Red Phoenix

by Larry Bond

  Tony got a growl at fifteen miles. The seeker “saw” the target, even though the missile’s motor couldn’t carry it that far. He held it for a few seconds as they closed the gap. With the seeker’s signal still filling his earphones, he heard a BEEP-BEEP-BEEP

  “Shit!” He pressed the shoot button on his stick, with the HUD readout at 12.2 miles. At the same time he called, “Showtimers break left!” and pushed the stick over hard. He tensed his muscles and took short breaths as the g’s increased.

  There was a switch-plate on the left wall of the cockpit, next to the throttle, that released chaff, bits of metalized plastic that could confuse a radar-guided missile. Tony banged it with his fist twice. Suddenly there was a WOOSH and Tony looked back to see a line of flame about a hundred feet behind him. The BEEPing stopped.

  He heard a SLAM and his heart turned to lead. Automatically he looked to the left, the engaged side. There was a bright ball of flame, right where Boomer ought to be.

  “Saint, Boomer’s gone!”

  Radar-guided missiles meant interceptors. Where were they? He looked at his scope. “Hooter, Bandits at two three zero are probably the fighters.”

  “Rog. You have the lead.”

  They closed at burner. It was too dark for a visual ID, but Tony had a good lock. There were three aircraft, all small. Range was seventeen miles with a closure rate of over a thousand knots.

  They both automatically armed Sidewinders and fired a few seconds later. Tony went vertical, with Hooter following. His plan was to roll into the opponents after he saw the results of the missile attack. He looked back down for the aircraft maneuvering or missile explosions, but he saw nothing. He scanned the sky frantically and saw a flash of wings at his level!

  It was too dark to see the type, but he saw two fins against a lighter sky. It was maneuvering with him, which meant a capable aircraft and a capable pilot. He maneuvered, trying to maintain energy and get in firing position. Meanwhile, they climbed.

  The thing had two engines, and they were both on burner. Tony throttled back and saw him pull ahead. “He must have lost me,” Tony thought.

  Hitting the cannon select, he started lining up for a shot. The pilot would realize his error any second.

  “Saint, there’s one behind.”

  “Rog.” The plane’s tail filled his HUD and he fired. There was no flash, but the aircraft suddenly spun wildly to the right. He started to follow it down —

  “One’s behind, at your seven, break left!” Tony pushed left on the stick and leveled out, turning hard. Hooter was behind and to his right.

  “Can you get a shot?”

  “I’m going to guns. Turn harder, he’s lining up!”

  Tony was already pulling seven plus g’s. The harder an aircraft turned, the more speed it bled off. He was going to start slowing down, which could make him an easy mark. He put the aircraft in a shallow dive to gain some speed back, cranking the stick even harder. His head was pushed back by forces nine times normal. “Get him, Hooter!”

  “Rog.”

  Even in the steep diving turn, Tony jinked and slid, trying to spoil the pilot’s aim. He looked over his shoulder and saw the bastard nimbly following his maneuvers. “Anytime, Hooter.”

  “Rog.”

  Tony continued to jink, watching his altitude decrease. The fight had started at about eight thousand. He was now at sixty-five hundred and had the choice of either diving into the SAM envelope at five thousand or pulling up and losing —

  “Shooting.”BLAM! Tony looked back and saw a beautiful explosion. A black shape fell out of it, tumbling. He leveled out and called to John. “Hooter. Take the lead. Head back toward base, and climb to ten thousand.” Executing a gentle turn, he fell in on his wingman’s right. While Hooter did not “lead” their flight, he was capable of taking the lead position, and right now he had the only missile left. This seemed like a good time for him to be in front.

  Tony started scanning the sky, looking for any more bandits. They were alone. He thumbed his frequency switch. “Pancake, Showtime, splash two high-performance MiGs. Vector, over.”

  “Roger, Showtime steer zero five five, bandits exiting the strike area. Buster, over.”

  “Showtime, roger, out.” Hooter’s tailpipe glowed brighter as they increased their throttle again. Tony glanced at his fuel gauge with a little concern. Pancake was pushing them all over the sky, and they did not have an infinite amount of gas.

