Into the fire, p.16
Into the Fire, page 16
“Captain, you’re bleeding. Let me tend to that.” After a brief inspection, she said, “You’re going to need stitches for that.”
“Give me a compression bandage to stop the bleeding and bind it up.” Picard started to protest, but Bigelow cut her off. “Now, Chief, and be quick about it.”
Picard worked quickly with birdlike gestures, and while she was at it, the other sailor helping her, a junior petty officer, came in. “All of the wounded are ashore, Chief, oh, excuse me, Captain. These patients are the last two.”
“Then get yourself ashore, Johnson,” Picard replied while she wrapped Bigelow’s arm with an elastic bandage to hold the compression pad over the wound. “These people can’t be moved, so I’ll have to stay with them.”
“Belay that, Johnson!” Bigelow interrupted. “These two patients will have to be moved ashore.” Then, to Picard, “Chief, get these people ready to move. I’ll get a couple of the combat systems officer’s people to help you with the transfer.”
Bigelow pulled the Motorola from its keeper on her belt and was about to key it when Picard grabbed her arm. “Captain, you can’t do this. These two are badly burned and suffering from smoke inhalation. They’ll die if we try to move them.”
“They’ll die if we don’t, and I need you ashore.” The force of her grasp was unnaturally strong. Bigelow looked at her sharply. “Get them ready to move; that’s an order.” Neither of the two junior sailors assisting Picard moved. “Now!”
While they prepared litters for transporting the two wounded crewmen, Bigelow took out her transceiver. “Master Chief, this is the captain. Where are you?”
“I’m just about to reboard the ship, ma’am, and I have two of the ops officer’s bos’n mates with me. We’ll be making a sweep of the ship to make sure we don’t have any stragglers. The XO is making a head count at the cannery. We’re still short a few people.”
“Okay, send one of your teams on a sweep. I want you and two of your people here in the wardroom ASAP, copy?”
“Uh, roger that, ma’am. We’ll be there in just a few minutes.”
She turned to where the two junior sailors were working. “Johnson, carry on with what you’re doing. Chief, please step over here.”
“Captain, I really need to…”
“Over here, Chief, and right now.”
Picard sighed and moved away from one of the patients. She was not wearing a helmet and pushed a strand of hair from her forehead as she complied with her captain’s order. Again, a self-conscious, birdlike movement, and her hand was shaking slightly. Bigelow clamped her by the elbow and guided her to a corner of the makeshift surgery suite. She then spun her a quarter turn and looked her directly in the eyes. The chief corpsman’s pupils were so dilated she could see but a small band of brown iris before the color gave way to white.
“What have you been taking, Chief?”
“Captain, I don’t know what you’re talk—”
“Stop it, Chief!” she hissed. “Stop it right now. Shipmates have died and more might die. I’ve no time for this. What are you on?” The grip on her chief’s elbow tightened.
“I’ve been up for nearly two days now. So I may have taken a little Dexedrine to keep me going, and maybe something a little stronger to help me through all this. I’ve been doing the job, and I can still do the job.”
“God damn it, Chief. Now of all times! Get yourself topside and into the next boat going to shore. When you get to the shelter, report to the XO.”
“Captain, I can still…”
“No, you can’t. Get the hell out of here.” When Picard made no move to leave, Bigelow took a step closer to her. “Now, Chief Picard. Move!”
The chief corpsman left without another word. Petty Officer Second Class Randy Johnson couldn’t help but follow the exchange. He watched Picard leave and looked to Bigelow.
“You’re in charge now, Johnson. Get these people ready to move. When Master Chief Crabtree gets here, get them ashore as best you can.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
Bigelow stationed herself by the starboard access hatch, where the Zodiac shuttles made up to the side of the ship. She got there just in time to see a Zodiac loaded with stores and Chief Picard cast off and begin to make its way around the shattered bow for the beach. Meanwhile, she gave orders to those ashore and those few still on board and monitored the exodus onto the island. Shells continued to fall around the ship, but most were more than a hundred yards off. But they kept coming. A short while later, her master chief, the two bos’n mates, and Johnson reached the hatchway from the wardroom. The unconscious patients, strapped to the litters, were lowered over the side to a waiting Zodiac by the two bos’n mates. Then they joined the litters in the boat and made for shore. Only Crabtree remained.
