Red Phoenix

CHAPTER 21 Wave One

Chun Pak-Lee was tired. It had been a long flight, and he was overdue at the navigation ship. He had increased speed, but with this plane that didn’t mean much.

The plane in question was an An-2. NATO had assigned it the name “Colt,” but it should have been “Barrel.” It was a biplane, an honest-to-God biplane, and if Lee didn’t think that was unusual in an age of jet fighters, it was only because of his exhaustive training. He knew what the craft could do, and it was perfect for this mission.

The Colt had excellent low-altitude and low-speed characteristics, could carry a large load, and was cheap and simple to operate. It was designed in Russia, but the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea had received many of them. One of its strengths, though, was not speed. Its frame and fuselage were steel, but its wings were covered with fabric.

He had to make up the loss. Timing was everything. His comrades were depending on him to place them at the right time and the right spot with an accuracy measured in seconds.

The water flowed by him, less than a hundred feet away. He had to stay low to avoid visual and radar detection. It was a clear night but there was little moon, and he saw the water more as a dark mass than moonlit waves. The air was bumpy, especially this close to the surface, and the strain of holding such a low altitude for over two hours was tremendous.

There it was! A light on the horizon. He made a minor course correction, then pressed a button that made a directional light flash forward under the fuselage. It was answered. Good. It was his boat.

The light on the horizon was a North Korean fishing boat, loaded with navigational gear. It was much too sophisticated for normal use, but it would provide the landmark he needed. For precise timing he needed precise positions, and the biplane’s navigational gear wasn’t up to it.

He marked his time overhead and made a rapid mental calculation. As Lee adjusted his speed, he waggled his wings to his comrades below, and turned to his final heading.

All right. Nine minutes to the objective. He called back to the rest of the troops, then started his final procedures. He put the few maps and documents he had in a weighted pouch and tossed them out the window. He checked his own assault rifle and grenades, then tightened his harness.

The coast was exactly as he expected it to be. He’d seen enough pictures and maps to know every point and light on it. He lowered his altitude even more, until he was skimming the wavetops. He called back, “Five minutes!”

As he crossed the coast, Lee started his approach list. Climb to thirty meters. Cut engine, open fuselage fuel dump valves. That would lessen the risk of fire. The sudden silence was almost restful after the hours of noise. It would be a short rest.

Tony heard someone screaming. He rolled over and considered the issue. The party was getting loud, but nobody should scream like that. But he wasn’t at the party. He was asleep. Someone was screaming in his room. He opened his eyes. Nobody was in his room, so the screaming was outside. It wasn’t screaming. It was the alert siren. If this was someone’s idea of a joke …

The phone rang once and he grabbed it. “Captain Christopher here.”

“Sir, this is Luther at ops. We have a general recall. This is not a drill.”

“It fucking well better not be, on Christmas Eve.” Then Tony realized what that meant.

He jumped into a set of coveralls and pulled on his boots in seconds. The sirens had not stopped, and they lent even more urgency to his movements. As Tony ran to the door, there was a mild vibration, followed by the sound of an explosion. And another. Then a chain of rumbling.

Hooter lived two doors down. He and Tony shot out of their rooms almost simultaneously, along with most of the other residents. Most were pilots or wing staff, pulling on whatever clothing was at hand. Nobody stopped to see if their doors were locked behind them. Tony had not stopped moving and was in the corridor heading toward the stairs. Only an idiot would take the elevator, and besides, the stairs were faster.

Running down the stairs was not the best therapy for his head. Most of the fuzziness was masked by the adrenaline, but he’d partied hard and gone to sleep at one. He didn’t feel his best.

“Saint!” came echoing down the stairwell, and he recognized Hooter’s voice.

Tony called up, “Meet you outside.”

Pilots spilled out of the exits and jumped into cars and jeeps. An explosion rocked the BOQ as he ran out the front door. Sure as shit ain’t no drill, Tony thought. It came from over by the ROK Air Force compound, maybe the tower. It was followed by a rapid sequence as a stick of bombs landed. Suddenly the stick was multiplied by fifty — more bomb explosions, and the base’s SAM defenses started launching, leaving bright lines across the horizon. Tony looked up and saw arrowhead forms, lit at the rear by the flames from their afterburners. They were followed by tracers from Vulcan cannon near the base. They added a sound like ripping metal to the jet engines’ roar.

