Red Phoenix (72 page)

“Jeez, L-T, I don’t know.” The medic winced as Kevin’s fingers tightened involuntarily. “He needs evac right away, though. All I can do is try to keep him breathing for a while.”

“Oh, Christ.” They couldn’t evacuate any of the wounded, not while North Korean fire blocked every route to the rear. Either he took that building or Rhee would die, almost certainly with most of Bravo Company and a lot more of his own men. But that damned apartment building was too heavily defended. It couldn’t be taken, not without more firepower than Echo Company had. He’d need a tank to blast the place open.

A tank. Kevin felt the seeds of a plan growing in his mind. It was what he should have done the first time out. He couldn’t get a tank, but maybe he already had the next-best thing. He pushed himself upright and gripped his M16. They weren’t finished. Not by a long shot. “Montoya!”

“Yes, L-T?”

“Tell McIntyre I want a fire team in one of those houses next to the objective. They’re to lay down a suppressive fire on my order. Then get Geary on the horn and tell him I want Reese and his squad here ASAP. And have ’em bring a LAW for every man in the squad. Clear?”

Montoya nodded vigorously and started whispering into his set.

Kevin turned away and went back to sit by Rhee.

ASSAULT GROUP 2

Sohn rubbed his watering eyes, thankful that the American smoke screen had at last drifted away. He smiled at the carnage visible on the street outside. The smoke had been an inconvenience, but it hadn’t prevented his troops from cutting the imperialist assault to pieces. He counted the bodies and laughed out loud in triumph. At least eight enemy dead! And not a man of his even slightly wounded. These Americans might know how to defend, but they were pathetic on the attack.

A nearby explosion wiped the smile off his face. Another attack so soon? He heard more shells bursting in rapid succession.

“Comrade Lieutenant!” Sergeant Yi skidded into the room. “Another smoke screen. This time to the north!”

A machine gun chattered nearby, followed by the softer rattle of American M16s. The Yankees had shifted their axis of attack.

Sohn brushed past Yi on his way out the door. “Pull half the men to the north! And join me there!”

He ran down the hall, unslinging his AK as he ran.

ECHO COMPANY

Kevin heard the firing from McIntyre’s diversionary attack, took a deep breath, and released it in a yell: “Now! Hit the fuckers!”

Half a dozen LAWs flashed from concealed positions on both sides of the street, reaching for the barricaded windows of the North Korean-held apartment building. They exploded on target, bursting in brief showers of orange flame.

Now. Kevin lunged outside onto the street and raced toward the apartment building. He heard men running behind him and heard them yelling. A wild rebel yell rising in pitch and volume, bouncing off the high, concrete walls all around. He fired from the hip, felt the M16 bounce in his hands, and saw sparks fly around one of the shattered, smoking windows.

Suddenly he realized that he was yelling with all the rest.

In! He hurled himself headfirst through the empty window and rolled to a stop in a tangle of gear. A North Korean writhed in agony in one corner of the small room, bleeding from half a dozen splinter wounds. One hand clutched a rifle. Kevin shot him and reloaded.

Reese crashed in through the same window and sprawled, covering the open door.

“Take your squad and clear this side! Move!”

The black corporal nodded and got to his feet. He risked one glance through the doorway and then bolted through it.

Kevin followed him into the hallway and turned the other way, moving toward a bend. He heard running footsteps from up ahead and ran faster. He had to make it around the bend first.

He did it and turned the corner ahead of the North Koreans. There were four or five of them just meters away. Kevin saw soot-blackened faces, waving assault rifles, and eyes widening in shock at his sudden appearance.

“Eat this!” He clicked the M16 to full automatic and held the trigger down, pumping a whole twenty-round magazine into the NKs. They were thrown against the wall in spray of blood. An AK cracked once and Kevin felt something tug at his sleeve. A bullet. His rifle clicked empty and he ducked back around the corner, hearing only moans from his victims. He pulled the pin on a grenade and tossed it.

WHUMMP!
The corridor shook and dust swirled. Silence, followed by more muffled explosions from behind him as his men cleared the lower floor room by room.

He risked a quick peek around the corner. No signs of other NKs moving to the attack. They’d have to be dug out one at a time. Kevin settled back to wait for reinforcements and snapped a new magazine into his M16.

ASSAULT GROUP 2

Sohn couldn’t understand it. The wheel had turned so quickly. How could the Americans have broken in? How could he have let that happen?

