Overthrow: The War with China and North Korea

by David Poyer

  Dan said, “I understand the need to move, Admiral. But if we get our tails kicked, either at sea or once our four divisions are ashore, what’s that do to support for the war?”

  Verstegen sighed.

  Dan said, “Sir, I’m trying to wear two hats out here. Warfighter and logistics. I feel confident we can win against whatever the enemy has left. We have air and missile coverage. But I need two things.”

  “What was the second?”

  “I believe my logistics commander is … overextended.”

  A gentle word, but one any senior officer could interpret. “Custer?” The fleet commander frowned. “Hard to believe. Lee’s always been a charger, in my experience.”

  “Sir, I can only judge by what I see. So: If the Chinese are really weakening, another month will weaken them further. It’ll free up more time for training. This is a multinational force, and our Vietnamese are only militia. They’re going to arrive pretty much totally untrained. Four weeks will let ammo and fuel catch up too.”

  “And what do you recommend in regard to Lee?” A touch of frost. Was Custer one of Verstegen’s golden boys? Was that what he meant by the “charger” remark?

  Dan lowered his voice, though they were alone on the VTC. “I’ve lost confidence, sir.”

  Lost confidence. The damning phrase that once pronounced could not be taken back. Command was a privilege, not a right. You didn’t need a specific charge to remove an officer from command. It was enough to doubt his ability to right a situation, lead his organization, act with decisive effectiveness whatever the challenge.

  No officer had a career after that.

  But in wartime, hard choices.

  Verstegen said, “And replace him with who?”

  Dan had expected this conundrum. “Sir, I don’t have anyone in mind. Jenn Roald, if she was available. But I doubt she is. Maybe his deputy could do a better job, and not have to start from square one.”

  Verstegen was obviously pondering. “There might be a smarter way around this, Admiral.”

  “Sir?”

  “Another operation’s gearing up to the north. A major one. JCS planned on both taking place simultaneously. Synergy. Making Zhang split his remaining forces. So delay in the southern theater would be … perilous.

  “The best solution might well be to have Lee Custer replace you. And you take over his billet in Logistics Force.”

  Dan tensed his jaw, trying to disguise what felt like a punch to the plexus. He’d figured that might be Fleet’s response, once they got down to brass tacks. If Rupture had to go ahead, even without assurance of success. For political reasons, or strategic—it didn’t really matter, at his level.

  He said calmly, “Sir, I’ll gladly accept that decision. If Indo-PaCom wants it that way. Lee’s senior to me, after all. But from where I’m sitting, no matter who occupies this seat after me, postponement’s the right option. Until we have the wherewithal.”

  “I’ll have to get back to you, Dan. About both issues—the postponement and the … personnel matter you raised. Meanwhile, give us an alternate timetable. No promises. Minimal changes. But what you think needs to be done.”

  It was the first time Verstegen had ever called him by his given name. A good sign, or not? He decided not to worry about it. To leave it in the hands of the gods.

  The lofty deities who wore many stars, far above his own position in the machine.

  We got to do what we got to do. That’s what the petty officer had said on the mess deck. It was true all the way up the line. Seamen, petty officers, officers, admirals … all the way up to where the buck stopped. And there too? Yeah, probably there too.

  A curt nod, and the screen went blank. Dan sat for a while, wishing he hadn’t eaten the pie and ice cream, curdling now deep in his gut. Then got up and headed to Flag Plot, to start revising the plan.

  8

  Taipei

  THE blues were too tight, the pants too fucking long. They weren’t Hector’s anyway. The white REMF public affairs captain bitch had thrown them at him and Patterson. Ordered, “Shuck those dirty rags. Put these on.”

  His “dirty rags” were the utilities he’d battled through the mountains in, rode tanks in. “They’re what I wore raising the flag,” he muttered.

  “You’re not wearing ’em today. Get a shower. Get those blues on, Sergeant. You too, Corporal,” she snapped, wheeling away and slamming the door.

  The headquarters staff had taken over the Hyatt Grand. Yeah, he thought bitterly as he peeled the filthy fatigues off, stepped out of them, and padded naked toward the shower, they’d brag all their lives how they’d liberated Taipei all on their own.

