Red Phoenix

CHAPTER 41 Thunderbolt

The port of Petropavlovsk sat on the eastern coast of the Kamchatka Peninsula. Over thirty-six hundred miles from Moscow, it was so remote that all communication with the area was by air or sea. The region was unpopulated and barren and was located in the same arctic latitude as the Aleutian Islands. On the Siberian coast, good harbors were hard to find.

Petropavlovsk was also the Soviet Pacific Fleet’s main submarine base. Almost all of its ballistic missile submarines, many of its nuclear attack submarines, their support vessels, and numerous other naval units were based there.

One of the few Soviet ports that opened directly onto a major ocean, it allowed ships to sortie without having to go through a landlocked passage or hostile strait. And that gave the Soviets a good reason for putting up with the remote location, high cost, and terrible weather.

Captain Donald Manriquez tried to remember how important the base was as he fought the weather to maneuver his Sturgeon-class nuclear submarine, USS Drum, into a new surveillance position. His orders were explicit and simple. He and Drum were to monitor traffic in and out of this major Soviet naval base. If it exceeded normal levels, he was to notify Commander Submarines Pacific, COMSUBPAC, immediately.

So far, they had been loitering off Petropavlovsk for almost a week, and they’d met with a fair amount of success. In this case, success was a combination of not being seen, being in the right spot to count passing traffic, and hopefully, not seeing the massive surge of Soviet ships and subs that might signal World War Three.

“In position, Captain.” His executive officer, “Boomer” Adams, was navigating while they looked for a spot where the currents would not be quite so unpredictable.

“Very well, slow to three knots.” By maintaining just enough speed to control its course, the Drum minimized its noise signature, and that reduced the chance of its being detected.

The storm overhead was both a help and a hindrance. Its ten-foot waves and twenty-knot winds generated noise — noise that would interfere with any Soviet passive sonars listening for the submarine. Looking for the Drum that way would be sort of like trying to hear a cat burglar in a boiler factory.

The problem was that Drum’s own passive sonars were also degraded. Luckily most of the Russian stuff was noisier than they were. Even so, the bad acoustical conditions meant that Manriquez and his crew had to get in close to hear anything. They were outside the twelve-mile limit, but just barely.

Manriquez could feel the sweat building on his forehead as they crept close to the Soviet coastline.

It was clear from the most recent condensed news broadcasts sent by the Pacific Fleet that things weren’t going well in Korea. And that was bad news for Drum. Her “gatekeeper” role was clear, and he was sure that sooner or later the U.S. and Russia were going to go at it hammer and tongs. Well, when they did, he would sound the warning, then get first crack at the units pouring out. The American sub captain was a realist. If a general war broke out, his chances of survival weren’t too good, but at least he’d do some damage.

Commander in Chief Anatoli Sergiev heard the alert bell ring and looked at the clock. Just after fourteen hundred hours. No test was scheduled.

The intercom in his office came to life. “Comrade Commander, this is Major Grozny in communications. The submarine Konstantin Dribinov reports that it has been attacked by the American Navy in the Yellow Sea. They are abandoning ship.”

“Have the heads of all departments meet me in the command center!” Sergiev was already grabbing his hat and on his way out the door.

The situation map held no obvious surprises. Dribinov’s last reported position was well west of any American units. What were the imperialists up to?

His staff came running in from behind him and from other entrances. Sergiev spotted Admiral Yakubovich, his naval liaison, and motioned him over as Grozny ran up with several copies of the message. After the boyish-looking major handed one to General Sergiev, the rest were snatched from his hands.

Sergiev read the entire message, but it contained nothing more than the hasty summary Grozny had already given him over the phone. Specifically, there was no information on why Dribinov had been attacked. The most logical explanation was a case of mistaken identity, that the Americans had thought it was a North Korean boat. But Dribinov, like all over Soviet naval forces in the Pacific, had been ordered to keep well clear of the Americans. And that meant the U.S. Navy had gone to a lot of effort to deliberately hunt it down. Just what the hell was going on?

“Does anybody have any suggestions on possible motives for this attack?” He looked at his staff, but the muttered negatives showed their puzzlement matched his own.

Sergiev frowned. “I see. Well, then, I want answers and I want them fast. Contact Military Intelligence, the North Koreans, anybody who might shed some light on this. We need more information before we can act.

“Grozny.” He looked over at the short officer. “Have there been any other transmissions from Dribinov?”

“No, sir, and they haven’t answered…”

The alert bell rang again. The speaker in the command center announced, “The Il-76 radar plane over the Yellow Sea has reported that aircraft are closing on it at high speed.”

There was a pause. “We have lost communication with the aircraft and its escorts.”

“That’s it! The Americans have lost their fucking minds! They’re deliberately attacking us,” Sergiev declared. He looked at General Yasov, his operations officer. “General, order all Far East forces to full alert, then notify Moscow. Order the ballistic missile submarines to sea, and I want all air defense forces on a wartime footing.”

