Chosin File

North Korea—Operation Iceberg-1

North Korea—Operation Iceberg

It was hard to see much beyond 100 meters in the pitch dark and blowing sleet off the coast north of Hungnam. And the pitch and roll of the small inflatable boat caused by heavy, wind-driven chop in the Sea of Japan made it hard to focus. Shake got only occasional glimpses of the dark smudge marking the rocky stretch of beach along the desolate, uninhabited area they’d selected for the landing. There were three ROK Marines somewhere on that beach, making sure it was safe for the second boat carrying Shake, two more Korean Marines, and one very seasick U.S. Air Force NCO to come ashore.

Shake tugged on the line securing the IBS sea-anchor and maneuvered the boat more bow-on to the heaving swells. It didn’t help damper the motion much, but at least he could keep the shoreline in sight and have a better chance of spotting the pre-arranged signal from the recon party: Green for go, red for recover, and get the hell out of Dodge.

“See anything yet?” Master Sergeant Doug Bland, one of the most highly-skilled avionics technicians in the Pacific Air Forces, sounded like he was ready to heave another load of whatever was left in his stomach over the side. Shake had been feeding him Dramamine and electrolytes almost from the moment they left the submarine off the coast of North Korea but it hadn’t done much good. To avoid surface radar and patrol boats, the sub had to launch them well offshore in heavy sea conditions. The Marines were used to it, but Master Sergeant Bland most definitely was not.

“Nothing yet.” Shake took his eyes off the coastline long enough to look back over his shoulder at Bland huddled along the gunwale of the IBS. “Drink some more of that stuff in your canteen. We’re gonna need you healthy once we get ashore.”

Bland spit some bile over the side and Shake saw sets of white teeth showing through the camouflage on the faces of the two Korean Marines huddled back near the muffled outboard engine. They do this kind of thing all the time, he thought as he turned his attention back to the shoreline. Here we sit off a very unfriendly coast, all set to waltz right into the enemy’s backyard, and they’re laughing at a seasick American. Just another walk in the park for these guys.

“Assuming we actually get ashore…” Bland shifted position and screwed the cap back on his two-quart canteen bladder, “…how long to the crash site?”

“We briefed all that, Doug. About thirty clicks up and down the high ground—maybe two days in and two more out. You should be back at Hickham in a week. A lot depends on the weather.”

“And this horseshit weather is good, right? Reassure me.”

“North Koreans don’t like to be out in it any better than we do. Weather is the reason we decided not to insert by air ourselves. And as long as the weather stays bad, we don’t have to worry so much about helicopters and roving patrols. Should be a piece of cake; we get in while their air assets are grounded, you do your thing at the crash site and we’re gone. Forecasters in Seoul said this stuff will hold over the entire Korean Peninsula for at least a week.”

“And we all know how accurate the f*****g weather weenies are.” Bland tugged at the hood of the South Korean Army parka he was wearing and shivered. “See anything yet?”

“Yeah—here we go.” As the IBS topped a swell, Shake caught sight of a flashing light down low on the beach near a tall rock formation. “Green to go.” Shake nodded at the Korean Marines and felt the boat steady as they fired up the outboard and jammed it into gear. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

As they neared the crashing surf-line, Shake signaled for the ROKs to secure the outboard for a rough landing and patted Master Sergeant Bland reassuringly on the shoulder. “Just hang on and let us do the grunt work. When I say go, get over the bow and run for those rocks to your right.” Bland seemed like a nice enough guy, and Shake wanted to make the unfamiliar mission as easy for him as humanly possible. He also wanted to be very sure—as he’d been cautioned by a serious two-star in Seoul— that nothing happened that might cause Master Sergeant Doug Bland and all his state-of-the-art avionics expertise to fall into North Korean hands.

“Above all, it’s your responsibility.” The general had been emphatic and crystal clear in a private session with Gunner Shake Davis: “Under no circumstances—none whatsoever—is Master Sergeant Bland to be captured by the North Koreans.” Shake was fairly sure he understood what that meant. As the IBS plowed through the breakers and crunched onto North Korean soil, he was also determined to accomplish this mission without having to kill a fellow American.

* * *

It had been a brutal hump over the North Korean mountains through biting winds and blowing snow, but the crash site at last lay just below their perch on a rocky crag southeast of the Chosin Reservoir. The homing device in the U-2’s instrument package was still perking, and Bland’s hand-held scanner led them right to it with only an occasional assist from Shake’s map and compass work. There was no one in sight around the scattered field of aircraft debris and the weather was still shitty—what aviators ruefully describe as zero-zero: no ceiling and no visibility.

Shake checked his watch and determined it would be dark in less than an hour. He decided to rest the team and go after the sensitive pieces of the wreck at first light. Hiding in mountain snow-holes the first night after landing hadn’t given them much of the rest they needed for the hard push through the cold and wind to reach their objective. The Korean Marines seemed no worse for wear, but Bland was wobbling on shaky legs and showing signs of altitude sickness. If the weather stayed as horrible as it looked at this point, they could afford to rest before searching for classified gear and then using the sack full of thermite grenades they carried to destroy the U-2 wreckage. There was no doubt in his mind that the North Koreans would be out patrolling—looking for the crash site. Hopefully, they’d wait until the weather cleared. By that time, Shake wanted to be long gone, leaving nothing but a useless, burned-out pile of scrap in their wake.

