aircraft than SA-7 Grails, the shoulder-launched missiles which
explained the hard deck rule. Sharpshooter’s op plan called for a
rendezvous with one of Jefferson’s KA-6D tankers north of Bangkok for
refueling, after which they were to proceed to the area north of Chiang
Mai. Two of Jefferson’s Tomcats were already flying cover for That
aircraft, though they’d been ordered to stay out of any actual combat.
It was thought that the mere presence of American carrier aircraft would
reassure the Thais of U.S. commitment to their ally.
So far, everything had gone smoothly since the first patrol had been
launched at 0600 that morning.
“Copy, Homeplate,” Tombstone said. “We’ll be good.”
“Uh … Commander?” Dixie’s voice was harsh over the ICS. “We’re
getting some kind of radar sweep. Intermittent like.”
Tombstone could hear the pulse over his headset, a deep-throated twang
like the plucked string on a bass, repeated every few seconds. “Search
radar,” he said. “Probably the airport at Phu Quoc.”
“Jeez, that’s creepy.”
“No big deal, Dixie.” He looked through the canopy to the right. The
coastline of Vietnam lay a hundred miles in that direction, lost in
clouds and distance. He could see a smear to the northeast which might
be Cambodia’s Koh Tang Islands. Vietnam. He thought of his father,
shot down in a raid over Hanoi. “They’re keeping an eye on us, that’s
all.”
“Yessir.” He heard the hiss of his RIO’s rapid breathing over the
intercom. “I guess this stuff is old hat to you, huh, Mr. Magruder? I
mean, after Wonsan and all.”
Tombstone wasn’t sure how to answer. Dixon was a newbie. He’d come
aboard at Yokosuka, Jefferson’s last port of call, only three months
earlier, one of the nuggets flown into Japan to replace the men lost
during the raid into North Korea. He was eager, brash, and excited by
the prospect of flying backseat for Tombstone Magruder, but at times the
youngster’s hero worship could be a bit much.
Hero. The word tasted sour. He’d never wanted it applied to him, never
asked for all the fuss.
Matthew Magruder had seen nothing particularly heroic about his actions
over Korea three months before. They’d just … happened. He’d led the
Combat Air Patrol which covered Navy helos ferrying the crew of a U.S.
intelligence ship captured by North Korea to safety. There’d been a
ferocious dogfight with North Korean MiG-21s. During the turning and
burning in the skies above Wonsan, Tombstone’s Tomcat had been hit, his
RIO badly wounded.
Refusing to eject and lose his backseater, he’d somehow limped back to
the Jefferson on one faltering engine, sliding the crippled F-14 into a
flight deck barricade in a shower of sparks.
For Tombstone, there’d been no heroism at the time, no question of
bravery … only a job to be done and his determination not to drop his
unconscious RIO into the gray seas off Wonsan.
The medal they’d given him was a pretty thing, a gold Maltese cross set
against a sunburst with the image of a sailing ship in the center. The
ribbon was dark blue, bisected by a single vertical white stripe. The
commendation that went with it declared that Lieutenant Commander
Matthew Magruder had, during the period from 26 September to,30
September of that year, “distinguished himself by extraordinary heroism
in military operations against an armed enemy.” It went on to mention
his six combat kills and the rescue of the wounded Naval Flight Officer
in his aircraft.
The Navy Cross was the highest decoration possible short of the
Congressional Medal of Honor, and the CMH was awarded only for actions
against a nation actually at war with the United States. The Wonsan
strike had not been part of a war, not in the traditional sense; it was
typical instead of this new era of international politics, when nations
threatened and maneuvered, when ships and aircraft clashed … but when
the victories were won or lost by politicians.
Men were wounded or killed for the sake of those victories, though, just
as in a real war. That was the tragedy, one which no medal could
relieve.
He pushed the thought from his mind. Tombstone decided that his father