Warlords

by William H. Weber

  They quickly passed the information along to York, who told them he was sending the wounded back to Oneida via medically designated pickup trucks.

  “Shouldn’t we reinforce the area?” John asked. “I mean, an entire armored brigade is heading toward them.”

  “With the bridge blown?” General Brooks replied, still euphoric from repelling the attack. “The minute they get within distance, we’ll give ’em another taste of our 155s.”

  Yeah, John thought. That’s what I’m afraid of.

  Chapter 44

  John asked Henry for his mic. “Those tanks should be coming within view. What’s your status, Lieutenant York?”

  “I can hear ’em loud and clear, rumbling around the curve, but I don’t see ’em. Almost sounds like they turned off Highway 27.”

  General Brooks and John exchanged a troubled look.

  “Keep us posted,” John said and gave the mic back to Henry. He jogged over to the conference room to study one of the local maps laid out across the table. His finger traced a line along Highway 27 until it reached the bridge and that was when he saw what the Chinese were doing. He raced into the radio room and got back on the radio. “York, this is John. There’s a road that runs parallel to the highway named Sycamore Lane. It leads right up to the river’s edge.”

  “It’s possible,” York replied. “But we can’t see around the bend where you say they turned off.”

  “It’s only a theory, but you need to reposition your anti-tank troops right away. I think they’re going to use the side road to ford the river and come up on top of you.”

  “What are you doing?” General Brooks demanded, sounding incensed that John was issuing orders without his consent.

  York paused for a second before ordering two companies to move out.

  “The bridge is blown,” John replied. “So the Chinese are doing exactly what we would under the circumstances. Looking for another way across.”

  “Hold your positions,” York shouted over the radio. “Watch our right flank.”

  “York, what’s going on?” John called out. “Lieutenant York?”

  Through the frantic sound of intense gunfire, York said, “They’re coming up through the river just like you said and there’s too many of ’em to stop. I managed to move a few companies over there, but the reactive armor on those Type 99s is giving our AT-4s a run for their money.”

  A slab of high explosive commonly attached to the body of military vehicles, reactive armor was designed to detonate on impact in order to neutralize the incoming projectile.

  “We need to call in another artillery strike,” General Brooks exclaimed. “Pepper the whole darn area.”

  “Are you crazy?” John shouted back. “The enemy’s right on top of them. You’re gonna hit our own men.”

  “But we’ll also take out those tanks. Listen, we do nothing and the next thing we know they’ll be in Oneida,” General Brooks shot back, breathing heavily.

  “York,” John called into the mic. “Tell your men to retreat into the woods and work their way back to town.” Time ticked by without a response. “Lieutenant York, are you there?”

  Then another voice came on. One John didn’t recognize. “York is dead, sir, and most of the men are running for their lives.”

  •••

  The next strong point was about a mile further north on a straight stretch of Highway 27 overlooked by a small hill. The line of sight was superb. It was a shame they didn’t have more armor of their own they could spare. A handful of M1A2s on that rise would have made a great difference. As it was, the soldiers were dug in once again in foxholes and armed with light and heavy machine guns along with AT-4s.

  “The armor on the front of those tanks is too strong,” John was telling General Brooks, although it certainly wasn’t anything the career soldier didn’t already know.

  “What are you suggesting then? That we let them roll by and aim for the tracks or engine compartments in the rear?”

  “The minute we do, those IFVs are likely to engage and wipe out any resistance.”

  “The problem is the terrain is too open,” General Brooks said and John had to agree. “Our only hope is that the IEDs and artillery will whittle them down.”

  Soon the second strong point reported spotting a long column of enemy armor heading their way.

  “That’s the last line of defense before they hit Oneida,” Brooks said morosely. “This time we gotta throw everything we have against them, no matter the consequences.” He got on the radio and told them to coordinate fire with the men on the front lines. Now, all John and the others could do was sit back helplessly and listen.

  “Send three M1A2s over to the western edge of town,” Brooks ordered. “Whatever breaks through needs to be engaged and killed before it gets a foothold in the city.”

  A few tense moments passed before the call came for artillery support from on top of Owens Ridge. The play-by-play from the front lines painted a grim and desperate picture. The first volley destroyed three Type 99s and two ZBD-08s. Right after that, soldiers from the remaining IFVs disembarked and moved to engage the defending foxholes from the flanks. Now the Americans were in a crossfire between the armor on the highway and the troops coming at them from both sides. All the while, artillery shells were pouring into the area, drawing ever closer to friendly forces.

  There was a look of determination on General Brooks’ face. It didn’t seem to matter how many of their own men they needed to sacrifice in order to halt the Chinese attack. These men were pawns to him and perhaps that was one of the big differences between the top brass and the grunts who got their hands dirty.

  The sound of men shouting orders while the wounded shrieked in the background was hard for John to listen to. The final report came through that the American forces at the second strong point were pinned down and no longer able to put up an effective defense. Additional detonations were heard as the IEDs along Highway 27 went off, signalling that the Chinese forces were advancing again.

