Red Phoenix

by Larry Bond

  Most were successful. The AIM-54C Phoenix was designed primarily to kill lumbering bombers, not agile fighters. Its incredibly powerful motor gave it tremendous speed and range, but the motor burned out within seconds after launch. As a result, the missile often lacked the “oompf” needed to follow a highly maneuverable fighter at long range as it climbed.

  Theory only went so far, however, and six pilots weren’t fast enough or lucky enough. They died as missiles slammed home.

  RED DOG LEAD

  “Red Dog Lead, this is Roundup. Splash six bogies.”

  Bouchard shook his head angrily. He’d hoped for more kills from the Phoenixes. There were still thirty-six enemy fighters out there and now they were much closer. He’d have to bring the F-18s into play sooner than he’d wanted to.

  Esteban called from the backseat. “Corky, the rear group is merging with the lead batch. Range now forty-five miles. One thousand knots closure.” The rival groups of fighters were racing toward each other at incredible speed, covering nearly seventeen nautical miles with every passing minute.

  He keyed the mike again, this time calling the Hornet commander ahead of him. “Black Dog Lead, this is Red Dog Lead. Engage the enemy at maximum range.”

  He heard twin clicks as the F-18s signaled that they’d heard and understood him. Behind him, Esteban muttered to himself as he selected new targets for the Tomcat’s four AIM-7M Sparrow missiles. This wasn’t going to be as easy as firing Phoenixes. The Sparrow was a semiactive radar homer. In other words, the missile guided on the radar beam sent out by the plane that launched it. And that meant a plane firing Sparrows had to keep its target “painted” with a radar beam until the missiles hit. All of which required flying straight and comparatively level right into the teeth of the enemy. Esteban had always defined that as a real hard way to earn your flight pay.

  FULCRUM LEAD

  Borodin pulled his Fulcrum alongside the MiG-21 belonging to the North Korean colonel just long enough to give him a thumbs-up signal. Then he dropped back and to the left as the formation spread out, seeking room for the wild evasive maneuvers they would soon have to make. The last transmission from the Mainstay had shown that they were coming into the launch envelope of the Americans’ Sparrow missiles.

  He glanced down quickly at his own radar screen. Nothing. Just a myriad assembly of randomly moving splotches and dots. The American jammer aircraft were really very good. Still, they should soon reach the point at which his Fulcrums’ radars would be strong enough to “burn through” the jamming and lock on to the enemy fighters up ahead. And when that happened, he would have a little present for them — the two AA-7 Apex radar-guided missiles slung under each MiG-29.

  Beep-beep-beep. Shit. The Americans had a lock-on. Borodin looked up from the inside of the cockpit and started scanning the sky in the arcs his radar warning receivers showed the attack would come from.

  RED DOG LEAD

  “Red Dog Lead, this is Black Dog Lead. We show MiG-29s intermingled with the MiG-21s.” The F-18 squadron CO’s calm voice crackled in Bouchard’s ears. MiG-29s! All right, Corky my boy, he thought, you’re gonna be hassling with the primo of the primo today.

  Estenban called from the backseat, “Got ’em. We’ve got lock-ons! Range now thirty miles!”

  Yeah. Bouchard thumbed the firing switch twice and felt the F-14 shudder slightly as two Sparrows dropped out from under the wings and ignited. His eyes followed the bright, white smoke and flame trails as they tore toward the still unseen oncoming MiGs. Other missile trails reached out from his Tomcats and from the Hornets. Happy New Year, Uncle Kim.

  FULCRUM LEAD

  Borodin saw it, slicing down out of the sky right toward him. A tiny speck growing larger and larger through his MiG-29’s canopy. He tensed his stomach muscles and held his course, watching the missile come for him. There were other trails in the sky, but he didn’t care about those. Under this kind of attack, it was every pilot for himself.

  Now! Borodin yanked hard left on his stick and pulled sharply back, throwing his Fulcrum into a tight, climbing high-g turn. He grunted as the g’s hit but kept his head cocked to keep an eye on the American missile through the turn. At the same time he kept his thumb busy on the stick’s decoy dispenser button, popping out bundle after bundle of chaff — clouds of thin strips of metalized Mylar film that would look like an airplane to the enemy radar.

