The Return of the Marines Trilogy

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  “This is Three. We’ve got an incoming Osprey, over.”

  “Wait one, over,” Steptoe told him.

  “Hey skipper, Third Platoon’s got an Osprey inbound,” he shouted over the five meters to where the company commander was prone and talking with the first sergeant.

  “Tell them to pop the red smoke. We don’t him landing in the middle of this. He won’t have a chance. With the smoke and that big target out there, he should get the message and get back to the MEU. Hopefully, he’ll get back with a few of his friends,” the captain told him.

  “Three, pop a red smoke. We don’t want him to try to land, over,” Steptoe spoke into his handset.

  “Roger. I think he’s already figured it out. He’s circling well off shore, but we are popping smoke, out.”

  There was a short delay, then down the runway, a good 500 meters away, red smoke started to form, to be wisped away in the slight breeze. Steptoe looked at his watch. If the Osprey could get back to the Makin Island in, say 45 minutes, and reported what was happening, then maybe they could have some help here in about 2 to 3 hours, just like the skipper said.

  “Stand by,” came a shout from down the line.

  The Chinese must have seen the Osprey as there was a flurry of activity. A puff of black smoke indicated where the light tank had started back up. They could hear shouts as the Chinese got organized for something.

  When nothing happened for a few minutes, Steptoe started to relax a bit. That was premature.

  Two tanks, not just the one Steptoe knew was there, crested the edge of the runway as five separate rockets were fired into the Marine lines and what looked to be 100 soldiers came “over the top,” firing as they came. Three SMAW II Serpents and one Predator SRAW reached out to the armor, two rounds hitting one tank and stopping it cold. The other tank kept coming as the Chinese rockets exploded over the Marines.

  Captain Niimoto was on the handset, yelling out orders, so Steptoe kept watch forward, acting as the skipper’s security. The headquarters element might normally have been back further, but with the dense vegetation, that would have kept them in the dark as to what was going on, so they were right up on the line.

  Just to his right, LCpl Hanks stood up with his SMAW, trying to get a better shot at the tank that was spraying fire at the Marines. He calmly lined up his sights, then sent a spotting round downrange.

  Shoot the rocket! Steptoe silently implored.

  But Hanks took too long. The tank had spotted him, and with one round, hit him dead on. Steptoe was watching as the Marine simply came apart.

  The blast knocked Steptoe, rolling him over onto his back. His hearing was gone, blasted away. Blood was running down his left arm, but he flexed it without problem. He rolled back over, and the tank was now only 40 meters or so from the tree line.

  A frontal assault over a runway seemed stupid, but if they could keep the heads of the Marines down, Steptoe knew it could work. They could penetrate the line, then roll up the sides. First Platoon had been sent back once firing had been heard to the north of the town to protect their rear, and they couldn’t get back in time to support the other two platoons if things got dire.

  Right in front of him, a few feet into the open, LCpl Hanks’ arm lay, the hand looking normal. Steptoe’s attention was drawn to the fingernails and the half-moon of dirt under each one. In his daze, he found himself thinking that Hanks should have kept them clean.

  Beyond Hanks’ arm, the SMAW lay, looking basically whole. Steptoe was dazed, but he knew he should get the weapon. He got to his knees and crawled out, stopping to carefully move Hanks’ arm aside, then continuing to the SMAW. He sat down and cradled the weapon.

  Sgt Steptoe was not a SMAW gunner. He was a communicator. But as the saying went, “Every Marine is a rifleman.” He knew how to operate a SMAW, even if he had never fired a real one, only a simulator. His thinking wasn’t clear, but rote training took over.

  He checked the optics. If they were smashed, the weapon would be essentially useless. But the SMAW II Serpent was designed with a roll cage over the optics, and in this case, the roll cage had done as it was designed, protecting them.

