Carrier c-1

by Keith Douglass

  "if the Chinese come through, I'll be delighted," the President said. "But we have to be ready if things go the other way." He examined the picture again. "Okay, so they have eight of our people in… where the hell is it?"

  "Nyongch'on, Mr. President."

  "Yeah, right. So… Winged Talon. Can that do it for us, do you think?"

  "It'll show the bastards we mean business," Caldwell said. "Go in hard and fast-"

  "And risk lighting off the Korean Police Action, Round Two," Schellenberg said. He shook his head. "With all respect, Mr. President, we can't cowboy this one!"

  "Come off it, Jim," Admiral Grimes said. "Hell, they're already mad at us. We can't make them much madder."

  "We'd be backing ourselves into an indefensible position," Schellenberg insisted. "Look, what if they start shooting our people one at a time until we call off our planes? How could we respond to something like that from a position of strength? Isn't it better to talk first, see where things are going?"

  "You can't talk with barbarians," Grimes said.

  "And maybe it's time we tried! Besides, if our people are scattered all over, we might hit some of them."

  "And wouldn't that look grand on page one of the Washington Post?" Phillip Buchalter said. The Presidential advisor chuckled. "'Hostages killed by U.S. air attack." Hell, we need to have people left alive before we can get them out!"

  "There's no better intel than this," Marlowe said, jerking a thumb at the screen. "Not without HUMINT sources on the ground."

  "Could be we already have some of those on the way in," Grimes said. HUMINT ― Human Intelligence ― normally meant agents in place in a foreign country. But there were alternatives. "We've got SEALs out there now."

  Marlowe frowned. "Maybe. Risky, though."

  "I'd recommend against a covert op like that," Caldwell said. An old Army man, Amos Caldwell had always resented the concept of elite special forces ― Rangers, Green Berets, even the Marines ― units which stole funding from the Army's share of each military appropriations bill. "I don't care how stealthy they are, Occidentals are going to stand out over there like bugs on a plate. No place to hide, y'know?"

  "Not SEALS, General Caldwell," the CNO said coldly. "Not SEALS."

  Schellenberg pursed his lips. "if our people are caught in North Korean territory-"

  "That's just the point, Mr. Secretary," Grimes continued. "We need intelligence from the ground. If anybody can get it without being caught, SEALs can."

  The President nodded slowly. He remembered a briefing in this same room years before, when Reagan decided to launch an air strike on Libya. SEALs had been on the ground in that one too, using laser designators to help American F-111s target their smart bombs. And then there'd been the SEAL raids in the Gulf…

  "When will they be in position, Fletch?"

  Grimes glanced at one of the clocks on the wall. "They should be on board Jefferson now, Mr. President. Give them time for last-minute planning and preparation… they could go in tonight."

  "Our ace in the hole, Fletcher," the President said quietly. "If the North Koreans don't yell uncle as soon as we send in our planes, we're going to need hard intel fast. It looks to me like your SEALs are the best way to do it." The CNO's face broke into a wintry smile. "I would have to agree, Mr. President."

  CHAPTER 13

  1510 hours

  Viper briefing room, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

  "That should do it, gentlemen." CAG's face grinned at them from the television screen. "Good luck, and God bless you all!"

  "Let's saddle up!" Tombstone's voice came from across the ready room. The Vipers were already rigged out in their pressure suits. Outside, on the flight deck, their aircraft were waiting. The squadron pilots and their RIOs began filing through the door.

  Batman Wayne rose from the leatherette chair and cocked a grin at Malibu. "Oh, what a thrill…" he began.

  Malibu joined him in the chorus. "Gonna get us a kill!" Their hands collided in a high-five. "Batman!"

  "Yo!" He turned and saw Tombstone approaching. Adrenaline was boiling in his blood. He felt as though he were riding a billowing, thundering wave of excitement. Combat! "You called, oh fearless leader?"

  "You guys stick tight this time, right? No hot-dogging."

  Batman swallowed his irritation. Nothing was going to spoil this for him! "Sure thing, Skipper. Strictly steak-and-potatoes."

