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Nice, Yogi's back! 
And Zhukov helps pull Stalin together, a mixed blessing at best...
And Zhukov helps pull Stalin together, a mixed blessing at best...
Stalin a drunk is very funny.... and hopefully he will make it out of Moscow before the Germans arrive!
Good to see new updates to your AARs. Hopefully your motivation to continue this AAR will also be eventually found again in the near future
In a previous AAR, they would, but Skorzeny is busy right now.Dinglehoff said::rofl:
He has his priorities straight
I'm half expecting german commando's to show up at any moment.
Thanks for the update!
They are on their way-but how much of the Soviet Union they manage to save remains to be seen. Fu's priorities are certainly not the same as those of Stalin or Zhukov.seboden said:
Indeed it is; in fact, I so much wanted to write this piece that it took precedence over updating 3RiWW3. Oh the flack I'm going to get over that!dublish said:
One can always hope. But the real question is, "By who?"Dr. Gonzo said:
Thanks for reading, and welcome onboard! If you discovered this only before Christmas, then surely you do not lack updates to read, I believe we have over 500 print pages worth of it right now, and that's not counting the prequel, Master Plan of Fu Manchu. Hope you enjoy!Gabryel Karolin said:
As long as you enjoy it, enjoy it any way you like, Carbonator. Here's comes some more of the fun stuff.The_Carbonater said:
I take it you're not rooting for the Germans then?4th Dimension said:
Well, as Simon sez, that was another AAR. Here, Si Fan Ninjas are more likely. And you're welcome, my pleasure!Dinglehoff said:
Thanks! Noop - it's work, things have cooled down a bit. Not a word written at home since the arrival of no 3. (probably should call the Yogi Jr No 1, 2 and 3, as someone pointed out earlier, the Roman numerals are for generational numbering)Korppi said:
Yes; but for whom?yourworstnightm said:
Together, and out of harms way... maybe Zhukov would have been better off leaving Stalin in Moscow and trying to take over the reins of the Red Army all by his lonesome...but then who knows what Beria, Molotov and the other good ole' boys would have done?Mettermrck said:
One could always hope drink will improve his strategic leadership - it could scarcely hurt it much. If he can get past Rybinsk before the Germans get there, he should be OK.rcduggan said:
While I never give up entirely on my AARs, TEATL updates are not in the pipeline for the forseeable future. Sorry!Karelian said:
Never give up hope on my AARs... "That is not dead" and all that, you know.boehm said:
Indeed, he's busy barging in on another world leader with a pack of commandos!Simon_Jester said:
Secret Stronghold of Fu Manchu
Yunnan, Pan-Asian Empire
Friday July 25th, 1940
Situation in North America, July 25th, 1940
’Come forward, my son, and bow before your father!’
In the dark throne room of his ancient stronghold, Fu Manchu had foregone, with relief, the pomp and ceremony associated with even the minor doings of the Son of Heaven. His seat was the same throne of polished stone he had always used, and while his robes were now Imperial red, that was the only change in his attire compared to previous audiences in his sanctum. He had no need to impress the fact that he was the Emperor of China, and the ruler absolute of an Empire stretching from Central Asia to the Mississippi and from the Amur River to the Malay Peninsula. He was Fu Manchu, and that was more than enough.
His son, now made Prince of the Realm and Viceroy of the American Provinces, hobbled gracelessly forward, his injured leg thumping heavily on the stone floor. A snarl of demented rage contorted the once smooth, handsome features and his breath came in tortured gasps. Every step was obviously agony to him. Fu Manchu coldly watched his sons suffering and no inkling of pity softened the slight sneer of contempt on his cruel features.
Finally Siwan Khan stood swaying before his fathers throne, fighting to remain in balance.
‘I said: KNEEL!’ There was steel in Fu’s voice.
Now anguish and fear replaced fury in Siwan’s face. Balancing on his one remaining natural leg, he gingerly moved back his prosthetic limb a bit and with extreme effort succeeded in bending it by pressing down against the floor. Finally he stood kneeling on one leg before his fearsome progenitor.
‘Have western customs rubbed off on you so quickly that you now kneel like a Christian devil before his King, bending only the left knee?’ Fu Manchu asked in a level voice. ‘I am your MASTER, cur,’ he snapped, savage contempt crackling like thunder in his voice, ‘ and you will crawl before me!’
Siwan Khan promptly obeyed. Throwing himself forward on the floor was something he could still do with relative ease. He dreaded getting up though. He said nothing, awaiting Fu Manchu’s pleasure.
‘That’s better, Siwan. How do you like the mechanical leg Dr No has fashioned for you?’ the Lord of the Si Fan asked in a light conversational tone. ‘Isn’t it a wonder of ingenuity? It seems incredible that so much function can be regained with just springs and steel wires attached to your remaining leg muscles. It must hurt quite a lot though?’ he added with unabashedly fake concern.