  Before long, they came within visual range of Oneida and all at once the town opened up on them. Both Javelins along with three M1A2 tanks and a handful of Bradleys firing Hellfire missiles pounded the Chinese armor. The first two tanks exploded in a violent plume. The artillery from Owens Ridge joined in, wreaking more havoc on the enemy’s lines. Running through both layers of the town’s defenses had greatly reduced their numbers and now this final punishment proved too great. With the lead vehicles destroyed, those that followed faced the dangerous choice of remaining exposed to American fire as they struggled to maneuver around burned and flaming hulks, or living to fight another day.

  Much to the chagrin of those in town, itching for payback, they chose the latter. But John wasn’t worried about the disappointment his men must be feeling since it wouldn’t be long before the enemy would regroup and attack again. Next time, stopping them wouldn’t be so easy.

  Chapter 45

  The two-mile strip between Jonesboro and Lake City, Arkansas was made up almost entirely of farmland and squat, single-story buildings. An observation which wasn’t completely lost on Brandon given the hunger churning away at his insides.

  The sprawling camp which overlooked Highland Drive was ringed by a twenty-foot-high barbed-wire fence and dotted with guard towers. The camp was still under construction, most of it being built with American slave labor on what was once a farmer’s field.

  In several places, weeds, grasses and wild flowers still grew in clumps around the fence line and near light poles and this was precisely where Brandon was snooping around, looking for something to eat.

  “There isn’t anything here but grass,” Gregory told him, keeping an eye out for guards. It was only a matter of time before the two boys were processed into a labor group and until then they had been instructed to follow the rules. Failure to do so would lead to punishment. Problem was, no one had told them what the rules were.

  “It’s not the grass I’m looking for,” Bra
ndon clarified. “It’s patches of violets. As long as the leaves are heart-shaped they’re fine to eat.” He plucked one up and ate the petals and greens. “They may not taste great, but they’ll keep you alive.”

  Gregory squished up his face, the cuts on his cheeks still visible from the train attack. “Just as long as we don’t need to eat any more worms. I almost gagged the last time.”

  The painful grumble in Brandon’s stomach came again and not even the foul odor from the camp’s thousands of prisoners could divert his hunt for food.

  “Eating violets and worms isn’t my idea of fine dining either,” Brandon snapped. “Don’t you think I’d rather be having a nice cheeseburger and chocolate shake?”

  Gregory snapped his eyes shut and licked his lips. “With French fries and ketchup and a chocolate sundae.”

  “Okay, you gotta stop or I’m gonna go crazy.”

  A frown formed on Gregory’s face as he slowly phased back to reality.

  From around one of the long wooden barracks Dixon appeared and waved them over. It looked like he was carrying something under his shirt.

  Stuffing a handful of violets into his pocket, Brandon headed over with Gregory.

  When they arrived, they saw Dixon had a black eye and a fresh cut on his forehead.

  “What happened to you?” Brandon asked.

  “A guard caught me leafing through the garbage pit over by the cooking shed.”

  Brandon winced. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”

  “It’ll take more than one of those North Korean goons to finish me off, let me tell you.”

  That had been the first of many surprises after entering the camp. The guards weren’t Chinese as they’d expected, but North Korean. Seemed after years of throwing their own people into camps, they’d developed something of an expertise in the matter. What didn’t surprise anyone, however, was how cruel and heartless they could be. Every day dozens of American prisoners died from disease, starvation or execution. A disturbing rumor was floating around the camp that Commandant Jang Yong-ho, the short, brutish man who ran the prison, let his German Shepherd feast on dead human bodies. Brandon didn’t want to believe a word of it. Anything that ghoulish must be a story made up to frighten the newcomers.

  But even in a hellhole like this where the oppressed should unite in misery, some prisoners chose to exploit the little power they could muster. Most of the time it would take the form of bullying others for scraps of food or clothing, maybe even the boots off a dead relative’s feet. In other cases it was worse.

  Dixon reached under his shirt and handed each of them a bruised apple. Gregory’s had a worm in it.

  “Hide it for later,” Dixon told them, then turned to Gregory. “And you better eat it all, little man. ’Cause you never know when you gonna get more.”

  Gregory blinked hard and slid the apple into his pants.

  Reaching into his pocket, Brandon removed about half of the violets and greens he’d collected and handed it to Dixon.

  “What am I supposed to do with this? Make a hat?”

  Brandon laughed. “You can if you want, but you’re probably better off eating it.”

  “Some of my contacts have been asking for that mullin stuff.”

  “You mean mullein,” Brandon corrected him.

  “That’s what I said. Makes great TP.”

  “I know, but there’s none growing inside the fence line.”

  Dixon pretended to cough and shoved some of the flowers into his mouth, his face contorting from the bad taste. “Well, that might not be a problem for long,” he said after swallowing.

  “You’re breaking outta here?” Gregory asked.

  “Keep your voice down, son,” Dixon reprimanded him, scanning around to be sure there were no guards within earshot. “The plan’s in the initial stages, but I’m working on something.”

  “They’ll shoot you,” Gregory said, seemingly in disbelief that Dixon was even contemplating a breakout.

