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  Latham walked out of his office and onto the pier in front of the facility. The small shipyard was all that was left of the once giant Bethlehem Steel San Pedro Destroyer Shipyard, on Terminal Island. But what had once built some of the fastest ships in the fleet was now just a backwater operation only repairing smaller civilian vessels. Bethlehem Steel closed the facility years before. Latham was able to purchase some of the old buildings and a couple of drydocks. He moved his company here just ten years earlier. Even though it was small, there was enough traffic to keep the company in the black. It was a nice little operation that made sure their employees were well treated. Most had worked with his company all their lives. Something would come up.

  As he walked along, he looked over at the memorial sitting further down the harbor. The old Navy ship had been requested by a group of city officials many years before and had established a naval museum around it to go along with the other historic buildings at the port. Tourists came in every day to see the old ship and it also served as a sort of community center for group meetings on occasion. He himself had been aboard many times, if only to marvel at the engineering that had gone into her.

  Latham walked slowly along the pier staring at her tall towers and raked bow. He suddenly stopped and looked at the ship a little harder. If this country is going to go to war, they might just need a ship like this, he thought. I wonder what it would take….. He headed for his office at a run, grabbing people along the way. A call to the mayor was followed by men with tool boxes making a bee line for some operating boats headed toward the big ship just down the river. By nightfall, there were over 300 workmen onboard. By the next morning, the four tugs still running pulled the great ship from her permanent berth toward a huge floating drydock that had been prepared overnight. After one more telephone call that took an hour to set up, work began in earnest.

  Chapter 5

  April 3 - Growing Conflict

  South Korea

  From the top of a hill Master Sergeant Paul Hufham surveyed the remains of the motorpool yard with Private Ricks. The sun was just peeking over the horizon and the scene it illuminated was not a good one. As expected, the North Koreans had already been there. There was evidence of grenades and a lot of shooting. Several small fires were visible from the residue of some oil barrels, but the place looked deserted. Hufham took out his binoculars and scanned the area more closely. Dead soldiers lay at the gate, a couple were near the garage and several outside the door of a small barracks and office in the compound. It was obvious the surprise had been complete. The poor soldiers had been awakened and died within feet of their beds. Those on duty or working late died where they were working.

  “Where are all the vehicles?” Ricks wondered in a whisper.

  Hufham smiled. All those days of watching the enemy across the Z had paid off on this guy. He was noticing things that were not the norm. “Good call, sport. The last time I saw this place there were 20 or 30 vehicles here. I only see about 8. I guess they are the ones that didn’t finally start,” Hufham said quietly. Then he looked over at the boy. “What does that tell you?”

  Ricks continued to peer through his glasses. “I’d say they are scavenging transport and fuel along the way,” Ricks said. He pointed to the far side of the compound. “I don’t see a scratch on the fuel depot. I bet they filled up and took a little with them…” he stopped mid-sentence and pointed. “About 9 o’clock from the office. I just saw somebody move.”

  Hufham shifted his glasses and scanned the place Ricks pointed out. Just barely visible, he could see a leg moving back and forth between the edge of a building and a drum of something. The boy’s got good eyes, he thought. “That makes sense, doesn’t it? There’s still fuel here, so they leave some people behind to keep an eye on it. OK, let’s take this slow. You circle toward the gate and see how many there are. I’ll circle this way,” pointing to the back of the compound. “We take it slow and meet back here in one hour. Make sure you stay in the gullies and vegetation. No shooting since we don’t know how many there are yet. Just act like you’re a ghost and get info. Got it?”

  Ricks nodded. “One hour,” he said quietly. He turned and eased down into the bushes slowly making his way in silence. The sound of the crickets and other insects drowned out what little noise he made.

  Hufham was a little surprised at how the boy had grown up in the past few hours. He wasn’t cowering in a hole anymore. Somewhere between the Z and the motorpool he had grown a couple of balls. The kid was thinking like a soldier – on mission. It never dawned on Hufham that his own leadership and example had anything to do with it. The kid will go far, he thought as he got down on his belly and began crawling through the weeds. Every movement was getting a little more painful. Age sucks, the Master Sergeant thought as he made his way. Every so often he rose up to get an overall view. All was still quiet.

  The quiet was interrupted by a couple of shouts. At first Hufham thought Ricks had been found, but a few seconds later some vehicles rolled through the gate. Four men walked out of the sheltered area to greet the trucks and lead them to the fueling depot. After a few minutes, the trucks left fully fueled and the men returned to the shelter. Hufham wished he could hear what they were saying. He had learned the language over several tours, but the men were too far away to make it out. He checked his watch and decided it was time to head back to the rendezvous.

  Ricks was there waiting for him. The sneaky little shit actually surprised Hufham by concealing himself pretty well with some dirt and grease from an old drum that had been discarded. That earned the kid a slap on the shoulder and a big grin. He even borrowed some of the concoction to put on his own face. “I saw four guys. They are in a little open shed eating Ho-Hos and drinking sodas,” Ricks said. “I didn’t see anyone else.”

