The Return of the Marines Trilogy

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  “Trade would be cut off, vice premier. They wouldn’t buy anything.”

  “Exactly,” Vice Premier Wang said, as if lecturing an undergraduate class. “And if the Japanese, the EU, the Russians, if they joined in a war, what would that do to trade?”

  “I don’t know the numbers, sir. But it would cut our trade.”

  “It would cut our trade by 76%, General Chen. That would plunge the country into recession. Inflation would take over, and that, as I am sure you are aware, would lead to civil unrest,” he said, leaning back as if his point had been made.

  “But Africa wouldn’t join in a war, nor India,” General Chen pointed out.

  “We get raw materials from Africa, but as far as hard goods, they still do not buy much from us,” Liang Chen-du, a younger member of the Politburo interjected, leaning forward in his seat, his round, soft face eager to make his point known.

  General Chen sat back, his tea cooling and forgotten. He had thought his way forward was clear, but it was evident to him that this group of men did not want the conflict to continue. But why make their case to him? They needed to get together and decide amongst themselves, then just tell him what to do. This was not a military decision, after all. The military was merely the tool to implement the decision, whatever that may be.

  “How would your granddaughter fare, general, if you could not provide for her, to buy her the things she wants in life?” the vice premier asked.

  Was that an implied threat? he wondered. If so, that was not a smart thing to do. He was not without some power himself.

  And then it hit him. Not only did he have some power, for the first time in the history of the nation, he had the power. With a united Party, with a united CMC, the PLA had no power. But the CMC, even the Party as a whole, was not united. There were two distinct factions, neither strong enough to overwhelm the other faction. The PLA, which had long been kept subservient to eliminate the chance of a coup, had the ability to shift the landscape, to put the power into one faction or the other. It could even take over, he realized, leading the way forward for the nation.

  He settled back into his chair.

  “Vice Premier Wang, my granddaughter would understand if she had to sacrifice. She would do what is right for China.”

  “Just as I am sure you will do the right thing for the nation, for our people. They have put their trust in you,” the vice premier said, rising to shake his hand.

  General Chen rose as well, and the two men shook.

  What is right for China, Second-ranked Vice Premier Wang, may not match what you think is right, though, he thought before nodding at the others and leaving the office.

  Chapter 37

  Pagasa Island

  Sergeant Harrington Steptoe had a wicked headache, and that bothered him much more than his aching ribs. He realized he probably had a concussion, but he didn’t want to bother Doc Sanjay, who had some much more serious cases to attend. With Doc Parker among the dead, Doc Sanjay had his hands full trying to stabilize the seriously wounded. Some of them weren’t going to make it unless help arrived right ricky-tick.

  The skipper was trying to consolidate his forces. He had pulled two squads back from First Platoon, leaving only one squad and the mortar section to cover their rear. The odd bursts of fire from the north were proof enough that something was going on up there, and they could not afford to be surprised from that direction. With only five mortar rounds left, only one team was left as mortarmen—the other two teams became riflemen.

  The two squads from First supplemented the decimated Third, but even then, the line was thin. The east side of the line, with Second and the Filipinos, was a little better off, but still, the distance between fighting positions was greater than what was recommended.

  The ammo counts were trickling in, and the numbers weren’t good. After redistribution, each Marine had about 9 rounds left. There was one SRAW Predator round, and the machine guns had less than 20 rounds apiece. The Chinese assaults had been turned back, but at a huge cost in ammunition, not even considering the more serious loss of life and limb. One more concerted effort by the Chinese and they would quickly be hand-to-hand.

  Steptoe listened in to the skipper as the company headquarters and the platoon commanders discussed the situation. He and Doc Sanjay were part of the headquarters, but Doc was off treating the wounded, and Steptoe was still somewhat dazed, so he was content to merely observe. The comm was pretty much set, anyway, with the wire and his three runners.

  “Maybe we need to hit them first,” the first sergeant said, straightening up a bit to glance over the runway.

