Red Dragon (Winds of War Book 3)

by William Dietz

  And, after a number of such detours, they faced another. Two men were on watch. The rest of the group were eating lunch. “Here’s the situation,” Smith-Peet said, as he spread his map out on the ground. “The NRO says the Chinese have what looks like a checkpoint here.”

  The tip of Smith-Peet’s grubby index finger was resting on a point where two trails converged. They were little more than tiny dashes that wandered all over the place before finally coming together. “So that’s a problem,” the officer added.

  “The alternative is to follow this trail, which will allow us to circumvent the checkpoint, but will add something like five miles to our trip. Five hard miles I might add. So, we have a decision to make.”

  “What’s your recommendation?” Jangchup inquired.

  “I would take the shorter route, kill the Chinese, and continue on my way,” Smith-Peet replied “But that would involve additional risk for his holiness.”

  “That’s true,” Kwan agreed. “But five miles over difficult terrain equates to another full day of travel. And we need to reach the border as quickly as we can. What if the Chinese launch an attack that pushes our people 20 miles back? Then we would face another 20 miles of dangerous territory to cross.”

  Lee was impressed by the extent to which Kwan had completed the metamorphosis from a civilian in a uniform, to an experienced officer, operating behind enemy lines. “I agree with Wendy,” Lee said. “The extra day could be critical.”

  Smith-Peet scanned their faces. “Thanks for the input. We’ll take the shorter route. Finish your lunches. We will depart in fifteen minutes.”

  The group was on half-rations by then. Lee was sharing an MRE with Thapa. Maybe they would capture some food from the Chinese. That would help, assuming any of them could get the tasteless crap down.

  They spent the rest of the day closing the distance with the Chinese checkpoint. And, by the time the sun started to set, they were only two miles away. Smith-Peet decided that was close enough for the moment.

  Lee ate a trail bar for dinner, got into his sleeping bag, and tried to sleep. It was his responsibility to lead the attack, and try as he might Lee couldn’t stop thinking about all of the potential difficulties his team might encounter. So, when 0100 rolled around it felt good to get up and take action.

  The team consisted of himself, Evers, Pun, and Shekhawat. That left Smith-Peet, Thapa, Shrestha and Kwan to defend Ishya and the Dalai Lama.

  They wore night vision gear and were armed with suppressed pistols, kukris, and hand grenades. The only exception being Shekhawat who was carrying his scope mounted sniper rifle. The idea was to move quickly, use stealth to get close, and obliterate the enemy with hand grenades. “Don’t let the bastards get on a radio,” Smith-Peet told them. “I want to make the squad disappear without a trace.”

  Pun was on point. Lee was in the two slot, Evers was in the three slot, and Shekhawat was walking drag. With very little to carry they chose to jog rather than walk. And now, after weeks spent living at high altitudes, the Americans could keep up with the Gurkhas. A pleasant change indeed.

  In spite of the good weather the path was covered with patches of snow and ice. And because there were no efforts to maintain the trail, there were places where it was blocked by fallen trees or a washout. Pun was forced to slow down at such spots, but soon speeded up again.

  Lee was tracking their progress on his internally lit wrist Garmin. When they were a mile out, he called for a halt. “I want Shekhawat in front with the rifle. Assuming the Chinese are competent they’ll have sentries posted a quarter mile out in both directions. We need to drop the sentry at our end so we can close in on them. Any questions? No? Let’s do this.”

  Shekhawat set a much slower pace. And that was necessary if he was to spot the lookout without being seen. So, a full fifteen minutes passed before he held a hand up and motioned for the rest of them to get down.

  The trail was relatively open and straight at that point. It made the perfect place for a Chinese sentry to keep watch.

  As for Shekhawat, he was stretched out in the snow, with his rifle resting on a rotting log.

  What felt like an hour passed, but was actually no more than a minute, as the Gurkha set his shot. Then Lee heard what sounded like a cough. “Target down,” Shekhawat whispered.

  That was the signal for Lee to hurry forward, pistol in hand, and shoot the sentry again. The pistol made a gentle clacking sound.

