Red Dragon (Winds of War Book 3) Read online

  RED DRAGON

  Other Books by William C. Dietz

  THE WINDS OF WAR SERIES

  Red Ice

  Red Flood

  Red Dragon

  AMERICA RISING SERIES

  Into The Guns

  Seek And Destroy

  Battle Hymn

  MUTANT FILES SERIES

  Deadeye

  Redzone

  Graveyard

  LEGION OF THE DAMNED SERIES

  Legion of the Damned

  The Final Battle

  By Blood Alone

  By Force of Arms

  For More Than Glory

  For Those Who Fell

  When All Seems Lost

  When Duty Calls

  A Fighting Chance

  Andromeda’s Fall

  Andromeda’s Choice

  Andromeda’s War

  RED DRAGON

  WILLIAM C. DIETZ

  The Winds of War

  Wind’s End Publishing

  Copyright © 2019 by William C. Dietz

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art by Damonza

  This book is dedicated to the doctors, nurses and medics in the United States Air Force, Army, Navy and Coast Guard. Thank you for your service.

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  About the Winds of War Series

  About William C. Dietz

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Many thanks to Marjorie Dietz, my wife, best friend and editor.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Shijingshan industrial park, Beijing, China

  Ministry of State Security (MSS) Agent Fan Tong was riding a Harley-Davison Forty-Eight, with a V-Twin engine. The bike produced a throaty roar as Tong turned off the freeway and onto an exit ramp. Traffic was stopped, and Tong was running late, so he rode down the shoulder of the road. The communist party considered that sort of behavior to be “antisocial,” and such offenses could affect a citizen’s social credit score.

  But Tong was a government assassin. So, his score, like everything else about his life, was classified. And, because Tong was on his way to a meeting with the Director of Bureau No. 8 (the Counter Intelligence Division of MSS), he couldn’t be late.

  Tong blew through a stop sign, passed a giant amusement park, and entered the warehouse district beyond. The MSS Operations Center was located in a low one-story building. There was nothing to distinguish it from the surrounding warehouses except for the huge number 7 emblazoned on the structure’s façade.

  The choice of the number “7” was no accident. Seven is seen as the combination of Yin and Yang and the five Elements (metal, wood, water, fire and earth) which, taken together, constitute “harmony” according to Confucianism. And the pursuit of ideological harmony lay at the very heart of the Counter Intelligence Division’s mission.

  Tong shifted down, reveled in the sound the engine made, and came to a stop in front of a gate. A single watchman was on duty. Or so it appeared. But more men could be summoned in a matter of seconds.

  The guard watched stoically as Tong slid his ID card into a reader and turned to face a scanner. Two-form authentication was standard in all state-run facilities. Lights turned green, the gate opened, and the watchman spoke for the first time. “Zhù nǐ jīntiān yúkuài.” (Have a nice day.)

  Choosing a good parking spot for the Harley was crucial lest some idiot back into it. After locating a slot that was protected by a fire hydrant on one side, Tong deployed the kickstand, and turned the engine off.

  A short walk took Tong to an unmarked metal door. The agent had to wave his card in front of a reader to open it. A checkpoint waited within. Tong removed his leather jacket and threw it into a plastic bin. That was followed by the shoulder holster-suppressor rig, the contents of his pockets, and his helmet. A conveyer belt carried his possessions away.

  Then, and only then, could Tong enter the full body scanner. He waited for the inevitable question: “What is the piece of metal in your left shoulder?”

  “A nine-millimeter bullet.”

  That statement produced a pause, followed by a matter-of-fact, “You may proceed.”

  After collecting his possessions, and restoring them to their proper locations, Tong made his way through a series of corridors. His path took him past the research office, past the planning section, and into what Tong and his peers called “the swamp.” Meaning the maze of offices in which ambitious bureaucrats, has-been spies, and scheming functionaries battled each other for budgets, turf, and Mianzi (“face”).

  None of the “players” was respected and feared more than Director Diu Zang. Her office was located in the southwest corner of the building. Tong checked his watch as he entered the waiting room. He was five minutes late. A definite no-no where his supervisor was concerned.

  The Director’s secretary was a young woman named Bingqing, which meant “clear as ice.” She eyed Tong with amusement. “Your fate awaits you, Agent Tong. You may go in.”

  Tong summoned what he thought of as his “blank face,” and entered the office beyond. The furnishings were sparse. A light dangled from the ceiling and metal filing cabinets lined the walls. Why? Tong wondered. She could put that stuff on a thumb drive. Because she’s old, Tong decided, at least sixty, and cautious.

  As for the director’s appearance, it was famously plain. Her hair was black, too black for someone her age, and served to frame a doughy face. Zang’s heavily lidded eyes made it seem that she was perpetually sleepy. But that wasn’t the case as her subordinates knew.

  There were two guest chairs. But Tong knew better than to sit in either one of them until invited to do so. Zang’s lips barely moved. “You’re late.”

  “Traffic was heavy.”

  “Traffic is always heavy,” Zang replied. “And you know how long it takes to get from the Shangri-La hotel to Building 7. In the future please get your blow job fifteen minutes earlier so as to arrive on time. Or get a girlfriend.”

