But for air-to-air combat, all they had were four R.550 Magic air-to-air missiles and their cannons- Magic was comparable to the American Sidewinder, IR-seekers with a range of perhaps two miles. He had nothing, nothing with which to counter an enemy still thirty-five miles away!
How was he supposed to carry out his mission when he could not even get close enough to the enemy to fire?
But possibly there was a chance. He had his Sea Harrier in a steady climb now, gaining altitude to extend the range of his Ferranti Blue Fox radar. Maximum range for an aircraft-sized target was about thirty-five miles for the system. Perhaps . . .
There it was, a lone aircraft at the very limit of his radar’s range, traveling toward the northwest. If it was an American Tomcat, it had a top speed of better than Mach 2 and could easily outpace his Harrier.
But perhaps there was another way. . . .
CHAPTER 19
1025 hours EST, 25 March (0755 hours, 26 March, India time) Oval Office, the White House
“You sent for me, Mr. President.”
“Yes, Admiral. Come in.”
Admiral Magruder approached the enormous desk. He’d never seen the President looking this worn. The crisis of the past two days had drained the man.
As it had drained him, he admitted to himself. Magruder had not slept well—or long—these past few nights. He didn’t expect to sleep this night either, not with the latest reports coming out of the Arabian Sea.
“I thought you should know, Tom,” the President said. “The battle group is now under full attack.”
Magruder felt his stomach knot. Matt . . .
“No hits, no casualties that we know of yet,’1 the President continued. “But once the storm breaks, it’s going to be bad. I’ve . . . I’ve requested the presence of the Indian ambassador. He’ll be here in another fifteen minutes. Maybe we can still work something out … a disengagement, a cease-fire. But . . .”
He left the rest unsaid, and Magruder nodded his understanding. If Indian warplanes were already airborne, the chances of recalling them were slight.
The President leaned forward, his hands clasped on his desk. “Matt, this is the crunch. The reason I brought you here. I need your help.”
Magruder couldn’t tell if the President was referring to his summons to the office now, or the whole purpose of his
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transfer from the Pentagon. Perhaps he meant both. “I’ll help anyway I can, Mr. President.”
“We still have one chance, you know.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Disengage. Break off and run for it.” The President held up one hand as Magruder’s face showed his surprise. “No, don’t say it, Tom. Wait until I’m through. The whole question is whether our claim to those waters ten thousand miles from this desk is worth the fives of several thousand of our boys.”
Magruder tried to smile, and failed. “Mr. President, it’s a little late to reconsider now, isn’t it?”
“Admiral, the man who sits at this desk thinks of carrier battle groups as a tool. A way to reach out and influence other parts of the world, other leaders. Okay, threaten, if you prefer. But in international politics, a threat is generally a lot more effective than a plea. It’s the way the damned system works.”
“Granted. You used us a time or two, remember? At Wonsan? In Thailand?”
“That’s why I called you, Tom. Your battle group is really up against it mis time. When I sent you into Korea, we both knew you’d be outnumbered, but it was a quick, sharp action. Get the Marines in, get our people, get them out. And the Koreans didn’t have mucb to threaten your ships with beyond some outdated strike aircraft armed with free-fall bombs.”
“Those were dangerous enough, sir.”
“It was also a controlled response. If the North Koreans pushed too hard, well, we still had the U.S. air units stationed in South Korea and in Japan. We could keep things at a relatively low level, without escalating.”
It certainly hadn’t seemed that way at the time, Magruder remembered. They’d been worried about the Soviets, worried about Korean reinforcements. And at the end, the KorComs had launched a desperate attack on the invasion fleet with a number of low-level bombers. Sometimes, he thought, politicians could have remarkably selective memories. “Yes, sir.”