Cheng decided immediately to reinforce the Chinese presence on his side of the border, ordering two of the five armored divisions in Shenyang, the most northeastern province, north from Harbin to the banks of the Black Dragon River, together with five of Shenyang’s fifteen infantry divisions and two artillery brigades. Even allowing for the fact that a Chinese division had five thousand less than a western division, it still meant a reinforcement of over 65,000 men.
But with Siberians, Americans, and the Chinese now caught in a tripartite of suspicion, Cheng was not content to rest. In addition to his having unilaterally ordered more troops north across the Yangtze to bolster the border defenses — which would take days to implement — other precautions must be taken. Accordingly, Cheng called an extraordinary meeting of both the Central Committee and the Military Commission, all the members having their offices in the luxurious Zhongnanhai compound on Beijing’s Avenue of Eternal Peace. He explained the position succinctly, pointing out that it was imperative that neither the Siberians nor Americans violate Chinese territory. “It is clear, comrades, that if the Americans move south across the Black Dragon, Novosibirsk will have no objection to us moving troops through Siberian-held Mongolia to repulse them.”
“But what if the Americans imposed sanctions upon us, General?” asked Chairman Nie. “As they did with Hussein?”
“It would have no effect, comrade,” Cheng assured him. “One of their own has supplied and can go on supplying the PLA with whatever it requires.” He meant La Roche. Cheng leaned forward on the table, his Medal of Merit ribbon for stopping “U.S. aggression in Korea” catching the fading, snow-reflected light that had penetrated the serenity of the Zhongnanhai, and for a moment he could hear the birds twittering outside above the two lakes. “While the Americans’ high-tech victory over the incompetent Hussein might have been impressive to the western world, comrades,
There were knowing nods about the table, but Cheng was warming to his subject. The PLA had been, was, his life. “The Chinese infantryman travels light, comrades. His mobility in the mountains is legendary.” Cheng stood up like a schoolmaster, knowing that all eyes were upon him. “This is precisely how General Sung, in 1950, under the very noses of the Americans, could move twelve divisions of the PLA, a hundred and sixty thousand men, comrades, from Manchuria across the Korean border to the Chosin Reservoir, and the Americans detected nothing until it was too late. The PLA’s Ninth Field Army slaughtered the American marines. General Sung ordered his troops to kill these marines as you would snakes. And we did. Even by the U.S. imperialists’ own admission, some marines went insane in the minus-thirty-four-degree battle. They cannot take it. And now they are far from home, comrades — their supply lines stretch across the Pacific. We would chop them to pieces.”
“And they have
After the meeting, Cheng was informed by his secretary that his request for artillery shells and AIF smoke rounds had been received in Shanghai and that Mr. Li, the cover name they used for La Roche himself, would be personally informed of the request in the interests of expediting delivery.
These were extended-range, full-bore shells with a base bleed, so that immediately after firing, the gas was forced back into the shells’ air wake instead of around the shells, where it would create drag. When the round hit, with little or no drag, it had twice the explosive power. “Two for the price of one,” La Roche had told Cheng, but the “one” was very expensive, even more so than usual, because of the shady South African connection with the Canadian, Gerald Bull, who had invented the super-long gun.
It was Bull’s research that made it possible for the ERFB-BB’s rounds to be made, the long-range “bull” gun that maximized their efficiency already on order by Cheng. But Cheng wasn’t a fool in the capitalist pool filled with sharks like La Roche: payment for the shells was contractually contingent upon the delivery of the guns first. Cheng already had a brigade of A1 Far 210mm howitzers, another offshoot of the Canadian’s phenomenally effective six- wheel-mounted, thirty-five-mile-range gun, the longest-ranged mobile gun in the world. To get those, at three million dollars apiece, La Roche had to go personally to Austria to talk with Voest-Alpine SA and sell them a line that he was buying them on the quiet for the U.S. Army, for though Bull was dead, killed by the Israeli Mossad in Brussels shortly before the Iraqi War, the Americans were still touchy about Bull’s South African connection. The ship the guns would be loaded on would suddenly “disappear” in a “local storm” somewhere in the East China Sea, en route to South Korea, its stated destination. On top of that, La Roche would skim off the insurance — and it would be substantial — from Lloyd’s. During wartime there would be no chance of getting insurance, but this was a cease-fire and he could get Lloyd’s to underwrite it. Cheng knew that the vision of the Lutine Bell sounding at Lloyd’s in London, signaling another vessel lost at sea, would make La Roche smile. It would mean millions more for him, no matter that the base bleeds might well be being purchased for use against fellow Americans — along the Chinese-Siberian border — and how, if this was the case, because of the gun’s ferocious accuracy, twice as many Americans would be killed and injured as under a normal artillery barrage.
While Cheng finalized troop dispositions for the battle defense of the borders, and the Siberian OMON Black Berets were taking Alexsandra Malof to the cells in Harbin, over five thousand miles away Jay La Roche was high, drunk, and aroused in his eightieth floor New York penthouse above the Il Trovatore bar, asking Francine what the hell she thought she was doing.
“What you told me, Mr. La Roche.”
“Don’t ‘Mr. La Roche’ me, you slut. You love it, don’t you? You—” He lurched up from the bed, pulling the strap from her, flinging it across the room. “Don’t have to be invited, do you? Like it, right? Bitch—” He lunged at her, both hands grabbing her breasts, losing his balance, falling back on the waterbed, the heavy slush sound mixing with Francine crying in pain on top of him.
“Shut up, you bitch!” They rolled off the bed onto the thick shag carpet, he still hanging on to her, letting go only when her rain of blows became too difficult to fend off. She was screaming at him. She ran to the bedroom door but couldn’t open it. He laughed. There was a tearing noise like crushed cellophane, and she saw him pulling on a condom. For a moment or two he had his back to her and she saw him searching for something, then he swung around, holding his hand up victoriously, showing her the snuff box, flicking the lid open, snapping it shut, tossing it at her. “Take a snort!”
She did, and in a few moments felt another rush. “I don’t want to hit you again, Mister—”
“Jay!”
“I don’t want to hit you again, Jay.”
“Turn around!”
“No — please, Mister — please, Jay,” she gasped.
He jerked her hard toward him, then unsteadily swung her about, slamming her face first up against the wall, and she felt the searing pain as he entered her, and tepid liquid running down her legs onto the carpet as he poured the bourbon over her buttocks, the liquor spreading in a pool about her feet. “You’ve been to Melville’s,” he charged.
“Yes, but I—”
“You clean?”
“Yes, I—”
“The fuck you are. Thought you could pull a fast one on the boss eh? Eh?”
“No — no.”
He smacked her hard on the buttocks with his left hand. “I’m not getting your shitty germs.” She gasped again at the hot, raw pain inside her rectum. Her arms spread-eagled against the wall, nails hard into the wallpaper, she felt she was going to black out. He was breathing hard, panting, “Oh — oh — oh,” calling out, “I love you, baby. I love you—” But she knew he was talking about his Lana. Now he was making blubbering, crying noises