  “And cross that killing field?” the skipper asked. “That didn’t serve them too well,” he continued, pointing to the Chinese bodies that were beginning to bloat in the afternoon sun.

  One tank was still on fire, the black smoke rising high into the air. The other two merely seemed abandoned as if they could be fired up and brought back into the attack. The one still on fire was the tank that Steptoe had taken out. It was close enough that he could smell the diesel and scorched hulk. It still seemed strange to think that he had somehow managed to kill the blue beast.

  “You know we can’t hold up much longer. And they keep bringing in more. If we can catch them on their offload, maybe we can knock out those damn LCACs,” First Sergeant Davidson continued.

  “I agree with you, Burke, but what’re we going to knock them out with? A few grenades? And how’re we going to get to them?” Capt Niimoto countered.

  “What about around the end, like the Filipinos did?” he asked.

  “I think they’ve got that covered now, First Sergeant,” Lt Blumenthal put in. “Lieutenant Jones says the Chinese have a pretty strong force covering that flank now.”

  “Jones” did not sound like a typical Filipino name, but the Filipino lieutenant proved to be pretty competent, so Steptoe would be inclined to take his word on that. The skipper evidently shared the same opinion.

  “I would love to take it to them. Just sitting here doesn’t seem right, but in the defense, that’s where we have the best chance at success. We just need to hold out until the MEU can reinforce us,” the skipper said, glancing at his watch. “I think that can be as early as maybe 45 minutes?”

  “I wish we could see what they’re doing now,” the XO said, peering through the trees and across the runway. “We think they have three tanks, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Gunny Dailey responded.

  “And we have only one SRAW, right?”

  The gunny and the skipper nodded.

  “So maybe we take out one tank, if we’re lucky. That means there’re two more. And that’s when you want us to retreat, sir?”

  The XO could be hot-blooded, to say the least. Steptoe never knew where he stood with the tall Wyoming Marine. He’d never been able to peg the man. And now he looked pretty upset.

  “I wouldn’t call it a retreat, Chael. The tanks can’t follow us into the jungle, so by pulling back, we’re going to force the Chinese to come after us on foot. And I don’t think infantry to infantry that they can defeat us. Do you?” the skipper asked.

  “Oh no, sir,” the XO hurriedly responded. “It’s just that, well, it just seems wrong to fall back in front of Chinese soldiers, sir.”

  “Falling back doesn’t mean retreat,” the first sergeant said. A moment ago, First Sergeant Davidson had been advocating an attack, but now he was onboard with pulling back. Steptoe didn’t know if he had really embraced the skipper’s plan or if he merely wanted to confront the XO. Neither man had ever seemed to fully accept the other, often vying for the skipper’s attention. Steptoe thought it rather immature that they still brought that competition here when lives depended on professionalism.

  Steptoe looked again to the Chinese position. They were less than 200 meters away, less than what every Marine fired on the rifle range. They could see the very tops of the three tanks, and there were furtive movements and quick glimpses of Chinese soldiers and th
ey scurried about. It was surreal that they were so close, yet for the last 30 minutes or so, they seemed to be ignoring the Marines. Of course, it only seemed like they were ignoring them. They were building up their forces, and Steptoe was not looking forward to when they kicked off whatever it was they were planning. This was only the calm before the storm.

  “November-Six-Tango, this is Sierra-Two-Whiskey, do you read me, over?”

  It took a moment for Sgt Steptoe to realize that someone was trying to reach him over his radio. He had taken the radio off his back and stowed it in his fighting hole, just a piece of useless gear. He scrambled back to his hole, gasping from what that did to his ribs as he dove to reach the handset that he had wrapped around the harness.

  “Kilo Company, come on, answer!” came another attempt, the operator throwing radio procedures out the window.

  “This November-Six, um, this is Kilo Company, over!” he shouted into the handset.

  “I’ve got them!” the voice came over, a little quieter as the operator--Sgt Bigby, it sounded like to Steptoe--spoke to someone else back on his end. “Kilo, look, you’ve got two Chinese cruise missiles inbound, impact in 90 seconds. These are the real thing. Take whatever cover you can, over.”

