CHAPTER ONE "China, a father who's killed his son, is raping his daughter tonight. China, China, a living coffin, I've been buried in vain with you, for thousands of years." Anonymous poem written on the walls of the Beijing subway after Tienanmin Square. "WE ARE BEGINNING OUR FINAL APPROACH TO CHIANG KAI-SHEK INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT. PLEASE RETURN TO YOUR SEATS AND FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELTS. WE HOPE YOU ENJOYED FLYING KOREAN AIR LINES." The smooth voice repeated the message in other languages. Mike Shannon dried his face, checked his hair. The face in the mirror was smiling, eager- and had bags under his eyes. No surprise, thought Shannon. Nothing like a last minute trip across the Pacific to wear you out. The rest of him was tolerable. He was thirty, in good shape, blue-eyed with thick brown hair that, along with a deep voice, had always been his best asset as a TV newsman. This was his first overseas assignment, replacing a man who'd come down with appendicitis. He was about to be in the middle of a war. Hard to believe that a month ago he'd been covering car crashes in Toledo. He stuffed used paper towels into the trash and left the bathroom. The vast interior of the KAL 747 was quiet as Shannon walked past rows of empty seats. A small knot of news people were at the back of the cabin, the crew he'd be working with. A single voice was audible as he approached, not a newsman but a tall, red-haired man in a rumpled three piece suit. He'd been slamming down Jack & Cokes since they left Hawaii, and didn't seem to be slowing down for the landing. He'd also been talking, a well-lubricated string of flying stories that were alternately horrifying and hilarious. "-put the plane into a 45 degree climb the second he came off the runway, went into the sky like a rocket," the red-haired man said. "But there were clouds at a thousand feet and the stupid bastard wasn't paying attention to his artificial horizon. He was working strictly on your Mark 1 Eyeball, standard issue, two each. So he got lost in the clouds. When he tried to level off, he actually pointed that baby at thirty degrees down with full afterburners on. Smacked into the ground at Mach 1.5. Hell of a mess, lem'me tell you. Stewardess, I've got an empty glass!" He finished the glass, waved it in the air. Grinning, Shannon sat next to him, began buckling in. "Dan, shouldn't you be strapping in?" "Abso-fucking-lootly, sport." The red-haired man, who said his name was Daniel Day, handed his empty glass to the tiny Korean stewardess, refusing a replacement drink. "No thanks, sweetheart, I am dryer than a preacher at a baptist convention from this point on. Got planes to fly. It was a terrific R&R though, thanks." He dropped into his seat, fastened himself in after only one try. The plane bumped as it hit air pockets. Dale Coleman, the tall, shaggy cameraman Shannon was teamed with, snorted. "Dink pilots! We'll be lucky if these guys don't smear us all over the runway." "Cut 'em some slack," "Day" said. "This place has some of the worst flying weather in the world. Socked in by clouds half the time. Flew here for a while in '83." Kathy Spencer, the Network Anchorwoman in charge of the group, glared at Coleman as she might a bug. The rest of the news people just looked uncomfortable. Coleman had only been brought along because he'd been a combat cameraman in Vietnam and a dozen other hellholes. Shannon looked out the window. Nothing but clouds. He looked at the rest of the empty cabin, the empty seats stretching away in the huge airliner. "Emptiest plane I've ever seen." he muttered. Day heard, looked over at him, winked. "That's because most people aren't stupid enough to fly into a war. But you can bet your ass they'll pack onto this plane like sardines to leave!" The plane began its descent. *** It really was a disgraceful scene, thought the President of Taiwan. The Presidential motorcade was skirting the public sections of the airport, heading towards the section reserved for government planes. They were still close enough to see the masses of people, the traffic jams around the airport terminal as people streamed into the airport. The President knew they were fighting, bribing, negotiating for tickets and visas. The Chief of the National Police had told him the standard bribe for an exit visa was two thousand dollars. Scalpers were selling airline tickets for up to $10,000. All in US dollars or gold, of course. The New Taiwan dollar was apparently on its way to becoming a historical curiosity.

