Carrier

CHAPTER 22

The first blow fell against the island of Yo-do, a rocky islet twelve miles off the Korean coast. There was little of interest there: a fishing village, a small military base ― and the seaward-facing radar arrays for Yo-do's SAM sites.

At 0048 hours, the base went on full alert. The jamming which had been fogging Yo-do's radar for the past several days had cleared, and in the unaccustomed clarity a number of targets could be made out to the east, crossing into North Korean airspace.

Word was flashed back to Wonsan, and from there to P'yongyang. Uncertainty about American reactions to the Wonsan crisis was now resolved. It was evident now that the Yankees planned to strike at North Korea with a seaborne air strike, similar to the nightmare F-111 raid they'd mounted against Libya in 1986.

Yo-do's main radar arrays tracked the oncoming Americans. The smaller tracking radars used to direct the SAM batteries switched on, picking their targets.

Minutes later death fell, unheralded and unsuspected, from the skies, shredding the concave latticeworks of the Korean radar antennae in the searing detonation of missile warheads, each packing 145 pounds of high explosive.

The HARM AGM-88A had been launched from Navy carrier aircraft against Libyan radar sites in 1986, where it had proved its worth against Qaddafi's SAMs. Each HARM ― A High-speed Anti-Radiation Missile ― was over thirteen feet long and weighed nearly eight hundred pounds. The only weapon ever carried by the Navy's EA-6B electronic warfare Prowler, it had a range of eighty nautical miles and a radar profile so narrow the Korean operators literally never knew what hit them.

Minutes after the destruction of Yo-do's radar eyes, similar outposts on the Kolmo Peninsula, on Sin-do outside of Wonsan Harbor, and on the rugged coasts north and south of Wonsan itself all vanished in savage explosions as their own radar emissions called down the death which hurtled in at nearly Mach 1.

The explosions were still echoing across the waters of Wonsan Harbor when the air armada assembled above the Yonghung Man completed its refueling from orbiting tankers and began descending on the Korean coast.

"Coming up on the beach, Malibu."

"I hear you. Pickin' up some fuzz from local radars now, tryin' to burn through the Prowler jamming. Nothing serious."

"Keep watching 'em." The HARM strike would have taken out most of the main North Korean radar stations, but there were certain to be some smaller ones untouched… any which had been shut down and therefore not emitting a homing signal for the HARMs to zero in on. The Koreans would be in a panic now, though. With the Alpha Strike again masked by jamming, they'd be desperate to see what was coming at them.

Batman checked his speed and altitude again. The Tomcat was skimming less than eighty feet off the deck, but the ocean below was an invisible black gulf.

"Anything in the air yet?"

"No, sir. No MiGs. Maybe the gomers don't do nighttime."

Batman felt the faintest of uncertain stirrings. Would he be able to line up an enemy plane, lock on and shoot? He was certain now that he could, but some irrational part of himself insisted that he would never know until the time came.

And he knew that the inner voice was right.

His talk with Tombstone had steadied him. For the first time since he'd joined VF-95, he felt truly a part of the squadron. He would do what he'd been trained to do… and worry about that nagging inner voice later. Gently he nudged the stick forward, keeping his eye on the altimeter as he shaved several feet from the F-14's altitude.

In any case, a strong MiG response was not expected; night would give the technologically advanced American fighters too great an advantage over the MiG-21s, which would probably elect to sit things out until daybreak. Opposition would come from SAM sites scattered up and down the coast, especially the ones clustered along the Kolmo Peninsula near the airfield. The HARMs would have taken out the major radars, but some SAM sites would not give themselves away until U.S. planes were overhead.

And that was where the Tomcats came in, riding in ahead of the bombers, deliberately tempting the North Koreans to turn on their SAM radars. Launch sites would be plotted by the E-2C Hawkeyes circling fifty miles off the coast, and relayed to the Hornets and Intruders following in the Tomcats' wakes. Malibu had jokingly referred to their role as PPT: Paid Professional Target.

Lights shone across the water, drifting now to left and right as he approached the coast. There was a low ceiling this night, solid above five thousand feet. Light from Wonsan reflected from the clouds with an orange glow, back-lighting the ridge which formed the backbone of the Kolmo Peninsula. The airfield would be to the south. He brought the stick slightly to port.

The beach flashed under the Tomcat's keel, white surf on black rock dimly seen in the night. "Two-three-two, feet dry," Batman announced over the radio. He brought the stick up to clear the rugged, boulder-strewn slope of the ridge.

"Copy, Two-three-two," Tombstone's voice replied. It sounded as though Stoney finally had all his shit in one seabag. Batman wondered what had brought him around.

Maybe he'd just finally come to grips with Coyote's death. What the hell, Batman thought. Flying is a dangerous game. There isn't an aviator in the Navy who hasn't known someone whose number had been called. All you could do was pick up, keep going. Or pack it in and quit. Tombstone did not look like a quitter to Batman.

"Threat warning," Malibu said. "They've got a lock."

Batman heard the chirp in his headphones, as a red light labeled MISSILE flashed. "Plot it." He looked from side to side, hoping for a glimpse of the enemy launch.

"Got it!" Malibu snapped. "Tally-ho at two o'clock!"

Batman whipped his head around in time to catch the flash. The SAM looked like a telephone pole balanced on flame as it rose above the rocky crest of the peninsula.

The ridge flashed beneath the Tomcat, and in the next instant Wonsan spread out in front of him like a map picked out in lights. Shipping crowded the harbor, but Jefferson's aviators had carefully studied current TENCAP photos before the mission. Damage to non-Korean ships and property was to be avoided, where possible.

Batman pushed the stick forward, dropping the F-14 toward the surface of the bay. The threat warning continued to chirp in his ear.

"Another launch, Batman," Malibu said. "Five o'clock… by the airfield."

"Now comes the fun. Let's have some chaff."

The water of the bay, illuminated now by reflected light from Wonsan, swept up beneath the Tomcat's belly. The SAMs arced overhead, points of white fire in the night.

"Negative tone," Malibu said. "They lost us in the wave scatter."

"Shotgun Leader, Two-three-two," Batman said, his voice held level and unconcerned. "Feet wet. We are engaged."

The fight over Wonsan had begun in earnest.

Lieutenant Commander Isaac Greene, "Jolly Green" to his running mates, was not particularly well-liked by the others, but then he didn't care for most of them and that, he felt, made everything even. Loud, given to outbursts which made him seem somewhat obnoxious, Greene had few friends. The other members of the squadron were convinced he had a genuine talent for picking fights.

Liked or not, however, he was respected by every man in the wing and regarded with a perverse sense of pride by the members of his squadron, VA-89's Death Dealers. When he was guiding his A-6 in for a strike, the boasting and sarcasm vanished, replaced by the ice-cold professionalism which made him a superb Intruder pilot.

Unlike the Tomcat with its front seat-rear seat configuration, the Intruder seated the pilot and the bombardier-navigator almost side by side. It took a certain icy calm to fly the A-6 in on a run. Instead of a HUD the aviator had a Heads Down Display, a Kaiser AVA-1 Visual Display Indicator, or VDI. An electronic picture of everything in the aircraft's path was painted on the VDI monitor, together with weapons cues and basic flight data. It was the bomber's sophisticated avionics which made it so useful in the all-weather attack role, capable of carrying out pinpoint attacks in fog, rain, or snow… or in the middle of a moonless, overcast night. With the VDI, Jolly could literally fly the Intruder without bothering to look forward through the canopy at all, a feat which earned him both scorn and head-shaking admiration from the fighter jocks who pretended to trust their eyes more than their avionics.

As Intruder 555, "Triple Nickle," slid into its approach vector, Lieutenant Chucker Vance, Jolly's BN, kept his face buried in the black hood shielding his radar scope from extraneous light. "Contact," he said. "Ground lock!" He switched his display to Forward-Looking infrared for an ID. "Looks like a SAM park on FLIR.

Jolly watched the shifting patterns on his VDI. As Chucker switched the plane's computer to attack mode, new symbols giving relative target bearing, drift, time, and weapons status flicked on. "Let's give him some rock-a-bye."

Chucker set the ordnance panel to deliver a pair of Rockeye II CBU-59 cluster bombs, each a five-hundred-pound canister which would scatter two hundred fifty separate bomblets across an oval of death three hundred feet long.

The Intruder lurched once, forcing Jolly to correct slightly, bringing the steering bug on his VDI back into line with the nav pipper. He glanced up once, noting with mild surprise that the sky was filled with red and orange tracers, long lines of fiery dots reaching into the night sky. The plane lurched again.

"Pretty heavy triple-A."

"Uh," Chucker grunted in noncommittal answer. He kept his face buried in the radar hood. "Weapons hot, safe off. Uh-oh. Threat signal. They're tracking, Jolly."

"I don't give a rat's ass what they're doing." He opened the tactical channel. "Feet dry! Lead's going in hot!"

The A-6 hurtled in low over the Kolmo Peninsula, jagged rocks clawing for the Intruder's belly out of the darkness. With the target tagged by radar and fed into the aircraft's computer, the target appeared on the VDI as a green, computer graphic square, the bombsight as a tiny cross crawling up a straight line from the bottom of the screen toward the release point. The A-6 was slow, strictly subsonic, but even at 460 knots the Intruder shrieked toward the cluster of antiaircraft guns like a thundering cavalry charge. While he could have set the computer to release the Rockeye, Jolly preferred the feel of the stick pickle under his thumb as he mashed it down. The plane shuddered as the cluster bomb released. Jolly brought the stick back and throttled up.

Behind them, a cloud of Rockeye bomblets, each one powerful enough to cripple a tank, descended across the rocky terrain. The effect in the darkness was of hundreds of flashbulbs going off within the space of half a second. An instant later, a much brighter flash stained the night with orange and gold… and then another. Ammunition stores were exploding down there in a furious display of fireworks, the roar lost beneath the howl of the aircraft's engines.

"Right on the money!" Chucker craned around to see aft past the Intruder's wing. "We got secondaries!" Fresh explosions marked the disintegration of a fuel tank.

"Okay, boys and girls," Jolly announced over the tactical channel to the other Death Dealers. Inwardly he was shaking. He'd never dropped munitions on a live target before. He kept the tremor from his voice, though, and managed a dry chuckle. "That's the way it's done. Let's see you beat that!"

Behind and beneath Intruder 555, flames boiled into the night sky.

Coyote saw the orange glow as flames lit the clouds to the north. He found himself counting off the seconds before he heard the sound, a series of dull, faint thuds more felt than heard. Thirty-seven seconds… almost eight miles. Although he couldn't see the fire itself or relate it to the night-invisible landscape, that put it somewhere in or near Wonsan… possibly on the peninsula beyond the airfield.

Closer at hand a siren began wailing. The rescue was on, and Coyote felt a galloping excitement mixed with his worry about the odds the SEALs were facing.

"Do you think they have a chance?" he whispered.

Kohl, lying beside him in the hide, shifted slightly in the darkness. " Shh." The man kept his face pressed tightly against the night sight mounted on his rifle, careful to let none of the light from the optics escape to betray their presence.

Coyote gave a mental shrug and went back to studying the landscape below. The SEALs were awfully particular when it came to security discipline, and Coyote was not going to be allowed to settle any of his inward doubts through conversation.

Another flash lit up the northern sky. Coyote could make out the flicker of antiaircraft tracers now, could faintly hear the thunder of jets, the sharper, harsher cracks of bombs. Someone was getting an earful up there tonight.

Coyote moved, wincing with the flash of pain in his leg as he reached for a pair of binoculars lying nearby. He could see little more through the binoculars than he could with his own eyes. The camp was still brilliantly lit, and he could plainly see soldiers moving around inside in small groups.

There was no sign of the other SEALs who had vanished into the darkness with their weapons and packs hours before. The excitement in the camp had died down somewhat, though ten men remained on guard in front of the POW compound, and the roving perimeter patrols had been beefed up.

How could the SEALs hope to infiltrate the place with the base on alert?

He was also worried about Chimera's crew. Would their captors punish them for his escape? Would the general who'd arrived last evening order them all to be moved at once? He shifted his attention to the Hip helicopter, still resting on the small airstrip on the west side of the camp. Those big transports couldn't carry more than twenty-five or thirty people at a time, but suppose the Koreans decided to herd just Chimera's officers aboard and fly them off? That could happen at any time, and until the SEALs got into position, there was nothing to stop the gomers from doing whatever they wanted.

Sikes had not seemed worried at all. The enemy, he believed, was unlikely to do anything so long as they were kept confused and off-balance. Coyote's first assessment of these men came back to him. Dangerous. All he could do was try to stay out of their way.

The sounds of explosions in the north seemed to be stirring the enemy camp once again. Lines of men trotted out of the three-story barracks at the north end of the camp. The men standing guard outside the Wonsan Waldorf stood and shuffled about uncertainly, their eyes on the sky.

To the north, the thunder continued, increasing in intensity. Searchlights probed the clouds as tracer rounds floated through the darkness.

"They're going to think this is Libya '86," Sikes had said during the planning earlier. "That'll be our edge. They don't know they've got an invasion on their hands."

That made sense. The crash and thunder of the attack would alert North Korean troops on the ground, of course ― there was no way to avoid that ― but they would assume that it was only an air raid, and that would give the SEALs the surprise they needed.

With the suddenness of a thrown switch, the Nyongch'on camp was plunged into darkness. Someone down there had decided to black out the base to avoid becoming a target for the American planes.

Coyote smiled. Maybe the SEALs knew what they were doing after all.

Lieutenant Sikes held his breath, wondering for at least the hundredth time this night if the SEALs hadn't finally bitten off more than they could chew. They'd been in position for over thirty minutes, sheltered in a defile below the outside perimeter fence. Huerta had led them to the spot where he'd let himself in earlier that evening.

But it appeared that Huerta's handiwork had been discovered.

There were six of them, North Korean special-purpose troops who had come along the outside of the fence out of nowhere, apparently inspecting it carefully for signs that someone had broken out… or in.

Sikes had hoped the enemy would assume that the American pilot had escaped on his own by wiggling under the fence a hundred yards down the line, but it appeared that this time they were taking nothing for granted. The soldiers, carrying large flashlights, had spotted the place where the chain links had been clipped away from a fence pole, then hastily wired back into place. Now the men seemed to be talking it over in harsh, animated whispers.

Gently, Sikes reached up and pulled his M927 night-sight goggles down and in place. Wearing the things for more than ten or fifteen minutes at a time caused a temporary eye strain called "scope burn." He looked left and right, meeting the otherworldly, twin-tubed stares of the other men in the team. The lieutenant raised one hand, silently flicking his fingers: You and you, circle around.

On the slope above them, two of the KorCom soldiers turned their flashlights on the defile, probing its recesses with the beams. Sikes looked away. Unlike early-generation starlight goggles, his M927s didn't shut down when exposed to bright light, but he could still wreck his night vision by looking into the glare.

The fact that those soldiers had already dazzled themselves with their own lights was a factor in the SEAL team's favor. Perhaps for that reason, the beams did not linger on any of the men hiding in the defile, but passed on, sweeping uselessly across the rugged slope behind them. The SEALs lay still, waiting. The Koreans were moving now. One ― possibly the leader ― pointed down the defile, almost directly in Sikes's direction. "Aphuro t'tok paro kase yo!"

Sikes did not understand Korean, but the man's gesture and tone were unmistakable. He was sending men down to search for anything out of the ordinary. Four soldiers started forward cautiously, testing the footing with each step.

The lieutenant moved his hand again. Get ready. With no waste motion at all, he lowered his M-760 and quietly slipped his Mark 22 pistol from its holster. The other SEALs did the same. From this angle, the missed rounds from a submachine gun burst might strike the fence or one of the compound buildings and raise the alarm.

Even with suppressors, it was too great a risk. His grip tightened on the pistol as he snicked off the safety. They were about to be discovered and they weren't even inside the damned perimeter yet.

Silently, the SEALs waited as the Koreans drew closer.

CHAPTER 23

Huerta watched the approach of the North Koreans. They were less than twenty feet away now. One stumbled as loose stones gave way beneath his boots.

Any time now…

Even through the M927 goggles, the attackers rising out of the shadows near the fence were nearly invisible. The two Koreans still examining the fence never knew what hit them. Black arms encircled from behind, black hands clamped down on mouths just opening to yell, black knives sliced through skin, muscle, and vein in simultaneous thrusts as the soldiers were dragged back and down.

A slight noise ― the scrape of boot heel on rock, perhaps ― alerted one of the Koreans halfway down the defile. "Muos imnikka?"

Three feet to his left, Lieutenant Sikes raised his Mark 22 hush puppy to eye level and fired, the heavy suppressor cutting the sound to a sharp clack.

Huerta fired in almost the same instant… and again, and again. The other SEALs were shooting as well, the sound a chorus of hard, muffled slaps. Bullet holes appeared as if by magic in each of the KorCom soldiers, marring faces, bloodying jackets, tearing throats. One man pitched forward and rolled down the defile, his AK-47 scraping rock with a metallic rasp louder than the volley of suppressed shots. Then the night was silent once more.

The SEALs waited, listening to the stillness. If anyone had heard…

One of the SEALs by the fence raised his hand in a cautious all-clear. Swiftly the other black-suited commandos hurried up the defile to the fence. Then, one by one, they lay on their backs and slid under the gap in the fence and into the compound.

The lieutenant signaled again, not risking words. Each man knew his assigned target in any case, and speech was unnecessary. The raiders divided into two-man teams: Copley and Krueger for the communications shed and microwave tower, Bonner and Smith to the airstrip where a pair of sentries were guarding the grounded Mi-8 helicopter, Halliday and Austin to the headquarters building, Robbins and Pasaretti to the motor pool, and Sikes and Gordon to the barracks and the nearby trenches which served as bomb shelters. The last three men, Vespasio, Han, and Huerta, would head for the POW compound.

Huerta checked his watch, peeling back the velcro to briefly reveal its luminous dial. It was nearly 0145, and there was a long way yet to go. Silently, he led his two partners toward the Wonsan Waldorf, retracing his steps of the night before.

Lieutenant Commander Greene kept his attention fixed on the VDI display as he banked the Intruder slightly west, lining up for the final run. For over thirty minutes, the Death Dealers had struck at targets up and down the Kolmo Peninsula. Flames licked at the sky in a dozen places now, where flak batteries and petroleum tank farms were burning. Intruder 555 had dropped the last of its bombs, a pair of five-hundred-pound Mark 82 GPs released over the south end of the airfield runway. There was no way to tell what had been hit, exactly, but the TENCAP photos had shown what looked like aircraft hangars in the area. Something big had gone up; flames painted the runway in lurid reds and yellows, and the glow lit up the sky.

Jolly had seen no MiGs during his passes over the field. They'd either been in the hangars ― in which case they were burning now ― or they'd been pulled out before the attack. No matter one way or the other; the runway had been struck again and again by Snakeeye retarded bombs and GPs, leaving the concrete cratered and broken.

"Feet wet," he announced over the radio as the Intruder swept eastward over the surf. The other Death Dealers were already heading back toward the Jefferson, or would be as soon as they dropped the last of their ordnance. "Take a coupla cold ones out of the fridge, guys, we're coming' home."

"Copy, Intruder Five-five-five," a voice replied. That would be Lieutenant Harkins, down in CATCC. "Come to zero-nine-eight and goose it. Can't help with the beer, but we've got a fresh load of Mark 82s waitin' for you."

Jolly looked over his left shoulder, at the fires highlighting the spine of Kolmo.

"Yeah, well, it beats hell out of target practice. Triple Nickle, coming in."

By the time Jolly Greene was back on Jefferson's flight deck, other American aircraft were again approaching the North Korean coast, helicopters this time, four monster CH-53E Super Stallions flying off the Chosin as minesweepers. Each helo strained against its load, a Mark 105 sled dragged through the water by a cable hung astern. Intelligence believed that the sea lanes and approaches outside of Wonsan Harbor were clear of mines ― there had been no cessation of seagoing traffic in or out of the city in the past week ― but the technology of mine warfare had improved at least as much as the technology used for clearing them. It was possible that there were seabed mines in place, awaiting only the throwing of a switch ashore to arm them. The sleds, mimicking the sounds and changing water pressure and magnetic profile of a warship, would trick the mines into exploding, if any were in place and active.

So far, intelligence had been proven right… a fact which promised healthy profits to those sailors and Marines who had bet against the odds.

Farther at sea, reveille had been called aboard the Chosin and her Marine Expeditionary Unit escorts, breakfast served, and inspections held for all hands with weapons and full kit.

Within the cavernous aft bay of the U.S.S. Little Rock, Marines were already loading themselves and their equipment onto the pair of odd-shaped vessels resting in the LPD's flooded docking well. Preparations were also underway on board the LST Westmoreland County, where AAVP7 amphibious tractors and LCVPs were being readied for embarkation. Farther out at sea, the rotors were already turning on four RH-53D Sea Stallions resting on Chosin's flight deck, as Marines filed up an outboard ladder, moved along the catwalk, then bent nearly double for the race across open deck and up the lowered rear ramps.

And farther out still, the U.S.S. Jefferson maintained her heading into the wind, launching aircraft almost as quickly as she recovered them. From now until Operation Righteous Thunder ended, there would be no rest at all for her crew, especially for the men of her deck division and air wing. Two of her four tankers were kept aloft at all times, refueling the planes awaiting their turn to trap, landing only when they themselves ran low on fuel. By 0230 hours, the second Alpha Strike was airborne and heading west, searching for SAM sites and radars which had eluded the first attack.

Jefferson's flight deck was a continuing whirlwind of activity, with red shirts hauling bombs and munitions up from the bowels of the ship, with the purple-shirted grapes refueling aircraft as quickly as they could, with exhausted hook-and-cat men continuing the never-ending ballet of breakdown, ready, shoot, and trap. The aviators and RIOs, if they were lucky, grabbed a few minutes' sleep at a time in their ready rooms. Most were too excited to do so, however. At long last they were being allowed to strike back at an enemy that had snickered at them, doing the jobs for which they had invested so much of their lives. Morale was good, expectations high.

And disaster was something even the most pessimistic man aboard simply refused to think about.

Most of the charges had been planted by now, but the SEALs wanted to wait as long as possible before springing their surprise on the unsuspecting North Koreans in the camp. The idea was to wait until 0430 hours, to give the Navy air strikes more time to hit their targets, but Huerta didn't think they'd be able to wait that long.

The truck pulled up from the direction of the HQ building, carrying two officers, a major and a captain. The four KorCom soldiers standing outside the prison compound gate stood hastily when they saw them climbing out of the cab.

The three SEALS, Han, Huerta, and Vespasio, had found cover beneath another truck parked across the road from the Korean guards. From there, Huerta could hear their voices clearly across the thirty feet which separated the soldiers from the hidden SEALS. Silently, he signaled Han. What are they saying?"

