Chapter 21

The shadows of dawn crept across the city as Fay watched from her hotel room window, surveying the scene below her. Wisps of steam rose from the exhaust stacks atop the lower office buildings, indicating the temperature outside was cold. Seoul was beginning to wake. It was a peaceful time: dawn, that delicate balance between night and day. As soft as it seemed, she sensed the world was trembling.

Her report was complete. Pearce had crashed hard, sleeping on the floor next to the bed. JP had not bothered to remove her uniform. The coffee had long grown cold; Fay poured the last few drops from the insulated container into her cup. She would drink it anyway.

In a few hours, Fay would meet Major Kim, and she had remained awake for twenty-four hours. Her brain felt numb. Nothing made sense to her this morning. Nor did she particularly care if anything did make sense. She removed her uniform and crawled into bed for a short two-hour nap. She had expended herself and immediately fell asleep.

Two hours seemed but a second when one was soundly sleeping. It was 08:30. Fay peered over the side of the bed. Pearce had vanished. She surveyed the room through reddened eyes. God…where am I? I could use a cigarette. Why didn’t I ever take up smoking?

Crumpled papers, partially full coffee cups, and plates with half-eaten sandwiches on them littered the room. Fay’s eyes protested the morning’s intrusion; they felt painfully sore. Worse was the headache pounding at the right side of her head.

She fumbled for the phone at the left of her bed. “Room service?” she asked in a hoarse voice. “Room eighteen-fifty-six, I think? Bring coffee. Hurry.”

Fay next called Major Kim’s room; they agreed to meet at 10:00 hours. She rolled from her bed and flopped down into the chair at the desk located near the window. Massaging her throbbing left temple with one hand, she began scratching out her investigation game plan with the other.

The team met in the hotel lobby. After finding a secluded spot, they sat down. Pearce produced a notepad and pen, ready to take notes as needed.

“Major Kim, where do we begin?” Fay asked.

“Let me bring you up to speed, Fay.”

She nodded but remained silent.

“In response to the sinking of the Carr, President Ross ordered U.S.S. Nalon Vet to enter North Korean provincial waters,” Kim began.

Fay nodded. She was aware of the Vet’s existence and capabilities. “The Vet is a ghost-ship, Mr. Kim. Can you tell me why she was sent to North Korea? President Ross knew he risked retaliation from the North Koreans had the Vet been detected.”

“The discovery of any U.S. Navy vessel would be deemed an act of aggression by the North Koreans. That’s why the mission needed to be performed by the Vet.”

“Mission, sir?”

“Sensitive data was left on Jonathan Carr,” Kim explained. “A team was sent to recover the data. Only Nalon Vet could slip the recovery team in and out of North Korea undetected.”

“I see,” Fay said thoughtfully. “Major Kim, why was the Carr in North Korean waters?”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant Commander, I am not at liberty to tell you.”

Although Fay was surprised by his response, she understood she did not need to know. “The information is not relevant to my investigation, then?”

“No, it’s not.”

Fay looked away from Kim, fixing her gaze on an object across the room. “Mercy,” she quietly declared. She collected her thoughts, then said, “Let’s try this. The recovery team dove on Jonathan Carr to recover sensitive data. They found the dead sailor.” She glanced at the file she had started on the investigation. “Remains were recovered,” she said, peeking again. “Mr. Rodman, along with the data, was returned to Chinhae, and an autopsy was performed.”

Kim took a quick sip of coffee. “Some data was recovered; the Vet will make a second trip to the site. The autopsy revealed Mr. Rodman drowned.”

“Hence, an accident.”

“That’s the current thinking.”

She took a breath and looked Jangho squarely in the eyes. Speaking without emotion, Fay remarked, “I get it. Captain Nevada said he left his stateroom, passed through the passageway, and saw no one. It would have been difficult for Rodman to drown; the crew was given thirty minutes notice before the Carr was sunk.”

Jangho once again nodded.

“But he did. How does that happen?” Fay continued.

Jangho shrugged his shoulders. “All hands were accounted for.”

“Maybe Mr. Rodman was asleep,” Pearce offered, “didn’t hear the alert, and then woke up only to find himself trapped in the sinkin’ ship.”