  “Not if you don’t give me away,” Dixon shot back. “Listen, don’t you find it a touch weird that all the men and women in camp are kept apart? And ain’t it even stranger that many of the women appear to be in the early stages of pregnancy?”

  Brandon didn’t understand the implication, but if Dixon thought it strange, then it likely was.

  “When the time comes will you take me with you?” Brandon asked.

  Dixon slid some of the greens into his mouth, eyeing Brandon up and down. “I think this stuff is growing on me. You follow me and it could earn us both a death sentence, kid.”

  Brandon scanned the rows of wooden barracks which housed the prison’s population. Even during the day, the smell of death was hard to miss. Anything would be better than staying here. “I don’t care. I’m in.”

  “But what about me?” Gregory asked.

  Dixon turned his glare in the kid’s direction. “What about you?”

  “Don’t worry,” Brandon said. “We won’t leave you behind. Besides, your dad would kill me if I made it home without you.”

  Chapter 46

  Back in Oneida, John, Moss, General Brooks and several of his subordinates were in the conference room assessing the attack they’d only narrowly managed to repel.

  “The chances are that was little more than a probing attack,” John told them flatly. “They know now we’re entrenched and have howitzers covering every approach. If I was them I’d send in some air power to soften us up and then move in where we least expect it.”

  Captain Bishop was there as well and he cleared his throat before he spoke. “Given how close they came to reaching the town, they may not need a hat full of fancy moves the next time. Most of our men armed with AT-4s along the perimeter were largely ineffective against the reactive armor on those Type 99s.”

  The room grew quiet.

  “Then maybe we oughta take a page from the Chechens,” John offered.

  “How’s that?” General Brooks asked.

  John’s hands clenched the back of the chair before him. “The first months of the war in Chechnya saw the Russians lose ninety-eight percent of their heavy tanks and armor to rounds impacting areas not protected by reactive armor. The main areas of vulnerability were the rear of the turret and the engine in the back. Since the Chinese Type 99 main battle tank was largely inspired by the Russian T series, the same weaknesses will likely also be present. The Chechens knew of these weaknesses and developed hunter-killer teams armed with RPGs along with snipers and machine-gunners to protect the anti-tank gunner and suppress enemy infantry. The trick was to engage the armor from basements and upper floors where their main gun couldn’t traverse. It’ll also mean baiting the enemy armor by attacking them with our Abrams and Bradleys from the edge of town and then drawing them into predesignated kill zones.” John squeezed tighter, listening to the leather whine beneath his fingers. “First we’ll need every available AT-4 gunner reorganized into anti-tank teams spread throughout town.”

  General Brooks and the others grew quiet as they contemplated John’s plan. “But what about the defensive perimeters?”

  “I don’t see how we can hold them,” John replied, not bothering to mince his words. “They’re far too exposed. You heard those men being slaughtered. Our best bet is to pull them back.”

  Brooks still wasn’t convinced. “But that would mean risking enemy infantry getting a foothold in Oneida.”

  John bobbed his head before the two men locked eyes. “That’s exactly what we’ve been trying to avoid, I know, but you saw how easily one Chinese armored brigade was able to penetrate our lines. What’ll happen when ten times that number show up? Our only chance of fending off the next one is to lure them in and turn our town into a meat grinder. Otherwise, we won’t stand a chance.”

  •••

  Once the meeting was done, John oversaw the relocation of anti-air assets to protect the artillery on Owens Ridge. Although most of the infantry would be pulled back within Oneida’s immediate bound
ary, mines and explosives were planted along each of the major roadways into town. An enemy paranoid about IEDs strung along the side of the highway was an enemy who wasn’t looking for targets in the distance.

  Captain Bishop and others would be in charge of organizing the troops into dozens, if not hundreds, of tank-killing teams. They would operate independently and with little direction other than to protect the soldiers firing the AT-4s. One of the big drawbacks of the American shoulder-fired anti-tank weapon was the blowback. Like the Javelin, when the rocket was fired, anyone standing directly behind the one pulling the trigger would be in for a world of hurt. It was possible to do, but a safer solution was to set up in an alleys between buildings or amongst the debris in the streets. The key to John’s strategy was to let the armor pass, thus exposing the less protected areas.

  The dip in immediate hostilities had also meant that a number of the non-combatants had moved to the high-school gymnasium in order to help load magazines and strengthen defensive points.

  John was making local inspections when he heard a familiar voice.

  “So what can I do to help?”

  John glanced up from the list he was holding and saw Jerry, the man they’d found at the Home Depot in Oak Ridge.

  “That depends on whether you have any military training,” John replied.

  Jerry shook his head. He was pudgy and looked like he hadn’t picked up a dumbbell, let alone a rifle, in years. “I’m a man of science,” he replied, smiling. “We must be good for something.”

  “Someone with your skill set will be an asset to Oneida,” John offered, “once we make it out of this mess.”

  “If we make it out,” Jerry amended.

  “I’ve always been a hardcore pragmatist,” John told him. “But it’s only really been in the last few weeks that I’ve come to understand how powerful hope is.”

  The side of Jerry’s mouth dipped as he nodded. “You might be right. When you break it down into itty-bitty parts, hope is the cornerstone of every major religion.”