Carrier c-1

by Keith Douglass

  Only then did he realize that the shore line behind him was empty now, that he had been the last Marine off the Wonsan beach.

  "Hey, what happened?" he asked a Marine standing next to him. "Did we get the Navy guys out?"

  "How the shit should I know," the man growled. "The colonel didn't see fit to confide in me this time!"

  "Yeah," another grumbled. "SOP. Never tell us anything!"

  "An oversight, gentlemen," a tall Marine said. "My apologies. The last of the hostages came off the beach at approximately zero-nine-fifteen. Only one of the prisoners died in the rescue. Chimera has been secured and is underway, heading out to rejoin the fleet."

  Only then did Ross notice the black eagle pinned to the Marine's camo fatigues and realize who was talking to him. He snapped to attention. "Excuse me, Colonel sir!"

  "At ease, at ease," Colonel Caruso said, waving Ross down. "God knows, you boys earned it." The colonel's words were already spreading among the Marines crowded in the LCAC's well deck. The cheering broke out seconds later, beginning as a murmur and swelling, growing larger, going on and on and on, so loud it drowned out the hovercraft's roar.

  1215 hours

  Flag Bridge, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

  Admiral Magruder held the binoculars to his eyes, peering through them toward the west. He could see the darker shadow that was the Kolmo Peninsula against the vaster, paler background of the mountains, but at this distance he could see neither Wonsan nor the beaches.

  The Marine intervention in North Korea was over. All of Chimera's surviving officers and crew were safe, the wounded in the extensive sick bay facilities on board Chosin, the rest on the Little Rock where the LCACs had carried them. By any standards, the raid had been a spectacular success. Of Chimera's original crew of 193 officers and men, 23 had died during the original attack at sea five days before. Three had been shot by the Koreans. One more, a Lieutenant Novak, had died during the rescue. The SEALs and Marines had brought out all of the rest.

  But the cost…

  The casualty figures weren't complete, but over one hundred Marines had died in the landings. Add to that the casualties on Jefferson's flight deck in the accident that morning: four dead, fifteen injured.

  Plus two SEALS, and the Navy aviators and NFOs… Mardi Gras, Frenchie, Dragon, Snoops. Brave men all, who had died for what they thought was right.

  "Now hear this, now hear this," a voice boomed out from the ship's 5-MC, faintly audible through the bridge windows. "Stand by to receive helo." One of Jefferson's Sea King SAR helicopters was approaching from the west. The admiral watched as the machine settled onto the deck. Through his binoculars, he could see two men on board, lying strapped into the wire mesh baskets of a pair of Stokes stretchers.

  Jolly and Chucker. The SAR chopper had plucked them from the sea less than a mile off shore. They looked half-frozen and too weak to walk after spending hours adrift in the cold water, but the helo had already radioed that they were okay. Corpsmen lowered the stretchers to the deck, then hustled them toward the island.

  Magruder remembered his nephew's outrage a five-day eternity ago. We do look after our own, he thought. When we can. When we possibly can.

  Three American planes had been downed today, but the crews had all managed to eject and been rescued. The butcher's bill this day was not as high as it could have been, perhaps, but it was high enough. The brutality of the equation was appalling, and it raised a disturbing question. How many deaths can be justified in the saving of two hundred lives?

  Admiral Magruder knew the answer to that question as soon as he'd framed it in his mind. The Marines, the Jefferson herself and every man aboard her… they were there to defend American rights and American lives, at the cost of their own lives if need be. There was no particular logic to the mathematics of the question, and damned little glory. But there was tradition.

  And honor.

  And that was enough.

  2200 hours (0800 hours EST.)

  The Oval Office

  The President swiveled his chair away from the desk and stared out past the Rose Garden toward the pinnacle of the Washington Monument in the distance. It was a glorious fall day, blue skies, puffy white clouds… with just a hint of autumn crispness to the early October air.

  It was over. The speech, the pile of papers on his desk, said so. The last of the Marine and Naval forces had disengaged hours before and were now standing well out into the Sea of Japan, leaving the shores of North Korea behind them. Chimera and her crew were coming home.

