by Bond , Larry
There was no more firing.
______________
CHAPTER
34
Crossings
DECEMBER 31—SOUTH BANK OF THE HAN RIVER, SOUTH KOREA
McLaren focused his binoculars on the far side and listened to the tempo of the shelling. It was shifting, moving back from the rear areas toward the river, and increasing in volume as heavy mortars and other guns joined in. He nodded to himself. His instincts had been right. The North Koreans were trying to bull their way across the Han quickly—without a prolonged preparatory barrage.
He glanced at Hansen, who lay flat on the snowbank beside him. “Doug, make sure all commands are on their toes. It’s going to hit the fan any minute now.”
Hansen nodded and wriggled away toward the M577 command vehicle sheltered in a clump of trees. He dropped back into the snow a moment later.
“They’re as ready as they can be, General.” Hansen stopped talking and lowered his face as a shell whirred overhead and exploded two hundred meters behind them. When he looked up again, McLaren saw a deep frown. “Look, General. Staying around is crazy. There isn’t anything more you can do here—’cept get killed, that is.”
McLaren knew his aide was right. He had an army to run, and he couldn’t do it with North Korean shells dropping all around his ears. But something in him resisted the idea of leaving. He’d grown tired of watching pins move back and forth across a bloodless map. It had grown too clinical, made him feel too detached from reality.
He’d come up to see the battle, to get a feel for what his troops were really going through. And McLaren was convinced that he needed that understanding. How else could he realistically appraise his units’ ability to carry out his orders? Prewar staff analyses of things like the effects of heavy artillery fire on unit morale and cohesion were one thing. It was quite another to hear the shells coming in, to see the explosions, and to witness the terrible carnage they could cause. Nothing he’d seen during his three tours in South Vietnam had quite prepared him for the terrible reality of this full-scale, flat-out war. That had been a different kind of fighting.
KARRUMPH. KARRUMMPH. KARRUMPH. Shells burst in the ice on the edge of the river, spewing clouds of gray smoke that drifted and merged with the freshening wind. The North Koreans were trying to build a smoke screen to cover their assault force.
They were unlucky in the wind. It was strong enough to thin and rip any screen almost as fast as it was laid. McLaren kept his binoculars on where he knew the far bank to be, waiting for a gap in the acrid-smelling smoke big enough to see through.
There. Squat, boat-hulled vehicles swarmed into view and trundled down the slope to slide into Han. They bellied through the ice-choked river, moving fast on twin engine-driven waterjets. McLaren identified them as BTR-60s—amphibious, wheeled APCs that could carry sixteen troops each. They vanished into gray obscurity as more smoke shells exploded along the near bank.
He hadn’t been able to get a good fix on their numbers, but if the NKs were following Soviet doctrine as rigidly as they had up till now, there was at least a battalion’s worth of armored vehicles out there swimming the river toward his position. Other North Korean battalions were undoubtedly attacking at other points along the Han—all probing for the weak spot.
McLaren smiled grimly to himself. If they got across, they’d soon realize that his defense line was weak along its entire length. In some places battalions were defending frontages that staff theoreticians would have thought too wide for brigades. And that meant that his troops couldn’t afford to lose this fight on the Han. Every enemy assault had to be driven back into the river before the NKs could start laying pontoon bridges to bring their heavy armor across.
He shook his head. If his men could just blunt this North Korean drive, they’d buy him a badly needed day to strengthen his defenses and assemble more of the reinforcements arriving hourly from the States and from South Korea’s reserve depots.
The engine noises from the river were audible now, even under the noise of the barrage. McLaren rose to his knees, studying the slit trenches and foxholes occupied by his first line of defense—Dragon teams and the infantry to guard them. The Dragon launchers were equipped with thermal sights that would let their crews see clearly through the now-ragged North Korean smoke screen. They would carry the fight to the NK assault force while his M-48 and M-60 tanks stayed hidden.
Seconds passed. C’mon, c’mon. Let ’em have it. Don’t let ’em get in too close. The Dragons couldn’t hit anything within three hundred meters. McLaren willed himself to patience. He had to assume that the infantry commanders below him knew what they were doing.
