Huerta checked his watch, peeling back the velcro to briefly reveal its luminous dial. It was nearly 0145, and there was a long way yet to go. Silently, he led his two partners toward the Wonsan Waldorf, retracing his steps of the night before.
Lieutenant Commander Greene kept his attention fixed on the VDI display as he banked the Intruder slightly west, lining up for the final run. For over thirty minutes, the Death Dealers had struck at targets up and down the Kolmo Peninsula. Flames licked at the sky in a dozen places now, where flak batteries and petroleum tank farms were burning. Intruder 555 had dropped the last of its bombs, a pair of five-hundred-pound Mark 82 GPs released over the south end of the airfield runway. There was no way to tell what had been hit, exactly, but the TENCAP photos had shown what looked like aircraft hangars in the area. Something big had gone up; flames painted the runway in lurid reds and yellows, and the glow lit up the sky.
Jolly had seen no MiGs during his passes over the field. They'd either been in the hangars ― in which case they were burning now ― or they'd been pulled out before the attack. No matter one way or the other; the runway had been struck again and again by Snakeeye retarded bombs and GPs, leaving the concrete cratered and broken.
"Feet wet," he announced over the radio as the Intruder swept eastward over the surf. The other Death Dealers were already heading back toward the Jefferson, or would be as soon as they dropped the last of their ordnance. "Take a coupla cold ones out of the fridge, guys, we're coming' home."
"Copy, Intruder Five-five-five," a voice replied. That would be Lieutenant Harkins, down in CATCC. "Come to zero-nine-eight and goose it. Can't help with the beer, but we've got a fresh load of Mark 82s waitin' for you."
Jolly looked over his left shoulder, at the fires highlighting the spine of Kolmo.
"Yeah, well, it beats hell out of target practice. Triple Nickle, coming in."
By the time Jolly Greene was back on Jefferson's flight deck, other American aircraft were again approaching the North Korean coast, helicopters this time, four monster CH-53E Super Stallions flying off the Chosin as minesweepers. Each helo strained against its load, a Mark 105 sled dragged through the water by a cable hung astern. Intelligence believed that the sea lanes and approaches outside of Wonsan Harbor were clear of mines ― there had been no cessation of seagoing traffic in or out of the city in the past week ― but the technology of mine warfare had improved at least as much as the technology used for clearing them. It was possible that there were seabed mines in place, awaiting only the throwing of a switch ashore to arm them. The sleds, mimicking the sounds and changing water pressure and magnetic profile of a warship, would trick the mines into exploding, if any were in place and active.
So far, intelligence had been proven right… a fact which promised healthy profits to those sailors and Marines who had bet against the odds.
Farther at sea, reveille had been called aboard the Chosin and her Marine Expeditionary Unit escorts, breakfast served, and inspections held for all hands with weapons and full kit.
Within the cavernous aft bay of the U.S.S. Little Rock, Marines were already loading themselves and their equipment onto the pair of odd-shaped vessels resting in the LPD's flooded docking well. Preparations were also underway on board the LST Westmoreland County, where AAVP7 amphibious tractors and LCVPs were being readied for embarkation. Farther out at sea, the rotors were already turning on four RH-53D Sea Stallions resting on Chosin's flight deck, as Marines filed up an outboard ladder, moved along the catwalk, then bent nearly double for the race across open deck and up the lowered rear ramps.
And farther out still, the U.S.S. Jefferson maintained her heading into the wind, launching aircraft almost as quickly as she recovered them. From now until Operation Righteous Thunder ended, there would be no rest at all for her crew, especially for the men of her deck division and air wing. Two of her four tankers were kept aloft at all times, refueling the planes awaiting their turn to trap, landing only when they themselves ran low on fuel. By 0230 hours, the second Alpha Strike was airborne and heading west, searching for SAM sites and radars which had eluded the first attack.
Jefferson's flight deck was a continuing whirlwind of activity, with red shirts hauling bombs and munitions up from the bowels of the ship, with the purple-shirted grapes refueling aircraft as quickly as they could, with exhausted hook-and-cat men continuing the never-ending ballet of breakdown, ready, shoot, and trap. The aviators and RIOs, if they were lucky, grabbed a few minutes' sleep at a time in their ready rooms. Most were too excited to do so, however. At long last they were being allowed to strike back at an enemy that had snickered at them, doing the jobs for which they had invested so much of their lives. Morale was good, expectations high.
And disaster was something even the most pessimistic man aboard simply refused to think about.
Most of the charges had been planted by now, but the SEALs wanted to wait as long as possible before springing their surprise on the unsuspecting North Koreans in the camp. The idea was to wait until 0430 hours, to give the Navy air strikes more time to hit their targets, but Huerta didn't think they'd be able to wait that long.
The truck pulled up from the direction of the HQ building, carrying two officers, a major and a captain. The four KorCom soldiers standing outside the prison compound gate stood hastily when they saw them climbing out of the cab.
The three SEALS, Han, Huerta, and Vespasio, had found cover beneath another truck parked across the road from the Korean guards. From there, Huerta could hear their voices clearly across the thirty feet which separated the soldiers from the hidden SEALS. Silently, he signaled Han. What are they saying?"
BM/1 Charlie Han was an American-born Angeleno, the son of South Korean immigrants. He was also one of three SEALs on the team who spoke Korean ― the best that could be done for a team assembled with such haste. Han listened for a moment, then leaned over, cupping his hand between his mouth and Huerta's ear.
"New orders," Han whispered, his voice so low it did not travel more than inches. Something about 'get them ready to move right away.'"
Huerta licked his lips. To be so close… He reached up and switched on his tactical radio. He did not speak, both for his own safety and for Sikes's. Instead, he punched the squelch button four times in rapid succession, the prearranged click code for the situation they'd all hoped would not arise: They're moving the prisoners. Orders?
There was a long pause. The answer, when it came, was three clicks, a pause, and three clicks more, the answer Huerta had expected. Silently, he touched Vespasio and pointed. The SEAL nodded, slid backward on his belly, then rolled out from under the truck. In seconds he was gone, a shadow moving through the night. Huerta looked at Han and grinned. The word was go!
Across the road, two more KorCom sentries trotted up, members of a roving patrol about the POW compound. More orders were given, something about leaving the wounded until later. Apparently, more trucks were being readied over at the motor pool. Huerta wondered if Robbins and Pasaretti had mined them yet.