Roger Crossland - Red Ice

At about 2000, two patrol boats rumbled to life and came alongside the pier. A crewman dogtrotted over to us. “You come,” he said. “Now?”

Puckins had the men transfer the gear with painstaking care to the two boats. I noted that the boxed ordnance seemed excessive. The Korean crews looked bored, as if this sort of smuggler’s transfer was becoming wearisome. If that’s what they thought, they kept it to themselves.

“Did we order all this ordnance?”

“I did,” Dravit said, inviting no further discussion. No use questioning the inventory. After all, he was the professional ordnance salesman.

Since their punishment detail, Puckins and Wickersham had become very formal and ill at ease. I couldn’t tell if I had been too hard on them or if they were up to something. The transfer was too hectic to watch them carefully.

The patrol boats took in their lines and soon we were cutting through the wintry chop and dodging the tiny islands that freckled the harbor.

“There it is,” Dravit called out. I moved to the lee rail of the boat for a better look.

The submarine lay dead in the water, dull black and menacing. Its bold, sleek lines seemed poised for attack. Forward of the conning tower, a single five-inch gun thrust ahead determinedly. Emblazoned on the conning tower was a large red star and identification numerals—in Chinese characters, not the way they would do it, but confusing nonetheless. According to these markings, this was a Chinese “Romeo” class patrol submarine. Yet the hull configuration and superstructure were all wrong for a Chicom boat. Furthermore, few modern subs carried deck guns and seldom so large. There was something faintly familiar about this sub and it disturbed me. A lone silhouette in a bridge coat descended from the cigarette deck to meet us.

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Frazer. You like our artwork?” he said, pointing to the markings. “They were applied especially for your cruise.

“Would you and your men kindly follow me below? A working party will stow your equipment for you. I expect you will want to leave one man to supervise the transfer?” the round-faced Korean officer said in matter-of-fact tones.

“Gurung, keep an eye on the unloading of the gear,” Dravit, behind me, ordered.

That sense of familiarity grew stronger and began to haunt me. I checked the frame markings. All markings were in Korean characters. The odor of kimchee-fermented cabbage pervaded the boat. Many of the fittings weren’t U.S. made, but by now I was convinced this was a U.S. submarine.

When we arrived at the control room, the round-faced officer turned and introduced himself as Commander Cho, Korean navy, the sub’s skipper. He seemed indifferent to our arrival. I supposed that we were just one of the many small military and paramilitary units he deposited yearly on hostile doorsteps. I had been aware that Korea had a submarine of some sort since my days as an adviser.

“Excuse me, Captain, but what ship is this?”

He looked at me sidelong. “This is the Korean navy submarine Taegu . You may remember it—though you seem far too young—as the USS Wahoo .”

“Damned,” Wickersham exclaimed half-consciously. No wonder she had seemed familiar. I had toured her sister ship, the USS Croaker , which was a World War II relic. But hadn’t the Wahoo disappeared years ago?

As if reading my mind, Cho added, “She sank with all hands in forty-three while in the Sea of Japan. The Japanese began salvage work a year later but had to stop at the time of the surrender.

“We took over the project in fifty-five, raising and concealing her in a remote submarine pen not far from here, she’s been used for intelligence work against North Korea ever since. Your government knows about her, but has never filed a formal protest.”

He was all business.

“My former government.”

He turned to look at me, then had his executive officer show us the troop compartment. Dravit and I shared a stateroom.

The boat began to vibrate faintly—we were under way. Hell-bent for Siberia in a flat black museum piece.

Sometimes little things should tip you off. First, I should have sensed when Wickersham and Puckins deposited two seabags with such tender loving care in my stateroom that something was afoot. Second, I should have become suspicious when those two asked Dravit to take a look at some mysterious problem in the armory. I should have sensed skullduggery on their part of unmitigated proportions. But I didn’t. Instead, I gave my full attention to charts of the Siberian coastline and English translations of the long-term weather forecasts. Then I went to the head.

When I returned, lying in my rack—nonchalantly reading a book, oblivious to the fact that we were gliding at periscope depth through the Sea of Japan aboard a vulnerable old commerce raider, crewed by eighty hard-nosed Korean seamen and carrying nine desperate naval commandos—reclined Keiko in a faded set of bell-bottoms and a dark blue turtleneck sweater. Damnation .

“Dravit!” I bellowed out the stateroom door.

“Yes?”

“Get Chief Puckins and Wickersham in here ASAP.”

Keiko looked up at me uncertainly. “Not their fault. They only suggested this stowaway after you left Hachijo. It was my fault for taking them up on it. They said it would be good for ‘skipper’s morale.’”

She rolled over to face the bulkhead.

Dravit, Puckins, and Wickersham came barging through the door. Dravit was smiling but quickly dropped the smile when he saw the wild look of fury in my eye.

“You two”—my index finger shook uncontrollably—“are hereby appointed head cleaners on this boat until further notice. If in the future you have any plans to buoy the spirits of ‘your skipper,’ or anyone else, you can take those plans and stick them…”

Dravit seized the seconds it took to fish for an appropriate receptacle to hustle the culprits out of the stateroom and added some choice advice of his own.

I went aft to the control room to tell the captain of his stowaway. The captain’s reaction, clearly, though not overtly, indicated he was of the opinion he had embarked ten rank amateurs.

The humor of the prank escaped me. My full concentration had to be on my men and the mission. There would be no second chances, no coming back to pick up forgotten items. Keiko would be a distraction—albeit a pleasant one—but a distraction, nonetheless. A malfunctioning radio or a shortage of food, it didn’t matter. I was responsible.

The submarine rushed headlong through the brooding waters of the Sea of Japan. After the prank, Dravit had limped out of the stateroom and berthed in the troop compartment. He had said, with ponderous sarcasm, that he could not abide officers who encouraged stowaways.

Chamonix and I worked on organizing the field packs so that they were both light and complete. We would darken the troop compartment and the group would rehearse assembling the folding kayaks and breaking down the weapons. We fitted the green Chinese uniforms and made what few alterations were required of the white camouflage overblouses and overtrousers.

I hoped to get fairly close to the Siberian coast in order to lock the raiding party out of the submarine. A lockout was a procedure in which divers exited a submerged submarine. It was a ticklish maneuver that required a rehearsal of both the frogmen and the submarine’s crew. Underwater, the submarine’s propellers generated a furious suction. Any error could suck a drifting frogman into the whirling propeller and certain death. The sub’s captain had agreed to a rehearsal and scheduled it for the next day.

The rehearsal centered around the submarine’s forward escape trunk, a compartment about the size of two telephone booths. At the top of the trunk lay a hatch that led to the outer deck of the submarine. At the bottom of the compartment was another hatch, which opened into the sub’s working spaces. When the trunk was completely flooded, a small lip around the outer edge of the top hatch trapped a donut of air several inches in depth. In an emergency, a diver could just barely thrust his head into the donut-shaped bubble for breathable air.