“But that isn’t all…We salvaged an Identification Friend or Foe (IFF) system from one of the Chinese Mi-17s shot down during the opening days of the war, and my guys are installing it in our aircraft. It will be ready for departure by 1800 tomorrow which, by the way, is when my chaps think you should depart.”
Lee assumed that the “chaps” Gupta referred to were members of Indian military intelligence. Flying through the mountains at night was a dangerous proposition. But Lee figured that the Indian Air Force had pilots with lots of experience. “Way to go,” Lee said. “I like it.”
“Good,” Gupta said. “You’ll have plenty of interpreters including the staff sergeant here, his men, and Lama Jangchup. Plus, you speak Mandarin if I’m not mistaken.”
It was clear that Gupta had seen his file or at least part of it. “I think that covers it,” Gupta said.
“Right,” Lee said as he stood. “Thank you, Major… We’ll get to work.”
The rest of the day, plus most of the next day, was spent prepping the mission. That included loadouts for each person which, while subject to customization, had to include certain items in order to gain Staff Sergeant Thapa’s approval.
By the same token supplies for the overall team had to be chosen, signed for, labeled, and packed—all according to Sergeant Kunar’s demanding standards.
Kwan and Evers worked together with a pediatric nurse to buy baby related supplies from an off-base supplier, get them delivered, and packed into two hard-sided chests.
Once that task was complete, the two-person team turned their attention to the creation of two platoon-sized medical kits which would enable them to deal with injuries ranging from a hangnail to a chest wound.
Meanwhile Cato and a Gurkha named Lance Corporal Ganju Lama surveyed all of the com gear, including the team-level Special Operations Forces Tactical Communications, or STC “Rifleman Radios,” and the larger manpack version which the unit could use to talk to Special Ops/Trishul. Because once in the field there wouldn’t be any electronics techs to repair gear.
And Lee was kept busy going person-to-person solving problems. It was going pretty well until he met with Kwan. “We have a problem,” the doctor said ominously.
Evers was enjoying the moment. “Yeah,” he echoed. “We have a problem.”
“Which is?”
“Milk for the baby,” Kwan replied. “Assuming we find him. And no, I’m not the solution, since I’m not lactating.”
Evers grinned. “That’s right, sir… The woman has to be lactating. We’re taking some baby formula but, depending on how long we’re out there, it may not be enough.”
“What about the child’s mother?” Lee inquired.
Kwan’s eyes narrowed. “What if she’s sick? What if she has other children to care for? What if her husband won’t let her accompany us?”
Lee hadn’t given that any thought, and knew he should have. “Okay, what’s the solution?”
“We need a wet nurse,” Kwan replied. “A woman who is lactating, and breast feeds other women’s babies for a fee.”
“And how the hell am I supposed to come up with a wet nurse?” Lee demanded.
“I don’t know,” Kwan said sweetly. “But you’re in charge. So, it’s your job.”
“Yeah,” Evers said. “You’re in charge…” But he stopped short of finishing the sentence when Lee turned to stare at him.
Lee left them after that and went looking for Jangchup. The underground base was about 25 miles from the front, and one of the PLA’s favorite targets. Distant thumping sounds were heard, as Chinese Koalitsiya-SV howitzers fired on the runway. A lot of the incoming stuff was intercepted and destroyed by C-RAM (Counter Rocket, Artillery and Mortar) units. But some of the Chinese rounds got through.
Meanwhile the Allied M777 155-millimeter howitzers replied in kind. Then, once the bombardment was over, tractors would rush out to fill in the new craters. And within a surprisingly short period of time, the runways would be active again.
Lee found Jangchup in the Buddhist chapel where he was conversing with a monk. Jangchup waved him over and the monk departed. Lee explained the situation, and finished by saying, “So what we need is a wet nurse. Just in case.”
“If his holiness needs a wet nurse, I will find him one,” Jangchup promised. “Please tell the doctor that everything will be taken care of.”
