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
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
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
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.
CHAPTER 42
Decision