“Captain,” the master chief said in a low voice, “it’s time for you to go.”
“Is everyone off the ship?”
“We’re still checking, but begging your pardon, Captain, you’re done here. You’re needed ashore with the crew.”
She hesitated, but only for a second. “Very well, Master Chief. Don’t be too long yourself.”
“No longer that I have to be, ma’am.”
The Zodiac shuttle came alongside, and she scrambled down the Jacob’s ladder and into the craft. Before the craft cleared the bow, she looked back in time to see her command master chief toss her a salute. They were out of sight before she could return it.
* * *
At the Korean People’s Army headquarters in Pyongyang, General Choi Kwang, marshal of the KPA, sat behind his massive desk and read the report an aide had just handed him. At age sixty-four, he had clawed his way to the top of the KPA and was the senior military man in North Korea, leading the largest military organization on earth. Kim Jong-un trusted him and had given his blessing to the operation to capture Milwaukee. But Choi had failed.
Choi had roughly dismissed his staff and now sat alone with his number 2, Chung Su-yong, vice marshal of the KPA. Months ago, when the supreme leader and his political sycophants came up with this half-assed plan to capture the American ship and its crew, it was Chung who had protested most vehemently. Choi remembered Chung’s words as if he had spoken them yesterday: Even if we take the ship’s crew hostage, the Americans will never agree to our territorial-water claims. Those claims our political leaders are making are just too outrageous.
But Choi’s job as marshal of the KPA was not to question orders that came from Kim Jong-un but to execute them. Execute them or I will be executed, he mused. Now their plan had come undone, at least for the moment. One foul-up after another, beginning with the idiot captain of Najin Four firing the cruise missile at Milwaukee. What part of the order to capture the ship didn’t the navy fool understand?
But it had gotten worse when the KPA coastal anti-aircraft batteries had shot down two of the American aircraft. He hadn’t authorized that, either! Did this mean they were at war with the Americans? Yet that wasn’t his concern at the moment. The supreme leader hadn’t called him, but one of the leader’s underlings had—worse than if it had come from Kim himself. The man had made it abundantly clear: Failure was not an option. Pluck the LCS crew off Kujido Island and get them to North Korean territory—and do it quickly.
Choi lifted his head from the report and looked at his number 2. “It’s a press report from South Korea. Our ‘friend,’ General Kwon Oh-Sung, Chairman of the South Korean Joint Chiefs of Staff, has just announced South Korea is going to a full-war footing and mobilizing its reserves. Just what we need!”
Chung realized that, despite their massive military spending, forty percent of the population under arms, huge arms support from Russia and China and all the rest, North Korea was no match for their South Korean adversary, let alone a South Korea allied with America and maybe even other nations like Japan. It was his job to find a way out of this, or it would cost him his job and his life. “Marshal,” Chung began, “above all else, we dare not disappoint the supreme leader. I think we need to address our problems one at a time.”
“Go ahead, I’m listening.”
“First of all, there’s the South Koreans. We all know Kwon is a warmonger. What he says about them going to a war footing is not surprising on several counts. First, it’s still not clear to the South that Najin Three and Najin Four didn’t go after their ships too—”
“But they didn’t!” Choi interrupted.
“Yes, clearly that wasn’t the plan. But the way it was executed by our navy comrades sowed enough confusion it could be taken as an act of war. Then there’s the buildup along the DMZ. We’ve done that before, but never in such numbers and in such a threatening manner.”
“But that was all designed as a feint. To distract them and the Americans from our actual plan to capture the LCS ship.”
“Marshal, I know that and you know that and our political masters know that, but, in hindsight, I think you can see why it sowed confusion in the South. Aren’t they really reacting the same way we would in a similar situation?”
