“I’ll give you my pistol if you don’t kill me,” the Moro had offered.
“Well, what did you do?” everyone would ask.
“I got his pistol, don’t I?” was all the further detail the old man would give.
Harris had never been to the Philippines before, but he thought it felt right to be there. He might have been the only Marine in his family, but he felt like part of his family’s tradition of American warriors. Being where he was, fulfilling his role in the war, made him feel worthy of his family, his nation, his culture. This was the best he’d ever felt about himself in his short life.
Harris couldn’t wait to set foot on the ground. He’d like to have seen Subic Bay, but the carrier didn’t pull in for whatever reason Harris wasn’t privy to. Instead, they were flown into the interior of Luzon to Marine base Camp Daly. It was named for Marine Corps legend Sergeant Major Dan Daly. It was here that Harris and the other replacements would hook up with First Marines, be assimilated, and trained for their next mission.
“I lose six good Marines, and this is the shit I get?” was the greeting Harris and the others got from Staff Sergeant Callahan, the platoon sergeant for TOW Platoon, of Heavy Weapons Company. The man had a strong Texan accent, and acted like a stereotypical drill instructor. Harris was uncertain what he thought of the man. Time would tell.
The boots, as the replacements were called, were all split up. TOW platoons were split into three sections, four squads per section. Five Marines per squad. Ideally, that was. Heavy Weapons, as the rest of 1/1, was in the process of getting back to full speed. Grey was assigned to Section One; Harris and Hastings to Section Two. Jones went to Third. Hastings went on to First Squad; Harris to Fourth.
His squad leader, Sergeant Bohanan, seemed to be a short man with a big attitude, from Oklahoma. Short could be misleading. Harris could imagine his father saying the man was built like a shit brick house. At five feet eight inches, Bohanan was not tall, but the man had massive shoulders and thick muscles. Bohanan assigned Harris as a driver for Lance Corporal Edwards, the senior gunner of Fourth Squad.
In many ways, Harris thought Edwards seemed like the ideal Marine on a recruiting poster. The man stood six feet one inch. Broad shoulders, big arms, and narrow hips. He kept his dark blond hair buzzed short. He had steel blue eyes that always appeared confident. There were times Harris thought Edwards’s confidence was perhaps arrogance, but then Harris never really thought he could tell exactly what Edwards was thinking. Unlike Callahan and Bohanan, Edwards spoke in a calm voice. He never seemed angry. He always seemed serious.
With a new missile in the snout, they were moving towards the enemy. Since Edwards had fired, all hell had broken loose. They pulled into a new firing position. Harris thought he could hear a slight buzz.
“Harris, watch for drones,” Edwards ordered. Harris was angry at himself for being told what to do before he had taken the initiative to do so. By the time he’d pulled the 12 gauge from the bracket, he’d definitely IDed the buzzing, sighted the observation drone in his night vision, and downed it with the 12 gauge on the first shot.
While training in the Philippines with his new unit, he had excelled at drone target practice. He began to swell with a bit of pride over his first kill.
“Let’s fucking move in case they got a bead on us.” Edwards didn’t take time to congratulate Harris on his marksmanship. They hadn’t gone fifty meters when a rocket exploded near their previous location.
“Hold up at that knoll at your two o’clock,” Edwards ordered, indicating a spot for good cover. Harris could see tracer rounds, but in the dark, he couldn’t place the distance. Judging by the sound, it was several hundred meters. It was quickly drowned out by the explosion of more missiles. Harris stood watch, looking and listening for more drones or PLA infantry heading their way. From what Harris could tell, it seemed they had caught a Prick column by surprise. This was a source of amazement to Harris after all the noise of buzzing Ospreys and LSVs. But then they were dealing with an enemy thousands, even tens of thousands, of meters away.
Harris blasted another drone. Time to move again. Another hundred meters, Edwards nailed an armored car. Time to move again.