Lee thanked the lama and went back to work. It was well past 2000 hours when he went to dinner with the military members of his team. Dinner time provided a good opportunity to learn the Gurkhas’ names, get a feel for personalities, and give everyone a chance to become acquainted.
It was immediately apparent that the British soldiers were used to more formality than was typical of American special operations teams. The green berets felt free to tease Lee, but they knew who was in command, and obeyed his orders.
All of which was fine with everyone except Staff Sergeant Thapa, who frowned on such liberties, and continued to address Lee as “Sah.”
Once dinner was over, and Lee reached his quarters, he went straight to bed. There were lots of things to worry about but he didn’t. Sleep reached up to pull him down. There were dreams, but they were nice dreams, especially the one that involved Doctor Wendy Kwan.
Most of the following day was taken up by last minute meetings, the need to move the team’s gear to a bay that was close to the freshly painted “Chinese” helicopter, and round up the kind of personal necessities Lee wouldn’t be able to buy out in the field.
Then it was time for an hour-long nap, before taking what was likely to be his last hot shower for quite a while, and sending what his father called “a proof of life” email to his parents. The message would probably take days, because all military emails were subject to review and redactions. Even so Lee’s mom and dad would know their son was alive and “doing something, somewhere.”
Lee’s pack was nearly ready to go. The last-minute addition of his shaving gear completed the task. Then all Lee had to do was don his tac gear, grab his M4, and make his way through a mile of tunnels, corridors and passageways to the section of the base dedicated to helicopters—including the maintenance, arming and fueling thereof.
Loading was complete when Lee arrived. After receiving a status report from Staff Sergeant Thapa, Lee took a final look around before climbing on board. Gear was strapped to the deck at the center of the cargo area. Kwan, Thapa, and Jangchup were present as were the Gurkhas. Lee offered a thumbs-up before taking the only seat that was still available.
The helo had been towed to the “ready” position, only yards away from the lift that would carry it up to the surface. Lee felt the machine lift off, slide forward, and put down. Then with engines still running the Mi-17 was lifted up.
As the blast-proof doors opened, the pilot was already starting to lift off. The longer the aircraft remained on the platform the greater the chance that the enemy would be able to drop a shell, bomb, or missile onto that exact spot--and cause damage below ground.
A great deal of effort had gone into preparing for the helo departure, the most important part of which were measures intended to prevent the Mi-17 from being shot down before it departed Allied held territory.
However, Lee was conscious of the fact that any soldier with a shoulder-launched missile could get the job done, especially since the helicopter had to hug the ground in order to stay below the Chinese radars.
So, there was a good deal of suspense as the Mi-17 followed a predesignated course across the battlefield and through Chinese defenses before gaining altitude. The response was immediate. All sorts of enemy units pinged the chopper but, after receiving an appropriate response from the cloned IFF system, most of the inquiries stopped.
The single exception was a Chinese Air Traffic Controller with a demand for the aircraft’s number and destination. But that was to be expected, and the helicopter’s bilingual pilot was ready with answers.
There was a pause after he gave them, followed
by a clearance, and a reminder to file a flight plan next time. “We’re good to go,” the pilot said over the intercom, and that produced a cheer. But Lee’s attention was focused on the landing by that time. Security had been iffy at best. Who would be waiting for them? Abbess Jeetjang? Or a Chinese ambush? Time seemed to slow.
CHAPTER FIVE
Sharvasti, India
Though still alive, and definitely not a member of the Christian faith, Ministry of State Security Agent Fan Tong was stretched out inside a pitch-black coffin. It smelled musty. Had the six-foot-long box been used to transport bodies before? Tong suspected that it had.
Tong, along with a dead man from Delhi, was in the back of an Indian hearse. It was, as most hearses were, a strange vehicle. A large cab for family members was located forward of the separate cargo area that contained the body or casket.
There were windows all around so that mourners, as well as the merely curious, could peer inside. But Tong didn’t care so long as the subterfuge helped to get them through Allied lines and into Chinese occupied territory.
