|
Read the last part here:
http://www.teamliquid.net/blogs/viewblog.php?topic_id=382026
Lieutenant Colonel Zhao Jianmin limped back to the building near the northern bridge where a comms detachment had rigged a long-range antenna. He sat down on the edge of a table, taking the weight off his hurt leg, and slowly worked out a coded message to headquarters.
"Bridges secured. Forty-five percent strength. Holding."
He checked the code groups, then passed the message to a comms specialist he didn't recognize, but who had taken charge of the long-range set. If they couldn't get reception here, Jianmin would try from the southern side of the Nakdong, where his commissar, Captain Wang, had organized the remainder of the staff and comms platoon.
"Make sure you get an acknowledgment."
The boy saluted.
Jianmin stepped back out into the chilly dampness, restless. He felt exhausted, but unable to calm down. Bad luck about the leg, he thought. The pain had taken a lot out of him. Then he heard the first ripple of organized fire.
The initial enemy assault was coming against Wang's side of the river. Jianmin had not expected that. The deep reserves should have been on the northern bank of the Nakdong.
He ducked back inside the comms station, trying to ring up a higher station for their satellite imagery. The line was alive with the strange noises of jamming. Then Captain Wang reached him over the local net.
"Eagle, we are under a concerted assault."
"Can you assess your situation yet?"
"The enemy is at the outpost line," Wang said. His voice, too, sounded a mix of exhaustion and nerves. "No sign of them on the downtown streets yet, but they'll be in here as soon as they realize how thin our outer defenses are. There are too many little alleys; they're bound to infiltrate at least a platoon, if not a company, in here. I have a few men up on the rooftops, sniping. No one in the sewers, though; if they come that way, we'll just have to fight them where they show up."
"Just drop some mines and turrets into the sewers. Establish listening posts, too, so you have a bit of warning. Otherwise, you've made the right call. You can't waste any firepower. The rooftops are more important."
Another voice cut in.
"Eagle, this is Outpost Four. Tanks advancing out of the treeline at the base of Hill 331."
Outpost Four lay on Jianmin's side of the river. The enemy was sandwiching them.
Before Jianmin could reply, a guided missile smashed into the building next door, followed by artillery rounds striking nearby. Jianmin hit the floor; a severed human hand, studded with broken glass, landed beside his face.
The shocks continued, shaking the building and shattering the last intact windows. Between impacts, Jianmin could hear shouting. The rounds were falling too close to the command post to be a random volley.
"Everybody out of here! Out the back!"
The bastards had a drone above. It was the only possible explanation. Still, Jianmin was surprised at the intensity of the shelling. This was their town; these were their people.
The bridges, Jianmin thought. They must need them very badly.
He helped his men gather up the electronics while shock waves made the walls quiver and sifted plaster dust from the ceiling.
"Come on! Move!"
Jianmin tapped his headset open, trying to speak between blasts. He half expected no one to reallly hear him.
"This is Eagle. I'm changing locations. The enemy has this site fixed. Each sector must be aware that there are enemy observers or drones inside our perimeter. Men from the rearward positions are to sweep all buildings with good fields of observation and keep an eye on the sky. End."
Jianmin launched himself through the door. Outside, the troops huddled together in the alley, cowering at each blast, waiting for instructions.
"Follow me," Jianmin commanded. He did not want to move too far from the western bridge, but there was a dangerous slice of open ground between the first buildings and the river. He led the men east, attempting to work out from under the shellfire, rushing from one building to the next.
The shelling lifted. Jianmin heard the heavy throb of diesel engines beyond the perimeter.
Jianmin pointed across the boulevard that connected the two bridges on the northern bank, indicating the a Korean department store. "Set up your equipment in there. Report to Captain Bao, if you can locate his company command post. Try to reach division or group army staff."
He looked at their faces. Children. Novices. Their sergeant was missing; Jianmin thought back to the severed hand that had landed near his face, and selected the least frightened-looking soldier. "You're in charge of the comms team now. You're now a junior sergeant. Do your duty for the People's Republic."
