Voyage (1)
"This is what you call small?"
Waves crashed relentlessly against the 10,000-ton bulk carrier, shattering into foam. This was supposed to be the small one? Min Cheol-woo couldn't wrap his head around it.
"Hong Kong's pretty far. Even running day and night without a break, it'll take over three days. A smaller boat would wear you out. Bigger ships have better facilities and less rocking."
Compared to the cargo it carried, yeah, it was huge. But with who knew how many people and supplies coming back, a 10,000-tonner was pretty much the minimum for a comfortable trip. Even now it rocked enough to make him queasy—what if it'd been some little dinghy? Cheol-woo got it now. His sister, who got seasick puking her guts out just yachting down the calm Han River, probably would've been praying for death by now.
"And most importantly, a bigger ship is easier to defend. Low deck means pirates clean your clock."
"Pirates? Around here?"
"On the open sea, screw up once and anyone's a pirate. See those fishing boats? They wave nice 'cause of the Oriental Group markings, but swap ships and it could've turned ugly."
Han Sa-jang pointed to a cluster of dark Chinese fishing vessels swarming like a pack. They nosed close, scoping them out before peeling off. Were they even fishing boats? Disguised? This was the neighborhood where rumors flew about Chinese public security posing as Hong Kong cops to crush protests—coastal guards in trawlers didn't seem far-fetched.
"Wait, aren't we still in Korean waters? Why the Chinese boats—"
"Enough chatter. We're short-handed. Time for a crash course in bulk carrier ops. Can't solo navigator, helmsman, and engineer all day without sleep."
"..."
Decent-sized freighter meant a ton to manage. No fussing with sails like a yacht, but the engine and rudder lagged like molasses. Spot something ahead? Start turning early. Bad weather cutting visibility? Disaster. Eyes glued 24/7—two-shift rotation was non-negotiable.
Han Sa-jang crammed basics of navigation, chart-reading, and course-plotting into Cheol-woo's head in minutes, then crashed on the bunk in the bridge corner with a curt "Wake me if shit hits."
Feels like I'm getting played. Half the day staring at ocean for three days straight? Cheol-woo's vision darkened.
"Sis. Up to the bridge. Urgent."
[Ugh... urk. Urrp. What? Urk...]
"Don't radio while puking."
[S-sorry...]
Seasick on this beast? He'd subcontracted the subcontract—nope, fucked.
Day two outbound to Hong Kong. Fresh off shift with Han Sa-jang, Cheol-woo slept deep, then hit meals. Mi-young—or was it Mi-jeong?—had gone full galley chef, hunkered in the mess rolling onigiri and kimbap like her life depended on it. Weird part: every time he showed, fresh batches. Girl never rested?
Cheol-woo emerged with an armload of twenty kimbap rolls, head tilted.
"What the—seriously..."
"What?"
"You two... how do you eat like that?!"
"Eat like what?"
"N-no, nothing..."
Mi-young deflated the second their eyes met, mid-protest. The carrier-stuffing? Wrecking the hold without a peep? Or waking to piles of bodies she'd supposedly killed? Now she trembled at a glance—no killing intent, yet. Enemy? Heart attack city.
"I slaved three hours prepping, an hour rolling kimbap and rice balls... Yuri sweeps 'em gone. Stack more, you clear 'em... I'm not a vending machine..."
"Got it. Good work. We'll eat well."
"Ah! Yes sir!"
Tears to sunshine, apron retied, fatigue vanished—she dove back into prep. Just praise-starved? Easy mark, but explained tagging along with Han Si-yeon to Hong Kong.
Down to the hold for gun checks. Bulk carrier: upper for ore, lower for vehicles and gear. Not just his kit—Han Sa-jang had scored RHIBs and quads, packed tight. Dock, ramp down, quads to shore; at sea, launch boats. This a landing ship now? Suspicions boiled.
Earthquake?