“Hold up. Where we at? Where’s everyone else?” Harris checked his GPS screen.
“We’re about three hundred meters ahead of Blue Leader, about one hundred meters ahead of Bohanan,” Harris answered.
“Blue Four Alpha, Blue Four Bravo, we’re ahead at about your eleven. Over.”
“Copy Blue Four Bravo. Got a visual on you. Stay if you can. Over. Out.”
“Roger.”
Harris almost stated how much he wanted a cigarette, but decided not to engage in small talk. Most likely Edwards wouldn’t answer, and they all had more important things to do anyway.
As if out of nowhere jets screamed overhead. The sound was earsplitting. Within a few seconds there was a huge fireball in the air to the east of them.
“Looks like Prick air finally showed…bastards!”
“What?!”
“Check this out.” Edwards jumped down. Harris jumped up to look through the TOW gun’s night sight. About one kilometer away he saw a burning LSV. In the driver’s seat was a body completely engulfed in flames.
“Do you know who got hit?”
“We’ll find out soon enough. Get down. Nothing we can do about it now anyway. Just focus on killing as many of these bastards as possible.”
“All Blue Four units, move northeast. Copy?” Every Blue vehicle answered in the affirmative. Harris looked to the northeast. Rockets, flames, explosions, and tracers filled the sky. It looked like Hell. If the sky had parted and the Four Horsemen had ridden onto the field, Harris would not have found it shocking. There was nothing about the environment that was inviting to him. It was literally, at that moment, the last place he wanted to go.
Harris scanned the land in front of him, looking for a route, looking for drones, looking for anything that could kill him or anything that he could kill. He was no longer finding the war a bit boring. A voice inside his head told him to go the other way. Another voice was telling him he needed a cigarette. Another voice told him that he was a United States Marine and Marines go into war.
Harris started the LSV and moved northeast into the fighting.
Chapter Thirteen
There had been much concern as to the reaction of the locals. One theory was that the Chinese were fanatical communists who would fight to the last man. Another was that they could be converted or at least compromised. Many of China’s cities had become very industrialized and very Westernized. There was no shortage of political dissidents. Some American political and military leaders, not the least among this group was President Clark, saw this as a weakness for the communist regime to be exploited. Hong Kong was thought of as a potential member of the coalition Clark had built with the United Kingdom, Canada, and Australia. With the South China Sea Campaign, Taiwan, Japan, South Korea, and Philippines were part of the Allied effort. On the sidelines in the South China Sea was Vietnam, and to the north Russia. Both were willing to accept a weakened, or destroyed, People’s Republic of China, for a price. For now they were happy to accept some territorial “table scraps,” and Clark was happy to let them have it. Clark ordered Operation Mandate of Heaven.
Asian and American intelligence operatives began to lay the groundwork for a democratic rebellion and, ideally, reestablishment of the Republic of China with the help of the United States military. An American force in the south, Task Force Grant, would “liberate” the Westernized industrial cities with the promise of greater profits and freedoms. Those that didn’t join would be destroyed. One way or another depriving the PRC of much of its industry and resources.
The American strategy in the north was less complex. Task Force Sherman would decimate all resources for war and living, causing Beijing to be flooded with refugees at a time when they were least able to take care of them. This was to cause an even greater loss
of faith in the PRC. All this was to culminate in the collapse of the communist government in China.
Zhang Min was going on three days with no sleep. He really hadn’t felt like he needed it either. His country was under attack by the very barbarians he had sought to conquer. All too late he was realizing his mistake. After decades of weakness and compliance, even downright submission under Leakey, he could not have possibly imagined the American people could have so much fight left in them. Now he was struggling for his political, and literal, life. In the last seventy-two hours he had ordered the executions of four members of the National People’s Congress (NPC) and three generals. Not that they bore any responsibility for the invasion, Zhang knew that was on him, but he was not going to admit that, and the invasion was an excellent opportunity for him to cleanse the party of some of his opponents and possible political threats. His hope was that war with the United States, and new territory in North America, would be enough to manipulate the NPC into his third term as president, general secretary of the Communist Party, and chairman of the Central Military Commission. In short, the most powerful man in the history of Communist China and the Middle Kingdom. So far, nearly nothing had gone according to his plan.
