Carrier c-1

by Keith Douglass

"You get dirt in my receiver and you'n me are gonna have words," Kohl added, but his grin robbed the threat of its sting. "Let's get down there ASAP."

  "Right with you."

  Their progress was painfully slow. Kohl led the way, his Mark 22 drawn, his night goggles down over his eyes as he picked out a relatively clear path down the slope. Coyote did not have goggles, but by now he could see well enough by the gasoline-fueled blaze which was roaring in Nyongch'on. Halfway down the hill, loose rocks slid from beneath Coyote's good foot and he hit the ground with a thump that brought tears to his eyes, so sharp was the pain from his wound.

  "You okay, guy?"

  Coyote gasped down a deep breath. "Yeah. You go ahead."

  "Okay, but don't get lost. I'd hate to have to explain how I mislaid you."

  The SEAL vanished into the darkness down the slope as Coyote struggled to his feet again. How had he made it this far before? Finding a relatively flat spot next to an outcropping of rocks, he paused to catch his breath.

  He heard a thrashing noise in the brush to his left. At first he assumed it was Kohl, but then he realized that, so far, he'd not heard any of the SEALs make a single unnecessary sound. Someone was running through the brush, heading his way.

  Coyote froze. He didn't have a radio, and to shout warning would be to broadcast his location to every Korean soldier in range. In his hands, his cane became a rifle once more as he let himself sink to the ground. Where was Kohl? The SEAL had vanished into the darkness just ahead.

  "Nuku'simnikka?" a harsh voice challenged. Coyote heard the harsh chuff-chuff of Kohl's hush puppy firing twice, followed by a piercing scream. Then the night came alive with the roar of unsuppressed autofire.

  He saw a tongue of flame exploding from the darkness to the left, spraying wildly back and forth as an unseen Korean soldier sprayed the night. Coyote raised Kohl's G3 rifle, thumbed off the safety, and fired at where he thought the soldier must be, behind the lashing flame, and high.

  In his haste, he'd thumbed the selector to full-auto, but the suppressor on the barrel muted the roar and muffled the flash.

  Then there was silence.

  Cautiously, Coyote limped forward, probing the darkness with the muzzle of the rifle. Ten feet away he found a North Korean soldier, sprawled on his back with a line of bloody holes stitched from left hip to right shoulder. He was very dead.

  Not much farther down the slope he found two more bodies, another dead Korean and Kohl, both torn by rounds from the first Korean's AK. Coyote guessed that Kohl had wounded one KorCom with the hush puppy, and that the second man had killed them both with his indiscriminate hosing of the underbrush. Both Koreans, he decided, had been fleeing the massacre in the Nyongch'on camp.

  He went back to Kohl and sat down heavily. His leg, he noticed, was no longer hurting as badly. Adrenaline ― or shock ― had numbed it once again.

  Coyote found himself thinking back to a small eternity ago riding the heavy swell of the Sea of Japan, holding Mardi Gras's body in his arms. Once again, death had brushed close. He'd not known those three sailors murdered in the camp, but he'd been talking with Kohl, joking with him only moments ago.

  He felt contaminated, as though Death itself had marked him. The people he got close to tended to die suddenly. There seemed to be no point in going on.

  0425 hours

  On the Anbyon Road

  Captain Sun Dae-Jung ducked down inside the hatch of his ZSU and took the headset from the vehicle's gunner. He held it to his ear. "Cho Sun imnida!" He had to shout to be heard over the roar of the engine. "This is Sun!"

  "This is Major Nung, Wonsan Defense Force. What is your position, Captain?"

  Sun did a fast estimate. "Sector four-seven! Anbyon Road, three miles south of the coast highway! Coming up on Nyongch'on!"

  "Excellent, Captain. I want you to deploy along the ridge, immediately."

  Sun felt excitement thrill within. "Is it another air raid, Major?"

  "We have reports of enemy helicopters in your area."

  Helicopters! Those slow, thin-skinned aircraft would be no match at all for the quad 23s of his command.

  "We believe the enemy has been homing on our radar emissions, Captain," the major continued. "Use your radar sparingly."

  "Understood, Comrade Major." Sun had interviewed Libyan officers who had lived through the American attacks on their country in 1986. He knew what HARMs could do. "We are deploying now."

