Thunder in the Morning Calm (5 page)

“When are they planning this attack? Is this invasion imminent?”

“We don’t know, Admiral. The intercepted message traffic doesn’t reveal a time frame. Could be tomorrow. Could be six months. But the movement of forces on the ground makes us think sooner rather than later. Food, supplies, fuel — all the things that an invading force would need to occupy and hold territory — have all been trucked into the staging area within the last two weeks. They’ve even given the invasion a name. Operation Sea Lion.”

More exchanged glances of concern. The admiral walked over to the other side of the bridge.

“Care for my seat, sir?” Captain Garcia stood.

“No, Pete. Sit down.” The admiral stroked his chin and stared out the starboard window. “Operation Sea Lion,” he muttered, then turned and looked at Gunner. “So, Commander, what exactly do they want us to do about this?”

“As you know, Admiral, we’ve been invited by the South Korean government to conduct naval exercises with their navy in the Yellow Sea. Both Washington and Seoul think the Communists won’t try an invasion with a US carrier task force nearby. But the exercises could get dicey. They want us to fly our warplanes into the zone that North Korea is trying to claim, with close-in overflights above Yeonpyeong and the other islands to display a show of force that the US will not accept North Korea’s attempt to invade these islands and deviate from the 1953 armistice. That would send a message that if they do try to invade, the US would step in and help our friends in the South.”

“So it’s send in the Navy,” Captain Farrow said.

“The plan of virtually every American president in times of crisis since the beginning of the republic,” Captain Harrison added. “Speak
softly, and show ‘em the big stick. In this case, the big stick is the
Harry S. Truman
.”

“Sounds simple enough,” Hampton said. “Captain Garcia?” He turned and looked at the CAG. “Your pilots ready for some fun?”

“My pilots are always ready to rock ‘n’ roll, Admiral.”

The admiral chuckled. “I figured that’s what you’d say.” He looked at Gunner. “Commander, do the intel people anticipate resistance from the Commies?”

“Sir, we don’t think they are stupid enough to fire on us. We expect the typical type of activity you see in war games. Our planes chasing their planes. Their planes trying to chase ours. Just like their other daddies, the Russians, tried in the Cold War. And while we don’t expect live fire, there’s always a risk that some antsy North Korean pilot could get trigger-happy with our planes operating in such close quarters near the coast, over this area that they dispute.”

“Okay,” Hampton said. “Our mission, in addition to conducting joint naval exercises, is to spend at least two weeks flying into the hot zone to preserve international airspace and to deter the North Koreans from attacking these islands.”

Gunner nodded. “That’s exactly right, sir.”

“We’re within flight distance of Yeonpyeong right now,” Admiral Hampton said. “Captain Garcia, let’s get our planes in the air as soon as we break. Go below and brief your squadron commanders. Let’s carry out our orders.”

“Aye, sir,” the CAG said.

“Captain Farrow, let’s get a classified communiqué to all ships in the battle group that overflights are to begin within the hour. Be on alert in the event of hostile response.”

“Yes, sir,” the chief of staff said.

“Gentlemen, any questions for Lieutenant Commander McCormick?”

“No, sir,” Captain Harrison said, as the others shook their heads in the negative.

“Commander McCormick, is there anything else we need to know?”

Gunner’s stomach knotted, his mind again riveted to the classified rumors that had haunted him for the last few days. Why even mention the rumors of elderly Americans being held? This information was
presented within the context of general background and, in Gunner’s judgment, was not all that relevant to the mission at hand. No one here needed to know, not the Navy pilots, not the ship’s captains, not even the admiral. The rumors, even if they knew about them, would not help any of the naval personnel carry out their stated mission of deterring a North Korean invasion of Yeonpyeong and the other islands. In fact, Gunner decided it probably was a dumb idea that some securities analyst had included that information as part of the background for the briefing.

“Commander?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was there anything else?”

Gunner hesitated. “Yes, sir, there was one other item.”

“Shoot.”

“Well, sir, when I was back in the States, I had sent you a message with a request for approval of leave.”