‘It’s agony.’ Siwan hissed between clenched teeth. ‘A proper torture device. The bolts that secure it to my femur are painful beyond belief, and only the Elixir Vitae prevents infection spreading through the open wounds for the wires and fastenings. It would kill a normal man to wear it. But I am –NO–NORMAL–MAN! And I will master the pain, and my new leg, given time!’
‘See that you do! I have little need of a useless cripple! Now, enough chitchat; Report on your lack of progress in America!’
Siwan Khan painfully pushed himself up and sat on his knees. ‘Yes Father, although I wouldn’t say I haven’t made progress. My tanks stand on the Mississippi. I have conquered Texas with it’s oil fields and also those of Arkansas. I have struck a mighty blow against the American war economy and gained a critical resource for our own. Not much longer shall our Navy be port-bound for lack of fuel! I’ve also broken the Marshall line and taken Denver. We’re through the mountains, father. We stand at the edge of the Great Plains!’
‘Granted,’ Fu Manchu said with a nod. ‘But you’ve lost New Orleans, and hardly made any progress at all in the north.’
‘You must understand, father, the forces involved, on both sides, are very minor when you consider the vastness of the country. Texas and southern Arkansas were conquered by a single tank corps, three divisions, less than forty thousand men. It’s only by completely driving away the civilian population that we are at all able to hold on to conquered ground. The front is always in a flux. General Fu Zuoyi’s troops and tanks badly needed a rest and refit, and while they did that at Alexandria, an American infantry division re-crossed the river and occupied New Orleans. But it’s a minor matter. Once we have consolidated our positions, we’ll cross the Mississippi further north and then the American positions in New Orleans will become untenable. The wretched city will fall like ripe fruit into our hands! And the north… well, we’re better off not having an open flank there. When war with Britain breaks out, the Canadians will attack into it.’
Fu nodded. ‘I am pleasantly surprised, son. You have come a long way as a warlord – your words and actions actually make some sense now. However, don’t let it go to your head; you’re still WAY behind schedule. This is the summer in which you must break the Americans. I will have their unconditional surrender before the end of the year.’
‘But… but father, that timetable is unreasonable! To tell the truth, the Americans are getting stronger all the time. Despite their appalling losses, their forces have grown enormously. Field Marshal Terauchi believes they now have at least as many divisions as we have in theater, and very soon they’ll outnumber us.’
‘That's precisely why I will tolerate no delays. Besides, numbers matter little. What do the Americans have? Half-trained farm-boys, unblooded and scared to death? We, on the other hand have warriors!’
‘More importantly, we have at least six times their number in tanks, and air superiority, even without your rocket fighters. I’m not saying we won’t defeat them, father, only that slaughtering a thousand lambs takes longer than a hundred.’
Fu chuckled, but with no humour. It was not a pleasant sound, or sight. ‘Yes, you have tanks, Siwan, ALL our tanks, you have planes, almost ALL our planes, you have cavalry, ALL our cavalry… and meanwhile, Britain prepares for war. My poor Chiang wrings his hands and never ceases whining about the inadequacy of his resources for kicking the British out of India. Neither does Dhondu Pant, that miserable coward. He intends to rule India in my stead as Baji Rao III, but he contributes almost nothing to the conquest, save his band of thuggee fanatics. Now, Listen well, Siwan – what you have is all that we can spare, save perhaps some more infantry. I have already promised Chiang the next Tank Corps that becomes operational. Any new bomber squadrons must be used to secure the Imperial waterways from the Royal Navy. And as for our Navy, it will have to be pulled home for the same reason. From now on, until Britain’s Empire in Asia has been destroyed, you’re on your own. Understood?’
Siwan Khan nodded. ‘I understand, and infantry is what I need the most anyway, to form a continuous front. Never fear; the United States will be destroyed, if not this year then the next.’
Suddenly a siren began wailing outside. That modern sound felt utterly out of place, an anachronism within the dusty stone vaults of Fu Manchu’s throne room.
‘What now!?’ muttered Fu, rising from his throne. The tribal guards lining the walls looked about in alarm, pulling out an assortment of weapons. Now intense small arms fire was clearly, if distantly, audible.
An uniformed officer of the Imperial Pan-Asian Army half ran into the throne room and bowed hastily before his Emperor.
‘Imperial Highness, the stronghold is under attack! Enemy gliders are landing at the airstrip!’
‘Enemies? Here?’ Fu arched an eyebrow. ‘How did they know…’ he nodded. ‘Of course. Fah Lo Suee! I should’ve known I could not hide the location of the stronghold from her. And now she has convinced Nayland Smith to send assassins to take me out… I wonder who let them know I was here today…’ The Devil Doctor seemed deep in thought, but looked up when an explosion echoed through the hall. Immediately a blood-curling war cry from a hundred howling throats could be heard through the open windows, coming closer and closer.
‘Ayo Gorkhali! Ayo Gorkhali!’
