Austin lowered the tube from his shoulder. "You think that's all there were?"
"Better be. We need to get Cavalry One down here pronto. I'm betting those boys called for help."
"Oh, shit!"
"Shit is right. C'mon. Let's get back to the airstrip."
0446 hours
Intruder 537
Lieutenant Shaw turned in his seat, peering out of the cockpit as his Intruder banked over the compound. He could see the funeral pyres of four ZSUs, three on the road and one fifty yards inside the main gate. Ground fire seemed to have ceased.
"Shotgun Leader, this is Desperado Five-three-seven. I think we've cleared up your little difficulty for you."
"Roger that, and thanks," Tombstone Magruder's voice replied. "We're passing the word to Cavalry One."
"Any sign of Jolly and Chucker?"
"Negative on that." There was a small hesitation. "We have people monitoring the SAR frequencies. If they made it out, we'll extract them."
"Damn right we will," Shaw replied. Like most of his running mates, he did not particularly care for Jolly's obnoxious attitude, but Chucker was a good guy and this time around no one was going to be left behind to enjoy the North Koreans' ideas of justice and mercy.
Not even Jolly Greene.
0452 hours
Near Nyongch'on
The flame and horror of the whirlwind attack at Nyongch'on-kiji had seared themselves into Colonel Li II-Sung's mind. He'd been asleep in the officers' quarters when the first explosion had rocked the building; he'd gotten dressed and into the compound in time to see the headquarters building in flames, to hear the screams of soldiers cut down outside the barracks.
Many had escaped. Colonel Li had joined a group of twenty or thirty men, scrambling across the wreckage of the east perimeter fence where a watchtower had collapsed and dragged the wire down. For hours now, he and the ragged band of soldiers had wandered around on the dark slopes southeast of the camp. From there he had a clear view of the pass, lit now by burning ZSUs and the torches of Nyongch'on's fuel-storage tanks. There might be another hundred survivors, possibly more, scattered among the rocks and barren slopes beyond the perimeter fence.
This night would be the end of his career. He knew that, accepted it in a fatalistic way. It had already ended General Chung's career rather abruptly. He'd seen the general outside the headquarters building, nearly cut in half by one of those devilish American claymore mines.
Other heads would roll because of this. The American prisoners should have been separated into small groups on the first day and scattered across the breadth of the People's Republic. It had been folly to keep them together in one place… a folly which could only have been born of over-confidence. The weakness of American will in the face of strength was preached so often and so loudly that, perhaps, there were those in the halls of power in P'yongyang who had come to believe in it.
How many Yankee commandos were there, anyway? There was no way to be certain; fifty, at least, Li thought. No smaller group could have done so much, so quickly. Some of the men thought the attackers were the dreaded South Korean Special Forces, but Li did not believe that. No, these were Americans, seeking their own.
"Comrade Colonel!" one of the men said urgently. "Comrade Colonel! Listen!"
He heard nothing at first, but then the sound grew, swelling rapidly on the night air, a deep-throated clatter which could be only one thing.
"Helicopters!" He turned sharply, searching among the soldiers with him. He had seen one with a Type 80 machine gun, a Chinese copy of the Soviet PKM. There he was. "You! Set up your weapon, quickly!"
The Type 80 was belt-fed, with a bipod under the muzzle. It took seconds to prop the weapon on a rock as the thunder of rotors grew louder. "Stand ready! They're coming!"
Li's only hope to salvage anything out of this was to win a major tactical victory… and he just might accomplish that if he could bring down an American helicopter.
Then he saw it, a gray shape low above the ridge top, sweeping overhead toward the camp. Below, inside the perimeter fence, he saw red flames burst into ruby pinpoints, outlining the south end of the airstrip. "Fire!"
With a roar that drowned the thunder of rotors, the machine gun yammered, scattering spent casings in a storm of noise. The helicopter staggered, stricken.
0455 hours
Helo Cavalry One-Three
Lieutenant Morgan felt the helicopter shudder, then lurch violently to port. Something shrieked through the red-lit confines of the Sea Stallion's cargo deck, and Morgan remembered hearing somewhere that the skin of a helicopter was so thin it was possible to punch a screwdriver through it with your hand.
