Pete Cawdron: Feedback

Rain lashed the windows of the aging Sea King helicopter. The wipers on the windscreen rocked back and forth, vainly trying to clear the sea spray whipped up by the helicopter’s rotor blades. The craft flew barely thirty feet above the choppy ocean, its searchlight illuminating the darkness. White capped waves stretched into the night. The swell of the ocean rose and fell beneath the fuselage, rolling beneath the aging helicopter, making Captain John Lee feel small in the darkness.

“We’re not normally this far north,” Lee said, turning sideways and glancing at the US Navy SEAL leaning into the cockpit.

Lieutenant Andrews wore a nondescript black wetsuit with the skintight hood hanging down his back, ready to be pulled over his head to seal him off from the ocean below. A small red light on the side of his headphones added to the muted hues within the cockpit, allowing Andrews to read from a high-contrast map as he replied to Lee.

“Get us as close as you can, Captain. We’ll take it from there.”

Lee understood why the Navy SEAL was so nervous. Being South Korean, Lee could hear the radio chatter with the North Koreans in Sunwi-do, but for Andrews, hearing the harsh, clipped words in a language he didn’t understand must have been unnerving.

Lightning rippled through the storm clouds.

Co-pilot Josh Park was seated next to Lee. He set the microphone in his helmet to transmit externally and spoke in Korean, saying, “ We are Search and Rescue Foxtrot Echo Sierra Four Zero out of Incheon, responding to a Mayday call from a downed Piper Cub LAJ 357, that is Lima Alpha Juliet Three Five Seven. We are Foxtrot Echo Sierra Four Zero, conducting a grid search south of Pup’o-ri. Over .”

The North Korean response crackled through the headphones set in Lee’s helmet.

“ Foxtrot Echo Sierra Four Zero you have entered our airspace. You do not have permission to pass through the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. Change heading immediately or you will be fired upon. Over. ”

Technically, both sides of the 38th Parallel North spoke Korean. In practice, they spoke separate languages. Both Lee and Park had to concentrate carefully to distinguish the North Korean’s intent. Years of training drills had them prepared for such interactions, but even then it took considerable focus to understand what the North Koreans were saying. The possibility of miscommunication added to the tension of the moment.

Lee checked his channel, being particularly careful to ensure he was not broadcasting externally as he spoke to the Navy SEAL.

“They’re not buying it, they’re calling our bluff. It’s the usual bluster. Go home or we’ll send you home in a coffin.”

“How long before they escalate?”

“Usually, we turn around about now,” Lee replied. “But we’ve probably got a good five to ten minutes before they start targeting us. And in this weather, it will take them longer to respond. If we turn east and make like we’re starting a long, slow arc to the south we can get you and your men a little closer, but I doubt we’ll get you within less than a couple of kilometers of shore. Sorry, boys, it’s going to be a long swim.”

“Roger that,” Lieutenant Andrews replied.

American servicemen were a mixed bag, Lee thought. Lee had run into every conceivable type, from the John Waynes of the world to those with blistering intelligence. Sometimes they could be condescending to a civilian pilot like Lee, but Andrews was a good man. Lee had been on several training runs with Andrews and always found him balanced and considerate. Whether US or South Korean, Lee’s experience had been that most commanders abused their power, wielding it like a club, but not Andrews. If ever Lee went to war, he would want to serve under someone like Andrews. The Lieutenant exuded competence without being cocky.

Park took his cue from Lee. Using a combination of his foot pedals and the cyclic control rising up between his legs, he eased the helicopter around to a new heading, one which took advantage of the rugged, irregular coastline hidden in the darkness, bringing them closer to land while ostensibly turning back toward South Korea.

Lee keyed his microphone to transmit externally and spoke in Korean, saying, “ This is Foxtrot Echo Sierra Four Zero to Sunwi-do. Foxtrot Echo Sierra Four Zero is complying with instructions from Sunwi-do, conducting one last sweep to the south and returning to Incheon. Over .”

Strangely, there was no reply. Lee barely registered the silence, he was focused intently on the instruments before him.

Park fought to keep the Sea King steady as they struggled through the storm. Gusts buffeted the craft. The cyclic control was a steel rod set into the floor of the cockpit, controlling the direction in which the helicopter faced. The control stick shook in his hand as the storm raged around them.

Lee double checked his instrumentation. He understood the concept of target fixation and the tendency for pilots to drift into anything they stared at for too long. Although he could see the breaking caps of the waves rushing beneath them, to focus on the ocean would be a mistake. The wave height was misleading. In the dark of night, all either pilot could rely on was their instruments. Night flights were particularly taxing, and with the weather, Lee couldn’t afford to let his concentration drift. He switched from external coms to internal.

“Bring us up to fifty meters and take us to a hundred knots,” he said to the co-pilot, looking at the radar and the fluorescent green outline that marked the shore several kilometers off in the distance. “They know we’re here. There’s no point in trying to hide anymore. Let’s hope they buy our course correction as legit.”

Lee was speaking in English as a courtesy to the Navy SEALs listening in on the cockpit chatter. English was the de facto norm for aviation, and should have been the accepted language for communication with Sunwi-do, but the North Koreans were nothing if not belligerent. International standards were of no concern to them. They preferred forcing the South Koreans to use Korean over the airwaves.

The churning ocean may as well have been featureless. The flashing strobe lights on the chopper reflected off the waves, breaking through the night briefly every few seconds. Their searchlight lit up a patch of sea out in front of the helicopter, but the light was for show. They weren’t looking for anyone.

Although the Sea King was carrying eight US Navy SEALs, this flight would be logged as a search and rescue mission, with the manifest noting only four South Koreans onboard: Lee, Park, the loadmaster and a rescue swimmer.

Lee knew well enough not to ask about the purpose of the American military operation. The South Korean Coast Guard had been used for several other unofficial missions in the past few years. Their regular patrols and the occasional rescue of fishermen aboard a swamped trawler or the need to ferry medicines to merchant ships gave them a veneer of credibility with the North Koreans. The Coast Guard was a known entity, nothing out of the usual even at the most unusual of times, but somehow the North Koreans smelled a rat on this cold, dark night.

The Sea King helicopter had a pronounced radar profile, but that didn’t seem to bother the Americans. They could have used one of their stealth helicopters, but even within the restricted zone inside their military base, keeping a top secret helicopter under wraps was no easy feat. It might have been invisible in the dark of night, but on the ground such a helicopter attracted too much attention. There were too many curious civilians and service personnel. The potential for compromising a mission was too great, and the US military had long known the simple options were often the best. Paranoia was rampant within the North Korean military. All it took was a few loose words in a bar or a leak to a reporter and tensions could escalate. Piggybacking off the coast guard was a natural fit. There was nothing out of the ordinary about their daily ops.