knees, bringing his eyes just above the windowsill. “Contact the platoons and make sure they know not to fire until I give the word, understood?”
“Gotcha, L-T” Montoya started whispering softly into his handset, relaying his instructions.
Kevin stared out the window, watching for the oncoming North Korean columns. He heard them first. A low, persistent rumbling that expanded suddenly into squealing tank treads, the roar of diesel engines, and the tramp of marching feet. Shapes appeared at the edge of his vision.
Captain Kang Chae-Jin swore as he slipped on a patch of ice left unmelted in the road. He recovered and kept moving, angling slightly to stay right behind the third of the three T-55 tanks assigned to his company.
He looked up at the buildings rising to either side and frowned. Urban fighting doctrine said that tank platoons should advance in a triangular formation, with one tank moving down the middle of the street, while the other two stayed behind and to the flanks, covering the leader. But doctrine didn’t say what to do when the street was too narrow for such a formation, so Kang had been forced to adopt an untested compromise. One of his three infantry platoons led the way, assault rifles held at the ready. They were followed by the three T-55s, trundling along in column, and then by the Assault Group’s two remaining infantry platoons.
“Comrade Captain?” Lieutenant Sohn, the commander of his 1st Platoon, had dropped back from the lead column.
“Yes?”
Sohn tilted his helmet back a bit and pointed forward. “We’re coming to a major cross-street. What are your ord — ”
The lieutenant’s question was drowned out by a sudden, echoing crash of small-arms fire, grenades, and tank cannon from off to the left.
Kang threw himself face forward onto the pavement and screamed, “Take cover!”
“Goddamnit!” Kevin slammed a fist into the wall beside the window as he watched North Korean foot soldiers scatter out of the street into houses and buildings. In another thirty seconds his men would have been able to catch the NKs in the open and slaughter them. But other enemy units had run head-on into Bravo Company first — spoiling what would have been a letter-perfect ambush.
“L-T, Rhee says he’s got people moving into the department store across from him. He wants permission to fire.”
“Granted. But Third Platoon only.”
Montoya repeated that into his handset and machine guns chattered off to the right as Rhee’s men opened up. The sound of more shooting rose from beyond the river, near Alpha Company’s positions. Maybe. He was starting to lose track of sounds as they bounced around in Taejon’s streets and as the discordant mix of artillery, small-arms, and support weapons reached mind-numbing proportions.
He risked another glance out the window and then ducked back. The North Korean footsloggers he’d seen had gone to ground in buildings or sheltered doorways, but their three tanks still sat arrogantly in the middle of a north-south street intersecting Chungang-ro, turrets whining as they swiveled back and forth, searching for targets. Those three tanks had to go. His troops could handle NK infantry, but those T-55s could use point-black fire to smash every defensive position he had. So they had to be destroyed. But how?
Kevin mentally estimated ranges. The NK tanks were within sixty to a hundred meters. Too close for Dragon missiles — they needed to fly at least twice that distance before they could really be guided. But the LAWs carried by his men were a different story. LAWs were ordinarily useless against heavily armored main battle tanks. When fired from an upper-story window or roof, though, they could easily penetrate a tank’s thin top armor.
He got to his feet and ran up the apartment building’s central staircase to the third floor.
Several men in the 1st Platoon were equipped with LAWs, and every one of them professed an eagerness to be the first to “bag” his own tank. Kevin picked three of them and deployed them in separate rooms — one to a window.
He took a deep breath and then yelled, “Now! Now! Now! Fire ’em up!”
The 1st Platoon’s machine gun teams and riflemen cut loose with a wild, clattering roar, sweeping the windows and doorways of the buildings across the street, trying to suppress any North Koreans who’d already gotten into position to fire back. At the same moment the three soldiers carrying LAWs stood up, aimed, and fired.
Two of the three rockets found their targets. One hit the lead T-55 squarely atop its turret, tore through, and exploded inside the crew compartment. The other pierced the second T-55’s fuel tank and turned it into a flaming wreck. The third LAW missed. Fired high, it clipped the T-55’s radio antenna and slammed into a doorway, mangling two North Korean infantrymen crouching there.
The surviving tank’s main gun fired back, and Kevin caught a split-second glimpse of an eerie orange sunburst emerging from the flames enveloping the second T-55.
Kevin grabbed the nearest soldier with another LAW and pulled him over to the window. “Get that son of a bitch before he shoots again!”
The man braced and aimed, but he didn’t fire. “It’s gone, L-T. It beat feet!”
Kevin looked for himself. The T-55 wasn’t where it had been. Oily, black smoke pouring out of the two dead tanks made it difficult to see, but he could hear treads squealing on the pavement. They were growing fainter.
Huddled in a bullet-pocked doorway, Lieutenant Sohn stared in shock at the thin wash of blood-red flesh and crushed bone that had been his company commander. The retreating T-55 had backed right over Kang without even pausing, and Sohn could still hear the captain’s last faint, gurgling scream as he’d gone under the tank tread.
He retched, then winced as another stream of American bullets stitched across the edge of the doorway, spraying tiny slivers of concrete into his cheek. The sudden, stinging pain helped clear his brain and reminded him of one of war’s cardinal lessons: First you survive. You can mourn the dead later.
The lieutenant pushed himself farther back into cover and deliberately looked away from what was left of Kang. He was in command now, and it was up to him to bring some order out of the mess he could hear and see around him.
Some of his men had gotten into buildings facing the American positions and were firing back. But others were acting as uselessly as he was himself — pinned down behind the first available cover. That would have to be changed, and quickly. Sohn wiped the vomit off his chin and ignored the blood dripping from his cheek. Then he rose and dashed forward into the smoke to rally his troops.
Rhee’s voice was calm and came across the static-laden radio channel clearly. “We’re taking heavy fire now from the department store and from houses across the street.”
Kevin closed his eyes involuntarily as another flare burst high overhead. Its harsh, white light threw strange shadows racing across shattered buildings and rubble-strewn streets. Rifle and machine gun fire crackled nearby.
“Casualties?”
“Very heavy.” There was a muffled, crashing sound, and Rhee stopped talking momentarily. When he came back on, Kevin could hear moaning in the background. “They’re using RPGs against our firing slits. These communists are not being very sportsmanlike.”
“Can you hold?”
Rhee sounded confident. “As long as we have ammunition. It would help, though, if we could get an artillery mission against the department store.”
Kevin sighed and pressed the transmit button. “I’ve tried, Rhee, but Battalion says no way. There’re too many civies still left in the city.” The rules of engagement were firm. American artillery would not be used where friendly civilians were at risk.
“My countrymen would understand. This is total war. We must use every weapon.”
“Drop it, Rhee!” Kevin snapped. “It’s not your decision. It’s not my decision. And there isn’t anything either one of us can do about it. Got it?” He instantly regretted the anger he’d shown. The South Korean lieutenant was
