Red Phoenix

CHAPTER 27 Hard Target

Tony Christopher looked down at the white, dirty-gray, and brown landscape twenty thousand long, cold feet below his Falcon. They were crossing the “forward edge of the battle area” — the FEBA — in a relatively quiet sector and it showed. No explosions. No missile trails. Just a few burnt-out tanks and trucks littering the ground. The grunts were well hidden on both sides, either for warmth or for safety.

He glanced up into a layer of hard-edged white cloud just over his fighter’s canopy. The Falcon’s air superiority gray camouflage paint blended nicely with the deceptively solid-looking ceiling overhead. The air was smooth, and the F-16 slid through it like a tiger stalking silently through tall grass.

Tony’s eyes flicked over his HUD indicators briefly and then resumed their routine scan of the airspace around and below his plane, looking for the telltale shimmer of movement that might reveal a hostile. They were flying this mission on the Mark I Eyeball detector — for the moment, at least. He and the other Falcon pilots in this formation all had their radars off to avoid alerting the NKs to their approach. Tony hoped that the F-15 Eagles flying top cover and Stingray, the E-3 AWACS plane orbiting well to the south, were keeping a sharp lookout on the high side of the clouds.

Tony flew onward, trusting to his instincts and experience to warn him if something went wrong. One part of his conscious mind disengaged itself from the purely mechanical task of flying the airplane and started reviewing the mission coming up. Any way you cut it, this one was going to be a bitch.

“MISSION SUMMARY: Provide flak suppression and close air cover for South Korean F-4s assigned to destroy divisional artillery 2 kilometers west KUWHA.” It had looked easy enough on paper earlier this morning. Easy that is until you stopped to think about what those words really meant.

Tony knew all too well. It meant coordinating the movements of nearly fifty aircraft from different units. Reconnaissance planes to take prestrike photos. Tony’s F-16s for defense suppression. South Korean F-4D fighter bombers to make the actual attack on the primary targets themselves. American F-15 Eagles for high cover. An irreplaceable E-3 AWACS for control and long-range radar warning. And finally, more recon aircraft to photograph the results of the strike. Their photos would show if they had to go back in and do it again.

It all formed an intricate dance, and Tony knew his place in it. He’d practiced often enough in peacetime, and it had worked well enough in the war, so far.

This target, though, was an especially difficult one. “Divisional artillery” for the North Koreans meant 152mm howitzers buried in concrete emplacements, called HARTs, for hardened artillery sites. The guns were always guarded by multiple batteries of automatic weapons and sometimes even SAMs. And as soon as enemy radar picked them up, there’d be fighters added to the other defenses. All in all, not a fun time.

He didn’t envy the South Korean F-4 Phantom crews their task either. The recon photos the squadron’s intelligence officer, George Michaels, call sign “Pistol,” had laid out at the predawn mission briefing had shown what they were up against.

There were three batteries of 152mm guns, each with four pieces. Each gun sat secure in its own concrete emplacement, protected by a roof nearly two meters thick and by armored blast doors to the front. The gun areas were further protected by thick earthen dikes. Each HART also had tunnels connecting it to its neighbors and to well-stocked, underground magazines. Cratering those minifortresses was going to take split-second precision — precision the South Korean pilots might find hard to produce with tracers reaching out for them and SAMs flying all around.

Tony shook his head slowly. That made the squadron’s defense suppression role vital to the overall success of the mission. He glanced back at the other planes pacing his Falcon. Each had six Rockeye cluster bombs hanging under its wings. Rockeyes were designed to scatter explosive bomblets that could damage antiaircraft guns and SAM vehicles, kill their crews, and knock out fire control radars. While the eight F-16s assigned to the mission couldn’t hope to destroy all the sites defending the HARTS, they could suppress and disrupt enough of them to give the F-4s the “quiet” time they needed.

