Dark Wing

by Richard Herman

  “We could if we could take off,” Pontowski answered.

  “I see,” Trimler said. “Matt, I’ve rounded up almost a hundred advisors and a few of their Chinese buddies. They’re all aching for a piece of the action. We’re going to reinforce Kamigami.” Pontowski caught the “we” and the quiet determination in the general’s voice. “We’ll hold until you can get some ordnance on the bridge.”

  Pontowski wanted to remind Trimler that they had been ordered to cease all combat operations. Instead, he said, “All for self-defense, right?”

  “Wrong,” Trimler growled. He spun and walked out of the bunker.

  Maggot had overheard the conversation. “Boss, I want it. Get Marchioni to peak and tweak a LASTE and I’ll drop that bridge faster than a flasher can drop his trou.”

  “You’re the best with the gun,” Pontowski answered, “but who’s better on the pickle button?”

  “Tango and Mako,” Maggot grudgingly conceded.

  “They got it. Set up a two-ship to go against the bridge as soon as the runway is open. Tango leads.”

  Maggot sulked until a colonel from the staff of the New China Guard entered the bunker and asked for Trimler. “He left about ten minutes ago,” Pontowski told him. “Can we help?”

  “Yes, you may,” the colonel replied, his English very precise and formal. “Miss Li has information that may be helpful.” He spread out a large-scale map of the city of Wuzhou and circled a school complex on the eastern side of the city next to the Pearl River. “Miss Li has learned that Kang has established a permanent headquarters in these buildings.” He circled two nearby areas. “He is massing supplies in these areas.” The Chinese colonel’s face was impassive as he let the information sink in. “Miss Li requested that I tell you Kang will arrive there sometime tonight and will be there until noon. There are no students or faculty at the school.” He folded the map, handed it to Pontowski, and walked out of the bunker.

  “What do you make of that?” Maggot asked.

  Pontowski stared at the scheduling boards. “I want you”—his words were slow, deliberate, and hard—”to plan an attack on that headquarters. Eight Hogs in two flights of four, launch at first light tomorrow morning.”

  Maggot was surprised at the anger in his commander. This man wanted to kill. “Let me do this one,” Maggot pleaded.

  “You lead the second flight.”

  “Who’s leading the first four?”

  “I am,” Pontowski answered.

  Saturday, October 19

  The Sino-Vietnamese border, China

  Lieutenant Colonel Sung Fu walked around his missile site. All was in order. His last operational Guideline missile was carefully concealed and protected from the weather. The control cables leading to the control van and the Fan Song radar were properly strung even though he had no intention of turning the radar on. His last experience had taught him how good the Americans were at air defense suppression, and an active radar was a beacon announcing his position and an invitation to an attack. He glanced at the makeshift cupola his men had mounted on top of the control van. Long dark green tubes, an optical tracking scope, stuck out both sides of the cupola, much like an insect’s antenna. He could see the man inside watching him. Sergeant Lu is my best observer, Sung thought.

  Sung climbed the two steps into the control van. The four men inside were waiting for him. “Good morning, sir,” the on-duty captain said. The three other men remained at their consoles, sitting at attention and staring straight ahead.

  “Status?” Sung asked in a normal voice.

  “We are operational,” the captain answered, a slight tremor in his voice.

  Sung thought for a moment. Communications were his weakest link, so check that. “Initiate a radio check,” he ordered. The captain barked a command and the communications operator ran through the check procedures. In order, the observation posts checked in. Sergeant Lu, the observer in the cupola on top of the van, was the last to acknowledge, completing the check.

  Sung had replaced his search radar with a spiderweb of observation posts to serve as his early warning system. The observers scanned the sky and reported aircraft to the control van. Four of the observation posts were hidden well inside Vietnam to watch for the AWACS. It was enough information to turn the Guideline missile and the tracker in the cupola above Sung’s head onto the AWACS should it stray within missile range.