  Sgt Steptoe swung his legs around, still sitting, going through the steps in firing the weapon, just like he was on the range back at Pendleton. Place the safety on fire. Check, Hanks had already done that. Pull the charging handle. Check. Hanks had done that, too. He inspected the spotting rifle magazine, which looked dented. He decided to skip using it. The range was minimal, after all. He checked the sights one more time. They were set for “HE” and 100 meters. He hoped the round was something a little more effective against armor, but it was too late to worry about that.

  Turning the range drum to 50 meters, he looked back and yelled out “Back blast area clear!”

  Whether it actually was clear or not, he wasn’t exactly sure given his foggy brain. He sighted in on the tank, which was traversing both its machine gun and main gun along the tree line. It was a light tank, but it looked huge in his sights. He was close enough that the patchwork light blue digital camouflage squares made it stand out more, giving him a specific point of aim. He calmly depressed the launch lever and pulled the trigger, sending the rocket straight into the side of the tank.

  Evidently, the round had not been HE but either HEDP or HEAA, probably the later as the resultant explosion sent the turret of the tank spinning end over end and at least 30 feet into the air. Steptoe stared at the burning tank until something slammed into his chest. Gasping for breath seemed to clear his head. He had been hit, but a quick check showed that his armor had stopped the round. He might have a broken rib, but that was a small price to pay. He scrambled back into the tree line and into the shallow fighting position he had scraped out earlier.

  The skipper was still yelling over the handset, but he gave Steptoe a thumbs up. His head clearing and his hearing coming back, he felt a tremor coming over him. He couldn’t believe he had just taken on a tank and survived.

  He tried to take a deep breath, but that brought on a spasm of pain from his bruised or broken ribs. Looking out over the killing field, the Chinese attack had petered out. With both tanks gone, the infantry had retreated, but not without leaving bodies scattered on the crushed coral runway. One soldier was only 20 meters in front of him, slowly and painfully trying to crawl back, leaving a bright red trail of blood. He was in full sight of the Marines, but they were content to let him go. If he managed the long crawl back, dragging useless legs, well, he was no longer a threat to anyone, and an able-bodied soldier would have to take the time to give him aid.

  As the firing died down, reports started coming in. The Chinese attack, although beaten back, had been devastating. Third Platoon had taken the brunt of the attack, and they had lost 8 Marines killed, including 1stLt Gaines. Another 11 had been wounded. Second Platoon had lost four Marines with eight wounded. Doc Parker had been one of those killed, so the skipper sent Doc Sanjay, the senior corpsman, to take care of them. The Filipinos had been the only ones to escape serious injury.

  Technically, this was a victory. But another such victory might be their last. They just didn’t have the manpower to stand up to another major assault.

  Chapter 35

  Aboard the Jinggan Shan

  Captain Teng Huang-fu was livid. That idiot, Major Lim, had actually gone into the attack, spooked by the American tilt-rotor that had made a brief appearance. He had obviously been concerned that it would make a gun run on his troops, but couldn’t he see that the plane had turned back?

  Communications with the PLA Marines on the ground was still spotty, but he had watched the attack through his big eyes on his bridge wing. Now, instead of three tanks on shore, he had none. He had no armored personnel carriers, no artillery. He had possibly 70 effectives on the beachhead and another 800 still onboard his ship. The main issue was getting those 800 onshore where they could roll over the American soldiers.

  From the beginning, this operation had been plagu
ed with mismanagement and bad luck. Initially, the two ships had set out with a half a brigade of Marines for a scheduled exercise. When this contingency had come up, instead of pulling back into port to better prepare, they had been sent as is to dislodge the American invaders.

  So instead of being combat-loaded, they didn’t have enough ammunition and even the right types, they only had the ship’s three Z-8 helos with no attack helos, and they had only 6 light amphibious tanks and 6 armored personnel carriers.

  Even the ship’s 3-inch gun was less than effective. Thitu was very flat, and while the gun was accurate in deflection, the slightest error in aiming or roll of the ship could send the round quite short or quite long. The gun was quite effective in protection from smaller ships or in sinking a Somali or Malayan pirate, but against troops, it was only minimally useful.

