Red Dragon (Winds of War Book 3)

by William Dietz

  “No, I was sent here to observe, and do everything in my power to slow, if not halt, what both sides call ‘the Big Push.’ By which they mean China’s effort to push men and supplies into Nepal prior to an all-out attack on India.

  “I was foolish enough to write a speculative paper called ‘China’s Invasion of India,’ six- months prior to the war,” Smith-Peet said. “And, because it accurately predicted the situation we find ourselves in, the brass think I’m gifted. That’s utter nonsense of course, but I’m stuck with it.”

  Lee was impressed by the other officer’s foresight as well as the casual self-deprecating way in which Smith-Peet referred to it. “I can see why they were impressed, sir, especially since no one else saw it coming. May I ask how the conflict will turn out?”

  Smith-Peet grinned. “General Baxter asked me the same thing. I told him we would win, but just barely.”

  “And that’s what you believe?”

  “No, of course not,” Smith-Peet answered. “If the Chinese are allowed to funnel supplies through the mountains to the frontlines they will win. And that, Old Bean, is why you and your merry men are going to stop them.

  “The route starts in China, where it’s called the ‘Friendship Road,’ if you can stomach that. It connects to Nepal’s road system and to the Tribhuvan Highway which winds through a high-altitude choke-point called Sim Bhanjyang Pass.

  “That’s where you and your team come in. We still need to get his holiness out, but we need to confuse, delay, and even defeat the Chinese if we can. I intend to give you a freehand in that regard. We will consult of course. But far be it from me to tell a green beret how to operate behind enemy lines. In the meantime, I will be sipping tea, and doing my best to get you the kind of support you’ll need.”

  Lee was stunned. Suddenly an already difficult mission had been expanded into a damned near impossible task. There was something about Smith-Peet though, and his unrelenting optimism, that made the plan sound plausible. “Sir, yes sir. Not to belabor the obvious, but after we dig out, we’ll need supplies. A lot more than we have. And a base.”

  “Yes, you will,” Smith-Peet agreed. “And I’ll do my best. That said, it will be necessary to make-do from time-to-time. Still, that adds to the fun, eh what?”

  “Yes, sir,” Lee replied. “Thanks for the download.”

  Smith-Peet laughed. “I was a captain once, so I can imagine what you’re thinking… But we can do this Old Fruit. Ubi enim est via a [Where there’s a will there’s a way].”

  Shortly after the briefing Lee took his turn in the tunnel. The passageway was about fifteen-feet long by that time and three people were required for each 30-minute shift. The lead person, or “digger,” was responsible for excavating snow and shoveling it back. The “tosser’s job was to pass the material back to the “catcher” who was likely to “catch” some snow in his or her face. It was hard, backbreaking work, the only reward for which was the opportunity to stay warm.

  The only people who weren’t required to participate in the digging process were Ishya and Binsa. They had responsibility for keeping Bhadrapala warm, which they did by holding the infant next to their bodies under multiple layers of clothes, and walking about. Diaper changes were carried out with the efficiency and speed of NASCAR pit crews.

  And so it went until the tunnel was about 32-feet long, and Lance Corporal Mahto broke through the snow. He uttered a shout. “We’re through!”

  “Hold it right there!” Smith-Peet replied. “The last thing we want to do is go out and blunder about. Especially since the enemy may be checking on us from time-to-time. Let’s pack and get organized. Sergeant Cato will go forward to establish contact with the people at Trishul. I suspect they’re worried about us by now.”

  And that, as it turned out, was the case. Major Raj Gupta and the rest of them had pretty well given up on the team. “This is wonderful news,” Gupta said. “But you know the saying, ‘There’s no rest for the wicked.’ So, proceed to Outpost Charlie—and let us know when you’re in position. Over.”

  “And where,” Lee inquired, “is OP Charlie?”

  “Not far old chap, not far,” Smith-Peet replied evasively. “You wanted a base… Well, that’s where Charlie comes in.”

  Though far from satisfied with the other officer’s response Lee understood that such information was on a “need to know” basis. But what if the British officer were killed? That, in his opinion, was a serious risk.