BM/1 Charlie Han was an American-born Angeleno, the son of South Korean immigrants. He was also one of three SEALs on the team who spoke Korean ― the best that could be done for a team assembled with such haste. Han listened for a moment, then leaned over, cupping his hand between his mouth and Huerta's ear.

"New orders," Han whispered, his voice so low it did not travel more than inches. Something about 'get them ready to move right away.'"

Huerta licked his lips. To be so close… He reached up and switched on his tactical radio. He did not speak, both for his own safety and for Sikes's. Instead, he punched the squelch button four times in rapid succession, the prearranged click code for the situation they'd all hoped would not arise: They're moving the prisoners. Orders?

There was a long pause. The answer, when it came, was three clicks, a pause, and three clicks more, the answer Huerta had expected. Silently, he touched Vespasio and pointed. The SEAL nodded, slid backward on his belly, then rolled out from under the truck. In seconds he was gone, a shadow moving through the night. Huerta looked at Han and grinned. The word was go!

Across the road, two more KorCom sentries trotted up, members of a roving patrol about the POW compound. More orders were given, something about leaving the wounded until later. Apparently, more trucks were being readied over at the motor pool. Huerta wondered if Robbins and Pasaretti had mined them yet.

Carefully, he raised his M-760 and slipped off the safety. At his side, Han brought his Uzi up. Seconds slipped by as they waited for Vespasio to get in position.

But there was no more time to waste. Four of the guards were already going through the gate, heading toward the building Chimera's crew had named the Wonsan Waldorf. It was now or never.

He squeezed the trigger, holding the weapon's barrel down and dragging the muzzle back along the line of KorCom soldiers visible through his night sight. The suppressed weapon bucked and kicked in his hand, the staccato roar muted to the sharp, slap-slap-slap of the bolt as it ratcheted back and forth. Empty brass cartridges spun and danced, clinking as they struck the underside of the tank inches above his head. Han opened up with the silenced Uzi, loosing precisely controlled three-round bursts into the enemy troops.

The Koreans walking toward the POW building twisted, spun, and fell, or collided with one another as it registered on them that they were under fire. One man gasped, a sound more of surprise than of pain, and then a second round spun him about and slammed him to the ground seconds before one of his comrades dropped across his body. The captain staggered as three rounds stitched up his spine, marking his back with spreading patches which looked black through the starlight goggles. A soldier next to the officer turned and stared, mouth open, not realizing the man had been shot until one 9-mm round punctured his throat and a second crushed his skull. The smash and tinkle of shattered glass was louder than the gunfire. In the cab of the truck, the driver threw hands over face, then tumbled sideways out the open door.

Huerta ceased fire long enough to drop an empty magazine and slap in a fresh one. Vespasio's Colt Commando opened up from across the street at the same moment, chopping into two soldiers who had taken cover behind the truck. One man screamed, a sharp, shocking yell above the hammer of 9-mm rounds striking the truck's side.

"Chosin!" the major shrieked, and then he went down as well. The last soldier managed to unsling his AK-47 and drag the bolt back as he searched wildly for a target. Rounds slammed into his chest and knocked him down.

And then it was over, the North Koreans sprawled dead behind the still-idling military truck. The entire firefight had lasted less than four seconds, so brief a time that the Koreans had not even been able to shoot back. Huerta rolled out from under the tank, stood, and raced across the street, drawing his hush puppy as he ran. By the time Vespasio and Han joined him, he was already putting silent mercy rounds into the skulls of the men sprawled on the ground. There was no time now for prisoners, and the risk of taking them was too great.

Huerta didn't know if the men he shot were still alive or not. Han helped finish the job with a silent, thin-lipped ferocity, while Vespasio stood guard.

The street was deserted, except for the three SEALs and the bodies. Even the Wonsan Waldorf was silent and dark. Despite the yells, the clatter of falling weapons, the thump of rounds striking the side of the truck, no one seemed to have noticed the brief and savage firefight which had just taken place. Perhaps they'd just bought the op a precious few minutes more.

Huerta gave orders to the other two. Swiftly, they began picking up bodies and tossing them one by one into the back of the truck. He stepped aside and kept his eye on the surrounding, darkened buildings as he opened his radio's tactical channel. "Bushmaster One, this is Bush Five," he whispered, using the code-name which would identify him to Sikes. He received two clicks for answer: Go ahead. "Sentry point secure. No alarm."

"Keep it that way," the lieutenant replied. "We need more time."

"I'm leaving Han on guard here. I want to check the motor pool with Vespasio." He was thinking about the trucks the KorCom officers had mentioned. "Things may be going wrong over there."

Sikes clicked the squelch twice for answer and Huerta signed off. Han had already found a jacket and pants unmarred by bullet holes or blood and was pulling them on over his combat blacks. An AK-47 and a soft, shapeless cap with a red star above the brim completed the impromptu disguise. He was still wearing black combat boots instead of the soft, high-topped boots usually worn by KorCom soldiers, but it was unlikely that anyone would get close enough to him to notice. Han should pass any casual inspection for the few minutes that Huerta and Vespasio would be away, and his knowledge of Korean and his Oriental features should let him field questions by anyone wondering where the small army guarding the POWs had gone.

"I'll tell them that everybody else went to get the trucks," Han said, grinning.

Which was exactly what Huerta had in mind. Nine bodies ― six guards, a driver, and two officers ― lay on the truck's flatbed, concealed by a roll of camouflage netting found in the back. The SEALs would park the vehicle near the motor pool, where the bodies should remain undiscovered until it was too late.

Without another word, Huerta brushed broken glass from the driver's seat and climbed in behind the wheel, ignoring the blood splattered across the upholstery. Vespasio got in on the passenger's side.

The motor pool was less than a hundred yards across the darkened compound. Huerta gunned the motor to life and turned into the road. Behind them, Han waved once and took the position of a lone sentry on a boring night watch.

Anbyon was a fair-sized city in the mountains south of Wonsan, and the location of an important military reserve depot located on the single highway running south across the Taebaeks toward the Demarcation Line, seventy-five kilometers away. Captain Sun Dae-jung of the People's Air Defense Forces climbed onto the aft deck of his ZSU-23-4 and scanned the darkness of the northern sky.

Wonsan was twenty kilometers away and he didn't really expect to see any sign of the air attacks which the port city had reported. Still, his orders carried a sense of raw urgency. Every available reserve unit in the area was to be mustered for the defense of the city.

The four ZSU's of Sun's company could get there within the hour. Sun had been born and raised in Wonsan, and he knew the area well. From the hills south of the harbor, where the road from Anbyon joined the coastal highway, they would have a splendid command of the skies over the harbor.

And he knew his vehicles, deadly looking antiaircraft vehicles which Sun knew by their Russian name: Shilka. Their quad-mounted 23-mm cannon would be only marginally effective against supersonic aircraft such as the American Tomcats and Hornets, but their radar-controlled precision, their sheer volume of fire would spell doom for any helicopter or subsonic ground attack that came within range.

The engine spat and roared as the driver cranked it to life. Behind him, the other three Shilkas shuddered and rumbled, exhaust fumes roiling across the pools of light cast by the Anbyon base's lights. Elsewhere, trucks and small military vehicles scurried about like insects. Every soldier in the People's Democratic Republic would be awake by now, Sun thought, ready to defend the fatherland.

But his company would be on the spear-point of that defense.

"Kapsida!" he shouted over the engine roar to his driver. "Let's go!"

With a lurch, the tracked vehicle thundered ahead, making Sun grip the edge of the open hatch to keep from being thrown. He hoped the American aircraft were still over Wonsan by the time he reached the city. In the pre-dawn darkness, his squat vehicles would be next to impossible to see ― a real surprise for the overconfident Imperialists.

Sun smiled to himself as his column clanked ahead toward the mountain pass at Nyongch'on.

Boatswain's Mate First Han heard the approaching Korean soldier an instant before he saw him, a confident swish-click of boots on the pavement a few yards away. He did not unsling his AK-47. A burst from the unsilenced weapon would awaken the entire compound. Instead, his right hand fished for the Mark 22 hush puppy he'd tucked into his web belt at the small of his back.

He faced the newcomer. "Kogi nugu'se yo?" he said, his tone challenging. "Who's there?" If there was a password or countersign he was dead, but if he could take the initiative before the other man's suspicions were aroused…

The Korean was close enough now that Han could see his features in the dim illumination from a light outside the darkened camp. He was a typical-looking soldier, with a sergeant's rank tabs and an AK slung muzzle-down, a pail in one hand. Han caught the sour tang of kimchi… dinner for the squad on duty.

The soldier glanced about once, then looked hard at Han, his eyes hardening with sudden suspicion. "Nuku'simnikka?" the North Korean snapped. "Who are you? Where are the others?"

Han knew at once that his carefully prepared story would not convince this man. The KorCom soldier's free hand was already going for the pistol grip of his AK-47, snapping the selector switch to full auto, dragging the muzzle up in a one-handed attempt to shoot Han before the SEAL could react.

But Han already had his hush puppy out, whipping the pistol around and squeezing the trigger. The heavy-barreled weapon thumped once… twice. The Korean stumbled, his feet tangling with the bucket of kimchi as he fell.

The blaze of autofire stabbing into the sky from the soldier's AK-47 shattered the camp's silence. Across the compound, lights were coming on…

"Saram sallyo yo!" the wounded guard screamed. He'd emptied half his magazine into the sky. "Help! Intruders!" He struggled to aim the AK at the SEAL.

Han fired again and again until the screams were silenced, but it was already too late. He could make out running figures farther down the street, and more and more lights were coming on, bathing the area in pools of harsh brilliance.

He dropped the hush puppy and unslung his stolen AK. Gunfire barked from a building across the street, and a bullet sang off the chain-link fence at his back. Close by, men ran past the truck parked at the side of the road, racing in his direction.

"Korean!" a voice shrilled. "Halt at once!"

Han spun. Gunfire crashed once more from the shadows beside the truck. Rounds slammed into the SEAL's chest and side, hammering him to the ground.

For a dizzying, pain-clouded eternity, there was silence. Han lay facedown on the ground, gasping for each breath against the hot blood he felt welling up in his throat. He tried reaching for the AK he'd dropped.

Then rough hands knocked the AK aside and rolled him over. Someone kicked him in the side, then probed his clothing for hidden weapons as rifle muzzles pressed against his head. A face, a Korean face, grinned down at him from inches away. "So!" the man said. "South Korean Special Forces, I presume?" The face puckered, then spat.

The Koreans thought he was a ROK commando. Somehow, the irony seemed impossibly funny. Laughter turned to agony, though, as his breath rattled in his chest. Han knew he was drowning in his own blood.

"Palli!" the KorCom officer snapped. "Quickly! Get the prisoners!"

Then the darkness closed in and BM/1 Charlie Han died.

CHAPTER 24

HM/1 Bailey's whisper was harsh. "They're coming!"

They'd heard the disturbance outside half an hour earlier, sounds like silenced gunfire, sharp yells, the hammer of bullets striking metal, the crash of broken glass. Then, the sound of a truck being driven off, followed by a silence so complete it might never have been broken. Sailors at the windows could see nothing. The entire camp was blacked out. Searchlights swept the clouds in the distance, and the wail of sirens, the yap of barking dogs could be faintly heard.

Then, suddenly, the Americans had heard a Korean challenge, harsh voices… and then the ear-shattering yammer of an automatic weapon firing in the night. The firefight had lasted only seconds, but the silence was truly ended now by the slap of boots on pavement, shouted orders, and the sound of vehicles arriving outside.

Something's going down," Chief Bronkowicz added. "Sounds like someone's stirred 'em with a stick!"

"We can't let 'em take us," Zabelsky said. He clenched his fists, his eyes on the door as guttural voices sounded just beyond. "Those bastards are never gonna let us go… you guys know that, right?"

"Where's the gun?" Commander Wilkinson asked. In the back of the long room, one sailor climbed onto another's shoulders, searching by feel among the rafters for the hidden weapon.

Gunfire inside the camp could only mean that the SEALs had been discovered. Anything could happen now… including the wholesale massacre of the American prisoners.

"Bailey!" someone shouted. "Where are you, Doc?"

"Here!" The ship's senior hospital corpsman seemed an unlikely choice as gunman for the group. In wartime it would have been against the rules of the Geneva Convention for him to carry a weapon, though plenty of corpsmen had violated those rules in Nam two decades earlier. A quiet canvassing of all the men of Chimera's crew, however, had revealed that HM/1 Herb Bailey had been a member of the IPSC before he joined the Navy, had even qualified for the Bianchi Cup pistol shooters' match, though he'd never participated. He knew handguns and how to use them.

Perhaps most important, he wanted to do it and knew he could. A sailor passed Bailey the Mark 22 and its magazines. He took them without a word, snicked the magazine into the pistol grip, and dragged the slide back to chamber a round. The rattle of keys in the lock was already sounding through the room as he took his position to one side, ten feet from the door, the pistol concealed behind one of Chimera's men.

The door banged open and three Koreans burst into the room. They were angry and shouting, gesticulating with their AK-47s. None spoke English, but their demands were unmistakable. Hands up! Move out! Obey!

Bailey heard Gilmore's quiet voice just behind him. "Bailey? Let's do it, son."

Outside, he heard other soldiers shouting to one another. Killing these three would only delay the inevitable. But better for them all to go down fighting than the slow horror of watching shipmates being shot, one by one.

He shoved the sailor aside and raised the silenced pistol.

Sikes had heard the AK fire from across the compound and knew that the party had just begun in earnest. He exchanged a look with Larry Gordon, the first class torpedoman who had accompanied him to the area outside the North Korean barracks.

Earlier, during the air raid to the north of the camp, several hundred men had poured out of the three-story barracks and clambered into a system of trenches dug near the base perimeter, a crude but relatively effective air raid shelter. Once things grew quiet again, most of the KorCom troops had filed back into the barracks, though a large number had been reorganized into patrols and sentry bands. Sikes and Gordon had been busy since then, planting the claymore mines they'd carried in their packs.

Claymores were curved, rectangular boxes that were placed upright and set to detonate in any of a number of ways, from electric circuits to tripwires. Behind the neatly stenciled lettering which spelled FRONT TOWARD ENEMY, each claymore packed a pound and a half of C4 plastic explosive and seven hundred steel marbles. The device could be aimed, with the end effect a kind of gigantic shotgun. "Looks like it's time, Lieutenant," Gordon said.

"Right." He opened his tactical radio. "All units, this is Bushmaster One. On my signal, rock and roll. Acknowledge!"

"Bush Two, acknowledge!"

"Bushmaster Three, acknowledged!"

"Bush Four! Affirmative!"

"Bushmaster Five, acknowledged. We're with Bush Six. We've left Han outside the POW compound."

Another burst of gunfire echoed from the direction of the compound. Sikes couldn't know for sure, but it sounded as though it might be Han who was in trouble. The original idea had been to stay clear of the POWs until the last minute. When they saw the SEALS, they might make a lot of noise and it would be difficult to control them.

But now was the time.

"Copy, Bush Five. Take Six and get back to your target on the double. Secure the prisoners."

"Roger that."

"Okay." Sikes took a deep breath. "Take 'em down!"

There was a pause, and then the sky lit up orange in the direction of the airstrip as a fireball rolled into the night from a gasoline storage tank. An instant later there was a flash like the popping of flashbulbs, and the microwave antenna over the communications shed shuddered, sagged, then toppled slowly toward the fence. The crash was submerged in the ratcheting blast of plastic explosives detonated in a daisy chain under the bellies of trucks and other vehicles parked in the motor pool. The Mi-8 helo added the contents of its fuel tanks to the conflagration, transforming the camp into an inferno of flames and light and wildly shifting shadows.

The camp's siren began its mournful wail, and soldiers raced once more out of the barracks building, yelling and shouting to one another as they pulled on articles of clothing, stopped to lace boots, or worked the actions on their rifles. Sikes and Gordon lay still behind a hummock of earth, each man holding a small firing device connected to a battery. Men began leaping into the air raid shelter ditches.

Someone touched a tripwire carefully hidden in the ink-black bottom of one of the trenches, and claymore mines set into either end of the ditch triggered simultaneously. A hell of noise and smoke and shrill screams rose above the shouts of running soldiers. Claymores in a second ditch triggered, followed closely by a third. The soldiers still outside of the ditches became a mob surging back toward the barracks.

Sikes flipped the safety bail on his firing trigger and squeezed hard. A claymore nestled into the shadows near the barracks fired, cutting a bloody swath through the mob. Gordon fired a second mine an instant later. The yells and shouted orders were gone now, replaced by the shrieks and screams of the wounded. Bodies lay in front of the barracks in cordwood stacks, mowed down by repeated scythes of steel ball bearings. By the time Gordon opened up with his M-60, only a few Koreans remained standing.

The morning's festivities were off to a great start.

The first explosion rattled the walls on the POW building and silenced the angry shouts of the Korean guards. As the second explosion roared in the near-distance, HM/1 Bailey squeezed the trigger on the Mark 22 and the weapon bucked with a sharp chuff submerged by the far louder thunder outside. The soldier's head jerked back, suddenly bloody. The corpsman was already tracking his second target… and then his third.

A fourth Korean screamed in the door, then leaped backward, out into a night suddenly afire. Chief Bronkowicz scooped up one of the AK-47s, checked it, and handed it to one of the men. "The SEALS!" he yelled. "Now's the time!" The prisoners now had three assault rifles besides the pistol, and a chance to fight back.

The hand grenade sailed into the room through one of the windows high up along the north wall. It was one of the Soviet-made, apple-green RGDs and it skittered across the floor, bounced off the south wall, then spun in the middle of the floor.

"Grenade!" Coleridge screamed, and men dropped to the floor or tried to crowd back. There was a blur of motion as someone in khaki leaped toward the grenade instead of away, sprawling on top of it, gathering it in against his stomach.

The explosion was deafening, though the flash was smothered. The body of the man who had thrown himself across the grenade jerked a foot into the air, and bloody gobbets spattered across the floor. There was a lot of smoke, and a harsh mingling in the air of seared meat, blood, and feces.

The men crowded close. "Oh, God!"

"Who is it?"

"Did you see that?"

"Is he alive?"

Bailey knelt at the man's side, gently rolling him over. Lieutenant Novak's eyes met his for a moment, then glazed over. Much of his abdomen had been blasted away. The shredded remains were spilled across the floor and blood was gushing from the emptied cavity.

The lieutenant was dead in seconds.

Explosions continued to echo and reverberate from outside, and a flickering glow from the west spoke of fuel tanks going up in flames. Inside the room there was a momentary silence, reaction to the horror that was Novak's mangled body, reaction to the knowledge that the man had blamed himself for what had happened.

Seconds later the spell was broken by the yammer of AK fire from close by. Zabelsky had climbed up to the window through which the grenade had come and was firing short bursts into the night.

"Come on, you guys!" Chief Bronkowicz said. His eyes were locked on Novak's gory corpse and the spreading pool of blood. "Let's make it count for something'!"

Bailey rose, still gripping the pistol. Everyone had been so sure that Lieutenant Novak was a coward…

Bailey went to the door, a new and dangerous rage boiling inside. He half expected a blaze of autofire from outside, but events seemed to have thrown the Koreans into as much confusion as their captives. He spotted movement in the darkness and snap-fired, his shot rewarded by a groan and the clatter of a dropped rifle. Bronkowicz stepped past him, brandishing an AK, closely followed by half a dozen sailors armed with nothing but their fists. "Go, Chimeras!" someone yelled. Another sailor let out a spine-chilling rebel yell.

The corpsman looked back at Gilmore, who grinned weakly and gave him a salute from his makeshift bed. "Those SEALs are going to need help, son."

Bailey grinned, saluted, then joined the crowd running into the night.

Coyote turned his binoculars on the camp. "God, the whole place is going up!"

Kohl pressed the night-sight of his rifle to his eye. "The guys have been busy." His rifle cracked once. Even with the suppressor, the sound was uncomfortably sharp and loud. On the camp perimeter, a KorCom soldier pitched headfirst out of a guard tower, struck the barbed-wire topping of the compound fence, and hung there, head down. Kohl shifted targets and fired again.

In the lurid, wavering illumination from a burning fuel dump, Coyote could make out individual figures spilling from the Wonsan Waldorf. The chatter of automatic fire carried across the distance, almost lost in the rising cacophony of fire, explosions, and yelling voices. A building exploded in white flame and collapsed, burning fiercely. The wail of the siren was chopped off as though by a descending ax blade. "There goes the HQ," Kohl said softly. Coyote could only watch and marvel at the slaughter. The SEALS, it appeared, were efficient killing machines.

Minutes passed. Coyote knew from the final briefing earlier that night that Sikes's team was counting on a quick kill and a quick seizure of the camp. The battle for Nyongch'on couldn't be allowed to go on for more than a few minutes, or inevitably SEALs would start dying.

If there were three hundred troops inside Nyongch'on, there were another three thousand in other bases close by… possibly more. By blowing the radio tower, Sikes's men had cut the camp off from its neighbors; with luck, nearby KorCom Army posts would assume Nyongch'on had been hit by another American bomber raid and delay an immediate investigation.

The SEALs could not rely on luck for long, however, or even on the disorganization of the enemy. When North Korean troops arrived at Nyongch'on, they would come in strength, and fourteen SEALS, even reinforced by Chimera's crew, would not be able to hold out for very long.

Though the SEALs would never have admitted it, they needed help. That help had already been factored into the rescue plan.

"Bushmaster Seven, this is Bush One," Sikes's voice said from the backpack radio which had been left in the hide. "Do you copy? Over."

Coyote picked up the handset. Kohl was still busy picking off Korean sentries who had escaped the general slaughter in the camp. "Copy, Bush One. Go ahead."

"Make signal: Sunrise Blue."

That was it! The code message which meant that Nyongch'on and the prisoners were secure! "Copy, Bush One. Sunrise Blue!"

"After you secure the transmitter, get your tails on down here. We've got a way to go yet before we collect our paychecks."

"Roger that." Coyote glanced at Kohl, who was already slinging his rifle. "We're packing up now."

"Bush One, out."

The diminutive satellite dish was already set up, aligned with an invisible point in the southern sky. Coyote flipped switches on the backpack radio as he'd been shown earlier, listening to the hiss and crackle of static over the handset speaker.

"Homeplate, Bushmaster," he said. "Homeplate, this is Bushmaster."

After an eternity, a static-charged voice replied, "Bushmaster, this is Homeplate. We copy."

"Sunrise Blue! I say again, Sunrise Blue!"

"Copy, Bushmaster. Sunrise Blue. The cavalry's on its way!"

Coyote had never heard such beautiful words.

The four RH-53D Sea Stallions of Cavalry One had been orbiting their marshall point for several hours, refueling once from one of Jefferson's KA-6D tankers. The noise in the cargo cabin was deafening, too loud for normal speech. When the word came through over his headphones from the pilot that Sunrise Blue had been received, Lieutenant Victor A. Morgan merely turned and gave a thumbs-up to the waiting, watching Marines crowded into the compartment.

