by Ian Slater
Asian Front
( WW III - 6 )
Ian Slater
At Manzhouli, near the border of China, Siberia, and Mongolia, the Chinese launch their charge into the woods. There is the roar of fire — and from the other side, the eruption of the SAS/D’s Heckler & Koch 9mm parabellums firing at over eight hundred rounds a minute, the crash of grenades, and the terrible whistling of flechettes. Suddenly the sky is aglow with phospherous flares like shooting stars, as the ChiComs’ four 120-pound Soviet-type Aphid missiles streak toward the B-52 at 2,800 meters per second. It’s all-out war…
Ian Slater
ASIAN FRONT
CHAPTER ONE
Khabarovsk, Siberia
“Rock and roll!” David Brentwood yelled, and everything opened up, from the rip of the P90’s 5.7mm bursts to the steady “bomp, bomp, bomp” of grenade launchers, joined by the long, guttural roar of M-60s pouring out a deadly stream of two hundred rpm 7.62 mm fire. The acrid stench of cordite was all about the British and American commandoes, the thumps and rattle of 5.6mm rounds hitting their targets lost beneath the crash of supporting heavy 107mm mortar fire.
Next to Brentwood, Aussie Lewis, glancing at his P90’s plastic mag, could see that he had about ten rounds left for the Belgian-made machine gun, the empties’ casings spewing down beneath the gun, catching a beam of sunlight that was penetrating the Siberian pines. It was only for a second, but a member of the red team saw it, fired, and Aussie Lewis heard the two tones of a near miss. He rolled quickly, but not fast enough to escape the high monotone or “smoke alarm,” as they called the noise from the Miles — the Multiple Integrated Laser Engagement System.
“Shit!” Aussie said as he took out the key from his rifle transmitter, disengaging the weapon, then put the key in his helmet and chest control unit, ending the tone. He saw the grader scratch him from the sheet. It meant that for Aussie, a veteran of General Freeman’s Second Army’s crack British/American Special Air Services/Delta commando team or SAS/D, as it was known by its elite members, was out of the war game and had lost a bet with his fellow commandoes: “Choir” Williams, who hailed from Wales, and his two American buddies, Captain David Brentwood and Private First Class Salvini. Aussie had bet these other three members of Brentwood’s SAS/D troop that he’d be the last to be taken out. And to rub it in, Brentwood, Choir Williams, and Salvini were already demanding their money.
“Bloody scavengers,” Aussie retorted. “That’s what you are. Suppose if we get in a real punch-up again and I got hit you bastards’d probably take my friggin’ watch.”
“Let’s see you smile, boyo,” Choir Williams instructed.
“What?”
“Can’t you smile?”
Aussie flashed a quick grin as if he was at the dentist’s. “Satisfied?”
“Ah—” Williams said, feigning disappointment to Brentwood and Salvini. “Just as I figured. ‘E hasn’t got any gold fillings, lads. His watch’ll have to do.”
“What a fucking trio,” Aussie said. “You blokes oughta…”
“Shut up, Lewis!” the grader ordered. “You want to get the rest of your squad taken out?”
“No, sir,” Aussie answered, muttering under his breath, “What the hell would he know about it? That bloke hasn’t seen a shot fired in anger.”
“Let’s hope it stays that way, boyo,” Choir Williams said.
“It has to,” Lewis said.
“How’s that?” Salvini put in.
“Because I’m just getting to know Olga,” Aussie replied. “You know, the one with the big—”
“Yes,” said David Brentwood, who, although married, was always shocked by Aussie’s vivid descriptions of female anatomy. “We know. She’s a member of the Khabarovsk Polar Bear Club. Swims in the nude.”
“Yeah,” Salvini added. “Well, you can have her, buddy. Any piece that swims naked in freezing water isn’t playin’ with a full deck.”
“Well I don’t intend playing fucking cards with her, Sal.”
“Okay, you four,” the grader decreed. “You’re all out!”
“That’s all right,” Aussie Lewis said. “This racket’s frazzled my nerves anyway. After firing all these blanks I need a drink.”
