microphone in front of his mouth. Captain Kim nodded, and either cleared his throat or grunted.
Hart went down the ladder to his cabin, turned on the light, took out his notebook, and went through each step necessary to turn the radio on. Then he put on the headset and picked up the microphone.
“Dispatch, Dispatch, H-1, H-1,” he said.
There was an immediate response, which this time— Hart having acquired faith in his ability to control the volume in his headset—did not hurt his ears.
“H-1, Dispatch, go.”
“One Seven Three,” Hart said into the microphone. “I say again, One Seven Three.”
“Dispatch understands One Seven Three, confirm,” the voice in Hart’s earphones said.
“Confirm, confirm,” Hart said into the microphone.
“H-1, Dispatch. Stand by to copy.”
That was the first time he’d heard that order, and he had absolutely no idea how he was supposed to reply.
“Okay, Dispatch,” he said into the microphone.
“Message begins, Proceed your discretion with great caution. Report immediately. Godspeed. The Boss, Message ends. Acknowledge.”
“Acknowledged,” Hart said, without really thinking about it.
“Dispatch clear.”
The hiss came back to Hart’s earphones.
Hart laid the microphone down, took off the headset, and then shut the radio down.
He went back on deck.
Captain Kim looked at him with a question in his eyes. He wants to know if I’ve finished.
Hart nodded.
The question on Captain Kim’s face was still there.
Hart made a cutting motion across his throat, which he hoped Captain Kim would interpret to mean that he had finished making his report.
Captain Kim began to shout.
What the hell is that all about?
One of the other Kims, and Lee, the cook, suddenly appeared in the forecastle door, and looked up at Captain Kim for orders. He shouted something, and they immediately went to the forward mast and started to raise the venetian blindlike sail.
Captain Kim reached into the control compartment and shut down the diesel engine.
Within minutes, all the sails were up, and the Wind of Good Fortune was moving toward the landmass under sail.
Three minutes later, Hart was able to pick out the lighthouse that marked the entrance to the Flying Fish Channel.
He went over the message from General Pickering in his mind.
He didn’t have to tell me to proceed at my discretion and with great caution. I don’t have any “discretion.” I told him I would sail into Tokchok-kundo on this thing and get the SCR to McCoy, presuming he and the others are still there, which means I have to do it, and there’s no discretion involved.
Great caution? I’m not, and he knows I’m not, John Wayne. Of course I’m going to be careful.
Report immediately? He should have known I’d do that, anyway. The only reason I’m bringing the goddamn radio is so that he’ll have contact with McCoy, and McCoy— presuming he’s there—wouldn’t wait until Thursday of next week to get in contact.
What’s the variable meaning? What am I missing?
Okay. McCoy is not there. He and Taylor never made it to the island from the destroyer, or they made it and were grabbed by the North Koreans. If that’s the case, Zimmerman and the others have also been grabbed by the NKs.
Wishful thinking aside, that’s the most likely situation.
So we sail in there, fat, dumb, and happy, and we get grabbed. And get shot as spies, especially me in these goddamn pajamas.
Oh, shit! Report immediately means that if he doesn’t hear from me, immediately, I will have been grabbed— which would mean that everybody else has been grabbed, too—and that would mean this whole operation has gone down the toilet.
Of course, he’d want to know that immediately. Maybe there would be time to try something else, maybe not, but he would want to know right away.
So what’s the point of the great caution?
If the NKs are holding Tokchok-kundo, is there any chance I could see them before they see me and get out of there with my ass intact?
About as much chance as there is of me being taken bodily into heaven.
So what this really boils down to is we go in there and (a) McCoy greets me with a brass band and asks me what took me so long, or (b) we go in there and half the North Korean army greets me with a couple of machine guns.
And after a suitable interrogation, shoots me—which they have every right to do, with me in my spy pajamas.
I don’t want to be interrogated; somehow I suspect I won’t be able to claim my constitutional right to refuse to answer any questions on the grounds they may tend