What light there was emanated from the single window and a kerosene lantern that Gazi lit. “The electricity has been out for weeks,” the businessman informed them. “We’re running our refrigerator off a portable generator.”
The room’s furniture consisted of three bunk beds, a well-worn vinyl couch, and a table flanked by six mismatched chairs. The floor was scrupulously clean. “The bathroom is outside,” Gazi said, pointing to yet another door.
“Thank you,” Tong said. “Let’s go over the plan.”
Paper rattled as Tong opened a map and spread it on the table. “We were going to cross the river here,” Tong said as he brought a finger down onto a red X. “But that’s no longer the case.”
Gazi was visibly alarmed. “No longer the case? But arrangements have been made… A boatman will be waiting.”
And odds are that the boatman has spilled his guts by now, Tong thought. To an Allied spy? Maybe, and maybe not. It makes no difference.
“That’s why I’m giving you plenty of warning,” Tong said. “Leave the original arrangements in place. Don’t communicate with the boatman. Pay him tomorrow. Understood?”
Gazi wasn’t happy, but he knew what could happen to him and his family if he crossed the Chinese government, so he swallowed his objections. “I understand.”
“Good,” Tong replied. “Now we’re going to cross here, just west of Yusufpur, at 11:00 pm. Not a hundred-yards upstream, and not a hundred-yards downstream, but here. At this exact spot.” Tong tapped the map for emphasis.
“Chinese troops will be on duty at the river. And, if they challenge the boatman, he will ask for Captain Liu. Repeat that back to me.”
Gazi obeyed. “Good,” Tong said. “Tell the boatman to give this card to Captain Liu. Once the captain sees it, he will allow the boatman to wait for us.”
The card was embossed with a red dragon. Gazi took it. “I know a man,” he said.
“I thought you would,” Tong replied. “Remember, don’t tell anyone, not even your family. We’ll leave here at 9:30. I’d rather be early than late.”
“Of course,” Gazi said. “My wife and daughters will bring food at six o’clock.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Tong replied, “but thanks for the offer.”
That was another MSS maxim: “Food accepted from a stranger may be your last meal.” Which was why each member of the team had three PLA MREs in their duffle bags. The contents smelled like dog food, but were sufficient to keep them alive. Gazi withdrew.
“Okay,” Tong said. “Load your weapons and keep them handy. Eat if you want to, and sleep if you can. I will take the first two-hour watch.”
The rest of the day passed slowly. They took naps and complained about the food in the green pouches. But that’s where the commonalities ended. Ji Wu practiced Yoga, and Han Hoi read a book, while Tong studied the team’s escape route.
When 8:00pm finally rolled around, Tong ordered his companions to get ready. Their heads had been shaved prior to leaving Beijing so all of them were bald.
PLA soldiers didn’t have body armor so the MSS had been forced to import level 3 armor before the war. Once the body armor was in place, the assassins slipped their arms through double shoulder holsters, each loaded with a Russian 9x19mm Parabellum Stechkin pistol.
What made the handguns unique was their capacity to fire semi-auto, or full-auto, should the need arise. Each member of the team was wearing a custom-made belt carrying four extra magazines, plus pouches for two grenades each, and a detachable steel-wire shoulder stock—for use in the full-auto mode.
Once the loadouts were readied the agents donned custom made rip-away robes, all of which were maroon, because that was the color Tibetan monks favored. Sandals were too difficult to run in, so like many modern monks, the agents wore sneakers.
Tong was amazed by the transformation. Wu and Hoi looked like monks, and their weapons were hidden by the loose robes. But could they access the pistols quickly?
“Open your robes,” Tong ordered, “and draw a weapon.” There were ripping sounds as Velcro fasteners parted and the agents drew their weapons. “Good,” Tong said. “Very good. But you could have been faster. Do it again.”
Tong joined in and the three of them repeated the process over-and-over until their motions were smooth. “Now remember,” Tong told them. “Don’t fire on full-auto unless you have to. Our orders are to kill enough bodyguards to eliminate the Dalai Lama but no one else.
“China will rule India one day, so it would be stupid to antagonize the population. That’s why the government sent us rather than a missile.
