Red Dragon (Winds of War Book 3)

by William Dietz

  “We found a house with two chimneys and a solar panel,” Lee told them. “Whether it’s the place you’re looking for I couldn’t say.”

  The lamas peppered the soldiers with questions and, as Cato described the drone, Lee’s eyes came into contact with Kwan’s. She shook her head slightly, as if to say, “What the hell?” All Lee could do was smile.

  After a good deal of discussion the decision was made. Once the sun rose the lamas, both wearing civilian clothes, would walk into town. There were risks needless to say.

  But the lamas were eager to go. And were quick to point out that the parents were much more likely to respond positively, without soldiers being present. Then if the results of the investigation were positive the lamas would summon the rest of the party.

  Lee approved the plan on the condition that the lamas would enter the town after nightfall. Then he had a word with Staff Sergeant Thapa. “Is the backup location ready?”

  “Yes, sah… As ready as a cave can be.”

  Lee smiled. “Good. We have to assume that the lamas will be captured and tortured. Odds are that they’ll spill their guts. PLA soldiers will arrive here shortly thereafter. So, it makes sense to move. Don’t tell the troops because one of them might say something in front of the lamas. But remind them to be ready at all times. We will announce the pull-out immediately after the holy men leave and depart 30 minutes later.”

  Thapa nodded approvingly. “Yes, sah.”

  Lee could have warned Kwan, but concluded that the doctor didn’t have a need to know.

  Lee spent the day catching up on his sleep, checking on security, and chatting with the troops. Morale was good and that was important.

  When darkness fell Lee was there to see the lamas off. “Good luck… Let me know what you find, but keep the transmissions short, and don’t talk to anyone else. No one, agreed?”

  The lamas agreed. But what if they found the Dalia Lama? Would the holy men keep the good news to themselves? Or try to contact someone like the abbess? Lee feared the latter, but had no choice.

  Once the lamas were gone, the announcement was made, and work began. To the unit’s credit the tear-down took a scant 18 minutes. And after Lee made a final circuit looking for items that had been missed, the team departed. Two Gurkhas were on point, followed by Thapa, and the rest of the team. Lee was walking drag.

  The seldom-used trail led up over a ridge, down into a ravine, and up the other side. The trail was narrow, and the horses’ hooves dislodged avalanches of loose scree, which rattled as it slid downslope.

  Finally, after switch-backing through a lightly treed area, they arrived at the site of an ancient gold mine. The path led between piles of tailings to a cliff face, a pile of timbers, and a sign. It was in Nepalese script. Thapa aimed a flashlight at it. “Danger, stay out,” Thapa said.

  “Tell the men to open it up, but to be careful,” Lee replied. “It’s my guess that the mine will be less comfortable than the fort, but safer, since it’s away from the main trail.”

  It took the better part of an hour to remove the timbers that blocked the entrance and gain entrance. Lee was among the first to enter. Flashlight beams roamed the ceiling and rough-cut walls. There were no signs that modern equipment had been used in the mine. Just picks, shovels, and crowbars judging from the rusty tools that lay about.

  A couple of wooden carts were parked to one side, and ancient lanterns dangled here and there. Light is going to be a problem, Lee thought. Our kerosene will run out and so will our batteries. What then?

  Lee turned to Thapa. “Send some men up above. Tell them to look for ventilation shafts or cracks in the rock. We’re going to need air and light.”

  Thapa passed the word. The tunnel was narrow, and led straight back into the mountain. And that was where they encountered what might have been a natural chamber with a waist-high, fire-blackened fireplace on the right-hand wall. That suggested a chimney!

  “Let the scouts know,” Lee said. “Tell them to keep their eyes peeled for a chimney. And have someone start a fire. Let’s see where the smoke comes out.”

  It took a couple of hours to clear some of the debris, get the horses inside, and set up living quarters in the chamber that had the fireplace. It wasn’t perfect. Some of the smoke leaked out into the room. But most of it went up and out via a crack. It would be a dead giveaway during the day, which meant they could only have fires at night.