  Without the Fan Song radar, a backup system was needed to guide the missile. The observer in the cupola focused on the target with the optical tracking scope and called off range and azimuth. These inputs were manually dialed into the guidance computer in the control van. The guidance computer then broadcast steering commands to the missile over a UHF radio frequency. But the observer had to be very skillful at tracking the aircraft and keeping the optics precisely focused. If successful, he would be made a “Hero of the People.” If the missile missed, Sung’s company would witness punishment. It was a Chinese solution to a modern problem—primitive but effective.

  Saturday, October 19

  The bridge, near Bose, China

  The corpsman was tired, dirty, and hungry as he sewed the gash on Kamigami’s arm closed. Still, he tried to be as gentle as he could, admiring the way his commander bore the pain. “You were very fortunate, General. I was able to find all the fragments.” Kamigami nodded. He had been lucky. An RPG-7 fired from across the gorge had corkscrewed all over the sky before it finally struck the Humvee he was standing beside. He had thrown his arm up in time to save his eyes. But his driver and radio/telephone operator had been killed. “Finished, sir.” Kamigami thanked him and walked out of the mud hut the First Regiment was using for an aid station.

  A familiar face was waiting outside. “Why are you here, Sergeant Wan?” he asked. “You should be with your company.”

  Wan Yan Fu stood at attention. “My men and I have volunteered to be at the bridge. My captain agreed. He said Horse Company should be there. There are forty of us.”

  A long convoy of trucks appeared around the bend of the road. “Wait here,” Kamigami said. He walked over to the lead truck and flagged it down.

  It was Trimler. “It occurred to me you might need some help,” the general said.

  “You weren’t the only one,” he replied. He waved for Wan to bring his men over to the trucks. “This is Sergeant Wan of Horse Company.” Kamigami waited while Wan’s men climbed on board the trucks. He motioned his Humvee up and swung on board. “Follow me,” he told Trimler and headed for the bridge.

  The convoy stopped a kilometer short of the bridge. The two generals spread a map on the hood of Kamigami’s Humvee. “The problem,” Kamigami told Trimler, “is the open space between us and the bridge. It’s pretty much an open field of fire for the PLA on the other side. We have to lay down a barrage and smoke to move our wounded out or bring reinforcements forward to the bridge. And we still take a lot of casualties. They’re wearing us down and can force their way across the bridge any time they’re willing to pay the price.”

  It was a cold, bitter assessment of the situation, and Trimler understood what Kamigami was telling him. His First Regiment had fought a hard rear guard action and made the PLA pay for every foot of ground. But they had been chewed up in the process and had little left to give. Kamigami had done the impossible because he was a rarity, a true leader of men. Sergeant Wan and his volunteers proved that. Hell, Trimler thought, the fact I’m here proves it. But Kamigami was best at fighting a highly mobile, shoot and scoot type of warfare. Now they were going back to a much older method and Trimler didn’t like what he had to do. They were going to dig in and hold, take their losses, and not let the PLA pass.

  “The open area also works to our advantage,” Trimler said. He quickly outlined his tactics. He would use his men, Sergeant Wan’s volunteers, and the remainder of the First Regiment as a blocking force on this side. Kamigami had to hold the area on the southern side of the bridge. “When they come across the bridge, you’re g
oing to be on their left flank. They’ve got to keep moving to avoid stalling on the bridge. Your job is to force them to the north, into the open area, toward us. We’ll turn it into a kill zone.” Trimler swept the other side of the gorge with his binoculars. Tanks supported by infantry were moving out of concealment. “I think they’ve come up with a down payment.”

  Kamigami closed his flak vest and jammed his helmet on his head. His arm burned with pain but he ignored it. He paused for a moment. The two men shook hands. “Time to do it,” Kamigami said.

  The lead tank clanked onto the bridge and started pushing the destroyed tank ahead of it as a shield. Heavy gunfire raked both sides of the bridge, but the tank pushed relentlessly forward. The high bridge railings also provided a screen and Kamigami’s defenders tried to knock the railings down with heavy gunfire. The steel railings resembled Swiss cheese but still prevented a clean missile shot with a TOW or Dragon antitank missile.

