"This, gentlemen," Neil said in the darkness, "is the U.S.S. Chimera, ARL 42. She's three hundred twenty-eight feet long, with a fifty-foot beam and an eleven-foot draft. Top speed eleven knots. She carries a complement of eleven officers and one hundred eighty-two enlisted personnel. The ship was laid down in 1945 as the LST 1156. Today, she is the last World-War-II-era LST still in service with the U.S. Navy. Chimera served as a light repair ship until 1971, when she was finally mothballed at Bremerton.
"In the early eighties she underwent a full refit. The machine shops, foundries, all the inboard repair ship gear were torn out and replaced by the latest in electronic wizardry from our friends at Fort Meade."
That brought a low buzz of murmured conversation from the men sitting in the darkened room. Electronics and Fort Meade meant the National Security Agency.
"In 1985 she was recommissioned as an AGI," Neil continued, an intelligence collection ship. Six months ago, when the crisis in Korea first began building, she was deployed to the Sea of Japan. Her mission was to remain well offshore, one hundred, one hundred fifty miles at sea, eavesdropping on Korean Communist radio and radar transmissions, recording them for decoding by the NSA. Three days ago, Chimera received new orders from the Navy Department. It was felt… expedient to move her in close to shore, close enough that she could monitor local tactical radio frequencies. The Jefferson's battle group was moving into the area at the time, and Washington wanted a more accurate picture of what the Koreans were up to."
The slide projector chunked again, and the converted LST was replaced by another map, this one a close-up of the peninsula's east coast. "Here's the coastline we're interested in," Neil said. He used a pointer in the shaft of light to throw a shadow on the screen, a black finger lying across the Sea of Japan. "These are the PDRK's major east coast ports… Ch'ongiin up here in the north… the Hamhung-Hungnam complex… and down here is Wonsan, sixty miles above the Demarcation Line. Wonsan is the principal KorCom port on the east coast.
"I think it's important to point out at this point that Chimera was operating in international waters throughout this time," Neil said. "The Koreans have recognized the international twelve-mile limit. Chimera was under orders to approach the Korean coast no closer than fifteen miles at any point.
"For reasons which have not yet been ascertained, North Korean forces attacked Chimera yesterday morning, beginning at approximately zero-seven-thirty. The attack took place here… fifteen miles off the coast, and about thirty miles from the port of Wonsan. Radar intercepts suggest that both air and surface units were involved. One of our Hawkeyes tracked Chimera all the way into Wonsan Harbor, and we must assume she is there now."
Neil signaled for the room lights to be brought up and snapped off the projector. He walked toward the front of the room, hands on hips. "Washington, obviously, is concerned. At zero-two-fifty this morning, Jefferson's battle group received orders through CINCPAC and Seventh Fleet to move to a new operational area, centered one hundred fifty miles east of the North Korean port of Kosong. Our orders as of this time are to hold our position, to take no action which will further inflame the situation until Washington can develop a viable strategy."
Someone muttered something near the front of the room, and Neil turned sharply to face him. "You said something, Mr. Greene?"
"Yes, sir," the skipper of VA-89 said loudly. Lieutenant Commander Greene was CO of the Death Dealers, one of Jefferson's two A-6F Intruder squadrons. Marusko knew the man had a reputation as a bigmouth. Loud he might be, and opinionated, but he was a good pilot… and a good skipper. "I just said, sir, that we could give Washington one hell of a viable strategy. An A-6 strike on Wonsan would be just about perfect!"
"Right on, Jolly," someone else said. "Bomb the SOBs back to the Stone Age!"
"Which is just what we can't do, gentlemen," Neil said, asserting control once more. "Washington wants to keep a lid on the situation here. The intelligence community just isn't sure yet what the Korean Communist intentions are ― why they've provoked this crisis."