  Tony had been too busy to listen to the radio chatter. All of the squadron’s fighters were on the same frequency, and now he tried to piece together the battle around them.

  “Owl, break right!”

  “Watch for the Fishbed, he’s at your nine.” He recognized Sanchez’s voice, so he didn’t check his own left.

  “Clear to fire.”

  “Splash two!”

  “Saint, I’m locked. Negative IFF zero six two at ten miles.”

  Tony looked at his screen. The contact was northeast, and easy to sort out of the confetti on the screen. The contact was probably climbing up after making its attack. Yep, the altitude was increasing. They were at his five o’clock, almost dead aft.

  Hooter’s voice came over the circuit. “Tone.”

  There was a flash at the Falcon’s left wingtip as the motor fired. Tony forced himself to cover Hooter’s blind side, watching for threats to the pair while John earned his pay.

  They were close enough to the target to see bits of the airframe fly off as the warhead detonated. It was a Fitter, an older attack jet. As it rolled left slowly, there was a flash as the ejection seat fired the pilot out of the crippled aircraft and into the dubious safety of captivity in South Korea.

  Tony headed them toward base. They called in and were told to orbit. “Runway is fouled, ETR ten minutes.”

  “Rog.” He was glad they had headed back. He looked at his fuel gauge. “Hooter, what’s your fuel?”

  “Eight fifty.”

  That was much better than his. “Tower, Showtime lead is critical fuel, five fifty pounds, over.

  “Roger, Showtime flight is number two for landing. ETR five minutes.”

  He wondered who was number one, and what fumes he was burning. All they could do was wait. Pacing was hard in a fighter cockpit, but Tony did his best. He reviewed the scramble, Boomer’s loss, his own narrow escape, Hooter’s marksmanship. The war was not off to a good start.

  “Showtime cleared to land, steer one five two. Brake hard on landing, over.”

  “Rog.” Tony and Hooter turned toward the base, being very careful to follow the tower’s instructions. They were flying through a narrow “safety lane” where antiaircraft crews were barred from firing. In theory, at least. Outside the lane it was open season.

  Tony looked at his gauge. Two hundred pounds.

  The runway lights appeared and they lined up for a straight-in approach. As they closed, Tony saw something blocking some of the lights. A dark blot resolved itself into a Falcon-shaped wreck, half-on and half-off the runway.

  They immediately flared, hard and early. Tony thought it was one of the best landings he had ever made, actually starting on the underrun area. He chopped throttle, then leaned on the brakes. Hooter was on his right, and he looked over to see him running almost on the grass. Tony steered over, glad for the clearance.

  The wreck resolved itself. It looked like the port gear had failed, the aircraft spinning as the wing hit the ground. The canopy was off, indicating that the pilot had ejected rather than stay with a potential fireball.

  Suddenly Tony’s attitude shifted. Yesterday this was an accident investigation and a maintenance hassle. Now it was a valuable combat aircraft out of action for several days.

  They taxied in quickly. There were piles of debris swept off to the side of the taxiway. Tony had never seen so much activity. Work lights were on in every arch. Another change was that everyone was wearing a sidearm.

  Kawamoto was waiting. He pointed to Tony’s empty wing rails and cla
sped his hands over his head. Tony cut the engine and rolled to a stop. Suddenly he was weak, too tired to even take off his helmet.

  The sergeant ran up with the ladder, then climbed up and knocked on the canopy. Tony looked over and pushed the release, feeling as if he were moving a safe.

  “HOT SHIT, sir! Here, drink this.” He handed Tony a Styrofoam cup.

  Tony gratefully took it and drank. Expecting coffee, he was slightly startled. Chicken soup.

  John came running into the shelter waving a tape cassette. “Saint, that was wild! Three morts each! We paid those bastards back, the first installment anyway.”

  Tony looked over at him. “What do you mean? You got two, I got one.”

  “Negats, my leader. All our initial shots hit. I saw three flashes as we turned off. Your second shot on the fighters hit, too. I climbed after you did and saw it go in.”