  "The Fatherland is counting on you, Captain. Our intelligence believes the object of the Yankee raid may be the release of American criminals being held at Nyongch'on-kiji. If so, those helicopters could be headed for your position."

  "And we will be ready!"

  The lumbering tracked ZSUs spread out along the roadside, maintaining the approved two-hundred-meter interval between each vehicle. Minutes later, Sun ordered the turret-mounted B-76 radar to be switched on for a quick scan toward the north.

  ZSUs carried a four-man crew: commander, radar operator, gunner, and driver. The driver was sealed into his own compartment in the chassis, but the other three occupied the fairly roomy turret. "Four targets, Comrade Captain!" the radar operator reported. "Bearing zero-three-five, range twelve thousand!"

  It took only a moment more to confirm that the targets were approaching, flying at low altitude and low speed. With a smile, Sun ordered the radar switched off.

  His prey was only minutes away now.

  CHAPTER 25

  0427 hours

  Outside the Nyongch'on camp

  Coyote wasn't certain how long he'd been lying on the hillside above Nyongch'on, but it was the sound of heavy equipment, like tractors, which stirred him. The illumination from the fires in the North Korean base was fading; he could see lights in the direction of the road which passed Nyongch'on through the saddle in the ridge off to the west, on the far side of the base, but he could not make out what they were.

  Overcoming the emotional paralysis which gripped him, he made his way back to Kohl's body. The SEAL's night-vision goggles were smashed ― one round had struck them squarely between the twin optic tubes and gone on to smash his skull ― but the heavy rifle scope was still in its case, slung from his black web gear. He extracted the M938 starlight scope, found the switch to turn it on, and held it to his eye.

  He recognized the squat, boxy shape of the ZSU at once: the broad turret which covered most of the full-tracked chassis; the outsized radar mount behind the commander's hatch; the four 23-mm rapid-fire cannons angled skyward. Those guns each fired at a rate of nine hundred rounds per minute, faster than most machine guns; in combat, the quad mount could spew out sixty explosive rounds every second, which made it rapid-fire death for anything slower than a supersonic interceptor. The fire control radar could pick up bogies twelve miles out, could lock on and track at a range of five miles, could knock thin-skinned targets out of the sky from almost two miles away.

  And this monster was squatting just outside the gate to the camp, less than five hundred yards from Nyongch'on's airstrip, engine idling. Through the starlight scope's optics he could make out the commander, peering through binoculars toward the northeast.

  Coyote scanned along the road with the sight. There was a second ZSU parked two hundred yards behind the first… a third two hundred yards beyond that. Other vehicles were hidden by a bend in the road and steep-sloped terrain, but it was fair to assume there were at least four of the deadly antiaircraft vehicles, perhaps more.

  And Cavalry One's helicopters could not be more than a few minutes away.

  Galvanized by the realization that the helos were flying into a trap, Coyote scrambled for the pack on Kohl's body. The radio unit was the latest in electronic communications technology, a twenty-kilo man-portable base station which could serve at a TAC COM set in the field, or establish long-range communications through the folding dish and a geosynchronous communications satellite.

  The problem was who to call. He knew he could reach the SEALs in Nyongch'on,
but there was little they could do at the moment. They'd have their hands full with Chimera's crew and North Korean survivors without having to take on KorCom armor as well. The satellite dish would give him a direct line to the Jefferson at her station somewhere over the horizon, but Coyote didn't know how to acquire the satellite ― an invisible point somewhere in the southern sky ― and he didn't know the codes which would let him get a message through. Without the proper electronic passwords, the computers which switched and operated the system would assume he was enemy jamming and block him out. He didn't know the channel being used by Cavalry One… and had no way of making them believe anything he had to say. The SEALs in the camp would know the right codes, would even know how to reach Cavalry One, but there wasn't time to get their help. Already Coyote thought he could hear the faint throb of helicopters in the distance; if that was Cavalry One, the Marine reinforcements had only minutes now, possibly seconds.

  But there would be tactical air cover up, possibly from Coyote's own squadron. He knew the radio frequencies they'd be on… and chances were they'd be in line of sight and therefore within range of his UHF transmitter. At the very least, his signal might be picked up by a Hawkeye circling somewhere out at sea and patched through to where it would do some good.

