WW III wi-1

by Ian Slater

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  General Kim, his divisional headquarters now moved to Seoul, was pleased when Major Rhee, the interrogation officer from Uijongbu, brought him the names of the KCIA’s counterespionage chiefs in Taegu and Pusan, which he had gotten from Tae. But most important of all, Rhee brought a summons from Pyongyang for a personal conference between Kim and the NKA’s “dear and respected leader.”

  The problem was that some ROK “bandits” had managed to cut communications between Kim’s divisional headquarters and Pyongyang, since the major had arrived, by blowing up one of the microwave relay discs on one of the hills leading down the Uijongbu corridor. This would soon be remedied, of course, but Kim was in a quandary. He had been summoned to Pyongyang, and it was essential, he told the major, that “our great and respected leader” be apprised of the situation — in particular the rapid rate of advance.

  “If Pyongyang does not hear from us, they will be concerned that our advance has been halted. It is necessary that they hear firsthand that all is proceeding as planned.” Kim did not tell Major Rhee his secret hope — that whenever he returned to Pyongyang, he would not only be greeted as a national hero, even greater perhaps than Admiral Yi, but he would also receive from the leader himself the coveted Kim II Sung medal for valor.

  “I will unleash the final assault on Pusan in forty-eight hours,” he informed Rhee. “By then all supplies will be in place. It is essential I be here. However, I would also like to explain to the leader himself how Taegu will be completely overrun, from where we will move quickly to crush Pusan.”

  Kim put another Sobrainie into the bone cigarette holder. “When Pusan has fallen,” he told the major, “then you will have some mopping up to do. As it has developed, the names of the counterinsurgency chiefs may pose no more man an academic question after all, for I foresee a massive American surrender. There will be great honor for the Fourth Division.”

  Major Rhee said nothing. He was sure of the military victory to come, but under no circumstances would he be drawn into advising the general on whether or not he should go to Pyongyang. Not to go would be to disappoint their leader. It would only take a day there and back, but then again, Kim should be at divisional headquarters when the final drive for Pusan began.

  It was a difficult question.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  The trawlers had done more damage than Admiral Woodall or anyone else had realized, as before laying the signature mines in the way of the approaching convoy, the trawlers had sown a line of pressure and magnetic mines behind them.

  These mines didn’t stop R-1 but caused a great deal of confusion as Woodall, after losing another merchantman, retraced his course, trying to find a gate in what seemed a moat of mines. Four attempts and eighteen hours later, with three more ships, including a destroyer, sunk by the mines, Woodall decided the only way out was to form a long line and “plow ahead” as would a line of soldiers walking through a minefield, following the lead ship, as it were, conscious that if they kept to the same path, the risk of being blown up by a mine would be minimized and that sooner or later the minefield must peter out.

  The Dutch glass/plastic minesweeper led the file, but its magnetic anomaly detectors, powerful enough to detect the positions of the magnetic mines, were unable to protect against the pressure type, which reacted to changes in water pressure caused by the heavier merchantmen passing over.

  Soon the minefield, designed by the technical experts of the Soviet Northern Fleet merely to delay a convoy long enough for their subs to break out through the Greenland-Iceland Gap, ended up destroying almost a third of R-1, including half of the twenty fifteen-thousand-ton container cargo ships.

  By the time R-1 was well out of the mined area, they were still thirteen hundred miles north of Newfoundland’s Cape Race, Soviet Hunter/Killers closing two hundred miles west of the convoy. At the same time, American relief ships and subs were 250 miles to the south of the convoy, heading toward it to take over escort duties for the remaining half of the convoy’s journey to Halifax. One of the subs that was heading north but not assigned escort duties was the USS Roosevelt.

  * * *

  Robert Brentwood was bringing his sub up from a thousand feet to trail his VLF antennae for a “burst message” which, lasting only milliseconds, was designed for a position verification for SACLANT and also for passing on any new instructions to the submarine. Around the raised periscope island in the combat control center, the highly polished brass rail was a ruby sheen, the sub rigged for red.