  Well. Gee. Tony considered. They lost Boomer, but had killed seven between them, assuming Hooter was right. Hooter had excellent eyesight. Chicken soup or victories, Tony’s strength started returning.

  “Hooter, you’ve just demonstrated the true value of a wingman.” He climbed out of the cockpit and lowered himself down the ladder. Hooter was studying the seat of his flight suit.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Just looking to see how full it is.”

  “Funny, very funny. Well, you’re entitled, it wouldn’t be there if you hadn’t smoked that sucker.” They started walking toward the ops building.

  “Saint, those were MiG-29 Fulcrums.”

  “It’s possible. Russian, two tails, twin engines.”

  “Screw that. I saw him, silhouetted. Nothing else but.”

  “Fuck.”

  “My sentiments exactly. How many do you think they have?”

  “Three less, thanks to us.”

  The ops building was busy, but well organized. Beamer took their tapes and told them to follow him. They went to a briefing room. It was dark and half-filled with pilots watching the videotape of a mission. Tony recognized Ninja, a lieutenant in the second flight. He was describing a double kill on two unsuspecting MiG-23s.

  Beamer pointed them toward a table on the side. It was covered with sandwiches, soup, doughnuts, and coffee. They had time enough to load up and get a couple of bites before their turn came.

  Tony talked his way through the tape, with Hooter filling in. They fast-forwarded through everything but the combats.

  “Okay, here’s where I dropped back.” He slowed, then paused the tape. Filling the large-projection screen was a black, angular shape. Twin tails and two engines were easily visible.

  Pistol was the squadron intelligence officer. “Look at the gap between the engines. That, gentlemen, is the ass end of a MiG-29 Fulcrum.”

  Beamer looked at him. “George, your briefs haven’t included anything on this aircraft.”

  “Sir, current intelligence says the North Koreans haven’t reached operational status with their Fulcrums.”

  “Current intelligence is hosed.” He sighed. “All right. Dupe this tape and send it up the line. Prepare a brief on the Fulcrum and recommended counters and have it ready to pass out in an hour.” He looked at Tony.

  “Saint, dawn’s in about three hours. We’re going to provide air support to the western sector of the line, north of Seoul. Takeoff is at oh six thirty. You’re leading four ships. The mission planning cell will give you the rest of the details.”

  That was the first mission.

  CHAPTER 22

  Red Phoenix

  DECEMBER 25 — NEAR THE DMZ, NORTH KOREA

  The North Korean gun crews crouched motionless beside long-barreled artillery pieces and squat, openmouthed mortar tubes. Others stood beside truck-mounted, multiple-barrel rocket launchers. Outside their hardened shelters, they could hear jets roaring overhead on the way south, but the gunners were content to wait. Their moment was coming.

  Deep inside a command bunker, the general of artillery studied his watch and then nodded to an aide holding a telephone. “Move into firing positions.”

  The aide hooked the phone into the general command circuit and passed the order to the hundreds of battery commanders all along the DMZ who had been waiting on the same circuit.

  The order stirred the waiting gun crews into frantic activity. Some men ran to open heavy blast doors that protected their shelters, while others levered the guns forward into their firing positions. The Ural-375 trucks carrying Soviet-designed rocket launchers rolled out into the open and parked with their launch tubes swung off to the side to protect the vehicle itself from blast damage. Mortar crews jumped down into firing pits that held their weapons and stood ready by them.

  None of the gunners could see the enemy. The same snow-covered ridges and hillsides that protected them from enemy observation limited their own view of the areas their shells would strike. Once the battle was joined, they would rely on the data gathered by forward observers in the front line and passed back through the artillery chain of command.

  Secure in his bunker, forty kilometers behind the DMZ, the general of artillery smiled, imagining the havoc his guns would wreak on the Americans and their Southern puppets. He had organized what would be the heaviest barrage seen since the end of World War II by concentrating more than 6,000 artillery pieces, 1,800 multiple rocket launchers, and 11,000 mortars against the imperialists. With an average of 500 gun tubes per kilometer of breakthrough front, he would overwhelm the enemy fortifications with a shock wave of explosive fire. All told, the first salvo alone would send nearly 2,000 tons of high-explosive smashing into their bunkers, command posts, artillery parks, and supply depots. And his men would be firing four to six salvos a minute. The imperialists would be annihilated.