Men were pouring out the door. Tony spotted one other man from his flight and called to him. “Boomer! Come in my car.” Hooter came running up, and as the three got in, other pilots piled in until there was one lying across the three in back.

Dangerously overloaded, Tony beeped the horn twice and slammed the car into reverse. He screamed out of the lot and suddenly realized there were absolutely no lights on anywhere in the base. Headlights filled the road, but there was no other illumination. The idea of being the only visible lights on a base under attack appalled him, but he saw no alternative.

He drove down the main road, heading for the squadron building. The Korean Air Force compound was on his right, with the ocean beyond. Streaks and tracers from both sides of the road pointed to the positions, or imagined positions, of enemy aircraft. Jets were coming in low, some on burner, but even the ones without burner had hot, bright exhausts. They were firing cannon, dropping flares to confuse infrared SAMs, and launching missiles.

They bumped over an inactive runway and passed the wing’s dispersal area. The arches blocked a lot of the view, but there were fires, and two columns of smoke, lit by sparks and red glows. Lights and vehicles moved about, seemingly at random.

They turned right into the squadron building’s parking lot. As Tony braked and pulled up, Creature came running up waving a flashlight. “Everybody to the squadron theater! Shadow’s running a mass brief in two minutes.”

They went into the ops building and saw a beehive of activity. Every one of the squadron’s personnel was bent on some urgent task. Some were in civilian clothes. Tony’s eyes were drawn to Airman Vance by a white bandage on his lower arm. He wondered if anybody else had been hit.

The theater was a smallish auditorium with an elevated stage. Lieutenant Colonel Robbins, “Shadow,” was the squadron’s commanding officer. He was stocky with sandy hair. Standing quietly, he held a clipboard and looked at his watch periodically. On the minute he waved his arm once and the conversation in the room stopped instantly.

“Everybody listen carefully. I’ve only got time to say this once. North Korea is making a general attack, all over the DMZ. The base has been hit once, by how many aircraft I don’t know, and one commando attack. We think all the commandos are dead, but we lost two arches and three aircraft are out. The Thirty-fifth is going to total base defense until we know the situation. Flight leaders will take charge and stack at five-thousand-foot increments, starting at ten thousand feet. We’re surging everyone.

“All birds have cannon and at least two nine limas. Some may have more. Watch takeoff. We’ve got wreckage one-third of the way down, a Colt biplane that the commandos landed in. We’re all lightly loaded so it shouldn’t be a problem. Use combat takeoffs. Don’t go below five thousand without clearance, the SAM crews are authorized to — ”

BRAAANG filled the room as the klaxon went off. The pilots scrambled out the door with Robbins shouting behind them, “Watch out for friendlies! The ROKs are up, too!”

Tony and John headed for the alert shack. Pilots were running in, then back out with their flight gear. It had taken a few cannon hits, judging by the cratered wall and shattered window. “Boomer,” Lieutenant Carlson, was still with them, but there was no sign of his element leader, Captain Owens. He decided to fly as a three-ship rather than waste time finding him. They fumbled with their lockers and pulled on their g-suits and vests. Except for their helmets, they let the rest of the stuff lay.

The three pilots ran out the door toward the shelters, intending to take the first armed and fueled aircraft they came to. Luckily things were more organized than that.

Kenneth Beam, the ops officer, ran up. “Saint, you’ve got five seven nine, Hooter take four nine two, Boomer has four nine four. They’re in F, I, and J. They’ve got full fuel and gun ammo, and two nine-limas each. Where’s Viceroy?”

Tony shrugged. “I don’t know. Is he in the building?”

“I haven’t seen him. I’ll send him up to you when he arrives. You guys are Showtime flight. Pancake will give you vectors on button two. Go!”

Most of the shooting had stopped by this time. The initial raid had tried to suppress the base defenses and the command and control net — radars, radios, and the control tower. Some attention had been paid to the flight line. The North Koreans had used MiG-23s for the first wave — fast, but carrying a relatively light load. They all knew the main raid was only a few minutes away.

