Red Dragon (Winds of War Book 3)

by William Dietz

  Tong knelt next to Shin’s body. He was sorry. Somewhere along the way he’d come to regard Shin with the same level of affection he felt for agents Ji Wu, Han Hoi, and yes, An Ba. Crazy though the bastard had been. Tong stood. Don’t worry, sergeant, he thought. We’ll kill them. All of them.

  And with that Tong led his men forward across the smoking ditch and into the heart of the yard. “Spread out! Show no mercy! Kill them all!”

  Smith-Peet, Kwan, Cato and Pun had been forced to pull back to what they called “steel mountain.” It was located near the center of the yard, and consisted of haphazardly piled scrap metal, all heaped on top of the burned-out dump truck that lay on its side at the mountain’s core.

  Thanks to the fact that no effort had been made to pack the salvage tight it was possible to crawl through a maze of unintended passageways to the dump truck where there was enough room to stand and fire out through gaps. It was to be their final retreat, the place where they would die. Smith-Peet, Cato and Kwan were waiting when Lee, Evers, and Shekhawat crawled into the pile of metal. They wore headlamps which combined to light the area around them. “Where’s Thapa?”

  “Right here,” the Gurkha replied, as he emerged from the tunnel.

  “Good,” Smith-Peet said. “Take your positions. Aimed fire only. We don’t have a lot of ammo.”

  “They’re hiding inside the scrap pile!” Lieutenant Rong yelled. “Let’s go in and get them!”

  Officers were supposed to lead their men from the front. That’s what Rong had been taught—and that’s what he did. Three bullets hit him before he could get close enough to enter the scrap pile. After seeing Rong killed, his soldiers took cover and began to return fire.

  Tong didn’t blame them and knew he needed to turn the tables on the defenders somehow. A crane was located next to the scrap pile. And, if he could start it, the machine might solve their problem.

  Tong ran from point-to-point using cover whenever he could find some. Then it was a matter of climbing up onto a gigantic tread, and from there into the cab. The key was in the ignition. He turned it and heard a cough followed by a rumble. Two rows of indicator lights appeared.

  Tong didn’t have to drive the crane. All he needed to do was to turn the lifting magnet on, maneuver the boom so that the disk was located over the top of the scrap pile, and lower it down.

  Three attempts were required to get the hang of it. Meanwhile a stalemate of sorts had developed, with Tong’s troops firing but not advancing, even as the Allied combatants continued to inflict casualties on their attackers.

  Then Tong was ready to go. He began by plucking something like a thousand pounds of metal off the top of the mountain. The load consisted of at least fifty pieces of scrap, both large and small. And Tong felt proud of himself when he was able to swing all of it to the left, cut the power to the magnet, and dump the scrap on top of an old boiler.

  It was a simple matter then to swing the boom back, restore power to the magnet, and repeat the process. Tong smiled. It was like digging for ants with a stick.

  Smith-Peet was looking upwards as bits and pieces of metal rained down around him. “Shit! They’re using the crane to take the mountain apart. That possibility never occurred to me.”

  Lee put his rifle down. “I have an app for that,” the green beret said, as he drew his pistol. “I need another handgun.”

  “Take mine,” Kwan said, as she offered her nine mil. “But you have to return it.”

  The message was obvious. Lee smiled. “I will.”

  After tucking the weapons away Lee knelt in front of the tunnel. There were sharp edges all around and there was a very real danger of cutting himself.

  The rest of the team was firing more quickly by then, trying to force the enemy to put their heads down, as Lee emerged and scuttled to the right. There was a flash as someone fired. Lee rolled, spotted a head, and put a green dot on it. The pistol seemed to fire itself. The target toppled backwards and out of sight.

  Lee came to his feet and was circumnavigating the mountain when a Chinese soldier emerged from cover and fired a three-round burst. The slugs kicked up geysers of dirt in front of Lee as he triggered two shots in return. One bullet hit a leg, while the other struck the man in the chest, killing him instantly.