  “That’s old Charlie’s shack. He’s an old Korean that has a little concession stand there. I guess he’s out of business now,” Hufham said. “I didn’t see a soul, but I did see what we were coming for.”

  Ricks grinned slightly. He’d had a feeling there was a method behind this madness. Trust the sergeant to have a plan. “I didn’t see much of a way to sneak up on these guys. Just open ground from the gate all the way in. We don’t have grenades or we might get close enough to throw some. Is there another way in?” he asked.

  Hufham winked at the boy. “Trust me,” he said. “There was an accident a few years back and the fence was damaged. Split it wide open, but instead of fixing it, they just tied it together.” He pointed toward the other end of the compound. “If we go this way, there should be plenty of cover, but it’s two to one and I don’t like the idea of making a lot of noise.” He reached into his boot and pulled out a long knife. “You remember your basic training?”

  Ricks gulped at that. He hadn’t been that good at it, and he still considered himself a 90 pound weakling. Worse yet, he didn’t have a knife with him. He pointed that out to Hufham.

  “That’s okay. I can get you a knife,” Hufham said with an evil grin. “Until then let’s see how jumpy these guys are.” He picked up a rock and threw it deep into the yard. It rattled off some barrels causing the men in the shack to come out and look around. Three of them fanned out and searched the yard. After only a few minutes they gave up and returned to Charlie’s shack. A few minutes later another rock was thrown into another part of the yard. Only two came out this time and walked around a little. This time Hufham heard one of the guys say it must be the heat from the sun causing the metal barrels to expand. The men returned to Charlie’s.

  Using hand signals, Hufham led Ricks toward the back of the compound near the garage. Sure enough, behind a stack of oil drums was a place where the fence bulged out between two of the supporting poles. In the center, a simple rope held the links together. A couple of cuts later and both men were inside the compound making their way – building by building – toward the “enemy.” Hufham and Ricks both now thought of the North Korean soldiers as the “enemy.” In some ways, it
made what they were about to do much easier.

  Hufham stopped Ricks as they neared the corner of a building and listened. They could hear footsteps in the gravel of the yard that appeared to be getting closer. Hufham motioned for Ricks to stay put, then pulled his knife and eased farther along the wall. Listening carefully, he knew it was only one guy, not two or three. He stood and pressed himself tightly against the wall and waited. The soldier didn’t even have his rifle ready. He seemed to be looking for something as the sergeant reached out from behind him and cupped his hand across the soldier’s mouth. The knife flashed and the soldier stiffened and tried to cry out, but there was nothing he could do but die. The gurgle from the dying man’s throat could not be heard five feet away. Within a minute, the man was limp and Hufham dragged him away from the center of the compound.

  Ricks looked a little pale.

  “You gonna be okay?” Hufham asked.

  Ricks took a breath and nodded. Hufham reached into the belt of the dead soldier and grabbed something long and straight. “This should work,” he whispered as he unsheathed the bayonet.

  “Do the same thing I did, but put it through his back, kind up upwards, like this,” he said demonstrating the technique. “It’s good for stabbing, not cutting,” he said. The boy nodded in understanding but still looked a little pale. Hufham smiled at Ricks and placed a hand on his shoulder. Ricks gathered himself up and followed Hufham along the wall.

  There was a call out - probably for the dead soldier. Hufham said something in Korean changing his voice so that it sounded higher and echoing it off a back wall. Ricks looked at him questioningly. Hufham leaned in and whispered, “Told them I had to take a shit.” Ricks almost laughed. They even heard laughter from the shack. A couple of minutes later they were well concealed behind another building and Hufham whispered to Ricks, “Stay here and be ready. I’m going to sneak around to the left. If any come by, you know what to do.” He then eased around the opposite corner and was gone.

  There was a call again. This time, there was no answer. More laughter came from Charlie’s shack and one of the soldiers walked around to check on his friend. Ricks heard the footsteps getting nearer. He gripped the bayonet tightly in his hand and pressed himself into the wall. He could hear his blood racing in his ears and hoped no one else could hear it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the shoulder of a man appear walking along the building. Just like Hufham, he reached out and slapped his hand across the man’s face while shoving the bayonet deep into the man’s back. This time the man’s voice could be heard through his fingers and he was desperately trying to get his hands around to grab Ricks. Instinctively, Ricks pulled the bayonet out and shoved it forcefully in and up again. This time the man tensed and in only a moment went limp in Rick’s hands. Ricks could feel the life leave the man as his arms finally dropped and he took all of the weight. He swore he could even feel the man’s heart stop beating. Ricks pulled the man back into the shadows and laid him on the ground.

  The click of a rifle bolt was heard and Ricks turned to see another soldier aiming directly at him. Then something suddenly came at the soldier from behind. The soldier dropped like a rag. As he fell forward, Ricks saw a machete embedded neatly through the spinal cord in the man’s neck. Hufham eased down and gently rolled the soldier over. He was still breathing somewhat, and his eyes darted back and forth at Hufham and Ricks. It appeared he was trying to say something. Hufham gently patted the man’s face and said something to him in Korean. The young man appeared to calm a little. Hufham spoke again and the young man smiled slightly, though the fear in his eyes gave evidence he knew what was happening. Then Ricks came over and reached down, taking the man’s limp hand and holding it for both to see. The young man smiled weakly again and closed his eyes. In a moment, the breathing stopped.

