Carrier c-1

by Keith Douglass

  "Glad to hear it, Homeplate." He paused to examine the sky.

  "It looks like the locals don't want to play anymore."

  "Copy, Tombstone. That's good news."

  "Listen, Homeplate, does that mean your flight deck is open for business?"

  "That's affirmative, Two-oh-five. We started launching five minutes ago. We sent the call out, but I guess you were too busy to hear us."

  "Roger that." He checked his instruments again. He was losing fuel… fast. His hydraulic pressure was falling as well, and his left engine was running hot. "Homeplate, I'm calling an emergency."

  "Copy, Two-oh-five. What is your situation, over?"

  He ran down the list of warning indicators. The most serious problem was fuel. At the rate he was losing it, he would be going dry in another fifteen minutes. Coming in for a trap on Jefferson shouldn't be too hard; his ILS appeared to be out but he'd be able to come in by eyeball, no sweat. The loss of hydraulic pressure was a nagging worry, though. He might not be able to get his landing gear down… and if he did, the gear might not hold when he slammed into the deck.

  "Two-oh-five," Barnes said. "Suggest you approach Homeplate and eject. We have an angel standing by."

  "Concur, Homeplate. I-" He heard a groan and felt his heart skip a beat. The ICS was on, and he was hearing sounds from the back seat! "Wait one, Homeplate!" Tombstone turned, trying to see his RIO. "Snowball! Snowball, are you there?"

  He saw movement in the rearview mirror, caught a glimpse of Snowball's face, a mask of blood beneath his helmet. "It… hurts."

  "Homeplate, this is Two-oh-five."

  "Go ahead, Tombstone. What do you have?"

  "Homeplate, I thought my RIO was dead. He's not. He's alive! Can't tell his condition, but he's hurt pretty bad."

  "Ah… copy, Tombstone. Wait one."

  "Snowy? Can you hear me back there?"

  "Tombstone!" The voice was weak, and Tombstone heard a wet gurgle behind each breath his RIO took. "Tombstone… it hurts!"

  "That's good, buddy! If it hurts, you're still in there kicking. Stay with me, son! We're on our way back to the Jeff!"

  "Tombstone… I don't…"

  "Stay with me, Dwight! Where do you hurt?"

  There was no answer, but Tombstone could still hear the ragged breathing. If they were forced to eject, if Snowball's neck or back or head were broken, if he had a rib poking through a lung… damn it! Ejecting from a damaged bird was dangerous at the best of times. If you were injured, your chances of survival went way, way down.

  Under it all was the nagging realization that Snowball was in the backseat now because Tombstone had landed on him two days ago. Snowy had been ready to quit, and if he had, he'd be safe and whole on the carrier right now.

  Of course, someone else would be in the backseat instead. It seemed that there was little purpose in trying to second-guess the universe.

  "Tomcat Two-oh-five, this is Homeplate."

  "Two-oh-five."

  "Tombstone, do you think your RIO can eject? Over."

  "Negative! Negative! We cannot eject!"

  "Okay, Tombstone. Listen up. The Captain's rigging the barricade. You are clear for a straight-on approach. The Air Boss will talk you in, over."

  "Roger that, Homeplate." He took in a deep breath. "I'm coming in."

  "And I'm right here with you," another voice cut in.

  "Batman! Where are you?"

  "On your five and low, Boss. Looks to me like you're bleeding."

  "Roger that." The hydraulic fluid in Tomcats had an additive which colored it red, making it easier to detect leaks. "Hydraulic pressure is way down."

  "Ah, you don't need that shit. Just follow me on down, slick as a baby's ass."

  "Yeah. My port engine's running hot. I'm shutting down."

  They pulled into a gentle turn, coming up astern of the Jefferson. Two days ago, Marty French had made this same approach in a damaged Hornet. The images recorded off the PLAT system were still burned into his mind… the horror as Frenchie's nose gear failed and the wing tanks burst into flame.

  "Two-oh-five," the LSO's voice said over his headphones. "Check your gear."

  He slapped the switch. "Gear down."

  "Take it easy, Stoney." That was CAG's voice, coming from Air Ops. "You've got loads of time. Captain says the ship is at your disposal. If you want to circle a few times to catch your breath, that's okay. If we can help you by maneuvering, that's okay too."

