"Yes, sir."
He turned to the Defense Secretary. "Ron, I think we can raise the alert status for all our bases over there without stirring up the Russians much. Or the Japanese."
"The Russians will up their status too, sir, but… I guess that's all we can do."
"Not quite." The President looked at the CNO. "Fletch, I want you to cut orders for the Jefferson. I want them and the Marines in position to do something ASAP. What have we got in the way of covert capability out there?"
"We could have a SEAL team on board the Jefferson in eighteen hours."
"Mr. President," General Caldwell said, "under the circumstances, wouldn't it be prudent to put the entire military on alert, sort of start things rolling?"
The President sighed. "I want to avoid an all-out invasion, Amos," he said. "You're right, of course. At least you can put the 82nd on alert, start getting ready to go in if we have to. But I think I want to gamble on the Navy for this one. They're there, and they're ready. If they can't handle it, we'll have to work some other angle."
Schellenberg started to say something, but the President held up his hand. "All of this is just in case, gentlemen. I won't mind at all being all dressed up with no place to go on this one… but I sure as hell don't want to be caught naked if the doorbell rings."
As the Security Council meeting broke up, it struck the President just how much was riding on the carrier group commander. That poor SOB may just find himself on the point of the spear, the President thought. And I thought my job was a bitch.
DAY TWO
CHAPTER 6
The briefing room was called Civic. The name was a Navy contortion of CVIC, CV being the designation for carrier, and IC standing for Intelligence Center. It was a long room aft of Flag Plot with the ever-present grays and off-greens of Navy-painted steel bulkheads relieved by an oil painting of the U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson at one end. Framed prints along other walls depicted scenes from U.S. Naval history: the Constitution and the Guerrier, the Kearsarge sinking the Alabama, the sailing of Roosevelt's Great White Fleet, the firing of the first salute to the U.S. flag, F-4 Phantoms dueling MiGs over Quan Lang. A projection screen mounted on the wall and folding chairs facing a podium gave it the air of an elementary school auditorium.
Admiral Magruder had called the meeting for all squadron commanders, and Marusko was there as CAG.
The Thomas Jefferson carried ten squadrons in her air wing ― CVW-20 ― a total of eighty-six aircraft and over twenty-eight hundred officers and men. The realization that he was in command of that wing still took Marusko by surprise from time to time. The acronym CAG, for Commander Air Group, was a holdover from the years prior to 1963 when the term for an aircraft carrier's striking arm was changed from "carrier air group" to "carrier air wing." Marusko had often gotten a laugh with his explanation of the term, insisting that no self-respecting aviator could go around calling himself CAW! CAW!
He watched the other officers walking in. They were young, most of them, with that curious, bright-eyed mixture of arrogance and aggressiveness which made a good carrier fighter pilot. He saw Matt Magruder enter, talking with Marty French, the skipper of VFA-161. The way he was moving his hands, stiff-fingered, one just behind the other, left no doubt that he was describing his dogfight to French. You could always tell a fighter pilot by the way he used his hands to tell a story.
Commander Richard Patrick Neil trailed in after the squadron skippers. A short, slightly built Boston Irishman from Admiral Magruder's staff, Neil was Carrier Group Intelligence Officer and head of Jefferson's threat team. He came in carrying a slide projector which he proceeded to set up on a stand at the back of the room.
It would be Neil who would conduct the major portion of the briefing, Marusko thought. He didn't particularly like Neil. The man had a grating personality and the irritating habit of always being right, but he'd be the one to best present the spooks' view of the current mess. Several others of the admiral's staff were present as well. A yeoman chief was in one corner, taking notes. A transcript of this briefing would be heloed over to each of the other five ships in the CBG.
"Attention on deck!" Every man in the room came to his feet as Admiral Magruder strode in, walking briskly toward the front of the room.
"As you were," he said before anyone was fully at attention. There was a scraping clatter of feet and steel chairs as the officers took their seats. The admiral took his place behind the podium.
"Very well, gentlemen," Admiral Magruder said as the noise died away. "All of you know by now that yesterday afternoon a patrol from VF-95 was vectored to a point just off the North Korean port of Wonsan. Washington didn't give us much to go on at the time, but the word was that one of our ships was in trouble there.
"Our aircraft did not locate the ship, but they did come under fire from North Korean aircraft. One of our planes was shot down. Commander Neil will fill us in on the background. Commander?"
"Thank you, Admiral." Neil signaled to a staff lieutenant to dim the lights, then switched on the projector. A political map of Korea flashed onto the screen, a blunt, indented finger dangling south from the Asian mainland. It was color-coded, red for the People's Democratic Republic ― the PDRK ― in the north, blue for the Republic of Korea in the south, sundered by the zigzag of the DMZ.
"Korea, gentlemen, the Land of the Morning Calm," Neil said. His voice was high and had a faintly nasal quality underlying the flat, New England twang. He sounded self-assured and somewhat detached, as though he were briefing the men on a routine Naval exercise. "A little background for those of you who don't know their history. After World War II, the country was divided between Soviet and American occupation forces. Korea became, in effect, two countries, the People's Democratic Republic north of the 38th parallel, capital at P'yongyang, and the Republic of Korea in the south, capital at Seoul. In 1950, the PDRK invaded across the 38th parallel. That, of course, began the Korean War."
"Korean Police Action," someone in the front row said. Several men laughed.
Neil ignored the correction. "As far as the PDRK is concerned, the Korean War never ended. They've wanted to… their word is liberate the south ever since, but they haven't been able to so long as we've been backing the Seoul government.
"Now we come to the events of the past several weeks. Those of you who read the newspapers know that there's been considerable saber rattling from both P'yongyang and Seoul. The President has called on both sides for restraint, but the shouting's been too loud lately for anyone to hear appeals for moderation. As a precaution, the President ordered our carrier group into the Sea of Japan last week. The 9th Marine Expeditionary Brigade in Okinawa was put on alert, and an ad hoc MEU was prepared for possible deployment. The PDRK has responded by calling for the withdrawal of all foreign forces from South Korea, to allow the Koreans to settle their own 'internal' problems.
"The CIA feels that the escalation in tensions is being deliberately orchestrated by P'yongyang for a purpose, we're not sure why. It was decided that more intelligence on the Communist forces, deployments, and intentions was needed."
The slide projector went chunk-clunk, and the map was replaced by a beam-on shot of what Marusko thought must be one of the ugliest-looking ships afloat. She'd been designed as an LST. The designation stood for Landing Ship, Tank ― a World-War-II-era transport vaguely reminiscent of an oil tanker, long, boxy and flat, with the superstructure and bridge set far aft in order to make room for the tank deck forward. Before completion, her builders had changed their minds and rebuilt her as an ARL, a landing craft repair ship. From blunt stem to squared-off stern, her long forward deck was crammed with a tangled clutter of struts, fittings, masts, booms, and aerials. A raised helicopter landing pad had been dropped onto the deck halfway between the superstructure and the bow almost as an afterthought. The bridge was flanked by whaleboats slung from davits on either side of the deckhouse. A tripod mast rose abaft the bridge, bearing a large radar dish and an array of exotic antennae. Black-shadowed letters and numerals at bow and stern prominently spelled out RL 42.