  After a moment Hufham stood. “He’s just a kid,” he said sadly.

  Ricks could not keep his eyes off the boy. “What did you say?”

  “I told him I was sorry and that we would no longer hurt him. At the end I said to be at peace.”

  Ricks nodded. Then an overpowering urge swept over him and he lurched to the side and vomited into the sand.

  Hufham watched as the young man heaved violently. His first time had been not that long ago in Iraq. The young man he killed had been dressed almost in rags and so young he had trouble holding the assault rifle that lay beside him. The youthful face had been contorted in the pain of the bullet in his chest from Hufham’s own rifle. Even in death he could tell the young boy had been in agony his final moments. That was when Hufham understood that it wasn’t the kids’ fault they were fighting. It was the fault of some other person – a leader, a cleric, or a group of men – that had forced them to take up a rifle or some other form of destruction. Since then, that was the real person the Master Sergeant wanted on the end of his knife.

  Hufham walked over to a water bowser and filled one of the water cans. Ricks had finally stopped heaving and was sitting exhausted in the dirt. He took the can over and poured some water over Rick’s head. Ricks held out his hands and washed off the blood before filling them with water and washing his face. He then took out his canteen and washed out his mouth.

  “Don’t worry,” Hufham said quietly. “I did the same thing my first time. Stand up,” he ordered.

  Ricks did as he was told. Hufham poured the contents of the can over Rick’s uniform, washing most of the blood away. When he was done, Ricks looked like a drown rat. Hufham then grabbed another can and did the same for himself.

  Ricks looked around. “I thought there were four.”

  Hufham motioned for him to follow. They walked into Charlie’s shack. The soldier was sitting in a chair leaned back against a table. His head was sitting back on his shoulders at an awkward angle. “That’s why we tell you not to sleep on watch,” he said. “That last one left him here and I had to take care of business. Lucky it didn’t take but a second.”

  Ricks looked at Hufham almost in disgust. “You must have enjoyed yourself. Three in one morning.” You could tell he was disgusted with himself and anyone else that could kill with such disdain.

  Hufham chuckled. “If you think I enjoy it, you are sadly mistaken. I remember the face of every man – and this is the seventh that I have had to kill up close. I keep telling myself that I didn’t start whatever war I happen to be in, but might just be the one to end it. Just keep in mind – these guys would not hesitate to put that same knife through your heart if they had the chance. You are a soldier, and a soldier’s job is to kill people and break things. It may not be the fun you think I am having, but it’s a job that’s up to us to do. So soldier, you are stuck with it. Now grab your weapon. We’ve got a job to do.”

  Washington, D.C.

  In a Senate office building a meeting was going on. Senator Dan Williamson was visibly upset at the more recent turn of events. It was bad enough that his party had lost the recent election, but now they were getting blamed for the inability of the government to either detect or stop the attack. Now O’Bannon was crusading down a path of war and no one dared to stand in his way. He couldn’t let the party be run over this way. Three close confidants in his office listened to every word.

  “We have to derail this effort. Even though the President hasn’t said so publicly, the people are blaming our party for all this. More than that, if he succeeds in restoring the services in a short amount of time, I guarantee he will be hailed as some Caesar and we will be out holding the bag. I want us to find some way to change all that. So I need ideas.”

  Frank Fallon sat back in his chair. He had been dreading this meeting, but he had to give his best advice. As a thirty-year veteran of the political system, he had been instrumental in getting two presidents elected and keeping the party one step ahead of the game. Unfortunately, the last man elected had been a bone head that ignored his advice and had pulled out some pretty whacky ideas before being drummed out in a landslide election. Now the party was once again tryi
ng to get him to pull their proverbial nuts out of the fire. Senator Williamson was not a bad man, but he was an opportunist. He could smell out a weakness a mile away and exploit it. Now even he was grasping at straws. Williamson was up for election in two years and wanted the backing of both the party and his constituents. It was obvious he was starting that campaign now.

  Fallon took a deep breath. “Senator, if we go storming out right now the American public will stomp on us like a bunch of grapes. Everybody, and I mean everybody, is really pissed that they have personally been attacked and they want something to start happening. Whether we like it or not, O’Bannon is doing things. I talked to one of the White House staffers and they say no one has a clue who did this yet. Until then, there’s not much you can hold against him,” he said.

  “It goes deeper than that,” said Hank Yates, the party’s media czar. “Right now even if we did have something to say, there’s not much of a way to get that word out. The media is almost hard down. I could get something in the Post, but that’s about it. The President has a lock on what information is being put out to the media. I was told they all bought into it too. He told them it was all a part of keeping information from the enemy and all that garbage. When I started talking about freedom of the press, I was told there were other aspects of things I didn’t know about and was shut down,” he said.

  “What kinds of things are going on here?” Williamson asked. “What’s he got on them?”

  “Beats me. It’s not just the one, it’s all of the reps I talked to.”

  “Damn it. He can’t squash the people’s right to know! What can we do about this?”