  Three more tanks followed by six armored personnel carriers moved onto the bridge as the lead tank moved clear of the bridge. It pushed the destroyed tank off the road and moved beside it, still using it as a shield. Now it started to fire, pumping shell after shell into the defenders. A TOW missile flashed across the open area and destroyed the tank. But the bridge was still open as the second tank came across. It moved into position beside the two destroyed tanks and started to fire, only to suffer the same fate. The tactic was obvious. The PLA was building a shield of destroyed tanks to create a bridgehead and without close air support or artillery to reach behind it, the defenders couldn’t stop it.

  The PLA sacrificed fourteen tanks and three armored personnel carriers to build their shield. More tanks moved across the bridge. Only this time, infantry in the open moved with them. Kamigami’s defenders on the southern flank of the bridge held to their contract and extracted a fearsome price from the attackers. But still they came. Now six tanks moved into formation and headed across the open area, directly into Trimler’s field of fire. TOW and Dragon missiles stopped the tanks, but three more were off the bridge and forming up. Again, the process repeated itself, but this time the tanks made it halfway across the open area. And still they came.

  Kamigami’s defenders were coming under heavy attack and he was running low on ammunition. Slowly, he gave ground to the south. The third echelon of tanks were across the open area and into Trimler’s defenders. It was man against tank but somehow, Trimler’s men killed them. Armored personnel carriers were with the next wave and they all made it across the open area. Trimler and his defenders had fired their last TOW missile and were using captured RPGs to stop the APCs close in.

  Kamigami’s R/T operator handed him the handset. Brigadier General Robert Trimler had been killed. “Contact the AVG at Bose,” Kamigami ordered.

  Pontowski fought to control his emotions as he listened to the report of Trimler’s death. The general had been more than a good friend. He had been a living example of all that was good in the profession of arms. Now he was gone and Pontowski felt the loss. “How long can you hold on?” he asked.

  “Unknown,” Kamigami answered. He broke contact.

  “Maggot,” Pontowski shouted, “I want Leonard and Mako in the cockpit, ready to launch as soon as the runway is open. I’ll be on the runway.” He ran out of the bunker for his pickup. When he reached the KC-10 he breathed easier. The last pallet was coming down the on board loader. Their one forklift quickly moved the pallet out of the way as a large group of Chinese pushed the OBL clear of the KC-10. The crew was on the flight deck and cranked engines.

  Byers ran up to him. “They’re transferring fuel to the tail now,” he shouted. Pontowski waited as the flight engineer pumped fuel into the rear fuselage tanks, making the KC-10 tail heavy. Slowly the tail came down and the nose raised. “The ramp is finished,” Byers shouted, barely able to be heard over the engines.

  Pontowski keyed the UHF radio in his truck. “Do it now, Murphy.” The pilot cracked the throttles and felt the KC-10 shudder. The nose gear was still stuck. Murphy nudged the center throttle forward, increasing the power in the tail engine. It was enough. The aircraft moved forward, its nose gear coming up the ramp. With a rush, the KC-10 taxied free of the hole and onto the center of the runway. Murphy gave Pontowski a thumbs-up sign as he headed for the parking ramp to defuel. The tail of the KC-10 had barely cleared the runway as Leonard and Mako took off.

  Pontowski drove over to the load crew, who were sitting on the ground, exhausted. “Hop in,” he said. “You hungry?” He dropped them off at the KC-10 and called the mess tent to get a meal out to the plane. It was the least he could do.

  A C-130 was in the pattern, approaching to land. “Good timing,” he mumbled to himself. Two F-15s roared overhead—the C-130 had been escorted in. So that explains why we haven’t heard from the Chinese air force, he reasoned. He keyed his radio and checked in with Maggot before heading for the C-130. The cargo plane slowed to a crawl as it taxied past the cargo area. The ramp at the rear of the aircraft lowered and six pallets came sliding out. A combat off-load. The Hercules stopped, its engines running, and a group of evacuees ran up the ramp. He was surprised to see a lone figure get off and walk away from the aircraft. The ramp came up and the cargo plane fast-taxied for the runway. It had been on the ground less than seven minutes.

  Pontowski shook his head in resignation when he got a good look at the deplaning passenger. Sara Waters had returned.