Choi was beginning to understand his subordinate’s logic. “That’s all well and good, but we still have this crisis our politicians have pushed us into, and it’s our job to fix it.”
“I think all this talk of war with the South is subsiding already. They don’t really want war, in spite of Kwon’s bluster. I think you’ll see he’ll be reined in and all this will subside.”
“We’ll see what the next twenty-four hours bring,” Choi groused. “But what about the LCS crew? We still need to take them hostage and do it soon, or the supreme leader will have us in prison, and God help us and our families.” There was genuine fear in the marshal’s voice.
“General, we have been working on that.” Chung produced a thick manila folder. “Now, here is what the staff has come up with as the best option to do just that.” With that, the younger officer laid out the folder’s contents on Choi’s desk and the two men began to pore over the details.
* * *
The ride from ship to shore was less than two minutes. On the pebbly beach, there were boxes of supplies, stacks of blankets and bedding, cases of bottled water, and small crates of MREs. Individuals from the crew were making their way over the steep rock-beach berm, grabbing a load, and heading back up and over the berm to the shelter. Bigelow grabbed a crate of MREs, a good forty-pound load, and began to churn her way up the slope, slipping every other step on the gravely surface.
“Cap’n, you don’t need to be doing this,” said a sailor coming down to the water’s edge for another load. “Let me help you with that.”
“I got it, Sanders. You go on and get another load.”
As she crested the hill, she glanced back at her ship, and, for the first time, she almost lost it emotionally. Milwaukee now had a more pronounced starboard list. Its bow looked like a twisted aluminum beer can, and the aft part of the ship was black and scarred from the missile strike. It was a gut-wrenching sight, but there was more. A single flag fluttered from the ship’s masthead. Someone had thought to hoist the third-substitute pennant to the port yardarm. The flying of this black-and-white flag meant that the commanding officer was ashore.
“You okay, Captain?” It was a sailor coming up behind her with yet another box of MREs.
“I’m fine, Perkins, but thanks for asking. Let’s get this chow to our new shore facility.” After another quick glance at the ship and a waterspout that marked the landing of an artillery round, just long and very wide, she followed the newly worn path to the cannery.
The abandoned cannery had the look of a pillbox of the type that dotted the coast of Normandy in France. It was a two-story structure with 2,500 square feet per floor. The faded gray building was everything Senior Chief Crabtree had said it was—cold, damp, and massively built. From a distance, it had the look of a mausoleum from a previous century. The weathered, reinforced concrete walls and ceilings were intact and looked to be their best chance for protection against the North Korean artillery barrage. The crew had taken refuge in the ground level, leaving the second story and second-story roof as a potential barrier against a direct artillery strike. There was only the purr of a gasoline-powered generator and the occasional krump or a shell impact to disturb the silence of the building. Bigelow dropped her box of rations with others piled by the sheltered entrance and stepped inside.
Bundled figures moved amid the multiple shadows cast by strings of bare-bulbed lights that lined the walls. It was a large single room marked by three rows of pillars that supported the ceiling and the upper story. Under the direction of the senior petty officers, the crew was clearing out the remnants of old boxes, lumber, work-station tables, and debris. The only evidence of automation from when the structure served as a crab cannery was two canning machines that had been moved off to one side. Someone had thought to bring brooms and dustpans, and several sailors from the ship’s ops department were working to get the top layer of grit from the floor. There was little talking among the crew, which was unusual for U.S. Navy sailors at a distasteful task. But then this was a crew fighting for survival.
Her XO met her as she entered the building. “Captain, welcome ashore. We’re doing what we can to make this place habitable, but let’s hope we don’t have to be here long. How’s the ship?”
“The ship is history, I’m afraid. The engineering spaces are flooded, and I don’t want to think about the hull damage from the grounding, let alone the shelling and missile strike.” She inventoried the quiet chaos around her. “Jack, you’ve done a great job in a very short time. In addition to keeping our people safe, warm, and fed, there’s not much else we can do.” She motioned him to one side, where they could have a measure of privacy. “Our job now is to protect this crew until help arrives, and who knows when that might be? I want you to give priority to the wounded and, until further notice, work through Petty Officer Johnson.”
