Carrier c-1

by Keith Douglass

  Batman was late, having spent several hours debriefing and several more with paperwork. There'd also been his fruitless search for Tombstone. Pulling a succession of bolters was rough, and he wanted to know how the Vipers' skipper was doing.

  "Attention on deck!" Tigershark McConnell shouted, grinning broadly, as Batman walked in. "Gentlemen, our day's high-scorer has just arrived!"

  A coffee mug bearing Jefferson's name and number was pressed into his hand. "Thanks, Tiger. Frenchie also scored two, you know."

  McConnell raised the paper cup he was holding. "Fallen comrades," he toasted. "They were the best." Batman sipped the amber liquid in his mug and nearly choked on the smoky bite of scotch. "That's good," he managed.

  "We got different flavors," Army Garrison Murcheson said from the refreshment table. "Scotch, rum, vodka, wine, Michelob, Black Label, Lowenbrau…"

  "Not to mention Kool-Aid," Malibu added. "Name your Poison, compadre."

  Batman raised his mug. "This'll do… just fine." He was mildly surprised at the ebullient mood. Somehow, Batman had thought that the tone of the gathering would be more subdued after the deaths of Dragon, Snoops, and ― perhaps most shocking of all ― the Deputy CAG. In some ways, the party had the aura of nostalgia, good humor, and fellowship that Batman imagined must characterize an Irish wake, a celebration of good comrades bravely gone, made light by the forced bravado of "the same thing can't possibly happen to me."

  If there was anything dampening the gathering's mood, it was the knowledge that someone up the chain of command had "screwed the pooch," aborting the Alpha Strike minutes before it was due to go in. Somewhere along the line there'd been a failure of nerve, and the men of Jefferson's air wing had paid for it that afternoon. Though casualties might well have been higher had Operation Winged Talon gone in, the deaths of French, Ashly, and Whitridge were perceived as the results of the bungling of an uncaring and impersonal bureaucracy. Morale was down, and more than one officer could be heard discussing the mental and moral shortcomings of "those Washington REMFs."

  "So, compadre," Malibu said as Batman drained his mug. "You ever corral Tombstone?"

  "Negative." Batman shook his head. "I was hoping to find him here."

  "Fat chance. Y'know, dude, I think the man's layin' low."

  Snake Hoffner became part of the conversation through the sheer press of the crowd. It seemed unlikely that the Me Jo could hold even one more man. "Hey, I heard old Tombstone pulled a couple bolters," he said. "Was it bad?"

  Malibu shrugged. "He's been wired since Coyote and Mardi Gras bought it."

  Batman studied his empty mug. It was not something he particularly wanted to talk about. Hoffner was young, one of VF-95's nuggets. His dunking in the Sea of Japan that afternoon had done nothing to dampen his youthful exuberance. He hadn't yet learned all the social graces of the aviators' fraternity. Like the fact that you didn't talk about a man who might have lost the stuff that made him part of the brotherhood.

  "'Tention on deck!"

  This time the alert was for real. Captain Fitzgerald stepped into the room and the men rose, awkwardly attempting to keep drinks and paper plates from spilling as they stood at attention.

  "Carry on, gentlemen," he said, smiling broadly. Batman thought he looked… older now, or perhaps it was just the effects of exhaustion. Fitzgerald had rarely been absent from either the bridge or CIC during the past three days, and the beginnings of blue smudges on the pouches beneath his eyes were showing.

  "Just wanted to drop in and tell you men 'well done,'" the Captain said, "And to let You all know that Jefferson has been officially credited with eight blue bandit kills today. That's one each for Lieutenants Taggart, Garrison, McConnell, and Grabiak. Two kills for Commander French." He sobered for a moment, then brightened again as he turned and looked Batman in the face. "And two for this hotdog here! If we keep this up, the NKs aren't going to have one goddamned fighter left!"

  There was an answering explosion of applause and laughter.

