Larry Bond’s Red Dragon Rising: Blood of War

by Larry Bond

  The situation here was a microcosm of the war in general. Overall, China had a numerical superiority to the Vietnamese that should be overwhelming. But its forces were poorly arrayed. In any given sector, the greatest part of the Chinese troops was in the rear, held as reserves. Even in the western area, where there had been great gains, two entire divisions were still in China, more than eight hundred kilometers from the front.

  Why?

  Why indeed. Things were even more absurd in the east along the coast, where the Chinese had been stalled by a much smaller force of Vietnamese. But Li Sun’s concerns were here, in the central front, which had yet to be exploited.

  “Our most important task is to meet the enemy and crush him,” said Li Sun. He went to the map and tapped at a blotch just to the right of dead center. “The enemy has concentrated a force at Tuyên Quang,” he said. “It is the equivalent of a tank brigade, though they call it a division. It is their finest unit, and the only one capable of meeting us on the road to Hanoi. We will attack and demolish it, then we will go on to Hanoi.”

  Li Sun looked at each general in turn. Each wore the same emotionless, pasty face, the same clueless expression. Finally, one of them—the youngest as it happened, a brigadier named Chan—ventured to ask what Li Sun’s plan was.

  “We will take the Twelfth Armored Division and use it to spearhead the attack south,” said Li Sun. “With the infantry catching up as the battle progresses.”

  Currently one of the units held in reserve, the Twelfth Armor was not “native” to the local army group. It had been detached from the 21st Army Group in the Lanzhou military district for the Vietnamese operations. That in itself was part of the problem, Li Sun thought—“foreign” units were not favored by the “local” generals.

  “The unit will move as quickly as possible,” added Li Sun. “They should expect only light resistance at the border—it is doubtful that the Vietnamese can even mount that.”

  Li Sun began speaking of the mountain passes near Viet Quang, where he expected the Vietnamese would try to use their artillery to stop the tanks. There were roads to the east that could be used to bypass the most problematic area; as the tanks moved south on these roads, the infantry could sweep behind it and eliminate bypassed strongpoints. The key would be speed.

  “The Vietnamese do not have much supplies,” said Li Sun. “Our intelligence estimates show that they have exhausted their anti-tank weapons, and even their artillery is low on ammunition.”

  “Pardon me, general,” said Chan. “How do our units get to the border. Won’t that be a problem? We, too, are traveling through narrow confines, and our own units hold the choke points.”

  Li Sun stared at Chan, trying to judge if he was asking the questions because he was trying to bait him or to curry favor. Either seemed possible. There were no hints from the other generals, who remained as quiet as the walls and floor.

  Li Sun decided to treat the question as if it was meant legitimately. Passing divisions through each other could actually be a very delicate act, difficult even for an accomplished army like the Americans to pull off quickly.

  “I have thought about this,” Li Sun said. He went back to the map. “There are only a few places where we have sufficient highway access without a large troop presence to slow us down. We can use Route 210, muster south of Malipo, and then proceed along that route. We will draw up a plan and attack within twenty-four hours.”

  Now the other generals began making sounds—hmmmmm, hmmmm—and exchanging glances.

  “There are questions? Difficulties?” asked Li Sun. “Name them.”

  One by one, the generals began mentioning problems that Li Sun had already considered. The terrain was difficult—true, but these roads were paved. The force had a long way to travel—absolutely, but there were no other divisions to take its place. The Vietnamese had troops along the border—barely two companies’ worth stretched out over a hundred miles, according to the latest aerial reconnaissance; they could be easily defeated if they attempted to resist.

  Li Sun had anticipated all of these questions, and had no difficulty turning them back. The plan would naturally have to be filled out quite a bit with staff work, but the outline was there.

  All that was needed now was to convince his new army that he was in charge. He could tell from the way the generals asked their questions that they would resist him; not in the manly way of speaking directly to him, but going behind his back like the mice they were.

  He needed a chief of staff, a second in command whom he could trust. His goal at the meeting was to see if any of the generals might be suitable.

  The only one who seemed a remote possibility was Chan. The general had been in command of an armored regiment in the Beijing area. The unit itself had stayed near the capital; Chan had come down to help advise on armored aspects of the campaign. As such, he seemed somewhat more flexible and certainly less beholden than the others.

  “Tell me, General Chan, what do you think of the plan?” Li sun asked.

  “Tackling the enemy head-on has advantages and disadvantages,” said Chan.

  It was a mealy-mouthed beginning. Li Sun frowned.

  “If we had an overwhelming force, the decision would be easy,” continued the general. He walked to the map. “One looking at the map might think we do not. But if we come down these roads, admittedly in the mountains and difficult, we can surprise the enemy at Phuong Tien. There is nothing there beyond a few troops of old age guards. A few tanks down this road here, and then the forces at the Vietnamese border will be surrounded as the main attack begins. They will flee or be killed. Once that is accomplished, the path is clear. The Vietnamese are exhausted. As we move down from Phuong Tien we have many options. The force that has been harassing our western army will fall back, and then we can choose where to move them. From the images I have seen, Hanoi should be taken within a week.”