  The reference to the Shangri-La, which Tong visited three times a week, and the reference to a specific sex act, was intended to shock him. It did. But it wouldn’t do to reveal that. “Girlfriends want to talk.”

  What might have been a smile tugged at the corners of Zang’s mouth. “Sit down.” Tong chose a chair. It was hard, and intentionally so, since the Director abhorred chit chat.

  Zang allowed herself a single eccentricity, and that was the goldfish bowl located on the corn
er of her desk. The tank’s single occupant stared at Tong. “So,” Zang began. “You and your team have been idle long enough. I have an assignment for you.”

  “I’m ready,” Tong said, and it was true. He enjoyed hunting people. “Who’s the target?”

  “The Dalai Lama.”

  Tong was shocked. “Why?”

  “Approximately 244-million Buddhists live in China,” Zang replied. “That’s 18% of the population. All of them revere the Dalai Lama, and to some extent, take direction from him. That’s to say nothing of the Buddhists who live in Allied countries.

  “And while the Dalai Lama tries to avoid criticizing our government, everyone knows where his sympathies lie, and that’s with the Allies. Why? Because he resents our rightful dominion over Tibet. More than that, if Dampa Tsomo were to lead a successful rebellion, China could lose a quarter of its land mass. Do you understand?”

  “I do,” Tong assured her. “Is there some reason to believe that the Dalai Lama plans to lead a revolt?”

  “No,” Zang replied. “But the CCP (Chinese Communist Party) believes that, given the chaos of war, he might do so. To prevent that possibility you’re going to kill him.”

  “No offense,” Tong said respectfully. “But why bother? The Dalai Lama will, according to the precepts of Buddhism, reincarnate.”

  “Excellent,” Zang said, as if to a promising student. “You have a brain. But I’m pleased to inform you that when the Dali Lama reincarnates, it will be into the body of a child born in Sichuan province, where he will be raised in the Gonchen Monastery by trusted lamas.”

  Tong understood. If the government could control the reincarnated Dalai Lama, and shape his personality, harmony would prevail. But would it be that simple? Tong cleared his throat. “What if other lamas object?” he inquired. “What if they point to another child as being the real Dalai Lama? What then?”

  “Then,” Zang said, “you will find the imposter and kill it.”

  Tong considered that. He’d killed men and women, but never a baby. But so what? What difference did age make? None, Tong decided. Mao had it right. “Serve the people… No matter how.” Zang’s eyes were on him waiting for a reaction.

  “Shi[wet]?” Tong inquired. “Or gan[dry]?”

  Shi referred to a visibly bloody killing like a shooting or a knifing, while gan referred to a less obvious hit—such as a poisoning, a car accident, or an unfortunate fall.

  “Shi,” Zang replied. “The Dalai Lama is scheduled to give a talk, called The Wheel of Teachings on Manjushri Empowerments, at the Tergar Monastery in India. Cameras will be present. People all around the world will witness the Dalai Lama’s death. And seeing is believing. Were it otherwise rumors would keep him alive.”

  “Understood,” Tong said. “Is there anything else?”

  “Behave yourself,” Zang said, like a mother to a child. “And leave the whores alone.”

  After exiting Building 7 Tong got on his bike, started the engine, and left. As the leader of Sanction (Zhicai) Team 2, it was his responsibility to notify the other members, and put them in motion. And Tong preferred to deliver the news face-to-face. Nonverbal communications were important. If a team member was uncomfortable about the mission he wanted to know.

  Han Hoi was the closest, “close” being about 10 miles away, so Tong headed there first. Tong made good time by using secondary streets. So, it wasn’t long before he arrived at an old-school gym named Chang’s. It was squashed between a laundromat and a convenience store, in a seedy residential area, adjacent to the Shijingshan industrial park.

  Tong was overwhelmed by the stink of stale sweat as he stepped inside. Not just current sweat, but ancient sweat, the foul essence of which had been absorbed into every nook and cranny of the gym. It was early so only a few gym rats were present. Hoi was among them. The half-naked assassin was standing in front of a full-length mirror performing arm curls. “Hey, Han… How’s it going?”

  Han turned. “I can clean and jerk 300 pounds now.”

  “Good,” Tong said. “You can carry my luggage.”

  Hoi put the weight down. “Luggage? Where are we going?”

  “To India.”

  Most of India was in Allied hands, and Hoi knew that, but his face was expressionless. “When?”

  “Three days. A team meeting is scheduled for nine tomorrow in Conference Room 3. Please be on time and wear some deodorant.”

  “Ta ma de ni.” (Fuck you.)

  Tong grinned. “Enjoy your workout.” Then he left.

  Polluted though it was, Beijing’s air was better than the stuff in the gym. Tong took a deep breath as he exited onto the sidewalk. His next stop was at the state-run orphanage where Ji Wu spent most of her free time. Her real name was something other than “Ji,” since that moniker was normally given to boys, but it was the one Ji preferred.

