Belly of the Dragon

Copyrighted © 2001 by Jack E. Romig

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written consent from the author.

ISBN: 978-0-7596-2201-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4033-3070-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-0-7596-2200-5 (e)

1stBooks-rev. 5/26/01

Contents

Prologue

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

Dedicated to those who carry the emotional and physical scars of the fight for freedom

And

To Gladys who gave me the love of the poetry of words, and to Ed who gave me the love of good writing and of adventure. To that Group Of Fun Loving Authors (GOFLA): Maureen Cain, Lil Cromer, Magda Gammon, Monica Kinsey, Ted McLane, Suzanne Norman, Doris Norrito and Allen Pedrick, who gave their support and gems of wisdom.. To Karen Miller, who chased down those elusive punctuations and put them in their place.

All characters and events portrayed in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead or actual events is purely coincidental.

Prologue

On August 22, 1951, the Communists halted truce talks at Kaesong, Korea, amid much fanfare. On October 7 they demanded the talks be moved to another location. Both events appeared to be stalling tactics.

On October 25, armistice talks quietly resumed at Panmunjom, Korea.

CHAPTER 1

Within minutes the first of them would die, but even had they known, it would not have dissuaded them. It was an expected consequence of their effort. The heavy door swung open. Gradually, as their eyes adjusted, the swift, shimmering river’s surface became visible in the pale moonlight. The wet, brackish odor of the water mixed with the organic smell of tea and herbs that filled the ancient Chinese junk.

Sergeant John Armstrong dropped to the deck. The singsong Mandarin of the Commie troops on the dock was moving toward the ship. He rolled to his stomach, allowed his legs to swing down, and lowered himself into the dark river. Every movement was made with extreme caution. One sound could result in their capture, torture, and death. The water gushed up his pants legs and hit his crotch like a clutching hand. He wanted to yell, as the sloshing cold engulfed his body. The shock continued up his belly and back as he dropped from the sill and grasped the specially rigged rope just below the water line. He slipped beneath the oily surface and emerged a few feet downstream. The second man was already sliding off the doorsill, soundlessly following his lead. John watched, as six more slithered into the soil-laden river and grabbed the submerged line. Seven pair of eyes turned his way, as he hand-over-handed his way to the stern and disappeared around the end. The last man gave a thumbs-up to the two Chinese crewmen, who struggled to replace the heavy watertight door. Within seconds, there was no sign of the opening. He quickly followed his companions.

Rounding the junk’s stern, John saw the glare of the dock lantern had illuminated a patch more than ten feet wide between the ship and the black void under the wharf. He hesitated only a second, then ducked his head under the dark surface and stroked one-handed, sticking the other hand out ahead of him, feeling for the heavy dock support pilings. Shit, he thought as he tasted the putrid water that had splashed into his mouth, I’ll probably end up with dysentery, encephalitis, and every other god damned disease known to man. His bare hand touched the slime-covered piling and he slowly allowed his head to break the surface as he worked his way around the post. He stared into the black mass beyond, but only small strings of light from the cracks overhead bounced off the rows of pilings and the board cross members. Here and there he could see the orange light slice across the narrow plank walkways that the dock repair workers used to move underneath the pier’s surface. The smell of wet wood and decay filled his nostrils.

He felt a hand grasp his leg, and reaching down, pulled the dark clothed figure to the surface, pushing him against the board alongside. He recognized Paul Byrd in the reflected light from above. Gradually, the other members of the team popped into view. The last two were almost ten feet down river from John’s position. On a hand signal from the last man in the line, team leader Lieutenant Leroy Parker, they all moved deeper into the black, garbage-strewn, reeking void. John moved slowly along one of the cross members, running his hands over the oil and slime covered wood, its surface worn smooth by the continuous lapping of the mud-laden river. He knew that Parker would be showing up soon. Only minutes later he felt a tug on his sleeve and lips against his ear.

Jack?

He nodded in reply, his head brushing the speaker’s face. The lieutenant kept one hand on John’s jacket as they moved to an area with a wall of light stabbing through the opening between two broken dock planks. John pushed pieces of flotsam out of the way, refusing to wonder what they were. He had seen under Chinese piers when he was stationed in China, and the flotsam and jetsam had consisted of human shit, dead animals, including the human kind, garbage, oil, mud, fish, green river algae, plant matter, and some other things he never could identify. He was glad it was dark.

Parker lifted the waterproof packet on the lanyard around his neck and placing his elbows over the cross member, he attempted to get out a notebook.