Jianmin left them. He limped across the boulevard to the north, towards the sound of the enemy armor. The sound of small arms exchanges intensified behind him, on Captain Wang's side of the river. On his side, the sound of the tank engines went up in pitch.
They were advancing.
Jianmin came up behind an intact platoon. The lieutenant had a scout drone that was still operational, and Jianmin checked on Captain Wang.
Sixteen tanks and over twenty infantry vehicles were steadily marching through the southern side of town. The entire perimeter was gone. Behind them and around them, a gaggle of screening infantry advanced, shooting into every single open window with machine guns and rocket launchers.
The lieutenant looked confident, almost eager. He was new to the battalion. Jianmin took him by the shoulder.
"You must hold. There is no alternative. Our tanks are en route."
"Yes, Comrade Commander."
Jianmin limped off to the check the next platoon's defenses. As he neared an intersection, firing erupted from 2nd-floor mouseholes on one of the corner buildings. A moment later, a tank round smashed through the window. Then two soldiers stumbled out, hands over their heads.
His men. Giving up. Jianmin rose, put his rifle to his cheek, and cut them down, one headshot apiece.
The lead enemy tank had already reached the Chinese positions. Jianmin watched in horror as the enormous vehicle rolled toward the bridge, spraying machine-gun fire to its flanks, unstoppable. He rushed back toward the platoon he had just visited, going in short dashes on his hobbled leg. The enemy tank, its hatches closed, did not see him. Another tank appeared just behind the first, also heading for the key western bridge.
Jianmin raged at the thought of the bridge falling into enemy hands so easily. It seemed as though his men had simply melted away. No one returned fire on the tanks.
The lieutenant rose to meet him, his face now blank.
"Where's the nearest antitank grenadier?" Jianmin demanded.
The lieutenant thought for a moment, infuriating Jianmin with his lethargy. "I think... there's a launcher back down the street."
Jianmin seized the lieutenant's arm. "Where? Show me."
The lieutenant obediantly led the way. Rushing across intersections, the two officers blindly laid down covering fire. Beyond a pair of dead civilians, they found two soldiers lying flat behind a wave of rubble. One of them had an antitank grenade launcher.
Jianmin could hear the tanks firing. It sound as though they were very close to the bridge.
"Get up," he ordered the soldiers. "Come with me. You too, Lieutenant."
He led them in rush down behind the department store. Whatever Bao was doing in his company command post, it wasn't stopping the tnaks. Jianmin felt a sickening sense of collapse. His instincts told him that Bao had simply botched the defensive grid's set-up. He regretted not relieving him the night before when he had failed to bring back the body of the battalion chief of staff.
Jianmin waved them all down. The soldiers fell flat in the street, weapons ready. But no targets were visible.
"Up around the corner," Jianmin told them. The whirring and grinding of tanks as they worked through the rubble was unmistakeable. Then a quick pair of explosions, followed by bursts of Chinese assault rifle fire, told him that someone was fighting back.
"You," Jianmin pointed at the grenadier. "Come with me. You," he said, pointing at the lieutenant and the other man, "stay here and make sure we don't get cut off."
The lieutenant nodded, but Jianmin had no confidence in him now.
Jianmin expected to get shots into the rear of the tanks, but as soon as they rounded the corner, a third tank brought up the rear, just fifty meters away. The two men were caught in between the lead pair and the trail vehicle.
"Shoot that one, get the bastard," Jianmin screamed, pointing at the third tank. Then he ducked to the side to avoid the rocket backblast.
The grenadier knelt, shaking. He balanced the weapon on his shoulder and fired. The round struck just below the mantlet of the gun, near the turret ring. But the high trail tank kept coming, firing its machine guns.
As if in slow-motion, the grenadier jerked up from his knees, losing one arm, then the other. The heavy machine-gun fire then reduced his body into an armless, legless, torso, rolling down the street.
Jianmin pressed himself as flat as he could against a concrete highway barrier. As the tank passed him, impossibly loud, it fired down the side street from which Jianmin had come, but with its hatches sealed, the vehicle did not see him.
