Disaster, Magruder knew, was less likely to come as a single, catastrophic blow than as a series of minor incidents, each contributing its little bit of Murphy's Law until things were well and truly out of control. He had the feeling now that things were beyond his reach, that the prisoners and Marines at Nyongch'on, the Marines and rescue helos at Kolmo Airfield, the eight Tomcats of Tombstone's Vipers were all game pieces, pawns at the point of being sacrificed.
And having set the game in motion, there was nothing whatsoever that he could do to set things right.
0850 hours
Nyongch'on-kiji
Thirty minutes after sending the code phrase "Cavalry roundup," they heard the second flight of Sea Stallions approaching from the east at treetop height, closely escorted by six SeaCobra gunships and four F14 Tomcats tagging along overhead, flying cloverleafs above the camp.
For Lieutenant Morgan, the thrill of seeing those four RH-53Ds was like a dream realized, like the charge he'd gotten as a boy watching a magician produce a bowl of fire from beneath a cape. He saw it, yet he could not quite believe it. The plan, complex, demanding, was actually working.
Now all they had to do was pull off the rest of it without losing the helos to ground fire or MiGs.
The Chimera crewmen were already loading their wounded on the three Cav One helos grounded at the camp's airstrip. Each RH-53 had room for twenty-one men on stretchers stacked three high on the cargo deck.
According to the plan, three helos carrying Chimera's wounded would depart Nyongch'on first, flying under escort straight across the Marine perimeter on the beach and on to the Chosin, now eight miles out at sea. Tarawa-class LPHs like the Chosin boasted enormous sickbays, with three operating rooms and bed space for three hundred patients.
The remaining Chimera crewmen, almost one hundred of them, plus twelve SEALs and nearly one hundred eighty Marines, would be ferried out in piecemeal fashion. They needed eight helicopters to get them all out… an impossibility since there simply weren't that many free passenger-carrying helos in the task force. Besides, the flight all the way out to the Chosin and back could take as much as thirty minutes, counting landing and turn-around time and taking into account the crowded state of the sky above the LPH's flight deck. A better scheme was to ferry the men forty at a time from Nyongch'on to the Kolmo Airfield, the four newly arrived helos each making two trips.
The first of the medevac choppers was full. A Marine on the ground signaled, the pilot saluted from the window, and the machine's rotors increased their shrill beating as it rose, clumsy now with a full load, and hovered in the sky. Then the pilot dropped the nose and the Sea Stallion's nose swung toward the northeast. The Marine perimeter at Kolmo was only about five miles away. The helo raced for the safety of the sea at top speed, skimming treetops and burned-out buildings.
"This is the part that's been making' my mouth dry, Lieutenant."
Morgan turned and saw Gunnery Sergeant Walters standing behind him. "'Lo, Gunny. Why's that?"
"Desert One, 1980," Walters replied. "The helo crash, remember?"
Morgan didn't know the details, but he knew the story in general. The Delta Force raiders in the Iran hostage rescue were already pulling out, their mission aborted, when a Sea Stallion identical to these had risen from the desert… and collided with a grounded C-130 Hercules. The crash had claimed the mission's only casualties: eight dead.
"I guess we've learned a few things since then, Gunny."
"Mebee." He did not sound convinced. "It's not the men I worry about, though. It's never the men. Machines, those are something else."
Morgan did not agree but saw no point in arguing. Across the airstrip, Chimera's unwounded crewmen were lining up to board a Cavalry Two chopper, filing up the rear ramp and into the darkness of the cargo deck. Morale was high. There was a lot of good-natured bantering between the sailors and the Marines, and few signs of the strain the Navy men had been going through for the past four days.
With a roar, the second medevac chopper lifted from the tarmac in a swirl of dust and wind. A pair of SeaCobras raced after it, passing low overhead.
"I guess it's all going pretty well," Morgan said as the noise faded. "Like clockwork, huh?"
Walters looked at him with a curious expression. "Ain't you heard, Lieutenant? Jefferson's flight deck is shut down."
"What? When?"
He shrugged. "I just heard a few minutes ago. An hour, mebee."
"Is that going to slow things down here?"