  Lee was waiting for the radio call. And he thought he knew what the lamas would report. “We found the package.” That’s the terminology the holy men had been told to use. Assuming they hadn’t been captured or killed that is.

  There were two reasons why Lee expected to receive that particular message. The first was that it might be true. The second was that it had to be true. Real or not Buddhism, and the people who believed in it, were in need of a leader. And the lamas were under pressure to produce a “free world” Dalai Lama as an alternative to the fake one previously announced by the Chinese.

  The hours crawled by. And, as the sun rose, Lee became increasingly anxious. But finally, shortly after 1400 hours, the radio call came in. It was Khando. “We have the package. Over.”

  “Name the sects. Over.” Such a test hadn’t been discussed. And that made it all the more effective. “Theravada, Mahayana and Tibetan,” came the answer. “Over.”

  “Stay where you are. Don’t go outside. The extraction team will arrive around one in the morning. Over.”

  Kulekhani, Nepal

  The air inside the house was warm, fuggy, and thick with the rank odor of a dish called Mula Ko Achar. It was made from pickled daikon radishes, and known for its offensive smell. But Bibek and Ishya Gharti were oblivious to that.

  The air was warm to protect their first-born son, and the little boy was perfect in every way. In fact, the only thing that made the moment less than it could have been was the presence of two lamas who had appeared at their door, and wanted to speak with them.

  After explaining the nature of their mission, and getting permission to do so, the holy men carried out an inch-by-inch physical exam of the baby boy’s body. And there were cries of joy when they discovered a red birthmark on the boy’s left ankle. A birthmark which, according to the holy men, resembled the petals of a lotus flower. And, as Lama Jangchup explained, “The lotus flower represents creation, cosmic renewal, and purity. All of which are identified with Buddhism and therefore the Dalai Lama.”

  It was a lot to take in. On the one hand the parents were thrilled to learn that their newborn baby might be the reincarnated Dalia Lama. On the other hand they were terrified that they might lose what they had so recently gained. Jangchup was busy trying to reassure them in that regard as Khando excused himself.

  The privy smelled the way all privies do, but was the only place where the lama could make an important radio call. Khando removed a small Chinese made transceiver from the pouch on his belt, turned the device on, and chose the correct frequency. “This is seven-six-two-four. Over.”

  There was a three-second pause followed by the sound of a male voice. “Go. Over.”

  “Identity confirmed. Over.”

  “Hold. Over.” Static rattled as a long thirty-second pause passed. Then the voice spoke again. “Kill it. Out.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Kulekhani, Nepal

  Khando became a Buddhist at age nine, was ordinated at eighteen, and recruited by the Ministry of State Security shortly after he turned twenty. Later Khando was assigned to the Internal Security and Anti-Reconnaissance Division, better known as “Bureau 9.”

  The 9’s mission was to protect the MSS from infiltration by foreign entities. And that, according to the bureaucrats in charge, included responsibility for monitoring Buddhism. A religion deemed to be reactionary by some, and “foreign,” since members lived all around the world. That was to say nothing of the 244-million Buddhists who lived inside China, and represented 18.2% of the total population.

  There had
been annual training sessions to attend, and reports to fill out, but Khando’s part-time work as an MSS agent had been less than demanding until the day the war began.

  Yes, there had been martial arts classes focused on the Shaolin art of Kung Fu, a form of martial arts consistent with Khando’s role as a monk. But Khando had never been called upon to hurt, much less kill someone, never mind the newly reincarnated Dalai Lama. And the prospect of doing so made Khando feel sick to his stomach.

  What to do? Suddenly the two organizing principals of his life were in conflict with each other. There was a difference however. If Khando failed Buddhism he would survive. But if he failed Chinese communism, the MSS would kill him.

  So, horrible though the prospect was, Khando had to kill a baby. Not the Dalai Lama, because that was unthinkable, but an infant that some believed to be the Dalai Lama.

  But how? The infant was never alone. The answer was obvious. Khando would have to kill the baby and the person with him. His mother or grandmother would be the easiest to overpower.

  So Khando chose a corner that would allow him to monitor the comings and goings into and out of the infant’s room. He sat on the floor with legs crossed, and pretended to meditate. The father left and Jangchup arrived. Then the mother entered and the other lama departed.

