His five officers had similar stories. All had rocketed through the ranks, their records spangled with awards and commendations. And, like their captain, they had relatives in South Korea. None were married.
The enlisted men got about a paragraph each, and few had photos. They all apparently were aware of the plan to defect. I had no idea how Yoon had managed to fill his boat with people willing to commit such a bold act of treason. Unlike the officers, many seemed to be leaving spouses behind.
There were about five pages regarding the submarine itself. Patterson had mentioned its similarity to a U-boat, and I could see what he meant.
It had the same tapered shape, flat deck and narrow beam, and its profile resembled a long rectangle with a boxy conning tower jutting from its center. It looked like it belonged in a museum someplace. Or a scrap heap.
I had never been on a submarine before, so I tried to place myself inside the schematics and walk through the boat’s interior. The fore and aft torpedo rooms took up the entire depth of the sub, but the rest of the compartments had two decks. The control room was situated in the center of the boat, on the upper deck above the mess area and some sleeping quarters.
Aft of the control room were the electrical controls; below that was a battery bay. The two-level engine room fit between that compartment and a passageway to the aft torpedo room containing more controls and bunks. Forward of the control room were the officers’ mess and living quarters above another battery bay. Then the torpedo room. Ten compartments in all, it seemed.
Although the Romeo-class boat was ancient by Western standards-the Russians, from whose Project 633 design it was copied, had abandoned that model by the late ’50s — this particular ship was less than fifteen years old. It was the third-newest of its type in the North Korean navy, so its electronics and weapons were only half as out of date as the hull, and many of its mechanical systems had been upgraded and simplified.
The submarine’s crush depth was listed as 775 feet, but the report suggested that the boat would have difficulties surfacing if it went below 650 or so.
North Korea’s Romeo-class sub No. 19 was called Yong. The English translation of its name: “Dragon.”
Its top speed when submerged was thirteen knots. I tried to imagine traveling halfway around the world at a pace a track athlete would have little trouble maintaining. They might surface every few weeks, but those moments above the waves would be seldom and furtive. And the entire time, of course, the crew’s universe would consist of cold metal walls and the smell of each other’s sweat.
What would it be like to suffer through such conditions for months?
According to Patterson’s information, the boat’s sole mission was patrolling North Korea’s territorial waters. Its crew never had needed to endure an extended trip underwater. Maybe one of them had snapped.
A massive release of chlorine gas presented more questions. Patterson said it was caused when seawater interacted with the batteries. I did the chemical equation in my head. Did the cells contain sulfuric acid? That would react with the hydrogen, oxygen and salt in seawater, releasing chlorine.
Other than a hull breach, where could the water come from? The battery bays were in the center sections of the ship, but I couldn’t read the schematics well enough to tell anything other than that.
I glanced up. Larsen still was engrossed in his clipboard. At some point, I would need him to walk me through the ship’s systems.
And nothing in the pile of faxes told me anything useful about him or any of the other men sitting around me. A one-paragraph mission overview contained Larsen’s name, and the name of his second-in-command, Lt. j.g. Jonathan Matthews. That was it.
The numbing roar and vibration of the helicopter’s rotor were beginning to drown out my thoughts. And there was little for me to focus on besides the documents in my lap.
Now the SEAL across from me was checking a fastener on his assault rifle. The other soldiers also seemed enveloped in a solitary world of equipment-checking and silent contemplation.
It was impossible to move without nudging the person next to you. I felt like I should try to get to know, somehow, the soldiers I was crammed into the helicopter with. But no one spoke. Acknowledging anyone else’s presence seemed forbidden.
I glanced out the basketball-sized window to my right. The shoreline fog had given way to a moonless night sky reflected in a calm, twinkling sea. The helicopter was low enough that I expected to see a wake rippling from its sides.
Sprays of stars soared above us, their glow providing the only means of discerning the horizon.
“Two minutes to target.”
I would have jumped at the disembodied voice in my ear, but the straps limited me to a flinch and a gasp.
“OK, Doctor, here’s what’s going to happen.”
Even when Larsen spoke in a conversational voice, his words had a harsh, commanding edge to them. I glanced back down the cabin and saw that his gaze matched. He unbuckled his lap belt and walked across the cabin until he was crouched in front of me, his headset umbilical stretching back to the bulkhead above his seat.
“The helo’s too big and heavy to land safely on the deck. So it’s going to hover above it, with the landing gear barely touching, and we’re going to jump down. If the seas are too rough for that, we’ll have to rappel down. Do you know how to do that?”
“No,” I said. I started to explain that I had done some rock climbing, but he cut me off with a quick, savage gesture of dismissal.
“That’s what I thought. If we have to rappel, we’ll strap you onto Warrant Officer Grimm’s rig, and he’ll help you. Judging from the view up here, though, we’ll be able to just hop down. Is that bag the only gear you’re carrying?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Grimm will take that no matter how we have to transfer to the sub. Can you jump a few feet, or do we need to lower a ladder?”
“I can do it,” I said. “That’s no problem.”
He didn’t respond this time. The red lights painted his face with unnatural shadows as he sized me up.
“Fine,” he said. “I’m going to get you a life jacket-shit, you should be wearing one already-and you will leave the life jacket on until you are inside the sub, do you understand?”
I nodded.
“We’ll be onboard in a minute or so. Once we’re on the submarine’s deck with all our equipment, we’ll discuss entering the ship.”
He stood and grabbed a limp, yellow life vest from the bulkhead above my seat and handed it to me. He watched as I undid my harness and cinched the vest’s straps across my torso, then refastened the safety belts. He made his way back to his seat.
“I’ve got a visual,” I heard on my headset. “Seas are calm. Looks like we’ll be able to do this the easy way.”
Larsen’s voice replaced the pilot’s.
“Miller, Henderson, you’re off first,” he said, gesturing to the two SEALs opposite him. “Secure the conning tower hatch, but do not enter the submarine.
“Grimm, you’re carrying the doctor’s gear. If she needs assistance leaving the helo, you’re the man to give it.”
“Yes, sir!” came the acknowledgment.
The SEAL across from me stood and disentangled my bag from the wall webbing. He slipped the shoulder strap across his chest, making sure to leave his weapon unencumbered.
“You need a hand, ma’am?” he said, making the first eye contact of our flight together. It seemed this was Grimm.
I shook my head no and moved to hit the quick-release latch on my harness. As I did so, however, the world pitched about forty-five degrees to the left. The soldiers who were standing grabbed handholds and braced themselves against the floor.