A team fired off to his left, the flame from its missile reaching through the smoke for an unseen target. McLaren followed it with his eyes and saw the gray smoke wall glow orange for a moment. A hit! Then another Dragon team fired. And another after that. Others followed suit, too fast to keep track of.
A rift appeared in the rapidly thinning screen, and through it McLaren could see the shattered remains of the North Korean assault force. Three BTR-60s were dead in the water, spinning rapidly downstream with the current. Several others were on fire, tilted over half-in and half-out of the water along the far bank. Another rolled over and capsized, the flames that cloaked it bubbling into white, hissing steam. Swirling foam marked the watery graves of still other APCs. Survivors splashed vainly in the icy water for moments before being pulled under, overcome by the cold and weighed down by their equipment. Only a handful of BTRs still came on, emerging from the smoke as they neared the riverbank.
The lead North Korean vehicle reared up out of the water and exploded as a round from an M-60 tank found its target. Others were marked down and destroyed in the shallows. It was a slaughter. The BTRs had armor that could stop machine gun fire. They weren’t intended to stand up to tank cannon—and they didn’t, at least not for long.
McLaren sat watching the last BTR-60s burn on the water’s edge while Hansen reported the results of the other attacks. They were all the same. The North Korean hasty assault had failed. Now they would have to spend precious time assembling their heavy artillery and armor before making another attempt.
McLaren had his day.
THE NORTH BANK OF THE HAN RIVER
Colonel General Cho slowly lowered his binoculars. The 27th Mechanized Infantry had been one of his best battalions. He turned and looked steadily at his deputy, who now commanded Cho’s old II Corps. “I fear the smoke screen was an error in judgment.”
Lieutenant General Chyong nodded, his face carefully impassive. “I agree. The smoke didn’t interfere with the fascists’ missile systems at all. Instead, it only ensured that our own tanks and support weapons couldn’t provide sufficient covering fire.”
The two men turned and walked side by side down the hill toward their waiting command vehicles. They ignored the ambulances racing across the ground ahead of them, each filled with maimed survivors of the failed attack. Deaths and wounds were the currency of war, and neither Cho nor Chyong knew of any way to avoid them.
“You know the imperialists will use this delay to strengthen their defenses.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Pyongyang will want our full assessment of this setback. Can I assure the General Staff and the Dear Leader that your next attack will succeed?”
Chyong didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” He saw Cho’s raised eyebrow and continued on, “Given twenty-four hours to deploy and zero in, my heavy artillery should be able to pound the enemy’s forward defenses to pieces. In addition, I shall not repeat this morning’s mistake. There will be no smoke screen blinding us the next time. My assault waves will go in covered by direct fire from our own tanks and missile teams.”
Cho nodded in satisfaction. “Excellent. I shall inform Pyongyang of your confidence.”
Chyong held out a hand. “There is one thing more, however, my friend.”
“Yes?”
“The Americans will un
doubtedly send their aircraft to attack my bridging units in their staging areas. I have concentrated all my available SAMs and mobile flak batteries to protect them, but that may not be enough. It would be helpful if our Air Force could lend a more active hand in this battle.”
Cho nodded again, more slowly this time. Chyong’s carefully phrased point was well-taken. At this crucial stage of the campaign, friendly air cover was even more important than usual. And so far at least, North Korea’s MiGs had been less successful than he would have liked. They were inflicting losses on the Americans and their South Korean puppets, but their own casualties had been horrendous.
Fortunately it appeared that steps were at last being taken to remedy their deficiencies. Or so Pyongyang had promised in its latest string of dispatches to his field HQ. He glanced sidelong at Chyong as they reached the parked command vehicles. “I will see what I can do, comrade. “More than that I cannot promise.”
Chyong smiled gravely. “More than that I cannot ask.”
He glanced back at the last vestiges of smoke drifting downwind and then saluted. “Very well, then. Give me twenty-four hours to prepare and I shall give you a firm bridgehead across the Han.”