“And remember what we agreed on… You will focus on the guards, while I target the Dalai Lama. Do you have any questions?” They didn’t.
There was a knock on the door. Hoi stood behind it with his pistol drawn. Tong called out. “Come in!”
The door swung open, Gazi stepped in, and stared. Two Buddhist monks stood in front of him with hands clasped over their hearts. The agents said, “Namaste,” and bowed in unison.
“Namaste,” was not just a commonly used greeting, but a sign of respect, and good will common to Buddhists and Hindus. “We’re ready,” Tong said simply. “Take us to the river.”
Wind and rain pummeled the van as it left the jute plantation for the highway. Flashes strobed along the horizon as artillery pieces battled each other for dominance.
It was well past the Chinese imposed curfew by then, so there was very little traffic on the road. There was some however, and it wasn’t long before a CSK-131 pulled up behind the van, and flashed its lights. Gazi hurried to pull over, and Tong prepared to offer his ID.
PLA soldiers appeared on both sides of the van and aimed flashlights inside. Tong wondered what they thought of three Buddhist monks traveling at night. “I need to see your ID,” a soldier said in Mandarin.
It took the better part of ten minutes for the military police to check IDs, radio them in and receive a clearance. Tong felt a sense of relief. That was how the process was supposed to work. But coordinating MSS missions with the sprawling PLA’s gigantic bureaucracy was an iffy thing. A soldier saluted. “You’re free to go.”
Gazi wasted no time pulling away. Lights were visible in some of the homes they passed but not many. It was getting late and kerosene was expensive.
The headlights found a cow standing on the highway chewing its cud. Gazi braked and swerved around it. Shortly thereafter Tong began to see military vehicles parked alongside the road, army encampments of uncertain purpose, and sandbagged gun emplacements.
A 4X4 VP 11 MRAP (Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected) vehicle was blocking half the road ahead. Gazi slowed and came to a stop. Their ID cards were ready and the sergeant gave them a cursory glance. “You are pre-cleared,” he said. “Please proceed.”
The MPs had radioed ahead, and Tong was grateful, as the van entered the small village located near the river. The houses stood on stilts, and for good reason, since the river flooded the area around them every year. “These people are fishermen,” Gazi explained, as he brought the van to a stop. “And smugglers. Sometimes both. Come… I will take you to the river.”
Tong eyed his watch. It was 10:45. They were on time.
The blob of light from Gazi’s hand torch led the group down to the muddy riverbank where a long, narrow, needle-nosed boat was waiting for them. As was a young man dressed in a ball cap, blue sweatshirt, and shorts. If the boatman was surprised to see three monks there was no sign of it on his face. “This is Bapi,” Gazi said. “He grew up on the river, and knows every inch of it.”
“That true,” Bapi added. “And I sneaky. Boat made out of wood and I use oars. No noise, no heat.”
“Good,” Tong said. “Do you know where Chanda’s Landing is?”
Bapi nodded. “All fishermen know. It half-mile downstream.”
“That’s where we want to land,” Tong told him. “Oh, and one more thing… An artillery barrage will begin ten minutes from now. Ig
nore it. None of the shells will land on us.”
Bapi’s eyes grew larger. He understood. The artillery attack would drive the Allied soldiers into their bunkers while he took the Sannyasi (monks) across. “Very good, very good. We go now.”
Tong shook hands with Gazi. “Thank you. Your pay will arrive in the usual manner. Drive carefully.”
Bapi sat in the middle of the boat where the oars were. Hoi was in the bow. Tong sat next to Wu in the stern. He felt nervous, and for good reason, because Tong was a weak swimmer. He’d been able to pass the test administered at the MSS training farm, but just barely, and didn’t like boats. Especially boats with only three or four inches of freeboard.
Gazi made use of a foot to push them off. The river was low, and thanks to the relatively gentle current, Bapi made good progress.
Tong could feel the jerk as Bapi pulled on the oars, hear the wooden hull gurgle through the water, and gauge the boat’s speed by dipping a hand in the water.