The cellular phone he held beeped. A voice came through. "Father?"

"Son, my jet is waiting." The President held onto the phone like a lifeline. "Why are you at your base?"

"We are at full alert, father. My place is here."

The boy's voice was infuriatingly steady. His son had always been an idealist. "Your place is with your family. I wrote the orders assigning you to my plane myself! Stop this foolishness at once!"

"It is my squadron's turn for Combat Air Patrol, father. I must go. Goodbye. A safe journey to you." The phone cut off.

President Chiu Wong Chen sighed, set down the phone. Danny Huang, his assistant, leaned forward in his seat. "Should I call his commander, sir, have him brought here under arrest?"

Chiu shook his head, looked out the window. "It would do no good. The military no longer takes my orders. General Kai, it seems, shall finally have his war. He is probably glad to be rid of me." He looked out the window to distract himself. The motorcade was passing the private portion of Taipei airport, where privately owned planes and helicopters were parked. He was surprised to see the gates blocked by soldiers and a pair of armored cars. Executive limousines were piled up at the gate, with a mob of men in three-piece suits confronting the soldiers. "What is going on here?"

"I don't know, Mr. President."

"Stop at once and find out." The Presidential motorcade stopped. Danny Huang left the car, walked over to the argument escorted by several of the Presidential Guard. The Army Captain in charge of the guard detail talked with him a moment, from the turret of his armored car. The mob in business suits were quiet for a moment, then shrieked loud enough to be heard through the limousines' soundproofing. Danny came back to the Presidential limousine with the mob on his tail.

A line of guards with rifles at port arms stopped the mob. Noise, as Danny threw the door open. He lunged into the car, slammed the door shut, shook his head. Sudden quiet. "Well?"

The aide grinned. "General Kai's latest emergency decree. All privately-owned aircraft have been seized by the government for the duration of the state of emergency. Those are some of the richest men on Taiwan out there, and they can't get off the island! But the Captain said orders have been passed not to interfere with your departure, Mr. President."

Finally the mob shoved through the bodyguards, not believing that anyone would actually shoot them. All were well fed, well clothed, wealthy businessmen or their bodyguards. The Presidential Guard held back, many recognizing faces of men who'd come to see the President in past years. Now those faces were distorted in fear and anger, shouting at the President to order the guards away. Danny Huang made a face at one of them through the window. "Just more refugees, Mr. President. They're simply better dressed than the mob at the terminal."

"As are we," said the President. "Drive on. Let us leave this place." The Presidential Guard finally moved, clubbing those who would not get away from the motorcade. The President recognized a longtime supporter, face bloody from where a rifle butt had struck his forehead. Then they were receding into the past, the motorcade moving on.

Finally they passed between double lines of National Police guarding the Presidential hangar. There, a C-130 transport waited with its cargo ramp down. Beside it was a Boeing 727 with the Presidential seal. Both planes bore the emblem of Nationalist China. The motorcade stopped and everyone got out, surrounded by a ring of bodyguards. The President, never one to take risks, felt once more for his money belt, packed with US currency, as was the briefcase that he alone carried. He watched his limousine being driven into the C-130. In its trunk were his personal belongings and a fortune in ancient art treasures "borrowed" from the National Museum. More art treasures were secured among his luggage. Wherever he went, thought the President, he would never return to the street poverty of his youth.

He remembered how it had been back then, after the war. Running numbers and errands in Taipei, a city of mud streets and thatched houses, swarming with refugees and the ragged remnants of Chiang Kai Shek's defeated army. He'd worked his way up, as ward heeler and deal maker, eventually becoming a respected businessman and politician. Always at Taipei, growing as the city grew, big and dirty and bustling with life.

He trudged up the stairs onto his executive jet, not returning the salutes of the guard, not seeing the ingratiating smiles of the stewardesses. Behind him came Danny Huang and his "executive assistant"- a lovely little woman named Fan-something or other. No family followed the President of Taiwan. His wife had died two years before and he cared for none of his current mistresses enough to want to go into exile with them. His only child was preparing to stay behind and fight the Chinese who would soon be coming in overwhelming force. After all this.

