Autumn Assassins: [#3] A Special Operations Group Thriller

by Stephen Templin

  “I already updated them,” Willy said. “Unofficially, they’re on our side. They don’t like what China is doing any more than we do. Actually, because China has been harassing Vietnam up close and personal, they’re more pissed about Seven Ball and his comrades than we are.”

  “Well, I’m pretty pissed at them for doing this to Dad,” Max said.

  “Ditto,” Tom said.

  “Are these doctors any good?” Max asked.

  “Would I bring your dad here if they were less than the best?” Willy snapped.

  “Thanks, Willy,” Tom said.

  “Good thing you got that IFV off of us,” Max added.

  “My pleasure,” Willy said.

  After a tense two hours of Max, Tom, and Willy worrying and waiting, the doctor returned. The same doctor who spoke fluent English said, “We removed a metal fragment and stopped the bleeding. His systolic blood pressure has returned to normal. He has a fever, but we’ve given him several antibiotics.”

  “How long before he can leave the hospital?” Tom asked.

  “I expect he’ll be here a couple weeks.”

  “When will he be able to return to work?” Willy asked.

  Max and Tom frowned at Willy.

  “What?” Willy asked.

  “In about a month, he should be ready for light duty,” the doctor said.

  “Can we see him?” Max asked.

  “Just for a minute. He needs to rest. Follow me.” The doctor led them through the halls to a hospital room.

  There were no other patients in the room except for Hank, who lay in bed with his eyes closed. The doctor quietly woke him. “You have some visitors.”

  “Semper fi,” Willy said, giving the Marine motto—always faithful.

  Hank’s eyes seemed heavy as he opened them. He had scratches on his skin, a cut on his cheek, and a black eye, but his spirit seemed unharmed, filling the room.

  “Semper fi.” His words came out slow and a bit slurred.

  The doctor left, and they had the room to themselves.

  “The bastards who did this to you are going to pay for it,” Max said, trying to hold his anger in check.

  “We’ll finish what you started,” Tom said.

  “You boys don’t have to do anything,” Hank said. “You’ve already done enough.”

  “You’re a terrible liar,” Max said.

  “Give ’em hell,” his father said.

  Max gave him a hug. “We will.”

  Tom hugged him, too. “We learned from the best.”

  Dad’s breathing was labored. “Thank you for helping me out of that mess.”

  A nurse entered briskly and spoke Vietnamese.

  Max and the others didn’t understand.

  She checked Hank’s hospital chart, then spoke English. “Visiting time over.”

  Max gave a short wave. “See you, Dad.”

  Tom waved, too. “Get plenty of rest.”

  “See you, brother,” Willy said.

  Hank waved goodbye. “Be careful, boys.”

  Just before noon the next day, inside a secure conference room in the US embassy in Hanoi, Max sat alone nursing a cup of joe. The peaceful warmth of knowing that Dad was still alive filled him. He turned off his cell phone to distance himself from the noisy traffic of the information highway, but he couldn’t turn off his desire for payback.

  Footsteps echoed from the outer hall, and the doorknob turned.

  Tom strolled in with a drink and took a seat at the table.

  “You ready for this?” Max asked.

  “Rangers lead the way,” Tom said.

  “What’s going to happen to your college studies?”

  “Hopefully this doesn’t take too long. I e-mailed my professors that my father is hospitalized and told them I’d be gone a week or two. I’ll catch up when I get back.”

  Then June Lee came through the door carrying a stack of files. She seemed unsteady, like a ship in need of an anchor.

  Max sipped his coffee. “Yesterday in the hospital, when the TV was playing France 24, the news anchor said that the Chinese have stepped up their bullying against Vietnam, Japan, the Philippines, Indonesia, Malaysia, and other countries in the Pacific. China’s fishermen even tried to invade South America, but Argentina sank their boat. That supports what Willy told us about China’s aggression.”