Another explosion shook the fortress to its fundaments. Fu smiled as if given a compliment. ‘Oh’, he whispered, for all the world as in rapture. ‘England has finally mustered the courage to strike first; I thought I’d never see the day! And she has sent her very best after me; what an honour!’
He turned towards one of the tribal Guards. ‘You! Bring my sword from the armoury, and bring one for Prince Siwan Khan too! Hospitality demands that we give our guests a proper welcome!’
‘With SWORDS?!’ Siwan Khan protested. ‘What’s wrong with machine-guns and artillery?’
The Lord of the Si Fan said nothing until the guard returned with two swords in laquered scabbards.
‘These men fancy themselves peerless warriors, and think we fear their knifes. We will teach them otherwise!’ Fu Manchu exclaimed, receiving his tassel-hilted Jian from the Guard, who handed the other sword to Siwan Khan. Fu drew the glistening blade, and swung it hissing through the air as he let out an horrific war-yell of his own. It was like a ferocious beast roaring in bloodlust out from the mists of the past. Despite his life-long obsession for the Mongols of old, Siwan Khan had never heard anything as barbaric in his life.
Yunnan, Pan-Asian Empire
Friday July 25th, 1940
Situation in North America, July 25th, 1940
’Come forward, my son, and bow before your father!’
In the dark throne room of his ancient stronghold, Fu Manchu had foregone, with relief, the pomp and ceremony associated with even the minor doings of the Son of Heaven. His seat was the same throne of polished stone he had always used, and while his robes were now Imperial red, that was the only change in his attire compared to previous audiences in his sanctum. He had no need to impress the fact that he was the Emperor of China, and the ruler absolute of an Empire stretching from Central Asia to the Mississippi and from the Amur River to the Malay Peninsula. He was Fu Manchu, and that was more than enough.
His son, now made Prince of the Realm and Viceroy of the American Provinces, hobbled gracelessly forward, his injured leg thumping heavily on the stone floor. A snarl of demented rage contorted the once smooth, handsome features and his breath came in tortured gasps. Every step was obviously agony to him. Fu Manchu coldly watched his sons suffering and no inkling of pity softened the slight sneer of contempt on his cruel features.
Finally Siwan Khan stood swaying before his fathers throne, fighting to remain in balance.
‘I said: KNEEL!’ There was steel in Fu’s voice.
Now anguish and fear replaced fury in Siwan’s face. Balancing on his one remaining natural leg, he gingerly moved back his prosthetic limb a bit and with extreme effort succeeded in bending it by pressing down against the floor. Finally he stood kneeling on one leg before his fearsome progenitor.
‘Have western customs rubbed off on you so quickly that you now kneel like a Christian devil before his King, bending only the left knee?’ Fu Manchu asked in a level voice. ‘I am your MASTER, cur,’ he snapped, savage contempt crackling like thunder in his voice, ‘ and you will crawl before me!’
Siwan Khan promptly obeyed. Throwing himself forward on the floor was something he could still do with relative ease. He dreaded getting up though. He said nothing, awaiting Fu Manchu’s pleasure.
‘That’s better, Siwan. How do you like the mechanical leg Dr No has fashioned for you?’ the Lord of the Si Fan asked in a light conversational tone. ‘Isn’t it a wonder of ingenuity? It seems incredible that so much function can be regained with just springs and steel wires attached to your remaining leg muscles. It must hurt quite a lot though?’ he added with unabashedly fake concern.
‘It’s agony.’ Siwan hissed between clenched teeth. ‘A proper torture device. The bolts that secure it to my femur are painful beyond belief, and only the Elixir Vitae prevents infection spreading through the open wounds for the wires and fastenings. It would kill a normal man to wear it. But I am –NO–NORMAL–MAN! And I will master the pain, and my new leg, given time!’
‘See that you do! I have little need of a useless cripple! Now, enough chitchat; Report on your lack of progress in America!’
Siwan Khan painfully pushed himself up and sat on his knees. ‘Yes Father, although I wouldn’t say I haven’t made progress. My tanks stand on the Mississippi. I have conquered Texas with it’s oil fields and also those of Arkansas. I have struck a mighty blow against the American war economy and gained a critical resource for our own. Not much longer shall our Navy be port-bound for lack of fuel! I’ve also broken the Marshall line and taken Denver. We’re through the mountains, father. We stand at the edge of the Great Plains!’
‘Granted,’ Fu Manchu said with a nod. ‘But you’ve lost New Orleans, and hardly made any progress at all in the north.’
‘You must understand, father, the forces involved, on both sides, are very minor when you consider the vastness of the country. Texas and southern Arkansas were conquered by a single tank corps, three divisions, less than forty thousand men. It’s only by completely driving away the civilian population that we are at all able to hold on to conquered ground. The front is always in a flux. General Fu Zuoyi’s troops and tanks badly needed a rest and refit, and while they did that at Alexandria, an American infantry division re-crossed the river and occupied New Orleans. But it’s a minor matter. Once we have consolidated our positions, we’ll cross the Mississippi further north and then the American positions in New Orleans will become untenable. The wretched city will fall like ripe fruit into our hands! And the north… well, we’re better off not having an open flank there. When war with Britain breaks out, the Canadians will attack into it.’
