Red Phoenix (29 page)

DECEMBER 25—COMBINED FORCES COMMANDER’S QUARTERS

He had dust in his eyes and throat now.

McLaren didn’t know how much time had passed since the last grenade had gone off. But it didn’t matter. All that did matter was that they hadn’t tried anything for a while and it was making him nervous.

The alert sirens had stopped, and he could hear more firing off in the distance. Then a series of muffled, coughing explosions. Some of it seemed to be moving closer. He stayed silent and kept his eyes on the opening.

More gunfire from below. Heavier sounding than the SMG fire that had ripped up the attic floor and shredded his bed.

He heard feet clattering up the stairs.

“General?” An American-sounding voice. But was it a trick to get him to reveal his position? He brought the shotgun up again.

“General, this is Sergeant Corey. The house is secure, sir. Mackerel Six.”

McLaren started to relax. Corey was one of his security team people and he’d used the right codeword. “Coming down, Sergeant. Shark Seven.”

He crawled over and swung himself out and down through the open ceiling panel. Corey and two of his troopers were there in full gear, weapons out, and their faces were drawn and tight. One of them was shaking almost uncontrollably. McLaren ignored that. He looked around the room. The acrid smell of burning cloth and charred flesh was stronger, and he could see blood spattered across the walls. Two dead Koreans in black camouflage gear lay crumpled on the floor—one near the door where McLaren’s shotgun blast had thrown him and the other half-entangled in the burning bed, killed by his own grenade.

He swung back to face the sergeant. “What’s the situation?”

Corey’s eyes came back into focus. “We think we’ve got most of them, sir. There’s three more dead downstairs where we got ’em as we came in. Others outside.” He stopped, seemed at a loss for words.

“Go on, Sergeant.” McLaren kept his voice as gentle as he could. Corey had never been in combat before.

“I’ve lost a lot of my boys, General. Captain Miller’s dead. Took a round in the head as we set off. I lost more out there. Kip. Mike Andrews. A lot.” McLaren could see the tears in his eyes.

He reached out and put a hand on Corey’s shoulder. “You did real well, Sergeant. I want you to know that.” He looked around the shattered room. “Now let’s get the fuck out of here over to the Ops Room. This ain’t the end of it. Not by a long shot.”

The arc-lit compound outside looked as though it had gone through a full-scale pitched battle. McLaren could see bodies dotting the snow-covered walkways and parade grounds. Some were surrounded by clusters of medics and stretcher bearers, but others, too many others, were simply being covered with white sheets. He shook his head wearily. They’d been caught flat-footed and a lot of his men had already paid for it. Smoke from a burning building somewhere off out of sight drifted south, pushed by the north wind.

The Operations Room was in complete chaos when McLaren came in through the door. Half-dressed staff officers crowded the room, each trying to do two or three things at once. Some were slapping situation maps up on the walls and ripping them down almost as fast. Others were standing around in small groups, demanding in loud, high-pitched voices to know just what the hell was going on. He scowled. These idiots were going to have to learn how to act calmly during a crisis. He looked around for his aide and found him standing in one corner working to sort things out.

Hansen put down the phone he’d been holding. “Glad to see you’re all right, General.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” He could feel himself starting to shake. Always happened after a fight. “Did they hit anything else?”

Hansen nodded. “Just got the word. They got into the Signals Room before the alarm went out. Killed everyone in there with knives or their bare hands. And then they blew the shit out of our commo gear. Major Gunderson said to tell you that they’re routing our traffic through the Navy until we can get spares set up out of storage.”

“That it?”

“No way, General.” Hansen pointed to another map just going up. It was a map of Seoul dotted with hastily drawn red circles. “Each one of those dots represents a reported terrorist or commando attack. All carried out in the last half hour.”

“Jesus.” McLaren whistled softly. He stepped forward to get a better look. “Give me the details.”

Hansen flipped through his scribbled notes. “Okay. First, an attack on our embassy.” He looked somber. “They broke past the marine guards and killed the ambassador, his family, and a lot of the senior staff. There’s still fighting going on, but it’s just a mop-up operation now.”

McLaren could feel himself growing cold as Hansen’s recitation continued. A raid on the South Korean Ministry of Defense. The main Seoul telephone exchange blown up. Senior government officials murdered in their own homes, including a South Korean corps commander and several Air Force generals. Only one conclusion fit the pattern he could see developing.

He broke away from Hansen and plunged into the middle of the Ops Room, looking for Gunderson, his duty signals officer. “Sam! Drop whatever the hell you’re doing and send an alert signal to all commands!”