  She put the files on the table. “Yes, Vietnam isn’t too pleased. This isn’t the first time China has butted heads with them. In 1979, China fought them in the Sino-Vietnamese War. Nine years later, China skirmished against them in the Johnson South Reef of the Spratly Islands, killing sixty-four Vietnamese. As recently as 2014, China attempted to drill for oil under Vietnamese waters and sank one Vietnamese fishing vessel before Vietnamese and international resistance pushed China out.”

  “How is China able to invade so much territory without launching full-scale war?” Tom asked.

  “They’re sneaky about it,” June said. “China has a strategy of ‘fish-occupy-defend.’ They train their fishermen to invade foreign waters, conduct reconnaissance, fire weapons, and so forth. They equip the fishermen with steel-hulled fishing trawlers capable of ramming foreign vessels, advanced satellite navigation equipment, and high-tech communications for talking to China’s navy and coast guard. Among these ‘fishermen’ are the Tanmen Maritime Militia Company, which is based at Yulin Naval Base and advised by spies from China’s Ministry of State Security. These so-called ‘fishermen’ fish in another country’s waters, occupy that territory, and then China’s navy defends them.”

  Max lowered his coffee and stared at the black liquid in his cup. “China needs an enema.”

  June smiled at Max. “On top of all this, the Vietnamese government is nervous about the missing anthrax. They’re worried it might be used to attack them.”

  “Dad managed to hack into Seven Ball’s computer before he was captured,” Max said. “Have we gained any new intel from the hack?”

  “Yes,” June said. “We discovered a file entitled Autumn Wind, which seems to be code for some kind of operation. Inside the Autumn Wind file were four documents labeled Horizontal, Pearl, Five, and Country.”

  Max slurped the last of his coffee. “Is this Autumn Wind somehow connected to the missing anthrax? Or is it something else?”

  “We don’t know yet,” June said. “Our people are working on unlocking the encryption so we can read the documents.” She pointed to the stack of papers and files in front of her. “Here is some of the recent intel we’ve gathered. You’re welcome to look at it here, but this can’t leave the embassy.”

  “Thank you,” Tom said. He took a file off the top and examined it.

  Max took a folder, too.

  June leaned toward Max and said, her face beaming, “It was brave what you did.”

  Max put down his empty coffee cup. “Pardon?”

  Her eyes fawned like a fan girl’s. “The way you and your brother found your dad, it was brave.”

  “Oh, that,” Max said with faux humility. “Just another day’s work.”

  Tom eyed him as if he recognized Max’s display of humility as an act.

  June became quiet for a moment, as if working up the courage to say something more. “I was thinking, maybe later, when you take a break …”

  “Your lips seem redder,” Max said matter-of-factly, interrupting her. “You weren’t wearing lipstick before, were you?”

  She fidgeted with her hands like a squirrel. “I freshened up a bit.”

  “What were you about to say?” Max said.

  There was a slight quiver in her voice. “I was wondering if you’d like to eat lunch.”

  “Yeah, something local would be fine. And bring some for Tom, too.” Max picked up a handful of papers and studied them.

  Her voice shrank. “Okay.” She took small steps and looked at the floor as she walked out of the room.

  Tom gave him evil eyes and made an ominous face, but Max didn’t know what for. Tom continue
d to stare.

  Max gestured: What?

  12

  Coal-black clouds rained lightly on People’s Liberation Army special operations officer Zhao Ye as he stood before his father’s grave in the Babaoshan Revolutionary Cemetery, China’s graveyard for heroes. Zhao’s grandfather was also buried in this graveyard. Zhao was stationed in Guangzhou, almost two thousand kilometers south, near Hong Kong, and he didn’t make a habit of visiting Beijing—the sole purpose of this sojourn was to pay his respects to his father. With each visit to Beijing, the air tasted fouler, and today left a particularly bad taste in his mouth.

