by James Rosone
Battlefield Pacific
Book Four of the Red Storm Series
By
James Rosone & Miranda Watson
Copyright Information
©2018, James Rosone and Miranda Watson. Except as provided by the Copyright Act, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Disclaimer
This is a fictional story. All characters in this book are imagined, and any opinions that they express are simply that, fictional thoughts of literary characters. Although policies mentioned in the book may be similar to reality, they are by no means a factual representation of the news. Please enjoy this work as it is, a story to escape the part of life that can sometimes weigh us down in mundaneness or busyness.
Table of Contents
New Year’s Day
The Frozen Chosen
The Xi’an Accords - Eastern Alliance
Overwhelmed
Pacific Strategy
Battle of Kaliningrad
Pacific Invasion
The Indians Are Coming
Deceiving Appearances
Hunter Becomes the Hunted
Long Fork in the Road
Ohio Massacre
Potential Unrest
Professionals Talk Logistics
Battle of Britain
Asian Rivals
Passing the Torch
Ambush in the Pacific
Pyrrhic Victory
Filipino Madness
Britain’s Out?!
Operation Nordic Thunder
Russian Resolve
Operation Strawman
Pacific Prep
Battle of Fort Mag
Formosa Fortress
ANZACs
Eastern Alliance Reckoning
Cowboys and Indians
The Resistance
From the Authors
Acronym Key
New Year’s Day
London, England
After spending an hour riding on the Tube and another forty minutes riding three different buses and taking two different taxi cabs, Anthony Chattem was exhausted. Had he not been receiving instructions from his head of security through his Bluetooth headset on what to do next, he never would have been able to figure out how to find the man he was about to meet. Putting all of that aside, Mr. Chattem was no spring chicken, and he felt every bit his sixty-two years of age.
He pulled the collar of his coat up and made sure his hat was situated just right to help hide more of his distinctive features, just as his head of security had told him. As the cab approached the café near the St. James's section of London, Mr. Chattem pulled a twenty-pound note from his wallet and slid it through the hole in the plexiglass wall.
“Keep the change,” he said as he opened the door to the cab.
After the cab pulled away, Mr. Chattem surveyed his surroundings, making sure to keep his head down so as not to be caught by one of the hundreds of thousands of CCTV cameras across the city. Strolling casually down the street, he spotted the slight blue chalk mark on the side of a lamppost across the street that indicated he hadn’t been followed. Crossing the street, he spotted the next chalk mark, letting him know the man he was to meet had also not been followed, and he was officially in the clear.
He made his way to 71-77 Pall Mall, in the same St. James's section of London. He smiled when he reached the set of stairs that led to the entrance of the extremely exclusive and private Oxford and Cambridge Club. Mr. Chattem quickly climbed the stairs and opened the ornate door. Upon his entering the club, Michelle, his personal assistant, guided him past the check-in desk, where people usually stopped to present their private club cards to gain entry.
Walking into this exclusive club was like walking into a time capsule from the early 1900s British aristocracy. It almost felt as if he had walked onto the set of Downton Abbey. Michelle led him up the stairs and down the hall to the Chancellor’s Suite to meet with his secretive guest.
“Is he already here?” Mr. Chattem asked, hoping he wouldn’t need to wait too long. It was a huge risk meeting this man, and if he were caught, it would be the end of not just his political career, but most likely his freedom.
*******
Max Weldon was a managing director for Rothschild Group in London. The firm was incredibly wealthy, with a rich and storied family history. It was the investment firm of choice for not just the wealthiest 1%, but the wealthiest .01% of the world, which meant Max was often in contact with some of the most influential men and women on the planet. This was not his first time sitting in the Oxford and Cambridge Club.
What everyone else at the establishment that night didn’t realize was that Max’s real name was Maksim Sokolov. He was the senior Russian spy in London, charged with managing a host of both intelligence and sabotage operations across Great Britain. He had been assigned to this post for twenty-six years, which meant he had now spent more of his adult life living in the UK than he had in any other country. He almost felt British, though he knew that everything he did was in the service of his true homeland, Russia.
During his undergraduate studies at the University of Oxford, Max had completed an internship with the Bank of England. There he’d met an investment advisor who had worked for Rothschild Group. The man had been so impressed with his language abilities, he’d offered Max a job on the spot. That advisor had no idea that Max had been recruited by the GRU shortly after the fall of the Soviet Union. As he had neared the end of his schooling in Switzerland, Max had been tasked with infiltrating the global aristocracy through the financial world. Going to work for the Rothschild Group was the surest way to gain access to some of the world’s wealthiest people.
Max was a legitimately gifted young man. His father had been a diplomat abroad and married a wealthy French woman while stationed in France. Max had grown up speaking Russian and French on a daily basis, and while he was in school, his parents had made sure he learned English. When he’d turned fourteen, he had been sent to the Aiglon College, an exclusive boarding school in Switzerland. It was there that Max had honed his language and finance skills and developed his network of highly connected and influential friends.