Normally the grader would have had more to say, and normally the British-American SAS/D team wouldn’t have acted so cavalierly, but, as members of the U.S.-led U.N. forces under General Douglas Freeman, they were veterans of the daring raid on Pyongyang in Korea, fierce fighting on and around Ratmanov Island in the Bering Strait, and Lake Baikal in Siberia, and had earned a certain cachet.
Even the most gentlemanly among them, the twenty-five-year-old Medal of Honor winner David Brentwood, was known as one of the toughest of the tough. SAS/Delta training broke anyone else. Besides, everyone, including the graders, was in a fairly good mood these days. Spring had sprung; Aussie Lewis had found Olga, an accommodating if large blond Siberian “bird,” as he called her; and pretty soon it seemed that David Brentwood, Salvini, and Choir Williams would be on home leave, David back to his wife, Georgina, in the States, Choir Williams to his beloved Wales, and Salvini to his haunts in Brooklyn. This time, everyone was saying, the cease-fire between Siberia, China, and the U.N. force would hold. That is, everyone except General Douglas Freeman.
CHAPTER TWO
Further west of Khabarovsk, along the Amur River hump in the town of Poyarkovo on the Siberian side of the DMZ, an American soldier was meeting a Chinese “good-time” girl who, caught on the American-patrolled north bank of the Amur when the DMZ went into effect, was making the best of it. Neither she nor the American spoke the other’s language, but they understood each other perfectly. He was handing over dollars, and she was about to give him sex with an almond-eyed smile. She smelled of lavender and was dressed in a thigh-split qi pao of radiant Ming blue silk, embroidered with tiny golden birds, only a tantalizing glimpse of firm, tan thigh visible. She disappeared behind the fine bamboo screen. The soldier heard the soft purr of a zipper, then saw the qi pao being draped carefully over the bamboo divider. The GI closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Oh, man!
He’d been too long in the U.S.-patrolled U.N. demilitarized zone between China and the breakaway United Siberian Republic — both of which the U.S. had had to fight as part of the U.N.‘s wish to “stabilize” the area. He was bored with the routine of patrolling “the trace,” the DMZ, to see whether there had been violations by either Siberian or Chinese troops as a prelude to possible land grabs along the long-disputed Chinese-Siberian border. Marked by fertile valleys, the still-frozen Amur, or Black Dragon, as it was called by the Chinese, wound itself through mountain gorges and an endless taiga of pine, beech, and fir, separating Manchuria from the old Soviet empire.
Patrolling the border was a dangerous as well as a dreary duty, because before the present cease-fire had come into effect, China and the new Siberian republic had already made an alliance of convenience, albeit a shaky one, against the Americans. It was a cold and lonely duty, too, despite the advent of spring along the Amur, no matter how beautiful the taiga or how busty the Siberian women. In any case, the soldier preferred the Chinese girls. If some of those Siberian women sat on your face you’d be pulp. But on a soldier’s pay he would never have been able to afford Spring Flower, as she called herself. The soldier, like many others, had been given the money personally by General Freeman, even though it was known he abhorred whores as being little better than politicians.
Freeman, often referred to as “George” for his striking resemblance to the actor George C. Scott, was a legend in his own time, the greatest American general since Patton and Schwarzkopf, and he was walking down the line, doling out money, his own, to his soldiers, telling them to go to the Chinese brothels alon
g the DMZ and not to worry about bringing back change. “You fellas have a good time now!” the general said. “And remember, boys, safe sex — so draw your rubbers from the quartermaster.”
As Churchill had believed that the armistice following die 1914-18 war with Germany was nothing more than a temporary cease-fire, that Germany sooner or later would start another war, Freeman had no faith in the present cease-fire between China and Siberia on one side and the United States on the other. And this “brothel subsidy,” as he called it, was his latest effective, if eccentric, tactic: “A preemptive strike,” as he explained to his aide, Colonel Dick Norton.
“Washington’s not going to like it, General.”
“Washington isn’t going to know about it, Dick.”
