Roh heard the jets thundering back and started running away from the road.
As he banked hard right to come around again, Chon armed his cluster bombs. They would drop all their ordnance in one pass, and there would be no second chance.
“Phoenix Flight, this is Lead. Attack in echelon.”
Clicks acknowledged his order, and Chon started concentrating on his flying. More flares went off ahead, lighting up the rugged countryside, and he pulled the A-10’s nose higher to clear a hill just ahead.
As he popped over the tree-lined hill’s jagged summit, Chon saw what looked like a cloud of fireflies and streaks of light zipping past his canopy. Tracers. He tried to avoid flinching. The A-10 was armored, but no sane pilot trusted in armor to keep his airplane flyable. He’d already been shot down once by enemy flak and he wasn’t about to let it happen again.
Chon punched his flare dispenser to automatic and set his HUD for a cluster bomb drop directly over the center of the road now coming up fast.
One concentration of tracers attracted his attention. His eyes narrowed. They were coming from some sort of flak vehicle, and he was tempted to give it a quick cannon burst after he’d made his pass. Chon fought the temptation. Attacking alerted defenses wasn’t wise. The mission was to destroy what they were trying to defend.
He reached for the bomb release.
Roh told the men near him to fire, and purely for effect, he emptied his own pistol at the dark shapes streaking overhead. He could see their undersides clearly in the light cast by his burning vehicles.
As his pistol clicked empty, the North Korean swore to himself. He’d identified the attackers. They were American A-10s and pistol bullets wouldn’t bother them any more than they would a tank. Each spewed a trail of incandescent flares as it roared past.
His motionless truck column disappeared in a blinding series of rippling detonations. Hundreds of flashes tore up and down the line of now-abandoned vehicles and blossomed across the frozen paddies on either side of the road. A cluster of furnace-white fireballs rising in the air told him that the fuel tankers needed at Taejon were gone.
Temporarily blinded, Roh blinked and looked away from the flames, trying to spot the American-made aircraft as they fled the scene of their victory. He was gratified to see that some of his men were still firing at them.
A shoulder-launched SAM flashed up into the night sky, darting after one of the fleeing jets. Roh urged it on silently, hoping that his troops might achieve some small success by at least downing an enemy plane. But then the SAM veered away, tracking a decoy flare instead of the vanishing A-10. He cursed and threw his pistol into the snow.
Two hundred meters away, the inferno along the highway became visible as the dust and smoke cleared. Almost every truck had been lacerated by fragments or by actual bomblet explosions. And at least half were on fire. Roh stared hard at them, trying to remember which ones carried ammunition.
One of the vehicles exploded, aiding his memory.
The First Shock Army would have to make do without its supplies.
The rising sun cast long, sharp-edged shadows across the base and gleamed brightly off snow piled beside its runways. One by one the arc lights that had illuminated the airfield winked off, no longer needed to turn night into day.
The Soviet armaments officer yawned and stretched, trying to work a painful crick out of his neck. He stopped to stare in wonder at the sight before his eyes. It had been dark when the last regiment of bombers flying in from the Northern Fleet had landed, and he’d been so busy that he hadn’t really paid much attention.
But now it was impossible not to. He’d never seen his base so crowded before. Nearly sixty twin-engined Backfire bombers were parked across the field — some wingtip to wingtip, others in protective revetments. Every technician he had surrounded the bombers, manhandling AS-4 Kitchen antiship missiles into place under each wing.
He glanced at his watch. Excellent. His men would finish rearming and refueling the Backfires well ahead of the general’s deadline. And then the American carriers steaming arrogantly off South Korea would have something new to worry about.
The Red Navy’s Surface Action Group One steamed southwest at twenty knots, slicing through moderate seas under clear skies. The massive Kirov-class battle cruiser Frunze occupied the center, accompanied by two older missile cruisers and two modern Sovremennyy-class destroyers. Other cruisers, destroyers, and frigates surrounded the surface strike force as part of a thick ASW and air defense screen.
Three fighter squadrons — two of MiG-23s and one of MiG-29s — orbited endlessly overhead, constantly relieved by new squadrons dispatched from bases near Vladivostok or on the island of Etorofu. All waited eagerly for the word to pounce on any incoming American airstrike.
Surface Action Group One was just twenty hours away from the vital Tsushima Strait.
Brown stared hard at the enhanced satellite photos. “When were these taken?”
Captain Ross, his threat team commander, checked his watch. “About an hour ago, Admiral.”
“Jesus, Sam, we’ve got big-time trouble here.”
Ross nodded his agreement. Between them, the Soviet bomber force and the oncoming surface action group could catch Constellation and Nimitz in one hell of a bear hug.
Brown handed the photos to his chief of staff and clasped his hands behind his back. “Any political intelligence on their intentions?”
“Negative, Admiral. Still no word out of Moscow on what they’re up to.”
Brown swore and started pacing the length of the Flag Plot. Ross and the chief of staff kept pace with him. “Okay, guys. Here’s the way I see it. The Soviets might just be trying to put some extra pressure on us. Maybe they’re hoping to force us to reduce our close-air support sorties for the footsloggers. Maybe…” The admiral turned and walked back the way he’d come. “But we can’t take that chance. We’ve got to assume their intentions are hostile.”
“Agreed, sir.”
Brown stopped by the large-scale map display. “All right, then, gentlemen. Here’s how we’ll play this thing.” He paused and then went on, “Effective immediately, we’ll alter course to close the Tsushima Strait ourselves — ahead of that damned Russian task force. In the meantime I want all ground-support missions halted. Tell CAG I want his strike crews to stand down for a mandatory eight-hour rest. After that, I want a full-scale antiship strike spotted on deck and ready to go when I give the word.”
Brown looked closer at the plot. “How long before those bastards cross the line into our three-hundred-mile exclusion zone?”
“Twenty-four hours, Admiral.”
Brown grimaced. “Then I suspect those are going to be the longest goddamn twenty-four hours of our lives, gentlemen. Let’s stay sharp.”
The admiral stayed where he was as the other two men hurried away to carry out his orders. Beneath his feet, he felt the Constellation heeling over onto her new course — headed south. South toward the Tsushima Strait. South toward a rendezvous with the Red Navy.