The move of prisoners from Upshut Island to the mainland was as abrupt as it was unexpected. The South Chinese Intelligence Bureau had suddenly been apprised of the disposition of American naval forces in the South China Sea. It was impressive, with at least six Hunter/Killer Los Angeles subs within range of the island, which was merely another way of saying that if any PLA aircraft took off from the island against the U.S. Seventh Fleet, they would immediately be brought down by the Seventh Fleet’s surface-to-air missiles.
And so, in one report by the Chengdu Intelligence Bureau, the reason for keeping U.N. POWs on the island as hostages against the U.S. air attack no longer made any sense. What was the use of having allied hostages on Upshut Island to protect the runway from U.S. bombs if the PLA planes on the airstrip were rendered unusable because of the Seventh Fleet’s missiles? Much better, it was decided by Beijing, to move the POW hostages to a location where they could be of more use as hostages and/or coolies.
And so, in a stench of sweat and kerosene fumes, and as quickly as they’d been brought to Upshut Island, the American, Australian, Vietnamese, and other U.N. POWs were placed aboard PLA transports clearly marked with a red cross, blindfolded and handcuffed to the inside lugs on the plane’s fuselage, and flown north from the Paracel Islands, then east into Chengdu province. They were then taken to yet another airfield in the making, one not invulnerable to missiles such as the Tomahawk, but a field in China proper, not in the disputed islands of the South China Sea.
It was thought that though the Americans might drop bombs on their own if strategic considerations deemed it imperative to do so, the U.S. would not sacrifice the other POWs — the Australians, Vietnamese, and British. It would create an uproar within the United Nations coalition. In any event, the Americans would think twice for another reason. To bomb an internationally recognized “dispute island” was one thing, but to attack an airstrip in China proper would be an enormous leap into the political unknown. It would create the kind of political maelstrom in the offing when MacArthur wanted to cross the Yalu into China during the Korean War. The mere suggestion that, because of strategic and tactical considerations he was thinking about it, was enough to bring U.N. criticism, and led to Truman firing him. To be part, albeit the major part, of a USVUN force was one thing, but to allow U.S. airpower to cross the Vietnamese-Chinese border to hit inside China proper went way beyond the mandate Jorgensen and Freeman had.
Two F-14 Tomcats on combat patrol two hundred miles from the USS Enterprise were told by the carrier AWACS about the Red Cross plane, and the F-14s swooped down to have a look-see. “The Chinese have painted red crosses all over,” the patrol leader reported.
“Do not engage,” Enterprise advised. “I say again, do not engage.” That’d be all the USVUN would need — the downing of a Chinese Red Cross plane — though the Enterprise’s skipper was willing to bet a month’s pay the bastards were using it to ferry PLA troops back and forth from all the islands claimed by the PLA for the People’s Republic of China.
For those in the Chinese transport plane, a PLA C-46 made to carry forty fully armed troops but now jam-packed with ninety prisoners, the sleep-inducing drone competed with the anxiety of not knowing where they were going.
“Where the fuck are we?” Mike Murphy demanded above the steady roar of the engines, and trying to use his facial muscles to work down the blindfold.
“Well, we’re not in Hawaii,” Shirley Fortescue whispered.
“Well,” Danny Mellin said, “my money’d be on China. Somewhere on the southeast coast.”
There was a thud, followed by an agonized expulsion of air.
“Up shut!” commanded Upshut, and now from a slit of light Mike Murphy could see Lieutenant Mung, the interrogator aboard the destroyer. It looked as if they were moving from Upshut Island lock, stock, and barrel. Through his tiny window on the world, Murphy could get only a tantalizing glimpse — a trace of silver — that would be somewhere in the northern sector of the Gulf of Tonkin, if Mellin was correct.
Soon they began their descent. Ears began to pop, and some experienced needle-sharp pains in their sinuses, their faces contorted as they leaned forward in a vain attempt to get away from the rapid change in pressure, hands straining against roped wrists.
There was a banshee howl as the undercarriage came down and engaged, then a sharp bump, and a second or two when everything felt out of control.
A political officer was already aboard before the props stopped turning. “Welcome to Ningming. You will work hard and prosper!” the cadre announced, smiling.
Mike Murphy stood up. Lieutenant Mung wanted to knock the Australian down, but stopped when the commissar held up his hand. “Whaddya mean by prosper, mate? You mean you’ll let us go free?”
The cadre’s smile showed yellow-stained teeth. “Yes. When you work hard, you help fight American imperialists. This will help win war. Then you go home. Everybody happy!”
“Yeah, well, what if we don’t want to work — for you or any other bloody cadre?”
The eagerly nodding cadre was still smiling, his features thrown into gross relief by the flashlight he was holding. “You not work, you will be shot.”
“Yeah,” Murphy said sullenly. “Well, how we gonna work with our bloody hands tied up? Christ, you lot are straight from the bloody goon show-ya know that?”
“We do not understand this,” the cadre said.
“Back off, Mike,” Mellin warned.
“Well, shit, we aren’t prisoners of war, for Chrissake. We’re just a poor bunch of bastards picked up off the rigs.”
“You will have your hands unroped,” the cadre said. “In the morning you work — two hundred of you. You will help make Ningming large airport.”
“From which to bomb the USVUN forces,” Murphy charged.
“This,” the cadre conceded, “is correct, but first you will build your accommodations.” He said something sharp to Upshut, who unclipped the stock of the AK-47, walked over, and clubbed Murphy to the ground. With the Australian in a protective fetal position, Upshut kicked at his groin and missed, his boot crunching the Australian’s cupped hands. Next, Upshut walked about Murphy and started in on his kidneys, ending with a final vicious kick at Murphy’s face, catching the Australian on the right cheek, now bleeding profusely. Upshut handed his rifle to a soldier, still looking down at Murphy.
“Always big mouth. Never up shut! Always for girl, yes? For girl.” He pointed at Shirley Fortescue. “For her — yes? Yes?” he bellowed, and took his foot back for another kick.
“Yes,” Murphy said.
“Yes,” Upshut said. “For girl.”
He knelt down next to the bleeding prisoner. “You lose face, Australian. Next time you die. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me you full of shit.”
Murphy wet his lips, but before he could speak, Upshut stopped him, telling him that he wanted everyone to hear. Mung nodded, and Upshut kicked him in the base of the spine. Murphy groaned with pain. “Tell them!”
“I’m—”
“Louder!” Mung ordered, holding his hand out for the AK-47.
“I’m full of shit.” All the prisoners averted their eyes to lessen his humiliation, but in doing so they too lost face.
Ningming, a railhead with one airstrip, was thirteen miles from the Vietnamese/Chinese border, twenty-six miles from Dong Dang and Lang Son in Vietnam, and twenty-five miles from Loc Binh, where Freeman’s Second Army was waging war on the ridges south of Loc Binh.