Invasion Colorado

-2-

Plans





SMITH’S FARMHOUSE, SOUTHERN COLORADO



Paul Kavanagh stared at the angry, desperate old men. They sat in metal fold-up chairs in the cellar of an ancient farmhouse. A single naked light bulb dangled from the ceiling, providing the illumination. Behind the men, the harsh glare of light reflected off stacks of mason jars filled with preserves.

The basement was damp, cold and moldy. It belonged to a lonely dwelling at the southeastern tip of Colorado where the state met Kansas and Oklahoma. Each of the men wore winter jackets and all had wet pants. They’d trekked here on foot in the rain and through muddy fields to avoid Chinese patrols. Soon this wicked rain would stop and it would become cold again. True winter would howl down with freezing bitterness, hardening the ground and giving mobility to the stalled armies.

Romo sat in a chair behind him. Paul could hear the assassin’s harsh breathing. Romo had a fever and glassy eyes, but at least this was better than slogging outside. The truth was Romo should be sleeping in a bed upstairs or better yet, receiving medical attention in a hospital. But that would have to wait.

Each of the old civilians had a rifle or a shotgun. Some laid the weapons across their knees. Others clutched them upright between their legs. The point was: each carried, to Chinese ways of thinking, an illegal weapon. If caught by the enemy, these men would hang by the neck.

“It’s going to get worse,” Paul told them. “That’s the first thing you need to understand.”

The seven men stared at him. They didn’t want to hear that.

“If you’re not in for the long haul,” Paul said, “get out now while you can.”

“I’d rather die than be Chinese,” one of them said.

“Probably you’re going to get your wish,” Paul said.

“Hey,” the farmer named Smith said. “I didn’t bring you here to listen to defeatist talk. We mean to fight. We’re too old for the front lines, but most have us have been hunting since youth.”

“You’re not too old,” Paul said. “You could join the Militia. They’re taking anyone who’s willing.”

The men glanced at each other. Their expressions had the feeling of, “Why did we come to hear this?”

“Listen,” Paul said, “I’m telling you this because you have to want it so badly that you can’t sleep otherwise.”

“Want what?” Smith said. He was thin and of medium height. The wrinkled, lined face said he must be sixty at least, and held an AR-15 in his gnarled hands.

“Want to get rid of the Chinese,” Paul said. “Once you start, they’re going to hunt you night and day like you wouldn’t believe. They might even bulldoze your house or your neighbor’s house to teach all of you a lesson. They might hang your wife in front of you, or hang your kids or grandkids if they’re around. This isn’t a game and it’s not like hunting ducks. It is war, guerilla-style. Now, after you’ve thought about those things and if you’re still prepared to go the distance, then fight. Otherwise, go back home and survive this mess.”

“Why aren’t you at home?” Smith said.

“Of course I would like it better than doing this,” Paul said. “I haven’t seen my wife or son…well, for a while anyway. But I’m an American. For me, that means I’m either free or I’m dead. You’ve just seen that I say what’s on my mind. It’s an old habit and it’s a habit only for a free man who can back up his words. So you see, I’m not suited to being a slave to the Chinese. I might as well fight.”

“The same goes for me,” Smith said.

The other men nodded.

Paul stared each of them in the eyes. They were angry and five of them looked determined. One was scared but seemed like a fighter. When Paul looked at the biggest man—a farmer named Knowles—the man dropped his gaze. Paul didn’t like that. No, he didn’t trust the big man. Knowles struck him as someone who would eventually inform on his friends to get out of trouble. It was a gut feeling, that’s true, but Paul had long ago decided to trust such an instinct. He really didn’t like the idea of helping these gentlemen and seeing a coward like Knowles turning in his friends and ruining everything.

Maybe it was the mental image of the little girl he’d seen hanging before, the one with the red tennis shoes. He couldn’t get it out of his thoughts.