Dick Norton shook his head worriedly. “Sir, it’s only a matter of time before the press gets onto it. They love stuff like this. There’d be hell to pay. And as for the women’s lobby!” Norton rolled his eyes heavenward. “Paying dogfaces to get laid…”
“Dick, you worry too much. I know that’s your job, but I’ve told you before, by the time I get this business about ‘being recalled for consultation’ in Washington over with we could be at war again with these jokers. Chinese, Siberians, or both. I don’t trust Novosibirsk any more than I do Beijing. This is the second cease-fire we’ve had, and I tell you it’s no better than any of the seventy-five the Yugoslavs had. Goddamn it! You’d think Washington could see that. We were sent over here to keep this upstart United Siberian Republic from annexing more territory, and what happened? The Chinese made a land grab into Siberia first and we ended up with a war on two fronts. And now, just when we turn the tide on the bastards and look like we’re kicking their ass across the Black Dragon River, back into China where they belong, and the Siberians back beyond Lake Baikal where they belong, Beijing and Novosibirsk ask for a cease-fire, and of course those fairies in Washington give it to them.”
“The public doesn’t want the war to go on, General.”
“Dick,” the general began exasperatedly, “like the man in the transmission commercial used to say: ‘Pay me now or pay me later.’ We should have kicked ass all the way to Beijing — teach ‘em a lesson like we taught that Siberian Yesov son of a bitch. He messed with Second Army and got a bloody nose.”
“We got one, too, General, before we stopped them,” Norton reminded him — the almost complete destruction of the American III Corps, its blood and equipment streaked across the frozen twenty-mile escape route across Lake Baikal, was evidence of that.
“Yes, because the goddamned chinks attacked us when we were preoccupied with the Siberians so we ended up with a two-front war.”
“General, you shouldn’t use that word—’chinks.’ You’re being recalled now because of what Washington calls your ‘intemperate remarks’ about those two Spets.” Norton was referring to two Spetsnaz — Siberian Special Operations, in this case women commandos — who’d tried to assassinate Freeman at his Khabarovsk HQ.
“Intemperate remarks!” Freeman thundered. “Bitches tried to kill me! In my own quarters, goddamn it!”
“I know, General, but after you shot them and said it was a case of ‘equal opportunity’ employment — well, the feminists—”
“Said in the heat of the moment, Dick.”
“I know that, General, but the feminists back home went absolutely—”
“Ape!” Freeman cut in gleefully. “Listen, Norton, those crazies from the femisphere are free to go ape and I’m free to say what I think because a lot of good men died for freedom all the way from Normandy to here. That’s a fact. And I’m not about to be cowed by a bunch of skirts.”
“I know, General, but it’s a new world.”
“Yes.” Freeman sighed. “And by God, I don’t like it. More dangerous now than the cold war.”
“Not much we can do about it, sir.”
“I’ll tell you what you can do about it. While I’m back in Washington getting my ass reamed out for offending the femisphere, you can help keep Second Army razor sharp so that if any more chinks cross the Amur into Siberia we can push ‘em back.”
“Yes, sir, we’ll try.”
“I know. Have every confidence in my staff.” The general reached for his coat. His tone dropped. “You make that appointment for me with that Taiwanese admiral — Kuang?”
“Yes, sir. He’ll see you in Tokyo. Strictly unofficial. Civilian dress.”
“You order the meal I wanted? No damned sushi. American beef.”
“Yes, sir,” Norton assured him. “Prime rib, range fed, just like you said.”
“None of that steroid-fed crap.”
“No, sir. I promise.” Norton paused. “You think he’ll go for the dessert you’ve got in mind?” The dessert, the general had told Norton, would be China — if Beijing ever moved across the Amur again.
Their public announcements aside, Freeman was convinced that the top leadership of the old KMT — Kuomintang — party in Taiwan, once commanded by Chiang Kai-shek or, as Harry Truman called him, “Cash my Check,” had never wavered in its determination to go back home. Taiwan had infinite patience and, with one of the most powerful armies and navies in Asia, fully intended to return to China and oust the leadership in Beijing if the opportunity ever presented itself, an opportunity their agents had constantly been working for along the coast of the East China Sea since 1949.
