his orders? Prewar staff analyses of things like the effects of heavy artillery fire on unit morale and cohesion were one thing. It was quite another to hear the shells coming in, to see the explosions, and to witness the terrible carnage they could cause. Nothing he’d seen during his three tours in South Vietnam had quite prepared him for the terrible reality of this full-scale, flat-out war. That had been a different kind of fighting.
They were unlucky in the wind. It was strong enough to thin and rip any screen almost as fast as it was laid. McLaren kept his binoculars on where he knew the far bank to be, waiting for a gap in the acrid-smelling smoke big enough to see through.
There. Squat, boat-hulled vehicles swarmed into view and trundled down the slope to slide into Han. They bellied through the ice-choked river, moving fast on twin engine-driven waterjets. McLaren identified them as BTR- 60s — amphibious, wheeled APCs that could carry sixteen troops each. They vanished into gray obscurity as more smoke shells exploded along the near bank.
He hadn’t been able to get a good fix on their numbers, but if the NKs were following Soviet doctrine as rigidly as they had up till now, there was at least a battalion’s worth of armored vehicles out there swimming the river toward his position. Other North Korean battalions were undoubtedly attacking at other points along the Han — all probing for the weak spot.
McLaren smiled grimly to himself. If they got across, they’d soon realize that his defense line was weak along its entire length. In some places battalions were defending frontages that staff theoreticians would have thought too wide for brigades. And that meant that his troops couldn’t afford to lose this fight on the Han. Every enemy assault had to be driven back into the river before the NKs could start laying pontoon bridges to bring their heavy armor across.
He shook his head. If his men could just blunt this North Korean drive, they’d buy him a badly needed day to strengthen his defenses and assemble more of the reinforcements arriving hourly from the States and from South Korea’s reserve depots.
The engine noises from the river were audible now, even under the noise of the barrage. McLaren rose to his knees, studying the slit trenches and foxholes occupied by his first line of defense — Dragon teams and the infantry to guard them. The Dragon launchers were equipped with thermal sights that would let their crews see clearly through the now-ragged North Korean smoke screen. They would carry the fight to the NK assault force while his M-48 and M-60 tanks stayed hidden.
Seconds passed. C’mon, c’mon. Let ’em have it. Don’t let ’em get in too close. The Dragons couldn’t hit anything within three hundred meters. McLaren willed himself to patience. He had to assume that the infantry commanders below him knew what they were doing.
A team fired off to his left, the flame from its missile reaching through the smoke for an unseen target. McLaren followed it with his eyes and saw the gray smoke wall glow orange for a moment. A hit! Then another Dragon team fired. And another after that. Others followed suit, too fast to keep track of.
A rift appeared in the rapidly thinning screen, and through it McLaren could see the shattered remains of the North Korean assault force. Three BTR-60s were dead in the water, spinning rapidly downstream with the current. Several others were on fire, tilted over half-in and half-out of the water along the far bank. Another rolled over and capsized, the flames that cloaked it bubbling into white, hissing steam. Swirling foam marked the watery graves of still other APCs. Survivors splashed vainly in the icy water for moments before being pulled under, overcome by the cold and weighed down by their equipment. Only a handful of BTRs still came on, emerging from the smoke as they neared the riverbank.
The lead North Korean vehicle reared up out of the water and exploded as a round from an M-60 tank found its target. Others were marked down and destroyed in the shallows. It was a slaughter. The BTRs had armor that could stop machine gun fire. They weren’t intended to stand up to tank cannon — and they didn’t, at least not for long.
McLaren sat watching the last BTR-60s burn on the water’s edge while Hansen reported the results of the other attacks. They were all the same. The North Korean hasty assault had failed. Now they would have to spend precious time assembling their heavy artillery and armor before making another attempt.
McLaren had his day.
Colonel General Cho slowly lowered his binoculars. The 27th Mechanized Infantry had been one of his best battalions. He turned and looked steadily at his deputy, who now commanded Cho’s old II Corps. “I fear the smoke screen was an error in judgment.”
Lieutenant General Chyong nodded, his face carefully impassive. “I agree. The smoke didn’t interfere with the fascists’ missile systems at all. Instead, it only ensured that our own tanks and support weapons couldn’t provide sufficient covering fire.”
The two men turned and walked side by side down the hill toward their waiting command vehicles. They ignored the ambulances racing across the ground ahead of them, each filled with maimed survivors of the failed attack. Deaths and wounds were the currency of war, and neither Cho nor Chyong knew of any way to avoid them.
“You know the imperialists will use this delay to strengthen their defenses.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Pyongyang will want our full assessment of this setback. Can I assure the General Staff and the Dear Leader that your next attack will succeed?”
Chyong didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” He saw Cho’s raised eyebrow and continued on, “Given twenty-four hours to deploy and zero in, my heavy artillery should be able to pound the enemy’s forward defenses to pieces. In addition, I shall not repeat this morning’s mistake. There will be no smoke screen blinding us the next time. My assault waves will go in covered by direct fire from our own tanks and missile teams.”
Cho nodded in satisfaction. “Excellent. I shall inform Pyongyang of your confidence.”
Chyong held out a hand. “There is one thing more, however, my friend.”
“Yes?”
“The Americans will undoubtedly send their aircraft to attack my bridging units in their staging areas. I have concentrated all my available SAMs and mobile flak batteries to protect them, but that may not be enough. It would be helpful if our Air Force could lend a more active hand in this battle.”
Cho nodded again, more slowly this time. Chyong’s carefully phrased point was well-taken. At this crucial stage of the campaign, friendly air cover was even more important than usual. And so far at least, North Korea’s MiGs had been less successful than he would have liked. They were inflicting losses on the Americans and their South Korean puppets, but their own casualties had been horrendous.
Fortunately it appeared that steps were at last being taken to remedy their deficiencies. Or so Pyongyang had promised in its latest string of dispatches to his field HQ. He glanced sidelong at Chyong as they reached the parked command vehicles. “I will see what I can do, comrade. “More than that I cannot promise.”
Chyong smiled gravely. “More than that I cannot ask.”
He glanced back at the last vestiges of smoke drifting downwind and then saluted. “Very well, then. Give me twenty-four hours to prepare and I shall give you a firm bridgehead across the Han.”
Cho noted how the setting sun burnished the stars on his subordinate’s shoulders. For his own sake, he hoped that Chyong’s confidence was warranted. Every passing day gave the imperialists more time to recognize the trap he was preparing to spring. Cho also knew that every day that passed without significant territorial gains would be viewed as a day of failure by Kim Jong-Il. It was unfortunate that the Dear Leader’s definition of military success was so limited. Unfortunate, but too late to change.
Cho returned Chyong’s salute and then climbed back into his command vehicle for the ride back to headquarters. He had more work to do before the evening staff meeting.
Colonel Sergei Ivanovitch Borodin strode confidently onto the stage, noting the mood of the assembled squadron. He was pleased by what he could see in their eyes — eagerness, anticipation, determination. These North Koreans were by no means the best pilots he had ever commanded, but they were unsurpassed in their ability to absorb losses and remain undaunted. And now he had something to give them that was worthy of their
