RED DRAGON

Other Books by William C. Dietz

THE WINDS OF WAR SERIES

Red Ice

Red Flood

Red Dragon

AMERICA RISING SERIES

Into The Guns

Seek And Destroy

Battle Hymn

MUTANT FILES SERIES

Deadeye

Redzone

Graveyard

LEGION OF THE DAMNED SERIES

Legion of the Damned

The Final Battle

By Blood Alone

By Force of Arms

For More Than Glory

For Those Who Fell

When All Seems Lost

When Duty Calls

A Fighting Chance

Andromeda’s Fall

Andromeda’s Choice

Andromeda’s War

RED DRAGON

WILLIAM C. DIETZ

The Winds of War

Wind’s End Publishing

Copyright © 2019 by William C. Dietz

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover art by Damonza

This book is dedicated to the doctors, nurses and medics in the United States Air Force, Army, Navy and Coast Guard. Thank you for your service.

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

About the Winds of War Series

About William C. Dietz

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Many thanks to Marjorie Dietz, my wife, best friend and editor.

CHAPTER ONE

The Shijingshan industrial park, Beijing, China

Ministry of State Security (MSS) Agent Fan Tong was riding a Harley-Davison Forty-Eight, with a V-Twin engine. The bike produced a throaty roar as Tong turned off the freeway and onto an exit ramp. Traffic was stopped, and Tong was running late, so he rode down the shoulder of the road. The communist party considered that sort of behavior to be “antisocial,” and such offenses could affect a citizen’s social credit score.

But Tong was a government assassin. So, his score, like everything else about his life, was classified. And, because Tong was on his way to a meeting with the Director of Bureau No. 8 (the Counter Intelligence Division of MSS), he couldn’t be late.

Tong blew through a stop sign, passed a giant amusement park, and entered the warehouse district beyond. The MSS Operations Center was located in a low one-story building. There was nothing to distinguish it from the surrounding warehouses except for the huge number 7 emblazoned on the structure’s façade.

The choice of the number “7” was no accident. Seven is seen as the combination of Yin and Yang and the five Elements (metal, wood, water, fire and earth) which, taken together, constitute “harmony” according to Confucianism. And the pursuit of ideological harmony lay at the very heart of the Counter Intelligence Division’s mission.

Tong shifted down, reveled in the sound the engine made, and came to a stop in front of a gate. A single watchman was on duty. Or so it appeared. But more men could be summoned in a matter of seconds.

The guard watched stoically as Tong slid his ID card into a reader and turned to face a scanner. Two-form authentication was standard in all state-run facilities. Lights turned green, the gate opened, and the watchman spoke for the first time. “Zhù nǐ jīntiān yúkuài.” (Have a nice day.)

Choosing a good parking spot for the Harley was crucial lest some idiot back into it. After locating a slot that was protected by a fire hydrant on one side, Tong deployed the kickstand, and turned the engine off.

A short walk took Tong to an unmarked metal door. The agent had to wave his card in front of a reader to open it. A checkpoint waited within. Tong removed his leather jacket and threw it into a plastic bin. That was followed by the shoulder holster-suppressor rig, the contents of his pockets, and his helmet. A conveyer belt carried his possessions away.

Then, and only then, could Tong enter the full body scanner. He waited for the inevitable question: “What is the piece of metal in your left shoulder?”

“A nine-millimeter bullet.”

That statement produced a pause, followed by a matter-of-fact, “You may proceed.”

After collecting his possessions, and restoring them to their proper locations, Tong made his way through a series of corridors. His path took him past the research office, past the planning section, and into what Tong and his peers called “the swamp.” Meaning the maze of offices in which ambitious bureaucrats, has-been spies, and scheming functionaries battled each other for budgets, turf, and Mianzi (“face”).

None of the “players” was respected and feared more than Director Diu Zang. Her office was located in the southwest corner of the building. Tong checked his watch as he entered the waiting room. He was five minutes late. A definite no-no where his supervisor was concerned.

The Director’s secretary was a young woman named Bingqing, which meant “clear as ice.” She eyed Tong with amusement. “Your fate awaits you, Agent Tong. You may go in.”

Tong summoned what he thought of as his “blank face,” and entered the office beyond. The furnishings were sparse. A light dangled from the ceiling and metal filing cabinets lined the walls. Why? Tong wondered. She could put that stuff on a thumb drive. Because she’s old, Tong decided, at least sixty, and cautious.

As for the director’s appearance, it was famously plain. Her hair was black, too black for someone her age, and served to frame a doughy face. Zang’s heavily lidded eyes made it seem that she was perpetually sleepy. But that wasn’t the case as her subordinates knew.

There were two guest chairs. But Tong knew better than to sit in either one of them until invited to do so. Zang’s lips barely moved. “You’re late.”

“Traffic was heavy.”

“Traffic is always heavy,” Zang replied. “And you know how long it takes to get from the Shangri-La hotel to Building 7. In the future please get your blow job fifteen minutes earlier so as to arrive on time. Or get a girlfriend.”

The reference to the Shangri-La, which Tong visited three times a week, and the reference to a specific sex act, was intended to shock him. It did. But it wouldn’t do to reveal that. “Girlfriends want to talk.”

What might have been a smile tugged at the corners of Zang’s mouth. “Sit down.” Tong chose a chair. It was hard, and intentionally so, since the Director abhorred chit chat.

Zang allowed herself a single eccentricity, and that was the goldfish bowl located on the corner of her desk. The tank’s single occupant stared at Tong. “So,” Zang began. “You and your team have been idle long enough. I have an assignment for you.”

“I’m ready,” Tong said, and it was true. He enjoyed hunting people. “Who’s the target?”

“The Dalai Lama.”

Tong was shocked. “Why?”

“Approximately 244-million Buddhists live in China,” Zang replied. “That’s 18% of the population. All of them revere the Dalai Lama, and to some extent, take direction from him. That’s to say nothing of the Buddhists who live in Allied countries.

“And while the Dalai Lama tries to avoid criticizing our government, everyone knows where his sympathies lie, and that’s with the Allies. Why? Because he resents our rightful dominion over Tibet. More than that, if Dampa Tsomo were to lead a successful rebellion, China could lose a quarter of its land mass. Do you understand?”

“I do,” Tong assured her. “Is there some reason to believe that the Dalai Lama plans to lead a revolt?”

“No,” Zang replied. “But the CCP (Chinese Communist Party) believes that, given the chaos of war, he might do so. To prevent that possibility you’re going to kill him.”

“No offense,” Tong said respectfully. “But why bother? The Dalai Lama will, according to the precepts of Buddhism, reincarnate.”

“Excellent,” Zang said, as if to a promising student. “You have a brain. But I’m pleased to inform you that when the Dali Lama reincarnates, it will be into the body of a child born in Sichuan province, where he will be raised in the Gonchen Monastery by trusted lamas.”

Tong understood. If the government could control the reincarnated Dalai Lama, and shape his personality, harmony would prevail. But would it be that simple? Tong cleared his throat. “What if other lamas object?” he inquired. “What if they point to another child as being the real Dalai Lama? What then?”

“Then,” Zang said, “you will find the imposter and kill it.”

Tong considered that. He’d killed men and women, but never a baby. But so what? What difference did age make? None, Tong decided. Mao had it right. “Serve the people… No matter how.” Zang’s eyes were on him waiting for a reaction.

“Shi[wet]?” Tong inquired. “Or gan[dry]?”

Shi referred to a visibly bloody killing like a shooting or a knifing, while gan referred to a less obvious hit—such as a poisoning, a car accident, or an unfortunate fall.

“Shi,” Zang replied. “The Dalai Lama is scheduled to give a talk, called The Wheel of Teachings on Manjushri Empowerments, at the Tergar Monastery in India. Cameras will be present. People all around the world will witness the Dalai Lama’s death. And seeing is believing. Were it otherwise rumors would keep him alive.”

“Understood,” Tong said. “Is there anything else?”

“Behave yourself,” Zang said, like a mother to a child. “And leave the whores alone.”

After exiting Building 7 Tong got on his bike, started the engine, and left. As the leader of Sanction (Zhicai) Team 2, it was his responsibility to notify the other members, and put them in motion. And Tong preferred to deliver the news face-to-face. Nonverbal communications were important. If a team member was uncomfortable about the mission he wanted to know.

Han Hoi was the closest, “close” being about 10 miles away, so Tong headed there first. Tong made good time by using secondary streets. So, it wasn’t long before he arrived at an old-school gym named Chang’s. It was squashed between a laundromat and a convenience store, in a seedy residential area, adjacent to the Shijingshan industrial park.

Tong was overwhelmed by the stink of stale sweat as he stepped inside. Not just current sweat, but ancient sweat, the foul essence of which had been absorbed into every nook and cranny of the gym. It was early so only a few gym rats were present. Hoi was among them. The half-naked assassin was standing in front of a full-length mirror performing arm curls. “Hey, Han… How’s it going?”

Han turned. “I can clean and jerk 300 pounds now.”

“Good,” Tong said. “You can carry my luggage.”

Hoi put the weight down. “Luggage? Where are we going?”

“To India.”

Most of India was in Allied hands, and Hoi knew that, but his face was expressionless. “When?”

“Three days. A team meeting is scheduled for nine tomorrow in Conference Room 3. Please be on time and wear some deodorant.”

“Ta ma de ni.” (Fuck you.)

Tong grinned. “Enjoy your workout.” Then he left.

Polluted though it was, Beijing’s air was better than the stuff in the gym. Tong took a deep breath as he exited onto the sidewalk. His next stop was at the state-run orphanage where Ji Wu spent most of her free time. Her real name was something other than “Ji,” since that moniker was normally given to boys, but it was the one Ji preferred.

Air raid sirens began to blare as Tong wound his way through the city. Not a single Allied plane had been able to reach Beijing thus far. And for good reason. The city was surrounded by concentric rings of defensive airfields, SAM sites, and computer-linked AA guns.

And that was to say nothing of the militia members who took turns standing on roofs ready to fire their FN-6 infrared-homing surface-to-air missile launchers.

So, chances were that the undulating sound was part of a test which, had Tong been checking text messages, he would be well aware of.

An iron gate barred entrance to the orphanage. Tong had to press a button and speak with a faceless functionary somewhere within to gain access. The motorized barrier swung out of the way permitting him to enter a car park.

After parking the bike Tong walked across a well-equipped playground to the low-lying structure beyond. Ji Wu was waiting out front. Her hair was short, her body was slight, and she wore male attire. “They told me you were here,” Wu said. “Come, we can sit on a bench.”

The bench was located in the middle of the playground, and had been placed there for the convenience of staff. “I want you to attend a staff meeting tomorrow at 9:00am,” Tong said. “We’ll use Conference Room 3.”

Wu didn’t ask where Conference Room 3 was. She knew. “And the target?”

Hoi could have asked the same question, but hadn’t, because he didn’t care. “His name is Dampa Tsomo,” Tong answered.

Wu’s eyes widened. “The Dali Lama?”

“Yes. Does that bother you?”

“No, maybe, I don’t know,” Wu answered uncertainly. “Why would we kill him?”

“He’s a critic of the government,” Tong replied. “And, if he chooses to, Tsomo could lead a rebellion. Remember what they taught you on the farm. ‘If a variable can be controlled, the party must control it.’ And the Dalai Lama is a variable.”

“Yes,” Wu agreed. “That is so.”

Tong held his breath. Would Wu consider the possibility of reincarnation? And ask about that? He hoped she wouldn’t. If it came to killing babies Wu might balk. But the questions never came. “Where will the hit take place?”

“At the Tergar Monastery, in India.”

“In Allied territory?”

“Yes.”

“I will be ready.” Wu rose, turned, and returned to work.

In order to make contact with the team’s fourth member, Tong had to visit a so-called “black jail.” Though normally used to house political prisoners the government didn’t want put through the regular justice system, black jails sometimes functioned as temporary detention centers for errant members of the country’s security apparatus, including members of MSS.

And that’s where An Ba, better known to his teammates as Feng-Feng (Cray-Cray) had been cooling his heels for two days. A punishment he richly deserved for getting drunk, stealing a police car, and driving it into the Hai River.

Only Ba’s MSS ID card prevented him from being arraigned, charged, and found guilty. After being notified of Ba’s arrest, Tong had called the detention center and told the functionary on the other end of the phone to, “Hold Ba till I come for him.”

There wasn’t any sign on the black jail. Just a street number. But the presence of perimeter fencing, unmarked police vehicles, and a 60-foot-tall radio mast indicated that the two-story building had an official purpose. Tong had to negotiate two security checks before being shown into a nearly featureless room. There weren’t any windows, a camera was mounted on the ceiling, and the furniture was bolted to the floor.

Most ominous of all however, was the garden hose racked on a wall, and the floor drain located at the center of the room. “Wait here,” the uniformed guard said. “Agent Ba will arrive shortly.”

Ten minutes passed, and Tong had started to fume, by the time the door opened and Ba swaggered in. Feng-Feng’s shoulder length hair was matted and his face was puffy. “Hey boss,” Ba said. “What took you so long?”

“The director is pissed,” Tong said truthfully. “You got off lightly.”

Ba struggled to look contrite. “Tell her I’m sorry… What I did was wrong. Can we go now?”

Tong pressed a button, the guard reappeared, and the next fifteen minutes were spent signing forms—one of which made Ba responsible for all of the damages to the police car. “Don’t worry,” the clerk said. “You’ll have it paid off by the time you’re 60.”

Once outside Tong started the bike, Ba climbed on behind him, and they took off. Riders were supposed to wear helmets in Beijing, but the law was seldom enforced, and they weren’t likely to be stopped.

It took twenty minutes to reach Dongjiaomin Lane, which was known as the longest hutong (narrow land or alley) in Beijing. And Feng-Feng was curious. “What’s up, Boss?” he wanted to know. “What are we doing here?”

“We’re going to dinner,” Tong answered, as he got off the bike. “To celebrate your release. And I’m buying.”

An Ba beamed. “That’s more like it! The food in that shit-hole was terrible, and I’m hungry.”

“Follow me,” Tong said. “We’ll fill you up.”

They went to the Green Snake restaurant which, thanks to the war, was empty of tourists. The glazed Peking Duck was delicious. It was served with a thick, sweet hoisin sauce, radishes, and scallions. Ba drank numerous glasses of the white, clear liquor called Baijiu to wash it down. And, by the time they emerged, Feng-Feng was quite tipsy. It was dark. And because of the level-two blackout, every other streetlight had been turned off. “Come on,” Tong said. “We’ll visit the Go-Girl nightclub, and watch the floor show.”

“Okay,” Ba said. “But I gotta pee.”

“Me too,” Tong agreed, as he followed Ba into a dark passageway.

“Hoo, boy, that feels good,” Feng-Feng said, as he peed on a wall. And that’s where he was, penis in hand, when Tong shot him in the head. Blood misted the air as Ba collapsed into a puddle of his own urine.

Tong glanced around. There weren’t any threats. The suppressed pistol went back into its holster. Tong thumbed a number into his cellphone. A woman answered. “Hello.”

“Nine-zero-seven-five.”

There was a pause, followed by, “Yes, Five… What can we do for you?”

“I need a pickup in the side passage next to the Green Snake restaurant.”

“Fifteen minutes.” Click.

The second call was to Director Zang. Tong imagined her to be at home, but had no idea what such a place would be like, or where it was located. “Yes?”

“The problem is solved.”

“Excellent. The fault was yours. You were far too lenient where past episodes were concerned.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We take care of our own,” Zang added. “Do you want a replacement? I can bring one in from the farm.”

“No, thank you. This job will require experience.”

“I concur.” Click.

The cleaners arrived five minutes later, loaded Ba onto a stretcher, and put the body in the back of what looked like an ambulance. Not a word was spoken. The work day was over.

CHAPTER TWO

West of Bansgadhi, Nepal

The Raute encampment consisted of multi-colored tents made from variegated pieces of cloth, canvas, and vinyl. Most of them were A-frames, but a few had curved roofs, and all were supported by frameworks made of sticks.

The Raute were a nomadic people who survived by hunting langur and macaque monkeys, and by gathering tubers, fruits and greens in the forest. Besides hunting monkeys, the men made hand-carved bowls and boxes which they traded for iron, grain and cloth. They knew the Chinese had taken control of their country, but didn’t care, so long as the invaders left them alone.

In order to blend in with the Raute shelters, and avoid being spotted by recon drones, Captain Jon Lee and his green berets used large pieces of brightly colored fabric to camouflage their 16’ X 16’ army tent. And as Lee stepped out into the sunlight, he saw that the air was filled with wood smoke as the women prepared breakfast. The younger children were roaming the encampment and getting underfoot. They swarmed Lee the moment he appeared. “Money!” they demanded in Nepali. “Candy!”

Though dirty, and dressed in gray rags, the children were well fed. Their eyes were bright with excitement. The demands for money were not peculiar to the children.

Raute adults were unwaveringly suspicious of strangers, especially those with a desire to spend time in their camps, and insisted on being paid. The green berets were paying the Raute mukhiya (headman) 50 Rupees a week for what amounted to rent. And he wanted more.

Meanwhile the kids were always looking for a handout, and Lee was trying to lessen their demands, by distributing candy only once a week. “No,” he told them in Nepali. “Not today. And not tomorrow. The next day. Now shoo.” The children laughed and ran away.

Sergeant Tariq Jones, and Sergeant Mo Cato appeared in the distance. Jones was one of the team’s weapons experts, and Cato was their communications sergeant. They were returning from a 12-hour shift spent at Overlook Two.

O-2 consisted of a ledge high above the east-west highway named HO1. It was a two-lane affair that the Chinese used to move supplies and troops during the hours of darkness. The green berets wore Raute style turbans and shawl-like blankets which hid their tac vests. No one would mistake the soldiers for nomads though… Not up close.

Jones was African American, and Cato was Japanese American. Both were risking their lives. A soldier captured while out of uniform isn’t entitled to the protections offered by the Geneva Convention and might be tortured or killed. “So,” Lee said, “how was it? Any action?”

“Three sets of headlights went by,” Jones said, “but that’s all.”

It would have been ideal to watch the highway day and night. But with only seven men, including himself, Lee couldn’t do that and meet the team’s other objectives as well.

A prewar “A” team consisted of 12 green berets. But those days were over. Special forces operatives were in high-demand worldwide, and half a team was the best that the Joint Special Operations Command (JSOC) could do.

Even at that one member of the team was a Nepalese Gurkha. His name was Yudda Rai--and he seemed to materialize out of nowhere. He was dressed Raute style. “I swept the area Malika (boss), and it’s clean.”

“Good work,” Lee said, as he turned to Cato. “Grab some breakfast, and some shuteye. The hunters will be back from the forest by the time you get up. See if your pal Shahi is willing to take another whirl at becoming a radio operator.”

Shahi was the only young man in the group who had evinced any interest in the team’s radios. But the level of Shahi’s engagement seemed to ebb and flow. He was worth the effort though, because the nomads moved frequently, and a man like Shahi could gather a lot of intelligence.

Informants had to pass their information along however, and that’s where the new long-range, single-frequency, easy-to-use radios came into play. They were equipped with an off-on switch, a press-to-talk button, and a tiny speaker.

The idea was to provide indigenous populations with a device so simple that anyone could operate it. Specially equipped call centers had been established to receive and record the incoming transmissions. But Shahi was having difficulty with the concepts involved. And the elders didn’t want him to try.

Cato was the team’s com specialist, and if anyone could get the job done, he could. “I’ll take another shot at it,” he said.

“One grenade gets you all,” Master Sergeant Troy Harris said, as he arrived on the scene. He was known for a 1950’s style flattop haircut. And, if Lee was killed, Harris would take command.

“And a good morning to you too,” Lee said.

“What’s so fucking ‘good’ about it?” Harris wanted to know. “Am I, or am I not, living in the forest with a bunch of hairy men?”

“You are,” Lee conceded. “But that’s your fault. You could have enlisted in the air force.”

Harris was about to respond when Corporal Josh Bakshi emerged from the tent. “An Indian air force MiG-21 went down about ten-miles upslope from our twenty. The pilot ejected and he’s alive. We have a drone in the area, and it looks like Chinese troops are headed for the crash site from their base in Gothi. Cobra-Six wants us to go after him. How should I respond?”

Lee’s mind started to race. Gothi had a population of about 900 people. He knew the Chinese had a helipad and outpost there. From the sound of it the pilot was located roughly halfway between Allied and Axis forces. It would be a race to see who could reach the aviator first. “Get the pilot’s call sign,” Lee said. “And Tell Cobra-Six that we’re on the way.”

Lee turned to address the rest of them. “Load your gear… We’ll leave in thirty. Harris… Find the headman. Tell him the tent is a gift. And pay him 50 Rupees.

“Rai… See Bakshi. Get this guy’s coordinates and plug them into the GNSS (Global Navigation Satellite System). Map it out… We need the fastest route.

“Where’s Evers?”

“Right here,” the medical specialist said. “I was making my rounds.”

The Raute people had a lot of undiagnosed and untreated medical problems. And the work Evers did was one of the primary reasons why the soldiers were allowed to stay.

“We’re moving out,” Lee told the medic. “Pull your stuff together.”

Harris reappeared. “I told the head honcho to hide the army serial numbers on the tent. He said the 50 Rupees wasn’t enough. But he’s glad to get rid of us, all except for Evers, who’s welcome to stay and marry his daughter.” The men laughed.

“Sorry, Evers,” Lee said. “The war isn’t over yet. All right, let’s get our shit together.”

Rather than get ready in half an hour, as Lee had hoped the team would, the process consumed 45 minutes. But it couldn’t be helped. Harris insisted on checking each loadout to make sure that ammo, food, and other supplies were equally distributed. For weight, yes. But to ensure that, “If some dumbass walks off a cliff, we’ll still be able to eat.”

Of equal importance was the order in which the team would travel. Harris put Rai on point, knowing the Gurkha could read the trails, and navigate the uplands better than any American could. Jones was in the two-slot, where his M249 Squad Automatic weapon (SAW) could spray the bushes, should the team run into trouble.

Harris came next. His role was to provide leadership and fire support if required. Evers and Cato followed with Lee in the six slot. Bakshi, who was armed with an MGL-14 (Multiple Grenade Launcher) was on drag where, if the column was attacked from behind, he could, “Put some shit on them.”

The rest of the green berets were carrying M4A1 carbines and 75-pound packs. Even heavier loads weren’t uncommon where special forces operators were concerned.

But Lee was very conscious of the word “move” in the axiom “shoot, move, and communicate.” And he felt the tradeoff involved was worth it. Especially when jogging upslope in an effort to reach a downed pilot. Rai set a fast pace, and none of the green berets wanted to lose face by complaining.

In order to become a member of the highly esteemed Royal Gurkha Rifles, each applicant had to survive an extremely competitive qualification process that culminated in the much feared Doko race. An evolution which required each aspirant to run five-miles uphill, carrying 55 pounds of weight secured by a head-strap. A feat equal to anything the green berets had faced during the Special Forces Assessment and Selection (SFAS) process at Camp Mackall.

The path was at least six-feet wide at the point where it left the Raute encampment. But it soon dwindled to a couple of feet, and was little more than a game trail as it wound upwards. Lee knew that, while the triple-canopy forest encompassed over 100 types of trees, the dominate species was Shorea robusta, or sal tree, which typically grew to be 98-to-114 feet tall. The trees had rough bark and big heart-shaped leaves.

The sub-canopy was thick with Diospyros tomentosas which sported foliage from top to bottom, and were a source of persimmons and ebony wood.

The lowest layer belonged to shrub species like Calotropis gigantean, some of which were 12-feet tall, and bore clusters of waxy flowers.

Vegetation crowded in from both sides. A few rays of sunshine found their way down through the sal trees to form pools of gold on the ground. But a lot of the light was blocked, leaving ground layer plants to do the best they could.

Lee was wearing a headset. A voice interrupted his thoughts. “Surfer Dude to Cobra-Two-Six. Do you read me? Over.”

“I read you five-by-five, Surfer Dude,” Lee said. “Over.”

“Dancer and I are flying CAP over the crash site. No bogeys yet. PLA inbound from Gothi. Estimated headcount two-five. What’s your ETA? Over.”

Lee glanced at his watch. “Three-and-a-half hours. Over.”

“It’ll be close,” Surfer Dude replied. “There’s a lot of thick foliage. But we’ll try to slow them down. Out.”

Lee could imagine the scene as the American fighter jets took turns diving and strafing the Chinese troops. And, if they were carrying bombs, they might unload some of those too.

Maybe the zoomies would get lucky and inflict heavy casualties on the Chicom troops. But chances were that the bastards would scatter, reform, and continue to travel in between the aerial attacks. And, if half of the enemy soldiers survived, the green berets would be outnumbered two-to-one. But there was nothing Lee could do. The team were already going as fast as they could.

The trail led up onto a plateau and a clearing which, judging from all the trash left behind, had been occupied by the Raute. Rai led them across it and onto another trail which continued upwards. The grade was less steep however and that was a relief. Macaque monkeys, the same kind that the Raute liked to eat, chattered overhead.

Then, as the trail rounded a rock outcropping, Rai spoke over the team freq. “Dead Raute on the left.” And sure enough, as Lee drew abreast of a soaring sal tree, he saw that a rotting corpse had been bound to it.

And that, Lee knew, was the way the Raute always “buried” their dead. Standing up with a hole in their skull to let the person’s spirit escape. Prior to the war government officials encouraged the nomads to dig graves for their dead. But the Raute were by no means consistent in doing so. And whenever a member of the extended family died the Rautes moved. Which explained the empty clearing.

Conditions improved as the team reached the 1,000-foot summit and began the decent into the valley beyond. Lee heard the roar of a jet as an A-10 Thunderbolt passed overhead. That was followed by the sound of a new voice. “Lowboy to Cobra-Two-Six… What’s your ETA? Over.”

Lee eyed his watch. “We’re thirty out. Where’s Surfer Dude? Over.”

“He was bingo fuel,” Lowboy replied. “We have F-15s at thirty-five-thou playing tag with some Chengdu J-7s. Shades is on the move, but the bad guys are on his tail, and it looks like they’re going to win the race. We can’t fire. But we could waste their base. Over.”

Lee understood. The Hog pilots might hit the Chinese and the Indian pilot if they opened up with their GAU-8 Avenger cannons. As for the base, that was tempting, but the Chicoms would still have the pilot called Shades. “Negative on the base,” Lee said. “It has a helipad, right? Over.”

“Affirmative. Over.”

“Tell Shades to surrender. We’ll follow, take the base, and call for a helo.”

“She-it,” Lowboy said. “We are down with that. Over.”

“Watch the road. Don’t let any vehicles into Gothi. Over.”

“Roger that, Two-Six. We’ll hand-off to some helos when the time comes. Out.”

Having voiced the plan Lee regretted it. What the hell was he thinking? The whole thing was built on the assumption that (A) At least half of the Chinese troops stationed at Gothi had ventured out to capture the Allied pilot, and (B) That they had taken significant casualties.

What if he was wrong? What if a full company of PLA fighters was waiting for the team? We’ll be shit out luck, that’s what, Lee thought. And the whole fucking disaster will be on me.

But the first rule of Special Forces was, “Always look cool.” Lee did his best as the trail switch-backed down the slope. An A-10 circled above. “Lowboy to Cobra-Two-Six. They have him. Over.”

“Got it,” Lee replied. “Over.”

“Watch your six,” the pilot added. “Lowboy out.”

The steadily descending trail took a sharp left at a natural viewpoint and Lee ordered a halt. “Time to pee, take a break and drink some water. Ten minutes.”

Lee took a swig of water before releasing the tab that held his binoculars in place. A succession of thickly treed hills filled the foreground. But a flood plain was visible out beyond the forest. And that was the point where the Babai river divided itself into half-a-dozen channels of water before coming back together east of Gothi.

The settlement was on the north bank of the river, and so small it was impossible to make out any details from that distance. As for the Chinese troops, Lee assumed that they were still in the forest and headed north.

“Hey, Rai,” Lee said. “Take a look at this… Once we clear the trees, we’ll have to cross the flood plain, and wade through some side channels before dealing with the main part of the river. All under fire.”

Rai accepted the binoculars and panned from left to right. He had high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a firm chin. “I’ve been here,” the Gurkha said. “The river runs fast and deep. The locals use a rope bridge to get across. And that would funnel us into their fire.

“I suggest we head west, once we reach the bottom of the slope,” Rai added. “And cross two-miles upriver. Then, while the enemy watches the flood plain, we’ll walk back.”

“Which would allow us to hit the Chinese from cover,” Lee said. “I like it. But how do we cross the river?”

“There’s a self-service ferry,” Rai answered. “It’s a raft connected to a cable. We’ll have to pull ourselves across.”

Lee looked up at the sun. It was well past its zenith. A two-mile hike upriver, followed by a two-mile hike down-river, would deliver them to Gothi right around nightfall. And that was a good thing. There was no way to predict what the Chinese might do to Shades. “Done,” Lee said. “Or it will be.”

Lee explained the plan to the team, and managed to eat a candy bar, while taking a pee at the same time. “You gotta multitask in the army.” That’s what one of Lee’s instructors liked to say, and it was true.

With gravity to assist them the soldiers were able to pick up speed and arrived on the forest floor thirty minutes later. Then Rai led the team in a westerly direction, and to a rendezvous with the river after an hour of travel.

Next it was a matter of following the Babai for another hour before arriving at the ferry. The raft consisted of wooden planks fastened to a cage filled with multicolored oil barrels. A wire cable was threaded through a waist-high section of pipe attached to a wooden A-frame at the ferry’s midpoint.

Once the soldiers were aboard, they took turns pulling on the cable and, as they reached the middle of the river, were pushed downstream until they could go no further. Water boiled around the upriver edge of the raft and slopped over their boots. But after fifteen minutes of strenuous exercise the ferry came to rest on the Babai’s north bank.

After securing the platform’s mooring line the team turned east. The good news was that they were on level, mostly clear ground. The bad news was that there were bends in the river, each of which added to the total distance they had to travel.

The sun was sinking in the west by then, and all of them were tired. So, at a point which Rai judged to be a-half-mile short of their objective, Lee declared a one-hour break. “Eat,” Lee said. “And that’s an order. Make the rounds Evers… You know the drill.”

It was nearly impossible to make a high-speed cross-country march without incurring scratches, contusions, and blisters. “Show me your boo boos,” Evers said, as he knelt next to each soldier. “Daddy will make it all better.”

In keeping with the tradition that officers eat last, Lee and Harris stood guard, until other members of the team came to relieve them.

Every soldier had his or her preferences when it came to MREs (Meals Ready to Eat). Some people wanted to have as much diversity as possible. And would load a different meal for each day if they were available.

Others, Lee included, had their favorites and were content to eat the same dinner every day. For him that meant Chili and Macaroni. Like all MREs it came with other items including some marble pound cake, lemon-lime beverage powder, crackers, cheese spread, Skittles, and a hot beverage bag with accessories.

After activating the heater, and inserting both heater and pouch back into the cardboard box, voila! He had hot food. And Lee was hungry.

The moment dinner was over the operators began to gear up. “You’re going to need your night vision gear,” Lee told them. “So, put it on. We’ll dump our packs just short of the objective. Make sure you have beaucoup ammo, grenades, flares, and zip ties. And don’t forget water.”

“Yes, mommy,” Bakshi said.

“Show some respect,” Jones put in. “Lee’s an officer… And a mommy.”

“Only because the army issued him a team of adolescent idiots,” Harris put in. “Shut up and get your shit together.”

Lee grinned. Griping, joking, and a firm hand. It was the perfect mix.

The gurgling, splashing river was on their right as the soldiers followed it east. Rai was on point, with his M4 slung across his chest. And there, in the Gurkha’s right hand, was his kukri. The iconic knives had recurved blades and were associated with the Nepalese army, the Royal Gurkha Rifles of the British army, and the Gorkha regiments of the Indian army.

The knife’s value had been demonstrated in North Africa during WWII, when a unit commander filed a report that read: “Enemy losses: ten killed, ours nil. Ammunition expenditure nil.”

And now, as the team began to close in on the Chinese outpost, there was every reason to expect sentries. Soldiers who were quite likely to have night vision gear of their own. The days of “We own the night,” were over, and had been for some time.

Rai raised a hand. The team came to a stop as the Gurkha knelt, dropped his pack, and crawled forward.

Lee couldn’t see what was going on from his position toward the tail end of the column. But he could guess what Rai was up to. There were one or more sentries ahead. And, if Rai could neutralize them without raising an alarm, the team could get closer without the rest of the Chinese force becoming aware.

Ten long minutes passed. And Lee was starting to get impatient when Rai whispered into his mike. “Two sentries down… Moving forward.”

The night vision gear made everything look green, including the bodies that lay in pools of blood. “There,” Rai whispered. “Up ahead.”

“Hold your position. I’m coming forward,” Lee responded.

The night vision binoculars were ready, but Lee had to remove his night vision setup to make use of them. It was worth the trouble however. The Chinese outpost was up on what Lee judged to be twelve-foot stilts, and consisted of a one-story building, with a sandbagged gun emplacement on the roof. A radio mast stood off to one side. “Bakshi,” Lee whispered. “On me.”

The weapons expert arrived seconds later. “Hey boss, what’s up?”

“See the antenna? I want you to take it down when we move in. Then you can join the party.”

“Got it,” Bakshi replied.

“Okay,” Lee whispered. “Shed your packs and follow me. Remember, they have an Allied prisoner. Be careful who you shoot.”

Lee dropped his pack, waited for the others to do likewise, and eased his way forward. The key was to go slowly and look for tripwires. The kind that could trigger an electronic warning, set off a Chinese directional mine, or launch a flare. Any one of which would be disastrous.

But with no insurgents to deal with, and no contacts with Allied troops, the local PLA contingent hadn’t seen any reason to set up the kind of defensive measures that a wandering goat might trigger. So, Lee made it to the barbed wire fence without being detected. And there, beyond the wooden gate, was a sentry.

Lee could see him quite clearly thanks to the night vision gear. He drew his M9 pistol, screwed the suppressor onto the barrel, and took aim. The pistol produced a clacking sound when Lee fired. And though somewhat quieter than it would have been, it still seemed loud to Lee, and the noise was enough to alert a soldier positioned on the roof. He stood in order to see better--and jerked spastically as Cato fired on him.

Bakshi was firing by then. Forty-millimeter grenades exploded all around the radio antenna and the fifth round was enough to put it down.

Lee had kicked the gate open. The dead sentry lay sprawled to the right. Lee shot him just to make sure, and was turning back to face the building when a machinegun began to stutter from the roof. He heard someone cry out in pain, followed by a loud BOOM, as Bakshi fired his last grenade.

The automatic weapon fell silent as the door in front of Lee opened. Harris shouted, “Grenade!” and Lee threw himself sideways as something black passed through the doorway, and landed inside. There was a blinding flash of light followed by a sharp bang as the stun grenade went off. Harris entered first, then Cato, Rai and Lee. He heard the sound of a single shot and two bursts of automatic fire. “Two assholes down,” Harris said.

The presence of a radio antenna suggested that the PLA soldiers had a generator. But, for some reason, the building’s interior was lit with kerosene lanterns. Shadows danced the walls as the light flickered. The pilot was seated in a corner, hands tied, with a bag over his head. Rai pulled it off. “Are you Shades?”

The pilot had been beaten. His face was swollen, his nose was broken, and his lips were cracked. “Yes,” he croaked. “Who are you?”

“Corporal Yudda Rai, the Royal Gurkha Rifles.”

“Sukar Hai [Thank God].”

“Master Sergeant,” Lee said, as he cut the pilot free. “Check the roof. You too Corporal.”

Wooden stairs led up to a hatch. Harris went first with Rai for backup.

Lee turned to Cato. “What’s the status on our helo?”

“It’s on a sandbar, sir. Two miles downstream.”

“Call it in, find the helipad, and light it up. What’s the status on Evers and Jones?”

“Jones caught a round in the right leg. Evers is with him.”

“Shit. Okay… Find the helipad.”

Lee spoke into his mike. “How’s Jones?”

“He’s a whiner,” Evers replied. “But he’s stable, and ready for the evac. Do you see a stretcher in there?”

Lee looked around. “Yes, I do. I’ll bring it out.”

Then he turned to Shades. “Can you walk?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Good. Stay with me.”

The basket-style stretcher was hanging on a wall. Lee took it down and Shades proved his mettle by taking one end of it. They carried the stretcher out through the door and past the gate to the spot where Jones had been hit. “Sorry, sir,” the operator said. “The bastard got lucky.”

“I found the helipad,” Cato said over the team freq. “It’s on the east side of the building. Over.”

“Good,” Lee replied. “Evers and I will bring Jones over.”

“The roof is clear,” Harris said, as he appeared out of the gloom.

“Roger that,” Lee responded. “Take Rai, get our packs, and hump them to the pad. Then we’ll search the building for Intel.”

Flares lit the area with an eerie glow as Lee, Evers, and Jones arrived at the helipad. It wasn’t much. Just a concrete pad with a sun faded “H” on it.

Engines roared as the UH-60 Back Hawk swept in, hovered, and touched down. The helo’s door gunners continued to scan for danger as the crew chief jumped to the ground.

She was wearing a helmet with visor, a jumpsuit, and carrying an M4. “Load the casualty first,” she instructed. “In case we have to haul ass. You can’t see it, but a dogfight is underway at 20,000 feet. If our guys lose the Chinese fighters will be on us like stink on shit.”

“You heard the chief,” Lee said. “Load Jones, Shades, and the gear in that order. Harris and I will search the building.” They entered through the east door and went about the process like human vacuum cleaners. Lee remembered one instructor saying, “You yo-yos aren’t smart enough to decide what’s important, so take everything, and let the nerds sort it out.”

In this case “everything” included two laptops, all the sheets of paper pinned to a bulletin board, a notebook full of what might have been codes, some Russian-made porno, a batch of letters from a soldier’s girlfriend, a pencil sketch of a PLA soldier, and a travel brochure about Nepal. All of it went into two PLA packs then out to the helo where the rest of them were waiting.

Once Lee and Harris were aboard, the Blackhawk seemed to leap into the air. It banked to the west and followed a course that would take it through a succession of valleys and on to India.

The helo flew low at first, then as high as it could, in order to get over the front lines. An FB-10 surface-to-air missile came close but missed thanks to the decoy flares that pulled it away.

The helo was only fifteen minutes out from Trishul Air Base located about three miles north of Bareilly, in Uttar, Pradesh when Shades made his announcement. His English was profane but perfectly clear. “Hey motherfuckers, we’re going to land at my base, and I’m going to buy every damned one of you a drink.” The cheers could be heard up in the cockpit. The mission was over.

CHAPTER THREE

Shah Makhdum Airport, Bangladesh

Bangladesh belonged to the Chinese, for the moment anyway, and that included the Shah Makhdum Airport. Or what the People’s Liberation Army Air Force called “Bangladesh Military Region, Fighter Base 4.”

Chinese pilots had another name for the facility however, and that was “The Swamp.” The 6,000-foot runway was only 55 feet above sea level and a light rain was enough to flood its low-lying sections.

Unlike many military transports the Shaanxi Y-8 had windows and Tong was seated next to one of them. Thanks to his mission package, Tong knew that the air base was located a few miles away from the river that separated the Chinese from Allied forces in that particular area.

That explained the bomb craters, the SAM launchers, revetments for six Sukhoi SU-35 fighters, the lookout towers, the military vehicle park, the ant-like soldiers, and the antenna farm visible through the window. Tong felt a hard thump as the plane put down. The engines roared as the pilots used reverse thrusters to slow the transport down.

Tong eyed his companions. Wu was eating a candy bar—and Hoi was putting a book away. Tong and his two-person team were a tiny part of a payload that included 26 additional passengers, and 15 tons of supplies strapped to the center section of the deck.

With their heavily loaded black duffle bags in hand, the assassins followed soldiers to the back hatch, and down the ramp. The assassins were dressed in matching ball caps, windbreakers, and black cargo pants. Even without insignia they looked like members of the military.

A light rain was falling and the air was uncomfortably humid. Tong heard a distant rumble. Thunder? No. Artillery.

As the ground crew hurried to service the Y-8 and turn it around, the newcomers were funneled through a canopied checkpoint manned by a very efficient sergeant. “Name?”

“Heng Cao,” Tong lied, as he presented an ID Card which listed him as an employee of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, an organization that MSS used to provide cover stories to its agents. “There are three of us altogether.”

“I will need to see an ID card for each member of your party.”

After examining each card, the noncom nodded. “Do you need directions?”

“We’re supposed to meet a civilian guide.”

“He’ll be waiting for you in the terminal building. Have a nice stay.”

That seemed unlikely. But Tong said, “Thank you,” anyway.

It was a short walk to the beige four-story building. The way in which smaller structures were piled on top of each other was reminiscent of a temple, except that they were mounted on the roof. The fact that the terminal continued to exist was a testament to how effective Chinese air defenses were.

The others followed as Tong entered a spacious lobby. A man in a white shirt and black pants stood waiting. The sign he held was in English. “Mr. Heng Cao.”

All of Tong’s team could read, write, and speak English. The man had black hair shot with gray. “Mr. Gazi?” Tong inquired. “My name is Heng Cao.”

Gazi smiled and extended his hand. “Welcome to Bangladesh.” Then he paused meaningfully. “Red…”

“…Dragon,” Tong replied.

Gazi nodded. “Everything is ready… I will take you to a location where you can prepare and get some rest. We will depart at 3:00am. Do you have any questions?”

Gazi was an MSS contractor. One of thousands the Chinese government had hired and trained in the years previous to the war. And they were a valuable resource. “No,” Tong answered. “I’ll let you know if I do.”

Gazi led the team out through double doors. A Type 99 main battle tank was parked out front where its 125mm smoothbore gun could command 160 degrees of mostly open ground. A significant deterrent indeed.

Gazi led them past a sandbagged SAM site to a parking lot, half of which was occupied by a field hospital. A huge red cross decorated the roof. To protect it? To protect the airport? Or to protect both? Tong suspected the latter.

One corner of the lot was still available for parking. And that’s where Gazi’s aging van was waiting. The name “Gazi Excursions” was painted on the side. A sure indication that Gazi had been involved in tourism prior to the war. And what better way to move foreign agents around than in a tour vehicle?

After placing their duffle bags in the back of the vehicle the agents got in. The interior was spotlessly clean—and bottles of water were waiting. Gazi started the engine, looked both ways, and pulled out.

Rain drops pattered on the roof and the wipers carved arcs in the mud as they slapped back and forth. The two-lane driveway led to the main road which was paved and slightly elevated above the land to the right and left. Tong took notice of the fact Bangladeshis drove on the left, rather than the right, the way civilized people should.

Evidence of the war was visible everywhere. The Shah Makhdum airport and the territory around it had been in Allied hands originally. That was to say mostly Indian hands, since they’d been on their own when 3,000 members of the People’s Liberation Army Air Force Airborne Corps dropped out of the night sky ten miles east of the Padma River.

Elements of the Indian and Bangladeshi armies fought hard. But because they’d been taken by surprise, and the Pakistanis were invading from the north, the Indians weren’t able to get enough men and equipment into the area. A desperate retreat to the west bank of the river followed. That allowed the PLA to take control of the airport and resupply the paras who dug in.

Transports loaded with armor followed, as a steady stream of Chinese planes circled around the south end of the Himalayas, and into the poorly defended country of Bangladesh. Meanwhile PLA regulars were invading Bangladesh and Bhutan from the east. And when those countries capitulated China took control.

Had it not been for the timely arrival of American forces, which had been withdrawn from Afghanistan, the PLA would have been able to cross the river. But that day will come, Tong thought, as the van passed the long column of rain-drenched troops that were making their weary way west.

Gazi had to honk the horn repeatedly as a herd of free-roaming cows wandered onto the highway. A heavily loaded military transport was coming from the opposite direction. The driver continued to honk and even went so far as to nudge a cow with its front bumper.

Finally, having demonstrated their dominance, the bovines left the road, and allowed the vehicles to proceed. Modest homes lined both sides of the two-lane road. Most were made of mud or concrete blocks with roofs of corrugated metal. Some houses lay in ruins due to the fighting. Others were occupied. And that makes sense, Tong thought. Where would the people go?

After crossing a small bridge, they passed a burned-out CSK-131 personnel carrier, followed by what Tong assumed was a temporary graveyard, based on the tidy rows of metal markers. Indian troops perhaps, awaiting cremations that, barring something unexpected, would be a longtime coming.

After fifteen minutes or so Gazi turned onto a deeply rutted side road. It wound through a field of thickly planted jute trees, past a large pond, and up to the top of a rise where a prosperous looking house stood. So Gazi is a farmer, as well as a tour operator, and part-time employee of MSS, Tong thought. An enterprising man indeed.

The one-story home had two peaked roofs, one draining to the other, which jutted out over a raised verandah. The front of the house boasted four windows and three green doors.

A teenage boy and a girl hurried out to fetch the team’s luggage. Hoi shooed them away. “No one touches our stuff,” he said in English. And that was consistent with MSS training. “Never allow a stranger to handle your weapons,” the maxim went, “unless you’re ready to die.”

Gazi led the team over to the green door on the far left. It opened onto a spacious room clearly equipped for tourists. The kind who knew each other well—and were willing to share a room.

What light there was emanated from the single window and a kerosene lantern that Gazi lit. “The electricity has been out for weeks,” the businessman informed them. “We’re running our refrigerator off a portable generator.”

The room’s furniture consisted of three bunk beds, a well-worn vinyl couch, and a table flanked by six mismatched chairs. The floor was scrupulously clean. “The bathroom is outside,” Gazi said, pointing to yet another door.

“Thank you,” Tong said. “Let’s go over the plan.”

Paper rattled as Tong opened a map and spread it on the table. “We were going to cross the river here,” Tong said as he brought a finger down onto a red X. “But that’s no longer the case.”

Gazi was visibly alarmed. “No longer the case? But arrangements have been made… A boatman will be waiting.”

And odds are that the boatman has spilled his guts by now, Tong thought. To an Allied spy? Maybe, and maybe not. It makes no difference.

“That’s why I’m giving you plenty of warning,” Tong said. “Leave the original arrangements in place. Don’t communicate with the boatman. Pay him tomorrow. Understood?”

Gazi wasn’t happy, but he knew what could happen to him and his family if he crossed the Chinese government, so he swallowed his objections. “I understand.”

“Good,” Tong replied. “Now we’re going to cross here, just west of Yusufpur, at 11:00 pm. Not a hundred-yards upstream, and not a hundred-yards downstream, but here. At this exact spot.” Tong tapped the map for emphasis.

“Chinese troops will be on duty at the river. And, if they challenge the boatman, he will ask for Captain Liu. Repeat that back to me.”

Gazi obeyed. “Good,” Tong said. “Tell the boatman to give this card to Captain Liu. Once the captain sees it, he will allow the boatman to wait for us.”

The card was embossed with a red dragon. Gazi took it. “I know a man,” he said.

“I thought you would,” Tong replied. “Remember, don’t tell anyone, not even your family. We’ll leave here at 9:30. I’d rather be early than late.”

“Of course,” Gazi said. “My wife and daughters will bring food at six o’clock.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Tong replied, “but thanks for the offer.”

That was another MSS maxim: “Food accepted from a stranger may be your last meal.” Which was why each member of the team had three PLA MREs in their duffle bags. The contents smelled like dog food, but were sufficient to keep them alive. Gazi withdrew.

“Okay,” Tong said. “Load your weapons and keep them handy. Eat if you want to, and sleep if you can. I will take the first two-hour watch.”

The rest of the day passed slowly. They took naps and complained about the food in the green pouches. But that’s where the commonalities ended. Ji Wu practiced Yoga, and Han Hoi read a book, while Tong studied the team’s escape route.

When 8:00pm finally rolled around, Tong ordered his companions to get ready. Their heads had been shaved prior to leaving Beijing so all of them were bald.

PLA soldiers didn’t have body armor so the MSS had been forced to import level 3 armor before the war. Once the body armor was in place, the assassins slipped their arms through double shoulder holsters, each loaded with a Russian 9x19mm Parabellum Stechkin pistol.

What made the handguns unique was their capacity to fire semi-auto, or full-auto, should the need arise. Each member of the team was wearing a custom-made belt carrying four extra magazines, plus pouches for two grenades each, and a detachable steel-wire shoulder stock—for use in the full-auto mode.

Once the loadouts were readied the agents donned custom made rip-away robes, all of which were maroon, because that was the color Tibetan monks favored. Sandals were too difficult to run in, so like many modern monks, the agents wore sneakers.

Tong was amazed by the transformation. Wu and Hoi looked like monks, and their weapons were hidden by the loose robes. But could they access the pistols quickly?

“Open your robes,” Tong ordered, “and draw a weapon.” There were ripping sounds as Velcro fasteners parted and the agents drew their weapons. “Good,” Tong said. “Very good. But you could have been faster. Do it again.”

Tong joined in and the three of them repeated the process over-and-over until their motions were smooth. “Now remember,” Tong told them. “Don’t fire on full-auto unless you have to. Our orders are to kill enough bodyguards to eliminate the Dalai Lama but no one else.

“China will rule India one day, so it would be stupid to antagonize the population. That’s why the government sent us rather than a missile.

“And remember what we agreed on… You will focus on the guards, while I target the Dalai Lama. Do you have any questions?” They didn’t.

There was a knock on the door. Hoi stood behind it with his pistol drawn. Tong called out. “Come in!”

The door swung open, Gazi stepped in, and stared. Two Buddhist monks stood in front of him with hands clasped over their hearts. The agents said, “Namaste,” and bowed in unison.

“Namaste,” was not just a commonly used greeting, but a sign of respect, and good will common to Buddhists and Hindus. “We’re ready,” Tong said simply. “Take us to the river.”

Wind and rain pummeled the van as it left the jute plantation for the highway. Flashes strobed along the horizon as artillery pieces battled each other for dominance.

It was well past the Chinese imposed curfew by then, so there was very little traffic on the road. There was some however, and it wasn’t long before a CSK-131 pulled up behind the van, and flashed its lights. Gazi hurried to pull over, and Tong prepared to offer his ID.

PLA soldiers appeared on both sides of the van and aimed flashlights inside. Tong wondered what they thought of three Buddhist monks traveling at night. “I need to see your ID,” a soldier said in Mandarin.

It took the better part of ten minutes for the military police to check IDs, radio them in and receive a clearance. Tong felt a sense of relief. That was how the process was supposed to work. But coordinating MSS missions with the sprawling PLA’s gigantic bureaucracy was an iffy thing. A soldier saluted. “You’re free to go.”

Gazi wasted no time pulling away. Lights were visible in some of the homes they passed but not many. It was getting late and kerosene was expensive.

The headlights found a cow standing on the highway chewing its cud. Gazi braked and swerved around it. Shortly thereafter Tong began to see military vehicles parked alongside the road, army encampments of uncertain purpose, and sandbagged gun emplacements.

A 4X4 VP 11 MRAP (Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected) vehicle was blocking half the road ahead. Gazi slowed and came to a stop. Their ID cards were ready and the sergeant gave them a cursory glance. “You are pre-cleared,” he said. “Please proceed.”

The MPs had radioed ahead, and Tong was grateful, as the van entered the small village located near the river. The houses stood on stilts, and for good reason, since the river flooded the area around them every year. “These people are fishermen,” Gazi explained, as he brought the van to a stop. “And smugglers. Sometimes both. Come… I will take you to the river.”

Tong eyed his watch. It was 10:45. They were on time.

The blob of light from Gazi’s hand torch led the group down to the muddy riverbank where a long, narrow, needle-nosed boat was waiting for them. As was a young man dressed in a ball cap, blue sweatshirt, and shorts. If the boatman was surprised to see three monks there was no sign of it on his face. “This is Bapi,” Gazi said. “He grew up on the river, and knows every inch of it.”

“That true,” Bapi added. “And I sneaky. Boat made out of wood and I use oars. No noise, no heat.”

“Good,” Tong said. “Do you know where Chanda’s Landing is?”

Bapi nodded. “All fishermen know. It half-mile downstream.”

“That’s where we want to land,” Tong told him. “Oh, and one more thing… An artillery barrage will begin ten minutes from now. Ignore it. None of the shells will land on us.”

Bapi’s eyes grew larger. He understood. The artillery attack would drive the Allied soldiers into their bunkers while he took the Sannyasi (monks) across. “Very good, very good. We go now.”

Tong shook hands with Gazi. “Thank you. Your pay will arrive in the usual manner. Drive carefully.”

Bapi sat in the middle of the boat where the oars were. Hoi was in the bow. Tong sat next to Wu in the stern. He felt nervous, and for good reason, because Tong was a weak swimmer. He’d been able to pass the test administered at the MSS training farm, but just barely, and didn’t like boats. Especially boats with only three or four inches of freeboard.

Gazi made use of a foot to push them off. The river was low, and thanks to the relatively gentle current, Bapi made good progress.

Tong could feel the jerk as Bapi pulled on the oars, hear the wooden hull gurgle through the water, and gauge the boat’s speed by dipping a hand in the water.

The choice of Chanda’s Landing was no accident. The MSS planners had chosen a destination that was downstream to make the smuggler’s job that much easier.

The sound of manmade thunder rolled across the land as Chinese PLZ-05 155mm self-propelled howitzers opened fire up and down the river. The artillery pieces were roughly 5-miles east of the river, which allowed them to lob shells an equal distance into Allied territory, where they would fall on preregistered targets.

Tong could hear each round hiss through the air, followed by the car-ump of an exploding shell, and a flash of light. And not just one, but dozens of explosions. It was an impressive show of firepower—and, given the cost, an indication of how badly the Chinese government wanted to eliminate the Dalai Lama.

But the Allies weren’t about to take the pounding sitting down. Their howitzers spoke in reply, thereby adding to the flickering light that strobed the horizon, and the mutter of manmade thunder. “There!” Hoi said. “Lights!”

Tong saw that Hoi was correct. A pair of amber parking lights were visible up ahead. There was a scraping noise as Bapi grounded the boat. Hoi was in the bow, and the first to go ashore. A man was waiting. “Red,” Hoi said.