  Steptoe looked up to the others, but they had heard the message. All looked stunned.

  “Uh, roger, over,” he replied, routine taking over.

  “Kilo Company, God be with you,” came the simple response.

  “Take cover, take cover!” the shout went out, making its way down the Marines’ line.

  Lt Blumenthal jumped up and rushed towards his platoon, echoing the warning.

  “Well, I guess it was too good to be true, that this would be an infantry fight,” the skipper said bitterly. “If they are committing cruise missiles, well, expect air strikes next if any of us survive.”

  “What do we do now, sir?” asked the XO, the edge of panic starting to creep into his voice.

  “Not much we can do, lieutenant,” the first sergeant answered calmly. “The Chinese cruise missiles pack a hell of a punch, enough to take out a carrier or an entire city block, and we’re better off here and low, closer to their own troops.” He craned his neck to look across the runway. “I wonder if they know they’re screwed, too. No way they’re going to be untouched.”

  Sgt Steptoe’s ears were still ringing, but he became aware of a low rumbling from the north. He tried to look through the trees.

  “Yea, that’s them,” the skipper confirmed.

  He looked around at his headquarters. “It’s been an honor, Marines, to serve with you. Semper fi.”

  There was no overt panic as the Marines came to grip with their fate. With their lines well over a kilometer long, some Marines would survive the strike, and maybe the mortar section and recon would escape unscathed, but any survivors would be easy pickings for the overwhelming might of the entire Chinese assault force. Even if some of those Chinese already ashore were casualties as well, they could already see the rotors of the helo on the far off ship turning on the deck while an LCAC started to emerge from the ship’s well deck. Those would be the main landing force.

  The approaching rumble became louder. Steptoe didn’t realize you could hear your approaching death. He thought it would be more like the sequences shown on CNN or online, with death coming in silently. He guessed cruise missiles were either louder or slower than other forms of killing machines.

  “Good work on that tank, Stepchild,” Tony told him as the missiles began their final targeting.

  They’d gone through a lot together. They’d both survived New Delhi when so many others hadn’t. They both survived Somalia. Now, it looked like they would be going out together. It somehow seemed fitting.

  Stepchild closed his eyes as the missiles reached them . . . then opened them again as both missiles continued on, out over the water.

  He could clearly see the red star on both of them as the huge weapons flew on—they were definitely Chinese. He wondered for a second if they were going to turn back to get at them from a different angle, but the missiles ran true, right to the Chinese ship.

  The twin explosions sent huge gouts of fire and smoke into the air. A moment later, the shock wave hit them. At more than three kilometers away, they witnessed the death of a ship.

  Chapter 38

  Pagasa Island

  Pete took a deep drink of water, watching the Chinese Marines, he now knew them to be, load up on the big Chinese transport. It was hard to grasp that only the day before, they had been at each other’s throats. Now, the disarmed Marines were calmly getting on board their aircraft to get out of there, guarded by only a dozen or so Filipino soldiers.

  Pete had spent most of yesterday afternoon playing hide-and-seek with the Chinese Marines, the jungle too dense for real fighting. Other than the Chinese Marine he had killed, only one other Chinese Marine had been even hit, and on the American side, only Cpl Gutenev had been slightly injured, that from a branch going through a chunk of his thigh. None of the Filipinos had been injured.

  When the Chinese cruise missiles had flown overhead, he hadn’t known what was going on. Then Gunny Sloan’s helmet comm had come to life, and in the resultant mish-mash of messages, he found out the Chinese ship had been destroyed. Pete had figured that the American forces had finally arrived, or maybe the Mississippi had discovered what was going on and had taken out the Chinese ship.

  He was shocked to find out that the two missiles were Chinese. They had taken out their own ship.