The answering roar momentarily drowned out the Sea Stallion's engine noise, as forty Marines shouted in unison, "Gung-ho!"

Morgan rested one hand against the Sea Stallion's bulkhead and patted it fondly. Eight Sea Stallions had been part of the Eagle Claw operation in 1980, the Delta Force attempt to rescue fifty-three American hostages in Iran, and the hydraulic failure of one of them in the harsh desert conditions over the Dashte Kavir had been largely responsible for the abort on that mission. The task force had been in the process of pulling out when another helo collided with a C-130, capping the raid with disaster. Two of the eight dead at Desert One had been Marines.

This morning, though, the Marines were giving the old Navy workhorse a chance to redeem herself. Cavalry One consisted of four RH-53Ds; three carried forty-two-man rifle platoons, a fourth a weapons platoon and headquarters element. Altogether, the cavalry for this particular rescue made up a complete Marine rifle company under the command of Captain Samuel L. Ford.

Upon receiving the Sunrise Blue code, the four aircraft dropped to wave-top height and raced toward the Korean shore at 160 mph. By this time, all identified SAM sites and antiaircraft batteries had been hit by the hunting packs of Jefferson's Hornets and Intruders. Lone North Koreans wandering around on the ground with shoulder-launched Grails or machine guns still posed a threat, but not a large one. By contour flying, hugging the shape of the ridges' broken terrain, the helos would give little warning of their approach, and at low altitude they would not be in sight for more than a few seconds. Tomcats circling overhead would provide cover against enemy MiGs, but it was surprise and speed which would get the Sea Stallions to their landing zone.

Getting them out would be another problem entirely, but Lieutenant Morgan was more than happy to leave that worry to the operation's planners. For the moment, his only thought was to get his platoon to the Nyongch'on LZ fast, before the SEALs found themselves facing more than they could handle. It would be his first time in combat.

With the shriek of GE turbines and the heavy clatter of rotors, the cavalry thundered toward the beach.

It took several long minutes to dismantle and fold the satellite dish and stow it with the radio in its pack. The gunfire from the camp had entirely died away. So far, there was no sign that the capture of Nyongch'on-kiji had been noticed by any of the other PDRK Army commands in the area. That wouldn't last for long.

"You going to be able to make it with that leg?" Kohl asked.

"I'll make it." Coyote was already wondering if he could. The pain was much worse. It felt like his left knee would buckle if he put any weight on it at all.

"Here." Kohl unslung his G3 rifle and handed it to Coyote, exchanging it for the radio pack which he shrugged onto his back. "Safe's on. Don't lean on the suppressor." He stooped and unscrewed the night sight, which he packed away into a padded tube which looked like a camera lens case. Coyote found that by planting the butt of the weapon on the ground and leaning against the foregrip he could stand. Most of the trip would be downhill, a cautious series of sideways steps using the rifle as a cane.

"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.

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

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!"

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…"

"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.

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!"

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.

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.

"Comrade Captain!" the radar operator shouted. "Two and Three report they are being strafed!"

"Have they been hit?"

"No casualties, sir!"

"Have all units switch on their radars." There was nothing to be gained by hiding now.

"Three targets, Comrade Captain. Incoming, range three thousand…"

"Lock on!"

The turret traversed slowly, the quad guns rising to firing position.

"Target locked! Tracking!"

"Chigum!" Sun shouted. "Now! Fire!"

The firing of the four 23-mm cannons sounded like paper tearing or a buzz-saw, but impossibly loud. A shower of empty shell casings arced golden into the night, and the ZSU's turret shuddered with the force of the gunfire. Brilliant green tracers streamed into the night.

Tombstone pulled back on the stick. His chances of hitting anything were practically nil, but his pass might have broken the gomers' concentration.

"Three Intruders coming down behind us" Snowball reported. "They report target lock. They're into their run."

"Hang tight, Snowy. We'll loop back and give them cover."

Jolly saw the tracers arcing toward him from the ground, intermittent streams of green pinpoints which swelled to grapefruit size as they snapped past his cockpit. Instinctively, he hauled the stick right and kicked in his rudder, standing the A-6 on its right wing to avoid the wall of fire.

A glance back at his VDI showed the targeting pipper almost on the target. They were already committed.

Then the Intruder buffeted wildly as something slammed into the hull. Shit!

Jackhammer blows crashed along the starboard side of the aircraft, and there was a searing, metallic ricochet sound that felt suspiciously like a turbine blade chopping through paper-thin hull metal.

"We're hit!" Chucker yelled.

"Damn it, don't you think I know that?"

Power died on his starboard engine. The VDI was dead, the computer off-line. The annunciator panel was lit up like a Christmas tree with warning lights: hydraulic pressure; right generator; right engine; fuel pumps two, three, and four.

Almost without thinking, Jolly switched the weapons release to manual and jettisoned the entire load. They'd swung east of their attack path and had lost the target now. The one consolation was that they were no longer near the Nyongch'on LZ. With a thump, the bomb rack broke free and tumbled into the night. There was a flash from somewhere behind, and Jolly hoped their bomb rack had landed on something important. The aircraft leveled off at eight hundred feet, still in a shallow turn to port. They had to buy some altitude. The coast was only a few miles away. If they could just reach the sea…

The fire warning light for the right engine glared at him. He shot out his hand and snapped off the master fuel switch to the starboard engine. The Intruder's fuel readings were plummeting anyway. Jolly could imagine raw fuel spraying into the damaged right engine.

"Jolly," Chucker said, twisting in his seat to look aft. "We got real problems."

Jolly leaned forward, looking past his BN. He caught the yellow glare of open flames licking from the root of the wing. The wing itself had half a dozen holes punched in it, and he could see liquid streaming aft from the punctures.

"That's it," Jolly said. The Intruder could explode any second. "Punch out!"

Chucker leaned back in his seat, reached up over his head, grabbed the primary ejector handle, and yanked it down.

There was a blast, a whirlwind storm of raw noise and shattered Plexiglas. Emptiness yawned at Jolly's right side as he reached for his own ejection handle and pulled it down with a hard, clean motion.

The universe exploded in a thunderclap.

CHAPTER 26

Lieutenant Sikes heard the thunder of the first jet, heard the ratcheting fire from the ZSU. Moments later, the second jet roared overhead farther to the west. There was a flash beyond the road and to the south, and he felt the concussion of high explosives seconds later.

ZSUs! Damn! That was just what they did not need at the moment. From his position at the Nyongch'on airstrip, he could see the ZSU's green tracer fire streaming into the sky in short, precisely targeted bursts, but he couldn't locate the vehicle itself.

He reached for his tactical radio. "Bushmaster Seven, this is Bushmaster One!" There was no answer. "Bush Seven, Bush Seven! Kohl, come in! Over!"

And still there was silence. Kohl and the Navy flier would have shut the big radio down before leaving the hide, but Kohl ought to be picking him up on his tactical set. Something bad was going down out there, though. He'd lost his radio link with the outside world… and that included Cavalry One, which ought to have arrived by now. ZSUs sitting on top of the LZ could blow the whole op. The Navy would have warned Cavalry One off before attacking the Korean armor… which explained why the Marines were late in touching down. But how much later would they be?

"Bushmaster Five, this is Bushmaster One. Do you copy, over?"

"One, this is Five," Huerta's voice replied. "Go ahead."

"Situation report!"

"Bush Six is with us, Lieutenant. POW compound secure and we've got the prisoners. We're sorting them out now."

"Any casualties?"

"One POW dead, three wounded. The bad guys tossed a grenade before we got there."

"How about your force?"

"Han is dead. And Vespasio's wounded. One of the POWs winged him when we moved in."

Sikes frowned. In any combat action accidents were bound to happen, but he needed every man now. If the Marines didn't come in damned soon… "Okay, Five," he said at last. "You know the drill. Ask for volunteers and pass out AKs. Things could be getting rough here pretty quick. Bushmaster One, out."

Operation Righteous Thunder was teetering on the brink between success and disaster. It didn't matter that the SEALs had freed Chimera's crew. If an NK counterattack overwhelmed them in the next few minutes, if half of Chimera's sailors were killed while defending themselves in what was supposed to be their rescue, it would look nasty in the news headlines.

Of course, that wouldn't matter to Sikes personally, because he would be dead, along with his entire command. The SEALs had only their personal weapons, what little equipment they'd been able to haul in on their backs, and whatever they could scrounge from the base. They had no Dragons or TOWs or even LAWs with which to attack enemy armor. Things were getting serious.

He could hear the shriek of another Navy plane, coming in low. If they didn't clear those ZSUs fast, there was going to be one hell of a butcher's bill.

Lieutenant Jake "Blondie" Shaw squeezed the commit trigger and watched the display change on his VDI. "Desperado Two, coming' in hot!" he announced on the radio. Behind him, Intruder 532 was falling into line for its attack run.

"Left three degrees," Timmons said, his face buried in the radar hood. "I think we're getting a buzz from a Gun Dish."

"ZSUs," Shaw said. He pronounced it zoos. "Can you get a lock?"

"No way," the BN replied. "You're on manual release."

A blazing line of green fire rose dead ahead, so close it seemed impossible that they would miss. Shaw jinked left, then right, his eyes fixed now on the pipper crawling toward the target graphic on his screen. One mile now, less than ten seconds…

Something hit the Intruder's wing with a dull thump, forcing Shaw to correct. "Left two!" Timmons shouted.

"I've got it!" The pipper reached the target box and he pickled the bomb release.

The A-6 shook with a succession of small bumps as the Rockeye cannisters fell away, two at a time. Shaw rammed the throttles home and hauled back on the stick.

He'd been deliberately conservative in the approach, not wanting to scatter Rockeye bomblets into the Nyongch'on compound. Of course, that could mean missing the lead tank in line.

The ZSU shuddered, overwhelmed by the wall of sound trailing behind the enemy plane. Captain Sun rose cautiously in his hatch just as a rapid-fire succession of brilliant white flashes began popping away in the night several hundred meters from his vehicle. The roar of explosions continued second after second, but fading into the distance; the Yankee had released a string of cluster bombs, each strewing hundreds of bomblets south along the road. One particularly savage blast shook the air, and an orange fireball rolled into the sky. Streamers of fire arced through the darkness as ammunition boxes detonated, rippling and flashing like Chinese firecrackers.

The thunderous bombardment continued, but the explosions were erupting farther and farther to the south. Sun had already decided that he was out of the line of fire. The enemy bombardier had delayed his release a split second too long; the other three Shilkas in his command might have been hit, but his was safe.

Or would be if he could get off the road and into Nyongch'on. No American aircraft would attack him there and risk the lives of his own countrymen.

"Kapsida!" he shouted at the driver. "Go! Go! Go!" The ZSU lurched forward.

Lieutenant Sikes heard the growl of the approaching vehicle and knew at once what it must be. It would be too much to ask of Lady Luck for the Navy ground attack planes to get all the KorCom ZSUs with one pass. Flames seared the night toward the southwest, but at least one of the Soviet-made AA wagons had escaped and was heading toward the camp. It sounded as though it were approaching the main gate, which was facing the road on the south side of the camp.

"Krueger," he snapped. "Austin. With me!"

The two SEALs materialized seconds later. The entire team, except for Robbins, Pasaretti, Vespasio, and Huerta, had rendezvoused at the airstrip. They waited now in the shadows cast by the burning wreckage of the Mi-8.

"Yessir!" Austin said. He carried a silenced H&K MP5. Krueger was the team's second machine gunner, a blond giant who carried the bulky M-60 slung over his shoulders, and wore crossed ammo belts which gave him the air of a muscle-bound hero of some paramilitary movie epic. To his teammates he was known as "Hulk."

"Either of you guys see any RPGs laying around?" Sikes asked.

"Yeah, Boss," Krueger said. "Armory, up by the communications shack. Brian took out some guy with a 'G after we blew the com tower."

"Okay. I need your '60 with me. Austin, get the RPG. Meet us by the motor pool."

"On my way." The SEAL with the MP5 turned and vanished into the shadows again. Sikes touched Krueger's shoulder. "Let's go, Hulk."

The two men ran south, toward the roar of engines.

"Hold it here!"

The Shilka drew to a shuddering halt just outside the main gate as Captain Sun studied the camp through narrowed eyes. Something was decidedly wrong here. He could see the flames from several spots beyond the barbed-wire-crowned chain-link fence. The camp might well have been bombed before his arrival, but that seemed unlikely, given that American POWs were being kept here.

A pair of bodies caught his attention, lifeless forms in mustard-colored jackets sprawled near the gate, AK-47s at their sides. A third body lay farther inside the camp.

So, Nyongch'on had already been attacked by ground troops ― American Special Forces or Rangers, possibly, or even South Korean commandos. Those incoming helicopters were probably intended to ferry out the POWs once they were freed.

A peal of thunder reminded him that there were still killers near, invisible in the sky. More Yankee bombers could be overhead at any time. He dropped down into the turret and banged the hatch shut. "Forward!" he barked.

The Shilka's tracks chewed at the earth, and the vehicle ground forward. There was a rattling jar, and then the chain-link fence parted like cloth before the heavy machine's advance. Something whanged off the hull, followed by a staccato drum-roll of metal striking metal. Machine gun! The Shilka's turret armor was thin ― only nine millimeters ― and was easily pierced by.50caliber machine gun fire. From the sound, he guessed that these were.223 rounds, M-16s possibly, or an M-60.

He peered into the gunner's periscope. Nothing… no! There! He spotted the telltale flicker of a muzzle flash close beside the wreckage of a motor pool garage.

"Turret traverse!" he yelled. The gunner worked the turret control, swinging the quad guns into line. The Shilka's quad mount was extremely versatile, able to engage any target between eighty degrees high and minus seven degrees low. In Afghanistan, the Russians had used them to great effect against guerrilla ground forces. "Depress fifteen!"

He switched to the weapon sight. Cross-hairs centered above the muzzle flash, bouncing with the ZSU's forward motion. Machine gun fire continued to hammer at the turret. The loader checked the receiver. "Ready to fire!"

"Fire!"

The quad guns roared.

"Hit the deck!"

Explosions shrieked and howled, filling the air with whirling splinters and chips of stone. Sikes rolled to the left, sheltering behind the concrete block foundation wall of the motor pool garage as 23-mm shells tore through the wooden side slats like bullets through paper. He'd been hoping to find a point on the ZSU's armor thin enough that the M-60 could penetrate it, but Krueger's volleys hadn't seemed to have any effect at all. The quad turret swung back and forth in short arcs, the cannons rattling away in short, sharp bursts as hell exploded inches above Sikes's head.

"Pull back!" he yelled, wondering if his voice would carry over the storm of noise. Explosive shells chewed into the foundation blocks, spraying chunks of concrete into the garage. "Krueger! Pull-"

He stopped when he saw Krueger, slumped over the stock of the now-silent M-60. Most of the big SEAL's head was gone.

The stuttering howl of the AA tank's guns fell silent, replaced by the roar of its engine as the driver throttled up. Sikes reached down to his harness and detached a grenade. The ZSU was still way too far for a throw, but the monster was grinding closer.

And closer…

Captain Sun pressed the radio handset to his ear. "Yes, Comrade General!" he shouted. The Shilka had ceased fire, but the engine was thundering now as they rumbled forward. "Yes! Enemy commandos had infiltrated Nyongch'on-kiji!"

"How large a force, Captain? Have you made contact yet?"

"We have silenced one machine gun, Comrade General. Enemy strength unknown. We have not yet made contact with our own troops."

"What of your own force, Captain?"

Sun had already called the other Shilkas. He'd been unable to raise Numbers Two and Three, and Number Four had thrown a tread. "Two out of action, one damaged, Comrade General. I have moved my vehicle into the camp, where the Americans cannot get at me without bombing their own people."

"Good thinking, Captain. Continue your operation. Flush out the Americans in the camp. Reinforcements are on the way to support you."

"Very well, Comrade General. I-"

The Shilka rocked wildly, as though recoiling before a blow from a gigantic sledgehammer. The radar operator was slung from his seat and smashed against the turret's steel bulkhead. White smoke boiled out of nowhere, fouling the air, burning Sun's eyes. "Comrade General!" he screamed into the handset. "Comrade General!"

No answer. The set was dead.

"We must get out, Captain!" the gunner said, his eyes wide with fear.

"Don't panic!" Undogging the hatch above his head, he drew his pistol, a Chinese Type 59 ― a copy of the Soviet Makarov ― then flung the hatch open.

Flames licked at the Shilka's engine compartment. By the light, he could see the jaggedly twisted metal on the starboard skirts where a high-explosive round had smashed the drive wheel. Of greater concern was the fire. If the flames reached the fuel supply or the ammo stores, they wouldn't find enough of Number One's crew to bury.

He hitched himself out of the hatch and swung his legs over the side. Thunder rolled once more. To the southwest, green tracers arced skyward until a fireball rolled into the heavens.

So, Number Four was gone as well. Captain Sun felt tears burning his eyes, and not just from the acrid smoke. These Americans ― their ROK allies ― had invaded his country, murdered his countrymen. If he could reach them…

Movement caught his eye and he turned. He saw men ― big men, too tall to be South Koreans ― moving out of the shadows. One braced a familiar-looking, meter-long tube over his right shoulder, an RPG-7. A tank killer…

"Ani!" Sun screamed. "No-"

The M-760 bucked in Sikes's hands, the rounds pinning the Korean officer back against the hull of his ZSU. At the same moment, Austin triggered the RPG for a second shot. The booster charge ignited and kicked the five-pound grenade clear of the launcher; the rocket fired an instant later, lifting the grenade in a swiftly rising trajectory which sent it arrowing straight toward the target, just as a second crewman clambered out of the turret.

Austin's first shot had nearly missed. SEALs trained regularly with foreign weapons like the RPG-7, but that was the first time he'd tried to fire one in combat, in the dark, and against a moving target.

This time his target was stationary, well-lit by the flames rising from the rear deck. The rocket-propelled grenade hissed into the ZSU's broad turret and struck a foot above the dying Korean's head. The flash lit up half the compound. Austin and Sikes ducked as exploding ammunition banged and thumped. Fire engulfed the vehicle with a roar.

There was no trace at all left of the ZSU's crew.

Austin lowered the tube from his shoulder. "You think that's all there were?"

"Better be. We need to get Cavalry One down here pronto. I'm betting those boys called for help."

"Oh, shit!"

"Shit is right. C'mon. Let's get back to the airstrip."

Lieutenant Shaw turned in his seat, peering out of the cockpit as his Intruder banked over the compound. He could see the funeral pyres of four ZSUs, three on the road and one fifty yards inside the main gate. Ground fire seemed to have ceased.

"Shotgun Leader, this is Desperado Five-three-seven. I think we've cleared up your little difficulty for you."

"Roger that, and thanks," Tombstone Magruder's voice replied. "We're passing the word to Cavalry One."

"Any sign of Jolly and Chucker?"

"Negative on that." There was a small hesitation. "We have people monitoring the SAR frequencies. If they made it out, we'll extract them."

"Damn right we will," Shaw replied. Like most of his running mates, he did not particularly care for Jolly's obnoxious attitude, but Chucker was a good guy and this time around no one was going to be left behind to enjoy the North Koreans' ideas of justice and mercy.

Not even Jolly Greene.

The flame and horror of the whirlwind attack at Nyongch'on-kiji had seared themselves into Colonel Li II-Sung's mind. He'd been asleep in the officers' quarters when the first explosion had rocked the building; he'd gotten dressed and into the compound in time to see the headquarters building in flames, to hear the screams of soldiers cut down outside the barracks.

Many had escaped. Colonel Li had joined a group of twenty or thirty men, scrambling across the wreckage of the east perimeter fence where a watchtower had collapsed and dragged the wire down. For hours now, he and the ragged band of soldiers had wandered around on the dark slopes southeast of the camp. From there he had a clear view of the pass, lit now by burning ZSUs and the torches of Nyongch'on's fuel-storage tanks. There might be another hundred survivors, possibly more, scattered among the rocks and barren slopes beyond the perimeter fence.

This night would be the end of his career. He knew that, accepted it in a fatalistic way. It had already ended General Chung's career rather abruptly. He'd seen the general outside the headquarters building, nearly cut in half by one of those devilish American claymore mines.

Other heads would roll because of this. The American prisoners should have been separated into small groups on the first day and scattered across the breadth of the People's Republic. It had been folly to keep them together in one place… a folly which could only have been born of over-confidence. The weakness of American will in the face of strength was preached so often and so loudly that, perhaps, there were those in the halls of power in P'yongyang who had come to believe in it.

How many Yankee commandos were there, anyway? There was no way to be certain; fifty, at least, Li thought. No smaller group could have done so much, so quickly. Some of the men thought the attackers were the dreaded South Korean Special Forces, but Li did not believe that. No, these were Americans, seeking their own.

"Comrade Colonel!" one of the men said urgently. "Comrade Colonel! Listen!"

He heard nothing at first, but then the sound grew, swelling rapidly on the night air, a deep-throated clatter which could be only one thing.

"Helicopters!" He turned sharply, searching among the soldiers with him. He had seen one with a Type 80 machine gun, a Chinese copy of the Soviet PKM. There he was. "You! Set up your weapon, quickly!"

The Type 80 was belt-fed, with a bipod under the muzzle. It took seconds to prop the weapon on a rock as the thunder of rotors grew louder. "Stand ready! They're coming!"

Li's only hope to salvage anything out of this was to win a major tactical victory… and he just might accomplish that if he could bring down an American helicopter.

Then he saw it, a gray shape low above the ridge top, sweeping overhead toward the camp. Below, inside the perimeter fence, he saw red flames burst into ruby pinpoints, outlining the south end of the airstrip. "Fire!"

With a roar that drowned the thunder of rotors, the machine gun yammered, scattering spent casings in a storm of noise. The helicopter staggered, stricken.

Lieutenant Morgan felt the helicopter shudder, then lurch violently to port. Something shrieked through the red-lit confines of the Sea Stallion's cargo deck, and Morgan remembered hearing somewhere that the skin of a helicopter was so thin it was possible to punch a screwdriver through it with your hand.

"Cav One-Three, declaring emergency!" The pilot was using an emergency radio frequency, but Morgan was hearing the yell over his intercom plug. The helicopter lurched again and Morgan grabbed for a handhold. It felt as though the huge machine was spinning, dipping wildly to one side.

"Mayday! Mayday!" the pilot continued to call. "Cavalry One-Three hit by ground fire. Engine hit, repeat, engine hit! I'm going in!"

"Hold on!" Morgan screamed into the inferno of smoke and noise and darkness. "Brace for a crash!"

