Ian Slater - World in Flames

Freeman was all smiles and diplomacy, thanking the president for his personal greeting, and genuinely touched that he had come out himself, but Freeman was really only interested in General Kim: the commander in chief of the NKA army now recouping and massing troops behind the protection of the North Korean-Chinese border along the Yalu and Tamur, and attacking, mainly at night. The most forward American line, he was told, had collapsed and was now no more than a series of outposts, while General Creigh continued to fall back to Ku-song, with over 70 percent casualties. It had been the worst American retreat anywhere in the war.

“Tomorrow morning,” the South Korean president was informing the general, “we have arranged an official reception—”

“Mr. President,” Freeman interjected. “I thank you kindly, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to attend. I’ll send a representative, of course, but I’ll be heading for the front.”

“But, surely,” began President Rah, “the general will need to rest—”

“With all due respect, Mr. President, my boys aren’t resting on the Yalu front. My place is with them. I thank you all the same. And Mr. President, I’ve been told by President Mayne to convey his best wishes to you and Madame Rah.”

“Thank you, General. Of course I—”

Freeman’s car had arrived.

As regulations demanded, the 747’s debriefing was attended by Shirer, the copilot, and all console operators, as well as by Jim Norton, who joined in watching the Boeing’s infrared video replays of the attack with a strange combination of relish and exhilaration that owed as much to the safety of the underground bunker they were viewing it in as to Norton’s euphoria at having come so close to death and surviving. Though he would have been loath to admit it, he had never experienced such a high.

“There they are,” said one of the console operators through the haze of tobacco smoke. “You were right, Freddie. MiGs — definitely Fulcrums.” Another fighter was blurred by the heat wash of the missile it was firing. Shirer noted “1931 hrs” registered in the bottom right-hand corner of the video frame, the time the copilot had told him a missile was inbound.

“Hold it!” Shirer called out. “Can you run that back?” The hazy number on the fuselage under the Fulcrum’s wing was due not only to angle of the 747’s camera but to the fact that the MiG had been on full afterburner, further blurring the image. But running the frame back, freezing it, and going in with the zoom, you could see it was number nine — Russian Cyrillic lettering next to it: “Ubiytsa Yanki”.”

“What the hell’s that?” asked one of the operators.

“Number nine, you hayseed!”

“I know that. I mean that other crap — Jimmy?”

Jimmy, one of the 747’s four Russian-speaking intercept operators, had nodded off but said he couldn’t see because of the guy in front of him. They ran back the video. He walked up close to the screen.

“Come on. Professor!” someone urged. “I’m thirstier than a—”

“Um — means ‘Yankee Killer’!”

“That fucker’s mine!” It was Shirer’s voice, unusually profane.

“Bit late, Major,” someone hollered. “Probably home now in Vladivostok giving the missus a bit of surface-to-surface.”

“Well,” put in Richards, the liaison officer, “there’s a good chance you’ll see him if they send fighters back across the fortieth parallel, old buddy.”

“Or if old Freeboot sends you across,” said someone.

“Can’t do it,” countered another operator. “Not allowed.”

“Says who?”

“Says the prez. That’s who.”

Shirer glanced at Richards through the flickering light cast by the video. “You serious. Captain?” he asked. “I mean about it being possible we’d run up against that MiG again?”

“Hell, yes. If you’re on the eastern corridor patrol. From Kimpo here to Wonsan, over on the east coast, then the high-altitude run over Vladivostok. They don’t like us taking snapshots of ‘em, mind. Scramble every time.”

“Thought you weren’t supposed to cross the Yalu.”

“Well, it isn’t the Yalu, is it?” Richards smiled. “I mean, it’s out to sea a bit, right?” His hand was making a sideways-slipping motion. “Anyway, on occasion we get to fire a few bursts ‘fore we head home with the recon shots.”

“That all that happens?”

“Sometimes we mix it up.” The two men were silent for a moment, the operators cheering the explosion of one of the Fulcrums. Richards waited till the hurrahs died down. “Shouldn’t let it get personal, though. That’s dangerous.”

Shirer said nothing. Someone trying to kill you — whether you were in a 747 or anywhere else — was about as personal as you could get.

“Look,” said Richards, “I don’t know how you’ll react to this, but that number nine. We’ve run into him before. He’s taken out three of our guys already. Our computer intelligence, enemy base/pilot profile, has him down as an ace.”

“Where’d he get his kills?” asked Shirer. “Western Europe? Or Eastern Theater?”

“Both. Why?”

“Because I’ve seen that slogan once before. In the Aleutians. I splashed him.”

“Well,” said Richards, “I wouldn’t put too much on that. I mean, the Aleutians comes under Eastern Theater, all right, but I’d guess ‘Yankee Killer’s ‘bout as common as ‘Commie Killer’ on our birds. What was your guy flying? The guy you took out in the Aleutians. A Fulcrum?”

“No.”

“Did he eject?” asked Richards.

“Don’t know. Didn’t see.”

“Could be the same guy,” conceded Richards. “He sure as hell would’ve needed a new plane — right?”

“What’s his name?” asked Shirer. “From the printout?”

“Number nine!” Richards called out to the sergeant in charge of the debriefing records. “Fulcrum out of Vladivostok. Got a handle for us?”

“Hang on a jiff,” replied the sergeant. “Yeah… Mar—”

“… chenko,” said Richards. “Yeah, that’s right. Marchenko.” He turned to Shirer. “Ring a bell?”

Shirer shook his head. “We didn’t have time to swap autographs.”

Richards laughed. “Well, ole buddy, you see him again, make sure you do. Tattoo the fucker.”

“I will.”

Richards added a cautionary note. “Be careful, though, Major. Whoever he is, he’s no slouch.”

“I know that — if he’s the same guy who gave me a bath.”

“Then you’re one-all,” said Richards.

“No,” answered Shirer. “He damn near got me tonight.” Shirer made a face. “What’s that damn smell?”

“Kimchi,” said Richards. “Sour cabbage. Koreans love it. You’ll get used to it.”

“Don’t plan on being here that long,” said Shirer.

As Sergei Marchenko’s bullet-splattered Fulcrum came in, its braking chute deploying less than a hundred feet from the runway, puffs of steam could be seen, caused by the friction of its front and two side wheels coming in at over a hundred miles an hour onto the icy runway.

The ground crew were already calling Marchenko “Kot” — “Cat.” Nine lives. Not only had he and his aircraft once again escaped injury, this time from the burst of American gunfire from the Tomcats escorting the big 747, but his fuel gauge was registering empty when the ground crew rolled it into the hangar. His ground captain was already on the phone, telling Khabarovsk’s KGB chief Nefski that Marchenko had survived but that he was lucky — the ground captain estimating the Fulcrum probably had no more than twenty liters of fuel left. He was mistaken — there were only ten gallons remaining. And so it was that as he stepped out, exhausted and disappointed that he had not ne ulovil —”bagged”—the American general, Marchenko’s legend, with one more F-14 to his credit, grew even more.