Thunder in the Morning Calm (41 page)

Beep-beep-beep-beep …

Jacobs checked the sweeping radar screen. The radar showed an unidentified aircraft approaching from the direction of the Chinese – North Korean sector, altitude 1,000 feet, speed 100 knots.

Its course would take it directly over the
Harry S. Truman
.

“Truman Control. Viper Leader. I’ve got an unidentified bogie entering the sector. Course one-eight-zero. Range thirty-five miles. Entering our airspace and headed our way.”

“Viper Leader. Truman. Proceed to investigate and report. You have your orders. If bogie continues on present course, take it out.”

“Truman. Viper Leader. Roger that.”

Jacobs pushed on the throttle and hit the afterburners. The jet shot through the air like a rocket. “Estimated time of intercept, one minute.”

The Super Hornet descended … 1,500 … 1,200 … 1,000 feet. Jacobs made a large sweeping motion and came up behind the much-slower-moving aircraft.

There. One o’clock.

Visual contact.

Jacobs reduced airspeed to match the bogie’s speed, closing to about two hundred yards behind the plane.

“Truman Control. Viper Leader. I’ve got a visual on the bogie. We’ve got a single-engine Cessna seaplane. Looks like a 150 or 172. Chinese markings on the tail. I’ve got it in my gun sights and can take it out if necessary.”

“Viper Leader. Truman. Attempt to contact Cessna to determine intentions. Instruct to divert. If no response by radio, send IFF. If no response to IFF and no change of course, assume the ID is foe, not a friendly, and take it out.”

“Truman Control. Viper Leader. Roger that.” Jacobs switched to a universal frequency. “US Navy warplane to Cessna. You are approaching airspace controlled by the United States Navy. Please identify yourself and identify your intentions.”

A pause …

Then a squawk over the radio, and then …

“Cessna to US Navy warplane. I am Colonel Jung-Hoon Sohn of the Army of the Republic of Korea …”

USS
Harry S. Truman
the Yellow Sea

C
aptain Charles Harrison sat in his captain’s chair in the center of the bridge of the
Harry S. Truman
, drinking his second mug of black coffee of the morning when his communications officer rushed onto the bridge.

“Skipper, you won’t believe this,” the officer said.

“Try me,” Harrison said, then took another swig.

“The aircraft that Lieutenant Commander Jacobs is tracking is asking for permission to land in the water.”

“Land in the water?”

“Yes, sir. It’s a small Cessna floatplane. They’re also requesting helicopter rescue assistance. Pilot claims to be a Colonel Jung-Hoon Sohn of the ROK Army. They claim to have an American POW from the Korean War on board. They also claim to have … get this … Lieutenant Commander Gunner McCormick on board.”

“Say what?” Harrison said. “That’s crazy. McCormick went down in the Sea of Japan.”

“Understand, sir. But Commander Jacobs is right out there on top of him, and he thinks it’s credible. In fact, he says the plane is already making the approach for a landing.”

“XO, scramble two choppers out to the intercept position for this Cessna. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

“Aye, sir.”

“And Lieutenant?” He addressed the communications officer.

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell Commander Jacobs to order that plane down. And if it gets within a twenty-five-mile zone of this ship, tell him to splash it. The last thing we need is to get fooled by a Communist kamikaze plane masquerading as a social project.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Chinese Cessna 172 floatplane
the northern Yellow Sea

J
ung-Hoon flew low over the water, watching the powerful Navy F/A-18 Super Hornet one hundred yards off his left wing. The radio squawked again.

“Cessna 172. This is US Navy warplane. You are ordered to commence water landing immediately. Rescue helicopters are en route.”

“Yes!” Gunner pumped his fist in the air. Even Pak smiled.

“If you proceed much farther on course, you will be shot down.”

“US Navy warplane. Cessna 172. I’m putting her down now.” Jung-Hoon pulled up on the stick, raising the plane’s nose, and cut back on the throttle. “Hang on, ten seconds to splashdown.”

The Cessna dropped gradually. Gunner wrapped his arms tight around Pak’s waist. A second later, a swishing noise, and the sound and feel much like water skis being pulled behind a powerboat. Jung-Hoon cut the engine. They were floating silently somewhere on the Yellow Sea.

