Winter Kill 2 - China Invades Australia

by Gene Skellig

  “What?”

  “There it is. You see that culvert?”

  “What, that boxy concrete thing?”

  “Yeah, that’s our visual feature. Look for a track to the north.”

  “Roger that,” the corporal answered. He eased up on the gas pedal ever so slightly.

  “Coming up pretty quick,” said the Top Sergeant. He squinted in an attempt to see fine features more clearly. Then the track appeared. “

  “There it is. Turn left, there,” said the Top Sergeant.

  As the procession of vehicles pulled off the A6 Highway, the radio in the Top Sergeant’s helmet crackled.

  “You sure about this, Ride? Don’t look like a road at all,” transmitted Master Gunnery Sergeant Gannon, from a few vehicles behind the Top Sergeant’s SUV. The long–standing friend of Rideout was along for the mission as Ops Sergeant for the specialized Task Force.

  “That’s the idea, Master Guns. No – I’m sure of it; this is the way to the billabong. You and the engineers pull off and get that drag thing going. Let’s do this disappearing act quickly.” He was slightly relieved at having found the way again; it took the edge off of his excitement at the prospect of playing a major role in an important mission. On another level he was energized at being able to return to a place that had become so personally meaningful.

  Gannon responded to his transmission. “WILCO. All units Tango Fox Bravo, BEARS DEN,” he said , his long training and well working relationship with Rideout coming into play like a well-oiled machine.

  As briefed, and on Master Guns Gannon’s code-word, BEARS DEN, the communications gear was shut off in the two LAVs and eight civilian pattern SUVs followed Top Sergeant Rideout over the sand and patches of bare rock, heading north.

  Master Gunnery Sergeant Gannon’s little ‘Japanoid’ utility truck stopped. Master Guns and the three engineers riding with him immediately got busy hauling out a rolled up section of chain link fence, and some cables.

  Within three minutes they had unraveled the fencing and hooked it up to the bumper and were on the move again, dragging the carpet of chain-link fence over the tracks made by the rest of Task Force Billabong. Every little trick to make sure their tire tracks wouldn’t be seen by the Chinese.

  It only took them five minutes to get lost.

  They had had no problem following the tracks at first, but after just a few hundred yards they had encountered an expansive dome of rock, easy enough to drive over but with no tracks to lead them. They stopped at the top the large dome and scanned the perimeter, seeing only rock, sand and parched grassland all around, other than what looked like impassable, rocky terrain to the north-east.

  Suddenly a man appeared at the edge of the dome, having materialized out of the rocky terrain to the north-east.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you guys? It’s this way!” yelled the Marine, who then turned his back and disappeared back into the rocks.

  “Drive on, Marine!” Gannon said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Master Gunns!” replied the engineer, his burly arms wrapped around the tiny steering wheel. He looked a bit ridiculous, but seemed comfortable enough in the tiny utility vehicle they had been provided for their dangerous mission.

  As the Japanoid vehicle reached the far end of the dome, the impossible became possible. They drove over the edge of the rock and into the gulley that the rest of their formation had disappeared into.

  After another two hundred meters, the track curved and descended sharply, and leveled off at the long, grassy shoreline of the billabong.

  All along the line, Marines were rigging camouflage nets to the trees that lined the edge of the billabong, having already tossed their tents and other camping gear out onto the grass.

  “Your spot is over here, Master Guns!”

  “Thanks, Lance Corporal,” said Gannon, stepping out of his vehicle. After motioning for the engineers to carry on re-packing the chain-link fence and putting the Japanoid to bed between two thick bushes, he headed down the line to inspect the camouflage and see how the troops were doing. He knew in advance that Top Sergeant Rideout would have things well in hand.

  By the time he got to the LAVs at the far end, deeper in the line of trees where the dried ox-bow lake ran into a bone-dry waterfall, he was satisfied that the place was the perfect hideout for Task Force Billabong. He looked down to the gully below, where an inviting green pool of water lay hidden, and exhaled at the beautiful sight.