  The general continued. The strategy was not much more than an elaboration of what Li Sun had already said, but Li Sun was impressed by the confidence in Chan’s voice. He started to test him by asking how he would deal with a Vietnamese counterattack. One of the other generals began to answer but Li Sun cut him off.

  “General Chan has the floor,” said Li Sun.

  The answers were assured. Li Sun took a different tact, playing devil’s advocate. He pressed General Chan, wanting to see if he would fold.

  “What if I told you this was a charade?” asked Li Sun finally. “That this was just to test your loyalty to the premier. The original plan was his and it must be followed. You are a traitor.”

  “I am soldier and will do as ordered,” answered Chan. He bowed his head slightly, but his voice stayed strong. “I, however, believe the course I have outlined is a sound one. I would wager my life on it.”

  “Your life?” thundered Li Sun. Suddenly he was caught in the drama of the moment. Without thinking, he unsnapped the cover on his holster and drew his pistol. “You are a traitor! You will pay with your life.”

  “I serve my country,” said Chan, looking up though his head was still bent. He held Li Sun’s eyes for a moment, then lowered them.

  Li Sun raised the pistol and aimed it at his skull.

  Brave, at least.

  Li Sun’s emotion nearly overwhelmed his control—he had the ultimate power here, he could kill this man and no one would lift a finger against him.

  Of course, if he failed to crush the Vietnamese, then he would be the one dead. The wheel of fortune spun endlessly, and its decisions were without mercy.

  He lowered his pistol slowly.

  “You are a brave man, General Chan. You believe in what you say, and will stand behind your words with your life,” said Li Sun. “That is an admirable quality. And because of that, you will be my chief of staff. Come.”

  “What about the rest of us?” asked one of the other generals.

  Li Sun looked at him with disgust.

  “Study the map,” he said.

  Ch
an followed him out of the room. Li Sun stopped in the hallway and gestured to his two personal bodyguards, whom he’d brought with him from his old command.

  “Go ahead,” he told them. “Be quick about it.”

  The two men entered the room. Chan started to say something.

  “Come, we have much work,” said Li Sun, starting down the hallway.

  The sound of automatic weapons fire began echoing from the room. A new slate, Li Sun thought to himself. There would be no one to blame if he failed.

  14

  Washington, D.C.

  Walter Jackson, the president’s national security advisor, waved his hands adamantly.

  “The missiles are an immense threat,” insisted Jackson. “It’s not just the carriers. Any ship.”

  “That tells me we should eliminate them,” said President Greene. “Sooner rather than later. Then we could put our damn carriers anywhere the hell we want.”

  He glanced around the room. There were over three dozen people packed into the national security situation center. Not one of them spoke, or even looked like they wanted to speak. The screen at the far end of the room played a live video feed from the Pentagon, where the Joint Chiefs of Staff and their aides were gathered in a similar room. Not one of them looked ready to comment either.

  “You’re all afraid of China?” asked Greene angrily. “We can kick their ass back to the Stone Age.”

  That was too far—way too far—and even Greene realized it. It was late, he was tired, but that didn’t justify his acting like an out-of-control teenager. He took a deep breath, reining himself in.

  “What I think the president means is that we don’t really have to fear the Chinese,” said Jackson. “Though we don’t—”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” said Greene. “We don’t have to fear them now. We will have to fear them in five years if we do nothing. I want to deal with this now so that someone else doesn’t have to deal with it then.”

  Technically, it could be Greene dealing with it—this was only his first term. But the way he felt now, there was no way he’d re-up for four more years. Assuming that he didn’t get impeached.

  “We can make a strike,” said the chief of the Air Force. “We have B-2s on Guam. I can have them in the air inside thirty minutes. The Chinese will never know what hit them.”

  “That would be a clear act of war,” said the secretary of state, Theodore “Tad” Knox. “We just can’t do that, Mr. President.”

  “If they hit us first,” said Greene, “we will do that.”

  “Even in that case—”

  “What the hell?” Greene’s anger stoked up again. He felt as if his head was exploding. “Are you telling me that we have to sit here and watch our people die and do nothing? I’m sorry, Mr. Secretary, no way. That is not going to happen. Not while I’m president. No, Tad, no.”

  Greene struggled to get hold of his anger. He realized he was playing straight into his political opponents’ hands; even though this was a top secret meeting, surely one or two of the participants would be leaking to friendly media about his outburst within minutes of its ending. But he just couldn’t let this go—he just could not believe that a good portion of his cabinet and his military advisors were willing to let China proceed unchecked.

  Damn them!

  “I think it’s pretty clear that we have to stand up to China,” said Jackson, still trying to play the conciliator. “The question is how to ratchet that.”

  “Yes, ratchet,” said Greene sarcastically.

  Greene tried to keep his focus as the meeting continued. He struggled to temper himself, aware that the others were now far more interested in his behavior and demeanor than the matter at hand. The session ended quietly, without any grand pronouncements or decisions. The Seventh Fleet was gathering, the Air Force was ready to strike, a Marine Expeditionary Unit was steaming toward the area—but what everyone really wanted to know was whether the president going to lose his composure entirely.