He shook his head in dismay and turned to Yi. The sergeant looked like a wreck, with his uniform ripped in a dozen places and a jagged cut across his forehead. He still seemed stunned by the rocket explosion that had so nearly killed him. Sohn frowned. The man was useless in that state.

More shots sounded from down the corridor, closer this time. They were followed by another explosion. The Americans were advancing steadily, eliminating his troops as they lay pinned by fire from the outside. They held the initiative on this floor.

Sohn made a quick decision and wheeled to face Yi squarely. “Get every man who can walk to the second floor. We’ll murder them on the staircases!” He forced himself to sound calm and confident and was pleased to see the sergeant seem to take heart from his orders.

They could still win this battle.

ECHO COMPANY

“Grenade!” Reese screamed, and threw himself away from the staircase. Kevin flattened and heard fragments whine overhead as the NK grenade exploded. He crawled to where Reese lay patting himself to check for wounds.

“You hit?”

The big corporal smiled thinly. “Nope, L-T Guess they just wasted some more ammo.”

“Maybe.” Kevin coughed in the dust-choked air. “What’re your casualties?”

The smile disappeared. “Two dead. Watkins and Lonnie Smith. A couple more wounded. None bad, though.”

Kevin frowned. Four gone out of the men he’d brought in. That left only five men, plus him. Not enough. He ducked as a new burst of AK fire from above tore up the bottom of the staircase. He looked at Reese. “Any chance of a rush up those stairs, Corporal?”

The man considered it for a second and then spat onto the dust-coated hardwood floor. “Not a chance in hell, L-T. They got it covered too well.”

“Grenades, then?”

Reese shook his head slowly. “They’d just toss ’em back down at us. That’s how Lonnie bought it.”

Kevin took another grenade off his combat webbing and stood, careful to stay flattened up against the wall. “Get your boys together, Reese, and I’ll
show you a little ol’ trick I once heard about from a sergeant I knew.” He felt himself starting to sweat.

With the squad backing him up, Kevin edged closer to the staircase. He stopped, inches away from the opening, and listened. Footsteps and whispering voices wafted down the splintered stairs. Then he lifted the grenade and pulled the pin, counting the passing seconds silently. One thousand one. One thousand two. One thousand three.

“For Christ’s sake, L-T. Throw it!” Reese sounded shaken.

Kevin shook his head while counting. One thousand five. Now. He stepped to the opening and lobbed the grenade up the stairs.

ASSAULT GROUP 2

Sohn saw the grenade bounce off the bannister and roll toward him. He reached for it. Another weapon to hurl back in the imperialists’ faces. The thought brought a thin-lipped smile to his face as his fingers closed around the grenade.

It exploded.

ECHO COMPANY

Kevin used the tip of his boot to roll the dead North Korean officer over and winced at the sight. The man must have taken the full force of the explosion at point-blank range.

“L-T?”

He looked up. Reese was standing nearby, breathing hard.

“We got ’em all, sir. The building’s cleared.”

Kevin nodded and felt the fatigue he’d held at bay starting to rush in. “We lose anybody else?”

The corporal shook his head. “Not a one, L-T, thank God.”

“Yeah. And a sergeant named Pierce.” Kevin sank to his knees.

“You all right, L-T?” Reese sounded worried. “You ain’t hit, are you?”

It took an effort to answer. “No, just used up.” He straightened his back. “Look, go find Montoya and tell him to contact Battalion and let ’em know it’s done.”

Reese stood still for a second and then saluted. Kevin nodded wearily and closed his eyes, listening as the corporal’s boots clattered downstairs. They’d won.

JANUARY 14—HILL 435, JUST SOUTH OF TAEJON

McLaren glanced at his watch. Just after midnight. He picked up his binoculars and focused them on the scene to the north.

Taejon lay burning, eerily illuminated by flares. Shells burst brightly in the center of the city, and he could hear the clatter of automatic weapons clearly—even at this distance. Tracers floated lazily through the air, reaching for unseen targets.

He turned to the South Korean major general standing next to him in the foot-deep snow. “Well, General, can you hold?”

The other man didn’t move, staring intently at the ruined city. “Yes, we can. My troops have already shattered three of the communists’ best divisions. Their dead are stacked like cordwood in Taejon’s streets.”

A helicopter roared low overhead, carrying wounded to the field hospital at the foot of the hill.