  After waiting for darkness to fall the group left the ice cave. Fifteen minutes were spent concealing the newly created exit. Then the march began.

  A heavy snow was falling, and that was good in a way, since it would hide their footprints. Harder to see, but not impossible to see, since the Chinese had infrared sensors.

  The new snow, added to what was on the ground, made for heavy going. Every step required Lee to raise a foot high, drop it down through a six-inch accumulation of snow, and do it all over again.

  So, in spite of Smith-Peet’s assurance that Outpost Charlie was “nearby,” the rough terrain meant they had to take shelter in a cluster of trees just after sunrise, and remain there until nightfall. And a good thing too because Chinese helicopters passed over the hideout twice. Was that a coincidence? Or was the enemy checking to ensure that the dead Gweilos hadn’t been able to dig their way out? Lee believed it to be the latter.

  That made him feel better as he slid into his bivvy sack and huddled under a tree. It was impossible to post sentries without running the risk of being spotted so all the group could do was wait for nightfall.

  Smith-Peet made the rounds as the light began to fade. “Eat something hot,” he said. “And repack your gear. We’re leaving half an hour from now.”

  Lee had to give Smith-Peet credit. Though trying at times, the senior officer was quite knowledgeable when it came to small unit tactics, and was never one to sit on his ass.

  The second half of the march was no better than the first. The snow had tapered off by then, but the terrain was even steeper, and if it hadn’t been for the night vision gear the team members were wearing travel would have been impossible.

  But finally, after four hours of hard slogging, the group battled its way up off a slope and onto a narrow path. “You’re standing on a railroad track,” Smith-Peet advised the team. “So watch out for snow covered tracks. A tunnel lies up ahead. Keep your eyes peeled for the pallet of supplies that arrived yesterday. Over.”

  Cato was the radio operator so Lee assumed that he knew about the supplies, but had orders to keep the information to himself, and that was annoying.

  Still, the possibilities that both supplies and a refuge were in the offing combined to improve Lee’s morale. Only a couple of minutes had passed when Jangchup spotted the load of supplies. “There they are!” he exclaimed. “Over to the right!”

  The lama was correct. As with the previous K-MAX drop the sealed bundle had landed slightly off-target. The pallet was ten feet off the tracks and resting at the edge of a precipice. Not bad though, considering the challenge of dropping the load through driving snow onto what amounted to a narrow ledge.

  Had the air freighter been destroyed? The way the first one had? Lee assumed so, and hoped the crash had taken place a long way off, where it would serve as a distraction for the Chinese. “First things first,” Smith-Peet said, as they arrived in front of an ice encrusted door. “Once we get inside, we’ll go to work moving the supplies.”

  Lee was impressed by the size of the padlock that secured the steel door, and by the gigantic key, that had been hanging around Smith-Peet’s neck. It swayed as he pulled it up over his head.

  By that time, it was clear that a substantial amount of planning had gone into Smith-Peet’s insertion. And that was a good thing. But the armchair commandos didn’t know about Darwa, Lee mused. Did they miss anything else?

  After inserting the key into the lock Smith-Peet gave it a turn to the right. The hasp came loose and Smith-Peet removed the lo
ck. “Give it a pull,” Smith-Peet suggested.

  When Lee did so he discovered that the door was quite heavy.

  “Excellent,” Smith-Peet said, as his flashlight probed the darkness within. “Please allow me to be the first to welcome you home.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Tunnel Five, of the Nepal Railway Corporation’s K-Line

  Headlamps threw wobbling beams of light onto roughhewn walls, piles of construction materials, and rusty tracks as the group entered the tunnel. “Look!” Evers said. “A passenger car!”

  Evers was correct, and thanks to the way the track curved, Lee could see more passenger cars and a tank car up ahead. “An Indian engineer was in charge of the project to improve this section of railway,” Smith-Peet explained. “And, when Chinese troops invaded, he and his workers had to run. But they sealed the tunnel at both ends before they left.”

  “How do you know all of this?” Kwan inquired.

  “The engineer’s name is Armand Patel,” Smith-Peet replied. “Major Gupta thought his advice would be valuable so we met for lunch. And, when I raised the need for a base, Patel made mention of the tunnel. Staff Sergeant Thapa… Who’s your best man with diesel engines?”

