case. Both HALO ? A parachute drop from high altitude with the chute opening delayed until the last moment ? and HAHO ? A drop from high altitude with the chute opened immediately and steered across dozens of miles to the drop zone ? had been considered and discarded. Jefferson's Prowlers were busily jamming North Korean radar, but it was still possible that parachutists, especially high-flying, long-ranged HAHO jumpers, would be spotted coming in. Besides, the North Korean landscape was a rugged jumble of mountains, woods, villages, and industrial complexes. Without pathfinders to secure and mark the DZ, a parachute landing was extremely risky.
The solution, to insert by helocast into the sea and make the final approach to shore by raft, was risky too, but it offered several advantages. North Korean radars ? those that could burn through the American jamming ? had been picking up Jefferson's SAR helos all evening. Helicopters had been deliberately overflying the area for hours now, even deliberately penetrating the twelve-mile limit. By now, one more helo wouldn't attract undue attention… if it was seen at all against the scattered returns from the waves.
Too, in a helocast, the possibility of one or more jumpers injuring themselves was smaller, and this was an op where even one casualty would seriously weaken the team's chances.
Lieutenant Sikes held one hand to the communications helmet he wore. 'Three minutes!' he heard the aircraft commander say over the headset.
Sikes picked up his equipment bundle and padded barefoot across the cabin to the big sliding door on the starboard side, feeling the deck vibrate beneath his feet. A Navy helicopter crewman grinned at him and gave a jaunty thumbs-up, then undogged the door and slid it back. Wet air thundered past the opening.
The blackness outside was complete. The SEAL lieutenant took his position by the door, turned, and gave his men a hand signal. 'Get ready!'
Sikes removed the communications helmet and handed it to the sailor as the team members unstrapped themselves and gathered up their gear. The stick leader, Boatswain's Chief Manuel Huerta, helped the lieutenant drag a black-shrouded bundle weighing more than three hundred pounds and fitted with safety lines and flotation collars, across the deck and position it near the door. He signaled again. 'Stand up!'
The men unbuckled themselves and shuffled into line, Huerta taking his place at the head, facing Sikes. Wind tugged at the lieutenant's life vest, but its force was lessening. The Sea King was slowing now as it approached the drop zone.
'Check equipment!' As for a parachute jump, each man checked the gear of the man in front of him, rucksack snap-linked to harness, fins looped over one arm, knife, flare, first-aid kit, and pistol secured to web belt. Sikes double-checked them all, and Huerta checked him. The sailor, hearing a warning from the aircraft commander over his com helmet, held up his forefinger, crooked over to show half. Thirty seconds. 'Stand in the door!' The lieutenant could make out the oily flash of wave tops in the blackness below the helo, could taste air-flung salt as the rotors lashed spray from the surface. The Sea King had slowed now to less than twenty knots, coasting a bare fifteen feet above the water. The seaman gave a signal. 'Go!' The bundle went out first, already unfolding as its C02 valve triggered. Huerta was next. Earlier that evening, a metal bar had been welded to the helo's side, just ahead of the door and extending three feet from the hull. Huerta reached out the door and grabbed the bar, swung clear of the cabin with his body angled slightly forward and his gear bag dangling below, then let go. The splash was lost in the roar of the engines.
One by one, the SEALs shuffled forward and repeated the procedure. When the last man had vanished into the spray-whipped night, Sikes grinned at the sailor, took his own place at the bar, then let go.
The water was cold, engulfing Sikes in a numbing grip. By the time he resurfaced, the Sea King had already picked up both speed and altitude, its roar dwindling into the night. The lieutenant slipped his fins on, cleared his mask, then began closing with the rest of the team. He could hear them nearby, gathering at the black rubber raft riding the heavy sea swell. The IBS ? Navyese for Inflatable Boat, Small ? could carry fourteen men and up to one thousand pounds of gear. It took only minutes for the SEALs to get themselves and their gear on board, to unship the waterproofed electric engine and secure it to the motor mount. Sikes checked his compass and indicated a direction. Land was that way about five miles off if the helo had put them in the right place. The IBS began moving silently through the night.