And in all likelihood the F-16s would be called on to do even more than that. Besides their air-to-ground ordnance, all of his planes carried a center-line drop tank and two Sidewinders on their wingtips. They’d loiter over the battle area after their attack runs and intercept any NK fighters that tried to break up the Phantoms’ HART tap dance. Stingray, the AWACS plane aloft, could warn them of approaching enemy aircraft and give them a steer.

There was someone else in on this little party, too. A converted cargo plane, call sign Rivet. Tony didn’t know much about its capabilities, but the grapevine said it was covered with antennas and most of its crew spoke Korean. He and his pilots had been instructed to treat any Rivet calls as gospel.

Tony glanced down at his INS display. It was vital that they arrive at the right location and right altitude within thirty seconds of the planned time. Timing was everything in this kind of mission. It wouldn’t do at all to screw up during his first flight with a new rank.

A new rank. Tony still couldn’t believe it. The squadron CO, Lieutenant Colonel “Shadow” Robbins, had called him over into the planning area that morning, before the brief. He’d assumed that Shadow wanted to see him about something connected to the morning’s mission. He’d been wrong.

Robbins had stood as Tony walked over to his desk, looking him over. “How are you feeling, Saint?”

Tony remembered stifling a yawn. Six hours sleep wasn’t enough to regenerate the nervous energy expended in flying and fighting at high speed, not with lives depending on each and every decision. But he’d answered the CO’s question the only way he could. After all, everybody was short on crew rest. “Fine, sir. What can I do for you?”

Shadow’s next words had brought him fully awake. “Quite a bit. First thing is, stand at attention!”

He’d braced, wondering just what the hell was up and noticing that all activity had stopped in the Mission Planning Cell. He’d also glanced out the corner of his eye and seen people filling the doorway.

The answer to his unspoken question had come seconds later when Robbins picked up a telex and started reading. “In accordance with the secretary of the Air Force instruction dated twenty-Seven April 1986, combat personnel serving in billets may be promoted to ranks required for proper execution of those duties. Therefore, by order of General G. F. Taylor, Commander Eighth Air Force, you are promoted to the rank of major, with all the privileges and responsibilities of the rank. And I’m making you ops officer effective immediately.”

Major Christopher. Tony mouthed the words beneath his oxygen mask, after first making sure that his radio wasn’t transmitting. They had a nice ring to them, but he hadn’t really wanted the promotion — at least not the way he’d gotten it. Stepping into Kenneth Beam’s dead shoes seemed like kind of an unlucky thing to do. And the burst of applause from the other members of the squadron clustered at the briefing room door had made him even more uneasy. Still, he knew that the squadron needed an excuse to celebrate, to feel happy. It was one way to help forget all the empty chairs in the pilots’ mess.

And Hooter — well, Hooter was just Hooter, Tony thought, grinning to himself. Trust his wingman to bring him down to earth. The tousle-haired little runt had been waiting for him in the ready room, kneeling, and as Tony had come close, he’d bent at the waist and touched his head to the floor with his palms on either side.

Tony hadn’t had any choice but to laugh. “Hooter, you’ve been over here too long.”

“Just showing proper respect for the exalted status of my flight leader.” He’d stood up, dusting off his knees and reaching out to shake Tony’s hand. “Congratulations, Saint.”

“Yeah. Well, I’ll believe it when I see the first paycheck.”

“What? You mean they pay us for this?”

“Very funny. Suit up.”

He glanced sideways. Hooter’s Falcon hung there, perfectly positioned. Then he looked down at the INS again. Six minutes out. Time to start concentrating.

Tony reached down into the cockpit and turned his secondary radio to the mission frequency. The primary would stay on the package frequency throughout the mission, but he wanted to be sure that he could hear Bookmark, the F-4 Phantom strike leader flying with the main group of aircraft.

