"Well, that's something, anyway," the President said. The words sounded hollow in a room strangely empty. Besides the few aides and the Air Force major carrying the football, only the President, the Secretary of State, and General Caldwell remained in the Situation Room. The others were asleep or, as was probably the case with Marlowe and Grimes, working late at their own offices, waiting for word.
"Hell," Caldwell said. "A MAC meeting isn't going to settle anything."
"It's a start, General," Schellenberg replied. "We have to start somewhere."
The Military Armistice Committee had been created at the end of the Korean War, its purpose to keep lines of negotiation open with the PDRK. For almost forty years, though, it had served as little more than a conduit for P'yongyang propaganda and a forum for complaints by both sides.
There'd been plenty to complain about over the years. Since July of 1953, 89 American servicemen had been killed in various incidents along Korea's DMZ, and 132 wounded.
And now, for the second time in history, the seizure of an American intelligence ship in international waters. Nearly five hundred MAC meetings had been called over the years. Little had ever been resolved, and the President doubted that this one would be any different. The Americans would protest, the PDRK representatives would bluster and threaten and probably walk out.
"Jim, our planes are ready to go in." He looked at the clock on the wall showing Tokyo time. If Winged Talon was on schedule, the American planes were fifteen minutes from Korean airspace. "They're on the way now!"
The grin dropped from the Secretary's face. "Mr. President! You can't let them continue the attack. Call them off!"
"Good God, Jim…"
"Mr. President, this is an extraordinarily delicate situation. I told the Chinese ambassador personally… I gave him my word that we wanted a quick and honorable end to this… incident. If we attack now, we'll have lost the confidence not only of the North Koreans, but of the Chinese as well!"
"Just like the bastards to wait until the last minute," Caldwell said, glancing up at the Tokyo clock. He didn't make clear whether he was referring to the Chinese or the North Koreans. "You think they want us to attack?"
A dreadful suspicion rose in the President's mind. If the North Koreans could tell the world that the United States had launched a bombing raid after promising a negotiated settlement…
Caldwell looked alarmed. "Mr. President! You can't call them back! Not-"
"Damn it, Amos, I have to!" World opinion would not be kind if the bombers went in. The President turned to an aide. "Get me on the satellite net. I want a direct line to Admiral Bainbridge. Now!"
As he was waiting, the President closed his eyes and thought about the pilots already closing on the North Korean coast. After this, they'd be mad enough to vote Democratic in the next elections.
The aide held out a telephone. "Admiral Bainbridge on the line, Mr. President."
He accepted the receiver. "Wesley? This is the President."
Commander Marty French, CO of VFA 161 and Deputy CAG of Jefferson's air wing, touched his gloved fingers to his helmet, not quite believing what he'd just heard. "Homeplate, this is Marauder Leader. Say again your last, over."
"Marauder Leader, Homeplate," Marusko's voice crackled in his ears. "RTB. I say again, RTB."
"Return to base?" Another voice had cut in over the frequency.
The other aviators would be listening in. "What in the frigging hell are they pulling?"
"Hey, I think my radio's bad," someone else said. "Don't think I can hear any-"
"Clear the air!" French's voice snapped. His right hand tightened on the stick of his F/A-18 Hornet, feeling the nimble aircraft's responsiveness. Damn it to hell! "All Marauders, cut the chatter! The orders are:, abort mission, return to base, execute immediate!"
He heard the radioed acknowledgments from each squadron leader, some sulky, some puzzled. With a new and swelling anger, Frenchie French pulled his stick left and dropped into a broad, slow turn to port.
The Korean coast receded behind him.
"Hey, Skipper? We got company!"
Tombstone's eyes automatically flicked along the horizon. "What do you have, Snowball?"
"Multiple bogies at two-zero-three, range three-two miles. Angels twenty. Closing in excess of five hundred."
"Two-zero-three…?" That bearing put them southeast of Alpha Strike, coming in from the side instead of from behind. Tombstone had halfway expected that MiGs out of Wonsan might come out after the American strike force, but these bogies were coming from a different direction entirely.
"It's Kosong, Tombstone!" Snowball said. The edge of raw excitement was back in the RIO's voice. "They're coming from Kosong!"
"What's the count?"
"I make it… eight bogies, two-zero-three at three-zero!"
Thirty miles. Two and a half minutes at Mach 1.
"Marauder Leader, this is Shotgun Leader-"
"We have them, Shotgun!" Marty French replied. "Homeplate has been informed. Heads up, people, the gomers want to come out and play!"
"Shotgun Leader to Shotguns," Tombstone said. "Form on me for a break to starboard. Ready… break!"
Eight F-14s dipped their starboard wings in unison, swinging off their southeasterly course to align themselves with the distant, oncoming bogies, between the bombers and the oncoming MiGs. "Target lock!" Snowball said.
"Hold on, Snowball. Let's do it by the book. Marauder Leader, this is Shotgun. We have target lock. Request clearance to fire, over."
"Shotgun, Marauder Leader. Wait one."
The ROEs for this mission had been to return fire if fired upon, but that had been assuming that they would be attacked over Korea. Things were suddenly a lot murkier since they'd been called off before entering Korean airspace.
Tombstone listened in on the crackle of radio chatter as the Deputy CAG passed on the request for ROE clarification back to the Jefferson. He heard the answer come through seconds later. "Marauders, this is Homeplate. ROEs stand as given. You are clear to fire if fired upon. Over."
"You heard the man, Marauders," French said. "All units, hold your fire."
"Hey, Tombstone," Snowball said. "This ain't funny! I'm reading twelve bogies now, twelve bogies inbound, one-eight miles, five hundred twelve knots!"
"Tombstone, this is Batman!" He sounded excited. "What gives, Skipper? These guys mean business!"
"Hold position, Batman."
"I'm holding! Like a sitting duck I'm holding!"
"Shotgun, Shotgun Leader." He was surprised at how calm his own voice was. "Let's get into combat spread. Move out!"
The aircraft began drifting apart. In the loose deuce formation favored by American Naval aviators, each pair of F-14s became a team of "shooter" and "eyeball" during a head-on combat approach, flying one and a half miles apart and separated by five thousand feet of altitude.
Tombstone glanced out the right side of his cockpit. Batman's Tomcat, the number 232 prominent on its nose, drifted a few yards off his wingtip.
"Batman? Tombstone."
"The Batman copies, Tombstone."
"You take the eyeball."
There was a moment's silence. "Hey, Stoney! You got your kill-"
"Can it, Two-three-two." Tombstone had wrestled with the question already. Batman was too eager. That all-important first shot couldn't be screwed up by a too-eager shooter. "Take your position."
"Two-three-two, affirmative."
The aircraft slid apart, Tombstone dropping back behind his wingman and drifting off to the left.
"How you want to do this, Tombstone?" his RIO asked.