Red Phoenix

by Larry Bond

  Kevin turned the trench periscope into position. My God. The whole northern horizon was a flickering sea of light, an artificial sunrise made by the massed artillery firing from behind ridges and hills.

  He swiveled the scope down to look at the ground around the outpost. It took him a moment to comprehend what he saw. Then he understood. He was looking at his worst nightmare come to life.

  The rough, broken ground below Malibu’s small hill was crawling with North Korean infantry, tanks, and APCs. A part of him automatically started trying to count them. Fifty, no, sixty tanks at least. He couldn’t make out the exact types through all the dust and smoke, but they all had guns. One lay immobile, spewing a cloud of oily, black smoke. Must’ve hit a mine, thought Kevin. He stared transfixed at the spectacle laid out to either side of the small hill topped by Malibu West. Row after row of infantry, looking like black ants in the distance, marching south in open order, followed by waves of wheeled and tracked personnel carriers. At the very edge of his vision the enemy’s ordered lines were breaking up under what looked like an American artillery fire mission — bright, orange-red flashes opening like short-lived flowers as time-fused shells burst in the air. It gradually dawned on Kevin that he was seeing the forward elements of what could only be an entire North Korean motorized rifle division.

  Pierce followed the direction of his scope and tapped him on the shoulder. “We’ve got some troubles a little closer to home, Lieutenant. Down by the wire.”

  Kevin adjusted the scope and almost dropped it. North Koreans in snowsuits were worming their way through the barbed wire at the base of the hill. They were less than a hundred and fifty meters away. There were other troops crouched behind them. A company of infantry at least — around a hundred riflemen and machinegunners.

  Good Christ. Where was the American artillery? Why weren’t they chopping these bastards down with high explosive and white phosphorus? Then he remembered that calling in the artillery for this sector was his job. The platoon’s attached forward observer had been rotated home weeks ago, and he hadn’t been replaced because of the Army’s scheduled withdrawal from Korea.

  Kevin pulled his eyes away from the periscope, looking for his signalman. The ops plan for meeting a North Korean surprise attack gave him at least one artillery battery in direct support, with up to a full battalion on call. Plus whatever close air support could be arranged. That was a lot of firepower, the kind of firepower he was going to need to keep the NKs as far away from him as possible.

  “Jones!” The signalman’s head snapped up from his phones. He had a pale, set look on his freckled face. “Get me the arty. We’ve got a fire mission.”

  Jones nodded and lifted one of the phones. “Charlie Victor Two Seven, Charlie Victor Two Seven, This is Alpha Echo Five Two.”

  Kevin waited, watching Pierce as the big, gray-haired sergeant moved down the trench encouraging the men. “Got arty coming anytime, boys. Stay cool. Wait for the word. Hold your fire.”

  “Sir!” It was Jones. “I can’t get through. All the lines are dead. That stuff” — he gestured over his shoulder to the explosions still racking the main American line — ”must’ve cut the wires.”

  Shit. “Switch to the goddamned radio then.” Kevin could feel the panic bubbling up inside him. Oh, God. He wanted to be sick.

  Jones bent over his radio, but Kevin could hear the confused squeals and hissing static pouring out of it. They were being jammed. Jones worked frantically, changing frequencies to find one still in the clear.

  “Lieutenant. Those people down there are getting awfully close. Where’s the arty we’re supposed to have?”

  “We’re blocked. The phones are out and the radio’s jammed.” Kevin kept his words clipped, trying to conceal the fear he felt.

  Pierce just nodded. “Right, we’ll do this the old-fashioned way then. On our own.” He turned and headed back down the firing line. “Okay, boys. This is it. When I give the word it’s rock-and-roll time. Pick your targets. Get their heavy weapons men first unless you want an RPG up the ass.” One or two men laughed nervously. The others nodded grimly.

  Kevin turned back to the scope. The closest North Koreans were only forty meters away and coming on fast, though bent low under the weight of full packs. It struck Kevin that they weren’t planning on going back to their own lines for food or ammo resupply. They must be pretty sure they’d push on right through his platoon on their way south. And for some reason that made him mad enough to momentarily push down the panic welling up inside.