Nearly one hundred miles at sea, Admiral Magruder listened to the radio messages relayed by one of the orbiting Hawkeyes. Intruder strikes appeared to have cleared the ZSUs, but at least one of the Cavalry One helos had been badly hit and gone down, well short of Nyongch'on. One Intruder had been shot down, its crew lost among the night-shrouded ridges of North Korea, and the SEALs were out of touch with Homeplate.

Commander Neil leafed through a small stack of TENCAP photos. They showed flames and scars, smoke palls and wreckage. One close-up of Nyongch'on showed bodies sprawled on the ground outside the POW compound.

"You know, it's still not too late to call off the main landings, Admiral," Neil said quietly. His eyes had a glassy, far-away look.

Magruder looked up from his half-full coffee cup. "You sorry son of a bitch!"

Neil blinked rapidly. "Admiral, I didn't mean-"

"You're as bad as those fuzz-brains in Washington, boy. We started this. We're going to finish it."

"Yes, sir."

"We're not leaving our people in there to die."

"No, sir."

"We're not leaving Chimera's crew, we're not leaving the SEALs and Marines, we're not leaving our aviators. Hear me?"

"Yes, sir."

"They all come home, or none of us do."

"Absolutely, Admiral. I… I just thought I should mention the options-"

"Options." He turned away, angry with himself for having lost his temper. "Take a hike, Neil. Get the hell out of my sight."

The staff intelligence officer dropped the stack of TENCAP photos on the table and quietly left the room.

Leaving Admiral Magruder alone with the loneliness, the inner doubts which had threatened to overwhelm him ever since he'd given the order to go.

Everything depended now on the Marines of Cavalry One… and on the Marines about to storm ashore at Kolmo. The issue could still go either way, and there was nothing he could do now to affect the outcome except order an abort. And that would mean failure.

For Magruder, the waiting was always the hardest part.

CHAPTER 27

One engine had failed, but the second GE T64 turbine kept turning, lowering the Sea Stallion to an undignified but relatively gentle touchdown in the rugged country southeast of Nyongch'on-kiji. The helo struck the ground with a lurch, which threw the Marines against one another, but no one was hurt.

Lieutenant Morgan was already standing on the sharply tilted deck as the rear ramp began lowering. A blast of cold air penetrated the cabin. "Move them out, Gunny!"

But Gunnery Sergeant Walters was way ahead of him, grabbing each Marine by the sleeve and propelling him toward the ramp. "On your feet, Second Platoon! I want to see nothing but amphibious green blurs! Go! Go! Go!" With a thunder of boots on metal gratings, the Marines stormed down the ramp clutching their weapons and field gear. Morgan checked to make sure the chopper's crew was out, then followed himself.

Outside, the darkness was relieved by fires burning in the distance. Gunnery Sergeant Walters handed him an M-16. He took it and snicked back the charging handle to chamber a round. "Well, Gunny?"

Walters consulted a map and compass with a small penlight, then pointed. "That way, Lieutenant. Other side of that ridge."

"How far?"

"Two miles, maybe three. Not bad, considering."

Morgan agreed. He studied the map a moment longer. "We took fire from this area here."

"I'd say so, Lieutenant."

Morgan looked up, scanning the darkness. The platoon was clear of the downed helo now, forming up by squads. Northwest, a steep ridge bulked against a sky only just becoming visible in the pre-dawn light. The sun would be up in another ninety minutes. "Hostiles between us and Nyongch'on, then," he said. He sighed. This wasn't going to be easy. "Okay. Have the men saddle up. I don't want to get caught out here in daylight."

"Right."

"Next, ring up Cavalry One-One. Give them our posit and tell them we're coming in. Oh, and you'd better take care of the helo too."

"Already done, sir." There was a dull thump, and flames began washing from the helicopter's cabin. They would leave nothing behind that the enemy could use.

The Marine captain stepped off the ramp and extended his hand. "Captain Ford, Lieutenant," he said, shouting above the rotor noise. "U.S. Marines."

"Welcome, sir." Sikes took the hand. "Good to have the grunts aboard."

"Our pleasure, Lieutenant." The two turned and made their way off the tarmac in a bent-double stoop beneath the slowing blades of the RH-53D. "Always ready to come in and help you Navy pukes out."

Sikes laughed. "We may have bitten off more than even Marines can chew, Captain. What's the situation with Second Platoon?"

"They're down and safe, Lieutenant." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the helicopter. "I was just talkin' to them on the horn. A few cuts and scrapes, but no casualties." He pointed southeast, toward the hills above the camp. "Far side of that ridge, about two miles. They should be here in another forty mikes."

Unless they run into trouble on the way, Sikes thought. Well, perhaps it was just as well to have another forty-some Marines on the loose outside the perimeter.

Three of the four choppers of Cavalry One had touched down safely at the helipad. The ramps were down, and the Marines of the first and third rifle platoons and a weapons platoon ― altogether over one hundred thirty men ― were spilling out across the flame-illuminated tarmac to establish their perimeter. Scattered gunshots and short bursts of fire from the perimeter fence marked skirmishes with the North Koreans still lurking just outside the captured military base.

"Let's have a look at your situation," the captain said as they reached the hangar building that Sikes had commandeered as headquarters. Ford's Marines were already setting up commo gear and a map table. "The Koreans are going to hit us hard, and we have to be ready for them."

"How long until Cavalry Two comes in, Captain?"

Ford gave a tight smile. "Long enough. Jefferson's A-6s are still hammering SAM sites, and we have to make sure there are no more surprises like those ZSUs." He looked at his watch. "And our boys'll be hitting the beaches in another fifty minutes or so. We'll have to hold at least that long."

"Fair enough, Captain. I've got a map over here."

Together, they began planning the defense of Nyongch'on.

Of all the tasks the U.S. Navy is called on to perform, an amphibious assault is without question the most complex, requiring exhaustive planning, perfect timing, and a degree of coordination and cooperation between forces at sea, on shore, and in the air more exacting than in any other arena of modern warfare. As H-hour approached, Admiral Magruder could only watch the ponderous uncoilings of the many-headed beast he'd released, and pray that each head, each movement followed the plan worked out by Colonel Caruso, Admiral Simpson, and himself. With so many men and so much equipment involved, anything could cause disaster: a forgotten bit of planning, the failure of a timetable, or something as ignominious as a traffic jam on the beach.

Task Force 18 was scattered now, covering an area hugging Korea's east coast over one hundred miles across. Most far-flung of all the ships were the frigates Gridley and Biddle, charged now with backing up the antisubmarine cordon of LAMPS III helos, HS-19s Sea King helicopters, and the S-3A Vikings of VS-42. North Korea had a number of submarines, mostly older, ex-Soviet Whiskey-classes, and it was imperative that they be kept well clear of the American ships ― especially the Marine-laden transports and the Jefferson herself.

The U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson, flagship of the task force, cruised slowly thirty miles off Wonsan, accompanied by the guided-missile cruiser Vicksburg and her Combat Air Patrol umbrella of F-14 Tomcats.

Much nearer the coast, eight miles off Wonsan's harbor mouth, the Marine contingent held station: Chosin, Little Rock, Texas City, and Westmoreland County.

Closer inshore still, the destroyers Lawrence Kearny and John A. Winslow turned five-inch guns on the spine of the Kolmo Peninsula, pounding away at the heights above the beach as they covered the approach of Marine amphibious craft. And over the entire area, A-6 Intruders, F/A-18 Hornets, and F-14 Tomcats prowled, stooped, and struck. Every SAM site that could be found along the coast had been neutralized already. Because Wonsan Harbor itself was crowded with the shipping of many nations, North Korean vessels in port were largely ignored, but those which attempted to sortie were quickly spotted by Hawkeye radar planes and pounced upon. So far two Osa-class missile boats ― each carrying Styx anti-ship missiles ― had been discovered and sunk as they tried to motor clear of the harbor. Other Korean casualties included five patrol boats which might have posed a threat to the landing craft, and the North Korean frigate Glorious Revolution, run aground by her crew after sustaining a hit by an Intruder-launched Harpoon missile. Smoke from the fires still raging in her engine room stained the sky over the Kolmo Peninsula as dawn approached.

H-hour was set for 0545 hours, the time of high tide this morning along the east Korean coast. By 0515, the LPD Little Rock's stern doors were open, and the first of her two LCACs began nosing onto seas made choppy by a stiff, northwesterly breeze.

Neither aircraft nor boat, each was a squat, curious-looking vessel eighty-eight feet long and forty-seven feet wide supported on cushions of air. LCAC hovercraft ― the designation stood for Landing Craft Air Cushion ― were one of the more recent developments in amphibious operations. Capable of carrying over one hundred twenty tons of payload twenty miles at forty knots, LCACs were such a new twist to modern warfare that the experts were still arguing over just how they should be integrated into conventional beach assault tactics.

Wonsan would be their first combat test. LCAC 53 and LCAC 55 swung clear of Little Rock's stern, churning up clouds of wind-whipped spray as thick as smoke screens. Driven by twin, aft-mounted turboprops, outsized versions of the aircraft propellers which drove flat-bottomed swamp buggies in the Everglades, the LCACs accelerated toward the coast.

The encounter was more accident than ambush, blind probes by opposing forces which blundered into one another just below the ridge crest on the rocky slopes a mile from Nyongch'on. Second Platoon was advancing by squads, with one thirteen-man team moving while the other two provided overmatch. Third Squad had the point when they encountered the North Korean position.

Gunfire barked and cracked, the muzzle flashes visible as rapidly strobing pulses of light against the blackness of the ridge. The Marines returned fire at once and the morning was filled with the hammering thunder of autofire.

Lieutenant Morgan was with First Squad when the pre-dawn stillness shattered. Like tens of thousands of junior Marine officers before him, Lieutenant Victor A. Morgan had originally joined the Corps during peace time, with no serious thought of ever having to go into combat. A modern Marine officer could well serve his entire career without once hearing a shot fired in anger.

It had taken OCS at Quantico, a course tougher in most respects than that meted out to enlisted recruits at Paris Island and San Diego, to give him a more realistic view of the modern world. Marines had died in Iran, Beirut, Grenada, and a score of other places around the world during "peacetime." And the war to liberate tiny Kuwait had come out of nowhere. Now Morgan found himself on a hill in North Korea, with someone up there doing his best to kill him. He was scared, but the shouted orders of the platoon's sergeant, the sure movements of his men, the memories of his own training quickly steadied him.

"Ryan!" he snapped, grateful for the hours he'd spent memorizing the names and histories of the men in his platoon. "Take your squad to the left. Van Buren! Close up and support Third Squad!"

"Aye aye, sir!"

"And use your two-oh-threes!" Sergeant Walters added. "Move it!"

"Right, Gunny!"

Gunfire continued to crackle through the night. One rifleman in each squad carried an M-203 grenade launcher clipped beneath the barrel of his M-16 assault rifle.

The lieutenant heard the hollow thump of an M-203 off to the right, followed by another. The first 40-mm grenade burst near the top of the ridge, the flash so brilliant it hurt the eyes. The second exploded close by the first. Morgan could hear someone screaming somewhere up there on the hillside. Seconds later, the firing redoubled as Second Squad reached the crest of the ridge and began flanking the enemy.

"Let's move, Lieutenant," Walters said. "Up and over."

"Right you are, Gunny." His initial fear was still with him, but controlled. He felt a swelling excitement, an urgency to close with the unseen enemy. He raised his voice in a bellow which shook his entire frame. "Marines!"

With an answering roar his platoon surged up the slope. Gunfire from the crest was sporadic now as North Korean soldiers began filtering back down the other side.

A Marine officer leads by example. The phrase from OCS was stuck in Morgan's mind, playing itself over and over as he took the lead.

"Marines!"

The Yankee troops had materialized out of nowhere, and Colonel Li was faced with the very real prospect of having his entire command trapped between the Marines in Nyongch'on-kiji and those who were coming up the ridge toward him from the area where that one damaged helicopter had gone down. It had been bad luck that the aircraft had managed to make a soft landing, bad luck that their blundering advance through the darkness had caught his own battered command scattered and unready. Li saw almost from the beginning that his men were not going to stand against the Yankees. With the first grenade explosion, a dozen men turned and ran.

So much, he decided, for Communist patriotic solidarity. Despite continuing clashes with the puppets in the south, few of his men had actually seen combat. The reality was like being doused by a bucket of ice water.

"You!" he snapped, pointing at the man with the Type 80 MG. "With me!"

"Chucksiro!" the soldier replied. He looked terrified. "At once, Comrade Colonel!"

Two hundred meters down the northwest slope of the ridge, Colonel Li and the machine gunner came to an outcropping of boulders dimly visible now in the growing light. The base lay spread out below him. From here, Li could easily see the buildings, the dying fires, and three large American helicopters sitting on the tarmac on the west side of the camp. There were well over a hundred Americans in the camp now; he could see them moving in groups among the buildings, setting up a defensive perimeter.

They would keep, he decided. His first task was to stop the Imperialist Marines coming over the top of the hill behind him.

"Chogi!" He pointed. "Over there. Behind those rocks!"

"Ne, Comrade Colonel!" The soldier propped the Type 80 on a rock, the muzzle probing back up the slope.

The sky to the south and east was well along toward dawn, growing lighter almost minute by minute. Last night's overcast appeared to have broken up, and a few of the brighter stars were shining against the royal blue patches that showed through rents in the clouds.

Colonel Li looked up the hill. The crest of the ridge was clearly visible against the sky; anyone who came over that ridge would have to show themselves, and when they did…

His hand closed on the machine gunner's shoulder. "Chunbi toesyossumnikka?" he asked, his voice scarcely raised above a whisper. "Are you ready? They will be coming soon."

The gunner nodded hard, his eyes narrowing over the weapon's rear sight, his finger tightening on the trigger.

Pin them down, then run. Bleed them with pinpricks until they bleed to death. That was the way of guerrilla war.

Any moment now…

Coyote saw the two Korean soldiers take cover behind the rock some fifteen yards from his position, setting up a machine gun to face back up the ridge. He'd heard gunfire on the far side of the slope a few moments ago. That meant friendlies were coming, his ticket off this hill.

It seemed like he'd lain there on the ground for hours, his leg throbbing so hard he was afraid to even try to attempt the walk down the uneven slope to the camp. Crawling on hands and one knee, Coyote had taken the radio, Kohl's pistol, and some fresh magazines for the rifle back to a hide in the tangled brush near the clearing. More than once in the past hours, bands of Koreans had passed him, most heading up-slope and away from the camp, and he'd remained silent and hidden, praying that they would not stop.

The growing light as dawn approached was raising the chances of him being discovered. If someone didn't come out from the camp to get him, some gomer with nothing better to do was going to find him… and if it came to that, Coyote was determined not to let the bastards capture him again. Once on this cruise was enough.

Besides, it was quickly clear to him that the Koreans were setting up an ambush. One of them appeared to be an officer, though their backs were to him and he could make out no details on the rather plain uniforms.

Only slowly did the realization that he could take both of them with Kohl's G3 rifle make its way through the shock and pain which had numbed Coyote's brain. The selector switch was set to full auto; if he emptied what was left of the magazine at them he would almost certainly hit them both.

Slowly, so as not to make a sound, he raised the rifle. As he'd been taught in survival school, he took in a deep breath, released half, and held it, centering the sight over the back of the machine gunner. His finger closed on the trigger.

A single shot rang out… but only one. The machine gunner leaped up as though stung, scrabbled with one hand at his back, then fell. The officer whirled about, clawing for a holstered pistol. With a slow-motion sense of arrested time, Coyote saw the gleaming gold cartridge stuck in the G3's mud-caked ejection port, saw the Korean officer drawing his pistol and raising it in both hands. He recognized him. Li!

Coyote hurled himself to one side, gasping as fresh agony seared his leg from ankle to hip. Li's pistol barked and the aviator heard the bullet's snap inches from his ear. Coyote reached for Kohl's pistol, lying on the ground a foot away. Li fired a second time, and a pile driver struck Coyote high in the left shoulder, knocking him back.

He lunged, his fingers closing on the hush puppy's checkered grip. His left arm refused to obey orders, but he managed to heave the pistol up one-handed and squeeze the trigger. The softened blast of the suppressed weapon was drowned by the crack of Li's pistol. Dirt spat, stinging Coyote's face, but he held his wavering hand as steady as he could and kept firing, three shots, four, five, six.

The hush puppy's slide locked open, the magazine empty. Colonel Li remained standing, his automatic still clutched in his right hand. The man took a step, the pistol coming up once more…

Then he toppled forward, hitting the ground with a thump, facedown. The SEAL pistol fell from nerveless fingers.

Coyote was not sure how much time passed before hearing returned to his ringing ears. "Hey, fella! Fella!"

Someone was shaking him. He opened his eyes and found himself looking up into a hideously green-painted face under a steel helmet. "Lieutenant Morgan, U.S. Marines," the face said. "Hang on. We'll have a corpsman up right away."

Then night returned and Coyote slipped away into oblivion.

Pak stood at attention in front of the general's desk. It was almost dawn, light enough that he could look through the window behind General Yi and see the line of MiG-21s lined up on the tarmac outside.

He was still angry. Hours after his return to Wonsan two days ago he'd been summoned to P'yongyang, then grounded with no reason given. Pak had spent the better part of thirty-six hours waiting, fuming… and now listening with increasing despair to reports of American attacks near Wonsan. He should be out there, leading his squadron against the Imperialist enemy!

"So you still believe your Plan Dagger was a success, Major?" the general asked.

Pak swallowed. "Sometimes, Comrade General, success or failure cannot be measured solely by the number of kills-"

"I read your report, Major! It happens that I do not agree with your conclusions! Your so-called ambush of the American aircraft was a waste of precious national resources… worse, a waste of good pilots!"

Pak decided that it would be better to keep silent. He remained at attention, his eyes fixed on the MiGs in the window at Yi's back.

"Nevertheless," the general continued. "It seems you are to be given another chance, whatever my own reservations on the subject." He handed Pak's orders across the desk. "Please note the signature."

Pak did so. His eyebrows arched. "I… I am honored, Comrade General."

"Yes, I imagine you are. It seems there are those at Party Headquarters who agree with your notions on tactics." He sighed and looked away. "They are, apparently, more interested in politics than in the realities of men and machines."

So, the conflict here was one of politics. Pak had thought as much. "It is not our place to question the wisdom of our superiors, Comrade General."

Yi shot the major a look of pure venom, and Pak wondered if he'd gone too far. He was, after all, a very low-ranking piece in the chess match unfolding between the leadership in P'yongyang and factions within the North Korean military itself. If he overstepped his authority, the general could still crush him, with or without the signature on those orders.

"You have been given a new mission, Major," Yi continued. "A mission vital to the success of this… this plan devised by our Beloved Leader." He used the common euphemistic title for North Korea's president.

The plan, called Saebyok Chosumnida ― the Fortunate Dawn ― had been conceived as a way to humiliate the United States on the world stage. Initially, it had involved only the capture of the American spy ship; the Party leaders believed that espionage confessions by the ship's crew would holster North Korean prestige… especially with the Soviet Union. The PDRK's Russian allies, mired in the legacies of perestroika, had drastically cut their military aid packages to socialist countries around the world… especially to those that could not pay. In the People's Democratic Republic, this new austerity had resulted in especially severe shortages of parts and spares. Many MiG-21s had already been cannibalized just to keep the others flying.

Chance had given Major Pak his opportunity to shoot down an American F-14, but the government had seized on that victory, added it to Saebyok Chosumnida's promise. P'yongyang had authorized Pak's Plan Dagger two days earlier for that reason; the more aircraft and pilots the Americans lost in their attempts to punish North Korea, the more foolish and helpless they would appear to the rest of the world, especially in Moscow and Beijing.

And now that the Americans were attacking Wonsan in force, there was an even greater opportunity. Suppose they lost not just aircraft, but one of their warships.

Pak glanced through his orders. "I am directed to escort a flight of fighter bombers, Comrade General. The target… He looked up. "The American amphibious forces off Wonsan Harbor."

Yi jerked a thumb over one ornate shoulder board. "Correct. We are loading four Nanchang Q-5s with AS-7 missiles. The American amphibious ships will be loaded with aviation gasoline, with ammunition, with troops. A solid hit by a one-hundred-kilo warhead coming in at Mach 1-"

"A triumph, Comrade General!" Pak's heart pounded in anticipation.

Yi's mouth twisted unpleasantly. "Perhaps. The mission will be code-named Plan Vengeance. You will brief the men of your squadron, then ready your aircraft. You should be cleared for takeoff within two hours."

"Yes, Comrade General!"

Yi nodded toward the papers in Pak's hand. "You have your orders from our government, Major. I will add one of my own. You have shown a disturbing tendency, these past few days, toward an independence of thought and action unbecoming to one in your position. I am thinking of your attack on the American F-14s five days ago. Your mission this time will be to escort the Nanchangs, not to engage in aerial dogfights. Victory this time will be measured by the survival of the fighter bombers, and by nothing else. Defeat is unthinkable. Do you understand me?"

"Perfectly, Comrade General." Yi was telling him to get the Q-5s through to their targets… or not return. The implied threat did not worry him. Already he thought he saw a way to slip the Q-5s past the American defenses. "Our Beloved Leader will have his victory, I swear it!"

CHAPTER 28

Dawn came to the rugged hills of North Korea in blue and gold, accompanied by the thunder of explosions and the howl of LCACs drifting across the rocky beach, a barren stretch of coastline designated Blue Beach.

The hovercraft came ashore at Blue Beach less than a mile from Wonsan's large airport and military airfield, climbing well beyond the surf line before settling to the sand on deflating skirts. LCACs were designed to carry troops and vehicles well inland on flat terrain, but the Kolmo Peninsula presented the MEU with a special problem: narrow beaches backed by rocky slopes too steep for hovercraft to climb. Ramps dropped across the LCACs' fore and aft skirts, and Marines pounded across the sand, taking cover along the base of the slope. Overhead, AH-11 SeaCobra gunships swooped and darted like dragonflies, seeking targets called in by Marine aviators serving as forward observers on the ground.

But there were no targets on the beach, no organized resistance at all. Within ten minutes of coming ashore, Marines had seized the dirt roads on the seaward face of the peninsula leading to the airfield which lay on the level ground above.

The slope was too steep for LCACs, but not for the amphibious tractors which followed them. Scores of them were swimming ashore in the wakes of the hovercraft, trailing smoke to hide their numbers. They were ugly, snub-nosed craft officially designated AAVPs for "Armored Assault Vehicle, Personnel," but known more descriptively to the Marines who rode them as "tuna cans." Each carried twenty-one riflemen as well as a squat turret mounting a machine gun, 40-mm cannon, or TOW missile launcher. By H plus 1, foot patrols had reached the airport, the AAVs close behind.

Or most of them. Sergeant Calvin Peters slammed his fist into the side of the AAVP's hull. "Okay," he growled. "Which of you dickheads has been eatin' apricots?"

"Not me, Sarge." The driver blinked at him owlishly through Marine-issue glasses. "Shit, we all know better than that!"

