Red Phoenix

by Larry Bond

  It had worked. They’d bought time for the other units fleeing across the Haengju Bridge. But the price had been high. Sergeant Caldwell, his Weapons Platoon leader, was dead. Bryce, the 1st Platoon leader, had been medevacked two hours ago, bleeding from a dozen shrapnel wounds. All told, nearly thirty of his men were out of action — dead or seriously wounded.

  Kevin rubbed a weary hand across his face, feeling the bristles of his beard mixed in with caked-on mud. How much longer could he ask his troops to go on taking losses like that? They were being ground up by this constant fighting. How much longer would they have to hold? This hill was the last barrier between the North Koreans and the Han.

  He squinted west into the setting sun. Not more than an hour of daylight left. He turned to look down the slope behind him. There were still trucks crowding the bridge, but the traffic seemed somewhat lighter.

  “Sir. It’s Major Donaldson.” Montoya nudged him gently.

  Kevin took the handset and clicked the transmit button. “India One Two, this is Echo Five Six, over.”

  Donaldson sounded tired, too. “Stand by for withdrawal. Say again, stand by for withdrawal.”

  Kevin shook his head, not quite understanding. He felt as if his head had been wrapped in cotton. What was that? Withdraw? How? When? He clicked the transmit button again. “One Two, this is Five Six. Request instructions.”

  “Okay, Kev.” Donaldson spaced his words out carefully. “Foxtrot and Bravo are pulling out now. They’re clear of NK contact. What’s your situation? Over.”

  Kevin sat up higher in the foxhole. The fire mission he’d called down had ended. There were bodies thrown all around the road, some motionless, others writhing in agony. The scattered survivors of the NK infantry company he’d spotted were in full retreat — scampering back up the road as fast as their legs would carry them.

  He lifted his binoculars, looking farther up the highway toward the low, rolling hills he and his men had left behind an hour before. He could see shapes moving among the trees. Tanks and other armored vehicles forming up for another attack.

  He lowered the binoculars, thinking hard. “Two, this is Six. Estimate three zero minutes before next NK push, over.”

  “Understood, Kev. Start your people across in five minutes, but leave a force to cover the bridge approaches until everybody’s clear. Got it?”

  Kevin acknowledged and signed off. He handed the radio back to Montoya and looked around for Rhee. The shorter man’s steadiness and absolute reliability made him the perfect choice for the task Kevin had in mind. The South Korean lieutenant had shown himself to be a damned fine combat leader — one who could be counted on to inspire his men and use them well in the heat of battle. Just as important, he’d proved that he had brains as well as guts. During the day’s fighting, the dapper South Korean had earned his assigned slot as Kevin’s right-hand man a hundred times over.

  Rhee was crouched beside one of the three remaining Dragon launchers. He saw Kevin’s wave and scuttled over.

  Kevin filled him in on the situation and gave him his orders, trying to use the formal tone he knew the South Korean liked. “Lieutenant Rhee, I want you to lead the boys across. Leave me one Dragon team, one MG team, and a rifle squad. We’ll follow after you’re on the span. Clear?”

  The South Korean nodded.

  “Okay, then. Get moving.” Rhee rose to a crouch, but Kevin stopped him with a hand. “But keep everybody out of sight as long as you can. I don’t want the NKs to know we’re going until we’re long gone.”

  Rhee nodded again and moved off to get the company organized and loaded onto its trucks.

  The exhausted men of Echo Company needed no urging to leave their foxholes behind and crowd onto the waiting vehicles. One by one the trucks pulled out onto the road and roared off down toward the bridge and safety.

  Kevin spread his remaining eleven men out in a thin skirmish line along the crest of the hill. Montoya crouched beside him in the foxhole that served as his CP, turning every five seconds or so to see how far the company had gotten. Kevin kept his eyes on the woods to the north.

  He didn’t have any illusions left. Another North Korean tank attack would sweep through this last squad as if it weren’t even there. The most they could do would be to give a little warning to the men waiting to blow the bridge.

  Minutes passed. The signs of movement in the woods were increasing. The NKs could come anytime now. He glanced at his watch. Come on, Rhee!

  “Echo Five Six, this is Five Four.” It was Rhee.

  Kevin grabbed the handset. “Go ahead, Four.”

  “We’re on the bridge.”

  Kevin felt relief wash over him. He stood up and cupped his hands. “Second Squad! Let’s get the fuck out of here. Let’s go, people!”

  He watched the woods while his troops grabbed their weapons and jogged downhill toward the last truck. The driver already had its engine running. Men swarmed over the tailgate, turning once they were on board to help others up.

  Oh, God. Tanks were emerging from the tree line, forming up for the attack. Ten, eleven, twelve… Kevin counted them rapidly. There were at least two North Korean tank companies moving toward him.

  “Lieutenant!” It was Montoya yelling at him from the truck. “C’mon, sir. We gotta get out of here!”