Cho noted how the setting sun burnished the stars on his subordinate’s shoulders. For his own sake, he hoped that Chyong’s confidence was warranted. Every passing day gave the imperialists more time to recognize the trap he was preparing to spring. Cho also knew that every day that passed without significant territorial gains would be viewed as a day of failure by Kim Jong-Il. It was unfortunate that the Dear Leader’s definition of military success was so limited. Unfortunate, but too late to change.
Cho returned Chyong’s salute and then climbed back into his command vehicle for the ride back to headquarters. He had more work to do before the evening staff meeting.
KOKSAN AIRBASE, NORTH KOREA
Colonel Sergei Ivanovitch Borodin strode confidently onto the stage, noting the mood of the assembled squadron. He was pleased by what he could see in their eyes—eagerness, anticipation, determination. These North Koreans were by no means the best pilots he had ever commanded, but they were unsurpassed in their ability to absorb losses and remain undaunted. And now he had something to give them that was worthy of their courage.
He reached the center of the stage and stood without speaking for a second, aware that all eyes were on him. Finally he lifted a single hand and signaled the five armament technicians waiting just offstage. They came forward, pushing a dolly occupied by a single long, narrow wooden crate.
Borodin waited while murmurs swept through the crowded auditorium. Then he spoke. “Comrades! I present to you the weapon that will help us win this battle for command of the air. Will you do the honors, Comrade Captain Kutusov?”
The senior armament technician nodded and bent to release the base of the crate so that the other four men could lift the casing up and bring the object inside into view.
The air-to-air missile they lifted was two meters long and weighted about sixty kilograms. Its four large rear delta fins gave it maximum maneuverability—maneuverability reinforced by triangular canard controls indexed in line and by the four small rectangular fins spaced around its IR seeker head.
Borodin let his enthusiasm for the weapon show in his voice. “Comrades, this is the AA-11, arguably among the world’s most advanced infrared homing missiles! It has a maximum front aspect range of approximately eight kilometers, and a rear aspect range of nearly five kilometers. It does not limit you to a rear attack. With it mounted on your aircraft, you will have a weapon that matches the performance of the American Sidewinder!”
Borodin paused, seeing sharklike grins appear on the face of every combat pilot in the room. So far in the war, they’d been forced to sit helpless while closing with the enemy as all-aspect American IR missiles knocked their comrades out of the sky. Now all that would change. They, too, would carry a weapon with a seeker head sensitive enough to home in on the heat emitted from the front of an enemy plane. And they would no longer be sitting ducks from the front.
Borodin matched their smiles with one of his own. “The first shipment of these missiles has arrived from the Soviet Union, comrades. We will carry them on our next mission against the imperialists!”
He stepped off the stage as his North Korean counterpart moved up to brief the squadrons on the new set of tactics they’d devised to take advantage of their new missiles’ capabilities. While the North Korean spoke, Borodin fished a small notepad out of his flight suit and finished writing up a rough account of his last action. The South Korean F-5E he’d downed this morning made his score four so far—two F’5s, an American F-16, and an F-4 Phantom. One more and he would be an ace, one of only a handful since the Great Patriotic War. The thought brought another smile to the Russian pilot’s lips.
JANUARY 1—RED DOG LEAD ABOVE THE YELLOW SEA
Commander Kerwin “Corky” Bouchard, USN, scanned the sky around his F-14A Tomcat, counting aircraft as they launched from either Nimitz or Constellation and orbited about five miles from the two carriers. He shook his head in wonder at the number of planes filling the airspace around him. Twelve F-14 Tomcats and ten F-18A Hornets as escorts. Twelve F-18s carrying HARM antiradar missiles for use against NK SAM and antiaircraft fire control systems. Eight more Hornets flying as flak suppressors armed with rocket pods and cluster bombs. Then the strike force itself, twenty-two A-7E Corsairs and 18 A-6E Intruders. All accompanied by four EA-6B Prowler electronic warfare aircraft. Four fat-bellied KA-6D tankers circled as the formation assembled, passing fuel to planes that had been launched first. Finally an E-2C Hawkeye was aloft to control the strike.