  Did he care?

  No. He didn’t. About that. Or about anything.

  Ffoulk was dead. Clay was dead. Pretty much everybody from the old platoon.

  Including one C323. The Last CHAD was a Corps legend now. As, apparently, Sergeant Hector Ramos was himself.

  Patterson was examining her filthy bra with disgust. A cursory knock, and the captain leaned in. “We ready yet?”

  “One more second, ma’am.” He buttoned his stock, straightened the blouse. The best-looking uniform in the services. But in the mirror, the eyes that stared from above it seemed to be looking back from Hell.

  He glanced at the door, bent to the discarded rags, and felt in the cargo pockets. Came up with a brown bottle. He popped an anti-PTSD pill and drained the pint to wash it down. He’d just two-pointed it clanging into a shitcan when the door jerked open again. He blotted his mouth hastily.

  “Are we ready? Finally?”

  Patterson said, “Yes, ma’am. We are.”

  “Finally. Then let’s go.”

  * * *

  THE floor the hotel lobby was particolored marble, from which great pillars rose to a white-domed ceiling. Spiral chandeliers hung dark; power was still out. The walls were scarred and pockmarked from bullets, but the Chinese had apparently used it as officer housing, and so largely spared it the destruction widespread in the rest of the city.

  The ceremony had been hastily planned, but the networks were here. Fox, CNN, BBC, Patriot, all the alphabets. Hector joined the other awardees to the left of a podium, where two soldiers were still chipping off the remnants of the red-star-and-banner device he guessed had replaced the Hyatt crest.

  They draped a Pacific Command flag across it as an Army officer stepped to the podium. He glanced at a cell, then barked, “Attention.”

  Two men strode in. One was in American uniform, a tall, rangy general. The other was Asian, in greens, with shoulderboards and a peaked hat. The American wore battle dress and Hector shook his head inwardly. Why couldn’t they have just given him a fresh set of those, instead of these ill-fitting blues? The US general, whose name he didn’t catch, introduced the Chinese, a Taiwanese named Li Shucheng. He then gave a quick overview of the campaign, winding up with the capture of the capital.

  “Unfortunately, the enemy commander, Lieutenant General Pei, escaped to the mainland during the final phase of the campaign. But all in all, the Allies have caused the enemy over a hundred thousand casualties, and bagged over three hundred thousand PUCs—I mean, POWs. Though not the most rapid victory, thanks to stubborn resistance, it is one of the most impressive ones in the history of warfare. Which the US Marines, along with their Army and Air Force comrades and the brave Nationalist forces under heroic General Shucheng, share the credit for.

  “Not to say our challenges have ended. We inherit a civilian population with a ruined infrastructure after it was rolled over by two violent military campaigns. The locals are, to a large extent, starving.

  “But that is no detraction from a truly audacious incident, when three fearless Marines scaled the central tower of the President’s Palace under heavy fire. Three went up. Two came back. This intrepid feat has captured the imagination of the world. Let’s go to the video.”

  A huge screen flickered on. Hector watched from a trillion miles away as Patterson’
s shaky video began. The sounds: the bluster of the wind, the popcorn crackle of battle, the occasional louder boom of tank guns.

  Ffoulk is standing on the ledge, pointing. A pan up at the Chinese flag, streaming in the wind. Then Hector struggles with the downhaul, his lips moving, but none of his curses audible.

  The flag collapses, draping him like Batman’s cape. He fights free. Ffoulk stuffs it into her pack, then hands him the Stars and Stripes. She snaps an order.

  Then her head whips sideways in a mist of red. She folds and collapses.

  That was the sniper … who’d kept firing the whole time he’d been trying to get the fucking flag up … Hector squeezes his eyes shut, unable to watch. The world sways. The PAO digs her knuckles into his ribs from behind. A sigh eddies from the audience. Must be that last shot Patterson took, of the American flag streaming out high above the captured city.

  “Corporal Emily Patterson. Sergeant Hector Ramos. Front and center.”

