Red Dragon (Winds of War Book 3)

by William Dietz

  “Okay,” Ba said. “But I gotta pee.”

  “Me too,” Tong agreed, as he followed Ba into a dark passageway.

  “Hoo, boy, that feels good,” Feng-Feng said, as he peed on a wall. And that’s where he was, penis in hand, when Tong shot him in the head. Blood misted the air as Ba collapsed into a puddle of his own urine.

  Tong glanced around. There weren’t any threats. The suppressed pistol went back into its holster. Tong thumbed a number into his cellphone. A woman answered. “Hello.”

  “Nine-zero-seven-five.”

  There was a pause, followed by, “Yes, Five… What can we do for you?”

  “I need a pickup in the side passage next to the Green Snake restaurant.”

  “Fifteen minutes.” Click.

  The second call was to Director Zang. Tong imagined her to be at home, but had no idea what such a place would be like, or where it was located. “Yes?”

  “The problem is solved.”

  “Excellent. The fault was yours. You were far too lenient where past episodes were concerned.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “We take care of our own,” Zang added. “Do you want a replacement? I can bring one in from the farm.”

  “No, thank you. This job will require experience.”

  “I concur.” Click.

  The cleaners arrived five minutes later, loaded Ba onto a stretcher, and put the body in the back of what looked like an ambulance. Not a word was spoken. The work day was over.

  CHAPTER TWO

  West of Bansgadhi, Nepal

  The Raute encampment consisted of multi-colored tents made from variegated pieces of cloth, canvas, and vinyl. Most of them were A-frames, but a few had curved roofs, and all were supported by frameworks made of sticks.

  The Raute were a nomadic people who survived by hunting langur and macaque monkeys, and by gathering tubers, fruits and greens in the forest. Besides hunting monkeys, the men made hand-carved bowls and boxes which they traded for iron, grain and cloth. They knew the Chinese had taken control of their country, but didn’t care, so long as the invaders left them alone.

  In order to blend in with the Raute shelters, and avoid being spotted by recon drones, Captain Jon Lee and his green berets used large pieces of brightly colored fabric to camouflage their 16’ X 16’ army tent. And as Lee stepped out into the sunlight, he saw that the air was filled with wood smoke as the women prepared breakfast. The younger children were roaming the encampment and getting underfoot. They swarmed Lee the moment he appeared. “Money!” they demanded in Nepali. “Candy!”

  Though dirty, and dressed in gray rags, the children were well fed. Their eyes were bright with excitement. The demands for money were not peculiar to the children.

  Raute adults were unwaveringly suspicious of strangers, especially those with a desire to spend time in their camps, and insisted on being paid. The green berets were paying the Raute mukhiya (headman) 50 Rupees a week for what amounted to rent. And he wanted more.

  Meanwhile the kids were always looking for a handout, and Lee was trying to lessen their demands, by distributing candy only once a week. “No,” he told them in Nepali. “Not today. And not tomorrow. The next day. Now shoo.” The children laughed and ran away.

  Sergeant Tariq Jones, and Sergeant Mo Cato appeared in the distance. Jones was one of the team’s weapons experts, and Cato was their communications sergeant. They were returning from a 12-hour shift spent at Overlook Two.

  O-2 consisted of a ledge high above the east-west highway named HO1. It was a two-lane affair that the Chinese used to move supplies and troops during the hours of darkness. The green berets wore Raute style turbans and shawl-like blankets which hid their tac vests. No one would mistake the soldiers for nomads though… Not up close.

  Jones was African American, and Cato was Japanese American. Both were risking their lives. A soldier captured while out of uniform isn’t entitled to the protections offered by the Geneva Convention and might be tortured or killed. “So,” Lee said, “how was it? Any action?”

  “Three sets of headlights went by,” Jones said, “but that’s all.”

  It would have been ideal to watch the highway day and night. But with only seven men, including himself, Lee couldn’t do that and meet the team’s other objectives as well.

  A prewar “A” team consisted of 12 green berets. But those days were over. Special forces operatives were in high-demand worldwide, and half a team was the best that the Joint Special Operations Command (JSOC) could do.

