CHAPTER 27
Hard Target
Tony Christopher looked down at the white, dirty-gray, and brown landscape twenty thousand long, cold feet below his Falcon. They were crossing the “forward edge of the battle area” — the FEBA — in a relatively quiet sector and it showed. No explosions. No missile trails. Just a few burnt-out tanks and trucks littering the ground. The grunts were well hidden on both sides, either for warmth or for safety.
He glanced up into a layer of hard-edged white cloud just over his fighter’s canopy. The Falcon’s air superiority gray camouflage paint blended nicely with the deceptively solid-looking ceiling overhead. The air was smooth, and the F-16 slid through it like a tiger stalking silently through tall grass.
Tony’s eyes flicked over his HUD indicators briefly and then resumed their routine scan of the airspace around and below his plane, looking for the telltale shimmer of movement that might reveal a hostile. They were flying this mission on the Mark I Eyeball detector — for the moment, at least. He and the other Falcon pilots in this formation all had their radars off to avoid alerting the NKs to their approach. Tony hoped that the F-15 Eagles flying top cover and Stingray, the E-3 AWACS plane orbiting well to the south, were keeping a sharp lookout on the high side of the clouds.
Tony flew onward, trusting to his instincts and experience to warn him if something went wrong. One part of his conscious mind disengaged itself from the purely mechanical task of flying the airplane and started reviewing the mission coming up. Any way you cut it, this one was going to be a bitch.
“MISSION SUMMARY: Provide flak suppression and close air cover for South Korean F-4s assigned to destroy divisional artillery 2 kilometers west KUWHA.” It had looked easy enough on paper earlier this morning. Easy that is until you stopped to think about what those words really meant.
Tony knew all too well. It meant coordinating the movements of nearly fifty aircraft from different units. Reconnaissance planes to take prestrike photos. Tony’s F-16s for defense suppression. South Korean F-4D fighter bombers to make the actual attack on the primary targets themselves. American F-15 Eagles for high cover. An irreplaceable E-3 AWACS for control and long-range radar warning. And finally, more recon aircraft to photograph the results of the strike. Their photos would show if they had to go back in and do it again.
It all formed an intricate dance, and Tony knew his place in it. He’d practiced often enough in peacetime, and it had worked well enough in the war, so far.
This target, though, was an especially difficult one. “Divisional artillery” for the North Koreans meant 152mm howitzers buried in concrete emplacements, called HARTs, for hardened artillery sites. The guns were always guarded by multiple batteries of automatic weapons and sometimes even SAMs. And as soon as enemy radar picked them up, there’d be fighters added to the other defenses. All in all, not a fun time.
He didn’t envy the South Korean F-4 Phantom crews their task either. The recon photos the squadron’s intelligence officer, George Michaels, call sign “Pistol,” had laid out at the predawn mission briefing had shown what they were up against.
There were three batteries of 152mm guns, each with four pieces. Each gun sat secure in its own concrete emplacement, protected by a roof nearly two meters thick and by armored blast doors to the front. The gun areas were further protected by thick earthen dikes. Each HART also had tunnels connecting it to its neighbors and to well-stocked, underground magazines. Cratering those minifortresses was going to take split-second precision — precision the South Korean pilots might find hard to produce with tracers reaching out for them and SAMs flying all around.
Tony shook his head slowly. That made the squadron’s defense suppression role vital to the overall success of the mission. He glanced back at the other planes pacing his Falcon. Each had six Rockeye cluster bombs hanging under its wings. Rockeyes were designed to scatter explosive bomblets that could damage antiaircraft guns and SAM vehicles, kill their crews, and knock out fire control radars. While the eight F-16s assigned to the mission couldn’t hope to destroy all the sites defending the HARTS, they could suppress and disrupt enough of them to give the F-4s the “quiet” time they needed.
