Payback wi-10, page 25
part #10 of WW III Series
Having cleared the SAW’s jam, Bone Brady, the gaping wound in his left shoulder not bleeding as profusely as he would have expected, was nevertheless in terrible agony. The pain had been there all the time but had been temporarily overridden by the surge of adrenaline he’d needed fighting the now-dead North Korean sergeant. Pulling out a morphine “jab,” he thrust it into his thigh, cradling his injured arm inside his battle tunic, his wide fireman-issue suspenders serving as an immobilizing strap. He’d no sooner clipped one of his six unused “feed boxes” of 5.56mm ammunition onto the SAW than he heard the sound of trucks coming south from Kosong, toward the warehouse. Soon slit headlights were faintly visible in the downpour, the rain so cold he was beginning to shiver, the body heat of his life-and-death struggle with the stocky little Korean sergeant now replaced by what he felt was approaching hypothermia. In the euphoric rush of the painkilling morphine, he had no time to realize how the freezing rain had probably saved his life, the resulting vasoconstriction stemming the flow of blood from his wound.
The roar of a motorcycle and sidecar caught him off guard as its lumpy infrared blob in his goggles slid over the summit of the hill barely three hundred yards to his right, beyond the northern end of the warehouse. From the 3-D computer SATPIX mock-up of Beach 5, the warehouse, and environs, Bone had expected to see any newly approaching traffic as quickly as he’d spotted the NKA sergeant’s jeep, but the motorcycle and machine-gun-mounted sidecar combo had no headlamp, and he would have missed it altogether had it not been for the high-intensity “strobe” flare stuttering away to the east, casting the warehouse and the robotlike figures of the combatants caught moving around it in a macabre, bluish white light. But the motorbike combo driver and gunner saw him too, and opened fire. Woozy from his wound and the morphine, Bone was a second late, but here again the North Koreans had come up against one of Freeman’s crème de la crème — the men whom he so dubbed knowing that first to fire didn’t necessarily win the day. The warrior who won, no matter how outnumbered, was the man who fired for effect, this discipline imposed upon him not by his commander nor even by his will, but by the mundane, finite supply of ammunition and provisions he carried, from the time of the Grecian phalanx to the war against terror. It was a truth that terrorists, from those who had come up against Freeman’s trained men in Afghanistan to those operating as far away as the Arctic, were learning as they came into contact with the painful reality of American and British SpecFor firepower.
As quickly as the firefight inside the warehouse had begun, it ended. “Hwang bok A-ni meun jun neun da! — It’s surrender or death. Now!” shouted Freeman in the Korean phrase that Johnny Lee had taught him. The general’s announcement, so faultless in its syntax, so loud and commanding in its tone, cut through the cacophony of battle like a salvo from a man-o’-war, and almost blasted Salvini’s earpiece apart.
The general’s ultimatum was immediately supported by an awesomely concerted barrage from his team, whose automatic, shotgun, and grenade fire was orchestrated via mike with Salvini and Lee, and was so fiercely well aimed, killing at least a third of the remaining defenders, that it convinced enough of the North Koreans that it was indeed either surrender or death. After a few desultory shots from the direction of the long boxes Freeman had glimpsed earlier, he could see a white cloth being waved frantically side to side in the middle of the warehouse. The flag of surrender was difficult for Aussie to see, given the pall of dirty white fog in his NVGs as the heat and acrid reek of cordite rose into the air and made eyes water to the point that Choir Williams almost felt obliged to don his gas mask. He thanked God and the stunning surprise of their attack for not necessitating its use earlier, the NKA having no time to use tear-gas canisters, which in the enclosed environment would have been as much, if not more, a difficulty for them as for the Americans.
But if it was over in the warehouse, as Johnny Lee concurred with Freeman, this wasn’t the case on the coast road. Bone Brady’s squad automatic weapon, though taking out the motorcycle and sidecar combo with one accurate burst as opposed to the NKA machine gunners’ wildly inaccurate spraying, became so hot firing at the ensuing three-truck convoy, taking out two of the half-ton Chinese-style vehicles, that the SAW was steaming in the rain and he had to change to the backup barrel. He made the switch in under three seconds, a remarkable achievement, given the appalling weather and his injury, but it wasn’t fast enough to stop the third truck.