  Even at that one member of the team was a Nepalese Gurkha. His name was Yudda Rai--and he seemed to materialize out of nowhere. He was dressed Raute style. “I swept the area Malika (boss), and it’s clean.”

  “Good work,” Lee said, as he turned to Cato. “Grab some breakfast, and some shuteye. The hunters will be back from the forest by the time you get up. See if your pal Shahi is willing to take another whirl at becoming a radio operator.”

  Shahi was the only young man in the group who had evinced any interest in the team’s radios. But the level of Shahi’s engagement seemed to ebb and flow. He was worth the effort though, because the nomads moved frequently, and a man like Shahi could gather a lot of intelligence.

  Informants had to pass their information along however, and that’s where the new long-range, single-frequency, easy-to-use radios came into play. They were equipped with an off-on switch, a press-to-talk button, and a tiny speaker.

  The idea was to provide indigenous populations with a device so simple that anyone could operate it. Specially equipped call centers had been established to receive and record the incoming transmissions. But Shahi was having difficulty with the concepts involved. And the elders didn’t want him to try.

  Cato was the team’s com specialist, and if anyone could get the job done, he could. “I’ll take another shot at it,” he said.

  “One grenade gets you all,” Master Sergeant Troy Harris said, as he arrived on the scene. He was known for a 1950’s style flattop haircut. And, if Lee was killed, Harris would take command.

  “And a good morning to you too,” Lee said.

  “What’s so fucking ‘good’ about it?” Harris wanted to know. “Am I, or am I not, living in the forest with a bunch of hairy men?”

  “You are,” Lee conceded. “But that’s your fault. You could have enlisted in the air force.”

  Harris was about to respond when Corporal Josh Bakshi emerged from the tent. “An Indian air force MiG-21 went down about ten-miles upslope from our twenty. The pilot ejected and he’s alive. We have a drone in the area, and it looks like Chinese troops are headed for the crash site from their base in Gothi. Cobra-Six wants us to go after him. How should I respond?”

  Lee’s mind started to race. Gothi had a population of about 900 people. He knew the Chinese had a helipad and outpost there. From the sound of it the pilot was located roughly halfway between Allied and Axis forces. It would be a race to see who could reach the aviator first. “Get the pilot’s call sign,” Lee said. “And Tell Cobra-Six that we’re on the way.”

  Lee turned to address the rest of them. “Load your gear… We’ll leave in thirty. Harris… Find the headman. Tell him the tent is a gift. And pay him 50 Rupees.

  “Rai… See Bakshi. Get this guy’s coordinates and plug them into the GNSS (Global Navigation Satellite System). Map it out… We need the fastest route.

  “Where’s Evers?”

  “Right here,” the medical specialist said. “I was making my rounds.”

  The Raute people had a lot of undiagnosed and untreated medical problems. And the work Evers did was one of the primary reasons why the soldiers were allowed to stay.

  “We’re moving out,” Lee told the medic. “Pull your stuff together.”

  Harris reappeared. “I told the head honcho to hide the army serial numbers on the tent. He said the 50 Rupees wasn’t enough. But he’s glad to get rid of us, all except for Evers, who’s welcome to stay and marry his daught
er.” The men laughed.

  “Sorry, Evers,” Lee said. “The war isn’t over yet. All right, let’s get our shit together.”

  Rather than get ready in half an hour, as Lee had hoped the team would, the process consumed 45 minutes. But it couldn’t be helped. Harris insisted on checking each loadout to make sure that ammo, food, and other supplies were equally distributed. For weight, yes. But to ensure that, “If some dumbass walks off a cliff, we’ll still be able to eat.”

  Of equal importance was the order in which the team would travel. Harris put Rai on point, knowing the Gurkha could read the trails, and navigate the uplands better than any American could. Jones was in the two-slot, where his M249 Squad Automatic weapon (SAW) could spray the bushes, should the team run into trouble.

  Harris came next. His role was to provide leadership and fire support if required. Evers and Cato followed with Lee in the six slot. Bakshi, who was armed with an MGL-14 (Multiple Grenade Launcher) was on drag where, if the column was attacked from behind, he could, “Put some shit on them.”