As Tony and Hooter ran past shelter D, they saw it collapsed on top of its F-16. There was a form lying on the concrete, covered by a jacket. Hooter looked over at Tony, looking grim. “We’re gonna kick butts, Saint.”

Tony tried to cool him off. “Just stay loose, John. It’s gonna be a long war.” They were all making their first combat flight. He had hoped for a calmer start.

Tony stopped and looked over at Bob Carlson. “Boomer” was a relatively low-time pilot, and Tony was worried about how to fit him into a practiced fighting pair. Finally he decided on simplicity. “Boomer, stay on my left and back a bit more than normal. If things get too hot, fall into trail. Keep a lookout to port. Hooter will cover your six. Let’s do it.”

They split and went to their shelters. The crew chief for 579 looked incongruous in civilian clothes and flight safety gear. Tony sprinted up. “Anything I should know about?” he asked.

Sergeant Kawamoto was confident. “No sir, it’s a good bird. I’ve preflighted it.”

“Great.” Tony started up the ladder and bounced into the cockpit. He hit the starter and got the INS spinning up.

As soon as he connected his helmet radio leads, the speakers were filled with chatter. Everybody wanted to say something immediately. And this was only the ground frequency!

He finished a highly abbreviated checklist and waited for a break in the chatter. “Flight one, go, out.” Releasing the brakes, he moved the throttle forward.

Hooter’s nose was already halfway out of the arch, and Tony rolled out onto the taxiway with his wingman in trail. Tony craned back over his shoulder looking for Boomer, and finally he saw him shoot out of his shelter and quickly taxi up. He fell in line behind them. They could hear jet engines everywhere, and there were almost continuous roars from the direction of the runway.

Tony switched to the tower frequency. It wasn’t nearly as crowded. Must be a good man on the net. He waited a moment, then called in. “Tower, this is Showtime with three Falcons.”

“Roger, Showtime, the runway has been cleared for all outbound Falcons. You are number one for takeoff.”

As they reached the end of the taxiway and turned the corner, they saw a glowing pile a few hundred feet in front of them. It looked like the skeleton of a biplane, crumpled and sagging from the heat. They continued rolling up the runway, and as they got closer, they could see bodies, some half-charred, off to the side of the runway. Tony said, “Wait a minute,” and braked.

It looked a little tight. Just as he was going to inch closer, an airman with a flashlight ran up from the side and waved him forward. He pointed the light over to the side, and Tony could see where they had added some metal matting to one side of the pavement.

They taxied over the matting gingerly and lined up for takeoff. Tony called the other two ships. “Combat departure. Go.”

They were lightly loaded, thank God. Even with afterburner they were barely past takeoff speed when they hit the end of the runway. The combat turn was a little shallower than usual, but they made it.

As they climbed, he looked at the sky. He hadn’t stopped for a weather report. There were scattered clouds at high altitude, maybe thirty thousand feet. No problem for his flight, but he hoped there weren’t any surprises in the forecast.

He led first flight, so they would orbit at ten thousand feet. Second flight would be at fifteen thousand, and so on. Tony felt almost honored. Any bandits would probably come in at low altitude, so he was closest to them and might be the only one able to hit the gomers before they made their attack. Of course they were also the closest to all those SAMs and Vulcans. Something to remember if they got in a scrap. That thought made him pause. “Showtime flight, verify IFF is on, out.” He looked over and saw both planes waggle their wings in answer.

IFF stood for “Identification, Friend or Foe.” The electronic box sent out a coded pulse that told friendly radar screens that they were friendly aircraft. If they were shot down by their own side, it wouldn’t be his fault.

They reached ten thousand and leveled off, throttling back until the engines were almost idling. Since they didn’t have to go anywhere, the idea was to minimize fuel used and maximize time aloft. He started a long, slow turn, looking alternately at the horizon and his radar screen. His abbreviated formation maintained position behind him.

As they started their third circle, Tony and the rest of his flight heard their call sign. “Showtime, this is Pancake. Steer two nine five.” Tony immediately turned to the new course, increasing his throttle to cruise speed. Pancake hadn’t said why they should head west, but there was only one reason to do so: bandits.

