China Attacks

by Chuck DeVore

  Donna was almost livid—a ‘reputation’? “Tell me what you want to say and get it over with. I want to go home, it’s late.”

  The man gulped, “I think the Chinese have conducted four nuclear tests. They were very small and timed in a way to make it look as if it was earthquake aftershock activity.” The man blurted the last out as if he wanted to finish his report and run.

  “Are you sure?” Donna stared at him with bloodshot eyes.

  The man thought about his career. He was only a year away from a decent retirement. The higher-ups wouldn’t like this. That’s why he came to Donna Klein. He looked down at his shoes, “No. I’m fairly sure, but unless they test again in the same area, I can’t for certain say they’ve resumed nuclear testing.”

  Donna began putting on her walking shoes. “Fine. Look, why don’t you send me an e-mail. I’m going home.”

  It was snowing lightly for the drive home. Donna turned the news on and cranked the radio’s volume. She also cracked her window an inch—the freezing air kept her awake. There was another casualty among the peacekeepers in East Timor, this time an Australian. She sighed and was about to switch to a music station when the anchor quickly transitioned. “. . .and in other military news, the White House announced the withdrawal of the nomination of General Smithton for Vice Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. General Smithton’s nomination ran into trouble when it was rumored that he pressured a subordinate officer into having sex with him. In a surprise move, the White House nominated Air Force Lieutenant General Timothy Taylor for the post. If the Senate approves the move, the 51-year-old widower will be getting his fourth star and will be elevated to the nation’s second highest military post.”

  Donna remembered Taylor from the war game—so his interest, if more than professional, wasn’t completely out of line. She rolled her eyes—the man was 24 years older and it was just a couple of lingering glances. . .

  * * *

  Colonel Mike Flint took another sip of his strong, black coffee. Elements of the III Marine Expeditionary Force had landed three weeks ago. As their numbers built up to more than 12,000 Marines, Flint’s 31st MEU gradually pulled back and re-supplied. One advantage of performing a real world mission was that his unit received supply priority. His MEU logistics officer could get parts delivered to the middle of nowhere in a week, instead of waiting four months for as was more often the case than not lately (he remembered it was last like this back in ‘78 when he was a newly minted second lieutenant).

  Just as Flint was beginning to enjoy the morning, Lieutenant Colonel Burl, his XO, walked in. Redeemably, Major “Rez” Ramirez, his intelligence officer, was behind him.

  “Hank, ‘Rez’, top of the morning to you! Coffee?” Colonel Flint smiled. The officially worried look on Burl’s face was not a good sign.

  “Sir, I’ve just come away from the daily UN staff briefing. It seems the commander of the Chinese police contingent is going to lodge a protest about your refusal to tell him about our operational plans.” Burl’s tone had a hint of self-justification. He’d warned Flint about the diplomatic minefield he was navigating.

  “Who the hell is he going to tattle to? The Secretary General of the United Nations? Hell will freeze over and the President will join the Corps before I tell that sonofabitch when and where my Marines are going! We’ve already taken twenty-one needless casualties in this ‘paradise’ and I’ll be damned if I’m going to get any more of my boys killed because some communist cop wants in on our plans.”

  Burl looked ill, “What should I say to the UN command, sir?”

  “Don’t say a damn thing.”

  “But. . .” Burl stammered.

  “NOT A DAMN THING! Understood?”

  Burl nodded silently.

  Flint turned to Major Ramirez, “Rez and I have to talk. Alone.”

  Burl stalked out the door of the white adobe command post.

  Flint suddenly looked very old and very tired, “Rez, I just don’t know if it’s worth my staying on to see the bitter end for this. I can see it coming over the horizon. The bastards send us in to do their dirty work for them. Gradually, their Ivy League sensibilities get the best of them. Before you know it we’ll be wearing blue helmets and we’ll be left with pocketknives and a government-issued kazoo that we can hum ‘Kum-ba-yah’ with to all the locals so they can learn to get along with each other. This job isn’t fun anymore. In fact, I really hate this job.”

  Ramirez’s bemused look turned gradually to concern as Flint spoke. The colonel looked up and saw the effect his words were having and quickly turned things around, “Rez don’t worry. I’m just having a dark moment. I’m sorry I let you see it. It was unprofessional of me. You’re one of best officers I’ve ever had the pleasure of serving with. I take too much advantage of that.” Flint smiled broadly and warmly, “As long as I can serve with Marines such as you I’ll still love my job just enough to keep coming back for more.

