CHAPTER FOUR
Trishul Airbase, north of Bareilly, India
Captain Jon Lee was asleep in his cell-like 8 x 12 room when the runner knocked on the door. Lee thought the sound was part of a dream and ignored it. Then he heard a muffled voice. “Captain Lee? Are you in there? Colonel Jennings sent for you.”
Lee opened his eyes. Uh, oh… “Jumping Jim Jennings” was the Commanding Officer of the 5th Special Forces Group, presently headquartered in India. “All right, all right… Just a sec.”
Lee went to the door and opened it a crack. An Indian soldier was standing outside. He saluted. “Sorry to disturb you, sir… But the Colonel is holding a briefing at 0900, and you’re required to attend. I have orders to take you there.”
Lee eyed his watch. It was 0742. Just enough time to shave, shower, get dressed.
“Good,” Lee said. “I’d never find my way through the maze otherwise. What’s your name?”
“Private Chadha, sir.”
“Okay, thanks. You can wait, or take a half-hour break. I’ll be ready by 0815.”
“Yes, sir. I will wait.”
Lee closed the door and yawned. What the hell was going on? The team had returned the night before. After making sure that Jones was in good hands, the green berets and the helo crew took refuge in the O-club, where Shades bought everyone a round of drinks. Then they went their separate ways. And for Lee, that was straight to bed.
Under normal circumstances the team would have been granted a few days of R&R prior to heading out again. But the fact that Jennings was holding a briefing seemed to suggest that some sort of shit storm was rolling in. And you, Lee thought, are likely to be downwind.
Lee opened the door exactly thirty minutes later to find that Chadha was still there. “Thanks for waiting. Please lead the way.”
Fortunately, the Indian government had been very mindful of the Chinese threat when the vast underground base was constructed. And, as Chadha led Lee onto the raised walkway that paralleled a taxiway, the green beret saw rows of Su-30 MKI fighters, MiG-25P Foxbat Interceptors, and Mil Mi-24 “Hind” attack helicopters. All of which had been purchased from Russia during a period when India was trying to counter American influence.
The strategy backfired when WWIII started, and India could no longer acquire parts for its Russian-made aircraft. Efforts were underway to “clone” parts in Allied countries. But it would take at least a year for enough of them to roll off the assembly lines and be distributed.
In the meantime, the Indians were cannibalizing planes in an effort to keep some of their planes flying. That left American, British, and French aircraft to battle the Chinese.
Chadha took a left and Lee followed. A highly polished corridor led to a nicely furnished lobby and a bank of elevators. The atmosphere was too posh for a fortress. Perhaps that had to do with the fact that Trishul Airbase had been home to a significant part of India’s Central Air Command before the war. And senior officers like their comforts.
After riding an elevator up a level, the two men stepped out onto Command Level A, where decisions both large and small were made. A security checkpoint was waiting for them.
Then came a long march down a carpeted hall past all manner of staff offices to Meeting Room A-12. The double doors were open--and Lee could see people inside. The time was 0846. “Thank you, Private Chadha.”
“You’re welcome, sir.” Chadha did a perfect about face and marched away.
Lee entered the room. The space was large enough to seat 50 people and about half that many were present. Most wore Indian camos.
Flat panel screens were mounted on the front wall, flanked by rows of flags representing all of the Allied nations. The room was set up conference style with tables and chairs. “Good morning, sir. There’s coffee on the back table, and some awesome pastries.”
Lee turned to find Sergeant Cory Evers standing next to him. The green beret was holding a mug in one hand, a loaded plate in the other. “Good morning, Evers… How’s Jones?”
“He’s fine,” the medical specialist replied. “There was no damage to his femur. He’ll be up and around in no time.”
“Good. Where’s the rest of the team?”
“Cato’s over there,” Evers said, as he pointed with his chin. “Talking to the Gurkhas. But the rest of them disappeared. I think they have orders.”
Lee frowned. “Suddenly, without warning, most of his team was gone. It would have been nice to say goodbye. “So, what’s the 411 on this?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’m a sergeant.”
