Red Dragon (Winds of War Book 3)

by William Dietz

  Tong arrived just prior to closing. Though none too happy about the need to deal with a late comer, the desk clerk didn’t dare say no to a PLA officer, and sent Tong down a hall to the bureau of records.

  If the second clerk was unhappy about having to work late, she managed to conceal it.

  The two of them spent half an hour going through the county’s records which, to Tong’s surprise, were not only computerized, but well organized.

  But Wu’s cover name was nowhere to be found. Not among those who had been murdered, killed in accidents, or arrested for crimes.

  Finally, after thanking the clerk, Tong gave up. If Wu had been killed in Nyalam there was no record of it. He returned to the bike, went looking for a place to stay, and booked a room in small hotel.

  After a hearty meal at the restaurant on the other side of the street, Tong returned to his sparsely furnished room, and took a tepid shower. The bed was a good deal more comfortable than his cot in the Sim Bhanjyang Pass, and Tong assumed that sleep would come quickly. It didn’t. His thoughts were on Wu. What had become of her? Were her remains buried in a shallow grave? No, Tong decided. Wu was, or is, a trained assassin. And well-armed. Any idiot who tried to kill her would take two to the head.

  So, what does that mean? It means, he decided, that the people in Beijing are wrong. Wu’s missing because she wants to be missing. And thanks to the training they gave her, Ji knows how to drop out of sight. But why?

  As a team leader, one of Tong’s tasks was to constantly monitor his people for signs of unhappiness or stress. And, while all of them had been on edge prior to assassinating the Dalai Lama, there had been no indication that Wu was especially disturbed.

  Of course, there wouldn’t be, Tong mused, since Ji is very good at concealing her emotions. Better than I am. So, where does that leave me?

  Tong’s mind began to drift after that. Sleep pulled him down. He awoke to the sound of a siren, looked at his watch, and saw that it was 0220. Time to take a pee.

  And that’s where Tong was, in the tiny bathroom taking a pee, when he remembered the meeting with Wu. The one in Beijing. It had taken place at an orphanage. The one Ji spent most of her free time at. It was a long, low building designed by a bureaucrat to please other bureaucrats. Ji had been waiting out front. The assassin was so small, so seemingly fragile, that she could have been mistaken for one of the school girls.

  The playground bench was hard. Ji listened as Tong told her about the mission. Her eyes had widened. “The Dali Lama?”

  The answer had been “Yes.” And that, Tong remembered, was when he noticed the uncertainty. Nothing overt. Nothing to trigger concern. But, in retrospect, what could have been a sign. An indicator he had chosen to ignore.

  And now, as Tong returned to the bedroom, that seemed like a mistake. Ji had performed well though, and done her part to kill the Dalai Lama, before going her own way. To Nyalam. Not because of the town’s beauty. That was for sure. So why?

  A possible answer struck like a lightning bolt out of the blue. Tong went to the phone and dialed the front desk. A woman answered. “Yes? How can I help you?”

  “Are there any orphanages in Nyalam?”

  “No, sir. Not that I’m aware of.”

  Tong was disappointed. Very disappointed. His spirits fell. “All right, thank you.”

  “The nuns take in some orphans though,” the woman added.

  A nunnery! A nunnery that cared for orphans. That, Tong felt sure, was where Ji could be found. He went back to bed. Sleep came quickly. And when morning came Tong felt a sense of eagerness as he shaved, showered, and got dressed.

  Tong ate breakfast at the same restaurant where’d he’d had dinner the night before. After getting directions from the proprietor Tong returned to the hotel. The bike was chained to a metal fence.

  A twenty-minute ride took him north, off onto a side road, and up a curving drive. Thousands upon thousands of prayer flags had been planted on the surrounding slopes. Some were faded, as if they’d been in place for years, while others looked new. All of them were flapping in the breeze. Beyond the flags, on the very top of the hill, a cluster of buildings waited. And that Tong knew was the nunnery.

  A bell sounded as Tong pulled up in front of the largest structure and killed the motor. Nuns, their hair cut short and dressed in scarlet robes, streamed past him. Tong scanned their faces. Was Ji among them? No. But she might be elsewhere.