  “Say, you must have a reason for coming here. I know you don’t pal around with Burl for shits and grins. What’s up?” Flint was now completely transformed back to his old self. Ramirez marveled at his commander’s resiliency.

  Ramirez began slowly, reluctant to destroy his commander’s newly reconstructed good mood, “Sir, I just came from the daily Third MEF intel brief. . .”

  “And. . .?” Flint asked.

  “And things are getting interesting.”

  “I don’t like it when you intel types say ‘things are getting interesting.’” Flint was mockingly petulant.

  Ramirez chuckled, then in a flash was deadly serious, “Sir, three things. One, we’ve been told to expect greater activity from the extremist militia groups. Sources say they’re being armed and equipped in base camps in Indonesia.” Flint rolled his eyes—this sounded too familiar—base camps, guerrillas. Who said things ever change? “Rez” continued, “Two, we believe that Indonesian commandos are infiltrating into East Timor in platoon size units. They probably have up to a battalion in East Timor now. They’re mainly in and around the Ramelau Mountain region.” Ramelau Mountain was Timor’s highest peak at 9,490 feet high. It was about 50 kilometers south, southwest of Dili. “Three, Iraq is building up armored forces on its border with Kuwait.”

  “So, why don’t we just bomb them?” Flint demanded.

  “Who?”

  “Everyone. No, really. In Iraq, I thought we were supposed to be able to head off dangerous concentrations of armor.”

  “Not really, sir. Besides, Saudi Arabia and the other Gulf Cooperation Council states have really tightened the screws on our use of their airfields. They won’t let us bomb Iraq from their bases anymore. We can only fly from Kuwait or from carriers.”

  Flint did not want to hear what was coming for his already over taxed Marines, “So, what impact does Iraq have on us?”

  “Rumor has it that we will not be pulled out in two weeks to return to Okinawa as planned. In fact, the Third MEF may pull out and be sent to the Gulf. They’re talking about putting a joint task force in place here and backfilling the Third MEF with Army units.”

  “That’s fine. The Army likes to occupy anyway. Marines get restless after a few months in the same place. Any read on who?”

  Ramirez shrugged, “Probably the 25th Infantry Division out of Hawaii. They’re close and they’re used to working under PACOM.”

  An urgent knock at the door interrupted the officers’ discussion.

  “Enter!” Flint’s voice boomed authority.

  “Colonel,” the man nodded at Flint, “Major Ramirez, sorry to bother you here, but this is urgent.” It was Gunnery Sergeant Hudson, one of Major Ramirez’s intelligence NCOs.

  “Go ahead ‘Gunny’.” Ramirez said.

  “Sir, we’re getting a report that Ocussi is being overrun by militia. There’s looting and burning. Our source on the ground says that a big massacre is in the works.”

  Ocussi was some 60 miles to the west of East Timor proper. Situated on the north coast, Ocuss
i was an East Timorese enclave about 40 kilometers wide by 20 kilometers deep completely surrounded by Indonesian territory. For the last three weeks it had been occupied by a company of Thai marines.

  Flint jumped up, “Rez, call the Operations officer. I want a warning order to go out within 20 minutes. We may be asked to respond.”

  In less than 15 minutes the commanders of the Battalion Landing Team, the Aviation Combat Element, and the MEU Service Support Group 31 were all briefed on the potential for a new mission. They began planning the action with their staffs and commanders.

  Half an hour later, the Third MEF commander called Colonel Flint, “Mike, this is General Hill.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “You hear about Ocussi? The Thai are having their asses handed to them. We need you to go in, guns blazing. If they take too many casualties, we may lose their participation. You have to ride to the rescue.”

  “Yes sir. I sent out a warning order 30 minutes ago. I can have two rifle companies there within an hour after your order.”

  Lieutenant General Hill pounced at the good news, “Excellent!”

  “Sir, just one question. Can I use my tanks?”

  “Negative.” Hill clearly didn’t even want to hear the question.

  “Sir. Ocussi is very hot right now. I could use some tanks to calm things down.” Flint’s voice was level.

