Korea Strait by David Poyer Page B

days, what with jet lag and being roused early for the Sang-o. When he went back up to the pilothouse Jung was a shadow in the dark.
    â€œCommodore? Evening, sir. I’m going to turn in for a couple hours, if you don’t need me.”
    â€œMr. Lenson. I understand you had some problems with our stationkeeping. That you mentioned it to one of the ship’s company.”
    The sonar evaluator. “Uh, yes sir, but Commander Hwang explained what was going on. With
Dae Jon
.” He thought about mentioning the range issue, but decided again to let them fix it themselves.
    â€œAll right, Dan. But any other comment you may have, I’d appreciateyour bringing it directly to me or Commander Hwang. Not to the ship’s company.”
    That was fair; he was here to support Jung as officer in tactical command. “Aye aye, Commodore.”
    â€œGet some sleep. I’ll keep an eye on things.”
    â€œAye aye, sir,” he said again, already looking forward to the narrow bunk with its knit comforter. He looked back once more, to see Jung’s shadow still resting motionless against the black, the radio speaker frying quietly above, the only sign of life the hot red dot of a cigarette like a faraway flare in the dark. It brightened, faded, and then winked out.

6
    T HE helicopter sketched a charcoal line across a rough gray paper overcast, aimed directly at him. Lenson slouched with thumbs in this belt loops, steel-toes braced wide, briefcase slung off his back.
Chung Nam
rolled with a slow nodding lean. Around him the crew shouted and rushed about. Looking flushed, Kim #3—there were so many he’d resorted to numbering them—swung his landing-signal paddles on the fantail like a jayvee cheerleader warming up her pompons. The helo banked and rapidly grew larger. Its clatter echoed across the choppy sea.
    Two days had passed. Phase I was complete. Every sonar team had at least five hours’ practice tracking
San Francisco
and four hours tracking the smaller, and therefore harder to acquire,
Chang Bo Go.
The Korean 209 had joined up the day before.
    The helo landing team froze in their tracks, saluting him. Or rather—Dan turned his head—saluting Jung, who’d just stepped out on the frigate’s tennis-court-sized helo deck. Dan didn’t salute, since he was uncovered, but he bowed. The commodore nodded back, then turned his attention to the approaching aircraft.
    Five minutes later they sat squashed together with five other passengers, gripping their briefcases as the quivering fuselage banked hard. The deck rolled up and hovered nearly above them. They grew suddenly heavy. The sea scrolled past. He looked across the fuse-lage to meet Jung’s eyes. They stared at each other until Dan dropped his gaze.
    . . .
    USS
John S. McCain
was the Destroyer Squadron 15 flagship. Since Jung was OTC, he’d wanted to hold the pre-Phase II meeting aboard
Chung Nam.
But Leakham had argued
McCain
had better comms, a full flight deck, and spaces for a large meeting. As Dan followed Jung and the others through her centerline passageway he felt like Woody Allen unfrozen in the far future. The air was chill with air-conditioning, which
Chung Nam
didn’t have. The wide passageways were lined with advanced equipment. The crew, of which there seemed to be very few, wore spotless dark blue coveralls and ball caps instead of denims and greasy tees. The cold air smelled strange. It took a while before he realized the “smell” was the absence of stale smoke.
    â€œGood morning, good to see ya. Commodore Jung, what a pleasure.” Leakham, bulky and blond and hearty, was working the arriving COs in the spacious immaculate wardroom. He pumped Jung’s hand. “Bring any PowerPoint matter? We can upload and project it here. No? Well, come on in. Decaf, muffins, hot fresh tarts on the sideboard.” Dan got only a nod. “Lenson. How you doing over