Caldwell looked alarmed. 'Mr. President! You can't call them back! Not-'
'Damn it, Amos, I have to!' World opinion would not be kind if the bombers went in. The President turned to an aide. 'Get me on the satellite net. I want a direct line to Admiral Bainbridge. Now!'
As he was waiting, the President closed his eyes and thought about the pilots already closing on the North Korean coast. After this, they'd be mad enough to vote Democratic in the next elections.
The aide held out a telephone. 'Admiral Bainbridge on the line, Mr. President.'
He accepted the receiver. 'Wesley? This is the President.'
Commander Marty French, CO of VFA 161 and Deputy CAG of Jefferson's air wing, touched his gloved fingers to his helmet, not quite believing what he'd just heard. 'Homeplate, this is Marauder Leader. Say again your last, over.'
'Marauder Leader, Homeplate,' Marusko's voice crackled in his ears. 'RTB. I say again, RTB.'
'Return to base?' Another voice had cut in over the frequency.
The other aviators would be listening in. 'What in the frigging hell are they pulling?'
'Hey, I think my radio's bad,' someone else said. 'Don't think I can hear any-'
'Clear the air!' French's voice snapped. His right hand tightened on the stick of his F/A-18 Hornet, feeling the nimble aircraft's responsiveness. Damn it to hell! 'All Marauders, cut the chatter! The orders are:, abort mission, return to base, execute immediate!'
He heard the radioed acknowledgments from each squadron leader, some sulky, some puzzled. With a new and swelling anger, Frenchie French pulled his stick left and dropped into a broad, slow turn to port.
The Korean coast receded behind him.
'Hey, Skipper? We got company!'
Tombstone's eyes automatically flicked along the horizon. 'What do you have, Snowball?'
'Multiple bogies at two-zero-three, range three-two miles. Angels twenty. Closing in excess of five hundred.'
'Two-zero-three…?' That bearing put them southeast of Alpha Strike, coming in from the side instead of from behind. Tombstone had halfway expected that MiGs out of Wonsan might come out after the American strike force, but these bogies were coming from a different direction entirely.
'It's Kosong, Tombstone!' Snowball said. The edge of raw excitement was back in the RIO's voice. 'They're coming from Kosong!'
'What's the count?'
'I make it… eight bogies, two-zero-three at three-zero!'
Thirty miles. Two and a half minutes at Mach 1.
'Marauder Leader, this is Shotgun Leader-'
'We have them, Shotgun!' Marty French replied. 'Homeplate has been informed. Heads up, people, the gomers want to come out and play!'
'Shotgun Leader to Shotguns,' Tombstone said. 'Form on me for a break to starboard. Ready… break!'
Eight F-14s dipped their starboard wings in unison, swinging off their southeasterly course to align themselves with the distant, oncoming bogies, between the bombers and the oncoming MiGs. 'Target lock!' Snowball said.
'Hold on, Snowball. Let's do it by the book. Marauder Leader, this is Shotgun. We have target lock. Request clearance to fire, over.'
'Shotgun, Marauder Leader. Wait one.'
The ROEs for this mission had been to return fire if fired upon, but that had been assuming that they would be attacked over Korea. Things were suddenly a lot murkier since they'd been called off before entering Korean airspace.
Tombstone listened in on the crackle of radio chatter as the Deputy CAG passed on the request for ROE clarification back to the Jefferson. He heard the answer come through seconds later. 'Marauders, this is Homeplate. ROEs stand as given. You are clear to fire if fired upon. Over.'
'You heard the man, Marauders,' French said. 'All units, hold your fire.'
'Hey, Tombstone,' Snowball said. 'This ain't funny! I'm reading twelve bogies now, twelve bogies inbound, one-eight miles, five hundred twelve knots!'
'Tombstone, this is Batman!' He sounded excited. 'What gives, Skipper? These guys mean business!'
'Hold position, Batman.'
'I'm holding! Like a sitting duck I'm holding!'
'Shotgun, Shotgun Leader.' He was surprised at how calm his own voice was. 'Let's get into combat spread. Move out!'
The aircraft began drifting apart. In the loose deuce formation favored by American Naval aviators, each pair of F-14s became a team of 'shooter' and 'eyeball' during a head-on combat approach, flying one and a half miles apart and separated by five thousand feet of altitude.
Tombstone glanced out the right side of his cockpit. Batman's Tomcat, the number 232 prominent on its nose, drifted a few yards off his wingtip.
'Batman? Tombstone.'
'The Batman copies, Tombstone.'
'You take the eyeball.'
There was a moment's silence. 'Hey, Stoney! You got your kill-'
'Can it, Two-three-two.' Tombstone had wrestled with the question already. Batman was too eager. That all-important first shot couldn't be screwed up by a too-eager shooter. 'Take your position.'
'Two-three-two, affirmative.'
The aircraft slid apart, Tombstone dropping back behind his wingman and drifting off to the left.
'How you want to do this, Tombstone?' his RIO asked.
'Sparrow first,' Tombstone replied. It was an almost automatic decision. At five hundred pounds, Sparrows were a lot heavier than the Sidewinders, and the Tomcat picked up a weight bonus each time it loosed one. Phoenix missiles were bigger and heavier still… but expensive, and best saved for targets at longer range.
And like most Tomcat pilots, Tombstone did not fully trust the cranky Sparrows and wanted to hold his more reliable Sidewinders in reserve.
'Target,' Snowball said, as Tombstone heard the warble of a target lock tone in his headset. 'Lead bogie now at one-three miles.'
'Batman, Tombstone. Let's sweep around to the left a bit.'
'Two-three-two, affirmative.' Batman's Tomcat, visible now as a tiny gray toy against the sky a mile up and almost two miles ahead, began slipping sideways across Tombstone's line of flight. Tombstone matched the maneuver, maintaining the separation between the two aircraft.
So he's in a snit, Tombstone thought. Let him be. He'll have targets enough any moment now. The range closed like lightning.
'I got visual!' said Price Taggart, in the 203 Tomcat. 'Blue bandits! Blue bandits! Here they come…!'
'Launch, launch!' Batman said. 'Two-three-two has visual on bandit launch.'
'Confirmed,' Malibu chimed in. 'Two missiles inbound. Two-three-two, one-zero miles.'
'Shotgun Leader to Homeplate. We have been fired upon. TACCAP engaging.'
'Homeplate copies, Shotgun Leader,' a voice replied. 'You have weapons free-'
'Bandits! Bandits!' someone yelled over the radio. 'We got new bandits, closing from three-one-one!'
'What… new bandits?' Tombstone asked.
'He's right, Stoney! I got 'em too! I make it… ten bogies at three-one-one, angels twenty, nine-zero miles. Closing at five hundred plus!'
'Three-one-one? Hell, that's behind us?'
'That's what I mean, Stoney! It's our friends out of Wonsan!'
In one blinding instant of realization, Tombstone saw the trap. Twelve North Korean fighters had vectored