Yasov looked uncertain. “Comrade Commander, can we take such strong action? Shouldn’t we get more information before we react?”

Sergiev opened his mouth to shout at him, but he wanted to keep the atmosphere calm. He took a deep breath and looked at Yasov. “Nikolai, we cannot afford to wait. One attack might be a mistake. Two cannot, and this may only be the beginning. All the measures we are taking are defensive in nature. And I will always choose to err on the side of caution.”

Raising his voice slightly, he said, “Now let’s get busy. We have much to do, and we may be at war in minutes.”

“Captain, sonar reports active pinging, bearing two nine zero.”

Manriquez looked at the chart, but he already knew that bearing was toward the harbor mouth. The tracking party started a plot, ready to add this new contact to the list of others they had recorded.

There was an open line from the control room to the sonar room. Lieutenant Ed Baum headed up the tracking party. “Sonar, do you have a classification yet?”

A tinny voice answered him, “Contact is a surface ship, probably a newer unit. Pinging is low frequency, now bears two nine three.”

In such lousy acoustic conditions, their chance of hearing the actual vessel was slim. Instead, they would have to use clues such as the type of sonar pinging to help narrow down the possibilities. The bearing had also changed slightly. By measuring the rate of change, the tracking party could make educated guesses about the contact’s course, speed, and position. Of course, they needed a lot more than just two bearings.

Another minute or two passed. “Contact’s bearing now two nine five. New contact, designate first contact Alfa, second as Bravo. Second contact also pinging, probably a surface ship. Bearing is two eight seven.”

Manriquez sat up a little straighter. So far on their patrol, they hadn’t seen a pair of destroyers coming out in team like this. Maybe a large ship was going to sortie? The tracking party got a little busier, labeling and plotting two possible tracks instead of one.

“Contact Alfa now bears two nine six, Bravo two eight eight…” There was a pause and then, in a rush, “New contacts Charlie and Delta bearing two nine one and two nine two. New contact Echo, bearing two eight five.… Captain to Sonar, please.”

When Manriquez came into the small space, the chief sonarman was looking over the operator’s shoulder. The captain took one look and whistled softly in surprise. Normally an active sonar appeared on a scope as a line radiating from the center to the edge, brightening and then fading as each ping was received. But Drum’s scope didn’t show that kind of normality at all. Instead, a wedge ten degrees across was filled with pulsating brightness, and the audio signal sounded like a chorus of monstrous bullfrogs.

Sonar Chief Kelsey straightened and turned to face Manriquez. “Skipper, I count at least ten pingers out there, with more appearing all the time. We’re receiving low- and medium-frequency signals, and it’s impossible in that mess out there to tell what classes or even if they’re only surface ships.”

The captain didn’t wait. Turning to the “squawk box” on the bulkhead, he called the control room. “Control, this is the captain. Sound general quarters. I’ll stay here.”

The klaxon filled the cramped spaces with sound, and Manriquez squeezed into a corner as the rest of the sonar gang arrived and made the compartment even smaller. There was a quiet bustle, punctuated with exclamations, as the new arrivals saw the sonar display and were briefed on their current situation.

Manriquez looked at the chief. “Concentrate on the low-frequency pingers. They’re the biggest threats.”

He looked at the scope, trying to pull information out of the lines and patterns. Big exercise? Nothing had been announced. Some sort of snap drill, then? He desperately wanted to find some other explanation than a general Red Fleet deployment.

There were other, more immediate questions as well. Just how many subs were hiding in that mess?

Adams’s voice came over the squawk box. “Captain, all stations manned and ready, quiet routine in effect throughout the boat. Four Mark 48 torpedoes loaded and ready.”

“Very well. Boomer, ensure we are clear of that mob, but I want to stay here as long as possible. We’ve got to see if they’re sending the ballistic missile subs out.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Adams would try to conn the boat away from the group of Soviet ships emerging from Petropavlovsk, but their movements were unpredictable. The simplest thing would have been to work their way to sea and report, but the report would be incomplete. Manriquez needed to see exactly how many units were leaving port.

The sonar operator looked over his shoulder at the captain. “Sir, I’ve found heavy screw beats, bearing three zero one.”

Chief Kelsey looked at the display. “Right in the middle of that mess. If we can hear them at this range, those must be serious screws.” He glanced quickly at the captain. “Kiev-class, Skipper?”

“Probably. Let’s just sit tight and watch the show.”

Over the next hour, they watched the gaggle of Soviet surface ships pass, creeping at slow speed and zigging often to confuse anyone trying to track them.

Once the formation was well on its way to sea, Manriquez walked back to control. Speaking softly, almost whispering, he ordered, “Move us in closer, Boomer. We won’t hear any submarines out here.”

They started easing their way in. They had to do it quickly, before any subs hiding behind the surface task force slipped past, but movement created noise. And Manriquez was sure that if they made too much noise, the Red Navy’s entire Pacific Fleet would come crashing in around their ears.

They closed on what appeared to be empty water, but the chart showed the channel that submerged submarines would have to use to sortie.

