Chapter Twenty
Harris had the T-99 in his sights. From the distance he thought it looked well armored. He had worked it out with Reese to fire at it two seconds after he did. Better to kill it with two missiles than not to with only one. Besides there were not many Prick tanks nor armored cars within sight north of the Yellow River. He’d heard rumors that the PRC was starting to run out of armor and fuel for vehicles. Harris had written most of the talk off as wishful thinking. However, he’d also heard that they were running out of jets and helicopters, and today seemed to bear truth to that. He’d only seen two Prick jets, and both had been shot down. He’d yet to see one helicopter today, and the biggest sign to him that the Pricks were slipping was that they had not even blown the bridge. For all the talk that the People’s Republic was teetering on the edge of collapse, there was an equal amount that said the toughest of the fight was yet to come; street fighting in Beijing would be a nightmare. On the other side, there was talk of being home for Christmas. To Harris it was just talk. He’d learned from his father’s experience that you were not home until you were home. Until then it was just a wish. As a lot of the Marines were fond of saying, you can wish in one hand and shit in the other. Harris had to deal with what things were, not what he wanted them to be.
Harris was somewhere northeast of the city of Zhengzhou. The ROC had moved into the city of about ten million without a fight. The death of President Clark had not strengthened the resolve of the city commissars to die for the Communist Party of China.
Harris and Reese took out one of the two tanks in their field of fire; otherwise there was nothing else to shoot at that moment. Crazily enough, there appeared to be a small number of civilians trying to get across the bridge in a middle of a firefight. Prick riflemen were still trying to hold the bridge, or at least delay its loss. It was a weak attempt to hold the bridge. Harris saw more than half the Pricks turn and run. He scanned the area, looking for another target; he couldn’t see one.
The thought crossed his mind: What if the Prick bastards had planted explosives on the bridge and were only waiting until the bulk of Marines were crossing to blow it? Or perhaps get a bunch of civilians on the bridge, blow it, and then whine to the leftist media that the Marines did it.
Harris was antsy. He hated just watching a firefight take place and to be little more than a spectator. He soon heard the noise of choppers—Pricks. Three attack helicopters. It looked like such a pathetic attempt to hold the bridge compared to what he’d seen from the Pricks until now. All three helos fired rockets. Harris got his crosshairs on one and fired on his own initiative. The helicopter cut away shortly before impact, and Harris had not been able to cut with it. A second missile took the chopper out.
“Glad to help you out, Harris,” Reese cracked over Harris’s earpiece.
“Yeah, me too, you foxtrottin’ bastard,” Harris replied.
“Someone tell me how a whole goddamn US Marine division crosses a river and nobody sees it?!” Zhang shouted at his staff in his fortified command post that he’d nicknamed the Dragon’s Lair. He immediately regretted the display of emotion, but his anger had gotten the best of him. This was not supposed to happen. General Fu Gang was in command there. Had he gone over to the ROC, or was he just incompetent? Zhang had thought he’d found a party member he could count on, but then who could be counted on in times like these? He began making a mental list of who else would need to be purged from the People’s Republic.
General Fu Gang didn’t need to talk with General Secretary Zhang Min to know he was in hot water. Fu had spent enough time in the Communist Party of China to know he might very well be a dead man walking. His wife and grandchildren were under the “protection” of Zhang. His sons served in the People’s Liberation Army. They were under his command. If he didn’t stop the American forces from crossing the Yellow River, they would all be killed. They might all be killed anyway, but the only chance they had was for him to stop the American advance. Within a matter of seconds of receiving the news that the First Marine Division was crossing the Yellow River, General Fu Gang decided to go all in. He had nothing to lose. He would use every military resource available to him to stop the American advance. He might lose tens of thousands of troops, he might even lose his own life, but he thought it worth it if it might protect his grandchildren from President Zhang.