  Khando took a moment to review his plan. Kill Ishya, kill the baby, and exit through the back door. Then he would run. The PLA troops would arrest him, check his identity, and receive orders to release him. Done.

  Khando was about to rise when the grandmother arrived, spoke to Ishya, and sat in a chair next to the homemade crib. Ishya left. Now, Khando told himself, before someone else arrives.

  Khando stood. A floorboard creaked as he took a step forward, removed his belt from around his waist, and formed a loop. “Wrists crossed.” That’s what the MSS instructor told the class to do, and that’s what Khando did. The candles flickered and Khando’s shadow slid across a wall. The old woman had just started to turn when the leather loop dropped over her head.

  Khando jerked the garrote tight and closed his eyes. He could hear however… There were gasping sounds, followed by noise the old lady’s clogs made as they danced on the floor, and the prolonged fart that followed. Then she was gone.

  Khando released the belt and eased the body to the floor. Killing the woman had been easy. Now for the baby.

  There was no need to use the leather strap on a child. No, a pillow would suffice, and there would be no need to watch the life vanish from the infant’s eyes. Numerous pillows were available and Khando chose the smallest. It, like the rest of the room, was imbued with the smell of incense. Cinnamon, Khando thought. Death smells like Cinnamon.

  Khando lowered the pillow onto the baby’s face, and was about to bear down on it, when the child’s father entered the room. And because Bibek was wearing stockings instead of shoes his footsteps had been silent. When Bibek saw what the lama was doing he uttered a bellow of outrage and charged.

  Khando barely had time to turn, much less prepare for battle. He was two-inches taller than Bibek, but the local was a brick layer by trade, and younger too. He threw his arms around Khando and dragged him to the floor while calling for help.

  Khando had given up all hope of killing the infant by then. All he wanted to do was escape. So, he hit Bibek, and hit him again. But the enraged father refused to let go. They wrestled. Khando managed to wind up on top. And that position allowed him to pummel Bibek’s face with both fists.

  Jangchup heard the cries for help, and as he arrived in the baby’s room, saw the grandmother’s body lying on the floor. More than that he saw Khando sitting astride of Bibek’s body raining blows down on the villager’s face. Who was responsible for the woman’s death? Khando? Or Bibek? The answer seemed obvious.

  A burning candle fell and rolled, as Jangchup took hold of the three-foot tall brass candle holder, and moved four steps forward. The base hit the side of the other lama’s head and fractured his skull. The would-be killer collapsed on the floor.

  “Fire!” Ishya shouted, as she entered the room. A floor length curtain was burning and the rod fell as she jerked it down. A piss-pot was handy and half-full. The fire hissed impotently as Ishya put it out. “The baby,” Bibek said, as he got to his feet. “Lama Khando was trying to kill the baby! Lama Jangchup saved him.”

  Ishya looked at Khando, saw what Jangchup had done, and threw up.

  And that was when the Dalai Lama started to cry.

  A mine near Kulekhani, Nepal

  Lee was checking his gear, and getting ready to leave, when the light from Cato’s headlamp merged with his. “Jangchup’s on the horn, Captain. He claims that Khando murdered the DL’s grandmother and tried to kill the baby. There was a fight, and Jangchup won. Oh, and Khando had a Chinese-made radio.”

  Lee eyed Cato to see if he was smiling. “Get serious.”

  “I am serious.”

  Lee took the receiver. “This is Viper-Six. Go. Over.”

  Jangchup had forgotten everything he’d been taught regarding radio procedure and he was shouting. “Khando had a Chinese radio… They know we’re here… Come get us!”

  The report should have come as a shock. But Lee had been suspicious of both lamas. So the news left him unmoved. The sequence of events was clear. After ascertaining that the baby was the real Dalai Lama, or likely to be perceived as such, Khando made a call. And that was when he received orders to murder the baby.

  “Listen carefully,” Lee said. “Get the family out of the house. Don’t let them carry anything that won’t fit in their pockets. Take shelter somewhere, but don’t tell me where, until I ask you to do so. You will hear shooting. When that happens stay put. Repeat what I told you. Over.”