“That’s why I thought you’d know,” Lee replied with a smile. “Okay, I guess we’ll find out soon enough. I’m going for some of that coffee. And a pastry too.”
After collecting his refreshments Lee made his way forward, and was about to sit at the rearmost table, when a second lieutenant intercepted him. “Captain Lee? I’m Lieutenant Cooper. Please follow me.”
Lee had no choice but to follow Cooper and allow her to seat him in the front row. “Your briefing materials are on the table,” Cooper said. “Let me know if you need anything else.” Then she was gone.
Lee put his food down, and was about to peek at the documents in the manila folder, when another army captain arrived. She appeared to be Chinese American and, according to the insignia on her cammies, was a doctor. And strikingly attractive as well. “Good morning,” Lee said, as she sat down. “I’m Jon Lee.”
“Wendy Kwan,” the other officer said, as she shook his hand. “How ‘bout it? Do you know why we’re here?”
“Nope,” Lee replied. “I don’t have a clue.”
Someone in the back of the room yelled, “Atten-hut!” and everyone stood, as Colonel Jennings entered—followed by a posse of staff officers and a Buddhist monk. What the heck? What did green berets, Gurkhas, and monks have in common? Lee was about to find out.
Jennings strode to the podium. He was a big man, six-two at least, and a legend in the special ops community. Jennings had been awarded a distinguished Service Cross, a silver star, a bronze star—and a purple heart with four oak leaf clusters.
More than that, the colonel was wearing a Master Parachutist badge, with more than a hundred jumps under his belt. Thus, the nickname “Jumping Jim Jennings.”
Jennings looked tired, there were bags under his eyes, and his mouth was turned down at the corners. “I won’t lie to you,” Jennings began. “This is anything but a good morning. So, let’s dispense with the happy horseshit. Some of you may know what took place yesterday, but it’s my guess that most of you don’t, because the Indian government clamped down on the video you’re about to see immediately after the initial reports.
“An official news conference is scheduled for 1000 today. That’s when the entire world will learn that his holiness the Dalai Lama was assassinated in Belsar yesterday.”
There were gasps of horror from those in the audience as the lights were dimmed and video appeared on a huge flat screen. Lee wasn’t a Buddhist, but his Chinese American parents were, so he’d been raised to revere the Dalai Lama. And there Dampa Tsomo was—walking in a procession.
The raw, unedited footage was jerky at times, but all the more moving due to that. The crowd was at least six-people deep on both sides of the street, horns blared, and clouds of incense billowed up into the air.
Lee noticed that some of the police were facing the wrong way and, due to what Jennings had told them, he knew what to expect. Assassins opened fire. Bodyguards and policemen fell. Then, still smiling, Dampa Tsomo went down. It was sickening. The crowd swirled as the killers fled.
Tears were running down Kwan’s cheeks. Because she was a Buddhist? Or because the Dali Lama was a person? She wiped the tears away as Jennings returned to the podium.
“It was a professional hit,” Jennings said. “And, judging from the way it was carried out, the experts believe that Chinese MSS agents are responsible for the killing. They’re still on the loose by the way… Despite a natio
nwide manhunt.
“But,” Jennings added, “that has nothing to do with the purpose of this briefing. Here to explain why the Chinese would want to kill the Dalai Lama, and the stakes involved, is Lama Boshay Jangchup. Lama Jangchup?”
Jangchup appeared to be in his early forties, and his cherubic features were very reminiscent of the rounded face generally associated with the Buddha himself. The lama’s robe swirled as he made his way to the podium. He brought his palms together and bowed. “Namaste.”
Some members of the audience responded in kind. When Jangchup looked up the anger in his eyes was plain to see. His English was flawless. “The Chinese sent assassins to kill the Dalai Lama because they lived in fear of him. If that sounds strange to you,” Jangchup added, “consider the following facts.”
A PowerPoint presentation appeared on the screens behind the lama. “Buddhism is practiced by an estimated 500-million people worldwide,” Jangchup said. “And of that number China has the largest population of Buddhists, something like 244-million people, which represents about 18% of the country’s total population. Of that number the greatest concentration of Buddhists lives in Tibet--where approximately 91% of the population is Buddhist.
