Warshot wi-5

by Ian Slater

  “And in Siberia,” put in Cheng suddenly.

  “Yes — and those. Japan would like those, too, comrade. And the Americans are going to help her get them — and all the other raw materials you have in Manchuria. If you let them.”

  Yesov pushed forward his cup for a refill, his gesture devoid of any sign that it was a request — more like a demand. A bluff, perhaps, thought Cheng.

  “The only way for Freeman to defeat us, General — with his back to the sea — is for him to launch a preemptive flanking attack against us — a left hook, south, across the Amur, west through northeastern China and Mongolia, to come around behind us at Irkutsk, west of Lake Baikal. And soon — while the ground is still firm enough for their armor. Our intelligence confirms it.”

  Still Cheng said nothing. He didn’t believe all Yesov said for a minute, but there was a half-truth in the Russian’s presentation that alone could quickly develop into a full-blown, ugly reality for China. No matter who started it, if fighting broke out again between the Siberians and Americans, the Siberians, in order to split the American forces between Lake Baikal and Khabarovsk, would need to launch a right hook from their eastern Mongolia, through China’s Inner Mongolia and up across the Black Dragon — which Cheng noticed the marshal had still called the Amur. Such a counterattack would mean Freeman’s forces would be split in two by the Siberian wedge coming out of Chinese territory. If Beijing permitted it. This was obviously what Yesov was here for: to come to an “understanding” so that the Chinese would permit, or rather turn a blind eye to, Siberian troops in transit on Chinese soil.

  “Well then,” proffered Yesov, his attention moving from the water-swollen leaves of the aromatic green tea to the general’s impassive face. “If the Americans violated Chinese territory in attacking us, would you — would Beijing — have any objection to us sending forces up from Mongolia across the Amu — the river — to root them out?”

  “If the Americans violate Chinese territory, they will be attacked immediately by the People’s Liberation Army, Marshal, but as to your request of transit for Siberian troops, I would have to ask Beijing.”

  “Of course. When might we expect an answer?”

  “In due course.”

  “The matter is urgent, as I’m sure you realize, Comrade Cheng. Intelligence reports tell us American armor is already massing along the hump.”

  “We will decide when we are ready, comrade.”

  It was one of the Chinese characteristics that most infuriated Yesov — the refusal to give you a definite yes or no on the spot. Of course, it had been the same in the old days with Moscow. Everything had to go to ten different committees, no one taking responsibility until it was too late. It reminded him of the story about Mao being asked whether he thought the invention of the wheel had been a forward or backward step for China. Mao considered the question and replied, “Too early to tell.”

  General Cheng rose, followed by Yesov. The meeting was over.

  * * *

  Cheng decided immediately to reinforce the Chinese presence on his side of the border, ordering two of the five armored divisions in Shenyang, the most northeastern province, north from Harbin to the banks of the Black Dragon River, together with five of Shenyang’s fifteen infantry divisions and two artillery brigades. Even allowing for the fact that a Chinese division had five thousand less than a western division, it still meant a reinforcement of over 65,000 men.

  But with Siberians, Americans, and the Chinese now caught in a tripartite of suspicion, Cheng was not content to rest. In addition to his having unilaterally ordered more troops north across the Yangtze to bolster the border defenses — which would take days to implement — other precautions must be taken. Accordingly, Cheng called an extraordinary meeting of both the Central Committee and the Military Commission, all the members having their offices in the luxurious Zhongnanhai compound on Beijing’s Avenue of Eternal Peace. He explained the position succinctly, pointing out that it was imperative that neither the Siberians nor Americans violate Chinese territory. “It is clear, comrades, that if the Americans move south across the Black Dragon, Novosibirsk will have no objection to us moving troops through Siberian-held Mongolia to repulse them.”

  “But what if the Americans imposed sanctions upon us, General?” asked Chairman Nie. “As they did with Hussein?”