  By the faint illumination of the fires dying in the camp, Coyote switched on the radio and began checking channels. He wasn't sure where the set's tuning range would overlap that used by the aircraft. He heard nothing on the first channel he tried or the second. Combat frequencies were changed frequently as a matter of course to avoid enemy jamming or eavesdropping.

  He decided to try the SAR frequency. "Mayday! Mayday! This is Bushmaster with urgent message for anyone on this frequency! Please respond! Mayday, mayday, this is Bushmaster! Any station, come in, please! This is an emergency!"

  The response was silence, but Coyote kept trying. After an endless moment, he heard a faint voice over the headset. "Bushmaster, this is Hawkeye Tango Two-one. What is the nature of your emergency, over?"

  Coyote felt a warm thrill, an irrational surge of hope. "Tango Two-one, this is Bushmaster! I need a line to whoever is flying CAP for Cavalry One!"

  The static-crackling silence told him his message was being considered. His initial elation was dampened somewhat by the knowledge that the Hawkeye crew would not take what e said at face value. They might think that Coyote was an English-speaking Korean, one who had picked up the appropriate call signs by eavesdropping and was using them now to trick the Americans.

  "Bushmaster, Tango Two-one," the voice replied after what seemed like years. "We cannot comply without authentication codes. Can you authenticate, over?"

  Oh, God. "Tango Two-one! This is Lieutenant Willis Grant, VF-95, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson! I was shot down four days ago and taken prisoner, but I was rescued by the SEAL team called Bushmaster! The SEALs have the codes you want, but they're not available right now! Do you hear me? I can't give you the codes!"

  "Bushmaster, Tango Two-one. Wait one while we confirm, over."

  The silence dragged on and on. Coyote could definitely hear the sound of helicopters in the distance. He held the starlight scope to his eye once more, and saw the turrets of the visible ZSUs swinging around, bringing the guns to bear on the approaching sound. They would probably hold their radar until the last possible second, to avoid alerting their prey.

  Maybe he should have tried to talk to the SEALs first, to get the proper codes and call signs from them.

  "Bushmaster, Tango Two-one," the emotionless voice said after an eternity of waiting. "Can you tell us your wife's maiden name?"

  "Wilson!" he screamed into the handset. "Her maiden name was Julie Wilson!"

  The thaw in the Hawkeye radio operator's voice was immediate. "Good to hear from you, Lieutenant. Maybe we won't have to file that AWOL report on you after all."

  "Never mind that!" Coyote was frantic with the need to hurry. "Patch me through to Cavalry One CAP! I'm looking at three ZSUs sitting right where the helos are coming in any minute! For God's sake, hurry!"

  "Bushmaster, switch to three-three-eight-point-eight. Squadron call sign 'Shotgun.'"

  "Copy, Two-one! Switching to three-three-eight-point-eight. And thanks!"

  He punched in the new numbers on the digital display and immediately heard the terse crackle of fighter pilot conversation. "Shotgun Three, Shotgun Leader. Come to one-eight-zero, angels twelve, on my mark-"

  "Breaker, breaker! Shotgun, this is Bushmaster! Emergency! I have three Zulu Sierra Uniforms parked on the road next to Cavalry One LZ. I say again, three ZSUs and the choppers are inbound!"

  There was a stunned pause. Then, "Who the hell was that?" The voice sounded like Price Taggart's.

  "Price! It's me, Coyote!"

  "Coyote!" That voice was Tombstone's, sharp and unmistakable. "Coyote, you bastard, if that's you…! What's the name of the girl who chose the worst man?"

  "Julie Wilson, you son of a bitch! Now get your ass in here and give us a hand before I shoot you down myself!"

  0431 hours

  Tomcat 205, over Nyongch'on

  The sound of Coyote's voice over the radio caught Tombstone completely by surprise, but he managed to control the surge of excitement he felt. "Roger that," he said, his voice all business now. "What's your situation?"

  Coyote filled Tombstone in, giving him the landmarks he needed to locate the ZSUs on a map of the op area clipped to his thigh pad. At least three antiaircraft vehicles were strung out along the north-south road directly adjacent to the Nyongch'on LZ. Tombstone didn't know if their position was calculated or accident, but they could not have chosen a better site from which to ambush Cavalry One.