“Pancake” was the ground-based fighter control station. The staff analyzed the radar picture and tried to predict where the inbound aircraft were going to attack. It was not a simple task. Not only did mountain valleys block many radar beams, but the enemy used jamming and feints to confuse the issue.

Pancake probably had enough info to want the Showtimers moving west, but nothing hard, Tony thought to himself. He tried to imagine John’s mood right now. He had always been tight with the enlisted crews. Hooter was solid, though.

Boomer was aggressive enough, but he didn’t have a lot of experience in night air combat. With only the radar and occasional silhouettes of an opponent, dogfighting became much more difficult. It was best to make a fast, slashing attack, then get out of Dodge before someone got in a lucky shot.

“Penguin, Cadillac, Universe, Showtime, Castle, this is Pancake. Multiple bogies at five thousand to ten thousand feet, raid count thirty, speed four hundred at fifty miles. Steer two eight seven, buster.”

Jesus, Tony thought, they’re really calling in the clans! Thirty aircraft, probably one-quarter are escorts. We’ve got about fifteen.

Buster meant full throttle, but not afterburner. He increased speed, the pressure at his back almost reassuring. Suddenly his radar scope was filled with contacts. The computer sorted them out and locked onto the nearest plane. Forty miles out, closure rate of 900 knots. “Pancake, Showtime has lock.”

“Roger, Saint. Cleared to engage. Get some.”

A diamond symbol on his HUD told him where to look for the target. It was about two thousand feet lower than he was, which put it below the horizon and hard to spot. They were approaching from the target’s front, a little to the right. There were three other aircraft close by, probably a flight of four like his own should be. “Hooter, take the right man, Boomer, the left. Clear to fire nine limas at max.”

Automatically Showtime flight spread out into line abreast. They would fire Sidewinder missiles at maximum range, almost ten miles. It isn’t the best angle, he thought. Better would be dead aft, but it’s in the envelope. “Twenty miles out.”

He spared a glance at his wingmen, then at the horizon. They were just visible in the dark, still in position. No other aircraft could be seen. Dawn was still five hours away.

Tony got a growl at fifteen miles. The seeker “saw” the target, even though the missile’s motor couldn’t carry it that far. He held it for a few seconds as they closed the gap. With the seeker’s signal still filling his earphones, he heard a BEEP-BEEP-BEEP

“Shit!” He pressed the shoot button on his stick, with the HUD readout at 12.2 miles. At the same time he called, “Showtimers break left!” and pushed the stick over hard. He tensed his muscles and took short breaths as the g’s increased.

There was a switch-plate on the left wall of the cockpit, next to the throttle, that released chaff, bits of metalized plastic that could confuse a radar-guided missile. Tony banged it with his fist twice. Suddenly there was a WOOSH and Tony looked back to see a line of flame about a hundred feet behind him. The BEEPing stopped.

He heard a SLAM and his heart turned to lead. Automatically he looked to the left, the engaged side. There was a bright ball of flame, right where Boomer ought to be.

“Saint, Boomer’s gone!”

Radar-guided missiles meant interceptors. Where were they? He looked at his scope. “Hooter, Bandits at two three zero are probably the fighters.”

“Rog. You have the lead.”

They closed at burner. It was too dark for a visual ID, but Tony had a good lock. There were three aircraft, all small. Range was seventeen miles with a closure rate of over a thousand knots.

They both automatically armed Sidewinders and fired a few seconds later. Tony went vertical, with Hooter following. His plan was to roll into the opponents after he saw the results of the missile attack. He looked back down for the aircraft maneuvering or missile explosions, but he saw nothing. He scanned the sky frantically and saw a flash of wings at his level!

It was too dark to see the type, but he saw two fins against a lighter sky. It was maneuvering with him, which meant a capable aircraft and a capable pilot. He maneuvered, trying to maintain energy and get in firing position. Meanwhile, they climbed.

The thing had two engines, and they were both on burner. Tony throttled back and saw him pull ahead. “He must have lost me,” Tony thought.

