John R. Monteith
Rogue Goliath
CHAPTER 1
Lieutenant Sung-woo Yoon wiped sweat from his brow and glared at the chart. Deep inside North Korean waters, the Kim Jwa-Jin violated international law and defied a hostile seven-hundred-ship navy to find it.
Yoon’s mental clock ripped off seconds counting the surfaced South Korean submarine’s exposure to spying eyes and radar systems. Body heat from scared shipmates made the unbathed armpit stench heavy, and he welcomed his captain’s order to sniff fresh air.
“Lieutenant Yoon, lay to the forward hatch. Equalize pressure, open the hatch, and retrieve the infiltration party.”
Yoon marched by men hunched over consoles and then stepped through a doorway. After passing empty racks in the berthing area, he stopped below a machined ring. He palmed a handle, twisted it, and heard hissing heat race into the cool night.
Impatient, he cracked open the hatch, and residual positive pressure propelled the steel plate backward over its hinge. His fingertips burned, and he licked his abraded skin.
“Damn it,” he said.
A dome of starlight appeared, and a talking silhouetted head interrupted his view.
“Infiltration team of four with one detainee, requesting permission to come aboard.”
“Permission granted,” Yoon said. “Hurry, and have the last man close the hatch.”
A black figure in a wetsuit dropped before him and hit the deck plates with cat-like grace. The rifle over his shoulder jiggled as the compartment’s newest occupant stepped aside and stooped to remove his swimming fins.
The captain’s voice rang through the door.
“Did you get him?”
The commando tore back his hood, exposing cropped black hair and a young but stern face.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Justice is served.”
The next commando landed with grace but retained his fins while joining the first in reaching back up into the gaping hole.
Boots glistening with seawater jutted into the compartment, and the swimmers grabbed rope-bound ankles. Fists above the hole grasped a drenched camouflage jacket while lowering the prisoner. Hands bound behind his back, the captive appeared sullen as the commandos yanked him aside. The final two warriors then landed in sequence, the last man swinging down the hatch.
Shifting his weight against the slight rocking, Yoon reached and pulled the hatch into its seating. He torqued the handle, driving the locking bars into place. He then yelled towards the doorway.
“Hatch is secure!”
“Submerge the ship,” the captain said. “Make your depth thirty meters. Make turns for ten knots.”
The deck dipped downward, and Yoon leaned forward, dropped his head, and exhaled. Time’s forward march resumed its normalcy as he sensed the Sea of Japan swallowing the Kim.
The absurdity of surfacing in enemy waters frazzled his nerves, but employing frogmen required the vulnerability since the Kim, a Type 214 German-designed submarine, lacked a lockout chamber.
Yoon feared that if the submarine evaded prying Chinese satellites, North Korean radar systems, and spying merchants, the kidnapping of a high-profile person would attract attention and invite a North Korean armada to vengeance.
Trying to convince himself that the reward merited the risk, he looked at the prisoner. From the mission brief, he expected the junior admiral of the Korean People’s Navy who had eight years earlier orchestrated the two-submarine ambush that had split the South Korean corvette Cheonan in half.
Yoon also remembered that a strong power base craved revenge. Since an ensign killed aboard the severed corvette had married into the Samsung family, political pressure had driven the National Intelligence Service to identify a target of vengeance. Patient, diligent spying had unveiled the North Korean admiral’s identity and his residence on his country’s east coast. Then came the plan for his kidnapping and arrival aboard the Kim.
With the submarine slithering into the waters, Yoon indulged himself in hopes of bringing the admiral to trial. Then his optimism faded, and his time slowed to a glacial tick.
The frogman he recognized as the leader, an army captain from the 707th Special Mission Battalion, withdrew a knife from its sheathe and sliced up through the captive’s bonds. The captain then pressed the weapon’s hilt into the admiral’s hands, arming him.
The admiral drove the blade into the stomach of the nearest commando while the army captain withdrew a pistol, leveled it at his teammate’s head, and pulled the trigger. Crimson droplets sprayed the piping behind the victim.
The final commando turned and reached for a firearm, but his leader sent two rounds into his chest. The captain then hoisted his rifle over his shoulder, lowered it, and leveled it.
As he stepped through the door, he sent surgical rounds into Yoon’s crewmates. Screams of terror and protest rang from the control room, rousting Yoon into action. He darted towards a dead commando to retrieve a rifle, but the admiral’s voice stopped him.
“Don’t bother.”
The admiral aimed a dead commando’s pistol at him. The muzzle flashed, and lighting pulsed through Yoon’s belly. He collapsed to the deck and remained conscious as the strange tragedy continued to unfold.
The admiral followed the rogue army captain into the control room, which an eerie silence had overcome. Alone, Yoon turned his awareness inward to discern if he needed to prepare to meet his maker, but he sensed his life force remaining within him.
Each breath bringing agony, he concluded that the bullet had bored holes through his intestines but had missed nerves and bones. He pressed his hand against the entry wound and rolled to his knees. He tried to stand, but pain stopped him. Content to drag himself, he slithered towards the control room.
He needed to warn others.
Grunting with each inch he gained, he feared his crew would die before he could raise the alarm. Then a presence startled him.
A young acne-faced seaman, a cook’s assistant named Hong, spoke in a quivering voice.
“What’s wrong, sir? I was sleeping when I heard gunfire.”
“We’re under attack. Grab the microphone at the control station.”
Hong stared at Yoon.
“Go! I’ll tell you what to say.”
The youngster stepped through the doorway and yelled.
“I have the microphone, sir.”
“Security violation. Captain Tong is a traitor and is killing us. Announce it!”
The assistant’s shaky voice squeaked over the loudspeaker.
“Good, Hong. Now say that Tong is heading aft. All hands grab small arms and weapons of opportunity.”
Hong’s second announcement carried less fear.
“Good,” Yoon said. “Now say that the prisoner is armed too. There are two assailants. The other army commandos are dead.”
The cook’s voice rang out again, parroting Yoon.
“Any man who can reach berthing, do so,” Yoon said. “I have three rifles and two pistols salvaged from the dead commandos. We will make a stand here.”
When Hong finished the final announcement, Yoon called him to his side.
“You did well, Hong. How are you with a rifle?”
“Not so good, sir. I barely qualified in training. I’m better with a shotgun.”
“We don’t have that luxury. They may double back at any moment. Get me a rifle so I can defend our position.”
Hong struggled to lift a corpse’s head and slip the rifle free.
“Hurry!” Yoon said.
He broke the weapon free and handed it to Yoon.
“Now grab a weapon. Pick a pistol or a rifle, your choice.”
Yoon studied his weapon. It felt lighter than the standard issue K2 assault rifle, but its shape and function appeared similar to that with which he had trained. He unfolded the stock, and its mass felt negligible, made from a lightweight plastic reserved for special users who valued every spared ounce.