Red Dragon (Winds of War Book 3)

by William Dietz

  “Take me to whatever functions as your headquarters. Bring the survivors to me one at a time. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir!” Chen said importantly. “Right away, sir.”

  Tong and his commandos were led from the helipad to the military compound below. What had previously been a Nepalese customs house and police station now served as PLA Forward Base 047. The homes around the facility had been bulldozed to create a free-fire zone. Observation towers were under construction, coils of razor wire guarded all four sides of the base, and a heavily guarded gate was the only point of entry.

  “Improvements are being made,” Chen said. “Our defenses will be much stronger.”

  “They attacked the base?” Tong inquired.

  “No,” Chen replied. “The fighting took place in and around the village. They would attack, our soldiers would respond, and enter a trap.”

  That made sense to Tong. And it spoke to the kind of soldiers who had been sent to Kulekhani. Not regulars, but special forces troops, who wouldn’t attack a fortified position unless forced to do so. “And they took a baby.”

  “Yes,” Chen said, as they entered the building. “They took a man, his wife, and their baby.”

  “Did the parents go willingly?”

  “That’s unclear,” Chen answered. “Someone strangled the grandmother. So, it’s possible that the family tried to resist the kidnappers.”

  Tong was reasonably sure that it was his peer, the MSS agent Wang mentioned, who’d been responsible for the old lady’s death. But it didn’t matter. His goal was to find the infant, kill it, and return to civilization.

  After dropping his gear in what had been the facility’s waiting room, Tong was shown into an office, and invited to sit. He was drinking hot tea and eating a Khajuri cookie when a soldier was shown into the room. The private’s last name was Maa. He was short, stocky, and looked different somehow. Tong couldn’t figure out why at first. Then he realized that although Maa’s uniform was clean, it was also threadbare, and a marked contrast to the new camos Chen’s men wore.

  Maa was nervous but forthcoming. “They were in the village, sir… We attacked them from the north. A helicopter was sent to insert more troops and pin them down. But the laowai [foreigners] fired RPGs at the helo causing it to crash.”

  “How many laowai were there?” Tong inquired.

  Maa shrugged. “That’s hard to say, sir. It was dark. But given what they managed to accomplish I estimate there was 40 to 50 men.”

  The number sounded high. But, given how important the Dalai Lama was, perhaps not. “Okay, then what happened?”

  Maa shrugged. “The men on the helicopter were killed. My squad came under intense fire. Our leader ordered us to pull back. We did so.”

  The last was said without apology. And Tong could tell that Maa felt no guilt. And why, given the circumstances, should he? “Thank you,” Tong said. “You may go.”

  The second soldier’s name was Phang and, as a radio operator, he’d been inside the headquarters building at the time. His words were telling. “There was a lot of confusion and the enemy soldiers were very aggressive. One of our drones captured pictures of them and their leader. He’s Chinese.”

  Tong sat up straight. “Chinese? You’re sure?”

  “No,” Phang admitted. “But that’s how he looked to me.”

  Lieutenant Chen was seated behind a metal desk. Tong turned to him. “Video? You had video and you didn’t mention it?”

  “I assumed you’d seen it,” the officer replied defensively. “We sent a copy to headquarters.”

  Tong frowned. “I want to see it, and I want to see it now.”

  It took the better part of 10 minutes to fetch the correct computer, find the file, and bring it up. Tong watched with interest as the drone wound its way through the streets of Kulekhani. The footage had a green hue but was quite good. “The drone operator had orders to find the enemy,” Chen explained. “He relied on radio reports to reach the correct location.”

  Suddenly there they were, dark figures against a green landscape, which waned as a conventional spotlight came on. The beam of bright light speared down to pin one man in its unrelenting glare. And, when the subject looked up, Tong saw a Chinese face! Phang was correct. What did that mean? Was some sort of resistance cell at work within Chinese held Nepal? Or was Tong looking at a Chinese-American?

  Rather than fire on the drone, the way Tong expected him to, the man waved his people forward. Why? Because he wanted to suck more Chinese troops into the meat grinder that’s why. And that opinion seemed to be validated a short time later when a man fired on the drone and the video disappeared. A black man… An American or British team then—rather than a domestic resistance group.