  Air raid sirens began to blare as Tong wound his way through the city. Not a single Allied plane had been able to reach Beijing thus far. And for good reason. The city was surrounded by concentric rings of defensive airfields, SAM sites, and computer-linked AA guns.

  And that was to say nothing of the militia members who took turns standing on roofs ready to fire their FN-6 infrared-homing surface-to-air missile launchers.

  So, chances were that the undulating sound was part of a test which, had Tong been checking text messages, he would be well aware of.

  An iron gate barred entrance to the orphanage. Tong had to press a button and speak with a faceless functionary somewhere within to gain access. The motorized barrier swung out of the way permitting him to enter a car park.

  After parking the bike Tong walked across a well-equipped playground to the low-lying structure beyond. Ji Wu was waiting out front. Her hair was short, her body was slight, and she wore male attire. “They told me you were here,” Wu said. “Come, we can sit on a bench.”

  The bench was located in the middle of the playground, and had been placed there for the convenience of staff. “I want you to attend a staff meeting tomorrow at 9:00am,” Tong said. “We’ll use Conference Room 3.”

  Wu didn’t ask where Conference Room 3 was. She knew. “And the target?”

  Hoi could have asked the same question, but hadn’t, because he didn’t care. “His name is Dampa Tsomo,” Tong answered.

  Wu’s eyes widened. “The Dali Lama?”

  “Yes. Does that bother you?”

  “No, maybe, I don’t know,” Wu answered uncertainly. “Why would we kill him?”

  “He’s a critic of the government,” Tong replied. “And, if he chooses to, Tsomo could lead a rebellion. Remember what they taught you on the farm. ‘If a variable can be controlled, the party must control it.’ And the Dalai Lama is a variable.”

  “Yes,” Wu agreed. “That is so.”

  Tong held his breath. Would Wu consider the possibility of reincarnation? And ask about that? He hoped she wouldn’t. If it came to killing babies Wu might balk. But the questions never came. “Where will the hit take place?”

  “At the Tergar Monastery, in India.”

  “In Allied territory?”

  “Yes.”

  “I will be ready.” Wu rose, turned, and returned to work.

  In order to make contact with the team’s fourth member, Tong had to visit a so-called “black jail.” Though normally used to house political prisoners the government didn’t want put through the regular justice system, black jails sometimes functioned as temporary detention centers for errant members of the country’s security apparatus, including members of MSS.

  And that’s where An Ba, better known to his teammates as Feng-Feng (Cray-Cray) had been cooling his heels for two days. A punishment he richly deserved for getting drunk, stealing a police car, and driving it into the Hai River.

  Only Ba’s MSS ID card prevented him from being arraigned, charged, and found guilty. After being notified of Ba’s arrest, Tong had called the detention center and told the functionary on the other end of the phone to,
“Hold Ba till I come for him.”

  There wasn’t any sign on the black jail. Just a street number. But the presence of perimeter fencing, unmarked police vehicles, and a 60-foot-tall radio mast indicated that the two-story building had an official purpose. Tong had to negotiate two security checks before being shown into a nearly featureless room. There weren’t any windows, a camera was mounted on the ceiling, and the furniture was bolted to the floor.

  Most ominous of all however, was the garden hose racked on a wall, and the floor drain located at the center of the room. “Wait here,” the uniformed guard said. “Agent Ba will arrive shortly.”

  Ten minutes passed, and Tong had started to fume, by the time the door opened and Ba swaggered in. Feng-Feng’s shoulder length hair was matted and his face was puffy. “Hey boss,” Ba said. “What took you so long?”

  “The director is pissed,” Tong said truthfully. “You got off lightly.”

  Ba struggled to look contrite. “Tell her I’m sorry… What I did was wrong. Can we go now?”

  Tong pressed a button, the guard reappeared, and the next fifteen minutes were spent signing forms—one of which made Ba responsible for all of the damages to the police car. “Don’t worry,” the clerk said. “You’ll have it paid off by the time you’re 60.”

  Once outside Tong started the bike, Ba climbed on behind him, and they took off. Riders were supposed to wear helmets in Beijing, but the law was seldom enforced, and they weren’t likely to be stopped.

  It took twenty minutes to reach Dongjiaomin Lane, which was known as the longest hutong (narrow land or alley) in Beijing. And Feng-Feng was curious. “What’s up, Boss?” he wanted to know. “What are we doing here?”

  “We’re going to dinner,” Tong answered, as he got off the bike. “To celebrate your release. And I’m buying.”

  An Ba beamed. “That’s more like it! The food in that shit-hole was terrible, and I’m hungry.”

  “Follow me,” Tong said. “We’ll fill you up.”

  They went to the Green Snake restaurant which, thanks to the war, was empty of tourists. The glazed Peking Duck was delicious. It was served with a thick, sweet hoisin sauce, radishes, and scallions. Ba drank numerous glasses of the white, clear liquor called Baijiu to wash it down. And, by the time they emerged, Feng-Feng was quite tipsy. It was dark. And because of the level-two blackout, every other streetlight had been turned off. “Come on,” Tong said. “We’ll visit the Go-Girl nightclub, and watch the floor show.”