“If you’re decided on doing this,” Paul said, “you have to figure out your objectives. The first thing is this. Don’t ever square off against the regular soldiers and never think about testing the White Tiger Commandos. If you want to drive out the Chinese, you have to stay alive long enough to do some real damage to them. That means IEDs or booby-traps. If you’re lucky, maybe it means gasoline and a match burning up supplies. If you get the chance, pour sugar down a gas tank. Heck, slash a tire. This is the death of a thousand cuts, a million cuts. Every little bit helps. But don’t think you can get in a firefight with enemy soldiers. That’s suicide. They have training, armor and much better weapons than you’ll have.”

“You said you could give us some supplies,” Smith said.

“I can—if you have a truck with gas.”

“I have,” Smith said.

“Good. You’re going to take us to a place.”

“What place?”

“You’re going to tell me,” Paul said. “It has to be lonely, where no Chinese would see a helo land. He and I are leaving, but we’ll give you the supplies from the helicopter.”

Smith nodded. “Fair enough, but first you need to explain more about this guerilla work. I want specifics on tactics. You need strategy to hunt ducks. I figure that holds true with what we’re thinking.”

For the next hour and a half, Paul did just that. Several of the men took out notepads and jotted things down.

Afterward, Paul said, “You ready?”

Smith nodded.

“It’s going to take some work unloading the helo,” Paul said. “You’re strong, why don’t you join us?” He pointed at Knowles, the big man who still refused to look him in the eye.

Knowles glanced around at the others. He looked as if he wanted to ask, “Why me?” But he nodded in the end. He didn’t seem popular with the others, and that only confirmed Paul’s instincts about the man.

A half hour later, Paul and Romo sat squashed in the cab with Smith. Romo radiated feverish heat. Knowles hunched in the back of the pickup, bundled in raingear. Drops hit the windshield and Smith ground the gears. They moved slowly across a gravel road, negotiating muddy ruts.

Paul was on the radio with chopper pilot. Outside in the darkness, it was flat and lonely, the middle of nowhere, Colorado.

“I’m glad I found you earlier today,” Smith said. “I’m a praying man, and I was asking God to send us help. I believe he sent you.”

Paul wasn’t sure how to broach the topic, so he decided to plow ahead straight. “The man in the back.”

“You mean Knowles?” Smith asked.

“He doesn’t have the guts to see this through,” Paul said.

Smith glanced at him. The old-timer wore a cowboy hat. “Are you kidding? Knowles hates the Chinese more than any of us.”

“That may be,” Paul said. “But he’s going to fold later. It’s in his eyes.”

“You can’t know that. You can’t predicate the future.”

“This time I do know,” Paul said. “Fighting and soldiers, I’ve learned the hard way about this stuff. Maybe that’s the only way anyone really learns anything. Look, Mr. Smith, this isn’t a picnic. This is a fight to the bloody finish. You have to have haters and finishers on your team. That goes double with this sort of thing. Enemy Intelligence will be one of your greatest worries. You can’t have people on your side who will rat you out.”

“Knowles is…” Smith gripped the steering wheel with greater force. “He’s a starter. He gets excited about a thing. But damn all, you’re right, he quits once he gets tired of something. Maybe you have a point.”

“It’s a common trait,” Paul said, “getting revved up about something but getting sick of it after the long haul.”

“What do you suggest I do about it?”

“I don’t think you should do anything,” Paul said. “I chose him to join us for a reason.”

Smith glanced at him. “Mister, if you think you’re going to shoot one of my friends—”

“Hold on. No one is talking about shooting anyone.”

“You picked him to come along for a reason, you said.”

Paul liked Smith. The farmer had brains and he obviously had guts. Maybe these old men would make a difference after all. “I wanted Knowles along but not so I could shoot him. I’m taking him with us.”

“Say again.”

“We’re headed to Denver,” Paul said. “Knowles is going along for the ride. After this is over—the war—he can come home.”

“And hate me for the rest of his life,” Smith said. “I don’t know about this.”

“Here it is,” Paul said. “This is what I’ve been talking about. Your decisions are only going to get harder after this. If you can’t even do this with Knowles, to save your own life and his too maybe, you’d better call it quits. This is the time to back out.”