Fu nodded. ‘I am pleasantly surprised, son. You have come a long way as a warlord – your words and actions actually make some sense now. However, don’t let it go to your head; you’re still WAY behind schedule. This is the summer in which you must break the Americans. I will have their unconditional surrender before the end of the year.’
‘But… but father, that timetable is unreasonable! To tell the truth, the Americans are getting stronger all the time. Despite their appalling losses, their forces have grown enormously. Field Marshal Terauchi believes they now have at least as many divisions as we have in theater, and very soon they’ll outnumber us.’
‘That's precisely why I will tolerate no delays. Besides, numbers matter little. What do the Americans have? Half-trained farm-boys, unblooded and scared to death? We, on the other hand have warriors!’
‘More importantly, we have at least six times their number in tanks, and air superiority, even without your rocket fighters. I’m not saying we won’t defeat them, father, only that slaughtering a thousand lambs takes longer than a hundred.’
Fu chuckled, but with no humour. It was not a pleasant sound, or sight. ‘Yes, you have tanks, Siwan, ALL our tanks, you have planes, almost ALL our planes, you have cavalry, ALL our cavalry… and meanwhile, Britain prepares for war. My poor Chiang wrings his hands and never ceases whining about the inadequacy of his resources for kicking the British out of India. Neither does Dhondu Pant, that miserable coward. He intends to rule India in my stead as Baji Rao III, but he contributes almost nothing to the conquest, save his band of thuggee fanatics. Now, Listen well, Siwan – what you have is all that we can spare, save perhaps some more infantry. I have already promised Chiang the next Tank Corps that becomes operational. Any new bomber squadrons must be used to secure the Imperial waterways from the Royal Navy. And as for our Navy, it will have to be pulled home for the same reason. From now on, until Britain’s Empire in Asia has been destroyed, you’re on your own. Understood?’
Siwan Khan nodded. ‘I understand, and infantry is what I need the most anyway, to form a continuous front. Never fear; the United States will be destroyed, if not this year then the next.’
Suddenly a siren began wailing outside. That modern sound felt utterly out of place, an anachronism within the dusty stone vaults of Fu Manchu’s throne room.
‘What now!?’ muttered Fu, rising from his throne. The tribal guards lining the walls looked about in alarm, pulling out an assortment of weapons. Now intense small arms fire was clearly, if distantly, audible.
An uniformed officer of the Imperial Pan-Asian Army half ran into the throne room and bowed hastily before his Emperor.
‘Imperial Highness, the stronghold is under attack! Enemy gliders are landing at the airstrip!’
‘Enemies? Here?’ Fu arched an eyebrow. ‘How did they know…’ he nodded. ‘Of course. Fah Lo Suee! I should’ve known I could not hide the location of the stronghold from her. And now she has convinced Nayland Smith to send assassins to take me out… I wonder who let them know I was here today…’ The Devil Doctor seemed deep in thought, but looked up when an explosion echoed through the hall. Immediately a blood-curling war cry from a hundred howling throats could be heard through the open windows, coming closer and closer.
‘Ayo Gorkhali! Ayo Gorkhali!’
Another explosion shook the fortress to its fundaments. Fu smiled as if given a compliment. ‘Oh’, he whispered, for all the world as in rapture. ‘England has finally mustered the courage to strike first; I thought I’d never see the day! And she has sent her very best after me; what an honour!’
He turned towards one of the tribal Guards. ‘You! Bring my sword from the armoury, and bring one for Prince Siwan Khan too! Hospitality demands that we give our guests a proper welcome!’
‘With SWORDS?!’ Siwan Khan protested. ‘What’s wrong with machine-guns and artillery?’
The Lord of the Si Fan said nothing until the guard returned with two swords in laquered scabbards.
‘These men fancy themselves peerless warriors, and think we fear their knifes. We will teach them otherwise!’ Fu Manchu exclaimed, receiving his tassel-hilted Jian from the Guard, who handed the other sword to Siwan Khan. Fu drew the glistening blade, and swung it hissing through the air as he let out an horrific war-yell of his own. It was like a ferocious beast roaring in bloodlust out from the mists of the past. Despite his life-long obsession for the Mongols of old, Siwan Khan had never heard anything as barbaric in his life.
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Now this wil be an interesting fight.
And yes. I'm not rooting for Germans. I'm for Russians.
And yes. I'm not rooting for Germans. I'm for Russians.
A most fortuitous turn of events (I think) - the sword will come to Skorzeny rather than him having to look for it.
Of course there is still the small matter of actually taking it from Fu. And getting out of the stronghold. And rescuing Durhn. And killing the Black Naga. And explaining to the British government why they have provoked a war with Pan-Asia. And explaining to the Fuhrer why is favourite commando is not at hand to exploit the fall of Moscow and Stalingrad.