The speaker was secured during silent routine. Instead a talker with a mike and earphones spoke softly. “Sir, sonar reports a passive sonar contact off the port bow. Machinery noises, screw beats, classified as a Delta II ballistic missile submarine.”

An odd feeling of mixed triumph and anxiety filled Manriquez. He had his answer. The Soviets were sending out their boomers. It wasn’t the answer he wanted. “Right. Let’s get out of here.”

They turned slowly, easing their way out. “Captain, Sonar reports more active sonars. They think it’s a line of sonobuoys, bearing southeast. Not too close, though.”

Manriquez looked at the plot. The buoy line wasn’t close to their intended track so it wasn’t a threat to them, but it meant that there were ASW aircraft up screening the Russian subs as they sortied.

“Sonar reports two more buoy lines, to the north and northeast. Neither is close.”

Manriquez still wasn’t too worried. The Soviets didn’t seem to be actively looking for them and they had plenty of sea room. Adams was already steering Drum toward one of the gaps in the sonobuoy lines. The question was, were there more fields coming? And what else was out here? In this acoustic murk, active sonar was a good way to see things, but Drum couldn’t use hers. Not without announcing her unwanted presence to the world at large.

Suddenly, the talker announced, “Sonar reports active pinging close aboard to port!” His tone was the closest thing to a shout quiet routine would allow.

Adams started to turn the sub away from the source, while also changing depth.

Manriquez listened to the exec’s hastily snapped orders with one ear and leaned over the plot. “Is it another buoy field?”

The talker spoke into his microphone, then listened. “No, sir, it isn’t a multiple source. They think it’s a dipping sonar, signal strength moderate.”

Dipping sonars were used by ASW helicopters, which could hover while lowering their sonar transducers on long cables into the water. They always operated in pairs, and this close to a major port, there might be many such pairs. Manriquez made a decision. They had to get clear before the Soviets got lucky and landed a helo right on top of them. “Boomer, increase our speed. If they detect us actively, being quiet won’t help.”

“Comrade Captain, we have a passive sonar contact. Faint screw beats bearing three five one.”

Captain Kulakov was also staring at a sonar display. The new contact’s postion did not correlate with the location of any of the Soviet attack subs fanning out from Petropavlovsk. It had to be an intruder, an American.

And with sonar conditions this poor, the American submarine had to be close. Too close. The American might already have one of the Red Navy’s precious ballistic missile subs in his sights. “Fire control party, prepare to fire a spread on my order.”

Kulakov didn’t plan to wait for a full fire control solution, intending instead to launch several torpedoes centered on the American sub’s location as soon as his tracking party had a rough idea of its heading.

He smiled grimly. The American subs were excellent. And that was why only the newest and best submarines, like his Akula-class boat, were assigned to this work. Ogarkov and its counterparts had sortied with the surface ships, then taken up positions to screen the ballistic missile submarines as they left port.

For once, Kulakov’s orders from Fleet Command made sense. He was to protect the deploying subs from sneak attacks, like the kind the Americans had made on Dribinov. His orders made it clear that there would be no more surprises. This intruder would be stopped.

“Sir, screw beats now bear three five three.”

“Very well.” Kulakov tensed. They had their bearing rate. “Stand by to fire.”

The talker had a new report. “Skipper, passive sonar contact bearing one seven two. Screw beats.”

Manriquez called softly to Ed Baum. “Stop everything you’re doing and start a plot on this contact.”

“Sonar evaluates contact as possible submarine at creep speed, high bearing rate.”

That last bit of information galvanized the control room crew. A rapidly changing bearing at slow speed meant the new contact was very close.

Manriquez took a shallow breath and released it. “Boomer, come right. Put the contact on our beam. As soon as we can determine his course, we’ll head for his baffles and try to slip away — ”

“Sonar reports transients! Torpedoes inbound!

Shit. “Launch a decoy! Right hard rudder, all ahead flank! Take her deep!” Manriquez paused for one microsecond, then said, “Fire one and two with a four-degree spread, and make them active homers.”

He felt the boat start to heel over as she built up speed and started to turn. He regretted having to fire, but his mission was to survive and report. Shooting at the other side was a good way to start a war, but he suspected that one was already under way.

“Captain, the American has returned fire! Two torpedoes inbound.”

Kulakov felt his heart flutter and then pump faster. “Emergency speed! Turn on the active sonar and track the American. Release a decoy!”

“Captain, the Russian’s gone active. Two of the torpedoes have a high bearing rate, the other two are still closing.”

Manriquez swore under his breath and started snapping out maneuvering orders. This was going to be a damned tight squeeze. They’d dodged two of the incoming torps, but the others were going to be tougher.

The two combatants maneuvered, dodging and turning at high speed as each tried to evade the weapons heading toward them. The Mark 48 torpedoes were faster than their Soviet counterparts, so that even though they were fired later, they reached the Soviet sub first.