  “Very well, if you can get them there in time to be useful, go ahead and try.” Hill knew that Flint would have to bring in his LCACs, load the heavy tanks on, one per LCAC, then push 150 kilometers down the coast. It would probably take at least six hours before the M1s would arrive. By then, Colonel Flint’s 31st MEU would have taken control of the situation and any controversial use of heavy armor could be avoided. “One more thing Mike. I don’t want cluster bombs on your Harriers. Too much of a chance for collateral damage. There’s a report of an American news crew in Ocussi. I don’t want any footage of Marines slaughtering innocent civilians.”

  The last statement floored Flint. He opened his mouth before thinking, “General, was the decision about the cluster bombs your own, or did the Pentagon order that one?”

  There was a pause as the general processed the comment, “At ease Marine. You’ll do your job if all I give you to do it with is a stick! Out!”

  And I’d take the stick and shove it up your. . . Flint’s thought was interrupted by the crew chief for his Huey. “The bird’s ready when you are sir. When’re we going?”

  “Be ready to fly in ten.”

  Flint had 12 “Frogs” and six Super Stallions in the air. He was in his Huey. Four Harriers, two Cobras and a Huey in a fire direction control role were already on station over Ocussi. The Thai unit was down to one platoon fighting for its life in a few downtown buildings. One by one the buildings the unit occupied were being set on fire, flushing the hard-pressed Thai troops out into the open and under the withering fire of machine gunners and snipers. The Huey reported seeing a civilian news crew amongst the militia. The Marine air units began to return fire with their cannons and miniguns. They concentrated on destroying any crew served weapons such as mortars or machine guns that might produce heavy casualties against the Marines.

  Within sight of Dili the LCACs had embarked the M1s and were making their way to Ocussi at a fuel-gulping 40 knots, trailing a thick spray behind them. They’d arrive a little more than an hour-and-a-half after Golf and Foxtrot Companies had set down. The three ships in the ARG with the remainder of the 31st MEU were also steaming west and would be off shore in a little less than two hours.

  Flint decided the area around the besieged Thais was too hot to land on top of. He ordered his BLT commander to land the two rifle companies 1,500 meters up wind of the firefight. One company with attachments from the Heavy Weapons Company would advance with the three LAVs brought by the CH-53s while the other company would remain in reserve by the three 155mm M198 artillery pieces slung in by the other three CH-53s.

  Given the constrained and chaotic small urban area below, Flint uncharacteristically decided to stay in the air to orchestrate the fight. He’d let the commander of the 2nd Battalion, 4th Marines, Lieutenant Colonel “Skip” Bailey, do the honors on the ground.

  Within minutes of landing, Bailey called in a report that chilled Flint’s blood, “Bulldog One, this is Hammer One, over.”

  Flint heard something in Bailey’s voice he had never heard before—something that scared him. “This is Bulldog One, go ahead, over.”

  “Bulldog One. . . Oh God, sir. . . Umm,” Bailey was losing it, “Sir, I think we found some of the Thai troops. They were executed. Beheaded. Sir. . . Oh. . . Shit sir, you’re not going to believe this. When we came up on the bodies we caught some of the militia drinking the blood of the Thai soldiers. These guys are friggen nuts sir. Ugghh! I’m going to be. . .” before he could say it, Bailey had wisely un-keyed the mike and barfed.

  Flint had remembered reading about the barely suppressed warrior traditions of some of the Indonesian ethnic groups—some of whom still had living relatives who had been cannibals. He had read reports of the ritualistic drinking of the blood of the vanquished in the aftermath of ethnic battles within the year. He never dreamed any of his men would have to face something so barbaric.

  “Hammer One, this is Bulldog One, did you capture the perpetrators, over?” Flint asked, not really wanting to hear that his Marines let the men live that did this.

  “Bulldog One,” Bailey had regained some of his composure, “We have two alive, they’re wounded, but I think they’ll live.” He sounded disappointed.

  “Roger. Have a squad stay with them until we can pick them up. I’ll send a platoon from the reserve company to secure the EPWs as well as the atrocity site. This is a war crime and someone’s going to pay. Out.”

  The helicopter lurched violently, then dove to the left, “What the hell?” Flint was wide-eyed.

  A reddish-orange flash trailed by a thick medium gray smoke whooshed by the open right sliding door and exploded overhead. Flint heard the sharp “plings” and “thuds” of blast fragments on the top of the Huey. He waited for the aircraft to go down.

