16 October
61° 0′ 0″ N, 175° 8′ 0″ W
Altitude 7000 m
‘All warfare is based on deception… hence, when we are able to attack, we must seem unable. When using our forces, we must appear inactive. When we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near.’
The quote was from the first of the two little red books I always had in my jacket pocket.
I carried the second one mostly for show. I had as much love for the fat dead bastard who wrote it as I had for the fat – sadly not dead – bastard now spearheading our operations in Alaska, whose nasally voice stabbed at my ears through the radio left on by that dog of a pilot as the rest of the men in the deck listened spellbound, but stating either sentiment out loud would earn me a quicker one-way ticket to laogai than if I suggested that free market might not be so bad in the middle of Tiananmen.
‘Reading Sunzi, Captain Shen?’ The young man in front of me spat the words out with a venom likely inherited from his antirevisionist peasant ancestors. ‘How very bourgeois of you.’
Bourgeois, I snorted, making no effort to hide my sneer. According to his file, Corporal Deng Zhu-Qin, nineteen years old, hadn’t even completed primary education.
I snapped the book shut and fixed my eyes on the corporal, who blinked and shifted. Before I could utter any of the retorts I had already prepared, the aircraft rocked violently, its frame rattling. Deng paled. Half of the other soldiers sitting next to me swallowed hard, gripping their weapons like children clutching at their sheets.
‘Calm down,’ I told them. ‘It’s just turbulence, not AA fire.’
I should’ve kept my mouth shut and let them shake. Most of them shot me cold stares. I could see the resentful thoughts bouncing off the inside of their skulls. What did this Guo-Anbu snake know about the soldier’s life? As far as they were concerned, I was PLA in name only. No one liked spies. And they liked me even less with each moment I spent sitting with them. It was to be expected. I hadn’t fought with them, bled with them, and as far as they were concerned I was just an MSS tourist living the soft life mingling with Westerners and tainted with the capitalist stink of money, which they could doubtlessly smell on me just as well I could smell the stench of their mothers’ milk still reeking on their lips.
The turbulence passed. In what he must have thought was a gesture of reassurance, the pilot turned up the volume of Jing-Wei’s broadcast. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes as a fresh wave of Drive out the Imperialist scum, do your duty as proud sons of the Motherland gouged into my eardrums. The radio made the good general’s voice sound even higher.
The men of the squadron masked their earlier anxiety with transparent laughs and false bravado. They began comparing their guns, as boys were wont to do.
Ouyang, the baby of the group even by their standards, started first.
‘VZ. 58V,’ he said, grinning as he stroked the weapon as if he was cradling a Siamese and not a rifle. ‘Looks similar to Comrade Kalashnikov’s design but features a short-stroke piston in place of a long-stroke one. See the folding stock? The “V” stands for-’
‘Výsadkový, “airborne”, yes, we’ve heard this one before,’ Wu grumbled. Wu was constantly angry at something. I would be too if my own nose got blown off by shrapnel. The man shot me a pointed glare from above the two mangled holes of his nostrils, as if he was daring me to interject. I’m not part of your little choir, but I’m still a captain. What could you do if I did?
I did not, and Wu hawked a glob of phlegm into an empty canteen before continuing. ‘Pah- Fucking Czechs. No better than the rest of Russia. Fence-sitting bedwetters. You sure you want to carry a gun of theirs into the field?’
‘Ni ye buyong zheyang zi,’ Ouyang said, clearly stung. ‘This rifle was my great-grandfather’s. He carried it into Cambodia-’
‘Family gun?’ Chung leant over, his boisterous voice drowning out whatever Ouyang was about to say. He’d been a construction foreman before he enlisted. ‘I’ve got one too. Type 85, suppressed, my grandfather used it when he was with the Tezhongbudui himself, like us-’ And he held up the sleek black submachinegun for all the world to see.
I gave the weapon a once-over. The Bawu Shi had been maintained well, and had been polished quite recently, perhaps just before we assembled for take-off.
‘It’s been modified to chamber 10mm rounds, which means I can just pick up more ammunition on the fly,’ Chung smirked.