  “It would have no effect, comrade,” Cheng assured him. “One of their own has supplied and can go on supplying the PLA with whatever it requires.” He meant La Roche. Cheng leaned forward on the table, his Medal of Merit ribbon for stopping “U.S. aggression in Korea” catching the fading, snow-reflected light that had penetrated the serenity of the Zhongnanhai, and for a moment he could hear the birds twittering outside above the two lakes. “While the Americans’ high-tech victory over the incompetent Hussein might have been impressive to the western world, comrades, here the Americans are back in Asia. Here, comrades, they will not find demoralized, disloyal, badly supplied Republican Guards, but the People’s Liberation Army, who, from the time of the Long March, know more about surviving and fighting on the land than anyone on earth.”

  There were knowing nods about the table, but Cheng was warming to his subject. The PLA had been, was, his life. “The Chinese infantryman travels light, comrades. His mobility in the mountains is legendary.” Cheng stood up like a schoolmaster, knowing that all eyes were upon him. “This is precisely how General Sung, in 1950, under the very noses of the Americans, could move twelve divisions of the PLA, a hundred and sixty thousand men, comrades, from Manchuria across the Korean border to the Chosin Reservoir, and the Americans detected nothing until it was too late. The PLA’s Ninth Field Army slaughtered the American marines. General Sung ordered his troops to kill these marines as you would snakes. And we did. Even by the U.S. imperialists’ own admission, some marines went insane in the minus-thirty-four-degree battle. They cannot take it. And now they are far from home, comrades — their supply lines stretch across the Pacific. We would chop them to pieces.”

  “And they have long noses!” added Chairman Nie, which produced the only general laughter of the afternoon. It signified the Central Committee’s confidence that Cheng clearly understood the situation and was prepared to meet any contingency in the far northeast. The Central Committee was also reassured by the knowledge that Cheng had an important American who could provide whatever materiel was needed — probably from South Korea, via Vietnam — should it become necessary.

  After the meeting, Cheng was informed by his secretary that his request for artillery shells and AIF smoke rounds had been received in Shanghai and that Mr. Li, the cover name they used for La Roche himself, would be personally informed of the request in the interests of expediting delivery.

  “Hao.” Good. Cheng nodded, and immediately placed another order by fax for three airport luggage-train, type-B axles. The “three” meant three thousand, and “type-B axles” stood for ERFB-BB shells.

  These were extended-range, full-bore shells with a base bleed, so that immediately after firing, the gas was forced back into the shells’ air wake instead of around the shells, where it would create drag. When the round hit, with little or no drag, it had twice the explosive power. “Two for the price of one,” La Roche had told Cheng, but the “one” was very expensive, even more so than usual, because of the shady South African connection with the Canadian, Gerald Bull, who had invented the super-long gun.

  It was Bull’s research that made it possible for the ERFB-BB’s rounds to be made, the long-range “bull” gun that maximized their efficiency already on order by Cheng. But Cheng wasn’t a fool in the capitalist pool filled with sharks like La Roche: payment for the shells was contractually contingent upon the delivery of the guns first. Cheng already had a brigade of A1 Far 210mm howitzers, another offshoot of the Canadian’s phenomenally effective six-wheel-mounted, thirty-five-mile-range gun, the longest-ranged mobile gun in the world. To get those, at three million dollars apiece, La Roche had to go perso
nally to Austria to talk with Voest-Alpine SA and sell them a line that he was buying them on the quiet for the U.S. Army, for though Bull was dead, killed by the Israeli Mossad in Brussels shortly before the Iraqi War, the Americans were still touchy about Bull’s South African connection. The ship the guns would be loaded on would suddenly “disappear” in a “local storm” somewhere in the East China Sea, en route to South Korea, its stated destination. On top of that, La Roche would skim off the insurance — and it would be substantial — from Lloyd’s. During wartime there would be no chance of getting insurance, but this was a cease-fire and he could get Lloyd’s to underwrite it. Cheng knew that the vision of the Lutine Bell sounding at Lloyd’s in London, signaling another vessel lost at sea, would make La Roche smile. It would mean millions more for him, no matter that the base bleeds might well be being purchased for use against fellow Americans — along the Chinese-Siberian border — and how, if this was the case, because of the gun’s ferocious accuracy, twice as many Americans would be killed and injured as under a normal artillery barrage.