  "I know I speak for all of us… and for Admiral Magruder as well, when I say that Commander French and Lieutenants Ashly and Whitridge will be sorely, sorely missed. They were good men, all of them, good aviators and good shipmates. But they gave their lives in the service of their country, and no man can ask for a better epitaph than that." He looked around, noting coffee mugs and paper cups. "Well now, I don't suppose anyone's saved some of that Kool-Aid for me?"

  "Comin' right up, Captain." Someone handed him a paper cup. He sipped at it appreciatively, made a sour face, and looked at it.

  "Lemonade," he said, sounding disappointed. He looked up at Batman. "You know, Wayne, too much sugar can be bad for you, especially when you have to fly the next day. Screws up your metabolism."

  "Yes, sir."

  "That goes for all of you. Not too much sugar." Fitzgerald tossed off the rest of the cup. "That's all, men. Have a good evening. Thanks for the… Kool-Aid."

  "Good night, Captain."

  Batman stared dubiously into his own mug. "What did you give him, Tiger? Lemonade, or…?"

  "I'll never tell," Tigershark replied primly.

  The laughter and easy conversation picked up again moments after the Captain had gone. Malibu took Batman's mug. "Let me get you a refill. What's your flavor?"

  "More of the same," Batman replied. "But with ice this time."

  "You think Tombstone'll be okay?" Hoffner asked.

  "They don't make 'em any better, Snake," Batman said. "He'll do just fine."

  Another junior officer crowded close. Lieutenant j.g. Peter Costello was about the same age as Snake but looked even younger. "Hey, listen, Batman, I wanted to say congratulations on your kills! Real smooth work, y'know?"

  Batman smiled. "Thanks, Hitman." Costello's running name, it was said, was derived from the tough Italian street-kid manner he affected at times.

  "I saw it, man," Army Garrison said, leaning over Hoffner's shoulder. "Watched his first missile going' in smooth as silk…" He slapped the palm of one hand across the other. "Kapow! Fireball city!"

  "No shit?" Costello shook his head. A nugget pilot with VF-97, he'd missed the fight. He looked positively wistful.

  Batman wasn't certain what to say. A modest answer didn't seem to be in character somehow, but a cocky reply would have been out of place. Malibu gave him an excuse to turn away by returning with his drink. "Great timing, Malibu. Thanks."

  "Hey, Batman?" Costello persisted. "I was wantin' to ask you. What's it feel like, killing a man?"

  The question took Batman completely by surprise. He blinked. "What?"

  "I was just wondering how it felt, killing a human being like that. You feel different? Anything?"

  The words hit Batman like a hammer blow. He'd always considered himself to be a professional, hard and detached. That the question should rock him so badly surprised him as much as the question itself.

  "Hey, Batman?" Malibu laid a hand on his shoulder. "You okay?"

  "Fine. I'm fine." He made himself swallow the rest of his scotch, letting the liquid fire mingle with the fire in his stomach. A new emotion mingled with the others. Shame. He was ashamed of letting the others know how he felt.

  Suddenly he had to get away. He handed his mug to Hoffner, the ice cubes tinkling merrily. "Stow this ― I think I'm going to turn in."

  He pushed his way through the crowd, ignoring the back-slaps and shouted congratulations as he went.

  Batman wanted to be alone with thoughts grown suddenly black.

  0215 hours

  The Korean coast southeast of Wonsan

  Surf hissed and thundered, the breakers faintly luminescent under the glimmer of lights from the oil refinery on a bluff overlooking the bay to the south. Chief Huerta let the waves carry him toward the beach in a succession of rushes. He held his rucksack in front of his body with his left hand, using it as shield and flotation device. His right hand held a Colt XM 177E2 Commando braced across the top of the rucksack. The SMG, barrel-h
eavy because of the custom suppressor affixed to the muzzle, tracked in his hand as he watched the blackness of the shore.

  Another wave picked him up and slid him forward until rough sand grated under his legs and swim vest. He waited as the outgoing water sucked at his body, leaving him for the moment exposed on the beach. There was no movement at all, no sound save the repetitious roar of the surf.