Several more boys chimed in. One had a Type 56 given to him by a great-uncle who in turn received it from his father, another had a genuine American M3 ‘Grease Gun’ that some predecessor had salvaged from Korea. ‘The irony is sweet, isn’t it,’ he said with an idiot’s toothy grin.
This was it. This was the great night raid squadron. The enemy had automatons and mobile suits of solid steel and all they had were guerrilla tactics and barely post-adolescent boys armed with antiques passed down from grandfathers of grandfathers. As if I was one to talk. My own Mauser was older than the Party itself. All tremble before the might of the People’s Liberation Army.
‘…you, Captain?’
I looked up to find Ouyang looking at me, his eyes bright. The boy hadn’t learned to distrust the Guo-Anbu yet.
‘Yes?’
‘What about you, Captain?’ Ouyang asked excitedly.
Thinking that I should at least try to build better relations with these men, I tapped the pistol holstered at my hip. ‘C96 Hezipao. It was my great-great-great-grandfather’s, who used it in the warlord era, and then my great-grandfather’s.’
I was met with murmurs with approval and allowed myself a grim smile. My great-great-great-grandfather had been a Xinjiang bandit and my great-grandfather had been an Uyghur separatist. The Mauser had been taken from him before he was summarily executed for terrorism. If my grandfather hadn’t changed the family name to the Han ‘Shen’ I would likely be in laogai already.
A movement at the furthest seat down the line across from me caught my attention. The Butterfly had lifted her gun. The entire unit grew quiet as the deadliest operative in the room checked the scope for her Type 41 anti-materiel rifle with an eerie coldness.
Like me, Lieutenant Qiu Die was an attachment to the squadron. Her file had described her as ‘tall, resilient, rare talent in marksmanship’. After studying her thousand-yard-stare, I added a footnote: ‘Probable mental instability’. The lieutenant had lost her partner recently, one Corporal Zheng Xiao-feng – snipers worked in pairs and she had been spotting for him when an enemy combatant in power armour stormed their entrenchment with a minigun and blew him to shreds. The incident had clearly left her unbalanced.
Qiu slid the bolt of the Type 41 into place and went back to staring blankly out of the window behind her. The squadron took a collective breath and resumed comparing their rifles and submachineguns with an energy that was a combination of optimism, youthful inexperience and fear. The red light of the bay gave the entire scene a surreal, nightmarish quality, though the rest of the men no doubt found it patriotic.
I closed my eyes and took a nap. A soldier’s most powerful tool was rest.
The pilot’s voice woke me, as crisp and cold as the air swirling outside.
‘Oxygen masks on,’ he said. ‘We’ve just crossed the Yukon.’
The squadron had stopped their jawing and one by one they stood, strapping the specialised masks to their faces. I followed suit, wrinkling my nose at the stale compressed gas. Qiu Die stood as well, and I went over to check her parachute. Unlike the rest of the squadron’s light gear, her anti-materiel rifle added another forty pounds to her total weight.
I finished my inspection and trod over to the bay doors. There was no need to review the mission with the men – they were simple enough, and each member of the team knew their instructions by heart. Perform the jump, regroup at the specified clearing one kilometre north of the objective, capture said objective. I would accompany them as far as the clearing, and then when the operation began, I had my own set of orders.
The bay doors opened. The air began to whip about instantly, tugging at my jacket. I felt a surge of gratefulness for my oxygen mask as a few ice crystals sparked off our heads and arms like miniscule bullets.
‘Wind conditions were not ideal,’ the pilot shouted over the intercom. ‘You’ll have to jump from further away.’
The light went from red to green and I took two deep breaths, then ran until I started to fall.
An associate of mine, a colonel in the PLAAF, once told me that there was nothing remotely like plummeting to the ground at terminal velocity. I still think of him whenever I jump. The exhilaration, the sense of weightlessness, the rush of air past your torso and limbs... he was quite right.