Jackrabbit worked his way back to the weapons and the remaining gear. In case of a second water landing, he had put together a plan B. They could not take the chance that the plane would remain afloat and become treasure for the North Koreans. He lashed everything together, checked the timer on the explosives, and grabbed the remote.

After everyone was off and safe, he would send the plane to the bottom of the sea.

US Navy SH-60B Seahawk
the northern Yellow Sea

O
ver there!” The chopper’s copilot, Navy Lieutenant (JG) Bill Jonson, pointed off to the left.

“I see it,” said veteran Seahawk pilot Navy Lieutenant Bill Cameron. The blue seaplane was riding the shallow swells about three hundred yards off their port side.

“Okay, let’s drop a couple of swimmers in the water out to the right of the plane. Tell the chief to get ready to lower the life basket.”

“Got it, Skipper.”

Chinese Cessna 172 floatplane
the northern Yellow Sea

T
he familiar roar of US Navy helicopters filled the air. Gunner leaned over and saw the gray SH-60B Seahawk with the word
NAVY
painted in black along the tail fuselage and the name USS
Harry S. Truman
in black letters just behind the pilot.

The chopper descended about a hundred yards out to the right of the plane. It hovered at ten feet. The cargo bay opened. Two SAR swimmers in black thermal gear leaped, feet first, into the water. The chopper ascended again as the swimmers surfaced and headed toward the plane with powerful freestyle strokes.

The chopper climbed back to about one hundred feet and feathered over to one side of the plane.

“Attention, Cessna aircraft.” A voice boomed from the Seahawk’s loudspeaker system. “This is the US Navy. We are lowering a rescue basket from the chopper. Two swimmers are en route to your plane. Stay put. Follow their directions. This is the US Navy.”

The swimmers arrived within a minute or so and climbed up on the pontoons. They reached up and guided the metal basket down and opened the door of the aircraft.

They strapped Frank’s body in first, and the basket swung out over the water, hanging from the steel cable. Gunner and Keith watched as the basket ascended up into the chopper. A couple of minutes later, the basket was lowered again. “Keith, you’re next,” Gunner said.

Keith protested. “Marines don’t go before ladies,” he said, seeming to come back to life.

But Pak refused. “Once you are aboard that helicopter,” she said, “you will be almost home in your country again. You have waited many years for this.”

Gunner and the others sided with Pak, so Keith went next. He was followed by Pak, then Jung-Hoon, and then Jackrabbit. Gunner insisted on going last.

With everyone finally settled in the helicopter, Jackrabbit quietly told the pilot and copilot that he needed to take care of some unfinished business. He explained how he had rigged the Cessna with explosives to send it to the bottom and keep it out of the hands of the North Koreans.

With the helicopter still within range and angled to look back at the floatplane, Jackrabbit pushed the remote. “Good to go,” he told the pilot.

They headed for the
Truman
, and Jackrabbit watched the Cessna as it got smaller and smaller. Then …
POOF!
A column of black smoke billowed out and hung there like a death shroud, then was lifted up and away by the wind. Jackrabbit smiled. The plane was gone. He saw only the sea.

Fifteen minutes later, the Seahawk flew in over the fantail of the USS
Harry S. Truman
. The chopper hovered over the flight deck and slowly feathered down and landed.

Deck crews rushed to the helicopter and opened the cargo door. Two Navy corpsmen were the first aboard the helicopter. They removed Frank’s body, first covering it with a white sheet and loading it on a stretcher.

Commander Lawrence Berman, the ship’s senior medical officer, climbed aboard next and walked over to Keith. “Sir, I’m Dr. Berman. I’m the ship’s doctor. Would you come with me, please?” Pak, Jackrabbit, and Jung-Hoon then stepped out onto the windy deck. Gunner was last.

Three senior officers formed an arms-folded semicircle outside the chopper. They included the
Truman’s
commanding officer, Captain
Charles Harrison; her executive officer, Commander Rawlinson Petty; and Captain Anthony Farrow, Admiral Hampton’s chief of staff.

“Good morning, sir,” Gunner said to the senior of the three, Captain Harrison.

“Welcome back aboard, Commander,” Harrison said.

“Commander,” Captain Farrow said, “you just have time to go get cleaned up, get in your uniform, and report to the admiral at ten-thirty hours.”

