by Don Brown
Keith shot the president a sharp salute. “Nice to meet you, Mr. President.”
That reignited thunderous applause, this time peppered with cheers and whistling and the sound of Marines grunting “Ooooo-rah.”
“My first order,” the president said, then waited as more whistles and applause threatened to drown out his words. When the applause subsided again, he said, “My first order is for you to come stand behind the podium with me.”
Keith complied, and the president greeted him with a big bear hug.
More applause.
“Colonel, I know you are anxious to get home, and we have a Marine chopper waiting to take you to a place called Corbin Hall.” Cheers … whistles. “But first, there is something you should know. While you were in flight from Hawaii, the Senate, at my recommendation, approved your promotion to brigadier general. You will retire from the Marine Corps at that rank and, though I haven’t checked lately, I suspect that might improve your retirement pay a tad.”
More cheering.
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“I’ll ask Lieutenant Commander McCormick, your grandson, to help me here, and we’re going to remove those birds from your collar and replace them with stars.”
“With pleasure, Mr. President,” Gunner said.
Keith stood at attention while Gunner removed the eagle off his left collar, and the president removed the eagle from his right collar. Then they each pinned a single silver star onto each collar, officially making him a brigadier general in the United States Marine Corps.
“Congratulations, General Pendleton,” the president said. More applause. “And now … and now … there is someone who is very anxious to see you.” He turned around and said, “Captain.”
A trim Marine officer, standing by the black limousine, opened the back door. An attractive woman who looked to be in her sixties got out, took the arm of the Marine officer, and walked toward the podium. With her free hand, she wiped tears from her eyes.
He had last seen her when she was a baby. But still, somehow, he knew. Daddy never forgets his little girl.
She walked up to him and fell into his arms.
“My little Margaret,” he said, holding her tight.
“I always knew you were alive,” she said. “I never stopped praying.”
They hugged, oblivious of the sustained cheering around them.
“Let’s go home,” he said.
“Yes, let’s.” She stepped back, smiling, tears flooding her eyes.
The president said, “General, I know you’ve got a chopper to catch and a lot of catching up to do. But before you do, is there anything you’d like to say?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President, there is.” Keith stepped to the microphone.
The crowd went stone silent. All eyes were focused on him.
“Thank you for being here. You have made this one grand welcome home. I am grateful. And I was grateful for my country when I was captured sixty years ago as a young man. I am no less grateful for my country today as an old man. I am grateful to my grandson Lieutenant Commander Gunner McCormick and to all who risked their lives to save me. And I am most grateful that my final days on this earth will be spent at home, with my family, in the glorious sunset of freedom.
“May God bless America.”
EPILOGUE
Corbin Hall
Suffolk, Virginia
Brigadier General Robert Keith Pendleton, United States Marine Corps, retired, sat at the head of the table and absorbed the sights of Christmas. His daughter, Margaret, wearing her red Christmas sweater, sat to his right, beaming like the happiest woman in the world. His grandson Gunner, the real hero of the hour, sat at his left. Right beside Gunner, in a radiant new red dress, the product of her first visit to an American shopping mall, Pak looked stunning and happy with her new adopted American family.
Grandson Gorman sat at the other end of the table, surrounded by his wife, Bri, and their two children, Jill and Tyler.
Keith looked down and eyed the turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, gravy, and squash casserole on his plate. It was a white plate that had the Marine Corps globe-and-anchor emblem on it. Margaret had insisted that he use this plate, although he was the only one with such a plate.
Whatever Margaret wanted. He wasn’t going to argue.
Off to the side, the Christmas tree glowed with a myriad of colored lights, some shining constantly and some blinking. And on top, an angel looked down with outstretched arms.
He wondered if this could all be a dream and he would soon wake up back in the perpetual nightmare of his real life.
The doorbell rang.
This was no dream. This was real.
The doorbell rang again.
Although the turkey was freshly carved and on the table, Keith was grateful for the interruption. He got up with the family and walked to the front door.
Since his return home, Christmas carolers had descended on Corbin Hall like an invading army of goodwill. They were bused in from churches around Tidewater. One church youth group even trekked in from Rocky Mount, North Carolina.
They would park along the road, offload from their buses, and walk down the long driveway singing all the carols that he had not heard for so long — “Silent Night,” “Joy to the World,” “O Come, O Come, Emanuel,” “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” — then they would walk back singing, board their buses, and go back to spend the rest of Christmas with their families.
Standing out front in a light falling snow was another group of carolers. The last time he had seen snow, it was like frozen ice falling into the cold pit of hell that was Korea. But tonight, as he stretched out his hand and looked up, Keith smiled. The falling snow was like manna from heaven.
A smiling young woman, perhaps seventeen years old, stood in front of the other smiling teenagers.
“General Pendleton?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“We’re the youth group from First Baptist in Elizabeth City, North Carolina.”
“Thank you all for coming tonight.”
“May we ask a question?”
“Certainly you may.”
“May we sing you something a little unusual for Christmas?” The girl’s blue eyes twinkled with excitement.
“My dear, you can sing anything you would like.”
