Our Next Great War

by Martin Archer

  “Ah...General, I apologize for bothering you but I wonder if we might be able to get together, privately that is, the next time you get back to the States.”

  “Your timing is pretty good, Mr. Vice President. I’m leaving for the States in a couple of hours. I’ll be staying at my father-in-laws’ house tomorrow night and maybe the next night too. Would you like me to call on you at your office Tuesday afternoon?”

  “No General, please let me visit you at the Senator’s place; tomorrow evening. About eight if that’s alright?”

  “Yes sir, that would be fine.” Wonder what this is all about.

  “Thank you, General. I look forward to speaking with you.”

  ******

  “You really don’t know why he wants to talk to you,” asked my father-in-law, the Senator, with a little grin.

  “No Pops, I don’t. What do you think it is?

  “Well hell, Dick, he wants to know if you’re going to run for President.” He’s pulling my leg.

  “You’re kidding me, right?

  “Nope. We won the war and that means you’re a hot political property. Both parties see you as another Eisenhower. Meaning you could win and leave the governing and patronage to them. You didn’t know that?” he asked, looking at me rather shrewdly as he did.

  “No. But so what? I’m not sure I could handle the endless bullshit and indecision you guys have to endure, and I’ve got to see this Chinese thing through.” But it sure is flattering.

  ******

  “Hello, Mr. Vice President. Come on in… You know the Senator I’m sure?”

  “Sure do. Hello Jim. How ya doing?

  “Hey Dan, good to see you again. Come on in. I’ll rustle up some coffee and make myself scarce so you two can talk. Come on in the kitchen. Best place to talk.”

  “Well General, I’m sure you know why I’m here?”

  “No sir, actually I don’t”…. “Oh, here’s some sugar. Or would you prefer some sweetener?” So what’s up, Mr. Vice President? I admit I’m curious; what brings you out here tonight?”

  “Well damn it, Loretta’s putting it about that you are thinking about running in the next election. She’s got her staff passing the word that, if you decide not to run, you’ll agree to serve as the vice-presidential candidate if she gets the nomination. Any truth in that?”

  “Jesus Christ!” I exploded. “She’s a goddamn liar. First saying I supported her stupid treaty and now this. I’ve never even had a conversation with her or anyone associated with her. Not one. She’s the last person in the world I’d want to see in the White House. You’re the one who ought to run, not her.”

  The Vice President looked at me very intently and quietly asked, “Well how about you? Are you going to run?”

  “Me? Hell no. I don’t think I could put up with the endless indecision and bullshit that goes with the job; and I couldn’t run even if I wanted to, which I don't, because I’ve got this Russian and Chinese mess on my plate. If we’re not careful we’re gonna end in the middle of a goddamn nuclear war.”

  After a pause, I added “thanks to that stupid woman and her goddamn stupid treaty.”

  Well, he’s smiling. Pops nailed it; that’s what he wanted to hear.

  ******

  An obscure four story red stucco office building inside a compound on Red Banner Street is where the Military Committee of the Chinese Communist Party meets. The Chinese army, unlike all the other armies in the world, is under the direct control of a political party, the communists. It doesn’t in any way answer to the Chinese government even though they are basically one and the same since the Party Chairman is also the President of the county.

  Today’s meeting of the party’s Military Committee was to consider a very important question: Should or should not the Party direct the Red Army to proceed with military action to reclaim some of the lands that were stolen from China by the Russians years ago? And, if so, when should the attack begin and which war plan should be used?

  All the answers were preordained, of course, but the formalities required by the Party’s traditions had to be observed.

  Xi Jinping, the Chairman of the Party’s military commission, was, quite conveniently, also the Party Chairman and China’s president. He and the committee’s other members listen intently as General Wu, the defense minister, presented the army’s recommendation.

  When General Wu finished, and reasonable answers were provided for the few perfunctory questions that were raised, the seven members of the Party’s military committee nodded their heads and in so doing were recorded as having voted unanimously to order the Red Army to regain the stolen lands according to the proposed plans and schedules.

  Small advance units of Chinese troops were to begin infiltrating over the border immediately, and the initial attacks would begin at dawn on August twenty-eighth.

  More specifically, forty-four divisions of the Red Army were to begin crossing the border at 0614. More than eighteen hundred Chinese planes and helicopters would provide around the clock air support until the Russians were defeated and the Chinese lands were restored to China’s rightful ownership and control. Nuclear weapons would not be used except in retaliation if Russia used them first. A quick and decisive victory before winter set in was the Red Army’s goal.

  China was on the move—and its objectives were much more than just the return of the disputed Ussuri River lands to Chinese control.

  ******

  I was in Brussels when Jack Peterson rushed into my NATO office and rescued me from an unimportant staff meeting that had been called to discuss the planning for a larger and equally unimportant meeting. He was carrying a flash message from Bill Hammond—NSA intercepts had just confirmed that the Chinese intend to launch a non-nuclear invasion of Russia on the morning of August twenty eighth. I almost wish he hadn’t rescued me.