  * * *

  While Cheng finalized troop dispositions for the battle defense of the borders, and the Siberian OMON Black Berets were taking Alexsandra Malof to the cells in Harbin, over five thousand miles away Jay La Roche was high, drunk, and aroused in his eightieth floor New York penthouse above the Il Trovatore bar, asking Francine what the hell she thought she was doing.

  “What you told me, Mr. La Roche.”

  “Don’t ‘Mr. La Roche’ me, you slut. You love it, don’t you? You—” He lurched up from the bed, pulling the strap from her, flinging it across the room. “Don’t have to be invited, do you? Like it, right? Bitch—” He lunged at her, both hands grabbing her breasts, losing his balance, falling back on the waterbed, the heavy slush sound mixing with Francine crying in pain on top of him.

  “Shut up, you bitch!” They rolled off the bed onto the thick shag carpet, he still hanging on to her, letting go only when her rain of blows became too difficult to fend off. She was screaming at him. She ran to the bedroom door but couldn’t open it. He laughed. There was a tearing noise like crushed cellophane, and she saw him pulling on a condom. For a moment or two he had his back to her and she saw him searching for something, then he swung around, holding his hand up victoriously, showing her the snuff box, flicking the lid open, snapping it shut, tossing it at her. “Take a snort!”

  She did, and in a few moments felt another rush. “I don’t want to hit you again, Mister—”

  “Jay!”

  “I don’t want to hit you again, Jay.”

  “Turn around!”

  “No — please, Mister — please, Jay,” she gasped.

  He jerked her hard toward him, then unsteadily swung her about, slamming her face first up against the wall, and she felt the searing pain as he entered her, and tepid liquid running down her legs onto the carpet as he poured the bourbon over her buttocks, the liquor spreading in a pool about her feet. “You’ve been to Melville’s,” he charged.

  “Yes, but I—”

  “You clean?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “The fuck you are. Thought you could pull a fast one on the boss eh? Eh?”

  “No — no.”

  He smacked her hard on the buttocks with his left hand. “I’m not getting your shitty germs.” She gasped again at the hot, raw pain inside her rectum. Her arms spread-eagled against the wall, nails hard into the wallpaper, she felt she was going to black out. He was breathing hard, panting, “Oh — oh — oh,” calling out, “I love you, baby. I love you—” But she knew he was talking about his Lana. Now he was making blubbering, crying noises as he pumped her harder and harder, until he fell full against her, lathered in sweat, his breathing irregular, and then he was sobbing, clutching her waist, and off to her side she could see he was still clutching a picture of his wife. A moment later he staggered back from her, collapsing on the bed. “Get… get… out, you slut!” His voice was hoarse, and the next time he spoke, barely audible. “I’ll get her back — you’ll see. I’ll get her back—”

  Francine ran toward the bedroom door, expecting it to be locked, but this time it sprang open. She didn’t know how he’d done it — the place was full of buttons and traps — and she didn’t care, moving quickly out into the living room, lifting the phone, punching the bar button. “Jimmy — you gotta help me, I—”

  “You in the penthouse?”

  “Yes. For God’s sake, Jimmy, he’s—”

  “He use the knife on the bra?”

  “What — yes, why?”

  “Get out, I’m on my way up. Meet you at the elevator— Francine?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You get out real quick. He’s not finished, babe. Next cut won’t be your clothes.”

  Francine dropped the phone, slipped off the chain, and a moment later was standing out in the hallway next to the elevator.