“Finally consider the fact that Tibet represents one-quarter of China’s landmass. So, had the Dalai Lama desired to do so, he could have led a rebellion inside of China.
“And what better time to do so than right now? When China is fighting a war on many fronts. So, they murdered him.”
Jangchup paused to let that sink in. “But, as you say in the west, ‘One thing leads to another.’ And in this case, it’s a race. Because, according to the tenets of our faith, reincarnation is part of the endless cycles referred to as samsara. The cycle stops when liberation flows from a combination of insight and the extinguishment of desire.
“Will Dampa Tsomo desire to return? And finish his work? Most of my fellow lamas believe he will. And that my friends, means that we must find the baby that is Dampa Tsomo, and bring him out of Tibet before the Chinese assassins find and kill him. Colonel Jennings?”
Jennings stood and went up to the podium. “Let’s get something straight,” Jennings said, as his eyes jumped from face-to-face. “This is not an attempt to convert you to Buddhism. This is an effort to win World War III. Because, as Lama Jangchup explained, half-a-billion people are Buddhists--and we need them to be on our side.
“And please understand… While we try to find the real Dali Lama, and bring him out of Tibet, the Chinese will be naming one of their own. A child they can shape to do their bidding.
“So, we’re sending a team into Tibet to find the real Dalai Lama and protect him. And I don’t give a shit whether you believe in reincarnation or not. If Lama Jangchup and his peers say that a baby is the real Dalai Lama, then he’s the real Dalai Lama.
“The code name for the team is Viper, and it will be led by Captain Lee, who just returned from a successful mission behind enemy lines. Because we’re short of special operators,” Jennings continued, “I had to assign most of Lee’s team to another mission, leaving him with just two green berets. The rest of his team will consist of men from Britain’s Royal Gurkha Rifles. They are well trained, multilingual, and mountain tough. Staff Sergeant Dhan Thapa is in charge of the contingent, and will report to Captain Lee.
“Lama Jangchup will accompany the team and act as a liaison with other lamas and monks who will help to identify the correct infant.
“Last, but not least, is Doctor Wendy Kwan. She was born in Hong Kong, educated at Johns Hopkins, and worked in a Chicago ER before joining the army. Her job is to take care of the baby, and deal with any other medical issues that may arise.” Jennings looked at Kwan as if inviting a response.
Kwan frowned. “I think there’s been some sort of mistake. I don’t have the necessary training.”
A thunderous expression appeared on Jennings face. “This may come as a surprise to you Captain, but the doctors who do have green beret training are out in the boonies saving lives. So, woman-up and learn. Or you can spend the rest of the war in a military prison. You can go on the mission or I will charge you with refusing a direct order. What’s it going to be?”
Lee got the feeling that no one had ever spoken to Kwan in such a manner before. Her eyes were downcast, her lower lip was trembling, and her hands were clasped in front of her. “I’ll go.”
“I’ll go, what?”
“I’ll go, sir.”
Jennings made eye contact with Lee. “Don’t get the wrong idea, son… Captain Kwan has seen more gunshot wounds than you have. She will adjust. And, given the short turnaround, my S2 Major Raj Gupta, is going to work with you. He will brief you on the LZ, conditions there, and take you to the head of the line when it comes to gear. Any questions? No? That will be all.”
Lee turned to Kwan. “Welcome to special ops… The first thing I want to do is hook you up with Sergeant Cory Evers. He’s a green beret, but he’s a medical specialist too, and the perfect guy to help you figure out what to take. That includes your medical stuff and personal gear.”
Kwan eyed him warily. “You must think that I’m an idiot.”
“Nope. Having a battle tested ER doctor on the team is a huge plus. Be sure to listen to Evers though… He knows his shit.”
Lee stood and turned. “Hey, Evers! Come meet the Doc.”
Evers crossed the room and shook hands with Kwan. “Chicago, huh?” he said. “I’ll bet I can learn a thing or two from you.”
“And vice versa,” Lee added. “The doctor is going to need a full set of field gear. Armor, a vest, a high-altitude bag—the whole shooting match. I’ll leave it to you two to figure out the medical end of things. But it sounds like we’re going to need a full range of baby stuff. Whatever that includes.”