Smith drove in silence. The truck slid once and he gently applied the brakes. Once the Chevy was steady again, he gave it a little gas. “Okay,” he whispered. “But you’re a bastard, mister, a royal bastard and I guess that means I’m one too.”

Romo lifted his chin off his chest. The assassin chuckled hoarsely. “This is true,” he whispered. “It is why we will win. In the end, we’re tougher than the Chinese because we have Paul Kavanagh.”

Smith glanced at Romo, looked at Paul and shook his head. “I hope you’re right, mister. Because this is probably the worst thing I’ll have ever done in my life.”

“Then consider yourself lucky,” Paul said, “because this is nothing compared to what you might have to do soon.”

An hour later, Paul Kavanagh rode in a helo, with the dark, wet land flashing beneath them. Romo shivered, wrapped in a blanket. Knowles sat hunched in back, massaging his jaw. He’d fought the decision, but to little avail.

Paul wasn’t proud of what he’d done. In fact, he hated it. But he hated even worse the thought of those six old men in the cellar dangling from trees by their necks. This was a dirty war. There was no doubt about that. It meant you had to go all the way, if you wanted to win, and baby, he planned to drive these invaders into the sea where they could all drown to death.





DENVER, COLORADO



Colonel Stan Higgins walked through the Stone Lab Behemoth Manufacturing Plant. On the western outskirts of Denver, it was a small site really, considering that these boys and girls built the biggest tank in history.

The Behemoth was a three hundred ton monstrosity. The first twenty experimental tanks had gone a long way toward defeating the Chinese thrust into California beginning this April. Well, maybe not defeating, but blunting it enough so the attack had finally ground to a halt.

The Californian War had cost the Behemoth Regiment too many of its tanks, but they’d gotten the job accomplished. One by one, the battered survivors had left Southern California as cargo haulers laboriously transported them back to Denver.

Stan wore a thick coat and gloves. The gloves were old, with a piece of duct tape wrapped around his left index finger. It was so cold in the plant he could see his breath. He watched as technicians and engineers worked around the latest tank. Heaters billowing hot wavy air surrounded the workers and the half-finished Behemoth, which didn’t even have its cannon yet. A rattling chain hoist with a hook moved along its track on the high ceiling, bringing another heavy component to the vehicle.

The Behemoth was an experimental tank that used a force cannon, or rail-gun, to fire its projectiles. Before April and the war in California no one had known if the U.S. government was going to build many more of them. This lone plant built the tanks one at a time, handcrafted them so to speak. There was nothing assembly line about this.

Stan shook his head. He was in his fifties, an aging athlete. He was still five ten, but weighed almost two hundred pounds. That was fifteen pounds too heavy, in his opinion. When he could, he lifted weights and shot a few hoops with his men in a local high school gym, but his passion was Ping-Pong, and no one in the regiment could beat him. Now that he was a colonel, did some of the younger troops pull their shots? He sure hoped not.

Stan dyed his hair to its original blondish-brown color, although he’d be damned if he’d ever let anyone know. He had too many aches and pains in his joints and he had a bum knee. If he quit lifting and playing basketball, his minor injuries might heal up, but then he would probably turn flabby. His greatest physical dread was becoming old, fat and weak.

Too bad those weren’t his only worries.

His boy Jake was missing. The authorities had shipped his college-aged son straight from the Detention Center, where he’d served time for protesting President Sims, to a Militia battalion. The Chinese had gobbled up the battalion in Texas during the summer battles where they’d also devoured entire American Army corps. Was Jake dead, in a Chinese POW camp or had he become one of the thousands of American soldiers who had joined the Resistance behind enemy lines? Maybe because of the unknowing, Stan’s wife had retreated even deeper into her soaps. It was all she did: sit in front of the TV and watch make-believe because life had become too horrible for her.

No, Stan didn’t want to think about Jake or the screw-ups who had sent an untrained youth into battle. If he did think about it, he would become by turn too sad or angry, and he couldn’t afford either emotion now.

Focus, old man. Try to pay attention while you’re here. You might learn something new.

The plant manager—a gangling man with a billy-goat beard—stood beside him, rambling on about the newest additions to the latest Behemoth.