  Yes! Borodin saw the missile trail bend away, following one of his chaff clouds. He craned his neck around and saw the Sparrow explode well behind and below his plane. Then he snapped his head back around, searching rapidly for any more missiles targeted on his Fulcrum. There weren’t any.

  Voices came over the radio. Desperate voices. “Ten, turn right. Right! You’ve got one after you!”

  “I can’t shake it!”

  “Turn harder, you fool!”

  Borodin looked to his right and saw a MiG-29 diving away, afterburner blazing. A billowing white smoke trail suddenly crossed his vision and merged with the fleeing MiG. The Sparrow exploded in a ball of orange-red flame and the frantic voice in his radio stopped.

  He came wings level and looked all around. The sky was crisscrossed with smoke trails and dodging aircraft. He looked down and saw another burning MiG tumbling out of control toward the water. Damnit.

  Borodin counted noses quickly as his squadrons reformed, still heading for the American fighters. They’d lost three MiG-29s and another two MiG-21s. Eleven planes lost without knocking a single American bastard out of the sky.

  He felt a cold rage gripping him and fought it down. Don’t go berserk, Sergei, he told himself, your turn is coming. As if in proof, a box suddenly appeared on his HUD, up and to the right. His radar had at last locked on to an American aircraft! The range was now eighteen miles — inside his AA-7 envelope. Borodin tapped the trigger twice and smiled as his own missiles flared off toward the enemy. Now they would hit back and hit hard. Other Fulcrums were launching as well.

  RED DOG LEAD

  “Oh, shit!” Bouchard spun the Tomcat up and away as an Apex streaked past and started turning after him. “Do something, Mike!”

  “Doing it!” Esteban was already busy punching out a stream of chaff to confuse the incoming Russian-made missile.

  Bouchard tightened his turn and saw his airspeed bleeding away. Crap, they might dodge this missile, but they’d be dangerously slow if another one came after them. He went to afterburner.

  Other Tomcats and Hornets were busy dodging, too, spiraling away from the radar missiles launched by the MiG-29s. Esteban had his head craned practically all the way round, watching the Apex turning after them. “It’s still coming, Corky!”

  Fuck this. Bouchard rolled back out of his right turn to the left and pulled up even more sharply. The missile lost track of the F-14 and veered off into nowhere.

  Two Tomcats and an F-18 weren’t so fortunate and fell into the ocean wreathed in flames. The score was evening out. Now there were nineteen American fighters left to tangle with the thirty-one NK planes closing on them. The Hornets reduced speed to let the F-14s catch up. They would go in together.

  FULCRUM LEAD

  Eight miles. Borodin throttled back slightly. They would be in IR missile range shortly, and he didn’t want to have too big a heat signature when the missiles started flying. He glanced back behind him and made sure that Moskvin, his wingman, was still in position. Satisfied, he brought his eyes back to the MiG-29’s HUD, searching the box his radar had placed around the closest American plane. Six miles.

  Ah. Borodin’s mouth tightened as the enemy fighter came into view, rushing toward him at over five hundred knots. Twin tails, swept-back swing wings. An F-14! It would be his fifth confirmed kill. He slid his thumb over to the switch that would fire an AA-11 Archer right into the Tomcat’s face.

  Three miles. The missile warbled in his earphones. Its seeker head had found the enemy and was tracking. He fired and saw a similar streak of flame pop out from under the F-14�
��s starboard wing.

  RED DOG LEAD

  “God!” Bouchard couldn’t believe it. The MiG-29 had fired an IR missile at him from the front and it was guiding on him. Where’d these bastards get those things? He pulled hard left, grunting as his weight quintupled in seconds, trying to follow the MiG and line up for a shot while Esteban popped flares to decoy away the enemy missile. It swung away and exploded one hundred yards behind the turning Tomcat. Bouchard felt the shock wave ripple through the F-14 and ignored it as he fought to bring the plane around on the MiG’s tail.

  C’mon round, baby. C’mon round. Almost. Bouchard’s thumb reached for the firing button.