  Jangchup stumbled at times but managed to recite Lee’s instructions. “Good,” Lee told him. “I’ll be in touch. Now get out of there. Over.”

  Thapa had the other worldly ability to show up whenever he was needed. So Lee was anything but surprised when the Gurkha appeared. “I hope you and your men are in the mood for a fight,” Lee said.

  “Yes, sah,” Thapa said. “Always.”

  Lee grinned. “Here’s the situation.” Thapa listened as Lee gave him the rundown plus instructions. “We’ll travel light. Weapons, ammo, and short rations. Nothing more.

  “With the exception of one man, who will stay here to keep an eye on the horse wranglers, everyone will go—and that includes the doctor and Binsa. I assume the Dalai Lama’s bodyguards will want to take part. They can carry firearms if they wish. Do you have any questions?”

  “No, sah.”

  “Good. We’re going to depart in fifteen minutes.”

  The rescue party was comprised of 14 people, including 7 Gurkhas, 3 Green Berets, 2 bodyguards, 1doctor and the wet nurse. The opposition consisted of 40-plus PLA mountain troops who, based on information provided by Khando, knew rescuers were on the way.

  What they didn’t know was that the Allied force was lightly loaded, traveling downhill, and knowledgeable about Kulekhani’s layout. And there’s one more thing, Lee thought, as he skidded down a scree-covered slope. They don’t know that we plan to kill every damned one of them.

  Once on the old caravan trail the going got easier. The path had a tendency to rise and fall, but not by much, allowing the rescuers to jog. Thapa, Cato and one of the Gurkhas were on point. They waved the rest of the party off the trail just short of the village and disappeared into the murk. Lee smiled. Had PLA troops been sent to keep the Allies out of Kulekhani? He hoped so. And, thanks to a series of sotto voice transmissions, the green beret knew his wish had come true. The voice was that of Corporal Ganju Mahto, one of Thapa’s snipers. The Gurkha had a British L115A3 suppressed sniper rifle. He spoke softly. “Four targets. Working left to right.”

  The bolt action rifle coughed, and coughed again. Thapa was acting as Mahto’s spotter. “One down, two down, three and four took cover.”

  Lee saw a series of flashes and heard
the rattle of automatic weapons as the Chinese troops returned fire. Whether they could see Mahto, or were trying to intimidate the sniper, wasn’t clear. But the muzzle flashes made excellent targets. “That’s three,” Thapa said. “The fourth ran.”

  “All right,” Lee said. “Let’s get going. We’re headed for the house.”

  They were up and running when Thapa dropped back to have a private word with Lee. The noncom was unusually direct. “The house, sah? Lama Jangchup and the family are gone by now. And the house will be full of Chinese troops.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Lee replied.

  They ran side-by-side as Thapa took it in. There was wonderment in his voice. “You plan to kill them?”

  “That’s correct,” Lee answered. “All of them. It will be better that way.”

  “Yes,” the noncom agreed. “It will.” And with that Thapa increased his speed. He was back at the head of the column a minute later.

  Lee knew the decision was risky. But the alternative was even worse. If the rescue party went straight to the location where the family was hiding, and tried to take them to safety, the Chinese mountain troops would dog them—and probably win the war of attrition.

  But if Lee’s team could eliminate the Chinese troops, or at least whittle the platoon down to just a few effectives, his team would have enough breathing room to make it back to the mine. After that? Lee didn’t know yet.

  Cato knew where the house was. And led the team through the twisting-turning streets with a surety that Lee knew he wouldn’t be able to duplicate. Lights glowed in windows, and dogs barked, but the citizens of Kulekhani stayed indoors. And a good thing too.

  “Slow down,” Cato said over the radio. “The house is about two blocks ahead. Viper-One-One will begin to thin the herd. Over.”

  “Viper-One-Three on me,” Lee said. Over.”

  Private Dipprasad Pun was armed with a 40mm six-shot grenade launcher which had an effective firing range of 440 yards. He appeared at Lee’s elbow. “Sir.”