  The beautiful Australian Military Police Sergeant Hayman, that Master Guns Gannon had assigned Top Sergeant Rideout to accompany on that ‘acclimatization tasking’ was there, with a few civilians dressed like Crocodile Dundee.

  “How Ya Going, Mate?” a beefy, wide-shouldered civilian grinned widely. “You my long lost cousin?”

  “Hi! What do you mean?”

  “I mean, your man here says your name is Gannon. That right?”

  “Sure is. Master Gunnery Sergeant Gannon, United States Marine Corps at your service. Why do you ask?”

  “Cause, mate, you two might be kin,” said another civilian. “This here is Liam Gannon, mayor of Julia Creek,” said a third civilian, this one in some sort of uniform, who introduced the first civilian.

  Then it all made sense to the Master Gunnery Sergeant.

  “So you’re the one. I spoke with some of your staff, when I…” he stopped mid-sentence to look back up at the Marines still busy setting up their campsite, their vehicles now completely invisible under the trees and well-matched camouflage nets.

  He looked back at Master Sergeant Rideout, “Is now a good time, Top Sergeant?” he asked.

  “Go for it, Master Gunns!” Rideout said, smiling.

  The Australians must have known what was coming, as a couple of them headed to two quad vehicles they had ridden in on and began undoing the tarps, revealing a range of coolers, BBQ and other gear.

  “Lance Corporal, go and tell the three engineers at the far end of the line to bring the ‘package’ here, and pass word along the line that there will be an inspection here, by the water, in five minutes.”

  “Master Guns!,” the Marine replied, but then stopped, and asked: “What’s the order of dress for the inspection? Dress of the day?” asked the Lance Corporal.

  “Guns and gonch!” laughed the Top Sergeant, unable to help himself.

  The Lance Corporal did not understand at first, but as he watched the impossible sight of both his Master Sergeant and his Master Gunnery Sergeant strip out of their clothes, right down to their underwear, and then proceed to leap into the billabong, he clued in. It was to be one of those rare, legendary moments when the normally strict, rigid discipline was to be relaxed and the men would be allowed to have some good clean fun.

  He rushed off to pass the word.

  By the time he made it back, in his underpants and bare feet, there was not even the slightest pretense of an inspection. The fifty two men of Task Force Billabong were there at various stages of undress – many of them completely nude – leaping into the cool water of the billabong.

  This time around, Sergeant Hayman did not partake, but she was not the least bit uncomfortable to see the extremely fit, and in some cases very well endowed Marines frolicking in the billabong, just as when she had first introduced the Top Sergeant to it, less than two weeks ago – just before the war had started.

  “These Yanks sure are enthusiastic! It’s like they’ve got a lot of steam to blow off!” said one men from Julia Creek.

  “Too right,” replied Sergeant Hayman, “I reckon it’s hard for them, being so far from America, with no news on their loved ones, and now fighting for a country they don’t even know.”

  “Damned right, Windy. But they don’t seem the slightest bit afraid of what’s coming our way.”

  “You mean the Chinese?”

  “No, crackers, I mean the nuclear winter.”

  “I’m not sure they’re looking that far ahead. That’s months away. No, these men kn
ow that they’re not likely to live much longer. All the Marines – and our boys – won’t have much of a life expectancy when the PLA’s 124th Division and the rest of 42nd Army Group get here.”

  “I don’t know, I wonder if that plan cooked up by our Thorney and that American major has any chance of success.”

  “Sure. As long as the Pandas motor on past here and don’t find this hiding place. As long as they pass through Julia Creek without looking too closely in the barns and abandoned buildings your lot will be holed up in. As long as the deception at Cloncurry works, and as long as…”

  “Shut your gap, woman, that’s enough ‘as long as’s!” You’ll have me ready to die, leaping into the billabong, abandoning all constraints like our American cousins over there if you don’t sew up your defeatist prattle!” said the town’s only policeman, with a wink.

  “Now let’s get this kangaroo meat on the barbie!’ said the other local, “These lads are in for a treat!”

