2042, July 15-22. Beyond Changchun. The Russians and Americans made a momentous decision concerning greater metropolitan Changchun. Despite the fact that the main Manchurian road and rail net went through the nexus of greater Changchun—the Chinese Auto City—the Allied High Commands agreed to bypass and the ring the city with artillery and garrison troops. Instead of going into “Fortress Changchun,” they besieged it and decided to starve the city into submission, leaving over 150,000 Chinese soldiers and several hundred thousand citizen-riflemen inside, along with eight million civilians. This tied down over 200,000 Russian soldiers and 40,000 Americans. Yet it saved both armies from massive casualties and from becoming bogged down in house-to-house fighting in the city.
The road and rail sub-routes beginning in the Manchurian Plain would bypass the Changchun road and rail nets as they poured supplies to Allied forces. The Russian 7th Army Group (820,000) together with Russian Ninth Army (85,000) and the US 3rd Army Group (123,000) began their approach to Liaoning Province, the heart of Northeast China’s industrial basin. After several days delay and watchful worry over Changchun, the Allied offensive continued south.
-13-
Drive on Shenyang
Cramps twisted Jake’s stomach as he crawled toward the enemy minefield. He knew what caused the pains: stark fear.
It smelled like rain tonight, with heavy clouds covering the moon and stars, which made this doubly dangerous. There was still enough ambient light for his night vision goggles. But if it began to pour…
He slithered across grass, his head slowly swiveling back and forth, as he studied the enemy’s positions.
Jake’s fear included the terror of awful maiming: losing arms and legs or hands and feet. The worst would be to his cock and balls. He dreaded that. If he missed a mine, crawled over it and boom—there went any lovemaking with a beautiful babe of a wife. Of course, his guts would likely be blown away too and probably his legs. To Jake, those things were just as bad as dying. He’d seen enough maiming and death to last him the rest of his life.
He slithered forward faster than before, and the cramps made his face twist with pain. He should have told the lieutenant about the stomach cramps, how they made it almost impossible to think.
“No,” he mouthed. He couldn’t let Chet and Grant down. They didn’t want to do this either, but they crawled to his right and left, along with the rest of what remained of the squad.
Jake wore body armor, a dark commando poncho that blocked his infrared signature and blackface so his skin didn’t shine and give him away. For this little get-together with the enemy, he had a Remington battle shotgun with a nice drum magazine attached. There was nothing nice about tonight, though. It was a murder mission pure and simple.
Okay, my man, you can do this. If your gut hurts, screw it. I’m going in anyway.
The Chinese kept pouring troops north to block them. Mostly, the enemy soldiers were frightened young men mixed with a few old farts. They had weapons, though. The inexperienced slobs knew just enough to dig and die in place while Chinese artillery and rockets did their best to kill Americans. US High Command, or somebody lower down the food chain, had hit upon a new way to baptize these newbies into the conflict—infiltration tactics combined with night slaughter.
Jake had done this twice before. He hated it because it meant crawling through minefields, cutting razor wire and fooling Chinese sensors and night guards. One of these times, there was going to be a breakdown, and that might mean the finish of the squad and the larger platoon.
When does this end? Harbin, Changchun and now we’re invading Liaoning Province. If we capture Shenyang, will the war be over for us? When is it someone else’s turn?
Jake didn’t know the answer, and he realized he shouldn’t be thinking about it now.
Concentrate on the mission.
He kept slithering across grass until a link in his ear beeped. That made sweat drip into his eyes so it stung. He wiped his orbs, trying to clear them. He was here, at the minefield. Jake exhaled and flipped down a one-eyed visor. It gave him a videogame schematic, and for the next several minutes, he contorted himself around plastic-coated devils buried in the ground. Yeah, plastic sons of bitches so no one could detect them. The device on his helmet used the explosive in the mine to locate its position and warn Jake about it on the schematic. Behind him, Chet, Grant and the others did the same thing. No one lifted the mines. That was too dangerous. Like a deadly and peculiar tide, the Americans flowed toward combat with the newbies.
Jake saw the first outpost, with a Chinese kid manning a machine gun. Two things struck him about the nest. One, there was no razor wire, thank God. Second, there was only one sucker, not two or three as they usually had. The one man chewed a wad of gum so Jake could hear him smack his lips. Even so, without his fancy poncho, Jake knew he’d be cooked because Chinese sensors would have spotted him by now.
Why does it always have to come down to this?
Jake disliked knives. He’d read somewhere that sociopaths loved daggers and sticking people. The US Army had those. He was starting to think that Chet might be one. The missions never bothered him: the killing, the blood, the stink of combat. Chet scanned his porn and grinned every time he learned they were going in hand to hand. Something might be wrong with his friend. The lieutenant had warned Chet before to make sure he didn’t overact during combat.
No worries tonight for Chet, Jake thought. The mission was a sociopath’s wet dream.
The next two minutes seemed like a lifetime of worries, stomach cramps and inner dialogues. Finally, Jake worked behind the machine gun nest. Slowly, he rose to his hands and feet and then stood up in a crouch. He slid a black-coated blade from the sheath on his chest. As taught, he crept toward the gum-chewing kid. Jake never knew what gave him away. The kid turned, and his eyes went wide with terror.
Don’t let him yell!
Like a cougar, Jake leaped the distance as he thrust his knife as if it were a rapier. The blade went into the soldier’s mouth. The kid’s eyes opened horribly wide, and he grunted, choking. Jake’s jump caused him to collide with his lighter opponent, and he knocked him down. Jake fell on top, but lost his grip of the knife.
The kid bucked wildly. Groaning, Jake grabbed the soldier’s throat, squeezing as hard as he could. Hands thrust at his face. Fingers clawed his nose and made it into his mouth, wriggling around.
Jake knocked one arm away. Then he grabbed the bloody knife handle, yanked the blade out and stuck the man in the throat. Hot blood jetted Jake on the face.
“You bastard,” Jake hissed. Using his sleeve, he wiped his checks, mouth and cleared his eyes. The first time that had happened, he’d vomited. He didn’t do that tonight. But it did flip a switch in his mind. He was supposed to wait before he took out his shotgun and went to town. No way, José. It was clobbering time.
“Jake,” Grant whispered.
Something else had taken over in Jake, and his stomach quit cramping. Shrugging the Remington from his shoulders, he charged toward the Chinese tents. Before he made it three strides, someone tackled him from behind. They both went down, Jake’s right cheek slamming against grass.
“Wait for the rest of us, you idiot,” Chet whispered into Jake’s left ear. “You’re going to get everyone killed if you go Rambo on us.”
The fury evaporated, and Jake realized he’d been about to charge in alone. Tremors washed through him.