"Not an option, General. Not now. The point is to get our people back, and if they're in P'yongyang…" He shrugged. "They might as well be on the moon. Hell, I think they'd be easier to reach on the moon! I cannot go before Congress or the American people and justify starting up the Korean War all over again for…" He let the words trail off. Where was the moral line in the dust across which an American President could step while balancing American lives against the risk of war? Would he commit combat troops to save two hundred men? For ten? For one?
The same decision had been faced time and time again by the White House, and the answer had never been clear-cut. Gerald Ford had sent the Marines into Cambodia to free the Mayaguez, sacrificing forty-one dead to rescue thirty-nine American merchant seamen. The Marines hadn't complained at the time. They would have said that putting their lives on the line to preserve American lives and property was their job.
But the guy who sent them in had some major questions to settle in his own mind first. When is the use of troops as an expression of U.S. foreign policy justified?
He turned to one of the aides hovering in the background. "Get me a direct line to Admiral Magruder."
No one spoke. No one met the President's eyes, knowing that the time for advisors ― and for debate ― was past. The silence lay heavy in the room as technicians worked to patch through to the Jefferson directly, each man, for the moment, alone with his thoughts. The President thought about Admiral Magruder. He'd never met the man, but the speed with which he'd assembled a workable operational plan earlier during the crisis spoke well of him, and of the efficiency of those under him.
The minutes dragged by. Getting a working communications linkup and going with a spot halfway around the globe was not always as simple as dialing long distance.
"Mr. President?" The aide extended a telephone handset. "Admiral Magruder, TF-18. It's scrambled."
He raised the receiver to his ear. "Admiral Magruder, this is the President."
"Good morning, Mr. President." The line was scratchy with static, but the admiral's voice was firm and distinct.
The President glanced up at the clock showing Tokyo time. It was evening in the Sea of Japan. "Admiral, do you feel that Operation Righteous Thunder, as currently planned, has a chance to succeed?"
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. "If we move fast, yes, sir. We have a good chance."
"It's a big operation. Things could go wrong."
"Things always go wrong, Mr. President. We just have to allow for it in the plan."
"And your recommendation is…?"
"That we go for it, sir." Static crackled on the line. "My God, Mr. President, they're shooting our people in there. If we have the chance to pull them out, we'd damn well better take it."
"If things go wrong, we could lose a lot of people."
"And if we do nothing, Mr. President, the hostages could all die."
"Yes." The President looked across the table at the others, cabinet members and advisors. He felt quite alone. "Yes, of course. Admiral, please hold."
The President depressed the privacy button on the handset. "Gentlemen, I have no other option." He expected protest, but got none. Caldwell nodded slowly. Schellenberg stared at his hands, folded on the tabletop before him.
He released the button. "Admiral, I'm giving you a conditional go on Righteous Thunder."
"Conditional, Mr. President?"
"I'm putting the ball back in your court. I have no choice but to order a military response to this situation. If you believe that you have a chance of securing the release of Chimera's crew before they are moved ― if the level of risk is acceptable in your opinion ― then you have my authorization to go in."
"Yes, sir."
He locked eyes with Caldwell as he continued. "If you do not move on your own, we will begin mounting a major military response out of South Korea, probably within two days." He hesitated. Schellenberg was still not meeting his gaze.
"I understand, Mr. President." A burst of static hissed over the line.
"Good luck, Admiral." He handed the phone back to the waiting aide.
"Mr. President-" the Secretary of State began.
"Not now, Jim." The President pressed his hands over his eyes. "Gentlemen, we're committed. Possibly to a new war with North Korea."
"Do you think Magruder has a chance?" Hall asked.
"If he does, God knows he'll have a better crack at it if we're not trying to run things from here. Magruder's a good man. All we can do now is delegate and pray."
Abruptly, the President stood up, eliciting a flurry of squeaking chairs as the others did so as well. "And now, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I have to go work out what I'm going to tell the American people." And what he would tell the wives and families later. There would be body bags coming home from this one. How many, only God knew.