Unlike the first two, which had burst into flames, sending their occupants, many engulfed by the gas tanks’ explosions, fleeing into the rain-soaked brush, this third truck, though stopped, was discharging its unharmed occupants. Through his NVGs Bone saw at least twenty heavily armed NKA regulars spilling out of the truck, down into the road’s drainage ditch, so that now the truck formed a barricade between them and Bone twenty yards away across the road. By now he was coming under incessant rifle fire, added to now and then by the telltale rattle of AK-47s and what sounded like several more up-to-date AK-74s.
“Aussie!” shouted the general, “go help Bone. Back here in five. We have eight minutes.”
“Back in five!” confirmed Aussie, clipping a fresh thirty-round mag into his HK MP5, grabbing Choir’s SEMTEX parcel with his left hand, his HK in his right, then hightailing it through the length of the warehouse, leaping over several bullet-popped ammunition boxes, which seconds before had constituted the NKA’s “city wall.” The flashes of white streaking past him were the body heat from the defeated defenders of the warehouse who, under shouted directions from Choir Williams, Lee, and Salvini, were throwing down their weapons. The clattering of their discarded steel sent a medieval-like ring through the huge, prefabricated warehouse, which, ironically, Freeman discovered on noticing the imprint of a U.S. Marine I-beam during the careful but fast surrender, had been built by the U.S. Army’s Corps of Engineers for the South Koreans before the Korean War had ended and the DMZ line was drawn farther south.
For all their expertise in assembling and disassembling any firearm known to man, Choir and Salvini, who had the job of deactivating the North Koreans’ weapons while the general and Johnny Lee ordered their prisoners to remove their boots, didn’t have sufficient time to spike every single NKA weapon.
“Seven minutes!” shouted the general, who now rapidly distributed his pancake-sized lumps of SEMTEX among the growing pile of surrendered weapons, which included several of the rocket-propelled grenade launchers and the prisoners’ boots. He then stuck multiple short lengths of ten-second det cord into the pancakes of plastique, as Johnny Lee herded the single line of bootless POWs, about fourteen in all, out of the warehouse via the southern door, after which he told them that they had ten seconds to run the last few yards of the Y’s left fork and to cross the road. “After that,” he told them, “Da ssa bo ryo—we’ll open fire.” As he hustled the last of the prisoners out the door, his voice took on a wry tone, a habit he’d picked up from Aussie Lewis and the Welshman Choir. “Kochang-kapshida—Please go straight!” he said.
The prisoners needed no encouragement, for already they were quickly, if awkwardly, making their way along the last few yards of the gravel pathway toward the road’s shoulder at the top of the Y, which they scampered up, several slipping on the shoulder’s rain-slicked slope until they got to the road, Lee informing Bone and Aussie via his throat mike not to fire on them, as they were unarmed and now bootless, which was evident when they began to cross the badly potholed coast road. Unused to traveling barefoot, they were hopping about in the rain like apprentice firewalkers. Never had one of the best-equipped armies in Asia been so disabled, driving home the fact to Johnny Lee how once again Freeman had proved worthy of his legendary status in the history of American arms. Having experienced the same humiliation himself during a South Asian mission years before, he had subsequently made it a fail/pass test for any of his SpecFor members. If you couldn’t hump a regular combat pack of seventy pounds, the same weight that the Grecian hoplites in the age of Troy had had to carry into battle, for twenty miles, in bare or “stockinged feet,” as the SAS boys in Wales put it, you could not be a member of a Freeman team.
Bone and Aussie, Aussie holding the remote detonator for the SEMTEX packs, saw the POWs crossing the road a hundred yards south of them, the POWs’ tenderfoot progress across the rough bitumen providing Aussie with the only moment of levity during the attack. “Look,” he told Bone. “Fucking Bolshoi Ballet — fairies in transit!”
But Bone Brady didn’t have time to look south, because he’d just seen an infrared “bloom” in his NVGs, which, even given its blurred outline in the rain, was clearly recognizable to him as a Chinese-made T-55 main battle tank with NKA markings. It was an old model, but both men could see it had been upgunned.