  Lee jumped over the body and ran to the crane. The operator was swinging another load of steel around and getting ready to release it. Lee scrambled up onto a caterpillar tread and made his way toward the cab with his pistol raised. That was when he saw the rearview mirror and realized his mistake. The door to the cab flew open, hit Lee’s hand, and sent the handgun spinning away. Then a boot struck the green beret’s chest--causing him to fall back onto the tread below. He was trying to suck air into his lungs when a man landed on top of him.

  The assailant was slightly off-balance and attempted to save himself by grabbing onto Lee’s tac vest. That caused both combatants to roll off and fall. The crane operator was on top when they hit the ground. A knee pinned Lee’s left arm and a hand was pressing down on his right forearm. The green beret found himself staring up into the other man’s headlamp. What followed came as a surprise.

  “Captain Jon Smith… Yes, I know your name. My name is Tong, and I’ve been tracking you for a long time. Where’s the baby?”

  “His holiness is in India by now,” Lee replied, as he gathered his strength. “You missed him.” And with that Lee snapped his head forward. Bone met nose and cartilage collapsed. Tong’s hands came up to his face as blood gushed out of his nose.

  That freed Lee to buck the other man off. He rolled to the right, and was fumbling for a pistol, when someone fired an M4 carbine on full auto. Tong jerked spastically as 20 rounds of 5.56mm NATO rounds tore into his body. What was left of him collapsed.

  Lee turned to find that Kwan was holding the weapon. “Crawl under the crane,” she ordered. “And hurry!”

  Lee followed Kwan to the back of the crane where she crawled into the space between the enormous treads. He was about to ask what was happening when a voice came over Kwan’s radio. The pilot had an Australian accent. “This is Bigrat in from the north. We are two Apache helicopters inbound with guns, Hellfire missiles and CRV7 rockets. Find a hole and pull it in after yourselves. We’re about to mow the lawn. Over.”

  Lee reached out to pull Kwan into his arms as the helos swept in. And mow the lawn they did. Both attack helicopters made multiple runs. Hellfire missiles struck the tower, the bulldozer, and nearly hit the crane. Flights of CRV7 rockets followed. Each missile was armed with multiple High Explosive-Point Detonating rounds that passed through whatever Chinese soldiers were hiding behind and killed them.

  Then the Allied pilots made a final pass in which they fired hundreds of rounds from their 30mm chain guns. “Catch you later,” Bigrat said, as the Apaches banked away. “Over and out.”

  Lee planted a kiss on Kwan’s forehead. “Thanks.”

  Her hands touched his face. “Blood! You’re hurt.”

  “His, not mine.”

  “I want to stay here. Like this.”

  “Me too,” Lee said. “But we can’t. They’ll think we’re dead.”

  “But we aren’t dead.”

  “No, we aren’t,” Lee told her. “We’re very much alive.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Bhatt Salvage Yard, three miles from the front.

  The moment the attack was over Smith-Peet got on the radio. “Meet me at the supply dump, but be careful. Chances are that some of the bastards are still alive. Over.”

  That prediction proved to be true. Three PLA soldiers had survived. But not for long. The Allied soldiers were equipped with night vision devices and their counterparts weren’t. Weapons stuttered, PLA soldiers fell, and the battle was over.

  That was the good news. The bad news was that the newly arrived pallet of supplies had taken a hit from an exploding 30mm shell. Half the load had been destroyed and the rest was scattered about. “We’ll leave in 15 minutes,” Smit
h-Peet announced. “Find what you need and load up. If you come up short, scrounge some Chinese stuff. There’s plenty of it.”

  “I have Trishul on the horn, sir,” Cato said. “A Blackhawk is ten out.”

  “There is a God and she likes us,” Smith-Peet said. “But load up anyway… And remember the first rule of combat: ‘Pee when you can.’”

  The moon was up and threw an eerie glow across the yard. After 10-minutes’ worth of scrounging the soldiers had whatever weapons they preferred, more ammo than they could comfortably carry, and some MREs. “This is Shortstuff, in from the west,” a female voice said. “Give me a flare. Over.”

  Evers tossed a flare into one of the few open areas and backed away. They could hear the helicopter’s General Electric T700-GE-701C turboshaft engines by then, and the sound grew louder as the Blackhawk swept in over the junk yard, and settled in.

  The downdraft from the chopper’s rotors blew trash every which way as Shortstuff spoke again. “Make it fast people… The sky is lousy with Chinese fighters.”