  Two hours later, after the Marines had enjoyed 3 or 4 beers from Liam Gannon’s bottle shop, and Master Gunnery Sergeant Gannon had convinced himself that he was indeed related to the burly Australian, the Marines of Task Force Billabong had made the hidden oasis their home. The next few days of preparation were sure to be uneventful, as the Yanks and the Aussies looked like they were going to get along fine.

  Four hundred kilometers to the east, on a rock-strewn expanses of outback, a man stared glumly ahead. He was the cattle farmer who’d put up the three boys from Charters Towers, and had just seen them ride off into the distance.

  He turned back to his mates minding Blackjack checkpoint with him, just ten kilometers west of Charters Towers. Soon the Chinese will be coming, he thought to himself. How long will we be able to hold them off?

  He saw Emil, ten feet away, checking his rifle one more time. Bloody good bloke, he thought, looking at Emil. They’d delivered calves together, pounded fence posts, dug ditches and built barns and sheds together over the years. Great years, but would they now end here?

  The rancher saw others spread around the checkpoint. Raymond, nervously looking in the direction of Charters Towers. Young Art, too young to have even had a girlfriend yet, and now it would all be decided for him here. Not far away, his one-time worst enemy Royce O’Callan puffed out his chest in a phony-brave, cocksure fashion as he vigorously sucked on a smoke. Just like Royce, the bugger, he sighed, But I don’t know how far your tough-guy attitude will carry you this time, mate.

  The rancher turned in the direction of Charters Towers. Will they come in tanks? In jeeps? Or will they fly over in helicopters or napalm us from airplanes? Sooner or later, it’ll be over, he thought.

  He thought that now he knew how the ANZACs must have felt before they went over the top at Gallipoli. He’d seen it dozens of times in the movies, how the doomed soldiers wrote farewell messages to their loved ones and pinned them to the side of the trench as they waited for the British Officer to give the order for them to climb the ladder, up out of the safety of the trenches and into a hellish rainstorm of bullets – not that he’d do that here. Warfare may have changed since then, but what he felt in common with the ANZACS was the certain knowledge that there was no hope of coming out of this alive. Would it help at all? he asked himself, Will we make any difference? Guess we’ll never know.

  He looked back at his mates and thought of a poem he’d had to learn back in his school days. It was a poem about World War One, and sometimes he’d heard it at war memorial services. He didn’t remember much of it, but one part of it sung in his head right now: We are the dead.

  Myself and Emil and Raymond and Art and Royce and all my mates over the years who are standing up here and now to fight - we are the dead. Our lives, our work, our land – all our hopes and fears, our joy and our tears have been spent here in our land. Now it will end here. And all on account of those damn Chinese in town there.

  He felt a surge of anger at the whole thing. He’d make as many of those bastards pay as he could; he’d make some of them cry and wish they’d never come here. Then he sighed and looked at the ground. He gazed at the dry rock and sand at his feet, the ground he’d stood on for all these years. He felt a twinge of sadness. He remembered marrying his wife all those years ago when she was but a slip of a girl, and now she’d been in this ground for the last five years. He thought about how he’d surely be joining her soon in Heaven, then he heard a faint sound in the distance. He looked up. The hum of motors coming from the town. He straightened up and looked ahead, his grip firm on his rifle.

  “They’re on their way, boys,” he called out with steel in his voice. “Let’s give ‘em hell.”

  We are the dead.

  Away in the distance, far from the gunfire and sounds of desperate, doomed battle, the Task Force continued digging in at the Billabong. Over the next week, as they settled into a relaxed routine of camping out, waiting for the war to pass them by, the men found themselves looking forward to the visits of men from the nearby town, who were coming out every night to personally get to know the brave Americans who had come to help fight for Australia.

  In many cases, the men had prior military service, and war stories of their own experiences with American soldiers in Afghanistan, Iraq and Syria. In other cases, they had never met an American, and were curious. They always brought along some good tuck, drinks, and others special things to share, and to help keep the Marines from becoming frustrated and bored with the long period of idleness.

  By the time Captain Thorne arrived with fresh intelligence on the Chinese preparations for their advance from Charters Towers, the men knew that their short holiday was coming to an end.

