Red Phoenix

by Bond , Larry

  Fogarty turned to the lieutenant waiting with him. “Dave, get a signal off to COMSUBLANT immediately. Tell him the boomers are away.” Then he walked back to his office, past an empty anchorage.

  WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The display map glowed with color-coded lights and symbols marking the position and alert status of every major Soviet military unit around the world. The symbols along the Soviet Pacific coast glowed bright red.

  The President looked grim, an expression matched by every other man and woman around the table. “Are we sure that Drum was attacked, Admiral?”

  “Very sure, sir. Our long-range acoustic sensors were tracking a large number of ships leaving Petropavlovsk, along with every other port on the Pacific coast. During the deployment, they detected two explosions, which they plotted inside Drum’s patrol area.”

  Admiral Simpson frowned. “Since then she’s missed two communications periods and does not acknowledge her call. She was certainly attacked by the Russians, and barring a miracle, was sunk.”

  “Does that tell us anything about Soviet intentions?”

  Simpson shook his head. “No, sir.” He moved to the display map. “They’ve put every interceptor and SAM battery in the Far East on full alert. All surface ships and submarines in port are sortieing…”

  “Toward our forces?”

  “No, Mr. President. At least not yet. They’re deploying into what might be defensive positions.” White lines appeared on the map as he spoke.

  “That’s good news at any rate.”

  Simpson looked troubled. “I wish I could agree, sir. But the fact is, all of these are the very same actions the Soviets would take if they were contemplating additional attacks. Their exact plans are still unclear.”

  “Damn.” The President closed his eyes and started rubbing his temples, trying to massage away the tension headache building there. No one spoke until he opened his eyes again. “What about your end of things, Fran?”

  The head of the National Security Agency shrugged her shoulders. “Again, nothing conclusive, Mr. President. We’re picking up a lot of traffic from Vladivostok to Moscow and back again. All high-priority FLASH-type stuff, naturally. There’s also been a marked increase in signals to the other major military commands—Soviet Forces, East Germany, the Northern Fleet, the Black Sea Fleet, and so on.”

  “But no change in their alert status?”

  “Not yet, sir.” The NSA boss toyed with her pen. “At least not as far as we can tell. We’re scheduling some additional satellite passes throughout the rest of today and tomorrow to try and pick up more data.”

  “Christ!” The President’s irritation was clear and easy to understand. It was also somewhat unfair. Tens of billions of dollars had been invested in America’s electronic intelligence-gathering capabilities, but no photo-recon or SIGINT satellite could pry into the minds of enemy leaders or divine their hidden intentions.

  “Have you talked to the General Secretary yet, Mr. President?”

  The President’s angry snort could be heard across the room. “Hell, no. I tried calling the man direct when this whole thing first blew up. The General Secretary is, quote, unavailable for the time being, end quote.”

  Simpson frowned. “So either they’re as confused over there as we are, or they’re all busy scurrying for the fallout shelters.”

  “Yeah.” The President shoved his chair back and stood up, feeling a sudden desire to pace. He stalked to the front of the room and stood facing the display map. Europe caught his eye. “Maybe we should start shipping troops and equipment to NATO now—while we’ve still got time. At least we’d be ready if the Russians decide to escalate this thing further.”

  “I’m afraid that activating Reforger is impossible at the moment, Mr. President.” General Carpenter, the Air Force Chief of Staff, looked embarrassed. Reforger was a plan for moving American troops and equipment to Europe. Rapidly reinforcing NATO was one means of deterring the Soviets from an attack there. “We don’t have the sea- or airlift available.”

  Blake Fowler nodded to himself. The Military Airlift Command and Military Sealift Command were already stretched to the limit just supporting McLaren’s troops in South Korea. Three weeks of almost nonstop operations were taking a dangerous toll on the flight crews and their planes. Three C-141s and a C-5 had already been lost because of inadequate maintenance or crew fatigue—the Starlifters somewhere over the Pacific and the Galaxy in a fiery crash in California. There were enough planes to keep the war in Korea going or to reinforce Germany. But not to do both.

