Ian Slater - Force of Arms

Despite the multilayered nature of their uniforms, from polypropylene underwear, quilted polyester pants and jacket to the white Gore Tex camouflage hooded parka and pants over their black antiterrorist uniforms, the SAS troopers moved easily in the snow, and in the starlight-activated binoculars, David Brentwood could see the huge, one-hundred-ton door now one mile away. Then through me infrared binoculars he could see two streams of heat waves shimmering like a summer mirage as two lines of PLA soldiers, only their body heat visible, exited somewhere beneath a high mantle of snow well above and back from the door.

It meant that there must be exits atop the complex, for at least twenty, maybe twenty-five, came out each side, quickly disappearing into a jumble of snow-covered rocks and boulders mat trailed off either side of the solid steel door that now glistened in the starlight goggles as a green sheen, covered in a sheath of solid ice in the minus-thirty-degree weather.

With radio silence a must, a runner from Salvini’s troop, another from Aussie’s, and the last from Choir Williams’s troop, gathered around David Brentwood, who could now see that the originally envisaged plan of attack to blow out the huge reinforced steel door was impractical as well as foolhardy, given the sudden appearance of about fifty enemy troops, and these were only the ones they’d seen exiting through what must have been holes bored through the solid granite roof, exits that not even the Stealth bombs could penetrate.

Brentwood checked his Heckler & Koch and told the runners that a frontal assault on the door was pointless. The best way in is where they came out. Whoever’s in charge in there must be a rocket man — he sure as hell isn’t an infantry commander. Shouldn’t have deployed his force so quickly — now he’s given away two exit-cum-entrances, one high left of the door and back, ditto for the right side. Now I want my troop and Aussie’s to take the left flank, Choir Williams and Salvini—” There was a whistling through the air. They all hit the deck and felt the crunch of a heavy 81mm mortar exploding about a hundred yards off, sending up a white spume of snow and ice rising high in the air, a sign of just how deep the snow and ice layer was. It immediately told Brentwood that neither side would be digging in unless they had a front-end loader, and so it would have to be a bounding “overwatch” advance, using the snow- and ice-crusted rocks that had been used to excavate space for the door as cover and that now lay about the cave entrance as massive boulder debris.

Aussie Lewis had reached the top of the first ridge, which was about a hundred and fifty feet high. Despite the absorbency of the Gore Tex overlay, he was sweating profusely and knew he couldn’t afford to pause for long lest the perspiration quickly turn to ice in the minus-twenty-to minus-thirty-degree weather. He checked his HK. It was a beautiful submachine gun, its constituent parts engineered and turned by the best German industry had to offer. However, like so many precision instruments, if one section was even slightly out of kilter the whole was endangered. But all felt well as he moved from the three-round-burst position to full automatic.

There was now about a mile to go — down the side of the ridge onto the summit of the next — and then below him he should see the missile site — if his boys hadn’t already penetrated it

At the top of the next ridge, its summit more acutely angled than the last and subsequently much icier, he could see nothing but fog, creating a complete whiteout. Then for a few seconds it lifted, and he glimpsed a parachute flare, its stuttering light revealing what seemed to be a massive sheet of ice, like a frozen waterfall, about a mile away, and infrared hot spots bleeding from atop it on either side. He guessed it must be exits above the door, but in the dying light of the flare the sheen of ice took on a darker sheen like black ice, and he couldn’t be sure it was the door. Now everything was black again, and the wetness of the fog clung about him like a heavy web. He heard a noise — a tumble of snow — and froze, sensing someone was moving toward him but unsure from which direction he was coming. He readied for a full 360-degree swivel. Then he heard a voice that told him whoever it was must have a bead on him. The voice came again. “Who goes there?”

He was so relieved he let his HK go loose for a moment as he said, “Princess Di goes here!” and suddenly realized it could be an English-speaking ChiCom. The HK came up again.

“Son of a bitch! It’s Aussie!”

It was one — no, two Americans, both lost souls from Salvini’s troop who, like Aussie, had been blown off course. When they emerged close enough for him to see, he recognized one but not the other.

“Was it you doin’ all that shooting back there?”

“Yes,” Aussie said. “Ran into a ChiCom patrol!”

“You outflank ‘em?”

“Outflank, fuck. They sleep with the fishes!”

“What fucking fishes?” the younger of the two whispered.

“Fishes in the fuckin’ lake,” Aussie replied.

“How many?” said the older one, the man Aussie had recognized.

“Seven of ‘em.”

“Seven? Shit — you get the Kewpie doll?”

“What’s a Kewpie doll?” the younger trooper asked.

“Jesus Christ, Morely. Where you been?”

“All right,” Aussie said. “Let’s cut the social chitchat, boys. Nice fast run down to the main show. Watch out for loose boulders. If I remember correctly there was a lot of debris indicated on the SATRECON shots — when they blew out that great bloody hole for the missile site. Friggin’ mountain blew out toward the lake, making a kind of boulder-strewn valley between.”

As they started off, Lewis leading, ready for a 180-degree arc, the second man, Hogan, pointing his weapon left, young Morely with his weapon pointing right but ready for a full rear traverse, Morely whispered to Hogan, “What’s a Kewpie doll?”

“Be quiet!” ordered Aussie, who knew that as they approached the drop zone they’d have to be careful not to spook anyone. He was also figuring out the best way to go at what he was sure was the door. But first he’d have to confirm that it was the door with Brentwood, Choir, and Salvini.

“Aussie?” a voice came in the darkness.

The three of them stopped, Hogan almost hitting the Australian’s backpack.

“Yeah?” Aussie answered.

“Over here, sir. Captain Brentwood wants to see you.”

“Right,” Aussie said. “I want to see him. Where’s Choir and Salvini?”

“Down there,” the trooper said. “We’re all down there— ‘cept for you guys and I think four more.”

“Yeah,” Aussie said, “well we got ‘sheared’ off, didn’t we?”

The trooper sensed the Australian’s annoyance. Morely whispered to Hogan, “You asshole — no such thing as a fuckin’ Kewpie doll.”

“Fuckin’ is.”

“Take me to your leader,” Aussie commanded the trooper from Brentwood’s group. “I’ve just had a bloody brain wave!”

“All right,” Brentwood said, after hearing Aussie out, “but we’ll still have to prepare for overwatch.”

“No sweat,” Aussie said.

Now the Chinese had four more mortars on the go, but from a mile away — trying to zero in for a kill zone on the mile-wide stretch of snow-covered boulders and ice that separated the SAS/D troopers from the launch site.

“All right,” Brentwood said. “My troop and Aussie’s will go first.” He turned to the other runners. “You tell Salvini and Choir Williams to cover us. When we’re settled we’ll give you a green flare, then you move to the next overwatch position and we’ll give you cover and so on until we can get as close as we can. Keep going as long as you get green flares from me. One red flare and we stop everything.”