  Tombstone had already given the two of them a dressing down for hot-dogging with the Bear. Further reprimands, Batman thought, were uncalled for.

  "Hey, Skip," Malibu said, grinning. "You wouldn't be just the least little bit afraid that the Batman here's gonna beat your one kill, would you?"

  "I just want to know he's going to be where I want him, when I want him," Tombstone replied. The expression on his face was unreadable, a mask.

  Batman gave Tombstone a tight salute. "Yes, sir, squadron leader sir!"

  Tombstone looked worried. Well, Batman thought as he pulled on his helmet, why wouldn't he be? The squadron ― hell, Jefferson's entire air wing ― was being flung against the North Koreans with almost indecent haste. The final orders had come through only hours before. Tombstone's work on the squadron's op orders must have put him up against the old problem faced by every military commander since Nimrod: Good men are going to die today, and I wrote the orders that killed them.

  Batman liked Tombstone, though he couldn't claim to know him all that well. The guy was a real pro, steady, quiet, always certain about his next move. Batman especially appreciated the fact that Tombstone never made a big deal about having been to Top Gun school. You had to listen close to his lectures even to pick up the fact that he'd been to Fightertown. He had the righteous stuff, no question.

  Batman didn't want to lose him.

  They filed through the passageway, emerging from the base of the carrier's island onto the flight deck. The entire deck was a maze of aircraft and men, alive with motion and bustling activity.

  A major carrier launch was a complex process, the arming, the fueling, the movement of aircraft between hangar deck and flight deck ― a colossal ballet of men and machines. The Deck Handler ― the Mangler, as he was called ― would be at his table just off the flight deck, shifting cutouts about on a scale model of the carrier in order to orchestrate each movement as planes were shuffled about preparatory to launch, or brought topside on one of Jefferson's four huge deck elevators. Everywhere, men in color-coded jackets moved with purpose and skill. Yellow shirts were directing aircraft, one after another, into line behind the catapult blast screens forward. Close by the island, purple shirts ― "grapes" in carrier parlance ― were clustered about a line of F/A-18 Hornets attaching fuel hoses to their bellies, while red-shirted ordnancemen checked through the racks of bombs and missiles slung from wing pylons.

  Batman had mingled feelings as he looked at the sleek Hornets with their red spear tail markings identifying them as planes of VFA-161, the Javelins. The Hornet was superb, the hottest, most modern of all Navy aircraft. Pilots for the Javelins and their sister squadron, the Fighting Hornets, consistently took the honors on the big chalkboard on the 01 deck which tallied each of Jefferson's aviators on their skill at carrier landings. Those standings were normally a source of constant, fierce competition among the pilots, but the Hornet drivers were always at the top because their aircraft handled so well. Batman was looking forward to the day when he could strap on one of those babies.

  At the same time, though, Batman was glad he was riding a Tomcat today. The Hornet served a dual role, air superiority and ground attack. On today's raid they'd be hauling eight or ten thousand pounds of bombs all the way in. While the F/A-18s might have a chance to dogfight coming out, the F-14 Tomcats would be aloft today for one reason and one reason only: to kill enemy MiGs. And that was what Batman wanted to do, more than anything else in the world.

  The piercing whine of engines revving up to full throttle shrilled from the forward deck, followed by the slam-paus
e-slam of a double catapult launch as a pair of A-6F Intruders clawed for sky. The raw noise was painful even through Batman's helmet. A carrier flight deck is so noisy during a launch that a man without ear protectors can die in minutes, killed by the intensity of the sound alone.

  The water-cooled JBD blast shields dropped back to the deck as the Intruders dwindled into the distance and the next two planes were hauled into position for launch. A number of Jefferson's aircraft were already aloft, a pair of E-2C Hawkeyes, three of her four KA-6D tankers, several Intruders.

  Batman found his Tomcat parked on the far side of the Hornets, Number 232, her tail emblazoned with the blue snake emblem of the Vipers. The crew chief signaled one of the yellow, flat-topped tractors called mules into position to hook her up. He looked over his shoulder as Batman mounted the boarding steps, grinned, and gave him a thumb's-up. "Kill us a MiG, Lieutenant," the chief yelled above the roar of another pair of Intruders vaulting off the catapults forward.