“Fark!” said Aussie. “That fucker’s loaded for bear, Bone. Time to go, mate.”
The sight of the tank not surprisingly emboldened some of the NKA soldiers across the road who’d been hunkering down behind the three-ton truck, and now their small-arms fire increased from the occasional pot shot and wild burst, most of it coming from under the truck itself.
For a moment Aussie and Bone had been so well dug in with the SAW that the first glimpse of the tank didn’t bother Bone, but the moment he and Aussie heard the T-55 slewing its turret, the big, ugly 115mm upgunned cannon swinging in their direction, they exited the gun pit after throwing five high-explosive grenades across the road. It would buy them at least ten, maybe twenty, seconds before the NKA could bring their tank-led attack to bear.
Running back to the warehouse, Aussie tossed the last two smoke grenades he had, and heard Freeman’s voice: “Five minutes!” which meant that that was all the time they had to race back down to the beach to the RS. The plan was to do it in a quick, staggered-dash withdrawal, but Salvini, the designated MANPAD-box carrier, had taken a bad fall halfway down to the beach and still hadn’t reached the RS. They’d have to buy him time. Aussie pushed the detonator button. The earth shook behind them and belched flame as the warehouse exploded in a giant orange-red ball of splintered wood, ammo casings, and ammunition, momentarily illuminating the barefooted Koreans in stark relief.
As pilot and copilot aboard the RS, Eddie Mervyn and Gomez were exercising what the instructors of Germany’s Spec Op Grenzschutzgruppe 9 routinely referred to in joint NATO Ops as “professional patience.” It was yet another military term for “staying cool,” or rather, trying to, in an increasingly stressful situation. The RS’s Zulu clock showed them that the team had only four minutes to reach the RS before castoff, the reversible-submersible sitting on the sandy bottom of the crescent beach’s surf line in two fathoms of water, and rolling in the storm surge despite the craft’s computerized stabilizer fins that were constantly moving in and out from their recessed sheaths.
“Choir’s not going to like this rockin’ and rollin’,” said copilot Gomez.
“No,” said Eddie with uncharacteristic brevity and finality. His temptation as pilot was to risk a quick “up scope,” but he dismissed the idea. Even in the twelve feet of water that afforded the RS at least a three-foot “hide” margin, they could hear the firefight moving ominously closer to the beach from the slope beyond, which meant that the team must be coming down the Y, laying suppressing fire behind them.
The team was doing just that, to allow Salvini time to recover the MANPAD box, from where he’d dropped it off trail among the stiffly resistant bushes and nettles, and reach the beach.
Raising the search scope would enable Mervyn to see what was going on, but rather than aiding Salvini in any way, the “up scope” might identify the craft’s position to any pursuing NKA troops, who by now, Mervyn guessed, were coming pell-mell down the Y.
“What the hell’s that?” Gomez asked, indicating the passive sonar’s waterfall. It looked as if the wafer-thin waterfall screen of sound lines had suddenly been violently kicked, the normally placid cascade of vertical lines broken up into a high-pitched, sizzling static. But this was not the jamming static purposely emitted by the powerful generators aboard McCain and its battle group to support the Payback team mission. It was clearly coming from a local source.
The source was the extraordinary vibrations caused by the NKA’s upgunned T-55. Having rolled past the warehouse, it was now descending the Y astride the Y’s flooded track, the tank belching coal-black exhaust from its twelve-cylinder diesel engine and spraying a hail of both 7.62mm and higher-caliber rounds from its coaxial and independently fired machine guns as it lumbered down toward the beach. Crushing all in its path, mashing stout brush and tangled vines into the rain-sodden earth, the tank’s vibrations shook the electronic life out of the RS’s waterfall screen, the RS itself now no more than seventy yards away as the behemoth dipped then climbed up the western side of the last sand dune between it and the hard, wet sand at the surf’s edge.