  “Left!” Esteban’s frantic shout brought his head around as orange-white tracers sprayed across the Tomcat’s flight path. He jerked the stick hard left, turning toward the new threat. There. A gray-white camouflaged MiG flashed past and rolled away. He’d lost the first MiG somewhere in the sun. Jesus, this was turning into a mess.

  THE FURBALL, OVER THE YELLOW SEA

  Jets were all over the sky, turning, diving, climbing, weaving, and falling in flames. The air battle between the MiGs and the American fighters had turned into a constantly changing series of deadly, short-range duels. Move and countermove. Shot and return shot. At such close range the North Korean and Soviet edge in numbers more than made up for their slightly inferior aircraft and weapons.

  An F-14 blundered into the path of an AA-11 and blew up, throwing pieces of itself in an arc hundreds of yards across. Seconds later an F-18 avenged its counterpart with a quick cannon burst into the belly of a rolling MiG-21. A second MiG soon fell prey to a Tomcat-launched Sidewinder, and another nine lima tore the wings off a scissoring Fulcrum.

  The edge shifted back quickly, though, as a Soviet-piloted MiG-29 turned inside an F-18 and got off a high deflection shot that shredded the Hornet’s cockpit and sent it spiraling down into the sea.

  As the air battle continued, more planes on both sides tumbled away on fire or simply blew up. Losses, fuel consumption, and missile and cannon ammo expenditure were all appalling. But the American F-14s and F-18s were doing their job. They were keeping the MiGs fully engaged, protecting the heavily laden strike aircraft now approaching the Korean coast.

  DUSTER LEAD, OVER THE SOUTH KOREAN COASTLINE

  Commander John “Smokey” Piper, USN, glanced down out the cockpit of his A-6E Intruder as it crossed the coast, six thousand feet above the spray-marked merger of slate-gray seas and white, snow-covered land. He clicked his mike and said, “Duster is feet dry.” His message confirmed to the carriers at sea and the E-2C aloft that the strike planes were over land and just fifteen miles away from their targets.

  Piper looked ahead into a maelstrom of white, gray, and black smoke puffs dotting the sky as North Korean antiaircraft guns sought out the incoming strike. He saw hundreds of tiny flashes on the ground and watched an F-18 pull up and away from its bursting cluster bombs. Another far off to the right fired a HARM missile toward some unseen, but still-operating radar site. The missile ignited on the rail, then seemed to disappear as it flew forward and climbed. It would dive on its victim from high altitude. The Iron Hand flak suppressors had their hands full on this one.

  Voices over the radio told their own story.

  “Strawman, this is Comanche. You’ve got a SAM launch in your six, break left now! I’ll hit the site.”

  “Breaking! Can you see any others?”

  “Nega… SAM! SAM! Five o’clock low. Keep breaking left!”

  Piper heard the second pilot’s voice quavering under the heavy g’s he was pulling. “Can’t shake it! Can’t — ”

  There it was. A flash low on the horizon, followed by a searing orange ball of flame as the American plane slammed into the ground at over five hundred knots.

  “Pirate, this is Comanche. Strawman’s down. No chute.”

  “Affirmative, Comanche. Watch the Triple-A on that hill to the left. I’m rolling in on it now.”

  A new INS prompt came up on Piper’s HUD, and he turned his attention away from the radio. They were within seconds of starting their attack run. He glanced across the Intruder’s crowded cockpit and his eyes met those of his bombardier, Lieutenant Commander Mitch “Priest” Parrish. Parrish lifted his oxygen mask for a moment and grinned at him. Then the bombardier bent forward again to stare at the A-6’s radar screen, while one hand stayed busy configuring the attack computer for their run.

  Piper checked to make sure his wingman was still in position just aft and to the right. “Orca” Jones would stay there through the whole attack to watch for SAMs or unexpected flak positions.

  He pulled the Intruder into a gentle left turn, aware that behind him nineteen other pairs of A-6s and A-7s were arcing around to come in on the target area from all points of the compass. The “wagon wheel” attack had worked well for the Navy over Vietnam. Now they’d see how well it did over Korea.

  Piper started searching the rolling hills and open rice paddies ahead for signs of the truck-mounted pontoon bridges and GSP amphibious ferries they’d come to destroy.