  He would read that speech on the special television broadcast scheduled for later that morning. He was certain the American public, at least, would support what had been done. Despite storms of controversy in the press, most Americans had cheered the Mayaguez rescue, Grenada, Panama, and the Gulf War to liberate Kuwait. They would cheer this time as well, and in the end, it was their cheers that mattered most. A former occupant of this office had once called the nation a "pitiful, helpless giant." Never again. By God, never again!

  The tragedy was that things were never as neat and as orderly as they were in works of fiction… such as Presidential speeches. Crises were not neatly resolved when the President sent in the Marines… never. More often than not, the real problems were just beginning when the outward crisis was solved. The Marines might be out of North Korea, but the real fight was just warming up. The government of the Philippines was calling the Wonsan incursion an unjustifiable use of force to settle what was essentially a diplomatic problem; the People's Republic of China called it a serious provocation and a threat to stability in the Far East; Japan thought it an unforgivable reversion to the stupidities of gunboat diplomacy.

  God only knew what North Korea would call it when they began addressing the world audience: war, murder, rape, and piracy, most likely, emotional charges which the logic of truth could never fully counter.

  There was a knock at the door. "Yes?"

  A secretary stepped in. "Mr. President? Secretary of State Schellenberg."

  "Send him in."

  Schellenberg looked drawn, and his expression was hard. The President rose from the chair and advanced to greet him.

  "Good morning, Mr. President," Schellenberg said. He fumbled for a moment with an envelope in his suit coat pocket.

  "That had better not be what I think it is, Jim."

  "My resignation, Mr. President. I… think you know why."

  The President folded his arms, refusing the envelope. "I don't want it."

  "But, Mr. President-"

  "No. You ought to know me better than that, Jim. We didn't agree on how to handle the Koreans, but that doesn't mean I don't need you, or respect your opinion."

  "I was wrong." He dropped the envelope on the President's desk, then closed his eyes. "My God, when I heard they'd started shooting our people, one by one-"

  "No. You were right."

  "Sir?"

  The President picked up a folder, stamped TOP SECRET at top and bottom, and handed it to Schellenberg. "The DCI brought this by this morning. Read it."

  Silently, the Secretary of State paged through the documents inside. Marlowe had briefed the President on the translated documents and the CIA's analysis of them only hours before. Taken from the body of a North Korean officer in the field, they offered a glimpse of P'yongyang's strategy. The plan, code-named Fortunate Dawn, had started as an attempt to embarrass the United States by capturing and quickly breaking the crew of a U.S. intelligence ship… but somewhere along the line things had gotten out of hand.

  "You see, Jim?" the President asked when Schellenberg looked up from the papers. "They set a trap and we almost stepped into it."

  "They wanted us to invade?"

  "I think they wanted us to get so bogged down we couldn't pull out. Then the Russians or the Chinese would have come to their aid… and bailed out their economy. Thing is, if Righteous Thunder hadn't worked, they might have gotten their wish. Jefferson and the MEU gave us the flexibility to ge
t in, accomplish our objectives, and get out… fast."

  "Thank God for the carrier battle group, then."

  "Amen to that. If I'd ordered a full military response…" He shuddered. "No, you keep right on telling me what you think. Yes men I don't need, not in this job."

  "Yes, sir."

  The President grinned. "Besides, I'm not about to let you off the hook. Hell, man! Our Asian allies are fit to be tied over this thing… and I'm supposed to break in a new hand now?"

  Schellenberg smiled. "Bad timing, huh?"

  "Damn right it's bad timing." He plucked the secretary's resignation from the desk and tore it into pieces. "Now, I thought we should send some of State's best people over there. You know, smooth things over. I was wondering about that doctor who briefed us, what was her name…?"

  "Dr. Chu. Yes, I'd thought of her for something like that myself. She's not afraid to give it to people straight."

  "Good. I've given you one hell of a mess over there, Jim, and I'm counting on you to clean it up."

  Schellenberg's resistance weakened as they continued to talk.

