myself the sentimentality.

Keiko and I flew by chartered plane to Hachijo, a small island south of Honshu. With its stooped, windswept evergreens, mist-hidden ravines, and moss-covered rocks, the island was straight out of a Japanese woodcut. There we settled into the Three Sisters’ Inn, a quaint old ryokan whose subtly magnificent garden overlooked one of the few stretches of sandy beach on the island. Keiko and I had once judged it the best bodysurfing beach in Japan. Gathering our swim gear into a furoshiki bundle, we jogged down to the evenly formed waves and assaulted the breakers.

Winter bodysurfing in Japan is not for the faint of heart or the fastidious of technique. It called for compromises. A wet-suit top was a necessity against the cold, but the top prevented a surfer from achieving maximum speed or enjoying maximum mobility. The perfect ride had to be found on another beach in a different climate.

We gamboled like sea otters in the dark gray waves. I had the raw strength to lunge at a wave, then catch a short reckless ride, before tumbling out of the wave to avoid the rocks some ancient spoilsport had erected. In contrast, Keiko surfed with limber finesse. She let the waves catch her and carry her down their face. With each ride, she’d execute several directional changes before lacing between the rocks unharmed. The effort was more conscious and plodding for me—stroke, kick, bunch shoulders forward in the wave, raise my head, put my hands to my thighs, and let rip. Once in a dozen tries I might remember to tuck a shoulder in order to turn right or left. Twice I succeeded in sliding both down and sideways through the wet, translucent pipe and heard myself whooping with unrestrained joy.

The silky sheen upon Keiko’s wetsuit seemed to amplify the swell of her hips and the thrust of her chest. In athletic exhilaration, she never looked lovelier. No cream-puff beauty queen forever fearful of messing up her hair could compete in the same universe with this almond-eyed naiad.

We returned to the ryokan by alternately shivering and hopping from mossy rock to mossy rock. The dull ache of lung-seared fatigue rated scant attention as we collapsed onto the tatami mats. In the twilight, the physical theme of the day’s activity turned to a sensual preoccupation. We warmed up in the inn’s steambath and then scampered to the hot tubs, which we had reserved that morning. Our supper, though sumptuous, was eaten hurriedly as events built in rapid acceleration. Like two leaves whisked down one of the island’s streams, we, too, were drawn ever faster toward a foreseeable end.

In the flickering light of a paper lantern she slid aside the door to my room—as if for the first time—proud and erect. She wore an old camouflaged shirt of mine, softened by age, which hung open at the throat, between her generous breasts and down to her firm, flat stomach. She gave a spirited flick to her long ebony hair, and for a second flashed teeth as white as the winter moon. She lifted her arms and crossed them in front of her gravely.

“You, Frazer, come take what is yours and only yours.”

She paused.

“If this be the last time, let us make it a time for remembering in the miserable days ahead.”

And we did. And it was. I was proud that she did not cry.

The trip back to Korea was sobering and lonely. Once there, I learned we had developed a disciplinary problem. Puckins and Wickersham had given the KCIA people the slip during the “rest” period and flown to Japan for the remaining days, returning only hours before me. They refused to explain their unauthorized absence. Questions from Dravit and me only met mischievous grins and hard silence.

The breach of discipline didn’t disturb me as much as the breach of security. Clearly we had a spy and saboteur in our midst, and though I had known both Puckins and Wickersham for over a decade, no one was above suspicion.

“Captain Dravit, make sure these two are kept busy until our departure. It seems that when they get bored they get the urge to go globe-trotting. Chiefs and first-class petty officers notwithstanding, I believe a good healthy dose of weapons maintenance and barracks cleaning would be in order.”

Puckins and Wickersham’s faces fell.

“And maybe they ought to re-pine-tar all our skis. When they finish that, let them shovel a walkway from here to Seoul.”

“But, sir…” one of the culprits started.

Nine sets of weary faces and bloodshot eyes manhandled personal gear onto an old bus and ordnance onto one of the Mercedes trucks. That three-day party must have been something. Tiny Gurung would start laughing uncontrollably for no reason at all. Kruger wore a pair of pink lace skivvies over his shirt pocket like a decoration for valor. Lutjens and Alvarez walked as if they were made of glass. Even Matsuma, who had fallen into the martial way of things, grinned whimsically when he thought no one was looking. The only one untouched by the graduation festivities was Chamonix, whom I’d never seen smile.

Most of the men slept as the bus raced south through the snow-covered countryside, slowing only as it entered an occasional village. Not until we reached the long tunnel that marked the entrance to Chinhae did everyone become alert and begin to sense the full impact of what lay ahead. As we cleared the gates of the navy yard, the men speculated on where we were going and how and why. The consensus was that we were going to Red China since our equipment was primarily Chinese, and we were going by ship since our destination was Chinhae, Korea’s naval center. No one had a clue as to why we were going.

We stopped at the end of one pier at a deserted portion of the base as instructed. The truck pulled in ahead of us and we began to unload it. Between the scuba tanks and the ski gear, the truck looked like a mobile sporting-goods store.

There was no submarine in sight. Several patrol boats lay at anchor in the evening haze. There didn’t seem to be anyone around interested in doing anything.