  The President just stared at the map without speaking. Then he turned. “If the Soviets do escalate, can NATO hold without the Reforger forces?”

  “Probably not, sir.” Simpson shook his head slowly. “Not with just conventional weapons.”

  The men and women crowding the Situation Room fell silent. Without enough conventional forces, NATO would have to use tactical nuclear weapons to stop a Soviet armored onslaught across the West German border. And nobody in the room really believed it was possible to step halfway across the nuclear threshold. Five-kiloton bombs dropped on armored columns would inevitably be answered by five-hundred kiloton ICBM warheads landing on cities.

  Fowler saw the President’s shoulders sag. None of the options were particularly palatable. Either push McLaren’s planned offensive forward and risk leaving Europe defenseless, or rush reinforcements to NATO while accepting a bloody stalemate in South Korea.

  At last the President spoke. “Well, I’ll be damned if I’m going to pull the rug out from under our boys in South Korea. We’ll have to gamble that the Soviets aren’t ready to expand this thing.” He turned to Simpson. “In the meantime, Admiral, I’d like to give them something to think about. Now, we’ve already deployed our missile submarines. What’re my other choices?”

  The admiral had come prepared for that question, but his answers weren’t very reassuring. Nobody felt comfortable playing with nuclear fire.

  UN FORCES HEADQUARTERS, SOUTH OF TAEJON

  The stars were out, crystalline against the infinitely black night sky.

  McLaren stood quietly, waiting and watching. The burning tip of his cigar glowed brighter momentarily and then faded as he breathed out.

  “General?”

  He turned. Hansen had come outside, backlit by the lamps inside the command tent.

  “We’ve just gotten the final signals, General. All units are in position and ready for your orders.”

  “Any word from Washington?”

  “Yes, sir.” Hansen held his notepad up to the light. “It’s from the President. Just this: ‘Proceed as planned. Our prayers go with you. Good luck and Godspeed.” The captain grinned.

  McLaren nodded and took the cigar out of his mouth. “Right.” He checked his watch. “Okay, Doug. Signal all commands to execute Thunderbolt at oh five hundred hours.”

  Hansen saluted and reentered the tent.

  McLaren drew on his cigar again and stayed where he was. Unseen in the darkness, he crossed his fingers.

  THE KREMLIN, R.S.F.S.R.

  The General Secretary had never seen his military aide show such a troubled face before. It seemed an odd look for a man named a Hero of the Soviet Union for gallantry in combat against Afghan bandits. “More trouble, Ivan Antonivich?”

  The colonel nodded. “I’m afraid so, Comrade General Secretary. With your permission?” He held up a thick leather satchel.

  “Please.” The General Secretary sipped his tea carefully, almost ostentatiously. Like so many of the reforms he’d sponsored, his efforts to curb rampant alcoholism among Soviet citizens were being resisted. As a result, he never missed the chance to show that he practiced what he preached.

  “I’ve assembled this collection out of our latest satellite and human intelligence reports concerning the submarine incident and the American reaction to it.” The colonel fanned a sheaf of papers and image-enhanced photos across the Party chie
f’s desk.

  The General Secretary put his glass down abruptly, slopping tea out onto a bone china saucer. He frowned. “Their reaction, Colonel? What of our reaction to this wanton attack on our submarine in international waters? Surely that is more to the point.” He looked at his watch, annoyed. “I asked the defense minister for his recommendations on possible retaliatory moves several hours ago. I’ve heard nothing since. So perhaps your time would be better spent in making sure my desires are carried out, eh?”

  The colonel said nothing, although his face reddened. He simply sat motionless holding out the first satellite photo.

  The General Secretary sighed, more to himself than anyone else, and took the photo. His aide was a good man, loyal, intelligent, and a committed Party activist, but he was just too stubborn. He scanned the photo and dropped it negligently onto his desk. “So? I see an empty harbor. What is so important about that?”

