Larry Bond’s Red Dragon Rising: Blood of War

by Larry Bond

  “Seven?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Seven?”

  “I say again, seven.”

  “Stand by, Flashlight.”

  “Problem?”

  “Stand by.”

  Freakin’ air farce, thought Kerfer.

  “Flashlight, this is Striker.”

  “Go ahead, Striker.”

  “We can take them. We will be on station in zero-five minutes. I’ll call when we’re roughly one minute out.”

  “Affirmative. Striker, how far should I be from these suckers when you hit them?”

  “Two countries away would be optimum.”

  Just what I need, thought Kerfer, a freakin’ comedian.

  “Was a serious question, Striker.”

  “Yeah, sorry, roger that. Listen Striker, you want to be as far away as you comfortably can be.”

  “Distance?”

  “Fifteen hundred yards, for starters.”

  “Can’t get that far away.”

  The pilot didn’t answer.

  “Striker?”

  “Uh, Flashlight, just get yourself as far away as you can. The way these work, first bomb comes in—”

  “Yeah, roger, I understand,” replied Kerfer. He didn’t need the actual details—he wasn’t going to like them anyway. “Call me when you’re a minute out.”

  Kerfer was only two hundred yards from the nearest mine site—way too close for comfort from what the pilot was telling him. He took a few steps back, looking around and trying to figure out a solution.

  Then he realized that the trucks had stopped moving. Which didn’t make sense if he had the right spot.

  Damn.

  He pulled the satcom back out to call the pilot and tell him to hold off. As he did, he saw something moving on his right. He dropped to his haunches, then rolled as a shot rang out. There was no place to go but down—he scrambled and slid forward, diving and falling down the hill as a spray of bullets flew overhead.

  Kerfer caught himself on a rock, slamming against it to stop his fall. He pushed up and leapt to the side, ducking away from the gunman, who fortunately was still a distance from the edge of the slope.

  Pulling out his pistol, Kerfer circled to the left, pausing to catch his breath behind a large pile of dirt and stone.

  He could hear whoever had shot at him coming down the hill. Kerfer flattened himself on the ground, then peeked out from behind the pile. It took him a few seconds to locate the descending shadow; when he did, he saw the man raising his rifle. Kerfer fired central mass, aiming for the biggest possible target.

  He missed. The shadow slid back against the hill.

  Kerfer fired again, this time with better aim. He heard an almost girlish grunt. But that was quickly followed by a burst of automatic rifle fire, tinny and metallic—Kerfer threw himself back.

  Rocks and dirt fell as the other man slid down to the bottom of the hill. Kerfer moved to his left, looking to possibly circle around the pile, but there was no space between it and the hillside. He thought of climbing up but decided that would leave him too exposed. Instead, he moved toward a cluster of large rocks off to his right, deciding he could use them for cover. He hunched forward, held his breath, and dove behind them the way a baseball player might go head-first into second base on a delayed steal.

  Kerfer scrambled upright. There was enough space behind the rock for him to peek out from the other side, and to end up with a good view of the side of the hill. He pushed through and waited.

  His enemy didn’t appear. Meanwhile, the sound of the trucks had grown louder. They must be on the other side of the hill with the mine shafts he’d seen earlier.

  So his target must be must be one set of hills over. Not that he was in a position to do much about that now.

  Kerfer glanced up the hill where he’d left his gear. It was dark, but not so dark that he couldn’t be seen from the ground and become an easy target.

  He edged out from the rock, not sure which option he was taking. Leaning back toward the hill, he took a step, then another—he was going after the shooter who’d ambushed him.

  He crouched down, ready.

  Nothing moved. He skirted past the pile of stones, then moved slowly to his right, hunkered low to the ground. He had his gun in his right hand, his left out for balance.

  Bad way to fire.

  Something was lying at the bottom of the hill. He stared, moved his head slightly to make sure it was a body, not just a shadow.

  He looked up at the ridge top. Nothing. No one.

