When the smoke cleared, the Haengju Bridge lay in ruins, torn and ripped into a mangled mass of twisted steel and shattered concrete, poking above the water here and there. Tanks appeared momentarily on the hill to the north of the river and then backed hastily out of sight. The North Koreans would have to find another way across.
The camera view showed a computer-generated map of South Korea, with red arrows showing the known positions of the attacking North Korean columns.
“Defense Department sources admit that, although the enemy’s advance has been slowed, it is still continuing. According to these sources, American and South Korean troops are currently engaged in what is called a ‘determined fighting withdrawal.’ Other people tell us that’s what used to be called a retreat.
“For other news of the day’s events, we go to ABC’s Karen Fuchida near the small town of Benicia, California.”
The camera cut away to an aerial view of row after row of gray-painted merchant ships riding motionless at anchor against a backdrop of flat marshland and low, rolling hills. As the helicopter moved closer and swooped lower, work crews could be seen swarming over several of the vessels.
“Civilian contract workers continued their ‘round-the-clock’ efforts today, as they pushed relentlessly to ready these ships of the nation’s ‘mothball fleet’ for sea. Once they’re ready to go, these ships will join others already carrying much-needed cargo to the troops fighting in South Korea.”
The camera view shifted again, this time to the main street of a small town nestled among snow-covered cornfields in Iowa. Men in green uniform fatigues moved purposefully around a square, brick building.
“Meanwhile, National Guard and Reserve units around the country received orders putting them on standby alert for possible movement overseas. There wasn’t a lot of flag-waving enthusiasm, just a lot of quiet determination. ABC’s John Peterson asked one Guardsman about his feelings.”
The camera cut to a close-up of one middle-aged man in full gear.
“Sure I’m hoping this thing gets settled without us. I’ve got a wife and couple of kids to think of. But I guess this is what they pay us for and all. So, if the country figures they need us, why, I guess we’ll go. Nope, not much doubt about that.”
The man seemed to stand taller as he spoke.
CHAPTER 31
Task Force
Captain Nikolai Mikhailovitch Markov looked at the sonar display and smiled. His position was perfect: his Tango-class submarine was loitering at three knots directly in the path of the American task force. He had a full battery charge, and fleet headquarters had given him detailed information about the composition and arrangement of the enemy ships. All was well with Markov’s world.
He was a small, thin man, well suited to the cramped quarters of a submarine. His broad, Slavic face was pale from weeks submerged. In his early forties, he had served in the Navy since he entered the Nakhimov Secondary School in Leningrad as a teenager. Sea tours had alternated with years ashore at other academic institutions. He’d served aboard Dribinov for many years, beginning as navigation officer, then starpom, or executive officer, and finally as captain. He knew his ship, and what it could do for him.
His orders from the fleet command were clear. Konstantin Dribinov was expected to approach the American task force undetected, penetrate its ASW screen, and make a simulated torpedo attack on a high-value target — preferably an aircraft carrier or an amphibious command ship. The key word was “simulated.” At the point where Markov would normally launch torpedoes, he would instead launch a flare that could be seen on the surface.
It was a dangerous game. The Americans would be doing their best to detect any submarine, warn it off, and if it closed to attack range, sink it.
In a sense, his land-bound superiors were risking his submarine, and several other boats, to show the United States that its ships were not invulnerable. Markov didn’t mind. That was the kind of game the Americans often played with Soviet ships. Maybe it was time to start turning the tables. And the shallow East China Sea was a good place to do just that. The U.S. Navy’s weapons and sensors were all oriented toward “blue-water” operations, where the water was always over two hundred meters deep and often over two thousand meters. In fact, the American Mark 46 torpedo, their standard antisubmarine weapon, couldn’t even function effectively in shallow water. All too often its active sonar would home in on the nearby seabed instead of a target submarine. In addition, Markov knew that U.S. ships used powerful low-frequency sonars, with ranges measured in hundreds of kilometers through open water. But in shallow coastal seas, those same sonars were practically blind. Their sound beams tended to bounce right back off the nearby sea bottom, blanking out the American sonar operators’ screens.
In contrast, his submarine was at its best under those same conditions. Konstantin Dribinov was a diesel-electric design, first built in the 1970s. When operating on battery power, it was one of the quietest submarines afloat — a silence enhanced by a rubber anechoic coating designed to absorb sound waves. Just as important, its sensors were fairly modern by Soviet standards, certainly much better than those carried by the Romeo-class boats used by his North Korean comrades. And unlike the larger nuclear subs, Dribinov could maneuver easily in shallow water. Its hull was only 92 meters long, and at periscope depth it needed a mere twenty meters of water to stay submerged.
At the moment Markov’s planesmen were holding Dribinov just below periscope depth. He planned to wait, watch for a good opening in the American screen, and then make his approach. He was confident. After all, he’d practiced the same kind of maneuver against Soviet surface forces dozens of times.
As he’d feared, Brown hadn’t gotten much more than an occasional and unsatisfactory catnap. Lack of sleep wasn’t improving his judgment any, and it certainly wasn’t helping his temper, but the habit of command was too deeply ingrained. He couldn’t make himself risk missing something that might affect the safety of the ships under his authority. Their first radar contact had proved to be a Chinese Yun-8 Cub. The Cub was a four-engine patrol plane, actually nothing more than a converted transport mounting an old surface search radar. It had proved more circumspect than Kavkaz and appeared perfectly willing to respect the hundred-mile exclusion zone.
Its Soviet counterpart hadn’t been so polite. The Soviet plane, a Bear D flying out of Vietnam’s Cam Ranh Bay, had appeared at extreme radar range, headed straight for the center of the task force. Brown had been ready for that, and the Bear had been intercepted by two F-18 Hornets a hundred and fifty miles out. One took station behind the Soviet patrol plane, while the other F-18 flew close alongside. The three planes flew in formation until they were just a hundred and ten miles out. Brown had been preparing a harsher response when the Bear suddenly altered course, circling slowly just outside the exclusion zone.
Both the Bear and the Chinese Cub had since acquired permanent companions. At least one Hornet loitered near each of the lumbering aircraft, just in case. If any more trailers appeared, Brown thought he might be tempted to sell tickets. The admiral ran his reddened eyes over the Flag Plot’s status boards for the thousandth time. It seemed quiet enough now. Maybe he had time for another nap.