Something held him back. Throwing away the medal would change nothing,
accomplish nothing.
That, he realized, was what was gnawing at him more even than anything
else. Pamela and Bayerly were gone and there wasn’t a damned thing he
could do about it. Tracking the captives through Bangkok’s teeming
streets was a job for the hard-pressed That National Police, not the
U.S. Navy.
With a start, he glanced at his watch. Almost a quarter past … and an
all-departments meeting had been called for 1030 hours. He just had
time to make it up to CVIC. He pocketed the medal, then turned away
from the railing and plunged back into the machine shop passageway.
CHAPTER 21
1045 hours, 20 January
CVIC, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
“Gentlemen,” Admiral Magruder said. “I’m treating this as an act of
war.
Forces unknown, but possibly operating together with the communist
insurrection in Thailand, have attacked this command.”
It was silent within the Carrier Intelligence Center, save for the
isolated creaks of men moving in the metal folding chairs which had been
set up in rows. The chairs gave the large room the feel of an
elementary school auditorium. Tension was high, an almost electric
sharpness in the air. Every department head, squadron CO, and senior
staff officer on the carrier was present. Admiral Magruder leaned
against the podium, a large-scale color map of Thailand at his back.
There were no TV cameras, but a VCR camcorder was being used to tape the
meeting, for the record.
Tombstone leaned back in his chair and considered his uncle. The man
had aged. Perhaps he was feeling the strain of his responsibilities,
strains that had been on his shoulders since Wonsan. Then and now, it
was largely his decisions which would determine peace or war, life or
death for the men under his command.
The commanding admiral of CBG-14 surveyed the officers in front of him
before speaking again. “The Captain, the Exec, CAG, and the Damage
Control Officer gave me their assessment a few minutes ago. In brief,
damage to the flight deck is minimal.” He pulled a small notebook from
his jacket pocket and consulted it. “Repairs to the arresting-gear
mechanism are being completed now. Full flight-deck operations should
be possible within two hours. El Three will probably be out of service
until we can return to port, but we can maintain full service on the
remaining three elevators.
“Our total losses during the attack and fire amounted to three aircraft
destroyed, plus a further five aircraft down-checked by the plane
captains for repairs. The most serious losses were two of our KA-6D
tankers, one destroyed, one damaged. This leaves us with only two
tankers functional for air-to-air refueling ops should we need them.
“Casualties, thank God, were light. Six known dead, four more missing
and presumed lost overboard. Eighteen men are in sick bay, most from
smoke inhalation.”
He closed the notebook and looked up. “This is not a formal briefing,
gentlemen. It’s a brainstorming session. We’ve been hit. Hard. I
want ideas, recommendations about what we should do about it. All of
you feel free to chip in. We’ll kick this off with a rundown on the
situation from Commander Neil.”
Commander Richard Patrick Neil was an Irish Bostonian, the Carrier Group
Intelligence Officer for Magruder’s staff. He stood and walked to the
front of the room, where he took the admiral’s place behind the podium.
“Thank you, Admiral, gentlemen. Well, to start with, our options appear
to be strictly limited.” Neil’s New England twang was sharply evident
in the way he said “appeah.” He looked ill at ease. “After all that
has happened, we still don’t know who the enemy really is. We have a
communist insurgency in the north with possible Burmese involvement,
student demonstrators and rioters in Bangkok, and a military coup
breaking out all over the country. It is tempting to see these separate
incidents as somehow linked, but we cannot yet prove that. As yet, we
do not know who attacked the Jefferson last night.”
“Shit,” someone in the audience muttered. “I thought that was obvious.
We know it was the gook rebels who piloted those helos-”
“No,” Neil countered. “We don’t. They were RTAF machines and they were