Five minutes out. Tony waggled his wings and reduced power. Pointing his Falcon’s nose down, he found the crossroads that marked the start of his run in to the target area. He glanced sideways and behind him. Good. The four F-16s of Garnet flight led by Captain Gunther, call sign “Dish,” were breaking off, swinging wide to come in on the target from a different compass point. His own Diamond flight would come straight in from the south.

Tony followed them with his eyes for a second while the altimeter unwound and then looked back behind him. Right on schedule, the second pair in his flight had split off and were settling in two miles astern. Viceroy and his new wingman, Saber, would cover the two lead Falcons while they made their run, and then Tony and Hooter would return the favor. Each aircraft would make only one pass, unloading six cluster bombs on the target and then getting out. Making a second pass on a now-alerted enemy was a good way to get splashed.

They were at their attack height. Cruising at one hundred feet down an undulating, rock-walled valley. Tony checked the time. They were early, by one minute. Tony flashed his formation lights and turned left, starting a lazy, time-consuming circle. He looked behind to make sure that everyone had gotten the word. Dropping even lower, he watched the navigation system’s prompts and the planned approach route. As the INS time reached zero, Tony hit the throttle for full military power. The others followed him.

Even fully loaded the Falcons accelerated from three hundred to six hundred knots in seconds. As they reached full speed, the valley ended, opening up into a rolling, tree-covered plain.

The HARTs were dead ahead with flak guns on top of the bunkers and nearby hillsides. And as soon as the screening valley walls fell away, Tony’s radar warning receiver lit up. The sky was filled with tracers and puffs of black smoke. The flak had been firing at the reconnaissance aircraft. Tony could see two plane-shaped black specks pulling away quickly, then he turned and gave his full attention to the formation’s target.

The recon photos of the area had shown its being guarded by twin 23mm cannon, single-barreled 37mms, and one battery of 57mm cannon. This last group was Diamond flight’s target. He turned onto final bearing, with the battery firing a few miles ahead.

Tony felt an urge to drop down, but he fought it. The Rockeyes had a minimum safe release height. If he flew any lower, he might collect a few fragments himself. He glanced right and saw that Hooter had moved from behind and beside him to a position just abreast and about a hundred feet away.

The F-16 bucked and he was suddenly glad he wasn’t flying any lower. The air was rough this close to the ground. Keeping one eye on the altimeter, he checked the release settings on his Rockeye weapons. The computer would drop them in sequence, timed so that they formed a line over the target and the bomblets sprayed uniformly over the entire area.

The North Korean 57mm guns were laid out in a circle, with a still-turning dish radar in the middle. Tony lined up on the near side of the circle, just to the left of center. He focused his attention on the closest flak gun, lining it up in the center reticle of his HUD. The bomb “pipper” was a small circle now at the bottom of his windscreen, creeping slowly upward. Tony moved his thumb to the weapons release. This wasn’t going to be a lob-toss attack. Just a straight, old-fashioned, and effective bomb drop.

Two miles out, then one mile. At six hundred knots the ground was a blur. Everything was lining up, except that the turbulence kept wanting to throw him off. A black puff appeared off to port. The battery had noticed the incoming attack, but it was too late. As the bomb “pipper” crossed the gun barrel, he pressed the bomb release on his stick. There were six small shudders as the weapons left the racks. He spared a glance to his right and saw the fifth and sixth Rockeyes tumbling down from Hooter’s plane.

As the two planes sped off, the casings opened and small one-pound bomblets sprayed out. Each weapon could cover an area a hundred and fifty feet wide and three hundred feet long. With the preset release pattern, and the route flown by the two planes, the areas overlapped. Each casing had two hundred and fifty bomblets in it.

Looking over his shoulder, Tony saw the ground being kicked up by thousands of small explosions. Like lethal firecrackers, the bombs would explode on impact, damaging or destroying equipment and killing anyone they hit. In addition, the bomblets sent out fragments that could slice through armor plate, much less guns or nearby personnel. Smoke covered his target. Yeah, that was one flak battery that wouldn’t give the Phantoms any grief.