Jianmin dashed for the grenade launcher as soon as the tank passed, scrambling the last few meters on his hands and knees. He ripped the dead boy's pack open, from which two more antitank rounds jutted. Each moment, he expected gunfire to take him, but he managed to work the pack onto his shoulder and roll back behind his covering barrier.
It was foolish, Jianmin knew, to commit tanks into a built-up area without close infantry support, and he was determined to make the sloppy enemy tank commander pay for it.
He snapped a round into the launcher with a reassuring click, then remembered to reverse the logical order of the hands for a proper hold and balance. Then he slung his rifle crossways on his back so that he could quickly pull it into a firing stance. Finally, he rose and ran for the intersection again, moving as swiftly as his crippled leg would carry him.
The rear of the tank that had killed the grenadier was completely exposed. Beyond it, in the distance, Jianmin saw the lead tank in flames. The scene elated him; his men were still fighting. Jianmin knelt, shouldered the launcher, aimed for the trail tank's engine compartment, and fired.
The tank lurched to a halt, smoke rising from its rear deck. Jianmin scuttled into a nearby doorway, laying down the launcher and tugging his assault rifle into his arms. He took aim, waiting for the crew to escape.
The crew appeared reluctant to leave the tank. They attempted to traverse the gun to the rear. But the gun kept getting caught in the buildings along the sides, even with the barrel at maximum elevation. Jianmin grew so involved with the comical scene that he almost missed the movement beneath the treads as the crew slipped out of an escape door in the bottom of the hull.
Jianmin waited for a second man to drop to street. When no other crew members appeared, he dropped to a prone position behind the tank, then swept the area between the tank's tracks with his assault rifle. The men under the tank, stuck, screamed and tried to claw their way free, then went still. Jianmin reloaded, then emptied another thirty bullets into the two bodies to make sure.
The middle tank in the column fired wildly, now aware that it was trapped. Jianmin approached in bounds, positioning himself behind the flank of the vehicle he had just killed, angling the rocket launcher for another shot. As he tightened his finger on the trigger, his location in time and space blurred. He was back on the road to Samarqand, and fighting his way out of mountain ambushes, and soldiering in a thousand places he could not recognize. There was only the enemy, a tiimeless thing.
The rocket crashed into the middle tank in a shower of sparks; flames and body parts shot out of the tank's top hatch. But Jianmin did not get to see his handiwork. A third crewman from the rear tank shot him in the neck with a pistol.
  
|
Lieutenant General Nie Zhen, Chinese Expeditionary Forces Chief of Staff, knocked lightly at the door to Luo Shuren's private office. The old man had returned, exhausted, from visiting the army forward command posts, and despite the compounding succeses of the day, he had ripped through the staff, unusually biting in his comments as he demanded key pieces of information. Nie had been relieved when he finally managed to steer the old man off for a bit of sleep.
Now, all too soon, he had to disturb Shuren. This was not a matter he could address by himself. It was, potentially, the greatest question. The one, true, unknown quantity in his equation of war.
Nie wondered to what extent Tengfei's death had upset Shuren. Of course, any flying had to be hopelessly nerve-wracking after that--no. The old man would not have worried about the personal danger. But the unanticipated loss of Tengfei had been a blow to the whole theater. If Shiwen was a wild bull who could break down the stoutest fences, Tengfei had been the theater's cat, always able to find a quick and clever way around the most formidable obstacles. Nie sensed that, with Tengfei's loss, some intangible, yet important balance had been upset within the military region.
Of course, his deputy commander would do well enough, and the situation in western Korea met all the definitions of success, with the Korean I Corps trapped against the Yellow Sea, dying piecemeal, the American 2nd Infantry division in a full-scale rout, and Chinese forward detachments on the southeastern bank of the Imjin.
But the loss of Tengfei was somehow greater than its purely operational significance.
Perhaps that's only my emotional prejudice, Nie thought, because Tengfei was like me in his methods and fondness for numbers and machines. Perhaps I merely feel a bit more alone.