  Brentwood listened carefully to the depth readout from the planesman. “Three hundred feet…two fifty…two hundred… one hundred. Steady at one hundred.” The sub’s props were now stilled, the Roosevelt suspended a hundred feet below the surface.

  “Very well,” said Brentwood. “Stand by to extend VLF.”

  “Standing by with VLF, sir.”

  “Extend three hundred.”

  “Extending three hundred, sir. Ten — twenty — thirty — forty—”

  Brentwood was watching the sonar blips from the Roosevelt’s built-in hydrophones; the noise of the oil-smooth VLF aerial extending out from behind the sub was audible to the hydrophones, but the operator was classifying it as “soft,” meaning there was only low risk of enemy subs picking it up unless they were closer in than fifty miles, which Robert Brentwood figured he should know about, the Roosevelt having dragged its towed array less than an hour before. Even so, the sheathing on the Russian Mike-class was extraordinarily good at dampening prop noise.

  “VLF at three hundred, sir.”

  The VLF would stay out for five minutes exactly, during which the millisecond burst should be received, updating instructions.

  Five minutes later the VLF automatic override began winding in the aerial. Six minutes later, the OOD reported, “VLF in.”

  It was not unknown for a sub not to receive its VLF burst during the prearranged time slots, but it had never happened aboard the Roosevelt. Four misses and the sub captains had been ordered, contrary to persistent and vigorous denial by both the administration and the Pentagon, to use their initiative. After the fourth miss or, “Zippo,” as the no-burst was known, the captains of American subs entered into the world of TKI or two-key initiative. This meant the captain could, upon “reasonable and repeated confirmations,” take it as given that the United States of America was under nuclear attack — HQ unable to transmit.

  In such a situation the sub commander was free to fire his nuclear missiles at predesignated targets or at his discretion.

  In the case of the ten-thousand-ton Sea Wolf II, it would involve firing nuclear-tipped Cruise missiles from torpedo tubes, and the six Trident ballistic missiles in two rows of three aft of the sail. The killer word was “reasonable.” What was reasonable if you couldn’t get confirmation? It was a lawyer’s delight. The reason for no message being received, of course, could be that there was some malfunction in one of the huge and elaborate VLF signaling and relay aerials on the East and West Coasts of the United States, the other aerial “farm” for the Roosevelt and the other subs in the Atlantic Fleet being in Wisconsin. But Washington knew this and allowed for four attempts at ten-hour intervals — ample time, it was thought, to work out any problems on the aerial farms. If these could not be worked out, however, after twenty hours, TACAMOs—”take charge and move out” signal planes — would be ordered to fly over and beam down the bursts at the prearranged times.

  “What happens if we’re out of TACAMOs?” an off-duty submariner asked his friend. “Then where are we?”

  In the control center Brentwood ordered the diving planes-man to take her to one thousand, and turning to the OOD, instructed him to resume patrol. There was no point in making any comment about not receiving a message. The thing was to not make a big deal of it among the crew, start them worrying unnecessarily. During the resume patrol mode, the rules of operation were as carefully spelled out as any other mode, including an informal one that said
if any member of the crew made a noise above detectable decibel level, the old man would personally stuff him into one of the eight forward torpedo tubes and blow him out to the sharks.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  In the Sea of Japan, aboard the U.S. carrier Salt Lake City, there was a half hour to go, pilots advised there would be a briefing in ten minutes. Fisher, Frank Shirer’s radar interference officer, knocked and came into Shirer’s cabin. “Scuttlebutt from ‘Prifly’ says we might have to go north of the parallel for a while. MiG Alley.”

  “Haven’t heard,” said Shirer. He tore half a dozen tissues from the Kleenex box, forming them into a cuplike shape, which he put in a small plastic Baggie, reached into his underpants, put the cupped Kleenex over his penis, then reached for his gravity suit.

  “I’ll bet they want us to hit some of the bridges over the Han,” said the navigator.

  “Maybe,” said Shirer. “You might get an OET bonus.”

  “Over enemy territory? Hell, the whole of Korea’s enemy territory. Just about.”