Tony pulled away from the target. He had an urge to climb, to claw up into the air and away from the dangerous ground just beneath him. He fought it because the first aircraft to show itself at altitude would attract the attention of every gun in the area. The idea was to hit them from different directions, and to split the defenses by staying so low they couldn’t all see you.

He banked right and throttled back a little, with Hooter dropping back and falling into trail. That way Tony could maneuver suddenly without having to check on his wingman’s location. He looked for Viceroy and Saber and saw them starting their run.

They were going for a group of ZU-23s, large-bore, twin-barreled machine guns. ZU-23s didn’t have radar, and there were so many of them that they were normally not worth the ordnance expended to kill them. These, though, were right on the exit route for the main strike group.

The two jets flashed over the ground, and Tony saw cluster bombs fall from their wings just before the area erupted in dust and smoke. As the F-16s turned away, a smoke trail came from off to Tony’s right and streaked toward Saber’s aircraft.

“Saber, SAM, break right!” Tony called, and increased his own right bank. He fought against the sudden extra weight on his chest, looking for the source of missiles. There it was. A wheeled vehicle with a boxy shape on top — that had to be the launcher. He hit a button on his stick and saw CANNON appear on the Falcon’s HUD.

“Hooter, I’m going for the launcher.”

“Rog.”

Christ, a mobile SAM launcher. It hadn’t been there in the prestrike photos. There might be others. Hooter would follow him in and make sure that there weren’t any other surprises waiting for them.

Tony locked his radar on the vehicle and a small square immediately appeared on his HUD, centered on the launcher. A circle also appeared, showing where the computer thought his bullets would hit. He came left a little and pulled up slightly.

As he closed, the aspect of the launcher on top of the vehicle changed, and he realized it was pointing at him.

The aiming circle moved over the box and he fired, just as a puff of smoke appeared in the launcher box, followed by a streak of flame, heading straight toward him. The F-16 shuddered as its cannon fired, and Tony saw the launcher obscured by dust and smoke. He rolled violently, popping a string of flares, extremely conscious of the ground just below him.

He looked back and Hooter was gone.

There he was. Off to the right and back, Hooter had seen another launcher. He was firing, a plume of white smoke streaming back from the nose of the plane. Hooter’s bullets didn’t kick up smoke and dust. Instead, the vehicle fireballed. Tony pulled in behind his wingman and told him to take the lead.

“All units, this is Bookmark. Rebound, out.”

That was it. The main group was going in to make its run on the HARTs. Tony called, “Diamonds, join on me.”

They would take station on the edge of the area and fend off any fighters until the strike group got away. He switched his radio to the Phantoms’ frequency, so that he could monitor the progress of the raid. The instant the Phantoms cleared, his Falcons would be out.

“All units, this is Stingray. Multiple bogies bearing three zero zero Bull’s-Eye twenty miles, level fifty, out.”

Goddamnit. The AWACS had spotted incoming NK aircraft. It looked like Diamond flight wouldn’t get time to form up. “Bull’s-Eye” was a map reference that allowed them to radio locations in the clear without revealing their own position. “Multiple” meant more than four, and “level fifty” meant five thousand feet. Twenty miles meant they had to move fast.

Tony gave a new order. “Diamonds, engage by pairs, out.” He snapped on his radar and selected a missile. The first job was to “sort” the enemy fighters — find them, figure out how many there were, and what they were up to.

As Tony and Hooter swung their F-16s around to the right bearing, their radar scopes lit up with contacts. Tony did a fast count and then made a radio call. “Bookmark, Diamond Lead. Twelve inbound, I’ll keep them off you.”

“This is Bookmark. Roger out.” The South Korean sounded unperturbed. Tough guy.

Tony’s HUD had selected a target rapidly coming into range. He slid out from directly behind Hooter but stayed back so he could cover his “leader’s” rear.