  Annihilated. He savored the thought as the second hand on his watch marked the hour. It was time. The general turned to his aide and barked, “All guns. Open fire!”

  With a thunderous, rolling crash, thousands of artillery pieces fired at the same moment. And even as the first wave of shells arced up and over into the predawn night sky, the gunners were already racing forward to reload. Their next rounds would be in the air before the first salvo exploded on the imperialist positions.

  OUTPOST MALIBU WEST, ALONG THE DMZ

  Second Lieutenant Kevin Little dreamed of rain. Not a soft, whispering spring rain. A hard, cold winter downpour, with thunder and searing lightning to back it up.

  The thunder threw him out of his cot and onto the CP’s dirt floor.

  He came awake to find himself scrabbling on his knees and coughing in dust-choked air. The whole dugout seemed to be rocking back and forth, swaying first one way and then the other. A tiny Christmas tree his men had decorated toppled over in a heap of tinfoil and broken ornaments. He grabbed for the table with his maps and phones as a small, battery-operated lamp fell over and smashed. Jesus, what was this? An earthquake?

  But the real answer came as his mind sorted out the separate parts of the unearthly din outside the small bunker. Dull, muffled rumbling from the north, high-pitched, whirring screams passing overhead, and a continuous, ear-splitting succession of explosions from the south. It was artillery fire.

  Kevin grabbed for his helmet and flak jacket. Got to get out. Get out before this place came down around his ears. He looked around and saw Rhee fumbling into his own gear. The Korean lieutenant had a wild-eyed, disbelieving look on his face — an expression that was probably mirrored on his own. Oh, God, this had to be a nightmare. Please, make it a nightmare.

  The door crashed open and Sergeant Pierce burst into the CP followed by Corporal Jones, the platoon’s signalman. Both Pierce and the corporal were in full combat gear, and both were wearing white camouflage snowsuits over their uniforms. Kevin could see the sky paling to a predawn gray through the open door.

  Pierce pushed Jones over toward the commo gear and turned to Kevin, “Let’s go, Lieutenant! We’ve got big-time trouble in River City here. Got arty coming down all
over the place behind us.”

  Kevin stood uncertainly, having reconsidered his earlier decision. Now it seemed incredibly stupid to run out into the middle of an artillery barrage. Better to stay here; the bunkers were designed to protect people from this kind of stuff.

  Pierce saw his momentary indecision. “It ain’t landing on us, goddamnit. It’s those poor rear-area slobs who’re getting dumped on. But we got North Koreans pouring around us like fucking ants. If we don’t do something about it, we’re gonna be eating NK kimchee for the rest of this frigging war. Now let’s go!”

  The sergeant didn’t wait for a reply. He just turned and headed back up the communications trench toward the forward slope.

  Rhee snagged his white camouflage jacket with one hand and lurched out through the door carrying his rifle in the other, heading for his position with 2nd Squad along the rear slope of the hill. Kevin bent and pulled his own jacket out from underneath his cot. Then he followed Rhee out into an icy maelstrom of windblown dust, snow, and smoke.

  It was bitterly cold, and Kevin could feel the chill air bite down deep into his lungs as he jogged up the communications trench. The bombardment was even louder outside. A constant pounding that rumbled through every part of his body, not just his eardrums. He could feel his teeth rattling from the concussions. But he knew that was only half-right.

  He was scared. Scared worse than he’d ever been before in his life. Something in his brain kept telling him to turn around, to run for cover while there was still time. But another part of him resisted, remembering the look in Pierce’s eyes. He kept stumbling forward.

  The main trench was crowded with the other men from his platoon. Pierce moved among them, cajoling them into their gear and pushing them into their assigned positions. But he held them back below the trench’s firing steps.

  He saw Kevin and nodded. “Take a look through the scope. You’ll see we’ve got company.” He had to yell to make himself heard through the howling din of the barrage.