Zhang Min thought Taiwan would capitulate after the United States was neutralized. Neither of which had happened. China’s limited excursion into North America was a complete disaster resulting in the surrender of nearly two hundred thousand troops and approximately one hundred fifty thousand dead. The People’s Republic was badly hurt. Now President Clark and the American people wanted more blood. Nor had China’s invasion of the Philippine Islands gone as planned by the communist commissars. The Filipino guerrillas only got harder to handle, no matter how many cities were bombed or villages were burned. When the PLA Navy was ambushed by the US Navy at the Battle of Luzon, the biggest naval battle since World War II, the Chinese lost all their aircraft carriers. The Philippines were no longer considered attainable. The PLA’s new goal was to slow the loss of the Philippines, not prevent it. Now reports were coming in that the remaining PLA troops in the Philippines were surrendering in droves to the Allied forces.
The Philippines Campaign had been a loss of face. Zhang executed two generals. Not because of their military decisions, but they were wrong politically.
Zhang would not be careless. He had worked too hard and come too far. He believed he had earned the right to rule China. He knew of his power to persuade the people with his words; he was also aware of his greater talent to intimidate people. He would survive this. He would recover. His career would thrive once more.
He gave speeches on CCTV about the greatness of the Chinese people. He ranted about the evil and corruption of the West and especially of the American people: the greatest barbarians on earth. He activated reserve forces, and Chinese men and women were drafted into the PLA; but still, Zhang and none of the communist leaders, that would admit to it anyway, thought the American people had the courage to attack the mainland. Zhang thought he was dealing with an enemy that lacked courage and intelligence. His only anchor now was to believe that their courage, without the balance of judgement, would be the Americans’ undoing. He worried if he was accurate. He pushed the thought from his mind. It was against his nature to doubt himself. Problems and mistakes were always the fault of others, not him. Zhang Min was of a superior mind, a superior will that all others bent to. But he knew now he had misjudged this. He had estimated the absolutely worst-case scenario to be the loss of recently acquired territory in the South and East China Seas. Now the barbarians were in the homeland. How?
Simultaneous invasions in the south, from Taiwan, and the north from Korea. How could North Korea fall so quickly? The Chinese ambassador Li Cong was raising hell at the United Nations and charging that the United States attacked Pyongyang with UN-banned nuclear weapons, in the hope of cementing an international alliance against the Americans. The problem was the Russians, who had privately given China support in their war against the US, now seemed too complacent about the American invasion. The Russians were no help in the UN.
In fact, the Russian ambassador had even volunteered Russian troops to restore order, keep peace, and distribute food to North Koreans, or at least to some of them along the coast, anyway. Zhang always knew not to trust the Russians, but he never thought they would get into bed with the Americans.
Of course, their women get into bed with anybody, why not their men? He chuckled at his own joke, as he was prone to doing. He poured himself another shot of baijiu, “Chinese vodka,” and thought of his next move. One way or another, he would survive this invasion.
Wang Fai had hidden in his factory dorm room with seven other workers for the last two and a half days. Life was becoming desperate. He had not eaten for thirty-six hours. The residents had drunk the toilet dry twelve hours ago. His room was cramped. The humidity was stifling. Jet planes were screaming overhead. Every so often the building shook from an explosion. For a while he had watched from the rooftop. It was exciting at first. The mayor had advised all residents to stay in their buildings and promised the People’s Liberation Army would repel the ugly American invaders. That was the last public announcement. He’d seen PLA fighter jets crash into the city’s buildings. He’d heard distant small-arms fire grow louder as it got closer. Now he was hearing statements broadcast from the streets in Chinese: “China, yes! Communism, no!” “Democracy now! Freedom now!” “China unite for Mandate from Heaven!”
