The air raid that followed had been even worse. The 25th’s A-10s were still taxiing out when a squadron of MiG-23s roared in out of the mountains — laying a string of concrete-piercing bombs across the now-defenseless base and its aircraft shelters. The bombs had turned three of the squadron’s twelve planes into flaming wrecks and had grounded the rest until the base’s shattered runways could be repaired.
That was bad enough. But then the Air Force staff gurus in Seoul had given first priority to the ROK’s fighter and air defense squadrons. As a result, specialized runway repair crews hadn’t arrived at Yanggu until late in the day — near dark. And by then the crews had been so exhausted that it had taken nearly six hours to fill in the holes and restore the runways to operational status.
That was all in the past now, though, and Chon expected today’s tank-killing missions to erase the stain on his squadron’s honor. They’d been ordered up into the predawn gray to hunt down enemy armored units that had been spotted late yesterday moving into overrun some of the few troops still holding firm against the North Korean onslaught.
Chon scanned the low, undulating ground rushing toward him. Small, scattered clumps of trees, a snow-covered road and rice paddies, houses on the horizon — a tiny village. Ah. There they were. He spotted clouds of steam and exhaust smoke rising near the village where a cluster of T-55 tanks and other armored vehicles were gunning their engines to dispel the growing cold.
He broke radio silence. “Blue Dragon flight, this is Lead. Target at two o’clock. Attack in sequence.”
Chon banked right and dropped lower, lining up for a quick strafing run. The other three A-10s followed suit. He thumbed a switch on the stick, setting the plane’s internal decoy dispenser system to AUTOMATIC. NOW the A-10 would pop an IR decoy flare every couple of seconds through his attack run. With luck, any heat-seeking SAMs fired at him would be attracted to the flow of fast-burning magnesium flares instead.
The South Korean major settled his thumb back on the trigger for the plane’s GAU-8 30mm rotary cannon and watched the cluster of enemy tanks and APCs grow larger in his HUD’s target reticule. His thumb tensed, waiting.
Lying half-hidden in a nearby drainage ditch, Kevin Little and Rhee watched in amazed relief as the first dark-green, flat-winged A-10 screamed down out of the sky toward the North Korean tanks, trailing an incandescent stream of slowly falling flares.
They’d taken shelter in the ditch early in the morning, too punch-drunk to spot the camouflaged T-55 company just a hundred meters ahead. When the tank engines had coughed to life, each had known they’d had it. Their improvised hiding place was right on the enemy’s line of march, and the North Koreans couldn’t possibly miss them once the tanks started rolling.
The A-10 fired and its nose disappeared in a blaze of light as it threw a hail of heavy, depleted-uranium slugs toward its targets.
The slugs vaporized snow and threw up fountains of new-made mud in a straight line pointing right at the parked T-55s. Then the bullet stream slammed into the thin top armor of the first tank, slashed through steel, and fireballed it — throwing burning diesel fuel and armor fragments high into the air. A second tank exploded, and a third sat lifeless and immobile, shredded from end to end.
The A-10 roared overhead, picking up speed as its twin turbofans went to maximum thrust. Its companions came in close behind, completing the slaughter. More North Korean tanks and APCs were ripped apart.
Kevin’s eyes followed the lead plane pulling up out of its strafing run. As it raced low over a white-cloaked orchard, a streak of orange flame leapt out from among the dead trees — darting after the Thunderbolt. Christ, North Korean infantry must be bivouacked in the grove, he thought, and one of them had fired a hand-held SAM to try to avenge his tank-driving comrades.
Aware of the oncoming missile, the A-10 suddenly jinked hard left, climbed sharply to clear a low ridge, and spewed a new cluster of flares. The SAM veered off, closing on one of the decoys.
The cleanup Thunderbolts saw the missile launch and banked right to strafe the orchard it had come from. Short cannon bursts from each hammered the orchard into a splintered tangle of fallen trees and dead men.
Kevin heard new explosions cracking nearby and tore his horrified gaze away from the carnage in the woods. He glanced back toward the lead A-10 just as it suddenly disappeared in a wall of smoke and flame.
Alerted by the tank company commander’s last bellowed warning, the 45th’s gunners frantically swung their six S-60 towed antiaircraft guns through an arc, trying to lead Chon’s snub-nosed A-10. The jet was moving too low and fast for precise aiming. They could only try to throw a proximity-fused barrage ahead of the speeding plane and hope that it ran straight through the deadly cloud of explosions and spiraling fragments.
Each gun only had time to lob three shells toward the selected aim point before Chon’s wingman spotted their muzzle flashes and strafed the battery into oblivion.
Most of the North Korean gunners didn’t live to see it, but they got lucky.
One of the eighteen 57-millimeter shells burst just above and behind Chon’s A-10. The explosion tore the plane’s starboard engine off and sent fragments slicing through A-10’s armor, deep into its fuselage — tearing through control cabling, hydraulics, and fuel tanks. The fragments didn’t cause any fires or internal explosions that would have destroyed the jet outright, but they did damage or destroy too many vital systems for it to remain flyable for long.
Chon swore under his breath as he wrestled to regain control. The unexpected flak burst had ripped the stick out of his hands and tossed the A-10 into a dive. Now, without its starboard engine, the plane bobbled through the air like an epileptic duck.
The electronics for his HUD were out, gutted by a shell splinter, but he could see the ground rushing upward and his backup altimeter spinning down as the plane lost altitude.
Grunting with the effort, Chon pulled the ungainly A-10’s nose back level less than a hundred meters above the snow-covered ground and risked a quick glance at the instrument panel. Red MALFUNCTION warning lights blinked on almost every crucial indicator. No good. He could feel the aircraft growing less responsive with each successive maneuver. It was time to get out.
He pulled the wavering A-10 up into a shallow climb, feeling the stick shudder in his hands as the vibrations grew worse.
“Black Dog Nine, this is Blue Dragon Leader. Over.” He paused, waiting for a response, and watched the altimeter climb slowly past seven hundred meters while his airspeed bled off — dropping from over 300 knots to just under 200 in seconds.
“Blue Dragon Leader, this is Black Dog Nine. Over.” The airborne controller’s voice sounded calm, impartial, almost soothing.
“Black Dog Nine, Blue Dragon Leader declaring emergency. Triple A hit east of Tuil. Ejecting. Out.” Chon put his hand on the ejection handle.
“Roger your last, Blue Dragon Leader. SAR on the way. Good luck.” The voice sounded a little less detached, a little more human now.
As the shuddering A-10 leveled out, Chon paused for just a split second to thank whatever gods were looking out for him. With a SAR — search and rescue — chopper on the way to him now, all he had to do was survive the ejection and any North Korean reception committee that might be waiting for him on the ground.