Captain Yokang ordered his ship to come about.
"We will try for the open sea," he said bitterly.
The frigate changed course smartly, its greater power and maneuverability giving it a clear advantage over the other craft, which moved onto intercept courses.
From the bridge of his ship, Captain Yokang Sako surveyed the assembled armada and trembled. There was the Soho-class frigate Chosun, the patrol submarine Sanshin. And two Iwon-class torpedo boats, the Um and the Yang.
Most formidable of all was the single destroyer in the North Korean Navy, the Juche. It was moving in from the west, where it had obviously lain in wait, and it was getting inexorably closer to the SA-I-GU, its great deck guns swiveling toward the frigate.
"They dare not fire at us," Yokang shouted to his quailing bridge crew. "For if we sink, the gold sinks with us."
But it did not matter. There was no place to run to. If he turned again, Yokang knew, he would lose precious headway.
With the Juche blocking all escape, Captain Yokang Sako order©! his ship to come to a dead stop. The other ships were moving to surround the SA-I-GU.
From the Juche a shell sizzled across their bow to land with a frightening splash in the Yellow Sea.
A radio message crackled through the warm morning air: "Prepare to be boarded."
"What do we do?" asked Tuggobi, the first officer.
"We await our fate," said Yokang, then added, "perhaps they will be satisfied with the gold and not require our necks in nooses."
The look on the first mate's drained-of-blood face said that this was a very faint hope indeed.
Minutes passed. Then from the surrounding vessels of the North Korean Navy no moves were made. No boats were put off. Nor were any further shots fired.
"What do they wait for?" the first mate asked nervously.
"I do not know," admitted Captain Yokang Sako, feeling his thick neck and swallowing hard. His mouth and throat felt very dry.
Another minute passed, and from the port side came a thump.
Another thump followed. And another. It was as if great nails were being driven into the armored side of the SA-I-GU.
Sailors rushed to the port rail and looked down. They began making a commotion, yelling and screaming and pointing downward.
And every time another thump came, they jumped in time with it.
The thumping came closer, and the sailors shrank back from the rail.
For over the side climbed a man. He was tall and wore black. A fighting costume of some kind.
Captain Yokang trained his field glasses upon the man. A white. It was a giant with great, round, angry eyes that promised death. He moved among SA-I-GU's defenders, extracting side arms from hands with such force the hands often broke off at the wrists. Two men closed on him with swords. Flat white hands came up to meet the blades, and the blades broke like glass.
The white whose hands were more steel than steel reached out for his disarmed attackers and in unison rendered them helpless and writhing on the blood- slickened deck by a technique Yokang had never before seen.
He pulled their underpants up hard and high, evidently causing such immobilizing agony in the area of their testicles that they died of shock after squirming on the deck for several painful seconds.
After that the crew of the SA-I-GU retreated in terror before the white man who knew such chilling ways to kill brave Koreans.
The field glasses fell from his shaking hands, and Captain Yokang said, "We are betrayed. Pyongyang has given us up to the Americans.''
From the stern came a cry that gave the lie to Yokang's prediction. "Sinanju Sensing! Sinanju Son-saeng!" Master of Sinanju.
"What?"
Yokang surged to the rear of the bridge. Walking along the starboard rail came an old kimono-clad Korean—short, purposeful and in his way more menacing than the giant of a white. The crew shrank back before him like frightened children.
He wore white. The color of death.
Death came into Captain Yokang's face then. All color drained from it until it resembled a sun-bleached mask of bone.
"The submarine captain lied," said Yokang, voice quaking. "The fool. I would have spared his life had he told the truth. The gold was destined for Sinanju, after all. We did it all for nothing. We are about to die for nothing."
The cold voice of the Master of Sinanju rang out, "Where is the skulking dog who commands this ship?" • Captain Yokang swallowed the dryness in his mouth and walked to the bridge ladder. With legs that felt like water-filled balloons, he descended to the deck and prepared to throw himself on the mercy of the one of whom it was said had upheld a tradition of no mercy for three thousand years.
As he walked to meet the Master of Sinanju, Captain Yokang Sako resolved in his mind what he would say. There was a hope in his heart. It was a faint one. But the Master of the village of the three nos might find it in his heart to forgive Yokang once he told his story.
Through the rising fear in his belly, Yokang tried to summon up the exact words his father had used so long ago.
The President of the United States had all but resigned himself to being the Chief Executive fated to go down in history as the one who presided over the economic decline of the nation when the miracle barged into the Oval Office in the form of the First Lady.
"Look at this," she said, slapping down a stack of computer printouts. • "What is it?"
"The messages off the net."
"Oh, yeah. That was a good idea you had. The public communicating with their President by electronic mail. But this isn't exactly the time for fan mail."
"Look at the message circled in yellow," the First Lady said.
The President plucked up the top sheet.
The message was terse:
Declare bank holiday if no resolution of Fed crisis by Tues a.m. Am working on solution.
smith@cure.com
"I thought only the inner circle knew about this crisis," the First Lady said impatiently.
"I guess someone else does, too," the President said evasively, hoping his wife would take the hint.
The First Lady wasn't buying. "Who is Smith and what is Cure?"