Stan would have liked to tell the man that was the wrong way to build a war-winner. The Germans during World War II had dicked with their many variations of tanks. Instead of picking one decent design and sticking with it—and mass-producing it—they had frittered away numbers by trying to find the perfect vehicle. The Russians on the other hand had mass produced T-34s and done just fine.

It would impress me better if this plant could produce more than one tank every four weeks.

Several months ago President Sims had thrown the regiment’s twenty tanks into the cauldron of California’s spring battles. Thirteen battered semi-wrecks had made it out. Since May, the workers here had been refitting the monsters, bringing them back to battle-worthiness. In that time, they’d also added four new tanks. That meant, as of this moment in late October, the Behemoth Regiment consisted of seventeen tanks.

Seventeen tanks, no matter how good, could not pull a rabbit out of the hat this time. The situation and weather—and the soggy soil—absolutely prohibited it.

Stan turned up the fur-lined collar of his great coat. He nodded, hearing the plant manager, absorbing the data, but not really listening with his whole mind. He had other worries, other thoughts.

In Alaska and during the California fight, he’d been a captain. They had temporarily upgraded him to major in California, but it hadn’t stuck. Several weeks after the end of the fight, another promotion came: to colonel of the Behemoth Regiment. That promotion had been made permanent.

He had been in Denver for several months now. His main task had been reassembling the Behemoth Regiment and teaching the crews how to fight and defeat the enemy. He had been absorbing the information learned in California and thinking hard about it.

For that task, he was perfect. In Alaska seven years ago, he’d been a high school history teacher. In the Alaskan National Guard, they had called him “the Professor.” The high school students did the same thing. He knew his history. Even better, he knew his military history and military theory.

They say what goes around comes around. Solomon had once written that there was nothing new under the sun, and Stan believed it. He had thought deeply about the Behemoth tanks. He’d also studied the enemy and the American Armed Forces.

The plant manager pointed at the latest tank.

Stan nodded politely.

He’d worked under General Larson before in California. Larson presently commanded the defense in Denver. The general’s talents in Los Angeles had impressed the Joint Chiefs and possibly the President, which is why they’d put Larson in this hot spot. Denver had to hold. The Joint Chiefs meant to stop the great advance here.

To that end, Stan had spent many long evenings discussing the operational and tactical situation with General Larson. The man had listened to Stan, and the general had incorporated some of his ideas, using them to keep the Chinese away from the city.

The reason Stan was nervous and only paying half-attention to the plant manager was that General Tom McGraw was arriving in Denver tomorrow. Many, many years ago, Stan had gone to Officer Candidate School with McGraw. They had hung out together then and found they both had an interest in ancient history.

Big Tom McGraw…the Joint Chiefs, well, President Sims, had promoted the hard-charging soldier several times already these past few months.

This summer, McGraw had saved his troops in surrounded Dallas. He’d broken out of the Chinese lines and reunited with the main American Army. He did it a second time, saving even more men and equipment from the Canadian River Pocket. Because of that, the President had bumped McGraw in authority yet again. No, it was more like President Sims had rocketed the man to prominence. Tom McGraw had taken over Army Group West. The formations in Denver belonged to that Army Group.

Tomorrow, Stan was sure Tom would demand the Behemoths rumble into battle and push the Chinese far away from their approach position to the Greater Denver area. That was bad because the ground right now was far too wet, far too soggy for the three hundred ton tanks. The U.S. Army needed to use the Behemoths properly or they would prove ineffectual. Could he convince Tom to wait until the ground froze hard?

He had his doubts. Hard-charging Tom McGraw didn’t like to listen to anyone—at least the young man he’d known in OCS hadn’t. McGraw was smart and he’d always been arrogant.

How can I convince him to listen to my advice? Stan wondered. If used right, the Behemoths will do wonders. But if used wrongly, they will be so much scrap metal, and that would be a shame.





QUEBEC CITY, CANADA



John Red Cloud couldn’t believe he was finally going to do it.

He was a short Algonquin warrior with flat, leathery features. His scarred hands were thrust into the pockets of his parka. He had black eyes and seldom smiled, and he wore a toque: the French word for a knit woolen hat.

