Red Phoenix

by Larry Bond

  UN FORCES HEADQUARTERS, SOUTH OF TAEJON

  The stars were out, crystalline against the infinitely black night sky.

  McLaren stood quietly, waiting and watching. The burning tip of his cigar glowed brighter momentarily and then faded as he breathed out.

  “General?”

  He turned. Hansen had come outside, backlit by the lamps inside the command tent.

  “We’ve just gotten the final signals, General. All units are in position and ready for your orders.”

  “Any word from Washington?”

  “Yes, sir.” Hansen held his notepad up to the light. “It’s from the President. Just this: ‘Proceed as planned. Our prayers go with you. Good luck and Godspeed.” The captain grinned.

  McLaren nodded and took the cigar out of his mouth. “Right.” He checked his watch. “Okay, Doug. Signal all commands to execute Thunderbolt at oh five hundred hours.”

  Hansen saluted and reentered the tent.

  McLaren drew on his cigar again and stayed where he was. Unseen in the darkness, he crossed his fingers.

  THE KREMLIN, R.S.F.S.R.

  The General Secretary had never seen his military aide show such a troubled face before. It seemed an odd look for a man named a Hero of the Soviet Union for gallantry in combat against Afghan bandits. “More trouble, Ivan Antonivich?”

  The colonel nodded. “I’m afraid so, Comrade General Secretary. With your permission?” He held up a thick leather satchel.

  “Please.” The General Secretary sipped his tea carefully, almost ostentatiously. Like so many of the reforms he’d sponsored, his efforts to curb rampant alcoholism among Soviet citizens were being resisted. As a result, he never missed the chance to show that he practiced what he preached.

  “I’ve assembled this collection out of our latest satellite and human intelligence reports concerning the submarine incident and the American reaction to it.” The colonel fanned a sheaf of papers and image-enhanced photos across the Party chief’s desk.

  The General Secretary put his glass down abruptly, slopping tea out onto a bone china saucer. He frowned. “Their reaction, Colonel? What of our reaction to this wanton attack on our submarine in international waters? Surely that is more to the point.” He looked at his watch, annoyed. “I asked the defense minister for his recommendations on possible retaliatory moves several hours ago. I’ve heard nothing since. So perhaps your time would be better spent in making sure my desires are carried out, eh?”

  The colonel said nothing, although his face reddened. He simply sat motionless holding out the first satellite photo.

  The General Secretary sighed, more to himself than anyone else, and took the photo. His aide was a good man, loyal, intelligent, and a committed Party activist, but he was just too stubborn. He scanned the photo and dropped it negligently onto his desk. “So? I see an empty harbor. What is so important about that?”

  “That is the main American missile submarine base on the Atlantic, Comrade General Secretary.” The colonel held out another. “And this is their Pacific base at Bangor, Washington. Also completely empty. There are similar reports from the NATO base at Holy Loch in Scotland. Essentially, every seaworthy American SSBN is now at sea — an unprecedented mobilization.”

  The General Secretary began to see why his aide looked so concerned. “Go on.”

  “Reconnaissance also shows that major elements of the American Strategic Air Command have also been raised to an even higher alert status and dispersed from their normal operating fields. All leaves for their bomber crews have been canceled — even those awarded for urgent family crises.”

  The General Secretary felt cold. Had the Americans gone mad? First an unprovoked attack and now this nuclear saber rattling. What were they up to? “You were right to bring this news to my immediate attention, Ivan Antonivich. It should have been done before this by others in this government.” He picked up the special secure phone kept permanently beside his desk. “Get me Admiral Marenkov.”

  Marenkov, commander of the Red Navy, came on the line in moments. The automatic scrambling made his voice sound hollow. “Yes, Comrade General Secretary?”

  “As chairman of the Defense Council and Commander in Chief, I am ordering you to institute Plan Sanctuary immediately.” Under Sanctuary, all of the Soviet Union’s own SSBNs would be deployed behind a screen of minefields, attack subs, and ASW hunter-killer groups. Once safe in their bastions, the missile submarines would stand ready to strike back should the Americans attack.