Fired without correction for the target’s course and speed, Drum’s shots depended on the small active homer built into the nose of each torpedo to find and attack the target.

One Mark 48 had been fired to either side of the Ogarkov’s estimated position, so that whichever direction it turned, at least one would be in a position to see the Soviet sub.

In the end, both saw him and attacked. Detection range in the noisy water conditions off Petropavlovsk was so short that both torpedoes’ powerful sonars illuminated the Akula-class sub at point-blank range.

One struck amidships, the other aft — in the engine compartment. Ogarkov’s double-hull construction could not survive two hits. In addition to the salt water pouring through the two tears in the hull, the double shock wrecked equipment throughout the ship and threw men across compartments into steel bulkheads. With so much flooding there was no hope of saving the boat. Powerless, without any control at all, Ogarkov tumbled downward on its long journey toward the ocean floor.

Drum’s sonar operator heard the explosion, but he was too busy tracking the weapons headed toward them to report it. “Captain, those two torps have locked onto us!”

Manriquez glanced quickly at the scope over his shoulder; the strobes were getting wider and stronger. Jesus.

Ten seconds passed. Wait for it. Fifteen seconds. Now. “Launch two more decoys.”

Shot out of the sub’s signal ejector, the decoys hovered in the water and emitted sonar signals designed to confuse the guidance systems of the Soviet torpedoes. One was seduced by the decoys, turned toward them, and exploded. The other was too close and it hit the American submarine forward, just under the sail.

Manriquez, Adams, Baum, and everyone else in the control room were thrown to the deck and plunged into darkness, while one deck below, water shot in through a two-foot tear in Drum’s hull.

“Blow everything!” Manriquez shouted, trying desperately to counter the tons of weight being added to the hull as compartments flooded. It wasn’t enough.

Too heavy to maintain even neutral buoyancy, air bubbling from its vents and from the gash in its hull, the American sub followed its Soviet opponent down to the bottom.

Rear Admiral John Fogarty focused his night-vision glasses and watched as the long, dark shapes glided silently past his station and out to sea. Two Ohio-class ballistic missile submarines were under way — each nearly twice the length of a football field and larger than a World War II-era heavy cruiser. White foam churned by their massive propellers glistened momentarily in the moonlight and then vanished as if it had never been.

He tracked the SSBNs until they could no longer be seen and then heaved a small sigh of relief. The most dangerous moments for any ballistic missile sub were always in port. Anchored beside a supporting sub tender, the Ohios were nothing more than sitting ducks. But once they were at sea, the huge boats were so quiet that the Soviets could never seriously hope to find them. A significant percentage of America’s nuclear deterrent was now effectively invulnerable.

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

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

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

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

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

“Does that tell us anything about Soviet intentions?”

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

“Toward our forces?”

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

“That’s good news at any rate.”

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

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

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

“But no change in their alert status?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“General?”

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

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

“Any word from Washington?”

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

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

Hansen saluted and reentered the tent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was there something else, Colonel?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fantastic. Make that the first target.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye, aye, Skipper.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Both men flattened as a mortar round burst nearby, spattering them with dirt. Others were less lucky. Kruger saw one of his staff sergeants splayed up against a paddy dike. The man’s right leg was missing.

“Top Dog One, this is Papa Fox Three One, over. Top Dog One, this is Papa Fox Three One, over.”

Kruger bellycrawled back to his radioman. “Fox Four Five to Alpha Five Two. I have a fire mission, over.”

The officer commanding 2nd Battalion’s eight 81-millimeter mortars responded immediately. “Ready to shoot, Fox Four Five.”

“Okay.” Kruger flinched as NK machine gun fire cracked over his head. “I need an incendiary smoke mission. Coordinates yankee delta eight four five one two two. Fire that in” — he glanced toward the FAC and saw him holding up two fingers — ”two minutes.”

He crawled back to the small cluster of men around the air controller. Marines on either side were starting to return the enemy fire. One minute left. He took a deep breath and then bellowed, “Okay, boys. We’ve got fast movers coming in! Mark your positions! Use purple smoke!”

Seconds later, canisters tossed by men in each of the battalion’s platoons started spewing bright purple tendrils of smoke. They rose and mingled in the wind to form a single line of purple clearly marking the battalion’s location from the air.

With a sudden roar, four snub-winged Harriers flashed overhead toward the North Korean positions, flying in pairs. As each jet pulled up sharply and to the right, it threw sixteen small, finned objects tumbling into the village: five-hundred-pound Mark 82 general purpose bombs. They went off in an endless, teeth-rattling series of sun-white explosions.

Other explosions flashed amid the shattered houses. The battalion’s mortars were joining in — tossing white phosphorus rounds that had a dual purpose. Burn and maim the enemy while building a blinding curtain of smoke.

“Marines!” Kruger bounced to his feet, M16 in hand. Helmeted heads all across the field turned to watch him. He climbed high onto a paddy dike and waved his hand toward the gray-cloaked, burning village. “Advance!”