“Go now? Or wait?” The Korean Marine team leader crouched next to Shake and offered a plastic sack of the malodorous stuff he was chewing. Shake knew from painful previous experience that the snack was winter kimchee, the fiery-hot pickled cabbage that the Koreans swore could keep a man from freezing in the worst sub-zero weather.

“Not much chance of air assets in this weather.” Shake fingered out a chunk of kimchee and popped it into his mouth. “Let’s rest until dawn when we can see what we’re doing and then hit it. Shouldn’t take us much more than an hour or two.”

Sergeant Sam Jackson of the Korean Marine Corps’ Deep Reconnaissance Company eyed the weather, sniffed the air, and glanced to his right where Bland was curled up under a white poncho liner dead asleep. “Your zoomie is going nowhere for a while.” He smiled at Shake and shrugged. “Maybe best we wait. No foot patrols, so we should be OK. I’ll take first watch.”

On the trek through the mountains, Shake admired the stocky Korean sergeant who moved like a machine but didn’t say much beyond what was necessary. What he did say was either a quick bark in Korean or a perfectly phrased comment in American English. It didn’t take long for Shake to recognize a competent professional soldier and about as tough a man as any he’d ever seen operating in dangerous, difficult conditions. In the mission brief, he’d introduced himself with a shy smile, read the surprise on Shake’s face, and filled in the blanks. “Dual Citizen. Dad was a soldier stationed at Camp Humphreys; Mom was working in the NCO Club. I went to school in LA for a while and then came back to Seoul, decided I liked Korea and joined the Marines—theirs, not yours.”

“You do this kind of thing a lot, Sam?” Shake looked around their little hide-site at the Korean Marines who seemed perfectly relaxed, either already asleep or casually brushing snow and moisture off their weapons.

“We jump the fence all the time, but usually not so far north. My guys have a lot of time in the islands off the west coast in the Yellow Sea and areas just north of the DMZ, but it all comes down to the same drill: Either whack the NKs and run, or lay chilly in their backyard and keep an eye on them. They do the same thing to us—just not as well.”

“Is that how come we haven’t seen any foot patrols so far?” Shake could feel the heat from the winter kimchee igniting in his belly and crawling up his esophagus. The steam from his breath in the frigid air smelled horrible.

“It’s a combination of things. The NKPA troops stationed out here aren’t the cream of anybody’s crop, and they don’t get paid enough to get real excited about traipsing around looking for what’s left of a crashed airplane in the cold. Add to that, the stupid bastards in Pyongyang probably have no idea it was a spy plane carrying classified gear. They’ll get around to patrols when the weather clears or some hard-ass arrives to kick them out into the snow.”

“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen anytime soon.” Shake pulled his white poncho liner out of his rucksack and mashed the sack of thermite grenades into a pillow. “Wake me in two hours and I’ll relieve you.”

* * *

“We got a problem.”

Shake snapped awake and sat up to see Sgt. Sam Jackson kneeling nearby, staring down the slope toward the crash site. He checked his watch. It was still an hour before what he’d calculated as nautical dawn, and there was no noise except for the muted sounds of the Korean Marines packing up their gear and weapons. It took him another few seconds to understand Jackson’s concern. There was no wind and there was no snow. The weather had taken a decided change for the better—or worse from their perspective.

“When did it happen?” He crawled over to join Jackson who was monitoring a burst transmission on the encrypted radio that was the only link to their mission control. “About an hour ago.” Jackson motioned for his radio man to pack up the unit and stood stretching his muscles. “Seemed like a good reason to break radio silence, so I asked for a quick update. The weather front blew out to sea. It’s stormy off the coast, but here we got nothing but blue skies and pleasant conditions, perfect for helicopter operations and foot patrols.”

Shake swept the surrounding hills for signs of daylight and glanced over at Bland who was sitting up looking distinctly groggy and bedraggled. “Better get your s**t together, Doug. Weather’s changed and we need to get moving in a hurry.” Bland struggled to his feet and stood staring down-slope toward the crash site, pondering the new development.

“Sam, let’s leave a couple of your guys up here on the high ground to listen for rotor blades and watch for patrol activity.” Shake shrugged into his fighting gear and shouldered the sack of thermite grenades. “The rest of us will hustle down there and start searching for classified gear.”

“I’m thinking we go with Plan B on the classified gear, Shake.” Bland shrugged into his equipment and packed away the sensor unit. “It’s up to you but I don’t think we should fart around trying to recover anything at this point. Best burn it all and get the hell out of here.”

“We start that many fires and somebody’s gonna see the smoke in a hurry.” Sgt. Jackson dispatched two of his Marines toward a high pinnacle off to their right where they would have excellent observation of the entire reservoir area. “I don’t know if they’ve got helicopters, but it won’t take long for that NKPA detachment at the power plant north of the reservoir to get here.”

“Sergeant Bland’s right on this one, Sam. We’ll have to take our chances. We can’t afford the time to sort through the wreckage, and if they get on our case, we don’t want to be running for the coast carrying extra gear.” Shake led the detachment down the slope toward the wreckage. “We’ll do this by priority. Doug, you find the most important stuff and we’ll burn that first.”