“Dragon,” came the answer.

Tong was ashore by then. And happy to be there. He turned to Bapi. “Good job. Thank you.”

The boatman flashed a grin and disappeared into the gloom.

The driver stepped forward. “My name is Jayapal. Who’s in charge?”

“That would be me,” Tong said.

“I need half the fee up front,” the man announced.

“It doesn’t work that way,” Tong told him. “You have a contact. He, or she, will pay you.”

“Well, they didn’t,” Jayapal said. “So, pay up, or I’ll leave you here.”

Tong sighed. Jayapal would be paid. But, upon seeing what he took to be three monks, the driver figured he could bully them into paying twice. Tong turned to Hoi. “You heard the man… Pay him.”

Jayapal took a step backward as the pistol appeared. “No! There’s been a misunderstanding! Don’t…”

There was a loud bang, Jayapal’s head jerked, and he fell backward into the mud. The sound of the pistol shot was lost in the rumble of artillery. “Search him,” Tong ordered. “Find his car keys. We’ll throw him into the river.”

After securing the keys Hoi took hold of Jayapal’s wrists. Tong got a grip on the driver’s ankles and, after swinging the corpse back and forth three times, they let go.

The body produced a splash as it hit the water. “Good work,” Tong said. “Let’s see what kind of vehicle Mr. Jayapal gave us.”

The answer, as it turned out, was a muddy Land Rover. Hoi got behind the wheel while Tong slid into the passenger seat. Wu sat in back. “We’ll have to drive for at least 10 miles before we clear the Allied defensive zone,” Tong predicted. “So, we’re bound to be pulled over. Have your Indian ID cards ready.”

The artillery duel was over by the time Hoi left the dirt road for a paved highway. And that’s when Tong’s prediction came true. An American Humvee, complete with a police-style light bar, pulled them over. A soldier aimed a machine gun at the SUV while others came forward to shine flashlights into the interior. Hoi had his window rolled down and squinted into the light. “Do you speak English?” a gravelly voice demanded.

“Yes,” Hoi replied.

“Good. I need to see you IDs please. All of them.”

Wu passed her card forward. Though issued for voting purposes the cards were also used to prove identity. The MSS document technicians had gone to great lengths to make sure the cards were not only current, but pre-aged, and associated with actual monks.

The army corporal gave the cards back. “What are you guys doing here? You could have been killed during the artillery barrage.”

“We’re lost,” Hoi confessed. “Can you tell us where to go? We’re on our way to New Delhi.”

“Sure,” the American replied. “Follow us to the main highway.”

Tong could hardly believe their good luck as the Humvee led them through 5 miles of turning-twisting roads to a highway that would take them west. The machine gunner waved, and the agents waved in return, as the army vehicle drove away.

Hoi turned onto the highway and Tong checked his map. They had a long drive in front of them, 355 miles to be exact. A journey which, due to India’s roads, would take approximately 14 hours. There wasn’t a whole lot of civilian traffic because of gas rationing. But there were long, slow-moving military convoys that had to be dealt with, and Hoi spent half his time swearing at them.

The group stopped every 2 hours to get gas, stretch their legs, and buy food. Then it was back onto the road. First came the city of Pakur, followed by the city of Dumka, and the turnoff to Highway 133. Then they traveled north and eventually arrived in Belsar, and on to Bodh Gaya Bihar where the Tergar Monastery was located.

Hoi drove past it and Tong was struck by the temple’s impressive façade, beautiful walkways, and carefully maintained gardens. But thousands of other people were arriving too. Traffic was terrible and the local hotels were bursting at the seams.

After wiping the Land Rover’s interior down, Hoi parked the vehicle on a busy street, and left the key in the ignition. Hopefully someone would steal the 4X4 and further obscure Jayapal’s fate.

Then it was time to buy some toiletries, order some food, and make their way to the hotel that the MSS planners had chosen for them. It was a mile from the monastery. The room was furnished with two queen-sized beds, a tiny fridge, and two chairs.

The first priority was to get as much sleep as they could. Each agent stood a two-hour watch. The muffled sound of fireworks could be heard outside, along with honking horns, and the incessant beating of a drum. But no one came to the door, and the night passed without incident.

The following day dawned bright and sunny. After a shower and a shave Tong went out to use a payphone. A woman answered. “Shi?” (Yes.)

“Red.”

“Dragon. A white van will be waiting. The last four digits of the license plate are eight-eight-six-three.” Click.

Thus reassured Tong went back to the room where the other agents were waiting. “There will be a large crowd,” Tong predicted. “We’ll arrive early, and position ourselves in the front row. And don’t forget your Khatas.”

Khatas were ceremonial scarfs, usually white in color, which were worn or presented at ceremonial occasions including births, weddings, and funerals. And, according to the MSS research department, almost every monk would have one.

After the team left the hotel they found themselves in a river of men in maroon robes. Judging from the tiny flags that some of the monks carried, the agents were surrounded by men from Myanmar, Cambodia, Laos, Thailand and Vietnam. Just about all of whom were older rather than younger. And that made sense in wartime.

There were lots of other people too, many of whom wore surgical masks to defend themselves from bad “Qi” (air). Many were carrying Khatas.

It was the ideal situation from Tong’s point of view, since there was nothing to make the three of them stand out other than their relative youth. An arrow-straight street led to the monastery. And, rather than carry out the hit inside, where security would be the heaviest, the planners recommended a kill on the road. That made sense because Tsomo was relatively young and preferred to walk rather than ride.

When asked about that practice, Tsomo said, “If the people are to gather in the street that is where I want to be.” And Buddhists loved him for it.

Once the team reached a point about halfway up the street they stopped, draped their scarves across their arms, and brought their palms together. They shuffled forward inch-by-inch until they were in the front rank. Meanwhile the sound of music filled the air, as colorfully dressed “Red Hat” monks made their way up the street, some playing Dung-Chen horns, while others blew on conch shells.

Incense billowed up as two columns of “Yellow Hats” passed carrying flags and banners. There were policemen too… All armed with assault rifles.

But because many of them were Buddhists, and more intent on seeing the Dalai Lama rather than protecting him, their backs were turned to the crowd. It would be up to Wu and Hoi to deal with them. Tong’s job was to shoot Tsomo.

Bit-by-bit Tong freed the Velcro fasteners until his robe was ready to fall away. The difference might save a second or two.

Tong’s vision seemed more acute, the incense clogged his nostrils, and the music was piercing. He could see the Dalai Lama--but forced himself to wait. Everything seemed to slow… Then, after what felt like an eternity, the moment was upon him.

Tong let the scarf flutter to the ground. The robe fell away revealing a waist length jacket. With arms crossed Tong pulled his pistols. The one on the right came up to point at Tsomo. The Dalai Lama was smiling. Tong fired. Once, twice, three times.

Other gunshots echoed Tong’s as Wu and Hoi shot the Dalai Lama’s maroon-robed bodyguards and the nearby policemen. People screamed and ran every which way. The assassins ran with them. A cloud blocked the sun, and a shadow fell over the land.

CHAPTER FOUR

Trishul Airbase, north of Bareilly, India

Captain Jon Lee was asleep in his cell-like 8 x 12 room when the runner knocked on the door. Lee thought the sound was part of a dream and ignored it. Then he heard a muffled voice. “Captain Lee? Are you in there? Colonel Jennings sent for you.”

Lee opened his eyes. Uh, oh… “Jumping Jim Jennings” was the Commanding Officer of the 5th Special Forces Group, presently headquartered in India. “All right, all right… Just a sec.”

Lee went to the door and opened it a crack. An Indian soldier was standing outside. He saluted. “Sorry to disturb you, sir… But the Colonel is holding a briefing at 0900, and you’re required to attend. I have orders to take you there.”

Lee eyed his watch. It was 0742. Just enough time to shave, shower, get dressed.

“Good,” Lee said. “I’d never find my way through the maze otherwise. What’s your name?”

“Private Chadha, sir.”

“Okay, thanks. You can wait, or take a half-hour break. I’ll be ready by 0815.”

“Yes, sir. I will wait.”

Lee closed the door and yawned. What the hell was going on? The team had returned the night before. After making sure that Jones was in good hands, the green berets and the helo crew took refuge in the O-club, where Shades bought everyone a round of drinks. Then they went their separate ways. And for Lee, that was straight to bed.

Under normal circumstances the team would have been granted a few days of R&R prior to heading out again. But the fact that Jennings was holding a briefing seemed to suggest that some sort of shit storm was rolling in. And you, Lee thought, are likely to be downwind.

Lee opened the door exactly thirty minutes later to find that Chadha was still there. “Thanks for waiting. Please lead the way.”

Fortunately, the Indian government had been very mindful of the Chinese threat when the vast underground base was constructed. And, as Chadha led Lee onto the raised walkway that paralleled a taxiway, the green beret saw rows of Su-30 MKI fighters, MiG-25P Foxbat Interceptors, and Mil Mi-24 “Hind” attack helicopters. All of which had been purchased from Russia during a period when India was trying to counter American influence.

The strategy backfired when WWIII started, and India could no longer acquire parts for its Russian-made aircraft. Efforts were underway to “clone” parts in Allied countries. But it would take at least a year for enough of them to roll off the assembly lines and be distributed.

In the meantime, the Indians were cannibalizing planes in an effort to keep some of their planes flying. That left American, British, and French aircraft to battle the Chinese.

Chadha took a left and Lee followed. A highly polished corridor led to a nicely furnished lobby and a bank of elevators. The atmosphere was too posh for a fortress. Perhaps that had to do with the fact that Trishul Airbase had been home to a significant part of India’s Central Air Command before the war. And senior officers like their comforts.

After riding an elevator up a level, the two men stepped out onto Command Level A, where decisions both large and small were made. A security checkpoint was waiting for them.

Then came a long march down a carpeted hall past all manner of staff offices to Meeting Room A-12. The double doors were open--and Lee could see people inside. The time was 0846. “Thank you, Private Chadha.”

“You’re welcome, sir.” Chadha did a perfect about face and marched away.

Lee entered the room. The space was large enough to seat 50 people and about half that many were present. Most wore Indian camos.

Flat panel screens were mounted on the front wall, flanked by rows of flags representing all of the Allied nations. The room was set up conference style with tables and chairs. “Good morning, sir. There’s coffee on the back table, and some awesome pastries.”

Lee turned to find Sergeant Cory Evers standing next to him. The green beret was holding a mug in one hand, a loaded plate in the other. “Good morning, Evers… How’s Jones?”

“He’s fine,” the medical specialist replied. “There was no damage to his femur. He’ll be up and around in no time.”

“Good. Where’s the rest of the team?”

“Cato’s over there,” Evers said, as he pointed with his chin. “Talking to the Gurkhas. But the rest of them disappeared. I think they have orders.”

Lee frowned. “Suddenly, without warning, most of his team was gone. It would have been nice to say goodbye. “So, what’s the 411 on this?”

“I don’t know, sir. I’m a sergeant.”

“That’s why I thought you’d know,” Lee replied with a smile. “Okay, I guess we’ll find out soon enough. I’m going for some of that coffee. And a pastry too.”

After collecting his refreshments Lee made his way forward, and was about to sit at the rearmost table, when a second lieutenant intercepted him. “Captain Lee? I’m Lieutenant Cooper. Please follow me.”

Lee had no choice but to follow Cooper and allow her to seat him in the front row. “Your briefing materials are on the table,” Cooper said. “Let me know if you need anything else.” Then she was gone.

Lee put his food down, and was about to peek at the documents in the manila folder, when another army captain arrived. She appeared to be Chinese American and, according to the insignia on her cammies, was a doctor. And strikingly attractive as well. “Good morning,” Lee said, as she sat down. “I’m Jon Lee.”

“Wendy Kwan,” the other officer said, as she shook his hand. “How ‘bout it? Do you know why we’re here?”

“Nope,” Lee replied. “I don’t have a clue.”

Someone in the back of the room yelled, “Atten-hut!” and everyone stood, as Colonel Jennings entered—followed by a posse of staff officers and a Buddhist monk. What the heck? What did green berets, Gurkhas, and monks have in common? Lee was about to find out.

Jennings strode to the podium. He was a big man, six-two at least, and a legend in the special ops community. Jennings had been awarded a distinguished Service Cross, a silver star, a bronze star—and a purple heart with four oak leaf clusters.

More than that, the colonel was wearing a Master Parachutist badge, with more than a hundred jumps under his belt. Thus, the nickname “Jumping Jim Jennings.”

Jennings looked tired, there were bags under his eyes, and his mouth was turned down at the corners. “I won’t lie to you,” Jennings began. “This is anything but a good morning. So, let’s dispense with the happy horseshit. Some of you may know what took place yesterday, but it’s my guess that most of you don’t, because the Indian government clamped down on the video you’re about to see immediately after the initial reports.

“An official news conference is scheduled for 1000 today. That’s when the entire world will learn that his holiness the Dalai Lama was assassinated in Belsar yesterday.”

There were gasps of horror from those in the audience as the lights were dimmed and video appeared on a huge flat screen. Lee wasn’t a Buddhist, but his Chinese American parents were, so he’d been raised to revere the Dalai Lama. And there Dampa Tsomo was—walking in a procession.

The raw, unedited footage was jerky at times, but all the more moving due to that. The crowd was at least six-people deep on both sides of the street, horns blared, and clouds of incense billowed up into the air.

Lee noticed that some of the police were facing the wrong way and, due to what Jennings had told them, he knew what to expect. Assassins opened fire. Bodyguards and policemen fell. Then, still smiling, Dampa Tsomo went down. It was sickening. The crowd swirled as the killers fled.

Tears were running down Kwan’s cheeks. Because she was a Buddhist? Or because the Dali Lama was a person? She wiped the tears away as Jennings returned to the podium.

“It was a professional hit,” Jennings said. “And, judging from the way it was carried out, the experts believe that Chinese MSS agents are responsible for the killing. They’re still on the loose by the way… Despite a nationwide manhunt.

“But,” Jennings added, “that has nothing to do with the purpose of this briefing. Here to explain why the Chinese would want to kill the Dalai Lama, and the stakes involved, is Lama Boshay Jangchup. Lama Jangchup?”

Jangchup appeared to be in his early forties, and his cherubic features were very reminiscent of the rounded face generally associated with the Buddha himself. The lama’s robe swirled as he made his way to the podium. He brought his palms together and bowed. “Namaste.”

Some members of the audience responded in kind. When Jangchup looked up the anger in his eyes was plain to see. His English was flawless. “The Chinese sent assassins to kill the Dalai Lama because they lived in fear of him. If that sounds strange to you,” Jangchup added, “consider the following facts.”

A PowerPoint presentation appeared on the screens behind the lama. “Buddhism is practiced by an estimated 500-million people worldwide,” Jangchup said. “And of that number China has the largest population of Buddhists, something like 244-million people, which represents about 18% of the country’s total population. Of that number the greatest concentration of Buddhists lives in Tibet--where approximately 91% of the population is Buddhist.

“Finally consider the fact that Tibet represents one-quarter of China’s landmass. So, had the Dalai Lama desired to do so, he could have led a rebellion inside of China.

“And what better time to do so than right now? When China is fighting a war on many fronts. So, they murdered him.”

Jangchup paused to let that sink in. “But, as you say in the west, ‘One thing leads to another.’ And in this case, it’s a race. Because, according to the tenets of our faith, reincarnation is part of the endless cycles referred to as samsara. The cycle stops when liberation flows from a combination of insight and the extinguishment of desire.

“Will Dampa Tsomo desire to return? And finish his work? Most of my fellow lamas believe he will. And that my friends, means that we must find the baby that is Dampa Tsomo, and bring him out of Tibet before the Chinese assassins find and kill him. Colonel Jennings?”

Jennings stood and went up to the podium. “Let’s get something straight,” Jennings said, as his eyes jumped from face-to-face. “This is not an attempt to convert you to Buddhism. This is an effort to win World War III. Because, as Lama Jangchup explained, half-a-billion people are Buddhists--and we need them to be on our side.

“And please understand… While we try to find the real Dali Lama, and bring him out of Tibet, the Chinese will be naming one of their own. A child they can shape to do their bidding.

“So, we’re sending a team into Tibet to find the real Dalai Lama and protect him. And I don’t give a shit whether you believe in reincarnation or not. If Lama Jangchup and his peers say that a baby is the real Dalai Lama, then he’s the real Dalai Lama.

“The code name for the team is Viper, and it will be led by Captain Lee, who just returned from a successful mission behind enemy lines. Because we’re short of special operators,” Jennings continued, “I had to assign most of Lee’s team to another mission, leaving him with just two green berets. The rest of his team will consist of men from Britain’s Royal Gurkha Rifles. They are well trained, multilingual, and mountain tough. Staff Sergeant Dhan Thapa is in charge of the contingent, and will report to Captain Lee.

“Lama Jangchup will accompany the team and act as a liaison with other lamas and monks who will help to identify the correct infant.

“Last, but not least, is Doctor Wendy Kwan. She was born in Hong Kong, educated at Johns Hopkins, and worked in a Chicago ER before joining the army. Her job is to take care of the baby, and deal with any other medical issues that may arise.” Jennings looked at Kwan as if inviting a response.

Kwan frowned. “I think there’s been some sort of mistake. I don’t have the necessary training.”

A thunderous expression appeared on Jennings face. “This may come as a surprise to you Captain, but the doctors who do have green beret training are out in the boonies saving lives. So, woman-up and learn. Or you can spend the rest of the war in a military prison. You can go on the mission or I will charge you with refusing a direct order. What’s it going to be?”

Lee got the feeling that no one had ever spoken to Kwan in such a manner before. Her eyes were downcast, her lower lip was trembling, and her hands were clasped in front of her. “I’ll go.”

“I’ll go, what?”

“I’ll go, sir.”

Jennings made eye contact with Lee. “Don’t get the wrong idea, son… Captain Kwan has seen more gunshot wounds than you have. She will adjust. And, given the short turnaround, my S2 Major Raj Gupta, is going to work with you. He will brief you on the LZ, conditions there, and take you to the head of the line when it comes to gear. Any questions? No? That will be all.”

Lee turned to Kwan. “Welcome to special ops… The first thing I want to do is hook you up with Sergeant Cory Evers. He’s a green beret, but he’s a medical specialist too, and the perfect guy to help you figure out what to take. That includes your medical stuff and personal gear.”

Kwan eyed him warily. “You must think that I’m an idiot.”

“Nope. Having a battle tested ER doctor on the team is a huge plus. Be sure to listen to Evers though… He knows his shit.”

Lee stood and turned. “Hey, Evers! Come meet the Doc.”

Evers crossed the room and shook hands with Kwan. “Chicago, huh?” he said. “I’ll bet I can learn a thing or two from you.”

“And vice versa,” Lee added. “The doctor is going to need a full set of field gear. Armor, a vest, a high-altitude bag—the whole shooting match. I’ll leave it to you two to figure out the medical end of things. But it sounds like we’re going to need a full range of baby stuff. Whatever that includes.”

“Diapers,” Kwan said. “Lots and lots of diapers.”

Lee winced. “Diapers are bulky. Okay, do what you have to do. Keep me informed.”

A major was waiting to speak with Lee. He extended his hand. “I’m Major Gupta.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“Raj is fine,” Gupta said. “Can you spend some time with me?”

“Absolutely,” Lee said. “I’d like to have Staff Sergeant Thapa join us if that’s okay. He’ll be my number two.”

“Of course,” Gupta answered. “You got lucky. The Gurkhas are the finest troops in this part of the world. No offense.”

“And none taken,” Lee said, as he waved Thapa over. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Staff Sergeant. This is Major Gupta… He’s going to help us prep the mission. You can release your men, but I’d like you to stay, and provide input.”

Lee saw a look of approval in Thapa’s eyes. Lee was an unknown quantity where the Gurkha was concerned. Was the American a racist? Would he respect the Gurkhas? And could he lead? It was too early to be certain of course, but inclusion was a good sign, and a very important one at that. “Sah! Yes, sah!”

Thapa called a name. “Sergeant Kunar! Prepare the men for the field.”

Kunar had been lingering nearby. He came to attention. “Yes, Sergeant! Right away.” A smart about-face followed.

Lee smiled. “I like your style, Staff Sergeant. Okay, where can we work?”

“My office is down the hall,” Gupta replied. “Please follow me.”

Lee managed to snag another mug of coffee and a Danish on his way out.

Gupta’s office was a short distance away—and large enough to boast its own conference table. After they were seated Lee began to flip through the briefing documents he’d been given. “So, where are we going?”

Gupta smiled. “You won’t find that in your briefing documents. It’s top secret. Your initial destination is a remote village called Hathwat in Nepal.”

So, it was behind enemy lines. No surprise there. “Okay,” Lee replied. “Why?”

Gupta shrugged. “Because there is a Buddhist nunnery in Hathwat, or was, prior to the 7.8 magnitude earthquake that struck Nepal in April of 2015.

“That, combined with a second 7.3 magnitude quake 17 days later, killed more than 8,000 people, and destroyed more than 600,000 homes—including the nunnery in Hathwat. Reconstruction has been underway ever since but has not been completed.”

“I still don’t get it,” Lee said. “Why Hathwat?”

“Because Abbess Jeetjang saw the Dalia Lama in a vision. He was smiling, and lying in state, at the local temple.”

Lee frowned. “So?”

“So,” Gupta replied, “Abbess Jeetjang saw the vision hours before Dampa Tsomo was assassinated. And we know it’s true because she shared the vision with a peer by radio.”

Lee glanced at Thapa. The Gurkha had his sergeant face on, but was clearly moved, a sure indication that he was one of the 70 percent of Gurkhas who practiced Buddhism.

Lee turned back. “So, Lama Jangchup chose to visit Hathwat?”

Lee figured Gupta was a Hindu. But there were no signs of disbelief on his face. “Yes. After consultation with other lamas.”

Lee swore. “That means a whole bunch of people know we’re going to Hathwat.”

“A whole bunch of Buddhists know you’re going to Hathwat,” Gupta replied.

There was some comfort in that, but not much.

“One more thing,” Gupta added. “Lama Jangchup will accompany you.”

Lee sighed. The mission was turning into a circus. He turned to Thapa. “Please take Lama Jangchup under your wing, and make sure he has appropriate gear. Don’t give him a radio though… All external communications will be funneled through me.”

Thapa nodded. “Yes, sah.”

“And there’s no need to call me sir in a situation like this.”

“Yes, sah.”

Gupta laughed. “Good luck on changing that. Okay, what else do you need to know?”

“I need to know how we’re going to get to Hathwat,” Lee replied.

“We’re working on that,” Gupta assured him. “Both India and China purchased Mil Mi-17 helicopters from Russia. So we’re painting one of ours with their camo pattern, a red star, and a real tail number. It was cloned from a Chicom helo in Africa.

“But that isn’t all…We salvaged an Identification Friend or Foe (IFF) system from one of the Chinese Mi-17s shot down during the opening days of the war, and my guys are installing it in our aircraft. It will be ready for departure by 1800 tomorrow which, by the way, is when my chaps think you should depart.”

Lee assumed that the “chaps” Gupta referred to were members of Indian military intelligence. Flying through the mountains at night was a dangerous proposition. But Lee figured that the Indian Air Force had pilots with lots of experience. “Way to go,” Lee said. “I like it.”

“Good,” Gupta said. “You’ll have plenty of interpreters including the staff sergeant here, his men, and Lama Jangchup. Plus, you speak Mandarin if I’m not mistaken.”

It was clear that Gupta had seen his file or at least part of it. “I think that covers it,” Gupta said.

“Right,” Lee said as he stood. “Thank you, Major… We’ll get to work.”

The rest of the day, plus most of the next day, was spent prepping the mission. That included loadouts for each person which, while subject to customization, had to include certain items in order to gain Staff Sergeant Thapa’s approval.

By the same token supplies for the overall team had to be chosen, signed for, labeled, and packed—all according to Sergeant Kunar’s demanding standards.

Kwan and Evers worked together with a pediatric nurse to buy baby related supplies from an off-base supplier, get them delivered, and packed into two hard-sided chests.

Once that task was complete, the two-person team turned their attention to the creation of two platoon-sized medical kits which would enable them to deal with injuries ranging from a hangnail to a chest wound.

Meanwhile Cato and a Gurkha named Lance Corporal Ganju Lama surveyed all of the com gear, including the team-level Special Operations Forces Tactical Communications, or STC “Rifleman Radios,” and the larger manpack version which the unit could use to talk to Special Ops/Trishul. Because once in the field there wouldn’t be any electronics techs to repair gear.

And Lee was kept busy going person-to-person solving problems. It was going pretty well until he met with Kwan. “We have a problem,” the doctor said ominously.

Evers was enjoying the moment. “Yeah,” he echoed. “We have a problem.”

“Which is?”

“Milk for the baby,” Kwan replied. “Assuming we find him. And no, I’m not the solution, since I’m not lactating.”

Evers grinned. “That’s right, sir… The woman has to be lactating. We’re taking some baby formula but, depending on how long we’re out there, it may not be enough.”

“What about the child’s mother?” Lee inquired.

Kwan’s eyes narrowed. “What if she’s sick? What if she has other children to care for? What if her husband won’t let her accompany us?”

Lee hadn’t given that any thought, and knew he should have. “Okay, what’s the solution?”

“We need a wet nurse,” Kwan replied. “A woman who is lactating, and breast feeds other women’s babies for a fee.”

“And how the hell am I supposed to come up with a wet nurse?” Lee demanded.

“I don’t know,” Kwan said sweetly. “But you’re in charge. So, it’s your job.”

“Yeah,” Evers said. “You’re in charge…” But he stopped short of finishing the sentence when Lee turned to stare at him.

Lee left them after that and went looking for Jangchup. The underground base was about 25 miles from the front, and one of the PLA’s favorite targets. Distant thumping sounds were heard, as Chinese Koalitsiya-SV howitzers fired on the runway. A lot of the incoming stuff was intercepted and destroyed by C-RAM (Counter Rocket, Artillery and Mortar) units. But some of the Chinese rounds got through.

Meanwhile the Allied M777 155-millimeter howitzers replied in kind. Then, once the bombardment was over, tractors would rush out to fill in the new craters. And within a surprisingly short period of time, the runways would be active again.

Lee found Jangchup in the Buddhist chapel where he was conversing with a monk. Jangchup waved him over and the monk departed. Lee explained the situation, and finished by saying, “So what we need is a wet nurse. Just in case.”

“If his holiness needs a wet nurse, I will find him one,” Jangchup promised. “Please tell the doctor that everything will be taken care of.”

Lee thanked the lama and went back to work. It was well past 2000 hours when he went to dinner with the military members of his team. Dinner time provided a good opportunity to learn the Gurkhas’ names, get a feel for personalities, and give everyone a chance to become acquainted.

It was immediately apparent that the British soldiers were used to more formality than was typical of American special operations teams. The green berets felt free to tease Lee, but they knew who was in command, and obeyed his orders.

All of which was fine with everyone except Staff Sergeant Thapa, who frowned on such liberties, and continued to address Lee as “Sah.”

Once dinner was over, and Lee reached his quarters, he went straight to bed. There were lots of things to worry about but he didn’t. Sleep reached up to pull him down. There were dreams, but they were nice dreams, especially the one that involved Doctor Wendy Kwan.

Most of the following day was taken up by last minute meetings, the need to move the team’s gear to a bay that was close to the freshly painted “Chinese” helicopter, and round up the kind of personal necessities Lee wouldn’t be able to buy out in the field.

Then it was time for an hour-long nap, before taking what was likely to be his last hot shower for quite a while, and sending what his father called “a proof of life” email to his parents. The message would probably take days, because all military emails were subject to review and redactions. Even so Lee’s mom and dad would know their son was alive and “doing something, somewhere.”

Lee’s pack was nearly ready to go. The last-minute addition of his shaving gear completed the task. Then all Lee had to do was don his tac gear, grab his M4, and make his way through a mile of tunnels, corridors and passageways to the section of the base dedicated to helicopters—including the maintenance, arming and fueling thereof.

Loading was complete when Lee arrived. After receiving a status report from Staff Sergeant Thapa, Lee took a final look around before climbing on board. Gear was strapped to the deck at the center of the cargo area. Kwan, Thapa, and Jangchup were present as were the Gurkhas. Lee offered a thumbs-up before taking the only seat that was still available.

The helo had been towed to the “ready” position, only yards away from the lift that would carry it up to the surface. Lee felt the machine lift off, slide forward, and put down. Then with engines still running the Mi-17 was lifted up.

As the blast-proof doors opened, the pilot was already starting to lift off. The longer the aircraft remained on the platform the greater the chance that the enemy would be able to drop a shell, bomb, or missile onto that exact spot--and cause damage below ground.

A great deal of effort had gone into preparing for the helo departure, the most important part of which were measures intended to prevent the Mi-17 from being shot down before it departed Allied held territory.

However, Lee was conscious of the fact that any soldier with a shoulder-launched missile could get the job done, especially since the helicopter had to hug the ground in order to stay below the Chinese radars.

So, there was a good deal of suspense as the Mi-17 followed a predesignated course across the battlefield and through Chinese defenses before gaining altitude. The response was immediate. All sorts of enemy units pinged the chopper but, after receiving an appropriate response from the cloned IFF system, most of the inquiries stopped.

The single exception was a Chinese Air Traffic Controller with a demand for the aircraft’s number and destination. But that was to be expected, and the helicopter’s bilingual pilot was ready with answers.

There was a pause after he gave them, followed by a clearance, and a reminder to file a flight plan next time. “We’re good to go,” the pilot said over the intercom, and that produced a cheer. But Lee’s attention was focused on the landing by that time. Security had been iffy at best. Who would be waiting for them? Abbess Jeetjang? Or a Chinese ambush? Time seemed to slow.

CHAPTER FIVE

Sharvasti, India

Though still alive, and definitely not a member of the Christian faith, Ministry of State Security Agent Fan Tong was stretched out inside a pitch-black coffin. It smelled musty. Had the six-foot-long box been used to transport bodies before? Tong suspected that it had.

Tong, along with a dead man from Delhi, was in the back of an Indian hearse. It was, as most hearses were, a strange vehicle. A large cab for family members was located forward of the separate cargo area that contained the body or casket.

There were windows all around so that mourners, as well as the merely curious, could peer inside. But Tong didn’t care so long as the subterfuge helped to get them through Allied lines and into Chinese occupied territory.

The assassination had been flawless. And, while Tong had no way to communicate with Director Zang, it seemed safe to assume that she was pleased.

But the exfil had gone poorly. The escape van was waiting, but the driver was a lackadaisical fool. Perhaps his overall lack of urgency could be explained by the fact that he didn’t know who his passengers were or why they were in such a hurry.

However there was no excuse for running out of gas two miles into the journey. “So sorry! So sorry!” the driver said. “Please help me push the van over to the side of the road.”

Rather than help the idiot push the van over to the side of the road, the assassins got out, and walked away. The situation wasn’t ideal, but there was no reason to panic, since the agents were trained to handle such contingencies.

In fact, towards the end of their MSS training, each prospective agent was dropped into a foreign country without ID or money, and ordered to make their way back to the training farm. And to do so within seven days. Tong made the return trip from Saigon in four days. One of which was spent enjoying himself in a whorehouse.

It was simple really… Look for a Chinese male of his approximate age and size, follow the man home, then kill him. After stealing the victim’s ID and money the rest was easy. A violation of the rules? Not at all. There were no rules.

Fortunately, the team members already had forged ID cards and money. So, knowing the authorities were looking for three killers, they split up.

If the other agents had plans, they were careful not to mention them, in keeping with the MSS axiom: “Biérén bù zhīdào de, tāmen wúfǎ tòulù.” (What others don’t know, they can’t reveal.)

But if Tong had been forced to guess, Ji Wu would be disguised as an old woman and Han Hoi would board a train, where he would lose himself in the crowd. Then, once in Chinese occupied territory, they would reunite.

Tong’s escape route had been inspired by the sight of a coffin being loaded onto the back of a hearse. Most people didn’t want to look at dead bodies, and that included policemen. What if he could travel to his destination lying down? Negotiations ensued.

Tong’s thoughts were interrupted as the driver braked and the unsecured coffins slid forward. The driver’s name was Fazi, and he was one of the 172-million Muslims who were Indian citizens. But more importantly Fazi was a Shia. And most Shias were sympathetic to, if not outright supportive of, the Axis—which was one reason why Tong had chosen the man.

The other reason was Fazi’s willingness to smuggle a Chinese male through a number of checkpoints, in return for some hard currency in a country plagued by inflation. And Fazi’s intentions were about to be tested again as the hearse jerked forward in a seemingly endless series of starts and stops.

Tong couldn’t see, but could imagine the scene, as hundreds of cars crept forward to one of the checkpoints put in place immediately after the assassination. This one was located on the outskirts of Sharvasti if Tong wasn’t mistaken. A city which according to his studies was located near the West Rapti River, and was associated with the life of Gautama Buddha, who was believed to have spent twenty-four Chaturmases (holy periods) there. And it was the Rapti River that Tong needed to cross in order to reach friendly territory.

The hearse jerked to a halt and Tong heard voices. This is it, he thought. Win or lose. The pistols were hidden under his thighs only inches from his hands. If necessary, he would try to shoot his way to freedom. Surrender was unthinkable.

There was a rattle, followed by sounds of movement, as someone crawled into the back of the hearse. Daylight flooded the inside coffin. Tong’s eyes were closed, and he was wearing the ghoulish makeup Fazi’s wife had applied to his face, but would that be enough?

“It looks like you’ve got yourself a dead Chindian [a person of mixed Chinese and Indian ancestry],” a male voice said. “And a Christian at that. Who else would want to be buried in a box?”

“It’s a mystery,” Fazi agreed. “A shroud is cheaper. A lot of Christian families have me use this coffin for the funeral. Then, once it’s over, I put the body in a special cardboard box.”

“That makes sense,” the voice said. “What did this guy die of? He’s relatively young.”

Tong had neglected to prepare Fazi for the question and should have. What would the hearse driver say?

“Brain cancer,” Fazi said. “The poor bastard.”

Daylight disappeared as the lid closed. Tong couldn’t hear what was said after that, but knew it didn’t matter, since the moment of danger had passed.

Two or three minutes passed. Then the truck jerked forward, started to pick up speed, and was soon clear of the checkpoint. Tong discovered that he’d been holding his breath and let it go.

Fazi couldn’t take Tong into Chinese occupied territory because the bridge across the West Rapti River had been bombed by both sides. So Fazi was supposed to look for a place where a dead man could crawl out of a coffin without attracting attention.

The coffin slid forward as Fazi braked. And rather than wait for the driver to open the coffin Tong pushed the lid up and out of the way. It felt good to sit up.

Fazi opened the back and crawled inside. He was an older man, sixty or so, with a sun-wrinkled countenance. “Here,” Fazi said. “Water and a cloth. To wipe the makeup off.”

Tong was grateful. He took a gulp of warm water and used the rest to wet the cloth and clean his face. Then he got up out of the coffin and made his way back to the tailgate. The hearse was parked under an overpass in an area the locals used as a garbage dump. The smell was horrible. “Fifty American,” Tong said. “That’s what I promised you. But here’s seventy-five. You did a good job.”

There was a huge smile on Fazi’s face as he accepted the money. “Thank you. Do you need directions?”

The truth was that Tong did need directions, but he couldn’t ask for them. What others don’t know, they can’t reveal.

“No, thank you. Take care Fazi.” And with that Tong walked away.

The first priority was to get ahold of a map, and the second was to secure some sort of transportation. It was hot. And it took the better part of half an hour to hike out of the rundown neighborhood Tong found himself in. The effects of the war were visible everywhere. Entire apartment buildings had been destroyed, raggedy children played in muddy bomb craters, and contrails clawed the blue sky.

But signs of life could be seen in the brightly colored clothes that hung from lines, the manner in which streets had been cleared of rubble, and the way people were taking advantage of the momentary respite to run errands. Tong followed three sari clad women into a business district.

After some exploration Tong found a nearly empty travel agency where the clerk was eager to sell him a map. And after answering a series of seemingly unrelated questions about the falloff in tourism, and damage to the local economy, the proprietor mentioned the east-west bridge over the Rapti River. “Both sides bombed it,” the man said. “But you can’t drive across it, nor would you want to, since the Chinese are waiting at the other end of it.”

“So, no one can cross?”

“No one except smugglers,” the businessman said. “But you can visit the Daen Mahamongkol temple if you wish to. Be ready to run though… The fighting could resume at any time.”

Once outside Tong examined the map. The fastest way to reach the West Rapti River was to pass through a town named Digura Jot. But how?

Tong was starting to run low on cash by then so hiring a car was out. And he would stick out as a foreigner on a bus loaded with local farmers. What did that leave?

The answer was all around him. India was home to millions of motorcycles and scooters. So, the simple solution was to steal one. Except it wasn’t so simple, because most Indians were careful to lock their bikes, and many made use of chains too.

But, Tong reasoned, there were bound to be a few slackers. And it didn’t take long to discover that the parking lot in front of a strip mall lined with fast food joints was likely to be a good hunting ground. Delivery boys, business people, and housewives all stopped there. And many of them were in a hurry. Especially since the fighting could resume at any moment. All Tong had to do was wait for an idiot to leave his key in the ignition.

Tong purchased a takeout lunch, and ate it slowly, while standing in amongst dozens of parked motorcycles. Twenty minutes passed. A flight of American made helicopters clattered overhead. And at least a hundred people came and went before an opportunity presented itself. And when it did Tong could hardly believe that anyone could be so careless.

The teenager was dressed in a company uniform, and toting a fully stuffed messenger bag, as he got off the Indian made Hero Super Splendor bike, and entered a Bajaj Allianz insurance office. The motor was still running.

Tong wasted no time dropping his soft drink can into a bin and jumping onto the seat. The kickstand came up smoothly, and the motorcycle produced a satisfying roar, as Tong toed his way up through the gears. There was no point in looking back and Tong didn’t.

His first stop was at a prepay gas station. A bored looking woman sat in a tiny kiosk. “Ration card,” she said, as Tong offered his money.

Tong didn’t have a ration card. He offered a five-dollar bill instead. “Here it is,” he said with a wink.

The woman made it disappear. “How much do you want?”

“A thousand rupees.”

“Use pump three.”

After filling the tank Tong checked to see what was stored in the motorcycle’s built-in tool box. The answer was an oily rag, a pair of pliers, and a screw driver.

Then it was time to cruise the back streets until Tong found a bike parked by some shrubs and a trash bin. It was a simple matter to switch license plates and depart for the community of Digura Jot. It was late afternoon by then, and nightfall was only hours away.

The bike was underpowered by Tong’s standards. But it was still fun to ride, and as the suburbs fell behind him, Tong found himself out in the country with farmland to the left and right. Or what had been farmland.

Now it was a desolate place dotted with wrecked military vehicles, trenches, barbed wire and empty gun emplacements. All of which suggested a hard-fought battle followed by a mutual withdrawal. Forever? No, that seemed unlikely.

Tong passed a huge temple on the right. An enormous gold Buddha sat atop it, one hand raised, as if in a blessing. For Tong? No, he thought, for anyone other than me. The monument was untouched however, as if both sides had been careful to spare it.

More farmland lay beyond. And as the river got closer the destruction became worse. The road ran straight as an arrow. But it was littered with wrecks that forced Tong to weave in and out between them. A flatbed truck loaded with fifteen or twenty people went by in the opposite direction at one point. Where had they come from? There was no way to know.

It was nearly dark by the time Tong passed through the remains of Digura Jot. The town had been obliterated. Crater overlapped crater. And that forced Tong to proceed slowly. His headlight probed ahead of him, which meant that smugglers, if any, would see him coming—but it hardly mattered. The engine was loud enough to be heard all around.

Then the dirt track veered to the left and took Tong out across what he judged to be a flood plain. And there, twinkling in the distance, were half a dozen lights. As Tong drew closer, he realized that the lights were campfires. The soft glow threw light onto military-style tents, piles of equipment collected from the surrounding battlefield, and a flatbed truck similar to the one he’d seen earlier. Were the trucks functioning as buses? To transport the people who made their way across the bridge? Tong thought so. And, if they could cross, he could too.

Tong stopped well short of the fires, turned the bike off, and deployed the kickstand. Then he drew both pistols and held them muzzles down along the sides of his legs. Three men emerged from the shadows. One was wearing a PLA helmet, another was sporting a night vision device, and the third had a bandage wound around his head. All were armed with assault weapons and silhouetted by the firelight. “You!” the man in the middle of the group said loudly. “Come here!”

Tong raised the right-hand pistol and shot the man in the head. Then he switched to full-auto. The hand gun jerked wildly as Tong fired, but it didn’t matter. Not at relatively close range. A hail of bullets knocked the other men off their feet.

Some of the female onlookers screamed. Then they ran, often with one, two, or three children in tow. Tong let them go.

After replacing the empty magazine Tong returned the weapon to its holster. Next, with the other pistol in his left hand, the agent made his way forward to where the man with the night vision device lay.

Tong paused to look around, saw no threats, and knelt long enough to pull the equipment off the dead man’s head. After that it was a simple matter to put the night vision monocular on and follow a well-trodden path along the sand-drifted road. A bullet riddled sign announced the bridge up ahead. The greenish structure gradually took form as he drew closer.

Tong thought the span was intact at first. But, as the assassin drew closer, he saw that wasn’t the case. A twisted mass of metal stretched across the river.

At that point Tong had to face his fear. Because if there was a fate worse than falling off something high, and landing in a swiftly flowing river in the darkness, Tong couldn’t imagine what it was. But that was a chance he’d have to take.

Tong holstered the second pistol, leaving both hands free prior to stepping onto the sway-back plank that led out to a concrete pillar. The wood sagged as Tong inched his way forward. It felt good to step onto solid cement.

But another challenge was waiting, and that consisted of a four-foot gap which Tong would have to jump to reach the section of steel plate on the far side. And there was very little space in which to get a running start. But Tong took advantage of what there was, took three running steps, and jumped. Metal rattled as he landed.

Careful, lest he fall, Tong stepped onto a beam that slanted upwards. Pieces of red cloth had been tied around uprights to mark the correct path. And it wasn’t long before they led Tong off the beam and onto a horizontal section of steel that disappeared into the darkness.

There were no handholds on either side. Just sheer drop-offs with the rushing river below. Tong could hear the water burbling and chuckling as it swirled around a concrete support column. Don’t look down, he told himself. Place one foot in front of the other.

Arms outstretched, Tong took a step out onto the beam. A breeze was blowing from the north. He wobbled, managed to recover, and took another step. Foot-by-foot and yard-by-yard Tong made his way over the chasm until he could step onto a section of pavement.

And that’s where the bird-pecked body lay. The man was face down at the center of what had once been a pool of blood, but had since dried into a brown halo, which would eventually wear away. There was no telling who he was or why he’d been killed. Nor did Tong care about anything other than reaching the far end of the badly mangled span.

After traversing 30 feet of concrete Tong arrived at the point where the next slab slanted down to rest on the railroad tracks that ran under the road. He was halfway down the slope when he heard a whistling sound, followed by a loud car-ump, as an artillery shell fell on the already mangled bridge.

What remained of the structure shook madly causing Tong to lose his footing and land on his butt. As the assassin slid downwards there was the very real risk he’d miss the single railroad track and tumble into the river. Tong rolled to the right and came to a stop as his feet made contact with a wooden tie.

Then another shell struck the bridge and Tong heard metal groan. He struggled to his feet. Run! He thought. Run like hell. Some of the ties were missing. So, it was best to scamper along the rails themselves, relying on speed and coordination to stay upright.

Tong could see lights ahead. More campfires? He had no way to know as his feet found a level stretch of track complete with ties.

There was a BOOM followed by a pressure wave that threw Tong forward. He landed hard. Metal creaked, groaned, and the bridge began to shriek as countervailing forces ripped the span apart. Tong shouted the orders out loud to himself. “Get up! Move!”

He was running full out, arms pumping, when the span collapsed into the West Rapti River. And that’s when Tong tripped and fell. He was about to rise when a combat boot landed on his back. “Well, look what we have here,” a voice said in Mandarin. “A smuggler. Maybe Lieutenant Wei will let us use him for target practice.”

“No,” a second voice said, “I won’t. Captain Xiao will want to interrogate him. Search him.”

It was only a matter of seconds before the PLA trooper found the pistols, the grenades, the extra magazines--and three ID cards. All of which bore Tong’s photo over different names. Lieutenant Xiao made use of a flashlight to examine one of them before directing the beam of light into Tong’s eyes. “Who are you?”

“Contact your battalion level Intel officer,” Tong replied as the pistols were removed from their holsters. “Tell him that you are holding Red Dragon eight-four-seven.”

An artillery shell landed in the river, exploded, and threw a column of water high into the air. Xiao didn’t bother to look. “Take him to the command bunker and place him under guard.”

Tong didn’t bother to object. Doing so would be pointless. It would take time for the local commander to contact battalion staff, and for them to contact the MSS, and for them to respond. In the meantime, Tong could take a pee, get something to eat--and celebrate the fact that he was still alive. He went peacefully.

After being interrogated by an intelligence officer, who clearly didn’t believe the minimal amount of information the agent gave him, Tong was placed in a stockade where PLA miscreants of every description awaited their various fates. Some sought to victimize Tong.

That stopped when the agent chose to make an example of a thief named Wu. A headbutt sent Wu staggering backward, a chest kick put him down, and a foot on Wu’s chest kept him there. Tong removed the boot and offered a hand. Wu took it, jumped to his feet, and bowed to the other prisoners. They laughed and the incident was over. No one bothered Tong after that.

The stockade was open to the elements. It rained, dirt turned to mud, and the only thing Tong could do was sit on an empty bucket--and wait for the misery to end.

A day and a half passed. And Tong was beginning to wonder if the bureaucratic beast had forgotten about him, when a guard called his name, and sent him off to take a shower. The water was cold and ran brown with dirt. A new PLA field uniform sans insignia, and a pair of boots in Tong’s size, were waiting for him after he toweled off.

Once dressed, a guard escorted Tong out of the stockade to the point where two soldiers and a CSK-131 light tactical vehicle were waiting. “Good afternoon, sir,” a sergeant said. “My name is Shi. Major Shan Wang sent us here to pick you up.”

“And who,” Tong inquired, “is Major Wang?”

Shi frowned, as if everyone should know who Wang was, and apologize if they didn’t. “Major Wang commands the Leishen Thunder God Commando Airborne Force,” Shi replied.

Although Tong hadn’t heard of Wang, he was familiar with the Leishen Commando group, which though not as well known, was said to be on a par with organizations like the Green Berets, the British Special Air Service, and Russia’s Spetsnaz.

Shi had a special ops patch on his sleeve. Tong extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sergeant. And you too Corporal.”

After shaking hands Shi got behind the wheel, Tong sat in the passenger seat, while the corporal manned the pintle-mounted machine gun in back. A road led east from the point where the bridge had been. But the road had been cratered and cracked by heavy equipment usage. All of which made for a bumpy ride.

Tong saw Chinese troops. Lots of them. Some on bulldozers, some driving graders, all working to do what? Maybe a soldier would know but the purpose of their labors wasn’t obvious to Tong. Trucks were arriving though… And all were heavily loaded.

After what felt like a long ride, but was actually not more than five or six miles, the CSK-131 arrived at a badly damaged factory. A sign hung askew. It read, “Khatri Designs.” A textile mill? Tong thought so. But that was in the past. Now, from all appearances, it was a military encampment. The perimeter was protected by a much-repaired cyclone fence.

A Chinese LD 2000 SHORAD (Short Range Air Defense) unit, similar to the American C-RAM systems, was parked inside the wire, ready to defend the complex from incoming rockets, artillery and mortars with its seven-barreled 20mm Gatling-style cannon. A low one- story concrete building was visible beyond.

There was a hand lettered plaque attached to the gate. The image on it consisted of a stylized sword and thunderbolt. It seemed that the Thunder God Commando was anything but shy. And, Tong wondered if that description would apply to the unit’s CO as well.

A sentry pulled the gate open and Shi drove through. Tong was expecting some sort of security check but there was none. Not for Sergeant Shi anyway.

The utility vehicle took them past the LD 2000, and over to the building, where a huge sliding door had been opened for them. The interior was partially lit by evenly spaced skylights. Mechanized textile looms occupied most of the floor to the right while a raised loading dock ran along the left side of the CSK. Shi brought the vehicle to a stop and got out. Tong did likewise. A set of stairs led up to the top of the dock. Why am I here? Tong wondered. I should be on my way to Beijing. More than that, I want to go to Beijing.

A corridor led past offices to a door labeled “Plant Manager” in English. It was open, but Shi paused to knock, and announce himself. “Sergeant Shi and Mr. Fan Tong.”

Tong took note of the fact that Shi knew his actual name and felt free to use it. Was that an error? Or had a decision been made for him to operate in the open? There was no way to tell.

The reply came quickly. “Enter.”

Shi stood to one side. Tong entered. The officer seated behind the desk had what looked like a cap made out of black hair. Not a single hair was out of place.

The man had narrow set eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips. They were turned down at the corners. A foreboding appearance indeed. But as he rose to circle around his desk a smile appeared on his lips. “Agent Tong… I’m Major Wang. It’s an honor to meet you! Welcome to the Thunder God Commando.”

Wang’s grip was firm to the point of being painful. “Thank you, Major,” Tong replied. “I hope you’ll excuse my ignorance, but I’ve been out of touch with my department for days. Can you give me any news regarding the other members of my team? And when we’ll be heading back to Beijing?”

“Please,” Wang said, as he returned to his chair. “Have a seat.”

Tong sat on a rolling office chair. He could tell that Wang was stalling. Why?

Wang formed a steeple with his fingers. “I’m sorry to say that I have some bad news for you. Agent Han Hoi was intercepted by Indian police. He fought bravely but was killed.”

Tong’s spirits fell. Hoi was the member of the team he relied on the most, and felt closest to. “And Wu?”

“She crossed the front line about 50-miles south of here and vanished. I assume she’s in Beijing by now.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Tong said truthfully.

“And you’re wondering about yourself,” Wang suggested.

“I am,” Tong admitted.

“That’s quite understandable,” Wang replied. “The answer is that you have been seconded to my battalion--with the temporary rank of captain.”

Tong didn’t want to be a captain in the PLA but couldn’t say that. “I see. May I ask why?”

“You may,” Wang replied. “Together with your team you killed the Dalai Lama, and by doing so, eliminated an enemy of the people. Unfortunately, you will almost certainly have to kill him, or an individual purported to be him, again.

“In fact,” Wang continued, “we have reason to believe that the Allies are about to search for the reincarnated Dalia Lama. That’s rubbish of course… Especially since the real Dalai Lama has been found in Tibet.

“But the Allies will claim that incarnation is fake, and theirs is real. And, if enough Buddhists believe them, it could cause unrest in China—and shift worldwide public opinion against us.”

Tong had heard it all before. “So, I’m to find the baby and kill it.”

“Yes,” Wang replied. “But there’s likely to be additional work for you as well. Now that we have pacified Bhutan and Bangladesh, it’s time for what some of our leaders call ‘The Big Push,’ meaning the effort to take full control of India.

“The plan is for the 47th Infantry Division to enter Nepal via the border crossing at Kodari. From there they will follow Highway HO3 to Kathmandu. But the trip will be difficult.

“HO3 is one of the most dangerous highways in Nepal due to extremely steep slopes on both sides of the road from Bahrabise onwards. Landslides are common when it rains. And, if the Allies insert special operators into this area, they could make the situation even worse.

“That’s where you come in. Even as you carry out your primary mission you, and your men, will almost certainly have opportunities to support the Big Push.”

“My men?” Tong inquired.

“Yes. Sergeant Shi will help you select a squad of eight men, all of whom will be Thunder God Commandos, and therefore the best-of-the-best.” Wang stood, circled the desk, and offered his hand. “Welcome to the PLA.”

CHAPTER SIX

Hathwat, Nepal

The nunnery in Hathwat was one of the oldest in Nepal. It was located on the top of a hill, and practically invisible in the darkness. It had an emergency helo pad, centered in a triangle of brightly burning fires, all of which threw sparks up into the air.

The Mi-17’s pilots made use of their night vision gear as they circled the hilltop, their eyes searching for any sign of an ambush. “I see a group of people,” the pilot said over the intercom. “But none appear to be armed.”

“That would be Abbess Jeetjang and her nuns,” Jangchup put in.

Lee hoped the lama was correct. He had a headset and spoke into the mike. “Go ahead and land,” he ordered. “But tell your door gunners to keep their eyes peeled.”

Lee made eye contact with Jangchup as the helo touched down. “You can leave the aircraft,” Lee said. “But everyone else will help unload.”

The soldiers formed a human chain and passed box-after-box to the door. Kwan stood and watched until Lee ordered her to help.

Once all of the supplies were off Lee went forward to visit the pilots. “Thanks for the ride fellas. Have a beer at the O-club for me.”

All three of them knew that the trip to Trishul would be iffy. And the pilots might not make it. But there was no reason to say so.

After thanking the gunners Lee jumped to the ground and went over to stand by a fire. The air was cold and the heat felt good. Flames jumped and sparks swirled as the helicopter took off. The engine noise was dying away as Lee turned to Jangchup. “The Chinese have night capable surveillance planes not to mention drones. So it’s important to move everything off the pad and under cover.”

Jangchup spoke to the woman on his left. Gray stubble covered her head, and she was dressed in a tightly cinched maroon robe. There was no mistaking the authority in her voice as she spoke to the nuns.

“Abbess Jeetjang ordered her nuns to assist you,” Jangchup explained. “They will help to take your supplies inside.”

Lee and his men worked side-by-side with the nuns to move the supplies. Then, and only then, did Jangchup convene a meeting with the abbess, Lee, Kwan, and Thapa. Kerosene lamps threw shadows onto the walls as they sat cross-legged on the floor. The lama translated as Jeetjang spoke.

The essence of her story was simple. Immediately after the devastating earthquake that took place on April 24th, 2015 the Dalai Lama arrived in Hathwat. The purpose of his two-day visit was to survey the destruction and offer comfort.