  “Sah! That would be Sergeant Kunar.”

  “Have him hop onto that flatcar,” Smith-Peet said. “He should find a diesel generator there. Let’s see if he can fire it up. It’s hooked to an exhaust system according to Patel.”

  The generator would require a battery in order to start, and judging from what Smith-Peet said, the train cars had been sitting unattended for months. Would the engine start?

  Kunar was up on the flatcar by then, fiddling with the generator. A groan was heard, followed by a series of coughs, and a loud backfire. Kunar swore in Nepali and tried again. Lee heard the engine turn over, catch, and begin to rumble. Then the lights came on. That produced a chorus of cheers.

  Smith-Peet smiled. “And that,’ he said, pointing at the tank car, “is two-thirds full of diesel fuel… Enough to last a month at the very least.

  “Now, painful though it is, we must bring those supplies inside where they’ll be safe. Then we can rest. So, everyone other than the doctor, Ishya, and Binsa will turn to… If you have a medical problem see Captain Kwan. She’ll decide if you’re healthy enough to hump supplies or not.”

  What ensued was two-and-a-half hours of strenuous work. And Lee did his share. This load of supplies was at least twice the size of the previous “dump” near Bhimphedi. Lee estimated that the team was moving something like 6,000 pounds of food, ammo, and weapons into the tunnel. It was hard work.

  Finally, once everything, including the pallet had been brought inside, brooms were used to sweep the footprints away. Then it was time to close the metal door and lock it. Lee wanted to post sentries and said as much. “Don’t worry,” Smith-Peet assured him. “We will. But only after a careful look around. Sentries could protect us, but they might give us away too. Some carefully camouflaged outposts may be the answer.”

  Maybe Smith-Peet was correct, and maybe he wasn’t. But, so long as Smith-Peet continued to be reasonably competent, Lee was happy to escape 24/7 responsibility for the team and its safety. They were safe for the moment and that felt good.

  East of Kathmandu, Nepal

  The 2014 Royal Enfield C5 “Desert Storm” motorcycle was a direct descendent of the bikes produced by India’s Royal Enfield company since the ‘50s. The odometer read 10,112. But Tong didn’t believe it, nor did he care. The C5 had been sitting in a corner of the building that housed the Thunder God Commando’s motor pool, and with help from a mechanic, Tong had been able to bring the museum piece back to life.

  And after receiving orders to find fellow assassin Ji Wu, Tong decided to ride the motorcycle, rather than use a utility vehicle. That was a good decision. Because while eastbound traffic would have slowed a 4 X 4 to a crawl, and forced it to stop while “Big Push” traffic traveled west, the C5 could maintain a steady 20 to 30 miles-per-hour by weaving in and out.

  The downside was the never-ending slush, the spray thrown by passing trucks, and the endless security checks. No one expected an officer to be riding a motorcycle which meant Tong had to show his identity card every ten miles or so.

  But miserable as though conditions were Tong loved to ride. And more than that to ride by himself, unencumbered by subordinates, or Major Wang’s latest whim.

  He had a mission however… And a mysterious one at that. During Tong’s initial meeting with Wang, the PLA officer said that team member Ji Wu had been able to successfully cross into Nepal, and was presumably safe in Beijing.

  But that, as it turned out, wasn’t the case. According to the briefing document sent to Tong by Madam Zang at MSS headquarters, Wu had made it to Kathmandu, where she stayed at an MSS safe house for three days. Then the agent left for Beijing and hadn’t been seen or heard from since.

  The assumptions were that Wu had been murdered or killed in a traffic accident. If so, Wu’s death wouldn’t be reported correctly because of the fake ID she was carrying.

  So, for the sake of her family, and the MSS bureaucracy, Tong had been ordered to investigate and to file a report. It was a shit job really, or would have been except for one thing, and that was the fact that Tong liked Wu. Not in a boy-girl kind of way… But as a person. And a member of his team.

  That in spite of the fact that Wu was something of an enigma. Gay? Maybe. Withdrawn? Definitely. And otherworldly too. All of which made her interesting.

