Shock of War - [Red Dragon Rising 03]

by Larry Bond

  It was coming. The darkness seemed to focus its intensity. The deck hurled upward and down, again and again, the hard hand of Poseidon slamming against the waves.

  “Captain, we’re still five miles from the nearest merchant ship,” said Lt. Commander Li. “But the storm—we can’t keep moving this way much longer.”

  “We have to get between them and the port,” said Silas.

  “Captain, even the Chinese warships have moved off. We have to head into the storm.”

  “We can take hundred-knot winds,” said Silas. He meant they could take a wind that strong at the side without rolling over.

  “These winds are one-twenty, one-thirty!” The howling outside the bridge was so loud Li had to shout to make herself heard.

  “We’re going to do it,” said Silas calmly. As if to mock him, a heavy gust bit at the ship, pushing her over a good ten degrees. “Helm! More power.”

  “She’s to the limit now, Captain.”

  “Pour it on!” insisted Silas. He looked at Li. He knew what she was thinking. “I know the ship, Dorothy. We’re not capsizing. We’re going to accomplish our mission.”

  She grit her teeth, then nodded.

  “Steady!” yelled Silas as the vessel lurched again. “Steady!”

  ~ * ~

  35

  Quàng Ninh Province

  Zeus pushed himself into the wet grass, waiting for the first tank to come around the bend. The rain had picked up to the point where it interfered with his night glasses.

  Good. The tanks’ infrared sights would be useless as well.

  He thought of Anna, remembered her body pressing against his.

  The first Chinese tank came around the turn, gun pointed toward the hill where Zeus was lying. In the dark, it looked exactly like an M1A1, the low silhouette grinding through the night.

  “Come on, baby,” muttered Zeus.

  A second tank came around the bend, about ten yards behind the first. A third followed almost on its bumper, with a fourth right behind that.

  Zeus turned toward the bridge. Would the engineers be patient enough to let the first tank pass? If they were, they could get three in one shot.

  Perry’s warning and orders came back to him. But there wasn’t time to bug out. The Chinese had come down too quickly. It wasn’t his fault.

  The first tank rumbled onto the bridge. It paused for a moment, then burst across toward the pickup truck on the far side. The second tank moved onto the bridge, then the third and fourth.

  Blow it now, thought Zeus. But nothing happened.

  ~ * ~

  36

  The Gulf of Tonkin

  The wind and water worked together, sliding a long hand beneath the stern of the McLane and then dashing her into the ocean like a fly caught in a stabber. The vessel rolled forty-five degrees, staying there for a long moment.

  Silas realized he had erred, gravely. He had thought he could best not simply the Chinese but nature. It was a foolish, fatal bit of egotism, the hubris of an idiot—and too late to be retrieved.

  The vessel smacked back upright. He had two men on the helm now, and another to help if either needed relief, but they were nothing against the storm. The McLane, for all her dash and technology, was not the equal of God. Nor was she intended to be.

  A new wave sent him to the deck. The pit of his stomach opened. He felt nauseous—something he hadn’t felt even as a freshly minted ensign. He began to get sick; in an instant, vomit spewed from his mouth, over his shirt.

  It was the ultimate humiliation for a captain. He cowered on the deck, humbled.

  Now, he told himself, now that you are stripped of all your dignity, now that you stand before your crew exposed as a fool—now you must decide what you will do.

  Will you stay at the deck like the broken dog you are? Or will you rise and scream against the wind, take one last stand, even if futile?

  Every muscle, every bone in his body screamed for the deck, for oblivion. Only the voice in his head remained defiant.

  “Into the wind, mister!” he said, voice so faint the wind kept even himself from hearing. “The wind!”

  The lights blinked, went out, came back. Silas grabbed onto a piece of the forward panel and pulled himself up. There was no one at the wheel—his men had tumbled to the deck, one unconscious, the other moaning with a hand clapped to his bloody scalp.

  Silas leapt up and took the wheel.

  “We’re into the teeth of it!” he yelled, talking not to his crew, not even to himself, but to his ship. “Steady against the waves! Steady!”

  The wind whipped hard against the McLane’s side, and she rolled hard with a strong swell.

  “Into the storm. The teeth of the storm!” said Silas, checking his bearings as best he could as the ship lifted and turned at the same time.

  He had her. He had her.

  “I feel the wind at my face,” he said, reciting an old sailor’s poem as the rain pelted the bridge windscreen. “Come around, come around, there’s fight in us yet!”

  ~ * ~

  37

  Quàng Ninh Province

  Zeus held his breath. The first tank was now beyond the pickup truck that had been fashioned into an IED. The second tank was just reaching the end of the bridge. The third and fourth were about midspan, bumper to bumper.

  The night cracked. Zeus thought it was thunder from the storm. Then there was a flash from the road—the truck being detonated.