“UURRAH!” Guttural voices rose in the rhythmic battle cry as the marines surged forward toward the North Korean positions, firing on the move. Kruger ran among them.

It took fifteen minutes of bloody, close-in fighting to clear the town. But at the end of it the road lay open and undefended.

Major Park Dae-Hwan stared approvingly at the carnage around him. The attack had been sudden, unexpected, and savage — perfect in fact. Bodies littered the camouflaged camp, some in full uniform, others entangled in sleeping bags or naked in the snow. Most of the North Koreans had been cut down in the first minute. Few had even had time to grab their personal weapons.

He smiled thinly. The communists had concealed their headquarters well, hiding its tents, armored vehicles, and radio gear in among the towering trees of a small pine forest. It would have been almost impossible to spot from the air. Of course, that same abundant cover had made it possible for this South Korean Special Forces team to sneak right up to the camp perimeter without being spotted.

Park snapped a new magazine into his CAR-15 carbine and slung it across his shoulder. Then he whistled sharply, summoning his Black Berets to the rally point. They’d idled here long enough. He and his team had been inserted by helicopter behind enemy lines two days before and held in readiness for just such a mission. Now they had other work to do. The communists had a whole network of supply dumps, communications facilities, and security detachments posted along this highway. Park intended to destroy them.

“Sir!” Sergeant Kwon came toward him with something clutched in his hand. Park remembered seeing the burly sergeant sawing away at the uniform of one of the North Korean officers.

Kwon stopped in front of him, saluted, and held out a strip of cloth. “A trophy for your collection, Major.” The sergeant grinned broadly at his own joke.

Park took the rigid piece of cloth and stared at it. A shoulder board with a single star. The insignia of a People’s Army major general. He nodded in satisfaction. One of the six North Korean divisions trying to stem General McLaren’s attack had just lost its commander and its entire staff.

He slipped the dead general’s shoulder board into his tunic and turned to leave. His men followed in single file. They had a long march ahead to reach the next objective.

“Gunner! Sabot! Tank at ten o’clock!” The South Korean captain felt his M-48’s turret swing left and waited.

“Up!”

“Fire!” The tank bucked as its 105-millimeter main gun went off with a loud roar. Acrid fumes filled the turret as it recoiled and spit out a used shell casing. The gunner hurriedly loaded another armor-piercing shell. It wasn’t necessary.

Their target, a T-55, sat burning on the raised shoulder of the highway. Fifteen others were scattered across the iced-over rice paddies, wrecked and on fire. It was over. The counterattacking North Korean armored battalion had been slaughtered — caught charging across open ground by twenty South Korean tanks waiting hull-down behind the highway embankment. A single M-48 sat mangled, its turret ripped open by a communist shell.

The captain undogged his hatch and stood high in the turret, gulping down deep breaths of fresh air. Although the entire engagement had taken just five frantic minutes, he was exhausted, worn ragged by the extraordinary combination of extreme physical exertion, fear, and intense concentration needed in battle.

The brigade commander’s voice crackled through his headphones. “All units. Continue the advance in echelon. Division objective is now Uch’on.”

The M-48’s commander squinted into the setting sun and nodded to himself. The village of Uch’on lay eleven kilometers ahead. They just might be able to make it before nightfall. And that would put the division’s lead elements more than thirty kilometers past what had once been the thinly held North Korean main line of resistance.

Thunderbolt had broken through.

The two generals stood together in the shadow thrown by a tall tree. Both were bundled against the cold.

Off to the south Taejon’s battered skyline glowed faintly with the light of a hundred fires, and smoke rising from the city stained the sky a dull, barren black. At this distance the sounds of the fighting were muted, reduced to little more than the quiet crackling of small-arms fire interspersed with the heavier thumping noises made by artillery and mortar rounds.

Colonel General Cho Hyun-Jae grimaced. “I fear, Chyong, that we stand on the edge of disaster. You’ve heard the reports?”

Lieutenant General Chyong nodded. They’d begun picking up the scattered transmissions earlier in the morning. First, news of a possible amphibious invasion on the coast near Seoul. Then, fragmentary reports of a massive assault force rolling out of the eastern mountains. Every signal had been garbled — a victim of imperialist radio jamming. Nothing was certain.

Chyong studied his commander carefully. The older man looked inexpressibly weary. “Is there more news?”

Cho shrugged, barely lifting his shoulders. “Nothing. I’ve dispatched couriers to each of the division headquarters with word to send me more details. I’ve heard nothing from them.” He shook his head. “Since my security troops report that the countryside behind us is crawling with puppet government assassins, I suspect that my messengers have been intercepted.” He drew a hand across his throat.

“Perhaps.”

Cho looked down at his hands. “In any event, our course is clear. We must shift forces northward to meet this enemy thrust. The imperialists cannot be allowed to sever our line of communications. We must counterattack.”

He turned away from the sight of Taejon. “I shall need two of your best divisions, Chyong, and two more from the Fourth Corps. I’ll also need two of the three armored regiments supporting your attack.”

