'This one carrier battle group carries more firepower than was expended in all of World War II. It serves as a powerful and highly visible instrument of America's political and foreign policy will. The North Koreans are not crazy, and they are not suicidal. I expect that they will listen to reason and give in.
'If they do not, then it is our responsibility to do what Congress and the taxpayers pay us to do… defend America's interests wherever in the world they are threatened, defend our people wherever and whenever they are in danger. I know that I can count on each and every one of you to do your duty.' He paused. What more was there to be said at a time like this? 'That is all.'
He stepped back from the lectern, allowing Buckley to take his place. The master chief was speaking as Magruder strode from the CVIC, but he was not listening. Command responsibility was something Admiral Magruder accepted with the uniform he wore. He'd grown up in a Navy family, he and his brother Sam. Their father had always told them both that command responsibility was something in their blood, that they were born to command.
Maybe that was so. His father had served on Nimitz's staff in World War II; his great-grandfather had commanded one of Farragut's monitors at Mobile Bay. The honor, the crisp blue-and-gold glory of U.S. Naval tradition had been a part of the very air he breathed when he and Sam were growing up in Annapolis, Maryland.
He'd talked a lot about command with Sam, back when they were on those heady first rungs of their careers as Naval officers. 'I don't mind the thought of dying so much,' Sam had told him once over coffee in the flight officers' mess at Pensacola. 'But giving the orders that are going to get somebody else killed, that's a real bitch.'
Sam had sealed his place in the family's tradition in the skies above the Doumer Bridge in downtown Hanoi, back in the summer of 1969. He was still officially listed as MIA, though the family had long since given up hoping that he was still alive.
His brother's words had come back to haunt Admiral Magruder more than once in the years since then, but now they were taking on an urgency ? an intensity ? unlike any he'd ever known. They followed him now as he hurried down the passageway. A sudden crisis, a set of orders from Washington… and he was taking twelve thousand men into combat. The fact that it was what he'd trained to do for so many years, that it was his job, meant less than the fact that they were his men. His responsibility.
Magruder had not told the whole story during his broadcast, and that, more than anything, was what was bothering him. It was true, for instance, that the carrier group carried more firepower than had been expended in all of World War II, but that was counting the nukes stored deep in Jefferson's belly, down in the forward magazine. No way would Washington authorize a nuclear strike against North Korea; vaporizing P'yongyang wouldn't solve a thing, and the North Koreans knew that as well as he did. Despite his brave words, Magruder wasn't nearly as certain as he'd pretended to be that the Koreans would back down.
Certainly, no one could count on an air-strike being sufficient in forcing P'yongyang's hand, and it was evident that Washington knew that. The Pentagon was bracing for something more than a quick in-and-out air raid; that much was evident from some of the paragraphs in his orders which he'd not read during the broadcast. Paragraph Seven, for instance, directed him to regard all North Korean ships and aircraft as hostile until further orders, and to take appropriate action as he saw fit.
Paragraph Ten was worse. It told him that a Naval special tactical team was coming in via COD ? carrier on-board delivery ? sometime after 1700 hours. That meant SEALS, and SEALs meant that someone in Washington was gearing up for the worst, anything from a hostage rescue mission to a full-fledged Marine amphibious assault. There were over twenty-six hundred Marines aboard Chosin and Little Rock. Suppose Washington decided to send them in?
Magruder found himself thinking of the two men shot down off Wonsan two days before, Grant and Cooper. He thought about Matthew's anger and shook his head. If the PDRK didn't back down in the next day or two, quite a few more good men could join them.
Heading back toward Flag Plot, he strode quickly down the narrow, gray-painted passageway, every fifth stride a duck-and-step through one of the openings in the transverse frames the ship's crew called knee-knockers. A sailor approached him coming the other way. Framed by the receding succession of knee-knockers, he looked at first like Magruder's own reflection in a gallery of mirrors. The corridor was so narrow both men had to turn sideways to pass.
The sailor was uncovered and therefore did not salute, but he looked Magruder in the eye as he stepped aside, grinned, and sounded off with a hearty 'Good morning, Admiral.' Like the majority of the men who served aboard Jefferson, he looked painfully young, no more than nineteen. 'Sounds like we're gonna kick some ass.'
'Damned straight, son.'
His men. His duty.
CHAPTER 11
Tombstone Magruder fed another sheet of paper into the aging IBM Selectric on his desk and began a two- finger hunt-and-peck as he tried once more to write his report on the previous night's Bear hunt. Try as he might, he was finding it impossible to put into words the reprimand he'd wanted to lay on Batman Wayne's record.
He held the same sour-stomached distaste for this kind of administrative work as he had for filling out quarterly fitness reports. A bad word could ruin a promising officer's career forever… or at least blight it with personal observations which would follow the guy for as long as he was in the Navy. Magruder was still angry with Batman for his hot-dogging with the Bear, but he was less certain now that he should commit that anger to Batman's record. A private talk with the man, maybe a quiet word in CAG's ear in case the situation came up again sometime would be enough.
Besides, in another few hours, Batman might well be in the air facing MiGs, SAMs, and triple A. He'd need all the self-confidence and concentration he could muster. But damn. If someone didn't curb that boy's hot-dogging pretty soon-
There was a knock at the door and Tombstone looked up. He'd half expected to see Batman there, but it was Snowball, blinking at him owlishly through his big, round glasses. 'Stoney? Got a minute?'
'C'mon in. Make yourself at home.' The invitation was more a matter of polite form than of practicality. The office was the size of a walk-in closet. The chair and desk, the filing cabinet, the tiny book rack on one bulkhead filled it completely. Fitting another man inside was a logistical problem as complex as moving aircraft around on Jefferson's crowded hangar deck.
Snowball stepped inside the door. 'Look… I'm not sure how to say this.'
'Just spitting it out's usually best. Short and sweet.'
'Yeah, I suppose so. Commander, I'm scared.'
Scared. The word lay between them, harsh and unforgiving. Tombstone knew he had a problem.
Within the fraternity of aviators and flight officers, admitting to fear was acceptable, but only if it was made in a joking, self-deprecating way. The ego, the machismo of combat pilots demanded it. I'm telling you, boys, a pilot might say, with the easy grin and down-home drawl of one who has been through it all. That night trap was so hairy… after that bolter I found out why the flight suits they issue us are brown!
Never, never did you simply blurt out your fear. That rule held especially true for aviators, but it applied to backseaters as well.
Tombstone shifted uncomfortably in his chair. 'What's the problem? Losing the Coyote the other day? The dogfight?'
'Oh, shit, Tombstone. I don't know. I guess it's a little bit of everything. I was scared the other day, sure, but I figured I could handle it okay. It got me to thinking though.'
Tombstone waited. Snowball took a deep breath and continued. 'It all kind of came apart for me last night, up there in the dark next to that Bear. Look, Tombstone, can I be straight with you?'
'Shoot.'