"Intelligence, right," muttered Steve Murcheson, commander of the carrier's other Intruder squadron, VA-84. Marusko knew what he was thinking. Neil's reference to "the intelligence community" meant the CIA, the NSA, and military intelligence all working together, organizations that had been wrong at least as often as they'd been right in recent years. They'd been great at collecting information, but analysis was weak. Marusko had known cases where field commanders had actually been hampered by too much raw data, with no way to tell what was important and what was not.
And when it came to guessing what was going through the minds of the enemy, well…
The younger Magruder leaned back in his seat with his arms folded across his chest. "What I want to know is why we weren't allowed to go in and help the Chimera yesterday? If Washington wanted to keep things bottled up, they should have done something to keep the gomers from taking her into port!"
"You got that right," VF-97's skipper said. John "Made it" Bayerly gave Tombstone a cocky thumbs-up. "If we could've gone in across the line, a strafing run or two would've driven off the Korean ships, and-"
"It's a bit late for recriminations now," Neil interrupted. "We just have to play with the hand we've got."
"Some hand," Tombstone said. "Two hundred hostages held in Wonsan. What are we supposed to do, sit here and make faces at the North Koreans?"
"The State Department has initiated action, Commander," Neil said. "While we have no diplomatic relations with the PDRK, we have access through the Military Armistice Commission at Panmunjom. A formal deputation will meet with-"
"A formal deputation?" the younger Magruder exploded. "Those SOBs pirated one of our ships and shot down one of our aircraft! Don't you-"
"Just a moment," Admiral Magruder said, stepping up behind the podium. "May I remind you… may I remind all of you that it is not the Navy's place to tell Washington what to do. We carry out foreign policy. We don't make it. For now, and until further notice, this carrier group is on hold, to be used if and when the National Command Authority deems it necessary."
Marusko sighed. The magic name of the National Command Authority had been invoked. It would be the President of the United States, working through the Joint Chiefs and State, who would handle the responsibility now.
"Any questions?" Neil asked. His manner made it clear he did not expect any.
Paul Larson raised his hand. The lanky commander was CO of VS-42, Jefferson's squadron of antisubmarine Vikings.
"Commander Larson?"
"Just what are we up against? I've never thought much about the North Koreans as Naval opponents!"
Several members of the audience chuckled.
"We shouldn't face too much in the way of direct threat to our carrier group," Neil agreed. "They have four Najin-class frigates, one of which was probably involved yesterday with Chimera's capture. Osa missile boats, patrol craft." He glanced at the admiral. "Their primary offensive arm is their submarine fleet, Whiskey-class boats, and a few Romeos. But they're all diesel jobs, out-of-date and noisy as hell. They won't be a problem."
"What about third parties?" Commander Drexler asked. The skipper of VAQ-143 sounded worried. "Just how big a problem are the Chinese or Russkies going to be?"
Neil gave a small shrug. "Wish we knew. Intelligence doesn't think either Beijing or Moscow is going to come out in support of the PDRK, but at this point, their intentions are anybody's guess."
"There's intelligence again," Murcheson muttered.
"Thank you, Commander Neil," Admiral Magruder said, stepping up to the podium. The look in his gray eyes as he took Neil's place made Marusko think he wanted to head off further comment. None of the aviators in CVIC looked happy, and several wore expressions that were downright belligerent. He remembered an acronym which had made its way through military circles for years, one which had been invented by the raiders who went into Son Tay to rescue American POWs in 1972. Their unofficial symbol had be
en a mushroom with the letters KITD/FOHS.
Kept in the dark, fed on horse shit. This looked to Marusko like a similar situation, one where American lives were going to be put on the line with inadequate intelligence… and possibly inadequate backing as well.
And the skippers of Jefferson's air wing were beginning to feel the same way.
"Gentlemen," the admiral said. "As of now, this carrier group is on full alert. Within two hours this command can expect the arrival of a Marine Expeditionary Unit. The Chosin and her escorts put to sea from Okinawa last night. They should rendezvous with us by eleven hundred hours this morning, and their presence will give us full amphibious capability, if it becomes necessary to go ashore.