  Huerta sensed motion to his left. Machinist's Mate First Class Brian Copley was all but invisible in the darkness, but Huerta could make out the flicker of a hand motion, questioning. He replied with a hand sign of his own. "Go!"

  Minutes earlier, the two of them had dropped from the raft fifty yards offshore. Lieutenant Sikes was waiting now with the others while they checked out the beach.

  A low whistle, barely heard through a lull in the surf, told him the way was clear. As the next wave picked him up and slid him forward again, Huerta rose to a low crouch and loped forward. He ran twenty yards up the beach, then threw himself down at Copley's side. Working quietly, they pulled night-vision goggles from waterproof pouches and put them on. Switched on, the goggles enhanced the available light enough that the SEALs could see a man-sized target at three hundred yards.

  They exchanged more hand signals. The SEALs split up, checking a hundred yards up and down the coast.

  The beach was narrow, with a steep, boulder-strewn slope rising like a wall in front of them. There were buildings close by, a seaside resort and the ramshackle huts of a fishing village, but this stretch was empty.

  Huerta met Copley once more, signaled him to mount guard, and made his way back to the water's edge. He switched off his starlight goggles and raised them up on his head to conserve battery power. Taking a penlight, he aimed it out past the surf and pressed the switch once… twice… three times. There was no response ― no sense in alerting other watchers along the shore ― but minutes later Huerta glimpsed the subdued flash of a black paddle dipping against a wave. The IBS had motored in from the drop point, stopping only once when a North Korean torpedo boat had growled past on patrol. Though their DZ had been well inside the twelve-mile limit, the team had still been forced to motor a long way to reach this portion of the coast, and speed was essential. For the final approach silence and invisibility were the watchwords, so they'd come into the beach with the motors off, using paddles to keep from broaching to in the surf.

  Figures materialized out of the night, carrying the dripping rafts. Lieutenant Sikes touched his shoulder, a silent "well done." Huerta led the rest of the SEAL team back up the beach to where Copley was waiting with his suppressed Smith and Wesson M-760 SMG, prone behind his rucksack.

  They worked swiftly, half mounting guard while the other half stripped off wetsuit tops and donned camouflaged combat suits, boots and web gear. Headgear, like weapons, was largely a matter of personal choice. Most of the men wore boonie hats. Some, like Huerta, preferred a simple sweat band of camo cloth.

  The SEALs took another fifteen minutes using paddles to scoop out holes above the beach's high-tide line where they buried the rafts and motors, paddles, wetsuits, fins, and goggles. Whatever happened now, they would not be needing them again. They spent minutes more checking themselves and each other, making certain that exposed skin was covered with camo grease-paint, that snaps and swivels on rifles and equipment were secured with black tape, that no one wore anything which might shine or clink or rattle and thus give their presence away to the enemy. Rucksacks, lighter now with only ammo, rations, and survival gear, were strapped to backs and loose buckles and ends secured. Each man also donned night-vision goggles which gave him an oddly mechanical appearance, like a robot in a cheap SF horror film.

  Huerta and Sikes checked a waterproof map. The SEALs had arrived precisely on the strip of beach chosen from the satellite photos they'd studied at Coronado and during their trip across the Pacific. The North Korean Army camp where at least some of the prisoners had been sighted lay four miles inland, near the village of Nyongch'on-ni. Other features were marked on the map, possible targets for air raids, possible locations of American prisoners, but the team's first priority was to check the camp identified as Nyongch'on-kiji.

  Huerta pulled back the velcro seal of his luminous watch and checked the time. It was 0240 hours. They could be there in an hour or two if nothing delayed them.

  Each man already knew his place in patrol formation. Huerta, as assistant squad leader, took position behind Vic Krueger, who was lugging one of the team's two M-60 machine guns. With another silent hand motion from Sikes, the team began moving, treading up the slope as silently as ghosts in the night.