  Mess it might be, the President reflected as they discussed the situation, and mess it would continue to be for weeks to come. But it could have been worse… much worse. If it had not been for the Jefferson and her battle group…

  There was a major contradiction there… a U.S. Navy carrier battle group as an instrument of peace. But without Jefferson and the will to use her, America would have been held hostage ― again ― or been forced to go to war. The challenges to freedom included not only foreign invaders, but fear, indecision, and the willingness to sacrifice principles on the altar of appeasement, of peace-at-any-price.

  More often than not, the cost of appeasement was too damned high. He hoped the men who had died on those beaches understood. Somehow, he thought they would.

  EPILOGUE

  U.S. Naval Hospital, Yokosuka, Japan

  So, Coyote!" Tombstone said, grinning. "Do you mean to tell me you're leaving me stuck with this character for a wingman?"

  "Ah, you're just jealous, Stoney," Batman said, laughing.

  "You saw that walking dream in nurse's whites out there! She's the only reason this guy's screwing off here!"

  Coyote lay in the hospital bed between them. It was three days since he'd been carried on a stretcher off the rescue helo, then medevaced to the Naval hospital here at Yokosuka. Physically, he looked only a little the worse for wear, with bandaged leg and shoulder and a needle in his arm feeding him D5W from a bottle hung on an IV stand. But Tombstone had looked into Coyote's eyes and seen something else, a hurt or a fear or some inner twisting which IV bottles could not reach.

  The cure lay within the patient. Whether he could find it was still a question.

  "Can't be the nurse, Batman," Coyote said. "You know I've got a ticket home."

  Tombstone walked to the window, which overlooked Yokosuka Bay. The harbor was clogged with Navy ships, tugs, cargo ships, and ferries. Looming over them all was the gray steel mountain of the U.S.S. Jefferson, just around the headland at Uraga on her way to the anchorage. He and Batman had gotten permission for the hop to Japan ahead of the carrier the day before. They'd spent the night at the Yokosuka BOQ in order to be at the hospital at the start of visiting hours.

  He'd only just learned that Coyote was due to be case-vaced once more, this time to the Naval Hospital in San Diego. He was going home, just like Snowball Newcombe, who'd been shipped out yesterday.

  "Sure, sure," Batman said. "I think you've got something going with her!"

  "Cool it, Batman," Tombstone said. "This here's a married man!" He grinned, then shook his head in mock despair. "My God, Coyote, you've got to come back! You haven't seen the latest flock of nuggets they're sticking us with! They just flew out to the Jefferson yesterday."

  Just before they'd strapped on their Tomcats for the flight to Yokosuka, Tombstone and Batman had talked briefly with the air wing replacements. Fresh-faced, raw, and new, every one of them, full of questions about what it was like to down a MiG. Or to kill a man.

  "Shitfire," Batman said, catching Tombstone's eye. "Hotdogs, every one of them. You know, I think we're gonna have our hands full!"

  "Yeah, hotdogs." Tombstone threw Batman a wink. "I bet they fit right in!"

  Coyote looked away, toward the window, where sunlight was spilling across mountains, water, and the drab orderliness of military buildings. The Jefferson was sliding slowly past the harbor entrance. "Yeah… well, I've been doing a lot of thinking, guys, these last few days. I don't know if I will be back."

  Batman, for once, said nothing, and Tombstone was grateful. He thought he knew what the Coyote was going through.

  All three of them had endured much the same test during the past week, each facing that one choice which is the secret dread of all Navy aviators: the decision to turn in his wings. A simple matter, really… a walk down to CAG's office, a flip of the fingers to send the gold device spinning through the air…

  Loneliness. Strange to think of loneliness on a ship with six thousand people aboard, in a squadron where every man knew every other like a brother. But every man in the wing had an inner, private place where he could no longer rely on the camaraderie, the banter, the public image which each fighter pilot carried of himself.

  For Tombstone, that loneliness had been the loneliness of responsibility, of dealing with his men's burdens while he still carried burdens of his own. For Batman, it had been the lonely confrontation with reality… and with duty.

  And Coyote? He had a lonely choice too. Unlike Batman and Tombstone, he had someone waiting for him, far away in another world.