  The rest of the green berets were carrying M4A1 carbines and 75-pound packs. Even heavier loads weren’t uncommon where special forces operators were concerned.

  But Lee was very conscious of the word “move” in the axiom “shoot, move, and communicate.” And he felt the tradeoff involved was worth it. Especially when jogging upslope in an effort to reach a downed pilot. Rai set a fast pace, and none of the green berets wanted to lose face by complaining.

  In order to become a member of the highly esteemed Royal Gurkha Rifles, each applicant had to survive an extremely competitive qualification process that culminated in the much feared Doko race. An evolution which required each aspirant to run five-miles uphill, carrying 55 pounds of weight secured by a head-strap. A feat equal to anything the green berets had faced during the Special Forces Assessment and Selection (SFAS) process at Camp Mackall.

  The path was at least six-feet wide at the point where it left the Raute encampment. But it soon dwindled to a couple of feet, and was little more than a game trail as it wound upwards. Lee knew that, while the triple-canopy forest encompassed over 100 types of trees, the dominate species was Shorea robusta, or sal tree, which typically grew to be 98-to-114 feet tall. The trees had rough bark and big heart-shaped leaves.

  The sub-canopy was thick with Diospyros tomentosas which sported foliage from top to bottom, and were a source of persimmons and ebony wood.

  The lowest layer belonged to shrub species like Calotropis gigantean, some of which were 12-feet tall, and bore clusters of waxy flowers.

  Vegetation crowded in from both sides. A few rays of sunshine found their way down through the sal trees to form pools of gold on the ground. But a lot of the light was blocked, leaving ground layer plants to do the best they could.

  Lee was wearing a headset. A voice interrupted his thoughts. “Surfer Dude to Cobra-Two-Six. Do you read me? Over.”

  “I read you five-by-five, Surfer Dude,” Lee said. “Over.”

  “Dancer and I are flying CAP over the crash site. No bogeys yet. PLA inbound from Gothi. Estimated headcount two-five. What’s your ETA? Over.”

  Lee glanced at his watch. “Three-and-a-half hours. Over.”

  “It’ll be close,” Surfer Dude replied. “There’s a lot of thick foliage. But we’ll try to slow them down. Out.”

  Lee could imagine the scene as the American fighter jets took turns diving and strafing the Chinese troops. And, if they were carrying bombs, they might unload some of those too.

  Maybe the zoomies would get lucky and inflict heavy casualties on the Chicom troops. But chances were that the bastards would scatter, reform, and continue to travel in between the aerial attacks. And, if half of the enemy soldiers survived, the green berets would be outnumbered two-to-one. But there was nothing Lee could do. The team were already going as fast as they could.

  The trail led up onto a plateau and a clearing which, judging from all the trash left behind, had been occupied by the Raute. Rai led them across it and onto another trail which continued upwards. The grade was less steep however and that was a relief. Macaque monkeys, the same kind that the Raute liked to eat, chattered overhead.

  Then, as the trail rounded a rock outcropping, Rai spoke over the team freq. “Dead Raute on the left.” And sure enough, as Lee drew abreast of a soaring sal tree, he saw that a rotting corpse had been bound to it.

  And that, Lee knew, was the way the Raute always “buried” their dead. Standing up with a hole in their skull to let the person’s spirit escape. Prior to the war government officials encouraged the nomads to dig graves for their dead. But the Raute were by no means consistent in doing so. And whenever a member of the extended family died the Rautes moved. Which explained the empty clearing.

  Conditions improved as the team reached the 1,000-foot summit and began the decent into the valley beyond. Lee heard the roar of a jet as an A-10 Thunderbolt passed overhead. That was followed by the sound of a new voice. “Lowboy to Cobra-Two-Six… What’s your ETA? Over.”

  Lee eyed his watch. “We’re thirty out. Where’s Surfer Dude? Over.”