2049 hours
Flag Plot, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Admiral Magruder replaced the phone in its cradle. Captain Fitzgerald stood beside him, hands on hips. "They bought it?"
He nodded. "It's a go." Magruder took a deep breath. His heart was hammering in his chest as hard as it ever had during any carrier landing. He was under no illusions about the limits of the authority that had just been handed to him. If Righteous Thunder failed, not even the President would be able to save his career. He would be the admiral who'd tried ― and botched it.
Magruder found himself thinking about one particular failure of American arms in recent history, the debacle at Desert One, during Operation Eagle Claw in Iran.
The situation there had been similar in some ways, a large number of Americans held hostage by a hostile regime, an attempt to reach them by helicopters flown off a U.S. carrier. Eagle Claw had been unthinkably complex, much more so than Righteous Thunder. The chances for success in Iran had been slim to begin with.
But contributing to the disaster had been Washington's efforts to micromanage the entire affair. President Carter had been trying to direct the entire operation by satellite link from the White House, and a disaster had happened.
Magruder reached over to the plot table and picked up the latest TENCAP stat. It showed the inner harbor of Wonsan, Chimera tied up at the dock, close alongside the Russian warship. At least this President was giving his man in the field his head. The admiral knew that his career would stand or fall by his own decision. "Lieutenant," he snapped, gesturing to an aide. "Get Admiral Simpson on the horn. Now."
"Aye aye, sir!"
Magruder grinned suddenly as he turned to face Fitzgerald, the first real smile to crease his face in several days. "By God, Jim. This time we're going to take them!"
2130 hours
In the hills above the Nyongch'on camp
Coyote shook his head in amazement. "You guys can't be for real."
Lieutenant Sikes grinned, his teeth startlingly white against the blacking on his face. "That's the way we earn our pay."
"Yeah, but fourteen men against three hundred…"
"Don't worry, fly-guy," one SEAL said, caressing his silenced Uzi SMG. "We'll get 'em to surround us then kill them all. No sweat."
Coyote decided he did not understand SEALs and never would. They looked… dangerous was the only word that came to mind.
They spoke in whispers, careful not to disturb the night. The compound had been in a frenzy ever since Coyote's escape, with groups of men hurrying about inside and patrols filing through the front gates and into the surrounding darkness. More than once, the SEALs had heard men thrashing through brush in the distance, searching for the missing prisoner, but so far no one had come close to the hide. The Americans would be safe until the enemy started using dogs or infrared gear ― which would take time to organize for a small base like this ― or until daybreak.
And by then it would be too late.
Coyote's leg throbbed, a pounding agony beneath the bandages. One of the SEALS, a black guy named Robbins, had cleaned and dressed his wound. He'd been
lucky. The AK round had torn through the fleshy part of his thigh, missing both bone and major blood vessels. There'd been a lot of blood, though, and the leg hurt like hell now that the initial shock had worn off. Whatever happened tonight, he'd be staying put, at least until he could find something he could use as a crutch.
"Okay," Sikes said, gathering the small circle of men with his eyes. "Here's the way we'll play it. Kohl, you stay put with the fly-boy. Your first responsibility is the POWs. You see what looks like a major move on the Chimera's guys, get me on the TAC COM. Depending on where we are at the time, I might have you start taking them down… or sit tight while we deploy. No way to call it at this point."
"Right, Lieutenant."
"Rest of you guys are with me. You all know your targets?"
There was a chorus of nods and affirmative grunts. "Good. We'll lay low until midnight. You guys have until then to check your weapons, get your demo packs ready and get some sleep. It's gonna be a long night."
Coyote's guts churned. The SEALs had been taking an almost bloodthirsty zeal in their last-minute planning, ever since word had come through on their compact satellite receiver from Jefferson that the rescue op was on for tonight. In general, the SEAL team's part in Righteous Thunder was simple: secure the prisoners and an LZ within the Nyongch'on compound, then send the message "Sunrise Blue." Reinforcements, code-named Cavalry One, would arrive shortly after that. Zero hour had tentatively been set at 0200 for the SEAL assault and 0400 for the arrival of Cavalry One, though those times were flexible, subject to immediate change.
