Chapter 3: Secrets and Scars

Around 9 a.m., the U.S. Coast Guard Enforcement Vessel 118 received a call from the Great Lakes Maritime Administration, asking for its position and instructing it to await further orders from headquarters. On the bridge of Vessel 118, the captain sipped burnt coffee, listening intently as the message came through. A rookie tried to lighten the mood with a bad joke about Cleveland winters, but nobody laughed. The Coast Guard crew, mostly young but seasoned, prepared for what sounded like a long day.

At this time, Vessel 118 and another enforcement ship had just exited the eastern entrance of the Tsugaru Strait in Hokkaido, Japan, and were heading into the northwest Pacific on official duty. The strait was famous for its fierce winds, but today the sea was unnaturally calm. The crew, used to the monotony of patrol, felt the tension ratchet up as orders shifted toward a rescue mission.

Around 11 a.m., Vessel 118 received a fax from headquarters, ordering it to proceed immediately to the western Pacific, 1,080 nautical miles away, to rescue Ocean Star 2682. A faded fax machine whirred to life, spitting out the urgent dispatch. The captain barked at his crew to change course, engines revving as the ship swung east. Men rushed to prep medical kits and rescue gear.

It wasn’t until evening that Vessel 118 finally managed to contact the distressed ship, but the distance was so great that the radio signal was extremely weak and communication was nearly impossible. The radio hissed and crackled, voices barely audible over the static. Crew members jotted down fragments, straining to make sense of the garbled words, every minute dragging out under the low, orange sky.

After another night of sailing, at about 6 a.m. on July 26, the two vessels were finally able to communicate normally by radio. The sun rose, painting the sky with hopeful light. The bridge hummed with anticipation as voices on both ends now came through clear—relief palpable, if only for a moment.

Lillian Yu, captain of Vessel 118, immediately inquired about the situation on board. Lillian’s voice was calm, but underneath, she was all business—the kind of leader who’d seen plenty in her decade at sea, but never something quite like this. She barked questions, her words clipped but concerned.

"The fishing vessel is generally stable now and won’t sink."

A collective sigh of relief swept the Coast Guard crew. Men loosened their grips on coffee mugs, tension easing slightly, though the edge of worry remained.

"Are all 33 people on your ship safe?"

The question lingered in the air. Someone on Vessel 118 started jotting notes on an official incident form, ready for the worst.

"...Now...only 11 are left." The captain of the distressed vessel, Caleb Chen, clearly hesitated when answering.

There was a long pause. On both ends of the radio, men exchanged worried glances. The number seemed impossible.

Lillian was stunned: "Where are the other 22?"

Her voice broke through, sharper now. On the deck, sailors stopped what they were doing to listen in.

"Well...the situation is very complicated. Let’s wait until we return and I’ll report to the boss." Caleb replied, obviously reluctant.

The hesitance in his voice was unmistakable, the kind of tone that makes a Coast Guard captain’s hackles rise. Lillian drummed her fingers on the console, mind racing through protocols for foul play and missing persons at sea.

Lillian immediately realized something major must have happened on Ocean Star 2682. She shot a look to her first mate, who nodded grimly. This wasn’t just a rescue—it was a crime scene in waiting.

She didn’t press further, but quickly reported to the Maritime Administration. Fingers flying over the satellite phone keypad, she relayed the update, voice tight: “We may have a serious situation—potential casualties or criminal activity. Please advise.”

While waiting for the U.S. rescue ship, Japanese Coast Guard vessels also arrived at the scene and sent personnel aboard Ocean Star 2682. The Japanese Coast Guard handed out cases of bottled water, saltines, and shrink-wrapped loaves of white bread—comfort food for men who hadn’t tasted fresh anything in weeks. Aboard the Ocean Star, the surviving crew snatched up the supplies with shaking hands. The crackers tasted stale, but after days of rationing, it was a feast. One crewman sat on a hatch cover, chewing dry bread and staring at nothing, lost in thoughts he wouldn’t share.

During these days, the 11 survivors held several secret meetings in quick succession. They kept their voices low, flinching at every footstep on the steel deck, afraid the Coast Guard or worse might overhear. Below deck, huddled in the cramped galley, their voices dropped to hushed whispers. The harsh glow of fluorescent bulbs threw sharp shadows on their tired faces. Some men glanced nervously at the watertight doors, as if expecting ghosts—or lawmen—to burst through any second.

On July 29, at 8:20 a.m., U.S. Coast Guard Vessel 118 finally reached the location of the distressed vessel. The sun glinted off the white hull as Vessel 118 drew alongside. The Coast Guard crew, clad in blue and orange, readied boarding ladders. The 11 survivors lined up, bleary-eyed and pale, unsure of what awaited them.

U.S. law enforcement officer Marcus Goodwin and five Japanese Coast Guard personnel boarded Ocean Star 2682. Boots clattered on the steel deck. Marcus, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a steady gaze, led the team. The Japanese officers fanned out, their movements crisp and purposeful.

The Japanese sent two divers to inspect the hull underwater. The divers disappeared beneath the waves, trailing bubbles. Crewmen on deck fidgeted, exchanging uneasy looks as they watched the clock and waited for the verdict.

It turned out the vessel had nearly sunk because a valve at the bottom had been opened, allowing large amounts of seawater to flood the engine room. The discovery sent a chill through the investigators. An open valve wasn’t an accident—someone had tried to scuttle the ship. Someone had tried to sink the Ocean Star on purpose. And whoever did it was still standing on deck, pretending to be a victim.