Maybe it was the flash of the white paper or the brass on the pencil eraser that was the attraction or maybe it was the white skin showing at water level like a flashing fish. John never knew for sure, but suddenly there it was, on the plank next to Parker’s head. It was the biggest rat John had ever seen. The light glinted off its silver whiskers and gray, hairy face, and its eyes were red in the orange light of the dock lanterns. Before John could move, it lashed out at the white skin of the lieutenant’s neck, sinking its yellow teeth deep into his throat. Then with a shaking tearing motion it tore a three-inch chunk out of the side of the slender neck, taking the main artery with it. Blood drenched the savage jaws and gray head, and spurted over John’s face and the shoulders of his jacket. Leroy Parker opened his mouth to scream but the brown river filled it as he sank beneath the dark surface and he died without knowing who or what had killed him. The rat retreated into the blackness and Bluefield, West Virginia had lost one of its favorite sons.

John grabbed Parker’s jacket with one hand, as the rice and fish John had eaten for supper was catapulted up from his stomach and erupted out of his mouth and nose.

Son-of-a-bitch, he said in a whisper as he wiped his face with the dirty water. Son-of-a bitch. What a fucking way to start a mission. He wanted to puke again, but there was nothing left to bring up. He worked to hang on to the body, forcing it against the piling to avoid the pull of the current. John tapped his head twice, and Corporal Paul Byrd appeared at his side. He put his mouth against John’s ear. John smelled the sourness on Paul’s breath and knew he wasn’t the only one that had lost his rice.

What the fuck was that thing?

A rat, John said. A Chinese wharf rat. Hang on to me. I’ve got to tie the body off. He felt Paul grab his belt and, quickly, before he changed his mind, he ducked again under the putrid surface, and bracing his feet against the piling, he tugged on Parker’s jacket and heaved the body to the surface. Black looking blood was still floating from the gaping hole, but now the shock was over, and John was no longer looking at an old friend. He was looking at a military problem. They had been lucky to save the body. He wanted to get the packet from around Parker’s neck, even though he was sure there was nothing in it that anyone could use. He also knew he couldn’t let the corpse float downstream and be discovered. There are no white men on the Yellow River anymore, or the Hwang Ho as the Commies call it. Not in October 1951, he thought. For just a second he thought of 1947 and the sampan trip he and his three Marine Corps buddies had made on this part of the river. He shook off the memory. That was a different China. Those days had been bright, sunny; now, night was his friend and ally.

He made a noose in the cord from Parker’s survival kit and tied it through the heavy web belt around the Lieutenant’s waist. Then, again going under water, he tied the rope around the piling far below the waterline. He didn’t want the body to surface in a day or two and start to stink, causing curious dockworkers to investigate. He made it a special point to keep his mouth tightly closed, but he knew that he had two chances of not getting some form of dysentery. Slim, and none.

The chatter continued on the dock and the junk, as the government inspectors, members of The People’s Liberation Army, did a cursory search of the cargo for contraband and examined the papers of each man on board. All ships coming in from the open ocean were subject to search; but in practice, they only searched those they were suspicious of, or those they thought they could extract something of value from. The Sheng Pi was a sea-going junk of 120 feet and one that carried manufactured goods, tea and herbs from south China and Hong Kong. The inspectors always managed to spend a few hours aboard, leaving with ‘gifts’ from the captain. It was obvious Communism hadn’t stopped graft. Time passed slowly, and John tried not to think of anything but the present. By habit he relaxed the muscle in his belly and the urine flowed into his pants, momentarily warming the area. Somehow the heat was comforting, but he knew the big value was the release of fluid from his bladder that his body no longer had to heat, giving him an additional hour or two of survival. He had heard that the Nazis had discovered this technique by using concentration camp Jews in freezing water tests. He felt sorry for the poor bastards that had died proving the technique, but at least they had died for something. The trick had saved hundreds of lives since its discovery. I hope I die for as good a reason, John thought, not because a goddamn rat bit me.

With that, thoughts of Parker came crowding in. He knew Leroy’s mother and dad. He had gone home for the weekend with Leroy and eaten Sunday dinner with them more than once. The day would come when he’d have to meet with them again. When he’d have to lie and tell them their son had died a hero’s death in Korea. They would never know that he had been killed by a rat, on a secret mission on the mainland of China. John supposed he would also have to lie and say the body had been destroyed in an explosion, since it would never be sent home for burial. Either way old Leroy would become another missing in action. What a crock of shit. He shook off the thoughts. There’d be time enough to think about an appropriate story for Leroy’s death later, when they were back underway again, heading upstream. This was a planned stop, one they had practiced. The only part unplanned was the length of time they would be there...and the rat’s presence.