Liu packed the rifle with the scope first into his duffle bag. He had just gotten it, and he loved it. He’d wanted it so badly and was honored that Sergeant Wen had thought he was worthy of it. He packed his PLA uniform on the bottom. He would be traveling in civilian clothes, hoping that if he were seen, he wouldn’t be checked by American soldiers or Marines. He slipped in a bag of rice and an extra shirt, trying to hide the shape of the rifle. He found an old rations box and crammed it in there; that did the trick. He had a knife and a nine-millimeter pistol secured in the front of his waistband.
Sergeant Wen had told them to act like civilians trying to evacuate north of the river. On an emotional level the plan made no sense to Liu. How could projecting weakness as helpless civilians be a sound tactic? However, in nearly two years of war with the Americans, he had become familiar with their weakness of concern for innocent life. They did not like to kill people they did not have to. Older veterans had told him this weakness was easier to exploit before Clark, and were hopeful they could again with this new President Harmon. None of that mattered to Liu at the moment; he wanted to get across the river. He thought it ironic he that had been concerned about the Americans losing heart with the death of their leader; instead they had attacked. Perhaps the veterans had lied about the softness of Americans. At least Liu could still have the opportunity to kill, but first he had to get away from the Zhengzhou metropolitan area and cross the bridge to get north of the Yellow River.
They’d crossed the bridge shortly after First Tank Battalion had crossed and set up a perimeter. The bridge had not been blown. Harris thought perhaps the end was in sight for the PRC. They moved up onto the side of a large hill on the right flank of First Battalion and Third Light Armored Infantry. Harris scanned the horizon twice and didn’t see anything. He backed away from the scope to relieve his eye and scanned the skyline. He saw what looked almost like a flock of birds coming towards them.
“We got drones, eleven o’clock,” he shouted down to Edwards. No sooner said, they heard Cortes over the radio, stating the same thing. Harris went back to his day scope. Where there were drones, Pricks were sure to follow.
In some ways Lieutenant Kai was relieved when he got the news. He’d feared that President Harmon would be less aggressive in fighting the PRC than Clark had been. At the same time there was the tension of a sudden and unexpected engagement. His unit was on standby. His orders were to inspect his platoon and make sure they were ready if needed. He prayed the PRC would not launch guerrilla attacks on the civilians and that the ROC army would indeed be ready.
“Prick bastards,” Harris complained. “The drones got high explosives on them. They’re exploding them overhead!” Harris informed Edwards as he watched Prick drones rain shrapnel down on the Marines in the river valley.
The scream of jets surprised Harris and he involuntarily ducked down behind his gun. Of course, by the time he heard the jets, they were already overhead and flying north. Harris got back to the day sight. They might have been caught flat-footed, but all indications were that they were responding big.
“Hawke, drive north about five hundred meters or so. Stay off the skyline. Pricks are coming. I want Harris to reach out and touch them. Copy, Harris?” Edwards ordered.
The fact that Liu had made it across the bridge had only confirmed, once more, in his mind, his own invulnerability. His platoon had split up into their four-man teams, thinking it would be easier to get through the American line in small numbers and less likely to attract attention. Once in the safety of some woods on a hilltop overlooking the valley, his team leader, Li, gave the order to put on their uniforms and
ditch the civilian clothing. Liu had his scoped rifle out. Yang had the binoculars. They scanned the valley and watched as US Marines moved north. Wang worked the radio with Li to establish contact and communicate intelligence.
Liu’s bloodlust was provoked by the exploding drones killing American Marines. He found himself yearning to kill.
“Liu, nine o’clock, about three hundred meters,” Yang instructed. Liu turned and eventually saw an American LSV stopping on the side of a hill. Obviously they were trying not to skyline themselves and to remain unseen.
“No hiding from the master of death,” Liu mumbled softly.
“What?” Yang whispered loudly, thinking there was a good reason for it.