As they closed, he listened to the incoming Phantom strike. The South Korean pilots all spoke English and used it on frequency. There were sixteen F-4s, attacking the gun sites in pairs.

“Bookmark, this is Dragon Lead. Targets at ten o’clock.”

“Roger. Watch the Triple-A to the right.”

Tony checked his panel. Their radar warning receivers hadn’t lit up so they were probably up against IR homing missiles. That was fine with him. An infrared missile locked onto its target’s heat and closed in and exploded. But the Russian-built missiles the NKs used had to lock onto the hot tailpipe of a jet before they could home in. The A1M-9L Sidewinders his Falcon carried were more sensitive and could attack from any angle, including the front. Advantage to Tony, he thought.

The SHOOT prompt came on and he fired, seeing a missile flare off Hooter’s rail as well. The enemy fighters were close enough to see now, round bodies and thin wings — MiG-21 Fishbeds. His target had seen the inbound missile and started a hard turn to the left, trying desperately to evade it. At first the Sidewinder looked as if it wasn’t going to follow, but then it veered sharply, passed over the enemy plane, and exploded. The MiG-21 broke in half and the pieces spun away.

Hooter’s shot had hit as well. His target appeared intact, but Tony saw it fall away with an empty cockpit. The pilot had ejected.

Tony concentrated on following Hooter. The Falcons and MiGs were really mixing it up now, forming a “furball” of maneuvering aircraft five miles across and ten thousand feet high. The air was filled with white missile smoke trails, gray-black explosions, and a few parachutes.

The Phantom strike was still in progress. But he couldn’t tell how well it was going. He heard things like “Three and four going in” and “Break left!” but that didn’t tell him if the bombs were hitting the target. One thing, though. There were other mobile SAM launchers in the area. The pair he and Hooter had hit had jumped the gun. Most had waited for the Phantoms to show up before firing.

Tony felt frustrated. He was supposed to be package commander, managing the overall situation, not just playing aerial cowboy with a bunch of MiGs. He decided to let Hooter look for targets. He called on the package frequency, “Any Garnets unengaged?”

The answer came back quickly. “Garnet One and Two are clear.” He recognized Dish’s voice.

“Roger, Dish, backstop the Phantoms. Engage any leakers.”

Two clicks of the microphone switch answered him. Tony felt a little better. Eight Falcons could keep a squadron of MiGs busy, but some would slip through. Dish and Ivan would stay between the furball and the strike group.

Tony followed Hooter as he extended, pulling away from the mass of whirling aircraft. “Saint, I’m going hard right and try to lock up with a nine lima.”

Tony clicked his mike switch twice and slid from behind and right into trail. If Hooter was going to do hard maneuvering, Tony wanted to be out of the way. They came around and went into a gentle climb. Hooter’s voice came over the circuit. “I’ve got one up high. Fox Two.”

The missile left Hooter’s wingtip as he spoke, guiding on a glint several thousand feet up, about a mile away. Tony saw the Sidewinder’s smoke trail as it merged with the glint and exploded. The contact disappeared from his scope.

“All units, Rivet. Floggers enroute your area. Out.”

Wonderful, Tony thought. He looked over at the dogfighting aircraft, now breaking up. He’d been following the radio chatter subconsciously, and they must have killed six or seven bandits, with at least one F-16 hit and unaccounted for. That was bad enough, but they’d also used up most of their missiles, and the MiG-23 Flogger carried long-range, radar-guided missiles. This was not the time to tangle with them. “Stingray, this is Diamond Lead. We are fully engaged, request Topaz engage new inbounds, over.” Topaz was the high-altitude F-15 Eagle flight.

Stingray’s voice was unsympathetic. “Topaz is busy, too. You’re on your own, Diamond.” Terrific.

He followed Hooter through a barrel roll. He was doing his best to stay behind his wingman, watch his back, and monitor the package frequency. The sky was still full of airplanes, and half of Hooter’s violent maneuvering could be considered collision avoidance.

