The Americans developed the XM25 in the latter part of the aughts and deployed a number of prototypes to Afghanistan to see how the weapon fared. We obtained intelligence reports while I was still in Spetsnaz about that testing initiative.
We were terrified of the results. American soldiers there called the weapon “revolutionary” and talked about how it had completely changed infantry combat. Dozens of Taliban were killed, American lives were saved, and there seemed to be no downside.
In Spetsnaz, we were in a panic. Our leaders spent weeks and months trying to figure out how we could counter the technology. We worked on a “no-cover” assumption — that within thirty seconds of taking a position behind cover, we would have to run to a different position or be wiped out in any battle against the United States or any of its allies. Running out into the open every thirty seconds was a recipe for a massacre, of course. My comrades wondered how many letters would be sent off to loved ones courtesy of the XM25.
And then, a miracle arrived in February 2013. During a live-fire training event in the United States, the primer and propellant in one round ignited in the weapon because a soldier had placed two grenades in the barrel at the same time. The grenade itself didn’t detonate because of built-in safety measures, and the weapon itself had been fired 5,900 times without incident. The soldier himself sustained only minor injuries.
To any rational observer, the accident was a fluke, not even a rounding error in the calculus of worth for this weapon. However, the Army delayed moving the XM25 into full production because of the accident. Later that year, the Senate Armed Services Committee eliminated all funding for purchases of the XM25 because of “unreliable performance.” Then the major military spending cuts kicked in, and the XM25 had its funding removed in lieu of weapons that were built in districts or states with more powerful congressmen.
One of the most dangerous threats to the enemies of the United States had been taken out of the hands of American soldiers. Then, a second miracle. The PLA decided not to steal the design for the weapon. Normally far more logical about such decisions, the Chinese in this case reportedly figured that if the weapon wasn’t good enough for Americans, it couldn’t be good enough for Chinese.
It’s times like this I wonder how Russia hasn’t conquered the world with competitors as foolish as the Chinese and Americans.
Someone in the Taiwanese military had been paying attention, however. They purchased the design of the weapon, a process that took almost a decade because of insipid legal roadblocks. Clearly, they should have simply stolen the design, but the Taiwanese had not wanted to anger their ally. The Taiwanese had put the weapon into production just the previous year, and only a few hundred had been built. Three of them had been delivered to us, and now we were ready to use them.
We waited, but not very long. Even then, Concitor was moving on Teatime Hill. We didn’t know the details of what to expect because Concitor hadn’t want to risk the attack plan in case we were captured, but he had been a clever bastard during his time with us. I knew the show would be good, whatever it was that he had planned.
And then the show began spectacularly. I laughed, knowing no one would hear me above the explosions, and said aloud, “Colonel Concitor, you’re a clever bastard. Na zdorovye!” It was time to fight.
Chapter 11: Concitor
I wrote a last letter to Lucy and my boys. I don’t like doing that kind of maudlin work before a battle, but this one would be much more personally dangerous than most.
It had taken two hours to make the necessary preparations. The Taiwanese had to be notified because of the role they would play in the battle. That was the first step. When the Taiwanese high command assured me that they could handle my request, I turned my mind to the next part of the plan.
The latest intelligence indicated that the PLA had doubled the garrison on Teatime Hill, up to eight thousand soldiers now occupied the foxholes and trenches. On our side, I could muster about a thousand and a half by using all of the reserves, the remnants of Williams’s force, and some of the best soldiers pulled from the western side of the town and Devil Hill. The numbers were daunting, but I reminded myself that the numbers only mattered if the soldiers could fight and weren’t confused or routed.
The civilians that I had used to serve as camouflage during the ambush on the western side of town had been stranded when the PLA finally succeeded in sending infantry around the town to cut off the road to Yilan. They weren’t much of a fighting force, but they did have weapons and uniforms, so I dubbed them the Militia and found some useful work for them to do. After our attack launched, they would move up to the Coffee Line and provide covering fire in case we needed to retreat.
I didn’t call the Pentagon to tell them about the effort to retake Teatime Hill. Why give them the chance to give unwanted advice or, much worse, unwanted orders? Given that the failed assault had only been a few hours earlier and the best they could offer then was a flight of F-15’s that had been largely ineffective, there wasn’t much hope that they could do better on shorter notice. The F-22's were still needed elsewhere to keep the Chinese air force away from Pinglin.
About fifteen minutes before the main attack would launch, I sent Task Force Tennessee on its mission, continuing my tradition of naming my units after Civil War armies. Tennessee had about two hundred soldiers, some of the best that could be moved over from the other parts of the Airborne defenses in the town. I had called for volunteers from the western garrison, Devil Hill, and the reserves. Every man and woman who could walk had volunteered, and so my officers were able to pick and choose for the very best. Most of them had never worked closely together before, of course, but that wouldn’t matter much, given what their mission would be.
Each of them wore ski masks, heavy jackets, and pants that had been kept in refrigerators in town for at least an hour and a half before being brought out. I even had each of them drink two cups of ice water. We tried every trick in the book to lower the thermal signature of the soldiers of Task Force Tennessee.
We actually tested how well our various methods worked with our own thermal goggles. For at least ten minutes, the various measures succeeded in masking the heat emitted by the soldiers as they crawled along the ground. That ought to be enough, I judged.
The various components of Task Force Tennessee fanned out evenly to the east and west of the Coffee Line for up to three hundred yards in either direction. Each carried an M-4 rifle slung across his back, the weapon painted in shades of dark green to camouflage it in the forest. With the fog and rain still obscuring views, I couldn’t see any of the members of Task Force Tennessee moving out from my position in the center of the Coffee Line, not with ordinary binoculars or with a thermal scope.
So far, so good. Just a few minutes to go now.
I looked to the soldiers on my left and right. I had deliberately placed the survivors of Williams’s attack in the middle of the Coffee Line, right at my position. They would be less confident than the soldiers of the reserves who had participated in the crushing victory on the western side of the town. I hoped that my presence would bolster them a little, a stark contrast from the lead-from-behind manner of Brown that had failed so utterly in the last assault on Teatime Hill.
Those soldiers now looked nervous. They fidgeted with their weapons and muttered prayers, their hands shaking.
I triggered my radio to talk to every soldier in the Coffee Line. “All, listen up. I just want to tell you a few things to keep your sense of perspective about what’s happening right now.”