Kill or be killed. There was no other way to look at aerial combat. All of his training, all of his preparation, all of the lectures and classes and maneuvers he'd gone through during his Naval career had been directed to one end and one end only: to place Lieutenant Edward Everett Wayne on the six of an enemy combat aircraft so that he could destroy it. During the actual dogfight, he'd not thought of the MiGs as anything other than targets in a kind of video game in the sky where machines exploded in flame and debris, jacking up the victor's score.
The sudden shift in his mind, from thinking of them as targets to thinking of them as men with families, wives, children…
Through much of the previous night, he'd wrestled with those thoughts, wondering if he should go talk to one of Jefferson's three chaplains. There was an inner reserve which made him hold that idea at arm's length. He respected the chaplains, respected their experience and the Navy traditions which stood behind them but what could they tell him that he didn't already know? None of the carrier's sky pilots were aviators themselves, none had been in combat.
How could they address what he was feeling now?
Besides, Batman had heard stories of chaplains who'd gone to the ship's captain with what otherwise would have been considered confidential information… if that information was potentially dangerous to the man, the ship, or the crew. He suspected that CAG would ground him so fast it would make his head spin. Navy combat aviators had to have their heads screwed on straight at all times.
So maybe he should ground himself… or turn in his wings. Every part of Batman's background, his whole being rebelled against that idea. It would be an admission of weakness, of failure. An admission that he no longer had the right stuff.
But Batman felt that if he didn't talk to someone he'd blow his stack. The only people with whom he had enough in common were other aviators, the very men for whom he had to maintain the facade, the band-of-brothers act that all was well.
There was no one, not even Malibu…
Across the wardroom, an officer in khakis rose from his table and carried his tray toward the galley window. Batman recognized the lanky gait, the pale, pale blond hair of Tombstone's RIO.
Tombstone! There was a man who had never made a point of maintaining the machismo of the aviator brotherhood. The guy's got problems of his own, Batman thought… but possibly it was the fact that Tombstone was having problems that made him seem like the right man to see.
Batman picked up his unfinished breakfast and hurried from the wardroom.
A lieutenant informed him that CINCPAC was on the line. "I'll take it here," Admiral Magruder said. He picked up the handset and stabbed a button. The hollow-sounding hiss of a satellite-relayed signal sounded in his ear. "Task Force Eighteen," he said, using the time-honored Navy tradition of identifying himself by the name of his command.
"Tom?" the voice at the other end said. It had the faintly artificial quality of a security-scrambled transmission. "This is CINCPAC. I'm afraid the answer is… sit tight. Washington wants you to take no action at all until further notice."
Magruder had expected as much, but the disappointment was keen nonetheless. "Understood, Admiral," he said.
"We appreciate your situation, Tom," the voice continued. Magruder had spoken with CINCPAC several times during the past few days and knew Admiral Bainbridge shared his own feelings of helplessness… and anger. What did Washington think it would accomplish, screwing around this way?
But to voice those feelings would be unprofessional and would change nothing.
"A diplomatic initiative is under way," Bainbridge continued. Even through the scrambling it sounded as though the words had a bad taste in his mouth. "The White House crisis team has high expectations for a successful resolution."
"Very well, sir."
"Your plan has been code-named 'Righteous Thunder." It is to be held in reserve, pending a breakdown in negotiations… or the decision by the Command Authority to proceed with a full military option."
CINCPAC's stress of the word "full" meant an all-out invasion, Magruder knew. They could all well be standing at the verge of a new Korean War… and with 1990's weapons, this one would make 1950 look like kindergarten.
Hell. Washington couldn't want that.
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 meaclass="underline" 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!"