Battle Born (36 page)

“I can’t say what we’ll do, Mr. President,” Martin-dale replied. “But the South Koreans have engineered this conflict without consulting us. It is an act of aggression that we do not encourage, support, or condone. I want to preserve the peace and stability of Asia. If it is in our best interests to act, we’ll act.”

It was a flimsy response, wishy-washy, and Kevin Martindale knew it. But there was no way to answer Primakov’s question without giving away more than he wanted to. He was trying not to provoke any of the superpowers while at the same time show that the United States still considered the region of vital American national interest. It was very possible that he failed to convince any of them of anything.

What was President Kwon Ki-chae thinking? Martindale wondered. Had he lost his mind, sending in a
few fighter-bombers to destroy North Korea’s million-man army? He had to know he would have to absorb some punishment—he could not be so stupid as to believe he could destroy all of the North’s missile punch in one blitzkrieg air raid. If he was expecting the Americans to come to his aid no matter what, he was dead wrong to have assumed that.

“Brave but cautious words,” Russian President and former KGB chief Yevgeniy Primakov said finally, through his translator. “You ask for peace but give us a veiled threat at the same time. You are willing to sacrifice a few thousand soldiers, hoping you can prevent several hundred thousand Chinese soldiers from sweeping down into the Korean peninsula to help the North.”

“What are you saying, Mr. President?” Chinese Defense Minister Chi asked. “Are you saying that China is in any way supporting this war? We are not, sir! We have had no information whatsoever that the North was going to launch a nuclear attack, and we certainly did not provoke the South into sending in those fighter-bombers over Pyongyang! But if our comrades in North Korea request our assistance, we have an obligation to render any assistance we deem necessary.”

“Then you condemn all of us to nuclear war!” Prime Minister Nagai shouted. “Such a response will surely require an equal response from the Americans, which will trigger a response from the Russians, which will trigger a bigger response from the Americans. We must all pledge to stay out of the fighting on the Korean peninsula. No one must interfere.”

“This we cannot agree to,” Minister Chi responded. “I will convey this conversation to my government, but I will advise President Jiang to support our comrades in North Korea and abide by our treaties of mutual cooperation, friendship, and defense. If the North asks for our assistance, I will recommend that we extend all necessary
support, including full military support. We shall consider an attack on North Korea by the South as an attack on the People’s Republic of China itself.” And Minister Chi hung up.

“Insane. This is truly insane,” came the voice of President Primakov’s translator. “I am afraid Russia has no choice but to prepare to respond to the threat before us, Mr. President. We no longer have a treaty of mutual aid and cooperation with North Korea, but my government would not look favorably upon any superpower invasion of the North. A Chinese mobilization and ground counteroffensive into North Korea is no great concern to us. But if China commits its air or missile forces in a way that threatens Russian bases or nationals, or if the United States chooses to engage China on the Korean peninsula, we must respond in kind.”

“And Japan would not look favorably upon any Russian mobilization of any kind,” Prime Minister Nagai said hotly. “Our forces may be small and insignificant compared to all others, but we will fight to the last man to preserve our homeland from the forces that now ravage the Korean peninsula. With or without America’s help, we will fight back.”

“I implore all of you, hold your anger and your military forces in check until we can analyze the outcome of the fight between the two Koreas—” But it was too late. Primakov and Nagai had also terminated their calls.

President Martindale set down his receiver, then leaned back in his seat, mentally and emotionally exhausted. He had laid everything on the table, he thought. He promised to do nothing. But he received no reciprocal promises in return. Quite the opposite: Chi Haotian was virtually promising he’d send in the Red Army to help North Korea. Any such move would trigger a response in Russia, just as it did in 1950 when
North Korea invaded the South. What was next? he thought. And how soon before . . .?

“Mr. President, something’s happening,” Secretary of Defense Arthur Chastain said. He was monitoring reports coming in from the Pentagon, which was receiving real-time radar and satellite data from American reconnaissance assets over Korea. “The border, the DMZ, it’s being crossed. Massive movement south along all sectors.”

“God,” said Martindale. It was happening, he thought grimly. The North Koreans were invading. Soon the South would retaliate; the Chinese Red Army would surge southward . . .

OVER SOUTHEASTERN NEVADA
THAT SAME TIME

B
ullrider, this is Avalanche, outlaw at zero-three-zero bull’s-eye, one hundred and twenty miles slowly descending from angels two-three-zero, speed three hundred and seventy knots, repeat, three-seven-zero. Right turn to zero-one-zero, take angels two-three to intercept.”