"Oh, come on, Polaski!" The AAV's gunner was fresh out of boot camp, obviously too raw to understand the realities of Marine Corps physics. "You don't believe that apricot curse stuff, do you?"

Peters's eyes narrowed. He pointed one camo-smeared finger at the gunner. "it ain't crap, puff, and don't you forget it. One of these babies throws a track, there's only one thing it could be. God damn it to hell!" He slammed the amtrack's green-and-brown-painted hull again in disgust. "Okay, Marines! Fall out! We walk from here!"

It was an article of faith among Marine Corps officers and men alike that if you ate apricots on a tank or an amtrack, that vehicle was going to break down. Any track driver could recite an endless list of incidents where vehicles had been crippled by the "apricot curse."

The Marines piled out of the amtrack as the driver shut the engine off. The AAV had crested the ridge near the south end of the airport, wallowing up the rocky slope like some massive, high-snouted, prehistoric beast, when the portside tread let go with a crash and a grinding clatter.

"Cover us," Peters shouted to the gunner. The track's turret slewed about, its 40-mm cannon probing the smoke which hung like thick fog across the top of the ridge. "The rest of you guys, c'mon! By fire teams!"

Three by three, the Marines advanced into the fog. Their mission had been to check out the south end of the airport, but the smoke was so thick there there was nothing to check. Reaching a bomb crater, Peters waited while five other men dropped in behind him. Off to the left, Peters could make out the charred skeleton of an aircraft ― a MiG-21, it looked like, its back broken.

"Navy pukes sure flattened this place," one of the men said. "They could sink the whole stinking country," Peters replied. "Wouldn't bother me at all! Weber! Gould! Take point!"

"Right, Sarge!" The two men rose and clambered over the lip of the crater. The smoke was clearing now, revealing the tattered outline of structures ahead, buildings, and a stone tower. That must be the traffic control tower, Peters thought.

A flash of light winked from the tower platform, accompanied by the chatter of an assault rifle on full-auto. Stone chips and sparks gouted from the tarmac. Weber, arms outstretched, toppled backward into the crater.

The other men opened fire, pumping round after round toward the tower, the building, and anything else they could see through the thinning smoke. The AAV opened up as well, its cannon adding a deep-throated thunder to the gunfire.

Explosions gouged chunks of concrete from the tower. "Go!" Peters yelled. "Move it! Move it!" The Marines rolled out of the crater and charged, moving in short rushes until they reached the building.

Peters used his tactical radio to signal the AAV. "Cease fire! Cease fire!"

They found the sniper behind the tower, what was left of him. The airport buildings appeared to be deserted.

"My God, Sarge!" Gould called. "Will you look at this!"

Not sure what to expect, Peters joined the Marine rifleman. He was standing on a boulder outcropping a short distance behind the buildings, looking toward the west.

The smoke was lifting there, like smog above a city. Morning light filtered through, catching the buildings on the far side of the bay.

They were perhaps a mile and a half from the waterfront and well above it, looking down into the city. Modern skyscrapers mingled with shacks, and everywhere was the clutter of industrial plants and shipyards, factories and smokestacks. A squared-off tower rose next to the water, the Wonsan Sports Complex. Fishing boats and small craft crowded against the jetties of the commercial waterfront.

"So that's Wonsan," Peters said.

"Yeah, and that ain't all, Sarge." Gould pointed. "Take a look there. To the south, just to the left of that big gray mother."

Peters did not need binoculars to recognize that ship. He'd seen it before, during briefings on the Chosin. "That's Chimera," he said. "That's the goddamned Chimera!"

The captured ship now lay less than two miles away. Beside her was a warship, flying the red and white naval ensign of the Soviet Union.

"Let's get back, Gould. The choppers'll be coming in soon."

"Yeah. Right, Sarge."

They started back toward the buildings. Gunfire rattled and popped from the south, where Marines were setting up their perimeter. From the sea came the deep-voiced whup-whup-whup of CH-46 Sea Knights, twin-rotored, banana-shaped helos loaded with troops and weapons to reinforce the Kolmo beachhead.

He thought of the Russian ship in the harbor. What, Peters wondered, were the Russkies making of all this?

From five thousand feet, Tombstone could see the whole of Wonsan Harbor spread out for his inspection. Smoke still rose from the hangar buildings southwest of the airfield and from the grounded frigate to the north, but overall damage had been slight. The waters off Blue Beach were swarming with Mike boats and other Naval landing craft, as well as an armada of AAVPs making their endless churnings between shore and the Marine ships just visible on the horizon.

"Shotgun, Shotgun, this is Homeplate, do you read, over?"

"Homeplate, Shotgun. What can I do for you boys?"

"We've just had word from the beach. Kolmo Airfield is secure. Cavalry Two is now inbound. Please deploy to cover their approach, over."

"Copy, Homeplate." Tombstone banked the Tomcat, his eyes scanning the blue-gray of the ocean to the east. He saw a number of helicopters: Super Stallions still dragging their mine sleds, SeaCobra gunships working close support with the grunts, Marine Sea Knights heading for the captured airport.

Then he saw them, four RH-53D Sea Stallions with Marine markings, flying in a wedge formation low over the water. According to plan, they would set down at the Kolmo Airfield and await the call from Nyongch'on. When the camp was completely secure, they would make the last short hop to the airstrip at Nyongch'on-kiji.

"Homeplate, Shotgun. I have Cavalry Two in sight. Will comply."

Batman pulled up close to Tombstone's starboard wingtip. "Well, pardner," Batman said. "Now we find out if this shindig was worth the price of admission."

"You're right there. Ready, everyone? Let's go give the grunts a hand."

The four Tomcats peeled out of formation and dropped toward the sea.

Far below, the Marines hurried to throw up their perimeter south of the airport. The runways were too pitted and cratered by the Intruder bomb runs of a few hours before to be usable by regular aircraft, but the helicopters would have no trouble finding a place to set down.

And soon, very soon, it would be the helicopters' show… the final act.

"Make smoke," the voice said over Morgan's radio.

"Roger that." Morgan nodded to Gunnery Sergeant Walters, who popped the pin on a smoke grenade. Green smoke billowed out, a cottony cloud in the morning sun.

"I see green smoke," the radio voice said. "Come on in."

Second Platoon rose and began walking the final hundred yards toward a gap torn in Nyongch'on perimeter fence. Craters marred the road, and Morgan saw the burned-out hulk of a Russian-made ZSU.

Captain Ford was waiting for him. "About time you showed up, Lieutenant." He grinned, teeth white in his camo-smeared face. The smile vanished as Marines approached, carrying stretchers. "How many casualties?"

"Two wounded," Morgan replied. "Not too bad, considering. Oh… and a Navy guy, Lieutenant Grant." He pointed. "We found him up there, pretty badly hit. He saved our asses. We're also bringing in a KIA, one of the SEALS."

"Corporal!" The captain signaled. "See the wounded get to the Waldorf."

"Aye aye, sir!"

"Oh, yeah, we also found these." Morgan handed the captain a packet of folded papers. "Took them off a dead NK colonel. They looked important."

"Good work, Lieutenant," Ford said. "Pull up a seat and take a load off."

"Thank you, sir. Morgan savored the silence, broken only by the clink and trudge of Second Platoon coming in. The rumble of bombs sounded to the northeast. "It's quiet."

"Too quiet. They hit us three times before dawn, then broke off. We think they're gathering for a hard push."

"And Cavalry Two?"

"Waiting." The captain wiped his eyes with his hand. "At Kolmo Airfield. Hear the thunder? That's A-6 Intruders laying a carpet. When all the SAM sites are cleared, Cav Two will come on in."

Morgan smiled. "I'm glad we didn't miss that." He watched as the last of his men filed through the gap in the fence.

"That's for sure, Lieutenant," Ford said. "That's for damned sure."

AN/3 Dale Carter was tired. His division had been on alert and on the job for nearly sixteen hours straight now, an uninterrupted agony of work as Jefferson's aircraft were launched, recovered, and launched again. Long days were the rule rather than the exception on board aircraft carriers, even during normal times. During a crisis such as this one, every man on board was expected to work around the clock. Most of the crew took this in stride, even preferring work to the boredom of below-decks routine. There was sharp pride in the certain knowledge that it was they, the men of the U.S.S. Jefferson, who kept the big ship going and her planes flying.

Carter, carrying a heavy lug wrench in one hand, was coming around the open door of the forward bomb elevator where red-vested ordies were jack-assing a rack of Mark 82 GPs onto a hand cart for transport to a flight of waiting Intruders. Fifty yards away, his division chief waved, then pumped his fist up and down. Double time!

Breaking into a run, Carter ducked underneath the bulk of an A-6 already locked into the number two catapult, engines howling and ready for launch. Exhaustion, and the fact that Carter was still new to carriers, bluffed his thinking. He turned sharply left, taking a shortcut in front of the Intruder.

Someone yelled a warning, but he couldn't catch the words through his ear protectors and the shriek of the Intruder's engines. Before he even had a chance to scream, he was swept from the deck, caught in a black maelstrom of wind and noise and plunged headfirst into the aircraft's starboard intake.

Carter's body was more than enough to wreck an engine, but it was the lug wrench which did the real damage, shearing off turbine blades and blasting them through the aircraft's thin skin like shrapnel. Fuel vented from a dozen punctures in the wing tank, gushing across the hot engine manifold.

Flames boiled into the sky as if from a bomb blast, and every sailor on the deck was hammered flat by the concussion. The catapult officer tumbled to his knees, his uniform wreathed in flames until a sailor, less stunned than others, knocked him down and pounded them out.

"Emergency! Emergency!" shrilled from the 5-MC. "Fire on the flight deck! Fire on the flight deck! Fire and damage control parties man your stations!"

Air operations on the Jefferson came to a halt.

How long can we keep them up?" Admiral Magruder's voice sounded grim over the batphone.

Lieutenant Commander Mike Leahy looked at the huge, transparent status board where every aircraft not within Pried-Fly's control pattern was listed, complete with its fuel state. "Admiral, we have two KA-6Ds airborne with full loads. That's better than twenty-one thousand pounds of fuel each, but it won't last long. Four of VFA-161's Hornets are inbound now, and they'll be on bingo fuel when they hit the marshall. We were going to have to tank them up just to get them trapped."

"The deck is closed," Magruder said. "Another hour at least."

"So I see, Admiral." One of the Air Op monitors showed the flight deck from a vantage point high up on the island looking down onto cats one and two. The fire was out, the wreckage shoved over the side by the Tilly. Green shirts were working now to replace a damaged catapult shuttle, while men used hoses to wash oil and bits of wreckage from the deck. "We're not going to be able to keep our planes flying, sir. Not with only two tankers up."

"Understood." He heard the admiral sigh. "Okay. Start working out a rotation schedule between here and Ch'unch'on. I'll give them a buzz and have them get a KC-135 airborne stat."

"That'll do it, Admiral." He thought for a moment. Ch'unch'on was a South Korean air base used by the U.S. Air Force, the closest of several such bases in the country. Allowing for a detour around North Korea, it was a one-hundred-twenty-mile flight from Jefferson's position. "We'll feed the Hornets from the KAs and send them back in. If they can get a tanker up out of Ch'unch'on, we shouldn't have to use any South Korean bingo fields at all."

"Okay. Great, if you can do it. Keep me posted." The batphone went dead.

Leahy considered the phone for a moment before replacing it in its cradle. Calling in South Korean-based assets could well up the ante in the escalating battle with the Koreans.

Not for the first time, Leahy was very glad he did not have the admiral's job.

"Here they come again! Pour it on them, Marines!"

Gunfire crashed from among the rubble and grenade-smashed ruin of what had once been warehouses across the road, as men in mustard-tan uniforms spilled from holes and doorways, brick piles and shattered walls, storming toward the west side of the camp. Simultaneously, there was a deafening blast and a black mushroom of smoke and earth sprouted in the center of the captured camp, close by the burned-out motor pool. The first blast was followed by a second, this one squarely in the fire-blackened skeleton of a garage. Splinters and debris sprinkled from the sky like rain.

But the Marines were too busy to notice. M-60 machine guns and M-16s barked and chattered, cutting down the KorCom soldiers halfway across the road. Those few who reached the chain-link fence died trying to climb it ― or died in heaps crowded through one of the gaps blasted through it during the night.

Lieutenant Morgan crouched behind a pile of sandbags, watching as the surviving Koreans broke off and retreated, straggling back to hidden positions among the shattered ruins across the street. The man beside him pressed binoculars to his face. "Got the bastards!"

"Rather a bloodthirsty attitude, isn't it, Carl?"

Lieutenant Carl Olivetti grinned. "Actually, it was the mortars I was talking about. Spotted the smoke that time!" Olivetti was a member of the company's headquarters unit, the company's Forward Air Controller. He unfolded a map across one knee, then picked up the handset of a radio phone. "Skyhawk! Skyhawk! This is Charlie Alpha Victor. Priority target, coordinates seven-three-five by six-six-niner." He continued to call in the target data, stopping from time to time for confirmation. Another mortar explosion showered them with dirt.

"Wish you were flying again, Carl?"

Olivetti laughed. "Hey, like they say. I'm a Marine rifleman temporarily assigned as a pilot!" It was an old joke, one with more than the usual grain of truth to it. Marine FACs were themselves pilots assigned to Marine companies as ground spotters and liaison with Marine air. But every Marine considered himself a combat rifleman first, no matter what his specialty.

He replaced the radio handset and turned, cupping his hands to his mouth. "Hey, Captain!" Olivetti yelled. Captain Ford ran toward them, doubled over to lower his profile. Another mortar round went off, this one at the north end of the camp.

"Whatcha got, Lieutenant?"

"Strike coming in, sir. We got a fix on the mortars. It should be any-"

He was interrupted by monsters rising above the ridge behind them. They were Marine SeaCobras, two-man helicopter gunships mounting six-barreled Gatling cannons and 2.5-inch rockets. They rose above the ridge crest east of the camp in a thunder of rotor noise.

Rockets ripple-fired from their pods, streaking across the sky on trails of white smoke, smashing into the opposite hillside with an avalanche of sound. Blast followed blast, as North Korean troops scattered beneath the onslaught.

The attack was over in seconds. Silence, when it returned, was an unearthly stillness which lay across the barren ridges like a blanket. In the distance, Morgan could hear the rumble of high-flying jets, the popping of helicopters.

"I think that got 'em," Ford said. He stood up looking west, hands on hips. "At least for a while."

"I hope it's a long while, sir," Morgan said. "We're running low on five-six-two already. And forty mike-mikes too." He was referring to the ammunition used by M-60s and M-16s, and to the 40-mm grenades fired from M-203s. He pushed his helmet back on his head, feeling the exhaustion drag at him. "How much longer, Captain?"

"Not much longer," Ford replied. He sounded tired too. He paused, as though listening. "This might be our chance now. Can't get any quieter than this."

"Hell, why wait for them?" Olivetti said. "We'll walk out."

"We sure as hell won't drive." They laughed. A number of Korean armored vehicles had been captured in the camp, but few of them were in working order, thanks either to the SEALs or to mechanical problems. It was Sergeant Walters's firm conviction that the Korean mess hall had served apricots for dinner the night before.

"I just came from the Waldorf," Ford said. "The wounded are ready to move. I think it's about time to get those damned helos in here, gentlemen, don't you?"

"Sounds good to me," Morgan said. He was mildly surprised. His first combat had carried fear but no great terror… and no great glory either. He didn't feel any different, and he was almost disappointed. After all, there was nothing much to combat but fear, dirt, mind-numbing exhaustion, and discomfort. "Let's call them in."

Olivetti was already adjusting the frequency on his radio. "Homeplate, Homeplate, this is Cavalry One. Do you copy, over?" He listened to the handset for a long moment, repeating himself once. Then, "Got them!" Ford and Morgan could not hear the reply. Olivetti squeezed the transmit button on the handset. "Homeplate, Cav One. Cavalry roundup, repeat, roundup!" He listened again. "They confirm, sir."

Morgan let out a pent-up breath. Cavalry roundup. The next few minutes would spell success or failure for the whole operation. So far, things had been going remarkably well, despite Second Platoon getting lost.

He found himself looking forward to getting back to the cramped and uncomfortable claustrophobia of the Chosin. He wouldn't have to wait much longer.

Pak checked his radar again, then confirmed the positions of the aircraft in the group. Plan Vengeance called for thirty MiG fighters to accompany the four Nanchangs. All planes were in position, the fighters in loose formation at one thousand meters, the bombers far below, skimming the rugged uplands east of P'yongyang.

Here, he thought, was another application of the guerrilla tactics of Mao applied to the arena of air combat. The successful guerrilla fighter, Pak knew, made use of local terrain, especially terrain with which he was familiar.

And that was precisely what Plan Vengeance was about to do.

Korea's backbone was the Taebaek Sanmaek, the mountain range which separated the east coast from the rest of the country, rising in places to over two thousand meters above sea level. The search radar of the American Hawkeyes had a range of almost four hundred kilometers, twice the distance from Wonsan to P'yongyang.

That range was limited, however, by the terrain it was attempting to scan. Flying low, weaving among the ridges and rugged uplands behind the up-thrust Taebaeks, the thirty-four aircraft should escape detection… at least until they emerged from the mountain passes at Majon-ni, a scant twenty-five kilometers from Wonsan. And by then, it would be too late.

The North Korean fighters would suffer heavy losses in the coming battle, but Pak had already dismissed the matter from his mind. A good commander learned to accept losses in exchange for tactical advantage. The PDRK could not possibly hope to match the Americans plane for plane, and so, losses would be enormous. There was no helping that.

Pak had a single advantage, however, which should even the odds considerably, an advantage which was yet another application of Mao's strategy. When the guerrilla fighter is prepared to die to strike at an invader, then the invader has already lost.

The MiGs would come on in two groups, one high to attract the American radar, the other low, hugging the mountains, slipping through the well-mapped passes, to emerge practically on top of the American ships. This time, the battle would be decidedly in Pak's favor.

CHAPTER 29

"Now hear this, now hear this." The voice boomed from the 5-MC speakers across the flight deck. "Commence FOD walkdown. That is, commence FOD walkdown."

On board a carrier, FOD stood for Foreign Object Damage, and it was a special nightmare for every pilot, every plane captain, every sailor who worked on the flight deck, where a scrap of metal, a wrench, a dropped bolt could get sucked into an engine intake and cripple a very expensive airplane. An FOD parade was conducted immediately before every flight operation.

The walkdown was especially vital now. Crewmen had hosed down the deck, but it was always possible that a loose bit of wreckage had been missed. A line of over two hundred men stood shoulder to shoulder across the flight deck walking aft, eyes on the deck at their feet. The men moved slowly, stooping to pick up each bit of wreckage scattered by the explosion.

Admiral Magruder watched from the Flag Bridge high above the flight deck. Operations had been suspended for over an hour now, and that had left him mighty thin in the air. Ops had been able to get a KC-135 tanker deployed north out of Ch'unch'on, and that had kept Jefferson's airborne planes in the air, but the crews were getting tired now, stretched to the limit and ready to break.

Worse, an F/A-18 squadron, the Fighting Hornets of VFA-173, and an A-6 squadron, the Blue Rangers, had both been trapped on board by the accident, unable to rotate with squadrons already in the air. With the Javelins now deployed south to refuel with the tanker and the War Eagles flying CAP for the fleet, there were only the eight Tomcats of VF-95 to cover Cavalry Two over Nyongch'on and the bomber strikes still going on around Wonsan.

It wasn't enough, not by a long shot.

Disaster, Magruder knew, was less likely to come as a single, catastrophic blow than as a series of minor incidents, each contributing its little bit of Murphy's Law until things were well and truly out of control. He had the feeling now that things were beyond his reach, that the prisoners and Marines at Nyongch'on, the Marines and rescue helos at Kolmo Airfield, the eight Tomcats of Tombstone's Vipers were all game pieces, pawns at the point of being sacrificed.

And having set the game in motion, there was nothing whatsoever that he could do to set things right.

Thirty minutes after sending the code phrase "Cavalry roundup," they heard the second flight of Sea Stallions approaching from the east at treetop height, closely escorted by six SeaCobra gunships and four F14 Tomcats tagging along overhead, flying cloverleafs above the camp.

For Lieutenant Morgan, the thrill of seeing those four RH-53Ds was like a dream realized, like the charge he'd gotten as a boy watching a magician produce a bowl of fire from beneath a cape. He saw it, yet he could not quite believe it. The plan, complex, demanding, was actually working.

Now all they had to do was pull off the rest of it without losing the helos to ground fire or MiGs.

The Chimera crewmen were already loading their wounded on the three Cav One helos grounded at the camp's airstrip. Each RH-53 had room for twenty-one men on stretchers stacked three high on the cargo deck.

According to the plan, three helos carrying Chimera's wounded would depart Nyongch'on first, flying under escort straight across the Marine perimeter on the beach and on to the Chosin, now eight miles out at sea. Tarawa-class LPHs like the Chosin boasted enormous sickbays, with three operating rooms and bed space for three hundred patients.

The remaining Chimera crewmen, almost one hundred of them, plus twelve SEALs and nearly one hundred eighty Marines, would be ferried out in piecemeal fashion. They needed eight helicopters to get them all out… an impossibility since there simply weren't that many free passenger-carrying helos in the task force. Besides, the flight all the way out to the Chosin and back could take as much as thirty minutes, counting landing and turn-around time and taking into account the crowded state of the sky above the LPH's flight deck. A better scheme was to ferry the men forty at a time from Nyongch'on to the Kolmo Airfield, the four newly arrived helos each making two trips.

The first of the medevac choppers was full. A Marine on the ground signaled, the pilot saluted from the window, and the machine's rotors increased their shrill beating as it rose, clumsy now with a full load, and hovered in the sky. Then the pilot dropped the nose and the Sea Stallion's nose swung toward the northeast. The Marine perimeter at Kolmo was only about five miles away. The helo raced for the safety of the sea at top speed, skimming treetops and burned-out buildings.

"This is the part that's been making' my mouth dry, Lieutenant."

Morgan turned and saw Gunnery Sergeant Walters standing behind him. "'Lo, Gunny. Why's that?"

"Desert One, 1980," Walters replied. "The helo crash, remember?"

Morgan didn't know the details, but he knew the story in general. The Delta Force raiders in the Iran hostage rescue were already pulling out, their mission aborted, when a Sea Stallion identical to these had risen from the desert… and collided with a grounded C-130 Hercules. The crash had claimed the mission's only casualties: eight dead.

"I guess we've learned a few things since then, Gunny."

"Mebee." He did not sound convinced. "It's not the men I worry about, though. It's never the men. Machines, those are something else."