“They’re out of the shed,” John Cuso quietly informed Admiral Crowley as they watched the latest satellite pix’s infrared readout on McCain’s Big Blue. Officially, Cuso was off duty, but no one in SES or on the bridge wanted to be caught sleeping during one of the most exciting McCain-launched missions in the carrier’s long and illustrious career. What made it especially riveting for the relatively small number of men and women who’d been selected to participate in the highly secretive launch of the RS was that they knew, together with the other nearly six thousand souls aboard the boat, that this had been the officially sanctioned retribution—“media deniable,” of course — for the horrors unleashed in the murderous MANPAD attacks against American civilians.
Up till now, the fury of the Force 9 charging south from Siberia into the East Sea had clouded SATPIX infrared surveillance, but, through a break in the deceptively calm eye of the storm, the big blue screen, or rather, the state-of-the-art computers that fed its data blocks with information relayed by the satellite, had enough clear weather to pick up the action 22,300 miles below the satellite’s orbit.
“Looks dicey,” commented off-duty air boss Ray Lynch. “What’s that big job with the camouflage net over it?”
“A tank,” said one of the twelve electronic warfare officers who sat reverentially beneath Big Blue.
“Upgunned T-55, we think,” put in another, to ameliorate his fellow EWO’s sarcasm. “A hundred and thirty-five millimeter.”
“Laser guided,” proffered another EWO.
“Possibly,” said his colleague.
Air boss Ray Lynch shook his head and moved back a little from the screen, nursing his thick mug of java. He didn’t say anything, but some of these Navy guys knew squat when it came to tanks. Before he’d become air boss and was a fighter jock during the Iraqi wars, he’d been in action against tanks, particularly the ubiquitous T-55, of which Russia alone had over 25,000, and he’d never seen a 135mm T-55. Putting that size cannon on a 36-ton T-55 chassis would be like mounting a howitzer on a pickup. Fire a round and the recoil’d kill everyone aboard. But he didn’t say anything — just stood there, watching the screen.
Lynch was already violating the strict Blue Tile prohibition against smoking and bringing food and beverages into the SES, but he was allowed to get away with it because of the extraordinary stress and awesome responsibility of his job. Managing the equivalent of four metropolitan airports at peak hour simultaneously, and all this on a four-and-a-half-acre slab, required lots of coffee and the nerves of a quarterback. And he’d just brought in the entire “Snoopy Gang,” as McCain’s aviators referred to both the roto-domed early-warning Hawkeye and the magnetic-anomaly-detecting sub hunter Viking, the two of these relatively slow, fixed-wing aircraft having been protected by Chipper Armstrong, Rhino Manowski, and the other two pilots of the Joint Strike Fighter quad. All eleven men had been talked down through the violence of the Force 9 by Ray Lynch, who hadn’t considered his job done until he’d personally observed that the Hawkeye’s pilot, copilot, Combat Information Center Officer (CICO), air control officer, and radar officer, the latter three known as the plane’s three moles, had been safely deplaned.
After hours of being cooped up in the Hawkeye’s windowless, equipment-stuffed section of the fuselage and staring at nothing but their banks of computer screens and data blocks, looking for the HAN-class sub and losing contact with her in the lightning rage nor’nor’west of Ullŭng Island, the moles, as was usually the case, were blinded by the dawn’s early light, weak though it was in the storm’s eye. Only after Lynch had seen the three moles linking hands and led childlike from the plane by a white shirt did he allow himself a coffee break.
As he was watching the drama of Beach 5 unfolding on Big Blue, the hushed tones of McCain’s EWOs unintentionally only adding to the tension rather than ameliorating it, Ray Lynch reaffirmed his conviction that no matter how heart-stopping it could be to be a fighter jock, such as aces Armstrong and Manowski, flying the most lethal war machines man has ever made, or how stressful it was for him to be the man who had to bring them safely down on the boat’s roof, surely nothing could compare with the hard, brutal work of warriors killing other warriors face-to-face.
Ironically, the white IR image of the T-55 appeared much sharper on the screen, because of the clarity of Big Blue’s computers, than it did in the NVGs of Freeman, Choir, Lee, Aussie, and Bone as they poured concerted fire through a 180-degree arc at the IR blobs of white that were the NKA soldiers using the brutish tank as protection.