  Tong watched the video again before turning to Chen. “You will copy the video and send it to the MSS with the following note: ‘Allied special operations team operating in Kulekhani Nepal. Run a global facial recognition search on the subjects and send a copy of the report to me. Signed, 869874.’”

  Chen stared at him. Army captains didn’t have individual identification codes. “Yes, sir.”

  Tong’s thoughts were on the man with the Chinese face. Facial recognition technology was something of a specialty where China was concerned. It had first been used to keep track the Islamic Uyghurs, an ethic minority that the government feared, and kept in reeducation camps.

  Then the government’s use of facial recognition technology was extended to rest of the country and the world at large. So, if the man with the Chinese face had been photographed while graduating from high school, college, or a military training course--his face would be on file along with his name and whatever particulars were available. And the more Tong knew about the enemy the better.

  The third survivor was a Napali interpreter employed by the PLA. His name was Adhikari, his face was wrinkled from years spent outdoors, and he’d been home in bed when the fighting began. But in some ways Adhikari was the most valuable witness of the three. That was because he knew the residents of Kulekhani and could access the local grapevine.

  Adhikari’s Mandarin was iffy. But the account he gave was straightforward and delivered in a matter-of-fact way. “Two lamas came looking for the reincarnated Dalai Lama,” Adhikari said. “And they found him. He was born to Bibek and Ishya. Soldiers took the family west on the Tea Trail. You can catch them if you hurry.”

  Tong smiled. The Americans had a saying: “You can run, but you can’t hide.”

  Tong turned to Chen. “We’ll need the helicopter.”

  West of Kulekhani, Nepal

  The windswept shrine was located on a flat place adjacent to the Tea Trail. The wooden enclosure had been red once. But, after years of exposure to the weather, the paint was pink. A paunchy Buddha sat with legs folded and hands cupped in his lap. Offerings of desiccated fruit, wilted flowers and bird-pecked food lay scattered around him.

  Why there? Lee wondered. The answer was lost in the sweep of time. “All right,” the green beret said, “on three.” Lee bent his knees to get a grip as Cato and two Sherpas did likewise. “One, two, three.”

  The shrine was surprisingly light. Or, so it seemed to Lee, as they moved the structure to a spot at the base of a sheer cliff. “Gently now,” Lee said, as they put the wooden box down. “There… Mission accomplished.”

  The next step was to clear the ledge for use as a helipad. A Black Hawk helicopter was eastbound from Trishul. And Lee expected to get the DL, his family, Jangchup, and Binsa out of Nepal in a matter of hours. The Dalai Lama would become someone else’s responsibility at that point, leaving Lee free to focus on the war.

  Meanwhile east of the ledge Evers and Pun were stationed on a ridge over a manmade tunnel that was hundreds of years old. And, thanks to their elevated position, the men could hold the Chinese off indefinitely should they arrive.

  So, Lee felt free to take a break. He was sitting on a rock eating an MRE when Kwan arrived. She pointed. “Is that rock take
n?”

  “It’s reserved for the Secretary of Defense. But you can use it until he arrives.”

  Kwan smiled. And that, Lee realized, was something he looked forward to. “So, how’s the DL?”

  “He’s sleeping instead of crying,” Kwan said, as she sat down. “And that seems like a miracle. But, according to Binsa, babies cry a lot. And she’s the expert.”

  That was another thing. Slowly, bit by bit, Kwan was coming to trust the rest of the team. “Good,” Lee replied. “So how do you feel about remaining behind?”

  “I’m glad,” Kwan said. “I would feel guilty if they pulled me out.”

  Lee was about to reply when Cato arrived. There was a scowl on his face. “Bad news, Captain… The Black Hawk had a fighter escort. They got jumped by two Chengdu J-20s. And, while that was going on, a J-10 shot the Hawk down.”

  Lee felt a deep sense of sorrow followed by the first stirrings of fear. Had the shoot-down been a random act? Or part of a plan intended to prevent the extraction? And, if so, how did the Chinese know?

