Rogue Warrior: Dictator's Ransom Part 23

"Contact General Sun, immediately," I told the lieutenant. "Tell him d.i.c.k Marcinko needs to speak to him immediately."

The man said something in Korean. I couldn't understand the exact words, but the expression on his face made his meaning clear enough: who the h.e.l.l are you?

"I'm on a mission for General Sun. I have to speak to the Great Leader. Immediately."

My tone and conviction convinced the man either that I was very important, or very insane. In any event, he decided to do what any C2 officer would do-he began pus.h.i.+ng through the crowd to find a higher authority to tell him what to do.

"Here, put me on," I told the seaman sitting in front of the set, taking his microphone.

The other man-clearly an NCO-started to object, but I silenced him with a stare.

"This is d.i.c.k Marcinko. I'm reporting to-" I stopped and looked down at the radio operator. "Is this d.a.m.n thing on? Working? Does it work?"

The man blinked.

"I have to get a message to General Sun," I said, pressing down on the mike's transmit b.u.t.ton. "I've located the Great Leader's son aboard a Russian freighter four or five kilometers from here. You might want to check it out. I'd watch the people who have him very carefully. I wouldn't trust them to keep their end of the bargain."

I repeated the message several times, switching through the standard Korean fleet frequencies to the international emergency band to make sure our guys would pick it up. Knowing that the longer the transmission lasted, the better chance the Greenville would have to home in on it, I expanded my bit as I went, saying that Trace and I were looking forward to a good breakfast with our North Korean hosts. I'd have thrown in a traffic report if the s.h.i.+p's captain hadn't arrived. With a red-faced shout he ordered the radio turned down and had me taken to his quarters.

The captain didn't speak English, so he didn't know what I said. He clearly thought it wasn't going to boost his career, however, and he went red in the face screaming at me. He was a runt of a man, barely five-two, with arms skinnier than lollipop sticks.

"If I'm causing any trouble, I'll be glad to go," I told him, starting for the door to his cabin.

This provoked even more angry words from him; he began hyperventilating so badly I feared for his health.

I cracked open the door. Trace, and about ten of our escorts, were waiting in the pa.s.sageway.

"He says we should go," I told her.

We got back out to the main deck before two sailors with AK47s stopped us, standing before us with their rifles in firing position. Our entourage was joined by other seamen; there were enough of us in one place for the patrol craft to list decidedly to starboard. The captain pushed his way through the throng and stared at me for a few seconds, not entirely sure what to do. We now had six other patrol craft of varying sizes and descriptions floating around us. Most of their complements were on deck, some with binoculars, trying to see what was going on. I was the most exciting thing that had happened to the North Korean navy since six sailors had tried to defect to South Korea by stealing a minisub a few years before.

All this excitement brought over the pride of the North Korean fleet, corvette no. 531, rusting-excuse me, I mean rus.h.i.+ng-to see what was going on. The s.h.i.+p was armed with two 100mm guns-round 'em up and call 'em four-inchers-and some 30mm antiaircraft weapons, but her main armament were Styx antis.h.i.+p missiles. The weapons were probably more dangerous to 531 than to a potential enemy; the launchers were situated so that the missiles would fire directly over the crowded s.h.i.+p, and one mishap with the finicky missile system would surely sink it. But that's not the sort of thing the Great Leader worries about when he orders his s.h.i.+ps equipped with the latest, or almost the latest, toys.

The 531 sent over a launch and a lieutenant who spoke Korean-style pigeon English.

"You come now," he told me after he boarded the patrol boat. "You come to s.h.i.+p."

"How well do you speak English?" I asked.

"You come now."

"I got that part-how well do you speak English?"

"You come now."

"Is that supposed to be a s.e.xual innuendo?" Trace asked.

The lieutenant turned toward her and with a solemn expression said, "You come now."

The members of the security detail that had accompanied him had an even more limited vocabulary, but it was much more eloquent-they showed off their Type 79 submachine guns, clicking the select fire b.u.t.tons from single round to auto and then pointing them in our direction.

Ugly-looking guns, especially when viewed from the business side of the barrel.

[ III ].

BY THIS TIME, the Greenville had found the cabin cruiser and was about to head back south. They were still on the surface when I began making my transmission.

Unfortunately, the rest of the navy was listening as well, and apparently sent word of what was going on to the State Department, either to Fogglebottom or some other functionary whose head was positioned where his digestive track should be. A few minutes later, the Greenville's captain received a message telling him that under no circ.u.mstances was he to initiate any action that might "provoke or tend to provoke an international incident." The Russian s.h.i.+p was not to be molested in Korean waters. Further orders would be pending.