Nie knocked again, but there was still no response from within Shuren's office. He wished he could let the old man sleep. But there was important intelligence from the Central Military Commission, laden with rumors of political movement. And, internal to the theater, the situation was growing troublesome in new respects. A massive wave of anti-satellite missiles had crippled the most of their remaining intelligence-gathering systems, and Pan Huajian's splendid picture of the battlefield was falling apart. Huajian, as always the theatrical intellligence chief, had said something about the theater going helplessly, relentlessly blind.
Nie Zhen let himself in. Much to his surprise, he found that Shuren was not asleep. The old man sat before the map, staring at its intense intermingling of friendly and enemy symbols. Despite the labor of clever staff officers, the situation map now appeared as though red and blue had been thrown on randomly between Yalu and the Nakdong. Here and there, a cluster of symbols showed some integrity. The Korean I Corps, for example, had been pocketed in a vast triangle between the Yalu, the Yellow Sea, and the highway from Kanggye to Anju. Most of the American III Corps had been pushed into Chuncheong, trapped between the 33rd Marine Army to the south and the 63rd Group Army to the north and northwest. But everywhere else, it appeared as though the colors had swirled together. Enemy forces remained behind the Chinese advance, while Chinese elements that had penetrated most deeply appeared stranded in the blue rear. Nie made a mental note to order his staff to clear up the map.
Shuren turned his head in slow motion, like a zombie. Nie moved closer to the lighted magic show on the far wall.
"Oh, it's you, Xiao Nie," Shuren said, as though he had simply bumped into him on a city street.
"Comrade Military Region Commander," Nie began, armoring himself with formality, "we have an intelligence bulletin, security level X-Ray, from the Central Military Commission."
Shuren looked at him. The old man's face appeared ashen, almost lifeless, in the soft glow of the digital map. There was no lack of intelligence or dignity, but the quality of the eyes and skin, of simple health, had altered radically in a matter of days.
Nie experienced a rush of emotion. He wished he could do still more for this man, to lighten the burden weighing on him. But he could think of nothing to do or say, always terrified of revealing any emotional weakness, conditioned by his closeted orientation to withold the most trivial symptoms of human vulnerability.
"Comrade Commander, the Ministry of State Security has informed the CMC that the American military has requested tactical nuclear weapons release. Apparently, there is a great deal of turmoil within the US-Japan-Korean alliance about granting the request, as well as terms of nuclear weapons employment, should release be granted. The Japanese are reluctant for...political reasons; the South Koreans are reportedly opposed to turning their homeland into a nuclear battlefield."
The Chief of Staff had expected a shot of energy to enliven Shuren at the mention of nukes. But the old man merely raised his eyebrows slightly, as if at the poor taste of a cup of field tea.
"There are no indications that nuclear release has been granted at this time," Nie went on, "and Huajian's convinced the Koreans will disrupt the process. But measures must be taken--"
"Sit down, Xiao Nie," Shuren said, interrupting him. "Sit down for a moment." Nie Zhen stiffened at first, spinsterish, unused to being interrupted, even by Shuren. Then he slowly found a place on a small wooden stool.
"Look at the map," Shuren said, gesturing his hand over the red, blue, and purple swirls. "Just look at it. What will they do with a nuclear release, Xiao Nie? How could they strike us without slaughtering their own?"
"Comrade Military Region Commander, they could still hit deep targets, by the Yalu or north of it. Our assessment shows that the Americans have enough stealth bombers for one last wave of sorties."
Shuren brushed at the air with his fingers, dismissing the idea. "So we push. Deeper into their rear, and load as many forces onto South Korean soil that we can." Shuren then turned his eyes onto Nie Zhen, hardening them until he looked like an old mujaheddin. "And hostages. Give me hostages, Xiao Nie."
Nie Zhen could not follow the old man's train of thought. The notion of hostages seemed so... anachronsitic. For a moment, Nie thought Shuren meant frightened illiterates herded out of lice-ridden kishlaks in the valleys of Uzbekistan.