Morgan did not agree but saw no point in arguing. Across the airstrip, Chimera's unwounded crewmen were lining up to board a Cavalry Two chopper, filing up the rear ramp and into the darkness of the cargo deck. Morale was high. There was a lot of good-natured bantering between the sailors and the Marines, and few signs of the strain the Navy men had been going through for the past four days.

With a roar, the second medevac chopper lifted from the tarmac in a swirl of dust and wind. A pair of SeaCobras raced after it, passing low overhead.

"I guess it's all going pretty well," Morgan said as the noise faded. "Like clockwork, huh?"

Walters looked at him with a curious expression. "Ain't you heard, Lieutenant? Jefferson's flight deck is shut down."

"What? When?"

He shrugged. "I just heard a few minutes ago. An hour, mebee."

"Is that going to slow things down here?"

"It sure as hell will make them more interesting. Way I heard it, they need lots more fighters flying cover for the hostage choppers. Now…" He shrugged eloquently. "There just ain't enough Hornets and Tomcats to go around, know what I mean?"

The revelation sent a cold chill down Morgan's spine. Withdrawal from this LZ was going to be damned touchy, no matter how they went about it. As soon as the Marines started pulling out, there would be fewer and fewer defenders to hold a shrinking perimeter against enemy forces.

If the task force's air ops were restricted by damage to the Jefferson's flight deck, things could get very bad indeed. Without fighter cover and bombing runs by the Intruders, the Marines could find themselves overwhelmed by North Korean forces.

"Like I say, Lieutenant," Walters added. "It's not the men who let you down."

Morgan gripped his M-16 a little tighter and stared out beyond the perimeter. Behind him, a third helicopter lifted into the sky.

Private Benjamin D. Ross crouched behind the wall as rifle fire gouged chips from the top. "Sniper!" he yelled, and the other men in his squad fanned out, crawling on their bellies as they closed in on the buildings.

Fox Company had been among the first on the beach that morning, coming ashore by LCAC, then pushing southeast along the coast to establish the Marine perimeter three miles south of the Kolmo airport. They'd held that line for an hour until Bravo had relieved them, then pulled back to the complex of buildings on the coast just south of Blue Beach, which was identified on the maps as a resort.

The Marines had been amused by the relative luxury of the complex, which apparently had been reserved for party leaders and visitors from other Socialist workers' paradises. There was a large swimming pool, game courts, and more trees and shrubs ― all carefully manicured ― than there were growing on the whole of the Kolmo Peninsula. The buildings themselves were of immaculate white stone, quite different from the ramshackle huts of clapboard and pine which clustered along the coast farther south. Like the airport, the resort was deserted when the Marines first entered it; any occupants had fled during the night bombing raids or else later when the Marines started coming ashore.

At least, it had seemed deserted. Another shot rang out, burying itself with a thud in the trunk of a tree nearby. The enemy appeared to be holed up in a two-story building perched on an overhang above the sea, a clubhouse or restaurant of some sort. A railed, wooden deck extended from the east side of the house over the side of the cliff.

"Ross! Aguilar!" Sergeant Nelson snapped from a spot farther along the wall. "Make smoke! The rest of you, give 'em cover!"

"Right, Sarge!"

The two Marines loaded the M-203s slung beneath the forward grips of their M-16s with 40-mm smoke grenades. With a silent exchange of nods, they rose together above the wall as the rest of the company opened up with a devastating fire. The double thump of the grenade launchers was drowned by the gunfire, but there was a splintering crash from downrange, and seconds later, clouds of white smoke began billowing from the clubhouse.

"Hold tight!" Nelson bellowed. "We got help on the way!"

Seconds later that help arrived in the form of a sleek-looking Marine SuperCobra rising above the trees which lined the resort's western boundary. The roar of the 20-mm cannon in its chin turret drowned out even the crack and thump of the infantry battle. The face of the clubhouse seemed to dissolve in smoke and hurtling chunks of stone and glass. Round after round slammed into and through the structure.

The cannon fire let up and the SuperCobra turned away. "Okay, Marines!" Nelson yelled. "Let's mop up!"

Ross rolled over the top of the bullet-chipped wall and ran toward the still-smoking building. He could see several bodies sprawled in the wreckage where the front wall had caved in. Apparently, this small detachment had remained hidden earlier as the Marines moved through the area, with the idea of emerging later in the American rear.

Which was precisely what detachments such as Fox Company were to watch for. There apparently wasn't much mopping up to do; nothing was moving in the smoking, broken shell of the building.

What happened next passed too quickly for Ross to be sure of the order of events.

The sky had been filled with helicopters all morning ― mostly the big, double-ended Sea Knights ferrying Marines in from the ships to the airport ― but two caught Ross's attention now. Huey UH-1s, the ubiquitous "Slicks" of Vietnam, were rare over a Marine beachhead. There were only a handful in Chosin's Marine air wing, reserved for command and utility service ― or special missions where their small size and maneuverability in tight corners were assets. These were flying rapidly toward the beach, two miles to the north.

At the same instant, two men appeared ahead, bursting from the side of the ruined building and running onto the wooden deck. One was armed with an AKM; the other carried a heavy-looking tube which he balanced on his shoulder like a bazooka. They must have stayed hidden in a basement inside the house, out of reach of the SuperCobra's fire.

The man with the AKM opened fire at the advancing Marines before they had a chance to hit the ground, his weapon chattering on full auto, spent casings spraying into the air. Aguilar jerked, as though yanked back by an invisible line, then collapsed screaming. The second Korean ignored the Marines; he seemed to be concentrating on the distant Hueys, tracking them with the device on his shoulder.

Ross recognized the weapon at once: an SA-7 Grail, what its Russian designers called Strela, or arrow. A man-portable, heat-seeking SAM, it was often derided as a poor copy of the obsolete American Redeye, but it was effective enough to bring down a helicopter at a range of two miles.

A second Marine was hit. Ross opened fire with his M-16, three closely spaced single shots aimed at the man with the Grail, but the soldier with the AKM stepped to the left at the wrong moment. He took the rounds in his chest and fell, his rifle spitting out the last rounds in the curved, banana-clip magazine. Behind him, the man with the Grail had already locked onto his target and was completing the double squeeze on the trigger.

An explosive charge thumped, kicking the missile clear of the tube. Ross kept firing and the other Marines joined in. Bullets splintered the wooden deck railing, then cut the soldier down in a bloody spray as the rocket's motor fired out over the surf, sending the warhead arrowing into the distance at the tip of a cottony white contrail of smoke.

Ross watched with horrified fascination as the contrail merged with one of the distant Hueys. There was a flash… a puff of smoke… and then the helo was spinning wildly in a fiery plunge into the ocean.

The sound of the explosion reached the Marines almost fifteen seconds later.

Colonel Caruso had arrived by helicopter, flying out from the Chosin as soon as he could convince his staff that it was necessary to do so. Strictly speaking, his presence on the beachhead was not according to regs; a sniper or a mortar shell could cut him down, and ― quite apart from what Caruso thought about the matter ― that loss would more than outweigh any benefit to be gained by his being there in person.

But that was not the way John Caruso managed things. An old-school Marine, a mustang who had come up through the ranks against all expectations or reason, Caruso held an almost fanatical devotion to the idea that a Marine officer led best by being visible… and accessible.

And that also made his men accessible to him.

"You! Sergeant!" His D.I.'s bellow carried across the tarmac despite the roar of helicopter rotors close by. "What's your name?"

"Peters, sir!" the Marine snapped back.

"Who's your platoon leader?"

"Lieutenant Rolland, sir."

"Cut the 'sir' crap, Sarge. How'd you and your squad like to go on a little trip?"

The sergeant had a guarded expression as though he didn't quite know what to make of this apparition with its black colonel's eagle pinned to its camo fatigues. "Where does the Colonel want-"

Caruso pointed across Wonsan Harbor, toward the buildings gleaming in the morning sun. "Sarge, ten minutes ago one of my helos went down on the beach. One of two very important helos, with a special tactical team. I need your squad to fill in and Charlie Mike."

Charlie Mike. Continue Mission. It was as much a part of the Marine Corps' creed as Semper fidelis. "Aye aye, Colonel."

"Get your people, then find Lieutenant Adams and report to him, over by those Hueys. I'll let your lieutenant know where you're going."

He returned the sergeant's salute, then strode across the tarmac, looking for Rolland.

Sergeant Peters was stunned when he learned what the special tactical team's mission was, but that didn't slow him as he hustled his squad up through the side door of a UH-1 Huey. Another Slick was grounded nearby, its rotors turning.

The fourteen men counted off as they strapped in, and he signaled the pilot when they were ready. With a roar, the Slick lifted from the Kolmo airfield in a whirlwind of noise and dust.

The Huey's side doors were open, and Peters could look across Wonsan Harbor as they dipped to almost wave-top height. There was plenty of shipping, merchant ships, fishing boats, sampans, even oil tankers crowding the water close to shore. North Korea had become increasingly isolated in the world community during the past few years, but Peters could see the flags of numerous countries who still did business with the Stalinist state: Cuba, China, Japan, and a vertically striped red and white ensign which he thought was that of Peru.

The Huey slipped sideways suddenly, and Peters caught a glimpse of orange tracers lashing past the open door. Someone was shooting at them.

"Looks like these bozos don't know when to quit," the Huey's pilot yelled back over his shoulder. "We're pickin' up some fire from patrol boats!"

That fire did not last long. The Hueys were accompanied by a pair of sleek Marine SuperCobras, swooping in with miniguns blazing, puffs of smoke trailing from their chin turrets like lines of white periods in the sky. There was a flash… then another, as a pair of TOW missiles streaked toward the surface. Peters felt the concussion of twin explosions but could not see far enough forward to identify the target.

"Stand by!" the pilot yelled. "We're clear and going' in!"

Peters tried to get a look forward over the pilot's shoulder, but the cabin partition and the Huey's crew chief blocked his view. He could see fine a moment later, however, when the Huey swung to starboard, giving him a perfect view of the Wonsan waterfront… and Chimera.

The North Koreans' prize lay port side to alongside a long, wooden pier, bow on to the city. This part of the waterfront seemed given over to the military. There were numerous harbor tugs and torpedo boats lying at other piers close by; a blazing fire and a pillar of oily smoke marked the spot where a patrol craft had just gone down, sunk by the barrage from the SuperCobras. The scene was dominated, however, by the American ship and by the sleek gray killer shape tied up at the pier off the Chimera's starboard side: a Soviet guided-missile cruiser. Peters did not speak Russian, but he knew enough of the Cyrillic alphabet to let him pick out the ship's name: Tallinn.

"I'm sure glad they're not shootin' at us, Sarge!" a young Marine sitting at his side yelled. Peters had to agree. From where he sat, those batteries of antiaircraft missiles looked sufficient to take on a whole Marine air wing with no trouble at all.

And what were the Russians thinking just now? The tactical team's orders specified that property of governments other than the PDRK was not to be damaged or threatened in any way. He imagined that Moscow had been warned before the assault on Wonsan… but without even trying he could think of a dozen scenarios which might lead to a direct confrontation between the Russians and the Americans.

Why the hell hadn't the Russkies pulled out as soon as the crisis started?

Then he was too busy for questions. The Huey dipped, swooping low across the water as it raced toward the piers, the pilot deliberately placing Chimera between the helicopters and the Tallinn.

The helicopter slowed, then hovered. Peters stood up, grabbing a handhold on one bulkhead as the Huey drifted crabwise toward the pier.

"Let's go, Marines!" Peters yelled, jumping off the Huey's skid and dropping to the rough wood of the pier. The pilot had come in above the shoreside end of the pier just off Chimera's bow. Peters could see the gray mass of the spy ship's hull looming out of the water close by. The second Huey was hovering just above Chimera's helipad as Marines scrambled out and scattered down the gangways and ladders to secure the ship. Over the bay, the SuperCobras circled like sharks, menacing and hungry.

Gunfire rattled from Chimera's decks, but Peters didn't look back. The pier was deserted except for a trio of North Korean sentries, sprawled beside Chimera's gangway, dead. One of the gunships had made a strafing pass before the Hueys went in.

Toward the city, the pier joined a concrete wharf backed by a street and the regimented drab buildings of the military district's waterfront. A North Korean flag hung in front of one building, and a six-story-tall portrait of the country's president hung from another. The streets were deserted, however. Any enemy forces in the area had fled at the approach of the helicopter gunships. There were plenty of potential ambush sites, though: a low concrete wall, stacks of wooden shipping crates, fifty-five-gallon drums arrayed in rusty steel walls. Peters pointed them out to the squad and dispersed his men. The Koreans might have abandoned the area, but it was likely that they would be back. When they did, they would find Peters holding the near end of the pier, blocking the way to Chimera's gangway.

"Johnson! Sanchez!" he shouted. "With me!" The three men trotted toward the concrete wall, part of a retaining buttress for the seawall along the sea edge of the wharf. It would make a good site for Johnson's M-249 SAW, positioned to give a clear field of fire down the waterfront street toward the Soviet cruiser, some fifty yards away.

"Stoy!" a sharp voice called. "Nyeh sheveleetyes!"

Peters skidded to a halt, his M-16 raised to his shoulder. He didn't understand the words, but the sound of spoken Russian was unmistakable.

They stepped from among the stacks of supply crates on the far side of the street, a dozen men in the blue-trimmed white of Soviet naval uniforms. Every one carried an AKM assault rifle, and every weapon was trained on the Marines.

"Sergeant Peters, United States Marines!" he called out in a clear voice that, miraculously, did not break.

The Russian weapons did not waver.

"Shotgun, this is Tango Three-seven." The voice crackled in Tombstone's headset. "We have multiple bogies, repeat, many bogies, bearing from you two-seven-five at angels three, range twenty-two thousand."

"I got 'em, Tombstone!" Snowball said. "I see sixteen… eighteen…"

"Uh-oh, the shit's hittin' the old fan now," Batman said.

"Can it, people," Tombstone said. "Assemble at angels five over the harbor. Let's catch them as they come down the slot."

"The slot" was the aviators' name for a valley twisting down out of the mountains northwest of Wonsan. A major road and railway wound up into the Taebaeks along that valley, heading toward the small town of Majon-ni farther west. The attackers must be coming through that pass.

"Twenty-one bogies now," Snowball called. "Coming in high, above the pass."

Twenty-one… and Tombstone had three Tomcats in his flight besides himself, plus four more somewhere down on the deck, riding herd on the Sea Stallions ferrying wounded out to the Chosin. He opened a channel to Jefferson. "Homeplate, Homeplate, this is Shotgun. Advise me on status, Javelins and Fighting Hornets."

"Shotgun, Homeplate. Be advised flight deck is still out of commission. Fighting Hornets will not be able to launch for another ten minutes at least. Javelins are tanking up at Point Echo and are at least fifteen minutes out."

Shit! "Copy, Homeplate. We… uh… have a problem."

"We are tracking your problem, Shotgun. We are redeploying War Eagle CAP to cover helo operations over Nyongch'on and the beach. The other four birds of your squadron will be with you in a few minutes."

Great, Tombstone thought. That makes it eight to twenty-one, just about what we had the other day.

"Shotguns, this is Shotgun Leader," he said. "Come to new heading, two-seven-five, and take 'em up to angels six. Let's see if we can get the drop on our playmates up in the mountains."

"Roger that," Batman said cheerfully.

Tombstone felt the familiar stirrings of doubt and pushed them aside. "Ready… break!"

CHAPTER 30

Tombstone pushed his F-14's stick forward and watched the mountains behind Wonsan rise in front of his canopy. He could see the valley notch in the ridge line which led toward Majon-ni. North Korean aircraft would be bursting through that opening and into the skies above Wonsan in seconds now. "Weapons armed!" he snapped. "Snowball! Gimme a range!"

"Uh… eighteen, no! Sixteen bogies now. Range eight thousand."

"What happened to twenty-one?"

"Lost 'em, Stoney. Lost 'em in the ground clutter!"

So some of the enemy aircraft were hedge-hopping, funneling through the mountain canyons like the spaceships in a sci-fi thriller. Somebody on the opposing team had balls. Tombstone's heart was hammering now, the adrenaline flowing. He licked his lips. "Shotguns' We have some guys sneaking through the pass at low altitude. Keep your eyes peeled." In the twisted gray and dun patchwork of stone and forest, spotting low-flying fighters was going to be a bitch.

Worse, he didn't dare try for a lock with his Phoenix missiles, not if the targets were going to vanish in the ground clutter. Better to wait and be sure.

"Shotgun Leader, this is Homeplate. Come in, Shotgun."

"Shotgun here. Go ahead, Homeplate."

"Tombstone, I thought I'd better pass the word." It was Commander Barnes in Jefferson's CIC. "The wounded off Chimera have just gone on board Chosin. The rest of Chimera's crew is at Blue Beach, loading onto the LCACs." There was a hesitation. "Stoney, they're going to be naked out there if those MiGs break through!"

Tombstone fought the rising, ice-cold feeling in his gut. Marine LCACs and helicopters would make prime targets; hell, you couldn't miss the damned things.

If a boatload of rescued POWs died during the final leg of their flight to safety…

"I copy, Homeplate. Send us what help you can. We'll hold the line."

"Tombstone!" Snowball yelled. "Eight bogies, going high!"

"Tag 'em! We'll go Phoenix!"

"Locked on! Tone!"

Tombstone heard the chirp of a radar lock in his headphones. "Six missiles, six targets. Ready to launch!"

The Tomcat's AWG-9 could track six targets simultaneously, guiding a radar-homing missile to each one. It could even pick targets for itself, selecting those radar bogies which posed the greatest threat to the Tomcat.

The machines, Tombstone reflected, were getting more efficient at war than the men who used them.

"Fox one! Fox one!" His Tomcat lurched as a blunt-nosed Phoenix slid clear of the starboard wing with a gush of white smoke. Five seconds later, a second Phoenix followed the trail of the first, twisting into blue sky ahead.

"Targets are breaking, Tombstone," his RIO reported. "Solid locks. Missile three away… missile four away…"

"Target lock!" Army Garrison called. "Fox one!"

Tombstone noticed that Batman was holding back, that he had not yet launched. He wondered if Wayne was having trouble again, face to face with the need to kill another man.

He decided to say nothing. Batman would click in, had to click in… or he was dead. Anything Tombstone said to Batman over the radio might cause more trouble then it solved. He remembered how things had started going to pieces for him during the last dogfight… culminating with his repeat bolters on the Jefferson.

If Batman was having trouble, he'd have to resolve it himself.

Missiles five and six slid clear of the Tomcat and Tombstone rolled left, heading for the deck. He pulled up seconds later as concrete buildings blurred beneath the F-14's belly. Tombstone glimpsed roads, bridges, factories, and apartments. This is a hell of a place for a dogfight, he thought. I hope the civilians have already bugged out.

Orange flame blossomed ahead. "Hit!" Snowball exalted. "Splash one MiG!"

The other MiGs scattered across the sky, their contrails interpenetrating with the twisting white lines of Phoenix AAMs. Missile two steered into the side of a mountain seconds later. Several MiGs were scrambling for the deck now, attempting to lose the radar-locked hunters among the rocks and crags of the valley.

The notch in the mountains became a valley of death. A second explosion hurled flaming chunks of MiG across the canyon. Tombstone pulled up and arrowed into the valley as half a dozen silver delta-winged aircraft lashed past above his canopy heading in the opposite direction. One MiG exploded, the concussion rocking the F-14.

"Splash two! Splash three!" Snowball yelled. "Holy mother, it's raining MiGs!"

"Lining up nice… Fox one!"

Fire blazed in the sky. "Splash one for Two-oh-four," Army announced.

"Fox two! Fox two!" That was Taggart. If he'd gone to Sidewinders, he was close.

Tombstone pulled back on the stick, climbing from the valley in a loop which took him up to five thousand feet. MiGs were everywhere now, above him, behind him, and spilling out of the pass over Wonsan. From a mile in the air, Tombstone could see the morning sun glint off the harbor ahead, could see the black silhouettes of the big Marine amphib ships far out toward the horizon.

"Shotgun Leader, this is Two-two-one. We're in the game. Where's the action?"

So Snake Hoffner had arrived, along with the three other Tomcats which had been escorting helicopters. "Two-four-four in," Nightmare Marinaro said. "And Two-four-eight." That was Shooter Rostenkowski.

"And Two-nine-five," Paddy Padden added. "Upping the ante with Fox two!"

"Welcome aboard, guys," Price Taggart said. "Ain't we got fun?"

Another MiG blossomed into flames, the wreckage tumbling end for end as it streaked into the valley below and slammed into the face of a cliff. Atoll missiles were crisscrossing with Phoenixes and Sidewinders now. "Splash one for Two-nine-five!"

"Way to go, Paddy! Come left to two-seven-oh! Bandits! Bandits at angels three!"

"Watch it, Stoney!" Batman warned. "Three coming' in on your six!"

At least Batman sounded like he was still in the fight. "Batman! Where are you?"

"On your three at eight-triple-oh.

"I see you. Get on them! Breaking right!"

Tombstone snap-rolled his F-14 to starboard. He was well above the walls of the valley now, but rocky crags seemed to claw the sky, reaching for his aircraft as he twisted into a tight split-S. As he leveled out two thousand feet above the ground, he caught a glimpse of Batman streaking overhead, the MiGs scattering. An arrow of white fire intersected one MiG in a blaze of orange and black. "Splash one for Two-oh-three," Taggart said. "Watch out for falling MiGs!"

"Shotgun Leader! Shotgun Leader! You still have one on your tail!"

Tombstone twisted in his seat, looking back past Snowball. "He's on us!" the RIO shouted. "He's still coming!"

There he was! Tombstone saw the flash of a missile as it left the MiG's wing.

There was no radar tone, and at short range it would be a heat-seeker. "Hit the flares!" Tombstone yelled. He yanked the throttle back and over into a barrel roll while Snowball stabbed the release on the chaff/flare board on the RIO's right cockpit panel. At the last possible moment, Tombstone yanked the Tomcat onto its back and plunged toward the ground, now less than a thousand feet away.

The heat-seeker missed, a streak of fire past the canopy. Tombstone kicked the F-14 to full burner and hauled it into a brutal, vertical climb. That was when he saw the ground attack fighters.

There were four of them, flying wingtip to wingtip in a diamond formation racing out of the valley at better than Mach 1, just above and ahead of their own shadows rippling along the uneven ground. Tombstone recognized the type: Nanchang Q-5s, a Chinese export ground attack fighter known to NATO as the Fantan. They were painted in green and brown camouflage markings and escorted by four low-flying MiGs. Each carried several dull-white missiles slung from pylons under the wings, AS-7 Kerry ASMs, most likely, with one-hundred-pound warheads. Tombstone knew exactly what their targets would be.

"Tally-ho!" he yelled as he rolled out of his climb. "Fantans! Fantans coming out of the valley!"