Hitting the cannon select, he started lining up for a shot. The pilot would realize his error any second.

“Saint, there’s one behind.”

“Rog.” The plane’s tail filled his HUD and he fired. There was no flash, but the aircraft suddenly spun wildly to the right. He started to follow it down —

“One’s behind, at your seven, break left!” Tony pushed left on the stick and leveled out, turning hard. Hooter was behind and to his right.

“Can you get a shot?”

“I’m going to guns. Turn harder, he’s lining up!”

Tony was already pulling seven plus g’s. The harder an aircraft turned, the more speed it bled off. He was going to start slowing down, which could make him an easy mark. He put the aircraft in a shallow dive to gain some speed back, cranking the stick even harder. His head was pushed back by forces nine times normal. “Get him, Hooter!”

“Rog.”

Even in the steep diving turn, Tony jinked and slid, trying to spoil the pilot’s aim. He looked over his shoulder and saw the bastard nimbly following his maneuvers. “Anytime, Hooter.”

“Rog.”

Tony continued to jink, watching his altitude decrease. The fight had started at about eight thousand. He was now at sixty-five hundred and had the choice of either diving into the SAM envelope at five thousand or pulling up and losing —

“Shooting.”BLAM! Tony looked back and saw a beautiful explosion. A black shape fell out of it, tumbling. He leveled out and called to John. “Hooter. Take the lead. Head back toward base, and climb to ten thousand.” Executing a gentle turn, he fell in on his wingman’s right. While Hooter did not “lead” their flight, he was capable of taking the lead position, and right now he had the only missile left. This seemed like a good time for him to be in front.

Tony started scanning the sky, looking for any more bandits. They were alone. He thumbed his frequency switch. “Pancake, Showtime, splash two high-performance MiGs. Vector, over.”

“Roger, Showtime steer zero five five, bandits exiting the strike area. Buster, over.”

“Showtime, roger, out.” Hooter’s tailpipe glowed brighter as they increased their throttle again. Tony glanced at his fuel gauge with a little concern. Pancake was pushing them all over the sky, and they did not have an infinite amount of gas.

Tony had been too busy to listen to the radio chatter. All of the squadron’s fighters were on the same frequency, and now he tried to piece together the battle around them.

“Owl, break right!”

“Watch for the Fishbed, he’s at your nine.” He recognized Sanchez’s voice, so he didn’t check his own left.

“Clear to fire.”

“Splash two!”

“Saint, I’m locked. Negative IFF zero six two at ten miles.”

Tony looked at his screen. The contact was northeast, and easy to sort out of the confetti on the screen. The contact was probably climbing up after making its attack. Yep, the altitude was increasing. They were at his five o’clock, almost dead aft.

Hooter’s voice came over the circuit. “Tone.”

There was a flash at the Falcon’s left wingtip as the motor fired. Tony forced himself to cover Hooter’s blind side, watching for threats to the pair while John earned his pay.

They were close enough to the target to see bits of the airframe fly off as the warhead detonated. It was a Fitter, an older attack jet. As it rolled left slowly, there was a flash as the ejection seat fired the pilot out of the crippled aircraft and into the dubious safety of captivity in South Korea.

Tony headed them toward base. They called in and were told to orbit. “Runway is fouled, ETR ten minutes.”

“Rog.” He was glad they had headed back. He looked at his fuel gauge. “Hooter, what’s your fuel?”

“Eight fifty.”

That was much better than his. “Tower, Showtime lead is critical fuel, five fifty pounds, over.

“Roger, Showtime flight is number two for landing. ETR five minutes.”

He wondered who was number one, and what fumes he was burning. All they could do was wait. Pacing was hard in a fighter cockpit, but Tony did his best. He reviewed the scramble, Boomer’s loss, his own narrow escape, Hooter’s marksmanship. The war was not off to a good start.

“Showtime cleared to land, steer one five two. Brake hard on landing, over.”

“Rog.” Tony and Hooter turned toward the base, being very careful to follow the tower’s instructions. They were flying through a narrow “safety lane” where antiaircraft crews were barred from firing. In theory, at least. Outside the lane it was open season.

Tony looked at his gauge. Two hundred pounds.