The skipper immediately ordered the vessel below. As a matter of courtesy, he then went and told Doc what was going on.

Doc's response was anything but courteous. When he calmed down-even Doc realized it wasn't the captain's fault-he asked that he be given an inflatable, claiming he had more than enough people to effect a rescue.

There was no way that was going to happen. The captain said something to the effect that he appreciated Doc's concern and admired his loyalty, but orders were orders. He then turned to the rest of my guys, none of whom had said a word, and declared very loudly that anyone caught staging a mutiny would be shot and disposed of through the torpedo tube. Shotgun raised an eyebrow, probably considering whether getting shot out a torpedo tube would be fun or not, but wisely said nothing.

CORVETTE 531 was bigger than the patrol boat, but it was also twice as crowded. Sailors were everywhere. Most of them weren't even trying to look busy, a violation of time-honored sailor etiquette that I can only blame on a severe lack of training. They also had the worst fitting uniforms I've ever seen, possibly due to the fact that they were all starving. The crew could have pa.s.sed for boat people.

"We are very pleased to be honored to invite you aboard," said the lieutenant who met us. "You will surrender your weapons and to be searched."

Trace, always a stickler for proper grammar, objected to being searched by a man who didn't understand the proper use of the verb "to be." In fact, she objected to being searched by any male-a problem, since there were only males aboard. The Korean lieutenant appeared embarra.s.sed but firm; Trace was only the latter. The compromise was a hands-off search-Trace pressed her hands against her clothes, proving that they did not conceal any weapons.

The North Koreans managed to be both polite and dictatorial at the same time. Men with stethoscopes and flashlights poked various parts of our bodies, though whether they were concerned about our health or worried that we might be carrying infectious diseases was impossible to tell. We were offered dry clothes. Trace accepted khaki trousers and a s.h.i.+rt that fit her frame reasonably well. Mine were several sizes too small, and so I opted to remain in my combat wet suit.

We were now ready for an audience. The officers' wardroom was probably the most luxurious s.p.a.ce on the s.h.i.+p, but it would have embarra.s.sed a tugboat back home. A pair of tables were pushed together and filled the room. All told, there may have been s.p.a.ce for a dozen normal men. I'd guess three dozen crammed into the s.p.a.ce, and there were more in the pa.s.sageway outside.

The bulkhead was covered with speckled green melamine board that looked like an artist's attempt to imitate the spatter of finely ground vomit. There was enough of a 3-D quality to the paint job that you almost thought it was the result of projectile vomiting after a meal gone bad. None of the awards or commendations you'd typically find in a Western s.h.i.+p were hung on it. Instead, a pair of large paintings stood facing each other port and starboard-Kim Jong Il and his father, right and left, or left and right, I forget which.

The interior s.p.a.ces of destroyers and smaller escorts are notoriously and traditionally cramped, but this set new standards. Sacks of rice sat in front of the cabinets at the back of the compartment. Boxes were piled in another corner, reaching all the way to the overhead. A series of pipes also ran overhead. These were used as a storage rack for cans, a few of which were hanging down through their netting. As far as I could tell, there were no labels on the cans; either there was an invisible sorting system in place or the cooks played surprise meal every night-though I suppose it's possible one or more of the pipes carried hot water, and the contents of the cans were being cooked.

Lunch consisted of fish and rice in an oil so smelly it cut through the stench of ammonia and sweat surrounding us. It tasted a bit like seasoned anchovies, with marinated eel gizzards mixed in-not bad, really.

The captain didn't know exactly who I was, but the fact that I had Sun's business card and could refer to the Great Leader as a client clearly impressed him. Even more interesting for him was the fact that, like most North Koreans, he had never seen an American in the flesh before. I was part guest, part prisoner, part zoo animal.

North Koreans are taught two very important things from a young age. The first is that they are members of a superior race. The second is that America is the devil. It committed all manner of heinous crimes against Koreans during the Korean War, which, incidentally, has never ended. Individual Americans are the sp.a.w.n of the devil. Given the chance, they will gladly cook your children and eat them for dinner.

But being the devil has its advantages. Every culture is fascinated with you. The officers' eyes were as wide as those of a five-year-old meeting Santa for the first time. While I'm sure two or three would have picked up a knife and stabbed me through the heart at a word from the captain, most looked as if they would gladly join the Dark Side if I said the word.