“Diapers,” Kwan said. “Lots and lots of diapers.”
Lee winced. “Diapers are bulky. Okay, do what you have to do. Keep me informed.”
A major was waiting to speak with Lee. He extended his hand. “I’m Major Gupta.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“Raj is fine,” Gupta said. “Can you spend some time with me?”
“Absolutely,” Lee said. “I’d like to have Staff Sergeant Thapa join us if that’s okay. He’ll be my number two.”
“Of course,” Gupta answered. “You got lucky. The Gurkhas are the finest troops in this part of the world. No offense.”
“And none taken,” Lee said, as he waved Thapa over. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Staff Sergeant. This is Major Gupta… He’s going to help us prep the mission. You can release your men, but I’d like you to stay, and provide input.”
Lee saw a look of approval in Thapa’s eyes. Lee was an unknown quantity where the Gurkha was concerned. Was the American a racist? Would he respect the Gurkhas? And could he lead? It was too early to be certain of course, but inclusion was a good sign, and a very important one at that. “Sah! Yes, sah!”
Thapa called a name. “Sergeant Kunar! Prepare the men for the field.”
Kunar had been lingering nearby. He came to attention. “Yes, Sergeant! Right away.” A smart about-face followed.
Lee smiled. “I like your style, Staff Sergeant. Okay, where can we work?”
“My office is down the hall,” Gupta replied. “Please follow me.”
Lee managed to snag another mug of coffee and a Danish on his way out.
Gupta’s office was a short distance away—and large enough to boast its own conference table. After they were seated Lee began to flip through the briefing documents he’d been given. “So, where are we going?”
Gupta smiled. “You won’t find that in your briefing documents. It’s top secret. Your initial destination is a remote village called Hathwat in Nepal.”
So, it was behind enemy lines. No surprise there. “Okay,” Lee replied. “Why?”
Gupta shrugged. “Because there is a Buddhist nunnery in Hathwat, or was, prior to the 7.8 magnitude earthq
uake that struck Nepal in April of 2015.
“That, combined with a second 7.3 magnitude quake 17 days later, killed more than 8,000 people, and destroyed more than 600,000 homes—including the nunnery in Hathwat. Reconstruction has been underway ever since but has not been completed.”
“I still don’t get it,” Lee said. “Why Hathwat?”
“Because Abbess Jeetjang saw the Dalia Lama in a vision. He was smiling, and lying in state, at the local temple.”
Lee frowned. “So?”
“So,” Gupta replied, “Abbess Jeetjang saw the vision hours before Dampa Tsomo was assassinated. And we know it’s true because she shared the vision with a peer by radio.”
Lee glanced at Thapa. The Gurkha had his sergeant face on, but was clearly moved, a sure indication that he was one of the 70 percent of Gurkhas who practiced Buddhism.
Lee turned back. “So, Lama Jangchup chose to visit Hathwat?”
Lee figured Gupta was a Hindu. But there were no signs of disbelief on his face. “Yes. After consultation with other lamas.”
Lee swore. “That means a whole bunch of people know we’re going to Hathwat.”
“A whole bunch of Buddhists know you’re going to Hathwat,” Gupta replied.
There was some comfort in that, but not much.
“One more thing,” Gupta added. “Lama Jangchup will accompany you.”
Lee sighed. The mission was turning into a circus. He turned to Thapa. “Please take Lama Jangchup under your wing, and make sure he has appropriate gear. Don’t give him a radio though… All external communications will be funneled through me.”
Thapa nodded. “Yes, sah.”
“And there’s no need to call me sir in a situation like this.”
“Yes, sah.”
Gupta laughed. “Good luck on changing that. Okay, what else do you need to know?”
“I need to know how we’re going to get to Hathwat,” Lee replied.
“We’re working on that,” Gupta assured him. “Both India and China purchased Mil Mi-17 helicopters from Russia. So we’re painting one of ours with their camo pattern, a red star, and a real tail number. It was cloned from a Chicom helo in Africa.
Red Dragon (Winds of War Book 3) Page 5