  He thought of Snowball in the backseat, possibly bleeding to death. He thought about his bolters two nights before. Well, they wouldn't have that option this time around. "Negative, CAG. Thanks."

  On Jefferson's deck, hundreds of men from the deck crew were completing rigging the barricade, a kind of net with loose, vertical nylon straps hanging between two cables stretched across the flight deck. Tombstone had never made a net trap before, and he didn't like the thought at all. To drop toward a carrier deck on approach and actually see something in the way…

  "Two-oh-five, call the ball."

  "Tomcat Two-oh-five. Ball. One-point-eight." Fuel was getting critical. He wondered if there was a danger of fuel spewing over a hot engine and igniting. Well, he'd done all he could by shutting down the damaged engine. His left wing dipped and he compensated. The F-14 was sluggish; on only one engine it was like flying a boxcar.

  "Watch attitude," the LSO said. "You're lined up fine."

  He watched the orange ball, making tiny, incremental adjustments to the throttle. The sea was calm, and Jefferson was steering into the wind at less than fifteen knots. He eased up the power a bit as the ball went high.

  "Looks good," Batman said. The other Tomcat paced him off his left side. The deck swept up to meet him, the barricade stretched across his path. He overrode the instinct to hit the throttles as his rear wheels touched down.

  The landing gear gave way with a jar and the Tomcat's belly slammed into the steel deck. Sparks showered as the aircraft skidded down the deck at one hundred fifty miles an hour. The nylon straps of the barricade seemed to engulf the cockpit, and then Tombstone was slammed forward against his harness.

  Training took over as he switched off the engine, closed fuel valves, shut down power. The danger now was fire as fuel or fumes reached hot metal or an exposed electrical wire. Within ten seconds, Jefferson's crash crew had surrounded the aircraft, hosing it down with fire extinguisher chemicals, using the emergency release lever to free the canopy. As the cockpit opened, Tombstone felt hands reaching in to pull him out and safe the ejection seats, while behind him corpsmen began tending to Snowball.

  Only then did Tombstone's hands shake… this time from relief instead of fear. They'd made it.

  CHAPTER 32

  1100 hours

  Nyongch'on-kiji

  Lieutenant Morgan signaled Sergeant Walters with a chopping motion of his hand. The sergeant twisted the plunger on the device he held, and a chain of explosions ripped through the compound, destroying the barracks, the few surviving vehicles, the headquarters, and the building called the Wonsan Waldorf.

  "C'mon! C'mon! Let's go!" The sergeant dropped the plunger and trotted across the airstrip where the last ten Marines crouched in a circle, weapons facing outward.

  Morgan was eager to abandon the place. All of the former prisoners were gone, as well as the SEALs and most of the Marines. He alone remained with a single squad.

  The explosions set off another round of firing as automatic weapons opened up from the ruins across the street, followed by the heavy crump of a mortar round. The North Koreans were gathering again, had been pressing against the dwindling Marine perimeter all morning. It was time to go.

  "That's everybody!" Walters shouted.

  Morgan looked up. The last helo had lifted out of the camp minutes before. The Sea Stallion circled slowly overhead, waiting as SeaCobras made a final pass across the road, miniguns blazing. The lieutenant pulled the pin on a smoke grenade and tossed it onto the tarmac.

 
; Wind whipped up clouds of dust as the helicopter descended. The Marines stayed where they were, watching outward as a line flipped from the Sea Stallion's side and uncoiled toward the earth. When it reached them, the Marines grabbed it and stretched out the end on the ground. At Morgan's command, each man used swivel snaps to fasten himself to the line. "All secure?" he yelled, and each man in the line signaled readiness.

  Morgan waved, and the helicopter began going up once more, taking the dangling rope and the ten Marines with it. The lieutenant had always thought it an undignified way to travel. It reminded him of flies stuck to a long strip of flypaper, but it was a quick means of extraction which avoided the necessity of a helo setting down in the middle of a fire-covered LZ. The only real threat was that the helo pilot would fail to allow enough clearance for his low-flying passengers.

  Last man off the ground, Morgan clung to the line with one hand and gripped his M-16's pistol grip with the other. The line twisted, spinning him slowly as he rose clear of the ground. As he passed over the road, he could see a number of men in mustard uniforms spilling out of the ruins west of the camp and crossing the fence.