The choice of Chanda’s Landing was no accident. The MSS planners had chosen a destination that was downstream to make the smuggler’s job that much easier.
The sound of manmade thunder rolled across the land as Chinese PLZ-05 155mm self-propelled howitzers opened fire up and down the river. The artillery pieces were roughly 5-miles east of the river, which allowed them to lob shells an equal distance into Allied territory, where they would fall on preregistered targets.
Tong could hear each round hiss through the air, followed by the car-ump of an exploding shell, and a flash of light. And not just one, but dozens of explosions. It was an impressive show of firepower—and, given the cost, an indication of how badly the Chinese government wanted to eliminate the Dalai Lama.
But the Allies weren’t about to take the pounding sitting down. Their howitzers spoke in reply, thereby adding to the flickering light that strobed the horizon, and the mutter of manmade thunder. “There!” Hoi said. “Lights!”
Tong saw that Hoi was correct. A pair of amber parking lights were visible up ahead. There was a scraping noise as Bapi grounded the boat. Hoi was in the bow, and the first to go ashore. A man was waiting. “Red,” Hoi said.
“Dragon,” came the answer.
Tong was ashore by then. And happy to be there. He turned to Bapi. “Good job. Thank you.”
The boatman flashed a grin and disappeared into the gloom.
The driver stepped forward. “My name is Jayapal. Who’s in charge?”
“That would be me,” Tong said.
“I need half the fee up front,” the man announced.
“It doesn’t work that way,” Tong told him. “You have a contact. He, or she, will pay you.”
“Well, they didn’t,” Jayapal said. “So, pay up, or I’ll leave you here.”
Tong sighed. Jayapal would be paid. But, upon seeing what he took to be three monks, the driver figured he could bully them into paying twice. Tong turned to Hoi. “You heard the man… Pay him.”
Jayapal took a step backward as the pistol appeared. “No! There’s been a misunderstanding! Don’t…”
There was a loud bang, Jayapal’s head jerked, and he fell backward into the mud. The sound of the pistol shot was lost in the rumble of artillery. “Search him,” Tong ordered. “Find his car keys. We’ll throw him into the river.”
After securing the keys Hoi took hold of Jayapal’s wrists. Tong got a grip on the driver’s ankles and, after swinging the corpse back and forth three times, they let go.
The body produced a splash as it hit the water. “Good work,” Tong said. “Let’s see what kind of vehicle Mr. Jayapal gave us.”
The answer, as it turned out, was a muddy Land Rover. Hoi got behind the wheel while Tong slid into the passenger seat. Wu sat in back. “We’ll have to drive for at least 10 miles before we clear the Allied defensive zone,” Tong predicted. “So, we’re bound to be pulled over. Have your Indian ID cards ready.”
The artillery duel was over by the time Hoi left the dirt road for a paved highway. And that’s when Tong’s prediction came true. An American Humvee, complete with a police-style light bar, pulled them over. A soldier aimed a machine gun at the SUV while others came forward to shine flashlights into the interior. Hoi had his window rolled down and squinted into the light. “Do you speak English?” a gravelly voice demanded.
“Yes,” Hoi replied.
“Good. I need to see you IDs please. All of them.”
Wu passed her card forward. Though issued for voting purposes the cards were also used to prove identity. The MSS document technicians had gone to great lengths to make sure the cards were not only current, but pre-aged, and associated with actual monks.
The army corporal gave the cards back. “What are you guys doing here? You could have been killed during the artillery barrage.”
“We’re lost,” Hoi confessed. “Can you tell us where to go? We’re on our way to New Delhi.”
“Sure,” the American replied. “Follow us to the main highway.”
Tong could hardly believe their good luck as the Humvee led them through 5 miles of turning-twisting roads to a highway that would take them west. The machine gunner waved, and the agents waved in return, as the army vehicle drove away.
Hoi turned onto the highway and Tong checked his map. They had a long drive in front of them, 355 miles to be exact. A journey which, due to India’s roads, would take approximately 14 hours. There wasn’t a whole lot of civilian traffic because of gas rationing. But there were long, slow-moving military convoys that had to be dealt with, and Hoi spent half his time swearing at them.