  “That is the main American missile submarine base on the Atlantic, Comrade General Secretary.” The colonel held out another. “And this is their Pacific base at Bangor, Washington. Also completely empty. There are similar reports from the NATO base at Holy Loch in Scotland. Essentially, every seaworthy American SSBN is now at sea—an unprecedented mobilization.”

  The General Secretary began to see why his aide looked so concerned. “Go on.”

  “Reconnaissance also shows that major elements of the American Strategic Air Command have also been raised to an even higher alert status and dispersed from their normal operating fields. All leaves for their bomber crews have been canceled—even those awarded for urgent family crises.”

  The General Secretary felt cold. Had the Americans gone mad? First an unprovoked attack and now this nuclear saber rattling. What were they up to? “You were right to bring this news to my immediate attention, Ivan Antonivich. It should have been done before this by others in this government.” He picked up the special secure phone kept permanently beside his desk. “Get me Admiral Marenkov.”

  Marenkov, commander of the Red Navy, came on the line in moments. The automatic scrambling made his voice sound hollow. “Yes, Comrade General Secretary?”

  “As chairman of the Defense Council and Commander in Chief, I am ordering you to institute Plan Sanctuary immediately.” Under Sanctuary, all of the Soviet Union’s own SSBNs would be deployed behind a screen of minefields, attack subs, and ASW hunter-killer groups. Once safe in their bastions, the missile submarines would stand ready to strike back should the Americans attack.

  “I understand. Sanctuary will be under way within the hour.”

  “Excellent, Yuri. I’ll confirm this order by teletype before then.” The General Secretary hung up and reached for a sheet of paper. He began writing with quick, forceful strokes of the pen. “Ivan Antonivich, you will carry this to the Communications Office personally. Under no circumstances will you allow its transmission to be delayed. Understand?”

  His aide nodded and took the written order in hand. He still looked uncertain.

  “Was there something else, Colonel?”

  “Yes, sir. There have been certain, ah, rumors, about the attack on our submarine and its mission in those waters. Perhaps they are nothing more than idle gossip, but if true…” The colonel’s voice trailed away.

  The General Secretary sat up straighter. He’d learned early in his career never to discount rumors. They were often the best possible source of information. “Very well. Repeat these whispers to me.”

  When the colonel finished speaking, the General Secretary’s face was set in hard lines. He suddenly looked older than his sixty years. “Thank you for your candor, Colonel. I shall take what you have said under advisement. You are dismissed for the moment.”

  After his aide had gone, he picked up the secure phone again and placed another call.

  JANUARY 16—ABOARD THE USS WISCONSIN, OFF THE KOREAN COAST

  The lowlight TV picture was perfect. So perfect that the officers clustered around the monitors in Wisconsin’s Combat Engagement Center could easily make out individual foxholes and camouflaged heavy weapons. The view shifted slightly as the Israeli-made reconnaissance drone began another orbit.

  “Well, well, well. Look what we have here, Skipper.” Lieutenant Commander Jason Matthews, the battleship’s gunnery officer, poked the monitor’s screen gently.

  Captain Edward Diaz followed his subordinate’s stubby finger and smiled. The screen showed a collection of tents liberally festooned with radio antennas. “That’s a pretty nice looking command post, Jas. Any bets on just what kind?”

  Matthews matched his commander’s smile. “Oh, I’d say a regimental HQ at least. Maybe a division.”

  “Fantastic. Make that the first target.”

  Matthews nodded and moved to the ship’s ballistic computer. The ratings manning it nodded as he spoke, fingers flashing over keyboards. After just a few seconds the gunnery officer looked up at Diaz. “Guns locked in, Skipper. Ready to fire at your signal.”

  Diaz glanced at the clock: 0359. A minute left to go. He shook his head regretfully. “Hell, I never was very good at waiting. You may fire when ready, Jas.”

  Matthews’s finger stabbed the fire control button and the Wisconsin rocked back—surging against the recoil as her nine 16-inch guns roared, hurling one-ton shells toward the Korean coast.