All in all it could be a busy summer.
Of course there is still the small matter of actually taking it from Fu. And getting out of the stronghold. And rescuing Durhn. And killing the Black Naga. And explaining to the British government why they have provoked a war with Pan-Asia. And explaining to the Fuhrer why is favourite commando is not at hand to exploit the fall of Moscow and Stalingrad.
All in all it could be a busy summer.
3RiWW3? I'm still pining for an update on TEaTL!The Yogi said:Indeed it is; in fact, I so much wanted to write this piece that it took precedence over updating 3RiWW3. Oh the flack I'm going to get over that!
Yikes, I'm not sure Fah has a chance against Fu Manchu armed with swords and screaming bloodlust. This should be great!
Well they should have no trouble finding the sword, though it looks like they'll have to take from Fu himself, which will probably be a heckuva lot harder than just getting thru some dusty old booby traps and elite guards.
Of course, if the Naga shows up then things could get really interesting.
Of course, if the Naga shows up then things could get really interesting.
Great update.
It is interresting to see how Siwan can handle problems in USA.
And now just waiting great fighting scene
It is interresting to see how Siwan can handle problems in USA.
And now just waiting great fighting scene
I hope not to disappoint you then!4th Dimension said:
Why do you figure? Fu didn't seem to expect the attack. And yes, Finland is still fighting, and has pushed the Soviets back beyond her borders again.Karelian said:
All in all, it might perhaps have been easier if Fu HADN'T been in place to greet them?Derek Pullem said:
By your command! (yes, I have been watching Battlestar Galactica lately) Enjoy!Dr. Gonzo said:
Well, as I said in the previous post, I'm sorry but that's not in the works for now. I'm stealing all the time I can get away with at work as it is. Console yourself with EOFM for now, and await another update after this one soonish.dublish said:
I hope I can do justice to your expectations, Met!Mettermrck said:
Probably an accurate assessment, on all accounts.VILenin said:
Thanks, and here you go then. Enjoy!Korppi said:
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Secret Stronghold of Fu Manchu
Yunnan, Pan-Asian Empire
Friday July 25th, 1940
A thin mist hung in the air above the verdant valley floor, blurring out details beyond a few hundred metres. The sooty red sun was dropping fast behind the jagged mountain peaks, and already the airstrip was in shadows. Low visibility had made touching down a risky business, but despite all his misgivings, the twilight landing had gone without a hitch, and now James Bond watched with satisfaction how the last Gurkha troops cleared the dirt runway and swarmed up the valley slope towards the grey stone stronghold perched on the mountain side. There was sporadic firing, mostly, it seemed from British Enfields and the occasional, precious Thompson SMG. That Britain, on the eve of another major war, hadn’t yet produced an SMG of it’s own boggled Bond’s mind.
Skorzeny and Fah Lo Suee, both crouching and like Bond in British combat fatigues were waiting for him at edge of the airstrip. The Nazi Major was heavily armed with hand grenades, his own Schmeisser, Mauser machine-pistol and the Rune sword, while Fah had settled for the black Kris and a Webley officer’s revolver. Bond himself carried only a revolver and a long bayonet – as commanding officer of the mission, he really shouldn’t burden himself with heavy weapons, but he was loathe go into battle carrying nothing but a swagger stick and a side arm. All three wore black berets in lieu of steel helmets and while Skorzeny and Fah had the three pips of a Captain (Skorzeny had grumbled over the temporal demotion, but there was to be no confusion about who was in command) on their khaki shoulder patches, Bond’s patch was navy blue with two fat and one thin gold bar, denominating the naval rank of Lieutenant Commander. The Empress and the Princes had been left behind at the base in Myitkyina. That hadn’t been the no-brainer it could seem like – it left them defenceless against Black Naga, but the monster was in all probability long behind them and wouldn’t reach Burma for many days yet, and brining the Empress to the very doorstep of Fu Manchu was ultimately just too foolhardy.
‘That went surprisingly well, all things considered!’ Bond said, crouching down beside the couple. ‘I was sure we would run into…’
He was interrupted by the high-pitched staccato of Japanese-built Type 98 20mm anti-aircraft batteries finally opening fire from emplacements on the slopes dominating the valley floor. Streams of red tracers rained down on the runway, lifting small black clouds of smoke and debris. Within seconds two of the empty gliders had been shot to pieces.
‘…flack.’ Bond concluded somewhat sheepishly. ‘Thank God we took them by surprise!’
Skorzeny watched with hard eyes as the remaining glider planes were thoroughly shot up.
‘Die narren! Wasting ammo on empty planes – they should be firing on your men now!’ he muttered. ‘Still, we better take out those emplacements if we expect your transports to land there for the pickup!’
‘I know it well, Major!’ Bond answered coldly. It was a matter of some satisfaction to him that he was of equal rank with the much older SS-man, and in command today. He wasn’t going to let the Nazi forget that.