  “Watch for tripwires,” Lee cautioned, as he followed the trail. They were close, very close, when… “Teng… Is that you?” a voice said from the left.

  Lee turned just in time to see a soldier crouched next to the trail. Then he shot him. Twice. “The poor bastard was taking a dump,” Evers whispered.

  Lee knew they were close. And, as the path rounded a curve, he spotted tents up ahead. There were three of them--one of which glowed. “Grenades,” Lee whispered. “On the tents. One, two, three.”

  Four grenades sailed through the air, landed in among the tents, and exploded in quick succession. Then it was time to dash forward shooting anything that moved. That included a man trying to drag his shattered legs towards some bushes, the sentry who arrived from the west, and the tree that resembled a man. Soon it was over.

  Lee turned to Evers. “Call the colonel,” Lee said. “Ask him to dispose of the first body on the way over. We’ll take care of things here.”

  The next couple of hours were spent dumping corpses and equipment into a nearby ravine and using loose rocks to cover all. Tree branches were used to sweep the area clean of blood.

  “The Chinese will know something happened to the patrol when they fail to report in,” Smith-Peet predicted. “But what? The more time they spend trying to answer that question the better. Let’s get a move on.”

  By walking all night, the group was able to put three miles between themselves and the ravine where the bodies had been disposed of. So, they were tired. Too tired to proceed, even though they preferred to hike during the day. “We’ll rest until noon,” Smith-Peet told them. “And see how far we can get before nightfall.”

  The group managed to log another couple of miles before the light started to fade. Judging from the amount of trash lying around, the camping spot was a popular rest stop. It was empty at the moment however, which was just as well.

  They could hear the almost non-stop rumble of artillery by then. That meant the combat zone was relatively close and the group would have to stop and hide before long. This, as it turned out, was a problem that their NRO minders had been working on.

  Binsa was breastfeeding the baby, and the rest of them were eating bits and pieces of MREs, as Smith-Peet delivered his report. “I just got off the radio with Major Raj. The NRO people recommend we head west to a sprawling junkyard which, based on recent imagery, is largely unoccupied. There’s a lot of cover and, if the opportunity presents itself, a location where a Blackhawk could land.”

  “That’s great,” Lee said. “But how about supplies?”

  “They understand the situation,” Smith-Peet replied. “And they’re working on it.”

  “Oh goody,” Evers said sotto voice. “No problem then.” Lee smiled and, if Smith-Peet heard the comment, he chose to ignore it.

  Once the meagre lunch was over the hike resumed. In the past it had been common to walk for an entire day without running into other people.

  Now, as they neared the border, foot traffic had increased. A steady stream of people was leaving the war zone for safer locations in the east.

  Such encounters were dangerous because Evers was African American, and Smith-Peet white, making both more noticeable. So, the two men kept the hoods on their parkas up, and Evers wore a ski mask, plus gloves. But at lower elevations that kind of attire was unusual and could be a problem in and of itself.

  As the trek continued, terraced farms began to appear, the trail broadened into a two-way path, and eventually evolved into a dirt road. That was when they passed through a
tiny village. So tiny that there wasn’t any store.

  One night was spent in a tumble-down building of uncertain purpose. The next under a bridge, where the overarching span would protect them from aerial surveillance, and the steadily falling rain.

  The following morning, they rose knowing that their destination was only two miles away. The fighting was closer by then. So much so that the occasional artillery shell rumbled overhead, Chinese vehicles passed them on the way to the front, and most houses were abandoned. Lee’s greatest fear was that a Chinese officer or noncom would wonder why a group of civilians was marching toward the fighting instead of away from it. And because Smith-Peet shared that concern he led them off the road and onto the old footpath that paralleled it.

  Each time the group passed what appeared to be a deserted home Thapa sent a soldier in to look for food. Pun scored a cylinder of goat cheese, and Cato came across a string of dried blood sausages. But such finds were rare because most kitchens had been stripped clean.

