"Of course they did." Bitterness edged Tombstone's voice. "Coyote had family. Mother, father. A wife I'm going to have to go see when we get back to the World."
"Is that all there is to it? Revenge? They hit you, you hit them back?"
"Hell, no. I'll leave that to the politicians." Tombstone's fists clenched. "But I might lock and fire remembering what a hell of a fine guy Coyote was."
As he said it, for the first time since his bolters the night before, Tombstone pictured himself going up again, pictured himself once more bringing the HUD pipper into line with an enemy MiG. Tombstone was an aviator. There was no escaping that part of him.
A warning klaxon sounded, a harsh bray above the noises of machinery and sea. The elevator gave a lurch, then began rising up the side of the carrier.
"You know you can't have any doubts about it once you're up there, right?" said Tombstone.
"I'm realizing that now."
"You remember the Top Gun motto?"
The other aviator nodded, but Tombstone pressed ahead. "'Fight to fly, fly to fight… fight to win!'"
"Fight to win. Yeah."
Tombstone shrugged. "The decision is yours, son, but if you don't mean business, you've got absolutely zero reason to be up there."
"So how about you?"
"What do you mean?"
"Coyote and Mardi Gras. Frenchie… Losing those guys was a real shock. I thought, well, some of the guys were wondering if you'd lost it, know what I mean? Lost the edge."
It was not the edge that he'd lost so much, Tombstone realized now, as the will to push that edge, to see how far it would stretch. To do what he did, to be who he was, meant accepting a measure of responsibility which he'd never yet been able to shoulder comfortably.
"I haven't lost it, Batman. Not yet." He was surprised to discover he meant it.
With another lurch, the elevator arrived topside, meshing perfectly with a round-cornered gap cut from the carrier's flight deck. It was as frantic here as it had been below. Red-shirted ordnancemen were arming the parked aircraft for their next mission. At several points on the deck, red lines delineated the bomb elevators where missiles and other munitions were being brought up from the ship's magazines for loading. Other men crawled over and under each aircraft, giving them their preflights.
No longer masked from the wind by the curve of Jefferson's hull, Tombstone had to lean over and shout to make himself heard. "You're the one with the responsibility," Tombstone yelled. "For yourself and your shipmates! You have to know why you're up there, and that's to fight to win. If you don't, you let yourself down, and your shipmates!"
They started across the flight deck, keeping clear of hurtling mules and ordies hauling bomb carts.
"Hey, Stoney. You won't… I mean…"
Tombstone grinned. "I won't tell a soul, Batman." Together they walked toward the island.
"Kot hasipsiyo!" The shot rang out, splattering more blood across the wall.
Seaman Jacobs crumpled as the soldiers released him and he fell, collapsing to the floor across Sobieski's body. Coyote felt the horror of the death, of the methodical murder of a helpless man.
Li faced the ring of stunned Americans. "A death every two hours, Captain, until you and your men cooperate." He gathered his men with a gesture. "Kapsida!"
Bailey, the corpsman, was the first to move when the Koreans left, hurrying to Jacobs's side and feeling the man's throat for a pulse. "He's dead."
"We've got to do something," Zabelsky said. The words were a low murmur, almost a litany. "We've got to do something."
"Nothin'… we can do," Gilmore said. "Nothing…"
"We've got a gun-"
"Belay that right now!" Bronkowicz growled. "We won't help the SEALs… we won't help ourselves if we give it all away now."
"Yeah," Wilkinson said. "What are you going to do, son, shoot your way into the compound out there? Then what?"
Zabelsky whirled, his face a mask of rage. "Jacobs was my buddy!"
"And our shipmate," Bailey said softly. He laid a hand on Zabelsky's shoulder. "We don't help him by getting ourselves shot too."
A clattering sound from outside caught their attention. "Hey, guys!" one of the lookouts called. "It's a helo!"
"Not one of ours," Zabelsky said.
"Shit no. Commie job, looks like. Red star on the tail."
Coyote joined the lookout, balancing atop a bucket to see out. The helicopter was settling to earth amid whirling dust, landing at the small airstrip on the far side of the compound. "Mi-8 Hip," he announced, recognizing the type. "Military transport. Looks like we have visitors."
"What kind?" Wilkinson asked.
"VIPs," Coyote replied. He could just barely make out several men climbing from the bulky machine's side door, walking doubled over beneath its still-turning rotors. One wore an officer's uniform ornate with medals and gold braid. The others looked like aides or junior officers. They were met by Li and Major Po, both of whom saluted the newcomers with crisp military precision. "Looks like high-ranking brass."
"I don't think I like this," Wilkinson said.
Coyote had to agree.
CHAPTER 20
"Kot hasipsiyo!"
This time a third class radioman named Heatley died, slammed forward off his knees as the major's automatic pistol barked, and adding his blood and brain tissue and chips of bone to the dark splatter of gore on the wall next to the door.
In the silence which followed, Colonel Li turned and smiled at his kneeling audience. "I'm sure you all are aware of the helicopter which arrived not long ago. You will be interested to know that orders have arrived from my superiors in P'yongyang directing that you be sent there for, shall we say, further debriefing."
There was a stir among the prisoners. Coyote kneeled with the rest, trying to control the hammering in his chest. The torture of watching men being shot in cold blood with clockwork regularity was worse than any beating he'd suffered so far.
"I feel it is only fair to warn you that you cannot expect such… lenient treatment in P'yongyang as you have enjoyed here," the colonel continued. "General Chung Sun-Jae, who has come here from the capital to take charge of you, is a man interested in results but with little concern for the time it takes… or the means employed to get them." He shrugged, a deliberately Western gesture. "I had hoped that some of you at least would be willing to cooperate with me first. Any persons here who wish to do so, of course, have only to ask to see me, Colonel Li. Perhaps you can yet be spared the uncertainties that a prolonged stay in P'yongyang would bring."
"Screw you, flat-face," someone in the back ranks of the Americans muttered.
Li ignored the interruption. "At dawn tomorrow, all of you will be loaded onto trucks and transported west to special camps in the P'yongyang area. Those who decide to cooperate with me will receive special privileges… better food, medical aid… and a chance to avoid General Chung's more creative approaches to prisoner interviews. Certainly, we should be able to spare you the pain and humiliation of a trial, as well as whatever punishment the court chooses to hand down. For the rest of you, well…" The officer looked down and nudged Heatley's body with the toe of his boot. "Perhaps you will come to envy these men who have already given their lives. They might well be the lucky ones, yes?"
"And until then?" Gilmore asked. He seemed stronger now, with a new will born of anger. "Is it your intention to continue murdering my men until dawn?"
Li pursed his lips, as though weighing his words. "Let us simply say that six more of your men will have the opportunity to escape socialist justice between now and the time when I must turn you over to General Chung." He gave the Americans a final contemptuous glance, then departed, followed by Major Po. His guards slammed the door shut behind them.