The old nunnery had been destroyed. Since then construction had begun on the building they were meeting in. And it was there, in the praying room, where Jeetjang had a vision. She saw the Dalai Lama lying in an open casket awaiting cremation, with flowers all around.

And more than that, Dampa Tsomo had a smile on his face which, according to the abbess, signified the Dalai Lama’s acceptance of the Bhavacakra--or the Wheel of Life.

And there was more. At Jeetjang’s request a young nun brought her a lacquered box. After opening it the abbess withdrew a piece of paper. Jangchup continued to translate as Jeetjang spoke. “The abbess says the Dalai Lama wrote a letter to the nuns back in 2015. The last paragraph reads: ‘That which appears to be destroyed isn’t, but lives on in our hearts and minds, to be reborn as the wheel turns.’”

There was silence for a moment as Jeetjang put the sheet of paper back in the box. After the lid was closed, she spoke again. “The abbess says that the Dalai Lama traveled to the village of Kulekhani after leaving here. And that’s where the necessary signs will be found.”

“Signs?” Lee inquired. “Such as what?”

“The Dalai Lama is found rather than chosen,” Jangchup replied. “The process often begins with a vision or a dream. For example, if the previous Dalai Lama was cremated, a dream might reveal that the smoke was blowing north… Indicating that a search should be conducted in that area.

“In most cases the high lamas are the ones to whom such information is revealed. But in this case, it’s necessary to take Abbess Jeetjang’s experience seriously, because her vison took place prior to Tsomo’s assassination. She tells me that Lama Nuba Khando will arrive tomorrow. He’s well respected. We’ll see what he thinks.”

Lee’s eyes came into contact with Thapa’s. The Gurkha might be a Buddhist—but he was a staff sergeant too. And both of them understood the extent to which the group’s security had been compromised. But there was nothing he could do about it.

“Please ask the abbess if there’s a structure we could use which is well removed from the nunnery. If the Chinese attack us the nuns will have a chance to escape. Unfortunately, that will entail moving our supplies again.”

A fresh-faced nun led Lee and Thapa to what had been the community’s medical clinic. It had been damaged during the quakes. But thanks to light provided by Kanchan’s flashlight, Lee could see that sections of the stone walls still stood and part of the roof was intact. Lee figured the place would offer some protection during a firefight, and something was better than nothing.

It took the better part of an hour to move the gear again, settle in, and set the two-man watches. Kwan was none too happy with the quality of their accommodations, but she wasted little time taking possession of a corner, and crawling into her bag. The doctor would have to stand watches too—but Lee allowed himself to push the confrontation off.

Lee took the first watch along with a Gurkha named Dipprasad Pun. Hathwat was located at an elevation just over 8,000 feet. And that was the line of demarcation for what the text books referred to as “high altitude.” The oxygen was thinner, and the temperature was colder, which would make it difficult to stay warm.

Dehydration was likely to become an issue as well. But the greatest concern, from Lee’s perspective, was the fact that Hathwat was located near Tibet, which was part of China. So, it was important to find the child, and return to India as quickly as they could.

Once the hour-long watch ended, two Gurkhas took over, which left Lee free to enter his mountain bag and get five hours of sleep. Then it was time to get up and perform his morning absolutions. Water was available from a large urn. Lee made use of it to wash up and brush his teeth. There was no reason to shave since facial hair would help him fit in.

Thanks to his Jetboil it was easy to heat water and pour it over Blue Tokai instant coffee. Lee took a sip as he looked around. Steep hills rose on all sides. They were cut by ravines, which would almost certainly channel snowmelt in the spring.

The valley had been occupied for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years, and was largely deforested. But grasses and shrubs led upwards to places where stands of hardy trees still stood. Beyond them the snow-topped Himalayan mountains loomed to the east.

A female voice interrupted his thoughts. “I need hot water to make tea.”

It was a demand rather than a request. Lee turned. There were dark circles under Kwan’s eyes. But she was still one of the prettiest army captains he’d ever seen. “The Indian army issues heat tablets you can use to heat a metal cup filled with water. I’ll arrange for you to get some. You can use my Jetboil in the meantime.”

Kwan was familiar with Jetboils and used a ladle to fill it. “Thanks.”

Lee nodded. “You’re welcome. How’s it going with Evers?”

“He knows his stuff,” Kwan replied. “You’re lucky to have him.”

“We’re lucky to have him. But remember, he’s a green beret first and foremost. And, if we see action, a lot of the first aid will fall to you.”

Kwan eyed him over the rim of a ceramic mug. “Is that likely?”

Lee looked away and back again. “You want the truth?”

“Yes.”

“It’s damned near certain. The abbess and Lama Jangchup have been running their mouths. And that brings me to the following. “You’re carrying a pistol and an M4 carbine. Have you fired either one of them?”

“Yes,” Kwan replied. “During my officer training course.”

“And since?”

“No.”

“I’m going to ask Cato to give you some lessons,” Lee said. “I wouldn’t want to risk making that much noise under normal conditions but, as I said earlier, our security is blown.”

Kwan frowned. “Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

Thapa appeared. “More people have arrived, sah… Lama Jangchup would like you to meet them.”

“Thank you, Staff Sergeant. Please find Sergeant Cato and ask him to provide the doctor with some target practice. Then, if you would be so kind as to join us, I want you to join the meeting. Not just to listen, but to participate. Understood?”

“Sah!”

“Good. I’ll see you shortly.”

Lee turned to Kwan. “Learn to shoot, Doctor… It could save your life. Or mine.”

A well-trod path led back to the nunnery where a small crowd was waiting. The abbess was present, as was Jangchup, and a squad of chattering nuns.

The newcomers included a man with a shaved head, mustache, and goatee. “This is Lama Nuba Khando,” Jangchup said eagerly. “He will help us find the Dalai Lama.”

Lee shook hands with Khando. And that was when he noticed the calluses on the lama’s hands. They were the size of large raisins. Three of them marked knuckles and two were on finger joints. Those being on the lama’s index and middle fingers.

Though not a student himself, Lee knew with the signs. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir… Did you train at the Shaolin temple in Henan province?”

Khando’s eyes widened slightly. As if he was surprised by the extent of the American’s knowledge. “Yes, I did. But that was many years ago, before my spiritual journey brought me to Nepal. Do you practice Kung Fu?”

“No,” Lee replied. “I prefer to shoot people.”

Jangchup cleared his throat. “And this,” he said, “is Niu Yu. Once we find the Dalai Lama, she will help protect him.”

Lee turned to look at Yu. She wore her black hair gathered behind her head. A pair of watchful eyes were set into a long narrow face. She was dressed in male clothing and offered a slight bow. “You took the name of Niu Yu,” Lee said. “She was thought to be the best swordsman or woman of the spring and autumn periods that ran from 770 BC to 221 AD. Niu Yu bested over three-thousand swordsmen during a seven-day contest. Are you that good?”

Yu stared at him. “You are well educated.”

Lee bowed. “And the answer to my question is?”

“No,” Yu said. “There’s no need to be that good.”

Lee laughed. “That’s true. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“And this is Sam Waller,” Jangchup said. “The Dalai Lama’s second bodyguard.”

Waller was a large man, who wore his hair long, and was dressed in black. His voice was deep and resonant. “Hey Captain, where you from? Cali?”

“The bay area,” Lee replied, as they shook hands. “And you?”

“Huntington City,” Waller replied.

“How did you wind up here?”

“One thing led to another,” Waller replied vaguely. “I went looking and this is what I found.”

“I see,” Lee said, as he turned to Jangchup. “Until such time as we find the Dalai Lama, I’d like to include Yu and Waller on my team. Do you have any objections?”

Jangchup shook his head. “No, security is your responsibility.”

The final person to be introduced was a young woman called Binsa. She had black hair, a round face, and a pleasant demeanor. “Binsa means fearless,” Abbess Jeetjang said. “And she’s a wet nurse.”

Binsa smiled shyly and brought her hands together. “Namaste.”

Thapa arrived at that point. Once the Gurkha had been introduced, Khando cleared his throat. “I understand that we’re headed to Kulekhani.”

“Yes,” Jangchup replied. “That’s where Abbess Jeetjang says we should look.”

“Then we must hurry,” Khando replied. “Before the Chinese learn that the Dalai Lama is there.”

Distant shots were heard. There were expressions of alarm. Thapa was wearing a headset. “There’s no need to be alarmed,” the Gurkha said. “It’s target practice. Nothing more.”

“So, what about Kulekhani?” Khando demanded.

“We need packhorses,” Lee replied. “To move our supplies.”

“I can get them for you,” Jeetjang said.

Lee eyed her. “How long?”

“Tomorrow. Early in the morning.”

“How many?”

“Ten, maybe twelve.”

“Okay… More would be better, but we’ll make do.”

The meeting broke up after that and Lee took Thapa aside. “What, if anything, can you tell me about Kulekhani?”

Thapa shrugged. “It’s a farming community. I’m not sure of the population… Maybe 2,500 people if I had to guess. About 500 homes. Something like that.”

“Are the Chinese there?”

“It seems likely,” Thapa replied. “Why wouldn’t they be there?”

“Yeah,” Lee agreed. “I think we should send two men ahead to scout the trail all the way to Kulekhani. Cato would be a good choice because of his com skills. Who would you recommend?”

“Corporal Shekhawat,” Thapa said without hesitation. “He knows the ground, he’s sniper qualified, and he speaks the local dialects. Not Chinese though.”

“Cato speaks Mandarin,” Lee said. “So, we’re agreed?”

“Yes, sah.”

“Good. Find a moment to speak with them. Tell them to gear up in private, and depart during the night. Maybe people will notice, and maybe they won’t.”

Thapa eyed him. “You’re worried about spies.”

“Yes. I don’t trust Jangchup, this Khando guy, Yu, or Waller. Have someone search their gear if the opportunity presents itself. Let’s see who, if anyone, is carrying a radio.”

“Sah,” Thapa said. “We will do our best.”

“So, you’re not going to stop the sir thing.”

Thapa grinned. “No, sah.”

The rest of the day was spent dividing gear up into 200-pound packs ready to be loaded onto horses once they arrived. And there were man-packs too, each limited to a total of thirty pounds, because some members of the party weren’t physically prepared for high-altitude trekking.

During the preparatory process the Gurkhas kept a sharp eye out for radios. They didn’t spot any but Lee took small comfort from that. Any one of the people he was worried about could be carrying a small transceiver under their clothes. And the politics of the situation being what they were, the green beret didn’t think he could get away with searching what amounted to the Dalai Lama’s personal staff.

Cato and Shekhawat slipped away at 0200 in the morning. And, once the sun rose, none of the group mentioned their absence. Or, if they did, Lee wasn’t close enough to hear.

True to Abbess Jeetjang’s promise, the string of sturdy mountain horses arrived at about 0900. The animals were equipped with pack saddles, and were under the care of two Nepalese men, who insisted on arranging each load themselves--never mind the fact that the Gurkhas and the green berets had the necessary skills. In fact, Lee and his men were graduates of the Special Forces Advanced Mountain Operations School in Colorado’s Mountain National Park.

But they were happy to let the locals handle the job, knowing that each horse has a personality and, when it comes to pack trips, it’s best to take those personalities into account.

That part of it was fine. But the packers hadn’t been vetted by anyone other than the abbess. And that was a threat. Lee took Thapa off to one side. “One or both of the horsemen could be working for the Chinese,” Lee said. “Tell your men to watch them.”

Thapa nodded. “Yes, sah.”

The column of hikers and horses was ready to depart by noon. The soldiers were dressed in civilian attire. And rather than carry assault rifles, which would give them away, the long guns were secured to pack animals.

The abbess and all of her nuns turned out to wave and heap blessings upon the travelers as they set forth on what was, to their minds, the holiest of holy missions.

Lee saw the situation differently. What he saw was a long string of hikers, and potentially temperamental horses which, if attacked on a mountain trail, would be slaughtered in less than a minute. But thanks to Cato’s reports he knew that the way was clear for the next six miles. And while six miles didn’t sound like a lot, it was, due to the elevation gain and the thin air.

Leather “hangars” dangled from the horses, which allowed Kwan, Binsa and Jangchup to let the ponies do some of the uphill work for them. But of more interest to Lee was the list of people who had no need for assistance.

None of the Gurkhas or green berets made use of the straps. That was to be expected. But Lee was interested to see that neither Lama Khando nor the Dalai Lama’s bodyguards were in need of help. Was that significant somehow? Maybe, and maybe not.

Once clear of the valley the trail narrowed and began to switchback up hill. The light blue sky was partially obscured by a layer of clouds. Lordly mountain peaks rose in the distance. Lee attempted to name them but couldn’t.

The vegetation consisted of pines, oaks, poplars, walnuts and larch. Most were huddled in homogeneous clusters. But there were a few brave trees which had, by some accident of wind, rain and a pocket of fertile soil, found a purchase on their own.

The biggest surprise from Lee’s perspective were the thickets of rhododendrons. They were similar to the ones in his grandfather’s garden, except larger. They were trees really… And some were in bloom. Not just a little in bloom, but outrageously in bloom—displaying pink, white, red, purple, yellow, and orange blossoms. The contrast between the rich colors and the otherwise bleak hillsides couldn’t have been greater and Lee enjoyed it.

Less pleasant was the steady uphill climb, the effort to suck a sufficient amount of air into his lungs, and the persistent feeling that the column was being watched. That doesn’t mean the enemy is present though, Lee reminded himself. Lots of people live up here—and Cato will let you know if Chinese troops appear. The thought made him feel better, but the concern lingered.

They took a midafternoon break next to a tumble-down building from which colorful Lung ta prayer flags stretched across to a vertical pole. The flags were arranged from left to right in a specific order: blue, white, red, green, and yellow. Each represented one of the five elements and the five pure lights. They flapped gently above Lee as he made coffee and chewed an energy bar.

Those Gurkhas who didn’t have security duty were brewing tea, Kwan was tending to Binsa’s blisters, and Jangchup sat with eyes closed and legs crossed, meditating. Or was he praying? Both activities were a mystery to Lee--who couldn’t sit still that long.

A horse nickered, and tossed its head, as Khando returned from the privacy of some nearby boulders. He went over to speak with Waller who, Lee assumed, was well acquainted with the lama. Both would bear watching.

The rest of the afternoon passed peacefully. A Himalayan eagle circled above them for a while. Five men carrying packs passed, going in the opposite direction. A distant helicopter flew north and disappeared. At one point the party had to cross a river on a rickety suspension bridge while the wind rattled in their ears. The horses didn’t like it—and one of them tried to bolt.

Finally, at about 1700, they came to what the horse wranglers said was a good place to camp. It consisted of a broad ledge in the mountainside, a grove of trees, and five whitewashed homes. If the locals were surprised to see the convoy Lee saw no sign of it on their faces. And, he decided, that made sense. People who live by a freeway aren’t surprised to see cars.

Of more importance was the question of whether one or more of the Nepalese villagers was working for PLA intelligence. “It’s possible, but unlikely,” Jangchup replied when Lee posed the question. “But Lama Khando and I will try to convince the locals that we’re on a pilgrimage to the temple in Kulekhani. It’s one of the locations the Nepalese scholar and activist Dharmaditya Dharmacharya visited, before his release from prison.”

Lee thanked Jangchup, and hoped that the cover story would prove to be sufficient.

A great deal of work was involved in removing the packs from the horses, feeding them, and checking each animal for injuries. So much work that Lee was grateful for the presence of the wranglers, spies or not.

The green beret was sitting in the lee of an ancient wall, not far from a noisome goat pen, when Private Yubraj Gurung materialized out of the quickly gathering gloom. He was carrying a Single Channel Ground and Airborne Radio System (SINCGARS). “It’s Sergeant Cato, sir.”

As Lee accepted the handset, he knew the conversation would be encrypted. The transmissions could be detected however. If so, the Chinese could deduce that the signal had been generated by an Allied unit. It made sense to keep the conversation brief. “Viper-Six actual, go. Over.”

“We are above the target and have an unobstructed view,” Cato responded. “It looks like a platoon of PLA mountain troops are stationed in Kulekhani. They patrol in pairs. But it’s pretty low key. Over.”

A U.S. army platoon consisted of about 44 soldiers give or take. So, Lee’s force would be badly outnumbered if it came to an all-out fight. But given the quality of the men under his command Lee figured the odds were about even. “Roger that… Anything else?”

“A Z-18 landed, was on the ground for two hours, and took off. Over.”

Lee knew the Z-18s were transport helicopters which suggested a resupply mission. “Got it. Our ETA is 1200 tomorrow. Try to identify a camping spot that’s well away from those patrols. Over.”

“Will do,” came the answer. “Five out.”

Lee was prepping an MRE, when Evers plopped down beside to him and did the same. “Hey there,” Lee said. “How’s it going with the doctor?”

“Do you want the good news?” Evers inquired. “Or the bad news?”

Lee made a face. “Bad news first, please.”

“She’s snotty, entitled, and egotistical.”

Lee shoveled some spaghetti into his mouth. “And the good news?”

“She’s with Jangchup and Binsa. They’re making the rounds. And she has a good bedside manner.”

“Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde,” Lee said.

“Yeah,” Evers agreed.

“Did you suggest that she make the rounds?”

“Nope. Her highness came up with the idea on her own.”

“So, there’s hope for her.”

“Maybe.”

Lee laughed. “And Binsa?”

“She’s more than a wet nurse. More like an LPN. And children swarm her.”

“Do you think she’s an agent?”

“No.”

“Of course, you thought the Yankees would win the series too.”

“Fuck you very much, sir.”

Lee was about to offer a counter, when Doctor Kwan arrived, and looked around. “Where are the chairs?”

Lee sighed. “There aren’t any chairs, Captain. But there’s lots of dirt. Have a seat.”

Kwan made a face and wandered away.

“It’s going to be a long mission,” Evers predicted.

“Yeah,” Lee agreed. “We’re having some fun now.”

Thapa put sentries out, assigned a noncom to each watch, and took the first one himself. Lee wasn’t in the rotation but decided to conduct a surprise inspection just after midnight. Not to check on the sentries so much, as to ensure that all the civilian members of the party were in their sleeping bags, where they belonged.

After confirming that everyone was present Lee returned to his own sack where sleep pulled him down. Dreams were waiting. None of them were good.

CHAPTER SEVEN

PLA Special Forces Compound 8, Nepal

Water sprayed left and right as the Russian made Ural-4320 Heavy Mobility and Tactical Truck dove into a bomb crater, bounced, and lurched up onto the road beyond. Tong was seated in front next to a taciturn commando named Chung. Sergeant Shi, and the rest of his squad were in the back, along with their weapons and supplies.

The team was returning from a mission to a small village where, according to an informer, the Thunder God Commando would find an Allied spy and his radio set. What they found instead was a senile old lady and a goat. Had the informer been mistaken? Or was he trying to make the Chinese troops look stupid?

Whatever the outing was, it was the latest in a series of so-called “orientation” missions intended to help the MSS agent learn how to look and sound like an officer while bonding with his team. The first goal was largely unfulfilled. But Tong had come to respect the professionalism of the men under his command. Such were his thoughts as the truck slowed and came to a stop in front of the gate. A sentry stepped out into the light drizzle, saw Tong, and delivered a salute. “Welcome back, sir. The major would like to see you.”

Tong was tired, and the last thing he wanted to do was jaw with Major Wang, when he could be in bed. But it didn’t matter what he wanted. “Thank you,” Tong said as he returned the salute.

After circling around the LD 2000 air defense system, Chung pulled into the vehicle shelter, which consisted of a metal roof mounted on rusty poles. Tong got out, told Shi to dismiss the squad, and stepped out into the rain. The old textile mill was about 100 yards away. And, by the time Tong entered the building, his uniform was damp.

Tong followed a set of stairs up onto the dock. A corridor led past rows of offices to the door which bore the “Plant Manager” sign. Tong was careful to knock. “Captain Tong.”

“Enter.”

Wang looked the way he always did, perfectly coiffed, and ready for inspection. “Welcome back. Did you arrest the goat?”

It was Wang’s idea of a joke, and Tong smiled politely. “No, sir. He had an alibi.”

Wang laughed. That was a first so far as Tong could remember. “Have a seat Captain. You’ll be glad to hear that I have a task for you. One in keeping with your true profession.”

Tong took note. “Does the task have something to do with the Dalai Lama?”

“No,” Wang said. “Other people are working on that. The mission I referred to is focused on this man. Colonel Huang Hu.” Wang pushed a black and white photo across the surface of his otherwise bare desk.

Tong eyed the photo. Hu had a round face, incipient jowls, and was wearing wire rimmed spectacles. Wang’s eyes were waiting when Tong looked up. “Colonel Hu is a supply officer,” Wang said. “More than that, he’s the supply officer for this operational area, which means he’s in charge of supporting the troops already in place—and those who will enter Nepal from Tibet.”

Tong nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“However,” Wang said. “According to information provided by certain individuals within Hu’s battalion, he may be selling supplies to an Indian national named Nola Bakshi in return for money and sex. Your assignment is simple: Determine if these accusations are true. If they are, arrange for Hu to be killed in action, and bring the woman in for questioning. Perhaps Bakshi is a criminal plain and simple. Or maybe she’s something more.”

“Meaning an Allied agent?”

“Yes.”

“All right,” Tong said. “I’ll take care of it.”

Wang eyed him. “No questions?”

“No, sir.”

Wang smiled. “I’m glad we have your services, Captain. Carry on.”

Tong decided that the first thing to do was get something to eat, take a shower, and go to bed. Then, after eight, no nine, hours of sleep he would go to work on the Colonel Hu situation. Tong did take one step however… And that was to tell Shi to assemble the squad at 0800.

If Tong had dreams, they were forgotten by the time he got up. After a lukewarm shower he made his way to what had been the mill’s cafeteria where PLA cooks were in charge. The selection included soybean milk and deep-fried dough sticks, steamed buns stuffed with ground pork, or rice dumplings with egg yolk. Tong chose the latter along with hot water for tea.

Tong ate alone and not entirely by choice. Enlisted people sat separately. And the officers were understandably suspicious of the newcomer. A man who didn’t seem to know much about the army, and for reasons unknown, had a special relationship with the CO.

For his part Tong cared very little since he saw himself as being not only apart from the officers themselves, but superior to them, regardless of rank.

Once Tong was finished eating, he made his way across the muddy drive to the outbuilding, where a 12 X 25-foot room had been assigned to his squad. The commandos ate together, slept together, and exercised together. They crashed to attention as Tong entered. “At ease,” Tong said. “You can sit if you wish. I’m here to tell you about our new assignment.”

What followed was a highly edited version of what Tong had been told by Wang. He made no mention of Colonel Hu, or the possibility that he was misdirecting supplies and selling them. That would be stupid. First because Hu might be innocent. And second because Tong knew how quickly things could change. What if Wang was reassigned? And Hu took over? Besides, there was no need for his men to know the details. Not yet anyway.

So, Tong chose to focus on the mysterious Nola Bakshi. “She seems to be at the center of things,” Tong told them. “If we find her, we can learn who, other than Hu, she’s working with. And the most obvious way to locate her is to interrogate one or more of the smugglers who transport the stolen merchandise to India.”

Shi raised a hand and Tong nodded. “Yes, Sergeant.”

“We might be able to find such a person in Detention Center Two, sir. That’s where the civilian criminals are held while they wait for their hearings.”

“Brilliant,” Tong said, knowing the comment would bolster Shi’s standing with the squad. “That’s where we’ll start. I suspect that some sort of written order will be necessary. I’ll work on that while you prepare for three days in the field. It’s hard to say where our inquiry will take us, so be ready for anything.”

Rays of sunshine were spearing down through the cloud cover by the time Tong made the trip to the main building. After requesting an audience with Major Wang, he had to wait fifteen minutes before making his request. Wang listened and nodded. “One suggestion if I may… Be sure to talk to detainees other than smugglers. Otherwise word of what you’re up to could get back to Bakshi.”

Tong realized that Wang was correct and felt stupid for not thinking of it himself. He watched while Wang typed on a keyboard, poked a key, and rose from his desk. The printer produced a whirring sound as two sheets of paper were ejected. Wang signed one of them and gave it to Tong. “This should do the trick. Show it to anyone who tries to get in your way.”

Tong stood and saluted. The ritual felt strange. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” And with that he left.

The squad was waiting by the truck. “I have what we need,” Tong told them. “Climb aboard. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Tong went to his quarters, grabbed his pack, and returned to the truck. After handing the pack up to one of the men Tong made his way forward. Chung was behind the wheel. “Do you know where Detention Center Two is?”

“Yes, sir. Sergeant Shi gave me a map.”

Shi was a gem, no doubt about it, and Tong planned to tell Wang that. “Okay, that’s where we’re going.”

Chung put the truck in low, took his foot off the clutch, and the lorry jerked forward. A sentry saluted as the truck passed through the main gate. Cows were wandering about, and the occasional farm truck rattled past. There was very little traffic at first.

But the moment Chung turned onto a major highway the Ural-4320 was absorbed into a slow-motion convoy of trucks, tank carriers, and towed artillery. Was he looking at part of the Big Push? Tong thought so. And the convoy would be a tempting target for Allied planes. So, the sooner Tong’s team could separate themselves from the column the better.

That moment came 30 minutes later when Chung took a left onto a secondary road. It was paved, mostly free of debris, and led them south at a stately 35 miles per hour.

There was low-lying ground to the left and right. Ramshackle houses occupied tiny islands barely high enough to protect them from rising water levels during the rainy seasons. Children, oblivious to the fact that the Chinese had invaded their country, waved as the truck rolled past.

A series of turns eventually took the team to Detention Center Two. It occupied the soccer field located next to what had formerly been a one-story school. The corners of the makeshift internment camp were marked by three-story guard towers.

Each structure was equipped with a corrugated metal roof, a searchlight, and a machine gun. The towers were connected by coils of barbed wire with tidy rows of army tents at the center of the muddy rectangle.

As Chung stopped at the guard station, Tong was struck by how few people were visible. Once Chung’s ID had been scrutinized, Tong waved the sentry around to his side of the truck and spoke to him through the open window. “Who’s in charge? And where can I find them?”

“Captain Hong is in command, sir,” the private answered. “His office is in the school building straight ahead.”

Tong returned the sentry’s salute and Chung followed the driveway to the drop-off area in front of the school. Tong got out and went to the rear of the truck. “I’m going inside. Take a break but stay close by.”

Tong followed a sidewalk to the front door, pushed it open, and went inside. A corporal was seated behind a teacher’s desk. He stood and came to attention. “Sir! How can I help you?”

“I’d like to see Captain Hong please.”

“Sir! I’ll tell him you are here. Can I have your name please?”

“Tong.”

“Please have a seat,” the corporal said, as he gestured to a wooden bench. Then he performed a smart about-face and marched down a hallway.

Tong had no desire to sit, especially after spending an hour-and-a-half in the truck, and spent his time looking at the childish pictures posted behind glass. One showed a tank rolling over a stick figure. Red blood flew every which way. Was he looking at an Allied tank? Or a Chinese tank? “Captain Tong?”

The voice came from behind him and Tong turned. Hong was a small man with bright eyes and an immaculate uniform. He offered his hand. “We don’t get many visitors,” Hong said. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s my understanding that you keep civilian prisoners here. Is that correct?”

“It is,” Hong replied. “Most are elsewhere at the moment, working on a PLA construction project.”

Slave labor, Tong thought. “I see. My men and I have orders to clamp down on the smuggling that’s taking place along the front. And we’re looking for information regarding the people the smugglers work for.”

“Ah,” Hong replied. “So, you want to interrogate the runners.”

“Exactly,” Tong agreed. “And some other miscreants as well.”

Hong smiled. “Clever, very clever… And wise too. I run a prison of sorts, but people come and go. And information travels with them. I will introduce you to Sergeant Shan. He has responsibility for inmate records. But first I’ll need to see your ID and make a copy of your orders.”

After copying Tong’s ID card, and the directive from Major Wang, the PLA captain took his visitor back to the teacher’s lunchroom. That’s where Sergeant Shan and two assistants were working. Upon listening to Tong’s request the noncom nodded. “Yes, sir. A number of detainees were arrested for smuggling. May I suggest that we narrow the search to those who were caught with PLA issued supplies? And those who were arrested by Nepalese authorities before the war?”

Both suggestions made sense. And although the second idea caught Tong by surprise it shouldn’t have. When the PLA took control of Nepal, all manner of criminal records had been captured by the military police, and put to good use. “Absolutely,” Tong replied. “Give me three or four smugglers and a random selection of other offenders.”

Shan grinned knowingly. “Yes, sir.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Hong said. “Let me know if you need anything.” Then he was gone.

Shan and his soldiers produced 32 candidates in a matter of seconds. Culling the list took longer. Then, after selecting three solid prospects, and an equal number of random offenders, Tong was ready to proceed. “So, where are they?” Tong inquired. “I saw very few people as we came in.”

“They’re part of a work party,” Shan replied. “The site is about 20 minutes away. Give me a moment and I’ll draw a map.”

With map in hand Tong returned to the truck. Shi was there to greet him with a salute. Tong returned it. “Good news, Sergeant… We have some candidates and we know where they are. Tell the men to board the truck.”

With Chung at the wheel the truck rolled out through the gate and onto the road. The map called for a number of turns, and everything went smoothly until they arrived at a point where water covered the highway, and it would have been impossible to proceed in a car.

But the truck had plenty of clearance, and Chung showed no sign of hesitation as he downshifted and pushed out into the muddy stream. Huge tires sent waves of brown water surging to the right and left. The trees had begun to thin out and the countryside had a different feel as they entered a flood plain. The river was visible beyond. The same river Tong had been forced to cross while fleeing India only miles downstream. It produced a dull roar as it hurried south. Trucks could be seen, along with a pile of X-shaped objects, one of which was being swung out over the river with a crane. “What is that?” Tong inquired.

Chung was perplexed. How could an officer be so stupid? “That’s an anti-tank obstacle, sir. The water is relatively shallow here. If the Allies try to cross the river, the traps will stop everything except heavy tanks. And even those will be forced to slow down.”

There was a splash as the spiky object hit the water. When the truck drew closer Tong could see that the men were chest deep in water--and subject to a fast current. They struggled to stand upright as the end of a heavy chain was passed hand-to-hand to the point where it would be connected to the anti-tank obstacle. Others could be seen, their spikes poking up out of the water, as the river boiled around them. It’s shallow here, Tong mused. So, it’s a natural place to cross.

Tong opened his door, jumped to the ground, and was making his way toward a cluster of soldiers when one of them pointed to the north. “Yī jià fēijī! Jiǔ diǎn zhōng!” (A plane! At nine o’clock!)

There was no attempt to alert the prisoners as the soldiers went face-down on the sand. Tong was taking the scene in when Chung threw him to the ground and a horrible roaring sound was heard. Geysers of sand flew up into the air as cannon shells raked the beach, killed two-dozen people, and destroyed a truck. Then the fighter flashed past and disappeared.

Tong got up and began to brush sand off his uniform. “Sorry, sir,” Chung said. “That was an American A-10. It might circle around and come back.”

“Thanks,” Tong said. “I was a bit slow to process everything. It won’t happen again.”

Some of the PLA soldiers had been killed and some wounded. Two medics were on the scene. They hurried to help their own prior to aiding the prisoners.

Tong went looking for the officer in charge and found him berating a sergeant. “I don’t care how many prisoners are dead! Lead the ones you have into the river and complete the job.”

“Excuse me,” Tong said. “I’m Captain Tong, and I’m looking for the officer in charge.”

Both soldiers came to attention. And, judging from the look of consternation on the lieutenant’s face, he’d been unaware of Tong’s arrival. “Lieutenant Ku, sir… How can I help you?”

“I wish to speak with these men,” Tong said, as he gave the list to Ku.

“Find these prisoners!” Ku ordered, as he handed the list over to the hapless sergeant. “And bring them here!” Ku shouted each order in spite of the fact that the noncom was only ten feet away.

The sergeant said, “Yes, sir,” then turned and hurried off.

“I’m sorry,” Ku said. “Sergeant Yi grew up in the country, and he’s something of a buffoon.”

Tong felt sorry for the noncom and hurried to change the subject. “So why build defenses here? Do we expect an attack?”

“No, sir,” Ku replied. “Not right away. That would come after we secure some major bridges. At that point the Allies might try to flank us, using fords like this one.”

Ku’s explanation gave Tong a peek into the sort of detailed planning that generals did. And he was still thinking about that when the sergeant returned with four prisoners in tow. Three of them had wet clothing and the other man was dry. “Two of the people on the list were killed or swept away,” the sergeant said. “I crossed their names off the list.”

“Well, it can’t be helped I guess,” Ku said as he passed the list to Tong. “Are you going to take them away?” Having lost a number of prisoners the lieutenant wanted to keep as many men as he could.

“Maybe,” Tong said, conscious of the fact that the people in question could hear him. “I’ll let you know.”

Sergeant Shi and his men took charge of the prisoners. Though uncertain about his duties as an army officer, Tong had been trained to interrogate prisoners, and took Shi aside.

“We’ll work together,” Tong told him. “The real targets are the men named Adesh Gowda and Jaipal Kapoor. They’re smugglers, and one or both of them may be acquainted with Nola Bakshi.

“I will speak with the others first, threaten to let you beat the crap out of them, and call you in. That will be your cue to beat the crap out of them.”

“You can count on me, sir,” Shi said with a grin.

“Good. By the time we get to the smugglers they’ll be ready to talk. We might run into a language problem though.”

“Private Doo speaks some Hindi, sir.”

“Good. We’ll call on Doo if we need to. Okay, set the scene. Let’s see what we can learn.”

The interrogations took place about twenty feet from the truck. The furniture consisted of two upended ammo crates, one for Shi, and one for the prisoner who was being interrogated. The first man had been arrested for stealing a neighbor’s bicycle.

So, when the PLA noncom accused him of selling heroin, he denied it, and kept denying it even as Sergeant Shi slapped him around. And when he fell Shi kicked him.

“That’s enough,” Tong said, as he stepped in. “The obvious solution is to shoot him. Take him over there,” Tong said, while pointing at some driftwood. “Bring the next one in.”

The next man was already trembling and begging for mercy as Tong ordered him to sit. “Give me the names of the people who were with you when you planted the IED,” Shi demanded.

“I no do it,” the man said in broken English. “Please no kill… I have family.”

“You should have thought about that before you became a terrorist,” Shi said coldly. The prisoner tried to duck but fell as the noncom’s rifle butt glanced off the side of his head.

“He wants to die,” Tong said, “and we will accommodate him. Put him with the other man and bring prisoner Kapoor over here.”

Kapoor had black hair, brown skin, and spindly limbs. His dark eyes darted from soldier to soldier. “Please! I know nothing about bombs.”

“Why did you kill Nola Bakshi?” Tong demanded.

“I didn’t!” Kapoor protested. “She was alive when I left her on the east bank.”

Tong felt a surge of satisfaction. “What about your friend Gowda? Maybe he killed her.”

Kapoor was desperate. “Yes, Gowda did it!”

That was enough to elicit a howl of protest from Gowda. “I didn’t kill anyone,” he insisted. “May Yama, the Lord of Naraka [hell], take me if I’m lying.”

Tong felt sure that Kapoor was the man he wanted. And, secure in the knowledge that he could access Gowda again should the need arise, he nodded. “That’s good enough for me. Kapoor will remain here. Take the rest of the prisoners back to Lieutenant Ku.”

One of the prisoners who’d been sentenced to death fell to his knees and babbled something in Hindi while the other began to sob. “Thank God,” he said, and crossed himself. Commandos marched the men away.

That left Kapoor all alone. Judging from his expression he was terrified. Tong smiled. “So, Mr. Kapoor… Cooperate and I will free you. Fail and I will kill you. Which would you prefer?”

East bank of the West Rapti River, Nepal

It was dark and the river murmured softly as it slid past their hiding place. Two days had passed since Jaipal Kapoor had decided to cooperate. And now, based on the information the smuggler had provided him, Tong was waiting for Nola Bakshi to enter his trap. “There!” Kapoor said. “Do you see the lights? That’s the truck I told you about.”

“I see them,” Tong replied, as he swiveled the night vision binoculars to the left. The lights were amber colored parking lights. And, as the vehicle drew closer, Tong saw that it was Chinese made SX2190 6X6 heavy duty truck. A box-shaped enclosure was mounted behind the cab, and that was consistent with what he’d been told to expect.

The truck came to a stop fifty-feet short of the river and sat with its motor running. “Now,” Tong said into his handheld radio. Sergeant Shi and his commandos looked green as they converged on the cab where, in keeping with the orders Tong had given, they were to take the driver and his assistant into custody.

Would the smugglers put up a fight? It was Tong’s hope that they wouldn’t. Gunshots might be heard on the other side of the river, and the soldiers would make excellent witnesses if Major Wang was interested in such niceties.

The cab light came on as the soldiers dropped to the ground with their hands in the air. Good. So far so good. The light went out again. Shi’s voice was loud and clear over the radio. “We have them. They report to a captain who reports to Colonel Hu. Over.”

“Excellent,” Tong said. “Secure the prisoners. We can’t afford to put more than one guard on them. Over.”

“Understood. Over.”

“Look!” Kapoor said. “On the other side of the river.”

Tong turned. The hand torch was clear to see. A long followed by two shorts. Kapoor replied with three blips. “They will come now,” the smuggler predicted.

“I want you to hide,” Tong said. “Sergeant Shi will meet her at the river.”

Kapoor faded into the darkness as Tong thumbed the transmit button. “They’re coming. You know what to do. I’ll be waiting at the truck. Over.” Tong heard two clicks by way of a reply.

It seemed unlikely that Bakshi’s smuggler had night vision gear, but it wasn’t impossible. So, Tong was careful to circle around a thicket of trees before approaching the truck from the rear. Tong pulled the back door open to reveal a soft glow. The interior was equipped with a ceiling mounted mirror, a silk covered couch, and a compact bar. Any remaining doubts were immediately put to rest. Colonel Hu was stealing from the People’s Republic of China. A definite no-no.

Based on appearances, a well-tested routine was in place. Hu sent the specially equipped truck to the river, Bakshi got in, and was taken to a place where they would meet. Within Hu’s compound? No, that seemed unlikely. But somewhere nearby so the colonel wouldn’t be inconvenienced.

There was only one place to hide, and that was inside a tiny airplane-style restroom, located in the front of the passenger compartment directly opposite the miniscule bar. So that’s where Tong was when he felt the truck move slightly. He gave Bakshi a moment to get settled and opened the door.

Bakshi was seated on the couch. When she turned Tong saw that she had dark hair, large eyes, and an oval face. Her lips were full and turned up at the corners. “My, my, what have we here? A PLA captain hiding in the loo.”

Judging from Bakshi’s English accent she’d been educated abroad. And in spite of Tong’s sudden appearance, her composure was intact. “It’s unusual,” Tong replied. “That’s true. But so is the presence of an Indian national in Chinese occupied Nepal. A woman who runs a smuggling operation and provides sex to a PLA colonel. But for what? Stolen supplies? Information? Or both?”

Tong saw Bakshi’s eyes narrow. Her legs had been crossed. Now both feet were on the floor. She’s getting ready to attack, Tong thought, but the speed of Bakshi’s response took him by surprise. One moment she was sitting, then she was standing, and holding a knife with a needle-like blade.

Tong was wearing a PLA issue pistol on his hip. But the butt was covered with a protective flap. And Bakshi would sink the knife blade into Tong’s flesh long before he could draw. You were overconfident, Tong thought, because she’s a woman.

The needle-like blade was in Bakshi’s right hand and she was surprisingly tall. Tong caught Bakshi’s wrist with his left hand while launching a blow with his right. It struck Bakshi’s throat, no, her Adam’s apple. Except that women don’t have Adam’s apples!

Bakshi reeled backwards and slammed into the door. Tong was fumbling for the pistol when Bakshi rushed him. The blade was low. Tong managed to intercept Bakshi’s wrist for a second time, jerk her in, and knee his opponent’s crotch. The strike was on target--but had no effect!

She’s transsexual, Tong realized, as Bakshi laughed. “That’s right, Captain… I’m a she! Now come to momma.”

Tong managed to draw the pistol, and was bringing the weapon to bear, when the knife flew through the air. It flipped end-for-end and struck the center of Tong’s forehead, hilt first.

The blow caused the agent to stagger, and Bakshi charged. Her weight was equal to Tong’s and she hit him hard.

Tong went down, Bakshi landed on top of him, and the pistol flew loose. Long nails raked Tong’s face. My eyes, he thought, she’s going for my eyes.

The MSS agent answered with a desperate head butt. Bakshi fell sideways. Tong rolled sideways, managed to straddle his opponent, and grabbed double handfuls of her hair.

Then with an urgency driven by desperation Tong banged Bakshi’s head against the floor. And he continued to do so until a hand fell on his shoulder. “You can stop now,” Sergeant Shi said. “She’s dead.”

Tong let go. There was a thud as the back of Bakshi’s head landed on a bloodied floor. Tong struggled to his feet. There was a bump on his forehead, his face was scratched, and his jaw hurt. The agent swayed slightly as he looked down at the motionless body.

I blew it, Tong thought. We had plenty of evidence regarding Hu and the stolen supplies. But was Bakshi a spy? I don’t know. Not for sure. I can lie though… And I will. Madam Zang wouldn’t buy it, but Major Wang will.

“Get the driver,” Tong said thickly. “Put him in the passenger seat. Have him navigate while you drive. The rest of us will follow at a distance. Once we arrive let Hu enter the back. Understood?”

“What about the driver’s assistant?”

“Take his ID and turn him loose. We can find him if we need to.”

They departed ten minutes later. Tong was seated next to Chung and could see the box truck’s red taillights. They looked like evil eyes and seemed to blink when the lead vehicle took a curve. The ensuing trip took the better part of an hour, and no wonder, since it would be madness to put a supply depot near the front.

But, when the supply truck started to slow, it was in a small village rather than at the nearby base. And that was consistent with Tong’s expectations. Hu wasn’t about to bring Bakshi on base. But he didn’t want to endure a long trip either. So, according to the data extracted from the Ural-4320’s GPS system, the trysts took place a scant three miles from Hu’s headquarters. “Kill the lights,” Tong ordered. “And pull over. I want to be present when a colonel named Hu arrives on the scene.”

If Chung was curious Tong saw no sign of it on the man’s face. “Yes, sir.”

But, as things turned out, Hu was already there. He was seated in the back of a white Mitsubishi Parejo SUV with the interior roof light on.

Tong dashed from shadow-to-shadow, as the light went off, and a man got out of the SUV. He was carrying a bottle as he made his way over to the box truck, put a boot on the raised step, and opened the door. A rectangle of light appeared and vanished.

Shi and two of his men were taking possession of the SUV as Tong arrived with pistol drawn. After stepping onto the bumper, he opened the door.

Bakshi was where he’d left her, stretched out on the couch, with arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes were closed and her hair was fanned out beneath her head.

Hu was kneeling beside her sobbing. And that was when Tong realized something that hadn’t occurred to him. The relationship had been about more than sex. For Hu anyway, who turned to look. “You? You did this?”

“Yes,” Tong replied. “I did.”

“You’re going to kill me?”

“Yes,” Tong admitted. “I am.”

“Good,” Hu said as he turned his back. “I want to be with her.”

There were two shots. Both seemed extremely loud in the confined space. Smoke eddied as Shi entered. Tong turned to face him. “Our mission is complete. Do we have white phosphorous grenades?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have the men throw four of them in here.”

“Sir.”

Tong was standing a safe distance away when the grenades detonated, the truck exploded, and shrapnel flew through the air. “Colonel Huang Hu was killed while serving the People’s Republic of China in southeast Asia.” That’s how the official announcement would read. And that, Tong decided, was true.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Near Kulekhani, Nepal

With the single exception of Doctor Kwan, the team rose early, and started to pack. Lee felt tired and found it difficult to breathe. Both of which were common at altitudes above 8,000 feet. But there was nothing he or anyone else could do except endure.

Kwan was only half ready when the rest of the party hit the trail. So, she didn’t have time to eat anything more than an energy bar. Her complaints fell on deaf ears. “You must get up earlier,” Thapa counseled Kwan, as if speaking to a child. “Then you will have time.”

Lee couldn’t help but grin.

The village of Kulekhani was about three miles away which meant they could reach it in an hour on flat ground. But they were walking uphill and carrying packs. So Lee figured it would take sixty minutes to travel two miles. That was the point where Cato and Shekhawat would join them. Any closer and the PLA mountain troops would spot the group and take a closer look.

The scouts would lead the column off-trail to the ruins of an old fort which the party would utilize as a base. In the meantime, Lee’s task was to put one boot in front of the other, try to suck enough oxygen, and maintain situational awareness.

Finally, after what seemed like two hours rather than one, the group rounded a curve to find the scouts waiting for them. After a brief celebration, Shekhawat led them up a switch-backing trail so narrow that even the sure-footed mountain ponies had difficulty traversing it.

Back-and-forth the ancient track went as it passed between wind-twisted shrubs, ancient retaining walls, and a cairn made out of dry-fitted stones, before finally arriving at the ruins. “The fort was constructed hundreds of years ago by a warlord who taxed each tea caravan that passed below,” Cato explained. “It was rebuilt more than once. Corporal Shekhawat says the original structure was three-stories tall and large enough to hold a hundred men. But most of it collapsed during the big earthquake.”

“Okay,” Lee said, as he sought to catch his breath. “But I was hoping for some cover. If we stay here, we’ll be easy meat for the first helicopter that happens along.”

Cato smiled. “No worries, sir. The situation is a lot better than it appears.”

Lee discovered that Cato was correct as Shekhawat led the column through an arched doorway. A huge pile of rubble blocked a passageway on the right.

But a rock-strewn tunnel led the party back into what had once been living quarters located in the mountain itself. Holes had been drilled in the roof. Light streamed down to splash the ground below. “It’s perfect,” Lee said. “Is there a bodega in Kulekhani? If so, I’ll buy you a beer.”

“Thanks,” Cato said sarcastically. “For nothing.” Both men laughed.

The next hour was spent selecting some well positioned overlooks, unloading the horses, and getting organized. Last but not least was a conference with Major Raj Gupta at Trishul Air Base. Lee was secretly hoping for a reprieve. Something along the lines of, “Never mind, we found the Dalai Lama, and he’s in Bangalore.”

But no such luck. Nothing had changed, except for a heightened sense of urgency, as the Big Push began. “We had an agent,” Gupta said. “And, according to her final report, supplies are pouring into Nepal from Tibet. So, the sooner you find what you’re looking for the better. Over.”

And that, Lee realized, was as much of an epitaph as the Allied agent was likely to get. He convened a meeting that included Staff Sergeant Thapa, Doctor Kwan, and both of the lamas.

The group sat cross legged on the floor of a small antechamber. It was partially lit by a shaft of yellow light that slanted down through a zigzag crack in the roof. There was a flutter of wings as a bird escaped through the hole.

“Okay,” Lee began. “We’re as close to Kulekhani as we can afford to be. Maybe too close. Our first and, if we’re lucky, only recon mission will take place tonight. The objective is to find the residence where the Dalai Lama is located and extract the whole family from the village.

“Responsibility for identifying the correct house will rest with Lamas Khando and Jangchup. Sergeant Evers will serve as second-in-command plus medic. Security will be provided by two Gurkhas. All of us will wear night vision gear. If you haven’t used it before see Sergeant Thapa for some training.

“Meanwhile, a fast reaction force led by Staff Sergeant Thapa will be stationed just outside of the village where it will secure our line of retreat and respond if we run into trouble. His team will consist of Doctor Kwan, Binsa, and the bodyguards. Are there any questions?”

“Yes,” Kwan said. “Why can’t I go instead of Evers?”

Lee was surprised. The doctor had at least two personalities and he was never sure which one he was going to encounter. He nodded. “That’s a reasonable question. We need to keep the group small to avoid detection—and Evers can fill three slots. Second in command, combatant, and medic. But be ready… If we take casualties, or the baby is ill, we’ll be counting on you. Okay?”

Kwan nodded. “Okay.”

The interim plan called for everyone to remain out of sight and get some rest. And Lee was preparing to take a nap when Kwan came to see him. “Hey doc, what’s up?”

Kwan sat on an ammo box. Her expression was serious. “You said that Lama Jangchup and Lama Khando are responsible for identifying the correct house. And, according to Jangchup, it will have two chimneys and a solar panel on the roof. All because a monk had a vision. Do you believe that?”

Lee was sitting on a low wall. He could see that Kwan was worried. “No,” Lee answered. “I don’t.”

“But you’re going anyway.”

Lee shrugged. “Orders are orders. And I have to take direction from the lamas where religious matters are concerned.”

“And you believe that following stupid orders is a good thing?”

“Not always, no. But the military is all about discipline. In 544 BC General Sun Tzu wrote that warfare is governed by five laws: Moral law, Heaven, Earth, the Commander, Method and Discipline. He lumps the last two together.”

“So, you’re going Chinese on me.”

“No, I’m going green beret on you.”

“And when the lamas come up empty?”

“Then we return to Trishul. I hope so anyway.”

Kwan stood. “You aren’t as stupid as you look.”

“And you aren’t as worthless as you seem.”

Kwan smiled. “Be careful tonight.” Then she was gone.

Lee slept for three hours and arose feeling refreshed. The report from Thapa was positive. Two helicopters had been seen flying off to the east. A three-horse caravan, and small groups of hikers, had passed in both directions. Other than that, there hadn’t been any activity to speak of.

As the sun sank people ate. And Lee was among them. Then it was time to check his gear which mainly consisted of armor, suppressed weapons, ammo, water, two trail bars and a radio.

As darkness fell the A and B teams left. Thanks to their night vision gear they could walk the trail without difficulty. There was no other foot traffic, which made sense in such a remote area.

Homes appeared as they neared the village. All were clinging to the mountainside at first. Then, as the combined teams arrived at the edge of Kulekhani, Lee saw that most of the dwellings were on level ground. “This is it,” Lee whispered to Thapa. “Stay out of sight until we return.”

There was another possibility of course, but neither one of them chose to mention it. Because if Lee had to call on Thapa for help it would mean that everything had gone to hell in a handcart. The noncom nodded. “Yes, sah… We’ll be here.”

Private Kilbur Rai was on point, followed by Lee, Evers, the lamas, and Private Yubraj Gurung. It was early yet, so the buttery glow of kerosene lamps was visible in windows, and the occasional wail of a battery powered radio could be heard.

A dog barked as they rounded a corner and Rai signaled for the rest of the party to duck. Fortunately there was a stone wall to hide behind. Lee could hear the Gurkha’s whisper via his headset. “Two PLA passing north to south. Bullpup rifles. Chatting. Over.”

Rai was a professional, and as such had been able to paint a complete picture with ten words. The enemy soldiers were armed with weapons capable of firing on full-auto and were talking to each other rather than maintaining situational awareness.

There was no reason to interfere with the mountain troops and Rai didn’t. And that was a good decision because if the A team had to snuff one or more of the soldiers, they’d have to kill all of them in order to complete their mission and escape. Or try to escape—since the chances of killing forty-plus PLA without one of them sending a distress call were somewhere between zero and none. Rai whispered, “Clear. Over.”

There were no published maps of Kulekhani. So, they planned to execute a grid search. Rai led them east through narrow streets which had evolved according to the needs of the people who’d been living there for hundreds of years. And those needs primarily involved fetching water, taking animals to pasture, or visiting the local temple.

Rai, Evers, and Gurung were under strict orders to ignore the search, and maintain situational awareness. That left Lee and the lamas free to scan the surrounding rooftops. Most of the Nepalese dwellings sat on tiny lots, featured peaked roofs, and were two-stories high.

Ground floor windows were often elevated above the level of the snow which would pile up during the winter months. Most homes had chimneys. But, as Rai led the team along a darkened street, Lee didn’t see a single building with two chimneys. Never mind a solar array.

There were false alarms however. Moments when wishful thinking on the part of a lama turned a stack of mud bricks into a second chimney—or the top of a rooftop chicken coop into a solar panel. None of which held up to closer scrutiny.

An hour passed. Then two. Finally, after crisscrossing the entire village, and dodging another two-man patrol, Lee thumbed his mike. “Viper-Six to Viper-Five and Eight. We’re coming your way. Over.” Lee heard two clicks by way of a response.

The lamas had receive-only radios and hurried forward to intervene. “It’s too early to give up,” Khando insisted. “Let’s search the village again.”

“Sorry,” Lee whispered. “But that isn’t going to happen. Please return to your slot. We’ll discuss the situation later.”

It took twenty minutes to reunite with the response team, and twice that much time to reach the fort. Once inside both of the lamas sought to cajole and threaten Lee into going back. He refused. “You’ll be sorry,” Khando said ominously. “Colonel Jennings won’t be pleased.”

Lee knew that was true. Jennings wouldn’t be pleased. But he would understand. The house with two chimneys and a solar array didn’t exist. And searching all night wouldn’t change that.

But later, while lying in his mountain bag, Lee continued to consider the problem. Not from a Buddhist point of view, because he didn’t believe the house existed, but from a green beret perspective. Believing, and knowing, were two different things. And he was supposed to take action based on facts rather than hunches.

The house could be there after all. There weren’t any street lights in Kulekhani. And they’d been looking up from street level. What they needed was a bird’s eye view. Would the brass be willing to send something like an RQ-4 Global Hawk over the village? Aerial photos would tell the story. Maybe, and maybe not.

Then it came to him… The overlook! The one Cato and Shekhawat had established prior to the team’s arrival. Lee pushed the bag off, put his boots on, and went looking for Cato. The green beret was sleeping in a room mostly occupied by off-duty Gurkhas. He swore as Lee nudged him with a boot. “What the hell?”

“I’m sorry,” Lee said, even though he wasn’t. “I need to talk to you.”

There was a good deal of bitching and griping as Cato emerged from his warm cocoon and got dressed. Then, rather than disturb the Gurkhas, Lee led Cato to the area where most people prepared their meals. They sat cross legged in front of a small fire. Lee began by saying, “I’m an idiot.”

Cato grinned. “Sir, yes sir.”