“Only you, darlin’,” Fay said with a slight chuckle, “could sleep through a calamity like that. But thanks for your input.” She then said to Major Kim, “Tell me about the autopsy.” She took a sip of coffee. “The autopsy report concluded Rodman drowned?”

“He drowned,” Kim confirmed.

“Nothing else?”

Kim thought for a moment. “The doctor found a contusion under his left eye.”

“Blood system clear, nothing unusual in the digestive system?”

“I don’t know.”

Fay drummed her fingers on the surface of the table. “Huh,” she murmured. “Jangho, I want to view the body and review the autopsy report. ASAP.”

“Not a problem. The Navy has shipped Rodman’s remains from Chinhae to Yongsan Army Post near Seoul. I’ll make arrangements for us to view the remains and report today if you like, Lieutenant Commander.”

She nodded. “I would like, Major.”

It was silent as each person reflected for a moment.

Fay broke the silence. “Tell me about the recovery team who dove on the wreck.”

“I don’t know much about them. I do understand they were Treasury Department personnel,” Jangho offered.

“The Secret Service? I am surprised.” Could he have been mistaken? Fay would have thought it would have been a military operation, but it would explain why Bart Hay was chauffeuring her around. Jangho knows who the operators are. He knew all about them. Hell, he was probably one of them. He’s just getting tired of saying, “I can’t tell you.” I am getting sick of this.

“I do know they report directly to the President of the United States,” Jangho said.

Fay’s eyebrows arched. “The President! Mercy, again,” she said, following up her remark with a low whistle. She yawned and looked at her watch. “Mr. Kim, I’ve had about two hours of sleep in the past thirty. And as you can tell,” she tugged at the lower eyelid of her left eye with her fingertip, “my eyes are shot. How about I get a nap, and we meet at, say, fourteen hundred hours?”

Jangho said, “Fourteen hundred will be fine.”

Fay gave him a confirming nod. “I would like to set up a temporary office in my room. A modem, and a printer, for word processing and computer. Oh, and see if we can get a secure phone line.”

He agreed to have the equipment delivered and installed in the afternoon.

Fay knew if she did not rest, she would get sick— it was a certainty. It seemed she had been ill a lot lately, and she was sick and tired of being sick and tired. On the other hand, Pearce and Winslow were as alive as chipmunks in a box of peanut brittle. She would rest; they would explore the neighborhood surrounding the hotel.

****

Later the same day, the foursome found themselves standing next to a stainless-steel table bearing Seaman Gregory Rodman’s remains. Nothing about his appearance looked unusual to Fay, other than he was chalk white and dead.

“He drowned,” Army Doctor Major Henry said flatly. “Other than a laceration under the left eye,” he pointed to a wound near the deceased’s eye, “nothing unusual was found.”

“What would cause the cut, Doctor?” Fay asked.

“I don’t know, Lieutenant Commander. Perhaps the man ran into a bulkhead in his haste to flee the ship.”

“I suppose so.” Thoughtfully, Fay studied Rodman’s lifeless body. “The dead look so dead when they’re dead,” she remarked to no one in particular.

“Looks like someone punched him,” Pearce commented.

Fay leaned forward, bringing her nose to within inches of Rodman’s head. She sniffed the corpse’s ear as if she were sniffing a rose. She glanced up and caught an odd look in Doctor Henry’s eyes. Jangho, Winslow, and Pearce looked as if they were holding their breath.

“You have a question, Miss Green?” Henry asked.

“L’Observe.” Fay stood erect. “I thought I smelled aftershave.” She looked at Pearce, seeking support. “I guess I was wrong.”

The look of doubt, evident on Doctor Henry’s face, confirmed it. “You might be smelling humectants or formaldehyde. Those chemicals have a sweet odor to them.”

“You’re preparing the body for shipping?” Pearce asked.

“He’s going home.”

“Where’s home?” Winslow asked.

“Olympia, Washington.”

“Not too far from us, in Bremerton.” Fay thought for a moment. She turned to Pearce and asked, “Do you recall Paul Charma’s hometown, Miss Pearce?”

“His service records listed Olympia as his hometown, ma’am.”