“Yes, Captain Farrow brought that to me. You want to take leave in Seoul?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve never been to Seoul, and I haven’t burned any leave in a year. I thought it would be a good opportunity not only to check out the country but also to keep my ear to the ground for any intel that might be of use to the task force. Korea is a real military hotspot right now, and I think it would be helpful to our intelligence if I got a firsthand look on the ground, maybe visit a couple of our bases … speak with the intel guys there. Besides, Lieutenant Porter here has been wellversed on our current situation and would be more than capable in my absence.”

“You’re asking for thirty days?”

“Probably wouldn’t use all that, sir. But you know how it is. If I don’t use it, I lose it.”

“Hmm …” Hampton crossed his arms again. “I never like to deny leave to a well-deserving officer. Of course, I’m a little reluctant in this case because of the exercises we’re about to begin. Let me think about it and I’ll get back with you.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Thanks for the briefing, Gunner. You’re dismissed.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Two hours later, after a lunch of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans in the officers’ wardroom, Gunner had still not heard from the admiral regarding his leave request. The carrier was now operating off the area near the disputed waters, and as flight operations over Yeonpyeong had been underway for about an hour, he decided to head back up to the bridge to watch a few takeoffs … and to think.

With a mug of coffee in his hand, he stepped out onto the observation deck outside the flight bridge to join the others already there. A cool breeze was whipping off the sea. The sun had reached its midday zenith slightly south of overhead as the earth tilted to within weeks of her winter solstice. Below, on the flight deck, a crew was positioning an F/A-18 Super Hornet for takeoff.

Good thing the admiral could not read his mind, Gunner thought, as he watched helmet-clad crew members rushing around the plane, wisps of steam coming from the steel deck. Not only would the admiral deny his leave request, he might order him shot and dumped to the sharks.

Gunner knew well that wealth had its benefits. The wealthy enjoyed choices beyond the imagination of the poor. On the other hand, the temptations accompanying fortune if not carefully checked could wreak self-destruction. Such had been the fate of many millionaire playboys whose adventures only money could buy. JFK Jr., Dodi Fayed, Davey Allison, John Walton, John Denver.

Not that Gunner considered himself a playboy. But to the charge of multimillionaire? To that charge, he would plead guilty. Indeed, he had made his money the old-fashioned way.

He had inherited it.

Over the generations, his family’s giant peanut-farming operation at Corbin Hall Plantation, near Suffolk, Virginia, had given him the luxury of never having to work, had he so chosen.

And now the fortune had helped rocket his imagination on a superhighway to the danger zone.

This was crazy. He should nix the idea, here and now, and take leave somewhere else. Perhaps Hawaii. Maybe Tahiti or Europe. His playground was the world.

He soaked his esophagus with more hot caffeine, swallowed hard, and tried to stop thinking about what he was planning to do.

Seventy-five feet below the observation deck, down on the flight deck, high-pressure steam catapults hissed and pierced the air. The wind, blowing in from the bow, pushed the steam back across the deck like a blanket covering all the way to the stern.

Gunner gazed off to the horizon. Somewhere out there, beyond the wide expanse of blue waters, lay Korea, the “Land of the Morning Calm,” and within its borders …

“Morning, Commander.” An ensign, with binoculars draped around his neck, nodded and smiled.

“Mister Roberts.” Gunner nodded, sipped more coffee, and resumed his thoughts.

Still, if the rumors were true … he had done his homework, he was an intelligence officer, and he had reason to believe …

“Clear the flight deck! Prepare to launch!” The voice from the 1MC, the ship’s public-address system, boomed across the flight deck. Navy crew members, sporting kelly-green vests, helmets, and jackets, and wearing camouflage pants and black boots, sprinted away from the jet. One crew member, designated the shooter, knelt on the runway beside the cockpit and pointed his finger straight out over the end of the flight deck toward the sea.

Flames roared full thrust from the jet’s twin afterburners, and …
swoooooooosh.
The giant steel catapult, propelled by thousands of tons of compressed steam, slung the roaring jet off the bow of the ship. The Hornet dipped a bit over the water, as if about to drop into the sea, and then, with flames thrusting from its afterburners, peeled off to the left and shot almost like a rocket up into the sun-drenched blue sky.

“MiG-21s inbound! Nine o’clock! Cover your ears!” The senior chief pointed off the carrier’s port side. Two airborne objects, glistening about five hundred feet above the water, roared in toward the ship like attacking missiles. The aerial game of cat and mouse had begun. Gunner was about to get his first close-up view of the North Korean military.

