manner. A yeoman handed him a mug of black coffee from the Flag Plot mess. He kept his face impassive as he raised it to his lips, sipped it, accepting its scalding heat. 'What about his wingman?'
'There's been no more contact with Coyote or Mardi Gras, Admiral. Backstop will be over that area in another ten minutes now.'
'Captain on deck,' a marine sentry announced. Magruder glanced up, acknowledging Captain Fitzgerald with a nod and a tight smile.
'Hello, Jim.'
'Admiral.' Fitzgerald's voice was tight, rigidly in control. 'What's Tango Seven-niner say about our gomer friends?'
'Seems they've had enough. Hightailing back to Wonsan and a nice, safe bed.'
The captain nodded. He looked worried ? for his ship, for his men. 'So. What now, Admiral?'
'We've engaged.' He sighed. The responsibility was a yoke across his shoulders. Fitzgerald wasn't the only one who was worried. Magruder's responsibility extended to five other ships of the carrier group besides the Jefferson.
Worse, what he did or didn't do in the next few minutes might well start a war ? a real war.
Magruder turned to his chief of staff, who stood nearby. 'Brad, get me CINCPAC. Secure net. FLASH for Admiral Bainbridge.'
'Aye aye, Admiral.'
Flag Plot grew quiet. The seizure of a U.S. ship on the high seas was an act of piracy by international law, but now the situation had escalated drastically. Shots had been exchanged between the military forces of two countries. The dogfight off the Korean coast might well touch off a domino-chain of events which would end… where?
Tensions in East Asia had been running high for weeks. Rioting students in the streets of Seoul, calls by the United Korean Democratic Faction for a withdrawal of American troops from South Korea, a steady barrage of propaganda from the North Korean leadership in P'yongyang, all had served to create the hottest world crisis since the Gulf War. The clash of political wills between Washington and P'yongyang could have far-reaching implications. By attacking American aircraft over international waters, Kim II-Sung had just raised the ante in that eyeball-to- eyeball poker game. It was time to see him, and raise.
'I have CINCPAC on the secure net, Admiral.'
Magruder accepted the red phone.
Jefferson's captain looked as though he wanted to say something more but seemed to think better of it. 'I'll be on the bridge, Admiral.'
'I'll keep you posted, Jim.' He brought the phone to his ear and pushed the handset button. 'This is Admiral Magruder, sir. We have a situation here.'
Coyote spat brine and fought for air as he rode the swell. The skin along the angle of his jaw already felt raw where the collar of his life jacket ground against him with each surging mountain of cold, dark water. A wave passed and he rode the slope of water into the trough. Momentum carried him down, plunging his head for one icy instant under water, and he felt the shrill jangling of panic in the back of his mind.
The shock of ejection, of hitting the cold water, had left him stunned, his thinking cloudy. Somehow, Coyote pushed the panic aside. Survival now depended on a cool head, and on his training.
His life raft had deployed from his seat on impact and inflated automatically. He managed to throw himself across the side and cling to it, gasping for breath. A SAR radio was strapped inside a vest pocket of his life jacket. Coyote pulled it free and opened the channel.
There was a hiss of static, and then he heard Tombstone's voice, faint and faraway, but clear despite the slap and slosh of water against his raft. 'Rodeo Two, this is Rodeo Leader. Do you copy, over?'
'Rodeo!' he called. His mouth filled with salt water again and he choked. He spit, drew a wet and ragged breath. 'Tombstone! This is Coyote!'
'Rodeo Two, this is Rodeo Leader.' Tombstone's voice crackled with excitement, as though he'd been calling for long minutes with no answer. Coyote's own emotions soared as well. 'I hear you, Coyote! Are you okay?'
Coyote did a mental inventory. He could move his feet… both arms. He felt bruised from head to toe from his rough ride during the ejection and numb… numb from cold more than anything else.
'I'm okay!' he called back. He managed to roll the rest of the way into his raft. 'Wet, but okay!'
'That's great, Coyote. SAR's on the way.'
'Roger that.' It would take time for the rescue chopper to reach him, but at least he was in contact with friendly forces. He'd be warm and dry on the Jefferson before lunch.
The thought of food brought a sour taste to his mouth, an unpleasant twist to his stomach. Oh, God, he thought. Don't let me be seasick…!
'Coyote, give me thirty seconds of beeper.'
'Rog.' He shifted the selector on his radio. After a minute he switched back to the voice channel.
'We've got you, Coyote,' Tombstone said after they'd reestablished contact. 'You're south of us.'
But how far? 'Copy, Leader. Do you want smoke?'
'Not yet, Coyote. Let's make sure we're in the same county before You pop your flares. Do you see Mardi Gras?'
'That's negative. Do you have him on radio?'
'No joy, Rodeo Two. But we're looking.'
Coyote thought he heard a distant growl now, a far-off and muted thunder that might be almost anything. He fumbled at his life vest, checking by touch that his flares were in easy reach. He didn't want to show smoke until Tombstone was closer… and he'd need to save one for the search and rescue helo when it arrived.
Only then did the real danger of his situation hit him. He was in contact with friendlies, but the nearest ship of Jefferson's battle group capable of launching a search and rescue helo was still a couple of hundred miles to the east at least. SH-60B Seahawks had a top speed of 145 mph, which meant he was going to be bobbing around in frigid water for hours before a helo could get to him.
And the cold was already penetrating his flight suit. He was shivering as he spoke again. 'Rodeo Leader, Rodeo Two. It's going to be a while before anyone gets here.'
'No sweat, Coyote. We'll mount CAP for you until the SAR helos get here.'
'Copy, Tombstone. Uh… what's your fuel look like, over?'
There was a long pause, and Coyote's worry grew. 'We've got enough to find you first, Coyote. Stay cool.'
Stay cool, yeah. Very funny. Coyote twisted, trying to face the rumble of sound he could now hear quite plainly. The movement brought with it another cold slap of water, the biting taste of salt. 'Tombstone, you've got to be running pretty lean right now. Better break off and RTB.'
'Copy, Two. A Texaco's on the way.'
Yeah, and you'll never make rendezvous if you don't break off and didi for the Jeff, Coyote thought.
'Rodeo Leader, this is Rodeo Two,' he said after a long, cold moment. 'Listen, Stoney, with this cloud ceiling you're never going to spot me down here.' He felt the hard truth of those words even as he said them. He'd overflown pilots down in the water before. Glimpsing something as tiny as a raft in the middle of all that water was next to impossible despite dye markers and signal flares; it got worse when low clouds kept you close to the sea. Even idling along with the wings full out, a Tomcat simply could not move slowly enough to give her crew a decent look at the water. He swallowed, tasting salt. 'Suggest you break off and make for Homeplate. I'll be okay.'
This time, Tombstone's hesitation seemed to drag on forever. 'Rodeo Two, Leader. I… yeah, you're right. If I lose this airplane, we're going to have some very sore taxpayers on our case. You sure you'll be okay?'
'Affirmative, Rodeo Leader. I'll put on some light music, relax a bit-'
'Copy that, Two. Listen, you'll have Backstop overhead in… ten minutes. They'll orbit until the next relay gets here. It shouldn't take more than an hour or two for the SAR boys to get here. Think you can hold out that long?'
'No sweat, Tombstone. Tell 'em to keep me a warm spot by the fire.' He listened again. Was the thunder closer now? He couldn't tell.