  The two Warthogs circled to the south of Bose and went through the arming sequence. The bridge was less than four minutes’ flying time away from the airfield and they knew every landmark and high obstruction. But they had a problem—they couldn’t raise any of the defenders on the radios. They circled again as Leonard cycled through every frequency they had been given. Still no contact.

  “Let’s go take a look,” Mako said.

  “Might as well,” Leonard conceded. The two jets spread apart and headed for the bridge. They popped over a low ridge. In front of them was a scene of chaos, destruction, and death. “Holy shit!” Leonard shouted over the UHF. “Bug out! Rejoin to the south.” The two Warthogs retreated to safety. “Where are the good guys?” he asked. Mako related what he had seen as Leonard constructed a mental map of the battle. “I think,” Leonard transmitted, “the Gomers have a bridgehead on our side of the gorge and the good guys are holding to the south and on the far side of the open area.”

  “That checks with what I saw,” Mako replied. “Not good.”

  Leonard agreed. To bomb the bridge they would have to run a gauntlet of fire from both sides of the gorge. “Cover- shooter,” Leonard called. “I’ll lead.” He planned to ingress first and discourage any hostile fire while Mako went for the bridge. He called up a Maverick and turned toward the bridge. He firewalled the throttles and popped over the ridge. His eyes darted inside the cockpit to the TV monitor as his hands played the buttons on the stick and the right throttle. He locked the crosshairs on a tank and pickled off a Maverick. Eyes back outside in time to see rapid puffs of smoke from antiaircraft artillery and the smoke trail of a Grail surface-to-air missile. He jinked hard and sent a stream of flares into his slipstream, defeating the Grail. He rolled back in, locked on another tank, and sent his last Maverick on its way.

  He was already set up for guns and raked the area where he had seen the Triple A fire. Leonard pulled off and turned hard back into another Grail missile. It missed and he was lir ed up on a tank and an armored personnel carrier racing across the open area. He killed them both. “Get the hell out of Dodge,” he growled. But where was Mako?

  On cue, he heard Mako call, “I’m off.” Leonard was almost to the ridge and chanced a look back at the bridge. He saw Mako’s Hog jinking wildly as it pulled out of its dive. A surface-to-air missile converged on the A-10 and exploded. The Warthog flared and came apart. There was no chute. Leonard dropped behind the ridge and then darted up for a quick look. Mako’s bombs had missed and the bridge was still standing. “My turn,” h
e muttered. He selected bombs on the armament control panel.

  Leonard flew to the southeast, away from the bridge, before turning inbound. He intended to attack from a different direction. He ran in at one hundred feet and popped. He jinked the jet as he gained altitude. Luckily, the gunners had been expecting him to come back over the ridge and were slow to track him. He had rolled 135 degrees and his nose was on the bridge in a fifteen-degree dive before the first shell tore a hole in his left rudder.

  Leonard was vaguely aware of the hell that surrounded him as he pressed the attack. His feet danced on the rudders as he flew down the wire. His thumb flicked on the pickle button and the Warthog shuddered as it shed its stick of six five-hundred-pound bombs. He pulled off hard to the right, over the far side of the bridge, away from most of the fighting. He slammed the big jet back onto the deck and turned north. Had he hit the bridge?

  This time he climbed into the sky. The bridge was clearly silhouetted against the gorge and surrounding hills. It was still standing. His radio came to life. “Tango, how copy?” It was Kamigami.

  “Where the hell you been?” Leonard rasped.

  “We’ve been busy,” Kamigami answered. It was a classic understatement. He had heard the earlier radio calls but had been fighting off a determined attack. Only the arrival of the Warthogs had saved them.

  “Any sign of my number two?” Leonard asked.

  “Negative.” Kamigami’s voice was dead calm. “A bomb on the first pass hit the bridge, punched a hole in the surface, but didn’t explode. A dud. All were near misses on the second pass. One bomb hit the concrete footer on the western side or the steel girders underneath. I think it weakened the underside of the bridge.” He scanned the bridge with his binoculars. “Tanks are moving onto the bridge and it looks like it’s bending under the weight. I can see the girders working back and forth. One more bomb will drop it.”