  They were probably shooting at the helo, but he could hear nothing under the thunder of the rotors and he resisted the urge to fire into the mob. "That's okay, boys," he said under his breath. The helicopter picked up speed and he trailed behind, the wind lashing at his face. "You're welcome to the place. We're just leaving."

  The twistings of the line turned him until he was facing north, and he caught a glimpse of blue sea beyond the Kolmo Peninsula and the smoke rising from the airfield.

  The Sea Stallion picked up speed as it turned toward the Marine beachhead.

  1114 hours

  Wonsan

  They were leaving. The fight for Chimera had been short and sharp. There'd been only a handful of North Korean guards on board; four had died at their posts and another had dived overboard. The rest, ten in number, stood uncertainly on the pier, their hands still cuffed behind them by plastic straps brought for the purpose.

  A Huey had arrived at 1000 hours and landed on the mid-deck helipad, disgorging a khaki-clad Navy chief and a small army of sailors in dungarees. These men vanished into Chimera's bowels. Twenty minutes later, another helicopter arrived carrying more sailors, volunteers drawn from Chosin and Texas City, all under the command of Lieutenant Gerald Cole. The shipboard Marine contingent divided into smaller details, some manning the vessel's machine guns fore and aft, others joining working parties who began clearing the wreckage from the spy ship's deck and cutting away the ruin of her boat davits and mast. One Marine had brought along a large American flag. The flag of the PDRK was taken down, folded, and stowed, the Stars and Stripes tied to a makeshift mast abaft of the bridge in its place. There was no ceremony to mark the moment. For the Marines, the act itself was enough.

  An hour later, the word was passed: Chimera was ready in all respects for sea. Cole turned to Lieutenant Adams, commanding the Marine platoon, and smiled. "Liberty's over, Lieutenant. Call your men back and let's get the hell out of here."

  The Marines on the waterfront filed down the pier and up Chimera's gangway. They left behind their Korean captives and a coterie of Soviet Marines and sailors. The atmosphere was friendly, even relaxed, though the Marines remained on guard. Gunshots continued to bang away in the distance, beyond the city and across the bay. The waterfront area, though, seemed deserted; at the least the inhabitants were staying well under cover. A-6 and Hornet interdictions at dozens of points around the city's road net had paralyzed traffic and prevented troop movements into the waterfront. Also, the landings across the harbor and the fighting at Nyongch'on had served admirably as a diversion.

  Chimera's engines boomed into life, causing the dirty water under her stern to boil and froth. Sailors cast off lines fore and aft, and the combat-battered vessel began to slide away from the pier, moving dead slow astern. Sergeant Peters leaned on the railing forward of the helipad, watching the group of Russians and Koreans as the ship backed into the harbor.

  One Russian Marine waved a packet of MREs above his head. "Peh-ters!" he yelled. "Vsyegoh harashigah, tovarisch!"

  Peters waved back. He didn't know what Vladimir Ilych was saying, but he seemed to be wishing the Americans luck.

  Machine gun fire rattled from a building somewhere to the south, but there was no telling what the target was. In reply, a single, piercing blast shrilled from Chimera's horn, echoing back from city buildings. An answering blast sounded from the harbor. There, the sleek gray shape of the destroyer John A. Winslow made her way among the fishing boats and merchantmen. The Winslow had been brought into the harbor against the possibility that Chimera would need a tow, or support from her five-inch guns. With her engines and steering operational, with Korean military forces along the waterfront fled or in hiding, the destroyer would serve as an escort of honor instead. Tomcats from VF-97 boomed low overhead, flying cover, as SeaCobras and SuperCobras continued their hungry circling. Winslow came about in a broad half-circle and began churning through the gray waters toward the north point of the Kolmo Peninsula.

  Her flag flying, Chimera followed.

  There would be no more Pueblos.

  1130 hours

  Blue Beach, Kolmo Peninsula

  Private Ross followed his training, leaning around the pile of rubble to look for the enemy instead of over. The resort complex, which had been in what passed for a rear area well within the Marine perimeter, had within the past hour become the front line once more. Mortar fire rained down on the Marines from hidden sites among the villages to the south, and the steady rattle of machine guns, the bang of sniper rifles echoed from buildings and cliff sides. Smoke, from gunfire, fires, and smoke markers, hung like a gray pall of fog across the ground, reducing visibility to a few yards and men to hunch-backed shadows slipping among trees and walls.