"It sure as hell will make them more interesting. Way I heard it, they need lots more fighters flying cover for the hostage choppers. Now…" He shrugged eloquently. "There just ain't enough Hornets and Tomcats to go around, know what I mean?"
The revelation sent a cold chill down Morgan's spine. Withdrawal from this LZ was going to be damned touchy, no matter how they went about it. As soon as the Marines started pulling out, there would be fewer and fewer defenders to hold a shrinking perimeter against enemy forces.
If the task force's air ops were restricted by damage to the Jefferson's flight deck, things could get very bad indeed. Without fighter cover and bombing runs by the Intruders, the Marines could find themselves overwhelmed by North Korean forces.
"Like I say, Lieutenant," Walters added. "It's not the men who let you down."
Morgan gripped his M-16 a little tighter and stared out beyond the perimeter. Behind him, a third helicopter lifted into the sky.
0855 hours
Fox Company, Blue Beach
Private Benjamin D. Ross crouched behind the wall as rifle fire gouged chips from the top. "Sniper!" he yelled, and the other men in his squad fanned out, crawling on their bellies as they closed in on the buildings.
Fox Company had been among the first on the beach that morning, coming ashore by LCAC, then pushing southeast along the coast to establish the Marine perimeter three miles south of the Kolmo airport. They'd held that line for an hour until Bravo had relieved them, then pulled back to the complex of buildings on the coast just south of Blue Beach, which was identified on the maps as a resort.
The Marines had been amused by the relative luxury of the complex, which apparently had been reserved for party leaders and visitors from other Socialist workers' paradises. There was a large swimming pool, game courts, and more trees and shrubs ― all carefully manicured ― than there were growing on the whole of the Kolmo Peninsula. The buildings themselves were of immaculate white stone, quite different from the ramshackle huts of clapboard and pine which clustered along the coast farther south. Like the airport, the resort was deserted when the Marines first entered it; any occupants had fled during the night bombing raids or else later when the Marines started coming ashore.
At least, it had seemed deserted. Another shot rang out, burying itself with a thud in the trunk of a tree nearby. The enemy appeared to be holed up in a two-story building perched on an overhang above the sea, a clubhouse or restaurant of some sort. A railed, wooden deck extended from the east side of the house over the side of the cliff.
"Ross! Aguilar!" Sergeant Nelson snapped from a spot farther along the wall. "Make smoke! The rest of you, give 'em cover!"
"Right, Sarge!"
The two Marines loaded the M-203s slung beneath the forward grips of their M-16s with 40-mm smoke grenades. With a silent exchange of nods, they rose together above the wall as the rest of the company opened up with a devastating fire. The double thump of the grenade launchers was drowned by the gunfire, but there was a splintering crash from downrange, and seconds later, clouds of white smoke began billowing from the clubhouse.
"Hold tight!" Nelson bellowed. "We got help on the way!"
Seconds later that help arrived in the form of a sleek-looking Marine SuperCobra rising above the trees which lined the resort's western boundary. The roar of the 20-mm cannon in its chin turret drowned out even the crack and thump of the infantry battle. The face of the clubhouse seemed to dissolve in smoke and hurtling chunks of stone and gl
ass. Round after round slammed into and through the structure.
The cannon fire let up and the SuperCobra turned away. "Okay, Marines!" Nelson yelled. "Let's mop up!"
Ross rolled over the top of the bullet-chipped wall and ran toward the still-smoking building. He could see several bodies sprawled in the wreckage where the front wall had caved in. Apparently, this small detachment had remained hidden earlier as the Marines moved through the area, with the idea of emerging later in the American rear.
Which was precisely what detachments such as Fox Company were to watch for. There apparently wasn't much mopping up to do; nothing was moving in the smoking, broken shell of the building.
What happened next passed too quickly for Ross to be sure of the order of events.
The sky had been filled with helicopters all morning ― mostly the big, double-ended Sea Knights ferrying Marines in from the ships to the airport ― but two caught Ross's attention now. Huey UH-1s, the ubiquitous "Slicks" of Vietnam, were rare over a Marine beachhead. There were only a handful in Chosin's Marine air wing, reserved for command and utility service ― or special missions where their small size and maneuverability in tight corners were assets. These were flying rapidly toward the beach, two miles to the north.