  “Only kidding,” said Shirer, slipping on the G-suit. “You’ll get a thank-you from the old man and a cup of coffee. No bonuses.”

  “Yeah,” said the RIO. “Y’know, this friggin’ G-suit of mine is too damned tight.”

  “Supposed to be. Stop the—”

  “The blood from pooling,” the RIO cut in. “I know. I think it’s worth shit. Just a goddamned girdle.”

  “Ever been up without one?” asked Shirer.

  “Yeah,” said the RIO.

  Shirer looked across at him, surprised. “The hell you have.”

  “I have. Pan Am flight out to the coast.”

  “Stupid bastard.” Shirer grinned, the RIO playfully punching die other’s shoulder patch: “Salt Lake City’s Shooting Stars.”

  * * *

  The sun, a red ball that had burned off low cloud, cast long shadows along the flight deck. Three “moles” from the most recent AWAC to land were being led like a column of blind men, their polarized visors down, each man’s arm on the man’s in front of him as a member of the flight deck crew led them through the hectic, noise-filled activity of prelaunch, the three moles’ eyesight not yet adjusted to any kind of daylight after spending four to six hours straight in the windowless twilight in the rear of the AWAC.

  In the ready room the monitors were giving all pilots the good news that the Soviet Fleet was not proceeding farther south, intelligence reports indicating all available jets were being thrown into the European theater. The bad news was, a front was moving south into the Sea of Japan and was bringing more low stratus, reducing visibility again and even possibly interfering with some of the infrared systems because of” 100 percent” moisture.

  “There will be three predawn attacks,” said the briefing officer: “Two companies of helo-ferried Second Airborne at Taegu, and two at Taejon preceded by Hawkeyes with fighter cover. I’ll get to the third target in a few minutes. First, targets one and two.” He called up the computer image of the 180-mile-wide, 200-mile-long peninsula. “Phantoms will be riding shotgun for Taegu, and Taejon troop choppers will be preceded by Apache attack helos and Huey gunships from the helo carrier Iwo Jima north of us. They’ll be laying eggs,” by which the briefing officer meant laying mines around the landing zones.

  “Remember the chain guns on the gunship helos are mounted left, so they’ll be going in counterclockwise when they start their attack. By then, of course, it will have hit the fan and the MiGs’ll come in, trying to chop them up. It’s your job to break up the MiG attack and take out as many as you can.”

  “All right!” said Fisher.

  “First wave of airborne will go in via Iwo Jima’s Super Stallion helos — thirty-five men apiece. Ten helos to secure the airstrip’s perimeter, and then the Hercules out of Japan will land if possible. They’re checking satellite photos now — if they can’t do that, cargo will be palletized. Just so you know what’s going on.” It meant that if the airstrip was secured by the troops, the 155-millimeter howitzers, strapped tightly to wooden and metal frames, would slide out over the rear ramp of the big aircraft as they thundered in at less than a hundred feet above the ground, the equipment-filled pallets of guns, ammunition, and other supplies braked by the simultaneous deployment behind the pallet of three drag chutes.

  “If the Iwo Jima can spare them, it will also launch a dozen vertical-takeoff Harriers to act as gun platforms in case Charlie starts bringing up artillery around the airfields.”

  “Sir, wouldn’t they already have the strips zeroed in?”

  “Not from the intelligence photos we have. It would appear they’re racing like hell to the south for a final push against Pusan and that they’ve decided to put all the heavy guns down there to open up a gap through the perimeter. Hopefully we’ll be able to take them by surprise. The distances aren’t that long, nothing further than about a hundred and forty miles in. If we can secure one of those two airfields for a few days to fly more of our boys in, we can buy time for the guys trapped in that jammed perimeter and hopefully segment their supply line. That’s what it’s all about.”

  The briefing officer took a sip of water. “Also, we’ve received news that we’ve got nine B-52s at Guam patched up and ready to go in about a week. Ground crews down there have been doing an outstanding job getting them ready. If we can buy our guys a few extra days in that perimeter, pretty soon the B-52s will be able to pound the shit out of the gooks’ supply line. Whatever happens, we can’t let them push our guys into the sea. That happens, it may be years — maybe never — before we get it back. After Nam, that’d be two losses in a row.” He paused. “Third target we’ve been charged with. Shirer, you’ll lead a second wave of Tomcats to fly cover for a combined helo-borne infantry and MAGTAF strike from the helo carrier Saipan against Pyongyang.”

