Another sailor stooped to help, was hurled over the side.
Then the jets passed low above Chimera's masts in a savage thunder which shook the entire ship.
Water exploded forward, a towering pillar of white reaching as high as the bridge. For a moment, Gilmore thought the MiGs had dropped bombs… and then another white pillar erupted close to port and he realized that Chimera was under fire, cannon fire from an enemy warship.
A third round struck somewhere behind the bridge, and the shock knocked Gilmore to the deck. Glass shattered in the bridge windscreen. There was a rending crash as the whaleboat close by the starboard wing of the bridge was slammed against the ship's hull. It took Gilmore a long second to recognize the high-pitched keening he heard.
Someone was screaming. He looked down at the Intercom handset he still held, blinking at it. The line was dead, useless. Carefully, he placed it back in its cradle.
How can I save MY ship? How can I save my men?
The next shell missed, geysering close to starboard. The one after that struck amidships, between the bridge and the helipad, a shattering explosion which flung antenna leads and deck platform stanchions and piping high in the air. Flames boiled from a broken fuel line, sending a black and ugly clot of smoke passed the bridge.
Above the roar of explosions and fire, above the screams of the wounded, Gilmore heard the rumbling search of the MiGs returning…
… and then what was left of the bridge windscreen burst inward, filling the air with knife-edged shards of glass and the whip-crack of exploding shells. The helmsman jerked back from the wheel, half of his head gone in a spray of bone chips and blood.
Smoke fouled the air. Gilmore lay sprawled on the deck with no memory of how he'd gotten there. 'Get-' he snapped. 'Someone get on the wheel!'
He stopped when he saw Kingsly. The exec was on the deck three feet away, most Of his face blown away.
Oh, God…!
He tried to rise, tried to get his legs under him, and failed. Something was wrong. He couldn't see…
'Captain Gilmore! Captain Gilmore!'
Gilmore blinked his eyes Open, groggily aware that he must have passed out. How long…?
A Young lieutenant knelt over him, his uniform blackened with soot, tears streaking his face. 'Captain, please!'
Somehow, Gilmore managed to Prop himself up on his elbows, to look down at the gash in his thigh, at the spreading crimson pool on the deck beneath him. He felt weak and very cold. 'What…?' He tried to remember the lieutenant's name. Novak, that was it.
'Captain! They're coming aboard, Sir. What should we do?'
Coming aboard? Who…?
Distantly, he heard the chatter of automatic weapons fire, the shouts of voices, foreign voices.
Not on my ship!
'No… surrender.' But somehow, Gilmore knew it was already too late. Through the open way to the starboard bridge wing, across a hundred yards of gray water, he could see the knife-lean shape of a North Korean frigate, could see the forward turret trained on Chimera, and the boats in the water loaded with armed men.
He must have been unconscious longer than he'd realized. Strange, but he couldn't feel the wound at all. He'd heard that that happened sometimes, but he'd never quite believed it. God! He was so cold…
'Take… command, Lieutenant.' But he saw only fear in Novak's eyes, fear and incomprehension.
Then Korean soldiers in mustard-colored uniforms appeared in the door, brandishing AKMs, and Gilmore knew that he'd lost. Chimera had never really had a chance.
DAY ONE
CHAPTER 1
'Tango Seven-niner, this is Rodeo Leader. Say again your last.'
Golden morning light exploded through the canopy of the F-14 Navy Tomcat, riding high above the overcast which blanketed the western arc of the Sea of Japan. Lieutenant Commander Matthew Magruder, 'Tombstone' to his fellow officers of the Vipers, VF-95, wasn't entirely certain he'd heard the order right the first time.
'Rodeo, Tango Seven-niner,' the radio repeated. 'Come left to two-eight-seven and go to buster.'
'Copy, Seven-niner,' he replied. That was what he thought they'd said. Now what in the hell…? New heading two-eight-seven buster. 'Coyote, you copy?'
'Copy, Boss.' The voice of his wingman, Lieutenant Willie Grant, sounded a lot more carefree than Tombstone was feeling at the moment. 'We're with you.'
A glance to the right showed Coyote's F-14 off Tombstone's starboard wing, the early sun edging the aircraft's sleek gray hull with quicksilver. He could make out the masked and helmeted heads of Coyote and his backseat RIO easily. Tombstone's wingman looked across the gulf between the two aircraft and shook his head slowly back and forth in an exaggerated, rueful gesture.
'Tango Seven-niner, Rodeo,' Tombstone said. 'What the hell's going on?'
'Hang tight, Rodeo. Will advise. Please comply, two-eight-seven buster.'
'Roger, Tango Seven-niner. Rodeo coming to two-eight-seven.'
Tombstone brought his stick left, nudging the Tomcat onto the new heading, and pushed the throttles forward to full military power. He felt the familiar shudder, the drag of acceleration as the twin GE engines shoved the aircraft toward the sound barrier.
West, toward Wonsan. Why? The two Tomcats were on BARCAP ? Barrier Combat Air Patrol ? maintaining their station at angels thirty some three hundred miles in advance of their carrier group. Somewhere ahead, less than a hundred miles distant now, lay the coast of North Korea, an unseen, menacing presence. To the north, closer even than the U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson, lay the Soviet Naval base at Vladivostok. Flying west toward Wonsan, Tombstone felt like they were heading directly into a dragon's gaping jaws.
'Hey, Tombstone!' The voice of his Radar Intercept Officer, Lieutenant j.g. Dwight 'Snowball' Newcombe, sounded a bit shaky over the intercom, but that could have been the effects of the mild buffet as the Tomcat trembled at the spear-point of its own vapor trail. 'Tombstone, what's going' on, anyway?'
'Damned if I know, Snowball. They'll tell us when they want to, I guess.'
The buffet increased until they passed Mach 1, and then the rise was silk smooth and silent, arrowing through an endless blue heaven above a ruffled cloud deck that boiled and churned beneath the Tomcat's keels. Twin aircraft shadows raced ahead of the F-14s, rippling across the uneven surface of the clouds.
'Rodeo Leader, Rodeo Leader, this is Tango Seven-niner.'
'This is Rodeo Leader. Go ahead, Seven-niner.'
'Be advised that we have airborne targets, bearing two-seven-seven your position, range one-zero- four.'
'I got 'em, Tombstone!' Snowball called. Magruder heard the young RIO's breath rasping over his earphones, his breathing quickening. 'Confirmed two-seven-seven! I make it… two targets. Looks like they're vectoring for us.'
'Keep on them, Snowball.' He opened the radio frequency. 'We copy, Seven-niner. Have two bogies on scope. What's the gouge, over?'
'Rodeo, Seven-niner. Wait one.'
He waited. The 'gouge,' Navyese for hot information, was obviously being withheld for the moment. The tension was palpable, a smothering closeness in the F-14's cockpit.