And in all likelihood the F-16s would be called on to do even more than that. Besides their air-to-ground ordnance, all of his planes carried a center-line drop tank and two Sidewinders on their wingtips. They’d loiter over the battle area after their attack runs and intercept any NK fighters that tried to break up the Phantoms’ HART tap dance. Stingray, the AWACS plane aloft, could warn them of approaching enemy aircraft and give them a steer.
There was someone else in on this little party, too. A converted cargo plane, call sign Rivet. Tony didn’t know much about its capabilities, but the grapevine said it was covered with antennas and most of its crew spoke Korean. He and his pilots had been instructed to treat any Rivet calls as gospel.
Tony glanced down at his INS display. It was vital that they arrive at the right location and right altitude within thirty seconds of the planned time. Timing was everything in this kind of mission. It wouldn’t do at all to screw up during his first flight with a new rank.
A new rank. Tony still couldn’t believe it. The squadron CO, Lieutenant Colonel “Shadow” Robbins, had called him over into the planning area that morning, before the brief. He’d assumed that Shadow wanted to see him about something connected to the morning’s mission. He’d been wrong.
Robbins had stood as Tony walked over to his desk, looking him over. “How are you feeling, Saint?”
Tony remembered stifling a yawn. Six hours sleep wasn’t enough to regenerate the nervous energy expended in flying and fighting at high speed, not with lives depending on each and every decision. But he’d answered the CO’s question the only way he could. After all, everybody was short on crew rest. “Fine, sir. What can I do for you?”
Shadow’s next words had brought him fully awake. “Quite a bit. First thing is, stand at attention!”
He’d braced, wondering just what the hell was up and noticing that all activity had stopped in the Mission Planning Cell. He’d also glanced out the corner of his eye and seen people filling the doorway.
The answer to his unspoken question had come seconds later when Robbins picked up a telex and started reading. “In accordance with the secretary of the Air Force instruction dated twenty-Seven April 1986, combat personnel serving in billets may be promoted to ranks required for proper execution of those duties. Therefore, by order of General G. F. Taylor, Commander Eighth Air Force, you are promoted to the rank of major, with all the privileges and responsibilities of the rank. And I’m making you ops officer effective immediately.”
Major Christopher. Tony mouthed the words beneath his oxygen mask, after first making sure that his radio wasn’t transmitting. They had a nice ring to them, but he hadn’t really wanted the promotion — at least not the way he’d gotten it. Stepping into Kenneth Beam’s dead shoes seemed like kind of an unlucky thing to do. And the burst of applause from the other members of the squadron clustered at the briefing room door had made him even more uneasy. Still, he knew that the squadron needed an excuse to celebrate, to feel happy. It was one way to help forget all the empty chairs in the pilots’ mess.
And Hooter — well, Hooter was just Hooter, Tony thought, grinning to himself. Trust his wingman to bring him down to earth. The tousle-haired little runt had been waiting for him in the ready room, kneeling, and as Tony had come close, he’d bent at the waist and touched his head to the floor with his palms on either side.
Tony hadn’t had any choice but to laugh. “Hooter, you’ve been over here too long.”
“Just showing proper respect for the exalted status of my flight leader.” He’d stood up, dusting off his knees and reaching out to shake Tony’s hand. “Congratulations, Saint.”
“Yeah. Well, I’ll believe it when I see the first paycheck.”
“What? You mean they pay us for this?”
“Very funny. Suit up.”
He glanced sideways. Hooter’s Falcon hung there, perfectly positioned. Then he looked down at the INS again. Six minutes out. Time to start concentrating.
Tony reached down into the cockpit and turned his secondary radio to the mission frequency. The primary would stay on the package frequency throughout the mission, but he wanted to be sure that he could hear Bookmark, the F-4 Phantom strike leader flying with the main group of aircraft.
Five minutes out. Tony waggled his wings and reduced power. Pointing his Falcon’s nose down, he found the crossroads that marked the start of his run in to the target area. He glanced sideways and behind him. Good. The