  The pilot and copilot were busy avoiding ground fire, checking their instruments and looking for a place to land, just in case. The strong smell of aviation fuel filled the windy cabin. Hot hydraulic fluid squirted on Flint’s back, shit, Flint keyed his helmet mike for intercom, “Hey! We’re losing fluid.” The pilot looked back and keying his intercom said, “I know sir, we’ve got to set down. Hold on for a rough one!”

  The Huey’s turbines began to whine at a different frequency. The helicopter started to shake. “Hammer One, we’re hit and going down! I say again, we’re hit and going down! I’m about one klick to your south. I see a school playground. It looks like we may try to set down there!” Flint called into the mike.

  About 100 feet off the ground the Huey’s tail rotor began to loose power. The aircraft began to spin, picking up speed as it dropped. They must have done a dozen 360s before they spun into the ground—the force of impact instantly stopped the spin on the skids, while the momentum on the top of the aircraft was still unabated. The Huey savagely twisted over, its rotor biting into the grass, then shattering into a thousand pieces. The helicopter was resting on its left side.

  Colonel Flint’s left arm felt broken. He unbuckled himself with his right hand and fell six inches (thankfully no more) to the muddy grass beneath him. Pain shot through his arm. He pushed his legs underneath him. The copilot’s body looked lifeless and mangled. The pilot was trying to figure out how he could release himself and not fall into his copilot’s body or get tangled in his controls.

  One of the aircrew released himself and nearly fell on Flint’s head. “Sorry sir! I didn’t see you!”

  “Stuff it and get everyone out of here before we catch fire!”

  Just when Flint didn’t think it could get worse, he heard the rapid pop, pop, pop of small arms fire. Worse yet, he heard a few rounds plink h
ome on the airframe of the downed Huey.

  Amazingly, up on the open door frame of what used to the right side of the aircraft, a young Marine was returning fire with his rifle. He yelled down into the now smoky shadows of the cabin, “I see about ten of them. There’s an RPG! I’ll cover! Get out of here, fast!”

  Flint stood up. The pilot had just maneuvered out of his seat when a burst of heavy machine gun fire tore through the un-shattered half of the Plexiglas windshield and cut him down. The pilot’s blood spattered Flint. He had to blink a few times to see again. Unseen hands lifted him from the chopper. He made it to the blistering daylight and wished he had the cover of darkness as the rounds swished angrily overhead. He rolled to the left onto the engine cowling and then shimmied forward of the turbine intake and fell hard on his left side onto the ground. The bolt of pain from his arm almost forced consciousness from him. A lesser man in a similar situation may have surrendered to the blissfully unaware state, but Colonel Flint had lives to save.

  He rolled onto his belly and took in a 180 sweep of the land. About 40 meters away there was a small schoolhouse and a church building. Neither area showed any signs of activity. He forced his pain into submission and stood up. “Marine! Throw me your weapon, now!”

  The lance corporal firing out of the right door at the top of the aircraft fired three more rounds, he screamed “I got the guy with the RPG!” He then quickly peaked over the lip what was the top of the doorframe to draw a bead on the colonel. The rifle sailed smoothly into Flint’s right hand.

  “A magazine, sir!” A 30-round magazine followed and hit the grass next to Flint’s feet.

  Flint stuck the rifle through the shattered cockpit Plexiglas and began firing one round every two to three seconds at the tree line some 80 meters away. He aimed to keep up this suppressive fire until everyone was out of the helicopter. He thought of the rocket propelled grenade launcher, now probably on the ground less than a football field away. He could see everything; he’d either have to expose himself to enemy fire by moving more to the left or he’d have to pick up stakes and move to the rear of the aircraft where he could fire over the tail boom, using it as the missing support for his useless left arm. He pulled the rifle out of the tangled cockpit and bent down to grab the clip. Good thing too, because he noticed the M-16’s bolt was locked back—he was out of ammo. He was on his knees pushing the magazine release button when machine guns rounds smashed into the front of the aircraft just where he had been standing. Damn! That was close. It was easy to forget how young and disciplined you had to be to survive in combat. Move, move, always have to move—and in the right direction too. He slapped the new magazine home. While sitting on his butt with the rifle between his knees, he pulled the charging handle back and released it, hearing the satisfying “shlick!” of the bolt chambering a 5.56mm round into place.