Then realization came bolting in like a wild stallion, kicking his brain in all directions and stomping his stomach into tiny clods of pain and fear. I’m in charge, he thought. I’m responsible for this whole goddamn mission. Parker, you rotten son-of-a-bitch, why did you die and leave me in charge? I don’t want to be in charge. I’m only supposed to be operations officer. You know I can’t be in charge, Parker. Not again. He leaned his forehead against the piling and gripped the sodden post, trying to still his shaking hands. His lips formed the words, but no sound escaped...Parker, what have you done?

For a long time his mind was scattered chips of matter, unable to form a rational thought. Finally the chips began to reassemble and acceptance of his position struggled to stand among the pieces. He slowly raised his head and looked around. Apparently no one had heard the crash in his brain or smelled the fear.

He clung to the post and stared blankly at the ashy moonlight bouncing off the writhing water as though it were hitting the backs of a million wriggling worms. The cold too was like a worm, slowly winding its way up his legs and arms. John closed his eyes for a moment and let his mind drift back a week to the comforting heat of southern California.

He had spent all afternoon of his one day layover by the pool, enjoying the warm sun and watching the sun bunnies in their barely legal two-piece suits. As if on a schedule, each would dip her golden tanned body momentarily in the blue-green chlorinated rectangle to refresh her skin, then return to the horizontal, oil slick, butt up, breast flattened, bra tie undone, sun glasses in right hand, pose of the California Dipper. And, for the thousandth time, he remembered the redhead. It had been impossible to miss her.

All ten men and eighteen women around the pool were instantly aware of her presence as she stepped from the change house. Her hair was cut in a short military-style bob and was just a little on the dark side to be truly red. Although she was beautiful, there were more beautiful there, though just a few. Her body could have been sculpted by a Greek artist, but some there were better. When she walked, her hips swayed like an Arabian dancer’s, but she carried extra pounds. Maybe 120 when she should have been 110. As she drew near, he saw her eyes were green, although not clear like an emerald, but rather, blue-green like the ocean. Yet the women all looked at her with envy, and when she took a chair next to his, the men all looked at him the same. She was less than a foot away; a trace of her cologne was carried to him by the slight breeze.

Hi, she said. It’s a really nice day isn’t it? She smiled, her white teeth showing between her unadorned pink lips. Not too hot.

It’s great, he answered, especially for the twenty-seventh of September.

She held out her hand. I’m Dale Tennyson.

John Armstrong, he said, as he took the offered hand. He was surprised to find it warm.

I know, she said. I saw you today. I work in the MCATS office.

I remember. You were wearing Sergeant stripes and holding a handkerchief with DT embroidered on it. I thought it meant Don’t Touch, he said smiling.

When you work in an MCATS office, that’s a good motto. There are a hundred guys a day go through there and each one makes a pass at you.

What do you do for the Marine Corps Air Transport Service?

I schedule all the flights for Marine personnel out of California. By the way, you are scheduled out at 2100 tonight. I was going to leave the message at your barracks, but the Duty Officer said you were over here.

He raised his eyebrows. Do you always deliver flight orders in person?

She looked around to be sure she couldn’t be overheard before answering. Only when the people are flying on orders from Headquarters Marine Corps and countersigned by the Director of Naval Operations. You must be somebody really important.

No, not really. Just a little cog, he said. She smiled a knowing smile and nodded.

We’re to fly you out at 2100 hours even if the plane’s empty. That’s a pretty important cog. Luckily, I can fill you up with mail to ComFarWestPac. But either way you will be in Japan by the 29th. The 30th their time, since you will cross the dateline. Somebody wants you there awfully bad. What the heck do you do? Suddenly she sat up and grasped his arm. The warmth of her hand again surprised him. John...I’m sorry...I wasn’t prying, she said with obvious concern. I was just making conversation...you know. It’s so unusual, orders like that...but I didn’t mean anything by it. The apology was evident on her face and in her eyes. I realize you can’t tell me, I shouldn’t be asking. But I haven’t mentioned this to another soul. I’m not really such a big mouth, she said with a rueful smile.

No harm done. I couldn’t tell you what they want me to do. I don’t know myself. Well, he thought, at least not all of it.