  In the Il Trovatore, Jimmy had called over a waiter to fill in, walked quickly into the elevator and pushed the button for the penthouse floor. The moment the doors slid open, in she came, stark naked. Jimmy gave her his bar jacket, his other hand holding down the bypass lever, his thumb pushing the button for the thirteenth floor. She was shivering. “This is the only building in New York with a thirteenth floor,” Jimmy said suddenly. “Wanta know why?”

  “He’s crazy.” Her eyes were closed, her breathing rapid.

  “He has it to show he’s not superstitious,” said Jimmy. “Says he doesn’t believe in voodoo — destiny’s in your own hands. Always quoting some guy called Neatcha.”

  “He’s crazy.”

  “No doubt about it. But the money’s good.”

  “Not if you’re dead.”

  “You mean you won’t keep it?”

  “I mean I’m never going back.”

  “Sure,” said Jimmy, watching the floor lights flit by. “And I’m Father Christmas.” The elevator came to a halt. “A grand’s good money.”

  “I mean it,” she said.

  “I know you do. Listen, if you want a good proctologist — a few stitches — five hundred bucks. No questions. That leaves you with five, sweetass.”

  “That supposed to be funny, Jimmy?”

  “Don’t get shitty, Francine. Just a joke. You’re in one piece. Look on the bright side — you could be his wife.”

  “Huh — wonder why she divorced him?”

  “Not divorced,” said Jimmy, walking her to her apartment door. “Separated, honey. He isn’t finished with her yet — or her boyfriend, the crackerjack ace.” Jimmy seemed to like the idea. They heard someone coming up the exit stairs. They walked faster. Whoever it was stopped, then kept going up to the next floor.

  “One of the boys,” said Jimmy. “Probably wants to make sure you’re still on the premises.”

  “Oh my God,” she said.

  “What?”

  “My damn keys — I forgot my keys!”

  “No sweat,” said Jimmy, taking a credit card from his wallet and working open the door.

  Once inside, she handed him back the jacket. “Thanks, Jimmy.”

  “Don’t try to leave him, babe, like that Lana Brentwood dame. If I know anything, he ain’t finished with her yet. And remember Hailey.” Jimmy could see she didn’t recognize the name. “Congressman,” he explained. “Didn’t do what La Roche wanted him to. Something about having his wife transferred. Congressman Hailey had an accident. La Roche’s tabloids said it was suicide. Months later La Roche’s wife was transferred to the Aleutians— another congressman in his pocket, I guess. So you be careful, hear?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Francine?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You enjoy it?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  For Marshal Yesov, Beijing had given the answer, his forward observers reporting that from the ruins of Kublai Khan’s Xanadu, 190 miles north of Beijing, on the Great North Plain, as far north as Manzhouli, just south of Siberia’s Argunskiy Mountains,
and in the northeast as far up as the Black Dragon River that formed the northernmost Siberian-Chinese frontier, Chinese garrisons were being reinforced to repulse any incursion by the Americans through northern China’s river valleys into Siberia.

  Yesov was so pleased with the Chinese action that he ordered all his forward observers and consulate liaison officers, like Ilya Latov in Harbin, to simply refer to the Amur as the “jiang”—the river — in deference to Chinese sensitivities. And if so much as one American footprint or one shell or one American helicopter was sighted straying, even for an instant, across the border, both Siberian and Chinese headquarters were to be notified immediately. Given their common watchdog duty, some of the Chinese and Siberian junior ranks formed congenial relations during their daily radio reports to each other on the status of the wide ribbon of frozen river, where temperatures had dropped to minus thirty in the passes. The cold was no special travail for the northern troops from Shenyang Military Region in China, or for the Siberians, but it was a torture for the Chinese regiments who came from south of the Yangtze. These southern Chinese regiments, some from as far away as Canton, hated the cold and were grateful that patrols were kept to a minimum so that the American helicopters buzzing up and down the border during the cease-fire would see nothing else but normal Chinese patrol activity along the western part of the Amur hump where the northern part of China’s Inner Mongolia jutted like a blunt spearhead around Hulun Lake into the northeasternmost sector of Siberian Mongolia.