As if a telepathic command had been given, one and then another AA gun was silenced by hand grenades, expertly thrown by the advancing Gurkhas. Within minutes, the other batteries had been overrun. The Gurkha attack was swift, silent and ruthless, and flowed up the slope like a wave of death. The Central Asian tribal warriors used as sentries and guards by the Si Fan didn’t stand a chance against them.
‘Let’s go!’ Bond said, raising from his crouch. ‘The way up is more or less clear and we should catch up with the lead elements before they break into the stronghold. Fah’s the only one that knows her way around in there!’
Fah nodded, and the three moved out following the young British spy. It was a taxing climb, but ten minutes later they were crouching in the shrubs at the foot of the stronghold’s thick stone walls. Sporadic rifle fire from the battlements seemed random, and was mostly suppressed by accurate shots from the Gurkhas Enfields. Bond made a hand-sign command, and a demolition team sprang forward, placing a big charge against the walls. Everybody took cover, and then the earth shook as a the mighty walls crumbled, leaving a large dark hole into the bowels of Fu Manchu’s fortress. Bond had decided early on that storming the gates was a bad idea.
It soon became apparent that the attackers had entered the ancient dungeons of the fortress. Rows of cells, empty or containing the grisly remains of long-dead prisoners, lined the sides of a long corridor. Only in the last one before a winding stair going up, did they come upon a living captive – a chained young woman in a dirty and torn black dress, with long black hair but evidently of European race. She was so covered in dirt and bruises that Bond didn’t recognise her until she opened her lustrous brown eyes.
‘Irene! Sister, how long have you been here? What did they do to you?!’ he wailed. The young nun, a colleague from the Vatican Intelligence, had been at his side during some of the most difficult times in his life. When he was forced to plot even against Nayland Smith to gain access to the Elixir Vitae that alone could restore his ruined body, she had been his only ally, confident and crutch. Bond also knew Irene and Hannah were close. To see her in this state almost broke his heart.
As the chains were cut with bolt-cutters, she began to cry softly. ‘What didn’t they do? But it doesn’t matter now, God has sent you, James, and I will finally be able to complete my mission!’ Revealing unsuspected resilience, the young Nun draped the uniform jacket Bond had offered her over shoulders and followed the soldiers. Her jaws were clenched in steely determination.
At the top of the stairs, the Gurkhas entered a large hall, with broad stairs leading up to balustrades with many doors leading into the different levels of the fortress.
‘The central court’, Fah Whispered. ‘From here we go to…’
Suddenly several doors on the second floor where thrown up and fur-clad tribal warriors sporting sabres and rifles began to pour onto the balustrade. Bond swore loudly.
‘Fire! Take them out!’
Instantly the great hall was the scene of a no quarters gun battle. Volleys of rifle fire dropped many tribesmen, who tumbled over the stone railing of the balustrade and fell screaming towards the flagstones below, but more kept coming and returned fire. They might not have been the equals of the Gurkhas in close quarters combat, but they were brave men and good shots. In a point blank fire exchange, they gave as good as they received, and many of the Nepalese warriors were cut down.
‘We can’t stay here!’ Bond shouted, firing his revolver and dropping another Si Fan warrior. ‘Gurkhas, chaaaaarge!’
The short but deadly soldiers of His Majesty needed little encouragement. With a savage “AYO GORKHALIIII!” they unsheathed their fearsome Kukhri combat knifes and charged up the broad stairs like bloodthirsty demons from the darkest pit of hell. Those who couldn’t fit continued to provide deadly covering fire with their rifles. The tribesmen faltered, but utlimately stood their ground, firing until the last moment when their short scimitars flashed out of their scabbards. Then the melee was joined, with blade, bayonet and rifle butt, and the deafening din of gunfire mostly ceased, to be replaced by the far more horrible screams of men dying in agony and fear. The Si Fan tribesmen were rudely pushed back, and the Gurkhas advanced along the balustrade, walking on a carpet of slaughtered foes.
That was when doors where thrown open on the bottom floor, and fresh masses of Tribal warriors, dacoits and other assorted Si Fan acolytes began pouring into the hall brandishing every conceivable weapon from Krises and Tulwars to SMGs. The remaining Ghurkas on the floor, as well as Bond, Fah, Skorzeny and Irene (who had picked up a Kukhri from a fallen Gurkha) found themselves fighting for their lives in a swirling maelstrom of men and flashing sharp steel.
Skorzeny’s great sword swung in wide flashing arcs, spraying ghastly crimson drops and every time it descended, another enemy fell butchered on the cold stone floor. Fah Lo Suee performed a sinuous dance of death, spinning, whirling, weaving through the crowded room. Her Kris was just one weapon of many, and accurate kicks and punches dropped as many foes as her dripping wavy black blade. Bond stood in front of Irene at the foot of the stairs, fighting off all comers with the ruthless precision and economy of movement of a trained knife fighter. His bayonet lacerated faces, slashed throats, punctured chests and deflect knife and sword blows. Still, he was forced to give ground, step by step retreating up the stairs. Irene, not used to fighting and less so with the strange Nepalese knife, still managed to deal out some damage to careless enemies, too focused on the English madman protecting her.