He paused at the top of the stairs and looked back. Back at the airport, back at the chaotic, smoke-filled, swarming metropolis he had seen grow from nothing. Back at his whole life. He looked into the cabin of the aircraft. It was lovely, clean, comfortable and empty.

The people behind him had stopped, politely. As the President stood, unmoving for several minutes, they grew restless. Danny Huang was the first to speak. "Mr. President, is there something wrong?"

"I'd just be one more refugee," President Chen muttered. "Just a little richer than the others."

"What is that, sir?" The Presidential Assistant looked worried, though not as worried as his own assistant.

Chen shook his head. "I can't go. What would I do?"

Danny Huang was beginning to seriously doubt the President's sanity. "Mr. President, General Kai might change his mind at any moment about allowing us to leave. We should hurry."

The President nodded. "You are correct. We must hurry. Danny, have my driver back the Presidential limousine out of the transport. I am returning to the Presidential Palace. Then, send one of our guards down to where those executives are trying to leave. Let through the ones I owe favors to. You know who to pass. Tell the others to go to hell. Once the plane is full, you may leave with it, if you wish."

Danny Huang looked stunned. "Sir, you cannot-"

"I find that, in my old age, I am growing stubborn rather than wise." The President of Taiwan began forcing his way down the stairs, past his entourage. A few people followed. "Call my driver immediately, Danny!"

***

Special train 645 from Gansu Province pulled into the Xiamen railroad station at two in the afternoon. The huge Mikado steam engine belched sparks, coal fumes and steam. Mounted in front of the engine was a two-meter high picture of Chairman Mao. Streaming from every window of the train were red banners proclaiming the impending victory of the Party and the People's Militia over the Capitalist running dogs of Taiwan. There to greet them in the station were mobs of the cheering Party faithful and People's Militia in uniforms or quilted jackets, waving more red banners. Bands from the local party headquarters played welcoming songs in a sea of revolutionary fervor.

Watching from the open window of his car, Group Leader Zheng Yi Kwan grinned, smiling more than he had in years. He could actually see huge pictures of Mao held aloft by Party comrades! Three-meter-high portraits such as had disappeared years ago when the Party decided to end Mao's cult of personality.

Beside Group Leader Zheng, an older man stared at the revolutionary chaos, ran a hand through the grey stubble on his head. He spoke wonderingly. "I've stepped back into the Cultural Revolution."

"It is like that, isn't it?" Zheng's smile grew wider, remembering the Cultural Revolution, where he had led student mobs searching out counter-revolutionaries in the schools and government. The older man looked at him for a minute, shook his head. His view of Mao's revolutionary cleansing had been somewhat different.

The train came to a stop in a squealing of brakes, belching huge clouds of steam into the March air. The temperature in Xiamen's southern climate was only cool, not the arctic chill they'd left behind in Gansu Province. Group leader Zheng and the older man, Comrade Tian, grabbed their battered army knapsacks and shouted over the chaos to their group of volunteers. "Stay together! Do not let revolutionary fervor distract you from the coming armed struggle!" shouted Zheng.

The volunteers, Zheng's group and dozens of others, poured from the train, a sea of joyous humanity. Shouting group leaders waving signs gathered their charges. Zheng looked over his group, volunteers from his agricultural collective. A short, chubby fellow ran towards them, waving a banner with "Gansu, 3rd" written on it and looking at them through thick glasses. The man shouted at them, barely audible over the tumult of the crowd. "Gansu province, third agricultural brigade?"

"That is us! Where are our trucks?"

"We shall have to wait! The trucks will be back in a while! Follow me!" The man plunged into the crowd. Zheng followed him, looked back to see Comrade Tian at the rear of their group, shepherding the volunteers along. Excellent. Tian had been a soldier. His revolutionary fervor might sometimes be lacking, but the tough, gray-haired man knew what he was doing.