Time seemed to stand still for Tombstone. As he went port wing high, he could look down and see the Fantans emerging from the mouth of the valley from Majon-ni beneath him. In another few minutes, they would be across the city and out over the water, with dozens of targets to choose from. High on their list would be the distinctive, boxy shapes of the LCACs, by now well away from Blue Beach and on the way back to the fleet. A single Kerry planted in one of those hovercraft, and the odd-looking vessel would become a deathtrap, killing every rescued POW on board.

Or worse, they might try for Chosin herself, now recovering, refueling, and launching Marine helicopters at a furious rate. Though it was far larger and harder to sink than an LCAC, the flight deck of the LPH was a tangle of men, machines, fuel hoses, and ammunition. A Kerry or two into that mix could kill hundreds, could cripple or even sink the Marine carrier, together with the more than sixty wounded sailors from Chimera.

And there were other targets as well: Little Rock, Texas City, and Westmoreland County with their flocks of AAVs and Mike boats, the destroyers closing with the Korean coast, the Sea Knight helos plying back and forth between ship and shore. A target-rich environment which would almost guarantee the Fantan drivers a hit… and a major blow against the American task force.

"Nightmare! Nightmare! He's on my six!"

"Break left, Shooter! Break left!"

"See if you can-"

"I'm on him! I'm on him! Fox two!"

"I'm too close for a shot! Going' to guns!"

"Get him off me, Nightmare!"

The background radio chatter told him the rest of the Tomcats were tangling with other MiGs in a colossal dogfight which arched across the sky over all of Wonsan. He banked his Tomcat left, lining up on the Korean Fantans…

… and then the F-14 shuddered as jackhammer blows slammed into its hull. He turned to look back. One of the North Korean fighters hung there, one hundred yards off his tail.

"Shit, Stoney!" Snowball said. "Where'd he come from?"

Flashes of light stuttered at the roots of the MiG's wings, and 23-mm tracers floated past his head, scant feet from his canopy. Two more MiGs dropped into view as he watched.

"Tombstone!" Batman yelled. "Three blue bandits on your six!"

"I know! I know!"

"On my way!"

"Negative, Batman!" Tombstone went to full burner, climbing rapidly. The MiGs stayed with him, matching each twist and maneuver. "The Fantans! You've got to keep those Fantans from reaching the fleet!" Cannon fire slashed into his Tomcat's right wing.

Batman looked up through his canopy, watching the four aircraft gleaming in the sunlight far above. Tombstone's Tomcat was dropping out of its Immelmann now, nosing over into an inverted dive.

The three MiGs stayed with him.

Below Batman, the Fantans and their escorts thundered toward Wonsan and the sea's edge.

There was no time to think, though the conflict within was cold and diamond-hard. He could save his wingman or attack the Fantans… but not both.

Biting off a curse, he pulled his wing over and plummeted, letting the altitude scale on his HUD rocket down the numbers, past five thousand… four thousand… three thousand…

"Sidewinders!" They were too close for a Phoenix.

"Yo!" Malibu said. "Watch it, Boss. We've got a missile lock on us."

He heard the tone. Somewhere, a MiG's radar was hunting for him. "Screw it!" He concentrated on the targeting pipper on his HUD, hauling the stick over as he lined up on the lead Fantan, now three miles ahead. Sun glint sparked fire from the surface of Wonsan Harbor beyond.

The target graphic changed to a circle, indicating a lock. Batman's thumb closed over the firing button. There was a pilot riding in that Nanchang Q-5…

… and there were sailors and Marines in those ships riding black against the sunlight. "Fox two!" The Sidewinder streaked from beneath the Tomcat's wing. "Batman!" Malibu called. "Missile launch, on our six!"

"Chaff!"

"Done. It's still coming!"

Batman slipped the Tomcat to the side, lining up on another target. From behind the Fantan formation, their tailpipes made perfect heat-seeker targets. The escorting MiGs were all over the sky, screening the Q-5s, dogging the F-14.

"Pull up, Batman! Batman!"

Damn! He pulled up sharply, dumping chaff as he twisted into a hard loop. The missile followed, but too quickly to turn inside the American's arc. A proximity fuse detonated the warhead thirty yards away, a thunderous concussion which rocked the Tomcat. The escort MiGs dropped onto his tail, and searing lines of tracers burned the sky.

Then the first missile hit and the lead Fantan exploded, blossoming in a succession of savage blasts as the Kerry missiles under the wings detonated. Burning fragments rained from the sky.

Tombstone twisted away from the gunfire in a clockwise barrel roll, slamming on his air brakes to kill his speed. The entire point in any ACM was always, always, to get the other guy out front; most dog-fighting maneuvers were designed to force the guy on your tail to overshoot and pass you, lining him up for a shot from the rear.

One of the MiGs flashed past, so close to Tombstone's port wing he could see the man looking back at him through his helmet's dark visor.

"Missile launch!" Snowball yelled. "Heat-seeker!"

"Pop flares!" His RIO would have to handle the countermeasures. He was busy.

His last dive and roll had carried him well to the northwest of the city and into the fringes of the combat area. He was down on the deck, altitude less than three hundred feet, and the roads, buildings, and power-lines whipped past him almost too quickly to be perceived.

"It's still coming', Tombstone!"

"Hang on!" He pulled up sharply and broke right. Something streaked past his canopy on a trail of fire. He whipped the F-14 into a scissors and saw a second MiG roll away. Tombstone brought his stick over; he was tempted to try for a shot at the second MiG, but he knew there was a third one back there somewhere.

"Where's number three?" he yelled.

"Still there, Tombstone. Right on our six!"

"Good night, Snowy!" He kicked in his afterburner.

Batman pulled out of the loop. The escort MiGs had scattered, unable to follow his high-G pull-out, and he was in the clear once more.

The Fantans… where were they? He spotted them eight miles ahead, riding their own shadows across the rugged ground as they streaked toward the outskirts of Wonsan. He slid back into the formation's wake, much farther astern now, but still too close for a decent Phoenix shot. The three Q-5s were still dead on course for the fleet, flashing across Wonsan's western suburbs, the sprawl of industrial plants and refineries. The taller buildings of the city rose ahead, snatching at the low-flying aircraft.

"Hey, dude, this is turnin' into an obstacle course!" They were down to five hundred feet. Batman remained intent on the three target symbols on his HUD.

"Hold on, Malibu! Just a little more." The pipper crawled across the display. The Q-5s were jinking, swinging back and forth in an attempt to avoid buildings as well as Batman's lock. He could see the ships of the American task force clearly now, less than fifteen miles away. The Korean pilots would be arming their missiles now.

ACQ flashed on his display, and the targeting box over the left-hand Q-5 became a circle. A tone sounded in his headset.

"I got lock! Fox two!"

A second Sidewinder slid clear of the Tomcat's rails and arrowed toward the Fantans. Two of the Q-5s broke then, swinging left and right to avoid the missile. The Sidewinder, locked onto the plane to port, swept off to the left.

Batman stayed with the remaining Q-5, which was maintaining its dead-level course. He switched his missile system back to Search Mode. A warning came up on his HUD. "Damn!" He'd forgotten his combat load included only two Sidewinders, and both were gone now.

"You want to go for Phoenix?" Malibu asked.

His Tomcat was riding now with six of the heavy, long-range killers under his wings. They could destroy MiGs in the sky over P'yongyang a hundred miles away, but he was too close to deal with the Fantan lumbering less than two miles ahead.

"Negative!" he snapped. His left hand rammed the throttle forward as he went to burner. "I'm going' to guns!"

The Q-5 raced across the city's waterfront and thundered out over the bay. Batman followed. He had an instant's glimpse of Chimera less than five hundred feet below… and the sinister gray shape of the Soviet cruiser.

The Marines and the Russians had stood there for an eternity, it seemed like, neither side willing to move, neither side willing to retreat. Peters had dispatched one of his men with a tense, urgent whisper to back off and radio Lieutenant Adams, who was leading the squad on board Chimera. It might be a while before help came, though. Peters could still hear shooting on board Chimera, occasional ragged bursts of autofire.

One Russian had departed as well, running toward the boarding ladder on the Soviet ship's side. Peters didn't know if he was going to report or to bring help. "Do you speak English?" Peters called. The Russian who seemed to be in charge had shaken his head. "Nyeh panemayu. Gavareeti tee vih parooski?" Impasse.

Very, very slowly, Peters lowered his M-16. It did not look as though the Russians were looking for a confrontation. If they were, they could have fired from ambush and killed every Marine on the dock… could have opened up on the Huey while they were still out over the harbor. But disengaging from this eyeball-to-eyeball confrontation was going to be tricky.

The Russian, eyes narrowed, lowered the muzzle of his AKM in response.

BOOM!

Peters dove forward, landing on the concrete facedown. Every man on the dock, Russian and American, was on the ground at the same moment, scrabbling for cover, certain that a bomb had just gone off.

Kolmo Peninsula swelled larger just ahead as the two aircraft flashed low across Wonsan Harbor. Batman had a glimpse of the airport, of a multitude of vehicles, of helicopters on the runways, rotors turning. He crossed the landing beaches and hurtled on over the open ocean. Chosin was ten miles away.

The gunsight reticle on his HUD tracked the Nanchang Q-5, his LCOS showing minimum target lead. At this range, he could actually see the enemy pilot, turning in his cockpit for a view aft at his pursuer. Batman could imagine the man's fear.

Chosin was eight miles away.

Tombstone held his F-14 under control as he twisted away from the enemy MiG. Whoever this guy was, he was good!

The Tomcat lashed into a scissors… then another, as Tombstone tried to sucker the Korean into an overshoot which would put him in the American's sight, but the MiG driver was having none of it. He was staying tucked in tight.

"Still with me, Snowball?" Rugged cliffs reached for the F-14 to left and right. They were dropping into a narrow valley.

"Right behind you! Hey, how about shakin' this guy? He's getting' on my nerves!"

"Mine too, partner. Time to get out of Dodge!"

The Tomcat stood on its tail, clawing for altitude. The MiG, anticipating the maneuver, rose with it, cannons thundering.

Hammer blows smashed into the Tomcat's hull, walking up the fuselage between the upright stabilizers. Warning lights flashed across Tombstone's console.

Tombstone twisted away from the deadly fire. This guy was definitely first string on the Korean team. He leveled out at eight thousand feet, turning hard to port.

"Stoney!" Snowball called. "Watch it! He's-"

Then the cockpit exploded in flame and smoke and the F-14 was falling, falling, the wind shrieking through a pair of holes punched through the Plexiglas inches above Tombstone's head. The MiG thundered past yards off Tombstone's left wing.

"Close one, Snowball!" Tombstone yelled. He fought for control, feeling the flaps bite air. The F-14 shuddered as he pulled up the nose. "Are you okay? Snowy? Snowy!"

A small rearview mirror was mounted on his console, positioned so he could see into the backseat. He could not see his RIO, but he could see a ragged tear in the rear part of the canopy where cannon shells had passed through the cockpit. Snowball must be slumped over, out of sight.

There was blood on the canopy, a spray of crimson.

He checked his indicator. The ship's AWG-9 was out… no data on the scope. The missile systems were out… as were electronic countermeasures.

Another shudder wracked the stricken Tomcat, and they began losing altitude.

CHAPTER 31

Water raced past hunter and hunted as the Fantan arrowed toward the U.S. fleet, the F-14 closing from behind. Batman's finger squeezed the trigger and his Vulcan cannon howled, hurling a stream of 20-mm slugs into the Nanchang.

The Chinese ground attack fighter, a design similar to the American F-4 Phantom, was ruggedly built. It absorbed round after round after burning round, slowing, but not falling. Bits of debris flaked away from the stabilizer and pinged off Batman's canopy. He moved closer, waiting for the flash of an A-7 launch. Chosin was six miles away, well within range of the Kerry…

He squeezed the trigger again, and smoke began spilling from the Fantan's engine, then a gush of flame. At first Batman thought the Fantan was cutting in its afterburner, but then he realized that fuel was spilling into the tailpipe and igniting.

The Fantan exploded, a savage eruption of burning metal and spinning fragments. The Kerry warheads went off in a succession of blasts, each larger than the one before, until the sky was filled with orange flame. The F-14 roared into the fire…

… and burst through the other side, rocking with the concussion, its wings scored by fragments.

Chosin and her consorts lay less than five miles ahead. The sea around her was thick with AAVs, and Batman could see the foam-lashed shape of an LCAC making its way across the water below, making for the Little Rock. Farther away still, at the very edge of visibility, Batman could see the gray shadow of Jefferson, at the point where sea met sky.

Batman brought the Tomcat around in a shallow turn, passing back across the tip of the Kolmo Peninsula. Wonsan lay spread out before him, a gleaming city of white buildings and towers, of columns of greasy smoke hanging above burning ships, shattered buildings…

"Where are they, Malibu? Where are the other Fantans?"

"One's down, Batman. You killed him. Lost the other no, wait! I can get a feed from one of the Hawkeyes! Bearing… two-eight-five. Batman! He's running!"

"We'll take him with Phoenix! Arming… Hot! Lock 'em!"

"Damn! He's ducked back through the pass. I think he's running for home, dude. Looks like he doesn't like the surfin' around here!"

For a moment, the killer's fury threatened to overwhelm Batman. He could have had a clean sweep, four for four. He could still go to burner, still…

He let out a long breath. "Let him go. Just so he doesn't circle back on us. Give me a vector to Tombstone."

"I'm on it, compadre. Two-five-nine, angels five."

The Tomcat streaked toward the mountains.

Major Pak took a deep breath as he brought his MiG around in a climbing turn, positioning himself high on the wounded American's tail. He recognized that aircraft; he'd glimpsed hull number 205 once before, during the dogfight out over the Sea of Japan. He wasn't sure If American aviators always flew the same aircraft or not, but meeting this one was like meeting an old friend.

The Yankee's cockpit was shattered, and a thin trickle of black smoke was leaking from the left engine. Another burst at close range would send the American plunging into the sea.

Over his headset, Pak could hear the North Korean air assault falling to pieces. Three of the Q-5s had been shot down, and the survivor had broken off and was fleeing west. Eleven MiGs had gone down in the space of eight minutes, and the others were scattered across the sky… or fleeing for a friendly airfield covered by SAMs.

And there were reports of more American aircraft approaching from the east.

There was, Pak knew, no use in attempting to return to P'yongyang himself. The best he could hope for was exile to some isolated post in the Yalu Valley. The worst…

He didn't want to think about it. His leaders did not easily forgive failure.

His death would not atone for this disaster, but he might be able to arrange things so that the defeat was not so shockingly one-sided. Major Pak would shoot down the Tomcat, then turn east. There were American carriers out there, and transports filled with Marines. He would find a target. His MiG carried no bombs, but that hardly mattered. Fifty years before, the detested Japanese had shown how to use the aircraft itself as a bomb. There were infinitely worse ways to die…

With a grimace of determination, Major Pak dropped his MiG once again onto the tail of the damaged American Tomcat.

Tombstone pulled the stick left, praying his Tomcat would hold together. He'd seen the Korean MiG approach, seen the number 444 on the hull in front of the cockpit. He pulled into a sweep to get inside the MiG's turn, but indicators lit up, warning of damage to his port engine, forcing him to break and roll clear. The MiG followed.

Launch!

Tombstone saw the flash of the missile. He waited, keeping the flare of its exhaust in sight until the last moment, then popped flares and turned. The missile decoyed toward the flares and Tombstone brought the F-14 around hard for a riposte.

No good. His radar was out, and an indicator showed his weapons systems were inoperable. Damn! He had two Sidewinders still hanging from his wings, but no way to lock on and fire them. All he had left were his guns.

He found himself wondering about his opponent. Most Korean aviators ― at least according to Intelligence ― were mediocre pilots. The PDRK's air defense forces had nothing similar to Top Gun or Red Flag, schools where they could sharpen their dog-fighting skills against live opponents. There were a few, though, who had received special training in the Soviet Union, men who had gone on to train the fighter pilots of other countries: Iraq, Syria, Libya.

It was hard thinking of his opponent as a person… as someone who might have trained in Moscow or worked for a time in Damascus. Tombstone had an eerie sense of identity with Batman, knowing exactly the shock he'd felt after his first kill.

But it was also part of the job, a job which was quite literally kill or be killed. The Korean pilot was doing his level best to kill him.

They were at five thousand feet now, a mile above the patchwork of grays and browns, roads and factories and buildings northwest of Wonsan. The two aircraft were traveling at over six hundred knots. The F-14's wings were folded back, but the damage to the aircraft was bad enough that Tombstone was considering overriding the control. If the wing pivots froze, he didn't want to try to maintain lift with the wings back when his airspeed started falling.

But not yet. He kept jinking his F-14, trying to avoid a missile lock by the other pilot, but the MiG kept closing in, apparently trying for another pass with his guns. He was less than a mile away now, and still closing.

A maxim he'd picked up at Top Gun came to him. When you can't out-fly the other guy, you have to out-think him. This guy had anticipated every scissors, every yo-yo, every maneuver designed to reverse their positions. But perhaps there was something else Tombstone could try.

He pulled the Tomcat into a shallow turn to port, banking the aircraft more and more as he tried to turn inside the MiG's turning radius. The MiG followed. Tombstone tightened up on the turn, wings still folded, luring the MiG closer.

F-14 Tomcats had one particular weakness in air combat, a subtle weakness which could nonetheless give the enemy a powerful advantage during a dogfight. Unless the pilot hit the override, the aircraft's computer controlled the angle on the wings automatically, folding them back at high speed, opening them wide for better lift at low speed. An enemy pilot who knew what he was looking at could glance at a Tomcat's wings and make a very good guess at just how much energy the F-14 had at the moment, information which let him adjust his own speed to avoid overshooting the target.

Tombstone's speed was down to three hundred knots now, and his wings were starting to come forward. He slapped the override, keeping the wings tucked back. It was like avoiding a "goose mode" when making the break toward a carrier trap. He was losing altitude now as he lost speed and lift, but he kept the wings tucked in.

"C'mon," he told the Korean pilot. "C'mon, you bastard!"

Pak was still turning inside the Tomcat's circle. The American fighter's wings were still folded. Pak's Spin Scan radar was too primitive to provide him with speed data on the target, but the fact that the F-14's wings were still folded told Pak that the Yankee was maintaining the turn at better than three hundred knots. Pak's own airspeed was falling below two hundred eighty knots as he tightened his turn. The Yankee was going to slip away!

He kicked his throttle forward for a sudden burst of speed.

He kept his eyes on the MiG floating off his portside tail, still staying inside the F-14's turn. When the MiG accelerated with a rush, Tombstone knew he'd won.

The MiG passed the Tomcat barely thirty yards to port at the same instant that Tombstone opened his wings and popped the air brakes. For an instant, Tombstone looked into the other man's face…

Then he pulled the F-14 hard to the left, sliding in behind the MiG so close that the Tomcat bucked and rumbled in the other plane's jet wash. Tombstone knew he would have only a second before the other pilot went into a break. He let the gun reticle drift across the MiG's hull, squeezing the trigger as the target filled his sights.

Cannon fire hammered into the MiG from less than fifty yards away, gouging chunks of hull metal. Tracers seemed to sink into the MiG, walking up the fuselage.

The MiG was already burning, already starting to come apart as the deadly rain of high-speed cannon fire found the cockpit. The wings seemed to crumple in toward the hull, and then the entire plane was engulfed by flames. Tombstone's Tomcat bumped and shook as it rode through the fireball.

He watched the wreckage trail fire all the way to the ground.

Slowly, Sergeant Peters rose to his feet. There was absolute silence on the dock as U.S. Marines and Russians, in twos and threes, began getting up, looking at one another sheepishly. The thunder had receded. Long seconds passed before they realized that the near-miss blast had not been a bomb at all, but a Tomcat cutting in its afterburners less than five hundred feet overhead.

The nearest Russian marine stood slowly less than ten feet away. The front of his white trousers was wet. As he moved, Peters realized his own camo fatigue pants were wet too. The Russian looked at himself, then at Peters. Another long moment passed, and the Russian began to laugh.

The Marine joined in.

Within the next few minutes, a dialogue of sorts was worked out. After a hurried consultation, it was discovered that Private Greeley had brought along a strictly unauthorized item of equipment, a much-worn copy of Playboy tucked into his rucksack. The Russians obviously were interested in a trade; Greeley was convinced to part with his contraband in exchange for a Russian Naval cap… and the sergeant's promise to see him hauled before the skipper at mast for carrying contraband if he didn't go along with this new and promising turn in intercultural relations.

The Russians offered the Americans vodka and bread; the Marines offered them MREs. Meals, Ready to Eat ― plastic packages of dehydrated food ― were widely regarded by Marines as neither ready to eat nor meals, a poor substitute indeed for the canned C-rations they replaced. There was a spirited discussion over whether that particular gift would make the Russians mad. Peters broke the impasse by walking over to the Russian Marine and opening one of his MRE pouches.

The Russian looked puzzled as he sampled it. "Shtoh eta?"

Peters didn't understand the words, but the question in the tone and in the man's face was clear enough. He smiled. "Apricots."

"Ah-bree-kods…?"

"Try 'em," Peters said, grinning. "You'll love 'em!"

At least the Soviet Marine wasn't a tank driver. Peters didn't think the apricot curse applied to ships.

"Homeplate, Homeplate, this is Two-oh-five," Tombstone said. He was holding the Tomcat level at four thousand feet, flying slowly east across the coast north of Wonsan. "Homeplate, this is Two-oh-five. Come in, please."

He was just beginning to wonder if his radio was out too when he heard the crisp, all-business voice of Commander Barnes. "Two-oh-five, this is Homeplate. Be advised you have friendlies entering your area. Watch you don't score an own goal."

"Glad to hear it, Homeplate." He paused to examine the sky.

"It looks like the locals don't want to play anymore."

"Copy, Tombstone. That's good news."

"Listen, Homeplate, does that mean your flight deck is open for business?"

"That's affirmative, Two-oh-five. We started launching five minutes ago. We sent the call out, but I guess you were too busy to hear us."

"Roger that." He checked his instruments again. He was losing fuel… fast. His hydraulic pressure was falling as well, and his left engine was running hot. "Homeplate, I'm calling an emergency."

"Copy, Two-oh-five. What is your situation, over?"

He ran down the list of warning indicators. The most serious problem was fuel. At the rate he was losing it, he would be going dry in another fifteen minutes. Coming in for a trap on Jefferson shouldn't be too hard; his ILS appeared to be out but he'd be able to come in by eyeball, no sweat. The loss of hydraulic pressure was a nagging worry, though. He might not be able to get his landing gear down… and if he did, the gear might not hold when he slammed into the deck.

"Two-oh-five," Barnes said. "Suggest you approach Homeplate and eject. We have an angel standing by."

"Concur, Homeplate. I-" He heard a groan and felt his heart skip a beat. The ICS was on, and he was hearing sounds from the back seat! "Wait one, Homeplate!" Tombstone turned, trying to see his RIO. "Snowball! Snowball, are you there?"