  Smith-Peet waved them forward. “Go, go, go!”

  Evers and Thapa were carrying Shrestha’s body between them.

  Once the rest of them were aboard it was Smith-Peet’s turn to enter the cargo compartment and drop into a seat. “This is Viper-Two-Three. All present or accounted for. Let’s haul ass. Over.”

  The Blackhawk left the ground in a hurry, turned west, and sped away. Lee was seated next to the door gunner. Her face was invisible behind a visor but she gave him a headset along with a thumbs up.

  Air rushed in through the open door to buffet Lee’s face. They were safe, or mostly safe, after weeks of danger. He was trying to adjust to that fact as the helicopter swept over a moonlit river and Chinese anti-aircraft guns fired on them. Red tracer arched up in a futile effort to interdict the fleeing helicopter even as Shortstuff fired flares meant to draw heat-seeking missiles away. And that strategy proved to be successful as the Blackhawk continued on its way.

  Then Shortstuff spoke over the intercom. Her voice was calm and steady. “We have a warning light on hydraulic system two. We’re looking for an option. Standby.”

  Lee took the headset off so as to speak with the gunner. He had to shout. “There’s a backup, right?”

  “System two is the backup,” the gunner replied. “We lost system one on the way out. The controls won’t work without a hydraulic pump.”

  “That isn’t funny,” Lee yelled.

  “Nor is it supposed to be,” the gunner replied. “But if anyone can put this bitch down the lieutenant can.”

  Smith-Peet was the only other passenger who had a headset. So, most of the passengers were oblivious to the danger. Cato’s eyes were closed as Kwan met Lee’s gaze and smiled. The green beret managed a grin.

  “We’re losing pressure,” Shortstuff said. “But never fear… We’re only minutes out from Forward Operating Base 17. We might be in for a hard landing though. So, grab your panties.” All of Lee’s companions could hear the pilot this time. Cato opened his eyes and sat up.

  The gunner opened fire with her M60D pintle-mounted machine gun as ground fire lashed up at them. Lee looked on in amazement as her tracers swept across the moonlit ground below and what seemed like a hundred answering sparks appeared.

  And that was the moment when Lee understood the truth. Forward Operating Base 17 was so far forward, that it was in the shit, and possibly surrounded. He caught a glimpse of what looked like a moonscape, a sandbag topped berm, and a flagpole as the helicopter lost altitude and pancaked in.

  All of the passengers just sat there for a moment, absorbing what had occurred, and were only starting to respond when Shortstuff emerged from the cockpit and removed her helmet. She was short and cheerful. “Welcome to FOB-17 folks… We’ll be staying for a while.”

  Smith-Peet jumped down off the deck to find that a Sikh officer was waiting for him. Because he’d spent a lot of time in the area, Smith-Peet knew that Sikhism was one of the largest religions in India and had millions of followers. Like all Sikhs the officer had Kesh (uncut hair), symbolic of the need to work with nature rather than against it, and was wearing a turban. He took two steps forward. “I am Major Avi Gupta, commanding officer of the 3rd battalion, of the Sikh Infantry Regiment. And you are?”

  “I’m LT. Colonel Fred Smith-Peet, of the 3 Commando--Royal Marines. Please excuse my iffy appearance. My chaps and I were in Nepal half an hour ago.”

  Gupta came to attention and popped a British style salute. “Welcome to FOB-17, sir... Although you won’t find much to enjoy. We’re surrounded, and going to remain so, until a relief force arrives.”

  “And when is that likely to happen?”

  Gupta smiled. His teeth were very white. “The most recent estimate was three days.”

  “And you can hold out until then?”

  “We fully intend to,” Gupta replied, as a mortar shell landed a hundred feet away and exploded. The Sikh didn’t turn to look.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Smith-Peet said. “Three American green berets are with me, along with three Gurkhas, and a doctor. We will fight.”

  “We could use the help,” Gupta replied. “My battalion consisted of 356 men two weeks ago. Sixty-three of them are dead and 22 are wounded. A doctor will be most welcome. We have none.”