  A shrill, eerie wail sounded through the murk. Some clown over there had found a bugle and was using it to summon another charge. He'd heard stories about those bugles passed on from earlier generations of Marines in an earlier Korean war. "Get ready, guys!" he yelled. "They're coming!"

  They came in a rush, not the human wave hordes he and his squad mates had expected, but small groups of eight or ten men each. Autofire stuttered and snapped, the muzzle flashes bright, flickering tongues of flame in the fog. Ross chose his target, then elevated his weapon, his right hand caressing the trigger of the M-203, mounted just forward of his magazine. The weapon jolted against his arm. Seconds later, the 40-mm frag burst just behind the advancing Koreans, mowing them down like wheat. More kept coming, firing and shrieking as they ran. Ross took aim, sighting down his M-16's carrying handle, and began firing single shots with careful deliberation. One Korean fell… and another… and another…

  "Fox Company!" Corporal Chamesky yelled. Sergeant Nelson was dead, cut down by AK fire thirty minutes earlier. "Stand by to withdraw!"

  "How the hell are we supposed to withdraw with gooks climbing all over us?" Private Grenoble muttered from his firing hole a few feet away. He levered himself up and loosed three quick shots at the advancing soldiers. "We must have half the damned gook army here!"

  "We'll invite them out to the ship," Ross replied. He aimed again… fired. A North Korean clutched at his face and dropped back into the murk. "Have them join us in the mess hall. Ptomaine'll get them."

  "You wish. With our luck-" He stopped himself, looking up at the low overcast. The air was quivering with a new sound, a thundering roar approaching from the sea. "INCOMING!"

  "Down!" Ross screamed, and he did his best to burrow into the soil, his hands over ears and head.

  The ground seemed to rise up and kick him in the chest and stomach. The noise… the noise was too vast to be described as sound, a shattering detonation which tore sky and ground apart with a concussion wave which rang like a bell.

  Another express train roar followed the first… and the blast shook the ground and rained gravel a
cross the backs of the huddled Marines. Explosions tore the face of the ridge, uprooting trees, collapsing buildings, splintering walls.

  The silence which followed was so deep Ross thought he'd gone deaf, but he heard cheering rising from the beach moments later. Raising his head, he looked out toward the sea, where a low, gray silhouette rode the waves five miles out. Even at this distance, Ross recognized the John A. Winslow, the old Spruance-class destroyer which had accompanied the Marine amphib ships close into shore. Both of her five-inch turrets were swung around to cover the shore; those seventy-pound projectiles could be laid down with pinpoint accuracy with help from spotters ashore or in the air. The barrage had slammed into the Korean attack, shattering it utterly.

  "On your feet, Marines!" Chamesky ordered. Already he sounded like prime sergeant material, loud and obnoxious. "You bums miss the boat this time and it'll be a long walk home!"

  Fox Company stumbled back down the hill toward Blue Beach, sliding down a shallow ridge and jogging across sand and gravel toward the water. A trio of Sea Knights roared low overhead and out to sea, the last flight out of Kolmo Airport today… and probably for weeks to come, so badly had the runway been cratered.

  The beach area was littered with the burned-out hulks of vehicles ― AAVs, mostly, but numerous humvees and several helicopters as well ― which had suffered damage and were being left behind. One working vehicle remained, one of Chosin's LCACs, resting on its skirts just above the surf line with its forward ramp deployed. The beachmaster stood on the ramp, signaling Fox to hurry. "Move it, Marines!" he yelled. "You wanna be left behind?"

  Ross followed the others aboard, combat boots rattling on the ramp grating. The coxswain gunned the craft's engines and the skirts inflated, lifting the air cushion vehicle clear of the beach in a storm of wind-blown sand and spray. The ramp came up, and LCAC 2 nosed around, sliding off the beach and out over the water. Mortar shells thudded and howled overhead; geysers of water erupted to either side… and then the LCAC was hurtling to sea at fifty knots, the wind and sea spray clawing at Ross's face.