"We must... refocus... our efforts, slightly," Shuren went on. He was now smiling. It was not a smile that made Nie comfortable. "You told me earlier about the problems with prisoner transport, but you sounded proud, you truly did, Xiao Nie, because you solved them with your usual efficiency." The old man smiled, wider now. "What good are prisoners to us? We need to watch them, feed them, move them, even protect them. And for what? Much better, my friend, to have hostages." Shuren pushed his finger into the map. "There. Chuncheong, and the entire area still held by the American III Corps." Another three jabs, so hard into the digital screen that it rippled with pain. "Daegu. Gumi. And... Seoul. Those are hostages on a nuclear battlefield. They are worth nothing as prisoners or enemy casualties. Xiao Nie, we must not tighten the larger nooses too snugly. We must leave the bypassed or surrounded enemy forces, especially in the South, enough... functional integrity to make them legitimate targets. And drive them further into the urban areas. Enemy formations trapped in each major South Korean city, that's what I want--then let them rattle their nuclear toys."
Nie Zhen sat, stone-still, in shock. He had never heard this tone in Shuren's voice before. Even in Uzbekistan, where the guerrilla war had brought out the worst in men, Shuren had seemed above the rest of them--a soldier, but with no special lust for killing, no trivializing callousness. Nie realized that he had, in fact, considered Shuren an essentially warmhearted man, one who loved his profession and his soldiers, and who adored his wife and son. To Nie, Shuren had come to personify the goodness of China, the possibilities latent withen the frustrating Chinese character.
Now, to hear him speak so coldly of replying to any future American nuclear strikes by methodically destroying Korean cities and military forces that had ceased to pose a threat, Nie again felt his own baffling difference from all of them. He realized that he, indeed, had underestimated what it meant to be a true warrior, a blood Chinese.
"I do not want to start a nuclear exchange, if one can be avoided," Shuren went on, slightly relaxed now. "We all have enough blood on our hands. But should it become apparent that our enemy will resort to such a course, he must be preempted. He cannot be allowed to strike first. It's no longer a matter of political bantering and competing for the international limelight. I want you to begin... preparations. With discretion, of course. Have our regional nuclear launchers dispersed and shifted to the highest readiness level. Wake up our friends from the 2nd Artillery Corps and have them visit me. We will begin to put our formal mechanisms in motion. I will tell you, though, Xiao Nie, that I expect the decentralization of nuclear firing authority as soon as the CMC knows the Americans will launch." Shuren picked up his shoulders, regaining his usual straight-backed posture. "Meanwhile, see that the reconnaissance apparatus is reorganized to find suitable nuclear targets."
Nie saluted and rose, then moved closer to the map, remembering the other half of his report. He cirlced a large area around Seoul and Inchon. "Comrade Military Region Commander, the Second Mechanized Corps is ready to complete the final encirclement on Seoul, but we have insufficient data there--only the sketchiest notion what's really in there. All of our satellite systems are down, and our ground-based sensors are getting bombed back to the Stone Age. Huajian is convinced that we have been undercounting the enemy forces currently guarding the city."
Shuren leaned slightly forward, without changing his expression.
"He believes that they will try to break out?"
"It's the only logical course of action left. Huajian believes that a counterattack launched as the Second Mechanized commits to urban operations south of Seoul would be the only hope they have of survival."
"Well, we can handle that, too. Huajian needs to get moving. Concentrate all of the available intelligence assets. Find their formations. Now, how's the passage of the Second Mechanized Corps progressing?"
Nie almost began his reply with "Your son's corps," but he caught himself. "The lead brigades of the Second Mechanized are crossing the Bukhan at Gapyeong and Gangchon-ri at this time. We got lucky--a forward detachment grabbed the Gangchon-ri bridge while working its way up to Gapyeong."
"Good."