"Our orders are to be prepared to implement whatever policy the National Command Authority deems necessary for resolving this crisis." The admiral's eyes shifted, seeking out Lieutenant Commander Greene. "Obviously, air strikes against North Korean targets are one possible option. I would like to steal a march on Washington and get the planning for such a strike under way at once. Each of you will coordinate with CAG in preparing operational orders for sorties against the North Koreans." A low, chorused groan rose from the seated men. Writing op orders meant hours of paperwork… all in addition to their other duties.
Admiral Magruder held up his hand. "We will assume three levels of response: aggressive patrolling, strikes against selected ground targets, and full amphibious operations. CAG will pass out folders with what we know about KorCom radars, SAM sites, and other installations along the east coast.
"It is my intent, gentlemen, to be fully ready to carry out whatever is asked of us." He paused, giving the room one last sweep with those icy eyes. "Dismissed!"
The officers came to attention as the admiral strode past them and out the door.
CHAPTER 7
0900 hours
Nyongch'on-kiji, People's Democratic Republic of Korea
They pulled him out of the hole in the ground with shouts and curses. His hands were still lashed behind his back, and Coyote could no longer feel his fingers.
It had been a long night, and a cold one. His flight suit was still wet from his inadvertent swim the day before, and crouching in the mud at the bottom of the pit had left him chilled to the very core of his being.
"You come, imperialist damn sonabichi!" A rifle butt planted hard against his spine sent him sprawling facedown on the ground. A booted foot caught him in the side, sending a blast of pain through his chest and shoulder. "Up, sonabichi! You up!"
"With a kick like that, you oughta try out for the Cowboys," Coyote muttered through clenched teeth. Rough hands grabbed his arms and hoisted him to his feet. Prodded and jabbed by the muzzles of his guards' AK-47s, Coyote was herded toward the low, concrete block building in the center of the compound.
They'd brought him to that building for the first time the previous afternoon. He'd been hauled dripping from the North Korean gunboat which had plucked him from the sea and paraded through the streets of Wonsan while civilians raised clenched fists and chanted unintelligible phrases in which the words "imperialist" and "American" were prominently featured. At some point in the festivities, he'd been tied and blindfolded, slung like a sack of grain into the back of a truck, and transported over rough roads winding up into the mountains which backed Wonsan against the sea.
He was being held in a military base of some sort. Even blindfolded yesterday afternoon, he'd recognized the growl of military trucks and other vehicles, the measured stamp of booted feet marching in formation, the bark of orders and the answering whisk-crash of weapons brought to order arms.
The blindfold had been removed during his first interrogation and his suspicions had been confirmed. This was an Army base, a compound consisting of the drab, utilitarian buildings so prevalent in progressive socialist societies. Many were stained, looking as though they dated back to the Second World War. One, a three-story apartment building, was a barracks, Coyote guessed. Beyond the chain-link fence that encircled the compound he could see the ocean, dazzling under a morning sun. He concluded that the base must be located somewhere in the hills south of the city.
Wonsan was squeezed in between the waters of the bay called Yonghung Man and the mountains of Korea's spine. East of the city, a narrow peninsula reached north from the mainland, almost cutting Wonsan off from the sea. Sprawled across the peninsula, only a few miles north of the camp, he could see a large air base; distant thunder echoed among the mountains and in the sky, MiGs on patrol.
Surrounding the city, crowded onto the narrow shelf of land between sea and mountain, was the tangled sprawl of Wonsan's industrial heart. Coyote could see factories, the cranes and smokestacks of shipyards and industrial plants, the wire-festooned masts of high-tension-line towers bringing hydroelectric power in from the north, and the squat, neatly ordered drums of oil storage tank farms. Wonsan was the second-largest city in the People's Democratic Republic of Korea and one of its most important industrial centers. The camp lay at the edge of Wonsan's southern industrial sprawl, near roads and factory chimneys which poked into the hazy air like fingers. Military traffic rumbled along a nearby highway beyond the compound's outer fence, trucks and flatbed trailers carrying antiaircraft cannon.
