“First wave of airborne will go in via Iwo Jima’s Super Stallion helos — thirty-five men apiece. Ten helos to secure the airstrip’s perimeter, and then the Hercules out of Japan will land if possible. They’re checking satellite photos now — if they can’t do that, cargo will be palletized. Just so you know what’s going on.” It meant that if the airstrip was secured by the troops, the 155-millimeter howitzers, strapped tightly to wooden and metal frames, would slide out over the rear ramp of the big aircraft as they thundered in at less than a hundred feet above the ground, the equipment-filled pallets of guns, ammunition, and other supplies braked by the simultaneous deployment behind the pallet of three drag chutes.
“If the Iwo Jima can spare them, it will also launch a dozen vertical-takeoff Harriers to act as gun platforms in case Charlie starts bringing up artillery around the airfields.”
“Sir, wouldn’t they already have the strips zeroed in?”
“Not from the intelligence photos we have. It would appear they’re racing like hell to the south for a final push against Pusan and that they’ve decided to put all the heavy guns down there to open up a gap through the perimeter. Hopefully we’ll be able to take them by surprise. The distances aren’t that long, nothing further than about a hundred and forty miles in. If we can secure one of those two airfields for a few days to fly more of our boys in, we can buy time for the guys trapped in that jammed perimeter and hopefully segment their supply line. That’s what it’s all about.”
The briefing officer took a sip of water. “Also, we’ve received news that we’ve got nine B-52s at Guam patched up and ready to go in about a week. Ground crews down there have been doing an outstanding job getting them ready. If we can buy our guys a few extra days in that perimeter, pretty soon the B-52s will be able to pound the shit out of the gooks’ supply line. Whatever happens, we can’t let them push our guys into the sea. That happens, it may be years — maybe never — before we get it back. After Nam, that’d be two losses in a row.” He paused. “Third target we’ve been charged with. Shirer, you’ll lead a second wave of Tomcats to fly cover for a combined helo-borne infantry and MAGTAF strike from the helo carrier Saipan against Pyongyang.”
There was a low whistle from one of the navigators, and several pilots looked over at one another — a few in silent sympathy for the marines and other infantry who would be going in deep behind enemy lines.
“The psychological significance of this mission, if successful, will be tremendous, gentlemen. Our problem, however, is to get through their radar screen. Now, we can go in low as far as the coast and they won’t pick us up, but once we climb over the Taebek Range, we’ll be on their radar immediately. From the coast it’ll be a hundred and twenty miles in. The helos from the Iwo will be following ravine contours as far as possible and discharging flares against heat seekers. But the MiGs are sure to come in before we get halfway there. Shirer, you deal with them, and remember Pyongyang is surrounded with SAMs. We’ll proceed with the fly-in no matter what happens, allowing for ten minutes of fuel for low ground-support attacks. The North Koreans had air supremacy when they first crossed the DMZ, but now our fleet’s moved up, we hope to even the score.”
“They intend getting those marines back, sir?” asked Shirer’s RIO.
“It’s been carefully thought out. That’s all.”
“That’s no answer,” said Fisher, “that it’s all been thought out. So was Carter’s attack on Iran.”
“Doolittle,” said Shirer.
“What?”
“Doolittle’s attack on Tokyo not long after Pearl Harbor. Gave the allies one hell of a lift.”
“Yeah, but it won’t be much of a lift for those marines and other poor slobs.”
“Well,” answered Shirer, “all I know is that if I was in that Yosu corner and I heard a Commie capital had been hit, it’d boost my morale. Can’t underestimate morale, Fish. Sometimes it’s almost as good as live ammo.”
“Think they can do it?”
“Think you can do it?”
“What — piece of cake. I’m worried about the guys who’ll be on the ground.”
“You worry about the damn radar.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The old town clock in Halifax began its quarter-hour peals as Lana and three other Waves on their first day off walked along the tree-arched trails in Mount Pleasant Park. Out on the harbor, the replica of the famous Bluenose II, her sharp, classic lines undiminished by time, was cutting spritely through the cobalt water, the grace of her design, which had won so many international trophies in the first part of the twentieth century, a striking contrast to the gathering fleet of U.S. and Canadian ships. The smell of the sea was on the east breeze, and had it not been for the dozens of gray shapes dotted about the harbor north of them, the light, invigorating wind coming off the North Atlantic could have convinced Lana all was right with the world. As yet the only casualties they had had to deal with had been a few broken legs and arms and one man badly injured after being struck by a sailboat’s boom while assigned to help crew a visiting admiral in one of Halifax’s many yachts. His injury had been entered as “DA” by the head nurse, a stout, no-nonsense Englishwoman whom the Canadians called “Matron.”
“No, not dead on arrival,” Matron had said humorlessly, demonstrating how such things had to be handled if one was to work one’s way through the bureaucracy. “DA means ‘dockyard accident,’ “ she explained brusquely.
It was a small enough incident, but it meant that responsibility and costs would be entered against the dockyard rather than the Canadian navy, and it told Lana something about Matron and the bureaucratic system they’d have to contend with even in a harbor that in wartime became one of the busiest and most strategically important in the world, the start of the long convoy runs across the Atlantic and a port that during the Second World War had repaired more than six thousand Allied ships.
Lana had been asked out several times by young doctors at the hospital, but declined, her experience with Jay having been so traumatic that while it didn’t sour her against men in general, it made her wary — and the very thought of having to fend off the uninvited and inevitable sexual advances was too much to contemplate. For now it was all she could handle to pass the examinations in a punishingly more concentrated training period than was normal, because both Washington and Ottawa had advised Halifax that a “substantial number of casualties” could be expected.
The scuttlebutt had it that a convoy from England was already en route. And in the pubs around the old cobbled streets of the “Historic Properties,” where press gangs had once roamed shanghaiing “volunteers” for Her Majesty’s Navy, there was a rumor claiming empty container ships had been sent first so as not to risk any vital cargo. A “guinea pig” run for the British and Americans. The Halifax Chronicle printed the story.
Within three hours SACLANT in Virginia and CFB — Canadian Forces Base Halifax — flatly denied the assertion, pointing out that container ships were now in the process of loading some of the millions of tons of materiel that would be needed to reinforce Europe. The Chronicle’s publisher was invited to the admiral’s house for tea. It was brief, polite, and during the conversation the admiral asked the publisher’s advice on whether or not he thought it would be worth, “in the public interest,” running a story on the Canadian War Measures Act. He reminded the publisher that the last time it had been used was in 1970— when the then Liberal prime minister, Trudeau, had deployed armed soldiers on the steps of Parliament, and during which time, the admiral noted, newspapers, along with everyone else, were forbidden under the emergency powers to discuss the FLQ — Front Liberation du Quebec — the terrorist organization that had kidnapped Labour Minister Pierre LaPorte, shot him dead, and dumped him in the trunk of a car.