Battle Born (61 page)

“What is Kwon going to do?” the Vice President asked. “He’s shown us he’s capable of anything. He’s likely to level everything inside Chagang Do province with whatever weapon he can.”

The President stared out the window, lost in
thought. “And I can’t blame him,” he said finally. “If it’s proved that Kwon launched those rockets against China even though he knew China didn’t attack, his actions are unconscionable. But he’s also demonstrated his resolve to defend United Korea using every tool at his disposal. I believe Zhou when he says China is afraid of Kwon.
I’m
afraid of Kwon, and I don’t think he has any missiles pointed at us. China might very well do as Zhou says they will: destroy the nuclear weapons labs, burn everything down, and get out.”

“And that wouldn’t make me unhappy either,” Philip Freeman admitted. “The question is, who’s going to step over the line next? Will Kwon back off? And if he doesn’t, how much force is he going to use?”

“And what the hell do we do in the meantime?” the President asked. “Do we risk an escalation by sending in more aircraft carriers? What do we do if China and Korea start an all-out missile exchange? Do we dare even put our forces at risk?”

“Our best shot right now is McLanahan and his Coronet Tiger antimissile technology,” National Security Adviser Freeman said. “If he can keep everybody’s head down and prevent any more mushroom clouds from going up over Korea or China, we may have enough time to defuse this matter.”

“What’s the status of McLanahan’s deployment?” Chastain asked.

“The support teams were dispatched right after you gave the order, while the Nevada Air National Guard crews were recalled and the bombers got ready to deploy,” Freeman replied. “The bombers launched late last night.” He glanced at Admiral Balboa. “Unfortunately, because of what the Guard troops did during their evaluation, Admiral Balboa ordered the Coronet Tiger program halted and all the funding pulled. McLanahan has a substantially degraded force.”

“But I notice McLanahan and Samson disregarded my orders and went ahead anyway,” Joint Chiefs of Staff Chairman Balboa said. “I ordered the program halted and the planes to be returned to the Guard until I could conduct a full investigation—instead, they convinced the state of Nevada to turn the planes over to them for a dollar each per year! A fucking
dollar!
”

“Those planes do belong to Nevada, Admiral . . .”

“And Samson dumped a quarter of a billion dollars of unauthorized funds into modifying them, against my orders,” Balboa went on angrily. “When are we going to stop rewarding these HAWC guys for disobeying orders? This Lancelot thing has only undergone limited testing and only one live launch—illegally, against Navy ships, I might add. And what about those Air National Guard crews? I briefed Arthur and Philip on what they did during their predeployment exercise. They’re dangerous as hell.”

Balboa glanced at Freeman. He knew that Philip Freeman had the President’s ear much more often than he did; he knew the President liked to use secret programs to avoid a lot of public or congressional scrutiny. But just because he knew what the President preferred didn’t mean he had to recommend it to him, as Freeman was apt to do: “Sir, I have great respect for Generals Samson and McLanahan, and I know you do too. They’re true patriots. But they operate well outside an established chain of command. Even I do not have full authority to interfere with a HAWC project because of all the security involved. If they don’t answer to me, whom do they answer to? Will the President of the United States have to issue orders directly to a couple of Air National Guard pilots thousands of miles away? That’s not how it’s supposed to work, sir.”

Balboa paused, considering his next words—he knew full well how the President respected Samson’s
predecessor—then said, “I truly believe, sir, with no disrespect, that Brad Elliott’s don’t-give-a-shit attitude has carried through to Samson and McLanahan. Their unauthorized and potentially disastrous plasma-yield warhead test near our Navy support ships, and their tacit approval of that Nevada Air Guard’s actions in the bombing ranges, bear this out. I believe that once those two get into it, they’ll disregard any plan of action or lawful order if it doesn’t fit in with their own agenda. And if they start lobbing plasma-yield missiles into China without proper authorization, they could single-handedly plunge the world into nuclear war. I believe we can’t take the chance.”

“I think that’s unfair, Admiral,” Freeman said.

Balboa ignored him. “Mr. President, I know how much respect you had for General Elliott and his men. But they haven’t proved themselves in combat conditions yet. All they know is what Brad Elliott taught them years ago, which was, ‘it’s better to ask forgiveness than ask for permission.’”

The President had a serious, somber expression when Balboa began speaking, but as he went on, the President let a hint of a smile spread across his face. When Balboa finished, he shook his head, the smile on his face now broad.