When he’d graduated, the GRU had ensured that he was accepted to the University of Oxford to increase his likelihood of gaining the level of access Russian intelligence was after. While at Oxford, Max had used his connections from his time in Switzerland to leverage several coveted internships, which had ultimately led to his securing employment with the Rothschild Group.
As a financial advisor, he had worked hard to grow his book of business and develop a strong reputation within the firm. Being fluent in English, French, and Russian, he was able to handle a wide variety of clients. His position also enabled him to recruit people sympathetic to the Russian cause. In addition, he successfully obtained a lot of financial dirt on some very influential people, which the GRU made sure to use when needed.
In normal times, Max would never have met Mr. Chattem in person, but these weren’t normal times, and Mr. Chattem was not a normal man. He could not pass up an opportunity to meet with the leader of the British opposition party. If this meeting went according to plan, Max would have successfully recruited the highest-ranking source of any Russian operative in history. Max was determined to do whatever was necessary to ensure “his man” moved into 10 Downing Street and Britain left the war.
Max was getting impatient. He looked down at his Breitling Cockpit Night Mission watch. “Wealth does have its privileges,” he thought. Mr. Chattem had a few more minutes before he would be considered late.
A moment
later, he heard a light knock on the door, and then it slowly opened. In walked Anthony Chattem, the head of the Labour Party, alone and doing his best to look as inconspicuous as possible. Standing, Max took a step forward and extended his hand to Mr. Chattem, shaking it as they exchanged greetings.
“Max, I’ll come straight to the point, since I don’t have very long to meet with you,” said Chattem. “I understand you have an offer you’d like to make?”
Max saw Chattem eyeing him over, attempting not to scowl. “He really does loathe anything to do with the elite, doesn’t he?” he mused.
Smiling at Mr. Chattem’s bluntness, Max gestured for the two of them to sit down. “I like a man who is direct and to the point. It makes negotiations a lot simpler,” he said.
Chattem took his hat off and placed it on the table between them. “So, this is a negotiation? What is it you’re offering?” he asked, carefully measuring Max’s facial features.
“Mr. Chattem, as you know, I work for a large, wealthy firm that represents a lot of varying financial interests. War can be profitable, but only profitable if it has been planned well in advance of the opening salvos. This is war without warning, and that has cost some interests I represent a lot of money.” Max paused for a second to let his words sink in. “There has to be a way to end this war peacefully and return the world back to its normal order.”
Anthony Chattem covered his mouth to keep himself from snorting. Max knew Chattem held a deep disgust for the rich, but he figured his target would come around once he really thought about the big picture. An awkward moment passed.
“I agree peace is in our nation’s interest,” Chattem conceded. “However, to return our nation, if not the rest of the world, back to peace takes more than the musings of one old man. I’m sure you’re aware of my many attempts in Parliament to extricate Britain from this American war. Sadly, the Tories have tied our nation to the whims of that bloviating idiot in the White House who started this entire war. I’m not sure that there’s much I can do at this point to change that fact.”
“My concern is with Britain, Mr. Chattem, not America,” Max replied. “I, like many other Londoners, do not want the country to go down with a sinking ship. We want to salvage what we can and position ourselves to rebound when the eventual recovery from the war happens. To that end, if you were to become PM, what would be your stance toward the Russian Federation and the Eastern Alliance?”
Chattem smiled. “If I were prime minister, I would end British involvement in the war. This is a war that we should not be involved in, and I, for one, do not believe we should lose any more of our youth fighting a war that the Americans forced NATO into. As to the Eastern Alliance—again, Korea and Taiwan aren’t a concern to the UK. And Asia is a long way from Britain. Does that answer your question?” Chattem asked.
Max nodded. “From a business and policy perspective, this makes sense, and that is what the people I represent also want to see happen. Your stance has always been antiwar, and your policies have been focused on solving the problems of Britain and taking care of those in need domestically. I admire that about you, Mr. Chattem, and I’d like to do my best to help you get to 10 Downing Street one day.”
Chattem rubbed his chin, deep in thought.
Sensing some concern, Max pressed in. “What would it take for you to become the next PM? The interests I represent may be able to help, but ultimately, we need to know what will make the difference. And please, do not hesitate to tell me exactly what you need, no matter how crazy it may sound.”
Chattem laughed. “Eliminating half a dozen Tory MPs would be a start,” he said jokingly, not realizing that Max was very serious about doing “whatever” it took to get him into office, even if it meant offing a few pesky members of Parliament.
Chattem paused, calculating a more useful response. “I need a public relations disaster for the current government,” he remarked. “Suffering military defeats is one thing—my party is already using that to our advantage with the antiwar marches and protests—but if London and some of our other major cities were ever attacked, especially after the PM said we were well protected, I think that would go a long way in destroying the moral support of the people for the party in power. If a scandal were thrown in at the same time, it could be enough to cause the current government to collapse, or at least give me the leverage needed to call for a vote of no-confidence,” he concluded.