He walked along a crowded sidewalk in the middle of the city, passing big store displays with their skinny manikins wearing the latest fashions. One wore a sequin bikini that shimmered and glittered green. He shook his head at the stupidity of it. Few pedestrians looked up. Most people walked with their shoulders hunched, faces shielded against the cold wind. Old cars drove by, many with their engines knocking and the tires hissing over brown slush, what snow became in a city.

Many years ago, the Canadian Government had put John Red Cloud on their most wanted list. In those days he had been young and fiery, a soldier in the French-Canadian separatist movement. The separatists had wanted to leave Canada—Quebec for the Quebecers—and make the province its own nation. Yet even then, John had grander designs, and his grievances were older than the French-Canadian resentments, the angry white men. He was Algonquin, a Native American—an Indian by the white man’s words. The Algonquin tribes of the Canadian Shield region had decided to join the French-Canadian separatists. Their secret agenda called for separating from Quebec once the French-Canadians won their independence from the rest of the country.

The Canadian Shield comprised northern Quebec. It was a geological wasteland, curving around Hudson Bay like a giant horseshoe. It largely consisted of snow, pines and the most ancient stones in the world. Few people lived there, but it boasted many lakes, famous resorts, vast forests and gold, copper, iron, nickel and uranium mines, wealth that white men lusted after.

The separatist movement did well the first few years. They even declared independence and formed a militia, on several occasions defeating Canadian Army formations. The split might have worked, but the U.S. interfered. They loaned the Canadian Government several hardnosed Marine battalions. John had fought and killed Marines and he’d seen many of his fellow Algonquians slaughtered, sometimes in the depths of the forest in their sleeping bags when Marine Recon fighters had surprised them.

Lost in his unpleasant thoughts, John forgot to pay attention on the Quebec City sidewalk. A businessman staring down at his smart phone bumped into him, their shoulders hitting. John looked up sharply, his scowl fueled by bitter memories. The businessman paled, his eyes darting away from the fierce gaze, and he muttered an apology. John might have shoved the troublemaker. If he’d been younger, he might have drawn his knife and waved it under the fat nose and watch the man piss his pants. Now…as an old warrior far past his fighting prime, John just stared at the intruder.

The businessman slipped the smart phone into a pocket and hurried away, his shoes clicking on the wet city sidewalk.

After a moment, John shrugged. The man meant nothing. He was a worker-ant for the oppressor of his people. If he was going to change things for the tribe, he must complete his mission.

He continued down the sidewalk, and he remembered the old days. The separatist war had fizzled out in the end, the French Canadians unable to stomach the deaths that fighting incurred. Finally—newspaper columnists said wisely—the Canadian Government offered amnesty to everyone.

On the sidewalk, John’s scowl deepened.

The Canadian Government had offered everyone the deal but the Algonquian tribesmen who had fought to free their ancient land from the white invaders. The government had called the Algonquian warriors terrorists, saying they had gone too far with their atrocities. As always, the Indian had become the pariah, an outcast to the so-called civilized peoples.

To save his hide, John had been forced to flee his homeland, flee Quebec and Canada. He went to the far north, to the oil platforms in the Arctic Circle, in the Arctic Ocean. He worked for Blacksand Security, providing his services as an armed guard. Seven years ago, he’d met one of the Marines who had fought in the Canadian Shield during the separatist war. Paul Kavanagh, a tough man he’d instantly hated and tried to drive away from the oil well.

Then once more, John’s world had turned upside down, changing the direction of his life. The Chinese had struck at night, submarines bursting up out of the pack ice to infiltrate commandos onto the oil platform. White Tigers had slaughtered the oilmen, although three of them had escaped, one of them being Paul Kavanagh. John and the former Recon Marine had trekked across the Arctic ice, seeking to reach Alaska. Along the way, they killed Chinese soldiers.

While walking the city sidewalk, John imagined that Paul Kavanagh was busy fighting the Chinese and South Americans invading his country. John wished him well. Kavanagh had proved to be a fierce warrior and a boon companion. With his help, John might have immigrated to America, but he had other plans, other dreams.