  "Your choice, friend," Tombstone said softly. He found himself thinking of Snowball, of the young RIO's fear… and of his unwillingness to be ostracized by the brotherhood. He and Tombstone had forged a special bond facing death together in the crippled Tomcat, a brothers' bond. Snowball would not fly again, not as an NFO. He'd be lucky if he walked again without crutches.

  But he belonged, no matter what happened. Just as Batman belonged… and the Coyote. There was a sense of family there which could not be denied.

  Tombstone looked at his friend and thought he knew what he would choose. Coyote had been shaken by his experiences ashore, sure. But he was tough, tougher than Coyote himself realized right now. He needed time to work things out, but he'd be back.

  "Ah, he'll be back," Batman said. "He couldn't get along without us!"

  "Maybe." Tombstone put his arm over Batman's shoulders. "You know, Will, whatever happens, whatever you decide, we're with you."

  Coyote grinned. "Maybe that's what I'm afraid of."

  And Tombstone knew then that the Coyote would be okay. Whatever happened.

  GLOSSARY

  AA or AAA: Also "triple A." Antiaircraft artillery.

  AAM: Air-to-air missile.

  AAVP: Amphibious Armored Vehicle, Personnel. Also "AAV" or "amtrack." Amphibious Marine tracked vehicle used to ferry personnel ashore. Carries 21 Marines.

  ACM: Air Combat Maneuvers. Dogfighting.

  AEW: Airborne Early Warning.

  Air Boss: Air Department Officer. Directs aircraft within 5 miles of carrier from Primary Flight Control.

  Air Operations: Also "Air Ops." Department responsible for aircraft outside Pried-Fly's 5-mile zone.

  Air Wing: All of a carrier's aircraft squadrons. A typical wing on a Nimitz-class carrier includes 2 fighter squadrons, 2 light attack or strike/fighter squadrons, 2 medium attack squadrons, 1 EW squadron, 1 AEW squadron, 1 ASW squadron, and 1 helicopter ASW squadron, for a total of 86 aircraft.

  Alpha Strike: A number of aircraft carrying out a raid.

  Angels: Expression of altitude in thousands of feet; i.e. "angels seven," seven thousand feet. Also, designation for helicopters aloft for SAR during carrier launch or landing operations.

  ASW: Anti-submarine warfare.

  Autodog: Soft ice cream from an automatic dispenser.

/>   Bandit: Identified enemy aircraft.

  BARCAP: Barrier Combat Air Patrol. Element patrolling between the carrier and possible enemy aircraft.

  Batphone: Direct line to principal carrier departments and personnel.

  Bear: NATO code for Tupolev Tu-20 bomber and several variants.

  Bingo Fuel: Enough fuel remaining for a few more minutes of flight, depending on speed and payload. A "bingo field" is a shore airfield close enough for an aircraft to reach and land on if there are difficulties in landing aboard a carrier.

  Blue Bandit: A MiG-2 1, as opposed to a "Red Bandit" (MiG- 17) or "White Bandit" (MiG-19).

  BN: Bombardier/Navigator. The right seat position in an A-6 Intruder.

  Bogie: Unidentified radar target.

  CAG: Commander Air Group. Commanding officer of a carrier air wing. The title, which rhymes with "rag," is left over from the days when carriers had air groups rather than air wings.

  CAP: Combat Air Patrol.

  Carrier Battle Group: One aircraft carrier and air wing, with between 5 and 7 support ships.

  CATCC: Carrier Air Traffic Control Center, pronounced "Cat-see." Nerve center of Carrier Air Operations on the 0–3 level, responsible for traffic control outside Pried-Fly's 5-mile radius.

  CIC: Combat Information Center. Department where combat is monitored and directed. Also called "Combat."

  CINCPAC: Commander-in-Chief, PACific. The admiral in command of Pacific Naval forces.

  COD: Carrier On-board Delivery. Aircraft used to carry mail, personnel, and supplies to a carrier at sea.

  CVIC: Carrier (CV) Intelligence Center, pronounced "civic." An intelligence briefing room. Also where addresses by senior officers are televised for the benefit of the ship's crew.

  DCI: Director, Central Intelligence. Head of American intelligence agencies, including both the CIA and the NSA.