But Pittman shook his head. “That’s a no go, Brad. I talked to the admiral earlier this morning. The Navy’s classified the whole Korea Straits a high-threat area, and he doesn’t have enough escorts available to adequately guard two convoys.” He drummed his fingers on the desk, beating out a martial-sounding tattoo. Then the general looked up. “Okay. Seventy-two hours it is.”
He scribbled a hasty reply to the Joint Chiefs’ message and handed it to Strang for coding and transmission.
The colonel had his hand on the doorknob when he heard Pittman’s voice from behind him. “One thing, Brad.”
Strang turned. “Yes, General?”
“No screw-ups. Anything not aboard in seventy-two hours is gonna get left on the beach. And I don’t want to leave anything on the beach, clear?”
The colonel nodded. “Aye, aye, sir. I hear you loud and clear.” The Marines were going to war, and Pittman wanted every rifle, every grenade, and every piece of equipment in there with them.
Northern California’s low, rolling hills were also being soaked by cold winter rains — rains thrown by a Pacific storm moving inland to dump snow on the High Sierras.
The rain puddled on Travis Air Force Base’s extra-long, reinforced runways, taking on an oily sheen in the flood-lit night.
One puddle on the main runway vaporized, cast into a million infinitesimal droplets by the backblast from the four mammoth jet engines of a Military Air Command C-5 transport plane. The C-5 rolled on in a thundering roar as its engines reached full thrust and it picked up flying speed, lumbered heavily into the air, and arced gently over onto a westward course.
The plane’s engine noises faded, their place taken by the howling, high-pitched screams of other C-5s and C-141s, as they taxied onto the slick tarmac for takeoff or waited motionless while troops and gear of the Army’s 7th Light Infantry Division were loaded on board. A ceaseless flow of buses and trucks from Fort Ord — the 7th’s stateside base — rolled off Highway 80, through the main gates, and onto the field to add to the long lines of combat-ready soldiers waiting their turn to clamber aboard a troop carrier.
The airlift to South Korea had gotten underway as soon as a significant number of the division’s scattered troops and the MAC plane crews could be recalled from their Christmas leaves. Many men were still enroute, caught by the crisis at home in cities and towns all across the U. S. As they trickled in, haggard and wan, already sapped by jet lag and family worries, the nonstop cycle of loadings, takeoffs, and landings continued. It would go on without respite for another ninety-six hours.
CHAPTER 25
The Big Picture
McLaren walked into the tent almost unannounced. A few people near the door noticed his entry and started to straighten to attention, but he waved them down. Everyone was too tired and too busy to waste time with Regular Army bullshit.
McLaren was tired, too, but not as exhausted as he had been earlier. Once they’d got the Army’s field HQ up and running, he’d bugged out for a four-hour nap in his command trailer. He’d long ago learned the old soldier’s lesson that you should grab sleep whenever and wherever possible. It had been drummed into his head as a company and battalion commander in Nam.
He scanned the worn faces of his staff. It was obvious that he’d have to start enforcing the same kind of sleep discipline on them. He didn’t want men too tired to think straight trying to run his army’s logistics or write operations orders.
McLaren saw Hansen in the far corner and caught his eye. His aide nodded and moved to the front of the large, wood-floored tent that served as the HQ’s Operations Center. Hansen stepped up onto a low platform backed by wall-sized maps.
“Gentlemen, the general would like to get this afternoon’s brief underway.” Officers around the tent looked up at Hansen’s words and moved to find chairs.
McLaren sat in the front row.
Normally briefings were set-piece affairs, the presenters in their best uniforms, following a ritual older than they were. Everyone afraid of making a mistake in front of the big boss, but wanting to do their best, too. The room was always as still as a church, except for the briefer’s voice and the whirr of a projector showing carefully prepared slides.
That kind of protocol had gone right out the window when real bombs started dropping. Now there were people running in and out with printouts and other scraps of paper. Everybody was in cold weather gear and BDUs, mottled baggy uniforms that were worn in combat. Everyone wore a sidearm. And now a chance to sit down meant a chance to eat.
A paper plate materialized in front of McLaren. Corned beef sandwich, chips, and pickles. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t put anything in it since early last evening. He picked up the sandwich and bit into it, chewing wolfishly. Some of his own fatigue fell away at the first taste.
Still chewing, he glanced up at the short, portly officer waiting to kick the briefing off — Colonel Logan, his J-2.
McLaren didn’t like the expression on Logan’s face. He was worried, a little wide-eyed. Well, let’s see what we’ve got to be worried about, the general thought.
“Good afternoon, sir. I’m going to start with a short rundown on what we now know of the North Korean drives and their order of battle.” Logan looked down at his notes, took a deep breath, and said, “Finally, I’ll try to indicate likely courses of enemy action over the next several days.”
In other words, McLaren thought, he’s gonna try to predict what the bastards will do next. Good luck, Charlie.
Logan walked over to a map that had been taped up on the tent wall. It showed all of the DMZ and the upper third of South Korea. McLaren leaned forward, eager to get the big picture. He had been out of circulation for four hours.
“North Korean forces are making attacks all along the DMZ. They’ve had their greatest success in the west and have gained the most ground there.” Logan tapped the map with a pointer, indicating an area running from roughly Tongjang in the west to Ch’orwon in the east. “This is flattest terrain and the easiest to attack over, especially with the rice paddies frozen. Their assaults along the eastern portion of the DMZ haven’t been backed by the same level of firepower or Special Forces support. We’re evaluating those as holding attacks — intended largely to pin down our troops in the east.”
McLaren nodded to himself. No surprises there. South Korea’s geography closed off a lot of North Korea’s offensive options. The mountains and razor-backed ridges running down the eastern half of the Korean peninsula formed a natural barrier to ward off any would-be attacker.
Logan continued his dry-mouthed recitation of the available facts. “In the west, we face two main attacks. One launched down Highway One by the North Korean Second Corps, and the other moving down Highway Three along the Uijongbu Corridor. That one’s being spearheaded by the enemy’s Fifth Corps. Both corps have been heavily reinforced. We’ve identified elements of at least two armored, four mechanized, and eight infantry divisions in these attacks.”
There were gasps around the room. Neither enemy force had been listed on the Eighth Army’s prior OB charts as containing more than half that strength. Somehow the North Koreans had been able to double the number of their troops along selected portions of the DMZ without alerting either American or South Korean intelligence.
“The enemy’s Fifth Corps drive has already captured Yonch’on. In the west, they’ve pushed up to the outskirts of Munsan.” Logan looked soberly at the assembled officers. “In other words, the North Koreans are already across the Imjin River.”