With his hands in his parka pockets, John used his wrists to press against the MAC-10 submachine gun strapped tightly to his torso under his coat. He had several extra magazines attached as well. Three days ago in the safe house, he had taken each bullet and cut a deep X in the tip. That would cause the bullet to expand once it plowed through flesh. Upon exiting a body, the expanded, X-cut slug would tear out that much more blood, bone and body tissue.

He hated the Canadian Government and had little use for the French-Canadian separatists who had sold out their Algonquian allies at the end of the war. Now they were trying to do the same thing but in a different fashion.

John stopped as he spied the Paris Tower, a large building soaring over the others around it. His targets were there. The fools spoke to prominent, separatist-leaning businessmen and certain traitorous government officials. The dreamers sought their approval of the misguided plan of gaining Chinese aid.

With his face set, John resumed his walk. He had no doubts he was doing the right thing. History and modern examples proved him right. He exhaled sharply, causing white breath to billow before his mouth.

The Chinese and South Americans invaded the U.S. The Canadian Army had helped once in Alaska, and they were preparing to help now, poised on the Canadian-U.S. border. Yes, the brigades were already in southern Saskatchewan and southern Manitoba.

John was surprised the Canadians hadn’t helped sooner, but that was because the Prime Minster was a coward. The Chinese and German Dominion leaders had cowed him by their threats. That made it strange then that the success of Chinese arms in Texas and Oklahoma should have caused the Prime Minister to change his mind. Maybe there was more to his newfound courage.

John shrugged. He didn’t really care. What the Sino-American War meant was a chance for a revived Algonquin separatism.

The Great Father has waited a long time to free my people.

John had trodden a strange path to reach this pregnant moment. After the Alaskan War, he couldn’t go back to the oil platforms, as the Chinese had taken them. He didn’t dare return to Quebec or any other part of Canada, and he didn’t want anything to do with the U.S. Therefore, he went to Europe, France in particular because he knew the language and had an affinity for its customs.

France now belonged to the German Dominion. Chancellor Kleist understood history and he understood his times. Despite the unions of Greater China, the Pan-Asian Alliance, the South American Federation and the Iranian Hegemony, people wanted their old tribal homelands back. For instance, Great Britain had eventually split into Scotland, Wales and England. Yet each of those pieces belonged to the German Dominion. The same was true of Spain, with Catalonia, Castile, Aragon and other splinter states.

The President of France wanted to help the French-Canadian separatists regain their country. John imagined that Chancellor Kleist had cleverly approved of that. Yes, Kleist had once said, “Europe for the Europeans and each country for its people.” Although he ruled the Dominion through guile and German industrial predominance, he left the various countries to mostly govern themselves. Galicia, Transylvania, Gotland in former Sweden, Normandy, Czech, Slovakia, Prussia, Bavaria, each province could follow its own laws and customs to its heart’s content. Therefore, the longings of tribalism were fulfilled, and yet, together in the giant Dominion, they had power and strength.

John Red Cloud believed the promises of the French secret service. In this, they had Chancellor Kleist’s approval. If he would do this thing—and if he survived to do others—John could win the Algonquians their only real chance at tribal freedom.

Historically, the French had always treated the North American tribes with greater respect than the British had done. It was the argument that had won him over; well, that and the chance to kill Canadian Government officials, treacherous businessmen and the Quebec separatists who had sold the movement down the river.

Using an unlocked service entrance, John entered the Paris Tower. A sympathizer had left it open so he could bypass the metal detectors. Behind him, the door shut with a whomp, and the howling wind no longer sang in John’s ears.

He climbed stairs, the workers’ path. There were plain concrete walls and concrete steps. Halfway up, he unzipped the parka. Near the twelfth floor, sweat pooled under his armpits and he debated ditching the coat.