"Cav One-Three, declaring emergency!" The pilot was using an emergency radio frequency, but Morgan was hearing the yell over his intercom plug. The helicopter lurched again and Morgan grabbed for a handhold. It felt as though the huge machine was spinning, dipping wildly to one side.
"Mayday! Mayday!" the pilot continued to call. "Cavalry One-Three hit by ground fire. Engine hit, repeat, engine hit! I'm going in!"
"Hold on!" Morgan screamed into the inferno of smoke and noise and darkness. "Brace for a crash!"
0500 hours
Flag Plot, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Nearly one hundred miles at sea, Admiral Magruder listened to the radio messages relayed by one of the orbiting Hawkeyes. Intruder strikes appeared to have cleared the ZSUs, but at least one of the Cavalry One helos had been badly hit and gone down, well short of Nyongch'on. One Intruder had been shot down, its crew lost among the night-shrouded ridges of North Korea, and the SEALs were out of touch with Homeplate.
Commander Neil leafed through a small stack of TENCAP photos. They showed flames and scars, smoke palls and wreckage. One close-up of Nyongch'on showed bodies sprawled on the ground outside the POW compound.
"You know, it's still not too late to call off the main landings, Admiral," Neil said quietly. His eyes had a glassy, far-away look.
Magruder looked up from his half-full coffee cup. "You sorry son of a bitch!"
Neil blinked rapidly. "Admiral, I didn't mean-"
"You're as bad as those fuzz-brains in Washington, boy. We started this. We're going to finish it."
"Yes, sir."
"We're not leaving our people in there to die."
"No, sir."
"We're not leaving Chimera's crew, we're not leaving the SEALs and Marines, we're not leaving our aviators. Hear me?"
"Yes, sir."
"They all come home, or none of us do."
"Absolutely, Admiral. I… I just thought I should mention the options-"
"Options." He turned away, angry with himself for having lost his temper. "Take a hike, Neil. Get the hell out of my sight."
The staff intelligence officer dropped the stack of TENCAP photos on the table and quietly left the room.
Leaving Admiral Magruder alone with the loneliness, the inner doubts which had threatened to overwhelm him ever since he'd given the order to go.
Everything depended now on the Marines of Cavalry One… and on the Marines about to storm ashore at Kolmo. The issue could still go either way, and there was nothing he could do now to affect the outcome except order an abort. And that would mean failure.
For Magruder, the waiting was always the hardest part.
CHAPTER 27
0500 hours
Helo Cavalry One-Three
One engine had failed, but the second GE T64 turbine kept turning, lowering the Sea Stallion to an undignified but relatively gentle touchdown in the rugged country southeast of Nyongch'on-kiji. The helo struck the ground with a lurch, which threw the Marines against one another, but no one was hurt.
Lieutenant Morgan was already standing on the sharply tilted deck as the rear ramp began lowering. A blast of cold air penetrated the cabin. "Move them out, Gunny!"
But Gunnery Sergeant Walters was way ahead of him, grabbing each Marine by the sleeve and propelling him toward the ramp. "On your feet, Se
cond Platoon! I want to see nothing but amphibious green blurs! Go! Go! Go!" With a thunder of boots on metal gratings, the Marines stormed down the ramp clutching their weapons and field gear. Morgan checked to make sure the chopper's crew was out, then followed himself.
Outside, the darkness was relieved by fires burning in the distance. Gunnery Sergeant Walters handed him an M-16. He took it and snicked back the charging handle to chamber a round. "Well, Gunny?"
Walters consulted a map and compass with a small penlight, then pointed. "That way, Lieutenant. Other side of that ridge."
"How far?"
"Two miles, maybe three. Not bad, considering."
Morgan agreed. He studied the map a moment longer. "We took fire from this area here."
"I'd say so, Lieutenant."
Morgan looked up, scanning the darkness. The platoon was clear of the downed helo now, forming up by squads. Northwest, a steep ridge bulked against a sky only just becoming visible in the pre-dawn light. The sun would be up in another ninety minutes. "Hostiles between us and Nyongch'on, then," he said. He sighed. This wasn't going to be easy. "Okay. Have the men saddle up. I don't want to get caught out here in daylight."