  The rest of the team was on the ground by then. Smith-Peet gestured to Kwan. “This is Doctor Kwan. She’s an experienced combat surgeon.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Gupta said politely. And, when he said “Sergeant,” one appeared. “Escort Doctor Kwan to the infirmary, and place our medics under her command.” Kwan waved prior to being led away.

  “I take a walk around the perimeter every few hours,” Gupta explained. “Would you care to join me? It’s a good way to get oriented.”

  “Yes, we would,” Smith-Peet replied. “But we left one of our Gurkhas on the Blackhawk. He was killed a few hours ago. Do you have a place where we can put his body?”

  “Sah!” Thapa put in. “My name is Staff Sergeant Thapa. I would like to assist your men if I may.”

  “Of course,” Gupta replied. “Please accept my heartfelt condolences. Your loss is our loss. Sergeant Japra, please get a stretcher team, and accompany Staff Sergeant Thapa to the helicopter.”

  Smith-Peet said, “Thank you,” as the noncoms walked away. “Can we leave our packs somewhere?”

  “Follow me,” Gupta replied.

  Lee followed Gupta and Smith-Peet through the wreckage of what had once been a substantial building but had been reduced to rubble during the fighting. Moonlight glazed the surface of broken walls, threw shadows down across caves where some defenders were trying to sleep, and lit the books that were scattered about.

  Gupta led them to a ramp and down into what turned out to be a substantial basement. Some Sikh soldiers were sleeping along the far wall. Others were sitting at cafeteria tables cleaning weapons and shooting the shit. Some turned to look, but showed little interest, since they didn’t care why Gupta was showing a group of ratty looking people around the base.

  “You can leave your packs over there,” Gupta said, pointing to a spot next to the unstaffed cafeteria counter. “This was a girl’s school before the war. But it makes a serviceable fort. Please follow me.”

  Gupta guided the team up to the ground floor and over to a ladder. It slanted past a flight of damaged stairs to a platform where a .50 caliber machine gun was sited. A rectangular hole provided the weapon with a broad field of fire.

  Three men were stationed there, and they laughed when Gupta said something to them in Punjabi. Occasional gunshots could be heard as PLA soldiers sought to keep the Sikhs awake. From there a second ladder led up to the third level which was open to the sky and protected by sandbags on all four sides. Two lookouts were on duty and an Israeli made Soltam K6 mortar tube sat ready to fire.

  The two-man crew was sitting with their backs to the wall eating. They started to rise but Gupt
a waved them back into place. Then he turned to a lookout. “Stand down so these gentlemen can take a look through your binoculars.”

  Smith-Peet went first, and Lee was second. He had to step up onto a wooden box in order to access the eyepieces, and knew there was some risk in doing so, since a sniper with equally good technology could spot him. Especially on a tower where lookouts would naturally be. But the chance to examine the surrounding terrain was worth it.

  The landscape had a green hue, which was to be expected, and was pretty well lit thanks to the ascending moon. And that, Lee decided, had something to do with why the PLA troops were keeping their heads down.

  Lee started low, near the fort’s east wall, where unburied Chinese bodies lay. Then he tilted up. That’s when the overlapping shell craters could be seen, zigzagging trenches appeared, and roofed-over bunkers were visible. “They’re getting closer all the time,” Gupta commented. “Ever since the Big Push started. We were part of an extended line at first. But when the surge came, the Chinese were able to flank, and surround us. Our orders are to hold out until the counter attack comes in three days.”

  Lee stood down. “My name is Captain Lee, sir. U.S. Army. What keeps the enemy from attacking by air? Or with artillery?”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you Captain,” Gupta replied. “Go over there, and look down.”

  Lee made his way to the west side of the tower and looked down. And there, partially protected by the remains of a wall, sat a C-RAM, or Counter Rocket, Artillery, and Mortar unit. It consisted of radars hooked to a Phalanx CIWS rapid fire gun, which was designed to blow incoming weapons and targets out of the air, before they could do damage. Lee knew how extremely effective they were.

  The other members of the team went over to look as well. “The problem,” Major Gupta told them, “is that the Chinese know we have it, and they’ve been busy throwing things at us in hopes of exhausting our ammunition supply. And it’s working. We’re supposed to receive some supplies just before dawn.”