Lee laughed. “Tell me about the overlook… The one you and Corporal Shekhawat established over Kulekhani.”

“It’s at the top of a cliff overlooking the village,” Cato replied. “We had an unobstructed view of the town.”

“How much detail was visible?”

“Lots,” Cato said. “Shekhawat is packing a pair of Vortex Kaibab HD 20X56 glasses. You’ve got to hold them steady, but once you lock them down, they’re awesome.”

“So awesome that you could make out a house that has two chimneys and a solar array?”

Cato’s eyes grew wider. “Yeah, I think you could.”

“Good. Find the corporal, borrow his binoculars, and pack two days’ worth of food and water. We’ll hike up to the outlook tonight and be ready when the sun rises. Then we’ll search the village foot-by-foot. If the house with two chimneys and a solar array is there, we’ll spot it.”

After preparing his own gear, and briefing Staff Sergeant Thapa, Lee followed Cato out into the night. It was cold. Damned cold. And, after fifteen minutes on the old caravan trail, Cato led him up a path so faint it was barely discernable. Especially in the darkness.

The green berets had to pause every ten minutes to rest and catch their breaths. Finally, after what Cato said was a three-hundred-foot gain in altitude, they arrived on top of a narrow ridge, with Kulekhani to the right. Most of the residents were asleep by that time, so very few lights were visible.

Lee followed a few steps behind as Cato followed the ridge east. The noncom looked like a green blob with dark drop-offs to his left and right. Lee tried not to think about what would happen if one of them slipped and kept his gaze on the path ahead.

After ten minutes Cato raised a hand which caused Lee to stop. No words were required as Cato turned his back to the village and lowered himself over the edge. Then he was gone.

Lee didn’t like heights and felt the usual stirrings of fear as he made his way over to the point where Cato had been, turned, and began to descend. There were plenty of hand and footholds. But that didn’t alter the fact that Lee was descending a cliff in the dark.

Cato was waiting on the ledge below. “Here we are, sir… Home sweet home. It’s time to settle in. Watch out for the bag Shekhawat pooped in.”

With that warning in mind Lee made a place for himself next to Cato. Then it was time to heat water, brew some instant cocoa, and slide into the mountain bag. And in spite of the hard rock Lee fell asleep soon thereafter.

Daylight woke him. It was a slow creeping process at first, followed by sudden rays of sunshine, as the sun cleared a mountain. That was when the mist dissipated to reveal the village of Kulekhani a thousand feet below. “Take a look,” Cato said, as he offered the glasses. “But be careful. Someone might notice if light reflects off the lenses.”

That was good advice. So Lee was careful to cup the lenses with his fingers. Houses popped into view. And, thanks to the binoculars, Lee could count the number of sheets that a woman had hung up to dry. “We need a system,” Lee said from the left side of his mouth. “A way to track the areas we have looked at, and mark the target if we see it.”

Cato had a notebook. He drew a crisscross map of Kulekhani’s streets with occasional landmarks to keep them oriented. Then he numbered the streets left-to-right, and assigned letters to those that ran top-to-bottom. That made it possible to identify an intersection as 7F, and to take notes regarding the areas already examined.

The map wasn’t perfect. There were too many curves and dead ends for that. But it beat the hell out of nothing.

After pissing against the rock face, and eating their MREs, the green berets pulled a section of artic camo netting over themselves and went to work. As one person glassed a section of the village the other had responsibility for security. And it was Cato who spotted the incoming threat. “Drone, nine o’clock, headed this way. Cover up.”

Lee caught a glimpse of a small helicopter-style drone before ducking under the netting and lying perfectly still. China had been selling consumer grade drones all over the world prior to the war. So, when the fighting began, it had been easy for them to convert such devices to military use. It was very unlikely that the aircraft headed their way was armed with anything more than a camera. But that was dangerous enough given their circumstances.

Lee could hear the persistent whine generated by the drone, and figured that a PLA soldier was flying the device from the Chinese base on the south side of town. The question was why? Were such flights a regular part of the unit’s security protocols? Or had someone seen a glint of reflected sunlight where there shouldn’t be one? The fact that Cato and Shekhawat had spent time on the ledge without spotting the drone before seemed to argue in favor of the second possibility. Lee held his breath.

The mosquito-like whine continued to grow louder. Lee feared the machine would hover directly above them--at which point the game of hide-and-seek would be over.

Then the sound started to fade. And when Lee took a peek he saw the drone moving away. He let his breath out in a sigh. “What’s that odor?” Cato demanded rhetorically. “Oh, that’s right—I soiled myself.”

Lee chuckled. “We’ll have to be even more careful. All right, back to work.”

The next hour passed slowly as the men took turns scanning, and rescanning, the village in an effort to make sure that every house had been scrutinized.

Eventually it became necessary to pee, which they did while kneeling, and to eat lunch while lying on their stomachs. Then the process started anew. Lee’s eyes were bleary, his elbows hurt, and it was increasingly difficult to concentrate. But, when a large white and black stork entered Lee’s field of vision, it was natural to follow the bird as it settled onto a chimney. And not just any chimney—but one with a bushy nest.

Lee felt a sense of shock as he realized that there was a second chimney at the opposite end of the roof! Gray smoke dribbled out of it. Bingo! A house with two chimneys. But where was the solar array?

Lee searched the roof looking for a panel but failed to find one. Then he noticed an outbuilding. And there it was! Sunlight glinted off the solar array on the roof. Did that count? It wasn’t on the house, but the shed was associated with the house, and that might be sufficient. “I think I have it,” Lee said. “Get ready to take notes.”

“You’re kidding,” Cato replied. “For real?”

“Yes, for real. Take this down.” Lee gave Cato the coordinates, described landmarks located near the house, and finished by mentioning the nest. “It’s big and bushy,” Lee added.

“So, you believe the Dalai Lama is there, in that house,” Cato inquired incredulously.

“No,” Lee replied. “I believe the house resembles the one the lamas described. Nothing less, and nothing more. Everything having to do with the Dali Lama is above our paygrade.”

Cato yawned. “Okay, time for a nap then. I’ll take the first watch.”

“No can do,” Lee told him. “We’re going to keep looking.”

“Why? We found it.”

“What if the village has two houses with two chimneys?”

Cato frowned. “You really are a pain in the ass. Sir.”

Lee grinned. “You need an attitude adjustment, Sergeant. Right after the war.”

“Will we be drinking?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Cato said. “I’m in.”

The search continued. House-by-house, street-by-street, as they looked for a second target. Cato spotted another solar panel. But it was mounted on the roof of a house with one chimney. Finally, when the sun hung low in the sky, Lee made the call. “Okay, that’s it. We’ll pull out when its dark.”

The trip back to the old fort went smoothly and, once the green berets were half-a-mile out, Lee thumbed his mike. “This is Viper-Six. Two minutes out. Over.”

The answer came quickly. “This is Five. Welcome back. Out.”

Doctor Kwan, Staff Sergeant Thapa and the lamas were waiting in a room without windows. What light there was came from two kerosene lanterns. Shadows danced the walls as the green berets dropped their packs and sat cross-legged on the floor. All eyes were on them. “Well?” Jangchup demanded eagerly.

“We found a house with two chimneys and a solar panel,” Lee told them. “Whether it’s the place you’re looking for I couldn’t say.”

The lamas peppered the soldiers with questions and, as Cato described the drone, Lee’s eyes came into contact with Kwan’s. She shook her head slightly, as if to say, “What the hell?” All Lee could do was smile.

After a good deal of discussion the decision was made. Once the sun rose the lamas, both wearing civilian clothes, would walk into town. There were risks needless to say.

But the lamas were eager to go. And were quick to point out that the parents were much more likely to respond positively, without soldiers being present. Then if the results of the investigation were positive the lamas would summon the rest of the party.

Lee approved the plan on the condition that the lamas would enter the town after nightfall. Then he had a word with Staff Sergeant Thapa. “Is the backup location ready?”

“Yes, sah… As ready as a cave can be.”

Lee smiled. “Good. We have to assume that the lamas will be captured and tortured. Odds are that they’ll spill their guts. PLA soldiers will arrive here shortly thereafter. So, it makes sense to move. Don’t tell the troops because one of them might say something in front of the lamas. But remind them to be ready at all times. We will announce the pull-out immediately after the holy men leave and depart 30 minutes later.”

Thapa nodded approvingly. “Yes, sah.”

Lee could have warned Kwan, but concluded that the doctor didn’t have a need to know.

Lee spent the day catching up on his sleep, checking on security, and chatting with the troops. Morale was good and that was important.

When darkness fell Lee was there to see the lamas off. “Good luck… Let me know what you find, but keep the transmissions short, and don’t talk to anyone else. No one, agreed?”

The lamas agreed. But what if they found the Dalia Lama? Would the holy men keep the good news to themselves? Or try to contact someone like the abbess? Lee feared the latter, but had no choice.

Once the lamas were gone, the announcement was made, and work began. To the unit’s credit the tear-down took a scant 18 minutes. And after Lee made a final circuit looking for items that had been missed, the team departed. Two Gurkhas were on point, followed by Thapa, and the rest of the team. Lee was walking drag.

The seldom-used trail led up over a ridge, down into a ravine, and up the other side. The trail was narrow, and the horses’ hooves dislodged avalanches of loose scree, which rattled as it slid downslope.

Finally, after switch-backing through a lightly treed area, they arrived at the site of an ancient gold mine. The path led between piles of tailings to a cliff face, a pile of timbers, and a sign. It was in Nepalese script. Thapa aimed a flashlight at it. “Danger, stay out,” Thapa said.

“Tell the men to open it up, but to be careful,” Lee replied. “It’s my guess that the mine will be less comfortable than the fort, but safer, since it’s away from the main trail.”

It took the better part of an hour to remove the timbers that blocked the entrance and gain entrance. Lee was among the first to enter. Flashlight beams roamed the ceiling and rough-cut walls. There were no signs that modern equipment had been used in the mine. Just picks, shovels, and crowbars judging from the rusty tools that lay about.

A couple of wooden carts were parked to one side, and ancient lanterns dangled here and there. Light is going to be a problem, Lee thought. Our kerosene will run out and so will our batteries. What then?

Lee turned to Thapa. “Send some men up above. Tell them to look for ventilation shafts or cracks in the rock. We’re going to need air and light.”

Thapa passed the word. The tunnel was narrow, and led straight back into the mountain. And that was where they encountered what might have been a natural chamber with a waist-high, fire-blackened fireplace on the right-hand wall. That suggested a chimney!

“Let the scouts know,” Lee said. “Tell them to keep their eyes peeled for a chimney. And have someone start a fire. Let’s see where the smoke comes out.”

It took a couple of hours to clear some of the debris, get the horses inside, and set up living quarters in the chamber that had the fireplace. It wasn’t perfect. Some of the smoke leaked out into the room. But most of it went up and out via a crack. It would be a dead giveaway during the day, which meant they could only have fires at night.

Lee was waiting for the radio call. And he thought he knew what the lamas would report. “We found the package.” That’s the terminology the holy men had been told to use. Assuming they hadn’t been captured or killed that is.

There were two reasons why Lee expected to receive that particular message. The first was that it might be true. The second was that it had to be true. Real or not Buddhism, and the people who believed in it, were in need of a leader. And the lamas were under pressure to produce a “free world” Dalai Lama as an alternative to the fake one previously announced by the Chinese.

The hours crawled by. And, as the sun rose, Lee became increasingly anxious. But finally, shortly after 1400 hours, the radio call came in. It was Khando. “We have the package. Over.”

“Name the sects. Over.” Such a test hadn’t been discussed. And that made it all the more effective. “Theravada, Mahayana and Tibetan,” came the answer. “Over.”

“Stay where you are. Don’t go outside. The extraction team will arrive around one in the morning. Over.”

Kulekhani, Nepal

The air inside the house was warm, fuggy, and thick with the rank odor of a dish called Mula Ko Achar. It was made from pickled daikon radishes, and known for its offensive smell. But Bibek and Ishya Gharti were oblivious to that.

The air was warm to protect their first-born son, and the little boy was perfect in every way. In fact, the only thing that made the moment less than it could have been was the presence of two lamas who had appeared at their door, and wanted to speak with them.

After explaining the nature of their mission, and getting permission to do so, the holy men carried out an inch-by-inch physical exam of the baby boy’s body. And there were cries of joy when they discovered a red birthmark on the boy’s left ankle. A birthmark which, according to the holy men, resembled the petals of a lotus flower. And, as Lama Jangchup explained, “The lotus flower represents creation, cosmic renewal, and purity. All of which are identified with Buddhism and therefore the Dalai Lama.”

It was a lot to take in. On the one hand the parents were thrilled to learn that their newborn baby might be the reincarnated Dalia Lama. On the other hand they were terrified that they might lose what they had so recently gained. Jangchup was busy trying to reassure them in that regard as Khando excused himself.

The privy smelled the way all privies do, but was the only place where the lama could make an important radio call. Khando removed a small Chinese made transceiver from the pouch on his belt, turned the device on, and chose the correct frequency. “This is seven-six-two-four. Over.”

There was a three-second pause followed by the sound of a male voice. “Go. Over.”

“Identity confirmed. Over.”

“Hold. Over.” Static rattled as a long thirty-second pause passed. Then the voice spoke again. “Kill it. Out.”

CHAPTER NINE

Kulekhani, Nepal

Khando became a Buddhist at age nine, was ordinated at eighteen, and recruited by the Ministry of State Security shortly after he turned twenty. Later Khando was assigned to the Internal Security and Anti-Reconnaissance Division, better known as “Bureau 9.”

The 9’s mission was to protect the MSS from infiltration by foreign entities. And that, according to the bureaucrats in charge, included responsibility for monitoring Buddhism. A religion deemed to be reactionary by some, and “foreign,” since members lived all around the world. That was to say nothing of the 244-million Buddhists who lived inside China, and represented 18.2% of the total population.

There had been annual training sessions to attend, and reports to fill out, but Khando’s part-time work as an MSS agent had been less than demanding until the day the war began.

Yes, there had been martial arts classes focused on the Shaolin art of Kung Fu, a form of martial arts consistent with Khando’s role as a monk. But Khando had never been called upon to hurt, much less kill someone, never mind the newly reincarnated Dalai Lama. And the prospect of doing so made Khando feel sick to his stomach.

What to do? Suddenly the two organizing principals of his life were in conflict with each other. There was a difference however. If Khando failed Buddhism he would survive. But if he failed Chinese communism, the MSS would kill him.

So, horrible though the prospect was, Khando had to kill a baby. Not the Dalai Lama, because that was unthinkable, but an infant that some believed to be the Dalai Lama.

But how? The infant was never alone. The answer was obvious. Khando would have to kill the baby and the person with him. His mother or grandmother would be the easiest to overpower.

So Khando chose a corner that would allow him to monitor the comings and goings into and out of the infant’s room. He sat on the floor with legs crossed, and pretended to meditate. The father left and Jangchup arrived. Then the mother entered and the other lama departed.

Khando took a moment to review his plan. Kill Ishya, kill the baby, and exit through the back door. Then he would run. The PLA troops would arrest him, check his identity, and receive orders to release him. Done.

Khando was about to rise when the grandmother arrived, spoke to Ishya, and sat in a chair next to the homemade crib. Ishya left. Now, Khando told himself, before someone else arrives.

Khando stood. A floorboard creaked as he took a step forward, removed his belt from around his waist, and formed a loop. “Wrists crossed.” That’s what the MSS instructor told the class to do, and that’s what Khando did. The candles flickered and Khando’s shadow slid across a wall. The old woman had just started to turn when the leather loop dropped over her head.

Khando jerked the garrote tight and closed his eyes. He could hear however… There were gasping sounds, followed by noise the old lady’s clogs made as they danced on the floor, and the prolonged fart that followed. Then she was gone.

Khando released the belt and eased the body to the floor. Killing the woman had been easy. Now for the baby.

There was no need to use the leather strap on a child. No, a pillow would suffice, and there would be no need to watch the life vanish from the infant’s eyes. Numerous pillows were available and Khando chose the smallest. It, like the rest of the room, was imbued with the smell of incense. Cinnamon, Khando thought. Death smells like Cinnamon.

Khando lowered the pillow onto the baby’s face, and was about to bear down on it, when the child’s father entered the room. And because Bibek was wearing stockings instead of shoes his footsteps had been silent. When Bibek saw what the lama was doing he uttered a bellow of outrage and charged.

Khando barely had time to turn, much less prepare for battle. He was two-inches taller than Bibek, but the local was a brick layer by trade, and younger too. He threw his arms around Khando and dragged him to the floor while calling for help.

Khando had given up all hope of killing the infant by then. All he wanted to do was escape. So, he hit Bibek, and hit him again. But the enraged father refused to let go. They wrestled. Khando managed to wind up on top. And that position allowed him to pummel Bibek’s face with both fists.

Jangchup heard the cries for help, and as he arrived in the baby’s room, saw the grandmother’s body lying on the floor. More than that he saw Khando sitting astride of Bibek’s body raining blows down on the villager’s face. Who was responsible for the woman’s death? Khando? Or Bibek? The answer seemed obvious.

A burning candle fell and rolled, as Jangchup took hold of the three-foot tall brass candle holder, and moved four steps forward. The base hit the side of the other lama’s head and fractured his skull. The would-be killer collapsed on the floor.

“Fire!” Ishya shouted, as she entered the room. A floor length curtain was burning and the rod fell as she jerked it down. A piss-pot was handy and half-full. The fire hissed impotently as Ishya put it out. “The baby,” Bibek said, as he got to his feet. “Lama Khando was trying to kill the baby! Lama Jangchup saved him.”

Ishya looked at Khando, saw what Jangchup had done, and threw up.

And that was when the Dalai Lama started to cry.

A mine near Kulekhani, Nepal

Lee was checking his gear, and getting ready to leave, when the light from Cato’s headlamp merged with his. “Jangchup’s on the horn, Captain. He claims that Khando murdered the DL’s grandmother and tried to kill the baby. There was a fight, and Jangchup won. Oh, and Khando had a Chinese-made radio.”

Lee eyed Cato to see if he was smiling. “Get serious.”

“I am serious.”

Lee took the receiver. “This is Viper-Six. Go. Over.”

Jangchup had forgotten everything he’d been taught regarding radio procedure and he was shouting. “Khando had a Chinese radio… They know we’re here… Come get us!”

The report should have come as a shock. But Lee had been suspicious of both lamas. So the news left him unmoved. The sequence of events was clear. After ascertaining that the baby was the real Dalai Lama, or likely to be perceived as such, Khando made a call. And that was when he received orders to murder the baby.

“Listen carefully,” Lee said. “Get the family out of the house. Don’t let them carry anything that won’t fit in their pockets. Take shelter somewhere, but don’t tell me where, until I ask you to do so. You will hear shooting. When that happens stay put. Repeat what I told you. Over.”

Jangchup stumbled at times but managed to recite Lee’s instructions. “Good,” Lee told him. “I’ll be in touch. Now get out of there. Over.”

Thapa had the other worldly ability to show up whenever he was needed. So Lee was anything but surprised when the Gurkha appeared. “I hope you and your men are in the mood for a fight,” Lee said.

“Yes, sah,” Thapa said. “Always.”

Lee grinned. “Here’s the situation.” Thapa listened as Lee gave him the rundown plus instructions. “We’ll travel light. Weapons, ammo, and short rations. Nothing more.

“With the exception of one man, who will stay here to keep an eye on the horse wranglers, everyone will go—and that includes the doctor and Binsa. I assume the Dalai Lama’s bodyguards will want to take part. They can carry firearms if they wish. Do you have any questions?”

“No, sah.”

“Good. We’re going to depart in fifteen minutes.”

The rescue party was comprised of 14 people, including 7 Gurkhas, 3 Green Berets, 2 bodyguards, 1doctor and the wet nurse. The opposition consisted of 40-plus PLA mountain troops who, based on information provided by Khando, knew rescuers were on the way.

What they didn’t know was that the Allied force was lightly loaded, traveling downhill, and knowledgeable about Kulekhani’s layout. And there’s one more thing, Lee thought, as he skidded down a scree-covered slope. They don’t know that we plan to kill every damned one of them.

Once on the old caravan trail the going got easier. The path had a tendency to rise and fall, but not by much, allowing the rescuers to jog. Thapa, Cato and one of the Gurkhas were on point. They waved the rest of the party off the trail just short of the village and disappeared into the murk. Lee smiled. Had PLA troops been sent to keep the Allies out of Kulekhani? He hoped so. And, thanks to a series of sotto voice transmissions, the green beret knew his wish had come true. The voice was that of Corporal Ganju Mahto, one of Thapa’s snipers. The Gurkha had a British L115A3 suppressed sniper rifle. He spoke softly. “Four targets. Working left to right.”

The bolt action rifle coughed, and coughed again. Thapa was acting as Mahto’s spotter. “One down, two down, three and four took cover.”

Lee saw a series of flashes and heard the rattle of automatic weapons as the Chinese troops returned fire. Whether they could see Mahto, or were trying to intimidate the sniper, wasn’t clear. But the muzzle flashes made excellent targets. “That’s three,” Thapa said. “The fourth ran.”

“All right,” Lee said. “Let’s get going. We’re headed for the house.”

They were up and running when Thapa dropped back to have a private word with Lee. The noncom was unusually direct. “The house, sah? Lama Jangchup and the family are gone by now. And the house will be full of Chinese troops.”

“Let’s hope so,” Lee replied.

They ran side-by-side as Thapa took it in. There was wonderment in his voice. “You plan to kill them?”

“That’s correct,” Lee answered. “All of them. It will be better that way.”

“Yes,” the noncom agreed. “It will.” And with that Thapa increased his speed. He was back at the head of the column a minute later.

Lee knew the decision was risky. But the alternative was even worse. If the rescue party went straight to the location where the family was hiding, and tried to take them to safety, the Chinese mountain troops would dog them—and probably win the war of attrition.

But if Lee’s team could eliminate the Chinese troops, or at least whittle the platoon down to just a few effectives, his team would have enough breathing room to make it back to the mine. After that? Lee didn’t know yet.

Cato knew where the house was. And led the team through the twisting-turning streets with a surety that Lee knew he wouldn’t be able to duplicate. Lights glowed in windows, and dogs barked, but the citizens of Kulekhani stayed indoors. And a good thing too.

“Slow down,” Cato said over the radio. “The house is about two blocks ahead. Viper-One-One will begin to thin the herd. Over.”

“Viper-One-Three on me,” Lee said. Over.”

Private Dipprasad Pun was armed with a 40mm six-shot grenade launcher which had an effective firing range of 440 yards. He appeared at Lee’s elbow. “Sir.”

“Once Mahto clears the way I want you to put six on the house. Have you got any pyrotechnic rounds?”

“I have six pyros.”

“Load ‘em.” That would have been difficult to do while in motion. But, when the team paused, Pun had his opportunity.

Lee heard a series of coughs and knew that Mahto was firing at targets up ahead. “That’s one,” Thapa said. “That’s two… Three was a miss. Over.”

That’s five altogether, Lee thought. We’re making progress.

At least half-a-dozen enemy soldiers were stationed in and around the house with two chimneys. The Chinese opened fire. That forced the team to advance slowly. An enemy bullet snatched Private Yubraj Gurung off his feet and threw him backwards. The Gurkhas redoubled their fire. Lee turned to Pun. “Put all six on the building.”

The grenade launcher began to chug. Each shot was followed by a pause, followed by an explosion, followed by flames. The entire house was on fire within 60 seconds. Flames shot out through the windows as Chinese escaped through the doors. But they were silhouetted against the conflagration behind them—and easy meat for the Allied troops.

Cato, Thapa, and the rest of them fired short three-round bursts. Soldiers jerked, spun, and fell. Lee added his fire to the rest. The fight was over in minutes. Lee could feel the heat from the burning blaze as he approached the house. Bodies were sprawled all around. That’s six, seven, eight, nine and ten, Lee thought. And it’s my guess that there are a couple of KIAs in the house. So, we have…

Kwan was about ten feet away, standing next to a corpse, when it reached out to grab her ankle. She uttered a surprised yelp, aimed her carbine, and fired a burst. The soldier jerked spastically--and his hand fell away.

Had the wounded soldier been trying to get her attention? Or to take her down? It didn’t matter. Dead was dead. “You did the right thing,” Lee said.

Kwan didn’t seem to hear. She just stood there, staring down at the body, and crying. “I didn’t mean to kill him,” she said. “He surprised me.”

“That’s how combat is,” Lee replied. “Pull yourself together. The men are counting on you.”

Kwan wiped her eyes with a sleeve, as Lee spoke into the wire-thin boom mike. “Viper-Six to Viper-Two-Two. Over.”

The response was immediate. “We can hear gunfire,” Jangchup said. “What’s happening?”

“We’re pushing the Chinese back,” Lee said. “We are at the house. Where are you?”

It turned out that Jangchup and the family were at what had been Ishya’s mother’s house. It was, judging from the lama’s directions, about half-a-mile away. Cato was listening. “This is Viper-Eight. I have it,” the green beret said. “Over.”

Lee turned to Thapa. “What about Gurung’s body?”

“We can’t afford to carry it,” Thapa replied. “He’s a Gurkha. He understands.”

Lee took note of the way Thapa used the present tense. Gurung continued to exist insofar as Thapa was concerned. And the same was likely to be true for most of the other Gurkhas. About 70 percent of them were likely to be Buddhists. Lee nodded. “Gurung is a good man. Be sure to collect his weapons.”

Lee switched his radio on. “Viper-Six to Viper-Eight. Let’s go. Over.”

Cato began to jog with the team strung out behind him. The open formation snaked past a convenience store, a pharmacy, and a bus station before turning down a narrow lane. One and two-story houses lined both sides of the street. There were animal pens too. The pungent odor of their dung hung in the air. “This is Eight,” Cato said. “The house is up ahead.”

“This is One,” Lee added. “Bring your party out to meet us Viper-Two-Two.”

Lee saw a blob of light play across the street ahead as Jangchup and two warmly dressed adults appeared. And as the distance closed, it became obvious that one of them was a woman carrying a well-wrapped bundle. The Dalai Lama? Or the DL as Cato referred to him? Yes.

“Viper-One-Six will take charge of the bodyguards, the family, Jangchup and Binsa,” Lee said. “Do you read me doctor?”

“I read you,” Kwan replied. “What…”

Kwan didn’t get to finish her sentence. “Drone!” Evers shouted, as a quadcopter drone appeared out of the surrounding darkness. It had a greenish hue as seen through Lee’s night vision gear, and was accompanied by a mosquito-like whine.

A light speared down to pin Lee in its glare as the machine hovered above. Lee resisted the impulse to shoot it down. “Don’t fire!” the green beret ordered. “Most of us are going to run east, toward the Chinese outpost, while Viper-One-Six takes her party west. Follow me!”

Kwan stood dumbfounded as Lee began to run, as if trying to escape the drone, with Cato, Evers, and the Gurkhas strung out in a line. The drone followed them. Then she understood. Lee was drawing the Chinese forces away so she could lead the others to safety! Even though she was completely unqualified for the task. Shit, shit, shit.

Think, Kwan thought. “What would Lee do?”

Kwan turned to Niu Yu. “We’re returning to the cave. Take the point. I’ll take the two-slot. A fast walk… No more than that.”

Then Kwan turned to Sam Waller. The American was armed with a British issue L85A3 Assault rifle. “You’re on drag,” Kwan told the giant. “If they follow us the Dalai Lama will die. Got it?”

“Don’t worry, Doc,” Waller growled. “I’ve got this.”

“Good,” Kwan said. They’re following my orders, Kwan thought. That’s amazing. Don’t fuck up. “All right let’s get going. Spread out, but keep the person in front of you in sight.”

Yu had a Glock 17 in each hand. Her dark clothing was perfect for nighttime conditions, and the bodyguard moved with such grace that she seemed to float just above the ground. The Dalai Lama was on the move.

Lee allowed the drone to follow the team for two-blocks before giving Evers permission to destroy it. The consumer grade drone disintegrated as a burst hit it. Bits of metal and plastic fell like confetti. “Chinese reinforcements are on the way,” Lee said. “This is our chance to kill the rest of them. See the building with the flat roof? I want Mahto and Pun up top with everyone else behind the low wall.”

The men took their places, and not a moment too soon, as the growl of engines was heard. A light duty UAZ-469 utility vehicle led the way, with a FAW MV3 following behind. It was the equivalent of an army M939 5-ton 6X6 with room for troops in the back.

Lee was peering over the wall. “Viper-One-One will kill the passenger in the lead vehicle. Viper-One-Three will put all six on truck two. Over.”

Mahto fired from the roof. The 469’s windshield shattered and the dimly seen figure slumped sideways. The officer in charge? Lee hoped so. And the odds were pretty good.

Pun was dropping 40mm HE grenades on the second vehicle. No one had to tell the Gurkha how important it was to strike before the Chinese troops could deass the truck and disperse. The bright orange-red explosions came in quick succession. Then the truck exploded hurling body parts high into the air. That should do it, Lee thought as the bloody rain fell. We’re all set. Then a detachment of Chinese mountain troops attacked from the north.

Kwan heard the explosions, knew that Lee and his team were engaging the Chinese, and bit her lower lip. Lee was leading a diversion so that she, the Dalai Lama, and the rest of them could escape. And the green beret could get killed in the process. Why do you care? Kwan wondered. Because he’s a fellow American? Or is there something more going on? No, Kwan decided. That’s silly. You barely know him.

“Soldiers ahead,” Yu whispered. “Take cover. Now.”

Kwan motioned for Ishya, Bibek and Jangchup to get down as Yu moved forward. A house was positioned to the right and upslope. A kerosene lantern dangled outside. To guide someone home? Perhaps.

Yu trudged forward. Her pistols had disappeared—and thanks to the pack she wore Yu looked like a traveler. More than that she appeared to be helpless. And the soldiers reacted accordingly. There were three of them, and Kwan heard one speak. She couldn’t make out the words at that distance but assumed he was ordering Yu to stop. It was the last thing he did.

Yu kept the Chinese Butterfly swords in sheaths strapped to the undersurface of her forearms and hidden within voluminous sleeves. They were simple weapons with short blades and enclosed handguards. Light flashed off polished steel as Yu crossed her arms and pulled the weapons into the open. A single slash cut through the first soldier’s throat and nearly took his head off.

Blood spurted, and the soldier fell, as Yu sidestepped an attack from soldier two, and slashed three. His nose flew off. As his hands came up to cover the hole, Yu stabbed him. He collapsed. The knife was trapped between two ribs. Yu turned with plans to kill soldier three. But the badly wounded man was running towards Kwan.

There hadn’t been any gunshots up to that point and the last thing Kwan wanted to do was to bring more enemy soldiers to the scene. So, she tripped the soldier, and was about to jump him when Sam Waller appeared. “I’ll take care of that,” the American said, as he drew a knife. His arm rose and fell. There was no mercy—the very thing Kwan’s life had been dedicated to.

Maybe she would feel something later. But not then, not with everything at risk. “Drag the bodies off the road,” Kwan instructed. “Hide them.”

Once that was accomplished Yu led the group forward. The mine, Kwan thought. We have to reach the mine.

The Chinese counterattack would have been relatively easy to deal with had it not been for the Russian-made Mil Mi-8 twin-turbine helicopter that roared in out of the darkness and opened fire on Lee’s team. Though mainly used as transports, some Mi-8s were armed with machine guns and unguided rockets. And the helicopter’s pilot made good use of both.

“Take cover!” Lee shouted, as rockets hit the building’s roof and exploded. Once all four of the missiles were gone the pilot opened fire with the KV-4 machine gun located in the ship’s nose. Bullets whined, buzzed and snapped all around the special ops team as it went to ground.

In the meantime, the Chinese ground troops were moving in and taking ground. Lee wanted to stop them, had to stop them, but couldn’t. Not with fire pouring down from above.

That was when the Mi-8 stopped firing long enough to hover over the roof. From his position behind a waist-high wall Lee could see troops slide down ropes to the building below. In less than a minute the PLA soldiers would start to pick targets and fire from above.

But Pun was still there, hiding in the shadows. And as the troops began to land he fired. One, two, three grenades… All of which sailed in through the helicopter’s open hatch to explode in quick succession.

The Mi-8 seemed to expand as it gave birth to a red-orange ball of fire and a clap of artificial thunder. A rotor flew into the night as the fuselage fell straight down. It landed on three soldiers who vanished as a secondary explosion consumed them.

Lee was about to turn his attention to the ground troops when Thapa appeared at his side. “The area is secured, sah.”

Lee looked around. There was no movement. An uneasy silence descended on Kulekhani. The battle was over.

CHAPTER TEN

PLA Special Forces Compound 8, Nepal

Tong arrived at the Special Forces Compound to find that everything of any use was being loaded onto trucks. That included equipment weapons, ammo, office furniture, cookware, and the potted plant from Wang’s office.

The PLA officer was outside watching the activity while issuing the occasional order. His uniform was impeccable and he was sporting a swagger stick. “Don’t put all the ammunition on a single truck!” Wang shouted. “What if the Gweilo [Westerners] hit it from the air? Put a portion of it on each vehicle.”

A shame-faced corporal saluted and hurried off. Tong took the opportunity to approach. Wang returned his salute with the swagger stick. “Ah, Captain Tong! Welcome back. We’re moving as you can see. The Big Push is underway and our services are required elsewhere. Come… We’ll talk inside.”

Tong followed Wang into the building and down the main hall. Litter was scattered across the normally pristine floors. “This will do,” Wang said, as he opened a door.

It appeared as though the tiny windowless room had once been the province of a minor functionary. His handwriting was visible on a chalkboard, ancient file cabinets lined a wall, and a coat rack occupied one corner. Wang sat on a corner of the wooden desk which left Tong to perch on a rickety chair. “So, Hu was stealing from the government, and got what he deserved,” Wang said. “I know that much… Give me the details.”

Tong had no desire to relive the sanction but couldn’t refuse. So he told Wang about the investigation, how he and Sergeant Shi went about interrogating the smugglers, and the moment when Jaipal Kapoor broke.

“After that it was a matter of spotting Hu’s specially equipped truck, and hiding inside it. After Nola Bakshi entered, I revealed my presence. That’s when Bakshi attacked me with a knife. And, because she was a transsexual, the woman was strong. She damned near killed me. Suffice it to say that we fought and I won.

“Then we drove the truck to the rendezvous point, Colonel Hu arrived, and entered. I went in after him.”

“And then?” Wang inquired. He was clearly entranced.

Tong shrugged. “I went in. Hu was kneeling next to Bakshi’s body. He was sobbing.”

“You shot him?”

“Yes. And we burned the truck.”

Wang used the swagger stick to tap the side of his head. “That’s amazing. You can be sure that I will send a very positive report to the MSS.”

“Thank you,” Tong replied. “Can I return to my regular duties now?”

“No,” Wang said. “Not yet. I have another job for you, and that’s to finish the task that you and your original team were sent to accomplish.”

“You want me to kill the baby Dalai Lama? I thought another agent was going to take care of that.”

“He tried,” Wang said woodenly. “And he failed. So, before you can return to the pleasures of Beijing, it will be necessary to kill the Dalai Lama again.”

A mine near Kulekhani, Nepal

Lee’s attitude toward the mine had changed. What originally felt like a refuge was a prison now. After losing a platoon of soldiers in Kulekhani the PLA was not only looking for the culprits, but searching for the Dalai Lama, which was why drones and helicopters were crisscrossing the sky. Lee gave brief consideration to the possibility of an air evac. But the lack of a good spot on which to land meant that strategy was impractical for the moment.

Making the situation worse was the fact that the Dalai Lama was ill. Kwan said the problem was gastroenteritis, and she didn’t want the infant to travel, not until he could keep his food down. The standard course of treatment was a tablespoon of electrolyte solution administered at regular intervals to prevent dehydration. “A few days at most,” Kwan promised. “Then he’ll be good to go.”

In the meantime, all Lee could do was worry. Time seemed to drag and, without any notion of what the Chinese were doing, he became increasingly irritable.

Finally, in an attempt to reassure the American, Staff Sergeant Thapa offered to send a two-man team into Kulekhani for a look around. Lee was quick to accept.

Private Rambahadur Shrestha and Private Kilbur Rai, left immediately after sundown. They were dressed Nepali style and armed with suppressed pistols and kukris. “If you shoot someone the Chinese will know we’re close by,” Lee told them. “So, try to avoid it.”

Both soldiers nodded obediently.

The ensuing 24 hours seemed to last forever. But finally, just when Lee thought the Gurkhas were never going to return, they did. Rai spoke first. “There are a lot of Chinese soldiers in Kulekhani, sir… It’s hard to put an exact number on them, since they were broken up into patrols, but we think that a full company is on the ground.”

“That’s true,” Shrestha agreed. “But the soldiers we saw were fresh out of basic training.”

Lee frowned. “Really? How can you tell?”

“Their uniforms are brand new,” Rai answered. “And so are their boots. Plus, when we were in the market, one of them discharged his weapon accidentally. A sergeant hit him in the face.”

That was interesting. Very interesting. And consistent with the Big Push. Rather than drop veterans into the remote village of Kulekhani, raw troops had been dispatched instead. “You entered the market?” Kwan inquired. “That seems pretty risky.”

“Private Rai was thirsty,” Shrestha explained. The implication being that Rai wanted a beer. Thapa frowned, and while nothing was said, Lee figured Rai would get an earful later on.

“You did a good job,” Lee told them. “Thank you.”

“So, what do you think?” Kwan inquired, once the Gurkhas were gone.

“I think we caught a break,” Lee replied. “It’s going to be easier to slip away given how green the Chinese troops are. How’s the DL doing?”

“He’s better,” Kwan responded. “I think we’ll be able to move him tomorrow.”

And Kwan was correct. When the following morning rolled around the baby was better. The day was spent packing and resting for what promised to be a difficult hike. They left at 2000 hours and headed east. Thanks to Thapa’s Gurkhas Lee knew their path was clear of PLA soldiers. But drones? All he could do was hope.

Kulekhani, Nepal

A lieutenant was waiting to greet Tong as the MSS agent stepped off the helicopter. The officer’s uniform was new—and the salute was parade ground smart. “Welcome to the village of Kulekhani, sir! My name is Chen. My men and I will assist you in every possible way.”

Tong returned the salute. A cold breeze found the back of his neck. What the agent could see of the village left him unimpressed. Kulekhani was a shithole, like all the other shitholes in Nepal, and a place to put behind him. “How many soldiers survived the attack?”

“Five, sir,” came the reply. “Two were evacuated, and the others are here.”

“Take me to whatever functions as your headquarters. Bring the survivors to me one at a time. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!” Chen said importantly. “Right away, sir.”

Tong and his commandos were led from the helipad to the military compound below. What had previously been a Nepalese customs house and police station now served as PLA Forward Base 047. The homes around the facility had been bulldozed to create a free-fire zone. Observation towers were under construction, coils of razor wire guarded all four sides of the base, and a heavily guarded gate was the only point of entry.

“Improvements are being made,” Chen said. “Our defenses will be much stronger.”

“They attacked the base?” Tong inquired.

“No,” Chen replied. “The fighting took place in and around the village. They would attack, our soldiers would respond, and enter a trap.”

That made sense to Tong. And it spoke to the kind of soldiers who had been sent to Kulekhani. Not regulars, but special forces troops, who wouldn’t attack a fortified position unless forced to do so. “And they took a baby.”

“Yes,” Chen said, as they entered the building. “They took a man, his wife, and their baby.”

“Did the parents go willingly?”

“That’s unclear,” Chen answered. “Someone strangled the grandmother. So, it’s possible that the family tried to resist the kidnappers.”

Tong was reasonably sure that it was his peer, the MSS agent Wang mentioned, who’d been responsible for the old lady’s death. But it didn’t matter. His goal was to find the infant, kill it, and return to civilization.

After dropping his gear in what had been the facility’s waiting room, Tong was shown into an office, and invited to sit. He was drinking hot tea and eating a Khajuri cookie when a soldier was shown into the room. The private’s last name was Maa. He was short, stocky, and looked different somehow. Tong couldn’t figure out why at first. Then he realized that although Maa’s uniform was clean, it was also threadbare, and a marked contrast to the new camos Chen’s men wore.

Maa was nervous but forthcoming. “They were in the village, sir… We attacked them from the north. A helicopter was sent to insert more troops and pin them down. But the laowai [foreigners] fired RPGs at the helo causing it to crash.”

“How many laowai were there?” Tong inquired.

Maa shrugged. “That’s hard to say, sir. It was dark. But given what they managed to accomplish I estimate there was 40 to 50 men.”

The number sounded high. But, given how important the Dalai Lama was, perhaps not. “Okay, then what happened?”

Maa shrugged. “The men on the helicopter were killed. My squad came under intense fire. Our leader ordered us to pull back. We did so.”

The last was said without apology. And Tong could tell that Maa felt no guilt. And why, given the circumstances, should he? “Thank you,” Tong said. “You may go.”

The second soldier’s name was Phang and, as a radio operator, he’d been inside the headquarters building at the time. His words were telling. “There was a lot of confusion and the enemy soldiers were very aggressive. One of our drones captured pictures of them and their leader. He’s Chinese.”

Tong sat up straight. “Chinese? You’re sure?”

“No,” Phang admitted. “But that’s how he looked to me.”

Lieutenant Chen was seated behind a metal desk. Tong turned to him. “Video? You had video and you didn’t mention it?”

“I assumed you’d seen it,” the officer replied defensively. “We sent a copy to headquarters.”

Tong frowned. “I want to see it, and I want to see it now.”

It took the better part of 10 minutes to fetch the correct computer, find the file, and bring it up. Tong watched with interest as the drone wound its way through the streets of Kulekhani. The footage had a green hue but was quite good. “The drone operator had orders to find the enemy,” Chen explained. “He relied on radio reports to reach the correct location.”

Suddenly there they were, dark figures against a green landscape, which waned as a conventional spotlight came on. The beam of bright light speared down to pin one man in its unrelenting glare. And, when the subject looked up, Tong saw a Chinese face! Phang was correct. What did that mean? Was some sort of resistance cell at work within Chinese held Nepal? Or was Tong looking at a Chinese-American?

Rather than fire on the drone, the way Tong expected him to, the man waved his people forward. Why? Because he wanted to suck more Chinese troops into the meat grinder that’s why. And that opinion seemed to be validated a short time later when a man fired on the drone and the video disappeared. A black man… An American or British team then—rather than a domestic resistance group.

Tong watched the video again before turning to Chen. “You will copy the video and send it to the MSS with the following note: ‘Allied special operations team operating in Kulekhani Nepal. Run a global facial recognition search on the subjects and send a copy of the report to me. Signed, 869874.’”

Chen stared at him. Army captains didn’t have individual identification codes. “Yes, sir.”

Tong’s thoughts were on the man with the Chinese face. Facial recognition technology was something of a specialty where China was concerned. It had first been used to keep track the Islamic Uyghurs, an ethic minority that the government feared, and kept in reeducation camps.

Then the government’s use of facial recognition technology was extended to rest of the country and the world at large. So, if the man with the Chinese face had been photographed while graduating from high school, college, or a military training course--his face would be on file along with his name and whatever particulars were available. And the more Tong knew about the enemy the better.

The third survivor was a Napali interpreter employed by the PLA. His name was Adhikari, his face was wrinkled from years spent outdoors, and he’d been home in bed when the fighting began. But in some ways Adhikari was the most valuable witness of the three. That was because he knew the residents of Kulekhani and could access the local grapevine.

Adhikari’s Mandarin was iffy. But the account he gave was straightforward and delivered in a matter-of-fact way. “Two lamas came looking for the reincarnated Dalai Lama,” Adhikari said. “And they found him. He was born to Bibek and Ishya. Soldiers took the family west on the Tea Trail. You can catch them if you hurry.”

Tong smiled. The Americans had a saying: “You can run, but you can’t hide.”

Tong turned to Chen. “We’ll need the helicopter.”

West of Kulekhani, Nepal

The windswept shrine was located on a flat place adjacent to the Tea Trail. The wooden enclosure had been red once. But, after years of exposure to the weather, the paint was pink. A paunchy Buddha sat with legs folded and hands cupped in his lap. Offerings of desiccated fruit, wilted flowers and bird-pecked food lay scattered around him.

Why there? Lee wondered. The answer was lost in the sweep of time. “All right,” the green beret said, “on three.” Lee bent his knees to get a grip as Cato and two Sherpas did likewise. “One, two, three.”

The shrine was surprisingly light. Or, so it seemed to Lee, as they moved the structure to a spot at the base of a sheer cliff. “Gently now,” Lee said, as they put the wooden box down. “There… Mission accomplished.”

The next step was to clear the ledge for use as a helipad. A Black Hawk helicopter was eastbound from Trishul. And Lee expected to get the DL, his family, Jangchup, and Binsa out of Nepal in a matter of hours. The Dalai Lama would become someone else’s responsibility at that point, leaving Lee free to focus on the war.

Meanwhile east of the ledge Evers and Pun were stationed on a ridge over a manmade tunnel that was hundreds of years old. And, thanks to their elevated position, the men could hold the Chinese off indefinitely should they arrive.

So, Lee felt free to take a break. He was sitting on a rock eating an MRE when Kwan arrived. She pointed. “Is that rock taken?”

“It’s reserved for the Secretary of Defense. But you can use it until he arrives.”

Kwan smiled. And that, Lee realized, was something he looked forward to. “So, how’s the DL?”

“He’s sleeping instead of crying,” Kwan said, as she sat down. “And that seems like a miracle. But, according to Binsa, babies cry a lot. And she’s the expert.”

That was another thing. Slowly, bit by bit, Kwan was coming to trust the rest of the team. “Good,” Lee replied. “So how do you feel about remaining behind?”

“I’m glad,” Kwan said. “I would feel guilty if they pulled me out.”

Lee was about to reply when Cato arrived. There was a scowl on his face. “Bad news, Captain… The Black Hawk had a fighter escort. They got jumped by two Chengdu J-20s. And, while that was going on, a J-10 shot the Hawk down.”

Lee felt a deep sense of sorrow followed by the first stirrings of fear. Had the shoot-down been a random act? Or part of a plan intended to prevent the extraction? And, if so, how did the Chinese know?

It didn’t make any difference though. There was only one thing that the team could do, and that was to pack up, and head west. Lee stood. “Get ahold of Evers and Bakshi. Tell them we’re about to pull out--but to stay put for the moment. Order the wranglers to water the horses. We will depart in 15 minutes.”

West of Kulekhani, Nepal

The sun had broken through the clouds. And as the helicopter’s shadow skimmed through the valley below Tong was crouched between the pilots staring out through the windscreen. “There! Do you see the trail? It runs along the face of the cliff. Follow it west.”

The deck tilted as the pilot changed course. Speed. That was the thing… If Tong and his team were to intercept the laowai they needed to do so before the Allies could extract their team.

An outcropping of rock appeared minutes later. It wasn’t wide enough to land on, but there was another way to reach the ground. Tong pointed. “Hover over that… We’ll rope down.”

The pilot was a pro and put the Mi-17 exactly where it needed to be, in spite of the cliff face that was no more than five feet away from his rotors.

The commandos slid down ropes like beads on a string. Tong was less confident than his men were, and felt a tremendous sense of relief when his boots touched the ground. The trail was only steps away. Candy wrappers and other pieces of debris circled the soldiers like planets. “They were here,” Tong said over the radio. “And recently too. Scout ahead. Let me know when you see them. Over.”

The pilot said, “Yes, sir,” and the helo banked away. Tong waved his men forward. “Follow Private Doo.” The commando set a fast pace for such an altitude. One that none of the soldiers would be able to sustain for an extended period of time.

The trail curved north, then south again. Occasional piles of fresh horse manure signaled how close they were. A tunnel appeared up ahead. Daylight was visible beyond. Doo ran straight for it and vanished in a flash of light. The resulting boom echoed between the valley walls. Tong swore as tons of rock fell to block his path.

Lee heard the command detonated explosion and knew Evers was on the job. “Did you block the trail? Over.”

“Affirmative. Over.”

“We have a helo coming in from the east,” Bakshi added. “Over.”

Lee took a quick look around. There was no cover to speak of and the chopper could kill the entire party in seconds. “Is it high? Or low? Over.”

“Low,” Bakshi said. “Over.”

“Thank god,” Lee replied. “Take it out. Over.”

Evers and Bakshi were 200-feet above the trail, hidden in a small grove of evergreens. Had the Mi-17 been higher than they were there would have been nothing they could do. But, because the aircraft was lower than their perch, they could fire down on it. And, more importantly, on the helicopter’s whirling rotors.

Bakshi’s six-shot grenade launcher produced a thumping noise as a 40mm round sailed through the air. The explosion was so far out front of the helicopter, it did little, if any damage.

Bakshi made an adjustment and fired again. The second grenade was dead on. A blade flew off and the Mi-17 began to spin as the helicopter fell sideways into the canyon below.

There was a bright flash as the helo hit. A column of greasy black smoke wound its way up into the sky. “Not bad,” Evers said. “See if you can do it one-round next time.”

“Screw you,” Bakshi replied, and both men laughed.

Lee’s heart was pounding. The whole thing had been close. Too close. And it wasn’t over. The Chinese had suffered a defeat. But they wouldn’t give up. So, there was only one thing he and his team could do. And that was to run.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Nest, west of Kulekhani Nepal

Prior to the war “The Nest” had been a weather observatory built to serve the people of Nepal. But that was before a bandit named Baburam Jha and two of his men showed up at the locked entry seeking shelter from an especially nasty storm. The man who let them in was killed by a slash from a kukri three seconds later.

Next it was a simple matter for the men to move room-to-room slaughtering all the men except two, which Jha knew he would need, and locking three women in a storage room. Not from a sense of chivalry, but to be enjoyed later. Then the band’s women and children were brought up to what Jha called his “nest.”

By forcing his captives to file regular weather reports and perform maintenance on the station Jha was able to push off the inevitable moment when the government came to realize that the metrological station had been captured by bandits.

The immediate response was to send a helicopter load of Gurkhas up to take the facility back. But rather than keep the helipad clear, the way the scientists had, the snow had been allowed to pile up. So, there was no place to land. That plus heavy ground fire forced the government helicopter to turn back.

Plans were laid to send a company of men up to the summit on foot, and that effort might have been successful, had it not been for the Chinese invasion. After that took place all such plans went onto the back burner and remained there.

In the meantime, Jha’s extended family, his bandits, and various hangers-on remained in residence in the nearly inaccessible structure--which they used as a base for raids on towns in the valleys below, but never on the Chinese. Jha was smarter than that, and knew that the invaders could use warplanes to destroy the nest anytime they chose to. So due to Jha’s good sense, and willingness to perform occasional chores for them, the Chinese allowed the bandit to keep what he had.

During the months since the bandits moved in, the weather station’s once spotless interior had changed. Entire families occupied rooms intended for a single person. Offices had been converted into living apartments as had sections of hallways and storage rooms.

Clotheslines ran in every direction, all sagging under the weight of wet clothes. And the smell of seldom washed bodies, combined with the odor of incense used to conceal the stench, produced a fug so dense it was difficult to breathe.

Meanwhile the captives Jha referred to as “my pets,” fought an endless battle to maintain the high-altitude wind turbines which fed power to the nest, and without which it would soon become uninhabitable.

The generators were built to handle winds of 100 mph, but had trouble coping with speeds above that, and repairing them in subzero temperatures was a daunting task. Eventually Jha’s “pets” would run out of replacement parts or die of exposure.

But, for the moment, Jha was happy to hold court in what had once been the cafeteria where his throne was located. Toadies and sycophants listened with open mouthed fascination as Jha described the kingdom he envisioned. “Think of it,” Jha said. “A bandit kingdom! So large, and so powerful, that even the Chinese will have to kneel before it!”

There was a stir in the back of the room as a man wearing bulky clothing entered. Jha frowned. “Who is that?” he demanded.

“It’s cousin Imay,” a man called out. “With news of the Chinese.”

That was enough to claim Jha’s attention. “Come forward cousin, and fill the room with your knowledge.”

After shedding half-a-dozen layers of clothes Imay Suwal made his way up to the throne and knelt. He was short and sturdy. It was his job to travel the lowlands looking for poorly defended villages to rob. “Rise,” Jah said magnanimously, “and speak.”

Suwal cleared his throat. “I brought you this, Lord, which may be of interest.” So, saying Suwal offered a rolled document.

Jah was semiliterate and shook his head. “Read aloud so all may hear.”

Suwal opened the document and read. “Allied spies entered the Chinese protectorate of Nepal, where they abducted a family living in the village of Kulekhani, and killed more than two dozen police officers. The family consists of a man named Bibek Gharti, his wife Ishya, and an unnamed infant.

“In its role as peacekeeper, the Chinese government is determined to find the missing family, and restore them to their home in Kulekhani. Those having information regarding the whereabouts of the Gharti family should share their knowledge with any military officer they see.

“A reward of one-hundred Gold Panda coins will be paid to the individual, or individuals, supplying information leading to the recovery of the Gharti family. By order of General Bo Taam, commanding officer of all peacekeeping forces in the Nepalese Protectorate.”

There was a moment of relative silence as the people in the room waited to see how Jah would react to the news. “Hmm,” the bandit king said. “One-hundred Gold Pandas is a lot of money… And we could use this opportunity to strengthen our relationship with the Chinese. We will go forth and find the family.”

There were cheers, wooden mugs filled with a beer-like drink called Chhaang were passed around, and the party began. The celebration was premature but Jah allowed it to continue knowing it was important for his followers to let off some steam.

Meanwhile his brain was churning. Yes, the gold coins would be welcome, but perhaps an even greater reward was in the offing. If the Chinese were willing to pay one-hundred Pandas, what would the Allies pay, since they wanted the family so badly? Of course, it wouldn’t do to make the Chinese angry. So, any such negotiations would have to be carried out with great care.

Someone put a mug of Chhaang in Jah’s fist and he took a sip. Later, when his warriors were sober, the bandit would lead a war party into the freezing cold. And he was looking forward to it.

Bhimphedi, Nepal

The village of Bhimphedi was located west of Kulekhani on a flat spot, halfway down the steep slope that led to a V-shaped valley, and the river that rushed through it. The community consisted of terraced farms and scattered homes.