She smiled and turned around. She held up her hands in a director’s pose and said, “Slow and meaningful,” then hummed a single note for pitch.
Then came the most beautiful blend of melody and harmony his ears had ever heard.
Oh beautiful
For spacious skies
For amber waves of grain,
For purple mountain majesties
Above the fruited plain,
America, America, God shed his grace on thee!
And crown thy good with brotherhood,
From sea to shining sea!
Keith stood there, his right arm around Margaret, and wiped his eyes.
Maybe he really wasn’t a Marine.
Marines don’t cry.
“Merry Christmas, General Pendleton!”
TO THOSE AMERICANS WHO SERVED
This novel is released in conjunction with the sixtieth anniversary of the Korean War. You who are still alive who fought in that war liberated a nation that Communist forces had invaded, smothered, and occupied totally, with the exception of a small amount of land on the far southeastern corner of the country around Pusan. But you, brave soldiers and marines and sailors and airmen, hit the enemy hard in one of history’s most daring amphibious landings, at a place called Inchon, where tides rise and fall rapidly, making the precision and execution of your operation a matter of life or death. You ended the Communist strangulation of South Korea and pushed the freedom-hating invaders back north of the 38th parallel.
Yes, some troops from other nations were involved, and yes, some call the war a UN “police action.” Some have even called it “the Korean Conflict.”
But then
there is the truth. Korea was neither a “police action” nor was it a “conflict.” Korea was war in its bloodiest and most brutal form. Although other countries fought in the war, American blood saved South Korea. Nearly 37,000 of your brothers-in-arms gave their lives in Korea. That’s ten times the sacrifice of all other nations combined who sent forces there. More than eight thousand Americans are still missing to this day. No, despite what some say, Korea is not the “Forgotten War.” Korea was an American war. And you who served shall never be forgotten.
Acknowledgments
For his superb editorial assistance, a special thanks to US Army veteran Jack Miller of La Mesa, California, who, with his wife, Linda, is a generous benefactor of the San Diego Zoo and the Lambs Theatre of Coronado, California. With grateful appreciation for the behind-the-scenes tours with the giraffes and the magical musical performances by the Pacific.
A special and warm thanks to Sue Brower, acquisitions editor of Zondervan, and to Lori Vanden Bosch, both of whom, quite frankly, were born to be editors, and whose comments, feedback, and strategic input during the editorial process have been an oasis of wisdom. Also, special thanks to Jane Haradine not only for her superb editioral assistance, but also for her superb talent and artistry in the preparation of the various maps found throughout the novel.
FIRE OF THE RAGING DRAGON
This novel is dedicated to Margaret Brown McCaffity, my aunt,
who inspired me to read, learn, and think—all those years ago.
PROLOGUE
A million white lights mark the evening skyline, and at a hundred thousand intersections, traffic lights flash green, then yellow, then red. Under the traffic lights, the high beams of thousands of cars and buses flood the roads and streets of the city.
Along colorful stretches of the historic Dongcheng District, along Wángfǔjǐng and Donghuamen Streets, purple and orange electric signs display the names of bars, restaurants, and open-air food stalls, where a sea of pedestrians fill the streets despite the lateness of the hour.
Even at midnight, Beijing is a city that never sleeps.
As midnight passes to the dark hours of the morning, secluded deep in the heart of the city, a man paces back and forth along marble-floored hallways, ignoring a small army of servants and bodyguards.
As night yields to the glow of dawn, he steps to a window and peers out at the city through binoculars. The rising sun reflects off a forest of glass-and-steel skyscrapers. The great buildings tower over bustling alleyways and broad boulevards jam-packed with a colorful blur of bicycles, tricycles, and rickshaws and a deafening chorus of blaring car horns.
Beijing, the national capital, is a kinetic panorama of the Chinese economy flexing its mighty muscle. Each new sunrise marks the start of another day in which the world’s largest producer ships “Made in China” products around the globe, raking in riches and credits as Western countries sink deeper in a quicksand of hopeless debt.
Yet despite her appearance of vibrancy, China is not, and never has been, a nation where freedom rings. For deep in the midst of Beijing, far below the towering skyscrapers and just west of the ancient sector known as the Forbidden City—the walled compound from which the Chinese emperors once ruled—there is a fortified compound, shrouded in secrecy, that remains as a modern-day walled fortress.
The Chinese call it “Zhongnanhai.”
At the south side of Zhongnanhai, by the “Gate of New China,” are two slogans chiseled in Mandarin.
“LONG LIVE THE GREAT COMMUNITY PARTY OF CHINA,” the first inscription proclaims.
“LONG LIVE THE INVINCIBLE MAO ZEDONG,” declares the second.
Although the outside walls of Zhongnanhai scream the slogans of Maoist Communism, the inside is closed to the public.
Little is known about the inside world of Zhongnanhai except that it houses the headquarters for the Communist Party, the State Council of the People’s Republic, and the Presidential Palace of the Chinese president.
And little is known about the new occupant of the Presidential Palace except that his name is Tang, and the Chinese call him the Raging Dragon.
The man lowers his binoculars and steps back from the window. He checks his watch.
It is time for blood.
