Ian Slater - WW III

“Haven’t heard,” said Shirer. He tore half a dozen tissues from the Kleenex box, forming them into a cuplike shape, which he put in a small plastic Baggie, reached into his underpants, put the cupped Kleenex over his penis, then reached for his gravity suit.

“I’ll bet they want us to hit some of the bridges over the Han,” said the navigator.

“Maybe,” said Shirer. “You might get an OET bonus.”

“Over enemy territory? Hell, the whole of Korea’s enemy territory. Just about.”

“Only kidding,” said Shirer, slipping on the G-suit. “You’ll get a thank-you from the old man and a cup of coffee. No bonuses.”

“Yeah,” said the RIO. “Y’know, this friggin’ G-suit of mine is too damned tight.”

“Supposed to be. Stop the—”

“The blood from pooling,” the RIO cut in. “I know. I think it’s worth shit. Just a goddamned girdle.”

“Ever been up without one?” asked Shirer.

“Yeah,” said the RIO.

Shirer looked across at him, surprised. “The hell you have.”

“I have. Pan Am flight out to the coast.”

“Stupid bastard.” Shirer grinned, the RIO playfully punching die other’s shoulder patch: “Salt Lake City’s Shooting Stars.”

The sun, a red ball that had burned off low cloud, cast long shadows along the flight deck. Three “moles” from the most recent AWAC to land were being led like a column of blind men, their polarized visors down, each man’s arm on the man’s in front of him as a member of the flight deck crew led them through the hectic, noise-filled activity of prelaunch, the three moles’ eyesight not yet adjusted to any kind of daylight after spending four to six hours straight in the windowless twilight in the rear of the AWAC.

In the ready room the monitors were giving all pilots the good news that the Soviet Fleet was not proceeding farther south, intelligence reports indicating all available jets were being thrown into the European theater. The bad news was, a front was moving south into the Sea of Japan and was bringing more low stratus, reducing visibility again and even possibly interfering with some of the infrared systems because of” 100 percent” moisture.

“There will be three predawn attacks,” said the briefing officer: “Two companies of helo-ferried Second Airborne at Taegu, and two at Taejon preceded by Hawkeyes with fighter cover. I’ll get to the third target in a few minutes. First, targets one and two.” He called up the computer image of the 180-mile-wide, 200-mile-long peninsula. “Phantoms will be riding shotgun for Taegu, and Taejon troop choppers will be preceded by Apache attack helos and Huey gunships from the helo carrier Iwo Jima north of us. They’ll be laying eggs,” by which the briefing officer meant laying mines around the landing zones.

“Remember the chain guns on the gunship helos are mounted left, so they’ll be going in counterclockwise when they start their attack. By then, of course, it will have hit the fan and the MiGs’ll come in, trying to chop them up. It’s your job to break up the MiG attack and take out as many as you can.”

“All right!” said Fisher.

“First wave of airborne will go in via Iwo Jima’s Super Stallion helos — thirty-five men apiece. Ten helos to secure the airstrip’s perimeter, and then the Hercules out of Japan will land if possible. They’re checking satellite photos now — if they can’t do that, cargo will be palletized. Just so you know what’s going on.” It meant that if the airstrip was secured by the troops, the 155-millimeter howitzers, strapped tightly to wooden and metal frames, would slide out over the rear ramp of the big aircraft as they thundered in at less than a hundred feet above the ground, the equipment-filled pallets of guns, ammunition, and other supplies braked by the simultaneous deployment behind the pallet of three drag chutes.

“If the Iwo Jima can spare them, it will also launch a dozen vertical-takeoff Harriers to act as gun platforms in case Charlie starts bringing up artillery around the airfields.”

“Sir, wouldn’t they already have the strips zeroed in?”

“Not from the intelligence photos we have. It would appear they’re racing like hell to the south for a final push against Pusan and that they’ve decided to put all the heavy guns down there to open up a gap through the perimeter. Hopefully we’ll be able to take them by surprise. The distances aren’t that long, nothing further than about a hundred and forty miles in. If we can secure one of those two airfields for a few days to fly more of our boys in, we can buy time for the guys trapped in that jammed perimeter and hopefully segment their supply line. That’s what it’s all about.”

The briefing officer took a sip of water. “Also, we’ve received news that we’ve got nine B-52s at Guam patched up and ready to go in about a week. Ground crews down there have been doing an outstanding job getting them ready. If we can buy our guys a few extra days in that perimeter, pretty soon the B-52s will be able to pound the shit out of the gooks’ supply line. Whatever happens, we can’t let them push our guys into the sea. That happens, it may be years — maybe never — before we get it back. After Nam, that’d be two losses in a row.” He paused. “Third target we’ve been charged with. Shirer, you’ll lead a second wave of Tomcats to fly cover for a combined helo-borne infantry and MAGTAF strike from the helo carrier Saipan against Pyongyang.”

There was a low whistle from one of the navigators, and several pilots looked over at one another — a few in silent sympathy for the marines and other infantry who would be going in deep behind enemy lines.

“The psychological significance of this mission, if successful, will be tremendous, gentlemen. Our problem, however, is to get through their radar screen. Now, we can go in low as far as the coast and they won’t pick us up, but once we climb over the Taebek Range, we’ll be on their radar immediately. From the coast it’ll be a hundred and twenty miles in. The helos from the Iwo will be following ravine contours as far as possible and discharging flares against heat seekers. But the MiGs are sure to come in before we get halfway there. Shirer, you deal with them, and remember Pyongyang is surrounded with SAMs. We’ll proceed with the fly-in no matter what happens, allowing for ten minutes of fuel for low ground-support attacks. The North Koreans had air supremacy when they first crossed the DMZ, but now our fleet’s moved up, we hope to even the score.”

“They intend getting those marines back, sir?” asked Shirer’s RIO.

“It’s been carefully thought out. That’s all.”

“That’s no answer,” said Fisher, “that it’s all been thought out. So was Carter’s attack on Iran.”

“Doolittle,” said Shirer.

“What?”

“Doolittle’s attack on Tokyo not long after Pearl Harbor. Gave the allies one hell of a lift.”

“Yeah, but it won’t be much of a lift for those marines and other poor slobs.”

“Well,” answered Shirer, “all I know is that if I was in that Yosu corner and I heard a Commie capital had been hit, it’d boost my morale. Can’t underestimate morale, Fish. Sometimes it’s almost as good as live ammo.”

“Think they can do it?”

“Think you can do it?”

“What — piece of cake. I’m worried about the guys who’ll be on the ground.”

“You worry about the damn radar.”

The old town clock in Halifax began its quarter-hour peals as Lana and three other Waves on their first day off walked along the tree-arched trails in Mount Pleasant Park. Out on the harbor, the replica of the famous Bluenose II, her sharp, classic lines undiminished by time, was cutting spritely through the cobalt water, the grace of her design, which had won so many international trophies in the first part of the twentieth century, a striking contrast to the gathering fleet of U.S. and Canadian ships. The smell of the sea was on the east breeze, and had it not been for the dozens of gray shapes dotted about the harbor north of them, the light, invigorating wind coming off the North Atlantic could have convinced Lana all was right with the world. As yet the only casualties they had had to deal with had been a few broken legs and arms and one man badly injured after being struck by a sailboat’s boom while assigned to help crew a visiting admiral in one of Halifax’s many yachts. His injury had been entered as “DA” by the head nurse, a stout, no-nonsense Englishwoman whom the Canadians called “Matron.”