"Tally-ho!" he announced over his radio. "Visual at eleven o'clock high."
"We've got him," Batman's voice replied in his headset.
"Hunt Leader to Homeplate," Tombstone said as he eased into a climb that would take them to thirty thousand feet. His words would be relayed to the Jefferson by the circling Hawkeye. "We have visual on the bandit. Closing." He switched to the aircraft tactical channel. "Hunt Two, Hunt Lead. I'm breaking left and going in for a closer look. You break the other way and take point. You're running interference."
"Rog, Hunt Lead. Count his rivets for us, will ya?"
Tombstone pulled his Tomcat into a shallow turn to port, swinging wide behind the Bear, crossing the bomber's slipstream with a rumbling shudder that reminded him of hitting the rumble strips in the pavement in front of a turnpike tollbooth. Moments later, he drew up alongside the Russian's starboard side.
The vibration was much heavier here, flying behind and below the Bear's two thundering right wing engines. He could still see very little, a blackness against blackness which blotted out the stars, outlined by the pulse of anti-collision lights. He knew the Russians were aware of his presence; they'd have had him on their own radar scopes for some minutes now. But how to get them to- A light winked on, a tiny sun bathing the Tomcat's cockpit in a silvery glare.
"What in the hell-" Snowball yelled, "Tombstone, I can't see!"
Tombstone held the F-14 steady, turning his head aside and blinking hard to clear the momentary blindness. For an instant he'd thought the Russian bomber had blown up, but he knew now that what had stolen his night vision was a powerful searchlight mounted in the observation blister near the Bear's tail. Bastards!
The searchlight moved, shifting a white cone of light back and forth between the two aircraft, briefly illuminating the Tomcat, then swinging up to the Bear's own wing, which materialized out of the darkness ahead like a gleaming fragment of a huge knife. Tombstone could see the silvery arc of one of the Russian's outboard turboprops, could see the markings painted on the backswept wing, a huge red star bordered in white.
Obviously, they wanted him to know who they were.
But what were they thinking? This sort of game had been played between Russians and Americans since the first days of the Cold War, and it seemed that the recent thaw had changed none of the rules. In some ways, in fact, the situation now was worse than it had ever been during the seventies or early eighties; at least then, you knew what the Russians thought of you.
Gently, Tombstone nudged his Tomcat closer to the Bear's hull.
The searchlight snapped back from the wing and washed across the F-14 again, but he was ready for it this time, narrowing his eyes and looking to one side, just like meeting the headlights of an oncoming car while driving at night.
"Hey, Tombstone," Snowball said. His voice sounded a bit shaky, but in control. "You think maybe they're trying to tell us to get lost?"
"Could be. Let's see if they'll talk to us." Sliding the Tomcat closer to the Bear's fuselage, Tombstone faced the light and held up three gloved fingers. Using exaggerated motions, he repeated the gesture three times. The searchlight snapped off.
"There's our answer," Tombstone said. "Switch to 333.3 and let's see what they have to say for themselves."
Tombstone held his mask across his face. "Russian aircraft, Russian aircraft. This is Hunt Leader, flying just off your right wing. Do you copy?"
There was a long silence. There were almost always English-speaking personnel on these Bear flights. "Is flight Four-one-two speaking, Hunt Leader. Go ahead."
"Flight Four-one-two, this is Hunt Leader. You are on an intercept course with the U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson. Please come to course… one-five-zero in order to avoid over-flying our ships. Over."
"Nyet, Hunt Leader. Flight Four-one-two is on routine flight, Vladivostok to Cam Ranh Bay. Is international airspace. As Americans say, 'You go to hell.'"
"That's grade-A bullshit, Stone," Snowball said over the intercom circuit. "He stays on that course, he'll fly smack into South Korea. He's gotta change course sometime soon, and it might as well be now!"