  "That's why we're here," Batman replied. He swung into the cockpit and began fastening the harness. "Time to earn our pay." Malibu climbed in behind him.

  Batman thought about the coming combat and felt the excitement grow.

  For most of his adult life, Batman had been training and practicing for one thing and one thing only: combat! Everything ― the practice ACMs, Tombstone's lectures, the hours of study, his training at Pensacola, and later flying Tomcats with a RAG ― everything had been preparation for the moment when he would vault into the sky to face some enemy pilot one on one. He was ready, knew he was ready as he felt the jerk of the tractor pulling his aircraft forward toward its position in line aft of the catapults.

  1602 hours

  Tomcat 205, Point Whiskey

  The KA-6D filled the sky, a huge gray whale seemingly only yards in front of and above Tombstone's cockpit. The F-14 looked like a fish hooked on the tanker's line as the KA-6D topped off the fighter's tanks.

  "Roger, Fox Echo Two," Tombstone radioed the larger aircraft. "Casting off and breaking to starboard at three… two… one… break!"

  The Tomcat detached its fueling probe from the tanker's basket and gently dropped away to the right. Each of the fighters was taking its turn refueling over Point Whiskey, waiting the final signal to go in.

  The staging area for the attack was over Yonghung Bay, one hundred miles east of Wonsan Harbor. There was nothing below the slowly circling aircraft to mark the spot but empty water. It was identified as Point Whiskey. From his vantage point at thirty thousand feet, Tombstone could just make out the gray blur of Korea's east coast mountain spine, the Taebaek Sanmaek, through a low-lying, hazy murk. At this altitude, the weather was perfect, with scattered clouds below at ten thousand feet and visibility unlimited. A high, thin layer of wispy clouds rushed past overhead, close enough to touch. Tombstone ignored the spectacle.

  It wouldn't be long now.

  The two Intruder squadrons circled halfway between Tombstone's position and the sea. He could make out their stub-winged, cruciform shapes far below. They'd been launched first since it had taken them longer to make the almost one-hundred-fifty-mile flight from the Jefferson.

  Not counting the KA-6Ds, the Hawkeyes circling farther out at sea, and the electronic warfare EA-6B Prowlers now jamming Korean radars, there were forty aircraft in the attack, five squadrons minus six planes with maintenance downchecks. The Alpha Strike, designated "Marauder" and composed of two Intruder squadrons and two Hornet squadrons, would go in with bombs and missiles. They would be covered by eight of VF-95's Tomcats flying TACCAP under the call sign Shotgun.

  The remaining F-14 squadron, the War Eagles of VF-97, had drawn Homeplate BARCAP, sitting out the raid while they protected the carrier, much to their vociferous and energetic disgust. Their skipper, "Made it" Bayerly, had been furious when he'd heard. "That just goes to show what having an admiral for an uncle will do for you!" Bayerly had said to Tombstone.

  The words might have been spoken in jest, but Tombstone had heard the sting behind them. Was he ever going to get clear of that Jonah?

  "We're getting a good vector from the Hawkeyes, Tombstone," Snowball said over the intercom. "It's a straight shot into Wonsan from here."

  "Sounds good to me, Snowy."

  He was glad that Snowball Newcombe had decided to stick it out as his RIO. To have quit before this op would have been an admission of cowardice, and the decision could have finished the man's career. Snowball's next assignment would have been at the radar console of a Hawkeye… if he was lucky.

  "So," Tombstone said. "Any sign of the bad guys?"

  "Lots of radar fuzz," Snowball replied. "The EA-6Bs are jamming them, but they know we're here. No clear targets yet."

  "Keep an eye on them. I imagine it'll get pretty busy soon."

  He checked the F-14's weapon load: two Phoenix, one Sparrow, and four Sidewinder missiles, plus 676 rounds for the six-barreled M61 Vulcan cannon.

  Two days ago the sky had seemed to be filled with MiGs, turning and burning above the Sea of Japan. They were probably waiting now, somewhere ahead beyond the twelve-mile limit, or spooling up their engines on the airfield outside of Wonsan. He wondered if the Tomcats' combat loads would be enough when the time came.