“Mercy.” Turning back to Dr. Henry, Fay said, “Hold up on shipping Mr. Rodman’s remains, Doctor, until you receive my report.”

“As you wish,” Doctor Henry replied.

“Has the next of kin been notified?” Fay asked.

“He had a mother and a sister. They’ve been notified.”

She surveyed the cadaver from head to toe. “He looked to be very athletic.”

“If you asked me to show you an example of the perfect human, if there was such a thing,” Doctor Henry offered, “I’d show you Greg Rodman. Internally and externally, the man had the attributes of an Olympic athlete at his vertex.”

“He would have been able to hold his breath for a long time,” Winslow observed.

“I would think longer than an average person, Petty Officer,” Doctor Henry replied. 

“Doctor, were any personal items found with the body?” Fay asked.

“A wallet, a set of keys, a pack of cigarettes. This is the extent of it.”

“May I see those items?”

“Of course.” The Doctor motioned for his guests to follow him. “Let’s go to my office.”

The group proceeded to Doctor Henry’s office. After offering his guests a seat, Henry produced a large plastic freezer bag containing Seaman Rodman’s personal effects.

“Doctor, I would like to take these items as evidence,” Fay said. “Will you prepare a release form?”

“As you wish; will there be anything else?”

“It will do it for now. Your hospitality has been greatly appreciated,” Fay said with a grateful smile.

The women returned to the Park Hyatt Seoul to discover two strange men in Fay’s room. Seamen Takahashi and Seaman Horner had just finished installing the team’s computers. Fay asked Pearce to set up an e-mail address and then send the address to Captain Towsley.

“Sure thing,” Pearce said.

“I’m beat,” Fay replied as she flopped back onto her bed, kicking her shoes off in the same motion. She was asleep before her head touched the pillow.

****

22:00 hours, Chinhae, South Korea 

The articulate man in the navy-blue European suit wore a neatly trimmed gray beard and spoke with compassion as he addressed Egan Fletcher and the E-Team. “I am Viktor Pavlodar,” he said, “I represent the Glavnoe Razvedyvatel’noe Upravlenie, Russian Military Intelligence, or G.R.U.”

Fletcher thought it curious how the world had changed over the past several years. There was a time when the two adversaries’ ideologies would not tolerate a Russian agent in attendance at a VFW club meeting, much less a highly classified U.S. military facility.

The woman seated next to Pavlodar then introduced herself. She was Irina Sergeevna, of the Intelligence Directorate of the Main Staff of the Russian Navy.

Following the introductions, Admiral May took his customary position at the head of the conference table. He turned and pointed to an image of a ship that was projected onto a screen behind him. “This is the Russian guided-missile cruiser Admiral Moskva.”

The image changed. “Next is the Russian guided-missile destroyer Nastoychivy.” Admiral May paused for a moment. A third image was flashed on the screen. “This is the American Landing Helicopter Dock U.S.S. Bon Homme Richard.”

A final image flashed onto the screen. Egan knew this one. “This is the American Burke-class guided-missile destroyer U.S.S. Nalon Vet. The Vet is our latest and, I’m happy to say, our most successful attempt at radar evasion technology,” the Admiral said. “The Vet boasts new radar-deflecting paint and some sophisticated electronic radar-jamming gear. The paint, ironically developed by our Russian friends in nineteen ninety-three, renders Nalon Vet almost invisible to any radar.”

The lights were restored to the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a severe problem—a problem we know you will help us resolve. Each of you has been preparing for an operation we have code-named Operation Caspar the Friendly Ghost,” the Admiral continued.

May paused, then said, “For the purpose of Operation Caspar, we have code-named the various ships. You will need to memorize these names. Reference notes are prohibited this evening. Each of you will be searched when you leave this room, and all items found in your possession will be destroyed.” Admiral May glanced around the room. “If you have a favorite pen, briefcase, any jewelry, surrender it now,” he pointed to two SP’s stationed at the door, “to security. Those items will be returned to you following our meeting.” May waited while those in the room removed and surrendered any items they did not wish to have destroyed.