  He looked down the trench line toward Pierce. The sergeant gave him a thumbs-up, and Kevin pumped a clenched first back and yelled, “Let’s do it.”

  Pierce’s bullroar cut through the unearthly din from the North Korean artillery barrage landing behind them. “Up and at ’em! Fire! Fire!”

  All along the forward perimeter, troopers from the platoon’s 1st and 3rd Squads jumped up onto firing steps and cut loose with their M16s. Many fired their rifles on full automatic, wasting rounds as the recoil kicked the barrels higher and higher above their targets. Two of the platoon’s M60 machine guns joined in, hosing down the front slope of the hill in steady, regulation bursts. The concentrated fire cut the first rank of the North Korean assault company to pieces. Men trying to charge up the steep hillside were bowled over or thrown back to fall in crumpled heaps as bullets found them. Others dropped to the ground, looking for any kind of cover they could find. Only a few tried to shoot back with their AK47s and AKMs, but they were soon killed, wounded, or pinned down by the sheer volume of fire pouring out of the American-held trench.

  Satisfied that his men had held off the first rush, Pierce shifted the platoon’s fire back down the slope into the North Koreans still struggling through the barbed wire and minefields. Caught bunched up like that, they were slaughtered. Through his scope Kevin could see them falling. Those left alive started to edge backward, away from the hill. A North Korean officer came running forward to rally them, but he went down with a bullet in the face.

  Whistles shrilled from down by the wire, and the surviving North Koreans began moving back, leaving a trail of bloody, writhing bodies on the ground behind them. Pierce let the platoon shoot until they were outside effective range — about two hundred and fifty meters — and then roared, “Cease fire! Cease fire! Save your ammo. You’ll need it later.”

  Kevin was elated. His earlier fears had faded as quickly as they’d broken the North Korean attack. He looked up and down his line. Not a man had been hit. They’d smashed an enemy infantry company without suffering a single casualty.

  He grinned at Pierce as the sergeant came up to him. “Well done, Sergeant.”

  Pierce nodded, his own face carefully expressionless.

  Kevin could hear moans from the North Korean wounded left behind on the hillside. Time to be humanitarian about this. “Tell the medic I’d like him to see what he can do for those poor bastards out there.”

  Pierce was astonished. “You gone nuts, Lieutenant? This ain’t the end of it.” He gestured in the direction the attack had come from. “That was just a probe. Now that they know for sure we’re here, they’re going to make us wish we weren’t.”

  He leaned forward to bring his face closer to Kevin’s. “And next time they’re gonna give us a dose of that arty.”

  BELOW MALIBU WEST

  Senior Lieutenant Park Sung-Hi of the North Korean People’s Army couldn’t see the body of his company commander from where he lay. In fact, he couldn’t see much of anything at all.

  Park and the remains of his platoon had been driven back from the American outpost to a place where a small fold in the ground offered cover from the imperialists’ murderous fire. One of his men hadn’t made it all the way to safety, and his body lay sprawled half in and half out of the shallow ditch. Park gripped his AKM assault rifle tighter and tried to burrow deeper into the frozen snow.

  Technically his captain’s death had given him command of the company, but ther
e wasn’t much left to command. Just the four, no, five men huddled on either side of him. There were undoubtedly others left alive and unwounded, but they’d either sought cover elsewhere or kept running. For their sake Park hoped that the men who’d run stopped before they got back to the company’s Start Line. The commissars of the Main Political Administration had made it clear that would-be deserters would be dealt with harshly.

  The North Korean lieutenant lay in the snow and considered his options — none of which seemed particularly palatable. He could try again to take the hill with what he had left. And that was suicidal madness, of course. The Americans were too well dug-in. Or he could wriggle back to the company’s communications gear, report the failure of this attack, and ask for support from a higher headquarters. That was the militarily sensible thing to do, but it might be viewed as cowardice by an unsympathetic political officer.