Zheng caught up with their guide at the outskirts of the crowd, where the man led them to piled railroad ties. The volunteers, exhausted, threw down their blanket rolls and knapsacks. Away from the crowd, it seemed almost peaceful. "Thank you," said Zheng, once their guide had stopped. "How can you make any sense of all this?"

Their guide grinned and shrugged. "It does make me wonder. But we'll get this sorted out. Its like a Party Congress, only bigger! My name is Lee Hong, Comrade." The man pulled out a pack of "Chrysanthemum" brand cigarettes, tapped out one and lit it.

Zheng noticed several of his people gazing at the cigarette longingly. "Comrade Lee, we've been on that damn train for a week. We have not eaten in two days. Have provisions been made to feed us? Or could we buy food? I thought there would be some food vendors here, and maybe a place to buy cigarettes."

Ignoring the hint, Comrade Lee put away his cigarettes. "There normally are vendors here, thick as flies! But the Party committee tried to requisition their carts and food to feed the volunteers coming in and the damned counterrevolutionary shirkers disappeared!"

Comrade Tian stepped forward, an ingratiating smile on his face. "Comrade, if some of our people would give me money I could go buy some food and cigarettes in local shops."

Comrade Lee shook his head. "The committee has ordered that no volunteers leave the station area, comrade. The People's Armed Police are surrounding the station to make sure no one leaves. Do not worry! Field kitchens and canteens have been set up in the brigade areas. They'll take care of you when you get there."

That settled, the volunteers made themselves as comfortable as they could, enjoying the springlike air. A chain-link fence surrounded the railyard. Zheng could see pairs of police patrolling the fence. At the closest section of the fence stood two policemen. Each had a cigarette in one hand, the other hand on their pistols. Zheng didn't like the kind of smiles they had on their faces- the smirk of men entertained by the antics of a particularly stupid dog. "Hey, Gansu!" shouted one. "Have you scraped the pig shit off your sandals yet?" They laughed nastily.

For a moment, Zheng wished his militia had been permitted to travel with their weapons. Then revolutionary discipline reasserted itself. "Comrade, you should have more respect for the People's Militia! Who is your supervisor?" The two policemen laughed and walked away.

Comrade Lee came forward, hands held out in a peacemaking mode. "Do not become involved with the local police, Comrade Group Leader. None of these city people have proper respect for the collectives in the interior. Or the Party."

Zheng gritted his teeth. "Perhaps after we've settled with the counter-revolutionaries on Taiwan, we can clean house on these backsliders."

Just then an express train passed through the yard, one of the diesel engines that had replaced the steam engines in all but the backwater areas. The train pulled flatcars, each carrying a 130mm cannon, long and deadly looking. The gun crews huddled under tarpaulins on the same cars. "Think positively," said the chubby local, taking off his glasses and polishing them. "Our comrades in the People's Liberation Army have those things lined up wheel to wheel outside the city. They'll blow that damned island of Quemoy off the map for us. Then we'll just go in and raise the flag!"

***

The Smiling Man looked out over the forbidden city, through the huge window that had been his personal addition to the office when he took power. A suitable perk, he thought, for the man who guided the destiny of a billion people. Spread out below him were the courtyards, gardens and walls that had been built for the Emperors of China and now belonged to the People- under the guidance of the Party, of course. Beyond the walls was the smoggy, sprawling metropolis that was Beijing.

"I rule China from a city located between a swamp and a desert," the Smiling Man said to himself. He nodded. "How appropriate."

The contrasts of Beijing had always amused him. The ancient capitol of Emperors, now the seat of power of men who believed their ways were the future. The People's Republic, headquartered in a Manchu palace. The capitol of the greatest Marxist regime on earth, whose skyline was ever more choked with neon advertisements, billboards and skyscrapers built by multinational corporations. Himself, yesterday an entrepreneur, today the Premier. Tomorrow?

His desk intercom buzzed. "Comrade Premier Xiao, Marshal Zhao Lai Chiun is here."