"He just wants to see how far we'll bend, Snowy." Tombstone thought for a moment. There was really very little he could do other than annoy the Bear pilot… and risk the mistake which could trigger an international incident. Chances were, the Russian plane was on a routine flight to the big Soviet naval base in Vietnam, but they'd have orders to see how far they could press the American carrier group along the way.
He opened the channel again. "Russian Flight Four-one-two, this is Hunt Leader. The U.S.S. Jefferson is currently engaged in military exercises in the Sea of Japan and is on full alert. Your aircraft could be in danger if you approach too closely."
"Hunt Leader, are you declaring exclusion zone?" In times of crisis, in times of war, a carrier group commander might declare an exclusion zone around his fleet. Any unknown aircraft approaching to within, say, one hundred miles could be fired upon. But things weren't that hot, not yet. "Negative, Flight Four-one-two. There is no exclusion zone. What we're telling you is just for your own-"
"Nyet! Bereegees!" The burst of sled Russian ended the conversation. Tombstone's thumb hovered above the gun selector switch on his stick. What…?
He looked up and saw a pair of sun-bright flares riding close together and side by side just above the dark shape of the Russian Bear. It took a moment for him to sort out what he was seeing, the twin tailpipes of another Tomcat flying just above the Russian bomber's cockpit. The steady vibration Tombstone had been feeling as his F-14 followed in the wake of the Bear's starboard engines changed. The Russian was throttling down, dropping slightly. Batman's F-14 descended with him.
"Like the man says," Batman's voice said over the channel. "Putting your nose in where it's not wanted could be hazardous to your health!"
"Snowball! Patch me through to that idiot on another frequency!"
"You got it, Skipper."
"Hunt Two, this is Hunt Leader! Break off! Get back out there on point!"
Copy, Hunt Leader," Batman said, his tone light, almost bantering. "Will comply. Looks like we showed this Bear who's boss."
The Bear continued to descend, still visible only as a black shape with red and green lights at nose, tail, and wingtips. After a moment, the Russian bomber raised its starboard wing slightly and ponderously swung onto a new heading.
"Target is coming to one-five-five, Tombstone," Snowball said.
Tombstone took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. His heart was pounding beneath his harness, and he could feel the slickness of sweat inside the palms of his gloves. The Russian's new heading was five degrees short of the course Tombstone had told him to take, an obvious declaration of "You can't tell us what to do." But one-five-five would still take the Bear well clear of the American fleet. American aircraft would continue to pace the Bear for a time, escorting it out of the area. Judging from past incidents of this sort, Tombstone doubted that the Soviets would try to approach the carrier group again.
The crisis was over. But not the tension. Tombstone was as angry as he could imagine being, though he kept his voice cool and emotionless as he told Snowball to open a channel to Tango One-three. "Homeplate, this is Hunt Leader. Target has come right to one-five-five. Looks like he doesn't want to play anymore."
"Copy, Hunt Leader," a Hawkeye radio officer replied. "Be advised that Starfire Flight is enroute, ETA fifteen mikes. Homeplate says to tell you 'Well done.'"
Well done, Wayne's hotdog stunt could have killed them all. He would have to have words with that boy, once they were back on board the Jeff.
DAY THREE
CHAPTER 10
0445 hours (1445 hours EST)
The White House Situation Room
"This may be the first good news we've got on this," the President said. He looked up from the report, stamped CRITIC at top and bottom. "The Russians backed down?"
Admiral Grimes grinned without humor. "I'd say
, Mr. President, that they got the crap scared out of them when one of our pilots pulled… shall we say… an unorthodox maneuver."
"And there's been no further attempt to probe our forces?"
Marlowe folded his hands on the teakwood table. "You can bet they're watching closely, Mr. President. Three of their reconnaissance satellites have shifted to new orbits to give them better coverage of the Sea of Japan. But there are no indications that they want a direct confrontation."
The president's eyes shifted to the others at the table. He grinned at the Secretary of State. "Keep that in mind when you talk to the PRC Ambassador, Jim. It looks like it'll be just us and North Korea, with the PRC as go-betweens. Simplifies things, doesn't it?"