"Right."
"Next, ring up Cavalry One-One. Give them our posit and tell them we're coming in. Oh, and you'd better take care of the helo too."
"Already done, sir." There was a dull thump, and flames began washing from the helicopter's cabin. They would leave nothing behind that the enemy could use.
0510 hours
Nyongch'on airstrip
The Marine captain stepped off the ramp and extended his hand. "Captain Ford, Lieutenant," he said, shouting above the rotor noise. "U.S. Marines."
"Welcome, sir." Sikes took the hand. "Good to have the grunts aboard."
"Our pleasure, Lieutenant." The two turned and made their way off the tarmac in a bent-double stoop beneath the slowing blades of the RH-53D. "Always ready to come in and help you Navy pukes out."
Sikes laughed. "We may have bitten off more than even Marines can chew, Captain. What's the situation with Second Platoon?"
"They're down and safe, Lieutenant." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the helicopter. "I was just talkin' to them on the horn. A few cuts and scrapes, but no casualties." He pointed southeast, toward the hills above the camp. "Far side of that ridge, about two miles. They should be here in another forty mikes."
Unless they run into trouble on the way, Sikes thought. Well, perhaps it was just as well to have another forty-some Marines on the loose outside the perimeter.
Three of the four choppers of Cavalry One had touched down safely at the helipad. The ramps were down, and the Marines of the first and third rifle platoons and a weapons platoon ― altogether over one hundred thirty men ― were spilling out across the flame-illuminated tarmac to establish their perimeter. Scattered gunshots and short bursts of fire from the perimeter fence marked skirmishes with the North Koreans still lurking just outside the captured military base.
"Let's have a look at your situation," the captain said as they reached the hangar building that Sikes had commandeered as headquarters. Ford's Marines were already setting up commo gear and a map table. "The Koreans are going to hit us hard, and we have to be ready for them."
"How long until Cavalry Two comes in, Captain?"
Ford gave a tight smile. "Long enough. Jefferson's A-6s are still hammering SAM sites, and we have to make sure there are no more surprises like those ZSUs." He looked at his watch. "And our boys'll be hitting the beaches in another fifty minutes or so. We'll have to hold at least that long."
"Fair enough, Captain. I've got a map over here."
Together, they began planning the defense of Nyongch'on.
0515 hours
Off the Kolmo Peninsula
Of all the tasks the U.S. Navy is called on to perform, an amphibious assault is without question the most complex, requiring exhaustive planning, perfect timing, and a degree of coordination and cooperation between forces at sea, on shore, and in the air more exacting than in any other arena of modern warfare. As H-hour approached, Admiral Magruder could only watch the ponderous uncoilings of the many-headed beast he'd released, and pray that each head, each movement followed the plan worked out by Colonel Caruso, Admiral Simpson, and himself. With so many men and so much equipment involved, anything could cause disaster: a forgotten bit of planning, the failure of a timetable, or something as ignominious as a traffic jam on the beach.
Task Force 18 was scattered now, covering an area hugging Korea's east coast over one hundred miles across. Most far-flung of all the ships were the frigates Gridley and Biddle, charged now with backing up the antisubmarine cordon of LAMPS III helos, HS-19s Sea King helicopters, and the S-3A Vikings of VS-42. North Korea had a number of submarines, mostly older, ex-Soviet Whiskey-classes, and it was imperative that they be kept well clear of the American ships ― especially the Marine-laden transports and the Jefferson herself.
The U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson, flagship of the task force, cruised slowly thirty miles off Wonsan, accompanied by the guided-missile cruiser Vicksburg and her Combat Air Patrol umbrella of F-14 Tomcats.
Much nearer the coast, eight miles off Wonsan's harbor mouth, the Marine contingent held station: Chosin, Little Rock, Texas City, and Westmoreland County.
