'Ah, you don't need that shit. Just follow me on down, slick as a baby's ass.'
'Yeah. My port engine's running hot. I'm shutting down.'
They pulled into a gentle turn, coming up astern of the Jefferson. Two days ago, Marty French had made this same approach in a damaged Hornet. The images recorded off the PLAT system were still burned into his mind… the horror as Frenchie's nose gear failed and the wing tanks burst into flame.
'Two-oh-five,' the LSO's voice said over his headphones. 'Check your gear.'
He slapped the switch. 'Gear down.'
'Take it easy, Stoney.' That was CAG's voice, coming from Air Ops. 'You've got loads of time. Captain says the ship is at your disposal. If you want to circle a few times to catch your breath, that's okay. If we can help you by maneuvering, that's okay too.'
He thought of Snowball in the backseat, possibly bleeding to death. He thought about his bolters two nights before. Well, they wouldn't have that option this time around. 'Negative, CAG. Thanks.'
On Jefferson's deck, hundreds of men from the deck crew were completing rigging the barricade, a kind of net with loose, vertical nylon straps hanging between two cables stretched across the flight deck. Tombstone had never made a net trap before, and he didn't like the thought at all. To drop toward a carrier deck on approach and actually see something in the way…
'Two-oh-five, call the ball.'
'Tomcat Two-oh-five. Ball. One-point-eight.' Fuel was getting critical. He wondered if there was a danger of fuel spewing over a hot engine and igniting. Well, he'd done all he could by shutting down the damaged engine. His left wing dipped and he compensated. The F-14 was sluggish; on only one engine it was like flying a boxcar.
'Watch attitude,' the LSO said. 'You're lined up fine.'
He watched the orange ball, making tiny, incremental adjustments to the throttle. The sea was calm, and Jefferson was steering into the wind at less than fifteen knots. He eased up the power a bit as the ball went high.
'Looks good,' Batman said. The other Tomcat paced him off his left side. The deck swept up to meet him, the barricade stretched across his path. He overrode the instinct to hit the throttles as his rear wheels touched down.
The landing gear gave way with a jar and the Tomcat's belly slammed into the steel deck. Sparks showered as the aircraft skidded down the deck at one hundred fifty miles an hour. The nylon straps of the barricade seemed to engulf the cockpit, and then Tombstone was slammed forward against his harness.
Training took over as he switched off the engine, closed fuel valves, shut down power. The danger now was fire as fuel or fumes reached hot metal or an exposed electrical wire. Within ten seconds, Jefferson's crash crew had surrounded the aircraft, hosing it down with fire extinguisher chemicals, using the emergency release lever to free the canopy. As the cockpit opened, Tombstone felt hands reaching in to pull him out and safe the ejection seats, while behind him corpsmen began tending to Snowball.
Only then did Tombstone's hands shake… this time from relief instead of fear. They'd made it.
CHAPTER 32
Lieutenant Morgan signaled Sergeant Walters with a chopping motion of his hand. The sergeant twisted the plunger on the device he held, and a chain of explosions ripped through the compound, destroying the barracks, the few surviving vehicles, the headquarters, and the building called the Wonsan Waldorf.
'C'mon! C'mon! Let's go!' The sergeant dropped the plunger and trotted across the airstrip where the last ten Marines crouched in a circle, weapons facing outward.
Morgan was eager to abandon the place. All of the former prisoners were gone, as well as the SEALs and most of the Marines. He alone remained with a single squad.
The explosions set off another round of firing as automatic weapons opened up from the ruins across the street, followed by the heavy crump of a mortar round. The North Koreans were gathering again, had been pressing against the dwindling Marine perimeter all morning. It was time to go.
'That's everybody!' Walters shouted.
Morgan looked up. The last helo had lifted out of the camp minutes before. The Sea Stallion circled slowly overhead, waiting as SeaCobras made a final pass across the road, miniguns blazing. The lieutenant pulled the pin on a smoke grenade and tossed it onto the tarmac.
Wind whipped up clouds of dust as the helicopter descended. The Marines stayed where they were, watching outward as a line flipped from the Sea Stallion's side and uncoiled toward the earth. When it reached them, the Marines grabbed it and stretched out the end on the ground. At Morgan's command, each man used swivel snaps to fasten himself to the line. 'All secure?' he yelled, and each man in the line signaled readiness.
Morgan waved, and the helicopter began going up once more, taking the dangling rope and the ten Marines with it. The lieutenant had always thought it an undignified way to travel. It reminded him of flies stuck to a long strip of flypaper, but it was a quick means of extraction which avoided the necessity of a helo setting down in the middle of a fire-covered LZ. The only real threat was that the helo pilot would fail to allow enough clearance for his low-flying passengers.
Last man off the ground, Morgan clung to the line with one hand and gripped his M-16's pistol grip with the other. The line twisted, spinning him slowly as he rose clear of the ground. As he passed over the road, he could see a number of men in mustard uniforms spilling out of the ruins west of the camp and crossing the fence.
They were probably shooting at the helo, but he could hear nothing under the thunder of the rotors and he resisted the urge to fire into the mob. 'That's okay, boys,' he said under his breath. The helicopter picked up speed and he trailed behind, the wind lashing at his face. 'You're welcome to the place. We're just leaving.'
The twistings of the line turned him until he was facing north, and he caught a glimpse of blue sea beyond the Kolmo Peninsula and the smoke rising from the airfield.
The Sea Stallion picked up speed as it turned toward the Marine beachhead.
They were leaving. The fight for Chimera had been short and sharp. There'd been only a handful of North Korean guards on board; four had died at their posts and another had dived overboard. The rest, ten in number, stood uncertainly on the pier, their hands still cuffed behind them by plastic straps brought for the purpose.
A Huey had arrived at 1000 hours and landed on the mid-deck helipad, disgorging a khaki-clad Navy chief and a small army of sailors in dungarees. These men vanished into Chimera's bowels. Twenty minutes later, another helicopter arrived carrying more sailors, volunteers drawn from Chosin and Texas City, all under the command of Lieutenant Gerald Cole. The shipboard Marine contingent divided into smaller details, some manning the vessel's machine guns fore and aft, others joining working parties who began clearing the wreckage from the spy ship's deck and cutting away the ruin of her boat davits and mast. One Marine had brought along a large American flag. The flag of the PDRK was taken down, folded, and stowed, the Stars and Stripes tied to a makeshift mast abaft of the bridge in its place. There was no ceremony to mark the moment. For the Marines, the act itself was enough.
An hour later, the word was passed: Chimera was ready in all respects for sea. Cole turned to Lieutenant Adams, commanding the Marine platoon, and smiled. 'Liberty's over, Lieutenant. Call your men back and let's get the hell out of here.'
The Marines on the waterfront filed down the pier and up Chimera's gangway. They left behind their Korean captives and a coterie of Soviet Marines and sailors. The atmosphere was friendly, even relaxed, though the Marines remained on guard. Gunshots continued to bang away in the distance, beyond the city and across the bay. The waterfront area, though, seemed deserted; at the least the inhabitants were staying well under cover. A-6 and Hornet interdictions at dozens of points around the city's road net had paralyzed traffic and prevented troop movements into the waterfront. Also, the landings across the harbor and the fighting at Nyongch'on had served admirably as a diversion.
Chimera's engines boomed into life, causing the dirty water under her stern to boil and froth. Sailors cast off