CHAPTER 1
Near the island of Itu Aba, Spratly Islands
South China Sea
five minutes after sunrise
twenty-first century
Three porpoises break the surface of the sea in perfect formation, peacefully oblivious to the thundering rotor blades slicing through the morning air just seventy-five feet above.
From the cockpit of the lead chopper, Lieutenant Wang Ju, squadron commander, looked out to his left at the black attack helicopter beside him, its nose dipped down. Hanging from the chopper’s underbelly is a fistful of anti-armor rockets, each one powerful enough to take out any target they might find below. Painted on the tail section of its fuselage is a single orange star.
Wang Ju gave his wingman a thumbs-up, then looked to his right, where an identical black chopper, also armed with rockets and displaying a single orange star, flew in a flanking pattern.
There were ten helicopters. They were Z-10 attack helicopters of the PLA Navy, the People’s Liberation Army-Navy.
Thundering through clear skies against a five-knot headwind, they flew so close to the surface of the water that their downdraft cut a wide band of ripples across the sea.
Wang Ju glanced down. The porpoises had vanished.
He checked his instrument panel.
Twelve miles to target. Visible contact expected within seconds. He ran through his combat checklist.
Thirty-millimeter cannon. Armed. Check.
HJ-9 anti-tank guided missiles. Armed. Check.
HJ-10 anti-tank missiles. Armed. Check.
TY-90 air-to-air missiles. Armed. Check.
A burnt orange glow lit the cockpit. The edge of the rising sun draped an orange carpet across the rippling wavelets below.
There! Dead ahead! Twelve o’clock!
Itu Aba Island.
The choppers whacked through a wisp of clouds that swept from left to right, blinding their view. Seconds later, they burst through into the sunlit sky on the other side.
The island looked larger now, and the outlines of two buildings came into view. In the distance, at the end of the airstrip in the middle of the island, a green C-130 cargo plane sat on the tarmac.
As the sun climbed higher, its rays illuminated the red flag flapping in the breeze. But the flag was not all red. A dark blue rectangle dominated the upper-left corner, and in the middle of the rectangle was a twelve-point white sun.
The Flag of Rebellion! Anger flushed his body.
“All units. Tiger Leader. On my lead, break left. Assume attack formation.”
They had drilled for this maneuver dozens of times over the mainland and dozens more times in flight simulators with footage of the island.
Wang Ju flicked the yoke to his left. Like a flock of geese banking in a perfect “V” formation, the choppers broke out to the east of the island, where they would regroup and launch their attack from the blinding glare of the rising sun, making them harder targets for any sentries posted on the beach with machine guns or handheld missiles.
“Tiger Leader to all units. Arm missiles and report.”
“Tiger Two. Missiles armed.”
“Tiger Three. Missiles armed.”
“Tiger Four …”
Three miles to the east of Itu Aba, at one thousand feet over the water, they resumed attack formation.
“All units. Follow me.” Wang Ju pushed down on his yoke. The lead chopper started back toward the island. “Lock on targets. Report.”
“Tiger Two … target locked … Tiger Three … target locked …”
“Stand by to fire. On my mark.”
Ju checked his airspeed indicator.
Speed, 125 knots. Target … 3 miles downrange … 2.75 miles … 2.5 miles.
He gripped the missile-release button. “Stand by. On my mark …”
Target … 2.25 miles … 2.0 miles.
“Fire missiles!”
The Z-10 jumped, then settled onto an air cushion. Below the chopper, a single rocket dropped through the air, ignited, and streaked away, trailing a white stream of smoke. Nine other choppers released weapons. Ten white streaks, like streamers dropping from a Shanghai convention hall at New Year’s, raced through the sky in a deadly convergence on Itu Aba.
Wang Ju increased airspeed to 130 knots and watched the missiles close on their targets. A fiery explosion in the middle of the island sent angry flames spiraling a hundred feet skyward. A second explosion sent more flames skyward, although not quite as high as the first. When the third explosion erupted, thick black smoke billowed up, rising from bright-hot flames leaping into the morning sky.
“Reduce airspeed to twenty knots,” Wang Ju ordered. “Arm machine guns. Descend to 500 feet. Proceed with caution.”
He yanked back on the yoke, slowing the helicopter a half mile from the beach. “Go to hover position.”
Like gigantic buzzing dragonflies, the ten choppers hovered five hundred feet above the island, viewing the product of their destructive handiwork. Four separate infernos spewing thick black smoke raged below—one from each building at the airstrip, the third from the flaming mass that a moment ago had been a C-130 transport plane, and the fourth from the fuel depot.
Wang Ju flipped on the helicopter’s external video cameras to record the event for posterity. As he watched the video monitor’s display of the island ablaze in a fiery display of flame and smoke, it hit him. He was witnessing one of the greatest historical moments in the history of the People’s Republic of China!
Historians would hail this moment as the dawn of the full and final reunification of the two Chinas under Communist rule! And at center stage of the story would be the squadron leader! Lieutenant Wang Ju! Billions of children in Shanghai, Beijing, Hong Kong, and, yes, even Taipei, would forever remember his name! Many would worship him as a hero!