  Then a louder, deeper explosion, and a rumble that felt as if the ground were being pulled away. The bridge went down, taking two tanks with it.

  Shrapnel and dirt flew in the air. Zeus pushed his head down. He smelled wet grass and metal.

  Two more tanks came around the bend. There was a whistle in the air—mortar fire.

  The shells popped around the two tanks, black hammers pounding through the dark curtain of rain. One hit against the hull, but did no damage. One of the tank commanders began firing his 12.7mm gun, though he couldn’t possibly have a target.

  More mortar shells. More tanks. The ground rumbled with explosions.

  Zeus raised his head. The platoon commander had been a short distance away on his right. As soon as the bridge exploded, he had jumped up with one of his men and run down to a position near the road, covering the ravine where the tanks had fallen in.

  “Zeus, we gotta get across to the other side!” yelled Christian behind him.

  Another tank came around the bend. The tank commander in the turret was firing his 12.7mm machine gun, spraying the road near the blown-out bridge. He was firing blindly, but the spray of bullets was deadly nonetheless.

  A line of mortar shells walked up toward the tank. There was a flash and a puff of smoke; an acrid smell filled the air.

  The tank stopped dead. One of the mortar shells had struck the top of the open turret, scoring a direct hit inside.

  “The Vietnamese are damn good with those mortars!” yelled Christian. He tugged at Zeus’s arm. “Come on! Back!”

  Zeus turned and ran back up the hill. Three tanks seemed to burst around the corner. The mortar shells rained down; the tanks continued forward. Two entered the ravine. There was another explosion—one had hit a mine.

  Zeus slipped and fell. A tank round whipped through the air. It didn’t land anywhere close—the large shell cleared the hill and traveled several miles—but the sound was frightening, as if the air was splitting wide open. He was wet, drenched; the rain pounded him.

  Zeus struggled to his feet. He started moving again, toward what he thought was the ravine, only to realize he was moving toward the road. He slid down on his butt, freezing in place as he tried to make sense of the scene before him.

  He was supposed to cross the ravine and the creek at its bottom about seventy-five yards from the bridge, well away from the antitank mines. He began moving backward, then turned and finally found the edge of the drop. He ran alongside it for a few strides, then slipped and fell, tumbling down toward the water. A
long the way he hit his head on a rock, smacking it hard enough to hurt, though not enough to do any real damage.

  Thunder cracked overhead, and the sky flashed with lightning. In the flash he saw that he was still close to the bridge—not more than twenty yards away.

  He stood, then saw the leading edge of a tank coming straight for him.

  Zeus threw himself down as the ZTZ99 loomed overhead. The driver attempted to steer through the ridge at a right angle, but either the wet grass or his own lack of skill made that impossible.

  There was a roar. Exhaust and mud packed into Zeus’s face and body.

  He thought he would be run over, but in fact the tank missed him by six or seven yards. He lay there for a moment, stunned, unsure exactly what had happened. Then something took hold of him, something deep in his soul. He got to his feet and began running after the tank as it climbed the other side of the ravine. It was in its lowest gear, sure-footed against the mud and rocks. Zeus grabbed onto the light at the right rear, pulling himself onto the back of the tank.

  There was a rail at the back of the turret. He took hold and hung on as the tank stood nearly straight up, rising up the side of the ravine. The angle was so severe he thought the tank would fall off backward, and he would be crushed beneath it, this time for real. But it pitched down sharply as it neared the top of the ridge, gravity helping it over the summit.

  Zeus pulled himself forward to the hatchway. It was closed, the tank buttoned down.

  “Open up, you bastard,” he screamed, pounding on the hatchway.

  He’d lost his mind. It was worse than when he’d been at the border, when they’d attacked the depot. He was completely insane, rain pounding through him.

  And yet he was confident he was going to take this tank. He was going to wait until the hatch opened, and pull out the man who popped up, kill him, and then take the tank. He pushed over to the side, grabbing the machine gun, steadying himself as the tank rumbled across a patch of rocks and uneven ground.

  Something moved behind him.

  Zeus turned, saw two men leaping upward. Thinking they were Chinese soldiers, he started to swing the gun around, then realized they were part of the antitank team—the volunteers with the grenades.

  One of them gave him a raised fist, recognizing him.

  “The hatch is locked!” yelled Zeus.

  Neither man made any sign that they had heard him. Instead, one placed a charge on the hatchway. His companion pulled Zeus off to the side.

  The charge exploded as they hit the ground. As Zeus rolled down, the Vietnamese soldiers sprang to their feet. Already the third man in the team, who’d been running alongside the tank as they set the charge, had scrambled to the top. He had a long pry bar, and in one smooth motion, pushed the damaged hatchway far enough aside to squeeze in a grenade.