“Admiral, I am convinced now that you are mostly full of shit,” the President said. Balboa’s own expression went from surprise to shock to red-faced anger. “But you weren’t around for the early years, when Brad Elliott and HAWC were just getting started. Yes, they were unconventional, shot from the hip, even insubordinate at times—no,
most
of the time. But to say these guys don’t have combat experience shows how little you’ve learned and how little you know.”

“That’s not a fair assessment, sir, but I’ll accept your criticism,” Balboa said, his face pinched and uneasy.
“But if I may ask, sir: what’s the chain of command? Who gives those crews their orders? And who takes responsibility for them when those nutcase Nevada Air Guard crews crash themselves into Korea or China?”

“As always, Admiral,
I
take full responsibility,” the President said. “That should come as an immense relief to you—unless you already found a way to distance yourself from them. Now, get out of my office before I remember that my senior uniformed military officer just wished the worst on one of his own flying units.”

OVER SOUTHERN CHAGANG DO PROVINCE,
UNITED REPUBLIC OF KOREA
(FORMERLY NORTH KOREA)
EARLY EVENING HOURS

C
ontact!” the observer/weapons officer of the
Han-Guk Kong Goon
(United Republic of Korea Air Force) A-37B Dragonfly close-air-support and observation aircraft shouted on his intercom. There was certainly no reason to shout; his pilot was less than ten centimeters to his left in the tiny side-by-side cockpit. The observer put his left hand on the glareshield and pointed at the target. “Two o’clock. A Chinese ML935 locomotive pulling six cars.”

“Can you see the engine crew arrangement?” the pilot asked, making a slight turn to the right.

The observer strained to look through his field glasses. “I need a closer look,” he said finally.

“C’mon, we don’t want to get too close to those guys,” the pilot said. “They have antiaircraft guns.”

“But we gotta try to identify them before we call in a patrol,” the observer said. “Let’s get down in the
weeds. Keep the smash up.” Like most Korean fliers, they liked using American military aviation slang.

“Okay,” the pilot said. “Here we go.” He shoved the throttles to full military power, rolled the little Cessna twin turbojet on its right wing, and made a diving right turn toward the locomotive.

It appeared that a section of track ahead was partially broken, and the train was stranded. The crew of men working around the break scattered and ran when they heard the loud high-pitched whine of the Dragonfly’s tiny General Electric turbojets. “That looks suspicious already,” the observer said. Automatically, he checked weapons status. The A-37B, a Vietnam War—era veteran close-air-support plane, was armed with a 7.62-millimeter Minigun with three hundred rounds of ammo in the nose, two “Mighty Mouse” folding-fin attack rocket pods, two target-marking rocket pods, plus four huge fuel tanks, making the little Cessna look ungainly and slow—which it definitely was.

“Fingers off the arming switches,” the pilot warned him. “The last thing we need to do is fire a rocket at a noncombatant.”

“Nose is cold,” the observer acknowledged.

But not for long. As they careened closer, they could see that the men working on the track had retreated back to one of the cars—and soon the roof of the car opened, revealing a single-barreled antiaircraft gun. “Look out!” the observer shouted. “It’s a Type-93! Break left!” The Type-93 was a Chinese-made 37-millimeter antiaircraft gun, murderous to any slow, low-flying aircraft. The pilot yanked his Dragonfly into a tight left turn and pulled until right at the verge of a stall, then relaxed the back pressure until he rolled out heading the other way. He immediately started a climb to get out of the 93’s lethal range.

“Call it in, dammit!” the pilot cursed.

“How do we know they were Communists?”

“We don’t for sure—but they were ready to blow us out of the sky,” the pilot said. “We need backup on this one. Call it in.” The observer got on the UHF radio and called in the position and description of the train.

“Orders are to mark the target for inbound paratroopers, disable the locomotive by any means possible to keep it from moving, and eliminate any heavy weapons that might endanger inbound troops,” the observer reported a few minutes later. “A security paratroop squad from Sunch’on will parachute into the area by cargo plane, ETA thirty minutes.”

“We’ve got an hour before we bingo, so it looks about right,” the pilot said, checking his fuel gauges. “I don’t think we need to worry about disabling the locomotive—that train’s not going anywhere with a torn-up track. Let’s see what we can do about that Type-93.” The pilot started a left turn back toward the train and leveled off at twelve thousand feet. “Give me some markers first and let’s see what they do.”