  Tong was wearing weatherproof overalls which he removed to reveal his PLA uniform. It was all the authority he would need. After asking one of the nuns where he could find the abbess he was directed to the main door. “Go straight down the hall. That’s where you will find Abbess Yangtso’s office.”

  The pungent odor of incense filled Tong’s nostrils as he entered the building and made his way down the hallway. Framed prints graced both walls. Go Lotsawa Zhonnu Pal, Emo Rinpoche, and Terdag Lingpa Gyurme Dorje stared at Tong as he passed them.

  The door to the office was open, and an older nun was visible behind a huge desk, the surface of which was covered with piles of papers, framed photographs, and knickknacks. A frown appeared as she looked up. “Can I help you?”

  “Abbess Yangtso?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Captain Tong. I am looking for this woman.” The print Tong gave to the abbess was straight out of MSS files and, like all such photos, looked flat and washed out.

  Yangtso stared at it. Then she looked up. “And why,” the abbess demanded, “do you want to see her?”

  She’s here! Wu is here, Tong concluded. “She’s a friend,” Tong said. “We used to work together. And, since I was passing through, I thought I’d say hello.”

  The abbess stared at him. She had steel gray hair, a thin face, and glasses that were perched on the end of her nose. “Please understand that Li Ang may, or may not wish to see you. Many of the women who choose this life do so to escape the outside world.”

  “I understand,” Tong said. Li Ang, he thought. That’s the name she’s using.

  A brass bell was hidden among the objects on Yangtso’s desk. She rang it and a nun appeared seconds later. “Find Li Ang,” the abbess said. “Tell her that Captain Tong is here to see her.” The nun hurried away.

  “You can wait outside,” the abbess said. “I have work to do.”

  Tong didn’t enjoy being in the army, but had grown fond of the respect generated by his rank, and didn’t like the manner in which he’d been dismissed. But since Tong couldn’t come up with a good way to put Yangtso in her place all he could do was obey.

  And that’s where he was, seated on an uncomfortable chair, when the nun returned. “Li Ang will see you,” the young woman said earnestly. “Please follow me.”

  Tong followed the nun through a maze of passageways to what a placard proclaimed to be the Zǎoshang de fángjiāne, or morning room. The nun bowed and waved Tong in.

  The morning room’s name stemmed from the window set into the east wall. Like the encroaching winter, the midmorning light was harsh, and without warmth.

  It lit one side of Ji Wu’s face but left the other in darkness. She stood with her back to the stone wall, hands hidden in the sleeves of her scarlet robe, like a burial statue. There was fear in her eyes. “You found me.”

  “Yes,” Tong replied. “I did. Why Ji? Why come here?”

  “We killed a good man,” Wu replied. “Not a traitor, not a thief, a good man. It tortured me. So, I came here to find peace and to help the children.”

  “Come with me,” Tong said. “You aren’t the first. The department will help you.”

  Wu’s laughter was hard and brittle. “Help me to do what? Kill people? No, I think not. Leave me. Tell them a lie.”

  “I can’t,” Tong told her. “I found you… That means others could too. And if they do what will happen to me?”

  Wu’s voice was little more than a whisper. “They’ll kill you.”

  “Yes,” Tong said. “Come with me.” />
  Wu pulled the Russian 9x19mm Parabellum Stechkin pistol out of her left sleeve. It was the same weapon Wu had used during the assassination. Tong’s handgun was in a holster at his side. Not that it made any difference, since Wu’s weapon was pointed up, under her chin.

  “Please,” Tong said. “Don’t do it.”

  “Peace,” Wu said. “I need to find peace.”

  The report was extremely loud within the confines of the morning room. Blood splashed the ceiling. Wu’s body fell gently to the floor. Tong bowed his head and swore.

  Then after a deep sigh Tong drew a knife and knelt next to the body. Like the woman herself Wu’s left ear was small and delicate. Tong cut it off. Zang would want DNA, as would the People’s Republic of China, so the state could close the agent’s file.