We were performing a high-altitude, low-opening jump in order to slip past American early warning systems, which meant our parachutes were not to be deployed until the last possible moment. I would be falling for quite a while. The atmosphere snatched at me, snippets of stars and clouds flinging themselves around my field of vision as a gust of wind drove me into an uncontrollable spin. I bit back a curse as I felt my trajectory shift and corrected it to the best of my ability. Alaskan weather was not being very cooperative.
Dizzy, I didn’t feel the snap of the chute at first. Then the shock hit my spine and I jerked reflexively, growing even dizzier as blood pooled from my head towards my legs. A brief second later my boots hit the ground and I landed on one knee, grunting.
I detached the parachute and my oxygen mask, then looked around cautiously before pulling out my map and compass. Only half a mile off. A stroke of luck.
There was moderate snowing, but nothing close to a blizzard. The weather had also helped conceal our craft, and would allow for additional stealth when our unit closed in. I trudged towards the rendezvous point, moving from open air into deep woodland, encountering no opponents along the way. My next stroke of luck.
Half of the squadron had already assembled, Qiu included. The lieutenant was inspecting her rifle. It appeared to be intact. I did not envy her task of dragging the entire anti-material weapon system across the ice and snow. At least she had attached it to a sled.
I took a pair of binoculars from Deng and scouted while we waited for the rest to arrive. The clearing was the perfect location. A sparse line of trees hid us from view, while the forest trailed off towards both sides. As for the objective itself, it was a kilometre away – an American outpost set up over a key section of the Trans-Alaska Pipeline.
Oil. That was why we fought, not some outdated notion of East versus West, of economic or class warfare. The children forming the squad didn’t understand that yet – city boys, idealists, some of them fanatical in their devotion to the Party. They hadn’t grown up in Xinjiang, never had to scrounge for coal just to keep warm, didn’t understand enough about fossil fuels and energy and how dependent we were on this black, liquid gold. Ouyang seemed to be experiencing true cold for the first time in his life. He was muttering ‘wodelaotianye’ under his breath as he shivered.
‘Tou de bao jin xie. Wrap your head up tighter,’ I advised him. ‘The cold will seep in through the tiniest gaps.’
I resumed my observation as the young man tugged at his hood and down cap. The guard patrol was light on this side, as we’d expected. Most of their attention was focused on the east, on Anchorage, where our main forces were stationed. They were not expecting an assault from the west.
The remaining members of the squadron arrived one after the other. We all slipped in foam ear plugs. The newest models sealed even better.
The operation began. Qiu dropped to her belly as she set up her rifle, burying both legs of the bipod into the ground. She made her final adjustments to the scope and inhaled. Wu was her spotter. He called out the first target.
‘Machine-gunner. Upper left quarter, railing. Distance one zero two six.’
We watched in silence as she adjusted her aim. It was a tremendous challenge to hit any target, large or small, still or moving, from a distance of over one thousand yards. But this was the Butterfly herself. We had all heard the stories.
Lieutenant Qiu exhaled, her index finger squeezing the trigger slowly. And then her face split open into a wild, vicious grin. She spoke, her voice full of a sadistic joy.
‘One little white piggy…’
I felt, rather than heard, the report of the Type 41, which really was more of a cannon than a rifle. A single 14.5x114 millimetre shell exploded from the barrel in a fiery blast and the air pressure hit me like a physical blow. Even with the bipod in place, Qiu’s body slid back a full ten centimetres. She slammed the bolt back and ejected the spent casing. It tumbled into the snow, steaming.
Wu moved to the next target immediately. ‘Rifleman, lower right. By the APC. Distance one zero zero eight.’
‘Two little white piggies…’
The second discharge was less staggering than the first; we were expecting it. I saw the Americans begin to scramble through my binoculars. Qiu’s bullet had torn through her target’s chest and continued into the APC, disabling the engine. Her third shot was to the power transformer.
The lights flickered and died. I started to move. The plan was trifold – Qiu acted both as a distraction and provided suppressing fire from the north, while the raid squadron moved towards the west to assault the enemy from the flank, hence their light automatic weaponry. With American forces occupied on the two fronts, I was allowed an opportunity to infiltrate deep into the facility from the south.
