“Fuck.”
“My sentiments exactly. How many do you think they have?”
“Three less, thanks to us.”
The ops building was busy, but well organized. Beamer took their tapes and told them to follow him. They went to a briefing room. It was dark and half-filled with pilots watching the videotape of a mission. Tony recognized Ninja, a lieutenant in the second flight. He was describing a double kill on two unsuspecting MiG-23s.
Beamer pointed them toward a table on the side. It was covered with sandwiches, soup, doughnuts, and coffee. They had time enough to load up and get a couple of bites before their turn came.
Tony talked his way through the tape, with Hooter filling in. They fast-forwarded through everything but the combats.
“Okay, here’s where I dropped back.” He slowed, then paused the tape. Filling the large-projection screen was a black, angular shape. Twin tails and two engines were easily visible.
Pistol was the squadron intelligence officer. “Look at the gap between the engines. That, gentlemen, is the ass end of a MiG-29 Fulcrum.”
Beamer looked at him. “George, your briefs haven’t included anything on this aircraft.”
“Sir, current intelligence says the North Koreans haven’t reached operational status with their Fulcrums.”
“Current intelligence is hosed.” He sighed. “All right. Dupe this tape and send it up the line. Prepare a brief on the Fulcrum and recommended counters and have it ready to pass out in an hour.” He looked at Tony.
“Saint, dawn’s in about three hours. We’re going to provide air support to the western sector of the line, north of Seoul. Takeoff is at oh six thirty. You’re leading four ships. The mission planning cell will give you the rest of the details.”
That was the first mission.
CHAPTER 22
Red Phoenix
The North Korean gun crews crouched motionless beside long-barreled artillery pieces and squat, openmouthed mortar tubes. Others stood beside truck-mounted, multiple-barrel rocket launchers. Outside their hardened shelters, they could hear jets roaring overhead on the way south, but the gunners were content to wait. Their moment was coming.
Deep inside a command bunker, the general of artillery studied his watch and then nodded to an aide holding a telephone. “Move into firing positions.”
The aide hooked the phone into the general command circuit and passed the order to the hundreds of battery commanders all along the DMZ who had been waiting on the same circuit.
The order stirred the waiting gun crews into frantic activity. Some men ran to open heavy blast doors that protected their shelters, while others levered the guns forward into their firing positions. The Ural-375 trucks carrying Soviet-designed rocket launchers rolled out into the open and parked with their launch tubes swung off to the side to protect the vehicle itself from blast damage. Mortar crews jumped down into firing pits that held their weapons and stood ready by them.
None of the gunners could see the enemy. The same snow-covered ridges and hillsides that protected them from enemy observation limited their own view of the areas their shells would strike. Once the battle was joined, they would rely on the data gathered by forward observers in the front line and passed back through the artillery chain of command.
Secure in his bunker, forty kilometers behind the DMZ, the general of artillery smiled, imagining the havoc his guns would wreak on the Americans and their Southern puppets. He had organized what would be the heaviest barrage seen since the end of World War II by concentrating more than 6,000 artillery pieces, 1,800 multiple rocket launchers, and 11,000 mortars against the imperialists. With an average of 500 gun tubes per kilometer of breakthrough front, he would overwhelm the enemy fortifications with a shock wave of explosive fire. All told, the first salvo alone would send nearly 2,000 tons of high-explosive smashing into their bunkers, command posts, artillery parks, and supply depots. And his men would be firing four to six salvos a minute. The imperialists would be annihilated.
Annihilated. He savored the thought as the second hand on his watch marked the hour. It was time. The general turned to his aide and barked, “All guns. Open fire!”
With a thunderous, rolling crash, thousands of artillery pieces fired at the same moment. And even as the first wave of shells arced up and over into the predawn night sky, the gunners were already racing forward to reload. Their next rounds would be in the air before the first salvo exploded on the imperialist positions.
Second Lieutenant Kevin Little dreamed of rain. Not a soft, whispering spring rain. A hard, cold winter downpour, with thunder and searing lightning to back it up.
The thunder threw him out of his cot and onto the CP’s dirt floor.
He came awake to find himself scrabbling on his knees and coughing in dust-choked air. The whole dugout seemed to be rocking back and forth, swaying first one way and then the other. A tiny Christmas tree his men had decorated toppled over in a heap of tinfoil and broken ornaments. He grabbed for the table with his maps and phones as a small, battery-operated lamp fell over and smashed. Jesus, what was this? An earthquake?
But the real answer came as his mind sorted out the separate parts of the unearthly din outside the small bunker. Dull, muffled rumbling from the north, high-pitched, whirring screams passing overhead, and a continuous, ear-splitting succession of explosions from the south. It was artillery fire.
Kevin grabbed for his helmet and flak jacket. Got to get out. Get out before this place came down around his ears. He looked around and saw Rhee fumbling into his own gear. The Korean lieutenant had a wild-eyed, disbelieving look on his face — an expression that was probably mirrored on his own. Oh, God, this had to be a nightmare. Please, make it a nightmare.
The door crashed open and Sergeant Pierce burst into the CP followed by Corporal Jones, the platoon’s signalman. Both Pierce and the corporal were in full combat gear, and both were wearing white camouflage snowsuits over their uniforms. Kevin could see the sky paling to a predawn gray through the open door.
Pierce pushed Jones over toward the commo gear and turned to Kevin, “Let’s go, Lieutenant! We’ve got big-time trouble in River City here. Got arty coming down all over the place behind us.”
Kevin stood uncertainly, having reconsidered his earlier decision. Now it seemed incredibly stupid to run out into the middle of an artillery barrage. Better to stay here; the bunkers were designed to protect people from this kind of stuff.
Pierce saw his momentary indecision. “It ain’t landing on us, goddamnit. It’s those poor rear-area slobs who’re getting dumped on. But we got North Koreans pouring around us like fucking ants. If we don’t do something about it, we’re gonna be eating NK kimchee for the rest of this frigging war. Now let’s go!”
The sergeant didn’t wait for a reply. He just turned and headed back up the communications trench toward the forward slope.
Rhee snagged his white camouflage jacket with one hand and lurched out through the door carrying his rifle in the other, heading for his position with 2nd Squad along the rear slope of the hill. Kevin bent and pulled his own jacket out from underneath his cot. Then he followed Rhee out into an icy maelstrom of windblown dust, snow, and smoke.
It was bitterly cold, and Kevin could feel the chill air bite down deep into his lungs as he jogged up the communications trench. The bombardment was even louder outside. A constant pounding that rumbled through every part of his body, not just his eardrums. He could feel his teeth rattling from the concussions. But he knew that was only half-right.