  His eyes snapped open. He and Patterson stepped out, wheeled, marched to the center of the lobby, and turned in unison into a right-face, confronting the general.

  Who took a moment, studying a paper.

  He said, “I will now read the citation.

  “The President of the United States takes pleasure in presenting the Silver Star Medal (Posthumously) to LaRhonda S. Ffoulk, Lieutenant, U.S. Marine Corps, for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in action against the enemy as part of Expeditionary Forces, U.S. Marine Corps Forces Pacific Command, in support of Operation Causeway. Following the rapid seizure of a vital avenue of approach into the city of Taipei, Lieutenant Ffoulk and her Marines occupied the building known as the Presidential Office. With disregard for her own safety, Lieutenant Ffoulk exposed herself to tank, machine gun, and sniper fire in order to provide suppressive fire facilitating the evacuation of the wounded Marines. She had just pulled down the enemy ensign and was preparing to hoist the American flag when she was mortally wounded by enemy fire. Lieutenant Ffoulk’s aggressive actions and bold leadership were critical in quieting enemy resistance and assuring the population they had been liberated. By her courage, leadership, judgment, and complete dedication to duty, Lieutenant Ffoulk reflected great credit upon herself and upheld the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and the United States Naval Service.”

  Hector squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to replay it. But already in his mind it was the video, not what he’d seen himself, high on the central tower. He felt sick to his stomach. His fingers twitched. He needed another drink. Just one more, then maybe he could hold it together.

  When it came his turn and his own citation had been read, he took five steps forward and halted. The general’s nametag read FAULCON. Hector tried to hold his breath, so the guy wouldn’t smell the whiskey, as the tall officer pinned on the gaudy red white and blue striped medal, then stepped back and saluted.

  “About … face,” someone murmured, and Hector snapped around and marched back, to take his place in the ranks once again.

  * * *

  THE Word had been that the platoon would get a week’s R&R, but that quickly got countermanded. They would load up on MRAPs and Oshkoshes and convoy south that afternoon. Somebody had to guard three hundred thousand prisoners. So nobody would be going on R&R for a while.

  He did get a chance to call home. The lieutenant set it up, along with a fresh set of Cameleons at last. That made him feel a little warmer toward her. Though he still didn’t feel much of anything, really. Except that fucking nausea.

  “Hello. Mirielle? Is that you?”

  “Who’s this?… Oh. Hector?”

  “It’s me. It’s me.”

  “Are you all right? You sound…”

  “Borracho, I know. I had a couple.”

  “But you’re okay. You were on the news.”

  “Yeah, did you see us raising the flag?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes, everyone saw that. You’re a hero. You’re famous.”

  “Never mind that. It don’t mean nothing. Hey, you see my mom, right? She okay?”

  “She’s fine, Hector. She’s proud of you. The medal and all.”

  “That’s good she heard. Give her my love.” The line hissed empty for a few seconds. Finally he said, “Is that fucker Mahmou’ leaving you alone?”

  “Mahmou’? He’s not at the Zone anymore. He left. After somebody beat him up and stole his stuff … was that you, Hector?”

  “Me? Shit, no. I’m a man of peace.” He squeezed his eyes closed, tried to keep the shaking out of his voice. “Just wish I was home. With you.”

  A pause then, low, “I do too, Hector. You still got … you still got my picture?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “And my rosary?”

  “Your rosary … no, I lost that. The string broke. On the stairs … Look, they’re calling me. Rejoin the platoon. I miss you, Mir.”

  “I’ll send you another one. I miss you too, Hector. I wish we could make plans. But you know. What we said, last time you were home.

  “Please stay safe. Vaya con Dios.”

  He wiped a hand over his face. It came away wet, but he couldn’t feel whatever was making him cry.

  * * *

  NO one knew why it was called Camp Rocky, but the name fitted the place. Anyhow, that probably wasn’t its real name. A valley in the mountains, almost a ravine, with steep slopes already blasted bare of trees by bombs or artillery, and now lined with barbed wire. Niegowski, one of his three squad leaders, said he’d heard it called Shanshuilu, where the Chinese had kept their own prisoners. But remembering the camp he and Patterson had seen farther south, Hector didn’t believe it. If the slants had held prisoners here, there would be mass graves.