  Not today, thought Greene to himself as he rose to leave the room. Not today.

  “Mr. President, I need two minutes,” said Peter Frost, the head of the CIA. Peter Lucas, the point man on Vietnam, was behind him, along with two other aides.

  “Of course.” Greene glanced at Jackson as he sat back down. Jackson nodded, remaining in his seat.

  “You have confirmation of the Vietnamese weapon?” asked Greene. Frost had mentioned the possibility of a dirty bomb the day before, but the report seemed too vague to be believed, let alone acted on.

  “Nothing beyond what we’ve told you, Mr. President,” admitted Frost. “But … we have a new idea, something that might keep the Chinese from continuing their advance. That would give us more time to look at the dirty bomb issue. As well as, possibly, making the Chinese completely reconsider.”

  That was definitely worth being late for, Greene thought.

  “You remember Mara Duncan?” asked Frost, introducing her.

  “Naturally.”

  Greene smiled. In actual fact, he had completely forgotten who she was until Frost reintroduced her. She’d been at the UN—she was the CIA officer who got Josh McArthur out of Vietnam, and rescued the little girl. How could he forget her?

  Pressure? Senility? He was old, tired …

  “Ms. Duncan, how are you?” Greene turned on the charm, trying to chase his own doubts away.

  “Good, sir. Yourself?”

  “Tired. And you should be, too.” Greene tried to make a joke of it. “You’ll be pleased to know the little girl M is doing very well.”

  “That’s good, Mr. President.”

  “What do you have for me?”

  “A strike on the Chinese army headquarters. It would blunt their offensive entirely. Stop them in the tracks.”

  “Stop the advance?” Greene turned to Jackson, who said nothing. He looked back at Frost. “We hit one headquarters and this would stop the advance?”

  “The army is very top-down,” said Frost. “They’re also very conservative. An attack like this would make the entire army rethink its security.”

  Greene decided Frost was being far too optimistic, undoubtedly under the influence of his analysts and the others who were selling the plan. Still, the idea of doing something to slow the Chinese had a great deal of appeal. And the way Mara described it made it seem even better: a behind-the-scenes commando strike that would decapitate the leadership of China’s third largest army group.

  Admittedly the one least effective so far.

  Greene tried to check his enthusiasm as he listened to Mara’s plan. The security arrangements at the headquarters site seemed too lax to be true; she made it sound as if the force would simply walk past the gate.

  “We have a SEAL platoon that has practiced attacking a Chinese command installation,” said Frost. “They could be in place within forty-eight hours. It would be high risk though—they won’t have trained on this specific mission.”

  “We can’t put American troops on the ground in China,” said Jackson. “Even Vietnam is a risk.”

  “What about DevGru or Delta?” asked Greene. DevGru was the covert-action SEAL unit often called SEAL Team 6; Delta was Delta Force, the Army equivalent.

  “No, that’s what I’m saying.” Jackson shook his head violently. “American troops on the ground.”

  “Actually, the platoon we’re thinking about has had experience in Vietnam as well,” said Mara. “And one of the Team officers is in country. The only problem would be getting them there quickly. This—”

  “The group that helped you get out of the country,” said Greene, putting it together.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re talking about forty-eight hours. Most of them are in the States, though, aren’t they?” asked Greene.

  He could feel himself coming out of his funk. His brain was working harder—this was what he needed, a problem to work out. He could tell he impressed the others as well.

  Why hadn’t he been
able to do this twenty minutes before, with the NSC honchos? Damn. He had to stay on his game.

  “So it would take longer than just forty-eight hours, because they’d have to gear up,” continued Greene. “So we’re talking at least seventy-two, maybe a full week.”

  “Possibly,” said Frost.

  “The war may be over by then,” said Greene. He felt a little disappointed.

  “And there would be American ground troops in China,” said Jackson.

  “I’m not so worried about that,” said Greene. “Not with these guys.”

  “We could put together a strike with mercenaries,” said Frost. “Our own people. People we’ve worked with before. We’ve been moving some of them into Thailand, in case the Chinese come into the east.”

  Greene suspected that this presentation might have been rehearsed—try the idea in a risky, unacceptable form, get his interest, then present it in a way that made it seem far less risky.

  Very Machiavellian. Yet Greene couldn’t deny he liked the idea. A lot.

  “What do the Vietnamese think?” he asked Frost.

  “We haven’t told them. Major Murphy hasn’t shared the idea with them.”

  “General Perry is behind this?” said Jackson.

  “Not Perry,” said Lucas quickly.

  “The only person in-country we’ve spoken to was the SEAL who’s been coordinating weapons deliveries,” said Mara. “He and Major Murphy worked the plan out. We think that General Perry would probably be … opposed. And telling the Vietnamese would be very problematic. At least until the strike is underway.”

  Perry was another problem.

  Delaying the Chinese, even by a few days, might give Greene more time to rally more support in the UN. Ultimately, it looked like they were going to fail—no one really wanted to stand up to China and its aggressive premier. But still, he had to do something.