Chyong frowned. Cho’s requisitions would leave his corps a toothless tiger, incapable of capturing the city. And there were other problems that could not be ignored. “My forces are at your disposal, comrade. But my casualties have been very heavy. Even my best units are barely at half-strength.” He moved closer. “Worse yet, our supplies are extremely low — food, ammunition, fuel, everything. There may not be enough fuel to move my tanks far enough north to attack the imperialists.”

Cho’s lips thinned in anger. “I am aware of your supply problems, comrade. Intimately aware!” He took a breath, trying to relax. “Pyongyang has assured me that resupply columns are moving south at this moment. Your tanks will have their fuel. That I promise you.”

Chyong wished his leader sounded more confident that Pyongyang’s promises would be fulfilled.

Major Chon looked at the dark, undulating landscape flowing by five hundred feet beneath his plane. The moon had risen an hour ago, and it now threw just enough light to keep him out of trouble. He glanced quickly back over his shoulder and then forward again. The three other A-10s of his flight were still in position, following him at three hundred knots.

He smiled beneath his oxygen mask. Technically, A-10s weren’t night-capable aircraft, but the high command was throwing everything it had into this counteroffensive. Their orders were clear — to keep the pressure on the North Koreans around the clock. And if that meant that he and his men had to take unexpected risks, then Chon would see to it that those risks brought results on every mission.

Their prey this time was a North Korean supply convoy that had been spotted late in the afternoon by an RF-5A photoreconnaissance aircraft. Even though the NK trucks had been carefully camouflaged and concealed among some trees, their still-warm engines had shown up clearly on the recon plane’s infrared film. Intelligence believed the communists were moving only at night to try to avoid detection.

Chon’s flight had been readied immediately as part of the ongoing effort to interdict all supplies heading for the Taejon area.

“Phoenix Flight, this is Voodoo, over.” A quiet voice came through his headphones. There was his signal. Voodoo was an observation plane, an OV-10D Bronco. It had the low-light and thermal-imaging sensors that Chon’s attack aircraft lacked, and the slow-moving spotter had been launched at dusk, an hour before Chon’s jets. The radio contact meant his A-10s were approaching the most likely area now.

“Phoenix Flight, location Alpha X-ray four seven three seven, over.”

There wasn’t any need for the spotter plane to say what was at that location. Chon looked at the map taped to his knee and made some rapid calculations. The A-10’s avionics weren’t all that sophisticated, and a lot of the navigating was still done by the pilot.

“Roger, Voodoo, ETA three minutes.” Chon flashed his navigation lights twice to alert his subordinates and banked a little to the left. Once on course he stole a quick glance behind. The other A-10s were still with him.

He checked his armament panel, then glanced at the map. The terrain stayed hilly, with a highway winding around the highest elevations. The best approach route was across the road, moving from east to west, but they would have to do some fancy flying to avoid slamming into a hill at three hundred knots.

He clicked his mike. “Phoenix Flight, this is Lead. Standard attack from the east. Voodoo, our ETA is one minute.”

The spotter plane pilot came back on the air immediately. “Roger, Phoenix. Prepped for illumination on your call.”

Chon answered with two clicks and flashed his lights again. He broke hard left, knowing that his wingman, Captain Lee, would follow him. He looked right and saw the other pair moving away, off to the north.

There was the highway, a thin black line against an irregular gray-and-white landscape. “Voodoo, this is Phoenix Lead. Now, now, NOW!”

Chon kept his eyes on the surface of the road. Even so, the sudden bright, white light cast by the OV-10-dropped string of flares ruined his night vision. Their harsh, flickering illumination wasn’t easy to see by. He blinked, looking for patterns, regular shadows or shapes along the road.

There.

A row of boxy shadows, still moving in column down the road.

Chon’s thumb reached for the cannon trigger as his A-10 dropped lower toward the road.

The flares swaying down out of the sky could mean only one thing. Disaster.

“Get off the road! Disperse!” Major Roh In-Hak screamed into his radio, then leaned out of the truck cab. He waved his arms frantically, motioning the drivers behind him off to either side of the road. Most stared uncomprehendingly back.

It was too late. Roh heard a howling whine and looked back and up. Two dark, cruciform shapes were roaring down out of the sky — heading directly for him. Death on the wing.

The major panicked and threw himself out of the truck cab. He pinwheeled down a steep embankment and landed hard against the frozen earth of a rice-paddy dike. He lay motionless, gasping for air.

Roh looked up at his still-moving truck just as the first attacking aircraft fired. Its bulbous nose was illuminated by a blaze of light even brighter than the flares drifting overhead, and a stream of fire reached out and ripped into the earth near his truck. Then it leaped toward the vehicle as the pilot corrected his aim.

The North Korean major buried his face in the ground as the truck exploded, sending a searing sheet of orange-and-red flame just over his head. It had been carrying artillery ammunition destined for the heavy guns bombarding Taejon. He knew his driver was dead.