The tall, thin Tennessean looked up from an equipment inventory list. “Sir?”

“You heard me, Major. Get off your ass and—” McLaren was interrupted by a huge, rattling explosion that shook the room. Some of his officers dived under their desks, but others followed him in a rush to the window. There, off to the west, an orange fireball several hundred feet high roared into the night sky.

Then, suddenly, the lights all across the compound winked out, leaving everything in darkness. And McLaren could see the lights going out all across Seoul. A power loss or a government-ordered blackout? They could now hear the air raid sirens wailing.

McLaren nodded and turned to an open-mouthed Major Gunderson. “Clear enough for you? Get the word out to all commands and then to Washington. Tell them we’re at war, if they don’t already know it by now. And then get to the goddamned shelters.”

McLaren pulled Hansen out of the tangle of officers heading for cover.
“Doug, get the word out for me. I want the field headquarters activated and my chopper ready to go. I’ll be damned if we’re all going to get stuck here while there’s a war on.”

Hansen nodded and turned away, but McLaren stopped him again. “Oh, Doug? One more thing.”

“Yes, General?”

“Merry Christmas.” They ducked as a string of explosions rattled across the compound.

______________
CHAPTER
21

Wave One

DECEMBER 25—OVER THE YELLOW SEA

Chun Pak-Lee was tired. It had been a long flight, and he was overdue at the navigation ship. He had increased speed, but with this plane that didn’t mean much.

The plane in question was an An-2. NATO had assigned it the name “Colt,” but it should have been “Barrel.” It was a biplane, an honest-to-God biplane, and if Lee didn’t think that was unusual in an age of jet fighters, it was only because of his exhaustive training. He knew what the craft could do, and it was perfect for this mission.

The Colt had excellent low-altitude and low-speed characteristics, could carry a large load, and was cheap and simple to operate. It was designed in Russia, but the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea had received many of them. One of its strengths, though, was not speed. Its frame and fuselage were steel, but its wings were covered with fabric.

He
had
to make up the loss. Timing was everything. His comrades were depending on him to place them at the right time and the right spot with an accuracy measured in seconds.

The water flowed by him, less than a hundred feet away. He had to stay low to avoid visual and radar detection. It was a clear night but there was little moon, and he saw the water more as a dark mass than moonlit waves. The air was bumpy, especially this close to the surface, and the strain of holding such a low altitude for over two hours was tremendous.

There it was! A light on the horizon. He made a minor course correction, then pressed a button that made a directional light flash forward under the fuselage. It was answered. Good. It was his boat.

The light on the horizon was a North Korean fishing boat, loaded with navigational gear. It was much too sophisticated for normal use, but it would
provide the landmark he needed. For precise timing he needed precise positions, and the biplane’s navigational gear wasn’t up to it.

He marked his time overhead and made a rapid mental calculation. As Lee adjusted his speed, he waggled his wings to his comrades below, and turned to his final heading.

All right. Nine minutes to the objective. He called back to the rest of the troops, then started his final procedures. He put the few maps and documents he had in a weighted pouch and tossed them out the window. He checked his own assault rifle and grenades, then tightened his harness.

The coast was exactly as he expected it to be. He’d seen enough pictures and maps to know every point and light on it. He lowered his altitude even more, until he was skimming the wavetops. He called back, “Five minutes!”

As he crossed the coast, Lee started his approach list. Climb to thirty meters. Cut engine, open fuselage fuel dump valves. That would lessen the risk of fire. The sudden silence was almost restful after the hours of noise. It would be a short rest.

Tony heard someone screaming. He rolled over and considered the issue. The party was getting loud, but nobody should scream like that. But he wasn’t at the party. He was asleep. Someone was screaming in his room. He opened his eyes. Nobody was in his room, so the screaming was outside. It wasn’t screaming. It was the alert siren. If this was someone’s idea of a joke …

The phone rang once and he grabbed it. “Captain Christopher here.”

“Sir, this is Luther at ops. We have a general recall. This is not a drill.”

“It fucking well better not be, on Christmas Eve.” Then Tony realized what that meant.

He jumped into a set of coveralls and pulled on his boots in seconds. The sirens had not stopped, and they lent even more urgency to his movements. As Tony ran to the door, there was a mild vibration, followed by the sound of an explosion. And another. Then a chain of rumbling.

Hooter lived two doors down. He and Tony shot out of their rooms almost simultaneously, along with most of the other residents. Most were pilots or wing staff, pulling on whatever clothing was at hand. Nobody stopped to see if their doors were locked behind them. Tony had not stopped moving and was in the corridor heading toward the stairs. Only an idiot would take the elevator, and besides, the stairs were faster.