Ninety aircraft all massing for a single, maximum-effort Alpha strike against the North Korean bridging units moving toward the Han River. There would only be time for this one, mammoth attack. U.S. weather satellites in geosynchronous orbit showed a storm front moving down out of the Siberian wastes—bringing with it high winds, hail, and snow that would put an end to normal flight operations until the skies cleared.
“Red Dog Lead and Duster Lead, this is Roundup. Proceed.” The strike commander’s voice came through Bouchard’s earphones.
He keyed his radio mike twice to acknowledge and waggled the Tomcat’s wings to signal the rest of the strike escort. Then he banked right, heading for the Korean coastline one hundred and fifty miles ahead at four hundred and fifty knots. The F-18s slid lower and out in front, while his F-14s stayed high and behind. Two Prowlers followed, ready to jam enemy radars and radar-guided missiles if MiGs appeared to contest the air.
“Corky, I’m still getting that goddamned Mainstay on my scope. Even with the jamming, it’s got us for sure.” Lieutenant Mike Esteban, his RIO, radar intercept officer, sounded pissed.
His frustration was understandable. The Soviet AWACS plane had been loitering arrogantly just outside the task force’s declared exclusion zone for hours, escorted by a pair of Su-27 Flanker fighters out of Vladivostok. Everyone aboard the two American carriers knew that the data the converted Il-76 transport was collecting was being passed straight back to the North Koreans, but there wasn’t anything they could do about it—outside of assigning a pair of Tomcats to keep a close watch on the single Prowler now busy trying to jam the Mainstay’s powerful radar. That was bad enough. But then to top it all off, the Soviets also had a Tu-16 Badger F aircraft aloft. The Badger F was an electronic intelligence aircraft capable of keeping tabs on every signal the task force emitted.
Bouchard clicked his intercom switch. “Yeah. Well, life’s rough, I guess. Keep an eye peeled. The next-door neighbors are gonna come knocking at our door anytime now.”
ABOARD THE MAINSTAY, OVER THE YELLOW SEA
The four-engined Ilyushin-76TD made another gentle turn, cruising in a racetrack holding pattern at forty thousand feet. As the AWACS plane banked, the large radar dish mounted horizontally atop its fuselage reflected the sunlight, and one of the Su-27 fighter pilots escorting it tur
ned his eyes away, half-blinded.
It was dark inside the Mainstay’s main Air Command and Control compartment.
“The American jamming is degrading our systems greatly, Comrade Colonel, but we have firm contact with an estimated ninety-plus aircraft. All heading for the coast. This is clearly what we’ve been waiting for.”
Colonel Lushev frowned at Kornilov’s impertinence, but he bit down the harsh reply that first leaped into his mind. The lieutenant was undeniably the best radar operator aboard, and his skills demanded a certain amount of tolerance for his unorthodox behavior. The colonel leaned closer to the repeater scope in front of him, trying to make something out himself of the glowing green splotches and sweeping strobes it showed. He couldn’t and shook his head. Kornilov’s abilities were remarkable.
Lushev swiveled his chair to face the plane’s radioman. “Transmit this information to Pyongyang immediately.” He hoped that the little yellow bastards could make good use of it. The Americans needed to be taught a lesson.
He swung back to face the repeater scope, fighting down an all-too-familiar craving for nicotine. The Mainstay’s electronics were too delicate to cope with an atmosphere laced with cigarette smoke. He would have to wait until they were back on the ground in Vladivostok.
RED DOG LEAD
Bouchard could feel the tension increasing. They were sixty miles out and closing rapidly on the South Korean coast. The strike target was only fifteen miles inland, so if the North Koreans were going to pull anything it would have to be soon. He glanced to either side. The eleven other Tomcats were perfectly positioned. Sunlight glinted off canopies ahead and below. The F-18s were still keeping pace.
“Red Dog, this is Roundup.” Bouchard tensed at the sudden transmission from the Navy strike controller. “Multiple bogies bearing three one zero, seventy miles, level forty. Out.” The E-2C’s radar had just detected enemy fighters slipping into the open from out of Korea’s rugged mountains.