Sweaty and hot, he reached the fourteenth floor, pulled open the door and began to walk down the carpeted hall. He unstrapped the MAC-10, ratcheted the bolt back, preparing the weapon to fire his X-cut bullets. It felt good to have a weapon in his hands again. Once more, he had a reason for existence. Even so, a pool of sadness welled up in his heart. He recalled his slain wife, his murdered children and his best friends, all butchered during the Quebec Separatist War. Others might have forgotten about the dream, but not he. Maybe if the Canadian Government hadn’t outlawed him, chasing him from his homeland—

John drew a deep breath through his nostrils, and sneered inside. Look at this, two guards had fallen down at their posts. They were beefy security agents, asleep on the job. That was thanks to another sympathizer who had given them drugged drinks.

“I am an Algonquin warrior,” John whispered. “I have come to avenge my people and to drive the invaders from our land.”

He spoke to the Great Father, telling him why he indulged in murder.

The people in the room he was about to enter were old French-Canadian rebel fighters, separatist-leaning business leaders and several frightened Canadian government officials. They all had one thing in common—a running dialogue with East Lightning, the Chinese secret service. The French secret service had discovered the information through its links in the separatist movement. France had its own ideas about Quebec, and probably, so did Chancellor Kleist. Probably, the Chinese wished for a sympathetic uprising in Quebec, maybe to tie down Canadian Army units.

We would be foolish to trust the Chinese. Look at how they treat Japan and Korea and demoralized Australia. It is better by far to trust the French. In the past, they always aided the Algonquian people.

Muttering a warrior’s prayer under this breath, John twisted the handle. He pushed the door open and caused the fifteen, or sixteen people sitting at a long conference table to turn abruptly. Some wore stylish suits. Others wore heavy jackets. Most were older, the youngest in his mid-forties. A tall government official in a black suit stood at the front, with a pointer touching a computer screen. It showed the deep Chinese advance into America.

Eyes lifted toward him. A man moaned and a woman sucked in her breath before reaching under her trench coat, possibly for a holstered weapon.

“Can I help you?” the tall man in the black suit asked.

Butchery was never easy, not even with these traitors. John Red Cloud’s lips thinned. He aimed the submachine gun, holding it with both hands, and pulled the trigger. Methodically, starting with the woman pulling out the pistol, he cut them down with his X-cut bullets, reloading twice, killing everyone in the conference room.

Then he left as mysteriously as he’d arrived, leaving the two bodyguards asleep on the carpeted hall. His war was not with them, but against the leaders who sought to guide the separatist fighters in the wrong direction.





DENVER, COLORADO



“You know Colonel Higgins, I believe,” General Larson said by way of introduction.

Stan waited to see if big Tom McGraw remembered him. It had been a long time since they’d seen each other. They’d been kids back in those days. McGraw had a lot on his mind now, too.

They stood in the Behemoth Tank Park, set in the Rockies and therefore well outside of Denver, about thirty miles away from the big city. The park encompassed a large area, with the huge machines spread over a two-mile radius. Each monster vehicle was concealed under camouflaged, radar-scattering tarps. Several tac-lasers with accompanying SAMs ringed the area. Barracks and other buildings stood to the east on the road to I-70, which led to Denver. Behind, the mountains looked cold and majestic. What a crazy place to put the biggest tanks in the world. Crazy, but they were well hidden, which was the idea for now.

The men stood at attention in their black tanker uniforms and parkas. Soon, the truly cold weather would hit, and the soggy ground would freeze hard. That would be the time to employ the Behemoths.

“Professor?” asked General Tom McGraw. He squinted down at the smaller man.

Stan saluted crisply. He could feel the charisma radiating from the big general and the vibrancy in the single word from the man.

Tom McGraw stood six foot five and had to weigh a solid three-fifty. He was massive, a bear of a man. He reminded Stan of General Joffre of World War I fame. Joffre had been the commanding French general who’d stopped the Germans at the Battle of the Marne. Joffre had nerves of steel; some commenters said it came from his prodigious appetite and thick frame. Joffre had had the peasant’s calm even within trials of fire.