"The trail brigades of the corps are following the same routes. Their lead elements should cross within the next hour. The biggest problems remain the refugee flow and clutter on the highways, but we've managed to clean up the main routes. The transit of the Second Mechanized, however, has plugged up other reinforcement and resupply through the night, except for what we can push up on the auxiliary roads. Maintaining the broad integrity of the Second Mechanized, of course, gives us the option of turning the entire corps or the trail brigades to meet a threat from the northwest. But we would need to send them combat instructions within the next few hours. Otherwise, they'll be too deeply committed to the push to the Yellow Sea."
Shuren peered at the map. Nie could sense the old man war-gaming various options, doing his own vital staff work now in a matter of seconds. "We'll see," Shuren said. "I don't want to change their mission yet." He turned back to Nie, appearing slightly relieved. "Really, an operational-scale counterattack is a more likely threat than a nuclearization of the battlefield. Stick to the plan, for now. Get the lead brigades of the Second Mechanized to the Yellow Sea, and down the coast. We will only turn the lead brigades if we have no other choice. But warn the corps of the possible danger to their right flank. Direct that the trail elements be weighted to the northwest, ready to conduct a spoiling attack, fight meeting engagements, or, if necessary, assume a hasty defense. Speed them up, and get them all through the Suwon urban area tonight."
"We can expect them to fight for the road junctions in Suwon. It's the last practical line of defense."
Shuren waved the problem away. "That's a purely tactical issue. The enemy is beaten; they have too little left to stop our tanks. Our commanders must not be timid."
Nie thought again of Shuren's son. Colonel of the Cavalry, Luo Qipeng. The son had a reputation as a meticulous, deeply insightful officer, but a loner, even more so than his father. Not at all the sort of gregarious politician to which one became accustomed in the officer corps. Nie also knew that the son was supposed to be a very talented musician, and that he had a wife said to be eccentric and overly given to Western tastes. He knew that the old man loved his son more than he loved anything else in the world. There were endless stories about how Shuren so relentlessly stressed that his son should have no special treatment that everyone assumed he wanted very special treatment, indeed, for his son. Nie suspected that he might be the only officer in the entire army who did not doubt Shuren's sincerity. Shuren just did not make sense to the others. A high-ranking officer who did not press ruthlessly for his son's advantage made no sense within the Chinese system. Shuren was a genius in some respects; in others, he seemed as naive as a child. He never could fully grasp the selfishness of other men.
Now, the son would have a chance to perform on his own. Perhaps against the Americans, with their magnificent weapons. Nie wished the son luck across the Korean night, for the father's sake.
|
Qipeng felt the situation collapsing around him with irresistible speed. The enemy had hit him broadside, hours before they were expected to appear, catching the brigade at its most vulnerable, with units strung out through the city of Suwon.
The enemy had found a gap between forward elements of the 63rd Group Army, hugging the Bukhan bridgeheads, and the bulk of the Second Mechanized Corps' combat power, which had been pushing south and southwest as rapidly as possible. Qipeng's brigade had been a perfectly positioned target for an onslaught from the northwestern flank. Enemy helicopters had wiped out his advance guard, and other units reported contact at various points along the line of march. Feverish, his head would not come clear. He stared at the plotted locations on the map, trying to make sense of the situation. His brigade was dissolving.
"Comrade Brigade Commander," his chief of staff called, "can you please listen to me?"
Qipeng turned slightly. He had not even been aware there was a man next to him. He felt disgracefully weak. The medic had given him shots for the fever, but Qipeng felt no better. He needed sleep. Struggling to his feet, he drew up beside the map and the eyes of his staff.
"Look," the chief of staff said, "the brigade transport officer reports enemy tanks here, working their way southeast from Yongin."
"That's impossible," he said, bowels weakening. "That would put them behind us."
"Yes, Comrade Commander. Behind us. I've verified the coordinates. The transport officer swears he saw them with his own eyes. They... they overran the brigade resupply trucks."
Qipeng turned his head to look into the face of this bearer of bad news.
"Damage?"
"Total. Catastrophic."
This cannot be happening, Qipeng thought. He laid his hand on the map, bracing himself, but attempting to disguise the action as a gesture of decisiveness.