The assassination had been flawless. And, while Tong had no way to communicate with Director Zang, it seemed safe to assume that she was pleased.
But the exfil had gone poorly. The escape van was waiting, but the driver was a lackadaisical fool. Perhaps his overall lack of urgency could be explained by the fact that he didn’t know who his passengers were or why they were in such a hurry.
However there was no excuse for running out of gas two miles into the journey. “So sorry! So sorry!” the driver said. “Please help me push the van over to the side of the road.”
Rather than help the idiot push the van over to the side of the road, the assassins got out, and walked away. The situation wasn’t ideal, but there was no reason to panic, since the agents were trained to handle such contingencies.
In fact, towards the end of their MSS training, each prospective agent was dropped into a foreign country without ID or money, and ordered to make their way back to the training farm. And to do so within seven days. Tong made the return trip from Saigon in four days. One of which was spent enjoying himself in a whorehouse.
It was simple really… Look for a Chinese male of his approximate age and size, follow the man home, then kill him. After stealing the victim’s ID and money the rest was easy. A violation of the rules? Not at all. There were no rules.
Fortunately, the team members already had forged ID cards and money. So, knowing the authorities were looking for three killers, they split up.
If the other agents had plans, they were careful not to mention them, in keeping with the MSS axiom: “Biérén bù zhīdào de, tāmen wúfǎ tòulù.” (What others don’t know, they can’t reveal.)
But if Tong had been forced to guess, Ji Wu would be disguised as an old woman and Han Hoi would board a train, where he would lose himself in the crowd. Then, once in Chinese occupied territory, they would reunite.
Tong’s escape route had been inspired by the sight of a coffin being loaded onto the back of a hearse. Most people didn’t want to look at dead bodies, and that included policemen. What if he could travel to his destination lying down? Negotiations ensued.
Tong’s thoughts were interrupted as the driver braked and the unsecured coffins slid forward. The driver’s name was Fazi, and he was one of the 172-million Muslims who were Indian citizens. But more importantly Fazi was a Shia. And most Shias were sympathetic to, if not outright supportive of, the Axis—which was one reason why Tong had chosen the man.
The other reason was Fazi’s willingness to smuggle a Chinese male through a number of checkpoints, in return for some hard currency in a country plagued by inflation. And Fazi’s intentions were about to be tested again as the hearse jerked forward in a seemingly endless series of starts and stops.
Tong couldn’t see, but could imagine the scene, as hundreds of cars crept forward to one of the checkpoints put in place immediately after the assassination. This one was located on the outskirts of Sharvasti if Tong wasn’t mistaken. A city which according to his studies was located near the West Rapti River, and was associated with the life of Gautama Buddha, who was believed to have spent twenty-four Chaturmases (holy periods) there. And it was the Rapti River that Tong needed to cross in order to reach friendly territory.
The hearse jerked to a halt and Tong heard voices. This is it, he thought. Win or lose. The pistols were hidden under his thighs only inches from his hands. If necessary, he would try to shoot his way to freedom. Surrender was unthinkable.
There was a rattle, followed by sounds of movement, as someone crawled into the back of the hearse. Daylight flooded the inside coffin. Tong’s eyes were closed, and he was wearing the ghoulish makeup Fazi’s wife had applied to his face, but would that be enough?
“It looks like you’ve got yourself a dead Chindian [a person of mixed Chinese and Indian ancestry],” a male voice said. “And a Christian at that. Who else would want to be buried in a box?”
“It’s a mystery,” Fazi agreed. “A shroud is cheaper. A lot of Christian families have me use this coffin for the funeral. Then, once it’s over, I put the body in a special cardboard box.”
“That makes sense,” the voice said. “What did this guy die of? He’s relatively young.”
Tong had neglected to prepare Fazi for the question and should have. What would the hearse driver say?
“Brain cancer,” Fazi said. “The poor bastard.”
Daylight disappeared as the lid closed. Tong couldn’t hear what was said after that, but knew it didn’t matter, since the moment of danger had passed.