Fah was the first to spot them – two men, clad in robes red and golden respectively, and wielding short straight Chinese swords of the type known as Jian. The shorter, stouter one limped badly, but as soon as a Ghurka came near him, the Nepalese would appear to become disoriented and confused, and was easily dispatched by a flick of the sharp sword. The taller man, imposing and high browed with features like Satan himself, fought with unrivalled skill – his sword was like a stinging viper, whipping aside Kukhris and dealing out death with every movement. Just like Fah, he used his entire body as a weapon, felling as many foes with lightning-quick kicks and vicious kung-fu blows as with his sword. Even without seeing the fires of Hell burning emerald in his eyes, reflecting Fah Lo Suees own twin pools of Jade, there was no mistaking the man – fighting side by side with his son Siwan Khan, was Fu Manchu!
Yunnan, Pan-Asian Empire
Friday July 25th, 1940
A thin mist hung in the air above the verdant valley floor, blurring out details beyond a few hundred metres. The sooty red sun was dropping fast behind the jagged mountain peaks, and already the airstrip was in shadows. Low visibility had made touching down a risky business, but despite all his misgivings, the twilight landing had gone without a hitch, and now James Bond watched with satisfaction how the last Gurkha troops cleared the dirt runway and swarmed up the valley slope towards the grey stone stronghold perched on the mountain side. There was sporadic firing, mostly, it seemed from British Enfields and the occasional, precious Thompson SMG. That Britain, on the eve of another major war, hadn’t yet produced an SMG of it’s own boggled Bond’s mind.
Skorzeny and Fah Lo Suee, both crouching and like Bond in British combat fatigues were waiting for him at edge of the airstrip. The Nazi Major was heavily armed with hand grenades, his own Schmeisser, Mauser machine-pistol and the Rune sword, while Fah had settled for the black Kris and a Webley officer’s revolver. Bond himself carried only a revolver and a long bayonet – as commanding officer of the mission, he really shouldn’t burden himself with heavy weapons, but he was loathe go into battle carrying nothing but a swagger stick and a side arm. All three wore black berets in lieu of steel helmets and while Skorzeny and Fah had the three pips of a Captain (Skorzeny had grumbled over the temporal demotion, but there was to be no confusion about who was in command) on their khaki shoulder patches, Bond’s patch was navy blue with two fat and one thin gold bar, denominating the naval rank of Lieutenant Commander. The Empress and the Princes had been left behind at the base in Myitkyina. That hadn’t been the no-brainer it could seem like – it left them defenceless against Black Naga, but the monster was in all probability long behind them and wouldn’t reach Burma for many days yet, and brining the Empress to the very doorstep of Fu Manchu was ultimately just too foolhardy.
‘That went surprisingly well, all things considered!’ Bond said, crouching down beside the couple. ‘I was sure we would run into…’
He was interrupted by the high-pitched staccato of Japanese-built Type 98 20mm anti-aircraft batteries finally opening fire from emplacements on the slopes dominating the valley floor. Streams of red tracers rained down on the runway, lifting small black clouds of smoke and debris. Within seconds two of the empty gliders had been shot to pieces.
‘…flack.’ Bond concluded somewhat sheepishly. ‘Thank God we took them by surprise!’
Skorzeny watched with hard eyes as the remaining glider planes were thoroughly shot up.
‘Die narren! Wasting ammo on empty planes – they should be firing on your men now!’ he muttered. ‘Still, we better take out those emplacements if we expect your transports to land there for the pickup!’
‘I know it well, Major!’ Bond answered coldly. It was a matter of some satisfaction to him that he was of equal rank with the much older SS-man, and in command today. He wasn’t going to let the Nazi forget that.
As if a telepathic command had been given, one and then another AA gun was silenced by hand grenades, expertly thrown by the advancing Gurkhas. Within minutes, the other batteries had been overrun. The Gurkha attack was swift, silent and ruthless, and flowed up the slope like a wave of death. The Central Asian tribal warriors used as sentries and guards by the Si Fan didn’t stand a chance against them.
‘Let’s go!’ Bond said, raising from his crouch. ‘The way up is more or less clear and we should catch up with the lead elements before they break into the stronghold. Fah’s the only one that knows her way around in there!’
Fah nodded, and the three moved out following the young British spy. It was a taxing climb, but ten minutes later they were crouching in the shrubs at the foot of the stronghold’s thick stone walls. Sporadic rifle fire from the battlements seemed random, and was mostly suppressed by accurate shots from the Gurkhas Enfields. Bond made a hand-sign command, and a demolition team sprang forward, placing a big charge against the walls. Everybody took cover, and then the earth shook as a the mighty walls crumbled, leaving a large dark hole into the bowels of Fu Manchu’s fortress. Bond had decided early on that storming the gates was a bad idea.