The group stopped every 2 hours to get gas, stretch their legs, and buy food. Then it was back onto the road. First came the city of Pakur, followed by the city of Dumka, and the turnoff to Highway 133. Then they traveled north and eventually arrived in Belsar, and on to Bodh Gaya Bihar where the Tergar Monastery was located.
Hoi drove past it and Tong was struck by the temple’s impressive façade, beautiful walkways, and carefully maintained gardens. But thousands of other people were arriving too. Traffic was terrible and the local hotels were bursting at the seams.
After wiping the Land Rover’s interior down, Hoi parked the vehicle on a busy street, and left the key in the ignition. Hopefully someone would steal the 4X4 and further obscure Jayapal’s fate.
Then it was time to buy some toiletries, order some food, and make their way to the hotel that the MSS planners had chosen for them. It was a mile from the monastery. The room was furnished with two queen-sized beds, a tiny fridge, and two chairs.
The first priority was to get as much sleep as they could. Each agent stood a two-hour watch. The muffled sound of fireworks could be heard outside, along with honking horns, and the incessant beating of a drum. But no one came to the door, and the night passed without incident.
The following day dawned bright and sunny. After a shower and a shave Tong went out to use a payphone. A woman answered. “Shi?” (Yes.)
“Red.”
“Dragon. A white van will be waiting. The last four digits of the license plate are eight-eight-six-three.” Click.
Thus reassured Tong went back to the room where the other agents were waiting. “There will be a large crowd,” Tong predicted. “We’ll arrive early, and position ourselves in the front row. And don’t forget your Khatas.”
Khatas were ceremonial scarfs, usually white in color, which were worn or presented at ceremonial occasions including births, weddings, and funerals. And, according to the MSS research department, almost every monk would have one.
After the team left the hotel they found themselves in a river of men in maroon robes. Judging from the tiny flags that some of the monks carried, the agents were surrounded by men from Myanmar, Cambodia, Laos, Thailand and Vietnam. Just about all of whom were older rather than younger. And that made sense in wartime.
There were lots of other people too, many of whom wore surgical masks to defend themselves from bad “Qi” (air). Many were carryi
ng Khatas.
It was the ideal situation from Tong’s point of view, since there was nothing to make the three of them stand out other than their relative youth. An arrow-straight street led to the monastery. And, rather than carry out the hit inside, where security would be the heaviest, the planners recommended a kill on the road. That made sense because Tsomo was relatively young and preferred to walk rather than ride.
When asked about that practice, Tsomo said, “If the people are to gather in the street that is where I want to be.” And Buddhists loved him for it.
Once the team reached a point about halfway up the street they stopped, draped their scarves across their arms, and brought their palms together. They shuffled forward inch-by-inch until they were in the front rank. Meanwhile the sound of music filled the air, as colorfully dressed “Red Hat” monks made their way up the street, some playing Dung-Chen horns, while others blew on conch shells.
Incense billowed up as two columns of “Yellow Hats” passed carrying flags and banners. There were policemen too… All armed with assault rifles.
But because many of them were Buddhists, and more intent on seeing the Dalai Lama rather than protecting him, their backs were turned to the crowd. It would be up to Wu and Hoi to deal with them. Tong’s job was to shoot Tsomo.
Bit-by-bit Tong freed the Velcro fasteners until his robe was ready to fall away. The difference might save a second or two.
Tong’s vision seemed more acute, the incense clogged his nostrils, and the music was piercing. He could see the Dalai Lama--but forced himself to wait. Everything seemed to slow… Then, after what felt like an eternity, the moment was upon him.
Tong let the scarf flutter to the ground. The robe fell away revealing a waist length jacket. With arms crossed Tong pulled his pistols. The one on the right came up to point at Tsomo. The Dalai Lama was smiling. Tong fired. Once, twice, three times.
Other gunshots echoed Tong’s as Wu and Hoi shot the Dalai Lama’s maroon-robed bodyguards and the nearby policemen. People screamed and ran every which way. The assassins ran with them. A cloud blocked the sun, and a shadow fell over the land.
Red Dragon (Winds of War Book 3) Page 4