His inspection of the city and its surroundings was brutally interrupted as a guard knocked him down with an AK butt once more, then kicked him viciously several times in the ribs and thigh. "Up, sonabichi dog! You up!"
Yanked to his feet again, he was dragged up the steps in front of the concrete building he'd tentatively identified as a security Headquarters of some sort, past a brace of unsmiling guards and into a low-ceilinged passageway that was all gray paint and naked light bulbs. The second office on the right was occupied by a hard-eyed little officer who smoked incessantly and who spoke almost perfect English.
He introduced himself as Colonel Li. The guards made Coyote kneel in the middle of the floor, while the officer rounded the desk and perched on the corner. "Good morning, Lieutenant," he said, taking a pull on his cigarette. "I trust you slept well?"
Coyote did not answer. One of the guards standing unseen at his back kicked him in the hollow of his knee, knocking him to the floor. The other stepped in front of him and kicked him in the face, a light touch which left him blinking away stars. Coyote could taste the salty stickiness of blood in his mouth. He struggled against the ligatures which bound his wrists and elbows. Someone grabbed him by his hair and dragged him upright again.
Li took the cigarette from his mouth, holding it between two fingers. "Name?"
"Willis E. Grant," Coyote replied. He swallowed. The words were muffled through swollen lips and a spreading numbness in the side of his face. "Lieutenant, United States Navy. Service number three-two-"
A rifle butt crashed into Coyote's skull, an explosion of pain which pitched him forward. One of the guards lashed out twice with his foot, catching Coyote in the thigh.
"There are some facts of which you should be made aware, Lieutenant," the colonel said as the guard backed off. "Your country has not declared war against the People's Democratic Republic of Korea. For this simple reason, the rules of war do not apply to you. In the eyes of my government, in the eyes of the world, you are a criminal, charged with various acts of aggression against the People's Democratic Republic, including an unprovoked attack against one of our aircraft."
Desperation clawed at Coyote's reason. "That's bull-"
Another kick silenced him. Colonel Li continued as though Coyote had not spoken. "Your recitation of name, rank, serial number, and date of birth means nothing. Such civilized rules govern the actions of men and officers at war, but this is not war. You are here, you live at my pleasure. No one can help you. No one even knows you are here. We could keep you locked away or working at hard labor for the rest of your life, or take you out this minute and have you shot… and your people would never know." He paused, drawing a long puff on the cigarette. Coyote watched the tip glow bright orange w
ith a kind of helpless fascination.
"So," Li said after a moment. "You will answer my questions. You will not give me more than what I ask for. You will not give me less." He nodded, and rough hands grabbed at Coyote's hair and hauled him upright into a kneeling position once more. "Now then. Once again. Your name."
"Willis E. Grant."
"Willis E. Grant, you have been charged with acts of sabotage, espionage, murder, and reckless provocation against the People's Democratic Republic. You will describe those activities, and the parts played by ships and aircraft of the United States Navy, in full and complete detail."
"Willis E. Grant. Lieutenant, U.S.N. Service-"
The wooden stock of an AK snapped into the back of his head. Pain jolted through him, leaving him sick and retching on the floor.
"Perhaps," the colonel said, "we are being too lenient with you. We know that your CIA employs thugs and gangsters of the very worst stripe for their espionage activities. Men such as yourself are far too tough to break under mild questioning such as this. I wonder what sterner measures we could employ in your case."
"You can go-" This time the rifle butt struck his spine just above the thongs which pinned his elbows.
When he was dragged back to his knees, Li made a show of studying a stack of papers in his hand. "You are a spy, a saboteur, and a provocateur. You have been hired by the CIA. to spy on the peace-loving People's Democratic Republic. You are also a murderer, having shot down one of our aircraft inside the People's sovereign airspace."
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