  The men aboard the battleship watched their screens, waiting for the recon drone to show them where their shells landed. It took forty-eight seconds for the nine high-explosive-filled shells to fly the twenty nautical miles separating the Wisconsin from her targets.

  “Holy God!” Matthews couldn’t hold in his exultation as the screens showed dirt and smoke bursting skyward all around the North Korean headquarters complex. When the smoke cleared, all that could be seen were a series of overlapping craters. Every tree within two hundred meters of the impact point had been blown down. “Scratch one collection of NK brass!”

  Diaz was awed by the destruction his ship had unleashed. This was the real thing, not just target practice. He shook himself. “Gunnery Officer! Shift your fire to the other preplanned targets. Fire at will.”

  “Aye, aye, Skipper.”

  The Wisconsin’s captain stood watching as his guns began systematically obliterating North Korean beach defenses, supply dumps, and artillery positions. He grinned. It really was too bad that there weren’t any U.S. Marines within a hundred miles to take advantage of the holes they were tearing in the NK coastal defense.

  The North Koreans might think they were going to get hit from the west, but they were wrong. McLaren’s knockout blow was coming from the east—from out of Korea’s rugged mountains. The NKs were about to get sucker-punched.

  4TH REGIMENT, 3RD MARINE DIVISION, OUTSIDE MASAN, SOUTH KOREA

  Colonel Tad Lassky, USMC, was a happy man. His three battalions had already advanced more than ten kilometers in the seven hours since the attack began—moving against light and sometimes even nonexistent opposition. And from what he heard over the command net, similar progress was being reported by each of the other nine American and South Korean divisions involved in the counterattack. For once the intelligence boys had got it right. Most of the best North Korean units were tied up in the bloody fighting around Taejon or along the coast. Those left guarding the eastern flank were spread too thinly to put up an effective resistance.

  “Colonel, Second Battalion’s on the line.”

  Lassky grabbed the handset. “Papa Fox Four Six to Fox Four Five. Go ahead, Bill.”

  Lieutenant Colonel William Kruger’s bass tones crackled back through the receiver. “We’re coming up on a little village here, Tad. Recon reported some movement around it earlier this morning. Do you want us to bypass it or steamroller right through?”

  Lassky checked the map before answering. “Clear it, Fox Four Five. We’re gonna need that road for supplies.”

  “Aye, aye, Fox Four Six. Consider it done.”

  Lassky smiled at the confidence he heard i
n Kruger’s voice. It was a confidence he shared. The 3rd Marine Division had been on the ground in South Korea for more than two weeks, pent up in secluded camps, waiting for just this moment. And now that McLaren had slipped the leash, Major General Pittman and his regimental commanders intended to make the most of their opportunities.

  2ND BATTALION, 4TH MARINES

  Kruger waved his three lead rifle companies into action. The white-smocked Marines spread out into a skirmish line across the frozen rice paddies and advanced, closing on the small cluster of houses several hundred meters ahead. He and his command group followed them off the road, stepping carefully onto the snow-coated ice. The 2nd Battalion’s CO believed in front-line leadership.

  Everything stayed quiet until the Marines came within two hundred meters of the village. Then the North Korean defenders cut loose.

  Kruger dove for the ground as NK machine guns and automatic rifles opened fire from concealed positions among the houses, raking the fields and toppling Americans whose reflexes weren’t fast enough. Kruger raised his head to see what was going on. Most of his men were in cover behind rice-paddy dikes, but several were sprawled unmoving out in the open.

  KARUMMPHH. The ground trembled slightly as a small explosion blasted dirt and snow into the air behind the crouching Marines. KARUMMPHH. Another burst, this one closer. The North Koreans were walking light mortar rounds in on top of his pinned-down troops. Kruger swore vilely and crawled over to the Marine aviator assigned to his battalion as its FAC—forward air controller. He tapped the younger man on the shoulder and asked, “Well, Lieutenant, think you can rustle up some air support on that fancy radio of yours?”

  The lieutenant looked up and spat out a mouthful of snow. “I sure can try, Colonel.”

  “Then you do that, son. We ain’t getting out of this field any other way.”