  No shit. Kevin spun away from the oncoming North Korean tanks and sprinted hard for the waiting truck. KARRUMP. KARRUMP. Dirt kicked high behind him. NK mortars were zeroing in on the hill. He ran faster, arms pumping out from his sides.

  KARRUMP. Rock fragments and splinters whined overhead, thrown by an explosion to his right. Kevin skidded to a stop, panting, at the back of the truck. Hands reached down to pull him aboard as the driver put it in gear and raced away toward the bridge. Behind them the hill they’d been defending disappeared in a sea of blindingly bright flashes as the NK heavy artillery opened up.

  WHAMMM! The truck careened around a shell crater and roared onto the empty bridge. Kevin sat up amid his men as they swayed from side to side under the low canvas roof. Gray-white smoke billowed high in the air above the hill. The North Koreans were laying a smoke screen to cover their attack. He smiled crookedly. They were wasting a lot of ammunition on people who weren’t there anymore.

  The truck crossed over to the south side of the Han and slowed, turning off onto an access road running along the riverbank. The driver slammed on his brakes, fighting a skid, as he turned a corner and came face-to-face with a row of concertina wire laid across the road.

  “Everybody out! Out! Take cover over there!” Grim-faced combat engineers waved Kevin and his men out of the truck. They jumped down over the tailgate, some falling to their knees in the mud, and staggered over behind a snowbank.

  “Blow it!” Kevin looked up at the voice and saw an engineer wearing colonel’s insignia staring intently at the bridge. He followed the man’s gaze.

  WHUMMP. WHUMMP. WHUMMP. WHUMMP. Kevin covered his ears as the series of explosions grew louder and closer together, rippling across the bridge from north to south. Whole sections of the roadway buckled and then flew upward, spinning end over end before splashing into the river below. Others simply sagged and then fell over, crashing into the water in a spray of white foam and ice.

  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.

  ABC WORLD NEWS TONIGHT

  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.’ Oth
er 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

  DECEMBER 30 — ABOARD KONSTANTIN DRIBINOV, IN THE EAST CHINA SEA

  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.

  ABOARD USS CONSTELLATION, IN THE EAST CHINA SEA

  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.

  WHISKEY THREE, OVER THE EAST CHINA SEA

  The S-3 Viking patrol plane known as Whiskey Three orbited at low altitude ahead of the task force. It didn’t look dangerous. The S-3 was a boxy, twin-engine plane that wouldn’t last a second in a dogfight with an enemy fighter. It was slow, low-powered, and relatively unmaneuverable. But it was death on submarines. Every Viking carried sonobuoys, torpedoes, and a half-dozen different sensors, all designed to find and fix hostile subs before they could do any damage. The petty officer manning Whiskey Three’s surface search radar suddenly started and leaned closer to his screen. He’d seen a small blip appear momentarily out in front of the formation. There it was again. A radio aerial, maybe. Or possibly a periscope or radar detection mast. Whatever it was, it wasn’t friendly.

  He keyed his mike. “Contact report! Possible sub bearing zero one five degrees. Twenty miles.”

  Forward in the cockpit, the S-3’s pilot whistled sharply and banked right, heading for the contact’s reported position at two hundred and fifty knots. The game had started.

  ABOARD USS CONSTELLATION

  Brown stared at the ASW display screen. Whiskey Three’s contact report had caught him just heading for his cot. The submarine the S-3’s radar had spotted was roughly sixty miles ahead of his lead ships, directly on their intended track. So far, they hadn’t been abl
e to determine its nationality or type, but it sure wasn’t a U.S. or any known friendly submarine.

  Whiskey Three was on station now over the sub’s last known position, running cloverleaf search patterns at low altitude.

  Brown looked at his ASW controller. “Get Whiskey Three some backup. As soon as they’ve localized the sub, they’re to use depth charges to force it to the surface. Tell ’em to start with a salvo a thousand yards away and halve the distance with each attack. Whoever’s down there should get the message pretty damn quick.” The gray-haired commander nodded his understanding and moved to obey his admiral’s order, but then turned back to ask, “What if the sub doesn’t break off, Admiral?”

  “If he gets within twenty miles, we’ll sink the bastard.”

  ABOARD KONSTANTIN DRIBINOV

  Markov cursed himself for his impatience. He’d raised his radar detection mast to check the direction of the approaching American task force. Well, they were up there, all right, emitting signals as if they were putting on some kind of electromagnetic fireworks display. But something else had been up there, too. Something he should have been more wary of. Dribinov’s radar detector had immediately lit up with a strong signal from an antisubmarine patrol plane — a signal so strong that the American aircraft must have detected the mast in the seconds it was above water.

  Now he was being forced to expend precious battery charge moving away from his planned position. He had to hope that Konstantin Dribinov could get clear of the upcoming American search before it really got underway.

  But Markov’s hopes were quickly dashed. “Comrade Captain, sonar reports active sonar contacts ahead and to both sides. Distance is between two and three thousand meters.” His first officer’s voice was apologetic.