  There was a low whistle from one of the navigators, and several pilots looked over at one another — a few in silent sympathy for the marines and other infantry who would be going in deep behind enemy lines.

  “The psychological significance of this mission, if successful, will be tremendous, gentlemen. Our problem, however, is to get through their radar screen. Now, we can go in low as far as the coast and they won’t pick us up, but once we climb over the Taebek Range, we’ll be on their radar immediately. From the coast it’ll be a hundred and twenty miles in. The helos from the Iwo will be following ravine contours as far as possible and discharging flares against heat seekers. But the MiGs are sure to come in before we get halfway there. Shirer, you deal with them, and remember Pyongyang is surrounded with SAMs. We’ll proceed with the fly-in no matter what happens, allowing for ten minutes of fuel for low ground-support attacks. The North Koreans had air supremacy when they first crossed the DMZ, but now our fleet’s moved up, we hope to even the score.”

  “They intend getting those marines back, sir?” asked Shirer’s RIO.

  “It’s been carefully thought out. That’s all.”

  * * *

  “That’s no answer,” said Fisher, “that it’s all been thought out. So was Carter’s attack on Iran.”

  “Doolittle,” said Shirer.

  “What?”

  “Doolittle’s attack on Tokyo not long after Pearl Harbor. Gave the allies one hell of a lift.”

  “Yeah, but it won’t be much of a lift for those marines and other poor slobs.”

  “Well,” answered Shirer, “all I know is that if I was in that Yosu corner and I heard a Commie capital had been hit, it’d boost my morale. Can’t underestimate morale, Fish. Sometimes it’s almost as good as live ammo.”

  “Think they can do it?”

  “Think you can do it?”

  “What — piece of cake. I’m worried about the guys who’ll be on the ground.”

  “You worry about the damn radar.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Nova Scotia

  The old town clock in Halifax began its quarter-hour peals as Lana and three other Wa
ves on their first day off walked along the tree-arched trails in Mount Pleasant Park. Out on the harbor, the replica of the famous Bluenose II, her sharp, classic lines undiminished by time, was cutting spritely through the cobalt water, the grace of her design, which had won so many international trophies in the first part of the twentieth century, a striking contrast to the gathering fleet of U.S. and Canadian ships. The smell of the sea was on the east breeze, and had it not been for the dozens of gray shapes dotted about the harbor north of them, the light, invigorating wind coming off the North Atlantic could have convinced Lana all was right with the world. As yet the only casualties they had had to deal with had been a few broken legs and arms and one man badly injured after being struck by a sailboat’s boom while assigned to help crew a visiting admiral in one of Halifax’s many yachts. His injury had been entered as “DA” by the head nurse, a stout, no-nonsense Englishwoman whom the Canadians called “Matron.”

  “No, not dead on arrival,” Matron had said humorlessly, demonstrating how such things had to be handled if one was to work one’s way through the bureaucracy. “DA means ‘dockyard accident,’ “ she explained brusquely.

  It was a small enough incident, but it meant that responsibility and costs would be entered against the dockyard rather than the Canadian navy, and it told Lana something about Matron and the bureaucratic system they’d have to contend with even in a harbor that in wartime became one of the busiest and most strategically important in the world, the start of the long convoy runs across the Atlantic and a port that during the Second World War had repaired more than six thousand Allied ships.

  Lana had been asked out several times by young doctors at the hospital, but declined, her experience with Jay having been so traumatic that while it didn’t sour her against men in general, it made her wary — and the very thought of having to fend off the uninvited and inevitable sexual advances was too much to contemplate. For now it was all she could handle to pass the examinations in a punishingly more concentrated training period than was normal, because both Washington and Ottawa had advised Halifax that a “substantial number of casualties” could be expected.