Closer inshore still, the destroyers Lawrence Kearny and John A. Winslow turned five-inch guns on the spine of the Kolmo Peninsula, pounding away at the heights above the beach as they covered the approach of Marine amphibious craft. And over the entire area, A-6 Intruders, F/A-18 Hornets, and F-14 Tomcats prowled, stooped, and struck. Every SAM site that could be found along the coast had been neutralized already. Because Wonsan Harbor itself was crowded with the shipping of many nations, North Korean vessels in port were largely ignored, but those which attempted to sortie were quickly spotted by Hawkeye radar planes and pounced upon. So far two Osa-class missile boats ― each carrying Styx anti-ship missiles ― had been discovered and sunk as they tried to motor clear of the harbor. Other Korean casualties included five patrol boats which might have posed a threat to the landing craft, and the North Korean frigate Glorious Revolution, run aground by her crew after sustaining a hit by an Intruder-launched Harpoon missile. Smoke from the fires still raging in her engine room stained the sky over the Kolmo Peninsula as dawn approached.
H-hour was set for 0545 hours, the time of high tide this morning along the east Korean coast. By 0515, the LPD Little Rock's stern doors were open, and the first of her two LCACs began nosing onto seas made choppy by a stiff, northwesterly breeze.
Neither aircraft nor boat, each was a squat, curious-looking vessel eighty-eight feet long and forty-seven feet wide supported on cushions of air. LCAC hovercraft ― the designation stood for Landing Craft Air Cushion ― were one of the more recent developments in amphibious operations. Capable of carrying over one hundred twenty tons of payload twenty miles at forty knots, LCACs were such a new twist to modern warfare that the experts were still arguing over just how they should be integrated into conventional beach assault tactics.
Wonsan would be their first combat test. LCAC 53 and LCAC 55 swung clear of Little Rock's stern, churning up clouds of wind-whipped spray as thick as smoke screens. Driven by twin, aft-mounted turboprops, outsized versions of the aircraft propellers which drove flat-bottomed swamp buggies in the Everglades, the LCACs accelerated toward the coast.
0529 hours
Southeast of Nyongch'on-kiji
The encounter was more accident than ambush, blind probes by opposing forces which blundered into one another just below the ridge crest on the rocky slopes a mile from Nyongch'on. Second Platoon was advancing by squads, with one thirteen-man team moving while the other two provided overmatch. Third Squad had the point when they encountered the North Korean position.
Gunfire barked and cracked, the muzzle flashes visible as rapidly strobing pulses of light against the blackness of the ridge. The Marines returned fir
e at once and the morning was filled with the hammering thunder of autofire.
Lieutenant Morgan was with First Squad when the pre-dawn stillness shattered. Like tens of thousands of junior Marine officers before him, Lieutenant Victor A. Morgan had originally joined the Corps during peace time, with no serious thought of ever having to go into combat. A modern Marine officer could well serve his entire career without once hearing a shot fired in anger.
It had taken OCS at Quantico, a course tougher in most respects than that meted out to enlisted recruits at Paris Island and San Diego, to give him a more realistic view of the modern world. Marines had died in Iran, Beirut, Grenada, and a score of other places around the world during "peacetime." And the war to liberate tiny Kuwait had come out of nowhere. Now Morgan found himself on a hill in North Korea, with someone up there doing his best to kill him. He was scared, but the shouted orders of the platoon's sergeant, the sure movements of his men, the memories of his own training quickly steadied him.
"Ryan!" he snapped, grateful for the hours he'd spent memorizing the names and histories of the men in his platoon. "Take your squad to the left. Van Buren! Close up and support Third Squad!"
"Aye aye, sir!"
"And use your two-oh-threes!" Sergeant Walters added. "Move it!"
"Right, Gunny!"
Gunfire continued to crackle through the night. One rifleman in each squad carried an M-203 grenade launcher clipped beneath the barrel of his M-16 assault rifle.
The lieutenant heard the hollow thump of an M-203 off to the right, followed by another. The first 40-mm grenade burst near the top of the ridge, the flash so brilliant it hurt the eyes. The second exploded close by the first. Morgan could hear someone screaming somewhere up there on the hillside. Seconds later, the firing redoubled as Second Squad reached the crest of the ridge and began flanking the enemy.
"Let's move, Lieutenant," Walters said. "Up and over."
"Right you are, Gunny." His initial fear was still with him, but controlled. He felt a swelling excitement, an urgency to close with the unseen enemy. He raised his voice in a bellow which shook his entire frame. "Marines!"
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