Running down the stairs was not the best therapy for his head. Most of the fuzziness was masked by the adrenaline, but he’d partied hard and gone to sleep at one. He didn’t feel his best.

“Saint!” came echoing down the stairwell, and he recognized Hooter’s voice.

Tony called up, “Meet you outside.”

Pilots spilled out of the exits and jumped into cars and jeeps. An
explosion rocked the BOQ as he ran out the front door. Sure as shit ain’t no drill, Tony thought. It came from over by the ROK Air Force compound, maybe the tower. It was followed by a rapid sequence as a stick of bombs landed. Suddenly the stick was multiplied by fifty—more bomb explosions, and the base’s SAM defenses started launching, leaving bright lines across the horizon. Tony looked up and saw arrowhead forms, lit at the rear by the flames from their afterburners. They were followed by tracers from Vulcan cannon near the base. They added a sound like ripping metal to the jet engines’ roar.

Men were pouring out the door. Tony spotted one other man from his flight and called to him. “Boomer! Come in my car.” Hooter came running up, and as the three got in, other pilots piled in until there was one lying across the three in back.

Dangerously overloaded, Tony beeped the horn twice and slammed the car into reverse. He screamed out of the lot and suddenly realized there were absolutely no lights on anywhere in the base. Headlights filled the road, but there was no other illumination. The idea of being the only visible lights on a base under attack appalled him, but he saw no alternative.

He drove down the main road, heading for the squadron building. The Korean Air Force compound was on his right, with the ocean beyond. Streaks and tracers from both sides of the road pointed to the positions, or imagined positions, of enemy aircraft. Jets were coming in low, some on burner, but even the ones without burner had hot, bright exhausts. They were firing cannon, dropping flares to confuse infrared SAMs, and launching missiles.

They bumped over an inactive runway and passed the wing’s dispersal area. The arches blocked a lot of the view, but there were fires, and two columns of smoke, lit by sparks and red glows. Lights and vehicles moved about, seemingly at random.

They turned right into the squadron building’s parking lot. As Tony braked and pulled up, Creature came running up waving a flashlight. “Everybody to the squadron theater! Shadow’s running a mass brief in two minutes.”

They went into the ops building and saw a beehive of activity. Every one of the squadron’s personnel was bent on some urgent task. Some were in civilian clothes. Tony’s eyes were drawn to Airman Vance by a white bandage on his lower arm. He wondered if anybody else had been hit.

The theater was a smallish auditorium with an elevated stage. Lieutenant Colonel Robbins, “Shadow,” was the squadron’s commanding officer. He was stocky with sandy hair. Standing quietly, he held a clipboard and looked at his watch periodically. On the minute he waved his arm once and the conversation in the room stopped instantly.

“Everybody listen carefully. I’ve only got time to say this once. North
Korea is making a general attack, all over the DMZ. The base has been hit once, by how many aircraft I don’t know, and one commando attack. We think all the commandos are dead, but we lost two arches and three aircraft are out. The Thirty-fifth is going to total base defense until we know the situation. Flight leaders will take charge and stack at five-thousand-foot increments, starting at ten thousand feet. We’re surging everyone.

“All birds have cannon and at least two nine limas. Some may have more. Watch takeoff. We’ve got wreckage one-third of the way down, a Colt biplane that the commandos landed in. We’re all lightly loaded so it shouldn’t be a problem. Use combat takeoffs. Don’t go below five thousand without clearance, the SAM crews are authorized to—”

BRAAANG
filled the room as the klaxon went off. The pilots scrambled out the door with Robbins shouting behind them, “Watch out for friendlies! The ROKs are up, too!”

Tony and John headed for the alert shack. Pilots were running in, then back out with their flight gear. It had taken a few cannon hits, judging by the cratered wall and shattered window. “Boomer,” Lieutenant Carlson, was still with them, but there was no sign of his element leader, Captain Owens. He decided to fly as a three-ship rather than waste time finding him. They fumbled with their lockers and pulled on their g-suits and vests. Except for their helmets, they let the rest of the stuff lay.

The three pilots ran out the door toward the shelters, intending to take the first armed and fueled aircraft they came to. Luckily things were more organized than that.

Kenneth Beam, the ops officer, ran up. “Saint, you’ve got five seven nine, Hooter take four nine two, Boomer has four nine four. They’re in F, I, and J. They’ve got full fuel and gun ammo, and two nine-limas each. Where’s Viceroy?”

Tony shrugged. “I don’t know. Is he in the building?”