Tony heard a particularly urgent call. “Viceroy, break left!” He snapped his head around and saw a missile in flight, a red streak that suddenly joined with an F-16. The Falcon fireballed, and bits of airplane flew out of the red-and-black cloud. There wasn’t any chute. Oh, God. A picture of Viceroy’s wife flashed into Tony’s brain as he pulled hard left away from the smoke cloud. Concentrate. Concentrate.

“Diamond Lead, is your IFF on? Over.” It sounded like Stingray’s voice. Tony knew his IFF was turned off. The “Identification Friend or Foe” was a device that sent out coded radar pulses that showed up on a radar controller’s screen. It was standard procedure to turn it on near a friendly base, but an IFF was always turned off in Indian country, to avoid sending out radar pulses that would reveal location and identity to an enemy.

The controller repeated his message. “Diamond Lead, this is Stingray. Ensure your package has IFF on. Authentication echo sierra. Over.”

“Diamond Lead, roger out.” Tony shook his head and flipped a switch on his panel. “All Diamonds and Garnets, this is Diamond Lead. Turn on your IFF. Out.”

He clicked the microphone switch again. “Diamonds, join on me, we’re heading north.” They successfully disengaged from the dogfight, and Hooter waggled his wings and slid off to the right. Tony pulled up to take the lead position. He checked his left and saw Saber sliding into the number three slot. Tony and Saber each had one missile left. Their only hope was to stay low and hide until they could mix it up with the incoming Floggers.

The MiG-23 was a totally different beast from its older brother, the MiG-21. It wasn’t very maneuverable, but it had a decent radar, and its radar-guided missiles gave it a distinct edge at long range. It was fast, too, especially on the deck.

Tony decided to check on the other half of his group. “Garnet Lead, what’s your status?”

“Engaged with a few bandits, one wounded bird. Fuel state near bingo. Over.”

Yeah. Tony knew his own group was near the edge, too. Think positive. “Roger, Garnet. Position your group to the north. Catch what we miss. Out.”

Tony set his radar for maximum range scan, and sure enough, there they were. He counted ten bandits, thirty miles out and high up, maybe ten thousand feet. His radar warning receiver was lit up, too, with a solid wedge white from the radar strobes of the oncoming fighters.

One more thing to do before the clash. “Stingray, this is Diamond Lead. Request tanker support, over.” And probably towing services, too, Tony added mentally.

“Stingray, roger out.”

The range was down to twenty miles, and Tony lost more altitude. They were getting close enough for the Floggers’ radar to pick them up, but he hoped that by staying low, in the ground clutter, they…

A white trail appeared out ahead of his planes, suddenly snapping down out of the cloud cover overhead. It was a long way off, near where the enemy fighters should be. There was a second, and then smoke trails started to appear too quickly to be counted. What the hell? He looked at his scope. There were only four MiG-23s left now. Those had to be missile trails, but from what? Nothing else showed on his radar scope. The trails seemed to come from the east.

The Floggers were turning left, heading toward the unknown source of the missiles. Tony knew they hadn’t seen his flight, and he called, “Diamonds, full throttle!”

He went to full military power himself. Screw the fuel. He selected a target and called on the mission frequency. “Stingray, incoming bandit count is now four.Diamonds engaging.”

“Roger, Diamonds, Navy Thunder flight, F-16s engaging. Check missile fire, over.”

A strange voice acknowledged the call. The Navy? Our Navy? Jesus, those must be Tomcats from a carrier off the coast. With their Phoenix missiles, they could hit a fighter eighty miles away. No wonder he hadn’t seen the launching aircraft.

Their fortuitous appearance was allowing Tony to execute a beautiful bushwhack. He was sure every one of those NK pilots was heads-down in the cockpit, trying to find the shooters on his radar screen.