"Order all units to halt where they are and assume a hasty defense. All units this time." If the enemy had slipped some elements behind them, his brigade could still block any forces that tried to follow in their wake. Yet no one knew exactly where the enemy was.
Qipeng swept his hand along the trace of the brigade's march routes.
"Defend the intersections. Block them. Commandeer any civilian vehicles in the area, and build antivehicle barricades. Get our engineers working on collapsing every north-south highway overpass and bridge they can."
"Artillery?" the chief of staff asked.
Qipeng tried to think. He thought of what his father would say in a situation like this. No. His father would not have made a mistake like this, would not have left his men so vulnerable, so complacent...
"The guns will be positioned near the roads, where they can bring direct fires to bear in an emergency." There was a dull physical pain associated with each new thought now. "Protect the rocket launchers. Position them at a central loation where they can support as much of the brigade as possible."
He felt nauseous. He had to sit down, slow down, quiet the churning in his bowels, cool the burning between his ears.
Just hold on, he told himself. This can't last forever.
General Luo Shuren carefully avoided contradicting Ma Shiwen in front of the 63rd Group Army staff, but he watched and listened closely, ready to interrupt if the situation got critical. He had complete faith in Shiwen as an attacker, but he worried that the passionate aggressiveness that served an offensive general so well would not fit a hasty defense and the give-and-take exchanges required to stabilize a major enemy counterattack. Shuren looked at the dark imprint of sweat down Shiwen's broad back. He found himself wishing Xu Tengfei were still alive and in command of this sector. Tengfei had possessed balance, a cool mind behind a steel fist. Ma Shiwen did not.
Shiwen's scouts had selected a fine site for the command post, tucked into a South Korean mall spacious enough to hold all of the command and support vehicles inside. The lessons of the first two days had been assimilated very quickly. Command posts set up in the countryside could be located and target at will. The cover and concealment of built-up areas offered a much better chance of survival. And though it struck Shuren as ungentlemanly, he had to agree packing the roof full of panicked Korean civilians further buttressed their protection from air and missile attack.
Shiwen suddenly his voice, drawing Luo Shuren's eyes. The army commander quickly got his temper back under control, but it was clear that things were not going well. In the rear, the encircled American III Corps was attempting a breakout from the Chuncheong area. Shuren believed that the inner ring of the encirclement was sufficiently well positioned to hold the Americans, or, at a minimum, channel them onto routes where they would become hopelessly vulnerably and impotent to affect the main thrusts of the front. Still, the added pressure of yeet another sub-battle was hardly welcome.
Shiwen dispatched a nervous staff colonel on a mission, waving his big paws in the air. Then the army commander turned towards Shuren, wearing the look of a dog who suspects he might have a beating coming.
Shiwen came up so close that Shuren could smell the big man's stale sweat. The army commander looked down at his superior, clearly ill at ease.
"What is it?" Shuren asked.
"Comrade Military Region Commander... the situation along your son's route of march has become critical."
"You mean the situation along the route of march of the Third Brigade of the Second Mechanized Corps," Shuren corrected, struggling to control his facial muscles.
"Yes, the Third Brigade," Shiwen agreed. "It's... very bad."
"What does the corps commander have to say? Does he believe he has the situation under control?"
Luo Qipeng. Shuren knew it was not right to think of the boy now. He risked losing all perspective. Shuren ached to see his son, and, he realized helplessly, to protect him. To shield him from the harms of a grown-up world.
But Qipeng was a soldier. A colonel in the tradition of the Luo clan. In the tradition of China. He would do his duty.
Qipeng. Peng-peng. The old man could see his son's clear, fine features before him. Surely, he would look disheveled, now. Black circles. The boy would be tired. He had been on the march for a while. Shuren imagined the scene at the brigade command post. Qipeng weary, but firmly in control, a pillar of strength for his subordinates. Or, perhaps, he had gone forward, to direct the combat action in person.
"Comrade Military Region Commander," Shiwen continued, "we have temporarily lost communications with the corps-level command posts. We can talk to your son's--I mean the Third Brigade--however."