  II CORPS FORWARD HQ, NEAR THE HAN RIVER, SOUTH KOREA

  Lieutenant General Chyong crouched lower in his slit trench as an American attack plane roared low overhead, streaming flares behind it. Another followed seconds later. He cursed when he saw that they were aimed straight for a small stand of trees occupied by some of his precious bridging units.

  The lead American plane climbed sharply and then banked away, flinging a pair of bombs off its racks. Both flew straight into the woods and exploded. The second aircraft began its turn away and then shuddered as shells from a nearby ZSU-23-4 battery found the mark at last, though too late to save their engineer comrades in the woods.

  The wounded American jet flew on for several seconds with heavy, black smoke pouring out of its belly, then rolled over onto its back and nose-dived into a hill. Its companion accelerated away, chased futilely by several shoulder-launched SAMs.

  Chyong rose from his crouch, staring at the bomb-splintered woods. Four more of his invaluable PMP bridge sections had been destroyed. How many more had fallen prey to the gray-painted American jets crisscrossing his operations area?

  He started to climb out of the trench to find out, but an aide knocked him down as another American plane suddenly appeared out of a small valley to the left and turned toward them. Chyong and the young captain clung to the bottom of the trench while the jet’s cannon roared, smashing a camouflaged radio van parked less than fifty meters away.

  Then, as quickly as it had come, the plane disappeared. And as Chyong’s hearing came back to normal, he was conscious first of the fading sound of jet engines from the west and then of the crackling flames consuming his bridges. The American air raid was over.

  DUSTER LEAD OVER THE YELLOW SEA

  Piper keyed his mike. “Duster is feet wet.”

  Then he scanned the air around his Intruder, counting noses as the strike planes, Iron Hands, and flak suppressors reformed for the flight back to the carriers. Five were gone, counting Orca Jones, and another seven trailed smoke, showing that they’d been hit by North Korean guns or SAMs.

  Piper was shocked by their losses. Seven of Corky Bouchard’s defending fighters had also been splashed, and several others had been recovered on board either Nimitz or Constellation in a near-crippled condition. His A-6s and A-7s had hit their assigned targets, hit them real hard in fact. But the results were Pyrrhic to say the least. With twelve aircraft downed and an unknown number of others permanently wrecked, the two carrier air wings operating off Korea were going to be mighty fragile instruments of war until they got replacements.

  He glanced across the cockpit and saw that Parrish had at last pulled his face away from the radar screen. The bombardier’s eyes were closed, and he had his left hand tightly wrapped around the small, gold crucifix he always wore round his neck. Piper quickly returned his eyes to his instruments. He could pray later. Right now, he had to get this
bird back on the deck.

  II CORPS FORWARD HQ

  Chyong moved out of earshot of the field hospital where medics were working on the badly wounded.

  “Well? What do you have to report, Colonel?”

  The engineer’s face was grim. Many of those screaming under the doctors’ knives were his own men. “The Americans have wrecked more than half of my pontoons and nearly half of my amphibious ferries. With what I’ve got left, I can’t support both crossing operations you have planned.”

  “What about the spares back with our second echelon?”

  The engineer shook his shaved head. “I’m sorry, Comrade General. If you could postpone the attack for another day, we could have them in place, but not otherwise.”

  Chyong considered that, but only for a moment. Cho’s words had made it clear that further delays wouldn’t be tolerated by Pyongyang. So he would have to gamble. He’d wanted to launch both a primary and an alternate attack across the Han in order to divide the enemy’s attention and defenses. It had been a good plan, but happenstance, as always in war, dictated a change in plans. So be it.

  He stared at the engineer. “Do you have enough equipment to support a single-crossing operation?”

  The man nodded cautiously.

  “Very well, then. We’ll attack tonight. As scheduled. Make sure your bridges and your men are ready. I’ll want heavy tanks crossing the river by first light.”

  “And the storm, Comrade General?”

  Chyong studied the sky. Heavy, dark clouds were rolling in from the north and the wind was rising again. Small flecks of snow were starting to fall, with more said to be on the way. He turned back to face the engineer. “The weather will be the same on both sides of the Han, Colonel. We attack as planned.”