I grunted as I heaved myself over the wall, landing on the other side among my hand-picked squad of mountaineers, veterans of the Long March one and all. Chairman Mao himself had stressed the importance of this mission, and I would not fail him. The Red Army, spearheaded by Comrade Zhukov, had made a heroic dash to the coast in their efforts to aid our struggle against the Japanese devils, but that son of a bitch Tojo had personally led their marines to a landing in Dalian, cutting off the heroic tankers of the Red Army. They were prepared to sell their lives dearly and take as many of the devils with them as they could, but some of their vital equipment and personnel could not be allowed to be taken by the devils. The list given to me in person by Comrade Zhu included various encryption and decryption devices, intelligence personnel, and of course, Comrade Zhukov himself. The capture of a Marshal would be an immense blow to morale, and would be a demonstration of our weakness to the imperialists. No, this could not be allowed.
I checked to ensure that my Type 17 was still securely silenced, and silently thanked the heroic workers of Barrikada's Design Bureau for their specialized design, built particularly for the People's light infantry. It had already saved my life once during this mission, and I knew that its bullet could blow a man's chest out from thirty meters.
We silently moved to the rendezvous point with the Soviet warriors and technicians we were to extract, taking care to stay away from any light. We had not infiltrated two hundred kilometers and lost five good men simply to fail tonight. Before we left, I had sworn an oath upon my status as one of China's Tiger Marshals to complete my mission or die trying, lest I be struck down by thunder.
Comrade Shao waved us forward, eye firmly fixed to the scope of his Mosin-Nagant, another weapon we were thankful to our Russian comrades for. As Comrade Wei sprinted across the last road before the hut the Russians were waiting for us in, a hail of gunfire sounded, and he fell. I barely had time to react before the characteristic sound of the Type 99 machine gun triggered my instincts and I dropped, hands scrabbling for my PPD-38.
"Tsao ta ma de bi! Go! Go! Get across the road! We will not fail!" I bellowed, nearly dragging Comrade Li with me as I charged from cover. Miraculously, neither of us was hit, and I sprinted towards the Russian hideout. Of all the luck! The devils had to have sent a random patrol here, of all places!
I burst into the hut, and froze. Over a dozen muzzles were pointed in my direction, and I wondered if this had been that good of an idea after all. Then the scarred face of Comrade Zhukov appeared, and I began breathing again. We had met several times before in Mongolia, and we respected each other a great deal. However, there was no time for niceties. "Comrades! The devils have ambushed us! Come, we need to leave, now!"
Zhukov nodded, and motioned to his men, who began to hurry outside. However, just as the first man took cover behind a tree, an explosion rocked the hut, and three men fell, screaming. "Chyort!" Comrade Zhukov grunted, and bellowed something I could not understand into a radio, then grabbed me and threw me bodily into a ditch.
"Comrade! How do we get out of this one?" I asked him, and he grinned, while waving for the rest of our men to get down. I stayed silent, confident that my friend still had some tricks. My confidence was badly shaken as three Japanese tanks rolled down the path, with at least a platoon of devils in tow. Even with some of the finest infantry in the People's Liberation Army, we would not be able to fight off this many devils.
Just then, an explosion sounded, and the lead Japanese tank disintegrated. The devils scattered in confusion, and our men, seeing the opportunity, rose up and gunned at least half of them down with automatic fire. Two more explosions sounded in rapid succession, and just like that, the path was clear. I looked at Comrade Zhukov in astonishment, and he laughed, waving towards two BT-7s that had appeared from around a turn in the road. "In Soviet Union, we say if brute force does not work, you are not using enough!"
- Marching for Mao, an autobiography of Lin Biao. Excerpt dated September 29, 1937.