The General Secretary felt cold. Had the Americans gone mad? First an unprovoked attack and now this nuclear saber rattling. What were they up to? “You were right to bring this news to my immediate attention, Ivan Antonivich. It should have been done before this by others in this government.” He picked up the special secure phone kept permanently beside his desk. “Get me Admiral Marenkov.”
Marenkov, commander of the Red Navy, came on the line in moments. The automatic scrambling made his voice sound hollow. “Yes, Comrade General Secretary?”
“As chairman of the Defense Council and Commander in Chief, I am ordering you to institute Plan Sanctuary immediately.” Under Sanctuary, all of the Soviet Union’s own SSBNs would be deployed behind a screen of minefields, attack subs, and ASW hunter-killer groups. Once safe in their bastions, the missile submarines would stand ready to strike back should the Americans attack.
“I understand. Sanctuary will be under way within the hour.”
“Excellent, Yuri. I’ll confirm this order by teletype before then.” The General Secretary hung up and reached for a sheet of paper. He began writing with quick, forceful strokes of the pen. “Ivan Antonivich, you will carry this to the Communications Office personally. Under no circumstances will you allow its transmission to be delayed. Understand?”
His aide nodded and took the written order in hand. He still looked uncertain.
“Was there something else, Colonel?”
“Yes, sir. There have been certain, ah, rumors, about the attack on our submarine and its mission in those waters. Perhaps they are nothing more than idle gossip, but if true…” The colonel’s voice trailed away.
The General Secretary sat up straighter. He’d learned early in his career never to discount rumors. They were often the best possible source of information. “Very well. Repeat these whispers to me.”
When the colonel finished speaking, the General Secretary’s face was set in hard lines. He suddenly looked older than his sixty years. “Thank you for your candor, Colonel. I shall take what you have said under advisement. You are dismissed for the moment.”
After his aide had gone, he picked up the secure phone again and placed another call.
The lowlight TV picture was perfect. So perfect that the officers clustered around the monitors in Wisconsin’s Combat Engagement Center could easily make out individual foxholes and camouflaged heavy weapons. The view shifted slightly as the Israeli-made reconnaissance drone began another orbit.
“Well, well, well. Look what we have here, Skipper.” Lieutenant Commander Jason Matthews, the battleship’s gunnery officer, poked the monitor’s screen gently.
Captain Edward Diaz followed his subordinate’s stubby finger and smiled. The screen showed a collection of tents liberally festooned with radio antennas. “That’s a pretty nice looking command post, Jas. Any bets on just what kind?”
Matthews matched his commander’s smile. “Oh, I’d say a regimental HQ at least. Maybe a division.”
“Fantastic. Make that the first target.”
Matthews nodded and moved to the ship’s ballistic computer. The ratings manning it nodded as he spoke, fingers flashing over keyboards. After just a few seconds the gunnery officer looked up at Diaz. “Guns locked in, Skipper. Ready to fire at your signal.”
Diaz glanced at the clock: 0359. A minute left to go. He shook his head regretfully. “Hell, I never was very good at waiting. You may fire when ready, Jas.”
Matthews’s finger stabbed the fire control button and the Wisconsin rocked back — surging against the recoil as her nine 16-inch guns roared, hurling one-ton shells toward the Korean coast.
The men aboard the battleship watched their screens, waiting for the recon drone to show them where their shells landed. It took forty-eight seconds for the nine high-explosive-filled shells to fly the twenty nautical miles separating the Wisconsin from her targets.
“Holy God!” Matthews couldn’t hold in his exultation as the screens showed dirt and smoke bursting skyward all around the North Korean headquarters complex. When the smoke cleared, all that could be seen were a series of overlapping craters. Every tree within two hundred meters of the impact point had been blown down. “Scratch one collection of NK brass!”
Diaz was awed by the destruction his ship had unleashed. This was the real thing, not just target practice. He shook himself. “Gunnery Officer! Shift your fire to the other preplanned targets. Fire at will.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper.”
The Wisconsin’s captain stood watching as his guns began systematically obliterating North Korean beach defenses, supply dumps, and artillery positions. He grinned. It really was too bad that there weren’t any U.S. Marines within a hundred miles to take advantage of the holes they were tearing in the NK coastal defense.
The North Koreans might think they were going to get hit from the west, but they were wrong. McLaren’s knockout blow was coming from the east — from out of Korea’s rugged mountains. The NKs were about to get sucker-punched.
Colonel Tad Lassky, USMC, was a happy man. His three battalions had already advanced more than ten kilometers in the seven hours since the attack began — moving against light and sometimes even nonexistent opposition. And from what he heard over the command net, similar progress was being reported by each of the other nine American and South Korean divisions involved in the counterattack. For once the intelligence boys had got it right. Most of the best North Korean units were tied up in the bloody fighting around Taejon or along the coast. Those left guarding the eastern flank were spread too thinly to put up an effective resistance.
“Colonel, Second Battalion’s on the line.”
Lassky grabbed the handset. “Papa Fox Four Six to Fox Four Five. Go ahead, Bill.”
Lieutenant Colonel William Kruger’s bass tones crackled back through the receiver. “We’re coming up on a little village here, Tad. Recon reported some movement around it earlier this morning. Do you want us to bypass it or steamroller right through?”
Lassky checked the map before answering. “Clear it, Fox Four Five. We’re gonna need that road for supplies.”
“Aye, aye, Fox Four Six. Consider it done.”
Lassky smiled at the confidence he heard in Kruger’s voice. It was a confidence he shared. The 3rd Marine Division had been on the ground in South Korea for more than two weeks, pent up in secluded camps, waiting for just this moment. And now that McLaren had slipped the leash, Major General Pittman and his regimental commanders intended to make the most of their opportunities.
Kruger waved his three lead rifle companies into action. The white-smocked Marines spread out into a skirmish line across the frozen rice paddies and advanced, closing on the small cluster of houses several hundred meters ahead. He and his command group followed them off the road, stepping carefully onto the snow-coated ice. The 2nd Battalion’s CO believed in front-line leadership.
Everything stayed quiet until the Marines came within two hundred meters of the village. Then the North Korean defenders cut loose.
Kruger dove for the ground as NK machine guns and automatic rifles opened fire from concealed positions among the houses, raking the fields and toppling Americans whose reflexes weren’t fast enough. Kruger raised his head to see what was going on. Most of his men were in cover behind rice-paddy dikes, but several were sprawled unmoving out in the open.
KARUMMPHH. The ground trembled slightly as a small explosion blasted dirt and snow into the air behind the crouching Marines. KARUMMPHH. Another burst, this one closer. The North Koreans were walking light mortar rounds in on top of his pinned-down troops. Kruger swore vilely and crawled over to the Marine aviator assigned to his battalion as its FAC — forward air controller. He tapped the younger man on the shoulder and asked, “Well, Lieutenant, think you can rustle up some air support on that fancy radio of yours?”