“And your own casualties?”

The major general shrugged. “They are very heavy, too. Around fifty percent.” He paused. “We could use reinforcements, General. These men have fought hard. They deserve a short rest.”

McLaren nodded. “You’ll get them. But only a brigade. I need every other man elsewhere.”

“A brigade is sufficient. We will hold them here.”

“Excellent, General.” McLaren turned back to watch the fires burning their way through Taejon. More flares popped above the city, and the sound of gunfire rose higher. Another North Korean attack going in, more men dying, he thought. “Doug!”

Hansen came out of the shadows. “Yes, sir?”

“Signal all commands. Let’s get Thunderbolt ready to go.”

The sacrifices made at Taejon would not be in vain.

ALONG HIGHWAY 38, IN THE MOUNTAINS AROUND CH’UNGJU

The long convoy rumbled slowly along the winding road, moving at a walking pace through the darkness. MPs stationed beside the road with shielded flashlights guided the intermingled, kilometers-long column of tanks, trucks, and self-propelled guns. Whenever a vehicle broke down, teams of engineers, mechanics, and combat soldiers were quickly mustered to shove it out of the way and into cover. The column could not let anything delay it. It had to be dispersed and under camouflage before the next Soviet spy satellite swung high overhead.

There were other convoys on the road that night. All were moving west, trundling down toward the flatlands near the sea.

The preparations for Thunderbolt were under way.

______________
CHAPTER
40

The Tango Incident

JANUARY 14—ABOARD USS
CONSTELLATION,
IN THE YELLOW SEA

Admiral Thomas Aldrige Brown looked at a display screen filled with symbols. To the trained eye it showed a carrier, a battleship, over fifteen Navy amphibious ships, ten merchant ships, and thirty escort vessels. Of course, Brown thought, you had to know what you were looking at. For instance, a small blue circle with the letters “ANCH” next to it represented the amphibious landing ship
Anchorage.
He could even tell its course and speed by checking the direction and length of the line emerging from the center of the tiny circle.

Brown smiled thinly as the luminous computer display flickered slightly, updating the information it showed. He remembered the visiting congressman who’d complained that the
Constellation
’s plot screen looked like “the world’s most expensive video game.”

The admiral agreed. It was expensive. It was also invaluable. At a glance it allowed him to see the location and status of every ship under his command and every identified threat they confronted. And that was precisely the kind of data he needed to make decisions in battle.

Right now, though, the screen showed a mass of ships steaming placidly north along the South Korean coast.
Constellation,
the battleship
Wisconsin,
the amphibious ships, and the merchantmen were all in the center, ringed by missile cruisers and destroyers for close-in protection. They in turn were surrounded by destroyers and frigates assigned to hunt down and destroy any submarines trying to get in among the more valuable vessels.

Brown eyed the ships of his ASW screen carefully, looking for weaknesses in their patrol patterns even though he hoped that their job on this trip would be comparatively easy. Intelligence rated the current North Korean subsurface threat as low, basing its assessment on a careful calculation of all reported and confirmed sub kills by U.S. and South Korean forces. Some of
his officers even argued that the entire NK submarine force had been wiped out. Brown wasn’t willing to be so optimistic. Preparedness never hurt. Never.

The plot showed the overall formation making a steady ten knots as it traveled northward. Individual frigates and destroyers in the ASW screen showed more variation—with some sprinting ahead at twenty or twenty-five knots, pinging with active sonar, while others drifted slowly at five knots, listening with passive systems. The slowly moving array of dots and lines was almost hypnotic.

Brown switched his gaze to a larger-scale display, one that showed the seas and land around his task force out to a distance of more than two hundred nautical miles. Blips marked the Soviet and Chinese patrol planes hovering near the edge of the declared exclusion zone. And a blinking notation near the corner indicated that the next scheduled Soviet RORSAT ocean surveillance satellite could be expected overhead within minutes.

The admiral grinned to himself, noting the surprised looks among his officers as he continued to stand quietly. Everybody knew that the Soviets were feeding every piece of data they got back to the North Koreans. And every staff officer in the Flag Plot had been prepared for another of his tirades about the damned Russian snoopers.

After all, how could the task force he commanded possibly hope to make a successful landing under constant observation? If the North Koreans and their Soviet backers could track them constantly, the Marines would find NK reinforcements waiting for them on whatever beach Brown picked. And that could spell disaster—no matter how many airstrikes the
Constellation
launched or how many Volkswagon-sized shells
Wisconsin’s
16-inch guns fired. The staff couldn’t see any way around that, not short of downing the supposedly neutral recon craft.