When those in the room settled back into their chairs, and the security people had left the room, Admiral May continued. “Admiral Moskva has been code-named Rapunzel. Nastoychivy will be referred to as Sister Golden Hair, Bon Homme Richard as Hotel California and Nalon Vet as Caspar.”

A sectional map depicting the western half of Russia, the Black Sea, the Mediterranean, the Indian Ocean, the South China Sea, and the East China Sea was shown on the screen. “This week, Sister Golden Hair and Rapunzel departed from the Russian Black Sea Fleet in Sevastopol.” May traced the route with a laser pointer as he spoke. “They will travel through the Black Sea, headed south to Suez. Once they reach the Indian Ocean, they will travel east, past the Malaysian Peninsula, then north to this approximate location.” He pointed to a spot in the East China Sea near the thirtieth parallel. May paused, allowing the group time to absorb the information.

“Rapunzel carries a cargo of long-range ballistic missiles,” he continued. “She will be escorted by Sister Golden Hair. The missiles are to be exchanged with the government of North Korea for perfectly counterfeited U.S. greenbacks.” The image of Sister Golden Hair reappeared on the screen.

“It appears the Russian government has established an arms trade with North Korea. Not so,” May said. “More specifically, a powerful political faction within the Russian government—with ties to the Russian Navy and the Russian Mafia—has arranged this transaction.”

A man then stood to address the group. “As you know, my country has been in political chaos since nineteen ninety-nine. The Commonwealth of Independent States has experienced many growing pains as we struggle to wrestle ourselves from the grip of Communism. Our biggest problems are the unsettling continuation of ethnic violence and increased violent crimes. The crumbling economic and social systems fostered these increases.” He paused for a moment, surveying the room. “Good morning. I am Admiral Streika of the Rossiyskaya Federatsiya and commander of the Russian Joint Armed Forces.”

Streika continued, “It is common knowledge our reforms have left our various military branches in decay. We were unable to pay our officers and enlisted men for several years. As a result, over one hundred thousand of our career officers and their families went without housing during this time. With this in mind,” he said, “it is not hard to understand that a group of rogue naval officers—backed by several overzealous politicians - decided to profit off of this turmoil. The concept of trading Russian ballistic missiles for U.S. greenbacks appeared highly lucrative to them.”

Admiral Streika paused to take a sip of water. Egan could tell the event, and its ramifications, had ardently shaken this proud Russian sailor. He felt sorry for the Russian.

Streika explained, “The Russian Mafia now controls almost fifty percent of all Russian business enterprises. The Russian Mafia will sell the counterfeit currency on the streets of Rossiya. Large amounts of heroin and opium are presently entering the C.I.S. through Turkmenistan and Tajikistan’s borders. As you are aware, those countries share a border with Afghanistan—we will not allow this shipment of money to add to our problems as we work to unify the Motherland.” Again, he surveyed the group. “Thank you,” he said simply, stepping away from the podium.

“The Russian good guys have asked for our help,” May said. “They want the missiles returned, along with the ships and their mostly innocent crews. They also want the perpetrators brought to justice in a Russian court of law. The President of the United States wishes to prevent the missiles from falling into North Korea’s hands. The possibility of North Korea obtaining missiles carrying nuclear or biological warheads capable of reaching Alaska and the west coast of the United States has become a genuine threat.”

Russian good guys. The irony of the words echoed in Fletcher’s mind. Aren’t these the same Russians who, to this day, have stockpiled more than twenty thousand nuclear missiles? And are currently deepening their missile silos, for whatever reason?

Admiral May explained that the Drug Enforcement Agency had apprehended a U.S. businessman in Russia. The man had attempted to purchase a decommissioned Russian attack submarine on behalf of a Colombian drug cartel. The asking price was a mere five million U.S. dollars, a tempting offer for a cash-starved government. Fortunately, the DEA had been able to arrest the businessman before the transaction could occur.

“One can only imagine how the cartel would utilize a Russian attack submarine,” May said. “But it’s indicative of the extremes these people are willing to go to for cash.”

Streika explained his government was unable to trust its own military leaders. With this in mind, they had called on their old friends, the United States. Under the circumstances, the Americans were eager to help. E-Team’s role was to seize the Russian vessels and return the ships and crew to the Russians.

Admiral Streika nodded and sat down.