  He bit his lip while trying to decide what to do and spat the blood out onto the snow. Oddly enough, the pain helped clear his mind. Better to be shot for trying to do the right thing than to be killed while doing something utterly foolish and wasteful. He would call for help.

  3RD MOTORIZED RIFLE DIVISION HQ, NEAR THE DMZ

  The North Korean division commander smiled all the way through his staff’s situation report. The attack was going well, much better than he’d dared hope possible. His first echelon tank and infantry battalions had already broken into the first enemy defensive line in three separate places. Casualties in some units had been heavier than expected, but others had suffered only minimal losses. And according to the reports, whole enemy units had collapsed under the weight of the unexpected attack. The Special Forces and the artillery had done their work well.

  He leaned over the map table to get a better look. The grease-penciled wedges showing his spearheads were being erased and redrawn as new information came in. They were now well on their way to their first day objectives. Excellent. But then his smile faded. One of the American hilltop outposts had not yet been seized.

  He tapped the map. “What is the problem here, Comrade Colonel?”

  His deputy moved closer, his eyes magnified behind thick glasses. “We’ve just had a report from a platoon leader outside that position, sir. It was supposed to be taken by a company strength surprise attack before our barrage began, but there was some sort of delay as they moved through our forward lines. Consequently, the attack failed. The platoon leader is now requesting artillery support and reinforcements.”

  “Casualties?”

  “Extremely heavy, sir.”

  “Hmmm.” The general rubbed his chin absentmindedly. He hated the idea of diverting resources from the main attack to reinforce failure. Doctrine spoke against that. But on the other hand, the American outpost sat squarely on his flank. From there its defenders could call down artillery onto his resupply units and lines of communication — and that might cause delays he couldn’t risk. He made up his mind.

  “Very well.” He studied the map. “Order the Twentieth Rifles forward to attack this hill. The Americans there have defeated a company. Now let’s see how they fare against a full battalion. And tell the artillery that I want a hurricane preparatory barrage on the imperialist position. I want their fortifications pulverized. Understand?”

  His deputy nodded sharply and hurried away to issue orders for the second attack on Malibu West.

  OUTPOST MALIBU WEST, NEAR THE DMZ

  Kevin Little was beginning to wish that he hadn’t been so quick to pull his men back inside their bunkers. He could still hear the artillery landing to the south, but everything around Malibu West was quiet. What if the NKs were sneaking back up the hill while they just sat here? Kevin knew that Pierce had put an OP — an observation post — out on the forward slope to give the platoon advance warning. But what if the two men in it had been surprised? Or what if they were looking the wrong direction? It had been over an hour since the last attack. What the hell was going on?

  He could hear Jones muttering into the radio. “You got anything, Corporal?”

  The radioman twisted round with his earphones still on. “Not a damned thing, sir. Every time I find a clear frequency and start talking, the frigging gooks come in and mess it up.”

  Kevin swore under his breath. What a clusterfuck. Here he was sitting blind in this little hole on a hill, and he couldn’t get through to anyone to get some help or to find out what was going on. None of his ROTC lecturers had ever warned him that it would be so hard to communicate on the battlefield.

  He jumped up. Enough of this waiting shit. “Tell Pierce I’m going to check the OP personally.” He’d just make sure his observers were on the job and come right back.

  “But sir!” Jones started to yell something as Kevin pulled the bunker door open. Then he heard it.

  An enormous howling arcing down out of the sky. Falling right on him. Kevin froze, one hand on the door, the other holding his M16.

  Jones knocked him flat onto the CP floor just as the 152-millimeter shell exploded outside.

  The shock wave tore the air out of Kevin’s lungs and throat and buried him in a tidal wave of dirt and smoke. He blacked out.

  He came to seconds later, aware first of the dirt caking his face and then of a heavy weight holding him down. The ground bucked up and down as other shells landed around the hill, but he couldn’t hear the explosions. He’d been deafened by the first burst.

  He shifted uncomfortably beneath the corporal’s weight. Why didn’t Jones get off him? Then he felt something warm and sticky pouring onto his neck. And there was a hot, coppery smell mixed in with the sharp, acetone odor left by the shell burst.