  Shrestha was scouting ahead and the first one to spot the salvage yard. “It’s directly in front of me,” the Gurkha said. “And since I’m on a rise, I can see into it and wow! There are hundreds of junked cars, piles of scrap metal, and other stuff I can’t identify. A three-story tower is located at the middle of the mess, and it’s topped by what looks like the wheelhouse from a ship. There’s a cyclone fence surrounding the compound and it’s topped with coils of barbed wire. Over.”

  “Roger that,” Smith-Peet replied. “Hold your position. I’m going to send Pun forward. I want the two of you to find the entrance, go in, and locate the owner. Assuming he’s there. Tell him we’re smugglers waiting to consummate a deal and offer to pay rent. Over.”

  “And if he refuses? Over.”

  There was a moment of silence while Smith-Peet paused to consider his options. Finally, he spoke. “Then kill him. Over.”

  “Roger that,” Shrestha replied. “Over and out.”

  Lee had witnessed the interchange, and felt grateful that he hadn’t been required to make the call.

  After Pun met up with Shrestha the two men jogged forward. Then, with the fence on their left, they followed to a double gate. It was locked and posted. “Keep out!” the sign read. “Thieves will be shot.” A plastic skull sat atop one of the fence poles and stared into the distance.

  “So, what now?” Shrestha wanted to know.

  “Now it’s time for you to climb over the fence,” Pun replied. “Then, assuming you survive, I’ll follow.”

  “Fuck that,” Shrestha replied. “We’ll go over the top at the same time. Then, when the owner shoots you, I’ll be there to apply first aid.”

  Pun grinned. “You’re on. Assuming you can haul that big butt up over the top.”

  Shrestha made a leap for the fence, and was already scrambling toward the top, as Pun followed. Shrestha landed first and hurried to take cover behind a rusty cement mixer. Pun joined him there. A distant bang was followed by a loud clang, signaling a gunshot. Pun frowned. “So, this asshole is serious.”

  “That’s the way it seems,” Shrestha agreed. “Let’s see if we can get close enough to speak with him.”

  The next fifteen minutes were spent sprinting from one piece of cover to the next as the man they assumed to be the owner fired at them from the central tower. Pun heard a bullet spang off steel as he dashed out from behind an ancient grader, to cross a muddy access road, and hide behind a rusty boiler.

  Shrestha meanwhile was pursing an entirely different route which served to divide the rifleman’s fire. Pun waited for the sound of the next shot and ran. After noting the pauses that followed each group of 10 shots, the Gurkha concluded that the owner was using a retro Lee-Enfield rifle, a very common weapon during the colonial era.

  If so, his opponent would have to load the .303’s magazine from the top, one cartridge at a time unless he had preloaded 5-round clips--which seemed unlikely given how slow he was. That meant Pun could use the next couple of minutes to close with the tower.

  A zigzag course took him between giant cable reels, a dozer blade, and the fuselage of a plane to a point directly below the boat cabin up top. Shrestha arrived seconds later. “What now?” the Gurkha demanded.

  “You always ask that.”

  “So? What’s the answer?”

  “Climb those stairs and say hello.”

  “Bullshit. You climb the stairs and say hello.”

  “You’re hopeless,” Pun said, as he tilted his head back. “Hey! You in the tower! Stop shooting at us. We’re customers. Potential customers anyway.”

  The reply came via loudspeakers located on poles throughout the sprawling yard. “What kind of customers?”

  “The kind with money,” Pun answered. “We don’t want to steal anything. We need a place to camp while we complete a certain business deal. We’ll pay rent.”

  “How much?”

  “How much do you want?”

  “A hundred a day.”

  “That’s absurd. “Twenty-five a day.”

  “Fifty.”

  “Okay, fifty with water. I assume there is some.”

  A pause followed. “Okay,” the man said finally. “With water. I want two hundred as a down payment. If you decide to leave before four days are up, I will keep the difference.”

  “Done,” Pun said, “with the understanding that our family includes 13 people counting the little one.”

  “That’s too many,” the owner objected. “The deal is off.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Pun replied. “I guess we’ll have to kill you.” Pun pointed his weapon up at the boat cabin and fired three shots. The floor was made out of plywood and the bullets went straight through.