“Saber, take the left-hand bird, I’ve got the outside right.” Tony didn’t wait for acknowledgment but fired. The Sidewinder headed straight for a MiG-23’s hot tailpipe and blew the back end of the aircraft off. The rest spun down out of control. He didn’t see a chute. Chalk one up for Viceroy.

Saber’s missile had also guided, and there were only two contacts left. They were splitting up, diving for the deck, afterburners lit up. They were heading north. Tony watched them go, bright flame flaring aft. The Diamonds’ fuel state wasn’t up to a high-speed chase.

Besides, the Phantoms had done their work. The last F-4s were just making their attacks. He ordered the Diamonds to disengage, and with the Garnets, they trailed the Phantoms out of the area. They didn’t have enough fuel to cover the poststrike reconnaissance aircraft. The spyboys would just have to take their chances.

The egress route was west of the target, but close enough for Tony to see a cloud of gray dust and black smoke hanging over the area. There was another blotch, off to his right, on a hillside. As he got closer, he could see the remains of a Phantom that had slammed into the ground. He couldn’t see if the canopy was in place.

As his flight passed the wreck, Bookmark called. “Diamond Lead, we have two wounded birds. Request close escort, over.” It looked as if they weren’t finished.

The F-16s tanked on the south side of the DMZ, and Tony counted noses. Owl was missing, his wingman losing sight of him during the big dogfight with the Fishbeds. Dish’s own wingman, Ivan, had taken a piece of flak in his left wing. He was still airworthy but had to reduce speed or the vibration would shake him apart. Viceroy was gone, too.

Two for fifteen or so. He guessed that was an acceptable loss ratio. It didn’t feel like it though. In silence the F-16s joined on the limping Phantoms and turned for home.

The ops office was quiet now. The day’s last missions had been flown. Fourteen hours of grueling planning, preparation, and flying — all mixed in with desperate minutes of high-g combat. By rights, Tony should be asleep, worn down by responsibility and exertion. But he couldn’t sleep.

He was too worried about Anne. He’d been able to push her face out of his thoughts in the air, but his fears for her had come back as soon as he was on the ground. She was still in Seoul, and the North Koreans were pushing hard to take the city. Combined Forces HQ said they were still about two days away, but NK heavy guns had been shelling Seoul from Day One. The worst of it was, he couldn’t do anything to help her.

The phone rang again. Come on, Anne or somebody, answer. This was the first clear line he’d been able to get in three days of trying.

Ring. Answer it. Please, God.

“Logistics Center.” It sounded like her. It had to be her.

“Anne?” He heard the quaver in his voice and tried to still it.

“Tony! Oh, Tony.” He heard her take a deep breath. “Are you all right?”

His heart jumped slightly. She was worried about him. About him. “Yeah. Oh, yeah. Look, Anne, I’m fine. No problem.” He hurried on. “But what about you? I mean, they’re hitting the city pretty hard.”

She sounded calmer. “They aren’t shelling near us, Tony. They’ve been hitting the defenses and military bases. We’re pretty safe.”

“Only ‘pretty safe’? Jesus, Anne, the gomers are moving on Seoul.”

There was a pause. Then she said, “I know. But don’t worry, Tony. They’re going to fly us out, move the entire operation to Japan. They’ve already started moving records and such. We’ll go anytime now. One bag apiece, just the essentials. You know the drill.”

His pulse started slowing. Evacuation. Thank God somebody in the high command had some brains. “Are you taking the scarf I gave you?”

He could almost see her smile. “Yes. Look, Tony, I’m going to be fine. I’m more worried about you. Really, how are you doing?”

“I’m flying, Anne, that’s all I can tell you. I’m doing okay.”

He heard voices in the background. Then she said, “Tony, I’ve got to go now. Work to do. I’ll let you know where I am when I get to Japan.”

“Okay…” He searched for the right words but didn’t trust himself to say them.

“I’ll miss you, Tony. I’ll call as soon as I can.”

There was a click, then silence, and he put the phone down reluctantly.