Free Korea Strait by David Poyer

Douglas MacArthur’s marines and troops had landed at Inchon, to bar the door behind the invaders. Before the Chinese had turned the course of the war once more.
    The Hotel Commodore was a scarlet and green and gold pagoda perched on a hill too steep to walk up comfortably. Its upper floors overlooked miles of snaky narrow streets and back alleys, every square inch lined with small homes and tiny shopfronts and teahousesand restaurants. The city fell away downhill to the waterfront, still a couple of miles distant. Pusan looked much older than Seoul. But then, it hadn’t been shelled to rubble, the way Seoul had.
    Hwang let him off at the ornate red-and-yellow entrance, shouting angrily at a stone-faced valet as the man heaved Dan’s bag out of the trunk. He didn’t see why, but decided against getting involved. This was Hwang’s country. He gave the porter a couple hundred won, checked in, and asked for Dr. Henrickson’s number.
    When Monty let him in the TV was on so loud the little analyst had to shout over his shoulder, “Donnie! Turn that crap down! The commander’s here.”
    The very small room was crammed with heavy, dark-lacquered furniture and the gray scuffed shockproof containers that held the classified gear. A nature show was on, narrated in Korean. Donnie Wenck sprawled on the floor like a kid watching cartoons. He was in his underwear, surrounded by crumpled balls of shiny foil. Chocolate wrappers. When he saw Dan he blushed. He groped for the control and rolled to his stockinged feet.
    â€œEverything good in Seoul?” the analyst said, pumping Dan’s hand as if he never wanted to stop. He looked as if he’d gotten some sun.
    â€œThat tan looks good on you, Monty. But I thought you guys’d be in Chinhae.”
    â€œWe were. Stocked up on those greasy burgers at the bowling alley.”
    â€œThat Korean food, that shit’s not good for you,” Wenck said, pulling on black jeans.
    Henrickson added, serious now, “But there might not be a SATYRE after all.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    The analyst held out a fax with the TAG letterhead. Dan read it and looked up. “They’re thinking about pulling out?”
    â€œNot them, Seventh Fleet. They’re getting cold feet.”
    He wondered why, but of course the fax didn’t say. “It won’t be much of an exercise without U.S. participation.”
    Henrickson shrugged as elephants trumpeted. At low volume it sounded more plaintive than threatening. Wenck had drifted back to the screen, riveted again. Dan said, “Hey, Donnie, you mind? Where are the others, Monty? Rit, and Teddy, and Captain…I mean, Joe? I figured you’d be aboard ship getting things checked out. Gettingthose nineteens installed. If the exercise cancels, we can always pull them out again.”
    â€œWell, we need to talk about that.”
    â€œAbout which?”
    â€œJoe.” Henrickson looked upward without moving his head. “He’s up in his room. Been there since we got here, actually.”
    Dan said, astonished, “O’Quinn didn’t go to Chinhae with you?”
    â€œJust stayed in his room. He pays extra to get a single.” Henrickson looked as if he expected Dan to do something about it. Wenck was still hypnotized by the nature show, scratching his butt crack through the jeans. Dan lowered his voice. “So you’re saying—what? That he’s drinking?”
    â€œWell, oh no, I wouldn’t say that. I didn’t say that.”
    â€œJust that he stays in his room? Nothing wrong with that. As long as he comes out when we need him.”
    The analyst shrugged. “I’m just letting you know.”
    â€œOkay. Message received. How about Oberg? Carpenter? Where are they?”
    A leopard coughed. Wenck, mesmerized, slowly unpeeled another Hershey’s Kiss. Henrickson sighed. “Well, Teddy’s over in Chinhae. He