Battle Born (39 page)

“But, sir,” Hale protested, trying once more to convince his boss that it was not a safe move to stay, “the National Airborne Operations Center aircraft were designed and tasked to provide global communications in fluid emergency situations such as this. It is not a symbol of panic, desperation, aggression, or cowardice to use them.”

“It is to me, Jerrod,” the President answered. “Besides, I’m not going to run to the safety of the skies while the Vice President is in the middle of a nuclear fire
storm. Now, since State hasn’t been able to get through, you see if you can get President Jiang on the phone for me—and see to it that the congressional leadership is up to speed about what’s going on.”

As his chief of staff got on the telephone, President Martindale’s eyes were on the banks of computer and TV monitors but not really watching them. CNN was showing a live broadcast from Seoul, which was little more than a cloud of black smoke on the horizon toward the site of a high-explosive rocket barrage and a chemical weapons attack. He had seen much worse. Then the focus shifted to the streets. They were filled with cars and people, but there was no sign of panic. In fact, it looked like the reverse. Surreal, that’s what it was. There was a military attack under way, but it was as if the crowds realized something else was happening—something long awaited.

Just then Jerrod Hale, phone in hand, shouted, “Mr. President! It’s the Vice President, calling from Osan!”

“Thank God,” Martindale said. He snatched the telephone out of Hale’s hand. “Ellen! Are you all right?”

“Yes, Mr. President, we’re all right,” Whiting replied. “We had a close call, but everyone inside the facility here survived. The fallout levels were low enough, so they decided to evacuate us.”

“Good,” he said. “We thought you didn’t make it. Information is coming out very slowly, in bits. Where are you? We’ll send someone to fly you out.”

“I’ve got at least a couple of hundred marines within a stone’s throw of me right now,” Whiting said, her voice cheerful. “I feel very safe. They can evacuate me out in one of those tilt-rotor planes any minute, but I’m not ready to go back just yet.”

“
What?
Why?”

“Mr. President, President Kwon is going to Pyongyang,”
Whiting said. “He’s meeting with First Vice President Pak Chung-chu of North Korea, who apparently has been helping Kwon orchestrate this revolution for many months. Mr. President, the Communist government in Pyongyang, the entire Politburo, has fled the country, and the North Korean People’s Army has disbanded. Kwon and Pak are going to announce the formation of a new democratic government, headquartered in Pyongyang. The peninsula has been reunited, Mr. President.
Korea is one.
And I would like to be there when they make the announcement.”

Martindale sank into his chair. The reports Chastain had relayed were real. This was truly unbelievable. “Ellen . . . Ellen, how can you be sure it’s safe for you?”

“I guess I can’t, Kevin,” Whiting replied. “But I feel I have to go. I’m going to take all the marines I can in the tilt-rotor, probably twenty or thirty. Kwon and Pak are taking an enormous risk, far greater than me.” She paused. “Mr. President, this is an extraordinary opportunity for peace in Asia. It’s up to us to seize it. The two leaders plan on meeting in three hours in Pyongyang. I want to be there. I want representatives from China, Russia, and Japan to be there too. If we do this, if all six of the participants in the Korean split appear at once when the peninsula wants to reunify, no one can argue that this is illegitimate. What do you say?”

“I’m worried about your safety, Ellen,” Martindale answered. “But . . . of course. I’ll call Beijing, Moscow, and Tokyo and try to arrange for some representatives, the highest-ranking ones I can find willing to go to Pyongyang so soon after the nuclear attacks. But make sure you listen to the marines. If they think it’s unsafe, if they can’t guarantee your safety, I want you out of there.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. This is going to be wonderful. I can feel it.”

“Maybe. But things are still explosive over there, Ellen. Remember, this revolution is still only hours old. Don’t take any more chances. There’s plenty of time for announcements and proclamations and photo ops when things are calmer.”

He heard the line go dead abruptly. Another thrill of panic shot down Martindale’s spine, and he held the phone to his ear for several long moments, hoping she would come back on the line.

Then he hung up. “She’s going to Pyongyang,” he said.

“What?
Pyongyang?
” Plank exclaimed. “The capital of North Korea? Why? Has she been captured? Is she all right?”

“She sounds all right,” the President responded. “In fact, very much so. And apparently there is no North Korea anymore. The Politburo has fled the country, and the army has disbanded.”