  Wu’s blood was pooled on the floor. Shi (wet) Tong thought, not gan (dry). Tears flowed down his cheeks. An Ba, Han Hoi, and Ji Wu. All dead.

  Nuns flooded into the room. One screamed. The war, held in abeyance until then, had found them.

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

  It was so cold in the tunnel that Lee could see as his breath. Ishya, Binsa, Bhadrapala and Jangchup were enjoying the relative warmth available inside Passenger Car 3. But the rest of the group was gathered around a rectangular screen that sat atop a tripod.

  “This,” Smith-Peet told them with the air of someone making an important announcement, “is a PGSR-31 Beagle. ‘PGSR’ stands for Portable Ground Surveillance Radar. And we have 20 units to work with.

  “Each Beagle is man-portable, can be set up in 10 minutes, and used to detect people and vehicles at ranges varying from 4- to 14-miles away.

  “The PGSRs use the NATO I/J Band, can operate down to minus 25-degrees Fahrenheit, and are self-locating. That means each unit can find its location via GPS and upload that information via satellite. That will enable the tech heads in India to monitor Chinese troop movements and convoys while sitting at their desks and sipping tea.

  “We however, are far less fortunate. It will be our job to plant these rascals in likely spots, and feed them batteries, which they normally consume every 12 hours.

  “We are equipped with custom battery packs that last twice that long. Still, imagine the amount of work required to reload the batteries on 20 Beagles every 2 days. It won’t be easy. And making the task all the more difficult will be the weather, the risk of being spotted, and the need to service the units without creating observable trails.

  “But, thanks to artic camo, and the fact that each PGSR screen is only 27 X 18 inches, the units will be very difficult to spot. Captain Lee will be in charge of placing the Beagles, and supplying them with fresh batteries. Captain Lee?”

  Lee had been briefed the day before. The green beret had been quick to understand how important a network of PGSRs could be, especially during a time when the Chinese were pushing men and supplies into Nepal, preparatory to an attack on India.

  The National Reconnaissance Office in Washington D.C. was responsible for satellite intelligence worldwide, but could only see so much, especially in an area blanketed by clouds. So, a network of localized radars would help the analysts fill in the blanks and build a complete picture of what was coming through Nepal.

  Lee went forward to stand next to the Beagle. “As the colonel indicated, we have 20 PGSRs to work with. Two will be used to protect this position. They will be monitored by Sergeant Cato and a person he will train. Two Beagles will be kept in reserve.

  “That leaves 16 units which we will have to position and service. Three 2-man teams will be announced later today. Each team will have responsibility for 5 or 6 Beagles. However,” Lee added, as he paused to scan their faces. “That isn’t all.

  “It’s my expectation that the teams will create well-concealed shelters in close proximity to their PGSRs, and go out prepared to stay 2 nights at a time. The purpose being to conserve energy, and to avoid cutting a trail. The missions will be staggered so that no more than 2 teams will be absent at any one time.

  “Then, when the Beagle Boys return, they will rotate into the emergency response team while they rest up.” The reference to the Donald Duck related characters drew chuckles from those in the know.

  “And,” Lee added, “I think it’s safe to say that some teams will have eyes on the enemy every once in a while, creating opportunities to collect observational Intel, which you will submit in report form. Assuming that some of you know how to write.”

  That produced a chorus of obscenities. Lee grinned. “Are there any questions? No? Then get some sleep. You’re going to need it.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

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

  The best time to place the PGSRs was the worst time to go outside. And that was during the hours of darkness when the temperature dropped into the low teens. So Lee was wearing four layers of clothing as he knelt next to the 60-pound pack and tightened a strap.

  The load included food, two sleeping bags, a Jetboil and the military version of a Big Sky Chinook four-season tent which, if all went well, would provide the two-man team with a relatively warm place to sleep.

  Corporal Rama Shekhawat, Lee’s partner, was a few feet away. His job was to carry the first PGSR which, thanks to a custom backpack system, was ready to go. It weighed about 60 pounds largely due to the need to carry two-battery packs.