Freeman was also aware of something else — something he didn’t believe the “fairies” back in Washington understood — that in China there were many Chinas, that one of the great illusions of the twentieth century was seeing China as a cohesive whole — a monolithic structure too big to topple. Since Tiananmen Square especially, internal dissent had grown, not vanished. It had merely gone underground. It had been part of that underground that had enabled the Americans to gain information with which they had been able to blow up the Nanking Bridge across the Yangtze and so sever the long logistical supply line from southern to northern China. Even so, for the moment Beijing still ruled with an iron fist, and the hundreds of individual Chinas had not yet been galvanized into a decisive bloc. But Freeman was convinced they were there — waiting.
“General, I hate to sound like a harpy, but that’s something else you’re going to have to watch. I mean if the press ever discovers you’re talking to the Taiwanese, every tabloid in the country’ll bury you alive.” In particular, the general knew his aide meant the La Roche tabloid chain — owned by the multibillion-dollar newspaper/industrial magnate now arrested under the U.S. Emergency Powers Act (to combat internal sabotage during the war) for having traded with the enemy. Specifically, La Roche and his front Asian companies, from Singapore to Hong Kong, had been providing Communist China with the weapons and ammunition used against fellow Americans in the slaughter of the American III Corps on Lake Baikal.
“To hell with La Roche — that weasel’ll be behind bars after a grand jury gets through with him.”
“Even so, General, he still runs the newspapers, and he’ll use his editors to whip up opinion any way he wants. You’ll have to watch what you say when you’re back home.”
“I say what’s on my mind, Dick. I won’t waffle.”
Dick Norton didn’t believe him. Freeman was a to-your-face man all right, but he could be as selective or as evasive as the next commander in what he said if he wanted to be — witness his mysteriously terse order for “wolf dung and only wolf dung” to be collected and frozen at headquarters. Not even Norton knew what the hell it was about. The only thing the general would say was that he wanted it on standby— “Just throw it outside on the permafrost, that’ll keep it frozen”—and that if there was a war with China it could save thousands of American lives.
“Well, have a good trip, sir. Hope to see you back soon.”
“Don’t worry, Dick,” Freeman said, slapping his aide on the back. “I’ll straighten everything out. ‘Sides, it’s spring now in Washington. Puts the Pentagon fairies in a good mood.”
>
“Fairies” were anyone who disagreed with him.
* * *
The fairies were in a good mood, but as Aussie Lewis would have said, there was a plot on — one supported by the unwitting consensus of editorial writers throughout the country — to strip Freeman of his command and keep him home, this time for good. It was widely acknowledged that he was a marvelous war general but a loose cannon in the peace. Better to send him back to Fort Ord in California, let him retire at his desk where he wouldn’t talk about “chinks” and “equal opportunity” when he killed Spets. At least he’d be out of the public eye.
How Washington had got wind of his intended meeting with Admiral Kuang, Freeman didn’t know, but upon landing at Narita Airport in Tokyo, Freeman was met by U.S. embassy officials who were to accompany him to the meeting with Kuang. It was all very polite, but Freeman’s meeting with the Taiwanese admiral was effectively sabotaged, little more than pleasantries being exchanged. Freeman was furious, knowing he could do nothing but sip tea and drink to Taiwanese-U.S. friendship before taking his flight out to San Francisco via Hawaii.
* * *
When Spring Flower emerged from behind the screen, her nakedness had taken the GI’s breath away, her breasts far more prominent than die tight dress had allowed. After being without a woman for months in the cold Siberian winter, it was almost too much, and he told himself if he didn’t calm down he’d just be wasting the fifty bucks. To concentrate, to divert himself from her beauty for a moment, he rather ponderously counted out the fifty dollars, converting them to yuan in his head, thinking, God, she’s beautiful.
“You must take it off,” she told him in slow and deliberate English.
“What?” He looked up at her.
“You must take it off,” she repeated, pointing to the .45 strapped in its canvas holster and the clip ammo in the canvas pockets about the belt.