“I got the target,” Liu segued. “TOW gun. They got the skull and crossbones we’ve seen.” Liu salivated. He particularly enjoyed killing those he thought were powerful. He’d convinced himself that he added their power to his own when he did so. Marines were his favorite targets, especially when they were powerless over him. He’d heard of these Marines with the skull and crossbones on their LSVs. They were supposed to be very good or very lucky.
He attempted to put his crosshairs on the gunner. He wanted the gunner, but the Marine was hunkered down close to the weapon’s scope and he could not get a clear shot. Liu tried to acquire the neck or someplace not protected by body armor. Suddenly the Marine straightened. Liu had his shot, but he held back. The Marine had taken his helmet off, and Liu could see that he had red hair. He’d been told the Brits referred to redheads as gingers. Liu didn’t understand the association. Ginger was not red. Not that it mattered now; he had never seen a person in real life with red hair. Now he would kill one. Liu began to squeeze the trigger. He was just to the point where the trigger stopped and the slightest amount of added pressure would discharge the weapon. Suddenly the Marine dropped down out of sight.
“Dammit,” Liu whispered in anger.
“Discipline!” Yang quietly rebuked. The Marine popped back up through the turret and hunkered down behind the weapon’s scope. Liu patiently waited for the Marine to straighten up once more. He would not let another opportunity pass him by.
Harris studied the skyline. It was only a matter of time until tanks and armored cars would try to intercept the Marines. He could hear the thunder in the distance as US jets dropped bombs on the Pricks. How much longer would it take for Prick artillery to respond on their position? Battle was imminent and Harris realized he had a full bladder.
“Hawke, I got to piss. You want the gun for a while?”
“Hell yeah.” The boot had been itching to get behind the gun and kill his first tank.
“Dang!” Harris shot up straight and took his helmet off. He’d felt a sharp pain in his scalp, as if something had bitten him hard. He felt his head, checked his helmet, nothing.
“You letting me up or what?” Hawke badgered.
“Yeah, I’m coming down.” Harris slipped down through the turret and out of the LSV to go relieve himself.
“See anything?” Harris inquired after a couple of minutes.
“Not yet.” Hawke sounded optimistic that he would sooner or later.
Edwards looked at Harris and nodded towards the SAW.
“I’ll take the SAW for a while, Hawke,” Harris complied.
“Hawke, you shoot anything with a red star on it, now. You got me?” Edwards threw in.
“Aye, aye, Corporal,” Hawke enthusiastically responded, not seeming to notice Edwards’s sarcasm. It was his moment. He wanted to do it right.
Harris got behind the SAW and lit up a cigarette. The smoke kept getting into his eyes and was a bit irritating, but the cigarette helped his nerves. He scanned the tree line. He saw nothing.
“I wish I could get paid for all the minutes I’ve spent watching a skyline for something to shoot,” Harris jokingly complained to alleviate tension.
“You’re alive, ain’t you,” Edwards cynically responded. “That’s pay enough. Keep watching. You’ve been around long enough to know there’s always something out there.”
“Yeah, well—” Harris was cut off by Hawke dropping down like a sack of potatoes.
“Harris, drive!” was all the orders Edwards gave. Harris didn’t need to be told twice. He’d put it all together very fast. Edwards climbed into the back with Hawke. “Backwards, go backwards!” Harris figured Hawke must have been shot from the front. Harris put the LSV in reverse and stepped on the gas. He backed over something hard, but the LSV kept running and Harris wasn’t going to stop. He needed to get somewhere safe. He slammed on the brakes, cut the wheel hard to the left, and shifted into drive, turning the LSV around and headed to turn up into some trees for more cover.
“You can stop,” Edwards ordered. Harris braked the vehicle to a halt. He turned around. Edwards had blood on the front of him, but he wasn’t hurt. Hawke had been shot just under the bridge of his nose. The ChiCom 5.8 mm had traveled through his skull. Blood and brain matter were all over the back of the LSV. Harris was not new to death on the battlefield, but this still made him feel sick. Mind over matter, he didn’t have time to be sick.
