The Third Mate

Jun Do was down in the Junma’s aft hold, a steel room big enough for a table, chair, typewriter and a stack of receivers that had been pilfered from American tanks and planes in the war. The hold was lit only by the green glow of the listening equipment, which was reflected in the sheen of fish water that seeped under the bulkheads and constantly slicked the floor. When Jun Do looked at the walls, he could visualize what was on the other side: chambers of tightly packed fish sucking their last breath in the refrigerated dark.

They’d been in international waters for three days now, their North Korean flag lowered so as not to invite trouble. First they chased deep-running mackerel and then schools of jittery bonito that surfaced in brief patches of sun. Now they were after sharks. All night the Junma had longlined for them at the edge of the trench. At daybreak, Jun Do could hear above him the grinding of the winch and the slapping of sharks as they cleared the water and struck the hull.

From sunset to sunrise, Jun Do monitored the usual transmissions: fishing captains mostly, the ferry from Uichi to Chongjin, even the nightly check-in of two American women rowing around the world – one paddled all night, the other all day, ruining the crew’s theory that they’d made their way to the East Sea for the purpose of having sex.

Hidden inside the Junma’s rigging and booms was a strong array antenna, and above the helm, disguised as a loudspeaker, was a directional antenna that could turn 360 degrees. The US and Japan and South Korea all encrypted their military transmissions, which sounded only like piercing squeals and bleats. But how much squeal and where and when seemed important to Pyongyang. As long as he documented that, he could listen to whatever else he liked.