Two dirt roads intersected near the center of the village, and served to supply a couple of stores, and through them the local residents. Lee and his companions were positioned above Bhimphedi looking out over the mostly green valley while eating snacks and waiting for the Gurkhas to return.

Staff Sergeant Thapa and two of his men had gone down into Bhimphedi to check things out. And now, more than two hours later, Lee felt impatient. Thapa’s orders were to make sure that there weren’t any PLA soldiers lurking about, but more importantly, to assess the political situation. Were the locals Nepalese patriots? Or, were they ambivalent about the Chinese, and therefore likely to report the presence of foreigners if given a chance?

The answers arrived when an ancient truck rattled its way up the road and dropped the Gurkhas off directly below the spot where the group was waiting. Thapa appeared moments later. He sat cross legged. “Sorry, sah, but the headman insisted that we take tea with him and some of the elders. It would have been rude to say ‘no.’ Plus we were able to get a good picture of what’s going on around here.

“The Chinese send a patrol once a week,” Thapa continued. “Usually on Tuesdays. They poke around, search some houses, and steal some beers. Then they leave.

“As for the locals, they hate the invaders, and won’t do anything to help them. Or so they say. I tend to believe them, but that isn’t to say that the Chinese don’t have a paid informant in town, so it would be foolish to linger.”

“We won’t,” Lee promised. “One night. That’s all.”

Thanks to Thapa’s relationship with the headman, the group was allowed to spend the night in Bhimphedi’s one-room schoolhouse. After posting lookouts Lee ordered Cato to contact Major Gupta which he did following a short delay. Lee gave the S-2 a sitrep and went straight to the point. “There’s plenty of landing spots here… Please send a couple of helos to lift us out. Over.”

“I wish I could,” Gupta replied. “But the weather sucks. So, we can’t fly anything in that direction.”

Lee battled to maintain his composure. Other members of the group were watching him. And any hint of the despair he felt could bring morale down. “Roger that. We’ll head west in the morning. The terrain is likely to be rough. If you can’t pull us out drop some supplies. We’re running out of diapers. Over.”

It was the sort of humor green berets were known for. And Gupta laughed. But the problem was very real. The group was running out of food, ammo and diapers.

“I’ll take your request to the colonel,” Gupta promised. “More when I have it. Over.” And that was that.

The weather Gupta had mentioned swept in during the night. And, when Lee left the warmth of his bag at 0530, he could see his breath inside the schoolhouse.

Lee opened the front door of the school to see that the skies were dark, a light snow was falling, and Bhimphedi was covered with a blanket of white. Tracks led back and forth to a pair of outdoor privies and Lee followed them. If we can’t fly then the Chinese are grounded too, Lee thought. Maybe we can open our lead.

The village headman invited the visitors to enjoy a breakfast buffet which included potato soup, fried bread, and tea. It was good food, and made doubly so, by the fact that the group was running short on MREs. The free meal would help the fugitives stretch what they had.

Two-dozen villagers turned out to wave goodbye as Corporal Shekhawat led the group into the mist. Cato and Lee were next. They were followed by Binsa, the Gharti family, the horses, and a rear guard comprised of Thapa, Kwan, and more Gurkhas.

The dirt track wandered downhill, crossed an ancient steel bridge, and traversed a slide area which was clearly responsible for road closures during the rainy season. From there the path ran west. There were isolated homes along the way, each with a wisp of smoke issuing from its chimney, and only partially visible through the veil of snow.

And so it went for three hours with just the crunch, crunch, crunch of footsteps in the snow, the occasional nicker of a horse, and an intermittent burst of radio static to break the silence. Then the call came in. Not the one Lee had been hoping for… But good news nonetheless. “Cobra-Two-Two to Viper-Six. Over.”

Lee snatched the handset from Cato. “This is Six… Go. Over.”

“Find a place where an unmanned K-MAX can reach you, make sure that the drop zone is clear, and standby to receive a whole lot of diapers. Over.”

Lee felt his spirits soar. As the war grew more intense there had been an increasing need for an unmanned “truck” style helo that could fly under radars and deliver up to 6,000 pounds worth of supplies to frontline troops without landing. The sleek insect-like K-MAX was the result of the increased production effort and one of them was on the way. “Roger that,” Lee said. Thank you, and over.”

“Your pilot is Gator-Six-Five.” A frequency followed and Cato scribbled the series of digits onto a pad. “You have an hour and thirty-two minutes to find a zone and notify Gator-Six-Five. She’ll take it from there. Over.”

Lee’s thoughts were whirling. The imminent supply drop was good news. But there were dangers involved beyond the obvious problem of prepping for a clean “dump.” A security perimeter would be necessary, sorting and packing could take a couple of hours, and the group would have to spend the night out in the open. There was a lot to do.

Bhimphedi, Nepal

School teacher Bhavisana Yadav was hanging from a rafter in her school. She’d been stripped, whipped, and raped while the village elders were made to watch. Bandit King Baburam Jah was conducting the interrogation. “Don’t waste my time. I know there were men with guns. Tell me about the woman with the baby.”

“There were two women,” Yadav said haltingly. “A mother and a wet nurse.”

“And the baby?” Jah demanded.

“His holiness has been named Bhadrapala,” Yadav said, as tears ran down her cheeks. “The protector of goodness.”

Jah stared. “‘His holiness?’”

“Y-y-yes,” Yadav replied. “The Dalai Lama reincarnated into Bhadrapala Gharti’s body.”

Now Jah understood. The Chinese were hunting for the Gharti family because they knew who the baby was, or was purported to be, and the Allies did as well! That’s why they were trying to take the infant to India. And that’s why the little shit was worth a lot more than one-hundred Gold Pandas.

The headman was lying on the floor. He’d been beaten but his chest still rose and fell. Jah kicked him. “Which way did they go old man? Tell me or the bitch dies.”

“East,” the man croaked.

“You heard him,” Jah said. “They went west.”

West of Bhimphedi, Nepal

The drop zone consisted of a mostly flat spot, created to receive loose rocks from the slope above, in order to protect the road below. The patch of ground was too narrow for a conventional helicopter to land on. But the K-MAX didn’t need to land. All it had to do was hover above the DZ and drop the supplies.

To ensure that no one could come along and hijack the supplies defensive positions had been established, the smaller rocks were being removed, and flares were ready. All of which was fine. What wasn’t fine was the fact that the K-MAX was fifteen-minutes late.

The radio burped static and a woman spoke. “Gator-Six-Five to Viper-Six. Over.”

“This is Six,” Lee answered. “Over.”

“My ship is ten-out,” the pilot said. “I’m sorry about the delay, but I ran into a hellacious head wind, and the pod is swinging like a bitch. Over.”

Lee assumed that Gator-Six-Five was referring to the supplies dangling below her K-MAX. “Roger that,” Lee replied, as the faint sound of an aircraft engine was heard. “Look for the red flares. Over.”

Lee nodded to Cato who hurried out to light flares which, taken together, formed a triangle. “I have a visual,” Gator said, from her swivel chair at Trishul air base. “Clear the area. I’ll do my best to hit the target but you never know. Over.”

Lee waved Cato out of the drop zone and took a look around to make sure the rest of the group were clear. “Do your thing Gator. We’re ready. Over.”

There was no reply as the camo covered helicopter appeared out of the falling snow, swayed alarmingly as a burst of wind struck it, and steadied.

Lee tried to imagine what it was like to fly such a machine across the border, through countless valleys, and deep into enemy territory from an office in India. He couldn’t.

The “package” swayed slightly as Gator worked the K-MAX into position. Then with her eyes on the screen the pilot clicked a key. “Bombs away. Over.”

Lee held his breath as the pod fell in what seemed like slow motion. “It’s gonna miss!” Cato predicted, and the radio operator was correct. The package landed on the outer edge of the flat spot, teetered for a second, and slid down onto the road.

Gator said, “Shit. I’m sorry about that. But it’s on the road, so you’ll be able to retrieve it. Now, before I go for coffee, I need to drive this sucker into a cliff. Over.”

Lee frowned. “You’re going to do what? Over.”

“I guess no one told you, but my truck has a 300-mile range, which means there’s no way to bring it back,” Gator said cheerfully. “So, you get to watch 8-million-dollars go bye-bye. That’s a lot of scratch. Someone loves you. Gator-Six-Five over and out.”

Lee and Cato stood and watched as the K-MAX turned, flew across the valley, and crashed into a cliff. There was an orange-red explosion as pieces of helicopter rained down onto the rocky slope below. “Trouble is on the way,” Evers said, from his position east of them. “Wheeled vehicles from the east. Over.”

Jah was sitting in the truck’s passenger seat when he heard the sound of a distant explosion. What was going on? He ordered the driver to pull over. The rest of the convoy followed suit. Ice cold snowflakes kissed Jah’s face as he opened the door and dropped to the ground. A large something was sitting in the middle of the road ahead.

A boulder? No, boulders don’t arrive on pallets. And this pallet was strapped to the right side of the tightly wrapped bundle, as if the entire package had fallen from somewhere above, and landed on the highway.

The bandit’s train of thought was interrupted as a bullet shattered the gun truck’s windshield and killed the driver. The vehicle jerked to a halt.

Most of Jah’s men had dismounted by then. And, because lots of rocks and boulders lined the right side of the road, that’s where the bandits took cover.

Jah followed suit. His mind was racing. The foreigners were up on a flat spot. That meant they could fire down on his men. But not if his bandits could claim even higher ground. “Amir! Get over here.”

Amir Boksha was Jah’s half-brother, and second-in-command. He scuttled over to kneel at Jah’s side. He was armed with an AK-47. “Yes, Lord.”

“Take six men and ropes. Circle around and attack from above. But don’t let any harm come to the baby. If you do, I will personally shoot you in the face.”

Amir nodded soberly. “Yes, Lord.”

Amir vanished into the falling snow. With that taken care of Jah had time to think about the package that was waiting on the road. What was it? Supplies, Jah decided. Dropped from a helicopter. What else could it be?

Jah’s lips were chapped so he licked them. Supplies plus one-hundred Gold Pandas! Or, if he could manage it without bringing the Chinese down on his head, an even larger ransom paid by the Allies. “Fire!” Jah shouted. “Kill them!”

Sporadic gunfire lashed up from the road. Bullets whined, pinged, and buzzed overhead. They’re bandits or something similar, Lee decided. The PLA would arrive on military vehicles and drop mortar fire on us.

Lee paused to sling his carbine before scuttling east. Waller, Thapa, and his Gurkhas were firing single shots as shadowy figures moved below. “Roll some rocks downhill,” Lee suggested. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

The boulders were far too heavy for two men to move. But some of the rocks were small enough to set into motion. The improvised weapons were anything but predictable. Some took leaps into the air, and bounced over the road.

Not all of them missed however. And Lee heard a scream as a jagged chunk of granite hit a man and bowled him over.

That was good, but not good enough, and Lee knew it. The bandits outnumbered his team at least two to one. Bakshi had the grenade launcher. “Drop some 40 mike-mike along the edge of the road,” Lee ordered. “But leave the vehicles alone. If they want to jump in, and drive away, that’s fine with me.”

“I have seven rounds,” Bakshi replied. “That’s all.”

Lee grimaced. “Roger that… Use them wisely.”

Private Rambahadur Shrestha had just finished rolling a rock downslope when a 7.62×39mm round hit him in the chest and threw him backward. He landed hard. Thapa yelled, “Medic!” Evers elbow-crawled over to help. Bullets snapped and zinged around him.

The bandits were aiming at some of the larger chunks of granite in hopes of hitting the defenders with ricochets. A geyser of snow jumped up off the ground as Evers wormed his way into position next to Shrestha. The Gurkha’s eyes fluttered. “Am I going to die?”

“Fuck no,” Evers answered. “You have a sucking chest wound. You’ll feel better once I seal it up.”

A grenade exploded on the road as Kwan squirmed in to join them. The hole in Shrestha’s chest was about the size of a quarter and the air made a sucking sound each time the Gurkha took a breath. Evers had his aid kit open by then, and they worked together to seal the wound with a piece of plastic, and tape it down.

“Breathe out,” Kwan said. “Good. Let’s drag him further back to a place where he’s less likely to be hit again.”

And that’s what they were doing when Binsa shouted a warning. “They’re up above us!”

Kwan craned her neck, saw the men dangling from ropes, and realized that they would land in the jumble of boulders where the Gharti family was trying to hide. The doctor stood without thinking. A bullet whipped past her right ear as Evers ordered her to get down.

But the bandits were going to land next to the civilians, and if they did, the battle would be over.

Kwan pulled the nine and brought it up. Then, working her way from left to right, she fired. The first shot missed, but the second didn’t. A bandit jerked as the slug hit him between the shoulder blades. He fell.

Sam Waller fired and the next bandit hit ground. A knife rose and fell as Bibek Gharti stabbed the soldier just to make sure.

Evers was firing by that time and only one of the bandits made it to the ground. He shot Bibek and turned to point his rifle at Ishya. She was holding Bhadrapala in her arms and was backing away as Waller rushed in to protect the Dalai Lama. The bandit fired and the American fell. Kwan shot the bandit in the back. He turned and smiled.

The bastard was wearing armor! Kwan was looking into the barrel of the killer’s weapon when Binsa attacked him with a rock. The man’s eyes went blank as the chunk of granite struck his skull. He was falling when Kwan shot him in the neck. “Nice work,” Evers said admiringly. “You’re okay for an officer.”

Three of Jah’s men had been killed by rocks, and five by grenades. And the attack from above had failed. The tide of battle had turned. It was time to leave. Jah heard a boot crunch on the snow, and turned just in time to see the kukri, and feel it slice through his throat. Not me, Jah thought. Never me. Then he was gone. His blood stained the snow.

Thapa bent to wipe the blade on the bandit’s parka. Lee’s voice sounded in the noncom’s ears. “Check to make sure all of the bandits are down. Bring the vehicles up to the supplies. This unit is going to ride. Over.” Thapa smiled.

CHAPTER TWELVE

PLA Special Forces Compound 12, Nepal

Five days had passed since the gun battle west of Kulekhani, and the loss of the Mi-17 helicopter. And, because Major Wang and his unit had departed, Tong and his men were left to proceed on their own. They did so by hitching rides and walking cross-country. And, when they arrived on a ridge overlooking Sim Bhanjyang Pass, Tong could see why the commando was stationed there.

As snow continued to fall, a bumper-to-bumper convoy of PLA vehicles ground its way through the narrow passageway. Sheer cliffs served to amplify the roar of their engines, and blue smoke fogged the air, as the Big Push continued. Tong turned to Shi. “We’ll sleep inside tonight, Sergeant… Let’s go.”

They followed a seldom used footpath which snaked its way down through stunted evergreens, hardy shrubs, and lichen covered rock to the slushy highway below. The soldiers were dwarfed as a gigantic tank transporter rolled past. It was carrying a Type 99 main battle tank that, during the days ahead, might face-off with an M1 Abrams somewhere to the west.

There were other vehicles too--including armored personnel carriers, self-propelled anti-aircraft guns, and an endless succession of trucks. All the traffic was headed west. Did that mean nothing could travel east?

Tong discovered that the answer was no when he arrived at a checkpoint, and saw a long line of eastbound vehicles that were parked on the verge, waiting their turn to use the highway. Hundreds of men were out of their vehicles and milling around. Some were eating snacks sold by Nepali vendors. Others were vaping, talking, or relieving themselves next to the highway.

A lieutenant was on duty, and Tong told his men to wait, as he went over to speak with the man. “Excuse me… I’m looking for the Thunder God Commando.”

The lieutenant came to attention and rendered a salute. “Over there, sir. Through the gate.”

Tong returned the salute and took note of the fact that the ritual no longer felt strange. Would he return to Beijing? Or forever be trapped in the army? He said, “Thanks,” turned, and waved his squad forward.

The sentries were under strict orders to check IDs, which to their minds meant every ID. Not just Tong’s. And the fact that Eng had lost his somewhere along the way meant it was necessary to call the sergeant-of-the guard, who summoned an officer, who gave the necessary approvals.

The commando’s headquarters were situated in a low-slung building that had formerly been home to the Highway Maintenance Engineer with responsibility for that sector. Tong paused outside. “Sergeant Shi… Tell the men to take a break, but to remain here. Poke around. See if you can find a billet. I will rejoin you as soon as possible.”

Shi nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Tong tried to find a reason for hope as he turned toward the entrance of the building. Maybe Major Wang had been transferred to Bangladesh. Maybe Major Wang was in a good mood. And maybe the Wangtze river would flow uphill.

After identifying himself to a corporal who already knew who he was, Tong was told to take a seat, and advised that, “The Major will see you shortly.”

Tong felt a vague emptiness in the pit of his stomach as he waited for the summons. Finally, after a 15-minute wait, a private appeared. “Is Captain Tong present?”

Tong was the only person in the waiting area. He sighed. “I’m Captain Tong.” The corporal grinned.

Tong followed the private down a short hallway to a door to which a piece of brown cardboard was affixed. Major Wang’s name and rank were written on it. The private knocked and a familiar voice said, “Enter!”

The private opened the door and withdrew. Tong took three steps forward, came to attention, and saluted. “Captain Tong, reporting for duty sir.”

Wang was seated behind a desk. He was silent for a moment, and that forced Tong to hold the salute. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Wang returned the courtesy with a wave of his swagger stick. Tong dropped his arm.

“So,” Wang said. “Here you are.”

There had been no invitation to sit, so Tong continued to stand. “Sir, yes sir.”

“Tell me about the unmitigated disaster west of Kulekhani.”

Wang already knew what had occurred. That much was obvious. So, the recital was to be a form of punishment. But since the helicopter crew was dead, and the other witnesses reported to Tong, the agent was free to shade the truth--which he did.

Wang waited until the report was over. “There’s drone footage you know… And some of what you told me is so slanted it comes damned close to being a lie.

“The truth is that you bungled the battle on the ground. And your decisions resulted in the loss of three aviators, plus one of my men, and the needless destruction of an aircraft worth 113-million-Yuan. If you were a real captain, I would break you to lieutenant, and put you in the first wave of troops to attack the Allies.”

Wang tapped the top of his desk with the swagger stick. “But you aren’t a real captain. And, to be fair, you did a good job where Colonel Hu was concerned. So, I’m going to give you an opportunity to redeem yourself. Our intelligence people have reason to believe that the fake Dalai Lama remains in Nepal. So,” Wang continued, “You will function as the hammer, with the Thunder God Commando as the anvil. I will move elements of my command west, where they will establish checkpoints on the major trails, and inspect each baby for the lotus birthmark which the Allied lamas make so much of.

“Meanwhile, you and your team will harry the fugitives like hunting dogs, pushing, pushing, and pushing some more. You understand?”

Tong understood all right. Wang’s so-called “special forces” troops would wait for his team to deliver the Dalai Lama into their arms. Meanwhile he and his men would be required to climb every mountain in Nepal. And then, when victory came, the credit would accrue to the Thunder God Commando.

Unless Tong found the fugitives first, killed the baby, and sent its left foot to Madam Zang in Beijing. Then she would take credit for the kill, and order him back to Beijing. “Yes, sir,” Tong replied. “I understand. May I ask a question?”

“Yes.”

The intelligence you spoke of… Was it human intelligence?”

“You have no need to know that,” Wang replied.

“Yes, sir. Sorry sir.”

“We will use the call signs ‘“Hammer’ and ‘Anvil.’” Wang said. “Dismissed.”

Tong performed a good imitation of an about face, and marched out of the room. There was no way to know for sure but, based on the nature of Wang’s response, Tong thought he knew where the Intel was coming from: A spy.

Near Nalu, Nepal

Several days had passed since the fight at Bhimphedi. Thanks to their newly acquired vehicles, the fugitives had been able to travel to the vicinity of Nalu, which put them closer to the border with India--and the possibility of a helicopter extraction.

Most of the trip had taken place during the hours of darkness, when the PLA was less active, but that made the already difficult task of driving even worse. The twisting-turning roads were narrow, covered with slushy snow, and frequently bordered by drop-offs.

On the second night the vehicles were making their way down a steep grade when lights appeared up ahead. Lee ordered the convoy to stop long enough for Ishya, Binsa, Yu, Kwan, and the green berets to exit the vehicles. Lee led them forward on foot as the vehicles continued downhill. Two PLA utility vehicles were parked at the center of a crossroads. Soldiers ordered the vehicles to stop.

Jangchup went forward to talk. A sergeant was in charge. “Who are you?” he demanded. “And where are you going?”

Jangchup offered his fake ID and a story about taking much needed supplies to a mountain village devastated by a landslide. Meanwhile PLA troops were searching the trucks which, consistent with Jangchup’s story, were loaded with boxes. Gurkhas stood ready to kill the Chinese soldiers should they attempt to open one of the containers.

“We’re on the lookout for a family of three, including a baby,” the soldier told Jangchup. “A special baby with a mark on his left foot.”

“We don’t have any women or babies with us,” Jangchup replied in Mandarin.

“Good,” the sergeant replied. “I’m tired of looking at babies.”

Once the vehicles had been searched the sergeant waved his men into their 4 X 4s and the patrol pulled out. That allowed the women and the green berets to leave the shadows.

It was a close call. Had the PLA checkpoint been located around a blind curve, of which there were many, they would have been forced to fight.

Lee had learned something. The Chinese were using checkpoints to search for the Dalai Lama. And, if they continued to travel in the vehicles, it would be only a matter of time before they encountered another roadblock. Besides, two of the three trucks were low on fuel. And it would be difficult to obtain gas without rationing cards.

So, when Lee spotted a sign for the Mountain View Lodge, he ordered the drivers to turn off. The chances that the guest house was open seemed slim given the war. And, if a caretaker or two were present, then so be it. There was bound to be a room where the team could house prisoners.

But as the beams from the lead vehicle’s headlights swung back and forth across the steep driveway, and the trucks mostly bald tires fought for traction, Lee noticed the absence of tracks. So, if the lodge was occupied, the owners didn’t venture out very often. An impression that was reinforced when they arrived in an empty car park.

The lodge was a sprawling affair and only one story high. There were no lights—and no boot marks in the snow. Thapa was behind the wheel. “I see a garage, sah.”

Lee saw it too. The structure was little more than a peaked roof perched on poles. But that was sufficient to protect a snowplow and snowmobile. The rest of the slots were empty. “Excellent,” Lee replied. “The roof will hide the trucks from above.”

The other vehicles were ordered to pull in as well. “Send some men to break and enter,” Lee ordered. “And tell them to take prisoners if the place is occupied.”

“Sah!”

Lee went person-to-person while the lodge was being cleared. He told all of them the same thing. “Follow the Gurkha tracks back and forth between the garage and the lodge. Crisscrossing tracks might attract attention from above.”

It wasn’t long before the report came in. The lodge was empty. “Cover the windows,” Lee instructed over the radio. “Then you can start a fire and light some lanterns.”

Lee turned to Thapa. “Let’s move the supplies inside. That will make it easier to divide everything up.”

The horse wranglers had been paid off back at Bhimphedi. So, the food and ammo would be carried on their backs from that day forward.

More than an hour was required to hump all the supplies into the lodge. A crackling fire was burning by then. And the glow from half-a-dozen kerosene lanterns threw shadows onto the walls.

Once the supplies had been dealt with Thapa posted sentries, one of whom was stationed near the road. Lee had the 0200 to 0400 slot along with Sergeant Kunar, and rose to find that a mug of instant coffee was waiting for him, along with a crying baby.

Kwan was up, along with Binsa, but Ishya was asleep. “She needs it,” Kwan said. “She misses Bibek, and feels guilty about leaving his body behind.”

Lee felt guilty too. Not because they’d been forced to leave Bibek’s body behind, but because he hadn’t given any thought to the man who, armed with nothing more than a knife, attacked and killed a man with a gun.

Lee sipped his coffee. “I’m sorry. Bibek was the real deal. And,” Lee added, “so are the two of you. Everything’s been so crazy I failed to thank you. Ishya would be dead, and who knows what would have happened to the baby, were it not for your actions.”

“The doctor likes you,” Binsa said slyly. “And she thinks you are very brave.”

Lee saw Kwan frown and blush at the same time. “I think everyone shares my opinion,” Binsa added shamelessly.

Kunar arrived on the scene at that moment, thereby saving Lee from further embarrassment. Binsa, who clearly saw herself as a matchmaker, had an unapologetic smile on her face. “All right,” Lee said, as he downed the last of his coffee. “Let’s do this thing.”

It was cold outside and time passed slowly. Lee had assigned the highway watch to himself, and not a single vehicle passed during his stint, a fact which boosted his morale.

The snow would stop eventually and a helicopter would be sent to pick them up. Could a Blackhawk land between the lodge and the carport? Lee would find out.

Then his thoughts turned to Kwan. If Binsa was correct Kwan had feelings for him. And how, he wondered, do I feel about her?

The answer surprised him, although it shouldn’t have, considering all the telltale signs. You watch her, Lee confessed, and you listen for her laugh. And, be honest, You like Wendy’s body. What you’ve seen of it anyway. And, if something happened to her, you would miss her the way Ishya misses Bibek.

That was a revelation. Yes, there had been girlfriends, but none with that kind of a hold on him. The relationship was, Lee decided, something worth paying attention to.

After sentry duty Lee logged four hours of additional sleep, and woke to find that the weather had improved. The snow had stopped and patches of blue were visible between the clouds. But, when Cato put in the daily call to Trishul airbase, he got the same answer as before. “Visibility is low and more snow is on the way.”

So, except for the security details, Lee gave everyone the rest of the day off, which they celebrated by taking lukewarm showers. And when evening came everyone who wasn’t on duty gathered in the dining room to eat their MREs.

The ceilings were high by Nepalese standards, and the roof was supported by rough-hewn beams. The Dalai Lama was feeling better by then, his mother managed a smile or two, and the Gurkhas were playing a card game called Jhyap when the call came in.

“We have visitors, sir,” Pun said. “A British officer named Smith-Peet, and a Nepalese national named Darwa Sherpa. That’s what they tell me, but their ID cards have other names on them. Should I send them up?”

Lee was surprised to say the least. “I’ll send two men down. Stay where you are, and keep your eyes peeled. It seems unlikely, but what if they’re meant to distract us? Over.”

“Yes, sir. Over.”

It took ten minutes for Mahto and Rai to get ready, and the better part of half an hour for them to make the trip down and back. The party’s arrival was accompanied by the stomping of boots and the squeal of an unoiled hinge as the door opened.

The first man to enter was wearing a parka and knee-high boots. And, when he threw the hood back, Lee saw a face with at least two-days of stubble on it. The man was handsome though… In an Anglo-Saxon leading man sort of way. He had piercing blue eyes, a firm mouth, and a square chin. “Well,” he said, “I see the place hasn’t changed a bit since the last time I was here.”

“You were here?” Lee inquired incredulously.

“Yes,” the man replied. “Darwa and I climbed Everest two years ago, didn’t we Darwa? And we stayed here prior to the ascent.”

Darwa’s face was tanned except for the lighter colored circles where his goggles had been. “That’s true,” the Sherpa agreed. “I was in Room 4.”

“How did you get here?” Lee inquired.

“We walked,” the Brit replied matter of factly. “And quite a hike it was. Forgive me old stick, I’m LT. Colonel Fred Smith-Peet, of the 3 Commando--Royal Marines. And you are Captain Jon Lee. You’re a Green Beret, you have an MFA, and you speak fluent Mandarin. Just the chap for this sort of job.”

Then, turning to Kwan, Smith-Peet smiled. “And this is Doctor Wendy Kwan, who if I may say so, is somewhat over qualified for this mission. Still, should I take a bullet, I will feel ever so much better knowing that a highly qualified ER doctor is sawing my leg off.”

Smith-Peet shook hands with Kwan. “Now,” Smith-Peet said. “Are there any rooms left in the inn? I can’t speak for Darwa here, but I would enjoy a nap.”

“I believe room 12 is available,” Thapa put in.

“Excellent,” Smith-Peet said. “Oh, and one more thing, I will be in command from this point on. You can confirm that by radio if you wish. There’s no need to show the way… I know where Room 12 is.” And with that he left.

It was dark in Room 3. And her bed was warm. But Ishya found it hard to sleep without Bibek lying next to her. And she was frightened. Would she and Bhadrapala survive the trip to India? And then what? Ishya feared that the lamas would all but take Bhadrapala from her, to be raised their way, leaving her to watch from afar.

The thought caused Ishya to swing her feet over onto the floor, slip her arms into a complimentary robe, and slip out into the hall. Bhadrapala was in Room 7 where Niu Yu was on duty. The bodyguard was a source of comfort as was the baby. Every time Ishya looked into Bhadrapala’s face she saw Bibek there.

The door to Room 7 was slightly ajar allowing light to spill out into the hall. And when Ishya pushed it open she saw that Niu Yu was lying face down on the floor. A pool of blood surrounded her head and Ishya could see that the bodyguard had been struck from behind. The only way an assailant was likely to overcome her.

An empty bed stood beyond. Bhadrapala had been there, surrounded by an enclosure consisting of blankets, and sound asleep the last time Ishya had seen him. And now he was gone!

Lee awoke to the sound of someone shouting. “Help! Help! My baby is gone!”

Ishya? Who else could it be? Lee rolled off the bed and rushed into the hall. Ishya saw him. “Niu is dead! The baby’s gone!”

Lee was incredulous at first. Niu? The baby? Impossible.

But as Lee hurried into Room 7, he saw Yu lying in the floor with blood pooled around her head. A quick check confirmed that the bodyguard was dead. And the baby’s bed was empty.

Thapa arrived. “Someone took the baby,” Lee said. “I’ll check on the colonel while you check Sherpa.”

There was no need to explain. Were someone else responsible, Jangchup for example, they would have acted much earlier.

Lee barged into Smith-Peet’s room, confirmed that he was there, and ignored the officer’s questions as he entered the hall. Thapa was there. “Darwa Sherpa is gone.”

“Shit, shit, shit. He’s a Chinese agent,” Lee said. “I’ll go after him. The Chinese know we’re here--and will attack soon. Take command. Get everyone up and out the door. Grab my bug-out bag if you can. We’ll stay in touch by radio. Go.”

Lee returned to his room, hurried to get the rest of his clothes on, and made a quick stop at the ready room where shared weapons were stored. A L115A3 suppressed sniper’s rifle was resting next to the grenade launcher. Lee took the weapon plus an extra magazine which he stuffed into a pocket. His choice of a weapon was based on a simple reality. Should he get to take a shot at Darwa it would have to be carefully aimed. Anything else and he might hit the Dalai Lama.

It was snowing outside but Darwa’s footprints remained visible. They wouldn’t be for long however, and Darwa had a significant head start. The Sherpa hadn’t killed the baby though… Not so far as Lee could tell. So there was reason to hope. Lee’s headlamp probed the darkness. The rifle felt heavy, his boots sank into the snow, and it was difficult to breathe. The chase was on.

PLA Special Forces Compound 12, Nepal

A storeroom had been subdivided into narrow cot-wide slots, each separated by a PLA issue blanket hung from a wire. Tong, who’d been increasingly horny of late, was clicking through a Russian porno site when the door slammed open. “Captain Tong!” Shin said. “We have a mission… The major wants us on a helicopter in 15 minutes.”

One officer was on duty--but the others had been asleep. They threatened the noncom with a gruesome death as Tong turned the i-Pad off and put his feet on the floor. The Dalai Lama… Maybe this was it… An opportunity to not only redeem himself, but to escape Nepal, and return to Beijing where the girls were waiting for him.

Tong hurried to get dressed, gun up, and head for the helicopter pad. Shin was already there, as was the rest of the team, all amped up. “It’s a hot lead!” Shin shouted over the noise of the engine. Tong gave him a thumb’s up and followed the squad into the helicopter. “Twenty- minutes,” Shin said, as they strapped in. “That’s how long the flight will take.”

Near the Mountain View Lodge, Nepal

Lee’s lungs were on fire as he high-stepped through the snow. The trail was barely visible. And the green beret knew he was fighting a losing battle. Like Thapa’s Gurkhas, Sherpas were known for their fitness, and ability to function at high altitudes. So, there was zero chance that he was going to catch up with the Chinese agent.

But the sky was lighter in the east and the snow had begun to taper off. So maybe, just maybe, Lee would be able to spot the Sherpa when the sun rose.

If so, there was a chance that a .338 Lapua bullet could accomplish what he couldn’t. And that was to catch up with the sonofabitch and drop him in his tracks. That scenario was Lee’s only hope as he followed the zigzagging trail up past hardy shrubs, across a section of snow-covered scree, and into a grove of trees.

Does Darwa know someone is on his tail? Lee wondered. He will if he pauses to look… But, since he’s carrying a baby, and in a hurry to leave the lodge behind, maybe not.

Will he kill the Dalai Lama when he gets tired? Come to think of it, why didn’t he murder the boy to begin with? Because he’s Buddhist that’s why. Maybe someone else will kill the baby, but it won’t be him. That’s my guess. Can’t breathe… Can’t think… Can’t quit.

The Mountain View Lodge, Nepal

“Three from the LZ,” the pilot said over the intercom. “It’s going to be tight. No signs of life so far.”

Because they ran, Tong thought. We’ll find them. But we’ve got to check the lodge.

Tong left the helicopter first, because it was expected of him, and did so without any fear. The helo would be taking fire if the enemy was present. Tracks led every which-way. The front door was open. “Check for IEDs” Tong said, as he remembered Doo.

There was a short pause followed by the sound of Chau’s voice. “Clear.”

Tong passed through the entry and entered the main room. A fire crackled in the fireplace. Lanterns glowed. Bits and pieces of clothing were strewn about. All of which pointed to a hurried departure. A quick tour of the building reinforced that impression. As did the sizeable amount of food and ammo that had been left behind. They were resupplied at some point, Tong concluded. And couldn’t carry all of it.

“Follow their tracks!” Tong ordered. “They haven’t gone far.”

The Thunder God Commandos slipped out of the lodge like so many hounds. The darkness took them in.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Near the Mountain View Lodge, Nepal

Lee was lying prone, hidden within a cluster of snow laden trees. He brought the rifle up to his right shoulder, and put his eye to the scope. The sun was a sickly yellow presence in the east as Lee found his target. Though born with some high-altitude advantages, Darwa was human, and Lee could tell that the Sherpa had started to tire. His strides were shorter now, and he was bent over, as if to protect the baby he held in his arms.

Even so Lee knew he couldn’t catch up. And that left him with a simple choice. He could give up, and allow the Chinese agent to escape, or try to shoot him from what? Something like three football fields away.

No big deal for a graduate of the army’s sniper school in Arkansas. But Lee had never been to that school. So, a headshot from that distance was a big deal for him. And it had to be a headshot or he would risk killing the Dalai Lama.

And the shot had to be made soon as well… Because each step Darwa took made the range longer. Plus, the Sherpa was about to disappear around the shoulder of a snowclad slope. Shit, shit, shit, Lee thought, as he brought the stock in tight. I can’t lead him; he’s moving away from me. Wind from the west… Aim a little over.

The trigger broke under the pressure from Lee’s finger, the stock bumped his shoulder, and the bullet sped away. I missed, Lee thought, as the slug struck the back of Darwa’s skull. The impact produced a momentary blood mist and threw him forward. The Sherpa fell with the baby under his torso.

Damn it, Lee thought, as he struggled to his feet. What if the Dalai Lama was injured? What if he can’t breathe?”

Lee’s knees rose and fell like pistons as he bulled his way through the snow. He was fighting to get enough oxygen, and as the distance began to close, it felt like a pound of liquid lead was pooled in his stomach. Then Lee heard a muffled wail and knew Bhadrapala was still alive. But had he been injured?

Now that Lee was closer, he could see the blood splatter on the snow, and hear the rasp of his breathing as he hurried to roll Darwa over. The weight of the Sherpa’s body had pushed Bhadrapala down into the snow. But, thanks to the cushioning effect, the Dalai Lama appeared to be okay. Kwan would examine the child, but Lee had to reach her first.

He held Bhadrapala cradled in his arms and tried to quiet him. It didn’t work. Lee swore, put the heavily swaddled baby down, and forced himself to search the body.

Lee didn’t expect to find anything more than some pocket litter. But, while probing the right-side pocket on the Sherpa’s parka, his fingers felt something cold and smooth.

Lee pulled the object out to discover that he was holding a plastic vial. And there, floating in a clear liquid, was a finger. Not just any finger but a little girl’s finger, judging from the size of the digit, and the lavender fingernail polish.

Lee felt his stomach flip-flop. What kind of monster lay next to him? A psychopath? He put the grisly trophy in a pocket, gathered Bhadrapala into his arms, and began to walk.

Tong was on the radio, as Sergeant Shi led the squad away from the lodge, and uphill. “Hammer-One to Anvil-One, over.”

“This is Anvil-One actual,” Wang replied. “Give me a sitrep.”

Tong explained the situation. “I hope to engage the enemy,” he concluded. “And kill the target. Over.”

“Break it off,” Wang replied. “One of our agents has the target in custody. So, there’s no need to follow the Gweilos into what could be a trap. Two Q-5s are inbound to your location. They will tidy up. Over.”

Tong was off the hook. He felt a sense of relief. It would be stupid to share that however. “Understood. Over and out.”

Tong changed channels. “Hammer-One to Hammer-Two. Break it off and return to the helicopter. Over.”

Staff-Sergeant Thapa was far from happy. He didn’t trust LT. Colonel Smith-Peet, not in the wake of Darwa Sherpa’s betrayal, yet he had to obey the officer’s orders. And that meant following Smith-Peet upslope.

“I know the area,” Smith-Peet claimed. “We can take shelter in an ice cave located at about 8,600 feet. If the Chinese follow, which I hope they will, we’ll be waiting for them. Let’s get cracking.”

So, with Smith-Peet breaking trail, the column wound its way up through outcroppings of snow-crusted rock and low-lying shrubs. The green berets were immediately behind him followed by Binsa and Ishya who were walking side-by-side.

Ishya couldn’t stop sobbing. And no wonder. Her husband had been killed--and her newborn had been kidnapped. “Kill me,” she pleaded. “Kill me so I can find peace.”

“Captain Lee went after Darwa,” Binsa reminded her. “There’s reason to hope.”

That was when the call came in. “Viper-Six to Viper-Five. Over.”

“This is five,” Thapa said. “Go. Over.”

“I have him,” Lee said. “And he’s crying. Tell his mother. Over.”

The news caused Ishya to cry even more, but out of relief this time, as Kwan moved forward to help.

Colonel Smith-Peet got on the radio at that point, and gave Lee directions to the ice cave. “Meet us there,” he said. “And well done. Over.”

Most of Lee’s attention was focused on the baby, and the task of crossing the snow field in front of him. So, he wasn’t aware of the ground-attack fighter plane until it opened fire. He saw a flash up ahead, and heard a boom, followed by the roar of a jet engine. Then the plane was gone.

But not forever. Lee knew the pilot would circle around, line up, and attack again. There was no place to hide. All he could do was keep going and hope for the best. He was a very small target after all… And the plane would be traveling at hundreds of miles an hour as it made its run.

Lee heard the Q-5 coming this time but didn’t turn to look. The key was to keep his eyes on the tree line ahead and maintain a steady pace. Having failed to hit the target with a 90mm unguided rocket--the pilot went to the fighter’s Norinco Type 23-2K guns.

Geysers of snow shot up into the air to the right and left as 23mm shells blew divots out of the snow. “Fuck you!” Lee shouted, as he neared the trees, and the Q-5 banked away.

“I can see you,” Smith-Peet said over the radio. “Go through the trees, turn left, and head uphill. Over.”

Lee’s lungs were on fire, his legs felt like lead, and the Dalai Lama was screaming as the trees closed around him. He would be less visible but only for a moment before he entered the open area beyond.

Lee had barely cleared the evergreens when what he judged to be a second fighter roared overhead. There was a loud explosion as a bomb went off and Lee felt warm air wash around him. “Turn uphill!” Smith-Peet ordered. “Help is on the way.”

Lee willed himself up the hill. Then he fell, struggled to stand, and fell again.

Suddenly Corporal Rama Shekhawat was there along with Private Rai. After securing grips on Lee’s webbing the Gurkhas dragged him upwards. Shells exploded all around as a plane flashed overhead, but none of the soldiers were hurt.

LT. Colonel Smith-Peet was stationed at the entrance to the cave as the party arrived and urged them inside. Ishya was there and uttered a cry of joy as Bhadrapala was returned to her arms.

Lee sat on a pack, and was gasping for air, when the missile struck. The explosion was muffled. “They’re trying to trigger an avalanche,” Smith-Peet said, as he tilted his head back. The ceiling was too high for his headlamp to reach, but bits and pieces of ice fell, and landed all around.

An ominous rumble was heard. “That’s it,” Smith-Peet said. “The snow is coming down.”

And come it did. Light was flowing in through the entrance one moment and gone the next as tons of snow sealed the cave off from the world beyond.

“We’re safe,” Smith-Peet said. “And we’re trapped. Both at the same time.”

The baby continued to wail as a dozen headlamps came on. “What about Darwa?” Smith-Peet wanted to know. “Did you kill him?”

“Yes,” Lee replied, as he managed to stand. “And, when I searched his body, I found this.”

The light from Smith-Peet’s headlamp lit the vial and the finger floating within. He looked stricken. “In his pocket you say.”

“Yes,” Lee replied. “And judging from the size of the finger, and the nail polish, it belonged to a little girl.”

Smith-Peet looked ashen. His voice was hoarse. “That makes sense unfortunately. There’s no way to be sure—but I suspect that’s his daughter’s finger.

“The Chinese have her… That’s why Darwa came. He wanted to find and free her. I knew that much… But no more. It looks like the Chinese were in contact with Darwa--and forced him to kidnap Bhadrapala.”

Smith-Peet’s headlamp panned across the faces around him. “Please accept my apologies for allowing Darwa to come. Looking back, I realize I used poor judgement. I will notify Major Raj. Who was Darwa communicating with? They’ll want to know.”

No one spoke. Smith-Peet smiled wryly. “Yes, I would be angry as well. I assure you—it won’t happen again.”

Then, turning to Ishya, Smith-Peet opened his arms. “Now,” he said. “Please allow me to hold my old friend.”

Lee frowned. “You knew the Dalai Lama?”

“I know the Dalai Lama,” Smith-Peet replied.

Though clearly reluctant Ishya surrendered the infant. Smith-Peet took Bhadrapala into his arms. “It’s me your holiness,” he said. “Fredrick Smith-Peet. I’ll be staying with you for a while.” The Dalai Lama stopped crying, looked up into Smith-Peet’s face, and smiled.

PLA Special Forces Compound 12, Nepal

Major Wang was standing a few feet away from the helipad as the helicopter landed. The downdraft from the helo’s rotors caused snowflakes to whirl around him, yet his hair remained unaffected, as if immune to the elements. Tong went over to salute.

“Welcome back,” Wang said. “I’m happy to inform you that, thanks to the brave pilots of the People’s Liberation Army Air Force, the fake Dalai Lama and the people who wanted to use him, are buried under a hundred tons of snow.

“Follow me… A helo loaded with hot meals came in from Kathmandu half an hour ago. Two of them are waiting in my office.”

Tong knew that such flights came in once a week and suddenly realized how hungry he was. “What about my men?”

Wang smiled. “You’ve come a long way. From loner to leader. It does my heart good. Yes, your men will receive hot meals too. Come.”

It felt stuffy in Wang’s office after being outside. But the meal waiting on Wang’s desk made up for that. Wang removed tinfoil covers to reveal a feast that included Mutton stew, rice and cold vegetables. The men ate in near perfect silence, interrupted only by the need to ask for a condiment, or to comment on the food--which was surprisingly good.

Then Wang opened a drawer, removed a bottle, and placed it on the desk. Two glasses followed. “I think we owe ourselves a glass of Huangiiu [yellow wine]” Wang said. “Please help yourself.”

Tong poured wine into both glasses. Wang raised his. “As Sun Tzu would say, ‘Confusion to the enemy.’” Each man took a sip.

“Rice rather than wheat,” Tong said. “And it’s delightfully dry.”

“I agree,” Wang replied. “Men of perception are rare. I will be sorry to lose you.”

Tong sat up straight. “I’m going back to MSS?”

“Yes,” Wang replied. “As soon as I get a captain to replace you.”

“And how long, if I may ask, will that take?”

Wang smiled. “Captains are in short supply. The Allies continue to kill them. So, it could take a month. But never fear… I will keep you busy in the meantime.”

Tong felt his spirits plummet. A month was an eternity in Nepal. “Sir, yes sir.”

“That’s the spirit,” Wang said. “You performed well today. Get some sleep.”

Tong stood, and was about to salute, when Wang offered a manila folder. “This arrived on the same helo as the food. I think we can assume the American is dead. But you may find the information interesting nevertheless.”

Tong took the folder, delivered a salute, and left. The room where he slept was empty, since all of his brother officers were on duty, which meant he had a moment alone.

Following a lukewarm shower Tong changed into some clean underwear and flopped onto his bunk. The Manila envelope had been opened by Wang. So, all Tong had to do was dump the contents into his lap.

The word “Fenlei” (Classified) was stamped on the first page. A photo of a Chinese male wearing American combat gear topped the first page. He was bathed in white light and staring up into the camera lens. The still frame had been lifted from the drone footage Tong had seen in Kulekhani. The caption read, “U.S. Army Captain Jon Lee.”

The second photo showed Lee wearing a green beret and a dress uniform. A special operator then… And one who, according to the following summary, had a BA and MFA from UCLA.

Lee had been an athlete prior to being called up for active duty. But rather than play football, or basketball, Lee had been a multi-year contestant on the American Ninja Warrior TV program, which was very similar to “Saskuke China: X-Warrior.” And according to Lee’s bio he’d been a highly respected contestant.

Lee was, among other things, right-handed, 5’ 11” tall, and weighed 156. He had no known tattoos or birthmarks.

There were other photos too: Lee graduating from high school, Lee accepting an award, a selfie of Lee standing next to a pretty girl. Not that it all mattered, because Lee was dead.

Tong slid under the covers, pulled a sleep mask over his eyes, and went to sleep. There were dreams. He shot An Ba all over again. Ba turned and laughed.

An ice cave near the Mountain View Lodge

Lee was sipping some hot chocolate. It was cold inside the ice cave and, except for the firefly-like head lamps worn by members of the group, it was pitch black.

Thapa figured they had enough batteries to get through three or four days before the final darkness closed in. But only if the effort to tunnel out failed. There was no telling how much snow was blocking the entrance, but the escape tunnel was 10-feet long, with no sign of a break-through yet.

“There you are,” Smith-Peet said, as he appeared out of the gloom. “May I join you?”

“Of course,” Lee replied. “Pull up a chair.”

Smith-Peet lowered himself onto a frosty rock. “Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.”

“So, what’s up?” Lee inquired, fully expecting some sort of directive about food rationing.

“We’ll be out of here within 18 hours or so,” Smith-Peet predicted. “And we’ll need to get cracking. With that in mind I’d like to brief you on our mission.”

“We have a mission?” Lee inquired. “Other than getting the Dalai Lama out of Nepal?”

“Of course, we do,” Smith-Peet replied. “The extraction is important, but you have that in hand, and don’t need any help from me.

“No, I was sent here to observe, and do everything in my power to slow, if not halt, what both sides call ‘the Big Push.’ By which they mean China’s effort to push men and supplies into Nepal prior to an all-out attack on India.

“I was foolish enough to write a speculative paper called ‘China’s Invasion of India,’ six- months prior to the war,” Smith-Peet said. “And, because it accurately predicted the situation we find ourselves in, the brass think I’m gifted. That’s utter nonsense of course, but I’m stuck with it.”

Lee was impressed by the other officer’s foresight as well as the casual self-deprecating way in which Smith-Peet referred to it. “I can see why they were impressed, sir, especially since no one else saw it coming. May I ask how the conflict will turn out?”

Smith-Peet grinned. “General Baxter asked me the same thing. I told him we would win, but just barely.”

“And that’s what you believe?”

“No, of course not,” Smith-Peet answered. “If the Chinese are allowed to funnel supplies through the mountains to the frontlines they will win. And that, Old Bean, is why you and your merry men are going to stop them.

“The route starts in China, where it’s called the ‘Friendship Road,’ if you can stomach that. It connects to Nepal’s road system and to the Tribhuvan Highway which winds through a high-altitude choke-point called Sim Bhanjyang Pass.

“That’s where you and your team come in. We still need to get his holiness out, but we need to confuse, delay, and even defeat the Chinese if we can. I intend to give you a freehand in that regard. We will consult of course. But far be it from me to tell a green beret how to operate behind enemy lines. In the meantime, I will be sipping tea, and doing my best to get you the kind of support you’ll need.”

Lee was stunned. Suddenly an already difficult mission had been expanded into a damned near impossible task. There was something about Smith-Peet though, and his unrelenting optimism, that made the plan sound plausible. “Sir, yes sir. Not to belabor the obvious, but after we dig out, we’ll need supplies. A lot more than we have. And a base.”

“Yes, you will,” Smith-Peet agreed. “And I’ll do my best. That said, it will be necessary to make-do from time-to-time. Still, that adds to the fun, eh what?”

“Yes, sir,” Lee replied. “Thanks for the download.”

Smith-Peet laughed. “I was a captain once, so I can imagine what you’re thinking… But we can do this Old Fruit. Ubi enim est via a [Where there’s a will there’s a way].”

Shortly after the briefing Lee took his turn in the tunnel. The passageway was about fifteen-feet long by that time and three people were required for each 30-minute shift. The lead person, or “digger,” was responsible for excavating snow and shoveling it back. The “tosser’s job was to pass the material back to the “catcher” who was likely to “catch” some snow in his or her face. It was hard, backbreaking work, the only reward for which was the opportunity to stay warm.

The only people who weren’t required to participate in the digging process were Ishya and Binsa. They had responsibility for keeping Bhadrapala warm, which they did by holding the infant next to their bodies under multiple layers of clothes, and walking about. Diaper changes were carried out with the efficiency and speed of NASCAR pit crews.

And so it went until the tunnel was about 32-feet long, and Lance Corporal Mahto broke through the snow. He uttered a shout. “We’re through!”

“Hold it right there!” Smith-Peet replied. “The last thing we want to do is go out and blunder about. Especially since the enemy may be checking on us from time-to-time. Let’s pack and get organized. Sergeant Cato will go forward to establish contact with the people at Trishul. I suspect they’re worried about us by now.”

And that, as it turned out, was the case. Major Raj Gupta and the rest of them had pretty well given up on the team. “This is wonderful news,” Gupta said. “But you know the saying, ‘There’s no rest for the wicked.’ So, proceed to Outpost Charlie—and let us know when you’re in position. Over.”

“And where,” Lee inquired, “is OP Charlie?”

“Not far old chap, not far,” Smith-Peet replied evasively. “You wanted a base… Well, that’s where Charlie comes in.”

Though far from satisfied with the other officer’s response Lee understood that such information was on a “need to know” basis. But what if the British officer were killed? That, in his opinion, was a serious risk.

After waiting for darkness to fall the group left the ice cave. Fifteen minutes were spent concealing the newly created exit. Then the march began.

A heavy snow was falling, and that was good in a way, since it would hide their footprints. Harder to see, but not impossible to see, since the Chinese had infrared sensors.

The new snow, added to what was on the ground, made for heavy going. Every step required Lee to raise a foot high, drop it down through a six-inch accumulation of snow, and do it all over again.

So, in spite of Smith-Peet’s assurance that Outpost Charlie was “nearby,” the rough terrain meant they had to take shelter in a cluster of trees just after sunrise, and remain there until nightfall. And a good thing too because Chinese helicopters passed over the hideout twice. Was that a coincidence? Or was the enemy checking to ensure that the dead Gweilos hadn’t been able to dig their way out? Lee believed it to be the latter.

That made him feel better as he slid into his bivvy sack and huddled under a tree. It was impossible to post sentries without running the risk of being spotted so all the group could do was wait for nightfall.

Smith-Peet made the rounds as the light began to fade. “Eat something hot,” he said. “And repack your gear. We’re leaving half an hour from now.”

Lee had to give Smith-Peet credit. Though trying at times, the senior officer was quite knowledgeable when it came to small unit tactics, and was never one to sit on his ass.

The second half of the march was no better than the first. The snow had tapered off by then, but the terrain was even steeper, and if it hadn’t been for the night vision gear the team members were wearing travel would have been impossible.

But finally, after four hours of hard slogging, the group battled its way up off a slope and onto a narrow path. “You’re standing on a railroad track,” Smith-Peet advised the team. “So watch out for snow covered tracks. A tunnel lies up ahead. Keep your eyes peeled for the pallet of supplies that arrived yesterday. Over.”

Cato was the radio operator so Lee assumed that he knew about the supplies, but had orders to keep the information to himself, and that was annoying.

Still, the possibilities that both supplies and a refuge were in the offing combined to improve Lee’s morale. Only a couple of minutes had passed when Jangchup spotted the load of supplies. “There they are!” he exclaimed. “Over to the right!”

The lama was correct. As with the previous K-MAX drop the sealed bundle had landed slightly off-target. The pallet was ten feet off the tracks and resting at the edge of a precipice. Not bad though, considering the challenge of dropping the load through driving snow onto what amounted to a narrow ledge.

Had the air freighter been destroyed? The way the first one had? Lee assumed so, and hoped the crash had taken place a long way off, where it would serve as a distraction for the Chinese. “First things first,” Smith-Peet said, as they arrived in front of an ice encrusted door. “Once we get inside, we’ll go to work moving the supplies.”

Lee was impressed by the size of the padlock that secured the steel door, and by the gigantic key, that had been hanging around Smith-Peet’s neck. It swayed as he pulled it up over his head.

By that time, it was clear that a substantial amount of planning had gone into Smith-Peet’s insertion. And that was a good thing. But the armchair commandos didn’t know about Darwa, Lee mused. Did they miss anything else?

After inserting the key into the lock Smith-Peet gave it a turn to the right. The hasp came loose and Smith-Peet removed the lock. “Give it a pull,” Smith-Peet suggested.