  It didn’t make any difference though. There was only one thing that the team could do, and that was to pack up, and head west. Lee stood. “Get ahold of Evers and Bakshi. Tell them we’re about to pull out--but to stay put for the moment. Order the wranglers to water the horses. We will depart in 15 minutes.”

  West of Kulekhani, Nepal

  The sun had broken through the clouds. And as the helicopter’s shadow skimmed through the valley below Tong was crouched between the pilots staring out through the windscreen. “There! Do you see the trail? It runs along the face of the cliff. Follow it west.”

  The deck tilted as the pilot changed course. Speed. That was the thing… If Tong and his team were to intercept the laowai they needed to do so before the Allies could extract their team.

  An outcropping of rock appeared minutes later. It wasn’t wide enough to land on, but there was another way to reach the ground. Tong pointed. “Hover over that… We’ll rope down.”

  The pilot was a pro and put the Mi-17 exactly where it needed to be, in spite of the cliff face that was no more than five feet away from his rotors.

  The commandos slid down ropes like beads on a string. Tong was less confident than his men were, and felt a tremendous sense of relief when his boots touched the ground. The trail was only steps away. Candy wrappers and other pieces of debris circled the soldiers like planets. “They were here,” Tong said over the radio. “And recently too. Scout ahead. Let me know when you see them. Over.”

  The pilot said, “Yes, sir,” and the helo banked away. Tong waved his men forward. “Follow Private Doo.” The commando set a fast pace for such an altitude. One that none of the soldiers would be able to sustain for an extended period of time.

  The trail curved north, then south again. Occasional piles of fresh horse manure signaled how close they were. A tunnel appeared up ahead. Daylight was visible beyond. Doo ran straight for it and vanished in a flash of light. The resulting boom echoed between the valley walls. Tong swore as tons of rock fell to block his path.

  Lee heard the command detonated explosion and knew Evers was on the job. “Did you block the trail? Over.”

  “Affirmative. Over.”

  “We have a helo coming in from the east,” Bakshi added. “Over.”

  Lee took a quick look around. There was no cover to speak of and the chopper could kill the entire party in seconds. “Is it high? Or low? Over.”

  “Low,” Bakshi said. “Over.”

  “Thank god,” Lee replied. “Take it out. Over.”

  Evers and Bakshi were 200-feet above the trail, hidden in a small grove of evergreens. Had the Mi-17 been higher than they were there would have been nothing they could do. But, because the aircraft was lower than their perch, they could fire down on it. And, more importantly, on the helicopter’s whirling rotors.

  Bakshi’s six-shot grenade launcher produced a thumping noise as a 40mm round sailed through the air. The explosion was so far out front of the helicopter, it did little, if any damage.

  Bakshi made an adjustment and fired again. The second grenade was dead on. A blade flew off and the Mi-17 began to spin as the helicopter fell sideways into the canyon below.

  There was a bright flash as the helo hit. A column of greasy black smoke wound its way up into the sky. “Not bad,” Evers said. “See if you can do it one-round next time.”

  “Screw you,” Bakshi replied, and both men laughed.

  Lee’s heart was pounding. The whole thing had been close. Too close. And it wasn’t over. The Chinese had suffered a defeat. But they wouldn’t give up. So, there was only one thing he and his team could do. And that was to run.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Nest, west of Kulekhani Nepal

  Prior to the war “The Nest” had been a weather observatory built to serve the people of Nepal. But that was before a bandit named Baburam Jha and two of his men showed up at the locked entry seeking shelter from an especially nasty storm. The man who let them in was killed by a slash from a kukri three seconds later.

  Next it was a simple matter for the men to move room-to-room slaughtering all the men except two, which Jha knew he would need, and locking three women in a storage room. Not from a sense of chivalry, but to be enjoyed later. Then the band’s women and children were brought up to what Jha called his “nest.”

  By forcing his captives to file regular weather reports and perform maintenance on the station Jha was able to push off the inevitable moment when the government came to realize that the metrological station had been captured by bandits.