  “He was bingo fuel,” Lowboy replied. “We have F-15s at thirty-five-thou playing tag with some Chengdu J-7s. Shades is on the move, but the bad guys are on his tail, and it looks like they’re going to win the race. We can’t fire. But we could waste their base. Over.”

  Lee understood. The Hog pilots might hit the Chinese and the Indian pilot if they opened up with their GAU-8 Avenger cannons. As for the base, that was tempting, but the Chicoms would still have the pilot called Shades. “Negative on the base,” Lee said. “It has a helipad, right? Over.”

  “Affirmative. Over.”

  “Tell Shades to surrender. We’ll follow, take the base, and call for a helo.”

  “She-it,” Lowboy said. “We are down with that. Over.”

  “Watch the road. Don’t let any vehicles into Gothi. Over.”

  “Roger that, Two-Six. We’ll hand-off to some helos when the time comes. Out.”

  Having voiced the plan Lee regretted it. What the hell was he thinking? The whole thing was built on the assumption that (A) At least half of the Chinese troops stationed at Gothi had ventured out to capture the Allied pilot, and (B) That they had taken significant casualties.

  What if he was wrong? What if a full company of PLA fighters was waiting for the team? We’ll be shit out luck, that’s what, Lee thought. And the whole fucking disaster will be on me.

  But the first rule of Special Forces was, “Always look cool.” Lee did his best as the trail switch-backed down the slope. An A-10 circled above. “Lowboy to Cobra-Two-Six. They have him. Over.”

  “Got it,” Lee replied. “Over.”

  “Watch your six,” the pilot added. “Lowboy out.”

  The steadily descending trail took a sharp left at a natural viewpoint and Lee ordered a halt. “Time to pee, take a break and drink some water. Ten minutes.”

  Lee took a swig of water before releasing the tab that held his binoculars in place. A succession of thickly treed hills filled the foreground. But a flood plain was visible out beyond the forest. And that was the point where the Babai river divided itself into half-a-dozen channels of water before coming back together east of Gothi.

  The settlement was on the north bank of the river, and so small it was impossible to make out any details from that distance. As for the Chinese troops, Lee assumed that they were still in the forest and headed north.

  “Hey, Rai,” Lee said. “Take a look at this… Once we clear the trees, we’ll have to cross the flood plain, and wade through some side channels before dealing with the main part of the river. All under fire.”

  Rai accepted the binoculars and panned from left to right. He had high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a firm chin. “I’ve been here,” the Gurkha said. “The river runs fast and deep. The locals use a rope bridge to get across. And that would funnel us into their fire.

  “I suggest w
e head west, once we reach the bottom of the slope,” Rai added. “And cross two-miles upriver. Then, while the enemy watches the flood plain, we’ll walk back.”

  “Which would allow us to hit the Chinese from cover,” Lee said. “I like it. But how do we cross the river?”

  “There’s a self-service ferry,” Rai answered. “It’s a raft connected to a cable. We’ll have to pull ourselves across.”

  Lee looked up at the sun. It was well past its zenith. A two-mile hike upriver, followed by a two-mile hike down-river, would deliver them to Gothi right around nightfall. And that was a good thing. There was no way to predict what the Chinese might do to Shades. “Done,” Lee said. “Or it will be.”

  Lee explained the plan to the team, and managed to eat a candy bar, while taking a pee at the same time. “You gotta multitask in the army.” That’s what one of Lee’s instructors liked to say, and it was true.

  With gravity to assist them the soldiers were able to pick up speed and arrived on the forest floor thirty minutes later. Then Rai led the team in a westerly direction, and to a rendezvous with the river after an hour of travel.

  Next it was a matter of following the Babai for another hour before arriving at the ferry. The raft consisted of wooden planks fastened to a cage filled with multicolored oil barrels. A wire cable was threaded through a waist-high section of pipe attached to a wooden A-frame at the ferry’s midpoint.

  Once the soldiers were aboard, they took turns pulling on the cable and, as they reached the middle of the river, were pushed downstream until they could go no further. Water boiled around the upriver edge of the raft and slopped over their boots. But after fifteen minutes of strenuous exercise the ferry came to rest on the Babai’s north bank.