  “I understand. Sanctuary will be under way within the hour.”

  “Excellent, Yuri. I’ll confirm this order by teletype before then.” The General Secretary hung up and reached for a sheet of paper. He began writing with quick, forceful strokes of the pen. “Ivan Antonivich, you will carry this to the Communications Office personally. Under no circumstances will you allow its transmission to be delayed. Understand?”

  His aide nodded and took the written order in hand. He still looked uncertain.

  “Was there something else, Colonel?”

  “Yes, sir. There have been certain, ah, rumors, about the attack on our submarine and its mission in those waters. Perhaps they are nothing more than idle gossip, but if true…” The colonel’s voice trailed away.

  The General Secretary sat up straighter. He’d learned early in his career never to discount rumors. They were often the best possible source of information. “Very well. Repeat these whispers to me.”

  When the colonel finished speaking, the General Secretary’s face was set in hard lines. He suddenly looked older than his sixty years. “Thank you for your candor, Colonel. I shall take what you have said under advisement. You are dismissed for the moment.”

  After his aide had gone, he picked up the secure phone again and placed another call.

  JANUARY 16 — ABOARD THE USS WISCONSIN, OFF THE KOREAN COAST

  The lowlight TV picture was perfect. So perfect that the officers clustered around the monitors in Wisconsin’s Combat Engagement Center could easily make out individual foxholes and camouflaged heavy weapons. The view shifted slightly as the Israeli-made reconnaissance drone began another orbit.

  “Well, well, well. Look what we have here, Skipper.” Lieutenant Commander Jason Matthews, the battleship’s gunnery officer, poked the monitor’s screen gently.

  Captain Edward Diaz followed his subordinate’s stubby finger and smiled. The screen showed a collection of tents liberally festooned with radio antennas. “That’s a pretty nice looking command post, Jas. Any bets on just what kind?”

  Matthews matched his commander’s smile. “Oh, I’d say a regimental HQ at least. Maybe a division.”

  “Fantastic. Make that the first target.”

  Matthews nodded and moved to the ship’s ballistic computer. The ratings manning it nodded as he spoke, fingers flashing over keyboards. After just a few seconds the gunnery officer looked up at Diaz. “Guns locked in, Skipper. Ready to fire at your signal.”

  Diaz glanced at the clock: 0359. A minute left to go. He shook his head regretfully. “Hell, I never was very good at waiting. You may fire when ready, Jas.”

  Matthews’s finger stabbed the fire control button and the Wisconsin rocked back — surging against the recoil as her nine 16-inch guns roared, hurling one-ton shells toward the Korean coast.

  The men aboard the battleship watched their screens, waiting for the recon drone to show them where their shells landed. It took forty-eight seconds for the nine high-explosive-filled shells to fly the twenty nautical miles separating the Wisconsin from her targets.

  “Holy God!” Matthews couldn’t hold in his exultation as the screens showed dirt and smoke bursting skyward all around the North Korean headquarters complex. When the smoke cleared, all that could be seen were a series of overlapping craters. Every tree within two hundred meters of the impact point had been blown down. “Scratch one collection of NK brass!”

  Diaz was awed by the destruction his ship had unleashed.
This was the real thing, not just target practice. He shook himself. “Gunnery Officer! Shift your fire to the other preplanned targets. Fire at will.”

  “Aye, aye, Skipper.”

  The Wisconsin’s captain stood watching as his guns began systematically obliterating North Korean beach defenses, supply dumps, and artillery positions. He grinned. It really was too bad that there weren’t any U.S. Marines within a hundred miles to take advantage of the holes they were tearing in the NK coastal defense.

  The North Koreans might think they were going to get hit from the west, but they were wrong. McLaren’s knockout blow was coming from the east — from out of Korea’s rugged mountains. The NKs were about to get sucker-punched.

  4TH REGIMENT, 3RD MARINE DIVISION, OUTSIDE MASAN, SOUTH KOREA

  Colonel Tad Lassky, USMC, was a happy man. His three battalions had already advanced more than ten kilometers in the seven hours since the attack began — moving against light and sometimes even nonexistent opposition. And from what he heard over the command net, similar progress was being reported by each of the other nine American and South Korean divisions involved in the counterattack. For once the intelligence boys had got it right. Most of the best North Korean units were tied up in the bloody fighting around Taejon or along the coast. Those left guarding the eastern flank were spread too thinly to put up an effective resistance.