The raid squadron followed me for a short distance as we circled around the outpost, using the forest as cover. Then we split up, letting me move forward much more swiftly. My equipment was even lighter than theirs – just my pistol and a knife. I got within fifteen metres of the fence before the exchange of gunfire began.
The damage Qiu had done to the power systems had also shorted out the trip-lasers, camera turrets and electric shock barriers. I chuckled to myself as I vaulted over the fence. And that’s why we stick to razor wire. Typical of capitalists; always so reliant on their newest flashiest toys.
As if in response, the emergency power activated, illuminating the outpost once more. I pivoted behind a corner before an automatic turret could acquire my signature, then clenched my teeth as I saw a drone on its routine patrol route bobbing towards my direction. It didn’t appear to be armed, but detection so early on could prove just as fatal.
It rankled me to depend on technology – especially right after I’d just laughed at the Americans for doing the same – but the mission was the mission, and I was supposed to be giving the Baigui a test drive.
I moved my hand to my belt and pressed the red button on the side of my abnormally large buckle. There was a curious, vibrating sensation, and then the drone was upon me. I drew my Mauser, cautious, but the drone swept right past without taking any notice of me. I looked down to find that my torso – and the rest of my body – was now transparent, with only the slightest patch of shimmering air hinting at my presence. Remarkable.
There was no time to admire the science behind the Baigui; the model I’d been given had only been outfitted with a miniature fusion cell capable of operating for ten seconds. I raced past the turret, entering the outpost.
I fizzled into view behind an infantryman who was in the middle of entering his power armour. Sprinting forward, I yanked him out before the back of the T-45 could snap into place, wrapping an arm around his throat from behind.
‘Where is the radio control room?’ I asked him in English.
‘Leggo,’ the soldier choked. ‘Fuckin’ corndog chink-’
Corndog. Yes, Americans were very fond of that one. Yellow on the outside, red on the inside. They must believe themselves so clever.
‘Where is the radio control room?’ I asked him again, jabbing my pistol into the side of his neck.
‘I’m not telling you shiOHJESUSFUCKINGCHRIST-’
I holstered my gun, drove my knife into his leg, popped his kneecap off, and asked a third time. He answered. I stabbed him twice in the kidneys and left him there to bleed.
Qiu and the raid squadron must be intensifying their offensive. There were no other combatants on my way to the room in question, and I had to take care not to become lulled into a false sense of security. The interior of the outpost was narrow, having been converted from a small administrative building. No cover whatsoever. A firefight in here would be bloody. And very brief.
It took me five minutes to reach the radio room, and I drew my pistol before pushing the door open and entering.
It was well that I did. There were six uniformed men gathered around a briefcase. All armed. All staring straight at me.
I turned the Mauser sideways and began firing from the rightmost target, a technique only really used with the C96 – the upward-facing ejection port meant that tilting it ensured cleaner ejections, and the recoil would push one’s hand to the left, allowing extremely rapid sweeps when firing in full automatic. In a single second, I had emptied all twenty rounds in the Hezipao’s magazine. The last shell tumbled lightly out of the slide, tinkling, as five dead Americans slumped over, red holes bored into their heads and midsections and-
Five.
Five.
Without the shoulder stock, the Mauser’s recoil was horrific, especially since mine was chambered in .45 ACP. I had missed the sixth entirely.
The knife-
No time-
I rushed the man and forced the barrel of his rifle down before he could bring it up. We grappled. He twisted sideways and I tightened my grip on the gun, then my breath left my lungs as he dropped one knee and rammed his shoulder directly into my stomach. I jerked back with the force, tearing the gun from his grip, then a wild haymaker pummelled my chin and it clattered to the floor. I kicked at the rifle before he could pick it up, sending it skidding to the other end of the room. Then a jab caught me in the temple.
We scrapped; the brawl barely anything more than a mudfight. I landed a punch of my own on the American’s nose, then an uppercut darted past my arms into my ribs and I fell forward, scrabbling at his eyes. He pushed me off, swinging from the right with a hook, but before he could complete the blow I sent my elbow digging into the crook of his arm and as he faltered I elbowed him again in the nose, breaking it. The American reeled back. I drew my knife.