  The men gathered around as Thorne read what he had. The spirited defense put up by the local militia at the Blackjack crossroads just west of Charters Towers, with numerous snipers distributed along the many hills and rocky features, proved to be a great annoyance to the Chinese. It may have ended quickly; however, when word had gotten out about the fifteen hundred civilians murdered at the Racetrack, farmers and former soldiers were drawn to the area like fireflies, looking to find a way to kill at least one invader each.

  Eventually the stream of fresh militiamen was cut off by the increased strength of the 124th Mechanized Division, which began to push farther and farther out with patrols in force, clearing the area of harassment out to a two hundred kilometer range, paving the way for their next advance westward, towards Julia Creek and the Billabong.

  The younger soldiers and the more office-bound officers just took these last words at face value – “clearing the area of harassment”. But the more experienced men, like Rideout and Gannon and the other vets had the imagination to know what bravery and fear and courage and blood had been expended by the men at Blackjack crossroads. Many of the Billabong men looked down in contemplation.

  “That’s all for now, boys,” Thorne concluded his briefing, and then turned around and walked away.

  From the intelligence that had been collected by the Special Forces men with Maj Blakely and Captain Thorne, it was clear that the 124th Division, PLA, was now fully deployed into Charters Towers and being rapidly re-supplied, making ready to continue their advance. All that seemed to hold them back were delays in building up additional stockpiles of the fuel, oil, water, spares and other war-fighting materials that would be required for the second-line and third-line logistical support for the 124th.

  However, by the end of the third week after the massacre, the 124th Division was ready to advance. What surprised Lieutenant Colonel Weir, now back at the CJOC directing the intelligence gathering operation from Katherine, was that the logistical supplies being stockpiled in Charters Towers seemed to be far more than was necessary for a single division. There also seemed to be an over-emphasis on mobile air defenses. These included the Hangqi-17, the Chinese version of the Soviet-era designed Buk/SA11 Gadfly, a medium ranged self-propelled Surface to Air Missile, SAM, with a 200nm range against cruise missiles, smart bombs,
unmanned aerial vehicles, fixed and rotary wing aircraft. And there was also the Chinese developed QianWei-2 “Vanguard-2” man-portable, shoulder launched, all-aspect infrared RADAR-guided, fire-and-forget missile. Perhaps more of a concern than the HQ-17s, which could be unreliable and easily jammed, the QW-2 was a newer missile, produced in massive numbers by China since 2001, and equipped with a dual-band passive IR seeker. To make matters worse, the QW-2 had also been given upgraded resistance to flares, chaff and other countermeasures. In the hands of well-trained personnel, it would provide a very effective air defense canopy out to a range of 3 miles and up to 10,000 feet. It seemed as though the Chinese were setting up an entire Anti-Air Brigade, deploying something of an over-capacity in terms of highly mobile and very sophisticated air defense weapons systems.

  One of the Priority Intelligence Requests, PIR, pushed forward by Lieutenant Colonel Weir back in the CJOC was to determine whether the enemy was deploying variants of the PL-9-D. The PL9 was a concern not only because of its ten mile lateral and 24,000 foot vertical range, but also because of its 95% single-shot kill probability. If there were many PL-9-Ds in the area then it would be clear that the Chinese intended to protect more than a single division along the Charters – to – Cloncurry line of advance. That could spell disaster for the Allies, as such an extensive and integrated SAM umbrella would give the Chinese forces regional air superiority and the ability to conduct air operations with impunity while denying any use of the same airspace to the Allies.

  If the PLA also got their hands on a larger runway and found a way to deploy high-readiness fighter aircraft and perhaps some type of airborne early warning aircraft farther to the west, then they would actually have regional air supremacy.

  Soon enough, the reason for the long pause and over-the-top buildup was explained by the earth-shaking arrival of heavy armor, artillery, and unending convoys of an entirely unexpected unit at Charters Towers.

  With everything riding on the disposition of the Chinese units when the expected advance commences, Lieutenant Colonel Weir ordered Major Becker to send out one of his teams in the Charters Towers area to capture, at any cost, a few prisoners from the newly arrived unit which was setting up a bed-down area just north of the water-tower, on the west side of town.