When Lee did so he discovered that the door was quite heavy.

“Excellent,” Smith-Peet said, as his flashlight probed the darkness within. “Please allow me to be the first to welcome you home.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Tunnel Five, of the Nepal Railway Corporation’s K-Line

Headlamps threw wobbling beams of light onto roughhewn walls, piles of construction materials, and rusty tracks as the group entered the tunnel. “Look!” Evers said. “A passenger car!”

Evers was correct, and thanks to the way the track curved, Lee could see more passenger cars and a tank car up ahead. “An Indian engineer was in charge of the project to improve this section of railway,” Smith-Peet explained. “And, when Chinese troops invaded, he and his workers had to run. But they sealed the tunnel at both ends before they left.”

“How do you know all of this?” Kwan inquired.

“The engineer’s name is Armand Patel,” Smith-Peet replied. “Major Gupta thought his advice would be valuable so we met for lunch. And, when I raised the need for a base, Patel made mention of the tunnel. Staff Sergeant Thapa… Who’s your best man with diesel engines?”

“Sah! That would be Sergeant Kunar.”

“Have him hop onto that flatcar,” Smith-Peet said. “He should find a diesel generator there. Let’s see if he can fire it up. It’s hooked to an exhaust system according to Patel.”

The generator would require a battery in order to start, and judging from what Smith-Peet said, the train cars had been sitting unattended for months. Would the engine start?

Kunar was up on the flatcar by then, fiddling with the generator. A groan was heard, followed by a series of coughs, and a loud backfire. Kunar swore in Nepali and tried again. Lee heard the engine turn over, catch, and begin to rumble. Then the lights came on. That produced a chorus of cheers.

Smith-Peet smiled. “And that,’ he said, pointing at the tank car, “is two-thirds full of diesel fuel… Enough to last a month at the very least.

“Now, painful though it is, we must bring those supplies inside where they’ll be safe. Then we can rest. So, everyone other than the doctor, Ishya, and Binsa will turn to… If you have a medical problem see Captain Kwan. She’ll decide if you’re healthy enough to hump supplies or not.”

What ensued was two-and-a-half hours of strenuous work. And Lee did his share. This load of supplies was at least twice the size of the previous “dump” near Bhimphedi. Lee estimated that the team was moving something like 6,000 pounds of food, ammo, and weapons into the tunnel. It was hard work.

Finally, once everything, including the pallet had been brought inside, brooms were used to sweep the footprints away. Then it was time to close the metal door and lock it. Lee wanted to post sentries and said as much. “Don’t worry,” Smith-Peet assured him. “We will. But only after a careful look around. Sentries could protect us, but they might give us away too. Some carefully camouflaged outposts may be the answer.”

Maybe Smith-Peet was correct, and maybe he wasn’t. But, so long as Smith-Peet continued to be reasonably competent, Lee was happy to escape 24/7 responsibility for the team and its safety. They were safe for the moment and that felt good.

East of Kathmandu, Nepal

The 2014 Royal Enfield C5 “Desert Storm” motorcycle was a direct descendent of the bikes produced by India’s Royal Enfield company since the ‘50s. The odometer read 10,112. But Tong didn’t believe it, nor did he care. The C5 had been sitting in a corner of the building that housed the Thunder God Commando’s motor pool, and with help from a mechanic, Tong had been able to bring the museum piece back to life.

And after receiving orders to find fellow assassin Ji Wu, Tong decided to ride the motorcycle, rather than use a utility vehicle. That was a good decision. Because while eastbound traffic would have slowed a 4 X 4 to a crawl, and forced it to stop while “Big Push” traffic traveled west, the C5 could maintain a steady 20 to 30 miles-per-hour by weaving in and out.

The downside was the never-ending slush, the spray thrown by passing trucks, and the endless security checks. No one expected an officer to be riding a motorcycle which meant Tong had to show his identity card every ten miles or so.

But miserable as though conditions were Tong loved to ride. And more than that to ride by himself, unencumbered by subordinates, or Major Wang’s latest whim.

He had a mission however… And a mysterious one at that. During Tong’s initial meeting with Wang, the PLA officer said that team member Ji Wu had been able to successfully cross into Nepal, and was presumably safe in Beijing.

But that, as it turned out, wasn’t the case. According to the briefing document sent to Tong by Madam Zang at MSS headquarters, Wu had made it to Kathmandu, where she stayed at an MSS safe house for three days. Then the agent left for Beijing and hadn’t been seen or heard from since.

The assumptions were that Wu had been murdered or killed in a traffic accident. If so, Wu’s death wouldn’t be reported correctly because of the fake ID she was carrying.

So, for the sake of her family, and the MSS bureaucracy, Tong had been ordered to investigate and to file a report. It was a shit job really, or would have been except for one thing, and that was the fact that Tong liked Wu. Not in a boy-girl kind of way… But as a person. And a member of his team.

That in spite of the fact that Wu was something of an enigma. Gay? Maybe. Withdrawn? Definitely. And otherworldly too. All of which made her interesting.

After spending a night at the MSS safe house, and questioning its staff, Tong continued east. His goal was the small town Nyalam. The people in Kathmandu said Wu was interested in Nyalam, although none of them could say why.

And since Nyalam was the county seat, that’s where the local records would be stored. If Wu had been murdered nearby, or died in accident, then the name on her fake ID would appear on a report. A report that Tong would copy and send to Zang.

The road from Kathmandu east was narrow, and in spite of the PLA’s efforts to prevent them, still subject to landslides. Dozens of tight turns slowed westbound traffic to a crawl. And as Tong rounded a curve, he saw an amazing sight. A column of hundreds, no thousands, of people was trudging uphill. PLA troops? No. The raggedly dressed people were civilians. Some carried government issue packs, others had children strapped to their backs, and there were stretchers too.

Tong saw a Toyota Land Cruiser up ahead. It had a camo paint job and PLA markings. A noncom stood next to it watching the column through binoculars. Tong pulled over, got off the bike, and left his helmet on the seat. His PLA ID was ready as he approached the sergeant. “Good morning. I’m Captain Tong.”

The sergeant had never seen an officer ride a motorcycle. So, he was understandably surprised, and spent the better part of a minute examining the ID card. Then, convinced of its authenticity, he popped a salute. “Sergeant Zhao, sir. How can I help you?”

There was no conversation as the civilians trudged by. Just the rasp of heavy breathing, the wail of a baby, and the percussive thud as their left feet came down in unison. The marchers were looking down at their poorly shod feet. “Who are they?” Tong inquired. “Refugees?”

“No,” the sergeant replied. “They’re Uyghurs.”

Tong knew the Uyghurs were a minority Turkic group, native to the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region of the People’s Republic of China. The problem, from an official perspective, was that the 11-million Uyghurs were Muslims. And the government feared that the Muslims had secret ties to the Sunni countries that were part of the Axis.

The MSS as well as other government agencies kept a close eye on the Uyghurs, forced them to surrender DNA samples, and to learn Mandarin. All of which made sense to Tong. But why were the Uyghurs being forced to march up through the Himalayas?

Tong put the question to the sergeant. “The push is on sir, and we need lots of labor,” the noncom replied. “Roads need to be repaired, bridges have to be restored, and fortifications must be built. And by having the Uyghur volunteers work on such projects more of our soldiers are free to fight.”

The last sentence sounded like something the noncom had been taught by one of the PLA’s political commissars. It made sense though, even if the use of the word “volunteers” was a stretch. Tong thanked the sergeant, put his helmet on, and started the bike. He would need gas soon--and made a note to find some.

Tong was traveling downhill as the Uyghurs trudged upwards. Snow-dusted PLA soldiers marched with them, one man to a hundred, their rifles slung. But the “volunteers” knew that if they killed the guards jet fighters would sweep in to slaughter them. Plus, there was no place to escape to.

After negotiating a series of curves, Tong finally came to the column’s end. Six trucks and an ambulance brought up the rear. Then Tong had the road to himself.

And a beautiful thing it was. A wide-open expanse of largely treeless countryside appeared before him. Gray clouds hung low on the horizon; a half-frozen river flowed between two rounded foothills. A huge billboard bearing a likeness of Lau, the man westerners called the “president,” stood next to the “Friendship Highway.”

Although Lau was actually the general secretary of the Central Committee of the Chinese Communist Party, the chairman of the Central Military Commission, and the head of the People’s Republic or China. And it was he, more than any other person, who was responsible for the war. Lau’s hand was raised as if to wave as Tong rode by. Then the lead vehicle in a west bound convoy appeared and the moment was over.

Tong was nearly out of gas by the time he passed through a gorge, and by a prayer flag festooned sign announcing the town of Nyalam. The road ran next to the river for a while; blocky buildings were stacked on a steep hillside, and brightly colored vehicles moved in to surround him.

Tong followed a truck into the downtown area. The street was narrow, with garish stores lining both sides of it, and lines of flags crisscrossing each other overhead.

There was a gas station at the north end of town. And, thanks to his ID card, Tong was allowed to fill the bike’s tank. He took the opportunity to ask the attendant for directions to the municipal building.

Tong arrived just prior to closing. Though none too happy about the need to deal with a late comer, the desk clerk didn’t dare say no to a PLA officer, and sent Tong down a hall to the bureau of records.

If the second clerk was unhappy about having to work late, she managed to conceal it.

The two of them spent half an hour going through the county’s records which, to Tong’s surprise, were not only computerized, but well organized.

But Wu’s cover name was nowhere to be found. Not among those who had been murdered, killed in accidents, or arrested for crimes.

Finally, after thanking the clerk, Tong gave up. If Wu had been killed in Nyalam there was no record of it. He returned to the bike, went looking for a place to stay, and booked a room in small hotel.

After a hearty meal at the restaurant on the other side of the street, Tong returned to his sparsely furnished room, and took a tepid shower. The bed was a good deal more comfortable than his cot in the Sim Bhanjyang Pass, and Tong assumed that sleep would come quickly. It didn’t. His thoughts were on Wu. What had become of her? Were her remains buried in a shallow grave? No, Tong decided. Wu was, or is, a trained assassin. And well-armed. Any idiot who tried to kill her would take two to the head.

So, what does that mean? It means, he decided, that the people in Beijing are wrong. Wu’s missing because she wants to be missing. And thanks to the training they gave her, Ji knows how to drop out of sight. But why?

As a team leader, one of Tong’s tasks was to constantly monitor his people for signs of unhappiness or stress. And, while all of them had been on edge prior to assassinating the Dalai Lama, there had been no indication that Wu was especially disturbed.

Of course, there wouldn’t be, Tong mused, since Ji is very good at concealing her emotions. Better than I am. So, where does that leave me?

Tong’s mind began to drift after that. Sleep pulled him down. He awoke to the sound of a siren, looked at his watch, and saw that it was 0220. Time to take a pee.

And that’s where Tong was, in the tiny bathroom taking a pee, when he remembered the meeting with Wu. The one in Beijing. It had taken place at an orphanage. The one Ji spent most of her free time at. It was a long, low building designed by a bureaucrat to please other bureaucrats. Ji had been waiting out front. The assassin was so small, so seemingly fragile, that she could have been mistaken for one of the school girls.

The playground bench was hard. Ji listened as Tong told her about the mission. Her eyes had widened. “The Dali Lama?”

The answer had been “Yes.” And that, Tong remembered, was when he noticed the uncertainty. Nothing overt. Nothing to trigger concern. But, in retrospect, what could have been a sign. An indicator he had chosen to ignore.

And now, as Tong returned to the bedroom, that seemed like a mistake. Ji had performed well though, and done her part to kill the Dalai Lama, before going her own way. To Nyalam. Not because of the town’s beauty. That was for sure. So why?

A possible answer struck like a lightning bolt out of the blue. Tong went to the phone and dialed the front desk. A woman answered. “Yes? How can I help you?”

“Are there any orphanages in Nyalam?”

“No, sir. Not that I’m aware of.”

Tong was disappointed. Very disappointed. His spirits fell. “All right, thank you.”

“The nuns take in some orphans though,” the woman added.

A nunnery! A nunnery that cared for orphans. That, Tong felt sure, was where Ji could be found. He went back to bed. Sleep came quickly. And when morning came Tong felt a sense of eagerness as he shaved, showered, and got dressed.

Tong ate breakfast at the same restaurant where’d he’d had dinner the night before. After getting directions from the proprietor Tong returned to the hotel. The bike was chained to a metal fence.

A twenty-minute ride took him north, off onto a side road, and up a curving drive. Thousands upon thousands of prayer flags had been planted on the surrounding slopes. Some were faded, as if they’d been in place for years, while others looked new. All of them were flapping in the breeze. Beyond the flags, on the very top of the hill, a cluster of buildings waited. And that Tong knew was the nunnery.

A bell sounded as Tong pulled up in front of the largest structure and killed the motor. Nuns, their hair cut short and dressed in scarlet robes, streamed past him. Tong scanned their faces. Was Ji among them? No. But she might be elsewhere.

Tong was wearing weatherproof overalls which he removed to reveal his PLA uniform. It was all the authority he would need. After asking one of the nuns where he could find the abbess he was directed to the main door. “Go straight down the hall. That’s where you will find Abbess Yangtso’s office.”

The pungent odor of incense filled Tong’s nostrils as he entered the building and made his way down the hallway. Framed prints graced both walls. Go Lotsawa Zhonnu Pal, Emo Rinpoche, and Terdag Lingpa Gyurme Dorje stared at Tong as he passed them.

The door to the office was open, and an older nun was visible behind a huge desk, the surface of which was covered with piles of papers, framed photographs, and knickknacks. A frown appeared as she looked up. “Can I help you?”

“Abbess Yangtso?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Captain Tong. I am looking for this woman.” The print Tong gave to the abbess was straight out of MSS files and, like all such photos, looked flat and washed out.

Yangtso stared at it. Then she looked up. “And why,” the abbess demanded, “do you want to see her?”

She’s here! Wu is here, Tong concluded. “She’s a friend,” Tong said. “We used to work together. And, since I was passing through, I thought I’d say hello.”

The abbess stared at him. She had steel gray hair, a thin face, and glasses that were perched on the end of her nose. “Please understand that Li Ang may, or may not wish to see you. Many of the women who choose this life do so to escape the outside world.”

“I understand,” Tong said. Li Ang, he thought. That’s the name she’s using.

A brass bell was hidden among the objects on Yangtso’s desk. She rang it and a nun appeared seconds later. “Find Li Ang,” the abbess said. “Tell her that Captain Tong is here to see her.” The nun hurried away.

“You can wait outside,” the abbess said. “I have work to do.”

Tong didn’t enjoy being in the army, but had grown fond of the respect generated by his rank, and didn’t like the manner in which he’d been dismissed. But since Tong couldn’t come up with a good way to put Yangtso in her place all he could do was obey.

And that’s where he was, seated on an uncomfortable chair, when the nun returned. “Li Ang will see you,” the young woman said earnestly. “Please follow me.”

Tong followed the nun through a maze of passageways to what a placard proclaimed to be the Zǎoshang de fángjiāne, or morning room. The nun bowed and waved Tong in.

The morning room’s name stemmed from the window set into the east wall. Like the encroaching winter, the midmorning light was harsh, and without warmth.

It lit one side of Ji Wu’s face but left the other in darkness. She stood with her back to the stone wall, hands hidden in the sleeves of her scarlet robe, like a burial statue. There was fear in her eyes. “You found me.”

“Yes,” Tong replied. “I did. Why Ji? Why come here?”

“We killed a good man,” Wu replied. “Not a traitor, not a thief, a good man. It tortured me. So, I came here to find peace and to help the children.”

“Come with me,” Tong said. “You aren’t the first. The department will help you.”

Wu’s laughter was hard and brittle. “Help me to do what? Kill people? No, I think not. Leave me. Tell them a lie.”

“I can’t,” Tong told her. “I found you… That means others could too. And if they do what will happen to me?”

Wu’s voice was little more than a whisper. “They’ll kill you.”

“Yes,” Tong said. “Come with me.”

Wu pulled the Russian 9x19mm Parabellum Stechkin pistol out of her left sleeve. It was the same weapon Wu had used during the assassination. Tong’s handgun was in a holster at his side. Not that it made any difference, since Wu’s weapon was pointed up, under her chin.

“Please,” Tong said. “Don’t do it.”

“Peace,” Wu said. “I need to find peace.”

The report was extremely loud within the confines of the morning room. Blood splashed the ceiling. Wu’s body fell gently to the floor. Tong bowed his head and swore.

Then after a deep sigh Tong drew a knife and knelt next to the body. Like the woman herself Wu’s left ear was small and delicate. Tong cut it off. Zang would want DNA, as would the People’s Republic of China, so the state could close the agent’s file.

Wu’s blood was pooled on the floor. Shi (wet) Tong thought, not gan (dry). Tears flowed down his cheeks. An Ba, Han Hoi, and Ji Wu. All dead.

Nuns flooded into the room. One screamed. The war, held in abeyance until then, had found them.

Tunnel Five, of the Nepal Railway Corporation’s K-Line, Nepal

It was so cold in the tunnel that Lee could see as his breath. Ishya, Binsa, Bhadrapala and Jangchup were enjoying the relative warmth available inside Passenger Car 3. But the rest of the group was gathered around a rectangular screen that sat atop a tripod.

“This,” Smith-Peet told them with the air of someone making an important announcement, “is a PGSR-31 Beagle. ‘PGSR’ stands for Portable Ground Surveillance Radar. And we have 20 units to work with.

“Each Beagle is man-portable, can be set up in 10 minutes, and used to detect people and vehicles at ranges varying from 4- to 14-miles away.

“The PGSRs use the NATO I/J Band, can operate down to minus 25-degrees Fahrenheit, and are self-locating. That means each unit can find its location via GPS and upload that information via satellite. That will enable the tech heads in India to monitor Chinese troop movements and convoys while sitting at their desks and sipping tea.

“We however, are far less fortunate. It will be our job to plant these rascals in likely spots, and feed them batteries, which they normally consume every 12 hours.

“We are equipped with custom battery packs that last twice that long. Still, imagine the amount of work required to reload the batteries on 20 Beagles every 2 days. It won’t be easy. And making the task all the more difficult will be the weather, the risk of being spotted, and the need to service the units without creating observable trails.

“But, thanks to artic camo, and the fact that each PGSR screen is only 27 X 18 inches, the units will be very difficult to spot. Captain Lee will be in charge of placing the Beagles, and supplying them with fresh batteries. Captain Lee?”

Lee had been briefed the day before. The green beret had been quick to understand how important a network of PGSRs could be, especially during a time when the Chinese were pushing men and supplies into Nepal, preparatory to an attack on India.

The National Reconnaissance Office in Washington D.C. was responsible for satellite intelligence worldwide, but could only see so much, especially in an area blanketed by clouds. So, a network of localized radars would help the analysts fill in the blanks and build a complete picture of what was coming through Nepal.

Lee went forward to stand next to the Beagle. “As the colonel indicated, we have 20 PGSRs to work with. Two will be used to protect this position. They will be monitored by Sergeant Cato and a person he will train. Two Beagles will be kept in reserve.

“That leaves 16 units which we will have to position and service. Three 2-man teams will be announced later today. Each team will have responsibility for 5 or 6 Beagles. However,” Lee added, as he paused to scan their faces. “That isn’t all.

“It’s my expectation that the teams will create well-concealed shelters in close proximity to their PGSRs, and go out prepared to stay 2 nights at a time. The purpose being to conserve energy, and to avoid cutting a trail. The missions will be staggered so that no more than 2 teams will be absent at any one time.

“Then, when the Beagle Boys return, they will rotate into the emergency response team while they rest up.” The reference to the Donald Duck related characters drew chuckles from those in the know.

“And,” Lee added, “I think it’s safe to say that some teams will have eyes on the enemy every once in a while, creating opportunities to collect observational Intel, which you will submit in report form. Assuming that some of you know how to write.”

That produced a chorus of obscenities. Lee grinned. “Are there any questions? No? Then get some sleep. You’re going to need it.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Tunnel Five, of the Nepal Railway Corporation’s K-Line, Nepal

The best time to place the PGSRs was the worst time to go outside. And that was during the hours of darkness when the temperature dropped into the low teens. So Lee was wearing four layers of clothing as he knelt next to the 60-pound pack and tightened a strap.

The load included food, two sleeping bags, a Jetboil and the military version of a Big Sky Chinook four-season tent which, if all went well, would provide the two-man team with a relatively warm place to sleep.

Corporal Rama Shekhawat, Lee’s partner, was a few feet away. His job was to carry the first PGSR which, thanks to a custom backpack system, was ready to go. It weighed about 60 pounds largely due to the need to carry two-battery packs.

The fact that both men would have to carry rifles, pistols, and extra ammo was going to push the total load up past 70 pounds. And Lee knew the altitude would make an already difficult task that much worse. Lee had the pack on his back, and was tweaking his night vision gear, when Kwan appeared.

There hadn’t been any opportunities to talk to her, but Lee was always aware of Kwan’s presence when she was around, and found it difficult to keep his eyes off her. She was holding a mug. “Here,” Kwan said. “One for the road.”

Lee accepted the mug and took a sip. The chocolate was piping hot, and felt good going down. “Thank you.”

Kwan’s eyes were locked with his. “Be careful Jon.”

“I will,” Lee promised. “How’s the baby?”

“He’s spoiled,” Kwan replied. “But otherwise fine.”

An awkward silence ensued as Lee saw Shekhawat depart from the corner of his eye. “Listen Wendy, I think you should know that…”

Kwan smiled and shook her head. “Not now, Jon. But later. If we survive.” Then she turned and walked away.

Lee felt a sense of warmth suffuse his body, and knew that the sensation stemmed from something other than the hot chocolate. He finished the drink and placed the mug on a rock.

Then it was time to follow Shekhawat to the door. Staff Sergeant Thapa was there to see them off. There were no goodbyes. “Remember,” the noncom said. “You’re Beagle-One, and this is the Dog-House.”

Lee smiled. “Got it. We’ll be in touch.”

Thapa pulled the door open and Lee felt a wall of cold air push in. Shekhawat left without looking back. Lee followed. Everything, even the snow, was green, as seen through his night vision device. The route would take them up the west side of a valley to a ridge with a wide open view of Simbhanjyang Pass.

And the fact that the railroad tunnel was only miles away was, in retrospect, no coincidence. In retrospect it was clear that all of Smith-Peet’s seemingly erratic actions had been part of a well thought out plan.

The snow was about a foot deep. But, thanks to the backcountry style snowshoes they wore, the men were able to stay on top of the white stuff. And that was a blessing at 8,000 feet with a heavy pack on Lee’s back.

The green beret faced another challenge as well… And that was keeping up with Shekhawat who, like the rest of the Gurkhas, seemed to have superhuman strength.

The trail wasn’t a trail so much as the possibility of a trail. There weren’t any animals in that area--and no reason for the locals to go there. That made for slow going, but offered some security as well, since the two-man team was unlikely to encounter a Chinese patrol.

It took four lung-searing hours to reach Checkpoint Alpha. The spot was high on a ridge, overlooking the pass, and a section of the Tribhuvan Highway. Lee could see a scattering of lights which seemed to blink on and off thanks to the gently falling snow.

The ensuing process felt anticlimactic. Putting the Beagle together was supposed to be easy, and it was since both men had hours of practice. Then it was a simple matter to press what amounted to the “on” button before calling in. “Beagle-One to Dog-House. Over.”

“I read you five-by-five,” Cato replied. “Over.”

“Signal check. Over.”

“It’s green. Over.”

“Roger that, over and out.”

The conversation was fully encrypted and lasted for 10 seconds. That made the chance that the Chinese would intercept and decode the communication very close to zero.

The enemy could detect the fact that someone was using a radio however… And that was likely to result in more surveillance.

The next task was to find a place to erect the tent and hide out. Not on the ridge of course. Even an E-1 knows better than to break the skyline. But on the south side of it where there was no line-of-sight from the pass or highway.

So Lee and Shekhawat retraced their steps and hurried over the knife-like ridge. Once they were 50-feet down slope they began to look around. It was Shekhawat who spotted the copse of evergreens and the flat spot within.

There were rocks to clear however which involved hard work. Then it was time to put the tent up. Lee found the simple process challenging and knew he was running on empty. His fingers felt clumsy and it was difficult to focus his mind.

Shekhawat seemed to have no difficulty at all, and wound up doing most of the work. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, but was actually no more than ten minutes, the tent was up. It was relatively small. Just large enough for two people plus some gear. Watches, Lee thought dully. I should set watches.

But Lee knew he wasn’t up to standing a watch--and he couldn’t ask Shekhawat to stay awake all night. So, he put the idea aside.

After removing their snowshoes, and emptying their bladders, the men crawled inside. The tent, plus the warmth of his sleeping bag, was all Lee needed. His thoughts turned to hot chocolate, a beautiful woman, and the future. Sleep followed.

The next day was boring as hell. Beagle-One was working like a champ. And, according to Cato, “The Intel nerds are over the moon.” So, what Lee and Shekhawat had to do was stay out of sight. And neither one of them had any objection to that. They spent most of the day sleeping.

But when night fell, they had to emerge from the tent, pack up, and return to the snow-crusted PSGR. Lee did his best to leave the covering intact as he took the unit offline, replaced the battery pack, and put it back in service. ““Beagle-One to Dog-House. Over.”

“I read you,” Cato replied. “Over.”

“Signal check. Over.”

“Green as grass. Over.”

“Roger that, over and out.”

Lee was about to leave when he saw lights appear in the pass. Thousands of lights. They bobbed up and down, snaked into a curve, and disappeared. Was the PGSR capturing that? Of course it was.

But Lee was curious. So, he brought his night vision binoculars up to his eyes and continued to watch. Ten minutes passed. Then as the procession came back into sight Lee got an eyeful. He was looking at soldiers, hundreds maybe thousands of them, all wearing head lamps. No, Lee thought, not soldiers… Civilians. I don’t see any weapons. But why?

Then Lee remembered the Chinese Labor battalions of World War I. Most of the workers had been from Shandong Province, but they came from other locales as well, and were shipped all over the world to provide manual labor--and free Allied soldiers to fight.

Was he looking at something similar? Fostered by the Chinese government this time? That’s the way it seemed.

Much of the return journey was downhill, and the men were able to split the remaining load, making the trip more pleasant. They were still quite a way out when Cato spoke into Lee’s ear. “This is Dog-House. We see you. Over.”

So, the defensive PGSRs were working. And that was a good thing. “Roger that,” Lee replied. “Over.”

There was a warm welcome, followed by hot food, and a chat with Smith-Peet. “Well done,” the Brit said, as Lee finished his report.

“I have something to add,” Lee said. “The Chinese are marching thousands of what I believe to be civilian laborers over the pass towards India.”

Smith-Peet frowned. “To work on fortifications and the like?”

“That’s my theory,” Lee acknowledged.

“So?” Smith-Peet inquired. “If you saw it then people in Trishul saw it as well.”

“That’s right,” Lee agreed. “But our mission consists of more than collecting Intel. You were the one who said we should ‘defeat the Chinese if we can.’”

Smith-Peet smiled. “I said that? I should be more circumspect.”

“Yes, sir,” Lee agreed. “And you were correct. As I watched the laborers march west, I noticed that they were under guard. Not much of a guard mind you… Maybe one soldier for a hundred prisoners.”

“So, they aren’t volunteers,” Smith-Peet mused.

“No sir,” Lee agreed. “They aren’t. So, what will happen if we kill some of the guards?”

“Snipers,” Smith-Peet said. “Kill them and at least some of the laborers will run. That will force the Chinese to use lots of manpower chasing the escapees down. I like it.”

“So do I,” Lee said. “But there would be a cost. Some of the escapees will freeze, starve, or be executed.”

Smith Peet nodded. “You’re right. But, if we can slow the push, then more of our soldiers will survive. That’s how war works Old Stick. Make it happen.”

The task was easier said than done. The problem was a shortage of personnel. After enlisting Staff Sergeant Thapa’s help Lee was able to create a duty roster which would work. But only if every member of the group was willing to lend a hand. Jangchup agreed to train as a radio operator. Binsa became a combat medic.

So far so good. Lee went to find Kwan. She was with Ishya and the baby. “Babies throw up a lot,” Kwan said. “Don’t worry, he’s fine.”

Lee brought the subject up again once the two of them were alone. “So, the DL is doing well?”

“So far,” Kwan replied. “But I’d like to get him out of here.”

“Nothing would please me more,” Lee responded. “But…”

“I know,” Kwan put in. “The weather makes an air evac impossible.”

“Yeah, that’s what they tell me.”

“So, what’s up?”

“I need your help,” Lee said. “We’re shorthanded. And I’d like you to take responsibility for the fast reaction force. I know it’s way outside of your role, but you’re one of the few people who is here all the time, and the entire team knows you can handle a gun.”

“Sure,” Kwan replied. “I’m in. What’s behind the request? The PGSR thing?”

“In part,” Lee said. “But we have another mission now.”

Kwan listened as Lee told her about the column of laborers and the plan to set some of them free. Her expression was solemn. “Civilians are going to die. You know that.”

“Yes, I do,” Lee said. “And it troubles me. But, as the colonel put it, ‘that’s how war is.’ Allied lives will be saved.”

Kwan looked away and back again. “Yeah, I get that. The Chinese are looking for Bhadrapala. What will they do after we kill some of their soldiers, and turn hundreds, perhaps thousands of laborers loose?”

“They’ll look even harder,” Lee predicted. “That’s why I need you to take command of the fast reaction force.”

Kwan looked up at him. “I worry about you, Jon.”

Lee looked into her eyes. “And I worry about you.”

It was as close as either one of them could come to discussing the nature of their relationship. The one that could be, if things were different.

Evers arrived and the moment was over. “Cato got a download from Trishul. The Chinese move 500 laborers through the pass every 12 hours. I’d like to talk about where we’re going to place snipers.”

The next hour was spent going over maps and discussing procedure. The final plan was relatively simple. The force would deploy single snipers, rather than a sniper-spotter duo, as was the usual practice. That was dangerous in that the spotter’s function was to not only spot targets but provide security. But two men would leave more tracks and be more difficult to conceal.

Three snipers would go out, each to a different overlook, where they would spend at least two days. Or longer, if the area they were in was under intense scrutiny. Shekhawat and Mahto were natural choices since they were sniper qualified.

Lee chose himself for the third slot, not so much because of the quality of his marksmanship, but the need to lead from the front.

He left the tunnel immediately after sunset. His pack was relatively light. The load consisted of food, a sleeping bag in a bivvy sack, his pistol, and a British made L115A3 bolt-action rifle. It was chambered for .338 Lapua Magnum rounds, and equipped with Schmidt & Bender day scope. A thermal scope was mounted forward of the day scope, which would allow Lee to hit targets at night.

Lee’s night vision rig allowed him to follow a series of intersecting paths up a steep slope to the ridge above, then west and away from Beagle-One, lest his subsequent activities draw attention to the PGSR.

Then, having put a mile between himself and the Beagle, Lee paused to make sure that he had a clear line-of-sight onto the twisting-turning highway. And, thanks to the fact that a convoy was in sight, the green beret knew he was in a good position.

Concealment was not only a science, but an art that every sniper had to master before he or she could graduate from the school at Fort Benning. Lee lacked those skills but hoped that common sense would be sufficient.

That meant finding a hidey hole that would not only provide cover left and right, but conceal him from above too, since the Chinese were certain to employ drones and helicopters in an effort to find him.

After giving careful consideration to four possible locations Lee chose a crevice between two gigantic boulders. Top cover consisted of a ledge populated by shrubs. And by chucking the larger rocks into the back of the cave-like opening Lee managed to create a flat spot.

The next step was to unload the pack with food on the left and ammo on the right. After taking an awkward pee in the back of the cave, Lee placed the sleeping bag combo up front and slid inside. The warmth felt good.

By covering a flat rock with his mostly empty pack Lee made a rest for the rifle. He stared into the scope. The convoy was gone, but vehicles continued to pass by, often in clusters of two or three.

Lee used a handheld rangefinder to establish how far his bullets could go. The answer was approximately 1,200 yards. The rifle was effective to roughly 1,600 yards. So, range wouldn’t be a problem. But targets would be downhill from him, they’d be small, and they’d be in motion. Add the west to east crosswind and the task went from difficult to very difficult. But Lee was determined to try.

It was time to call in. “Viper-Six to Viper Eight. Over.”

“Eight” was Cato’s call sign, but Jangchup was the one who answered. “This is Eight. Over.”

“In position, over and out.” And that was that.

Lee checked the rifle, and checked it again. Then he ate a Mac and Cheese MRE. The food made him sleepy. But he couldn’t rest. Not until the job was done. So Lee used some of his water to brew coffee. It was bitter but the caffeine helped. Then all he could do was lie there as the minutes crawled by.

Finally, Lee fumbled for the tiny MP3 player he carried, and a pair of earbuds. He was listening to the sound track from Last of the Mohicans when the first firefly-like headlamps appeared. Lee put the earbuds aside as he brought the rifle up to his cheek. The stock felt cold. The sight picture panned across dozens of rising-falling bodies before coming to rest on a Chinese soldier. His rifle was slung and his head was down.

Lee had no choice but to put the crosshairs on the man’s left arm because the soldier was turned sideways. Would his bullet pass through the man’s arm and into his chest? Lee felt sure that it would.

You’ve got to compensate for both the side wind and for gravity, Lee cautioned. Plus, you need to lead him. So, raise the crosshair over his head and a skosh to the left.

Lee took a breath and held it. The trigger gave, the rifle kicked his shoulder, and the bullet struck. But not the soldier. A man beyond. The civilian jerked as the slug passed through his body, and he was starting to fall, when the bullet hit a woman. She collapsed in a heap.

Rather than scatter, as Lee assumed, they would, the slaves split into two columns and flowed around the victims. That was when Lee understood the truth. The rifle was suppressed. So, the people below didn’t realize they were being fired on. The soldier was kneeling next to the first body in an attempt to figure out what was going on.

Lee fired again. The second bullet hit the soldier between the shoulder blades and threw him forward. The laborers who hadn’t fled earlier did so. But a steep slope bordered one side of the road--with a sheer drop-off on the other. All they could do was run downhill. Some led the way. Others tripped, fell and were trampled.

Lee felt sick to his stomach as he witnessed the carnage. Smith-Peet’s words came back to haunt him. “That’s how war is Old Stick.”

A vehicle sped down the road. An officer? Or a noncom? Come to see what was happening? Lee thought so.

The 4 X 4 came to a halt. A figure got out. Lee shot him. And when a second soldier circled the vehicle to provide aid Lee shot him too.

Ironically the civilians were fleeing west, in the direction that the PLA wanted them to go, but five guards remained behind. And rather than take cover the way they should have, the soldiers were firing in every direction. They don’t have a clue, Lee thought, as he fed another magazine into the rifle.

The rifle jerked, and jerked again, causing two men to fall in quick succession. When the others ran for cover Lee let them go. He was sick of killing. And angry with himself for being so incompetent. Two civilians. It was his worst nightmare. But there was no way to put the wrong right. No way to do anything other than to thumb the transmit button, provide Jangchup with a terse “Mission accomplished,” and sign off.

Then like an animal retreating to its burrow Lee turned, backed into the cave, and entered his bag. The Chinese drones would come and come again. All he could do was wait, sleep, and dream. None of them were pleasant.

Tong was standing on the Tribhuvan highway at the exact spot where the first attack had taken place. There had been three in all. The first one, another two miles west of it, and a third one mile further on. They were sniper attacks. But to what end?

Two Uyghurs had been shot during the first attack, followed by a number of soldiers. But there hadn’t been any civilian casualties in the second and third attacks. So, ignore the Uyghurs, Tong told himself. They died as a result of incompetence or at the hand of a trigger-happy psychopath.

Focus your attention instead on the overall result of the attacks. Most of the Uyghur laborers were recovered. But some, about a hundred, are still on the loose. And three times that many soldiers have been sent to find them. That was the plan and it worked.

Will the Allied team try the same thing again? Of course, they will. As surely as a dog will lick its ass.

Tong turned to Sergeant Shi. “We’re going back. I need to speak with Major Wang.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Tunnel Five, of the Nepal Railway Corporation’s K-Line, Nepal

Lee arrived at the tunnel to find that everyone was in a good mood. The effort to impede the Big Push had been successful, and the network of PGSRs was operating properly. All of which did nothing to make him feel better.

After taking a sponge bath, and changing into a different set of dirty clothes, he met with Thapa. Then, following approval of the duty rosters, Lee sat at an improvised table and chose an MRE from the stack that was kept there. He was spooning some sort of goop into his mouth when Kwan arrived. “I heard you were back.”

Lee forced a smile. “Humble though the tunnel is it beats a crevice between two rocks.”

Kwan’s expression was serious. “What happened?”

Lee shrugged. “I killed people, took naps, and listened to music. End of story.”

“No,” Lee insisted. “That isn’t the end of the story. I’m sorry you had to kill people. But that was the mission.”

Lee stared into her eyes. “My first shot was too high. The bullet killed two civilians.”

Kwan winced. “That’s unfortunate. Welcome to the club.”

Lee frowned. “What club?”

“The club all doctors belong to. What? You think we’re right every time? You think none of our patients die? Well, some of them do die. In most cases that isn’t our fault. But there are exceptions. There are times when, due to a lack of data, we’re forced to guess. And times when our skills fail us. Then someone dies and we spend sleepless nights asking ourselves ‘What if?’”

It didn’t take a genius to know that Kwan was talking about herself. That in spite of the almost brash confidence she displayed every day. “That never occurred to me,” Lee said. “What did you do then?”

“I got up the next day determined to never make that mistake again,” Kwan replied. “Then I went to work. Because maybe, just maybe, lives saved can even the scale.

“And that’s the situation you’re in,” Kwan added. “Lives were taken, but lives were saved. Don’t forget that.”

Lee nodded. “Thank you, Wendy… That helps.”

“Get some sleep,” Kwan said as she stood. “Doctor’s orders.” And with that she walked away.

Overlook 2, high above the Tribhuvan highway

Lance Corporal Ganju Mahto was waiting when the sky began to lighten. Weak though the light from the half-seen sun was, it was significant nevertheless. Because Mahto had been chosen to make the first daylight attack on one of the Chinese labor battalions.

The privilege came with risks. If Mahto could see better, then the enemy could too. But Mahto’s hide was well camouflaged. And, thanks to the suppressor attached to his rifle, there would be little to no flash.

“Don’t push your luck.” That’s what Staff Sergeant Thapa had told him. “Three shots,” the noncom said. “Then you’re done.”

And that was fine with Mahto who had every reason to live. There was a girl named Devena who, if he survived, would be waiting for him. He would be a corporal by then, on his way to the godlike rank of sergeant, and a comfortable retirement someday. The thought of it made him smile.

Even though Mahto was prepared for a long wait there was no need. He heard the column before he saw it. In order to facilitate the movement of so many people the laborers had been taught to march. Left, right, left, right. Just like the days he’d spent in the training company at Shorncliffe, in Kent.

As hundreds of feet hit the ground a single thump was heard. So, there was no reason to be surprised when a 4 X 4 appeared. And there, marching behind the vehicle, was rank after rank of Chinese men and women. Muslims according to what Mahto had been told. All of whom were considered to be expendable by a country that feared them.

Mahto took aim. The first shot punctured a tire and sent the 4 X 4 swerving. The second shot nailed a guard. And the third shot killed a soldier stupid enough to exit the stalled vehicle. Three for three. Laborers scattered and guards fired at them.

Mahto was smiling when the Chinese 5.56X45mm bullet struck his forehead.

Tong was seated in the 4 X 4. He recognized the voice in his ear as belonging to Corporal Lin. “Tiger-Five. Target down. Over.”

Tong got out and gazed up at the heights above him. Since all of the previous attacks had originated from the south side of the highway it was natural to put the counter-sniper team on the opposing slope. He couldn’t see Lin, or the other members of the Thunder God Commando, but knew they were watching. “This is Tiger-One. Well done. Send the drone for a closer look.”

The drone had been launched just before sunrise, in the hope that if an Allied sniper was present, the counter snipers could nail him before he fired. That effort failed.

But once the Allied trigger was pulled, the sudden flare of heat was enough to reveal the marksman’s position to detectors positioned on the other side of the valley. And after the rotary wing drone captured video of the dead body Tong would have something to show Major Wang.

Would the attacks continue? Maybe. But Tong felt confident there would be less of them. The laborers had been herded back into formation by then. The march continued--eyes on the ground. Left, right, left right. And there, sprawled on the highway, were half a dozen bodies.

Soldiers were in the process of dragging the civilian corpses over to the precipice. A young woman went first. Tong winced as she disappeared. Chairman Lau was right. The Allied soldiers were monsters.

Tunnel Five, of the Nepal Railway Corporation’s K-Line, Nepal

After replacing Beagle-Five’s battery pack, Lee and Private Kilbur Rai returned to the tunnel, where they learned of Mahto’s death.

When the Gurkha failed to call in Staff Sergeant Thapa went out to find him, and while checking the sniper’s hide through night glasses, spotted two Chinese soldiers hidden nearby. A trap had been set.

The Gurkha waited for one the men to bed down, made his way to the enemy position, and slaughtered the lookout with his kukri. The second soldier died in his sleep.

With that accomplished Thapa made his way to Mahto’s hide only to discover that the body had been removed and an IED had been left in its place.

Thapa withdrew at that point and returned to the tunnel. That’s why there was nothing but long faces when Lee and Rai returned. A memorial service was scheduled for two days hence. A time when the maximum number of people would be present in the tunnel.

After giving his condolences to the Gurkhas who happened to be present, Lee went looking for Kwan, but couldn’t find her. Evers delivered the news. “The colonel got a message from Major Raj in Trishul. According to an Indian agent a group of Uyghurs are hiding near the village of Poha. And some of them require medical attention.

“So, the colonel sent the doc plus two Gurkhas to help. Maybe, if we play it right, we can enlist some locals in the resistance effort.”

Lee could hardly complain since that was the sort of mission green berets were known for. Their motto was “De Oppresso Liber.” (To Free the Oppressed.) And green beret doctors were trained to deal with situations like the one in Poha. But emergency room physicians from Chicago weren’t. And Lee couldn’t help but worry about Kwan.

Despite Lee’s concerns, Kwan and her bodyguards returned the next night. And a memorial service was held shortly thereafter. The Gurkhas, Jangchup, and Binsa circled the area carrying sticks to symbolize the grief that left them in need of support.

That was followed by prayers called Sutras, such scant offerings as were available, and the ringing of a bell that had been hanging in one of the train cars. Lama Jangchup recited the service from memory. “The Buddha said:

‘Life is a journey.

Death is a return to earth.

The universe is like an inn.

The passing years are like dust.

Regard this phantom world

As a star at dawn, a bubble in a stream,

A flash of lightning in a summer cloud,

A flickering lamp – a phantom – and a dream.’”

Though not a Buddhist himself, Lee thought the words were beautiful, and was glad that they were taking time to remember Mahto.

Colonel Smith-Peet spoke after that, and movingly too, about Gurkhas and their tradition of service. “We are,” he concluded, “both privileged and honored to have served with Lance Corporal, now Corporal Ganju Mahto. It will be my privilege to submit his name to The Royal Gurkha Rifles, along with a request that he be awarded the Military Cross.”

Light applause was followed by all manner of Corporal Mahto stories as Smith-Peet passed a bottle of whiskey around. Some of the anecdotes were funny. So people laughed, and the healing began.

PLA Special Forces Compound 12, Nepal

Tong was halfway through his morning exercise regime when the summons arrived. The private popped to attention. He was right out of advanced training and stood ramrod straight. “Sir! Major Wang requests your presence, sir!”

A bar bell had been fashioned from an axle welded to a couple of truck wheels. There was a clang as it hit the floor. Tong sighed. What now? he wondered. Didn’t Wang have any other officers he could jerk around?

Tong eyed the private. “Thanks. Let him know I’ll be there after I take a shower.”

“Sir! Yes, sir!” Then the private performed a textbook about face and marched away. There were other men in the makeshift weight room. They laughed.

It took twenty minutes to shower and don a clean uniform. A short walk brought Tong to the main building where a corporal checked his ID and a sergeant waved him through.

Wang, as it turned out, was in a pissy mood. “Good morning, Captain. I’m glad you could fit me into your demanding schedule.”

Tong was used to Wang’s ways by then and remained impassive. “Good morning. What can I do for you?”

“You can roust your men out of their bunks, climb some mountains, and find the rest of these,” Wang said as he pointed to the tripod mounted screen that stood next to his desk.

“And what, if I may ask, is it?” Tong inquired.

“It’s an Allied Portable Ground Surveillance Radar, that’s been spying on us for days, if not weeks. A patrol came across this one and brought it back. And, if there’s one, you can assume there are more. They are sending real-time data regarding our convoys and troop movements to the Allies around the clock. Colonel Xu is angry. Very angry. And wants to know how we could miss such units. Never mind the fact that he’s sitting on his ass in one of Kathmandu’s best hotels while we live in this shithole.”

That was the first time Tong had heard Wang openly criticize a superior officer and took it as a sign of how angry he was. “Yes, sir. How will my men and I know which mountains to climb?”

“Now that we know what to look for an all-out effort to find the radars is underway. We’re using detectors, drones and helicopters to find them. And when we do, it will be your job to bring them in. So, get ready.” Tong tossed a salute, received one in return, and went looking for Sergeant Shi.

Tunnel Five, of the Nepal Railway Corporation’s K-Line, Nepal

“Beagle-Nine” is MIA,” Cato said. “And assumed to be in enemy hands.”

Lee was seated on the edge of his bunk in passenger car 4. He’d been asleep. “Shit.”

“I thought you’d want to know.”

“It was inevitable I suppose,” Lee replied. “Does the colonel know?”

“Yeah, he knows,” Cato responded. “All the Gurkhas were recalled.”

“Good. The Chinese will be hunting for the PGSRs day and night. It was good while it lasted. Is that it?”

“No,” Cato replied. “I can’t raise the medical team. That’s the real reason I woke you up.”

Lee felt something cold trickle into his veins. Kwan and two Gurkhas had gone out to hold a popup sick call in a nearby village. “Nearby” meaning about 10 miles away. Lee was dressed. He bent to recover his boots. “I’ll go.”

Cato nodded. “I figured you would.”

Was the other green beret aware of Lee’s feelings for Kwan? Probably. And Lee didn’t give a shit. “I’ll take two men.”

“Pun and Shrestha are getting ready,” Cato replied. Shrestha had recovered from his chest wound by that time and been cleared for a return to duty.

Lee’s patrol pack was always ready. So, all he had to do was gun-up and meet the Gurkhas by the door. Colonel Smith-Peet was there to see them off. He forced a smile. “You know how radios are… Great one minute and worthless the next. Odds are that you’ll run into them on the trail.”

“Yes, sir,” Lee replied. “We’ll stay in touch.”

Smith-Peet nodded. “See that you do.”

The metal door made a squealing noise as it opened. Snowflakes angled in from above and Lee could see his breath. The night was waiting.

The village of Ty Jata, Nepal

Chinese soldiers held Kwan’s arms while a noncom slapped her face. Her head turned to the right, then to the left, as the man struck her again. “Who are you?” he demanded.

The words were in accented English which indicated that the soldier was aware of Kwan’s nationality and that made sense. One of the residents of Ty Jata was a Chinese informer. That’s why a platoon of soldiers was waiting when the team arrived. Kunar and Pun fought bravely. But the Gurkhas were badly outnumbered and soon overwhelmed.

Kwan was left untouched. Why? Because the enemy knew she was a doctor, an officer, and a potential source of information. That’s why.

Like the rest of the team Kwan was not only out of uniform, but carrying a fake ID. That left her with no protection under international law. Not that the Chinese were likely to observe such niceties. So, all she could do was keep her mouth shut.

But could she? Kwan knew that the slaps were just the beginning. And she was reminded of the abused women she’d treated in the ER, their faces swollen, and their lips bleeding. Now Kwan was experiencing their pain first hand.

“Secure her hands and find a rope,” the noncom said. “We’ll lead the bitch to Major Wang like a dog on a leash.”

A private returned with a length of rope which he tied around Kwan’s neck. “Take her outside,” the noncom ordered. “And bring the headman.”

It was dark outside except for the glare produced by a pair of headlights. Kwan was standing in the village square. Snowflakes whirled around her head as soldiers dragged the village headman out to join her. He was old and wrinkled. “You brought the western bitch into your village,” the noncom said, as he pulled his pistol. “And you will pay.”

“Don’t do it!” Kwan shouted, but it was a waste of breath. The sound of the pistol shot reverberated off village walls and the headman fell.

Kwan wanted to cry but, by an act of will, managed to hold her tears back. Reveal nothing, Kwan told herself. You aren’t a green beret, but you’re an officer, and you can die like one.

“Put the bitch in the truck,” the noncom instructed. “And hold onto the rope. If she escapes you will be sent to a labor battalion.”

The private didn’t want to serve with a labor battalion and hurried to do as he was told.

Kwan was forced to climb into the back of a large truck and sit on a wooden bench. More soldiers piled in. They were talking and laughing as the troop transport jerked into motion.

Unlike Lee, who spoke fluent Mandarin, Kwan had nothing but English and two years of Spanish to rely on. That meant she couldn’t listen in.

But it didn’t take a genius to know that the soldiers were talking about her. Not that it mattered. It was nothing compared to what faced her.

Kwan felt a sudden surge of self-pity. Why her? But, on the other hand why not me? Kwan asked herself. Allied soldiers are dying everywhere. And in spite of what mom and dad said, you’re aren’t that special.

What about Jon? she wondered. How will he react? He’ll come for you, Kwan thought. Or try to. It was a reed. A slender reed. But something to cling to. Kwan felt a sense of warmth.

The village of Ty Jata, Nepal

Unfortunately, Colonel Smith-Peet was proven wrong. Lee, Shrestha and Pun didn’t encounter Kwan and her party on the trail. That made it necessary to approach Ty Jata with great care. Something was up, that much was obvious, since a lot of kerosene lamps were on. Everything looked green.

Lee paused at the edge of the village. The lights were on, but beyond the sound of a barking dog, Ty Jata was silent. Should he proceed along the path? Or look for a less obvious approach? The second option seemed best. His voice was little more than a whisper. “Follow me.”

Lee vaulted over a low fence, passed a chicken coop, and approached the back of a house. Unlike many of the others it was dark. A narrow path led along the south side of the dwelling to the front yard and three junked cars.

A second stone wall separated the first residence from the one beyond. And it was occupied judging from the light within. Lee climbed over the wall, knowing the others would do likewise. Then he raised a hand. “Pun… Go forward and talk to the people in that house. Identify yourself as a Gurkha, and ask for information. If you run into trouble call. We’ll be ready.”

Pun nodded and moved away. The Gurkha moved shadow-to-shadow, arrived at the house, and was careful to put his rifle aside before knocking on the door. Did he have a pistol in hand? Probably.

There was a sudden spill of light as the door opened and Lee saw the silhouette of what he assumed was a man. Thirty seconds passed. Then, after grabbing his rifle, Pun went inside. Lee allowed the air to escape from his lungs and was surprised to learn that he’d been holding it.

“So far, so good,” Shrestha whispered. “Pun’s a good talker.”

Lee hoped so as five minutes became ten. Finally Pun’s voice sounded in his ear. “This is Viper-One-Three. Please join me. Over.”

Lee pressed the transmit button twice and made his way forward. The door opened and Pun waved the men in. The kitchen was equipped with a waist-high work table, a two-burner stove, and open shelving. An elderly couple were waiting beyond. They were clearly frightened.

“This is Mr. and Mrs. Mathi,” Pun said. “I told them who we are, and why we’re here. They say that a local informant told the Chinese that our people were coming. They waited for Doctor Kwan to open her clinic and attacked.

Rai and Kunar fought back but were killed after a short gun battle. The Chinese dragged their bodies out into the main square. Doctor Kwan was taken prisoner.”

Lee felt despair followed by a glimmer of hope. “Where is she now?”

“The Chinese took her away,” Pun replied.

“Where to?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Mathi don’t know,” Pun answered. “But the Chinese left five men behind. They’re hidden in the local store waiting for us to appear.”

“Good,” Lee replied. “That’s where we’ll go. And remember, we need at least one prisoner, and two would be better. Tell Mr. and Mrs. Mathi that we appreciate their help, and will never speak their names.”

Pun spoke to the couple in Nepalese. They bowed their heads by way of an acknowledgement.

Pun led them out through the back door and past three houses before turning onto a well-trod trail. “The store is a one-story building with a flat roof,” Pun whispered. “Mr. Mathi thinks the Chinese might have a lookout up there.”

Lee turned to Shrestha who was armed with a sniper rifle. “Kill the lookout if there is one. Then we’ll go in.”

Shrestha nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Lee followed as Pun traveled beside a head-high stone wall past two houses to the point where the view opened up. The Gurkha pointed to the building ahead, and sure enough, a man armed with a rifle was standing on the roof. An easy target for Shrestha. The sniper rifle coughed and the figure collapsed.

Lee waited to see if the sound of the body hitting the roof would provoke a reaction. There was none. “I’ll get them to open the front door,” Lee said. “Once the shooting starts enter through the rear.” The Gurkhas nodded.

Lee led the way to the square, left his M4 leaning against a wall, and approached the store. Then he pounded the front door with a fist and shouted, “This is Lieutenant Yang! What the hell are you doing? Open the door.”

The words were in Mandarin, and the locals spoke Nepalese, ergo the speaker was Chinese. And an officer too. But, just to make sure, the sergeant in charge barely opened the door. The man waiting outside was clearly Chinese, but he was dressed like a Nepali, and that didn’t… The noncom never got the opportunity to complete his thought. Lee shot him in the face and stood aside. A fusillade of shots came from within.

That was the Gurkhas’ cue to kick the back door open and enter. Lee heard a burp of automatic fire followed by a single shot. “Two prisoners,” Pun said over the radio. “The location is secure. Over.”

“Entering,” Lee responded, as he tried to push the door open but a body blocked the way. Lee gave it a shove. Once inside Lee saw another soldier lying dead on the floor.