The runway lights appeared and they lined up for a straight-in approach. As they closed, Tony saw something blocking some of the lights. A dark blot resolved itself into a Falcon-shaped wreck, half-on and half-off the runway.

They immediately flared, hard and early. Tony thought it was one of the best landings he had ever made, actually starting on the underrun area. He chopped throttle, then leaned on the brakes. Hooter was on his right, and he looked over to see him running almost on the grass. Tony steered over, glad for the clearance.

The wreck resolved itself. It looked like the port gear had failed, the aircraft spinning as the wing hit the ground. The canopy was off, indicating that the pilot had ejected rather than stay with a potential fireball.

Suddenly Tony’s attitude shifted. Yesterday this was an accident investigation and a maintenance hassle. Now it was a valuable combat aircraft out of action for several days.

They taxied in quickly. There were piles of debris swept off to the side of the taxiway. Tony had never seen so much activity. Work lights were on in every arch. Another change was that everyone was wearing a sidearm.

Kawamoto was waiting. He pointed to Tony’s empty wing rails and clasped his hands over his head. Tony cut the engine and rolled to a stop. Suddenly he was weak, too tired to even take off his helmet.

The sergeant ran up with the ladder, then climbed up and knocked on the canopy. Tony looked over and pushed the release, feeling as if he were moving a safe.

“HOT SHIT, sir! Here, drink this.” He handed Tony a Styrofoam cup.

Tony gratefully took it and drank. Expecting coffee, he was slightly startled. Chicken soup.

John came running into the shelter waving a tape cassette. “Saint, that was wild! Three morts each! We paid those bastards back, the first installment anyway.”

Tony looked over at him. “What do you mean? You got two, I got one.”

“Negats, my leader. All our initial shots hit. I saw three flashes as we turned off. Your second shot on the fighters hit, too. I climbed after you did and saw it go in.”

Well. Gee. Tony considered. They lost Boomer, but had killed seven between them, assuming Hooter was right. Hooter had excellent eyesight. Chicken soup or victories, Tony’s strength started returning.

“Hooter, you’ve just demonstrated the true value of a wingman.” He climbed out of the cockpit and lowered himself down the ladder. Hooter was studying the seat of his flight suit.

“What are you looking at?”

“Just looking to see how full it is.”

“Funny, very funny. Well, you’re entitled, it wouldn’t be there if you hadn’t smoked that sucker.” They started walking toward the ops building.

“Saint, those were MiG-29 Fulcrums.”

“It’s possible. Russian, two tails, twin engines.”

“Screw that. I saw him, silhouetted. Nothing else but.”

“Fuck.”

“My sentiments exactly. How many do you think they have?”

“Three less, thanks to us.”

The ops building was busy, but well organized. Beamer took their tapes and told them to follow him. They went to a briefing room. It was dark and half-filled with pilots watching the videotape of a mission. Tony recognized Ninja, a lieutenant in the second flight. He was describing a double kill on two unsuspecting MiG-23s.

Beamer pointed them toward a table on the side. It was covered with sandwiches, soup, doughnuts, and coffee. They had time enough to load up and get a couple of bites before their turn came.

Tony talked his way through the tape, with Hooter filling in. They fast-forwarded through everything but the combats.

“Okay, here’s where I dropped back.” He slowed, then paused the tape. Filling the large-projection screen was a black, angular shape. Twin tails and two engines were easily visible.

Pistol was the squadron intelligence officer. “Look at the gap between the engines. That, gentlemen, is the ass end of a MiG-29 Fulcrum.”

Beamer looked at him. “George, your briefs haven’t included anything on this aircraft.”

“Sir, current intelligence says the North Koreans haven’t reached operational status with their Fulcrums.”

“Current intelligence is hosed.” He sighed. “All right. Dupe this tape and send it up the line. Prepare a brief on the Fulcrum and recommended counters and have it ready to pass out in an hour.” He looked at Tony.

“Saint, dawn’s in about three hours. We’re going to provide air support to the western sector of the line, north of Seoul. Takeoff is at oh six thirty. You’re leading four ships. The mission planning cell will give you the rest of the details.”

That was the first mission.