Premier of the People's Republic Xiao Ying Tien smiled even more broadly. For a moment, he contemplated the tapestries that decorated his office. Then he sat at his desk and answered. "Send in the Marshal, Comrade Huan. Have someone bring us tea and mineral water. After that, do not disturb us for an hour. The Marshal and I have much planning to do."

The door at the far end of his office opened. A small figure strode across the vast office towards the huge teak desk that the Premier sat behind. The Marshal stopped in front of the desk, stood at attention.

The two men could not have been a greater contrast. The Premier of China was the younger of the two, fifty-eight years old, almost a child in the gerontocracy that had ruled China since the Revolution. Six feet tall and heavily built, he had let his hair go naturally grey since he took power. The son of Manchurian factory workers, he had begun as Party Chairman at a steel mill, then set up one of the first of the new companies when Deng Xiaoping opened the economy in the Eighties. Victor of a power struggle begun while the former premier was in a coma, he had been Premier less than nine months.

Marshal Zhao Lai Chiun had begun his military career as a 14 year old ammo carrier in Mao's army, fighting the Japanese and the Nationalists. He had become a general during the Korean War, a Marshal during the Tibetan revolts. During Deng's reorganization of the Army in the late Eighties, he'd been forcibly retired. Retirement was not apparent in his demeanor. Over 80 years old, the man still stood ramrod straight, his uniform sharply creased, his decorations in impeccable order. He had bid farewell to his last hair a decade before, but the eyes in the bald head were alert. And suspicious.

The Premier gestured grandly to a chair. "Please, Comrade Marshal, sit. We have important things to consider."

"Thank you Comrade Premier." Zhao sat, his face bland.

One of the Premier's staff entered then, pushing a tray with tea, bottles of mineral water, and fruit juice. Zhao chose a bottle of mineral water. The attendant made tea for the Premier and withdrew.

The Premier sipped his tea, nodded in satisfaction. It was Dragon Well tea, the very best. "Comrade Marshal, I am a simple manchurian steel worker, so I will get right to the point. In 1970, you did a staff study for an invasion of Taiwan. We are using that study as the basis for our current plan to settle the Taiwan question. What is your opinion of that plan today?"

"With the neutralization of the American threat, it is practical," said the Marshal. "I congratulate you on your success in that regard."

The Premier's eyes narrowed. "How much do you know?"

"I saw the American President's statement that his country would not intervene. My study suggested we threaten to loan the Korean Peoples government sufficient military force to unify Korea, if American forces intervene in Taiwan. It lets us use our superiority in ground forces to neutralize the American naval strength."

"Exactly, Comrade Marshal. A million men and a thousand aircraft. Needless to say, we could not make such a threat publicly." The Premier studied the man. The victor of a savage power struggle, the Smiling Man's grip on power was still tenuous. He needed an ally.

The Marshal sipped his mineral water thoughtfully. "We still must consider the Taiwanese. Even without the Yankees, their military is formidable. Their covert nuclear force is a threat but they would have to be insane to use it. We would incinerate their island in return. Do you plan to use nuclear weapons?"

The Premier shook his head. "That would be unmanageable. The Japanese and Americans stand together on that issue. The same applies to chemical weapons. They fear contamination, particularly the Japanese. Besides, we wish to take the technology of Taiwan intact." Inwardly, the Premier still fumed at the arrogance of the note he'd received from the Japanese ambassador. Still, it could not be helped.

The Premier watched the old soldier closely. He could almost see Zhao's heart flutter, despite his attempt to look impassive. The man did have a lifelong ambition! Zhao finished his mineral water. "Comrade Premier, the mission can be accomplished if the conditions of the study have been met. But why? If we must take military action, why not take Siberia instead? That would give us room and resources. We could use our superiority in ground forces to maximum advantage. Russia is a dying pig waiting for a butcher."

"A dying pig who still possesses nuclear weapons and enough room to survive a nuclear bombardment," said the Premier. His politician's smile faded. He didn't need it with this man. "Comrade Marshal, Russia is next on the list- but that will be a protracted struggle. During that struggle, what would happen if the Russians were to ally with Taiwan? The island is an unsinkable aircraft carrier. They can put over a million men into the field. If they struck at our rear while our forces were committed in Russia, it could be disastrous. Actual counter-revolution."