  CHAPTER 18

  0355 hours

  Nyongch'on-kiji

  Huerta lay flat on his back in the muddy ditch, moving in tiny increments beneath the chain-link fence which surrounded the inner compound of the North Korean base. Runoff from repeated rains had carved this channel beneath the fence unnoticed by its builders, and now the SEAL was using it to gain entrance to the area suspected to be where the Koreans were holding the crew of the U.S.S. Chimera.

  He was unarmed save for a knife and his Mark 22, a silenced, custom-made 9-mm first used against guard dogs in Vietnam and subsequently known as the "hush puppy." Those were for use as a last resort only, of course. The last thing he needed at the moment was a dead guard; if he killed someone, he would have to drag the body out of the camp and hope the sentry's superiors thought he'd deserted while on watch.

  He'd left his night-vision gear with the others as well; it was too easy to become reliant on those technological wonders, too easy to lose touch with the night. And now Chief Huerta was the night, a black shadow among shadows, edging silently under the fence through the runoff gully.

  He'd already traversed the first, outer fence, using bolt-cutters to snip through a few links of the fence in the shadow of a guard tower next to a pole. The rest of the team waited for him outside.

  The camp identified as Nyongch'on-kiji lay in a high saddle in the ridge line some seven miles south of Wonsan's waterfront district, surrounded on two sides by rugged escarpments which climbed higher still. A highway passed through the saddle, connecting Wonsan with the town of Anbyon ten miles to the south. At this hour there was little traffic.

  The SEALs had reached the eastern slope overlooking the camp after an hour's hike from the coast. From the vantage point of their OP amid boulders, brush, and the scraggly, stunted pines that clung to the rocky slopes in this region, they'd surveyed the camp, identifying the building which was their prime target. One of the long, single-story structures inside the inner fence was the building in the satellite photo which had first confirmed the presence of Westerners inside the Nyongch'on compound the previous day.

  That building was Huerta's target now. He'd been lucky so far: no encounters, no guard dogs, and only isolated glimpses of sentries doing their rounds in the distance. If he could get close enough to the suspect building to confirm that Americans were being held there now…

  0410 hours

  Nyongch'on-kiji

  Coyote heard it first, a muffled thump as though something had landed on the roof of the hut. He'd been lying awake on the straw ticking which served as a mattress, and the sound seemed to originate beyond the wooden timbers of the ceiling directly over his head. He sat up. Commander Wilkinson, lying nearby, sat up as well.

  "What is it?" Wilkinson's whisper was harsh in the near-darkness. The room's interior was dimly illuminated by the indirect light from the compound's streetlights spilling through the narrow windows high along the two long walls.

  "Something on the roof," Coyote replied. His heart pounded in his chest. The night's quiet had seemed as much a torture as the beatings he'd endured earlier. Their captors had taken many of the men out in small groups, beaten them, threatened them with torture or death, demanded their signed confessions, then returned them to the Wonsan Waldorf. The sudden end to the routine was ominous. The uncertainty was as much an instrument of torture as N
orth Korean boots and rifle butts.

  Coyote heard a faint, scuffling sound. Something heavy was sliding down the roof now, making its way from the peak of the roof toward the south wall. He followed the movement in the near darkness, then rose, tiptoeing past sleeping or unconscious men toward the wall and its line of windows. Several other men, aware now that something was going on, rose and followed him.

  The faint light from the sky was suddenly blotted out. Straining against the darkness outside, Coyote realized he was looking at the silhouette of a man's head, lowered over the edge of the roof and peering into the window upside down. A sudden, unreasonable hope flared in Coyote's chest. "Who's there?"

  "What was the monster killed by Bellerophon?" a muffled voice replied.

  Wilkinson, standing on top of an overturned bucket at Coyote's shoulder, stiffened. "Chimera," he said, leaning against the open window.

  "Well, either you people are round-eyed North Koreans with a classical education, or you're just the guys I'm looking for," the upside-down shape whispered. "Chief Huerta, USN SEALS."

  Coyote sensed the excitement spreading through the room, heard the hasty, whispered words as more and more of the men of Chimera's crew awoke.