That sounds very scary, she said. He shrugged. She caught her lower lip in her teeth, then leaned back against the chair. John noticed she hadn’t removed her warm hand from his arm. He stared at her hand, wishing he could hold it, but he sensed she was like a wild bird; things had to be on her terms. If he reached for her, she would be gone.

A loud cough from overhead returned him to the cold dark river water. Unconsciously he moved his hand to the spot on his arm where her hand had rested. The slight shift allowed the current to force the cold water up his jacket arm curling into his arm pit with icy tendrils. His brain flashed back and again recorded the light patterns under the dark wharf. He replaced the tiny piece of canvas his hand had involuntarily searched for, and found, in his jacket pocket. As he rebuttoned the pocket, he took a slow look around.

The men had gradually moved together into a dangling tight knot as though huddling would protect them against the vicious rats and the cold that was progressively penetrating deeper and deeper. They had checked the water temperature earlier and John knew it was near 54 degrees. Even though they wore double layers of clothes so the inside layer warmed the water with body heat, if they didn’t get out of the water soon, they would all be in danger of dying from hypothermia.

Now, they only clutched the cross members, not the walk planks. He guessed they wanted to hang on to something that a large rat could not balance on. John and Sgt. Rico Ybarra, both of whom had served in China, didn’t want to tell them the truth. They had both seen big rats walk something as narrow as a ship’s cable. John signaled a time check and one of the men near a streak of light responded with a hand-signaled 01.

Jesus, it’s 0100. We’ve been in this stinking river for almost two hours, he whispered to himself. He could hear the laughter still coming from the Captain’s cabin on the junk, and the troops on the dock topside were playing some kind of word game. He could hear the repetitious words, and the jibes against the loser. He remembered seeing Chinese men play the game in the bars and whorehouses when he had been stationed in Tiensin and Tsingtao.

Suddenly, he heard orders being barked across the dock and then the usual Chinese whistle blowing and horns. The troops formed ranks right above their heads and John wondered what would happen if he gave each of them a hotfoot at the same time. The thought of them all holding up one foot and jumping around the dock at the same time caused him to smile. Just then Paul Byrd turned to look at John Armstrong and another legend was born. For the rest of the mission Byrd would tell the others, many times over, about the fact that Armstrong was so tough that after seeing a good friend killed, and spending two hours neck deep in freezing water, he was hanging there laughing at the Commies on the dock. They already called him Jack Armstrong, The Ail-American Boy, after the radio character. He wasn’t thrilled about the new title of Smiling Jack, after the pilot in the comic strips.

The officers were giving orders, and, even in Chinese, he could tell they were drunk. Amid loud talking and farewells, the troops marched off the docks, leaving only the local guards. While they could be dangerous, they had received some of the loot and would pay little attention to the goings-on aboard the Sheng Pi. Still, the maximum amount of caution was required. John doubted they would overlook the hated American Imperialists wandering around on Chinese soil. The men all followed John’s lead as he slowly began the difficult task, with cold stiff muscles, of moving around the pilings. He was attempting to get upstream far enough to be able to swim to the ship and grasp the rudder column or chain and then the line bolted to the ship. They had to retrace their earlier escape route. They were about to put one of their unusual talents to use.

On this trip John chose to be last, to be sure everyone made it. It proved a wise choice. The oldest team member at twenty-nine was Fred Toscaro, a twelve year Marine Corps veteran, out of Cleveland, Ohio. He was chosen for the mission because of his experience in both open country and village combat situations and was third in command after Leroy Parker and John. Toscaro would be invaluable in any firefights they encountered. But his water experience had been more than five years previous, and he had barely passed the qualifying combat swimming test two weeks before. Still, knowing the difficulty of the test, John felt few qualms about his swimming ability. But as men get older, they tend to get more cautious, and this wasn’t a mission for overly cautious men.

Toscaro failed to get far enough upstream, however, and when he pushed off toward the junk he floated for a second rather than striking right for the rudder chain. Too late, he realized his mistake. The strong current caught him and carried him past the stern. He was going to miss making contact with the rudder. Before he could turn and get into the eddy behind the ship, he was carried out into the main river flow.

Damn you, Toscaro, John muttered. Damn you to hell.