  The Chinese Marines on the island had received orders to surrender. Chael Shelton had told him later that evening that an angry Chinese major had followed a Chinese Marine carrying a white rag tied to a pole across the runway to be led to Tony Niimoto. With terse words, his eyes blazing, he had surrendered his Marines to the skipper, despite his greater numbers and three tanks.

  Those three tanks, in their odd-looking blue digital camouflage, stood parked at the east end of the runway. Two Chinese crewmembers stood by each one, waiting for a Chinese transport to pick them up as well. Something was obviously up, but Pete didn’t understand why the Chinese were being cut so much slack. They were the enemies, weren’t they?

  It had taken much longer for the 26 Chinese Marines facing him to surrender. They could hear the crackle of their radios, and even some yelling, but evidently, the Chinese were cautious. When Pete had been given the message from Kilo that the Chinese were surrendering, he had risked calling out into the jungle that he would accept their surrender. A few minutes later, a voice called out in broken English that they would be coming out, to hold their fire.

  Pete had kept most of his Marines hidden, meeting the Chinese with only SSgt Tolbert and Cpl Schmidt. He had each Chinese Marine put his weapon on the deck before the moving further back to his Marines. They didn’t have any plastic wrist ties, so there was no way to restrain them. He had to trust that they really had surrendered.

  The Chinese lieutenant had seemed upset when he saw the number of Marines Pete had, but he also seemed resigned. With some of the Filipinos picking up the Chinese weapons, he had a few more guards to escort the prisoners back to the town, and the Chinese sullenly, but without incident, let themselves be escorted out of the jungle.

  The town was pretty damaged, the control tower down, and a still smoking hulk of a crashed helo lay on the ground. Pete’s heart fell when he saw the tower, but he could not leave his prisoners to check on what happened to McNamara’s team.

  He marched the prisoners to the runway and handed them over, then rushed back to the town, not bothering to check in with the skipper. There were no bodies in the tower, so he ran over to the mortar section asking about McNamara. They pointed him to the community center, which had escaped unscathed.

  Inside, he found McNamara and Maus being tended by one of Kilo’s corpsmen. McNamara was conscious, but his back was probably broken. Maus had broken legs and an arm at the minimum. It was then that he learned that Cpl Holleran had no
t made it. He had been in the control tower when it had been hit, and he had not survived the fall.

  This was the first of his Marines to die. He had seen other Marines die, even friends, and that had hit him, but this was different. Mark Holleran was one of HIS Marines. He had trained with him, he had lived with him. It hit him hard, and it took several minutes for him to gather himself.

  The sounds of an aircraft made him jump, but it was an American Osprey, which made several passes and got confirmation over the radio that all was secure before landing. The most seriously wounded were lifted off the island and back to the Makin Island which had first gone to Taiping Island before being diverted to Thitu, or Pagasa Island, as the Filipinos kept telling him. An hour later, the first of the American helos arrived, bringing in supplies, more Marines, and taking off more of the wounded and dead. One of the helos brought in an MP team and the MEU XO, and they quickly took over the prisoners, allowing most of Kilo to get some rest.

  By then, the Chinese ship had disappeared beneath the waves. When the Makin Island arrived offshore, there was no visible evidence that the Chinese ship had even been there.

  An hour later, a Filipino C-130 landed, and about 100 Filipino soldiers ran out, looking ready for bear. They were commanded by a full colonel, and he wasted no time in taking charge of the island. He insisted on searching each Chinese Marine and soldier again, the PLA Army soldiers being the ones who had made the initial assault and who had been previously taken prisoner, but when he wanted to truss each prisoner like a turkey, the MEU XO, LtCol Ramsey, had intervened. Evidently, word had been passed down on how to treat the prisoners, and after some heated radio calls, probably back to the Filipino Army headquarters, the prisoners were left as they were and were fed and watered. The dead were treated with respect and covered with either white tarps or placed inside body bags.

  When Pete saw how many Chinese had died, he had been surprised. There had to have been 200 bodies there waiting to be repatriated back to China. He knew Kilo Company had suffered pretty badly as well, but nowhere near that badly.