'Come off it, Jim,' Admiral Grimes said. 'Hell, they're already mad at us. We can't make them much madder.'
'We'd be backing ourselves into an indefensible position,' Schellenberg insisted. 'Look, what if they start shooting our people one at a time until we call off our planes? How could we respond to something like that from a position of strength? Isn't it better to talk first, see where things are going?'
'You can't talk with barbarians,' Grimes said.
'And maybe it's time we tried! Besides, if our people are scattered all over, we might hit some of them.'
'And wouldn't that look grand on page one of the Washington Post?' Phillip Buchalter said. The Presidential advisor chuckled. ''Hostages killed by U.S. air attack.' Hell, we need to have people left alive before we can get them out!'
'There's no better intel than this,' Marlowe said, jerking a thumb at the screen. 'Not without HUMINT sources on the ground.'
'Could be we already have some of those on the way in,' Grimes said. HUMINT ? Human Intelligence ? normally meant agents in place in a foreign country. But there were alternatives. 'We've got SEALs out there now.'
Marlowe frowned. 'Maybe. Risky, though.'
'I'd recommend against a covert op like that,' Caldwell said. An old Army man, Amos Caldwell had always resented the concept of elite special forces ? Rangers, Green Berets, even the Marines ? units which stole funding from the Army's share of each military appropriations bill. 'I don't care how stealthy they are, Occidentals are going to stand out over there like bugs on a plate. No place to hide, y'know?'
'Not SEALS, General Caldwell,' the CNO said coldly. 'Not SEALS.'
Schellenberg pursed his lips. 'if our people are caught in North Korean territory-'
'That's just the point, Mr. Secretary,' Grimes continued. 'We need intelligence from the ground. If anybody can get it without being caught, SEALs can.'
The President nodded slowly. He remembered a briefing in this same room years before, when Reagan decided to launch an air strike on Libya. SEALs had been on the ground in that one too, using laser designators to help American F-111s target their smart bombs. And then there'd been the SEAL raids in the Gulf…
'When will they be in position, Fletch?'
Grimes glanced at one of the clocks on the wall. 'They should be on board Jefferson now, Mr. President. Give them time for last-minute planning and preparation… they could go in tonight.'
'Our ace in the hole, Fletcher,' the President said quietly. 'If the North Koreans don't yell uncle as soon as we send in our planes, we're going to need hard intel fast. It looks to me like your SEALs are the best way to do it.' The CNO's face broke into a wintry smile. 'I would have to agree, Mr. President.'
CHAPTER 13
'That should do it, gentlemen.' CAG's face grinned at them from the television screen. 'Good luck, and God bless you all!'
'Let's saddle up!' Tombstone's voice came from across the ready room. The Vipers were already rigged out in their pressure suits. Outside, on the flight deck, their aircraft were waiting. The squadron pilots and their RIOs began filing through the door.
Batman Wayne rose from the leatherette chair and cocked a grin at Malibu. 'Oh, what a thrill…' he began.
Malibu joined him in the chorus. 'Gonna get us a kill!' Their hands collided in a high-five. 'Batman!'
'Yo!' He turned and saw Tombstone approaching. Adrenaline was boiling in his blood. He felt as though he were riding a billowing, thundering wave of excitement. Combat! 'You called, oh fearless leader?'
'You guys stick tight this time, right? No hot-dogging.'
Batman swallowed his irritation. Nothing was going to spoil this for him! 'Sure thing, Skipper. Strictly steak- and-potatoes.'
Tombstone had already given the two of them a dressing down for hot-dogging with the Bear. Further reprimands, Batman thought, were uncalled for.
'Hey, Skip,' Malibu said, grinning. 'You wouldn't be just the least little bit afraid that the Batman here's gonna beat your one kill, would you?'
'I just want to know he's going to be where I want him, when I want him,' Tombstone replied. The expression on his face was unreadable, a mask.
Batman gave Tombstone a tight salute. 'Yes, sir, squadron leader sir!'
Tombstone looked worried. Well, Batman thought as he pulled on his helmet, why wouldn't he be? The squadron ? hell, Jefferson's entire air wing ? was being flung against the North Koreans with almost indecent haste. The final orders had come through only hours before. Tombstone's work on the squadron's op orders must have put him up against the old problem faced by every military commander since Nimrod: Good men are going to die today, and I wrote the orders that killed them.
Batman liked Tombstone, though he couldn't claim to know him all that well. The guy was a real pro, steady, quiet, always certain about his next move. Batman especially appreciated the fact that Tombstone never made a big deal about having been to Top Gun school. You had to listen close to his lectures even to pick up the fact that he'd been to Fightertown. He had the righteous stuff, no question.
Batman didn't want to lose him.
They filed through the passageway, emerging from the base of the carrier's island onto the flight deck. The entire deck was a maze of aircraft and men, alive with motion and bustling activity.
A major carrier launch was a complex process, the arming, the fueling, the movement of aircraft between hangar deck and flight deck ? a colossal ballet of men and machines. The Deck Handler ? the Mangler, as he was called ? would be at his table just off the flight deck, shifting cutouts about on a scale model of the carrier in order to orchestrate each movement as planes were shuffled about preparatory to launch, or brought topside on one of Jefferson's four huge deck elevators. Everywhere, men in color-coded jackets moved with purpose and skill. Yellow shirts were directing aircraft, one after another, into line behind the catapult blast screens forward. Close by the island, purple shirts ? 'grapes' in carrier parlance ? were clustered about a line of F/A-18 Hornets attaching fuel hoses to their bellies, while red-shirted ordnancemen checked through the racks of bombs and missiles slung from wing pylons.
Batman had mingled feelings as he looked at the sleek Hornets with their red spear tail markings identifying them as planes of VFA-161, the Javelins. The Hornet was superb, the hottest, most modern of all Navy aircraft. Pilots for the Javelins and their sister squadron, the Fighting Hornets, consistently took the honors on the big chalkboard on the 01 deck which tallied each of Jefferson's aviators on their skill at carrier landings. Those standings were normally a source of constant, fierce competition among the pilots, but the Hornet drivers were always at the top because their aircraft handled so well. Batman was looking forward to the day when he could strap on one of those babies.
At the same time, though, Batman was glad he was riding a Tomcat today. The Hornet served a dual role, air superiority and ground attack. On today's raid they'd be hauling eight or ten thousand pounds of bombs all the way in. While the F/A-18s might have a chance to dogfight coming out, the F-14 Tomcats would be aloft today for one reason and one reason only: to kill enemy MiGs. And that was what Batman wanted to do, more than anything else in the world.
The piercing whine of engines revving up to full throttle shrilled from the forward deck, followed by the slam-pause-slam of a double catapult launch as a pair of A-6F Intruders clawed for sky. The raw noise was painful even through Batman's helmet. A carrier flight deck is so noisy during a launch that a man without ear protectors can die in minutes, killed by the intensity of the sound alone.
The water-cooled JBD blast shields dropped back to the deck as the Intruders dwindled into the distance and