I managed two cuts on his forearm and one on his cheek, then he grabbed my wrists with both hands before planting his knee into my intestines. I doubled over, gasping, and the American wrestled at the knife, the blade cutting into his palm.
He was larger than I was, and as the knife began to slide from my hands I relinquished it entirely, dropping to the floor and scuttling to the other end of the room. The American lost his balance, surprised, then came after me, blade raised-
I swiped up his rifle, blocked his slash with the barrel, then smashed the butt over his head.
Three deep breaths later, I strode over to the briefcase. It was empty.
I sighed, dragged the unconscious soldier over to a chair, bound his arms, and prepared my tweezers.
Morning came late in an Alaskan October. It was 0820 and still pitch black.
It didn’t matter to the raid squadron. They’d been celebrating all through the night. Troops from the 75th Infantry Division were arriving to reinforce the outpost, every man was about to receive a commendation, and there had been only one casualty. None of them had liked Ouyang that much, I gathered.
As for myself, I had been spending the last few hours conversing with the American. So far the only things I’d learned was that his name was Brooke, Wilson H., his American social security number was 871-25-1926, his blood type was AB+, and he was a Christian. That was from his dog tags.
He was slumped in the chair next to me, panting. He had not spoken a word to me since we began. I checked his pulse. His blood loss wasn’t life-threatening as of yet.
I’d spent the first hour trying to bribe him. When that approach failed, I’d proceeded with threats. No response. I had moved on to the tweezers with some reluctance. But now he had no fingernails left, so I may need to start with his toes. Or perhaps the teeth, to keep things fresh.
I forced his mouth open and slipped the tweezers inside, tugging at a molar.
‘The briefcase was empty. Where did you take it?’ I asked for the hundredth time.
He spat in my face and bit at my fingers, then winced as the tips of my tweezers dug into his gums.
It took three attempts to pry out his molar. I needed sturdier tweezers. The American groaned several times, then cried out as I extricated the tooth.
I continued with the interrogation for another thirty minutes, during which I tore out five more teeth. As I extracted the last one – a canine – he glared up at me, sweat dripping from his heavy brow, his beady brown eyes-
Beady brown eyes.
I realised with a sudden jolt that the man was of Native American descent. I’d been so preoccupied with the mission that I hadn’t even taken note of his dark skin. A Native American named Brooke?
The radio control room had a window facing the east. As I pocketed the bloodied tweezers, the first rays of sunlight broke past the darkness of the horizon, illuminating cloud after cloud and throwing into contrast the stark white and green of the woodlands from where we had based our assault. Quite the scene. Jing-Wei could use it as a propaganda piece.
Brooke began to sing in a voice distorted by the blood filling his mouth.
‘Oh say can you see – akghpt – by the dawn’s early light…’
I let him gurgle through the first stanza as I stood by the window and watched the sunrise over another day of this great glorious war, streaking red and gold across a madder sky and the powdery snow. I slid the Mauser out of my shoulder holster and loaded it.
‘…over the land of the free and the home of the-’
I put a bullet in his throat and another between his eyes. And then I left.
Glossary
Laogai (勞改):Short for Laodong Gaizao, ‘labour reform’, Chinese re-education/labour camp
Guo-Anbu (國家安全部): Short for Guojia Anquan Bu, Ministry of State Security, PRC intelligence agency
Xinjiang: region in northern China populated largely by the Uyghur people, annexed by the People’s Republic of China in 1949, extreme political tensions, large separatist resistance/freedom fighter/terrorist movement, area 1.6 km2, 1/6 of the entire country
Uyghurs: Turkic Eurasian ethnic group, primarily Islamic
Tezhongbudui (特種部隊): Special Forces
Hezipao (盒子炮): ‘Box cannon’, affectionate nickname given to the Mauser C96, the service pistol of Chinese armed forces for a time
Comments
And you've been a naughty boy indeed. You should be writing the Flowers, not Fallout, but I'm glad you did. Was nice to see the Butterfly again and the glory of the People's Army