Two or three minutes passed. Then the truck jerked forward, started to pick up speed, and was soon clear of the checkpoint. Tong discovered that he’d been holding his breath and let it go.
Fazi couldn’t take Tong into Chinese occupied territory because the bridge across the West Rapti River had been bombed by both sides. So Fazi was supposed to look for a place where a dead man could crawl out of a coffin without attracting attention.
The coffin slid forward as Fazi braked. And rather than wait for the driver to open the coffin Tong pushed the lid up and out of the way. It felt good to sit up.
Fazi opened the back and crawled inside. He was an older man, sixty or so, with a sun-wrinkled countenance. “Here,” Fazi said. “Water and a cloth. To wipe the makeup off.”
Tong was grateful. He took a gulp of warm water and used the rest to wet the cloth and clean his face. Then he got up out of the coffin and made his way back to the tailgate. The hearse was parked under an overpass in an area the locals used as a garbage dump. The smell was horrible. “Fifty American,” Tong said. “That’s what I promised you. But here’s seventy-five. You did a good job.”
There was a huge smile on Fazi’s face as he accepted the money. “Thank you. Do you need directions?”
The truth was that Tong did need directions, but he couldn’t ask for them. What others don’t know, they can’t reveal.
“No, thank you. Take care Fazi.” And with that Tong walked away.
The first priority was to get ahold of a map, and the second was to secure some sort of transportation. It was hot. And it took the better part of half an hour to hike out of the rundown neighborhood Tong found himself in. The effects of the war were visible everywhere. Entire apartment buildings had been destroyed, raggedy children played in muddy bomb craters, and contrails clawed the blue sky.
But signs of life could be seen in the brightly colored clothes that hung from lines, the manner in which streets had been cleared of rubble, and the way people were taking advantage of the momentary respite to run errands. Tong followed three sari clad women into a business district.
After some exploration Tong found a nearly empty travel agency where the clerk was eager to sell him a map. And after answering a series of seemingly unrelated questions about the falloff in tourism, and damage to the local economy, the proprietor mentioned the east-west bridge over the Rapti River. “Both
sides bombed it,” the man said. “But you can’t drive across it, nor would you want to, since the Chinese are waiting at the other end of it.”
“So, no one can cross?”
“No one except smugglers,” the businessman said. “But you can visit the Daen Mahamongkol temple if you wish to. Be ready to run though… The fighting could resume at any time.”
Once outside Tong examined the map. The fastest way to reach the West Rapti River was to pass through a town named Digura Jot. But how?
Tong was starting to run low on cash by then so hiring a car was out. And he would stick out as a foreigner on a bus loaded with local farmers. What did that leave?
The answer was all around him. India was home to millions of motorcycles and scooters. So, the simple solution was to steal one. Except it wasn’t so simple, because most Indians were careful to lock their bikes, and many made use of chains too.
But, Tong reasoned, there were bound to be a few slackers. And it didn’t take long to discover that the parking lot in front of a strip mall lined with fast food joints was likely to be a good hunting ground. Delivery boys, business people, and housewives all stopped there. And many of them were in a hurry. Especially since the fighting could resume at any moment. All Tong had to do was wait for an idiot to leave his key in the ignition.
Tong purchased a takeout lunch, and ate it slowly, while standing in amongst dozens of parked motorcycles. Twenty minutes passed. A flight of American made helicopters clattered overhead. And at least a hundred people came and went before an opportunity presented itself. And when it did Tong could hardly believe that anyone could be so careless.
The teenager was dressed in a company uniform, and toting a fully stuffed messenger bag, as he got off the Indian made Hero Super Splendor bike, and entered a Bajaj Allianz insurance office. The motor was still running.
Tong wasted no time dropping his soft drink can into a bin and jumping onto the seat. The kickstand came up smoothly, and the motorcycle produced a satisfying roar, as Tong toed his way up through the gears. There was no point in looking back and Tong didn’t.
Red Dragon (Winds of War Book 3) Page 6