the incident to Captain Fitzgerald–loss of local phone services would
mean inconvenience for those of the battle group’s crews who were ashore
this evening–but there’d been nothing else to do but watch and wait.
That flash could have been gunfire. Marusko thought again of the rumors
floating around about a coup attempt ashore. Suppose the loss of phone
service, the blackout at the naval base, were part of an attack by
rebels?
Marusko had just decided to call Fitzgerald when the bridge batphone
rang. The duty bridge watch-stander held the headset out to him. “Sir?
They want the OOD.”
“Thanks.” He took the handset. “Officer of the Deck.”
“Bridge? This is Chief Paulsen down in CATCC. Are we expecting any
VIPs aboard tonight, sir?”
“Negative. What have you got?”
“Two bogies inbound, sir. Range five miles. They say they’re Royal
That Nueys.” Marusko’s eyebrows rose. “What do they want?”
“Ah, sir … they’re requesting clearance to land. They’ve got the
proper frequencies and protocol.”
Strange. Some That VIP probably needed to talk to the admiral. Marusko
wondered if this had anything to do with the trouble ashore.
“Okay, Chief. Tell ’em to come on in, and pass the word to the Air Boss
to give them plenty of room.”
“Aye, sir.” He heard Paulsen chuckle. “I’m not sure I trust these
local drivers.”
Marusko hung up the phone, then decided the event was out of the
ordinary enough for him to call the Captain.
2036 hours, 19 January
American Embassy, Wirelm Road, Bangkok
It had taken nearly an hour to reach their destination, and the tuk-tuk
driver was not happy about the change in his travel plans. The sounds
of the riot were no more than a few blocks away. Worse, Tombstone had
no money, That or American, and the outraged little man was advancing on
him, arms waving angrily and voice shrill when someone came up behind
the aviator and put a hand on his shoulder.
Tombstone started, then turned to see an American Marine in camouflaged
helmet and fatigues. “May I help you, sir?” the Marine asked. Tombstone
saw that he was a gunnery sergeant, that he was wearing full combat kit
and that a magazine was plugged into the receiver of his M-16.
“Lieutenant Commander Magruder, Gunny,” Tombstone said. He suddenly
felt very tired and was having trouble speaking. “CO of VF-95, U.S.S.
Thomas Jefferson. I need to talk to the boat.”
The Marine grinned. The black skin of his face was glistening with
sweat. “Yes, sir! I’m Gunnery Sergeant George Johnson. I’m off the
Jeff too.”
Tombstone tried to focus on the Marine. “Jefferson? What … you
doing here?”
He put an arm around Tombstone’s shoulders, supporting him. “All hell’s
bustin’ loose all over Bangkok, Commander. And we’ve got a few thousand
American tourists out there caught in the crossfire. C’mon. Let’s get
you inside.” When the That driver started to follow them, still
shouting what could only be curses and demands for payment, the sergeant
bellowed at another Marine standing close by. “Palmer! Pay this man!”
Guided by Johnson, Tombstone stumbled into the brightly lit interior of
the embassy. He was suddenly aware of how filthy he looked and felt,
the grimy feeling accentuated somehow by the pristine interior of the
mansion.
Several That servants watched wide-eyed from across the marble hall,
while two Marines in dress Class-As snapped to rigid attention.
“Looks like you’ve been through the wringer, sir,” Johnson observed.
“Got … to call Jefferson,” Tombstone said. He was so tired he could
barely stand. His burns and bruises throbbed and chaffed beneath his
clothing making any movement at all an agony.
“Right in here, Commander,” the Marine said. He helped Tombstone
through a door labeled “Communications.” Inside, other Marines and
several civilians were manning computer keyboards and radio consoles.
“We’ve been having some trouble with the phones down there, but we can
patch in a direct radio hook-up. We’ll fix you right up.”
Minutes later, Tombstone was talking to a communications officer on
board the Jefferson.
2038 hours, 19 January
Bridge, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
“They’re hostile!” Marusko barked, hanging up the phone. “Sound General
Quarters! All hands to battle stations!”
The shrill rasp of the klaxon blasted from the 5-MC.