Max took a deep breath and let it out. “That is a big list, Mr. Chattem. I’m not sure that my backers can carry out any or most of that. However, I’ll bring it up to them, and we’ll try to help where we can. As situations do happen to your advantage, you will need to capitalize on them, Mr. Chattem. If we’re to spend enormous political and financial capital to help advance you into the PM office, you will have to pay us back some favors when we call upon you. Is that understood?” he asked.
This was the moment of truth. Would he get Chattem to agree to a quid pro quo? Once he approved their little arrangement, he would forever be ensnared in the web of the GRU and be their perpetual pawn, unless he wanted to be exposed.
“Mr. Weldon, I won’t agree to a blank check of support to the global elites your firm represents,” Chattem asserted. His face softened. “I have made my positions on the war and internal policies clear, which I believe coincide with your own interests. If I am so fortunate as to become the next prime minister, I won’t forget those who helped me get there. I will give your concerns due consideration.”
Max nodded, then pressed him a bit further. “If we’re able to help you become PM, your position is that you would end British involvement in the war and sue for a separate peace with the Eastern Alliance, correct?” Max asked a bit more directly and forcefully. He needed to know beyond a doubt that Chattem would be sympathetic to their cause if he rose to power.
Mr. Chattem looked nervously at his watch. He was probably starting to worry that this meeting was taking too long and thinking about how they might get caught.
“Mr. Weldon, as I said, if I were PM, Britain would end our involvement in the war. If I were PM, I’d pursue a separate peace with the Eastern Alliance and end British involvement in the war…immediately.”
Max smiled. “Got you,” he thought. “You now work for me, whether you know it or not, Mr. Chattem.”
Max stood and extended his hand. “Mr. Chattem, it was good to finally meet you in person and work through some of these critical details. The world is at a precipice. We find ourselves standing at the edge, looking down into the abyss. If calmer heads do not prevail and step back from the edge, I fear the world may fall into that black nether, and God only knows what may become of us if that happens…I will speak with my backers, and we will do our utmost to ensure you’re the next prime minister of Great Britain. If we need to meet again or convey any information between ourselves, my secretary will reach out to yours.”
Chattem nodded. As he began to turn to leave, Max stopped him.
“One more thing—you’ll need to transfer your retirement portfolio to the management of my firm immediately. That will be the cover for any future meetings between us.”
Chattem nodded again, and the two men left the suite and headed out the building through different exits.
The Frozen Chosen
The wind howled fiercely outside, rocking the amphibious assault vehicles, or “amtracks,” with each gust as the 5th Marines raced down the Pyongyang-Kaesong Highway. They were battling against the clock in a desperate attempt to reinforce the US Army’s 7th Infantry Division at Taechon, 128 kilometers north of Pyongyang. If they didn’t arrive soon, many lives would be lost.
A blizzard had swept down from northern China, devastating the Allies’ ability to stop the Chinese Liberation Army’s massive counterattack at the Yalu River. The whirling snow had hidden the movement of tens of thousands of Chinese soldiers and prevented the Allies from using the one asset that neutralized the overwhelming infantry numbers—their air power. Without clo
se air support, the units defending the Yalu line were simply overrun by the sheer volume of enemy soldiers being thrown at them. It was now a race against time to prevent an all-out massacre from unfolding.
Five hours into their race north from Busan, South Korea, the twenty-one Marines riding in the amtrack with Master Sergeant Tim Long were getting a bit antsy. Aside from a pit stop to refuel, they had stayed on the road, which meant no one had been able to fully stretch out or even take a proper bio break.
Master Sergeant Long had just rejoined the company three days ago, after recovering from a few broken ribs and a punctured lung suffered six weeks before. He had been eager to get back to his unit and knew some of the hardest fighting was still ahead of them. However, he hadn’t anticipated this particular fight.
“I guess we’re paying for sending so many of our troops to Europe,” he thought.
Eventually, they turned off the main highway and moved up a winding road to get to the top of a ridgeline. The higher-ups had decided that this crest would be the Marines’ “line in the sand.” As they continued traveling along the twisting road, the constant cutbacks and turns caused a couple of the Marines to get car sick. Then, one of the pee bottles’ caps came undone, and urine spilled across the floor of the track, further adding to the stench.
“Are you kidding me? I told you guys to take a leak when we refueled!” Master Sergeant Long yelled, irritated.
“Oh, for crying out loud! How much longer is it going to take us to get there already?” one of the young privates moaned. “My butt is killing me and this track stinks like a port-a-potty at Oktoberfest.”
Just as Long was about to respond to the young Marine’s grumbling, the vehicle commander yelled back to them. “Heads up, guys! I just received word we should be approaching the Army’s positions.”
“The track finally seems like it’s on level ground,” Long realized. “We must be at the top of the ridge.”