  Then the cursed American tilt-rotor had taken out not only one of his LCACs but one of his Z-8s as well. Another LCAC had been damaged and was being hurriedly repaired, and a second Z-8 had been destroyed somehow back near the island’s town.

  The only good thing was that they had more than the normal 750-man Marine battalion on board. With budget concerns and shortages of bunker oil, their training cruise had been expanded to get more Marines trained instead of just the normal single battalion.

  Of course, the Marines could not fight from the ship. They had to get ashore. And for all the lip service the PLA gave to amphibious operations, they just didn’t have the capability to put large numbers of Marines or soldiers ashore quickly.

  He raised the big eyes a bit to take in the roofs of the town towards the middle of the island. On one building, the red flag of the People’s Republic had been spread out on the roof. He wondered if this was a ruse, but he had to go on the assumption that the missing Chinese citizens were inside. As such, he had ordered the building not be targeted.

  There was one other undercurrent that was weighing on Captain Teng’s mind that increased his anger. When Senior Captain Chou had sent him on this mission, he had made certain comments, purposely, Teng was sure, that lead him to believe that this operation was not the simple rescue and retaliation operation he had been told it was, that this was part of a larger strategy.

  Captain Teng would never question orders. If the command sent him to invade Los Angeles or Sydney, he would do it without question. But Captain Teng hated incompetence. And if this was a planned operation, why would they be sent in half-assed and half-armed? Why not provide air support? Why not go in so robust that nothing could stand in their way? It just didn’t make sense.

  “Sublieutenant Chin, how long for high tide?” he asked over his shoulder, eyes still glued to the beach.

  “Two hours and 18 minutes,” came back the immediate reply.

  He didn’t let it show, but he was pleased with Chin. The young officer was extremely competent and would go far in the PLA Navy.

  He slowly backed away from the big eyes and looked at Lieutenant Colonel Huang, the Marine battalion commanding officer. He had left the Marine standing at attention for the last few minutes.

  “Well, Lieutenant Colonel Huang, I hope you understand my orders,” he said, keeping a steel edge to his voice.

  “Yes, Captain Teng. I understand.”

  “No more glory-seeking? No more impromptu deviations from orders?”

  “No Captain. We will follow your plan exactly.”

  Teng looked the Marine over. The PLA Marine Corps was the newest branch of the PLA, only reformed back in 1980 after being disbanded for almost 30 years. They were tough, he had to admit, in superb physical shape and used to extreme conditions. But sometimes their macho self-image got in the way of modern warfare. All PLA Marines were expert martial artists, for example, spending untold hours in hand-to-hand combat training. How that helped a tanker or an artilleryman, well, Captain Teng didn’t know. Even an infantryman would be better served becoming an expert with his Type 95 Assault Rifle than learning how to break a brick with his hand.

  This debacle was not totally the Marine commander’s fault, though, he realized. It was the Navy, his own ship, that couldn’t project the Marines’ full force ashore. Well, that was going to change.

  “I will allow you to lead the attack from the front, as you requested. I trust that you will succeed in your mission.”

  The Marine’s chest actually swelled as he shouted out, “Thank you, captain. I will not fail you.”

  “It is not me you would be failing, but China. Now, go, get your troops ready.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Huang saluted, then did a perfect military about face before racing off.

  One of the problems with the island was that the only reasonable place to conduct a landing was at the runway, and the seawall and foundation for the runway were just high enough that the LCACs could not clear the lip and get up on the land itself. Elsewhere, the rocks and jungle were too thick to enable any vessel to get ashore. However, to the west, over the same reef that still held the rusting hulk of a Filipino Navy ship that had run aground years ago, the vegetation near the shore was not quite as thick, certainly not thick enough to stop an LCAC from at least making it up to dry land. At high tide, there would be enough clearance for his remaining three LCACs and a few of his smaller boats to breach the outer reef and make it to shore. The vegetation was still too thick there to try and land tanks or armored personnel carriers, but it was feasible for the infantry Marines.