“I haven’t seen him. I’ll send him up to you when he arrives. You guys are Showtime flight. Pancake will give you vectors on button two. Go!”

Most of the shooting had stopped by this time. The initial raid had tried to suppress the base defenses and the command and control net—radars, radios, and the control tower. Some attention had been paid to the flight line. The North Koreans had used MiG-23s for the first wave—fast, but carrying a relatively light load. They all knew the main raid was only a few minutes away.

As Tony and Hooter ran past shelter D, they saw it collapsed on top of its F-16. There was a form lying on the concrete, covered by a jacket. Hooter looked over at Tony, looking grim. “We’re gonna kick butts, Saint.”

Tony tried to cool him off. “Just stay loose, John. It’s gonna be a long war.” They were all making their first combat flight. He had hoped for a calmer start.

Tony stopped and looked over at Bob Carlson. “Boomer” was a relatively low-time pilot, and Tony was worried about how to fit him into a practiced fighting pair. Finally he decided on simplicity. “Boomer, stay on my left and back a bit more than normal. If things get too hot, fall into trail. Keep a lookout to port. Hooter will cover your six. Let’s do it.”

They split and went to their shelters. The crew chief for 579 looked incongruous in civilian clothes and flight safety gear. Tony sprinted up. “Anything I should know about?” he asked.

Sergeant Kawamoto was confident. “No sir, it’s a good bird. I’ve preflighted it.”

“Great.” Tony started up the ladder and bounced into the cockpit. He hit the starter and got the INS spinning up.

As soon as he connected his helmet radio leads, the speakers were filled with chatter. Everybody wanted to say something immediately. And this was only the ground frequency!

He finished a highly abbreviated checklist and waited for a break in the chatter. “Flight one, go, out.” Releasing the brakes, he moved the throttle forward.

Hooter’s nose was already halfway out of the arch, and Tony rolled out onto the taxiway with his wingman in trail. Tony craned back over his shoulder looking for Boomer, and finally he saw him shoot out of his shelter and quickly taxi up. He fell in line behind them. They could hear jet engines everywhere, and there were almost continuous roars from the direction of the runway.

Tony switched to the tower frequency. It wasn’t nearly as crowded. Must be a good man on the net. He waited a moment, then called in. “Tower, this is Showtime with three Falcons.”

“Roger, Showtime, the runway has been cleared for all outbound Falcons. You are number one for takeoff.”

As they reached the end of the taxiway and turned the corner, they saw a glowing pile a few hundred feet in front of them. It looked like the skeleton of a biplane, crumpled and sagging from the heat. They continued rolling up the runway, and as they got closer, they could see bodies, some half-charred, off to the side of the runway. Tony said, “Wait a minute,” and braked.

It looked a little tight. Just as he was going to inch closer, an airman with a flashlight ran up from the side and waved him forward. He pointed the light over to the side, and Tony could see where they had added some metal matting to one side of the pavement.

They taxied over the matting gingerly and lined up for takeoff. Tony called the other two ships. “Combat departure. Go.”

They were lightly loaded, thank God. Even with afterburner they were barely past takeoff speed when they hit the end of the runway. The combat turn was a little shallower than usual, but they made it.

As they climbed, he looked at the sky. He hadn’t stopped for a weather report. There were scattered clouds at high altitude, maybe thirty thousand feet. No problem for his flight, but he hoped there weren’t any surprises in the forecast.

He led first flight, so they would orbit at ten thousand feet. Second flight would be at fifteen thousand, and so on. Tony felt almost honored. Any bandits would probably come in at low altitude, so he was closest to them and might be the only one able to hit the gomers before they made their attack. Of course they were also the closest to all those SAMs and Vulcans. Something to remember if they got in a scrap. That thought made him pause. “Showtime flight, verify IFF is on, out.” He looked over and saw both planes waggle their wings in answer.

IFF stood for “Identification, Friend or Foe.” The electronic box sent out a coded pulse that told friendly radar screens that they were friendly aircraft. If they were shot down by their own side, it wouldn’t be his fault.

They reached ten thousand and leveled off, throttling back until the engines were almost idling. Since they didn’t have to go anywhere, the idea was to minimize fuel used and maximize time aloft. He started a long, slow turn, looking alternately at the horizon and his radar screen. His abbreviated formation maintained position behind him.

As they started their third circle, Tony and the rest of his flight heard their call sign. “Showtime, this is Pancake. Steer two nine five.” Tony immediately turned to the new course, increasing his throttle to cruise speed. Pancake hadn’t said why they should head west, but there was only one reason to do so: bandits.