  The gunman had been alone.

  Kerfer rose and sprinted to the body. It was moving.

  A rifle lay nearby. Kerfer picked it up. It was an M16, a relatively new one, a Marine rifle. That’s why it had sounded different than the AK earlier.

  The body writhed. He went and pushed it over with his boot.

  American consul, Juliet Greig.

  Greig?

  “What the fuck?” he said.

  She groaned, blinking her eyes at him.

  “What the hell?” said Kerfer. “What are you doing here?”

  She groaned again, then went to reach for something. Kerfer, unsure what she was doing, took no chances and kicked her hard in the chest. She struggled, and so he kicked her again, this time in the face. He dropped to his knee and found her pistol. He took it.

  “What are you doing?” he asked. “I got a bomber on the way.”

  “Let them go,” said the consul, struggling to talk between wheezes. Kerfer’s first blow had knocked the wind out of her. “Let the Vietnamese kill the bastards.”

  “China?”

  “They’re our enemy, too. They’ll attack us next.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “You don’t see it.”

  “You were the spy?”

  “Ric—we have to stop the Chinese. The Chinese.”

  “You crazy bitch,” said Kerfer. He kicked her in the head, knocking her unconscious, then started scrambling up the hill for his gear.

  70

  West of Malipo

  Setco led Zeus through the backyards to a narrow trail in the ravine, then across a field that paralleled the main road. He had managed to commandeer a vehicle after leaving the airport, but it was lost now at the end of main street, undoubtedly too shot up to be of use.

  The few Vietnamese left as an organized force were attempting to withdraw under fire from the vanguard of the tank battalion. The gun battle was a mishmash of confusion, the perfect example of the infamous fog of war.

  “There’s a truck up there,” said Zeus, spotting a pickup near the side of the road.

  Setco changed direction, running toward it. Exhaust curled from the tailpipe, forming a thin cloud in the cold air. As they got closer, Zeus saw that the windows had been shot out.

  The driver was slumped over the wheel.

  “One of the civilians picked a bad time to try to get away,” said Setco, pulling the man from the cab.

  Zeus ran to the other side. Setco got it into gear and jerked it back onto the road. It bounced wildly, but except for the shattered windows it appeared to have escaped real damage. And it was certainly better than walking.

  They drove onto the south side of the airport across the empty infield, heading directly for the terminal building. The damaged An-24 was exactly where he had last seen it, wing practically touching the corner of the building.

  The other plane, the Chinese Xian Y-7-100 that Setco had arrived in, was gone.

  “Shit,” said Zeus.

  “I told them to get the hell out,” said Setco, driving toward the hangars. “There’s a Cessna in the hangar.”

  “That old plane?”

  “It’s about all I can handle.”

  “You’re a pilot?”

  “No. But I can fly that.”

  “You sure?”

  “The hard part is landing. That I just aim and cut the engine way back. I’ve flown these before,” Setco added.

 
It didn’t sound reassuring.

  “I’m taking it,” said the CIA para. “You can walk if you want.”

  Still covered with thick dirt and crud, the Cessna had been moved out in front of the hangar.

  “Jesus,” said Zeus. “You sure that thing can still fly?”

  “We fueled it, and I started the engine,” said Setco. “Otherwise we’d be on the road south by now.”

  Zeus remained doubtful, but there was no sense arguing or even questioning him. He jumped from the truck and ran for the plane.

  Setco went over to the engine compartment. He put his hands out, and for a second Zeus thought he was going to spin the prop as if it were attached to an old-fashioned jump-start engine. But he was doing a preflight inspection, starting with the propeller and moving around the aircraft, checking control surfaces and rivets in the wing, moving his hands along the fuselage.

  At least he’s had some training, thought Zeus. He climbed in the passenger side and waited.

  A paper checklist was taped to the windscreen. The writing was all in Chinese characters.

  Zeus saw speckles of light beyond the runway.