  “Colonel, Second Battalion’s on the line.”

  Lassky grabbed the handset. “Papa Fox Four Six to Fox Four Five. Go ahead, Bill.”

  Lieutenant Colonel William Kruger’s bass tones crackled back through the receiver. “We’re coming up on a little village here, Tad. Recon reported some movement around it earlier this morning. Do you want us to bypass it or steamroller right through?”

  Lassky checked the map before answering. “Clear it, Fox Four Five. We’re gonna need that road for supplies.”

  “Aye, aye, Fox Four Six. Consider it done.”

  Lassky smiled at the confidence he heard in Kruger’s voice. It was a confidence he shared. The 3rd Marine Division had been on the ground in South Korea for more than two weeks, pent up in secluded camps, waiting for just this moment. And now that McLaren had slipped the leash, Major General Pittman and his regimental commanders intended to make the most of their opportunities.

  2ND BATTALION, 4TH MARINES

  Kruger waved his three lead rifle companies into action. The white-smocked Marines spread out into a skirmish line across the frozen rice paddies and advanced, closing on the small cluster of houses several hundred meters ahead. He and his command group followed them off the road, stepping carefully onto the snow-coated ice. The 2nd Battalion’s CO believed in front-line leadership.

  Everything stayed quiet until the Marines came within two hundred meters of the village. Then the North Korean defenders cut loose.

  Kruger dove for the ground as NK machine guns and automatic rifles opened fire from concealed positions among the houses, raking the fields and toppling Americans whose reflexes weren’t fast enough. Kruger raised his head to see what was going on. Most of his men were in cover behind rice-paddy dikes, but several were sprawled unmoving out in the open.

  KARUMMPHH. The ground trembled slightly as a small explosion blasted dirt and snow into the air behind the crouching Marines. KARUMMPHH. Another burst, this one closer. The North Koreans were walking light mortar rounds in on top of his pinned-down troops. Kruger swore vilely and crawled over to the Marine aviator assigned to his battalion as its FAC — forward air controller. He tapped the younger man on the shoulder and asked, “Well, Lieutenant, think you can rustle up some air support on that fancy radio of yours?”

  The lieutenant looked up and spat out a mouthful of snow. “I sure can try, Colonel.”

  “Then you do that, son. We ain’t getting out of this field any other way.”

  Both men flattened as a mortar round burst nearby, spattering them with dirt. Others were less lucky. Kruger saw one of his staff sergeants splayed up against a paddy dike. The man’s right leg was missing.

  “Top Dog One, this is Papa Fox Three One, over. Top Dog One, this is Papa Fox Three One, over.”

  Kruger bellycrawled back to his radioman. “Fox Four Five to Alpha Five Two. I have a fire mission, over.”

  The officer commanding 2nd Battalion’s eight 81-millimeter mortars responded immediately. “Ready to shoot, Fox Four Five.”

  “Okay.” Kruger flinched as NK machine gun fire cracked over his head. “I need an incendiary smoke mission. Coordinates yankee delta eight four five one two two. Fire that in” — he glanced toward the FAC and saw him holding up two fingers — ”two minutes.”

  He crawled back to the small cluster of men around the air controller. Marines on either side were starting to return the enemy fire. One minute left. He took a deep breath and then bellowed, “Okay, boys. We’ve got fast movers coming in! Mark your positions! Use purple smoke!”

  Seconds later, canisters tossed by men in each of the battalion’s platoons started spewing bright purple tendrils of smoke. They rose and mingled in the wind to form a single line of purple clearly marking the battalion’s location from the air.

  With a sudden roar, four snub-winged Harriers flashed overhead toward the North Korean positions, flying in pairs. As each jet pulled up sharply and to the right, it threw sixteen small, finned objects tumbling into the village: five-hundred-pound Mark 82 general purpose bombs. They went off in an endless, teeth-rattling series of sun-white explosions.

