The SEALs could not rely on luck for long, however, or even on the disorganization of the enemy. When North Korean troops arrived at Nyongch'on, they would come in strength, and fourteen SEALS, even reinforced by Chimera's crew, would not be able to hold out for very long.
Though the SEALs would never have admitted it, they needed help. That help had already been factored into the rescue plan.
"Bushmaster Seven, this is Bush One," Sikes's voice said from the backpack radio which had been left in the hide. "Do you copy? Over."
Coyote picked up the handset. Kohl was still busy picking off Korean sentries who had escaped the general slaughter in the camp. "Copy, Bush One. Go ahead."
"Make signaclass="underline" Sunrise Blue."
That was it! The code message which meant that Nyongch'on and the prisoners were secure! "Copy, Bush One. Sunrise Blue!"
"After you secure the transmitter, get your tails on down here. We've got a way to go yet before we collect our paychecks."
"Roger that." Coyote glanced at Kohl, who was already slinging his rifle. "We're packing up now."
"Bush One, out."
The diminutive satellite dish was already set up, aligned with an invisible point in the southern sky. Coyote flipped switches on the backpack radio as he'd been shown earlier, listening to the hiss and crackle of static over the handset speaker.
"Homeplate, Bushmaster," he said. "Homeplate, this is Bushmaster."
After an eternity, a static-charged voice replied, "Bushmaster, this is Homeplate. We copy."
"Sunrise Blue! I say again, Sunrise Blue!"
"Copy, Bushmaster. Sunrise Blue. The cavalry's on its way!"
Coyote had never heard such beautiful words.
The four RH-53D Sea Stallions of Cavalry One had been orbiting their marshall point for several hours, refueling once from one of Jefferson's KA-6D tankers. The noise in the cargo cabin was deafening, too loud for normal speech. When the word came through over his headphones from the pilot that Sunrise Blue had been received, Lieutenant Victor A. Morgan merely turned and gave a thumbs-up to the waiting, watching Marines crowded into the compartment.
The answering roar momentarily drowned out the Sea Stallion's engine noise, as forty Marines shouted in unison, "Gung-ho!"
Morgan rested one hand against the Sea Stallion's bulkhead and patted it fondly. Eight Sea Stallions had been part of the Eagle Claw operation in 1980, the Delta Force attempt to rescue fifty-three American hostages in Iran, and the hydraulic failure of one of them in the harsh desert conditions over the Dashte Kavir had been largely responsible for the abort on that mission. The task force had been in the process of pulling out when another helo collided with a C-130, capping the raid with disaster. Two of the eight dead at Desert One had been Marines.
This morning, though, the Marines were giving the old Navy workhorse a chance to redeem herself. Cavalry One consisted of four RH-53Ds; three carried forty-two-man rifle platoons, a fourth a weapons platoon and headquarters element. Altogether, the cavalry for this particular rescue made up a complete Marine rifle company under the command of Captain Samuel L. Ford.
Upon receiving the Sunrise Blue code, the four aircraft dropped to wave-top height and raced toward the Korean shore at 160 mph. By this time, all identified SAM sites and antiaircraft batteries had been hit by the hunting packs of Jefferson's Hornets and Intruders. Lone North Koreans wandering around on the ground with shoulder-launched Grails or machine guns still posed a threat, but not a large one. By contour flying, hugging the shape of the ridges' broken terrain, the helos would give little warning of their approach, and at low altitude they would not be in sight for more than a few seconds. Tomcats circling overhead would provide cover against enemy MiGs, but it was surprise and speed which would get the Sea Stallions to their landing zone.
Getting them out would be another problem entirely, but Lieutenant Morgan was more than happy to leave that worry to the operation's planners. For the moment, his only thought was to get his platoon to the Nyongch'on LZ fast, before the SEALs found themselves facing more than they could handle. It would be his first time in combat.
With the shriek of GE turbines and the heavy clatter of rotors, the cavalry thundered toward the beach.
It took several long minutes to dismantle and fold the satellite dish and stow it with the radio in its pack. The gunfire from the camp had entirely died away. So far, there was no sign that the capture of Nyongch'on-kiji had been noticed by any of the other PDRK Army commands in the area. That wouldn't last for long.
"You going to be able to make it with that leg?" Kohl asked.
"I'll make it." Coyote was already wondering if he could. The pain was much worse. It felt like his left knee would buckle if he put any weight on it at all.
"Here." Kohl unslung his G3 rifle and handed it to Coyote, exchanging it for the radio pack which he shrugged onto his back. "Safe's on. Don't lean on the suppressor." He stooped and unscrewed the night sight, which he packed away into a padded tube which looked like a camera lens case. Coyote found that by planting the butt of the weapon on the ground and leaning against the foregrip he could stand. Most of the trip would be downhill, a cautious series of sideways steps using the rifle as a cane.
"You get dirt in my receiver and you'n me are gonna have words," Kohl added, but his grin robbed the threat of its sting. "Let's get down there ASAP."
"Right with you."
Their progress was painfully slow. Kohl led the way, his Mark 22 drawn, his night goggles down over his eyes as he picked out a relatively clear path down the slope. Coyote did not have goggles, but by now he could see well enough by the gasoline-fueled blaze which was roaring in Nyongch'on. Halfway down the hill, loose rocks slid from beneath Coyote's good foot and he hit the ground with a thump that brought tears to his eyes, so sharp was the pain from his wound.
"You okay, guy?"
Coyote gasped down a deep breath. "Yeah. You go ahead."
"Okay, but don't get lost. I'd hate to have to explain how I mislaid you."
The SEAL vanished into the darkness down the slope as Coyote struggled to his feet again. How had he made it this far before? Finding a relatively flat spot next to an outcropping of rocks, he paused to catch his breath.
He heard a thrashing noise in the brush to his left. At first he assumed it was Kohl, but then he realized that, so far, he'd not heard any of the SEALs make a single unnecessary sound. Someone was running through the brush, heading his way.
Coyote froze. He didn't have a radio, and to shout warning would be to broadcast his location to every Korean soldier in range. In his hands, his cane became a rifle once more as he let himself sink to the ground. Where was Kohl? The SEAL had vanished into the darkness just ahead.
"Nuku'simnikka?" a harsh voice challenged. Coyote heard the harsh chuff-chuff of Kohl's hush puppy firing twice, followed by a piercing scream. Then the night came alive with the roar of unsuppressed autofire.
He saw a tongue of flame exploding from the darkness to the left, spraying wildly back and forth as an unseen Korean soldier sprayed the night. Coyote raised Kohl's G3 rifle, thumbed off the safety, and fired at where he thought the soldier must be, behind the lashing flame, and high.
In his haste, he'd thumbed the selector to full-auto, but the suppressor on the barrel muted the roar and muffled the flash.