  He jumped, then all three men on the team ducked down, signaling at Zeus to do the same.

  There was a barely audible pop. The tank stopped moving.

  Zeus followed the Vietnamese soldiers as they ran back toward the second bridge. The mortars had stopped firing. The tanks were launching their own shells, though all seemed to be aimed too far away.

  Christian met him a few yards from the bridge.

  “What the hell happened to you?” he shouted into Zeus’s ear.

  “I went crazy.”

  “You look like it. Come on.”

  The Vietnamese engineers were still configuring the explosives under the structure. Though six or seven tanks had been destroyed, the Chinese had found a route across the ravine. They mustered the tanks on the road near the burned out shell of the pickup and the Z99 it had damaged.

  “They won’t go over the bridge,” predicted Christian. “They’ll be too careful now.”

  “That’s fine with us,” said Zeus. “We want them to stop.”

  The company commander was in a small building about a hundred yards from the bridge. Zeus and Christian ran across the open field toward it. With every step, Zeus was sure the tanks would spot them and begin firing.

  When they made it to the building, they saw the CO standing in the front room behind the blown out window, gazing intently at the bridge with his binoculars.

  “You can’t stay here!” yelled Zeus. “The Chinese will blow up any building they can see.”

  The commander gave Zeus a puzzled look.

  “You gotta get out,” said Zeus. He motioned with his hands and arms.

  The commander stayed put.

  “Where the hell is Chaū?” asked Zeus.

  “Damned if I know,” said Christian. “I thought he was with you.”

  “Out,” said Zeus. “We gotta get out.”

  Two of the Chinese tanks had been sent down the road as scouts. They drove at about five miles an hour. Both commanders had their tops open and were scanning the ground ahead, firing their machine gun indiscriminately. They couldn’t have many targets—the rain was heavy and the Vietnamese ambushers were well hidden.

  There were several more tanks behind them. A few had lights, but the others had either been damaged or turned off by the crews, who realized they were helping the Vietnamese attack.

  The two lead tanks stopped.

  “Out of here now!” shouted Zeus.

  He grabbed the Vietnamese commander and dragged him shouting from the building. One of his men jumped on Zeus as he pulled him out of the door, and they collapsed in a tumble. Christian threw himself against the scrum, trying to push the men away from the building.

  The first round from the tanks missed very high, whipping well overhead. But that was enough to convince the Vietnamese that Zeus’s idea was the right one. They stopped fighting and scrambled away from the building.

  The next round from the tank shot clear through the front of the wooden structure. The shell, designed to pierce a tank, exploded halfway into the field.

  The third obliterated its target. By that time, Zeus and the others had joined the two-man demolition team behind some rocks thirty yards from the far end of the bridge.

  “Ten bucks says they stop right there,” said Christian, watching the Chinese tee off on the few splinters that were left of the building.

  Zeus raised his head as high as he dared, looking at the area. The surrounding marsh was relatively deep and muddy; even without more rain the tanks might not be able to make it through.

  Assuming the bridge was blown.

  There was a loud clap overhead.

  “Is that them or thunder?” asked Christian.

  “I think it’s thunder,” said Zeus.

  “Man, we are soaked.”

  “We need all the rain we can get.”

  “They’re moving!” said Christian.

  The Vietnamese commander had apparently seen it as well. He huddled next to the engineers.

  The tanks moved forward slowly. They must be blind, or nearly blind; in this downpour, their infrared sensors would be useless, and it was a good bet that their optical sights were fogged and cloudy as well.

  But obviously they’d been given orders to advance. Did they realize that was a bridge they were coming close to? In the rain, the guardrails didn’t look like much.

  First one, then the other went onto the bridge. When the first one was about halfway across, the commander raised his hand and gave the order to blow the bridge. The engineer pushed the detonator.

  Nothing happened.

  They tried again. Twice. Nothing. The first tank reached their side.

  “Shit!” yelled Christian, rising.

  “Where the hell are you going?” said Zeus.

  “You’re not the only nut!”

  Christian started running for the bridge. One of the engineers joined him.

  Zeus stared for a moment, then got up and followed.

  ~ * ~

  ~ * ~

  1

  Quàng Ninh Province

  Zeus ran across the field toward the marsh and the bridge. His feet sloshed through the wet field, the water
sucking at the soles of his boots. The rain felt like a hose, washing him down as he ran.

  The storm intensified with every step. It was a blessing—it meant the Chinese would be trapped—but it was a curse as well, limiting the Vietnamese counterattack. And if they didn’t blow the final bridge right now, everything would be lost—the Chinese tanks would ford the first ravine and stay on the road past this low area, moving to Hai Phong despite the rain. The tanks would simply speed past any effort to stop them, and once in the harbor, the armored spearhead could wait for reinforcement, which would surely arrive as soon as the winds died down.