We ate silently, as is the custom in North Korea. The meal concluded with toasts of soju, a traditional Korean liquor made from rice. It tastes like a sweet and mild vodka. It's not Bombay Sapphire, but given the alternatives it's not half bad. The captain poured me a drink. Remembering my manners, I rose and bowed as I took the small gla.s.s.

"Don't I get any?" asked Trace as the captain pa.s.sed her by, spilling a small drop from his bottle into the gla.s.s of the man next to her. North Korean society is extremely male-oriented, and it probably didn't occur to the captain that Trace would even be interested in a drink. In fact, he may not even have noticed her.

"You sure you want some?" I asked.

Trace looked at my gla.s.s and decided she wasn't really thirsty after all.

There's a saying in Korea along the lines of "il bul, sam so, o ui, chil gwa"-you can't have just one, three is too little, five's the right number, seven's pus.h.i.+ng the limit. The captain went five rounds, him filling my gla.s.s, me filling his. The officers' rations got smaller each time, their gla.s.ses being filled more for form's sake than inebriation.

As we drank, the captain tried walking a line between interrogation and conversation. He looked old enough to be my father, with big age spots covering both sides of his head. While thin, he had plenty of energy. Veins popped from his neck, and he held himself the way a rooster holds himself when inspecting his hen house. The lieutenant who had welcomed us aboard acted as translator, engaging in long discussions with the captain before rendering anything into English. He seemed to be a political officer of some sort rather than a member of a specific department aboard the s.h.i.+p. His temples were gray but he was clearly one of the "younger" members of the s.h.i.+p's complement. Even the ensigns were well into their thirties.

"What happened to your s.h.i.+p?" the captain asked.

"We didn't have a s.h.i.+p."

"No s.h.i.+p?"

I shook my head. "I've been following the Russian freighter for a long time."

"You were aboard it?"

"For a while."

"How did you get there?"

"You might say we dropped in."

"You were stowaways?"

"Not precisely."

My answers confused the translator, and it was pretty clear from his reaction that neither he nor the captain believed that an American s.h.i.+p wasn't sailing nearby. But they gave up asking about that, turning instead to questions about the U.S. Navy. I told him again that it had been quite a while since I'd been in the service. I was now a private contractor, working for Kim Jong Il, not the U.S. This, too, they couldn't quite understand; the translator seemed to think we were some sort of defectors.

I tried asking some questions myself, mostly about the trawler, but the response amounted to polite shrugs. Finally, some secret signal pa.s.sed through the room and the entire company began filing out.

"Do we get a tour of the bridge?" I asked the interpreter.

The captain's face grew grave as the question was translated. On the one hand, showing the bridge to an American devil dog could be considered a treacherous betrayal of the homeland. On the other hand, I appeared to be a friend of the country's most exalted leaders.h.i.+p, a man who should be afforded every courtesy and also a very dangerous person to make unhappy. Make the wrong choice, and he could easily face the firing squad. Make the right choice-and he could face it anyway. This was North Korea.

"Maybe I should inspect your escorts instead," I said, rescuing him from his dilemma. "It's an impressive array of s.h.i.+ps around us."

This brought immediate relief to the captain's face. Trace and I were soon led to the quarterdeck, where we watched the motley patrol craft zip back and forth importantly for a half hour. We also saw the Russian freighter, now standing completely still to the east.

"Are you escorting the freighter into port?" I asked the captain.

The captain gave the translator a one-word answer; it came to me as a long-winded dissertation on the many missions a navy might have at any one time.

"I heard that speech when I signed up," I said. "What's the freighter doing?"

The translator shrugged, then shook his head.

I watched it for as long as I could. While the patrol boats were near it, it didn't look as if any were actually tied up to it. And there didn't seem to be any larger cargo s.h.i.+ps-the sort that would carry a nuclear weapon, for example-coming out to meet it.

NORTH KOREA'S WESTERN navy is headquartered at Toejo Dong, about two-thirds of the way down the coast from the border with Russia. North Korea's biggest port on the west coast, though, is Wonsan, which is closer to South Korea. Wonsan's facilities rival most in Asia, certainly in size. It also has a large collection of old s.h.i.+ps and patrol craft, the majority of which are about as seaworthy as the clunker car (i.e., Rent-A-Wreck) in your neighbor's driveway. But if you're a navy buff, calling at Wonsan would probably feel like dying and going to heaven.