“Admiral?”

Brown turned. Captain Sam Ross, the commander of his threat team, stood waiting with a message flimsy in hand. Ross looked as animated as the admiral had ever seen him.

“Admiral, we just got the latest report from our satellites and recon aircraft. The NKs are definitely on to us. One evaluation is that we’ve got the better part of at least two NK divisions moving to block any possible landing site.”

Brown grinned wider. “Outstanding, Sam. Uncle Kim seems worried by our presence.” Then his grin disappeared. “Okay, I’d like a more comprehensive threat evaluation from your people within the hour. We may just be out here to wriggle, but I’m damned if I want to come away with any teeth marks.” He turned back to his study of the display.

ABOARD
KONSTANTIN DRIBINOV,
IN THE YELLOW SEA

Captain Nikolai Mikhailovich Markov lay shoeless in his bunk, reading a tactical manual. He looked up without surprise when
Dribinov’s
chief radioman knocked and entered his cramped stateroom.

He’d been expecting this visit from the
michman
in charge of signals for the past several minutes.
Dribinov
had just finished a communications period, receiving the daily broadcast while it loitered at periscope depth with its antenna exposed. Petrov always brought the message traffic to the captain as soon as it had been processed.

Today, though, Petrov was not wholly his normal, stolid, unexcitable self. His hands actually shook as he handed Markov a thin sheaf of papers. “Comrade Captain, one of the messages is in Special Code!”

Markov kept his own excitement in check as he looked up from his manual. “Excellent, Petrov. Ask Lieutenant Commander Koloskov to come here at once.”

The radioman left hastily, knowing better than to run, but hurrying all the same.

Markov swung out of his bunk and started relacing his shoes, all his prior torpor gone without trace. He’d thought that he and
Dribinov
had been condemned to endlessly patrol the Yellow Sea’s muddy waters—condemned as punishment for last month’s failed attempt to embarrass the American carrier force. This latest message might signal a relief from the mind-numbing monotony of counting Chinese coastal steamers. Special Code was used only for extremely sensitive messages, matters of wartime urgency.

He would have to wait to find what the admirals in Vladivostok wanted, though. Regulations required that both the captain and his second-in-command, the
zampolit
or political officer, be present when all Special Code messages were broken. The two-man rule was designed not only to catch errors in decoding, but also to witness the receipt of what were always important instructions. Markov finished tying his shoes and stood up, stooping to avoid smashing his head against the low ceiling.

He turned at a soft rap on his cabin door. “Come.”

It was Koloskov, his political officer. “You asked to see me, Comrade Captain?”

“Yes, Andrei Nikolayev, it seems we have a message to decode.”

“Certainly, Comrade Captain.” Without blinking an eye Koloskov sat down next to his captain and took the blank piece of paper he offered.

Using a lead-lined code book placed between them, the two men worked in silence, translating the jumble of letters and nonsense phrases into a readable message.

The message was short:

PACFLT 4457-1096QR. Begins: U.S. amphibious task force operating in Yellow Sea. Location at 1400 Moscow time grid 261-651. Course 025, speed 10 knots. Submarine
Konstantin Dribinov
is ordered to attack, repeat, attack. Priority targets are aircraft carriers and amphibious ships. Nuclear weapons are not authorized. Under no circumstances may
Dribinov’s
identity be compromised. Message ends. PACFLT 5423-0998XV.

Markov drew a sudden breath and double-checked the message’s authentication codes. They were absolutely correct. Then he compared the main body of the signal with the
zampolit’s
copy. They were identical.

The contents were electrifying. He’d seen orders like that before, dozens of times, in fact—but only during fleet exercises. Never in peacetime. He read it again, checking the decoding to be sure he hadn’t left out a crucial phrase. No, he’d been right the first time through. The Fleet’s signal did not say “simulate attack.” It demanded the real thing.

Koloskov seemed even more shocked. “Comrade Captain, are we at war?”

Markov paused before answering, “I do not think so, Andrei Nikolayev.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and then ticked off his reasoning on his fingers. “First, there has been no general war message. And second, the Fleet has not instructed us to attack just any American ship. Only those in this amphibious task force of theirs. So I would guess that we have just been volunteered for limited service with the North Korean Navy.”