Cheol-woo's hands froze mid-magazine load. Low rumble—goosebumps everywhere. Like Seoul's, but stronger. Hong Kong quake again? Closer, hitting harder?
He bolted to the bridge. Air felt off—weird smell?
"Ah, Cheol-woo. Perfect timing. Fog's thick, can't eyeball it, but radar's got something small-boat sized. Check it?"
"Check how?"
"RHIB out. Don't know how? Helm here, I'll go."
"Teach me. I'm going."
Cheol-woo caught her sly grin. Send the civvie into fog blind? Knew he'd object, polite offer to bow out. Quick RHIB rundown and launch drill, then he shook Yuri awake for the hold.
"Yawwwn. Emergency? Lemme sleep more?"
"What are you, a newborn? All day snoozing? Pull weight—everyone's grinding."
"Seasick... sleepy no matter how much I sleep..."
"See this button? Electric winch. I return, I toss line—hook and reel. Got it?"
"Yeah..."
"Lend me your knife."
"Knife?"
Yuri's sleepy eyes snapped wide. My knife? Oh shit, where's mine? She patted down, realized she'd been idly drawing and sheathing it, sighed relief. Lend to Cheol-woo, even briefly? Hesitated on flashy Damascus pattern, yanked back, handed plain gray instead.
Hand-off, her face drained, pupils shaky—anxiety spiking. Old Cheol-woo would've shrugged "knives are knives," but gray blade plus her Migeun pistol hang-up? Totally got it.
"I'll use safe and return safe."
Nod nod. Hands clasped, fidgeting, Yuri watched him lower the aft ramp blocking the hold. Extension met sea level at a gentle slope. Cheol-woo shoved the RHIB down the ramp, hopped in.
Splash! Water down, per Han: outboard power on, kill switch clipped. No warning—boat surged forward.
Electric outboard, huh. Dead silent. No movie dramatics—rope snap, roar, gas stink? Mild letdown.
"Un-ID'd object—bearing?"
[11 o'clock from ship, 2.5 nautical miles—'bout 4.5 klicks.]
"Stationary?"
[Yeah. Been static since ping. Bail if sketchy—pirate trap maybe.]
Vrrrm—the RHIB blew past the freighter. Slap-slap—leaping waves, airborne bursts. Rougher seas? Unrideable. Cheol-woo clocked it.
Fog-piercing straight ahead, blue haze birthed red outline.
"Visual. Container? Yeah, red container drifting."
[Phew. Nothing. Container ships dump 'em in storms. RTB—don't drift off.]
"Hold up. Not just container—wooden boats clustered round."
[RTB now. Pirates scavenging.]
"No people. Hulls abandoned. Quick look, then back."
Radio spat static—dead. Fog swallowed silence; RHIB ghosted to container.
Cheol-woo's senses locked: waves slapping, flies buzzing. No footsteps, breaths—nothing. Boats, no crews? Or...
All dead?
"Fuck."
Closer, stench hit—grimace. Death reek stabbed nostrils. RHIB circled stern-to: container crammed with mangled red lumps.
Radio reactivated.
"People dead inside. Twenty-ish? At least ten."
[What?]
"Five boats—four per, twenty. Looks like they boarded, died inside. Hold—checking bodies."
[Hey! Just come back?]
All dead, chill. Cheol-woo booted a sampan aside, nudged RHIB to hatch. Shooing flies: bodies wrecked. Massive punch-holes riddled torsos—fist-sized craters.
Blood not fully clotted—fresh kills.
Massacre in a ditched container?
AK-47 bobbed inside. But rifle rounds don't punch fists through flesh. Not bullets—then what?
Bodies jammed deep inside, sardine-tight. Pushed in?
Trampled fleeing inward, wiped out?
Cheol-woo edged aboard cautious, shoving tangled corpses deeper. Reached far wall.
"Fuck. What the hell."
Sardines? Hundreds—no, thousands—dead, packed tight.
Grabbed one, held to nearby corpse hole. Size match: perfect.