“There is no way we can verify that, sir!” Plank insisted. “Just because South Korean planes are freely flying over the North and they’ve opened the borders doesn’t mean the North is safe for foreigners to travel, let alone the Vice President. It’s too hazardous!”

“Sir, we wouldn’t let the Vice President go to Disneyland without adequate preparation by an advance team,” the chief of staff reminded the President. “We should at least try to postpone this. One day. Twelve hours. It’ll give military intelligence a chance to look the place over first.”

“I hear you,” the President said, “and I agree one hundred percent. But events are moving too fast. President Kwon is on his way to Pyongyang right now, and he’s going to stand right beside the vice president of North Korea and make the proclamation that will stun the world. We need to be part of it. Ellen accepts the
risk, and I”—he swallowed hard—”and I accept the responsibility.”

To Secretary of State Jeffrey Hartman, he said, “Jeff, Ellen says Kwon and Pak are requesting representatives of Russia, China, and Japan at the announcement. Make some calls and find out if they’re interested.”

The United Republic of Korea. United Korea. Despite a few apparently knee-jerk rocket launches, it really was virtually a bloodless birth: the people throwing off the shackles of communism that had left them ostracized by the rest of their country—and by the rest of the world. First independent Taiwan, now United Korea. What a way to start the new millennium!

But the wild card was still China. Would they stand aside and watch their Communist brothers vanish before their eyes? Would they launch the massive attack everyone had long feared they would?

“Jerrod.”

“Sir?”

“Alert the media. Address to the nation in thirty minutes, from the Oval Office.” He took a deep breath and said, “I’m going to announce my support of the United Republic of Korea.”

OVER SOUTH-CENTRAL NEVADA
THAT SAME TIME

A
ces, Two-Zero is defensive, triple-A at T3,” Rebecca Furness, who was now dropping on their second target, said on the interplane frequency just as Patrick switched back to normal radio.

“What d’ya got, Go-Fast?” Rinc radioed.

“Big-time concentrations of triple-A north of T3,” Rebecca said. “We had to scram west.”

“Time for an airshow, boss,” Rinc said on inter-plane. “Aces Two-Zero, how about airshow north plus three minutes, repeat, airshow north plus three.”

“No way,” Furness responded. “Just do the run and do the best you can with the threats. We’ll be behind you to try again.”

“Beck, they’ll be expecting attacks from the same axis as before—we can’t give it to them,” Rinc said. “Airshow north plus three. That’s plenty of room, and the range is ours.”

There was a slight pause; then: “All right, Rinc. If you don’t have a visual on us by three, scram east, I’ll go west. Don’t screw this up, Seaver!”

“Penetrate, decimate, dominate,” Seaver said. “Kick ass, Beck!”

“Steering’s good, Rodeo,” Long said, after quickly entering several commands into his nav computer.

“What’s the plan, guys?” Patrick asked. “What’s an airshow?”

“You’ll see, General,” Rinc replied. “Just keep the bad guys off our butts, Ollie. Here we go.” Seaver pushed the throttles into full military power, moved the wing sweep handle forward to thirty-six degrees, then started a steep climb and a fast turn toward the new destination coordinates.

Patrick had had the Nellis range crews set up a difficult nest of several antiaircraft artillery emplacements near the last planned gravity bomb target. He put so many ZSU-23s and dual 57-millimeter radar-guided guns near the target that even a B-1 going supersonic couldn’t survive overflying the target. That was the purpose: to see if the crew would alter their tactics, and if so, what they would do next. Patrick could see that Rinc had offset them far to the east of their planned track, well away from the last target. They were passing twenty thousand feet and going higher.

“We’re getting kinda high for some of the big threats out here, aren’t we?” Patrick asked. If they stayed up this high for much longer, some of the long-range strategic surface-to-air missiles could “kill” them with ease, and at this speed and angle-of-attack, they couldn’t maneuver very well. They were flying up high, obviously, to stay away from the triple-A threats that could kill them if they stayed low—but this was getting ridiculous. They were off course, off time, off altitude . . .

“SA-3 in search, twelve o’clock, forty-five miles,” Ollie reported. “SA-10, three o’clock, fifty miles.”

“We need to get the nose down, pilot,” Patrick warned him. “We’re naked up here. Airspeed’s dropped below four hundred, AOA is eight. What’s the plan?”

“Bandits twelve o’clock, forty miles and closing . . .”