CHAPTER 2

Toscaro was plainly visible in the moonlit river and anyone on the dock looking in that direction was sure to see him. John hesitated only a second, then pushed his feet hard against the piling and headed downstream along the dock. He wasn’t sure what he could do, but experience had proven that two men have a better chance of survival. Besides, they had already lost one man, and although the mission could be carried out by only one man, the scenario was for at least four men to complete the setting of explosives and gather the intelligence without any hitches. Losing two men right at the start could put the mission in jeopardy. He saw Toscaro struggling to swim with his arms below the surface, trying to keep from creating a white water trail. John swam faster along the shore, but Toscaro was still pulling away from him. Then they both saw the sampan moored to the lower end of the dock near a down ladder. It’s probably a workboat, John thought. He stroked in that direction and managed to get a grip on the piling next to the ladder. Cold muscles and the heavy wet clothing slowed his climb to the platform. His fingers fumbled with the knotted rope. Finally a quick slash with his combat knife set it free. One of the dock lanterns was directly above him, and he hoped no one was looking in his direction, as he clambered in and grabbed the steering oar. He knew he wasn’t good enough with the Chinese method of one oar sculling, so he knelt in the stern and used the ten-foot long paddle Indian style.

Toscaro had been kicking and breast stroking toward the dark shoreline where he had last seen John and the boat, but the moon had been covered by a cloud and, from the water level, his visibility was not clear. There was no silhouette against the dark shoreline. He was too well trained and had been in too many tough situations to panic, but he didn’t like the idea of being so far downstream from the junk. It was almost two a.m. He didn’t want to be caught out on the river in daylight, for there was little doubt he would be spotted, and Commander Makin had been clear about their orders. No one is to allow themselves to be captured, he had said. The integrity of the nation is at stake. There was no need to spell out the alternative. He knew each man would do what was necessary at the time.

Swimming had caused the cold water to flow down the neck and up the arms of his jacket, and he felt the loss of suppleness the chill water was having on his muscles.

Suddenly, the boat came out of the night into the downstream path of his drift. John saw the relief on Toscaro’s face as he maneuvered to get ahead of him. Toscaro raised his hands head high, and a minute later slammed into the side of the sampan. He felt the hands on his collar, and grabbed John’s wrists as with practiced ease John heaved him into the boat. It was a maneuver they had done many times in combat swimming practice, but usually the pick-up boat’s speed and a special rope loop helped to lift the man from the water. John felt the stabbing pain low down in his back. As Toscaro rolled into the bottom of the sampan, John fell beside him in agony.

Beach the son-of-a-bitch, Toscaro, he groaned. Beach it.

Toscaro grabbed the oar, and using the same Indian technique, he paddled toward the near bank. It took almost twenty minutes, and all this time they were still being carried downstream. Finally, the sampan plowed into the low muddy shore. Toscaro grabbed John and threw the two of them over the side onto the mud flat as the sampan spun broadside, then the bow whipped out into the current and it soon disappeared. John groaned in agony.

Toscaro lay unmoving, his cheek pressed into the mud. His fingers gripped the sloping bank as if it were going to fling him back into the swirling waters. The long immersion and the struggle to swim had taken their toll. His arms were too heavy to lift, and the strength to raise himself was temporarily beyond his ability. He lay gasping from the exertion. Some time later he began to shiver, and his brain nagged him with the thought that if they didn’t soon get warm and find shelter from the damp cold wind, they were both going to die on this riverbank.

How bad is it, Jack? he whispered.

Bad, Toscaro, John wheezed, real bad. I don’t seem to have any control over my legs. They still have feeling but I can’t use them. Jack was glad to hear Toscaro’s voice and know that he was conscious. The hard paddling had warmed him for a while, but now the cold was coming back with a vengeance. He struggled to raise himself on his arms, but quit, groaning in agony.

Lie still. I’m going to take a look see, Toscaro said, as he crawled away up the sloping bank. He was gone so long, John began to think he had been caught. He heard movement over the hill and pulled the razor-sharp combat knife from his belt, laying it across his wrist. A quick slice and he’d be dead before they could stop him. He waited. Something came rolling down the slope toward him. Fear gripped him. What the hell was it? It was big and round and suddenly it bounced against his head and he smelled the rice straw as he sunk his knife into its middle. It stopped and lay where it had landed, his knife buried to the hilt.

Good stop, Jack Toscaro whispered. I dropped the goddamn thing and it took off. Only then did John realize he had ‘killed’ a rolled straw-and-bamboo, mat. He decided not to tell Toscaro the truth.

Toscaro stripped off all of Jack’s clothes, except the waterproof pouch that hung on the lanyard around his neck. John gritted his teeth as Toscaro dragged him in between the rows of river grass and rolled