  The immediate response was to send a helicopter load of Gurkhas up to take the facility back. But rather than keep the helipad clear, the way the scientists had, the snow had been allowed to pile up. So, there was no place to land. That plus heavy ground fire forced the government helicopter to turn back.

  Plans were laid to send a company of men up to the summit on foot, and that effort might have been successful, had it not been for the Chinese invasion. After that took place all such plans went onto the back burner and remained there.

  In the meantime, Jha’s extended family, his bandits, and various hangers-on remained in residence in the nearly inaccessible structure--which they used as a base for raids on towns in the valleys below, but never on the Chinese. Jha was smarter than that, and knew that the invaders could use warplanes to destroy the nest anytime they chose to. So due to Jha’s good sense, and willingness to perform occasional chores for them, the Chinese allowed the bandit to keep what he had.

  During the months since the bandits moved in, the weather station’s once spotless interior had changed. Entire families occupied rooms intended for a single person. Offices had been converted into living apartments as had sections of hallways and storage rooms.

  Clotheslines ran in every direction, all sagging under the weight of wet clothes. And the smell of seldom washed bodies, combined with the odor of incense used to conceal the stench, produced a fug so dense it was difficult to breathe.

  Meanwhile the captives Jha referred to as “my pets,” fought an endless battle to maintain the high-altitude wind turbines which fed power to the nest, and without which it would soon become uninhabitable.

  The generators were built to handle winds of 100 mph, but had trouble coping with speeds above that, and repairing them in subzero temperatures was a daunting task. Eventually Jha’s “pets” would run out of replacement parts or die of exposure.

  But, for the moment, Jha was happy to hold court in what had once been the cafeteria where his throne was located. Toadies and sycophants listened with open mouthed fascination as Jha described the kingdom he envisioned. “Think of it,” Jha said. “A bandit kingdom! So large, and so powerful, that even the Chinese will have to kneel before it!”

  There was a stir in the back of the room as a man wearing bulky clothing entered. Jha frowned. “Who is that?” he demanded.

  “It’s cousin Imay,” a man called o
ut. “With news of the Chinese.”

  That was enough to claim Jha’s attention. “Come forward cousin, and fill the room with your knowledge.”

  After shedding half-a-dozen layers of clothes Imay Suwal made his way up to the throne and knelt. He was short and sturdy. It was his job to travel the lowlands looking for poorly defended villages to rob. “Rise,” Jah said magnanimously, “and speak.”

  Suwal cleared his throat. “I brought you this, Lord, which may be of interest.” So, saying Suwal offered a rolled document.

  Jah was semiliterate and shook his head. “Read aloud so all may hear.”

  Suwal opened the document and read. “Allied spies entered the Chinese protectorate of Nepal, where they abducted a family living in the village of Kulekhani, and killed more than two dozen police officers. The family consists of a man named Bibek Gharti, his wife Ishya, and an unnamed infant.

  “In its role as peacekeeper, the Chinese government is determined to find the missing family, and restore them to their home in Kulekhani. Those having information regarding the whereabouts of the Gharti family should share their knowledge with any military officer they see.

  “A reward of one-hundred Gold Panda coins will be paid to the individual, or individuals, supplying information leading to the recovery of the Gharti family. By order of General Bo Taam, commanding officer of all peacekeeping forces in the Nepalese Protectorate.”

  There was a moment of relative silence as the people in the room waited to see how Jah would react to the news. “Hmm,” the bandit king said. “One-hundred Gold Pandas is a lot of money… And we could use this opportunity to strengthen our relationship with the Chinese. We will go forth and find the family.”

  There were cheers, wooden mugs filled with a beer-like drink called Chhaang were passed around, and the party began. The celebration was premature but Jah allowed it to continue knowing it was important for his followers to let off some steam.

  Meanwhile his brain was churning. Yes, the gold coins would be welcome, but perhaps an even greater reward was in the offing. If the Chinese were willing to pay one-hundred Pandas, what would the Allies pay, since they wanted the family so badly? Of course, it wouldn’t do to make the Chinese angry. So, any such negotiations would have to be carried out with great care.