  After spending a night at the MSS safe house, and questioning its staff, Tong continued east. His goal was the small town Nyalam. The people in Kathmandu said Wu was interested in Nyalam, although none of them could say why.

  And since Nyalam was the county seat, that’s where the local records would be stored. If Wu had been murdered nearby, or died in accident, then the name on her fake ID would appear on a report. A report that Tong would copy and send to Zang.

  The road from Kathmandu east was narrow, and in spite of the PLA’s efforts to prevent them, still subject to landslides. Dozens of tight turns slowed westbound traffic to a crawl. And as Tong rounded a curve, he saw an amazing sight. A column of hundreds, no thousands, of people was trudging uphill. PLA troops? No. The raggedly dressed people were civilians. Some carried government issue packs, others had children strapped to their backs, and there were stretchers too.

  Tong saw a Toyota Land Cruiser up ahead. It had a camo paint job and PLA markings. A noncom stood next to it watching the column through binoculars. Tong pulled over, got off the bike, and left his helmet on the seat. His PLA ID was ready as he approached the sergeant. “Good morning. I’m Captain Tong.”

  The sergeant had never seen an officer ride a motorcycle. So, he was understandably surprised, and spent the better part of a minute examining the ID card. Then, convinced of its authenticity, he popped a salute. “Sergeant Zhao, sir. How can I help you?”

  There was no conversation as the civilians trudged by. Just the rasp of heavy breathing, the wail of a baby, and the percussive thud as their left feet came down in unison. The marchers were looking down at their poorly shod feet. “Who are they?” Tong inquired. “Refugees?”

  “No,” the sergeant replied. “They’re Uyghurs.”

  Tong knew the Uyghurs were a minority Turkic group, native to the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region of the People’s Republic of China. The problem, from an official perspective, was that the 11-million Uyghurs were Muslims. And the government feared that the Muslims had secret ties to the Sunni countries that were part of the Axis.

  The MSS as well as other government agencies kept a close eye on the Uyghurs, forced them to surrender DNA samples, and to learn Mandarin. All of which made sense to Tong. But why were the Uyghurs being forced to march up through the Himalayas?

  Tong put the question to the sergeant. “The push is on sir, and we need lots of labor,” the noncom replied. “Roads need to be repaired, bridges have to be restored, and
fortifications must be built. And by having the Uyghur volunteers work on such projects more of our soldiers are free to fight.”

  The last sentence sounded like something the noncom had been taught by one of the PLA’s political commissars. It made sense though, even if the use of the word “volunteers” was a stretch. Tong thanked the sergeant, put his helmet on, and started the bike. He would need gas soon--and made a note to find some.

  Tong was traveling downhill as the Uyghurs trudged upwards. Snow-dusted PLA soldiers marched with them, one man to a hundred, their rifles slung. But the “volunteers” knew that if they killed the guards jet fighters would sweep in to slaughter them. Plus, there was no place to escape to.

  After negotiating a series of curves, Tong finally came to the column’s end. Six trucks and an ambulance brought up the rear. Then Tong had the road to himself.

  And a beautiful thing it was. A wide-open expanse of largely treeless countryside appeared before him. Gray clouds hung low on the horizon; a half-frozen river flowed between two rounded foothills. A huge billboard bearing a likeness of Lau, the man westerners called the “president,” stood next to the “Friendship Highway.”

  Although Lau was actually the general secretary of the Central Committee of the Chinese Communist Party, the chairman of the Central Military Commission, and the head of the People’s Republic or China. And it was he, more than any other person, who was responsible for the war. Lau’s hand was raised as if to wave as Tong rode by. Then the lead vehicle in a west bound convoy appeared and the moment was over.

  Tong was nearly out of gas by the time he passed through a gorge, and by a prayer flag festooned sign announcing the town of Nyalam. The road ran next to the river for a while; blocky buildings were stacked on a steep hillside, and brightly colored vehicles moved in to surround him.

  Tong followed a truck into the downtown area. The street was narrow, with garish stores lining both sides of it, and lines of flags crisscrossing each other overhead.

  There was a gas station at the north end of town. And, thanks to his ID card, Tong was allowed to fill the bike’s tank. He took the opportunity to ask the attendant for directions to the municipal building.