The pilot of the lead U.S. Air Force F-15C Eagle air superiority fighter, from the 366th Wing at Mountain Home Air Force Base, Idaho, started a turn to the northeast and keyed his throttle-mounted mike button: “Roger, Avalanche. Bullrider’s in the turn.” He took a quick look out the right side of his canopy to be sure his wingman in another F-15 fighter was starting his rejoin.

Pretty damned strange, the lead F-15 pilot thought. The B-1B bomber crews must be playing it safe, or else they were getting soft. The Nellis range complex was open, and they were within the time allotted for the fighter intercept exercise, so this must be their target. But what was he doing just starting his descent to low altitude? Most bomber guys were already low, or at least screaming hell-bent for the ground whenever fighters were nearby. He was going slow too—way too slow.

These Guard guys from Reno were supposed to be the most successful, most outrageous bomber unit in the business. Their recent accident, the pilot surmised, must’ve softened them up a little. The 366th Wing was an Air Expeditionary Wing, with a mix of several different aircraft—F-16s, F-15s, F-15E bombers, KC-135R tankers, and B-1B bombers—all located at one base, ready to deploy and fight as a team. The fighter guys from Idaho knew bomber tactics, knew what a Bone could do. So far, these Guard guys from Nevada weren’t showing them much.

“Hey, lead, what do you think?” the F-15 pilot’s wingman radioed.

“I think we got a faker,” the lead pilot responded immediately. They were thinking alike, the way a good hunter-killer team should. He had heard of Air National Guard guys decoying themselves by bringing their KC-135 aerial refueling tankers all the way to the range complex and having them fly the inbound strike routing, buying precious time for the bombers to sneak in low at very high speed to try to make it to their targets. “Avalanche, Bullrider. You got any low targets entering the range complex? We think we got a faker up high.”

“Stand by, Bullrider,” Avalanche, the controller aboard the E-3C AWACS (Airborne Warning and Control System) radar plane, replied. There was a long pause; then: “Bullrider, this is Avalanche, we’re clean. Negative contact on any other bogeys at this time.”

That wasn’t definitive. A B-1 was hard to see when it was flying really low; visual contour at two hundred feet above the ground or lower would make it tough to detect at long range even for a skilled crew in an AWACS radar plane. This guy up high couldn’t be a bomber, flying this high and this slow, so the real targets still had to be out there. But killing a tanker was
worth a lot of points too, and a tanker in the hand was almost as good as two bombers in the bush. “Copy, Avalanche. We’ll continue with this intercept.”

He didn’t need his radar to make the intercept, and the longer he kept his radar off, the closer he could get to his target without being detected. He knew the B-1B had a tail-warning radar system, called TWS, that would warn of any aircraft or missiles behind them, so as long as he stayed in front of the B-1 with his radar off, he could approach without being detected.

“Roger, Bullrider. Bogey’s at your one o’clock, eighty miles low.”

The lead F-15 pilot interrogated the unidentified aircraft, checking for any friendly IFF—identification friend or foe—signals, and found none. The rules of engagement, or ROE, for this mission profiled an area defense scenario, which meant that any aircraft not electronically identified using IFF or radio was to be considered hostile, even if many miles away from the defended area. Inside sixty miles—the approximate maximum range of a standoff weapon dropped from high altitude—he was authorized to “attack” any unidentified aircraft.

“Bullrider, lead, take the high CAP,” the F-15 pilot said, directing his wingman to climb up to the “perch” so he could watch the entire area for more attackers. He knew that B-1 bombers always attack in packs, usually two or three bombers in trail offset a few miles or a few seconds so they cross the target area with at least ten seconds’ spacing. “I’ll make the first pass, climb up to the perch, and then you can take a shot. Keep an eye out for trailers.”

“Two,” the wingman acknowledged, starting a fast climb.

The bogey was increasing its rate of descent, but still not traveling anything near the speed of a B-1 bomber.
It
had
to be a decoy. “Avalanche, bogeydope,” the lead F-15 pilot called.

“‘Clean,’ Bullrider. Only bogey is at your one o’clock, sixty miles.”