"Yes, sir." The secretary scowled. "We shouldn't feel too confident about Soviet motives, though, Mr. President. They've still not responded to our advances."
"Agreed." The President moved his gaze to a new face at the table. Dr. Lee Ann Chu, Assistant Secretary of State for East Asian and Pacific Affairs, was seated across from Schellenberg. She was an attractive, older woman ― in her fifties, he guessed. She'd been put in charge of the team studying the political impact of U.S. military action on America's allies in the Far East. "Dr. Chu? I understand you have a preliminary report."
She hesitated, looking first at Schellenberg. There was some unstated struggle there, the President noted.
"Lee Ann's report isn't quite ready yet, Mr. President," the Secretary said. "Her assessment team is still considering the matter."
"Dr. Chu?" the President said gently. "We don't need a formal report. Just tell me what you think. How will our allies react to military intervention in the area?"
Slowly, Dr. Chu removed her glasses, folding them carefully and placing them on the table before her. She met the President's eyes directly. "Mr. President, you can expect the normal round of anti-U.S. condemnations. With the exception of the Republic of Korea, you will find no support, no practical help in this matter at all. On the whole, however, and in the long run, our image will not suffer badly."
Chu went on to discuss each nation in turn, beginning with Japan, pointing out that Tokyo had been pursuing a far more independent course of late and that the Japanese resented South Korea's economic competition. She spoke for ten minutes with authority and conviction. There were no surprises in what she had to say. It was exactly what the President had expected to hear.
He detected, though, that she was holding back, that there was something her boss might be suppressing.
"Thank you, Doctor," he said as she finished. "Is there anything else?"
She hesitated, looking uncertain.
"That will be all, Lee Ann," Schellenberg said. "Thank you."
"A moment, please," the President said, not certain how far he could push. "Dr. Chu, you've discussed the reactions of our friends in the area if we attack. What about those of our enemies?"
"Mr. President-" Schellenberg began.
"My question was addressed to Dr. Chu," the President said brusquely. "Doctor?"
She seemed to reach some inner decision. "Mr. President, the question might better be phrased, 'What will happen if we do not attack?'"
"And?"
"The expression 'loss of face' is dated, Mr. President. Its use has certain… racist overtones. And yet I must remind you that it is still a valid psychological concept throughout much of the Orient. If you back down before the North Koreans now, you, Mr. President, will have lost face, before your friends and enemies alike. I urge you-"
Schellenberg interrupted. "What Dr. Chu means, Mr. President, is that an aggressive stance may help us bull through this thing in the short term. But we're going to have to be very careful navigating this minefield for some time to come, and-"
"Since when did I need an interpreter for straight English, Jim?"
"Sorry, Mr. President. The Doctor is new to her job, and-"
"Save it." The President looked from Chu to Schellenberg and back again, scowling. It was clear enough now. Chu's report had held the wrong twist and Schellenberg had been trying to suppress it.
God. Did North Korea's dictator have the same problems with his own advisors, or did he enjoy the luxury of ordering them shot when the infighting got too vicious?
"Dr. Chu, I've already decided that a strong approach is necessary. We have to tell these people we mean business." He looked down the table at Caldwell. "General, as of this moment, I am authorizing a full go-ahead for Winged Talon."
The General nodded. "Yes, Mr. President."
"We'll keep the 82nd and the rest on alert, use them if we have to. But I think a measured response is called for."
"I'll give the necessary orders, Mr. President."
"Excellent." The President looked at his Chief of Staff. "George? We're going to have to prepare a statement for the press. I want Joe brought in on this."
"Yes, Mr. President."
Joseph Collins, the White House Press Secretary, had been kept busy for the past twenty-four hours, ever since the story about Chimera's seizure had broken in the press. Until now his task had been restricted to damage control ― denying reports of U.S. military intervention in Korea and insisting that the President was following events in the Far East with grave concern.
