The Journey of the Baekdu

The Boy Who Cried Submarine

Deep within the fortified walls of Cheyenne Mountain, Lieutenant Greg sat upright in his chair, his uniform pressed to perfection, buttons gleaming as if he were about to lead a naval review. His eyes locked on the radar screen in front of him, lips pursed in righteous concentration.

"This is it," he muttered to himself, tapping a finger against the side of his console with dramatic flair. "I've got you now, you sneaky little devils."

Bill, his fellow radar technician, leaned back in his chair, feet propped up on the desk, leisurely flipping through an old magazine. He took a long, exaggerated yawn, loud enough for Greg to hear.

"Greg," Bill said lazily, not bothering to look up from his reading, "if this is about that blip again, I'm going to stop pretending to care."

Greg whipped around, eyes blazing. "Blip? Blip!? Bill, this could be an international incident! A North Korean sub—their finest piece of military hardware—lurking off our coast, preparing to strike! And you're sitting there reading... Sports Babble Quarterly?"

Bill sighed. "Greg, for the hundredth time, you're tracking crab boats. Crabs. They catch them in pots. They are not agents of North Korea."

Greg stood, puffing out his chest and striding over to Bill's desk with all the self-importance of someone whose most significant responsibility was once filing paperwork in triplicate. "You think this is some sort of game, don't you? Some joke. Well, it's not! This is serious military intelligence, and I happen to be the only person in this room capable of connecting the dots!"

Bill rolled his eyes, still not looking up from his magazine. "I'll bet the coast guard is just dying to get your next crab-fishing report. 'Lone rogue boat terrorizes our shores!' Maybe they'll promote you straight to Chief of Fishy Movements."

Greg was not to be deterred. He strutted back to his monitor, adjusting his collar for no one in particular. "This is how it starts, you know. A small sub, scouting the coastline. Next thing you know, we've got Kim Jong-un himself knocking on the front door with a nuke in his suitcase, and they'll all say, 'Why didn't anyone see it coming?'"

He turned dramatically, pointing an accusatory finger at Bill. "Because you were too busy flipping through stories on fooseball! That's why!"

Bill flipped a page lazily. "Right. Well, you make sure to catch those crabs before they get us, Greg. Hero's work, what you're doing."

Greg's eyes narrowed. "This isn't a game, Bill. This—" he gestured wildly at his screen "—is the very essence of vigilance! The fate of the nation rests on our shoulders! When the brass looks at this report and sees that I tracked an enemy submarine down the entire coast, they'll know who to thank."

Bill popped a bubble with his gum, now flipping through his magazine upside down, clearly just trying to get through the shift. "And when they tell you it's a fishing boat, you'll get a free lobster roll and a pat on the back for your 'whale' of a service."

Greg, undeterred, began scribbling furiously in his notepad. "I'll log this event and flag it. That way, when North Korean operatives infiltrate and sabotage our oil platforms—guess who'll be the hero then?"

Bill finally put down his magazine and turned to Greg with exaggerated patience. "Greg, let me explain something to you: If that 'sub' you're tracking is North Korean, then I'm the Supreme Leader's cousin."

Greg's hand shot out dramatically toward the radar. "Blip. Right there. Heading north. What say you now, infallible one?"

Bill rubbed his eyes, sighing deeply. "Look, I'll make you a deal. If that blip is actually a North Korean submarine, I'll buy you a steak dinner at the finest restaurant in town."

Greg smirked, completely missing the sarcasm. "You're on. But when I get my medal of honor for saving the country from nuclear annihilation, I'll make sure to mention you in my acceptance speech as one of the hurdles I had to overcome to get there."

Bill returned to his magazine, grinning. "Looking forward to it, Commander."

Greg leaned back into his chair, satisfied with his dedication to duty. His eyes never left the screen as he meticulously tracked the tiny, sputtering blip making its slow, erratic way down the coast. With every twitch of the radar, Greg's conviction grew. It didn't matter if Bill didn't believe him. It didn't matter if they all thought he was overreacting.

"Just wait," Greg muttered to himself, puffing out his chest one more time. "When I crack this case wide open, they'll have to name a whole wing of the Pentagon after me."

As Bill flipped another page and popped another bubble, the radar screen blinked quietly in the dim room. Somewhere out there, in the cold waters of the Pacific, a rusted, barely functional North Korean submarine continued its ridiculous journey, blissfully unaware that it was being "tracked" by Greg, the self-proclaimed savior of national security.