The Marshal nodded. "It is odd to hear you speak of counter-revolution, Comrade Premier. Some of our comrades in the Party believe that you are the counter-revolution. There are many in Zhongnanhai who distrust you." Zhongnanhai was the walled neighborhood in Beijing where most senior government and Party officials lived and worked. They had not been happy when the Premier moved into the forbidden city.

The Premier suddenly realized that Marshal Zhao was watching him, gauging his reactions! What nerve! The man had to know the Premier could order him back to his retirement.

The Premier smiled again. A willingness to take risks. He could use that. His career had been built on risks, linking his support to the "4000 Princelings", the children of the old guard Party officials, high-ranking officers and bureaucrats. They had been the driving force and chief beneficiaries of China's economic opening. This very success caused antagonism between them and the Old Guard of the Party. For a man willing to try a delicate balancing act, such a situation had potential. "Comrade Marshal, let me speak plainly. I need a victory to solidify my power. I also need to rationalize our military structure. Institutions such as the People's Militia may have outlived their usefulness. We must test them, make them more efficient."

Get them killed in ton lots and break the power of the People's Militia forever, thought the Premier. He looked at the Marshal's thoughtful smile, nodded. The Marshal knew what he meant. It was sacred doctrine that the People's Militia fought side by side with the Army and enforced revolutionary doctrine. They were also at the forefront of any purges or ideological cleansing. During the Cultural Revolution and the Hundred Flowers campaign, the People's Militia had been a constant threat to the Army's attempts to restore order.

If that revolutionary ardor could be used against them-

The Premier saw Marshal Zhou smile and knew he had him. "Comrade Marshal, I wish you to return to active service and take command of the invasion. Phase one will begin in three days."

Surprise leapt across the Marshal's face. "Three days! But I will have had no time for staff work-" He stopped speaking, sudden knowledge narrowing his eyes. The Premier could almost see the wheels turning. He needed a soldier outside the normal chain of command to lead this. None of the Army's senior commanders wished to get involved in this risky enterprise, seeing it for the power play that it was. The Marshal would be a sacrificial lamb if this invasion did not work.

If.

The Marshal looked wary. "My original timetable has been followed?"

"There have been minor changes. Major General Deng has been supervising to this point. He was your assistant in the original study, was he not? He recommended you. Besides, we should not actually need to fight. I expect the Nationalists to capitulate once we prove our resolve. They will certainly surrender after we take Quemoy and Matsu."

Wariness lasted a second longer on the Marshal's face. Then he smiled. "If the People's Republic calls on me, I will serve. Long live the glorious People's Revolution!"

The Premier smiled and reached into his desk, pulling out a thick file of plans. "Excellent. You leave for your field headquarters in two hours. In the meantime, I wish to go over the plans with you..."

***

"Driver, advance slow!"

With a growling of its diesel engine, the tank slowly ground forward, sliding into the depression that had been carved into the hillside. Black earth was mounded at the sides, crumbling slightly as the driver eased the tank into place with a gentleness that belied its 25-ton weight.

The fighting position was one of hundreds that Army bulldozers had cut into the shore of Taiwan's west coast. They joined hundreds of other prepared positions of steel and concrete that had been put in over the decades since 1949.

Sergeant Soo Wook Kang stood in the tank commander's hatch atop the turret, held the microphone of his crew helmet close to his mouth and watched the tank ease forward until it was just inside the screen of pine trees they hid among. "Driver, halt!"

The tank jerked to a halt. Sergeant Soo took one last look, nodded in satisfaction. "Kill the engine. Everyone dismount."

The diesel engine halted. Sudden quiet, and the hissing in his earphones of a microphone left on. The Taiwanese seargent took off his helmet, hung it on the spade grips of his machine gun and climbed out of the tank, squirming to fit his pistol belt and gas mask through the hatch he'd been standing in. He looked at his tank.