At the same instant, two men appeared ahead, bursting from the side of the ruined building and running onto the wooden deck. One was armed with an AKM; the other carried a heavy-looking tube which he balanced on his shoulder like a bazooka. They must have stayed hidden in a basement inside the house, out of reach of the SuperCobra's fire.
The man with the AKM opened fire at the advancing Marines before they had a chance to hit the ground, his weapon chattering on full auto, spent casings spraying into the air. Aguilar jerked, as though yanked back by an invisible line, then collapsed screaming. The second Korean ignored the Marines; he seemed to be concentrating on the distant Hueys, tracking them with the device on his shoulder.
Ross recognized the weapon at once: an SA-7 Grail, what its Russian designers called Strela, or arrow. A man-portable, heat-seeking SAM, it was often derided as a poor copy of the obsolete American Redeye, but it was effective enough to bring down a helicopter at a range of two miles.
A second Marine was hit. Ross opened fire with his M-16, three closely spaced single shots aimed at the man with the Grail, but the soldier with the AKM stepped to the left at the wrong moment. He took the rounds in his chest and fell, his rifle spitting out the last rounds in the curved, banana-clip magazine. Behind him, the man with the Grail had already locked onto his target and was completing the double squeeze on the trigger.
An explosive charge thumped, kicking the missile clear of the tube. Ross kept firing and the other Marines joined in. Bullets splintered the wooden deck railing, then cut the soldier down in a bloody spray as the rocket's motor fired out over the surf, sending the warhead arrowing into the distance at the tip of a cottony white contrail of smoke.
Ross watched with horrified fascination as the contrail merged with one of the distant Hueys. There was a flash… a puff of smoke… and then the helo was spinning wildly in a fiery plunge into the ocean.
The sound of the explosion reached the Marines almost fifteen seconds later.
0905 hours
Kolmo Airfield
Colonel Caruso had arrived by helicopter, flying out from the Chosin as soon as he could convince his staff that it was necessary to do so. Strictly speaking, his presence on the beachhead was not according to regs; a sniper or a mortar shell could cut him down, and ― quite apart from what Caruso thought about the matter ― that loss would more than outweigh any benefit to be gained by his being there in person.
But that was not the way John Caruso managed things. An old-school Marine, a mustang who had come up through the ranks against all expectations or reason, Caruso held an almost fanatical devotion to the idea that a Marine officer led best by being visible… and accessible.
And that also made his men accessible to him.
"You! Sergeant!" His D.I.'s bellow carried across the tarmac despite the roar of helicopter rotors close by. "What's your name?"
"Peters, sir!" the Marine snapped back.
"Who's your platoon leader?"
"Lieutenant Rolland, sir."
"Cut the 'sir' crap, Sarge. How'd you and your squad like to go on a little trip?"
The sergeant had a guarded expression as though he didn't quite know what to make of this apparition with its black colonel's eagle pinned to its camo fatigues. "Where does the Colonel want-"
Caruso pointed across Wonsan Harbor, toward the buildings gleaming in the morning sun. "Sarge, ten minutes ago one of my helos went down on the beach. One of two very important helos, with a special tactical team. I need your squad to fill in and Charlie Mike."
Charlie Mike. Continue Mission. It was as much a part of the Marine Corps' creed as Semper fidelis. "Aye aye, Colonel."
"Get your people, then find Lieutenant Adams and report to him, over by those Hueys. I'll let your lieutenant know where you're going."
He returned the sergeant's salute, then strode across the tarmac, looking for Rolland.
0915 hours
Over Wonsan Harbor
Sergeant Peters was stunned when he learned what the special tactical team's mission was, but that didn't slow him as he hustled his squad up through the side door of a UH-1 Huey. Another Slick was grounded nearby, its rotors turning.
The fourteen men counted off as they strapped in, and he signaled the pilot when they were ready. With a roar, the Slick lifted from the Kolmo airfield in a whirlwind of noise and dust.