"You can't have lost all means of communications."
The buildings trembled as distant explosions walloped the earth, dusting the already exhaust-laden air.
"The Americans are conducting extensive cyberattacks to support their counter-offensive."
Or they've hit the corps command posts, Shuren thought.
"Have you tried the corps' rear control post?"
Shiwen nodded. "Yes, we can talk to them, but they can't reach the corps commander, either. The rear is in the dark worse than anyone."
Shuren pondered the situation for a moment, then reached for a cigarette. Calmly, he told himself, do it calmly. Do not let them see a trace of emotion.
"And your situation? Tell me about the 63rd Group Army."
"We'll manage. We'll hold them. They'll never cross the Bukhan or the Nakdong."
"What about the Gumi crossing site? They could be heading straight for it."
Shiwen wiped a paw across his unshaven chin. "They'd have to break in. I have a tank regiment on the west bank. And if they broke in, they'd never get back out. The American force in Gumi is sealed off. We've hit their local fuel and ammo dumps already."
"Any further communications from our air-assault force in Gumi?"
"Nothing. Not for twelve hours, now."
Shuren carefully lit his cigarette. "Go on."
"I'm moving covering troops and forward detachments to both river lines at multiple points. The first lines of defense will be in front of the hills just south of Bukhan for the northern line, and the Cheongwon-Sangju Expressway for the southern line. The Seventy-seventh Mechanized Division holds the Gapyeong sector, with a grouping from the Sixteenth Tank at Gangchon-ri. The Fortieth and Fifteenth Heavy Infantry Divisions are committed to the encirclement of the American III Corps along with the 33rd Marine Group Army. To the south, the First and Second Marine Divisions are holding the all the major highway routes into and out of Daegu. I'm reorganizing my the Tenth Division as a counterattack reserve, reinforced by three leftover North Korean regiments."
Shuren was surprised. "They've done well then, our little North Korean tools?"
"Good tools," Shiwen smiled. "They make very good tools, the Koreans." He pointed up, grinning cruelly now, reminding Luo Shuren of their rooftop armor plating.
Shuren ignored him. "All right. But don't commit the counterattack force without my approval. I want to know exactly where the enemy is headed. We must not commit prematurely. Also, I'm going to order the release of a mechanized airborne force to you. You'll have two reinforced regiments, plus a drone regiment with two hundred air attack drones. I want you to employ this grouping as a light infantry division, raiding out of urbanized terrain to draw the enemy into a city fight."
Shiwen bobbed his fat head in agreement, obviously pleased with the gift of additional forces, minor though they were. Luo Shuren knew that the army commander would fight hard with every weapon put into his hand. It was only his impulsiveness that worried the theater commander.
"Remember," Shuren continued. "The most important thing is to hold them south of the Bukhan, and north of the Nakdong. I don't want them interfering with the progress of the 54th Group Army over the Imjin. And we need to hold open as many bridgeheads as possible for their divisions to reinforce you."
"How long do you think we'll need to hold on," Shiwen asked, "before the 54th can chip in?" It was unprecedented for Shiwen to ask such a question, so totally devoid of swagger. It brought home the seriousness of the situation to Luo Shuren.
The theater commander put down his cigarette and pushed back his sleeve. He checked his wrist tablet. To his surprise, he found that it was full morning. "Twelve hours," he guessed, wishing Nie Zhen was here with his clear-cut, confident answers.
A staff officer approached the two generals. From the movement of his eyes, Luo Shuren could tell that the officer was far more worried about Shiwen's possible reaction to his presence than about Luo.
The theater commander's stare caused Shiwen to turn around.
"Well?" Shiwen asked, in a voice of forced restraint.
"Comrade Commanders," the staffer said, looking nervously back and forth between them. "The Third Brigade of the Second Mechanized Corps is being overrun."
Read the next part here:
http://www.teamliquid.net/blogs/viewblog.php?topic_id=382425#1
|
|
|
|
|
|
EPT