  He spoke aloud. “You and I both believe that China’s rightful position in the world is at the center, and this is our era. The previous general secretary of the Communist Party couldn’t do what needed to be done, and you and I expected the new general secretary would have a greater vision. Our new secretary’s vision does go farther. But not far enough.” Zhao’s words became bitterer than the air he breathed. “And for your years of service and vision for our country, this is how our government repays you.”

  Zhao removed his Hero’s Medal from around his neck and placed it reverently on his father’s grave. “Now is the time for me to fulfill my destiny. I’ll make you prouder than ever.”

  He turned and walked across the cemetery to the black Audi sedan with tinted windows that waited for him, the engine running. Except for the driver and rear-seat passenger in the Audi and Zhao, the graveyard was void of breathing beings. He opened the door and sat in the back next to Ministry of State Security officer Liling Lu, who wore glasses with thick, round lenses that were fogging up, causing her eyes to appear cloudy. She outranked Zhao only by her close ties to key leaders in the Communist Party—the ones who feasted off the labors of the true workers of the Party: the men and women who toiled outside of Beijing in the fields. Zhao had borne the incompetence of bureaucrats a thousand times, but he would not bear their incompetence again. He didn’t need Liling or her driver to spy on him, and he would dispose of both of them outside of these hallowed grounds.

  The driver put the vehicle in gear, and the car rolled forward.

  Zhao spoke with civility. “This is the first time I’ve received the services of a state escort and state car for a visit here, Comrade,” Zhao said evenly. “I would gladly have driven myself here from the airport.”

  “It is not often that you visit,” Liling said. “You have impressed many people, and you have earned the escort and car.”

  He said nothing.

  “I am sorry about your father,” she said, but her words rang hollow.

  “Death comes to everyone.”

  “Yes, but I must say that this visit to his grave is a bit unusual.”

  “Is it more unusual than you tagging along with me?” Zhao asked coolly.

  “Your father’s loyalty to the Communist Party had come into question. And you visiting here might cause someone to question your loyalty by association.”

  “How is your loyalty greater than ours?” Zhao asked.

  “My loyalty is not under question. I am here to help you and maintain the collective good. I am merely doing my duty.”

  “He is my father, and his loyalty to the Communist Party was never in question,” Zhao snapped. “It was his loyalty to the general secretary that was questioned—by the general secretary himself.”

  “You are not happy.”

  Zhao’s voice became louder. “The general secretary ordered someone to kill him.”

  Liling spoke in a reasonable tone; however, her words were anything but. “It was an accident. Official reports confirmed that.”

  Zhao didn’t rein in his hatred for bureaucratic simpletons and liars who were too cowardly to pull the trigger themselves—they always delegated the killing to someone else. The words galloped out of his mouth. “You don’t believe that. And neither do I.”

  Liling scratched her cheek as if scraping for the right words. “You left something on his grave.”

  “One of my medals.” His tone was nonchalant.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. Of course she couldn’t.

  “I fought against Muslim uprisings and Russian aggression in this country. I’ve earned the right to do with the medal as I please.”

  “It is unusual,” she said.

  “I’ll tell you what’s unusual.”

  “What?”

  His words became pointed like icicles. “My impending transfer to a conventional infantry unit.”

  “Who told you that you were transferring?”

  “People.”

  Liling smiled, but it seemed strained. “That is just a rumor.”

  “The general secretary distrusted my father, and your presence here confirms his distrust of me. It’s only a matter of time before he takes away my command of Autumn Wind.”

  Irritation seeped into Liling’s voice. “Operation Autumn Wind belongs to the people of the Communist Party, but the tone of your voice suggests you think it belongs to you.”

  “I created Autumn Wind, and it still belongs to the people, but it doesn’t belong to the general secretary. He isn’t serving in the military and neither is anyone else in the current Politburo. Only four out of the twenty-five of them have any military experience. A far cry from the days of the Revolution.”

  Liling backed away as if Zhao were infected with a terrible virus, and she was afraid to touch him. “You should not say such things. People might misinterpret your words.”

  “People may interpret my words how they will.”