“You got it, General,” Rinc said happily—and then he pulled the wing sweep handle back to sixty-seven point five degrees, rolled the Bone
inverted
, and started a steep left diving turn, screaming for the ground.

“
Mother of God
!” Patrick shouted.

“Passing thirty for six,” Long said calmly. Checklist pages and tiny bits of dirt and dust were floating around them. As they accelerated earthward, Patrick started to feel the pressure squeeze him into his seat as the G-forces built up. They had reversed their direction of flight and had rolled back upright, speeding toward the second target complex in the
opposite
direction they had planned—exactly opposite of the second B-1 on this bomb run!

“Hey, our track will put us nose-to-nose with our wingman,” Patrick pointed out.

“We know that,” Rinc answered. “He should be off our nose at sixteen DME, low.” The crew kept the air-to-air TACAN system dialed in so they could tell exactly
how far they were from each other. “Where are those threats, D?” he asked.

“SA-3 down, SA-10 four o’clock, search only . . . triple-A at twelve o’clock, fast-scan search. He’s getting ready to range on us. We’ve got bandits now at six o’clock, thirty miles and closing fast, coming down the ramp at us.”

“Wingman at fifteen . . . fourteen . . .” Patrick couldn’t believe how fast the air-to-air DME was winding down.

“A little hot, Rodeo,” Long said. “Give me a few seconds. Two should do it.” Seaver responded by honking the Bone into two very steep, tight turns, one to the left and another to the right, to lose a little time without pulling off any power, still with the nose aimed earthward. “That should do it. Ten DME . . . passing ten for six . . . looking good . . . pop when ready, Rodeo!”

“Boards!” Rinc shouted. Patrick hit the OVERRIDE switch and deployed all four spoilers up into full speed-brake position. They all slammed forward against their shoulder straps as they quickly decelerated. As the speed decreased, Rinc swept the wings forward to fifty-four degrees to slow down even more.

“Triple-A locked on!” Warren shouted.

“Five DME!” Rinc announced over interphone. “Got them yet, General?”

“Raise the nose a little,” Patrick replied, his head spinning. “A little more . . . contact, contact! Eleven-thirty, low!”

“Got ’em,” Rinc said calmly. They were head-to-head with their wingman, the other B-1 bomber! Aces Two-One was screaming earthward from above while Rebecca Furness in the lead Bone was racing supersonic across the high desert. Their flight paths intersected directly over the second target complex.

“Bandit six o’clock, twenty miles!” Warren shouted. “Triple-A lock,
chaff, chaff
!” Then, just as suddenly: “Triple-A down! It’s the fighter on our tail! They don’t want to shoot at their own guy.”

“Get your nose up a little, pilot,” Long said. “Twenty TG to bomb release. We level at one thousand!”

But the call was too late. Out the cockpit window, they could see Aces Two-Zero laying down a string of five-hundred-pound bombs. Bright flashes of yellow light quickly made way for an immense cloud of smoke and exploding metal. The desert erupted and boiled as if it had suddenly turned to sand-colored lava.

The second B-1 passed within one mile of Furness’s bomber, just three hundred feet underneath. Rinc was watching the first B-1 and was not paying attention to his altitude until the RADAR ALT LOW warning light and buzzer came on at eight hundred feet.

“Pull up!” Patrick shouted. Seaver pulled back on the control stick to level off, but not before the bomber careened through five hundred feet above ground—aimed right at the center of the detonation pattern. The crew felt a sharp jolt and a bouncing, pinging pebbly sound underneath the plane, like a car driving across a rough gravel road.

“Ten TG!” Patrick shouted. “We’re too low!
Withhold
!”

Long ignored him. At that same moment, the bomb doors swung open, and Aces Two-One released their own Mk82 bomb load on their own target two complex. Again, the desert rippled and undulated as the bombs ripped apart the enemy vehicles set up below.

The B-1 was in a steep climb and escaped most of the effects of the Ballute-retarded bomb attack. The F-15 pilot chasing Aces Two-One was not quite as lucky. He stopped his descent and turned away as he saw the second
B-1 bomber heading right for him, but he turned directly into the path of the first Bone’s bomb fragmentation pattern.

“Avalanche, this is Bullrider One on GUARD,” they heard on the GUARD emergency channel. “Bullrider One is declaring an emergency for a right engine fire and right wing structural damage.”