through the PRC's mediation!'
Caldwell opened his mouth as though to say something further, but the President stopped him with a raised hand. 'I wanted options, gentlemen. Options, not argument. Mr. Schellenberg thinks we have a possible shot at a negotiated settlement. What else do we have?'
'The 82nd Airborne is on full alert at Fort Bragg,' the general said in a crisp, matter-of-fact tone. 'Also the 7th Light Infantry and the 75th Rangers. Military Airlift Command is on standby. The Joint Chiefs are working out plans for full deployment out of South Korea. Marine assaults along the coast, airborne landings at P'yongyang, followed up by the infantry. We'll have to assume full ROK involvement, of course.'
The image was not a pleasant one. 'We'd take a hell of a lot of casualties.'
'I don't doubt it, Mr. President.' Caldwell looked down at the table. 'But we need a strong military response, or these people will know they can do anything to us they want. There's no other option.'
Phillip Buchalter cleared his throat. 'Not to disagree with the general, Mr. President, but we may have another option. A less… radical one.' He passed a manila folder down the table. 'This came through from the NSC Threat Team an hour ago.'
The President accepted the folder and leafed through the papers inside. The Threat Team had been assembled under the auspices of the National Security Council the previous afternoon. The folder contained the summary of a plan for an air strike against North Korea, launched from the carrier battle group already on station and directed at military targets: radar stations, SAM sites, and airfields. He looked up. 'Operation Winged Talon?'
'Yes, sir. Based on proposals put together by the CO of that carrier group we have out there. You'll notice that none of the targets are in Wonsan itself. No chance of hitting that Russian ship. The Threat Team feels that a measured response will convince the North Koreans that we mean business.' He glanced briefly at Schellenberg, who was scowling. 'It might induce them to negotiate, sir.'
'You think so?'
'It may be worth a try.' The National Security Advisor seemed unwilling to commit himself. 'Certainly, the threat of hitting that Russian ship by accident is quite low. There's also less chance that we'll hit our own people, since they're probably still in the city proper.'
'We don't know that,' Hall said. 'We don't know where our people are being held!'
Buchalter spread his hands. 'No guarantees. But it seems like a good bet.'
The President studied the report a moment longer. His own gut feeling was to try for a military option. Anything was better than doing nothing. And yet…
'It looks like we're in a holding pattern then,' he said after a moment. He looked up at Schellenberg. 'Jim, put some of your people to work on the political ramifications of this thing. I want to know how our allies are going to react if we go in shooting.'
'Yes, sir.'
He slid the folder back down the table toward Buchalter. 'Phil, Winged Talon looks good, but it'll have to go on hold, at least for now. We have to give State their chance at negotiation. But pass on your recommendations to the Joint Chiefs.' He looked at Caldwell. 'General, your plan is on hold too. We've got to get a better feel for how the Russians will react. Agreed?'
'Agreed, Mr. President.' He did not sound happy. There was, in fact, a definite feeling of gloom in the Situation Room, a sense that events were drifting beyond the ken of men who were used to being in control.
It was not a pleasant feeling.
Tombstone lay on his rack, arm thrown over his eyes, trying to sleep. It is never truly quiet on board an aircraft carrier. The aviators' quarters were located forward of the hangar deck and immediately below the flight deck. The pounding, hissing, slamming machinery which drove the Jefferson's catapults was located only a few bulkheads away, and the rattle of chains and cat shuttles, the harsh clang of steel on steel penetrated the small room's overhead almost round the clock. During launch operations, it was actually impossible to hold a conversation in the room, so loud was the boiler room racket from the catapults.
The cats were silent for the moment, though Tombstone was aware of the clatter of chains overhead and the periodic roar, screech, and bang of recovery operations aft. Hornets returning from combat air patrol, he decided.
Aviators were used to the noise, of course, and a tired pilot generally had no trouble sacking out. As exhausted as he was, though, Tombstone couldn't sleep. His mind kept going back to yesterday's dogfight, to Coyote's plane falling from the sky over the Sea of Japan, to the promises he'd made to his friend over the SAR frequency.
He gave up and rolled his feet off his rack. His eyes moved across the narrow room to the empty bunk opposite his.
Coyote's.
His roommate and wingman had left his guitar slung from his rack before he left, and it made small, hollow noises as the ship's motion rocked it back and forth. Gear adrift; Coyote would get an earful if the Captain made one of his periodic inspections.
Except that Coyote wouldn't be coming back. Tombstone wondered just when it would be that some Naval officer would come in and pack up Coyote's gear, clean his uniforms and civies out of his locker, pull down the country music group poster taped to the bulkhead, and clear the way for some fresh-faced nugget from the World. When would they declare Coyote officially dead?
Damn.
Tombstone knew he needed sleep, and he needed it now. This afternoon was prime time, with no duties and no noisy roommates until after chow. Tonight he'd have the duty. CAG had him on the list for standby and Alert Fifteen after 2200, and as sure as he was sitting there, there'd be a scramble. Jefferson was cruising slowly at the eye of a political storm; it was silly to think the tensions unleashed by the Korean crisis weren't going to rise, not now, not after yesterday's engagement.
But sleep was impossible. He rose, splashed water on his face at the stainless-steel basin on the bulkhead, grabbed his leather flight jacket, and left the room. If he couldn't sleep, he could at least lose himself for a bit in sea and sky. All the way aft on the hangar deck, a narrow passageway led from the hangar bay past the ship's engine repair shops to the wide-gaping cavern's mouth which opened across the Jefferson's stern.
This was the ship's fantail. In port, a ladder was rigged to descend from fantail to a floating platform at the ship's stern, allowing the crew to come and go on the liberty boats. Under way at sea, the area was roped off with safety lines, creating a gray-decked pocket of solitude twenty feet above the wash of Jefferson's four big propellers. For Tombstone, it was a place where tension and worry were swallowed by the numbing, rhythmic throb of the engines and the hiss of water boiling into the ship's wake.
Jefferson was cruising slowly eastward now, so the sun was low above the horizon dead astern, a red orb casting ruby reflections across sea and low-lying bands of purple clouds. Korea lay beneath those clouds, one hundred fifty miles distant.
The black silhouettes of three ships stood out in stark contrast against the sky's sunset glory. The largest one must be Chosin, he decided, the Marine LPH which had joined the carrier battle group that morning. Beyond her was the LPD Little Rock and one of the battle group's frigate escorts. Texas City and Westmoreland County, the other two ships of the MEU, were out of sight over the horizon.
It was strange to think that the battle group now included almost three thousand U.S. Marines, as well as Jefferson's air wing and the support aircraft on board Chosin and Little Rock. The carrier group represented a staggering force in terms of conventional arms, yet it was still helpless, dependent on word from Washington to act. Tombstone shook his head. Americans had been captured, had been killed. America ought to hit back.
Yet it all seemed so futile.
A tiny dot in the western sky grew larger. Tombstone gripped the rail, watching as the shape swelled into the blunt, high-winged shape of an S-3A Viking, its huge canopy perched above its nose like a Cyclopean eye. With a rising howl, the Viking rushed toward the end of the flight deck above Tombstone's head, its navigation lights describing brilliant green and red trails in the deepening twilight. He heard the thump of the aircraft's wheels on the steel deck, the rattle and crash of arresting gear snagging the wire, the descending whine as the pilot throttled