  Kevin wriggled frantically out from under his signalman and rolled him over. Jones was dead.

  A fragment thrown by the North Korean shell had spiraled out at several hundred meters a second, catching the corporal just below the eye and tearing through into his brain. Kevin stared for a moment at the ragged mess left of the man who’d saved his life, then he spun away on his knees, retching. In all his worst dreams he’d never imagined it would be this bad. Jones was dead because he’d done something stupid.

  After a moment Kevin crawled over and pushed the door shut with shaking hands. He leaded against it for a second, feeling the bone-rattling vibrations thrown by the artillery pounding his hill. Then he scuttled over to the radio, carefully keeping his eyes off Jones’s body. The bunker rocked under a near miss, spilling dirt through cracks in the reinforced log roof. He had to get help. The platoon needed support.

  His hearing was coming back. Kevin could make out muffled explosions now as North Korean salvos landed on Malibu West. He fumbled with the radio, setting it back to the main tactical frequency.

  “Charlie Victor Two Seven, Charlie Victor Two Seven, This is Alfa Echo Five Two. Repeat, this is Alfa Echo Five Two. Over.” Kevin was ashamed of the high-pitched quaver he could hear in his voice.

  Nothing. He switched to an alternate frequency and tried again, praying for an answer.

  “Alfa Echo Five Two, this is Charlie Victor Two Seven. Over.” The American artillery officer’s voice crackled through the headphones.

  Thank God. “Victor Two Seven. I have an immediate fire mission. Pattern Hotel. Repeat, Pattern Hotel.” Pattern Hotel would create a horseshoe-shaped curtain of American high-explosives around the base. That should keep the NKs from crawling up under the cover of their own barrage.

  Victor Two Seven’s answer was quick and horrifying. “Negative, Echo Five Two. Half my guns are gone. The rest of us are pulling out. We’ve got NKs coming down around our…” The artilleryman’s voice faded in a spray of hissing static as North Korean jammers swept across the frequency.

  Kevin stared at the radio for a moment. Then he heard a whistle from one of the sound-powered phones that linked his outlying positions to the outpost. He grabbed it.

  “Little.”

  “This is Donnelly, Lieutenant!” It was one of the men he’d assigned to the OP “We’r
e in deep, sir. Me and Smith can see two NK companies assembling down in front of us. And we seen another one moving around the flank a minute ago. What should we do, Lieutenant?”

  Kevin could hear the fear in Donnelly’s voice and it matched his own. Three North Korean companies. God, that was at least three hundred men coming against his forty or so troops. This was not the way it was supposed to work. Where was the artillery and air support those rear-area bastards had all promised Malibu West would get?

  “Lieutenant?”

  He started. He hadn’t answered Donnelly’s plaintive question yet.

  “Lieutenant? It looks like the arty’s starting to lift. What should we do?”

  Kevin could hear the noise from outside diminishing. Not much time left now. “Okay. Get back inside the perimeter. Get back to the trench!”

  He switched connections, trying to get Pierce’s bunker. Had to let the sergeant know what was going on. Had to find out what he should do. Nothing. Christ, didn’t anything work around here?

  Kevin put the phone down slowly. He was going to die. And it just wasn’t fair. Not at all.

  Everything went quiet. The shelling had stopped. Then he heard the whistles blowing from all around his hill. This was it. Kevin grabbed his M16 and headed out through the bunker door.

  Malibu West looked like a moonscape now, full of smoking craters, partially collapsed trenches, and smashed bunkers. Kevin could hear moans from all around him: “Medic! Medic!”

  Rifles fired from the forward slope of the hill, rising quickly from a few isolated shots to a continuous, crackling roar. The North Korean attack was coming in. He ran down what was left of the communications trench and stumbled into the firing line.

  His troops were up on the edge of the trench firing as fast as they could down the hill. But this time, they were being answered by the harsh rattle of North Korean automatic rifles and heavy weapons. And Kevin could see Americans lying dead or wounded along the trench floor.