Two prisoners stood with hands behind their heads. One was a corporal, and the other was a private. “Remove your uniforms,” Lee ordered in Mandarin. “And do so quickly.”

The soldiers were clearly surprised, but did as they were told, and stood shivering in their underwear. “Good,” Lee said. “The doctor... Where did they take her?”

Neither man replied. Both looked uncertain. “I’ll take care of this,” Shrestha said, as he drew his kukri.

The soldiers didn’t know Nepali. But the kukri spoke for itself. The private broke his silence. “They took the doctor to the Special Forces Compound in Sim Bhanjyang pass.”

The corporal looked angry but kept his mouth shut. Was the private telling the truth? “How do you know that?” Lee demanded.

“We’re stationed there,” the private replied. “And our sergeant took her away.”

That was believable, especially since there was no other base nearby. There was no way to be sure however. So, Lee would have to take a chance. “Alright. I see a rack over there. Get these man some clothes. Take them a few miles away and camp out. You can turn them loose 24 hours from now.”

The Gurkhas objected. They could guess what Lee planned to do and wanted to go along. Lee shook his head. “Sorry, guys… But this is a one-man job. Besides, I’m Chinese, and you aren’t.”

While the Gurkhas got clothes for the soldiers Lee stripped, put the corporal’s uniform on, and took a look in the mirror. It fit well. Unfortunately, the noncom’s boots were too small. That meant he’d have to stick with his which, if spotted by some sharp-eyed sergeant, could be a source of trouble. All Lee could do was hope for the best.

After examining the noncom’s ID card, Lee concluded that beyond the fact that both of them were Chinese, the corporal and he bore little resemblance to each other. Still another source of potential difficulty.

After retrieving his M4, and giving it to Pun, Lee took possession of the corporal’s QBZ-95 carbine. It was a bullpup style rifle, which meant the curved magazine was located behind the pistol grip handle and the trigger assembly.

Like all special operators Lee was familiar with enemy weapons, and had spent all of 15 minutes firing a QBZ-carbine. The sights were nothing to write home about, but the Chinese 5.8X42mm rounds were designed to minimize recoil, and make the weapon more accurate on full-auto.

The corporal didn’t have a pistol. So Lee was wearing his in a shoulder holster under the Chinese overcoat. A round Ushanka hat with fold-down ear muffs completed the look. It would have to do. “Okay, Private Pun… Knock on some doors. I need some transportation. Hiking to the pass would take too long. See what you can buy for me.” Pun accepted a roll of flimsy occupation currency and left through the front door.

Secure in the knowledge that Shrestha was guarding the prisoners, Lee left the store, and walked out into the main square. Kunar and Rai were laid out side-by-side. And, judging from the skid marks left in the snow, the Gurkhas had been dragged there. Lee knelt next to the bodies. He let the tears flow.

And that’s where Lee was when he heard the roar of a poorly muffled engine followed by a backfire. Lee stood in time to turn and watch a strange vehicle arrive. The flatbed truck had been a car once. “It’s all I could find,” Pun said apologetically, as he got out. “But it runs.”

“You did well,” Lee assured him. “Tell the colonel that I’m going to free Doctor Kwan, or try to, and to write both of us off if we don’t show up within 48 hours.”

“Tell him yourself,” Pun said, as he tapped his radio.

“So he can tell me ‘no?’” Lee inquired. “I’m not that stupid. Here’s some more money. Please hire someone to make sure that Kunar and Rai are given the kind of service they would want. Then I want you and Shrestha to take the prisoners and get the hell out of town.”

“We will,” Pun promised, as he took the cash.

“I’ll see you later,” Lee said. And with that he entered the truck and placed the carbine next to him. The ancient vehicle was equipped with a four-speed stick shift. Lee came close to killing the engine as he released the clutch, caught it, and felt the engine engage. Hang on Wendy, Lee thought. I’m on the way.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

PLA Special Forces Compound 12, Nepal

A black hood had been placed over Kwan’s head during the trip to what she imagined to be the Chinese base in Sim Bhanjyang pass. And now, after being hustled into a building, Kwan was standing on tiptoes, lest the noose around her neck choke off her air supply.

She was focused on that, plus her determination to die, rather than reveal any information about the team. So, it came as a shock when her interrogator told her what he already knew. His English was quite good.

“Your name is Wendy Kwan. You were born in Hong Kong, but your family emigrated to the United States when you were two, and settled in Portland, Oregon. You were educated at Johns Hopkins university, and subsequently worked as an ER physician in Chicago. Then, after your country started World War III, you entered the army with the rank of captain.

“Now you are the medical officer for an Allied special forces commando responsible for a number of atrocities, including the slaughter of peace keepers in the village of Kulekhani, and the abduction of a Nepali family. The penalty for your crimes is death.

“But, here’s the good news,” the voice continued. “If you provide information about your unit’s current location, I can promise some leniency.”

Kwan summoned her courage. “Fuck you.”

The reaction was swift and deadly. Someone kicked the box that Kwan was standing on out from under her feet. The weight of her body pulled her down and tightened the noose. Kwan began to choke. Someone laughed. Everything went black.

Lee was two miles short of reaching Sim Bhanjyang pass when he ran into the tail end of an eastbound traffic jam. All manner of vehicles, including mostly empty army trucks, had been forced over to the side of the road by the military police. And the same was true of civilian vehicles like the rat rod conversion Lee was driving.

That left him with no choice. He couldn’t wait, so he had to walk. It was a pain in the ass, but easy to do, thanks to his Chinese uniform. Hundreds of soldiers were out of their vehicles and milling around which made it easy to blend in.

The sky was lighter in the east, and dry snowflakes were falling out of a lead gray sky, as Lee trudged through the slush. The road curved, and curved again. He passed brew-ups where soldiers were making tea, ditches filled with human waste and, as Lee drew closer, Nepali vendors selling hot meals.

Then the base appeared up ahead. A perimeter fence was in place, and temporary structures had been erected, but the complex still looked like the civilian maintenance facility it had once been. Lee’s heart started to beat a bit faster as he was forced to face the reality of the situation. The corporal’s ID card wouldn’t work. So how could he get in?

Lee knew one thing for sure though… It was important to keep moving. Armies might be different but noncoms weren’t. Any private or corporal stupid enough to stand around would be given something to do. All he could do was look for an opportunity and exploit it.

As Lee passed the complex, he saw two gates. One for personnel and one for vehicles. Could he hitch a ride on a truck? And enter that way?

No, Lee decided, as a troop transport entered through the larger gate. The troops loaded in back weren’t likely to accept him. And most of the trucks were sealed against the weather. So that was out.

Then he spotted a company strength column of soldiers marching in from the east. They were carrying heavy packs, and walking heads down, like men who had come a long way. Would the sentries demand ID from each soldier? Or just the officer in command? Lee was willing to bet on the second possibility. He turned, and took a very real leak, while the company shuffled past.

After zipping his pants Lee turned, ran a few steps, and was able to fall in at the end of the column. That was when he dropped his head and began to shuffle. You aren’t wearing a pack, Lee told himself. Will someone notice?

No one did. The most frightening moment occurred when the column came to a stop so that a sentry could check the CO’s paperwork. That was when the soldier in front of Lee turned to look at him. “Who are you?”

“Corporal Choo,” Lee replied in Mandarin. “I was marching up front, but had to fall back. My right knee hurts.”

The private frowned. “That’s too bad. How come we never met?”

“I was in the hospital in Kathmandu,” Lee answered. “That’s where they operated on my knee. I wish I was back there.”

The private chuckled. “Yeah, I’ll bet you do. What happened to your pack?”

“The bastards at the hospital lost it,” Lee replied. “I need a full issue of new gear.”

Whatever the private might have said was lost as a command was given and the column began to shuffle forward. The plan was working, or so it appeared.

But Lee felt the fear build as he neared the gate. Then he was through and faced with a new challenge. Where was Kwan being held? Assuming she was there.

But she has to be here,” Lee thought in an attempt to reassure himself. Where else could she be?

The obvious answer was to ask someone. Not an officer or a sergeant but someone lower. Lee faked a limp and slowed his pace. That allowed the column to pull away. As it did, Lee turned away. A private was standing next to a door cleaning a pair of muddy boots. Not his, unless they were backups, since he was wearing a pair. “Excuse me,” Lee said politely. “I’m new here. Could you tell me how to reach the detention center? I’m supposed to stand guard there.”

The private looked up. “Well it could be worse. I have to clean the captain’s boots. Go through the door next to me, take a right, and follow the corridor to another door. You’ll see a sign.”

Lee thanked him and followed the directions. The hallway was muddy and a private was mopping it. A ceiling mounted camera stared down at him. Shit, shit, shit. It’s like Luke Skywalker said, Lee thought. “I have a very bad feeling about this.”

Tong was a happy man. His orders had arrived! He was to make his way to Kathmandu in five days, board a plane and fly to Beijing--where the girls at the Shangri-La hotel would be waiting for him. But that was then. At the moment he was the fucking officer of the day, which meant he had to sit at a desk, and oversee all sorts of routine bullshit. Although truth be told he’d been able to delegate a lot of it to a gung-ho sergeant named Chin.

So, Tong was leaning back in his chair with his boots up on the duty desk. They were spotlessly clean and a wonder to behold. “Captain!” Chin said, as he arrived at the desk. “We have a Class Five intrusion!”

A Class Five intrusion meant that a known enemy was inside the wire. And Tong didn’t believe it. He frowned. “What makes you think so?”

“The facial recognition system produced a positive match for an American soldier.”

Tong felt something akin to electricity sizzle through his nervous system. Of course! The doctor… The Americans were trying to rescue the doctor! He jumped to his feet. “Show me.”

Chin led Tong into the operations center where most of the personnel were busy managing traffic on the Tribhuvan Highway. The so-called “Alert Desk” was located in a corner. Photos of two men were visible on the side-by-side monitors. The face of a Chinese soldier filled one—and a photo Captain Jon Lee the other. The men were identical.

“Ask the major to join us,” Tong ordered. “Tell him it’s urgent.” Chin hurried away.

Tong turned to the duty tech. “Where was the intruder when the shot was taken?”

“In the hall that leads to the detention center, sir.”

It was Lee all right… And Tong was thrilled. “Give me a tour of the cameras beyond.”

The next shot showed the American passing through a door where a guard ordered him to stop. Lee shot him with a pistol, stepped over the body, and kept going. “Shall I sound the alarm, sir?” the tech wanted to know.

“No,” Tong said. “Not yet.”

Wang arrived wearing a bath robe. “What the hell is so urgent that I can’t take a shower?”

“The American from Kulekhani is in the building, sir… He shot one of the guards and appears to be searching for Doctor Kwan.”

“Then what the hell are you waiting for?” Wang demanded. “Kill the bastard!”

“We can do that,” Tong agreed, as another camera shot appeared. “Or we can let him rescue the doctor and follow the two of them to their base.” The new image showed Lee inside the detention area opening a chicken wire cage. A soldier was dead on the floor.

Wang stared. “That’s brilliant… Absolutely brilliant. But how many soldiers will he kill?”

“That’s hard to say,” Tong replied. “But how badly do you want to find the Dalai Lama? And eradicate Captain Lee’s command?”

Tong knew what Wang was thinking. Here, on a plate before him, was an opportunity to rack up an accomplishment so profound that he would move up to lieutenant colonel within a matter of weeks. “Call the next guard,” Wang ordered. “Call all of the guards. Tell them to let the soldier and the woman leave, and they are to remain silent.”

“But sir,” the tech objected. “He…”

“Do it!”

The tech did as he was told. “This had better work,” Wang grated.

“It will, Tong said confidently. “But we need to get organized.”

Lee saw the door, knew he would have to kill another guard, and was prepared to do so as he helped Kwan walk. But, when he pushed through and into the room beyond, the guard nodded.

Lee’s pistol was fitted with a suppressor and mostly hidden in his left pocket. So the shots had gone unnoticed. And this particular guard saw no reason to question a fellow soldier’s actions. Not in an army that fostered unquestioning obedience.

The next door opened into the outdoors. Lee’s head was swimming, his heart was beating like a trip hammer, and his breath came in short gasps. “Let go,” Kwan said. “I can stand on my own. We’re going to die, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Lee said. “We are.”

“Give me a gun.” Lee passed the pistol over.

“Thank you, Jon. I love you.”

“And I love you,” Lee said, as he freed the Chinese carbine.

“What are we going to do?”

“Walk through the gate.”

“Okay, I’m ready.”

“Don’t shoot if you don’t have to.”

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

Together, walking side-by-side, they made for the gate. Three guards were on duty. And Lee was waiting for a challenge. But as they neared the portal a sergeant waved them through.

Lee felt lightheaded. And, as they walked toward the highway, he expected to receive a bullet in the back. But the shot never came. As the snow closed around them, Lee knew they were momentarily safe.

Kwan was shivering, and no wonder, since she was dressed in nothing more than a baggy shirt, pants, and her boots. Lee removed his greatcoat and hung it over her shoulders. “No,” Kwan said. “You shouldn’t.”

“Yes, I should,” Lee replied. “The last thing I need is a hypothermic doctor. Come on, we’re going to hitch a ride.”

The sun was up and traffic was grinding west as Lee led Kwan across the slushy highway, through the gap between two tanker trucks, and onto the verge.

They were in dire need of shelter. But they had to be picky. Lee let three troop trucks pass, spotted what he was looking for, and turned to Kwan. “See the tractor-trailer rig? The one loaded with utility vehicles? That’s our target. Get ready.”

“What if the driver spots us?”

Lee shrugged. “Let’s hope he doesn’t.”

Lee estimated that the truck-trailer combo was moving at about two-miles per hour. And the lowboy trailer was no more than a foot off the ground. The next vehicle, a tank transporter, was half visible through a veil of blowing snow. “Get ready,” Lee said as the tractor growled past. “Now!”

Kwan attempted to jump onto the slow-moving trailer but wasn’t able to put enough energy into it. She started to fall, felt Lee give her a push, and landed on her knees. Lee made the necessary leap and paused to help. “Stay low… Follow me!”

Lee led her onward, past two UAZ-452 off-road forward control vans, to a third machine sitting up front. He paused to look around. And, having seen no reaction, Lee turned to the van.

The side door was unlocked and opened smoothly. Lee motioned for Kwan to get in, then followed. A bank of radios and radio related equipment occupied the left side of the van. And two chairs were strapped to the deck.

But, while a bit warmer than the air outside, Lee could still see his breath. And there were none of the blankets, sleeping bags, or coats that he’d been hoping for.

Lee freed a chair for Kwan to sit on. Then, in hopes of finding something useful, he went forward. It was bare too… Except for one important item, and that was the key in the ignition.

It made sense. PLA supply officers had no idea which soldier would be ordered to back the van off the trailer. So, the key was where he could find it.

Lee slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The engine came to life and, according to the gas gauge, the tank was half full.

Would the truck driver hear the van’s engine over the roar of his own? That seemed unlikely. As for the van’s exhaust that was lost in the blue cloud surrounding the convoy.

Lee turned the heater on, switched the fan to “High,” and smiled as warm air began to enter the cabin. Then he went back to where Kwan sat bundled in his coat. “I can feel the heat already,” she said, pointing at a vent. “Did the parking lights come on?”

Lee said, “Crap,” opened the door, and got out. The van’s running lights were on all right, but not for long, as Lee used the rifle butt to smash them. The interior was even warmer by the time he returned. “Good call,” Lee said. “The lights were on. So, how bad was it?”

“Bad,” Kwan answered. “They beat the shit out of me, put a noose around my neck, and kicked the box I was standing on out from under my feet. The rope cut my air supply and I passed out. When I awoke, I was in a cell.”

“Damn,” Lee said, as he sat on the second chair. “I’m sorry. What, if anything, did you tell them? Understanding that I’m not going to judge.”

“I told them to fuck off,” Kwan replied. “That’s when they kicked the box.”

Lee grinned. “You’re amazing. Well done. We might have a problem though.”

“What’s that?”

“In retrospect our escape was way too easy.”

“You think they’re tracking us?”

“I don’t know,” Lee replied. “But it’s a possibility. I think we should wait for a village to come up, get off and find a store. Then, once we have enough warm clothes, we’ll look for a place to hide. The last thing we want to do is lead them to the tunnel.”

“They knew my name, rank, and personal history,” Kwan told him.

“The Chinese government is very good at facial recognition,” Lee told her. “The international internet is down. But odds are they have tons of stuff on their servers. If so, they know you were a cheerleader.”

Kwan frowned. “I was a cheerleader… How did you know that?”

“You look like a cheerleader,” Lee replied.

“Are you hitting on me?”

“Yes.”

Kwan smiled. “That’s against regs. We’re in the same unit.”

“I know. Are you going to report me?”

“No,” Kwan said, as she moved to his lap. “Because I’d have to report myself too. Kiss me, but do it gently.”

Lee examined her face. One eye was swollen shut and a dark blue line circled her throat. Lee kissed her and she kissed him back. They remained that way for a while, holding and being held, while the snow swirled outside.

Lee kissed Kwan again. “Much as I’d like to do this all day, we need to get off before the convoy comes to a stop. I’m going to go out and watch for a village.”

“Take your coat,” Kwan said. “It’s warm in here.”

After donning the coat Lee went outside and was careful to close the door quickly. Then he chose a position in between their van and the vehicle behind it--a hidey hole that allowed him to look out without being seen from ahead or behind.

Lee found himself staring at snow covered rock for the most part, occasionally interrupted by ravines, and streams that flowed down from above. There were bridges too… A lot of them. Most were constructed of concrete or metal. But a few were made of wood. And they shook as if palsied as the rig crossed them.

Meanwhile Lee was getting cold in spite of the coat. So cold his teeth were chattering. And he was about to enter the van when a sign went past. Lee couldn’t read it, but figured it was a harbinger of civilization, no matter how modest that might be.

Lee hurried to warn Kwan and give her the coat. They huddled together as a cluster of houses slipped past. “Get ready,” Lee said. “On the count of three. One, two, three.”

Kwan stood, took two steps forward, and jumped. She was still in the air when Lee followed. His boots hit, slid, and dumped him onto his chest.

Kwan was there to offer a hand. He took it. Some low-lying commercial buildings were visible ahead, and Lee realized that he was looking at the Nepali version of a strip mall, built to service east-west traffic prior to the war.

The column continued to grind by as what looked like an under dressed soldier and a woman in an overly large coat made their way toward a store. “I think you should wait outside,” Lee said. “I’ll be as fast as I can.”

“What? I’m not pretty enough for you?” Kwan inquired through cracked lips.

“You’ve had better days,” Lee answered with a grin. “Take shelter over there, at the bus stop.”

The bus stop had been constructed with bad weather in mind. It had three plywood walls and a Plexiglas front, most of which was obscured by multicolored fliers. The shelter was empty and no one would wonder why a woman was waiting inside. “Keep the pistol handy,” Lee said as he left. “If I hear shots I’ll come running.”

Lee did the best he could to survey his surroundings as he crossed the parking lot to the store’s front door. The question continued to niggle at him. Why was he still alive? `Had it been a matter of luck? A confluence of factors that conspired to let them escape the Chinese base untouched? Or was something more sinister at work? But, if it was, where were the helicopters? The drones? And the military police?

A bell tinkled as Lee pushed the door open and entered. The store’s thinly stocked shelves included a bit of everything including food, bottled water, and racks of clothes in the back. A middle-aged Nepali man watched warily as Lee selected clothes for Kwan.

The wardrobe included a long-sleeved sweater, a pair of knockoff Levi’s, and a parka. He chose clothes for himself as well. The sooner he got rid of the uniform the better.

The garments went into a cart along with bottles of water and two cans of spaghetti. The only choice that was familiar to him.

The proprietor was clearly relieved when Lee brought the cart to the cash register. How many Chinese soldiers had ripped him off? Dozens, Lee supposed. To the victors go the spoils. Even if the spoils are candy bars and cigarettes.

Lee accepted his change, said “Thank you,” in Mandarin--and left carrying two plastic bags. Kwan was right where he’d left her. “I have clothes for you, but we need a place to go.”

“Here it is,” Kwan said as she gave him a flyer. “It was taped to the wall.” The text was in Hindi and English. “Rooms to rent,” the ad said. “Come by. You’ll be glad you did!” A simple map filled the rest of the page.

Lee took another look around. Westbound traffic had stopped, and eastbound traffic was growling uphill. As before he saw no signs of a search. Perhaps they were outside the area where the search was taking place. There was no way to know.

“Okay,” Lee said. “Let’s give it a try.”

The guesthouse was three blocks away. The woman who owned it seemed happy to see them and, if she had questions about the couple, she kept them to herself. And that, Lee hoped, was the woman’s approach to the Chinese occupation: See nothing, hear nothing, and know nothing.

Their room was small, but scrupulously clean, and well equipped by Nepali standards. A cooler occupied a ledge outside the single window, a two-burner hotplate sat perched on a shelf, and a double bed took up most of the floor.

But at that moment in time the room felt like a palatial hotel suite. A shared bathroom was down the hall. “Would you like to take a shower?” Lee inquired.

“I would,” Kwan said. “And put my new clothes on. I hope they have hot water.”

Once Kwan was gone Lee removed his radio from the inside pocket of the Chinese overcoat, turned it on, and thumbed the button. “Viper-Six to Viper-Eight, over.”

The response was immediate. “This is Eight… Where have you been? We were worried. Over.”

“It’s a long story,” Lee replied. “But you’ll be glad to know that Viper-One-Six is with me. We’re in a tiny village called Nukwot. Over.”

“Holy shit, that’s wonderful!” Cato enthused. “What’s your ETA? Viper-Two-Three will want to know. Over.”

“Viper-Two-Three” was Smith-Peet’s call sign. “I’m not sure,” Lee responded. “I had to smoke some guards in order to extract One-Six. So, the Chinese have got to be pissed. But there are no signs of a search. And that worries me. Over.”

“Roger that,” Cato replied. “You don’t want to lead them in. I get that. I’ll let Three know when he returns. Over.”

“Do that,” Lee said. “I’ll check in six hours from now. Over and out.”

Kwan returned shortly thereafter. She was wearing her new clothes which, though not fancy, fit reasonably well. “You have great taste,” Kwan said. “I’m ready for the ball.”

Lee laughed. “The other girls will be jealous.”

Kwan listened while Lee told her about his conversation with Cato. Then he stripped down to his boxer shorts and threw the Chinese uniform into a corner. “Keep the pistol handy,” he advised. “I’ll knock four times.”

Then he took the carbine plus a towel and went down the hall. The “hot” water was only lukewarm. But even that was a treat. And Lee took pleasure in washing at least a week’s worth of dirt off his body, before returning to the room, where he rapped four times. Kwan said, “Come in,” and he did.

Kwan was in bed under the covers. Her clothes were draped over a chair. “I pre-warmed the bed for you,” Kwan said.

Lee put the carbine next to the bed and slid in under the covers. His hands reached for her. Kwan was small and warm. “I’m sorry about my face,” she said. “I look ugly.”

“No,” Lee said as he kissed her. “You’re beautiful…. Very beautiful.”

“I want you,” Kwan said.

“And I want you,” Lee replied.

The war ceased to exist, and time seemed to stop.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

West of Sim Bhanjyang Pass, Nepal

Kwan was still asleep when Lee took the radio down the hall to the bathroom, closed the door, and turned the shower on. Cato had been waiting for the call. “I read you, Six. Two-Three is here and wants to talk to you. Over.”

“This is Three,” Smith-Peet said. “Has anything changed? Are you still in the clear? Over.”

“As far as we can tell,” Lee replied. “But as I told Eight earlier there’s been no manhunt. And it seems strange. Over.”

“Or there is one, and it’s taking place elsewhere,” Smith-Peet said. “I think you waited long enough. Make your way to Badahar, find the Atwar Buddha, and a team will meet you there at 0100 tonight. Will it be necessary to carry One-Six? Over.”

“No,” Lee replied. “Over.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Over and out.”

Lee returned to the room, opened the door, and found himself looking down the barrel of his own pistol. “You’re supposed to knock four times,” Kwan said tightly. Lee raised his hands. “Sorry, I thought you were asleep.”

Kwan lowered the pistol. “And I thought you were going to the can.”

“I did,” Lee replied. “And I called in. We have orders to meet a team in the village of Badahar at 0100 tonight.”

“So, they think it’s safe?”

Lee shrugged. “I wouldn’t go that far. But the colonel wants us to return.”

“Okay,” Kwan said, as she rolled out of bed. She was naked, and Lee stared.

Kwan shook her head. “Put your eyes back in your head soldier. I’m hungry and about to heat some spaghetti.”

“In the nude?”

Kwan threw a pillow at him. “No. Where the hell is Badahar? Your job is to find out.”

The last thing Lee wanted to do was to ask the hotel’s owner. She couldn’t tell what she didn’t know. So, Lee made his way down to the bus stop, examined the map posted there, and saw that Badahar was 10 miles west of Nukwot.

Then he turned around and retraced his steps. He was careful to knock four times before inserting the key into the lock. It made no difference. Kwan was aiming the pistol at him as he entered. She put it aside. “Dinner’s ready,” she announced. “Dig in.”

Much to Lee’s surprise the spaghetti was good. And filling too. “So,” Kwan said. “What did you learn?”

“Badahar is 10 miles west of here. I figure we’ll wait for night to fall, go down, and jump onto a westbound convoy.”

“What if westbound traffic has been shut down?” Kwan wanted to know.

“Then we’ll wait,” Lee replied.

“It would be nice to take the rifle.”

“Yes, it would,” Lee agreed. “I like the way you think. We’ll wrap your POW shirt around it.”

They paid for the room and left after darkness fell. The Chinese uniform and Kwan’s POW pants went into a trash can on the way to the highway. “Damn it,” Lee said. “Traffic is flowing east.”

“Let’s find a spot to wait,” Kwan suggested. “Something out of the wind.”

The snow had stopped for the time being. But it was cold and a stiff breeze was blowing down-slope.

“Good idea,” Lee replied. “Let’s walk west along the highway. Maybe we can find a spot where there’s a windbreak and trucks will have to slow down.”

After walking a quarter mile or so Lee saw flashing lights up ahead. And, as they drew closer, he saw a truck stalled by the side of the road. A Chinese wrecker was on the scene. One of many he assumed, since there was no doubt that vehicles broke down frequently, and had to be cleared to avoid bottlenecks. “Come on,” Lee said. “Run!”

They ran. And, as the distance closed, the soldiers operating the wrecker managed to hoist the front end of the box truck up off the pavement. “What-if-it-turns? And-goes-east?” Kwan demanded, in between gulps of air.

“Then-we’re-screwed,” Lee replied.

By the time they drew level with the box truck all of the various chains had been secured and the soldiers were back in the relative comfort of their wrecker. “Jump!” Lee ordered, “and open the cab.”

Kwan made the leap to the running board and jerked the passenger side door open. The wrecker-truck combo was in motion by then with Lee running alongside. Kwan turned to reach out. Lee ran faster, made the jump, and felt Kwan’s fingers close around his wrist.

The heavy-duty rearview mirror gave him something to hold onto while Kwan slid inside. He followed. Then came the moment of truth. Would the wrecker continue to head west? Or pull a U-turn?

After waiting for five suspenseful minutes Lee felt he could relax. The wrecker was hauling the box truck west. And, if their luck held, the tow would carry them all the way to Badahar.

And it did. After half an hour of twisting-turning S curves, dimly lit buildings appeared on the hillside to the right, and the wrecker slowed. “I think we’re there,” Lee said. “Time to bail out.” He went first, quickly followed by Kwan who landed without incident.

“Good,” Lee said. “Now we have to find the Atwar Buddha.”

“Yes, we do,” Kwan agreed. “But it’s only 20:45.”

“I’ll call Cato,” Lee said. “And he can notify the team. Maybe they’re in the area or close by.”

And that, as it turned out, was the case. After receiving radio instructions, they were able to find the centuries old Atwar Buddha, and make contact with Pun and Shrestha. “It’s good to see you, sir,” Pun said. “And you too ma’am. We’re sorry about what happened to you.”

“Me too,” Kwan replied. “Thanks for coming.”

“We brought some gear and weapons,” Shrestha said, as he dumped a pack board onto the ground. “Take whatever you need.”

Kwan opted for some army-issue rain pants to pull over the ones she had, plus an M4, and a pistol.

Lee took his pistol back and traded the Chinese carbine in for an HK416. Both Lee and Kwan accepted bottles of water plus three energy bars each. “Okay,” Pun said, once the process was over. “Let’s go.”

Thanks to their night vision gear the group could hike during the hours of darkness, but the serpentine trail led steadily upwards, before topping a ridge. And Lee was struggling to breathe by then. A steep path led downwards from there. And, as light crept in from the east, they arrived in front of a stone hut. It was sheltered by trees and covered with snow. “This was a trade route once,” Shrestha informed them. “And traders took shelter here. We’ll do the same. It’s too dangerous to trek during the daylight hours.”

An ancient wooden door provided access to a windowless interior. And outside of stone benches that ran along two walls there was no furniture. A smoke blackened fireplace was available, but worthless without fuel, which the party lacked.

So, all they could do was post a single sentry, curl up on the hard benches, and get what sleep they could. Both Lee and Kwan were careful to maintain a certain amount of distance from each other, lest the Gurkhas realize that the relationship had changed.

After what felt like an interminable day, and consuming some MREs, the group hit the trail. It took six hours of hard slogging to reach the check point located one mile from the tunnel. “The Beagles are clear,” Cato assured them. “Come on in. Over.”

The group arrived to a warm reception. A party of sorts had been arranged, featuring the best tidbits from a number of MREs, and a container of Fruit Beverage Mix, which stood in for beer. Everyone except those on watch gathered around to hear Kwan and Lee tell their combined stories.

There were suitable oohs and ahs at all the right points culminating in an upbeat speech from Smith-Peet. The gathering broke up after that. And, after reclaiming her bunk, Kwan went looking for Evers. The green beret was cleaning his assault rifle. “Hey, doc. It’s good to have you back. Jangchup has an interesting case of toe rot that I’d like an opinion on.”

“I can hardly wait,” Kwan said dryly. “But, before we tackle that, I’d like you to take a look at the back of my neck. Something hurts back there.”

“Can do,” Evers said, as he pulled a pair surgical gloves on. “Maybe you have a new friend. Nepal is home to a variety of ticks.”

Kwan winced as Evers touched her neck. “Yeah, that’s the spot. What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure,” Evers replied. “I can feel something under your skin.”

“Well, dig it out.”

“With a local? Or without?”

“Without,” Kwan replied.

A couple of minutes passed while Evers wiped the affected area with disinfectant, readied some 4X4s, and armed a scalpel. “Are you ready? I’m about to go in.”

“Do it,” Kwan ordered. There was a brief moment of pain as Evers made a tiny incision. “You have an infection here,” the green beret said. “And here’s the culprit.”

“A tick?”

“No, a pencil-eraser-sized gizmo of some sort. A present from the Chinese no doubt.”

Kwan leapt to her feet, turned, and snatched the bloody object out of his hand. “A tracker! A fucking tracker! That’s why we didn’t see any helicopters!” Then she ran down-tunnel to the makeshift command station.

Smith-Peet was sitting on a crate of ammo, writing in his journal, and smoking an ancient pipe. “I say, Doctor, what’s the rush?”

“The Chinese put a tracker in my neck! Evers dug it out.” Kwan held the capsule out for him to see.

Smith-Peet turned pale. “Cato… Get on the horn and warn everyone. Attack imminent.”

“It isn’t ‘imminent,’” Cato said, as he stared at a computer screen. “It’s here. There are four, that’s four, airborne targets circling our position.”

Major Wang was leading the mission himself. And nothing had been left to chance. As his helicopter circled the enemy hideout, three additional helos followed along behind, one of which carried second-in-command Captain Tong.

About half of the Thunder God Commando was 32 soldiers, which should be more than adequate. And their orders were to, “Attack the enemy position and kill all the enemy combatants within.” The Dalai Lama included. That kind of clarity was rare and Wang was extremely grateful for it.

Thanks to satellite reconnaissance Wang knew the Allied force was hiding in a railroad tunnel, which was spewing heat from what amounted to an exhaust pipe, indicating that a power source was located within. But to attack the “turtle” Wang would have crack its shell. So, the first step was to attack the rock face behind which the tunnel lay.

The helicopters were Russian made Mil Mi-24 attack helicopters which could carry eight passengers each. Soviet pilots referred to them as “flying tanks,” because they were built to take a lot of punishment, and to dish it out as well. In this case that meant chin-mounted Yak-B Gatling guns, plus pylon-mounted 9M114 Kokon radio-guided anti-tank missiles, four per ship. And they, Wang felt sure, would crack the turtle’s shell.

The team was prepared for an attack. Or as prepared as such a small group could be. There were 13 people in all. But of that number only 10 of them were soldiers. And that included Kwan, who might or might not be available for combat.

But all of them had light “bugout” packs which were ready to go at all times, personal radios, and weapons for the combatants. And most of them were ready when the first missile struck the outside wall. They felt the explosion through the soles of their boots, heard a dull thump, and knew they were in serious trouble. An infantry assault on one end of the tunnel would be bad, attacks on both entrances would be terrible, and a successful effort to destroy the tunnel itself would be nothing less than disastrous.

That’s why Smith-Peet had what he called “Plan Z.” And, as a second missile struck the wall, he put the plan into action. The last car on the west side of the tunnel was a passenger car, which thanks to many hours of work, had been converted into a rolling fortress. The inside walls were lined with railroad ties, steel plates protected most of the roof, and machineguns were mounted two to a side. “All aboard!” Smith-Peet shouted, as another missile slammed into the mountainside. Chunks of rock fell from the ceiling this time—and a shaft of early morning light streamed in through a hole in the wall.

“Blow the charge!” Smith-Peet ordered. The C-4 charges were ready. And as they went off, the explosions destroyed the “plug” at the west end of the tunnel, and sent splinters of wood shooting outwards.

There wasn’t enough room for a helicopter to land on the snow-covered tracks. So, Wang and the eight men riding with him had roped to the ground. And as they surged forward a second helo began to drop more troops behind them. Meanwhile, the same evolution was taking place at the east end of the tunnel. We have them in a vise, Wang thought, as he led his men forward.

Then came was a series of explosions that sent daggers of wood flying through the air. A splinter struck Wang’s chest and threw him to the ground. As he lay there, staring at the helicopter floating above, he began to cry.

Other men had been cut down as well, reducing the squad to only four, all firing their weapons into the dust and smoke that obscured the entrance to the tunnel.

Smith-Peet was standing on the platform located at the back end of the car. A metal enclosure had been added to protect the otherwise vulnerable position. Bullets clanged on steel and ricocheted away. “Release the brake,” Smith-Peet ordered, as he fired through a slit.

Staff Sergeant Thapa was unperturbed. “Sah, yes sah,” the noncom said, and he turned the big wheel. And somewhere, down below their feet, the car’s emergency brake was released.

Nothing happened at first. But the car was sitting on a ten-percent grade. So gradually, like an old beast awakened from its sleep, the passenger car came to life. Metal squealed and a rocket launched grenade exploded as the boxy vehicle gathered speed.

Smith-Peet could see through the rifle slit. And, as the smoke blew away, he saw bodies scattered across the tracks in front of him. Troops were visible beyond but, upon seeing the behemoth coming at them, hurried to get off the tracks. Smith-Peet fired at them and had the satisfaction of seeing two soldiers fall.

Tears continued to stream down Wang’s face, as he managed to turn halfway over, and began to claw his way to safety. “No!” he shouted. “Stop! I order you to…” The sentence was punctuated by a scream as a rusty wheel severed both of the officer’s legs.

Lee was standing on a platform with a FIM-92 surface-to-air missile resting on his shoulder. Thirty feet behind him Evers was doing the same. The weapons had been included in the K-MAX supply drop but had not been needed until then.

The Mil Mi-24 fired a missile. But as with all radio guided missiles it was necessary for the pilot or gunner to keep his crosshairs on the target until the moment of impact. And as the helo was forced to bank or hit the mountain, the sight picture was lost, causing the Kokon missile to fly away.

Not so with Lee’s heat-seeking fire-and forget Stinger. It homed in on the helicopter and exploded. A rotor flew off sending the helo corkscrewing into the canyon below. “Yee-haw!” Evers shouted. “Suck it assholes!”

Tong along with two squads of eight men each had landed unopposed on the eastside of the tunnel by that time. A large wooden door blocked their way. The soldiers took cover as two explosive charges went off and hurled debris in every direction.

Tong expected to face both machinegun fire and grenades as the smoke started to blow away. But nothing happened, until a series of muffled explosions was heard, followed by a loud boom.

That was when Tong saw a smoking helicopter fall into the abyss on his left and knew that things weren’t going as planned. And where was Major Wang? The normally loquacious officer had been silent for quite a while.

Sergeant Shi shouted, “Follow me!” and led his men into the tunnel.

Tong hurried to catch up. Tracks led to a flat car with a generator sitting on it, a tank car which was presumably filled with fuel, and a line of stationary passenger cars. Light flooded in from the west end of the tunnel. And when Tong arrived there it was to see what looked like a slaughter yard beyond. A corporal came to meet him. “The enemy escaped on a train car, sir. And the helicopters are chasing it.”

“Where is Major Wang?”

“Dead, sir.”

Tong looked up at the sky. Strangely, after snowing for days, it was clear. His eyes came back down. “Assign men to process the bodies. We’ll need names, ID tags, and photos.

“And send a detail into the tunnel. Tell them to collect every piece of paper they find regardless of what’s on it. Computers, if any, should be handled with great care. Oh, and get video of the interior… Every foot of it. I’ll need that for my report.” The noncom hurried away.

Tong went looking for a rock to sit on. Then, after fishing the pack of cigarettes out of an inside pocket, he lit one. It was a new habit and, if he lived long enough, might kill him. Tong smiled. But how likely was that?

The passenger car was hurtling down a steep grade. Evers was thrown to one side as it entered a curve. The pursing helicopters disappeared for a moment, only to reappear in line, all banking in unison. What looked like sparks flew as the first ship fired its 12.7mm minigun. The pilot’s aim was good, damned good, as high explosive rounds followed the track toward the swaying train car and threatened to blow it off the tracks.

Then Evers fired. And as the Stinger raced away, he ducked to get another launcher from Binsa, who was waiting below. Evers surfaced just in time to see his target explode.

The ball of fire was just beginning to contract when the next attack helicopter blew through the steadily expanding halo of debris. That was a mistake. The second ship appeared to stagger as it hit something, faltered, and banked away. Flames poured out of the aircraft’s starboard engine as the pilot battled to maintain control.

That left a single pursuer. Evers heard a tone and pulled the trigger. The helicopter pilot fired flares that were intended to lure the Stinger away from the attack ship, and the tactic worked. The missile chose to chase a flare. The result was a distant thud, and a puff of smoke, as the Stinger exploded.

The helicopter continued to bore in. And that wasn’t all. The passenger car lost speed once the down grade became an upgrade. Then it rolled backwards and came to a stop. Cannon fire found the car and swept over it. The steel plates were enough to protect the occupants from one gun-run; Smith-Peet knew that the helo would circle around, and that the pilot was likely to fire rockets a second time around. “Get out!” Smith-Peet shouted, as he ran the length of the car. “Get out now!”

Lee was carrying the remaining Stinger as he followed Ishya and the baby out through a side door. Bhadrapala was riding in a backpack, and inexplicably smiling, as he stared at Lee. Once outside the green beret found himself on a railway bridge. The narrow walkway ran parallel to the tracks and was there for the convenience of maintenance staff. A river boiled and jumped 100 feet below. “Watch out!” Shekhawat shouted. “The helo is coming back!”

A pair of unguided rockets arrowed in. One of them hit the bridge—and the other missed. “Follow me!” Smith-Peet yelled, and ran west. Jangchup hurried to help Ishya while the rest of them brought up the rear.

But once clear of the passenger car Lee turned to face the oncoming chopper. Rockets flared as it fired again, and Lee waited for them to hit, before pulling the trigger.

The bridge sagged as a support gave way, Lee lost his footing, and was lying on his back when the helicopter exploded. Metal groaned and the bridge started to fold. Lee let go of the launcher as he felt himself begin to slide. He was pushing with his feet and trying to move uphill when a pair of hands grabbed his harness. “That won’t do,” Smith-Peet said, as he towed Lee to safety. “Well done Old Fruit. I think I’ll put you in for some sort of gong [medal].

“There’s no rest for the wicked,” Smith-Peet announced cheerfully. “The enemy knows where we are. And once they regroup more aircraft will arrive. We need to clear the area and do so as quickly as possible. Staff Sergeant Thapa will be on point. Start walking.”

Sim Bhanjyang Pass

A full day had passed since the disastrous attack on the railroad tunnel. And after submitting a report to the regional headquarters organization, Tong had been ordered to report to Kathmandu for a one-on-one meeting with Colonel Xu. It wasn’t something he looked forward to, especially after all the negative comments by Major Wang, but there was no escaping it.

Tong was the Thunder God Commando’s defacto XO, that in spite of the fact that he wasn’t regular army, and wanted to return to his duties with the MSS. And Tong planned to make that clear during the meeting with Xu.

In the meantime, he was riding the 2014 Royal Enfield C5 “Desert Storm” motorcycle and enjoying the sense of freedom it provided. And that included the ability to ride east against the flow of traffic by weaving in and out of it.

The process was both dangerous and messy. On more than one occasion Tong found himself in the wrong place, at the wrong time—which meant being doused with a sheet of freezing cold slush thrown his way by a passing truck. He was dressed for it though… And relished the challenge. So, bit by bit he worked his way east to Thaha, where he had lunch, before continuing on to Chitang to stay the night.

All of the guest houses were full. So, the best Tong could do was to rent a mat on the floor of the local gymnasium. It came with a reasonably clean blanket. And that plus the clothing he wore was all Tong had to stay warm. Not that it was especially cold, thanks to the body heat generated by fifty or sixty people. The air was humid, heavy with the smell of wet wool, and so thick Tong could taste it.

After six hours of sleep he was eager to get up and out. Breakfast consisted of a hot bowl of Thukpa (chicken noodle soup) purchased from a street vendor. The warmth of it felt good in Tong’s stomach as he freed the bike from three different locks and rode it to a PLA operated fuel bladder where he filled the tank.

Then he was back on the highway. Traffic was flowing east at that point which made the ride to Chandragiri easier. From there it was on to Tinthana, followed by Kathmandu.

Tong was tired and grateful for the tiny room at the PLA operated transit facility. That was where he spent the night. After a hot shower in the morning, he had breakfast with a mishmash of officers from every imaginable branch of the PLA. The chatter focused on the big battle that all of them felt was coming soon, the news that North Korea had formally joined the Axis, and the availability of prostitutes in Kathmandu.

Then it was time to don a fresh uniform, clean his boots, and check his image in the cracked mirror. You look as good as you can, given the circumstances, Tong decided. Try not to say anything stupid.

Taxies were in demand, but the local drivers liked to transport officers, who were more likely to tip. The cab was a tiny Suzuki Marutis, but adequate to Tong’s needs, and dropped him at the upscale Hyatt Regency.

After paying the driver Tong made his way to the front entrance where a sergeant hurried to intercept him. “Good morning, sir… My name is Huang. My job is to provide visitors with assistance.”

A special ID badge was hanging around Huang’s neck. And, since Tong didn’t have one, he was a visitor. As people came and went Tong could see that other greeters were sorting through the crowd. “My name is Tong,” he said. “I have an appointment to see Colonel Xu.”

“Excellent,” Huang said. “Please follow me to the kiosk and I’ll check you in.”

It took Huang no more than three minutes to check Tong’s ID, verify the officer’s appointment, and send him on his way. It soon became apparent that occupation forces had taken control of the entire hotel. Xu’s office was on the fifth floor and consisted of a two-room suite. What had been a sitting-area lounge functioned as a waiting room. Two officers were ahead of him. So, all Tong could do was sit down and wait.

A full 45 minutes passed before the civilian secretary sent Tong into what had been a bedroom. It was furnished with a desk and three chairs. Tong came to attention and saluted. “Captain Tong, sir… Reporting as ordered.”

Xu had a small frame and was, in Tong’s estimation, one of the many officers called out of retirement to perform administrative tasks. And that was fine except for one thing… The decisions that men like Xu made could have real-life effects on the battlefield. “Good morning,” Xu said, as he returned the salute. “Thank you for coming all this way. I know it isn’t easy, what with all the westbound traffic. Please have a seat.”

So far, so good. Xu was a lot nicer than Wang had led him to believe. As Tong sat down, he saw that a manila folder bearing his name lay on Xu’s desk. That, he decided, could be good or bad. Xu cleared his throat and used a finger to push a pair of wire rimmed glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. “According to what I read, you are an MSS agent who wound up serving as an army officer largely because of a certain mission. A mission which has thus far been frustrated by a combination of bad luck and incompetence.” Tong didn’t like the sound of that. He started to sweat.

“However,” Xu continued, “incompetence is what I would expect of my brother-in-law. But, according to your report, he died an honorable death. I will inform my sister.”

Brother-in law? The conversation had taken an unexpected turn and Tong was trying to adjust. “Sir, yes sir. Major Wang died leading his men into battle.”

Xu nodded. “Just out of curiosity, what did you think of the plan?”

Tong shrugged. “I favored a different approach, sir. It was my recommendation that we torture the woman in front of the man who attempted to rescue her. Then, after extracting the necessary information, ground attack planes could have been used to destroy the tunnel and those in it.”

Xu nodded. “Now that makes sense… Of course, had my brother-in-law been smart enough to listen to you he would be alive. So maybe it was all for the best.”

Tong knew Wang and the dead commandos would disagree, but saw no reason to mention it, and didn’t.

“Enough of that,” Xu said. “Let’s talk about you. The MSS is looking forward to getting you back and I’ll do everything I can to facilitate that. But, before we can turn you loose, I need to find a new CO and a new XO for the Thunder Gods. In the meantime, you will be in command. Please do what you can to rebuild the unit.

“And, don’t forget your mission. I think we can assume that the Allies will use the baby Dalai Lama for propaganda purposes if they manage to smuggle the little bastard into India. And, since there’s been no sign of that, it seems safe to assume he’s in Nepal.”

“Yes, sir,” Tong said, as he stood. “I’ll work on it.”

“Good,” Xu said. “I could use more men like you. Your orders are available electronically—and a written copy will be sent to you.”

Tong saluted and left. He could hardly believe his good fortune. Not only had he escaped any blame for what had been his idea, he was in command of the Thunder God Commandos. A position he planned to make very little of. Look busy and keep your head down, Tong told himself. As for right now, it’s time to find a girl, and have some fun. The sun was out, and Tong felt good.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

On a trail 45 miles east of the border with India.

The group had been hiking for two days. And they were forty-five air miles away from safety. But the first stage of the mega battle that both sides had been preparing for was underway, and the air space over the border was so hotly contested, that it wasn’t feasible to send a Blackhawk to extract them. “We would need to provide it with two layers of air cover, plus some Apache escorts to have a reasonable chance of success. And we can’t spare all of those assets at the moment.” That’s what Major Raj told them and Lee believed it. The sky was filled with twisting-turning contrails as pilots from both sides fought for control of the sky.

On one occasion the group saw a plane go down in flames. Cato heard the distress call from a pilot called Croaker. But no chute appeared, and the crash site was somewhere on the other side of a mountain.

There was one piece of good news however… And that was the fact that the group had been able to avoid Chinese patrols. Credit for which belonged to the staff at the National Reconnaissance Office (NRO) in Washington D.C. They were the ones who took the information collected by satellites and drones, sifted through it, and gave the joint forces team recommendations on how to proceed.

A price had to be paid however. There were times when a Chinese patrol or outpost blocked the group’s path. In order to avoid the enemy, the team had to circumvent the danger, adding distance and time to an already arduous journey.

And, after a number of such detours, they faced another. Two men were on watch. The rest of the group were eating lunch. “Here’s the situation,” Smith-Peet said, as he spread his map out on the ground. “The NRO says the Chinese have what looks like a checkpoint here.”

The tip of Smith-Peet’s grubby index finger was resting on a point where two trails converged. They were little more than tiny dashes that wandered all over the place before finally coming together. “So that’s a problem,” the officer added.

“The alternative is to follow this trail, which will allow us to circumvent the checkpoint, but will add something like five miles to our trip. Five hard miles I might add. So, we have a decision to make.”

“What’s your recommendation?” Jangchup inquired.

“I would take the shorter route, kill the Chinese, and continue on my way,” Smith-Peet replied “But that would involve additional risk for his holiness.”

“That’s true,” Kwan agreed. “But five miles over difficult terrain equates to another full day of travel. And we need to reach the border as quickly as we can. What if the Chinese launch an attack that pushes our people 20 miles back? Then we would face another 20 miles of dangerous territory to cross.”

Lee was impressed by the extent to which Kwan had completed the metamorphosis from a civilian in a uniform, to an experienced officer, operating behind enemy lines. “I agree with Wendy,” Lee said. “The extra day could be critical.”

Smith-Peet scanned their faces. “Thanks for the input. We’ll take the shorter route. Finish your lunches. We will depart in fifteen minutes.”

The group was on half-rations by then. Lee was sharing an MRE with Thapa. Maybe they would capture some food from the Chinese. That would help, assuming any of them could get the tasteless crap down.

They spent the rest of the day closing the distance with the Chinese checkpoint. And, by the time the sun started to set, they were only two miles away. Smith-Peet decided that was close enough for the moment.

Lee ate a trail bar for dinner, got into his sleeping bag, and tried to sleep. It was his responsibility to lead the attack, and try as he might Lee couldn’t stop thinking about all of the potential difficulties his team might encounter. So, when 0100 rolled around it felt good to get up and take action.

The team consisted of himself, Evers, Pun, and Shekhawat. That left Smith-Peet, Thapa, Shrestha and Kwan to defend Ishya and the Dalai Lama.

They wore night vision gear and were armed with suppressed pistols, kukris, and hand grenades. The only exception being Shekhawat who was carrying his scope mounted sniper rifle. The idea was to move quickly, use stealth to get close, and obliterate the enemy with hand grenades. “Don’t let the bastards get on a radio,” Smith-Peet told them. “I want to make the squad disappear without a trace.”

Pun was on point. Lee was in the two slot, Evers was in the three slot, and Shekhawat was walking drag. With very little to carry they chose to jog rather than walk. And now, after weeks spent living at high altitudes, the Americans could keep up with the Gurkhas. A pleasant change indeed.

In spite of the good weather the path was covered with patches of snow and ice. And because there were no efforts to maintain the trail, there were places where it was blocked by fallen trees or a washout. Pun was forced to slow down at such spots, but soon speeded up again.

Lee was tracking their progress on his internally lit wrist Garmin. When they were a mile out, he called for a halt. “I want Shekhawat in front with the rifle. Assuming the Chinese are competent they’ll have sentries posted a quarter mile out in both directions. We need to drop the sentry at our end so we can close in on them. Any questions? No? Let’s do this.”

Shekhawat set a much slower pace. And that was necessary if he was to spot the lookout without being seen. So, a full fifteen minutes passed before he held a hand up and motioned for the rest of them to get down.

The trail was relatively open and straight at that point. It made the perfect place for a Chinese sentry to keep watch.

As for Shekhawat, he was stretched out in the snow, with his rifle resting on a rotting log.

What felt like an hour passed, but was actually no more than a minute, as the Gurkha set his shot. Then Lee heard what sounded like a cough. “Target down,” Shekhawat whispered.

That was the signal for Lee to hurry forward, pistol in hand, and shoot the sentry again. The pistol made a gentle clacking sound.

“Watch for tripwires,” Lee cautioned, as he followed the trail. They were close, very close, when… “Teng… Is that you?” a voice said from the left.

Lee turned just in time to see a soldier crouched next to the trail. Then he shot him. Twice. “The poor bastard was taking a dump,” Evers whispered.

Lee knew they were close. And, as the path rounded a curve, he spotted tents up ahead. There were three of them--one of which glowed. “Grenades,” Lee whispered. “On the tents. One, two, three.”

Four grenades sailed through the air, landed in among the tents, and exploded in quick succession. Then it was time to dash forward shooting anything that moved. That included a man trying to drag his shattered legs towards some bushes, the sentry who arrived from the west, and the tree that resembled a man. Soon it was over.

Lee turned to Evers. “Call the colonel,” Lee said. “Ask him to dispose of the first body on the way over. We’ll take care of things here.”

The next couple of hours were spent dumping corpses and equipment into a nearby ravine and using loose rocks to cover all. Tree branches were used to sweep the area clean of blood.

“The Chinese will know something happened to the patrol when they fail to report in,” Smith-Peet predicted. “But what? The more time they spend trying to answer that question the better. Let’s get a move on.”

By walking all night, the group was able to put three miles between themselves and the ravine where the bodies had been disposed of. So, they were tired. Too tired to proceed, even though they preferred to hike during the day. “We’ll rest until noon,” Smith-Peet told them. “And see how far we can get before nightfall.”

The group managed to log another couple of miles before the light started to fade. Judging from the amount of trash lying around, the camping spot was a popular rest stop. It was empty at the moment however, which was just as well.

They could hear the almost non-stop rumble of artillery by then. That meant the combat zone was relatively close and the group would have to stop and hide before long. This, as it turned out, was a problem that their NRO minders had been working on.

Binsa was breastfeeding the baby, and the rest of them were eating bits and pieces of MREs, as Smith-Peet delivered his report. “I just got off the radio with Major Raj. The NRO people recommend we head west to a sprawling junkyard which, based on recent imagery, is largely unoccupied. There’s a lot of cover and, if the opportunity presents itself, a location where a Blackhawk could land.”

“That’s great,” Lee said. “But how about supplies?”

“They understand the situation,” Smith-Peet replied. “And they’re working on it.”

“Oh goody,” Evers said sotto voice. “No problem then.” Lee smiled and, if Smith-Peet heard the comment, he chose to ignore it.

Once the meagre lunch was over the hike resumed. In the past it had been common to walk for an entire day without running into other people.

Now, as they neared the border, foot traffic had increased. A steady stream of people was leaving the war zone for safer locations in the east.