“Roger,” the observer said, flipping his arming switches. “Target markers armed, your trigger is hot.”

Seven miles from the train, the pilot started a dive at seven thousand feet per minute, accelerating to 420 knots. Winds were mostly calm and the visibility was good, so it was simple to put the aiming pipper right on the car with the antiaircraft gun, and he squeezed the trigger. One target-marking rocket shot out of pods on each wing.

“Guns! Guns!” the observer shouted. “He’s firing!”

The pilot squeezed off two more rockets, then rolled hard left away from the train. “I’m off! Safe ’em up!” he said through his antiblackout straining. The observer clicked the target-marker pods’ safety switches to SAFE.

“Nose is cold!” The observer strained to look behind them as they rolled out of the escape turn. “No damage,
no flak,” he said. “They missed us that time.” He checked the target area. Mixed in with the bright yellow target-marking smoke were streams of black smoke, pouring out horizontally as well as vertically. “I see black smoke. Looks like we might’ve hit something.”

“You get a look at that gun mount?” the pilot asked. “It looked to me like the gun was mounted close to the top of the car—almost down inside it.”

“That means they might not be able to lower the barrel too much,” the observer said. “You want to try a low pass?”

“Affirm,” the pilot said. “Give me rockets.”

“Roger . . . Mighty Mouse is armed, your trigger is hot.”

The pilot started a steeper descent and leveled off barely one hundred feet aboveground. Even so low to the ground, it was easy to locate the train. The terrain was rolling hills, but visibility was good from several miles out. Guesstimating the range, the pilot put the smoky car on the bottom range marker on his calibrated gun sight and fired. The spin-stabilized folding-fin attack rockets flew straight and true, hitting the car square on. “Two good hits!” the observer crowed. Now the car was burning fiercely, with black smoke billowing out. “Nice shooting! You want the Minigun?”

“A-firm. Arm up the Minigun,” the pilot ordered.

“Mighty Mouse safe . . . triggers clear . . . Minigun armed, your trigger is hot.”

“Roger,” the pilot said. The Minigun was his favorite weapon—close-range, powerful, exciting. The cannon itself was mounted right below him, with the chamber practically in his crotch—it felt like a massive orgasm every time he fired it. The gun didn’t bang—it hummed. It was the world’s best hum-job.

Same pipper, same range marks . . . he had to
get a little closer, but it was no problem. Even if the Type-93 could fire that low, the gunner couldn’t see anything because of all the smoke. But the Dragonfly pilot could see his target very clearly. A little closer . . . closer . . .

Suddenly, the A-37 shuddered and decelerated, as if they had just landed wheels-up. Warning lights snapped on everywhere, including the red FIRE lights on both fire extinguisher handles.

“Double compressor stall!” the observer shouted, quickly scanning the engine instruments. “TOT red-line . . . fuel flow max . . . two fire lights! We’ve been hit by something! We’ve been hit!” He didn’t think to look out the cockpit canopy, but if he had he would’ve seen both engines on fire.

There was only one line, one word, to the emergency checklist for two FIRE lights on. The pilot favored his observer with a “Prepare to eject!” command before slapping himself back into his seat, giving the control stick one last pull to try to gain a little more altitude, reaching between his legs, shouting “Eject! Eject! Eject!” and pulling the thick oblong handle. The canopy unlatched itself and lifted up an inch, enough for the slipstream to blow it up and away. Two seconds later the ejection seat rockets fired, blasting the pilot clear of the burning aircraft. A second and a half later the observer jetted out.

They were just high enough to get a fully open parachute and one swing before hitting the ground, with nothing that even remotely resembled a parachute-landing fall. But somehow both United Korea pilots picked themselves up off the ground without any broken bones or other serious injuries. They had landed about two miles from the burning train cars, just behind a tiny hillock.

Both men sprang into action without a word between
them. They released their parachutes, wadded them up as fast as they could, then stuffed them under rocks and in dirt crevasses. They then retrieved their seat kits, which were tethered to their ejection seat harnesses. The seat kit was also a small backpack. Each took only three items from the backpacks—the survival rifle, spare ammunition clips, and a can of water—before throwing the kits over their shoulders, stuffing the ammo and water into their flight suits, and running for the nearest cover they could find.