“Hand me the mic,” Edwards commanded. He then proceeded to call in an airstrike and then artillery on that goddamned hill in front of their previous position.
“I’ll take the gun.” Edwards stood up in the turret. Harris looked back at Hawke’s lifeless body. It was such a hollow reminder of the life that had been there minutes before.
“That should have been me,” Harris mumbled to himself. Intellectually, he knew this was not his fault, but it did not make him feel any better. He couldn’t have felt more guilt if he’d pulled the trigger himself.
Harris and Edwards weren’t surprised that Prick tanks showed up in large numbers, just that it had taken as long as it did. Initially, it was the Prick armor fighting vehicles, AFVs, that Edwards spotted about two miles out on their right flank, but the tanks weren’t far behind. Soon there were several TOW missiles launched. All found their targets. Within twenty minutes Edwards took out a T-99 and three AFVs. Then they drove back to the convoy to restock more missiles. They were going to need them.
Ragnarsson was pleased, but he was tense. His Marines had moved fast and hard. Now they had started slugging it out with the PLA. As of yet he didn’t know what units he was up against, but from reports, it was a significant force. His intel reported Prick units moving south and east toward First Marines. A move like this was likely to bring more PLA into action. First Marines had drawn first blood on this one; Fifth Marines had crossed and was approaching from the east. The last of Seventh and Fourth Marines were crossing the Yellow River and heading into the battle. If the Pricks wanted to try to end it here, it was as good a place as any.
Liu had been part of a team of four killers. Now he was a team of one. The joy of his killing one of the “Death” Marines with the skull and crossbones was short lived. Artillery rounds began to pulverize the hill soon after. Liu and his team ran to the north, but Wen, Li, and Yang all died. Liu wasn’t surprised. The hill had turned into hell. He probably would’ve died too had it not been for his power over life and death.
He ran as fast as he could. Within several minutes he came across the People’s Army. A sergeant told him to find a Lieutenant Hueng. Liu moved along the troops, calling for the lieutenant, but to no avail. Eventually, another sergeant told him to fall in with his riflemen or he’d shoot him for cowardice. Liu’s first impulse was to put a bullet between the sergeant’s eyes, but the PLA had given him greater discipline than that. Besides, they were headed south towards the Marines. There was going to be plenty of time for death.
McCullough had not slept for forty-eight hours. He really hadn’t missed it until about two hours earlier. As he had done many times throughout this war, he reflected back to his days as a young infantry officer at the start of his career. The chaos and fatigue of his command center was nothing compared to what his men on the frontline had experienced for the last forty-eight hours
straight. He had looked for a quick resolution, and the PLA obliged. General Fu had gone all in. McCullough figured Fu must have been up for execution if he lost this one, so he’d given it all he had. Perhaps Fu was already shot, in which case his successor would want to give it all he had to avoid the same fate. Currently, he had First and Second Marine Divisions and First and Ninth Infantry Divisions of the US Army engaged. Fifth and Sixth Marine Divisions were meeting light resistance to the east. McCullough could envision a scenario where if enough units moved west fast enough, they could potentially surround the much larger PLA south of Beijing. Could this be another Cannae? Payback for the Chosen Reservoir? Could this be the fall of the People’s Republic of China? McCullough didn’t expect the PLA to ever completely quit until they’d killed the last communist. However, if they could be relegated to an insignificant force in West China that the ROC could handle with minimal US support, it would be a victory. After six years of war, McCullough could finally see daylight at the end of the tunnel. Problem was, there was still a whole lot of tunnel.
When Mythers was informed of the engagement, he had been furious. He figured McCullough was just trying to make himself look good. The bastard would use it to try to steal his job. Of course, Mythers knew he was considerably more intelligent than McCullough and had, in fact, a plan to prevent something like that from ever happening. Mythers wasn’t going to let his job go to anyone. In fact, he envisioned taking over the jobs of others. He had ambitions to become the most powerful man in the United States, perhaps with the exception of the president of the United States.
The Last Marine Page 20