It didn’t seem likely, but it could be that the Air National Guard B-1 guys were just taking it nice and easy. This was only the first day of their annual evaluation—they had another two weeks of this coming up. Maybe it was better to get the feel for live air-to-air combat the first day before . . .

“Bullrider, Bullrider, Avalanche has a new bogey, three-three-five degrees bull’s-eye, range seven-zero miles,
low
, airspeed three hundred!”

There it was! the F-15 pilot said to himself. No wonder the AWACS guys couldn’t find it—it was flying only three hundred knots, about half its normal speed. To reduce clutter on their radarscopes, some AWACS radar technicians “squelched” out targets flying below a certain speed. “I’ll take that bogey, Avalanche!” the F-15 lead pilot radioed.

“Roger, Bullrider, left turn heading three-five-zero, bogey will be at your two o’clock, fifty miles.” That was a close one—the B-1 almost got by him as they chased down the decoy up high. “Descend to angels ten, advise when you can maintain visual terrain clearance.”

“I’m VMC, Avalanche.” “VMC” meant that the F-15s were in “visual meteorological conditions”—they could visually see the ground. The AWACS controller could concentrate on setting up the intercept instead of keeping his fighters from hitting the ground. “Bullrider flight, rejoin on me.”

“You want me to check out the high bogey, lead?” the second F-15 pilot asked.

“Negative. I need you to look for trailers.” Because B-1s always fought in groups, the second and third aircraft
awere usually within ten miles of the leader. Killing a KC-135 tanker was too easy. Although they certainly got points for shooting down a valuable force multiplier like a tanker, they’d lose many more points if they allowed a bomber to sneak by and bomb a defended target.

“Roger.”

“Twelve o’clock, forty miles,” the AWACS controller reported. “Be advised, bogey is faded. Losing him in ground clutter. Come left twenty degrees to stay out of his TWS.” But only a few vectors later, the AWACS plane was having trouble staying locked on. “Bullrider, bogey faded. Last solid contact twelve o’clock, twenty miles.”

“Roger, Avalanche.” He interrogated the target for an IFF signal—nothing. It was a bad guy, all right. High-speed bombers like the B-1 could elude even an AWACS radar plane the farther they got, so the lead pilot activated his APG-70 look-down, shoot-down radar and immediately locked it onto the newcomer. Got him! “I’m tied on radar, in high trail. Let’s hook this sucker.”

“Two!” the wingman crowed. Killing a B-1 bomber, especially with a short-range heat-seeking missile or with guns, was second only in excitement to killing a B-2 stealth bomber. B-52H Stratopig bombers, the few that were left, were such easy targets that they were left for the newbies, the new guys in the squadron, or killed with a BVR (beyond visual range) missile shot. Even chasing down and killing a cruise missile was considered poor sport these days.

Sure enough, the minute he locked in the low-flying plane with his radar, it sped up. Too late, chumps, the lead F-15 pilot thought.

Procedure for max kill points: maintain radar contact through at least two defensive maneuvers, close
within twenty miles, shoot a radar-guided missile, maintain radar lock through one more defensive maneuver, close to within eight miles, shoot a heat-seeking missile, close to within two miles, make a cannon shot, then make and announce a visual ID within one mile. Piece of cake. Easy . . .

. . . Yeah,
too
easy! He was within twenty miles and had this guy locked up for almost thirty seconds, and he hadn’t made one maneuver yet. His threat-warning receiver must’ve been screeching in his ears loud enough to deafen him! The lead F-15 pilot noticed the target had accelerated, but only to about four hundred knots—at least two to three hundred knots
slower
than he expected! What in hell was going on?

“Bullrider, this is Avalanche,” the AWACS radar controller announced, “bogey number one has started a very rapid descent, heading down at thirty thousand feet per minute and accelerating to five hundred knots . . . he’s descending below angels ten, now at six hundred knots. He’s crossing over to your seven o’clock, forty miles. Suggest you break off your attack on bogey two and take vectors to bogey one.”

Son of a bitch
! the lead F-15 pilot swore into his oxygen mask. They did a double switch—they put the faker down low, and they put the real bomber up high. He
had
to go get the bomber before it got to terrain-following altitudes—the B-1 was difficult to chase and almost impossible to get a radar lock on once it tucked itself deep into the valleys at treetop level. But the tanker was less than fifteen miles away—an easy target and a lot of points. Losing a tanker in a two-week-long battle meant the B-1 squadron couldn’t do a lot of their normal-length patrols.