“Yes, sir.”

USS
Harry S. Truman
the Yellow Sea

L
ieutenant Commander McCormick.” The admiral dragged out every syllable as if he were about to start the dreaded Chinese waterboard torture. “Where have you been?” Hampton sat back in his chair and played with his pencil as he looked at Gunner.

“Sir, you told me to take leave.” Gunner stood at attention in his Navy service dress-blue uniform, staring straight ahead and not daring to make eye contact.

“Yes, I suppose I did, didn’t I?”

Gunner did not respond.

“Of course I don’t recall ordering you also to transform yourself into a one-man Rambo squad.”

“No, sir.”

“Or even a three-man Rambo squad.”

Gunner hesitated. “No, sir, you did not.”

Hampton stood, crossed his arms, and walked over to the side of his office. He didn’t look at Gunner. “We’ve interviewed Colonel Jung-Hoon and Lieutenant Colonel Davenport.” The admiral shook his head. “We know what happened.”

“Understand, sir.”

“Boy, when you decide to associate yourself with retired Special Forces guys, you don’t mess around, do you?”

Gunner didn’t know what to say. “Unfortunately, sir, there weren’t many retired Navy SEALs that I could find in South Korea.”

“You sure fooled the North Koreans.”

Again, Gunner did not respond.

“Interesting, isn’t it? You take leave, as I ordered. You purchase a yellow aircraft. You decide to take that plane, according to the flight plan, to Japan with your two newfound friends, who happen to be the meanest, baddest, fighting machines in all of South Korea not dubbed with the title Navy SEAL. Your pilot calls in a distress signal. Two hours or so after that, the flagship North Korean frigate, the
Najin
, blows up and sinks … although I can’t give you credit for that one.” The admiral paused and shook his head. “Less than forty-eight hours later, you show up in another private single-engine plane, flown out of China, this one with pontoons, and right before my fighter pilot shoots it down, your pilot lands it in the Yellow Sea. My choppers pull you and your two buddies out, along with a Korean woman, the body of an old man, plus another old man. Both US Marines who have been in prison in North Korea for sixty years. You entered a Communist dictatorship, without authority, when military tensions are high with the United States. And you proceed to attack and obliterate a Communist military prison and kill who-knows-how-many North Korean soldiers.”

Gunner stood there. “I don’t know what to say, sir.”

“You know I could court-martial you for this, don’t you?”

“Sir,” Gunner said, “I am prepared to resign my commission and plead guilty to whatever charges JAG wants to throw at me.”

Another awkward period of silence.

“Yes, well, I appreciate the offer. That would save me a lot of trouble.” The admiral sat back down in his chair and twirled his yellow number 2 pencil between his fingers. “But before you do that, I at least want to tell you what we’ve found out about the two gentlemen you brought back.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We did dental impressions of them both and matched them against records held at the National Military Personnel Records Center in St. Louis.” He picked up a sheet of paper. “The deceased is HN3 Frank Dinardo, of Oak Park, Illinois. Eighty-four years old. He was a Navy hospital corpsman detached to the First Marine Division. He volunteered for service with the First Marine Division in Korea.”

Hampton laid down that paper and picked up another. “The other
is a Second Lieutenant Robert Keith Pendleton, age eighty-three, actually now
Colonel
Robert Keith Pendleton, because he was promoted
in absentia
as an MIA — of Suffolk, Virginia.”

Hampton looked up from the paper. “That name ring a bell?”

Gunner looked down. Had he heard that right? His heart fired into afterburner mode.

“Yes, I thought that might break that stiff stance of yours.” The admiral’s stern face showed a tinge of a smile, but not for long. “Colonel Pendleton is suffering from shell shock, from fatigue, from dehydration, from arthritis, from an infected foot as a result of a slice from a whip, and from malnourishment. They’ve got an IV in him and are pumping in antibiotics. Other than that, Dr. Berman says he’ll be fine.”

Hampton laid the paper down. “Your grandfather, Commander, is one tough Marine.”

Gunner felt tears welling in his eyes.

“At ease, Commander. Relax for a second.”

“Thank you, sir.” He wiped his eyes. “I thought my grandfather had died a few days ago. They said they had buried a Marine named Robert.”