If Sunrise Blue was not transmitted, Cavalry One would come in anyway, but no one wanted to think about what that would mean. A helo assault into a hot LZ with an alerted enemy would not be pretty.
Coyote's real fear was that he had been responsible for this whole operation… and if things went down bad, it would all be his fault. His escape had aroused the North Korean camp with the thoroughness of a stick thrust into a hornet's nest, and with about the same result. Enemy patrols continued to wander through the darkness nearby, and the single sentry outside the POW compound had been replaced by an armed band of at least ten soldiers, armed with AKs and a Russian-made RPD machine gun.
If the SEALs couldn't infiltrate the enemy camp, if Chimera's crew was spirited away somewhere out of reach before the op could be launched, it would be his fault.
2345 hours
Tomcat 205, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Tombstone felt renewed.
The excitement extended to every man on the flight deck crew, visible in the crisp motions, signals and gestures, the jaunty grins, the two-fingered V-for-victory signs raised above their heads in salute. One yellow shirt stood in a pool of light from a nearby work lamp, looked up at Tombstone, and rammed his fist into the air. Tombstone grinned and returned the greeting with a thumbs-up as the yellow shirts began breaking down his Tomcat, releasing the chocks and chains which held her to the deck. Morale aboard the Jefferson had never been higher. We're going in this time, Tombstone thought. And this time nothing's going to stop us!
"How you feeling back there, Snowball?"
"Never better," his RIO replied. He sounded self-assured, businesslike. "Radio frequencies set, nav guidance punched in. We're ready to roll, skipper."
"Here she goes." He started up the Tomcat's engines, first the left, then the right, feeling the surge of power shudder through the airframe. Gently, he set the gray-white throttle handles by his left hand to idle, waiting until the breakdown was complete. A yellow shirt waved his colored wand, directing Tombstone out of his parking space.
Slowly, the F-14 moved toward the catapult. Above the thrumming roar of his engines, Tombstone heard the sudden, howling thunder of an A-6 Intruder's twin Pratt and Whitney turbojets revving to full throttle, then the shuddering blast of sound as a catapult hurled the aircraft out over the ocean. The building excitement was tangible. This was it!
The order to assemble for a briefing had come through from CAG less than three hours earlier. As before, Tombstone would be leading the tactical CAP for the ground attack aircraft, Hornets and Intruders. The Alpha Strike would be going in low, hard, and fast, skimming the waves almost all the way in; their primary targets included most of the objectives of the aborted mission of the day before, SAM sites and coastal radars, AA batteries and communications centers, as well as the airfield at Kolmo across the bay from the Wonsan waterfront.
It was imperative that the Strike, code-named Desperado, knock out the SAMs and radar. If it didn't, the entire op would almost certainly fail. For the first few hours, the operation's success would be riding on the A-6 Intruders of VA-84 and VA-89, the Blue Rangers and the Death Dealers. The Hornets of VFA-161 and VFA-173, the Javelins and the Fighting Hornets, would be following close behind, taking down what the Intruders missed.
Meanwhile the F-14s, code-named Shotgun, would provide cover for Desperado.
As CAG had laid it out at the briefing, Righteous Thunder would go down in a series of stages. The air-to-ground strikes were Phase One. Phase Two would begin approximately two hours later with CH-53E Super Stallion helicopters in their minesweeper role, using towed sleds to clear the approaches to the landing beaches for the Marines. At about the same time, a special flight of four RH-53D Sea Stallion helos designated Cavalry One would depart from the U.S.S. Chosin. The Marine landings were scheduled to begin with high tide, at approximately 0545 hours in the morning.
Tombstone checked his cockpit clock. Two hours to go before the helo ops began, six until the landings began. Jefferson's air wing had that long to open the way for the Marines. It was a tall order.