He paused again. “But whether the motherland itself is truly at war or not is unimportant, eh? We must behave as if we were. If the Americans find us sniffing around their carriers again, they will do their best to kill us. So we must kill them first, agreed?”

Koloskov nodded his agreement. Or was it merely his understanding? Markov wasn’t sure.

For the present he decided he didn’t care. He read through the message again. Real combat, considered and ordered, unbelievable. He’d prepared for this moment for years, ever since his first days as a snot-nosed cadet, but he’d never really thought it would ever happen. Why,
Konstantin Dribinov
would be the first submarine to make an attack since the Great Patriotic War, the first Soviet submarine ever to attack an American vessel. It was heady stuff.

And dangerous as well. Someone in Moscow was obviously willing to risk escalating this conflict to the superpower level. Markov hoped his superiors had correctly judged the risks they were running, but knew he couldn’t allow himself to second-guess them. He had his orders and they would have to be carried out.

Both he and Koloskov knew why he had been chosen. His experience, his past performance, had all been exemplary. Then, chosen to make that
damned simulated attack based on his merits, he had failed. Now he was being given a second chance, a real chance.

He wouldn’t fail.

ABOARD USS
CONSTELLATION

Brown studied the assembled faces of his staff for a moment before continuing. They still looked alert, despite the hour-long briefing, and now he saw eager anticipation as they absorbed its implications. He cleared his throat and put both hands on the lectern. “Gentlemen, you’ve just heard the details of what will undoubtedly be the single most crucial operation of this war. And though we may not be in line this time for the best actor award, I’ll be darned if I’m going to see anyone else walk away with the Oscar for best supporting role.”

There were chuckles at that, and Brown smiled. He half-suspected that, when the time came to haul down his admiral’s flag, he’d find that his power to move junior officers so easily to laughter would vanish along with his authority. In the meantime, however, he relished it.

He waited for the light laughter to fade and then continued, “Now, if we do our job right, we’re going to be attracting a lot of attention. A lot of hostile attention.” That sobered them up. “We’re going to get one chance at this, gentlemen. One chance. If we screw it up, we’re dead. A lot of our fellow sailors and Marines are dead. And a lot of U.S. and South Korean infantrymen and tankers are dead.”

Brown leaned forward on the lectern, towering over it. “So stay alert. Be ready for instant action. Remember that we’re at war and there aren’t any prizes for second place in this thing.”

He stepped back. “That’s all, gentlemen. Good luck and good hunting.”

JANUARY 15—ABOARD
KONSTANTIN DRIBINOV

Markov knew his officers thought he was behaving in a most unusual manner. They couldn’t understand why he’d had his tracking party working for nearly twenty-four hours—more than twice as long as needed for a normal approach. The
Dribinov’s
approach, however, was anything but normal. The normal way of doing things, he wanted to remind them, had nearly gotten them all killed the last time they’d closed with an American force. This time it would be different. Much different.

The submarine’s track on the chart looked like a series of loops, approaching the formation from the side, slowing as it closed and letting it steam past. Then as soon as the American ships vanished over the horizon, Markov
would angle away and increase speed to run parallel with them again.

Koloskov, the political officer, looked the most worried of all. As the sub’s
zampolit,
his duties included ensuring the political awareness and reliability of every crewmember, including the captain. And Markov knew that his caution might look like cowardice to the inexperienced political officer. It might also look like foolishness to a professional naval officer.

Every officer aboard seemed sure that their captain was taking a terrible risk. They thought these constant sprints were consuming too much of the
Dribinov’s
available battery power. They were certainly contrary to the Red Navy’s standard diesel boat doctrines.

Three weeks ago, Markov would never even have considered ignoring doctrine. After all, his standard approaches during exercises had always been models of classic technique. The pattern was simple—position the
Dribinov
in front of its prey and ghost through the water at one or two knots, just enough speed to control depth and direction. Use any available layer of colder water, a thermocline, to help block enemy sonar. And when the enemy vessels come within point-blank range, fire a spread of homing torpedoes and escape in the ensuing confusion. The classic approach had a single significant edge over other ways of doing the same thing—it used scarcely any battery power, leaving plenty of charge available for high-speed evasive maneuvering.

This time, though, Markov was using all his energy in ten- and twelve-knots bursts. He glanced at the charge indicator. It showed fifty-eight percent, and they were pulling away from the American task force again.