Such encounters were dangerous because Evers was African American, and Smith-Peet white, making both more noticeable. So, the two men kept the hoods on their parkas up, and Evers wore a ski mask, plus gloves. But at lower elevations that kind of attire was unusual and could be a problem in and of itself.

As the trek continued, terraced farms began to appear, the trail broadened into a two-way path, and eventually evolved into a dirt road. That was when they passed through a tiny village. So tiny that there wasn’t any store.

One night was spent in a tumble-down building of uncertain purpose. The next under a bridge, where the overarching span would protect them from aerial surveillance, and the steadily falling rain.

The following morning, they rose knowing that their destination was only two miles away. The fighting was closer by then. So much so that the occasional artillery shell rumbled overhead, Chinese vehicles passed them on the way to the front, and most houses were abandoned. Lee’s greatest fear was that a Chinese officer or noncom would wonder why a group of civilians was marching toward the fighting instead of away from it. And because Smith-Peet shared that concern he led them off the road and onto the old footpath that paralleled it.

Each time the group passed what appeared to be a deserted home Thapa sent a soldier in to look for food. Pun scored a cylinder of goat cheese, and Cato came across a string of dried blood sausages. But such finds were rare because most kitchens had been stripped clean.

Shrestha was scouting ahead and the first one to spot the salvage yard. “It’s directly in front of me,” the Gurkha said. “And since I’m on a rise, I can see into it and wow! There are hundreds of junked cars, piles of scrap metal, and other stuff I can’t identify. A three-story tower is located at the middle of the mess, and it’s topped by what looks like the wheelhouse from a ship. There’s a cyclone fence surrounding the compound and it’s topped with coils of barbed wire. Over.”

“Roger that,” Smith-Peet replied. “Hold your position. I’m going to send Pun forward. I want the two of you to find the entrance, go in, and locate the owner. Assuming he’s there. Tell him we’re smugglers waiting to consummate a deal and offer to pay rent. Over.”

“And if he refuses? Over.”

There was a moment of silence while Smith-Peet paused to consider his options. Finally, he spoke. “Then kill him. Over.”

“Roger that,” Shrestha replied. “Over and out.”

Lee had witnessed the interchange, and felt grateful that he hadn’t been required to make the call.

After Pun met up with Shrestha the two men jogged forward. Then, with the fence on their left, they followed to a double gate. It was locked and posted. “Keep out!” the sign read. “Thieves will be shot.” A plastic skull sat atop one of the fence poles and stared into the distance.

“So, what now?” Shrestha wanted to know.

“Now it’s time for you to climb over the fence,” Pun replied. “Then, assuming you survive, I’ll follow.”

“Fuck that,” Shrestha replied. “We’ll go over the top at the same time. Then, when the owner shoots you, I’ll be there to apply first aid.”

Pun grinned. “You’re on. Assuming you can haul that big butt up over the top.”

Shrestha made a leap for the fence, and was already scrambling toward the top, as Pun followed. Shrestha landed first and hurried to take cover behind a rusty cement mixer. Pun joined him there. A distant bang was followed by a loud clang, signaling a gunshot. Pun frowned. “So, this asshole is serious.”

“That’s the way it seems,” Shrestha agreed. “Let’s see if we can get close enough to speak with him.”

The next fifteen minutes were spent sprinting from one piece of cover to the next as the man they assumed to be the owner fired at them from the central tower. Pun heard a bullet spang off steel as he dashed out from behind an ancient grader, to cross a muddy access road, and hide behind a rusty boiler.

Shrestha meanwhile was pursing an entirely different route which served to divide the rifleman’s fire. Pun waited for the sound of the next shot and ran. After noting the pauses that followed each group of 10 shots, the Gurkha concluded that the owner was using a retro Lee-Enfield rifle, a very common weapon during the colonial era.

If so, his opponent would have to load the .303’s magazine from the top, one cartridge at a time unless he had preloaded 5-round clips--which seemed unlikely given how slow he was. That meant Pun could use the next couple of minutes to close with the tower.

A zigzag course took him between giant cable reels, a dozer blade, and the fuselage of a plane to a point directly below the boat cabin up top. Shrestha arrived seconds later. “What now?” the Gurkha demanded.

“You always ask that.”

“So? What’s the answer?”

“Climb those stairs and say hello.”

“Bullshit. You climb the stairs and say hello.”

“You’re hopeless,” Pun said, as he tilted his head back. “Hey! You in the tower! Stop shooting at us. We’re customers. Potential customers anyway.”

The reply came via loudspeakers located on poles throughout the sprawling yard. “What kind of customers?”

“The kind with money,” Pun answered. “We don’t want to steal anything. We need a place to camp while we complete a certain business deal. We’ll pay rent.”

“How much?”

“How much do you want?”

“A hundred a day.”

“That’s absurd. “Twenty-five a day.”

“Fifty.”

“Okay, fifty with water. I assume there is some.”

A pause followed. “Okay,” the man said finally. “With water. I want two hundred as a down payment. If you decide to leave before four days are up, I will keep the difference.”

“Done,” Pun said, “with the understanding that our family includes 13 people counting the little one.”

“That’s too many,” the owner objected. “The deal is off.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Pun replied. “I guess we’ll have to kill you.” Pun pointed his weapon up at the boat cabin and fired three shots. The floor was made out of plywood and the bullets went straight through.

“Stop!” the owner shouted. “I was joking… The deal is on.”

“Excellent,” Pun said. “I’m coming up.”

Three flights of rickety stairs led up to the spacious boat cabin. A middle-aged man with thick black hair, heavy eyebrows, and an oversized nose was waiting with rifle leveled. “My rifle is bigger than your rifle,” Pun observed. “What’s your name?”

“Sajit Bhatt,” the man replied, as he lowered the Enfield.

“Well, Mr. Bhatt, let’s do some business. Here’s the two hundred we agreed on.” Pun held some Chinese currency up for the businessman to see.

Bhatt licked his lips. He was dressed in an expensive tracksuit and slip-on sandals. The boat cabin was furnished with a wooden steering wheel, a captain’s chair from which Bhatt could survey his kingdom, and a rumpled bed. A microphone sat on a desk along with a laptop, piles of paperwork, and a jade elephant. “Three-hundred,” Bhatt said. “You must pay me three-hundred.”

Shrestha arrived right then. “Mr. Bhatt refuses to honor our agreement,” Pun said. “Go ahead and shoot him.”

“No, no,” Bhatt objected, as he backed away. “Two-hundred. I meant two-hundred.”

“And here it is,” Pun said, as he placed the cash next to the computer. “Write a receipt.”

As Bhatt wrote the receipt Pun peppered him with questions. “It must take a lot of people to run a salvage yard like this. Where are they?”

“They ran when the shooting started,” Bhatt complained. “They’re Dalits. Untouchables. And they’ll be sorry. Who, other than I, would employ such scum?”

Pun could imagine the many ways in which a merchant like Bhatt could, and would, take advantage of Nepal’s lowest ranking caste. The Gurkha hated the caste system and felt nothing but contempt for the people who supported it. “And the Chinese?” Pun inquired. “Do they bother you?”

“No,” Bhatt said, as he offered the receipt. “They came, took a look around, and left.”

That made sense to Pun. There was nothing in the junkyard the PLA would want. And if Bhatt wanted to stay and guard his rusty wealth that was fine with them.

“We’ll need a key to the front gate,” Shrestha put in. “And yes, we’ll lock it behind us.”

“Or we can cut the lock off,” Pun said. “It’s up to you.”

Bhatt grumbled under his breath as he opened a drawer, removed a key, and held it up. “I need deposit for the key.”

“This is getting old,” Pun said, as he snatched the key. “Have a nice afternoon Mr. Bhatt. And if you want to live a long life keep our presence to yourself.”

And with that the Gurkhas left.

Pun and Shrestha were waiting by the gate when the rest of the group arrived. Pun had a big grin on his face and Lee could tell that the Gurkha was enjoying himself. “Welcome home, sir… I trust your tetanus shots are up to date?”

Lee laughed. “This place looks like Doctor Kwan’s worst nightmare. Tell me about the owner.”

After getting the rundown Lee nodded. “Well done, Private… Let’s keep a close eye on Mr. Bhatt.”

“Yes, sir,” Pun replied. “And you can be sure that he’ll be keeping a close eye on us as well.”

“How about some sort of shelter?” Lee inquired.

“I saw two semi-trailers parked side-by-side,” Shrestha said. “They’re full of junk, but we can clean them out.”

“Let’s grab the colonel and check it out,” Lee replied.

Smith-Peet had just completed a conversation with Major Raj at Trishul. “I told them where we are,” the marine said, “and requested a supply drop. The major promised to get back to me no later than tomorrow morning.”

“Good,” Lee responded. “I suggest that we get everyone inside the wire and declare a break. We need shelter and Shrestha spotted what may be a good option.”

“What I don’t know is how close the trailers are to a water supply,” the Gurkha added.

“Well, let’s find out,” Smith-Peet said. “Please lead the way.”

A meandering path led them to the trailers. One was packed floor to ceiling with bed springs. The other was filled with beat-up office furniture. “We could clear them out,” Smith-Peet declared. “Let’s find some the water.”

That, as it turned out, was as near as a hydrant located 100 feet away. And by running a fire hose back to the trailers they could close the distance. “The owner is watching us from the tower,” Pun said. “And he’s very possessive where his salvage items are concerned. So much so that he may fly into a rage when we move things around. Can I pay him a fee?”

“Absolutely,” Smith-Peet said, as he peeled some bills off his dwindling roll. “Let’s keep the asshole happy.”

Columns of black smoke twisted upwards from the south, planes battled above, and an artillery duel was taking place to the west, as the group worked to empty the trailers.

The temperature was in the middle 50s, which felt hot after weeks in the snow. People began to shed layers of clothing as they worked and the sun arced across the sky.

Once the task was completed it was time to furnish the trailers with castoff chairs and tables, lay sleeping bags on the floors, and settle in. There was hardly any food left, but they had water, and felt reasonably safe. Two lookouts were on duty at all times.

One roamed the perimeter looking for any signs of trouble, while the other stood watch on the tower’s second floor, which was as close as Bhatt would let them come to his quarters one floor up. And part of that sentry’s job was to keep the businessman from venturing out at night.

The sun set, flashes of manmade light strobed the horizon, and rats emerged to scavenge for food. The soldiers shot them with silenced pistols until Lee ordered them to stop. “We’re running low on everything… And that includes ammo. Save it for the Chinese.”

A northbound helicopter gave everyone a scare as it clattered overhead shortly after 0100. But the helo kept going and quickly disappeared. It took Lee a long time to get back to sleep after that, but he did eventually, and awoke shortly after sunrise.

A shower enclosure had been constructed, and they took turns using it, which felt good. Lee was among the last to enjoy the steady flow of cold water, and had just emerged from the shed, when two Allied A-10 Warthogs swooped in from the north.

Their presence was no mystery given the overall situation. The planes were designed to attack armored vehicles, and kill tanks which, thanks to the Big Push, were bound to be close by. But why open fire on a junkyard?

Lee didn’t know, but watched in horror, as the lead plane opened fire with its distinctive 30X173mm GAU-8A avenger autocannon mounted in its nose. The depleted uranium armor-piercing shells plowed a path through the cars, trucks, tractors, tires, barrels, and piles of scrap before punching a large hole in the perimeter fence. Why? Because the jet jockeys didn’t know friendlies were in the area, that’s why.

The second A-10 was no less destructive as it cut its own swathe of destruction through the yard a hundred yards east of the first pass. Bhatt was out on the walkway that circled his third-floor office screaming invective at the plane as it flashed past.

The tower was such an obvious target that Lee figured Bhatt should have been thankful to get off so easily. But that would require a level of objectivity which the junkyard owner didn’t have. There hadn’t been time to take cover so Lee was sitting on a plastic chair, tying his boot laces, when Smith-Peet jogged past. “Come on!” he yelled. “We have a fire to put out.”

Smith-Peet took off to the south with Lee and three soldiers following behind. The problem was obvious. A pile of salvaged lumber had taken a hit and was on fire. And that mattered because, with all of the potentially flammable junk in the yard, the blaze could spread. If that happened the group could lose its refuge.

After casting about Evers found a hydrant along with a 50-foot length of hose. Once the two were hooked together, and the hydrant was on, a respectable, though not impressive, stream of water shot out of the brass nozzle and was aimed at the fire.

Bhatt was yelling at them via his system of speakers. It appeared that Bhatt had reverted to the way he treated his workers. “You are too slow… Hurry! That wood will be worth a lot of money when the war is over--and people have to rebuild.”

Evers flipped the businessman off, but the rest of the volunteer fire fighters ignored him, as they put water on the flames. A combination of steam and smoke billowed up into the air as they continued to knock the fire down. It was out 15 minutes later and, if Bhatt was appreciative, the merchant failed to make mention of it.

The balance of the day was spent filling a nearby plastic tank with water, and digging privies 100 feet out. Lee was sharing a trail bar with Kwan when Smith-Peet came to join them. “I have good news! The folks at Trishul are going to create a diversion tonight and send a K-MAX loaded with supplies.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Kwan said, as she took a sip of water. “But how about a Blackhawk instead?”

Smith-Peet shook his head. “I asked and Major Raj said, ‘no.’ He didn’t elaborate so it’s my guess that they’re short of Blackhawks, and or have something else in the works.”

Lee felt a sense of frustration. How many times had they asked, only to be refused? Did they want to extract the DL or not? But there was no point in saying that and he didn’t.

Smith-Peet left to spread the news, and Lee was about to continue the conversation with Kwan, when his eyes came to rest on a piece of junk. And that was when a wild and crazy idea entered his mind. A plan that could get the Dalai Lama out of Nepal. But would it work?

CHAPTER TWENTY

The Bhatt Salvage Yard, three miles from the front.

After parting company with Kwan, Lee went looking for Smith-Peet, and found him talking to Jangchup. “Just the people I want to see,” Lee told them. “I have an idea that would allow us to get the Dalai Lama, his mother, Binsa and Lama Jangchup out of here tonight.”

Smith-Peet’s eyebrows rose. “That sounds too good to be true.”

Lee smiled. “Maybe it is. But maybe not. Here goes: The K-MAX arrives and drops our supplies. Our passengers are strapped into a subcompact car. We hook it to the helo’s drop line, and the K-MAX takes the car to India, where a ground party is waiting. Boom! Mission accomplished.”

Both men stared at him. Smith-Peet was the first to speak. “That’s a jolly good idea Old Fruit… It might work.”

“We’d have to notify Major Raj, and rig a sling,” Lee said. “But there’s plenty of cable lying around here.”

“I’m for it,” Jangchup said. “But we need Ishya’s approval. I will speak with her.”

“Do that,” Smith-Peet said. “And check with Binsa too. The idea would work without Binsa, but I’d like to get her to safety.”

Jangchup left and Smith-Peet turned to Lee. “Do you have a car in mind? If so, I’d like to see it.”

“I do,” Lee replied. “Follow me.”

A short walk took them to a light blue Kia Prime. It had four doors and was shaped like a min van. “I think it’s a 2000 or 2001 model, not that it matters,” Lee said.

Smith Peet lifted the hood. “The engine is gone.”

“Good,” Lee responded. “The less weight the better! All we need is an airtight cabin to protect our passengers from the wind and the cold.”

“We can package them in their sleeping bags,” Smith-Peet said.

“Perfect,” Lee replied.

Jangchup arrived. There was a smile on his face. “Ishya says the flight can’t be any more dangerous than it is here. The planes made a big impression on her. And Binsa says it will be fun.”

“All right,” Smith-Peet said. “I’ll get on the radio to Major Raj.”

“And I’ll prep the car,” Lee said.

After an hour of dithering by staff officers in Trishul the plan was approved. By that time Lee and Shrestha had located the necessary cable and cut it into four equal lengths, using Bhatt’s cutting torch. They had two wire cable clips and were looking for two more.

So, with permission from on-high, the men drilled holes so that the cable leads could reach the car’s frame, where they were secured using thimbles and clamps.

Once the prep work was complete it was time to load sleeping bags and personal gear. And that was when the doubts crept in. What if a cable broke? What if the K-MAX pilot was incompetent? What if the Chinese fired a missile at the helo? Any of those outcomes would be Lee’s fault since the concept was his.

Lee was wrestling with his own negativity, when Staff Sergeant Thapa appeared. “There’s a problem, sah.”

“I hope it’s something simple,” Lee responded.

“No, sah,” the Gurkha said expressionlessly. “Mr. Bhatt is missing.”

Lee felt a surge of fear. “Gone? You’re sure?”

“Yes, sah. He slid down a rope from his office to the ground. We think he left through the hole in fence.”

Lee knew the Gurkha was referring to the hole one of the A-10s had made. Where was the businessman going? And for what purpose? All sorts of terrible possibilities crowded Lee’s mind. The obvious solution was to leave. But where would they go? And what about the extraction? “Does the colonel know?”

“No, sah.”

“Okay, let’s find him. We have an important decision to make.”

PLA Special Forces Compound 12, Nepal

PLA Captain, and soon to be MSS agent Tong, was in an especially good mood. And why not? A real officer had been named to replace him, along with an experienced XO, and they were going to arrive within the next two days. So, all he had to do was sit at Wang’s desk, write routine reports, and wait for the handover. He was proofing a spreadsheet when Sergeant Shin entered his office. “Sorry to bother you, sir… But some important Intel came in.”

Tong put his pen down. “Okay, what have you got?”

“The information originated from the CO of an infantry unit at the front,” Shin said. “According to his report a group of 10 men and 3 women are camping in a salvage yard owned by a Nepali national named Sajit Bhatt.”

“So? That sounds like a problem Mr. Bhatt should solve.”

Shin’s face was impassive. “One member of the group is white. One man is black. Another could be Japanese. Two are Chinese. Oh, and two of the three females are Nepalese, one of whom has a baby.”

Tong came to his feet. “It’s them! It’s got to be them!”

Shin offered a rare smile. “Yes, sir.”

The Bhatt Salvage Yard, three miles from the front.

Smith-Peet, Lee, and Thapa were holding a council of war. “The problem is that we don’t know why Bhatt left,” Smith-Peet said. “Was he going to get a six pack of Coke? Or to rat us out?”

“I vote for option two,” Lee said.

“Right,” Smith-Peet said. “That’s most likely. So, we have three choices. We can leave, but for where? There’s no safe place to go.

“We can stay, in hopes that we can complete the extraction, and that Bhatt will return with a six pack.

“Or we can stay, put the extraction off, and wait to see what develops.”

Thapa was the first to respond. “Sah, we have 9 fighters counting the doctor. If the Chinese come, they will come hard, and we will lose.”

It was an uncompromising assessment offered by one professional to another. Smith-Peet nodded. “You are correct Staff-Sergeant. But if we run, we’re likely to come under attack as well. And on uncertain ground.”

“So, we’re screwed if we do, and screwed if we don’t,” Lee said.

“Yes,” Smith-Peet replied. “Which option would you prefer?”

Lee looked at Thapa and back again. “I say we stay, and try to get the DL out.”

Smith-Peet turned to Thapa. “Staff Sergeant?”

“Sah, I vote to stay.”

Smith-Peet nodded. “I agree.”

“One more thing,” Lee said.

“Yes?”

“Don’t tell the people in Trishul. They will cancel the K-MAX mission if you do.”

Smith-Peet smiled. “Are you Scottish by any chance?”

Lee laughed. “Do I look Scottish?”

“No,” Smith-Peet replied. “But you’re both stubborn and brave.

“Right then… We will prepare to fight. And we will keep Mr. Bhatt’s disappearing act to ourselves. Let’s get to work.”

The rest of the day was spent watching for a Chinese attack and preparing as best they could. The war continued off to the west, but with no activity in their immediate area, Lee was feeling more confident as the sun set. Bhatt had yet to return, but there hadn’t been an attack, and that seemed to suggest that the businessman was on a personal errand of some sort.

The K-MAX was due at 2000 hours and, true to Major Raj’s promise, all hell broke loose at 1930. The diversion began with an artillery attack on the area directly south of them. That was followed by Allied bombing runs and a fake ground attack. All of which was calculated to keep the enemy focused on that area. The call came in 12 minutes later. “Tallboy to Viper-Two-Three. My truck is ten-out, approaching from the north. Over.”

“This is Three actual,” Smith-Peet replied. “Welcome to the party. Once you drop the supplies standby for an outbound load.”

“Roger that. Put a flare on the drop zone. Over.”

Evers was ready. The flare was red and threw a circle of light.

“I see it,” Tallboy confirmed. “Standby, over.”

Tong was an MSS agent, not a trained army officer. But he could learn. And one of the things he had learned was how vulnerable helicopters were to a well-armed enemy. So rather than try to drop commandos onto the objective, as he’d done before, Tong used them to reach the area and nothing more.

Tong had learned something else as well. And that was the value of overwhelming force. So, rather than depend on what remained of the Thunder God Commando alone, Tong requested a full company of troops from Colonel Xu.

The zone commander couldn’t spare that many soldiers. But sent a 44-man platoon to reinforce the commando. That brought Tong’s force up to 60.

The platoon was under the wide-eyed command of a Shao wei (2nd lieutenant) named Rong. After leading their men in from an LZ located one mile east of the salvage yard, the officers made final preparations. “I will lead the attack on the main gate,” Tong said. “You, and your men, will enter via the gap on the south side. We will trap the Waiguo ren [foreigners] between us. But remember… It’s dark, and there’s going to be a lot of ground clutter, so tell your men to be careful. Friendly fire won’t be tolerated. Do you understand?”

Rong nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Okay take your men south. Let me know when you’re in position.”

The clatter of a helicopter caused both men to look up. “Go!” Tong ordered. “Hurry.”

Lee felt a sense of jubilation as the K-MAX hovered above the glowing flare. The pallet of badly needed supplies dangled below the drone. A thud was heard as the load landed. “Tallboy to Viper-Two-Three. I’m ready for the pickup. Light flare two. Over.”

Evers lit a green flare and tossed it toward the tiny car. Jangchup, Ishya, Binsa and the Dalai Lama were strapped inside. Shrestha was on the roof holding a large O-ring in his hand. He was wearing night vision gear. And, as the K-MAX cable came his way, the Gurkha made a grab, and missed.

“Try again,” Smith-Peet ordered. That was when a sniper shot Shrestha dead.

Automatic weapons opened fire on the helicopter and Lee hurried to replace the Gurkha. He scrambled up over the KIA’s hood, grabbed hold of the O-Ring, and lifted it up. Four thick cables were attached to the ring so it took a concerted effort to lift and hold the combined weight aloft.

The hook was equipped with a safety latch. A bullet snapped past Lee’s head as he grabbed onto the hook and forced the O-Ring in past the latch. Then Lee thumbed the transmit button on his radio. “It’s connected! Take it away!”

The cable tightened as Tallboy pulled back on a miniature joystick, the KIA’s tires left the ground, and Lee jumped free. The drone staggered as it took ground fire but labored on.

Tallboy was no dummy. And rather than try for more altitude, which would allow the Chinese to fire on both the car and the drone, he sent the K-MAX skimming west.

The tires cleared the perimeter by inches as Cato put in a call to Trishul. “Viper-Eight to Cobra Two-Two. You-know-who is on the way. We’re taking heavy fire. One KIA. Over.”

Thapa was standing watch on the tower’s 3rd floor. “This is Viper-Five. We have roughly three-zero hostiles at the main gate, and the same number infiltrating from the south. Over.”

“This is Viper-Two-Three,” Smith-Peet said. “Release the gas and light the bastards up. Over.”

The gasoline was stored in a non-descript tank and used to fuel some of Bhatt’s heavy equipment. The liquid produced a gurgling sound as Pun turned a valve and sent a stream of pungent fuel through the shallow trench excavated earlier in the day. A match was sufficient to light it off. Three PLA soldiers were close enough to be consumed by the wall of fire. They screamed and performed a grotesque dance as flames ate into their flesh.

Thapa had been waiting for the moment when the flames would illuminate the targets grouped beyond the fence. He fired careful three-round bursts, each intended to kill at least one PLA soldier, and had the satisfaction of seeing two men go down.

Then Thapa had to grab Bhatt’s escape rope and slide to the ground as enemy fire converged on the tower and tore it apart.

Once the K-MAX was on its way Lee hurried south to the point where Bhatt’s ancient Komatsu bulldozer stood waiting. He knew the earthmover would start because he’d spent the better part of an hour test driving the machine earlier. After struggling with the controls he’d been able to raise the blade, which remained in that position, and taught himself to move the tractor back and forth.

Fortunately, that was all Lee had to do. As Thapa fired on the Chinese from cover Lee turned the key, felt the dozer rumble to life, and drove south. Evers was forward, along with Shekhawat, firing over the raised blade.

Bullets pinged steel, ricochets whined as they sped away, and a grenade exploded in front of the tractor. Shrapnel clanged as it struck the blade and PLA soldiers screamed as they went down. Then, conscious of how easy it would be to flank the makeshift tank, Lee put the machine into reverse and backed away. “Keep firing!” he shouted. “Cut the bastards down!”

Tong knelt next to Shin’s body. He was sorry. Somewhere along the way he’d come to regard Shin with the same level of affection he felt for agents Ji Wu, Han Hoi, and yes, An Ba. Crazy though the bastard had been. Tong stood. Don’t worry, sergeant, he thought. We’ll kill them. All of them.

And with that Tong led his men forward across the smoking ditch and into the heart of the yard. “Spread out! Show no mercy! Kill them all!”

Smith-Peet, Kwan, Cato and Pun had been forced to pull back to what they called “steel mountain.” It was located near the center of the yard, and consisted of haphazardly piled scrap metal, all heaped on top of the burned-out dump truck that lay on its side at the mountain’s core.

Thanks to the fact that no effort had been made to pack the salvage tight it was possible to crawl through a maze of unintended passageways to the dump truck where there was enough room to stand and fire out through gaps. It was to be their final retreat, the place where they would die. Smith-Peet, Cato and Kwan were waiting when Lee, Evers, and Shekhawat crawled into the pile of metal. They wore headlamps which combined to light the area around them. “Where’s Thapa?”

“Right here,” the Gurkha replied, as he emerged from the tunnel.

“Good,” Smith-Peet said. “Take your positions. Aimed fire only. We don’t have a lot of ammo.”

“They’re hiding inside the scrap pile!” Lieutenant Rong yelled. “Let’s go in and get them!”

Officers were supposed to lead their men from the front. That’s what Rong had been taught—and that’s what he did. Three bullets hit him before he could get close enough to enter the scrap pile. After seeing Rong killed, his soldiers took cover and began to return fire.

Tong didn’t blame them and knew he needed to turn the tables on the defenders somehow. A crane was located next to the scrap pile. And, if he could start it, the machine might solve their problem.

Tong ran from point-to-point using cover whenever he could find some. Then it was a matter of climbing up onto a gigantic tread, and from there into the cab. The key was in the ignition. He turned it and heard a cough followed by a rumble. Two rows of indicator lights appeared.

Tong didn’t have to drive the crane. All he needed to do was to turn the lifting magnet on, maneuver the boom so that the disk was located over the top of the scrap pile, and lower it down.

Three attempts were required to get the hang of it. Meanwhile a stalemate of sorts had developed, with Tong’s troops firing but not advancing, even as the Allied combatants continued to inflict casualties on their attackers.

Then Tong was ready to go. He began by plucking something like a thousand pounds of metal off the top of the mountain. The load consisted of at least fifty pieces of scrap, both large and small. And Tong felt proud of himself when he was able to swing all of it to the left, cut the power to the magnet, and dump the scrap on top of an old boiler.

It was a simple matter then to swing the boom back, restore power to the magnet, and repeat the process. Tong smiled. It was like digging for ants with a stick.

Smith-Peet was looking upwards as bits and pieces of metal rained down around him. “Shit! They’re using the crane to take the mountain apart. That possibility never occurred to me.”

Lee put his rifle down. “I have an app for that,” the green beret said, as he drew his pistol. “I need another handgun.”

“Take mine,” Kwan said, as she offered her nine mil. “But you have to return it.”

The message was obvious. Lee smiled. “I will.”

After tucking the weapons away Lee knelt in front of the tunnel. There were sharp edges all around and there was a very real danger of cutting himself.

The rest of the team was firing more quickly by then, trying to force the enemy to put their heads down, as Lee emerged and scuttled to the right. There was a flash as someone fired. Lee rolled, spotted a head, and put a green dot on it. The pistol seemed to fire itself. The target toppled backwards and out of sight.

Lee came to his feet and was circumnavigating the mountain when a Chinese soldier emerged from cover and fired a three-round burst. The slugs kicked up geysers of dirt in front of Lee as he triggered two shots in return. One bullet hit a leg, while the other struck the man in the chest, killing him instantly.

Lee jumped over the body and ran to the crane. The operator was swinging another load of steel around and getting ready to release it. Lee scrambled up onto a caterpillar tread and made his way toward the cab with his pistol raised. That was when he saw the rearview mirror and realized his mistake. The door to the cab flew open, hit Lee’s hand, and sent the handgun spinning away. Then a boot struck the green beret’s chest--causing him to fall back onto the tread below. He was trying to suck air into his lungs when a man landed on top of him.

The assailant was slightly off-balance and attempted to save himself by grabbing onto Lee’s tac vest. That caused both combatants to roll off and fall. The crane operator was on top when they hit the ground. A knee pinned Lee’s left arm and a hand was pressing down on his right forearm. The green beret found himself staring up into the other man’s headlamp. What followed came as a surprise.

“Captain Jon Smith… Yes, I know your name. My name is Tong, and I’ve been tracking you for a long time. Where’s the baby?”

“His holiness is in India by now,” Lee replied, as he gathered his strength. “You missed him.” And with that Lee snapped his head forward. Bone met nose and cartilage collapsed. Tong’s hands came up to his face as blood gushed out of his nose.

That freed Lee to buck the other man off. He rolled to the right, and was fumbling for a pistol, when someone fired an M4 carbine on full auto. Tong jerked spastically as 20 rounds of 5.56mm NATO rounds tore into his body. What was left of him collapsed.

Lee turned to find that Kwan was holding the weapon. “Crawl under the crane,” she ordered. “And hurry!”

Lee followed Kwan to the back of the crane where she crawled into the space between the enormous treads. He was about to ask what was happening when a voice came over Kwan’s radio. The pilot had an Australian accent. “This is Bigrat in from the north. We are two Apache helicopters inbound with guns, Hellfire missiles and CRV7 rockets. Find a hole and pull it in after yourselves. We’re about to mow the lawn. Over.”

Lee reached out to pull Kwan into his arms as the helos swept in. And mow the lawn they did. Both attack helicopters made multiple runs. Hellfire missiles struck the tower, the bulldozer, and nearly hit the crane. Flights of CRV7 rockets followed. Each missile was armed with multiple High Explosive-Point Detonating rounds that passed through whatever Chinese soldiers were hiding behind and killed them.

Then the Allied pilots made a final pass in which they fired hundreds of rounds from their 30mm chain guns. “Catch you later,” Bigrat said, as the Apaches banked away. “Over and out.”

Lee planted a kiss on Kwan’s forehead. “Thanks.”

Her hands touched his face. “Blood! You’re hurt.”

“His, not mine.”

“I want to stay here. Like this.”

“Me too,” Lee said. “But we can’t. They’ll think we’re dead.”

“But we aren’t dead.”

“No, we aren’t,” Lee told her. “We’re very much alive.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The Bhatt Salvage Yard, three miles from the front.

The moment the attack was over Smith-Peet got on the radio. “Meet me at the supply dump, but be careful. Chances are that some of the bastards are still alive. Over.”

That prediction proved to be true. Three PLA soldiers had survived. But not for long. The Allied soldiers were equipped with night vision devices and their counterparts weren’t. Weapons stuttered, PLA soldiers fell, and the battle was over.

That was the good news. The bad news was that the newly arrived pallet of supplies had taken a hit from an exploding 30mm shell. Half the load had been destroyed and the rest was scattered about. “We’ll leave in 15 minutes,” Smith-Peet announced. “Find what you need and load up. If you come up short, scrounge some Chinese stuff. There’s plenty of it.”

“I have Trishul on the horn, sir,” Cato said. “A Blackhawk is ten out.”

“There is a God and she likes us,” Smith-Peet said. “But load up anyway… And remember the first rule of combat: ‘Pee when you can.’”

The moon was up and threw an eerie glow across the yard. After 10-minutes’ worth of scrounging the soldiers had whatever weapons they preferred, more ammo than they could comfortably carry, and some MREs. “This is Shortstuff, in from the west,” a female voice said. “Give me a flare. Over.”

Evers tossed a flare into one of the few open areas and backed away. They could hear the helicopter’s General Electric T700-GE-701C turboshaft engines by then, and the sound grew louder as the Blackhawk swept in over the junk yard, and settled in.

The downdraft from the chopper’s rotors blew trash every which way as Shortstuff spoke again. “Make it fast people… The sky is lousy with Chinese fighters.”

Smith-Peet waved them forward. “Go, go, go!”

Evers and Thapa were carrying Shrestha’s body between them.

Once the rest of them were aboard it was Smith-Peet’s turn to enter the cargo compartment and drop into a seat. “This is Viper-Two-Three. All present or accounted for. Let’s haul ass. Over.”

The Blackhawk left the ground in a hurry, turned west, and sped away. Lee was seated next to the door gunner. Her face was invisible behind a visor but she gave him a headset along with a thumbs up.

Air rushed in through the open door to buffet Lee’s face. They were safe, or mostly safe, after weeks of danger. He was trying to adjust to that fact as the helicopter swept over a moonlit river and Chinese anti-aircraft guns fired on them. Red tracer arched up in a futile effort to interdict the fleeing helicopter even as Shortstuff fired flares meant to draw heat-seeking missiles away. And that strategy proved to be successful as the Blackhawk continued on its way.

Then Shortstuff spoke over the intercom. Her voice was calm and steady. “We have a warning light on hydraulic system two. We’re looking for an option. Standby.”

Lee took the headset off so as to speak with the gunner. He had to shout. “There’s a backup, right?”

“System two is the backup,” the gunner replied. “We lost system one on the way out. The controls won’t work without a hydraulic pump.”

“That isn’t funny,” Lee yelled.

“Nor is it supposed to be,” the gunner replied. “But if anyone can put this bitch down the lieutenant can.”

Smith-Peet was the only other passenger who had a headset. So, most of the passengers were oblivious to the danger. Cato’s eyes were closed as Kwan met Lee’s gaze and smiled. The green beret managed a grin.

“We’re losing pressure,” Shortstuff said. “But never fear… We’re only minutes out from Forward Operating Base 17. We might be in for a hard landing though. So, grab your panties.” All of Lee’s companions could hear the pilot this time. Cato opened his eyes and sat up.

The gunner opened fire with her M60D pintle-mounted machine gun as ground fire lashed up at them. Lee looked on in amazement as her tracers swept across the moonlit ground below and what seemed like a hundred answering sparks appeared.

And that was the moment when Lee understood the truth. Forward Operating Base 17 was so far forward, that it was in the shit, and possibly surrounded. He caught a glimpse of what looked like a moonscape, a sandbag topped berm, and a flagpole as the helicopter lost altitude and pancaked in.

All of the passengers just sat there for a moment, absorbing what had occurred, and were only starting to respond when Shortstuff emerged from the cockpit and removed her helmet. She was short and cheerful. “Welcome to FOB-17 folks… We’ll be staying for a while.”

Smith-Peet jumped down off the deck to find that a Sikh officer was waiting for him. Because he’d spent a lot of time in the area, Smith-Peet knew that Sikhism was one of the largest religions in India and had millions of followers. Like all Sikhs the officer had Kesh (uncut hair), symbolic of the need to work with nature rather than against it, and was wearing a turban. He took two steps forward. “I am Major Avi Gupta, commanding officer of the 3rd battalion, of the Sikh Infantry Regiment. And you are?”

“I’m LT. Colonel Fred Smith-Peet, of the 3 Commando--Royal Marines. Please excuse my iffy appearance. My chaps and I were in Nepal half an hour ago.”

Gupta came to attention and popped a British style salute. “Welcome to FOB-17, sir... Although you won’t find much to enjoy. We’re surrounded, and going to remain so, until a relief force arrives.”

“And when is that likely to happen?”

Gupta smiled. His teeth were very white. “The most recent estimate was three days.”

“And you can hold out until then?”

“We fully intend to,” Gupta replied, as a mortar shell landed a hundred feet away and exploded. The Sikh didn’t turn to look.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Smith-Peet said. “Three American green berets are with me, along with three Gurkhas, and a doctor. We will fight.”

“We could use the help,” Gupta replied. “My battalion consisted of 356 men two weeks ago. Sixty-three of them are dead and 22 are wounded. A doctor will be most welcome. We have none.”

The rest of the team was on the ground by then. Smith-Peet gestured to Kwan. “This is Doctor Kwan. She’s an experienced combat surgeon.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Gupta said politely. And, when he said “Sergeant,” one appeared. “Escort Doctor Kwan to the infirmary, and place our medics under her command.” Kwan waved prior to being led away.

“I take a walk around the perimeter every few hours,” Gupta explained. “Would you care to join me? It’s a good way to get oriented.”

“Yes, we would,” Smith-Peet replied. “But we left one of our Gurkhas on the Blackhawk. He was killed a few hours ago. Do you have a place where we can put his body?”

“Sah!” Thapa put in. “My name is Staff Sergeant Thapa. I would like to assist your men if I may.”

“Of course,” Gupta replied. “Please accept my heartfelt condolences. Your loss is our loss. Sergeant Japra, please get a stretcher team, and accompany Staff Sergeant Thapa to the helicopter.”

Smith-Peet said, “Thank you,” as the noncoms walked away. “Can we leave our packs somewhere?”

“Follow me,” Gupta replied.

Lee followed Gupta and Smith-Peet through the wreckage of what had once been a substantial building but had been reduced to rubble during the fighting. Moonlight glazed the surface of broken walls, threw shadows down across caves where some defenders were trying to sleep, and lit the books that were scattered about.

Gupta led them to a ramp and down into what turned out to be a substantial basement. Some Sikh soldiers were sleeping along the far wall. Others were sitting at cafeteria tables cleaning weapons and shooting the shit. Some turned to look, but showed little interest, since they didn’t care why Gupta was showing a group of ratty looking people around the base.

“You can leave your packs over there,” Gupta said, pointing to a spot next to the unstaffed cafeteria counter. “This was a girl’s school before the war. But it makes a serviceable fort. Please follow me.”

Gupta guided the team up to the ground floor and over to a ladder. It slanted past a flight of damaged stairs to a platform where a .50 caliber machine gun was sited. A rectangular hole provided the weapon with a broad field of fire.

Three men were stationed there, and they laughed when Gupta said something to them in Punjabi. Occasional gunshots could be heard as PLA soldiers sought to keep the Sikhs awake. From there a second ladder led up to the third level which was open to the sky and protected by sandbags on all four sides. Two lookouts were on duty and an Israeli made Soltam K6 mortar tube sat ready to fire.

The two-man crew was sitting with their backs to the wall eating. They started to rise but Gupta waved them back into place. Then he turned to a lookout. “Stand down so these gentlemen can take a look through your binoculars.”

Smith-Peet went first, and Lee was second. He had to step up onto a wooden box in order to access the eyepieces, and knew there was some risk in doing so, since a sniper with equally good technology could spot him. Especially on a tower where lookouts would naturally be. But the chance to examine the surrounding terrain was worth it.

The landscape had a green hue, which was to be expected, and was pretty well lit thanks to the ascending moon. And that, Lee decided, had something to do with why the PLA troops were keeping their heads down.

Lee started low, near the fort’s east wall, where unburied Chinese bodies lay. Then he tilted up. That’s when the overlapping shell craters could be seen, zigzagging trenches appeared, and roofed-over bunkers were visible. “They’re getting closer all the time,” Gupta commented. “Ever since the Big Push started. We were part of an extended line at first. But when the surge came, the Chinese were able to flank, and surround us. Our orders are to hold out until the counter attack comes in three days.”

Lee stood down. “My name is Captain Lee, sir. U.S. Army. What keeps the enemy from attacking by air? Or with artillery?”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Captain,” Gupta replied. “Go over there, and look down.”

Lee made his way to the west side of the tower and looked down. And there, partially protected by the remains of a wall, sat a C-RAM, or Counter Rocket, Artillery, and Mortar unit. It consisted of radars hooked to a Phalanx CIWS rapid fire gun, which was designed to blow incoming weapons and targets out of the air, before they could do damage. Lee knew how extremely effective they were.

The other members of the team went over to look as well. “The problem,” Major Gupta told them, “is that the Chinese know we have it, and they’ve been busy throwing things at us in hopes of exhausting our ammunition supply. And it’s working. We’re supposed to receive some supplies just before dawn.”

The tour continued after that, and when it was over, Lee was left with the impression of a square protected by an intact wall on the south side, and berms to the north, east and west. The tower anchored the fort’s southeast corner, while American-made Stryker vehicles guarded the other three corners of the outpost, all of which were heavily armed.

The stretches in between the strongpoints were well-seeded with sandbagged fighting positions, light machine guns, and crew-served Mk 19 grenade launchers that could fire 40mm grenades at a practical rate of 40 rounds per-minute.

All-in-all FOB-17 would continue to be a tough nut for the Chinese to crack if, and it was a big if, the base could be supplied. So, Lee had every reason to hope that Gupta’s supplies would arrive safely.

After the tour the group returned to the basement where they ate MREs and lay down to get some shuteye before the stand-to scheduled prior to dawn. Kwan was nowhere to be seen and Lee wondered how she was doing as he drifted off to sleep.

The morning alarm consisted of a corporal walking through the basement banging on a garbage can lid. He, at least, seemed to be in a good mood. “Time to get up! Report to your posts. A new day awaits!”

Soldiers hurled insults and all manner of trash at him but the noncom grinned good naturedly. “Save your insults for the Chinese my friends, they will be here soon enough.”

Lee and the rest of his men were stationed on the east berm which typically took the worst beating. “Put your heads down!” a lieutenant shouted. “Aircraft from the west!”

The first A-10 arrived seconds later, strafed the hell out of the moonscape to the east, and pulled up. That’s when a second Hog arrived from the south and dropped two bombs just short of the wall. The explosions were loud and sent columns of dirt shooting up into the air. The north side of the perimeter came next, followed by a gun run to the west.

Two K-MAX drones appeared moments later. Both were carrying pallets of supplies which dangled from cables. That was sufficient to trigger a concerted attack from the east. The C-RAM answered with long bursts of fire which interdicted both artillery rounds and mortar bombs alike. Flashes of light strobed the early morning battlefield as the incoming weapons blew up.

Lee held his breath as the lead K-MAX took fire and began to lose altitude. Smoke was trailing behind the drone by the time it crossed over the perimeter and released its load.

Then, conscious of the fact that his K-MAX wouldn’t make it back, the pilot sent the machine forward to crash kamikaze-like onto an enemy machinegun position. Evers yelled, “Suck it,” and the men around him cheered.

The second K-MAX had arrived by then, dropped its pallet 20 yards from the first, and banked away. Then, freed from its load, the drone took off for the west. Lee released his breath. FOB-17 was still in trouble… But the fight continued.

The successful supply drop did a great deal to bolster morale, and Gupta was quick to distribute the candy bars and soft drinks that were included in the load. Lee had a can of diet coke. Ice would have been nice but it still tasted good.

Then the boredom set in. The hours seemed to drag by. Morning turned to afternoon as the sun inched across the sky. Snipers exchanged shots. The C-RAM stuttered every now and then. Contrails scratched the sky. The sun dipped into the west and darkness fell.

Lee ate most of an MRE, spent four hours as head of the fast response team, and went to bed at 0230. Dawn came too quickly as did the age-old tradition of a stand-to.

Gupta sent every able-bodied member of his force to their defensive positions as a ribbon of pink light stretched across the horizon. Then, as the orange-red disk began to edge up over the mountains, a lookout spoke over the PA system. “They’re coming! Hundreds of them!”

Lee elbowed his way to the top of the berm and brought a pair of binocular up to his eyes. The rising sun made it difficult to see. And that, Lee recognized, was part of the enemy’s plan. Attack with the sun at your back. A strategy as old as warfare itself.

Then he heard the boom, boom, boom of drums, and saw that two columns of soldiers were advancing toward the outpost. And that too was part of the plan.

The defenders could fire at the lead men, four per column, but couldn’t mow all the attacking force down. Except that the people marching toward him weren’t troops! They were Uyghurs! Men, women and children being used to mask the real soldiers who followed along behind. Lee thumbed his radio. “This is Viper-Six… Don’t fire! I repeat don’t fire on the people coming toward us. They are Chinese slaves. PLA troops are hiding behind them!”

Gupta was quick to respond. “Tiger-Six to Viper-Six. Are you sure? Over.”

“Yes,” Lee said, as he scrambled up and over the berm. “I’ll try to divert them to the north and south. Use drones to locate the PLA troops and take them out. Over.”

Lee expected to take fire, as he took the east side of the berm in a series of jumps, but there wasn’t any. And that made sense in an evil sort of way. The Chinese were waiting for the defenders to fire on the civilians. A mine exploded tossing a Uyghur woman high into the air, but the massed bodies kept coming, driven by the Chinese soldiers located behind them.

The columns were so close that Lee could see the fear in the eyes of those at the front... He pointed at the left-hand column before motioning it to the north. The words were in Mandarin. “Go around the fort!” he shouted. “The Sikhs won’t fire on you!”

Then, after giving a similar order to the second column Lee pointed south. The column turned. It couldn’t march in a straight line. Not with so many trenches, craters, and wrecked vehicles blocking the way. So, the column snaked south and turned west. The drums continued to pound, the sun inched higher into the sky, and mortar bombs fell to the east. The explosions threw bodies and parts of bodies high into the air.

That was when a frantic voice came over the radio. “They’re inside the wire! The Chinese are inside the wire! They’re coming up through tunnels! Over.”

The sounds of fighting came from within the fort as Gupta issued orders. “This is Tiger-Six. Even numbered squads will face out—odd numbered squads will face in. Pick you targets… Don’t shoot each other. Over.”

The truth was clear. The Uyghurs had been intended as a screen, but more than that, as a diversion! The PLA had been tunneling in under the fort’s defenses for weeks. Now they were attacking from below. Lee turned and scrambled up and over the top of the berm. Bullets snapped around him as PLA soldiers fortunate enough to survive the mortar barrage charged the outpost.

Lee was barely inside the perimeter when Chinese soldiers surged up and onto the berm behind him. Explosions rippled along the slope as a Sikh triggered the command detonated mines buried there. Bodies somersaulted through the air and a bloody rain fell onto the otherwise dry soil.

Wendy, Lee thought. I need to find Wendy. But that was impossible. At least 20 PLA soldiers were inside the compound--and more were arriving each second. Lee saw an eruption of soil, followed by the shape of a man’s head, as Chinese soldier hurried to exit an underground shaft.

Lee shot the intruder three times and hurried over to stomp on the dead man’s head. As the body fell Lee readied a grenade and let it fall. Then it was time to step back as the bomblet exploded.

Chaos reigned all around. Sikhs were fighting Chinese soldiers hand-to-hand, other Sikhs were firing to the east, south, west and north in a desperate attempt to hold off waves of enemy troops. Machineguns rattled incessantly, rifles banged, and even pistols came into play as the defenders struggled to hold the fort.

Evers shouted, “Behind you!” Lee turned to see three PLA soldiers topping the berm. They were silhouetted against the morning sky. He brought the M4 up and shot the Chinese soldiers from left to right. One, two, three.

Their bodies were still tumbling down the inside surface of the berm when another silhouette appeared and shot Lee in the chest. The bullet threw the green beret back, as a second slammed into his left thigh, and a third hit his head. Then lights went out.

When Lee returned to consciousness it was to see the sky, the blurry image of the Sikh who was carrying the far end of his stretcher, and the burning C-RAM beyond. There was a series of explosions as some of the unit’s ammo cooked off.

Lee tried to speak, tried to rise, but couldn’t muster the strength.

They took him down a ramp into a side room. Someone was screaming, and another moaning in pain, as a medic gave orders. “He’s pretty bad. Take him into surgery.”

Lee watched the ceiling move and wondered if it was the last thing he’d see. The right side of Lee’s head hurt, and it felt as if he might float away.

Then there were lights, and the sound of distant voices, as they moved his body off the stretcher and onto to a hard surface. “Roll him,” a familiar voice said. “Do we have an exit wound? No? Roll him back.

“Get a pressure dressing on his leg. That can wait. Prep his chest but don’t get fancy. We’re going in after whatever made that hole.”

Kwan leaned in over him. Her surgical mask was hanging down onto bloodied scrubs. “Jon, can you hear me? I hope so… You’re going to be fine.”

The words that followed were mouthed rather than spoken. “I love you.”

Then Kwan was a surgeon again. “Put him out. We have work to do.”

A mask descended over Lee’s face, and he was trying to say “I love you too,” when the world faded to black.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Mamallapuram, India

Allied Convalescent Center 26 was located along the east shore of the Bay of Bengal, well clear of the fighting that was still underway to the northeast. The complex had previously been known as the Radisson Resort, Temple Bay--and its 157 rooms were occupied by soldiers who were recovering from wounds rather than well-heeled tourists.

Army Captain Jon Lee was one of those soldiers. He was still using a cane during his morning walks, but the pain was less now and, according to an Aussie doctor named James Woolson, the discomfort would eventually disappear.

A scar would forever mark the place where a Chinese bullet had creased his skull, and another could be seen on the right-side of Lee’s chest, where Kwan had gone in after the 5.56mm bullet that nearly killed him.

What couldn’t be removed was the constant worry that plagued Lee’s mind. The fort was still in Allied hands. He’d been able to learn that much. And the Big Push had stalled. More than that the Chinese were being inexorably pushed east. But what about Cato? What about Evers? And what about the Gurkhas? Were they still alive?

And then there was Kwan. Lee hardly dared think about her lest the rush of emotion overwhelm him. Such were the green beret’s thoughts as he limped along the path next to the center’s meandering 27,000 square-foot swimming pool. Dozens of people were in the water exercising under the strict supervision of a physical therapist generally referred to as “Sergeant Pain.” Lee’s turn would come at 1400 hours.

The convalescents were usually assigned two-to-a-room. Lee had been sharing a villa with a French Legionnaire named LaVoie until the officer was declared “Fit to die” as LaVoie put it, and sent to East Africa.

That meant Lee had the spacious room to himself. A luxury he planned to enjoy by taking a lengthy nap. The door to Lee’s room was unlocked. A sure sign that the maid was at work inside. But, as Lee entered, he saw a military duffle on the floor--and heard the sound of the shower. So much for the nap, Lee thought. My new roomie is here.

Rather than lie down on one of two queen-sized beds, Lee eased himself into his favorite chair, and put his leg up on a coffee table.

After coming across a copy of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War in the resort’s tiny library, Lee was going to read it again. He opened the cover and began to read: “The art of war is of vital importance to the state,” Sun Tzu said. “It is a matter of life and death, a road either to safety or to ruin. Hence under no circumstances can it be neglected.”

The voice, a female voice, was unexpected. And it sent something akin to an electric shock through Lee’s body as his head came up. Kwan had a towel wrapped around her hair and another around her body. Lee came to his feet. “You’re alive.”

Kwan smiled. “Yes, and so are you. Doctor Woolson tells me that you’re going to make a full recovery. But I’m not so sure.”

Lee frowned. “Why not?”

“Well, I’m a doctor. And doctors like to run tests.”

“Lab tests?”

“No,” Kwan replied as she came forward to enter his arms. “Physical fitness tests.” Her hand found him, and Lee laughed, as he scooped her up. “I think you’ll find everything is functional doctor… But let’s make sure.”

Later, much later, they went to dinner together. And that was when Lee learned that most of the Uyghur slaves had been able to make it to safety.

Sadly, Staff Sergeant Thapa had been killed in the fighting. But Pun and Shekhawat were fine, as were the green berets, although Evers had been wounded. “He’s on the mend,” Kwan said reassuringly. “And sends his best.”

As for the newly promoted Colonel Smith-Peet, he was touring with his holiness the baby Dalai Lama, whose escape from Nepal had been a cause for celebration everywhere, and a psychological victory for the Allies.

“So, that leaves you and me,” Kwan said, as their eyes met across the table. “What are we going to do?”

Lee grinned. “Conduct more tests.” Both of them laughed. And for that moment in time the world was whole again.

ABOUT THE WINDS OF WAR SERIES

In RED THUNDER, volume four of the Winds of War series, WWIII rages on as the Allies plan a daring raid the Kyshtym Copper-Electrolyte Works in the Chelyabinsk region located deep inside Russia. As the war heats up the Russian plant is producing significant quantities of Rhenium, a rare Earth element used to produce alloys for jet engines, filaments for mass spectrographs, and electrical contacts. And, according to a CIA agent named Cassandra, the Russians are going to move a large shipment of Rhenium out of the Kyshtym facility to Moscow in 24 days.

A decision is made at NATO headquarters in Brussels, Belgium. Rather than allow the Russians to transport the Rhenium to Moscow, where they will use it as part of the war effort, the Allies will create a pop-up infantry battalion, and send it into Russian territory to hijack the shipment. The Allied unit will be staffed with individuals drawn from a variety of countries, and various military organizations according to need.

The man chosen to lead the battalion is an army reserve colonel, and well-known actor named Alton Flynn; a man who, though famous for performing his own stunts and his magnetic personality, is also known to be a narcissist and a woman chaser.

But as one general puts it, “Flynn is just crazy enough to get the job done… Assuming we send a real soldier to keep him on the rails.”

The “real soldier” is Flynn’s XO, Major Marlo Martin—who’s known for her cool head. She, along with CIA Paramilitary Officer Dan Dean, and a battalion consisting of 300 strangers, are about to attempt the impossible. If they manage to succeed that, according to the Director of the CIA, “Will be a fucking miracle.”

About William C. Dietz

For more about William C. Dietz and his fiction, please visit williamcdietz.com. You can find Bill on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/williamcdietz and you can follow him on Twitter: William C. Dietz@wcdietz