  Almost immediately the phone began to ring. It was a White House aide. There would be a meeting of the National Security Council within the hour. The President wanted me to call in and attend via teleconference. I told the President’s aide I would be present. But before I started down to our secure conference room I placed a satellite call on the scrambler phone to Charlie Safford at Arkhara.

  “Charlie, it’s on,” I said without preamble. “The Chinese will launch their invasion at dawn on the morning of August twenty eighth. I want you to take John Lindauer to translate and meet with Danovsky. Right now. Barge in if you have to. But get to him immediately and tell him the Chinese are coming sometime in the middle of August.” I emphasized the word ‘middle.’

  “Don’t tell anyone else, not even our guys and certainly no other Russians. Just him. And, whatever you do, don’t tell Danovsky or anyone else the precise date. Just say that it will be some time around the middle of August or a little after. We’ll give everyone the precise time and date later.”

  I don’t want the Chinese to know how seriously we have compromised their communications. And I still didn’t know who John really worked for and might tell.

  “Here’s the thing,” I told Charlie. “We don’t want the Chinese or Moscow to know we have penetrated their communications. So I want you to tell Danovsky that I most strongly suggest he call Moscow immediately, preferably before you leave his office, and merely say that his sources in China have confirmed that the Chinese will launch a non-nuclear invasion sometime around the middle of August or a little thereafter.

  “And Charlie, ask him to please be sure not mention or even hint to anyone that it was the United States who warned him. Tell him I respectfully requested that he say one of his own command's highly reliable agents in the Chinese army was his source.”

  As soon as I hung up I called Bill Hammond.

  “Yeah, Dick, I know. I just heard about the meeting at the White House and why it's been called. I'll be on my way there in a moment."

  I quickly informed Bill that I’d ordered Charlie Safford to immediately alert Danovsky about the invasion but not to give him t
he precise date. I also told him that Charlie was going to suggest to Danovsky that he immediately inform Moscow that one of his Chinese sources confirmed that there will be a non-nuclear invasion of Eastern Russia sometime around the middle of August.

  “It’s my hope,” I explained to Bill, “that if everyone can keep their mouths shut long enough, the Chinese will think it was a Chinese agent of Russia’s military intelligence who revealed the invasion, not NSA.”

  “Fat chance of that,” was Bill’s the cynical reply.

  ******

  The National Security Council meeting went about as well as could be expected under the circumstances. Everyone expressed concern that we could be pulled into a nuclear war and suggested a course of action:

  The President’s Chief of Staff wanted to take a poll to see how people want the President to respond; the Secretary of State suggested that she should commence “shuttle diplomacy” by hustling between the Chinese and Russian capitols with a large contingent of press from all over the world “to show their leaders how much the world is concerned;” and, the Secretary of Defense reported wryly, the Navy wants to send a carrier to sail up and down the Chinese coast “to intimidate those people” into stopping the invasion.

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the various proposals. But I did speak up in support of the NSA request that we neither issue orders nor take action of any kind for at least forty-eight hours. NSA is right. We want to keep the Chinese from knowing the extent of our intelligence capacities. Best to let them think we got it from the Russians. The President agreed.

  And the odds are better than even money that one or more of them, probably the Secretary of State or someone on her staff, will leak the news to New York Times or Washington Post within the next three or four hours.

  About the only other thing everyone could agree on was that we should step up our supply and equipment deliveries so the Russian forces in the east would have a better chance of driving off the Chinese without using their nukes.

  After I hung up I decided to call it a day and go home. But before I did, I called Terry Ann Androtti, The Detachment’s administrative officer. I told Terry Ann to accelerate the shipments to Russia to the highest possible levels, particularly the snow machines and handheld missiles—even if it meant shipping them in partially full planes without all the other stuff. I didn’t tell her why, but she’s not dumb; she probably figured it out before I hung up. The Russians have their own combat rations and winter gear; we’ve already got the little AM civilian radios going out separately.

  I also told TerryAnn to find out how many snow machines are immediately available for a cash sale and use our black funds to buy every one she can locate that is available for delivery now and all those that can be produced and shipped in the next thirty days. Not just in the States, I told her. Also check with the Swedes and the Canadians and everyone else, even the big retailers. Bombardier in Montreal makes a full line of them, I suggested. Buy them all. Terry Ann is a Department of the Army civilian employee and a real go-getter. Probably why she makes a lot more money than I do.

  ******

  The Chinese soldiers crept out of the trees and moved down to the river bank in the moonlight. They were carrying full packs and would be paddling across in rubber boats as they have been practicing to do for years; then the paddlers would bring the boats back so there would be no evidence of their infiltration. There weren’t supposed to be Russian soldiers anywhere near this isolated stretch of river but the Chinese weren’t taking any chances. Not a word was spoken.

  There were quiet splashes a few minutes later as the Chinese waded ashore on the other side of the river. They quickly climbed the muddy river bank, and then they silently melted into the trees and began climbing the tree covered hillside that ran up from the river. There were one hundred and twenty-two of them, all carrying Chinese-made automatic weapons, under the command of twenty-nine year old Senior Lieutenant Bao Wei.