  Muzzle flashes and tracers.

  “Roth! Come on!”

  “Yeah,” said Setco, climbing in. He started hitting switches. “I’m pretty sure this says flaps at twenty percent.”

  Zeus of course had no idea.

  “Magnetos, off. Master on.” Setco was reading off the checklist, following the instructions as he went. “Come on fuel.” He thumped the gauge. “I know it’s full. Needle, up.”

  Zeus looked over at the indicator. It was on empty.

  “Shit. Screw it.” Setco set the throttle, then spun the engine. The plane coughed but didn’t start.

  Meanwhile, the gunfire at the end of the runway had become intense. This amazed Zeus—as far as he knew, there was no one there: the small Vietnamese contingent had fled by the time they arrived.

  The engine finally came to life. The aircraft rocked unsteadily.

  “Seatbelt,” said Setco.

  “You sure we’re going to make it?”

  “Close your eyes, Major.”

  The airplane bucked forward. Zeus scrunched his body down. The sparkles from the guns were now coming in their direction.

  “I gotta get the mixture rich,” said Setco, talking to himself. “Whoever wrote the damn checklist doesn’t know shit.”

  They were moving. The engine revved.

  “We aren’t going to make the runway,” said Zeus.

  “We don’t need it. Hold on.”

  An APC climbed up the hill at the right. The gun on the turret began to blink. Something ripped into the back of the plane, and they moved sideways.

  In the next moment, Zeus felt himself weightless, moving upward.

  * * *

  To die like this, in an unknown moment, distant from home—to die for my country, for someone else’s country, for love …

  To die for love sounds romantic, to die for your country patriotic, yet in the end death is death, the meaning exists for other people, not you, not me …

  To die is only to die, to be crushed back into the endless wave of nonexistence, to return to the ashes you were made, not even to see God …

  I wanted her. Trung was right about war—I was addicted to the adrenaline, to the rush.

  But it was her I came back for. She’s the reason I’m here.

  I died for love, not war.

  * * *

  Zeus’s head bounced against the window. He fell back, falling into an endless pit.

  “We’re OK,” Setco said. “We’re away from them. We’re good. We’re good.”

  Gradually, Zeus came back to himself, regaining his senses.

  They were still flying. The Cessna had been hit in the fuselage, but was still airworthy. Setco had her at roughly a thousand feet, threading his way through the hills toward the border.

  “I think I can get us to Hanoi,” he told Zeus. “Not too much farther than that, though. We’re going to have to find another way south to Thailand.”

  “Thailand,” said Zeus.

  “Thailand is not Eden,” added Setco. “But it’s a hell of a lot safer than ’Nam.”

  Zeus realized belatedly that he had failed to put on his seatbelt. He buckled it now. He looked down at his pant leg. It was crusted with brown mud—not mud but blood. He’d been grazed by a gunshot at some point and not realized it.

  Anna will fix it. Anna will make everything right.

  No. Love couldn’t do that. Love couldn’t change much, certainly not death, certainly not war.

  Zeus looked at Setco. He was leaning forward, staring out the windscreen. There were still a few hours left before dawn, and it was difficult to see where the ground was. Without radar, they were in constant danger of running into a hill or mountain. Yet it was far from the worst danger they’d faced.

  “I’m not going to hit anything,” said Setco, seemingly reading his thoughts. “I flew this way once before.”

  “You did?”

  “A while back. They didn’t just throw me up here because they were trying to kill me, Zeus. Well, maybe that was an ulterior motive.”

  “That black box—”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about it,” Setco said, shaking his head, “and you don’t, either.”

  “I was wrong about you.”

  Setco looked away from the window, but only for a moment. “How’s that?”

  “I thought you wanted to die up there.”

  “You weren’t necessarily wrong.” Setco leaned closer to the windscreen.

  “What changed your mind?”

  “Who says I did?”

  Setco’s face was a range of different emotions—bemusement and anger, and maybe a little fear.