He held his hand up to block the glare from the sun. “Where’d they go? I lost ‘em.”

“Here they come!” the ensign said.

Gunner put down his coffee and covered his ears.

Swoooosh.

Swooosh.

Boom!

Gunner leaned out over the steel railing and craned his head skyward. Two sleek-backed jet fighters, each with a red star painted in a white circle on its fuselage, streaked like rockets straight over the ship, trailed by the booming thunder of their roaring jet engines bouncing off the flight deck.

“Here come the good guys!” someone shouted over the diminishing roar from the MiGs.

Swoooosh.

Swooosh.

Boom!

Two Navy F/A-18s shot across
Harry Truman
’s bow.

“Wooo, doggie! Ride ‘em, cowboy!” a senior chief yelled, yanking his ball cap from his head and making circles in the air to cheer on the Americans. More jet-engine thunder shook the ship as the Hornets rocketed through the sky off to the right, then began banking right, hot on the tails of the Commies.

Gunner brought his mug to his lips, but the adrenaline shaking his hand made it impossible to take a sip.

“They’re getting bold!” the lieutenant to Gunner’s left blurted out. “Right over the top of the ship!”

“Too bad our boys can’t just splash ‘em,” the senior chief said. “These are the wimpiest rules of engagement I ever saw!”

“International airspace,” the lieutenant, the junior JAG officer on the ship, responded. “They can fly wherever they want until and unless the president changes the rules of engagement. We’re out here to protect and preserve international airspace.”

“Lawyers,” the senior chief mumbled in a sarcasm-tinged tone, reflecting a universal disgust for lawyers, even on the high seas. “They could launch a missile at the carrier, and all our boys could do is splash ‘em. That’d be trading a fighter jet with one man for a supercarrier with five thousand men.” He grunted. “This politically correct crap is a bunch of —” He stopped himself. “I’m not gonna cuss in the presence of officers.” He pulled a cigarette from his pocket.

“You know” — the senior chief fiddled in his pocket for his lighter —
“Ole Harry Truman said in the Korean War that he might just nuke ‘em.” He struck the lighter, firing up the cigarette. “They don’t make ‘em like Give ‘Em Hell Harry anymore.”

“Actually,” Gunner said, “I think if they take out our carrier, we take out Pyongyang. And that’d be trading five thousand Americans for 3.2 million Commies. I’m not sure they’re
that
crazy.”

“Maybe so, Commander” — the senior chief blew a smoke ring into the sky — “but I don’t want to be their guinea pig.”

“Attention on deck!” someone shouted.

All hands jumped to attention. The officer, two silver stars on the shoulders of his nearly black Eisenhower-style jacket, walked out on the observation deck. “At ease, gentlemen.” Rear Admiral James Hampton sported a confident smile. “Everybody pumped up yet?”

Gunner nodded at the carrier strike group commander. “Afternoon, sir.”

“Afternoon, Gunner,” Admiral Hampton said. He turned to the senior chief. “Spare a cigarette, Senior Chief?”

“Absolutely, sir.” The senior chief spoke with an enthusiasm that reflected a higher regard for Navy admirals than for Navy lawyers.

The admiral watched the activity on the flight deck for a while, then turned to Gunner. “I came up to let you know I’m granting your leave request.”

Gunner’s heart jumped. “Thank you, sir.”

“But I’m doing so with the stipulation that if things get too hot out here, we cancel your leave immediately and fly you back out to the ship. Leave contact information with Captain Farrow and be prepared to get to Osan if I need to send a plane for you.”

“Of course, Admiral.”

“And Gunner, before you leave, the air wing commander needs some updated intel on how many squadrons have switched from east coast to west coast bases in North Korea and their potential strike capabilities against the task force if something goes wrong. We need the latest intel.”

“Absolutely, Admiral. I’ll also make sure Lieutenant Porter is more than up to speed on all locations of enemy forces.”

“Just be prepared to fly back out if we need you, son.”

The thunder of another F/A-18, roaring its engines to full power for
launch, muffled the admiral’s voice. He waited as the jet
swooshed
off the end of the flight deck and started its climb.