  Lieutenant Bao’s men formed a long line as they walked further and further up the hill with the lieutenant leading the way. Five hours later, long before dawn, they hid under the leafs of a thick grove of trees and ate a cold meal. They wouldn’t eat or talk or move about until darkness returned. It came easy to them; they’d been practicing for years.

  Tonight, and in the nights that followed, Bao would lead his men deeper and deeper into the mountains of Eastern Russia. Their target was an old stone railroad bridge about a hundred miles north of the Amur River. When they reached it they would fade back into the trees and wait for the signal to destroy it.

  Only Bao Wei and his second in command, a squat and powerful mean-looking senior sergeant named Shen Ji, knew the target and which songs on the radio will tell them to proceed or quietly return to China. The Chinese were carrying enough rice balls and dry noodles to last for quite some time. If they stayed out longer they would have to rely on whatever they could take from the Russians.

  ****** Lieutenant Bao

  In the middle of the night four days later, as my men and I were moving down a hill in the dark, there was a click and pop and we instinctively froze as a flare streaked upwards towards the sky and then popped to brightly light the night. Then the shooting started; we had walked right into the middle of some kind of Russian troop encampment.

  I shouted out for my men not to fire, but it was too late. Everyone began shooting at everyone else and kept on shooting until the light of the flare faded out. It was a shouting and screaming scene of chaos. Then the shooting stopped and no one dared move for almost an hour in the moonlit darkness despite the pitiful cries from our wounded.

  Dawn’s early light resulted in another burst of firing as the men began to be able to see other men near them. But that soon died away in response to my bellowed commands and those of my sergeant, Shen Jie. Within minutes everyone could see everyone else and all the casualties.

  The Russians were dead, all ten of them. They are literally, in some cases shot to pieces. But there were many more Chinese on the ground than Russians; many were obviously the result of friendly fire.

  We quickly pulled our wounded men and the bodies of the dead from the open area on the hill and into the nearby trees. I ordered my men to move fast so we would be less likely to be spotted from the air if the Russians were able to get a message off and someone came looking. I didn’t think they had time to send a message but there is no sense taking chances.

  Our losses were substantial: Seventeen of my men were dead and thirty two wounded of whom at least four are almost certain to die and the prospects of two or three more looked bleak. All we could do was fill the most seriously wounded with morphine from our limited supply and wait to see who among our wounded could recover enough to continue.

  While we waited we dug holes and buried both our own dead and the dead Russians. Normally we would leave the Russians to rot, but our orders were to keep our existence a secret; so I decided to bury them so they would be less likely to be seen or smelled. When we searched the packs the Russians were carrying we found what appeared to be large amounts of some kind of foreign money.

  What really surprised us, however, was that the Russians were all carrying Chinese assault rifles with strange lettering. We already have more than enough extra weapons from our own casualties, so we threw the Russians’ weapons and the extras from our own casualties into the shallow grave with them. We will keep the Russians’ ammunition, however, to replace what we used up during the firefight.

  Two nights later we were again moving north It was slow going because of our wounded comrades. Four of our most seriously wounded were left behind with one of our medics, who had himself been slightly wounded, to tend them. I also left enough food and morphine for another week. I bet Ma volunteered to stay with the wounded so he could get some the painkiller for himself.

  Sergeant Shen wanted to mercifully end the suffering of the four men. But in the end I finally decided against it because leaving the seriously wounded behind wou
ld not compromise the mission even in the unlikely event they were found; they did not know where our company is headed or what our job will be when we get there.

  So far as the seriously wounded men and everyone else in the company knew, we were a company of scouts and would be back to pick up our wounded and return to China—when our “reconnaissance mission” was finished.

  Indeed, we may be able to come back this way and rescue them if they are still alive. If we can, we will. There is also the fact, as I explained to Shen, that no matter how mercifully we ended their suffering it would distress the other men and tend to encourage desertions and bad behavior. And that I cannot have; we were already short of men. Besides, my mother would not approve.

  ******

  The headquarters of the 112th Guards Division was located about two hundred miles north of Khabarovsk. Its approximately ten thousand men and reservists, however, were scattered over more than a hundreds of miles of frontier along the Amur River and at bridges and other key points and villages behind it. It was arguably the most isolated division in the Russian army.

  The 112th was an infantry division and far from being a formidable fighting force. There were nineteen small villages and no paved roads in the twenty thousand square miles of Russia it was supposed to defend. Even so, the division itself was beginning to stir.

  Three weeks ago all of its engineers and construction equipment bounced their way slowly south on the rough dirt road that ran along the river towards Khabarovsk. From there they would go inland to help build defenses along the railroad right of way. Then, last week, those of the division's small battalion-sized tank regiment and all of its tanks and tracked vehicles that were still operable were detached to follow them.

  All kinds of rumors flew among the troops of the 112th’s one tank battalion, not a one of them not over five and a half feet tall so they could fit into their tanks, as to where they are headed. But no one, not even the bald headed little lieutenant colonel commanding them, Ivan Stransky, seemed to know where they were going or why.