The Huey's side doors were open, and Peters could look across Wonsan Harbor as they dipped to almost wave-top height. There was plenty of shipping, merchant ships, fishing boats, sampans, even oil tankers crowding the water close to shore. North Korea had become increasingly isolated in the world community during the past few years, but Peters could see the flags of numerous countries who still did business with the Stalinist state: Cuba, China, Japan, and a vertically striped red and white ensign which he thought was that of Peru.
The Huey slipped sideways suddenly, and Peters caught a glimpse of orange tracers lashing past the open door. Someone was shooting at them.
"Looks like these bozos don't know when to quit," the Huey's pilot yelled back over his shoulder. "We're pickin' up some fire from patrol boats!"
That fire did not last long. The Hueys were accompanied by a pair of sleek Marine SuperCobras, swooping in with miniguns blazing, puffs of smoke trailing from their chin turrets like lines of white periods in the sky. There was a flash… then another, as a pair of TOW missiles streaked toward the surface. Peters felt the concussion of twin explosions but could not see far enough forward to identify the target.
"Stand by!" the pilot yelled. "We're clear and going' in!"
Peters tried to get a look forward over the pilot's shoulder, but the cabin partition and the Huey's crew chief blocked his view. He could see fine a moment later, however, when the Huey swung to starboard, giving him a perfect view of the Wonsan waterfront… and Chimera.
The North Koreans' prize lay port side to alongside a long, wooden pier, bow on to the city. This part of the waterfront seemed given over to the military. There were numerous harbor tugs and torpedo boats lying at other piers close by; a blazing fire and a pillar of oily smoke marked the spot where a patrol craft had just gone down, sunk by the barrage from the SuperCobras. The scene was dominated, however, by the American ship and by the sleek gray killer shape tied up at the pier off the Chimera's starboard side: a Soviet guided-missile cruiser. Peters did not speak Russian, but he knew enough of the Cyrillic alphabet to let him pick out the ship's name: Tallinn.
"I'm sure glad they're not shootin' at us, Sarge!" a young Marine sitting at his side yelled. Peters had to agree. From where he sat, those batteries of antiaircraft missiles looked sufficient to take on a whole Marine air wing with no trouble at all.
And what were the
Russians thinking just now? The tactical team's orders specified that property of governments other than the PDRK was not to be damaged or threatened in any way. He imagined that Moscow had been warned before the assault on Wonsan… but without even trying he could think of a dozen scenarios which might lead to a direct confrontation between the Russians and the Americans.
Why the hell hadn't the Russkies pulled out as soon as the crisis started?
Then he was too busy for questions. The Huey dipped, swooping low across the water as it raced toward the piers, the pilot deliberately placing Chimera between the helicopters and the Tallinn.
The helicopter slowed, then hovered. Peters stood up, grabbing a handhold on one bulkhead as the Huey drifted crabwise toward the pier.
"Let's go, Marines!" Peters yelled, jumping off the Huey's skid and dropping to the rough wood of the pier. The pilot had come in above the shoreside end of the pier just off Chimera's bow. Peters could see the gray mass of the spy ship's hull looming out of the water close by. The second Huey was hovering just above Chimera's helipad as Marines scrambled out and scattered down the gangways and ladders to secure the ship. Over the bay, the SuperCobras circled like sharks, menacing and hungry.
Gunfire rattled from Chimera's decks, but Peters didn't look back. The pier was deserted except for a trio of North Korean sentries, sprawled beside Chimera's gangway, dead. One of the gunships had made a strafing pass before the Hueys went in.
Toward the city, the pier joined a concrete wharf backed by a street and the regimented drab buildings of the military district's waterfront. A North Korean flag hung in front of one building, and a six-story-tall portrait of the country's president hung from another. The streets were deserted, however. Any enemy forces in the area had fled at the approach of the helicopter gunships. There were plenty of potential ambush sites, though: a low concrete wall, stacks of wooden shipping crates, fifty-five-gallon drums arrayed in rusty steel walls. Peters pointed them out to the squad and dispersed his men. The Koreans might have abandoned the area, but it was likely that they would be back. When they did, they would find Peters holding the near end of the pier, blocking the way to Chimera's gangway.
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