If my sources are correct, Corvette 531 was home-ported at Wonsan, and at first I thought that was our destination. But in fact we were going to a much closer and smaller base, Songjin. (Called Kimch'aek on most civilian maps, it's about 220 miles south of Vladivostok.) We reached it an hour after lunch ended, the long arm of its breakwater sticking out a finger to greet us as we approached.

One thing I'll say for North Korea-they have nice beaches. They're sandy and never crowded, unless you count the obstructions designed to prevent an amphibious a.s.sault. Take away the minefields, and the beach north of Songjin would be a perfect vacation spot, even if you do have to bring your own beer cooler.

The captain went to attend to business on the bridge, leaving the translator to act as tour guide as we sailed toward the port. He claimed not to know much about the military base or the area, and rather than answering my questions about how I would get in touch with Sun and Kim, told us about local legends involving sea dragons. Without exception, these involved a gorgeous maiden manhandled-G.o.d-handled?-by a wayward sea G.o.d, who was then put in his place by a hero. The maiden was really a dragon in disguise. The hero had to decide whether to become a dragon himself, or give up the best s.e.x he had ever had. Guess what the hero chose.

The city has an ironworks as well as the military base, but Songjin or Kimch'aek's claim to fame as far as the West is concerned are the mountains nearby: they house a substantial part of North Korea's nuclear arms program.

In 2006, the North Koreans set off a test nuker forty-two miles north of Songjin. Even though the bomb was a dud-it produced an explosion the equivalent of maybe five hundred tons of TNT,28 about what a good backwoods still would produce if the pressure got too high-it wet the pants of enough diplomats and talking heads to get Kim Jong Il yelled at by the Chinese.

But I digress.

Our s.h.i.+p went straight into the harbor, tying up bowfirst at a long, wide cement pier directly below the city, a term that applies only loosely to Kimch'aek. A whaleboat was lowered to bring us ash.o.r.e. As we approached the dock, a small marching band appeared, arms and instruments swinging in precision. The moment we climbed up the wooden ladder to the pier the band began to play "Patriotic Song," the Korean national anthem. The musicians looked like they ranged from nine to twelve and had the most serious expressions as they worked their way through the number.

Trace and I were led to a spot on the pier where it met the road. A dozen girls in white dresses stepped forward and began throwing red flags around; the show looked like what you'd see if a busload of cheerleaders had been pressed into duty warning people of impending road hazards. When they finished, the band did another number designed to make us feel right at home. Since they didn't know the "Star-Spangled Banner" or even "Yankee Doodle," they played what I believe was "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," the only American song they knew.

When the music stopped, a man dressed in white stepped out from behind the band and began speaking to us in Korean. The translator nodded and smiled encouragement, but didn't bother telling us what the guy was saying.

"What the h.e.l.l is he talking about?" Trace whispered.

"Got me. Probably welcoming us to Korea and telling us how great the motherland is."

"I think he's trying to sell us insurance," said Trace. "I wish they'd get us some chairs. These c.r.a.ppy boots are killing me."

The speech went on for forty-five minutes. Finally, a pair of troop trucks arrived, followed by three black Hyundai sedans. A company of soldiers mustered from the trucks as a fresh s.h.i.+ft of men in Korean proletarian suits filed from the cars. Two little girls from the band were given flowers and sent to the head of the line.

"I have a bad feeling about this," muttered Trace as we took the bouquets.

"We're just being honored," I told her.

"That's what they tell cows before they get slaughtered."

"This is really very flattering," I told the translator, who was smiling next to me. "But I really do have to see General Sun. We do have important business."

"Oh, yes, Mr. Marcinko. This will be done. But you are an honored guest. First you must be welcomed. We must continue."

Two more men approached, followed by the honor guard and the rest of the men who'd come from the cars. One of them carried a small box. I thought by now the only thing left for them to do was to present us with the key to the city, but it turned out I was wrong.

The box contained two pairs of handcuffs. And just in case we didn't understand what they were for, our honor guard locked and loaded.

25 Underwater Demolition Team, the precursor to SEALs. Haven't you read my first book yet?

26 Apparently we're not supposed to talk about the satellite system the navy uses to track s.h.i.+ps at sea.

27 Anti-Submarine Warfare; less formally, pounding submarines into whale p.i.s.s.

28 Some estimates go as high as two thousand tons, which though generous is still too small to indicate a successful explosion.