In the darkness of the flight deck, colored lights probed and clustered, darted and winked, like workers attending a queen bee. Blue shirts checked flaps and control surfaces. A red shirt held high the red-tagged wires which had safed the Tomcat's air-to-air missiles until he'd removed them. Tombstone checked the wires, verifying the count. This time his load mix was six Phoenix and two Sidewinders. The rules of engagement for this mission were to hit the other guy before he hit you… which meant the long-range Phoenix could be used to best advantage.
What surprised him most was the realization that he had no questions about his own part in things, despite his failure the night before. He felt the familiar, rapid hammering of his heart beneath his harness, sure, but the doubts were gone. It was strange how his talk with Batman had steadied him.
Fight to fly, fly to fight, fight to win. He owed it to the other men in the squadron to see the Top Gun slogan through. He owed it to himself.
And to Coyote.
The F-14 moved into place on catapult one. A green shirt standing to the left of the aircraft held up the lighted board: 68,000. Tombstone unclipped a penlight from the clipboard on his thigh and held it against the cockpit canopy, describing a circle which indicated that he agreed with the figure for the Tomcat's weight.
The familiar succession of clanks, rattles, and thumps followed as the hook-up men clipped the launching bar on the Tomcat's nose gear to the catapult shuttle ― riding in its slot on the flight deck. The catapult officer waved his green-filtered flashlight horizontally, signaling Tombstone to bring his throttles up to military power.
He checked the control stick and rudder pedals: Father, Son, Holy Ghost, Amen. All correct. The cat officer signaled again, up and down this time. Tombstone responded by sending the throttle the final notch forward to full burner, then switched on his navigation and running lights. The green light shone from the carrier island.
"They're givin' us the word, Stoney!" Snowball said.
"Hang onto your stomach, Snowball. It's go. Go!"
The deck officer touched his light to the deck, then raised it, pointing off the bow. There was a second's pause, and then the Tomcat slammed forward into the night.
DAY FIVE
CHAPTER 22
0052 hours
Yo-do
The first blow fell against the island of Yo-do, a
rocky islet twelve miles off the Korean coast. There was little of interest there: a fishing village, a small military base ― and the seaward-facing radar arrays for Yo-do's SAM sites.
At 0048 hours, the base went on full alert. The jamming which had been fogging Yo-do's radar for the past several days had cleared, and in the unaccustomed clarity a number of targets could be made out to the east, crossing into North Korean airspace.
Word was flashed back to Wonsan, and from there to P'yongyang. Uncertainty about American reactions to the Wonsan crisis was now resolved. It was evident now that the Yankees planned to strike at North Korea with a seaborne air strike, similar to the nightmare F-111 raid they'd mounted against Libya in 1986.
Yo-do's main radar arrays tracked the oncoming Americans. The smaller tracking radars used to direct the SAM batteries switched on, picking their targets.
Minutes later death fell, unheralded and unsuspected, from the skies, shredding the concave latticeworks of the Korean radar antennae in the searing detonation of missile warheads, each packing 145 pounds of high explosive.
The HARM AGM-88A had been launched from Navy carrier aircraft against Libyan radar sites in 1986, where it had proved its worth against Qaddafi's SAMs. Each HARM ― A High-speed Anti-Radiation Missile ― was over thirteen feet long and weighed nearly eight hundred pounds. The only weapon ever carried by the Navy's EA-6B electronic warfare Prowler, it had a range of eighty nautical miles and a radar profile so narrow the Korean operators literally never knew what hit them.
Minutes after the destruction of Yo-do's radar eyes, similar outposts on the Kolmo Peninsula, on Sin-do outside of Wonsan Harbor, and on the rugged coasts north and south of Wonsan itself all vanished in savage explosions as their own radar emissions called down the death which hurtled in at nearly Mach 1.
The explosions were still echoing across the waters of Wonsan Harbor when the air armada assembled above the Yonghung Man completed its refueling from orbiting tankers and began descending on the Korean coast.
Carrier c-1 Page 22