One of the bunk-rooms reserved for six of the wing's junior officers was affectionately known as a Me Jo, a humorous acronym which stood for Marginally Effective Junior Officers. The quarters belonging to six of VF-95's lieutenants and j.gs had been taken over by pilots and RIOs from half a dozen of the wing's squadrons.
The party was in full swing when Batman arrived, at least twenty men crowded into the bunk-room, talking, laughing, and making the inevitable 'there I was right on this guy's tail' motions with their hands as they described again and again their specific engagements during the dogfight. Snake Hoffner and Zombie Callahan were enjoying the attention as they talked about their fish-eye view of the battle and their long, cold wait until a SAR Sea King had reached them. They'd been released from sick bay only moments earlier, arriving just before Batman. Since liquor was strictly prohibited aboard ship, refreshments were limited to Kool-Aid and coffee served from a pair of silver ten-gallon urns set on a cart in the corner. Food ranged from chips, pretzels, and other assorted junk from the ship's exchange to 'autodog,' soft ice cream so-called because of what chocolate ice cream was supposed to look like as it was extruded from the automatic dispenser.
Batman was late, having spent several hours debriefing and several more with paperwork. There'd also been his fruitless search for Tombstone. Pulling a succession of bolters was rough, and he wanted to know how the Vipers' skipper was doing.
'Attention on deck!' Tigershark McConnell shouted, grinning broadly, as Batman walked in. 'Gentlemen, our day's high-scorer has just arrived!'
A coffee mug bearing Jefferson's name and number was pressed into his hand. 'Thanks, Tiger. Frenchie also scored two, you know.'
McConnell raised the paper cup he was holding. 'Fallen comrades,' he toasted. 'They were the best.' Batman sipped the amber liquid in his mug and nearly choked on the smoky bite of scotch. 'That's good,' he managed.
'We got different flavors,' Army Garrison Murcheson said from the refreshment table. 'Scotch, rum, vodka, wine, Michelob, Black Label, Lowenbrau…'
'Not to mention Kool-Aid,' Malibu added. 'Name your Poison, compadre.'
Batman raised his mug. 'This'll do… just fine.' He was mildly surprised at the ebullient mood. Somehow, Batman had thought that the tone of the gathering would be more subdued after the deaths of Dragon, Snoops, and ? perhaps most shocking of all ? the Deputy CAG. In some ways, the party had the aura of nostalgia, good humor, and fellowship that Batman imagined must characterize an Irish wake, a celebration of good comrades bravely gone, made light by the forced bravado of 'the same thing can't possibly happen to me.'
If there was anything dampening the gathering's mood, it was the knowledge that someone up the chain of command had 'screwed the pooch,' aborting the Alpha Strike minutes before it was due to go in. Somewhere along the line there'd been a failure of nerve, and the men of Jefferson's air wing had paid for it that afternoon. Though casualties might well have been higher had Operation Winged Talon gone in, the deaths of French, Ashly, and Whitridge were perceived as the results of the bungling of an uncaring and impersonal bureaucracy. Morale was down, and more than one officer could be heard discussing the mental and moral shortcomings of 'those Washington REMFs.'
'So, compadre,' Malibu said as Batman drained his mug. 'You ever corral Tombstone?'
'Negative.' Batman shook his head. 'I was hoping to find him here.'
'Fat chance. Y'know, dude, I think the man's layin' low.'
Snake Hoffner became part of the conversation through the sheer press of the crowd. It seemed unlikely that the Me Jo could hold even one more man. 'Hey, I heard old Tombstone pulled a couple bolters,' he said. 'Was it bad?'
Malibu shrugged. 'He's been wired since Coyote and Mardi Gras bought it.'
Batman studied his empty mug. It was not something he particularly wanted to talk about. Hoffner was young, one of VF-95's nuggets. His dunking in the Sea of Japan that afternoon had done nothing to dampen his youthful exuberance. He hadn't yet learned all the social graces of the aviators' fraternity. Like the fact that you didn't talk about a man who might have lost the stuff that made him part of the brotherhood.
''Tention on deck!'
This time the alert was for real. Captain Fitzgerald stepped into the room and the men rose, awkwardly
