But the alternative didn't sound promising either. For P'yongyang, negotiation was simply another form of warfare. The North Koreans might hold Chimera's crew for months, for years, with nothing being settled. They would hold show trials, parade 'confessions' extorted from their captives, promise a release and then change their minds in response to some imagined or contrived slight by American authorities. The anguish would go on and on.
'I am not optimistic about the promise of negotiations with these people,' Magruder said.
'That's putting it mildly, Admiral. It'll be Pueblo all over again, only worse.'
'What about Bushmaster, sir?' Even on a scrambled line, Magruder didn't want to make a direct reference to the SEAL team already ashore.
'Bushmaster remains in place. They will be a positive asset for Righteous Thunder… if it comes to that.'
'Understood.'
'Hang in there, Tom. Seventh Fleet is already deploying, so you'll have plenty of backup in another day or two. Until then, it's up to you to keep an eye on the bastards.'
'Aye aye, Admiral.'
'CINCPAC out.' The line went dead.
Magruder replaced the handset. Colonel Caruso would be proceeding with the final preparations for a landing in any case. In a situation like this one, the Marine motto of Semper Fidelis was best reinforced by the Boy Scouts' Be prepared.
They would be ready to go in, no matter what happened. And as much as Magruder felt that Washington was making a mistake, he would be ready as well, ready to carry out the President's orders.
But the frustration he felt was almost tangible, like the thundering shudder in the air on the flight deck during a cat launch. He turned to an aide. 'I'll be on the Flag Bridge.'
The waiting was always the hard part.
The lookouts gave warning seconds before the door banged open. Coyote watched in silence with the men of Chimera's crew as Major Po walked in, flanked by guards with AK-47 rifles.
There'd been no more interrogations since the day before, no attention from their captors at all save for the arrival several hours before of a squad of silent peasants who replaced full honey buckets and left behind a washtub containing the midday meal: an unsavory mash of rice and chunks of raw fish.
'All you, kneel down!' Po shouted. The Americans stirred uneasily. This was something new in the routine. 'All down, sonabichi! All down!' the major screamed. A guard slammed his rifle butt into the shoulders of the nearest American sailor, driving him to his knees. Reluctantly, other sailors began, facing the Koreans in a thickly packed semicircle.
Coyote knelt with the others, sharply aware of the hostility among the prisoners. The SEAL's pre-dawn visit had instilled a fierce new hope in all of them. They'd not been abandoned, whatever their captors might say.
The Koreans felt it too, Coyote thought, They looked nervous and wary of the Americans. He thought of the pistol and knife, hidden away among the rafters in the back of the room. All we need to do is hold out a little longer, he thought.
'Where sonabichi captain!' Major Po snapped. He looked among the Americans until he found Gilmore. 'You! You!' He indicated two sailors. 'You bring!'
Goaded by blows and snarled orders, the sailors dragged the Captain to the center of the semicircle and propped him up. Gilmore was weaker today. Coyote wasn't even certain the man was aware of his surroundings.
The major surveyed the scene, then turned to face the door. 'Turo ose yo!'
More soldiers spilled into the room, followed a moment later by Colonel Li. The man exchanged several low- voiced phrases with the major, then surveyed the gathered Americans. 'We will try something different,' he said, the words cold and without accent. 'Captain Gilmore, I hold you responsible for the lives of your men. You can order them to cooperate, or watch them die one by one.'
'Go… hell…' Gilmore said. His voice was very weak, his face pale and drawn.
Li shrugged. 'As you will.' His gaze passed across the Americans once more. Again, his eyes locked with Coyote's, then passed on to a sailor kneeling nearby. He pointed. 'Paro ku kot!'
Two North Korean soldiers slung their rifles and advanced on the sailor, who tried to back up, tried to rise, but was grabbed before he could get to his feet. They grabbed him, one holding each arm, and dragged him to the wall next to the door. Colonel Li nodded to the major, who drew his pistol and snapped back the slide with a loud snick-clack, chambering a round.
They made the American kneel again, his face against the wall. The major stood behind him, the muzzle of the pistol pressed against the back of the sailor's head.
'Captain?'
'Don't do it, Captain!' the sailor screamed. 'Don't-'
One of the men holding him slammed an elbow against the side of his head. 'Kae!' the soldier snapped. 'Choyong hi!'
Struggling, the Captain tried to rise. Coyote felt the tension, the sheer rage among the Americans building, felt his own heart hammering under the assault. He remembered the staged firing squad, the fear and the sheer relief he'd felt at the unexpected reprieve, and wondered if this was the same thing again.
'Hang on, Sobieski!' someone shouted. 'The bastards don't mean it!'
Li looked at the major. 'Kot hasipsiyo!'
The shot was like a physical blow, unnaturally loud inside the bare-walled room. A splash of scarlet appeared on the wall in front of the sailor's face. The two soldiers released Sobieski's arms and he sagged to the floor. There was a gaping red cavity where his forehead had been.
'Two hours, Captain,' Li said. His voice was scarcely above a whisper, but every man heard it in the ringing silence which followed the shot. 'In two hours I shall return. You and your men will sign the confessions we have prepared for them, or in two hours another of your men will die. Until then, Captain…'
The silence remained long moments after the Koreans departed.
The immense hangar deck occupied fully two-thirds of Jefferson's 1,092-foot length, two levels below her flight deck and extending from just forward of her number one elevator almost all the way aft to the fantail. The deck was covered by the same dark-gray, non-skid surface as the flight deck, while bulkheads and overhead were painted white. Hanging in row upon colorful row along the overhead were flags of countries, U.S. territories, and states, as well as Navy signal flags. The hangar deck echoed with voices, the metallic clangor of tools and hand carts banging and squeaking in the vast, almost subterranean space.
Tombstone picked his way carefully across the deck. It was busy, a maelstrom of purposeful confusion. The room was crowded with aircraft, so much so that navigating in a straight line was impossible, for the planes, wings folded, were parked so close together that each nearly touched its neighbors. With over eighty aircraft in a carrier air wing, there never seemed to be space enough on board ship to store them all. Indeed, even during launch and recovery operations, some had to be kept topside on the flight deck. Tombstone found himself wondering again how the Mangler could possibly work out the intricate geometry of moving them from hangar deck to flight deck and back without becoming hopelessly mired in an aircraft carrier's version of gridlock.
He'd been heading aft toward the fantail but found that route blocked. Jefferson's boats and launches were stored in the aft end of the hangar bay, close by the passageway leading to the fantail, stacked two-high on spidery wheeled cradles, and the way through was a narrow one. This afternoon it was walled off by a row of flat-topped mules. Crews were moving among the parked aircraft on preflight inspections, readying them for combat in case Operation Righteous Thunder was given a go, and spare equipment had been wheeled back out of the way.
Tombstone decided to get his view of the sea at an elevator instead.
Jefferson had four elevators, three to starboard, one to port, flat deck sections which moved between the hangar deck and the flight deck along rails on the outside of the hull. They were accessed from the hangar bay through broad, oval openings in the bulkheads which were normally left open for ventilation below decks, though they could be sealed off with massive sliding doors in cold weather. Dodging blue shirts and their mules, Tombstone