  “I don’t know,” he added after a while. “Maybe you’re right, though. Maybe you changed my mind.”

  “How?”

  “You were so goddamned gung-ho. Like you were a frickin’ innocent virgin.” He stared out the windscreen. “I hope she was worth it.”

  They flew on in silence for a few minutes.

  “It’s all right,” said Setco, speaking again. His voice was almost dreamy. “We all need reasons to do things.”

  “What was yours?” asked Zeus.

  “Orders.”

  “That’s all?”

  “I had to remember what it feels like to be alive.”

  71

  Forthright, Ohio

  Josh had called and gone straight to voice mail so many times that he was surprised when Mara answered—so surprised his first thought was that he had dialed the wrong number.

  And then he didn’t know what to say.

  “Josh?”

  “Mara.”

  “Hey. How are you? Are you OK?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

  One of the kids yelled in the other room, and ran screeching down the hall.

  “What’s going on?” Mara asked.

  “Oh, just my cousin’s kids. They’re having a birthday party. The little one is a piece of work.”

  “Is that the one with leukemia?”

  “Yeah. You’d never know it from the way she acts. She’s a pisser.”

  “I hope she’s OK.”

  Josh didn’t answer. She wasn’t OK, and wouldn’t be, unless someone came up with a miracle cure very soon. But there was no use dwelling on the subject.

  “I miss you,” he told her. “You oughta come out here. The farm’s beautiful right now.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yeah. It’s real pretty. Nice place for walks. Real quiet.”

  “Squeals not included?” Mara laughed.

  “It’s quiet during the day. They’re all at school. It’d be great to see you.”

  “I was thinking I might come out.”

  “You were?” Josh’s heart leapt. “Would you … could you?”

  “I’ve been given a vacation. Forced to take it.”

  “Force
d?”

  “It’s all right. It’s something—I have to adapt to changes. My job. Now that my cover’s blown.”

  “Right.”

  “I can’t really go into it right now. But if I can get a flight first thing in the morning, would you be able—”

  “I’ll drive all the way to D.C. and bring you here myself if I have to,” said Josh.

  “You won’t have to do that. Give me the address.”

  72

  South China Sea

  For nearly all of man’s existence, war was a personal endeavor, conducted at very close range, near enough for the antagonists to smell each other’s fear. Technology had gradually changed that. Now it was commonplace to be threatened by an enemy a thousand kilometers away—roughly the distance the DF-21Ds had to travel to hit McCampbell.

  The flight of the missile could be broken into three phases: ascent, travel through exoatmospheric space, and final descent. The ascent or launch phase was the most vulnerable for the DF-21, but the location of McCampbell and the timing of the warning made it impossible to strike the missiles at that point. Instead, the four SM3s that Silas’s ship launched were aimed at catching the warheads during their long arc in McCampbell’s direction.

  To Silas, standing at the side of the ship’s CIC, the roar of the interceptor missiles as they left their square cocoons was less than comforting. The SM3s thundered upward, but in his mind’s eye they moved at a painfully slow pace. They built speed slowly as they went up, their engines burning through their fuel like hungry horses devouring sugar.

  The SM3s were designed specifically to deal with ballistic missiles, including the DF-21D. They were unfortunately in short supply; McCampbell had just fired half her stock.

  The command center, a cacophony of voices on its calmest day, was now a beehive of chatter, with the operators and supervisors conferring back and forth. Silas strove to keep his head clear; he had already cut the line to the admiral, deciding it was only a distraction.

  “One Chinese missile off radar,” reported the radarman.

  “Gone, or have we lost it to countermeasures?” asked Li.

  “Unclear.”

  As soon as the launch was detected, Silas had the helm come hard around. He aimed to turn exactly into the missile’s path and proceed at flank speed. The missiles were being directed by a series of satellites as well as their own sensors and a preprogrammed target profile, but Silas hoped that by moving from the expected position he could fool them.