  The fact that both men would have to carry rifles, pistols, and extra ammo was going to push the total load up past 70 pounds. And Lee knew the altitude would make an already difficult task that much worse. Lee had the pack on his back, and was tweaking his night vision gear, when Kwan appeared.

  There hadn’t been any opportunities to talk to her, but Lee was always aware of Kwan’s presence when she was around, and found it difficult to keep his eyes off her. She was holding a mug. “Here,” Kwan said. “One for the road.”

  Lee accepted the mug and took a sip. The chocolate was piping hot, and felt good going down. “Thank you.”

  Kwan’s eyes were locked with his. “Be careful Jon.”

  “I will,” Lee promised. “How’s the baby?”

  “He’s spoiled,” Kwan replied. “But otherwise fine.”

  An awkward silence ensued as Lee saw Shekhawat depart from the corner of his eye. “Listen Wendy, I think you should know that…”

  Kwan smiled and shook her head. “Not now, Jon. But later. If we survive.” Then she turned and walked away.

  Lee felt a sense of warmth suffuse his body, and knew that the sensation stemmed from something other than the hot chocolate. He finished the drink and placed the mug on a rock.

  Then it was time to follow Shekhawat to the door. Staff Sergeant Thapa was there to see them off. There were no goodbyes. “Remember,” the noncom said. “You’re Beagle-One, and this is the Dog-House.”

  Lee smiled. “Got it. We’ll be in touch.”

  Thapa pulled the door open and Lee felt a wall of cold air push in. Shekhawat left without looking back. Lee followed. Everything, even the snow, was green, as seen through his night vision device. The route would take them up the west side of a valley to a ridge with a wide open view of Simbhanjyang Pass.

  And the fact that the railroad tunnel was only miles away was, in retrospect, no coincidence. In retrospect it was clear that all of Smith-Peet’s seemingly erratic actions had been part of a well thought out plan.

  The snow was about a foot deep. But, thanks to the backcountry style snowshoes they wore, the men were able to stay on top of the white stuff. And that was a blessing at 8,000 feet with a heavy pack on Lee’s back.

  The green beret faced another challenge as well… And that was keeping up with Shekhawat who, like the rest of the Gurkhas, seemed to have superhuman strength.

  The trail wasn’t a trail so much as the possibility of a trail. There weren’t any animals in that area--and no reason for the locals to go there. That made for slow going, but offered so
me security as well, since the two-man team was unlikely to encounter a Chinese patrol.

  It took four lung-searing hours to reach Checkpoint Alpha. The spot was high on a ridge, overlooking the pass, and a section of the Tribhuvan Highway. Lee could see a scattering of lights which seemed to blink on and off thanks to the gently falling snow.

  The ensuing process felt anticlimactic. Putting the Beagle together was supposed to be easy, and it was since both men had hours of practice. Then it was a simple matter to press what amounted to the “on” button before calling in. “Beagle-One to Dog-House. Over.”

  “I read you five-by-five,” Cato replied. “Over.”

  “Signal check. Over.”

  “It’s green. Over.”

  “Roger that, over and out.”

  The conversation was fully encrypted and lasted for 10 seconds. That made the chance that the Chinese would intercept and decode the communication very close to zero.

  The enemy could detect the fact that someone was using a radio however… And that was likely to result in more surveillance.

  The next task was to find a place to erect the tent and hide out. Not on the ridge of course. Even an E-1 knows better than to break the skyline. But on the south side of it where there was no line-of-sight from the pass or highway.

  So Lee and Shekhawat retraced their steps and hurried over the knife-like ridge. Once they were 50-feet down slope they began to look around. It was Shekhawat who spotted the copse of evergreens and the flat spot within.

  There were rocks to clear however which involved hard work. Then it was time to put the tent up. Lee found the simple process challenging and knew he was running on empty. His fingers felt clumsy and it was difficult to focus his mind.

  Shekhawat seemed to have no difficulty at all, and wound up doing most of the work. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, but was actually no more than ten minutes, the tent was up. It was relatively small. Just large enough for two people plus some gear. Watches, Lee thought dully. I should set watches.