More explosions rocked the earth, lighting up the hills on either side of the narrow valley they were in. Roh stayed down as fragments whined all around, trying to shut out the awful sounds as screams blended with the roar of jet engines and the rippling thunder of high-velocity aircraft cannons.

The noise faded and then died away entirely. The enemy planes had finished their strafing runs.

Roh raised his head cautiously and then scrambled to his feet. He ran back toward the rest of the column to check the damage and was relieved by what he found. Only the first three trucks had been hit — all carrying ammunition or food. The supply convoy’s precious fuel tankers were still intact.

But they were trapped on this road. His vehicles couldn’t possibly escape over the rough countryside. And Roh knew the enemy pilots would be back to finish what they’d started. He went from truck to truck, banging on cab doors and screaming, “Deploy! Deploy! Troops take up positions in the trees! Get the antiaircraft vehicles operational!”

The column’s air defenses were pitiful. Every one of the People’s Army’s remaining mobile antiaircraft guns were stationed up at the front. As a result, all Roh had to defend his trucks with were a few locally manufactured guns, clumsy 37-millimeter weapons mounted precariously on flatbed trucks, and a sprinkling of shoulder-launched SA-7 SAMs carried by the convoy’s small infantry detachment. He knew it wouldn’t be enough.

Roh heard the jets thundering back and started running away from the road.

As he banked hard right to come around again, Chon armed his cluster bombs. They would drop all their ordnance in one pass, and there would be no second chance.

“Phoenix Flight, this is Lead. Attack in echelon.”

Clicks acknowledged his order, and Chon started concentrating on his flying. More flares went off ahead, lighting up the rugged countryside, and he pulled the A-10’s nose higher to clear a hill just ahead.

As he popped over the tree-lined hill’s jagged summit, Chon saw what looked like a cloud of fireflies and streaks of light zipping past his canopy. Tracers. He tried to avoid flinching. The A-10 was armored, but no sane pilot trusted in armor to keep his airplane flyable. He’d already been shot down once by enemy flak and he wasn’t about to let it happen again.

Chon punched his flare dispenser to automatic and set his HUD for a cluster bomb drop directly over the center of the road now coming up fast.

One concentration of tracers attracted his attention. His eyes narrowed. They were coming from some sort of flak vehicle, and he was tempted to give it a quick cannon burst after he’d made his pass. Chon fought the temptation. Attacking alerted defenses wasn’t wise. The mission was to destroy what they were trying to defend.

He reached for the bomb release.

Roh told the men near him to fire, and purely for effect, he emptied his own pistol at the dark shapes streaking overhead. He could see their undersides clearly in the light cast by his burning vehicles.

As his pistol clicked empty, the North Korean swore to himself. He’d identified the attackers. They were American A-10s and pistol bullets wouldn’t bother them any more than they would a tank. Each spewed a trail of incandescent flares as it roared past.

His motionless truck column disappeared in a blinding series of rippling detonations. Hundreds of flashes tore up and down the line of now-abandoned vehicles and blossomed across the frozen paddies on either side of the road. A cluster of furnace-white fireballs rising in the air told him that the fuel tankers needed at Taejon were gone.

Temporarily blinded, Roh blinked and looked away from the flames, trying to spot the American-made aircraft as they fled the scene of their victory. He was gratified to see that some of his men were still firing at them.

A shoulder-launched SAM flashed up into the night sky, darting after one of the fleeing jets. Roh urged it on silently, hoping that his troops might achieve some small success by at least downing an enemy plane. But then the SAM veered away, tracking a decoy flare instead of the vanishing A-10. He cursed and threw his pistol into the snow.

Two hundred meters away, the inferno along the highway became visible as the dust and smoke cleared. Almost every truck had been lacerated by fragments or by actual bomblet explosions. And at least half were on fire. Roh stared hard at them, trying to remember which ones carried ammunition.

One of the vehicles exploded, aiding his memory.

The First Shock Army would have to make do without its supplies.

The rising sun cast long, sharp-edged shadows across the base and gleamed brightly off snow piled beside its runways. One by one the arc lights that had illuminated the airfield winked off, no longer needed to turn night into day.

The Soviet armaments officer yawned and stretched, trying to work a painful crick out of his neck. He stopped to stare in wonder at the sight before his eyes. It had been dark when the last regiment of bombers flying in from the Northern Fleet had landed, and he’d been so busy that he hadn’t really paid much attention.

But now it was impossible not to. He’d never seen his base so crowded before. Nearly sixty twin-engined Backfire bombers were parked across the field — some wingtip to wingtip, others in protective revetments. Every technician he had surrounded the bombers, manhandling AS-4 Kitchen antiship missiles into place under each wing.

He glanced at his watch. Excellent. His men would finish rearming and refueling the Backfires well ahead of the general’s deadline. And then the American carriers steaming arrogantly off South Korea would have something new to worry about.