“Johnson? What about Chief Pic—”
Bigelow raised her hand to intervene. “Chief Picard got into the medicine cabinet and is high as a kite. When and if we can get her down, she may be of help. Until then, say nothing of this to anyone else and work through Johnson. Now, I’ve got to get a call through to Seventh Fleet and see when cavalry might arrive. We good with this?”
O’Connor hesitated, then asked, “Any idea when we might get some help?”
“None whatsoever, but then that’s not your concern right now. Taking care of the crew is. Okay?”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
She found Petty Officer Matheson, who had his portable comm gear laid out on a blanket along one of the interior walls and under the glow of a stringed light. He was bent over equipment like a Buddhist monk over a prayer wheel.
“What do you have for me, Matheson? Can I talk?”
“Yes, ma’am, after a fashion. I have only one portable radio and it’s an AN/PRC-150, which is good for HF and VHF transmission and reception, but not really compatible for talking with the fleet and the people we want to communicate with. I’m using it to scan for any local military traffic, and if it’s not encrypted, we can listen in. Our best contact with the outside world is by satellite phone and our commercial Iridium 9505 encrypted sat phone. Before we left Milwaukee, I sent a message to Seventh Fleet with our number here, and they gave me theirs. Here’s the phone, and here’s the number into their comm center.”
She took the handset, which was about the size of her Motorola but with a fixed, fat, stubby aerial, and the three-by-five card with a thirteen-digit number. “Just dial ’em up?”
“That’s it, Skipper. Wait until you get a dial tone, which means you have a bird within range, which is no problem here since we’re not that far from Seoul. You might have to step outside to do that. Then dial away.”
Bigelow stepped out into a drizzling rain and around to the east wall of the building with a clear view toward the sky above Seoul. It was a wireless major city with more than one communications satellite parked overhead in synchronous orbit. She waited a moment for the dial tone to click in and dialed. It was answered on the second ring.
“Seventh Fleet communications central. Petty Officer Graham speaking. How may I help you, sir or ma’am?”
“Graham, this is Commander Bigelow, captain of Milwaukee. Let me speak to the watch supervisor, please.”
“Ah, Commander, you’re captain of the what?”
“Milwaukee, Graham, Milwaukee. The ship that is getting the shit beat out of it as we speak. Now get me your supervisor.”
“Uh, roger that, ma’am. Wait one.”
After another moment, “Captain, this is Senior Chief O’Gara, the watch-section supervisor. Good to hear from you, ma’am. Can you hear me all right?”
“I hear you five-by, Senior Chief. I need to speak with the COS.”
“Understood, ma’am, and he’s expecting your call. Please stand by while I patch you through. And good luck, ma’am. We’re all pulling for you.”
“Thanks, Senior. Standing by.”
Following a short delay, there was an audible click as the call was rerouted. Then a voice came through with a slight echo that told her she was on speaker.
“Captain Bigelow, this is Vice Admiral Bennett. Are you able to hear me?”
“Loud and clear, Admiral.”
“Good. Captain, I’m here with, among others, my chief of staff, my operations officer, and my logistics officer. We’ve followed your plight with a great concern for the safety of you and your crew. We know your current location, but not much else. It would help us a great deal if you would brief us on your current status.”
And she did. She spoke for close to five minutes on the condition of Milwaukee, the condition of the crew, and concluded with their dead and wounded. For the next five minutes, she answered their questions. Then the fleet commander summed it up.
“Captain, it pains me to tell you the strongest Navy in the world cannot come to your aid immediately, at least not without risking you and your crew. And then there’s the North Korean cruise-missile envelope we’re going to have to deal with. We’re working on diplomatic and military options, but I have nothing to offer in the near term. You’re just going to have to hang on there as best you can.”