  “We can pull the plug on Autumn Wind at any time. The general secretary can recall your men.”

  Zhao laughed.

  Liling shifted uneasily in her seat. “What is so humorous?”

  Zhao unbuttoned his jacket. “The general secretary may know the targets for Autumn Wind, but he doesn’t have contact information to recall my men. Nor the proper codes for such a recall.”

  “He does have that information.”

  “The contact information and recall codes I gave were false. As I said, the men and the mission are under my command.” Zhao reached into his jacket and grasped the handle of his Qiāng Shŏu Wēishēn 2006—a sound-suppressed pistol he helped redesign. It held twenty rounds of 5.8x21mm ammunition, but he only needed two rounds. Some referred to the pistol as the Type 06, but Zhao referred to his personal weapon as Chairman Mao.

  Liling’s voice trembled. “You are making a big mistake.”

  He pulled out Chairman Mao and shot her at point-blank range. Splatter sounded inside the Audi. “Never send a woman to do a man’s job.”

  Startled by the noise, the driver looked in the rearview mirror.

  Zhao held his pistol to the driver’s head and calmly said, “Slow down, pull the car over, and stop.”

  “Why’d you have to do that?” the driver asked.

  Zhao’s voice remained steady. “Just do as I say.”

  The driver shakily did as he was told, and the vehicle halted on the shoulder of Shijingshan Road. “What are you going to do to me?”

  “Now put the engine in park.”

  “Why?” The driver’s voice raised in pitch. “What’re you going to do to me?”

  “Put the engine in park, and then you’re going to get out of the car.”

  “And walk?” the driver asked.

  “You can park the car now, or I can shoot you and park it myself. It’s your choice. Make it quick, because I have a plane to catch.”

  The driver shifted into park.

  Zhao shot him in the back of the head. Then he holstered his pistol and with great effort heaved the driver’s body into the backseat.

  Task complete, he exited the car, entered the driver’s side, and sat behind the wheel. It would be less than an hour’s drive to the airport, where he could abandon the vehicle and the bodies. “I don’t need an escort. Or a driver.”

  That evening, Zhao entered a dimly lit warehouse on the Port of Shanghai, the busiest conta
iner port in the world. He strolled past stacks of wooden pallets and made his way to the tiny office in the rear corner. His executive officer, who served as his number two in command, and his operations officer, who served as number three, stood when he entered.

  “Evening, sir,” the XO and ops officer said. With the XO’s windswept hair, prominent forehead, and fierce eyes, he looked like he was perpetually marching head-on into the winds of a typhoon. The ops officer kept his hair neat, had an average forehead, and his eyes were less intense.

  Zhao motioned for them to be seated.

  They sat.

  “Comrades,” Zhao addressed them, “and I say that in the true sense of the word, our leaders tell us that the first two decades of the twenty-first century make up China’s strategic window of opportunity for extending the international power of our military and securing our status as a superpower. But the death of my father and my impending transfer indicate that the Communist Party has a weak vision of what it means to be a superpower. It is our duty to make sure China becomes a true superpower before the West denies our opportunity. Now is the time for China to expand, and as military men, now is our duty to strike those who would deny us our destiny. The greatest obstacle in our way is America, and we must remove that obstacle.”

  The XO nodded.

  Zhao continued. “Our task is to paralyze America in the Pacific, which is what Operation Autumn Wind was designed for. The Communist Party was wise in authorizing us to strike first in case of war. But wisdom means little without actions, and we must do our job in order for war to begin. I have chosen you because you are the best—and I expect and demand more from you because you are the best. Operation Autumn Wind belongs to the people, but it is commanded by me. And I will lead you from the front. And you will keep up. And we will succeed. As we do better than our best, we will motivate our great nation to act. Moreover, it is my hope that China will bring America to its knees.”

  “Yes, sir,” the operations officer said.

  Zhao was comfortable giving orders—commanding men had become a way of life. He turned to the operations officer and ordered, “Finish preparations for the boat’s departure.”