  In addition to about 90 Marines in various launches and small boats available to him, and with the LCACs overloaded, he was going to land almost another 200 Marines in the LCACs on the west side of the island where they could roll up the American’s flank. Supported by his remaining three tanks, which were already being ferried ashore to the south side of the runway, another 120 Marines already ashore and still arriving, and his lone helo, this would be more than enough to overwhelm the Americans. There wasn’t any way they could resist.

  Chapter 36

  Zongnaihai, Beijing

  General Chen Jun, Chief of Staff for the People’s Liberation Army, walked down the hall of the party headquarters, his mind racing. He had just left the general secretary’s office. When he had been summoned, he had assumed he was going to be sacked at best, at worst, well, that was better left unmentioned.

  Instead, he had been ushered in with respect by the general secretary’s staff and brought to the great man without delay. The general secretary even poured him tea.

  Yu Deijang, the third-ranked vice premier was also there, smiling and asking about his wife and family. He asked General Chen to give his regards to his granddaughter on her birthday. Idle pleasantries took only a minute or so before the raison d’être for the meeting became clear. They wanted to know what he had planned to do about Taiping and Thitu.

  This floored him. The People’s Republic had made great pains to separate the PLA from any avenue of power. The PLA was an instrument of the Party, controlled by the Central Military Commission. Both men sipping tea with him were on that commission. For them to ask him with the deference they were showing was unusual, to say the least. In all the history of the nation, the CMC ordered, the PLA obeyed.

  Not sure what they expected, he had spouted familiar party themes. They seemed to agree with him, but before he left, they made it clear that victory in the Wanli Shitang was vital to Chinese interests.

  At least he now knew which way he was expected to jump. With this in mind, he was on his way out to return to PLA headquarters and give the order to General Li to use what resources he needed to finish the job at hand. Before he could get to security, though, Wang Jinping, the second-ranked vice premier personally stopped him in the hall.

  “General Chen. It is good to see you here. I was about to call you, but as you are already here, perhaps we can go to my office and chat?”

  “I would be honored, vice premier. Be assured, though, that the general secretary has already spoken to me about my duty.”

  “Ah, yes, the general secretary.
Well, please humor me, if you will.” The second-ranked vice premier held an arm out as if to escort the general.

  General Chen shrugged. He wanted to get back and give the orders. Who knew what the Americans would do the longer this dragged out? But when the third most powerful man in the country asked for your presence, then who was he to say no?

  Vice Premier Wang also asked about his granddaughter and her birthday. Did the entire CMC keep tabs on his granddaughter? he wondered.

  They walked into the vice premier’s spacious office. Sitting there, evidently waiting for them, were two more members of the CMC and another five members of the Politburo. This was a heavy meeting. General Chen wanted to assure them that he knew his duty, but years climbing the ranks in the PLA had given him a degree of political savvy. Sometimes, being astute meant keeping silent.

  This group didn’t waste time. As soon as the tea had been served, the vice premier got to business.

  “General Chen, do you think the standard of living is better for our people now than it was, say 50 years ago?” the vice premier asked.

  “Why certainly, sir, thanks to the Party and its leadership,” came the rote answer.

  “And why is that, general?”

  “Well, because, well, … the Party has led the people into prosperity.”

  “But how? What tools did they use?”

  “We built up our manufacturing, our power.”

  “And who do we sell to, general? Who gets all those cars, machines, tools, electronics—all those things we make?”

  “Why, the world does, vice premier,” he replied.

  “And who is our biggest trading partner?”

  “The Americans are. They buy all our products.”

  “You are correct, General Chen. The Americans buy 22% of all Chinese exports. So I want to ask you, if we were at war with the Americans, how much of that 22% would they still buy?”