46

NATIONALIST PRIMARY LINE OF RESISTANCE
FUJIAN PROVINCE, CHINA
1137 HOURS ZONE TIME; AUGUST 23, 2006

The Mapats launcher had twelve kill rings painted around its stubby, charred barrel. The counterpoint was that it was the last surviving firing unit of the antitank section. The young Nationalist army officer didn’t feel young. He felt as old as the land itself. The land that had claimed the hopes and dreams of his people and that had now claimed three-quarters of his men.

“Activity on the front!” The call was relayed down the line of raw-earth battalion emplacements. Weary soldiers slid back down into foxholes and bunkers, nestling close to rifle stocks. Machinegun bolts ratcheted back and slammed forward.

Breathing grew ragged.

Automatonlike, the survivors of his crew dragged themselves into position on the dug-in launcher vehicle. Sprawling down at the lip of the emplacement, the Nationalist officer lifted his battered binoculars to his eyes once more.

“All positions, fire only on order!” Another relay came down the line. “Only on order! Watch for the yellow!”

Maybe this time it would be different. Maybe today would be the day. There had been gunfire out along the front all morning, but not aimed inward at the beachhead perimeter.

For the past hour, though, all had been silent.

“Lieutenant, I see smoke. Two o’clock,” the gunner reported hoarsely from the launcher station.

The officer shifted his glasses. A plume of yellow smoke was rising from beyond a paddy dike, growing rapidly in volume.

A second plume from a second marker grenade, a third.

“Hold your fire!” The command came down the line more emphatically, striving to overcome the instincts ingrained into the battle-battered Nationalist troops over the last grim weeks.

There was movement on the road that snaked in toward the Nationalist position. Men, soldiers as weary-looking as the Nationalists, clad in a patchwork of PLA uniform parts and civilian clothing. An assault rifle or a grenade launcher held at the ready, each had a strip of yellow cloth bound around his forehead, their sole touch of true uniformity.

They did not look like men who were about to make history.

The Nationalist officer watched as the column drew closer.

Then he was on his feet, scrambling out of the emplacement and striding down toward the road. He couldn’t say why.

At the point of the UDFC column there was a man of the Nationalist officer’s age, if such a thing as age could be assessed anymore. The burned-out eyes were the same, though, and the rebel warrior also had lieutenant’s bars stitched to the collar of his combat jacket.

“We have been waiting for a long time,” the Nationalist heard himself saying.

The UDFC officer nodded gravely. “It was a long journey here.”

And then their arms were locked around each other in a man’s embrace.

In a growing roar of voices, more Nationalists swarmed out of their emplacements and down to the road to meet with their countrymen-to-be.

* * *

There was a third army nearby as well, or the wreckage of one. The PLA had failed in its desperate effort to prevent the linkup between the Nationalists and the United Democratic Forces. Now its remnants stumbled northward, seeking the vague promise of shelter offered by the Wenzhou River line.

The Red Army bled even as it retreated, however. Again and again, the lash of Nationalist airpower fell upon its back. The skies had been emptied of Communist jets, and even the surviving antiaircraft guns were burned out and low on ammunition. And there was another, subtler kind of hemorrhage going on as well.

Singularly, and in small groups, PLA soldiers slipped away from the retreating columns. Some concealed themselves and waited for the UDF to overtake them, seeking to switch allegiances. Others simply tossed their weapons into the ditch and started the walk home. A few were caught by their officers, or by the Armed People’s Police, and executed for desertion. Not many, however. Most military and police officials simply didn’t care anymore.

The Communist Party’s propaganda machine hoarsely bellowed about a new “Long March” into the north, where the People’s Revolution would rally once more and arise resurgent. Few listened. It is difficult to produce effective propaganda when the people promoting it no longer believe it themselves.

* * *

“Harry, have you got the latest?” Lane Ashley’s voice issued from the phone’s conference speaker.

“About the UDFC breaking through to the Nationalist beach head? Yes, we’ve got the word here.”

Despite his suite’s air-conditioning, Harrison Van Lynden’s shirt was damp with perspiration. The printing on the situation report he had been trying to study kept turning incomprehensible as he forced his tired brain to stay awake just a little while longer.

“No,” the NSA director replied. “I mean what’s happening with Hainan Island. It’s just coming off the net now.”

Van Lynden swore under his breath and tossed the hard copy down on the coffee table in front of him.

“No, I don’t have anything on Hainan. What’s happened?”

“The Red garrison there has mutinied. The senior officer cadre is either dead, or in custody, and a committee of colonels and captains is running the show now. They’ve opted for the rebellion. The entire Hainan Military District has gone over to the UDFC.”

“Damn, Lane. I wish I could consider that good news.”

“I know,” Ashley agreed grimly. “The Reds are starting to come apart. Remember how our conflict-simulation projections were estimating that the Communists could hold out for another eight to ten months? Well, that’s recently been derated to six to eight. And personally, I think that’s generous.”

“How long do you think the Reds have?”

“As long as it will take the UDFC and the Nationalists to refit and reorient for the march north. I don’t think that the Communists are going to be able to establish a valid defense.”

“Except for the bombs.”

Van Lynden looked out of the suite’s windows across the velvet darkness of Manila Bay. He smelled the sour scent of his own weariness, and all at once, he felt old.

“Lane, is there anything new on the Reds’ ballistic-missile sub? Anything at all?”

“We only know that it’s out there, Harry. All ASW and intelligence assets on the Pacific Rim have been committed to the search, but there is just … nothing.”

Van Lynden rubbed his hand across his face and wished that he had the energy to go to the hotel bar for a drink.

“We’re organizing a low-profile evacuation of Embassy dependents and other American nationals out of the Philippines. If we start to get heavy fallout here, things could get pretty nasty in a hurry. What would your best guess be on how long we have before the Communists launch?”

“To tell you the truth, Harry, I think that somebody is taking a last deep breath before they reach for the button.”

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