  He turned his mind away from the thought and concentrated on his flying. It was Batman's turn to refuel now. In minutes, they should be getting the word to proceed.

  Tombstone was surprised to realize that he wasn't afraid. He'd thought, after losing Coyote, that he would be.

  1602 hours (0202 hours EST)

  Situation Room, the White House

  An aide held up a telephone. "Mr. Secretary? For you. Priority and scrambled."

  The Secretary of State got up from the table and walked to where the aide waited. The President watched in silence as Schellenberg identified himself, then listened.

  "Right, Frank. Good work," he said after a moment. He returned the phone, then turned to face the President. "That's it." His manner was jubilant. "It came through ten minutes ago. They've agreed to talk!"

  "Where?" Caldwell asked. "When?"

  "Special MAC meeting this Friday. Kim's top men will be there."

  "Well, that's something, anyway," the President said. The words sounded hollow in a room strangely empty. Besides the few aides and the Air Force major carrying the football, only the President, the Secretary of State, and General Caldwell remained in the Situation Room. The others were asleep or, as was probably the case with Marlowe and Grimes, working late at their own offices, waiting for word.

  "Hell," Caldwell said. "A MAC meeting isn't going to settle anything."

  "It's a start, General," Schellenberg replied. "We have to start somewhere."

  The Military Armistice Committee had been created at the end of the Korean War, its purpose to keep lines of negotiation open with the PDRK. For almost forty years, though, it had served as little more than a conduit for P'yongyang propaganda and a forum for complaints by both sides.

  There'd been plenty to complain about over the years. Since July of 1953, 89 American servicemen had been killed in various incidents along Korea's DMZ, and 132 wounded.

  And now, for the second time in history, the seizure of an American intelligence ship in international waters. Nearly five hundred MAC meetings had been called over the years. Little had ever been resolved, and the President doubted that this one would be any different. The Americans would protest, the PDRK representatives would bluster and threaten and probably walk out.

  "Jim, our planes are ready to go in." He looked at the clock on the wall showing Tokyo time. If Winged Talon was on schedule, the American planes were fifteen minutes from Korean airspace. "They're on the way now!"

  The grin dropped from the Secretary's face. "Mr. President! You can't let them continue the attack. Call them off!"

  "Good God, Jim…"

  "Mr. President, this is an extraordinarily delicate situation. I told the Chinese ambassador personally… I gave him my word
that we wanted a quick and honorable end to this… incident. If we attack now, we'll have lost the confidence not only of the North Koreans, but of the Chinese as well!"

  "Just like the bastards to wait until the last minute," Caldwell said, glancing up at the Tokyo clock. He didn't make clear whether he was referring to the Chinese or the North Koreans. "You think they want us to attack?"

  A dreadful suspicion rose in the President's mind. If the North Koreans could tell the world that the United States had launched a bombing raid after promising a negotiated settlement…

  Caldwell looked alarmed. "Mr. President! You can't call them back! Not-"

  "Damn it, Amos, I have to!" World opinion would not be kind if the bombers went in. The President turned to an aide. "Get me on the satellite net. I want a direct line to Admiral Bainbridge. Now!"

  As he was waiting, the President closed his eyes and thought about the pilots already closing on the North Korean coast. After this, they'd be mad enough to vote Democratic in the next elections.

  The aide held out a telephone. "Admiral Bainbridge on the line, Mr. President."

  He accepted the receiver. "Wesley? This is the President."

  1612 hours

  Hornet 301, off the North Korean coast

  Commander Marty French, CO of VFA 161 and Deputy CAG of Jefferson's air wing, touched his gloved fingers to his helmet, not quite believing what he'd just heard. "Homeplate, this is Marauder Leader. Say again your last, over."

  "Marauder Leader, Homeplate," Marusko's voice crackled in his ears. "RTB. I say again, RTB."

  "Return to base?" Another voice had cut in over the frequency.

  The other aviators would be listening in. "What in the frigging hell are they pulling?"

  "Hey, I think my radio's bad," someone else said. "Don't think I can hear any-"