Wang Fai had moved from his small rural village of his birth to work in a textile factory on the outskirts of Fuzhou. The government needed workers. The pay was better than farming. His family suffered from lack of food and healthcare. The increase in pay would go a long way to improving his family’s lot. Wang Fai received the government approval to move and went to work in the big city.
Disappointment was immediate. Wang learned he would be starting at half the promised wage. However, with overtime he could come close to what he’d been promised. He shared a small room with seven other workers. He worked one hundred hours a week. He ate a steady diet of minced pork meat with rice. He used a common restroom. The showers did not drain properly, so he showered ankle deep in waste water. The toilet stalls did not drain properly, so he often squatted over a twelve- to eighteen-inch pile of feces when he had a bowel movement. He was not allowed to date. He was not allowed to have sexual intercourse. He was not allowed to be a man, because it did not fit the priorities of the People’s Republic of China. He was a slave to governmental overlords. His obedience was motivated solely by the belief in the superiority of his race and his nation. Now that was falling apart before his very eyes. Not only had the barbarians arrived, they were winning. Why couldn’t the PLA stop them?
Wang stood on the rooftop of his building. The explosions had stopped. Small-arms fire could still be heard, but it was minimal and fading. Now he could see and hear Chinese marching down the streets, calling for peace, calling for unity, calling for freedom and democracy. It was everything the People’s Republic of China had promised, but never delivered. Would this new movement work? Were the gods dispensing of the old corrupt government and bringing in a new? He did not admit to being a religious man, it was discouraged by the PRC, but he’d been taught the old beliefs. Was this truly a Mandate from Heaven?
Wang knew communism had not worked to his benefit. He was miserable. He was a slave. The promise of something better was too seductive. Why not take a chance on it? Could his life get much worse? Would he be more miserable if he was dead? Wang Fai walked down eight flights of stairs and threw his arms in the air. He gave himself to these other Chinese soldiers who promised a better life and a new beginning. Wang figured whether he survived or died, he would take an active role in his future. He would try for something better than what he had. Would he be better off? Would he survive? Were the gods about to bring change? He didn’t know for sure, but he knew he’d been miserable and that he was willing to risk his life for a better future. What
did he have to lose?
Harris was going on three days without sleep. He really hadn’t felt like he needed it either. About twenty-four hours earlier he did try to take a nap during a lull in the action, but it didn’t take.
First Battalion had been fighting and moving in an easterly direction. Their job, as Harris had understood it, was to counterattack the PLA’s counterattack. They had stayed on the move and successfully driven the Chinese forces north. They had gotten word that a beachhead was established. They could now head to the rear and be resupplied.
Harris drove the LSV. Edwards was behind the TOW gun. They followed Blue Four Alpha, the other gun team in their squad. TOW squads were made up of five Marines: squad leader, junior gunner and senior driver, senior gunner and junior driver. The squad leader often rode with the junior gunner, so that team would be alpha. The TOW platoon was made up of three sections, four squads per section. Harris was in Section Two, thus the blue designation on their call sign.
In SOI Harris had found the TOW gun’s destructive powers intriguing. He thought it a fascinating weapon. The gun actually shot a missile guided by a radio frequency with a range of approximately two miles. As long as the gunner could keep the crosshairs of the scope on the target, moving or not, the missile would hit. It was an awesome weapon. Harris was glad to be assigned to it. Especially since it was too big to be practically carried, Harris would be “mounted infantry.” That meant less hiking, but he was also a bigger target on the battlefield.
“There they are, over by the big antenna,” Edwards pointed out. His voice betrayed some excitement. Harris too was glad to be meeting up with the rest of the platoon, although he hardly knew anyone outside of his own section. As they pulled up, Sergeant Bohanan jumped out of the LSV to guide Harris into a parking spot.
The Last Marine Page 12
