Shun Li closed her eyes. She was becoming a guardian inspector once again. Australia had been bad. This was going to be terrible. Chairman Hong was returning to a Mao Defense of China, at least until the country rebuilt its home army. This was going to be a deadly game of distance and speed.
On the first day of the Manchurian Invasion, Jake figured everything would be down to a science, especially with the American veterans.
He’d had known it wouldn’t be so, but he hadn’t expected such a screwy beginning.
The sun crept up from the east before the artillery in their sector opened up. The tubes were supposed to have started two hours before dawn. No. They were late. Only the ground-attack planes and drones had started on time, roaring over them in the dark.
The platoon waited for the signal from company headquarters. The men huddled behind long bulrushes, the lazy Amur River hidden from sight. Each team had a six-man inflatable with a small motor in back.
As they waited, Chet kept checking the time.
“Don’t bother,” Jake told him. “When you hear the artillery you’ll know it’s for real.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Chet said. He kept checking until finally he lay down and closed his eyes, going to sleep.
Jake winked at Grant. The lanky black man just nodded. He looked zombie-tired, as he hated waking up in the dark.
Finally, with the sun peeking over the horizon, several artillery pieces boomed, lonely but impressive sounds. Maybe thirty seconds later, the entire north erupted with thunderous roars. The ground shook, and Chet sat up with a shout.
“It’s starting,” Jake told him.
Chet gazed at him open-mouthed. Soon, he scrambled to his feet and took his place around the dinghy.
Lieutenant Wans came by, a stocky man with an unshaven face. “Ten minutes,” he said. “Make sure you have everything in place.”
“We’re still crossing the Amur?” Jake asked.
Wans glanced at the inflatable before stalking off.
“Ask as stupid question,” Chet said.
Ten minutes passed, and no order came down. Finally, twenty minutes later, whistles blew.
Jake, Chet, Grant and the others grabbed the rope around the rubber dinghy. Their packs lay inside, along with their assault rifles, RPGs and a light machine gun.
“One, two, three, heave,” Jake said.
Using the rope, they lifted the dinghy off the ground and crashed through the bulrushes, flattening the long stalks. On either side of them, the rest of the platoon did likewise with their inflatables. The men rushed down to the northern shore of the Amur River.
Low rolling hills stood on either side of the broad river. It might have been an idyllic scene, if not for the violence to come.
Jake’s boots squished in mud. He was in front. With a heave, he threw the craft toward deeper water. Some of the others did likewise. The dingy splashed into the cold river, and Jake clambered aboard.
They were doing it. This was for real. Manchuria, gateway to China, baby.
As the others settled into place, Grant used his left thumb, starting the small outboard. It ring-ring-ringed to life like an angry lawnmower.
“Let’s go!” Chet shouted.
Jake settled in front, kneeling, and he nestled his assault rifle on his lap. The dinghy pushed forward through the black water. Then it went a little faster. The current caught the craft, trying to take them downstream. Grant compensated, heading for their landing zone marked on their map.
I’m crossing the Amur River into China. We’re really going to pay them back for coming to America.
All across the river, rubber boats moved for the Chinese shore. What’s more, the entire landscape on their side, the Siberian north, churned with movement. Tanks, IFVs, trucks, jeeps, military SUVs and marching men headed for pontoon bridges. All the while, American artillery pounded the Chinese shore and beyond. Explosions erupted over there and fires blazed.
“Look!” Jake shouted. He pointed at a house on the far shore. It blew apart with spectacular violence. Finally, the destruction was taking place in enemy territory, in Asia. It felt great. For years now, Jake had watched American buildings go down. Smaller sheds over there burned like marshmallows over a fire.
The Amur River was wide. Jake recalled his dad telling him about the old days in the 1960s. The communist Chinese and Russians used to have border skirmishes along this river. Now China faced the onslaught of United Europe, Russia heading the Slavic Coalition and a mad-as-hell United States of America.
Let’s see how the Chinese like them apples.
The outboard sputtered for a moment. Jake turned. With his open hand, Grant gave the engine a whack. It resumed its buzz and the boat surged ahead once more.
“This is it,” Jake told Chet. “We’re invading.”
“We haven’t reached there yet,” Chet said.
“Cheerful attitude.”
“Just calling it like I see it,” Chet said with a smirk.
Jake breathed the air. He smelled burning wood and the gasoline of their outboard. Chet was scared. Heck, so was he. They were going back to war again, but in a different part of the world.
We’re not in Kansas anymore.
Halfway across the river, Chet shouted at Jake. “What in the heck is that?”
Jake glanced at Chet. The soldier pointed toward the enemy shore. With a start, Jake realized a young kid stepped out from behind some bulrushes on the Manchurian side. The kid wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and waved to them.
“He’s crazy,” Chet said. “Doesn’t he know what those artillery shells are? They’re pulverizing his side.”
Jake nodded. The kid must be loony.
“Better shoot him.”
Jake turned around in shook. “You’re crazy. I’m not shooting an unarmed kid.”
“You never heard stories about Vietnam?”
“Come on,” Jake said. “Are you kidding me? You want to gun down a little kid? We’re soldiers, not barbarian Mongols fighting under Genghis Khan.”
“You’d better wise up, Jake. This is China. We’re not liberating them from anything, but invading their stinking country. Don’t doubt they’re going to pull every trick in the book they can.”
“I can’t believe you’re saying this.”
Along with a swarm of others, the dinghy headed for shore, and Jake kept his eyes peeled for enemy soldiers. He kept turning back to the kid, who continued to move his hand up and down. Was the kid a lookout for Chinese infantry? That seemed unlikely. Any Chinese grunt would be a nutcase to be out here, but one never knew.
“This is stupid,” Chet said. “I’m finishing this.” He lifted his assault rifle, aiming at the kid.
“No!” Jake said, grabbing the end of the barrel and pulling it down.
“You idiot!” Chest shouted, ripping the gun out of Jake’s grip. “Don’t ever grab my rifle again.”
A different dinghy neared the watching kid. He couldn’t be any older than ten, maybe eleven years. He stood on a rise of ground, watching as if enthralled.
Suddenly, to Jake’s horror, the kid pulled a hand grenade out of a pouch at this side. He struggled with the pin.