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
“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
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
“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
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.
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