  “Stop!” the owner shouted. “I was joking… The deal is on.”

  “Excellent,” Pun said. “I’m coming up.”

  Three flights of rickety stairs led up to the spacious boat cabin. A middle-aged man with thick black hair, heavy eyebrows, and an oversized nose was waiting with rifle leveled. “My rifle is bigger than your rifle,” Pun observed. “What’s your name?”

  “Sajit Bhatt,” the man replied, as he lowered the Enfield.

  “Well, Mr. Bhatt, let’s do some business. Here’s the two hundred we agreed on.” Pun held some Chinese currency up for the businessman to see.

  Bhatt licked his lips. He was dressed in an expensive tracksuit and slip-on sandals. The boat cabin was furnished with a wooden steering wheel, a captain’s chair from which Bhatt could survey his kingdom, and a rumpled bed. A microphone sat on a desk along with a laptop, piles of paperwork, and a jade elephant. “Three-hundred,” Bhatt said. “You must pay me three-hundred.”

  Shrestha arrived right then. “Mr. Bhatt refuses to honor our agreement,” Pun said. “Go ahead and shoot him.”

  “No, no,” Bhatt objected, as he backed away. “Two-hundred. I meant two-hundred.”

  “And here it is,” Pun said, as he placed the cash next to the computer. “Write a receipt.”

  As Bhatt wrote the receipt Pun peppered him with questions. “It must take a lot of people to run a salvage yard like this. Where are they?”

  “They ran when the shooting started,” Bhatt complained. “They’re Dalits. Untouchables. And they’ll be sorry. Who, other than I, would employ such scum?”

  Pun could imagine the many ways in which a merchant like Bhatt could, and would, take advantage of Nepal’s lowest ranking caste. The Gurkha hated the caste system and felt nothing but contempt for the people who supported it. “And the Chinese?” Pun inquired. “Do they bother you?”

  “No,” Bhatt said, as he offered the receipt. “They came, took a look around, and left.”

  That made sense to Pun. There was nothing in the junkyard the PLA would want. And if Bhatt wanted to stay and guard his rusty wealth that was fine with them.

  “We’ll need a key to the front gate,” Shrestha put in. “And yes, we’ll lock it behind us.”

  “Or we can cu
t the lock off,” Pun said. “It’s up to you.”

  Bhatt grumbled under his breath as he opened a drawer, removed a key, and held it up. “I need deposit for the key.”

  “This is getting old,” Pun said, as he snatched the key. “Have a nice afternoon Mr. Bhatt. And if you want to live a long life keep our presence to yourself.”

  And with that the Gurkhas left.

  Pun and Shrestha were waiting by the gate when the rest of the group arrived. Pun had a big grin on his face and Lee could tell that the Gurkha was enjoying himself. “Welcome home, sir… I trust your tetanus shots are up to date?”

  Lee laughed. “This place looks like Doctor Kwan’s worst nightmare. Tell me about the owner.”

  After getting the rundown Lee nodded. “Well done, Private… Let’s keep a close eye on Mr. Bhatt.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pun replied. “And you can be sure that he’ll be keeping a close eye on us as well.”

  “How about some sort of shelter?” Lee inquired.

  “I saw two semi-trailers parked side-by-side,” Shrestha said. “They’re full of junk, but we can clean them out.”

  “Let’s grab the colonel and check it out,” Lee replied.

  Smith-Peet had just completed a conversation with Major Raj at Trishul. “I told them where we are,” the marine said, “and requested a supply drop. The major promised to get back to me no later than tomorrow morning.”

  “Good,” Lee responded. “I suggest that we get everyone inside the wire and declare a break. We need shelter and Shrestha spotted what may be a good option.”

  “What I don’t know is how close the trailers are to a water supply,” the Gurkha added.

  “Well, let’s find out,” Smith-Peet said. “Please lead the way.”

  A meandering path led them to the trailers. One was packed floor to ceiling with bed springs. The other was filled with beat-up office furniture. “We could clear them out,” Smith-Peet declared. “Let’s find some the water.”