Air operations on the Jefferson came to a halt.
How long can we keep them up?" Admiral Magruder's voice sounded grim over the batphone.
Lieutenant Commander Mike Leahy looked at the huge, transparent status board where every aircraft not within Pried-Fly's control pattern was listed, complete with its fuel state. "Admiral, we have two KA-6Ds airborne with full loads. That's better than twenty-one thousand pounds of fuel each, but it won't last long. Four of VFA-161's Hornets are inbound now, and they'll be on bingo fuel when they hit the marshall. We were going to have to tank them up just to get them trapped."
"The deck is closed," Magruder said. "Another hour at least."
"So I see, Admiral." One of the Air Op monitors showed the flight deck from a vantage point high up on the island looking down onto cats one and two. The fire was out, the wreckage shoved over the side by the Tilly. Green shirts were working now to replace a damaged catapult shuttle, while men used hoses to wash oil and bits of wreckage from the deck. "We're not going to be able to keep our planes flying, sir. Not with only two tankers up."
"Understood." He heard the admiral sigh. "Okay. Start working out a rotation schedule between here and Ch'unch'on. I'll give them a buzz and have them get a KC-135 airborne stat."
"That'll do it, Admiral." He thought for a moment. Ch'unch'on was a South Korean air base used by the U.S. Air Force, the closest of several such bases in the country. Allowing for a detour around North Korea, it was a one-hundred-twenty-mile flight from Jefferson's position. "We'll feed the Hornets from the KAs and send them back in. If they can get a tanker up out of Ch'unch'on, we shouldn't have to use any South Korean bingo fields at all."
"Okay. Great, if you can do it. Keep me posted." The batphone went dead.
Leahy considered the phone for a moment before replacing it in its cradle. Calling in South Korean-based assets could well up the ante in the escalating battle with the Koreans.
Not for the first time, Leahy was very glad he did not have the admiral's job.
"Here they come again! Pour it on them, Marines!"
Gunfire crashed from among the rubble and grenade-smashed ruin of what had once been warehouses across the road, as men in mustard-tan uniforms spilled from holes and doorways, brick piles and shattered walls, storming toward the west side of the camp. Simultaneously, there was a deafening blast and a black mushroom of smoke and earth sprouted in the center of the captured camp, close by the burned-out motor pool. The first blast was followed by a second, this one squarely in the fire-blackened skeleton of a garage. Splinters and debris sprinkled from the sky like rain.
But the Marines were too busy to notice. M-60 machine guns and M-16s barked and chattered, cutting down the KorCom soldiers halfway across the road. Those few who reached the chain-link fence died trying to climb it ― or died in heaps crowded through one of the gaps blasted through it during the night.
Lieutenant Morgan crouched behind a pile of sandbags, watching as the surviving Koreans broke off and retreated, straggling back to hidden positions among the shattered ruins across the street. The man beside him pressed binoculars to his face. "Got the bastards!"
"Rather a bloodthirsty attitude, isn't it, Carl?"
Lieutenant Carl Olivetti grinned. "Actually, it was the mortars I was talking about. Spotted the smoke that time!" Olivetti was a member of the company's headquarters unit, the company's Forward Air Controller. He unfolded a map across one knee, then picked up the handset of a radio phone. "Skyhawk! Skyhawk! This is Charlie Alpha Victor. Priority target, coordinates seven-three-five by six-six-niner." He continued to call in the target data, stopping from time to time for confirmation. Another mortar explosion showered them with dirt.
"Wish you were flying again, Carl?"
Olivetti laughed. "Hey, like they say. I'm a Marine rifleman temporarily assigned as a pilot!" It was an old joke, one with more than the usual grain of truth to it. Marine FACs were themselves pilots assigned to Marine companies as ground spotters and liaison with Marine air. But every Marine considered himself a combat rifleman first, no matter what his specialty.
He replaced the radio handset and turned, cupping his hands to his mouth. "Hey, Captain!" Olivetti yelled. Captain Ford ran toward them, doubled over to lower his profile. Another mortar round went off, this one at the north end of the camp.
"Whatcha got, Lieutenant?"
"Strike coming in, sir. We got a fix on the mortars. It should be any-"
He was interrupted by monsters rising above the ridge behind them. They were Marine SeaCobras, two-man helicopter gunships mounting six-barreled Gatling cannons and 2.5-inch rockets. They rose above the ridge crest east of the camp in a thunder of rotor noise.
Rockets ripple-fired from their pods, streaking across the sky on trails of white smoke, smashing into the opposite hillside with an avalanche of sound. Blast followed blast, as North Korean troops scattered beneath the onslaught.
The attack was over in seconds. Silence, when it returned, was an unearthly stillness which lay across the barren ridges like a blanket. In the distance, Morgan could hear the rumble of high-flying jets, the popping of helicopters.
"I think that got 'em," Ford said. He stood up looking west, hands on hips. "At least for a while."
"I hope it's a long while, sir," Morgan said. "We're running low on five-six-two already. And forty mike-mikes too." He was referring to the ammunition used by M-60s and M-16s, and to the 40-mm grenades fired from M-203s. He pushed his helmet back on his head, feeling the exhaustion drag at him. "How much longer, Captain?"
"Not much longer," Ford replied. He sounded tired too. He paused, as though listening. "This might be our chance now. Can't get any quieter than this."
"Hell, why wait for them?" Olivetti said. "We'll walk out."
"We sure as hell won't drive." They laughed. A number of Korean armored vehicles had been captured in the camp, but few of them were in working order, thanks either to the SEALs or to mechanical problems. It was Sergeant Walters's firm conviction that the Korean mess hall had served apricots for dinner the night before.
"I just came from the Waldorf," Ford said. "The wounded are ready to move. I think it's about time to get those damned helos in here, gentlemen, don't you?"
"Sounds good to me," Morgan said. He was mildly surprised. His first combat had carried fear but no great terror… and no great glory either. He didn't feel any different, and he was almost disappointed. After all, there was nothing much to combat but fear, dirt, mind-numbing exhaustion, and discomfort. "Let's call them in."
Olivetti was already adjusting the frequency on his radio. "Homeplate, Homeplate, this is Cavalry One. Do you copy, over?" He listened to the handset for a long moment, repeating himself once. Then, "Got them!" Ford and Morgan could not hear the reply. Olivetti squeezed the transmit button on the handset. "Homeplate, Cav One. Cavalry roundup, repeat, roundup!" He listened again. "They confirm, sir."
Morgan let out a pent-up breath. Cavalry roundup. The next few minutes would spell success or failure for the whole operation. So far, things had been going remarkably well, despite Second Platoon getting lost.
He found himself looking forward to getting back to the cramped and uncomfortable claustrophobia of the Chosin. He wouldn't have to wait much longer.
Pak checked his radar again, then confirmed the positions of the aircraft in the group. Plan Vengeance called for thirty MiG fighters to accompany the four Nanchangs. All planes were in position, the fighters in loose formation at one thousand meters, the bombers far below, skimming the rugged uplands east of P'yongyang.