  Other explosions flashed amid the shattered houses. The battalion’s mortars were joining in — tossing white phosphorus rounds that had a dual purpose. Burn and maim the enemy while building a blinding curtain of smoke.

  “Marines!” Kruger bounced to his feet, M16 in hand. Helmeted heads all across the field turned to watch him. He climbed high onto a paddy dike and waved his hand toward the gray-cloaked, burning village. “Advance!”

  “UURRAH!” Guttural voices rose in the rhythmic battle cry as the marines surged forward toward the North Korean positions, firing on the move. Kruger ran among them.

  It took fifteen minutes of bloody, close-in fighting to clear the town. But at the end of it the road lay open and undefended.

  17TH RIFLE DIVISION HQ, NORTH OF ANSONG

  Major Park Dae-Hwan stared approvingly at the carnage around him. The attack had been sudden, unexpected, and savage — perfect in fact. Bodies littered the camouflaged camp, some in full uniform, others entangled in sleeping bags or naked in the snow. Most of the North Koreans had been cut down in the first minute. Few had even had time to grab their personal weapons.

  He smiled thinly. The communists had concealed their headquarters well, hiding its tents, armored vehicles, and radio gear in among the towering trees of a small pine forest. It would have been almost impossible to spot from the air. Of course, that same abundant cover had made it possible for this South Korean Special Forces team to sneak right up to the camp perimeter without being spotted.

  Park snapped a new magazine into his CAR-15 carbine and slung it across his shoulder. Then he whistled sharply, summoning his Black Berets to the rally point. They’d idled here long enough. He and his team had been inserted by helicopter behind enemy lines two days before and held in readiness for just such a mission. Now they had other work to do. The communists had a whole network of supply dumps, communications facilities, and security detachments posted along this highway. Park intended to destroy them.

  “Sir!” Sergeant Kwon came toward him with something clutched in his hand. Park remembered seeing the burly sergeant sawing away at the uniform of one of the North Korean officers.

  Kwon stopped in front of him, saluted, and held out a strip of cloth. “A trophy for your collection, Major.” The sergeant grinned broadly at his own joke.

  Park took the rigid piece of cloth and stared at it. A shoulder board with a single star. The insignia of a People’s Army major general. He nodded in satisfaction. One of the six North Korean di
visions trying to stem General McLaren’s attack had just lost its commander and its entire staff.

  He slipped the dead general’s shoulder board into his tunic and turned to leave. His men followed in single file. They had a long march ahead to reach the next objective.

  1ST BRIGADE, 10TH INFANTRY DIVISION, HIGHWAY 4, SOUTH OF UCH’ON

  “Gunner! Sabot! Tank at ten o’clock!” The South Korean captain felt his M-48’s turret swing left and waited.

  “Up!”

  “Fire!” The tank bucked as its 105-millimeter main gun went off with a loud roar. Acrid fumes filled the turret as it recoiled and spit out a used shell casing. The gunner hurriedly loaded another armor-piercing shell. It wasn’t necessary.

  Their target, a T-55, sat burning on the raised shoulder of the highway. Fifteen others were scattered across the iced-over rice paddies, wrecked and on fire. It was over. The counterattacking North Korean armored battalion had been slaughtered — caught charging across open ground by twenty South Korean tanks waiting hull-down behind the highway embankment. A single M-48 sat mangled, its turret ripped open by a communist shell.

  The captain undogged his hatch and stood high in the turret, gulping down deep breaths of fresh air. Although the entire engagement had taken just five frantic minutes, he was exhausted, worn ragged by the extraordinary combination of extreme physical exertion, fear, and intense concentration needed in battle.

  The brigade commander’s voice crackled through his headphones. “All units. Continue the advance in echelon. Division objective is now Uch’on.”

  The M-48’s commander squinted into the setting sun and nodded to himself. The village of Uch’on lay eleven kilometers ahead. They just might be able to make it before nightfall. And that would put the division’s lead elements more than thirty kilometers past what had once been the thinly held North Korean main line of resistance.

  Thunderbolt had broken through.