It was an American-built M-41 "Walker Bulldog", a light tank built two decades before he was born. Although old, it was fast and reliable with modern electronics and optics built in Taiwan. In its turret was a 76mm cannon, a good weapon in its day but far too light for modern warfare. Mounted alongside it, within the turret, was a .30 caliber machine gun. At his hatch atop the turret was a heavy machine gun, a Browning .50 caliber. A belt of gleaming brass ammunition trailed out of the weapon, into the ammo can beside it.

Corporal Huang wormed out of the drivers seat, as usual leaving his pistol belt and gas mask inside the tank. "So what do you think of our tank, Soo? Not what you're used to in the Army, but we reservists do with what we have."

Sergeant Soo frowned at the discourtesy. "That is Sergeant Soo, Corporal. Remember that."

Huang laughed, sat back. The other tank crewmen were getting out. "Soo, you aren't in the Army any more. We do things differently in the reserves. Don't be so formal." The corporal was ten years his senior, as was typical in this reserve unit. The other crewmen chuckled at the exchange and lit cigarettes.

All his life, Soo had been conditioned to respect his elders. He'd only made Sergeant upon his recent transfer to the reserves. The reaction of the older men shook him badly. "I'm, uh, going to check the position." He dismounted, put on the steel helmet he'd kept in the cargo rack behind the turret, stepped off the tank and walked out of the pine trees.

They were on a hill in the rolling coastlands of Taiwan's west coast. Above the high tide line, the level ground was covered by fields of sweet potatoes and rice paddies. The hills were wooded with pine, tung and poplar trees, or terraced for more rice paddies. Two hundred meters to his west, the waters of the straits of Formosa lapped against the beach. The hill had a sweeping view of the beach, the coastal road and scattered farm buildings. Everywhere he looked, reservists were digging gun positions, stringing wire and setting up weapons. He could hear the grumbling of diesel engines as other tanks in the unit settled into position.

He had been told that there was one tank every three hundred meters on the west coast of the island, with half a million men digging in to support them. They were reservists. Their tanks were the old M-41's, or M-24 Chaffee's, another American-built light tank of even earlier vintage. Behind them were the heavy artillery, reserve formations, and the heavy tank brigades that would move forward to crush any landing. After it had been bled by the beach defenses.

Out over the ocean, the sky was pale blue flecked with clouds, the sea spotted with whitecaps. It was still choppy from the end of the winter monsoons. In the distance he saw a pair of gunboats on patrol.

Soo looked at the sand of the beach, thought about going swimming. It was still too cold for that, but if they were still here in a month or so- but by then the beaches would be mined and covered with anti-tank obstacles and barbed wire. Or so he'd been told. He'd always been taught that there were huge war stocks of obstacles, mines and concertina wire. He had not seen any yet. He had seen on television when the American President had announced that the US would not interfere in dealings between China and its province, Taiwan. That had sent cold chills down his spine. It had also started a vast panic. Platoon Sergeant Ken Nua-dee walked towards him, his field cap at an angle, no helmet in sight, his pistol belt unbuckled. "Soo! Do you have your tank in position?"

"Yes, seargent. Should we chop down trees for camouflage?"

The platoon sergeant stopped, shook his head woefully. "Soo, forget that regular army crap. There isn't going to be any invasion. You chop down a tree and some damn farmer will be screaming at us the next day. Just make sure your damn tank can't be seen from the road. Listen to Corporal Huang. He knows the drill."

"Yes sir." Well, if that was how they did it- "What do we do now?"

"Pitch tents. We will be eating field rations for the next couple of days. Each of us has been assigned to an infantry platoon, so talk with the platoon sergeant. You being a college boy, talk with the platoon leader. It's their job to feed you. There's a track commanders meeting in two hours at the Lieutenant's tank." The platoon sergeant ambled past him. The young tank commander heard him hail the corporal in a friendly manner and talk with him.

Not knowing what else to do, he crouched and looked out over the beach, measuring fields of fire.

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