  "Copy, Coyote," he said at last. "Hold one."

  "I've got Cavalry One's channel," Snowball said over the ICS, anticipating Tombstone's order. "You're on."

  "Cavalry One, Cavalry One," Tombstone said. He had his F-14 in a steep inverted dive now as he dropped toward the invisible North Korean mountains. "This is Shotgun Leader. Wave off on your Lima Zulu. Repeat, wave off…"

  0432 hours

  On the Anbyon Road

  "Radar!" Captain Sun snapped from the open turret. "Nearest target!"

  "Target bearing zero-three-four!" the radar operator replied. "Elevation fifteen, range six-five-zero-zero! Comrade Captain, They are changing course!"

  Sun smashed his gloved fist down on the turret deck. Ai chain! Close enough for a radar lock, but too far for a hit. The Americans must have picked up his radar emissions and guessed he was waiting for them!

  "Very well," Sun said. "We will wait!" If the Yankees were trying to rescue the criminals at Nyongch'on, his ZSUs were perfectly positioned. He considered sending his vehicle into the camp. On the road he was vulnerable to enemy air strikes. Inside the camp, though, they wouldn't dare attack him.

  "Comrade Captain!" the radar operator shouted. "New targets, high speed, inbound at twelve thousand meters!"

  "Shut down!"

  "Yes, Comrade Captain!"

  "Radio the others! We will enter Nyongch'on-kiji!"

  The driver gunned the engine and the ZSU swung off the road, heading east.

  0433 hours

  Tomcat 205

  Tombstone pulled out of his dive at two hundred feet and rocketed south, following the road which climbed sharply toward the gap in the mountains. He eased back on his stick, bleeding off airspeed until his wings extended in the max-lift, minimum-speed configuration. For once, he needed to go slow; ground targets simply couldn't be seen at Mach 1. "Desperado Leader, this is Shotgun Leader! Do you copy?"

  "This is the Triple Nickle, Shotgun," Jolly's voice replied. "What can we do for you?"

  "We have ground targets in Sector Hotel niner-seven. Multiple Zulu Sierra Uniform, two-three mike-mike quads!"

  "Roger that, Shotgun. Descending."

  "Skipper!" Snowball cut in. "I had something there for a moment, but it's gone."

  "Keep looking!"

&nb
sp; The ZSUs were playing it cagey. Their radars, code-named "Gun Dish" by NATO, were difficult to pick up at the best of times, and it would be worse here with the clutter of rugged terrain and buildings. If the ZSUs' commander was using his radar only intermittently, it would be impossible to lock on with anti-radar missiles.

  And an area attack with bombs would be risky because of the proximity of the SEALs and POWs at Nyongch'on.

  "Cavalry One reports they are holding four miles northeast of the LZ."

  "Right." He reopened the channel. "Desperado, this is Shotgun. Follow us in."

  "We're right behind you, Shotgun. Three Desperados, range four miles."

  The ridge heaved skyward just ahead, outlined by patches of fire to one side. That would be the base. Tombstone could just make out the shape of the road rising beneath the F-14's nose. His thumb nudged the weapons selector switch on his stick, and the glowing reticle for his cannon floated on his HUD.

  Tomcats were not really built for strafing runs, but the only other weapons he carried were air-to-air missiles, and there was no way to effectively lock them on a ground target. All he could do was open fire with his Vulcan cannon and hope for a lucky hit. Sharp in his mind was the knowledge that Nyongch'on camp lay only a few hundred meters east of the road. If he got the deflection wrong, he could pump six thousand rounds per minute into the SEALs and the rescued prisoners.

  There was no time to think of any of this. He saw a squat something moving off the road ahead and squeezed the trigger. The thunderous hammer of the Vulcan Gatling gun filled the Tomcat's cockpit.

  0433 hours

  On the Anbyon Road

  Captain Sun heard the roar of the jet an instant before he saw it, a pale gray, cruciform shape against the night sky. Then the aircraft was gone, trailing thunder.

  He could hear the rattle of an automatic thunder above the engine noise, the sound of explosive rounds striking the road a few hundred meters behind him.

  "Driver! Come left!"

  The ZSU wallowed across a ditch at the side of the road, then slewed around, turret traversing. It was too late to fire at the lead jet, but there would be others.