He saw movement in the rearview mirror, caught a glimpse of Snowball's face, a mask of blood beneath his helmet. "It… hurts."

"Homeplate, this is Two-oh-five."

"Go ahead, Tombstone. What do you have?"

"Homeplate, I thought my RIO was dead. He's not. He's alive! Can't tell his condition, but he's hurt pretty bad."

"Ah… copy, Tombstone. Wait one."

"Snowy? Can you hear me back there?"

"Tombstone!" The voice was weak, and Tombstone heard a wet gurgle behind each breath his RIO took. "Tombstone… it hurts!"

"That's good, buddy! If it hurts, you're still in there kicking. Stay with me, son! We're on our way back to the Jeff!"

"Tombstone… I don't…"

"Stay with me, Dwight! Where do you hurt?"

There was no answer, but Tombstone could still hear the ragged breathing. If they were forced to eject, if Snowball's neck or back or head were broken, if he had a rib poking through a lung… damn it! Ejecting from a damaged bird was dangerous at the best of times. If you were injured, your chances of survival went way, way down.

Under it all was the nagging realization that Snowball was in the backseat now because Tombstone had landed on him two days ago. Snowy had been ready to quit, and if he had, he'd be safe and whole on the carrier right now.

Of course, someone else would be in the backseat instead. It seemed that there was little purpose in trying to second-guess the universe.

"Tomcat Two-oh-five, this is Homeplate."

"Two-oh-five."

"Tombstone, do you think your RIO can eject? Over."

"Negative! Negative! We cannot eject!"

"Okay, Tombstone. Listen up. The Captain's rigging the barricade. You are clear for a straight-on approach. The Air Boss will talk you in, over."

"Roger that, Homeplate." He took in a deep breath. "I'm coming in."

"And I'm right here with you," another voice cut in.

"Batman! Where are you?"

"On your five and low, Boss. Looks to me like you're bleeding."

"Roger that." The hydraulic fluid in Tomcats had an additive which colored it red, making it easier to detect leaks. "Hydraulic pressure is way down."

"Ah, you don't need that shit. Just follow me on down, slick as a baby's ass."

"Yeah. My port engine's running hot. I'm shutting down."

They pulled into a gentle turn, coming up astern of the Jefferson. Two days ago, Marty French had made this same approach in a damaged Hornet. The images recorded off the PLAT system were still burned into his mind… the horror as Frenchie's nose gear failed and the wing tanks burst into flame.

"Two-oh-five," the LSO's voice said over his headphones. "Check your gear."

He slapped the switch. "Gear down."

"Take it easy, Stoney." That was CAG's voice, coming from Air Ops. "You've got loads of time. Captain says the ship is at your disposal. If you want to circle a few times to catch your breath, that's okay. If we can help you by maneuvering, that's okay too."

He thought of Snowball in the backseat, possibly bleeding to death. He thought about his bolters two nights before. Well, they wouldn't have that option this time around. "Negative, CAG. Thanks."

On Jefferson's deck, hundreds of men from the deck crew were completing rigging the barricade, a kind of net with loose, vertical nylon straps hanging between two cables stretched across the flight deck. Tombstone had never made a net trap before, and he didn't like the thought at all. To drop toward a carrier deck on approach and actually see something in the way…

"Two-oh-five, call the ball."

"Tomcat Two-oh-five. Ball. One-point-eight." Fuel was getting critical. He wondered if there was a danger of fuel spewing over a hot engine and igniting. Well, he'd done all he could by shutting down the damaged engine. His left wing dipped and he compensated. The F-14 was sluggish; on only one engine it was like flying a boxcar.

"Watch attitude," the LSO said. "You're lined up fine."

He watched the orange ball, making tiny, incremental adjustments to the throttle. The sea was calm, and Jefferson was steering into the wind at less than fifteen knots. He eased up the power a bit as the ball went high.

"Looks good," Batman said. The other Tomcat paced him off his left side. The deck swept up to meet him, the barricade stretched across his path. He overrode the instinct to hit the throttles as his rear wheels touched down.

The landing gear gave way with a jar and the Tomcat's belly slammed into the steel deck. Sparks showered as the aircraft skidded down the deck at one hundred fifty miles an hour. The nylon straps of the barricade seemed to engulf the cockpit, and then Tombstone was slammed forward against his harness.

Training took over as he switched off the engine, closed fuel valves, shut down power. The danger now was fire as fuel or fumes reached hot metal or an exposed electrical wire. Within ten seconds, Jefferson's crash crew had surrounded the aircraft, hosing it down with fire extinguisher chemicals, using the emergency release lever to free the canopy. As the cockpit opened, Tombstone felt hands reaching in to pull him out and safe the ejection seats, while behind him corpsmen began tending to Snowball.

Only then did Tombstone's hands shake… this time from relief instead of fear. They'd made it.

CHAPTER 32

Lieutenant Morgan signaled Sergeant Walters with a chopping motion of his hand. The sergeant twisted the plunger on the device he held, and a chain of explosions ripped through the compound, destroying the barracks, the few surviving vehicles, the headquarters, and the building called the Wonsan Waldorf.

"C'mon! C'mon! Let's go!" The sergeant dropped the plunger and trotted across the airstrip where the last ten Marines crouched in a circle, weapons facing outward.

Morgan was eager to abandon the place. All of the former prisoners were gone, as well as the SEALs and most of the Marines. He alone remained with a single squad.

The explosions set off another round of firing as automatic weapons opened up from the ruins across the street, followed by the heavy crump of a mortar round. The North Koreans were gathering again, had been pressing against the dwindling Marine perimeter all morning. It was time to go.

"That's everybody!" Walters shouted.

Morgan looked up. The last helo had lifted out of the camp minutes before. The Sea Stallion circled slowly overhead, waiting as SeaCobras made a final pass across the road, miniguns blazing. The lieutenant pulled the pin on a smoke grenade and tossed it onto the tarmac.

Wind whipped up clouds of dust as the helicopter descended. The Marines stayed where they were, watching outward as a line flipped from the Sea Stallion's side and uncoiled toward the earth. When it reached them, the Marines grabbed it and stretched out the end on the ground. At Morgan's command, each man used swivel snaps to fasten himself to the line. "All secure?" he yelled, and each man in the line signaled readiness.

Morgan waved, and the helicopter began going up once more, taking the dangling rope and the ten Marines with it. The lieutenant had always thought it an undignified way to travel. It reminded him of flies stuck to a long strip of flypaper, but it was a quick means of extraction which avoided the necessity of a helo setting down in the middle of a fire-covered LZ. The only real threat was that the helo pilot would fail to allow enough clearance for his low-flying passengers.

Last man off the ground, Morgan clung to the line with one hand and gripped his M-16's pistol grip with the other. The line twisted, spinning him slowly as he rose clear of the ground. As he passed over the road, he could see a number of men in mustard uniforms spilling out of the ruins west of the camp and crossing the fence.

They were probably shooting at the helo, but he could hear nothing under the thunder of the rotors and he resisted the urge to fire into the mob. "That's okay, boys," he said under his breath. The helicopter picked up speed and he trailed behind, the wind lashing at his face. "You're welcome to the place. We're just leaving."

The twistings of the line turned him until he was facing north, and he caught a glimpse of blue sea beyond the Kolmo Peninsula and the smoke rising from the airfield.

The Sea Stallion picked up speed as it turned toward the Marine beachhead.

They were leaving. The fight for Chimera had been short and sharp. There'd been only a handful of North Korean guards on board; four had died at their posts and another had dived overboard. The rest, ten in number, stood uncertainly on the pier, their hands still cuffed behind them by plastic straps brought for the purpose.

A Huey had arrived at 1000 hours and landed on the mid-deck helipad, disgorging a khaki-clad Navy chief and a small army of sailors in dungarees. These men vanished into Chimera's bowels. Twenty minutes later, another helicopter arrived carrying more sailors, volunteers drawn from Chosin and Texas City, all under the command of Lieutenant Gerald Cole. The shipboard Marine contingent divided into smaller details, some manning the vessel's machine guns fore and aft, others joining working parties who began clearing the wreckage from the spy ship's deck and cutting away the ruin of her boat davits and mast. One Marine had brought along a large American flag. The flag of the PDRK was taken down, folded, and stowed, the Stars and Stripes tied to a makeshift mast abaft of the bridge in its place. There was no ceremony to mark the moment. For the Marines, the act itself was enough.

An hour later, the word was passed: Chimera was ready in all respects for sea. Cole turned to Lieutenant Adams, commanding the Marine platoon, and smiled. "Liberty's over, Lieutenant. Call your men back and let's get the hell out of here."

The Marines on the waterfront filed down the pier and up Chimera's gangway. They left behind their Korean captives and a coterie of Soviet Marines and sailors. The atmosphere was friendly, even relaxed, though the Marines remained on guard. Gunshots continued to bang away in the distance, beyond the city and across the bay. The waterfront area, though, seemed deserted; at the least the inhabitants were staying well under cover. A-6 and Hornet interdictions at dozens of points around the city's road net had paralyzed traffic and prevented troop movements into the waterfront. Also, the landings across the harbor and the fighting at Nyongch'on had served admirably as a diversion.

Chimera's engines boomed into life, causing the dirty water under her stern to boil and froth. Sailors cast off lines fore and aft, and the combat-battered vessel began to slide away from the pier, moving dead slow astern. Sergeant Peters leaned on the railing forward of the helipad, watching the group of Russians and Koreans as the ship backed into the harbor.

One Russian Marine waved a packet of MREs above his head. "Peh-ters!" he yelled. "Vsyegoh harashigah, tovarisch!"

Peters waved back. He didn't know what Vladimir Ilych was saying, but he seemed to be wishing the Americans luck.

Machine gun fire rattled from a building somewhere to the south, but there was no telling what the target was. In reply, a single, piercing blast shrilled from Chimera's horn, echoing back from city buildings. An answering blast sounded from the harbor. There, the sleek gray shape of the destroyer John A. Winslow made her way among the fishing boats and merchantmen. The Winslow had been brought into the harbor against the possibility that Chimera would need a tow, or support from her five-inch guns. With her engines and steering operational, with Korean military forces along the waterfront fled or in hiding, the destroyer would serve as an escort of honor instead. Tomcats from VF-97 boomed low overhead, flying cover, as SeaCobras and SuperCobras continued their hungry circling. Winslow came about in a broad half-circle and began churning through the gray waters toward the north point of the Kolmo Peninsula.

Her flag flying, Chimera followed.

There would be no more Pueblos.

Private Ross followed his training, leaning around the pile of rubble to look for the enemy instead of over. The resort complex, which had been in what passed for a rear area well within the Marine perimeter, had within the past hour become the front line once more. Mortar fire rained down on the Marines from hidden sites among the villages to the south, and the steady rattle of machine guns, the bang of sniper rifles echoed from buildings and cliff sides. Smoke, from gunfire, fires, and smoke markers, hung like a gray pall of fog across the ground, reducing visibility to a few yards and men to hunch-backed shadows slipping among trees and walls.

A shrill, eerie wail sounded through the murk. Some clown over there had found a bugle and was using it to summon another charge. He'd heard stories about those bugles passed on from earlier generations of Marines in an earlier Korean war. "Get ready, guys!" he yelled. "They're coming!"

They came in a rush, not the human wave hordes he and his squad mates had expected, but small groups of eight or ten men each. Autofire stuttered and snapped, the muzzle flashes bright, flickering tongues of flame in the fog. Ross chose his target, then elevated his weapon, his right hand caressing the trigger of the M-203, mounted just forward of his magazine. The weapon jolted against his arm. Seconds later, the 40-mm frag burst just behind the advancing Koreans, mowing them down like wheat. More kept coming, firing and shrieking as they ran. Ross took aim, sighting down his M-16's carrying handle, and began firing single shots with careful deliberation. One Korean fell… and another… and another…

"Fox Company!" Corporal Chamesky yelled. Sergeant Nelson was dead, cut down by AK fire thirty minutes earlier. "Stand by to withdraw!"

"How the hell are we supposed to withdraw with gooks climbing all over us?" Private Grenoble muttered from his firing hole a few feet away. He levered himself up and loosed three quick shots at the advancing soldiers. "We must have half the damned gook army here!"

"We'll invite them out to the ship," Ross replied. He aimed again… fired. A North Korean clutched at his face and dropped back into the murk. "Have them join us in the mess hall. Ptomaine'll get them."

"You wish. With our luck-" He stopped himself, looking up at the low overcast. The air was quivering with a new sound, a thundering roar approaching from the sea. "INCOMING!"

"Down!" Ross screamed, and he did his best to burrow into the soil, his hands over ears and head.

The ground seemed to rise up and kick him in the chest and stomach. The noise… the noise was too vast to be described as sound, a shattering detonation which tore sky and ground apart with a concussion wave which rang like a bell.

Another express train roar followed the first… and the blast shook the ground and rained gravel across the backs of the huddled Marines. Explosions tore the face of the ridge, uprooting trees, collapsing buildings, splintering walls.

The silence which followed was so deep Ross thought he'd gone deaf, but he heard cheering rising from the beach moments later. Raising his head, he looked out toward the sea, where a low, gray silhouette rode the waves five miles out. Even at this distance, Ross recognized the John A. Winslow, the old Spruance-class destroyer which had accompanied the Marine amphib ships close into shore. Both of her five-inch turrets were swung around to cover the shore; those seventy-pound projectiles could be laid down with pinpoint accuracy with help from spotters ashore or in the air. The barrage had slammed into the Korean attack, shattering it utterly.

"On your feet, Marines!" Chamesky ordered. Already he sounded like prime sergeant material, loud and obnoxious. "You bums miss the boat this time and it'll be a long walk home!"

Fox Company stumbled back down the hill toward Blue Beach, sliding down a shallow ridge and jogging across sand and gravel toward the water. A trio of Sea Knights roared low overhead and out to sea, the last flight out of Kolmo Airport today… and probably for weeks to come, so badly had the runway been cratered.

The beach area was littered with the burned-out hulks of vehicles ― AAVs, mostly, but numerous humvees and several helicopters as well ― which had suffered damage and were being left behind. One working vehicle remained, one of Chosin's LCACs, resting on its skirts just above the surf line with its forward ramp deployed. The beachmaster stood on the ramp, signaling Fox to hurry. "Move it, Marines!" he yelled. "You wanna be left behind?"

Ross followed the others aboard, combat boots rattling on the ramp grating. The coxswain gunned the craft's engines and the skirts inflated, lifting the air cushion vehicle clear of the beach in a storm of wind-blown sand and spray. The ramp came up, and LCAC 2 nosed around, sliding off the beach and out over the water. Mortar shells thudded and howled overhead; geysers of water erupted to either side… and then the LCAC was hurtling to sea at fifty knots, the wind and sea spray clawing at Ross's face.

Only then did he realize that the shore line behind him was empty now, that he had been the last Marine off the Wonsan beach.

"Hey, what happened?" he asked a Marine standing next to him. "Did we get the Navy guys out?"

"How the shit should I know," the man growled. "The colonel didn't see fit to confide in me this time!"

"Yeah," another grumbled. "SOP. Never tell us anything!"

"An oversight, gentlemen," a tall Marine said. "My apologies. The last of the hostages came off the beach at approximately zero-nine-fifteen. Only one of the prisoners died in the rescue. Chimera has been secured and is underway, heading out to rejoin the fleet."

Only then did Ross notice the black eagle pinned to the Marine's camo fatigues and realize who was talking to him. He snapped to attention. "Excuse me, Colonel sir!"

"At ease, at ease," Colonel Caruso said, waving Ross down. "God knows, you boys earned it." The colonel's words were already spreading among the Marines crowded in the LCAC's well deck. The cheering broke out seconds later, beginning as a murmur and swelling, growing larger, going on and on and on, so loud it drowned out the hovercraft's roar.

Admiral Magruder held the binoculars to his eyes, peering through them toward the west. He could see the darker shadow that was the Kolmo Peninsula against the vaster, paler background of the mountains, but at this distance he could see neither Wonsan nor the beaches.

The Marine intervention in North Korea was over. All of Chimera's surviving officers and crew were safe, the wounded in the extensive sick bay facilities on board Chosin, the rest on the Little Rock where the LCACs had carried them. By any standards, the raid had been a spectacular success. Of Chimera's original crew of 193 officers and men, 23 had died during the original attack at sea five days before. Three had been shot by the Koreans. One more, a Lieutenant Novak, had died during the rescue. The SEALs and Marines had brought out all of the rest.

But the cost…

The casualty figures weren't complete, but over one hundred Marines had died in the landings. Add to that the casualties on Jefferson's flight deck in the accident that morning: four dead, fifteen injured.

Plus two SEALS, and the Navy aviators and NFOs… Mardi Gras, Frenchie, Dragon, Snoops. Brave men all, who had died for what they thought was right.

"Now hear this, now hear this," a voice boomed out from the ship's 5-MC, faintly audible through the bridge windows. "Stand by to receive helo." One of Jefferson's Sea King SAR helicopters was approaching from the west. The admiral watched as the machine settled onto the deck. Through his binoculars, he could see two men on board, lying strapped into the wire mesh baskets of a pair of Stokes stretchers.

Jolly and Chucker. The SAR chopper had plucked them from the sea less than a mile off shore. They looked half-frozen and too weak to walk after spending hours adrift in the cold water, but the helo had already radioed that they were okay. Corpsmen lowered the stretchers to the deck, then hustled them toward the island.

Magruder remembered his nephew's outrage a five-day eternity ago. We do look after our own, he thought. When we can. When we possibly can.

Three American planes had been downed today, but the crews had all managed to eject and been rescued. The butcher's bill this day was not as high as it could have been, perhaps, but it was high enough. The brutality of the equation was appalling, and it raised a disturbing question. How many deaths can be justified in the saving of two hundred lives?

Admiral Magruder knew the answer to that question as soon as he'd framed it in his mind. The Marines, the Jefferson herself and every man aboard her… they were there to defend American rights and American lives, at the cost of their own lives if need be. There was no particular logic to the mathematics of the question, and damned little glory. But there was tradition.

And honor.

And that was enough.

The President swiveled his chair away from the desk and stared out past the Rose Garden toward the pinnacle of the Washington Monument in the distance. It was a glorious fall day, blue skies, puffy white clouds… with just a hint of autumn crispness to the early October air.

It was over. The speech, the pile of papers on his desk, said so. The last of the Marine and Naval forces had disengaged hours before and were now standing well out into the Sea of Japan, leaving the shores of North Korea behind them. Chimera and her crew were coming home.

He would read that speech on the special television broadcast scheduled for later that morning. He was certain the American public, at least, would support what had been done. Despite storms of controversy in the press, most Americans had cheered the Mayaguez rescue, Grenada, Panama, and the Gulf War to liberate Kuwait. They would cheer this time as well, and in the end, it was their cheers that mattered most. A former occupant of this office had once called the nation a "pitiful, helpless giant." Never again. By God, never again!

The tragedy was that things were never as neat and as orderly as they were in works of fiction… such as Presidential speeches. Crises were not neatly resolved when the President sent in the Marines… never. More often than not, the real problems were just beginning when the outward crisis was solved. The Marines might be out of North Korea, but the real fight was just warming up. The government of the Philippines was calling the Wonsan incursion an unjustifiable use of force to settle what was essentially a diplomatic problem; the People's Republic of China called it a serious provocation and a threat to stability in the Far East; Japan thought it an unforgivable reversion to the stupidities of gunboat diplomacy.

God only knew what North Korea would call it when they began addressing the world audience: war, murder, rape, and piracy, most likely, emotional charges which the logic of truth could never fully counter.

There was a knock at the door. "Yes?"

A secretary stepped in. "Mr. President? Secretary of State Schellenberg."

"Send him in."

Schellenberg looked drawn, and his expression was hard. The President rose from the chair and advanced to greet him.

"Good morning, Mr. President," Schellenberg said. He fumbled for a moment with an envelope in his suit coat pocket.

"That had better not be what I think it is, Jim."

"My resignation, Mr. President. I… think you know why."

The President folded his arms, refusing the envelope. "I don't want it."

"But, Mr. President-"

"No. You ought to know me better than that, Jim. We didn't agree on how to handle the Koreans, but that doesn't mean I don't need you, or respect your opinion."

"I was wrong." He dropped the envelope on the President's desk, then closed his eyes. "My God, when I heard they'd started shooting our people, one by one-"

"No. You were right."

"Sir?"

The President picked up a folder, stamped TOP SECRET at top and bottom, and handed it to Schellenberg. "The DCI brought this by this morning. Read it."

Silently, the Secretary of State paged through the documents inside. Marlowe had briefed the President on the translated documents and the CIA's analysis of them only hours before. Taken from the body of a North Korean officer in the field, they offered a glimpse of P'yongyang's strategy. The plan, code-named Fortunate Dawn, had started as an attempt to embarrass the United States by capturing and quickly breaking the crew of a U.S. intelligence ship… but somewhere along the line things had gotten out of hand.

"You see, Jim?" the President asked when Schellenberg looked up from the papers. "They set a trap and we almost stepped into it."

"They wanted us to invade?"

"I think they wanted us to get so bogged down we couldn't pull out. Then the Russians or the Chinese would have come to their aid… and bailed out their economy. Thing is, if Righteous Thunder hadn't worked, they might have gotten their wish. Jefferson and the MEU gave us the flexibility to get in, accomplish our objectives, and get out… fast."

"Thank God for the carrier battle group, then."

"Amen to that. If I'd ordered a full military response…" He shuddered. "No, you keep right on telling me what you think. Yes men I don't need, not in this job."

"Yes, sir."

The President grinned. "Besides, I'm not about to let you off the hook. Hell, man! Our Asian allies are fit to be tied over this thing… and I'm supposed to break in a new hand now?"

Schellenberg smiled. "Bad timing, huh?"

"Damn right it's bad timing." He plucked the secretary's resignation from the desk and tore it into pieces. "Now, I thought we should send some of State's best people over there. You know, smooth things over. I was wondering about that doctor who briefed us, what was her name…?"

"Dr. Chu. Yes, I'd thought of her for something like that myself. She's not afraid to give it to people straight."

"Good. I've given you one hell of a mess over there, Jim, and I'm counting on you to clean it up."

Schellenberg's resistance weakened as they continued to talk.

Mess it might be, the President reflected as they discussed the situation, and mess it would continue to be for weeks to come. But it could have been worse… much worse. If it had not been for the Jefferson and her battle group…

There was a major contradiction there… a U.S. Navy carrier battle group as an instrument of peace. But without Jefferson and the will to use her, America would have been held hostage ― again ― or been forced to go to war. The challenges to freedom included not only foreign invaders, but fear, indecision, and the willingness to sacrifice principles on the altar of appeasement, of peace-at-any-price.

More often than not, the cost of appeasement was too damned high. He hoped the men who had died on those beaches understood. Somehow, he thought they would.