  “Okay, get them debarked,” Lieutenant Hawkshadow told him, studying his tablet. “First POWs arrive tonight. We want OPs, lights, and sensors out, MGs dug in by then. Show ’em a firm hand from the get-go.”

  Hawkshadow was Lt. Ffoulk’s replacement. He was older than she’d been, moderate height, dark-skinned, sparing of words. Previous enlisted, which could be either good or bad. Hector guessed from his appearance and name he was ethnic Indian, Native American, though they hadn’t gotten personal enough yet to really know each other.

  The platoon debarked the trucks to face a line of waiting machines. They stood at ease, dull olive camo on their surfaces brightening and darkening as the clouds chased shadows over the hills.

  Hector walked the ranks. Their oculars followed him, then snapped back to eyes front when he looked in their direction. These were the new D model. Unlike 323, the CHAD he’d left manning the machine gun during that desperate battle on Hill 298, these had a sleeker, less overtly mechanical appearance. Their heads were even smaller than the Cs.

  Hill 298.

  Dug in on a terraced ridge, in the rain, in the mountains, with only the hilltop above them. Tangled jungle two days before. Now blasted down to matchstick trees, exposed rock, and raw orange harrowed mud, glittering with steel fragments and ammo casings …

  No, he thought, balling his fists. Then opened them, trying to breathe slow, in, out, in, out. He extracted a container from his blouse pocket and shook out another anti-P. They didn’t seem to block the memories themselves, which were vivid as ever and just went on and on. But they did seem to numb his mind. Kill his feelings.

  Suddenly realizing Hawkshadow had been calling his name, Hector shook himself back to the present and trotted over. “Sir?”

  The officer studied him, frowning. “You okay, Sergeant?”

  “Fit to fight, sir.”

  The lieutenant looked unconvinced, but finally just said, “Okay then. I’m going to pass on what I got from Higher. Right now, we have to feed and guard three hundred thousand starving troops. Plus they pretty much used up or destroyed any food stocks to keep the civilian population alive. The submarine blockade didn’t help, either.”

  “Copy that, sir,” Hector said. The same situation the general had outlined at the hotel.
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br />   “They estimate there’ll be nine thousand slants in this camp alone.”

  “Nine thousand…”

  “Military plus civilian internees. Locals who cooperated with the mainlanders. They have to be interrogated, sorted out, see if it’s safe to release them. To contain them we have two platoons of Marines, two platoons of friendly militia, and the CHADs.” Hawkshadow walked along the barbed wire; Hector paced him.

  “Sir, we’re not trained for this. Guarding POWs. Interrogating prisoners. I had maybe five minutes on how to treat captures at SOI.”

  “I know. The Army’s promised us a military police unit. The … 728th Military Police Battalion. But I don’t see them yet. So it’s OJT … just keep things battened down, and cope until the doggies show up. Oorah?”

  “Oorah, sir.”

  “The CHADs rotate back to the recharge station on their truck every twelve hours with minimal walking, every six hours if they march patrols. They’re programmed to handle their own reliefs and pass on standing orders, so you don’t have to do that. Chow and barracks for meat people will be at the eco station.”

  “The eco station, sir?”

  “Down in the far valley.” Hawkshadow pointed over the hill beyond the wire. “This place was like some kind of Jurassic Park. There’s an army medical team coming in too, for us and the prisoners. There’s an OP layout on your tablet. Modify it if you see better positions once you get eyes on the ground. Catch up with the other platoon sergeant and work out your guard details. Once more: Show a firm hand from the get-go, and we won’t have problems later on.”

  Hector nodded and started to walk away, but Hawkshadow called him back. “One more thing. Sergeant. You getting rock happy?”

  “Rock happy, sir?” Hector frowned. “I don’t know what that means.”

  The lieutenant said patiently, “It means, are you still with us, Sergeant? Because it doesn’t look to me like you totally are.”