The Red Navy’s Surface Action Group One steamed southwest at twenty knots, slicing through moderate seas under clear skies. The massive Kirov-class battle cruiser Frunze occupied the center, accompanied by two older missile cruisers and two modern Sovremennyy-class destroyers. Other cruisers, destroyers, and frigates surrounded the surface strike force as part of a thick ASW and air defense screen.

Three fighter squadrons — two of MiG-23s and one of MiG-29s — orbited endlessly overhead, constantly relieved by new squadrons dispatched from bases near Vladivostok or on the island of Etorofu. All waited eagerly for the word to pounce on any incoming American airstrike.

Surface Action Group One was just twenty hours away from the vital Tsushima Strait.

Brown stared hard at the enhanced satellite photos. “When were these taken?”

Captain Ross, his threat team commander, checked his watch. “About an hour ago, Admiral.”

“Jesus, Sam, we’ve got big-time trouble here.”

Ross nodded his agreement. Between them, the Soviet bomber force and the oncoming surface action group could catch Constellation and Nimitz in one hell of a bear hug.

Brown handed the photos to his chief of staff and clasped his hands behind his back. “Any political intelligence on their intentions?”

“Negative, Admiral. Still no word out of Moscow on what they’re up to.”

Brown swore and started pacing the length of the Flag Plot. Ross and the chief of staff kept pace with him. “Okay, guys. Here’s the way I see it. The Soviets might just be trying to put some extra pressure on us. Maybe they’re hoping to force us to reduce our close-air support sorties for the footsloggers. Maybe…” The admiral turned and walked back the way he’d come. “But we can’t take that chance. We’ve got to assume their intentions are hostile.”

“Agreed, sir.”

Brown stopped by the large-scale map display. “All right, then, gentlemen. Here’s how we’ll play this thing.” He paused and then went on, “Effective immediately, we’ll alter course to close the Tsushima Strait ourselves — ahead of that damned Russian task force. In the meantime I want all ground-support missions halted. Tell CAG I want his strike crews to stand down for a mandatory eight-hour rest. After that, I want a full-scale antiship strike spotted on deck and ready to go when I give the word.”

Brown looked closer at the plot. “How long before those bastards cross the line into our three-hundred-mile exclusion zone?”

“Twenty-four hours, Admiral.”

Brown grimaced. “Then I suspect those are going to be the longest goddamn twenty-four hours of our lives, gentlemen. Let’s stay sharp.”

The admiral stayed where he was as the other two men hurried away to carry out his orders. Beneath his feet, he felt the Constellation heeling over onto her new course — headed south. South toward the Tsushima Strait. South toward a rendezvous with the Red Navy.

The M-577 command vehicle swayed as it rounded a corner at high speed. McLaren stood high in the commander’s hatch, braced against the personnel carrier’s kidney-rattling ride. From where he stood, he could see the whole headquarters column as it wound its way west along the highway. Tanks and troop carriers were thrown out ahead and behind for security, trucks and command carriers intermingled in the middle, and a flight of helicopter gunships orbited overhead, covering the entire mile-long convoy.

The column slowed as it passed through the smoldering, bombed-out ruins of a small town. Corpses and wrecked vehicles dotted the flat, snow-covered fields outside the village. Most were North Korean. Some were not.

The M-577 bucked sharply as its treads ground over a partially filled-in shell crater, and it turned another corner, slowing still more as it passed a column of men marching east on foot — grinning South Korean MPs guarding dazed-looking prisoners. The MPs saluted as McLaren’s command vehicle roared by, and he returned their salutes with a grin of his own.

The prisoners they were guarding were a clear-cut indication of just how successful Thunderbolt had been so far. Up to this point in the war the NKs had always fought fanatically — often to the last man. Now that was changing. They were beginning to surrender — often en masse. McLaren could feel the tide turning in his favor.

There were other indications of success. Intelligence estimated that his troops had crushed four North Korean infantry divisions in the thirty-six hours since that attack began. Several others had been hammered so heavily that they were now judged completely combat ineffective.

Better still, his armored spearheads had already penetrated up to fifty kilometers, and the NKs still showed no signs of being able to mount a coordinated counterattack. Most of their best divisions remained locked in combat around Taejon, seemingly unable, or unwilling, to break free and march north. Without them the North Koreans couldn’t possibly stop his forces before they reached the sea. And given another forty-eight hours of uninterrupted, broken-field running like this, McLaren knew he could bring victory within reach.

Then he saw a Soviet-made T-62 sitting abandoned off on the shoulder of the road and felt his smile fading. The Russians were the imponderable — the five-hundred-pound gorilla who could jump in at the last minute and wreck everything.

He’d seen the reports. The Soviets had powerful task forces at sea. Their bomber forces were on full alert. And now Category I tank and motorized rifle divisions had been spotted massing at North Korean border crossing points. McLaren shook his head. Were the Soviets really prepared to risk going to war for their North Korean clients?

Jesus, he hoped not. This war was bad enough.

The column sped onward, moving west toward the Yellow Sea, and McLaren moved with it, silently pondering his options if the Cold War suddenly burst into bright-red flame.