The President knew that he would have to start bracing for the storm which would follow any decision he made, and the sooner the White House press corps was brought in on things, the better.
He turned back to face Schellenberg, reading the professional hurt in the man's face. There was another problem, bad feelings that would have to be nipped early. "Jim, you still have an appointment with the Chinese ambassador this afternoon?"
"Yes, sir." He glanced at his watch. "Forty-five minutes."
"Good. Keep it." He smiled, turning on the charm which had stood him in good stead in more than one campaign. "You can win them over, get them to talk to us if anyone can. If you can open channels to the PDRK, then Winged Talon is off. You have my word on it." He turned his gaze on the others. "Meanwhile, we keep our powder dry and watch out for mine-fields. We take those steps necessary to resolve this crisis and get our people back. If they won't talk to us, Winged Talon is on. Agreed?" Briefly, his eyes met the eyes of each of the other people in the room. There was no dissent.
George Hall stirred in his seat. "Mr. President, there remains the problem of the location of our people over there. An indiscriminate strike at North Korean military installations could kill our own people."
"Victor?" He looked at the DCI. "Anything?"
"Not yet, sir. We've got satellite coverage eighty percent of the time now."
"Keep on it, and let me know the moment you've got something solid."
"Yes, sir." He didn't add of course, but the words were clear in his tone. We're all getting scraped raw, the President thought. My God, how are we going to win this one?
He wondered what more he could do for Chu. She'd probably been ordered by her boss to tow the party line. Her independence just now might well have ended her career.
He watched as the crisis management team scooped up papers and folders, and decided to say nothing.
0730 hours
CVIC, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Admiral Magruder stepped across the cables lying on the deck and found himself a spot out of the way near the bulkhead. Jefferson's Intelligence Center had been cleared of chairs and was now cluttered with the trappings of a television studio: lights, a camera, a handful of seamen in dungarees and chiefs and officers in khaki plugging in power cords and preparing for the morning's broadcast.
A small floating city in her own right, Jefferson boasted two television stations of her own, broadcasting regular programs dealing with problems and matters of interest to Jefferson's crew. At need, Captain Fitzgerald or the admiral could address the entire ship's company without the need for assembling them all in one spot… an obvious impossibility for reasons of space, work efficiency, and safety.
"Ready to go, Adm
iral. Are you?"
Magruder turned to face Master Chief Raymond C. Buckley, Jr., a stocky, cherub-faced man who had been in the Navy for twenty-eight of his forty-five years, a high school drop-out who'd joined the Navy at seventeen and found himself a home. Buckley was Jefferson's master chief, the chief of the boat, senior enlisted man on board. More than any other, he acted as intermediary between the ship's enlisted men and her officers.
"Ready, Chief, thanks. You're going to lead off?"
"Just like a game show host, Admiral." He seemed relaxed and at ease. Buckley's face was well known to every one of Jefferson's six thousand officers and men. He hosted the ship's nightly We'll Sea program on Channel 1, and he wrote daily articles for the ship's newspaper, the Jeffersonian Democrat.
Buckley walked to the lectern and faced the camera. The chief who was serving as director pointed at him as he gripped the lectern with both hands and beamed at the camera. "Goooood morning, Jeffersons!" The master chief had adopted as his broadcast trademark PFC Pat Sajak's well-known DJ intro from the Armed Forces Radio broadcasts in Vietnam. Buckley had served in Nam, Magruder knew, ashore at Cam Ranh Bay and later on board the U.S.S. Constellation, as had many of the older chiefs on board. It formed a small but important link with other men who had served America's interests in foreign waters.
Magruder did not listen to the master chief's opening remarks. It seemed incongruous, somehow, to be giving Jefferson's crew their orders on TV, orders which could very well lead to their deaths in a very few hours. He looked again at the printout he'd brought with him from the com center, then at the cardboard-mounted photograph which was resting on an easel under the unmoving gaze of a second camera on the other side of the room. Did wars always start this way, with step-by-step events that escalated until there was no longer any way to control them?
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