It soon became apparent that the attackers had entered the ancient dungeons of the fortress. Rows of cells, empty or containing the grisly remains of long-dead prisoners, lined the sides of a long corridor. Only in the last one before a winding stair going up, did they come upon a living captive – a chained young woman in a dirty and torn black dress, with long black hair but evidently of European race. She was so covered in dirt and bruises that Bond didn’t recognise her until she opened her lustrous brown eyes.
‘Irene! Sister, how long have you been here? What did they do to you?!’ he wailed. The young nun, a colleague from the Vatican Intelligence, had been at his side during some of the most difficult times in his life. When he was forced to plot even against Nayland Smith to gain access to the Elixir Vitae that alone could restore his ruined body, she had been his only ally, confident and crutch. Bond also knew Irene and Hannah were close. To see her in this state almost broke his heart.
As the chains were cut with bolt-cutters, she began to cry softly. ‘What didn’t they do? But it doesn’t matter now, God has sent you, James, and I will finally be able to complete my mission!’ Revealing unsuspected resilience, the young Nun draped the uniform jacket Bond had offered her over shoulders and followed the soldiers. Her jaws were clenched in steely determination.
At the top of the stairs, the Gurkhas entered a large hall, with broad stairs leading up to balustrades with many doors leading into the different levels of the fortress.
‘The central court’, Fah Whispered. ‘From here we go to…’
Suddenly several doors on the second floor where thrown up and fur-clad tribal warriors sporting sabres and rifles began to pour onto the balustrade. Bond swore loudly.
‘Fire! Take them out!’
Instantly the great hall was the scene of a no quarters gun battle. Volleys of rifle fire dropped many tribesmen, who tumbled over the stone railing of the balustrade and fell screaming towards the flagstones below, but more kept coming and returned fire. They might not have been the equals of the Gurkhas in close quarters combat, but they were brave men and good shots. In a point blank fire exchange, they gave as good as they received, and many of the Nepalese warriors were cut down.
‘We can’t stay here!’ Bond shouted, firing his revolver and dropping another Si Fan warrior. ‘Gurkhas, chaaaaarge!’
The short but deadly soldiers of His Majesty needed little encouragement. With a savage “AYO GORKHALIIII!” they unsheathed their fearsome Kukhri combat knifes and charged up the broad stairs like bloodthirsty demons from the darkest pit of hell. Those who couldn’t fit continued to provide deadly covering fire with their rifles. The tribesmen faltered, but utlimately stood their ground, firing until the last moment when their short scimitars flashed out of their scabbards. Then the melee was joined, with blade, bayonet and rifle butt, and the deafening din of gunfire mostly ceased, to be replaced by the far more horrible screams of men dying in agony and fear. The Si Fan tribesmen were rudely pushed back, and the Gurkhas advanced along the balustrade, walking on a carpet of slaughtered foes.
That was when doors where thrown open on the bottom floor, and fresh masses of Tribal warriors, dacoits and other assorted Si Fan acolytes began pouring into the hall brandishing every conceivable weapon from Krises and Tulwars to SMGs. The remaining Ghurkas on the floor, as well as Bond, Fah, Skorzeny and Irene (who had picked up a Kukhri from a fallen Gurkha) found themselves fighting for their lives in a swirling maelstrom of men and flashing sharp steel.
Skorzeny’s great sword swung in wide flashing arcs, spraying ghastly crimson drops and every time it descended, another enemy fell butchered on the cold stone floor. Fah Lo Suee performed a sinuous dance of death, spinning, whirling, weaving through the crowded room. Her Kris was just one weapon of many, and accurate kicks and punches dropped as many foes as her dripping wavy black blade. Bond stood in front of Irene at the foot of the stairs, fighting off all comers with the ruthless precision and economy of movement of a trained knife fighter. His bayonet lacerated faces, slashed throats, punctured chests and deflect knife and sword blows. Still, he was forced to give ground, step by step retreating up the stairs. Irene, not used to fighting and less so with the strange Nepalese knife, still managed to deal out some damage to careless enemies, too focused on the English madman protecting her.
Fah was the first to spot them – two men, clad in robes red and golden respectively, and wielding short straight Chinese swords of the type known as Jian. The shorter, stouter one limped badly, but as soon as a Ghurka came near him, the Nepalese would appear to become disoriented and confused, and was easily dispatched by a flick of the sharp sword. The taller man, imposing and high browed with features like Satan himself, fought with unrivalled skill – his sword was like a stinging viper, whipping aside Kukhris and dealing out death with every movement. Just like Fah, he used his entire body as a weapon, felling as many foes with lightning-quick kicks and vicious kung-fu blows as with his sword. Even without seeing the fires of Hell burning emerald in his eyes, reflecting Fah Lo Suees own twin pools of Jade, there was no mistaking the man – fighting side by side with his son Siwan Khan, was Fu Manchu!
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Here it comes, the climax of the base attack! These scenes would make great movie fare.