McGraw had a thick face and a General Custer beard and mustache. Like Patton, McGraw wore a pistol at his side. Patton had worn a pearl-handled revolver. McGraw’s gun looked like a standard issue .45. The man’s eyes were pale blue and they stared hard like some lion. This was a man used to giving orders and seeing them obeyed. He looked like an old-style Viking, and Stan could envision him hefting a battleaxe. Stan could also envision McGraw wearing a cowboy hat and clutching a Winchester rifle, laying down fire as Apaches raided; or maybe McGraw would gun down outlaws as he fought a range war.

“General,” Stan said in way of greeting.

McGraw laughed. It was a loud sound. “It is you, Professor. I can’t believe it. They finally realized they had a genuine military genius hiding behind his books. I’m glad to see they gave you a fighting command. Even better, they’ve given you the greatest tanks in the world. I bet you’re itching to smash into the Chinese SOBs and send them scurrying home.”

“As soon as the time is right, yes sir,” Stan said.

“Do you hear that, General?” McGraw asked Larson. “The Professor is already worried I’m going to ask him to do something he thinks is stupid. Has he been filling your ears with ideas on how to keep the Chinese away from Denver?”

“As a matter of fact he has,” Larson said. “They’ve been good ideas, too.”

McGraw gave Stan a measuring study. “I hear you won the Medal of Honor up in Alaska during the first Chinese invasion.”

“Yes sir,” Stan said.

“Old son, don’t you ‘yes sir’ me. I read the brief. In Alaska, you went against orders, everyone’s orders, and blew up the storage tanks the Chinese desperately needed.”

Stan should have known McGraw would have read up on the commanding officers in around the Denver area. The man was big and he looked as if he must be stupid, but Tom McGraw did his homework. He was like a football coach who stayed up until three A.M. each night watching film of the opposing team. Back in the day, little had caught Tom by surprise. It seemed as if that hadn’t changed.

“Let’s hurry up and look at your men,” Tom said. “It’s cold out here and I don’t like a soldier freezing his balls off unless there’s a good reason for it. Afterward, you can show me a Behemoth. I’ll climb through it and gush about what it can do. We’ll do all that and then you and I are going to drink a lot of beer, do you hear me?”

“I sure do, sir.”

“Old son, who do you think you’re talking to?”

“You bet, Tom. Let’s get drunk.”

General McGraw grinned at Larson. It made deep skin-crinkles at the outer corners of his eyes: the mark of an outdoor man. McGraw elbowed the lean general in the side. Larson looked uncomfortable at the treatment. He was a good commander, but didn’t care for the roughhousing of a man like Tom, especially before the men.

“We’ll swap stories,” Tom told Stan. “And then I’m going to tell you what you can do for me.”

Right, Stan thought to himself. After the beers, Tom would tell him to get his butt into gear and get those Behemoths ready to roll. They were going to kick some Chinese rear.

Larson checked his watch.

“You busy, General?” McGraw asked Larson.

“No, I simply—”

“Sure you’re not,” McGraw said. “Go on, do what you need to. I haven’t had a moment’s rest in weeks, months, really. Stan and I are going to drink a few. I’ll speak to you before I leave. Until then, let me unwind with an old friend.”

“As you wish, General,” Larson said. He saluted crisply. McGraw saluted back.

How do I tell Tom this is the wrong time to attack with the Behemoths? No, Stan amended. How do I tell him so this fire-eater can understand it?

***

Several hours later, as the sun set into the mountains, Stan and Tom McGraw sat in the small officer’s club of the Behemoth Tank Park. They were at a round table, with a dozen empty beer bottles on the wooden surface. A plate of sandwiches was the beers’ only company.

“Now let’s have a real drink,” Tom said.

Stan signaled the enlisted waiter. The rest of the officer’s club was empty, McGraw having sent everyone else away.

Tom gave the drink order, and soon the two of them sipped whiskey on the rocks. They kept reminiscing about old times and swapped battle stories. They kept drinking, nibbling on sandwiches as the hours ticked away.

I shouldn’t drink so much, Stan told himself. I bet this is how it started with my dad.

Tom picked up another whiskey. His round cheeks had turned red and his eyes had become glazed. The big general almost appeared asleep as he peered at something on the table.

“You’ll have to excuse me for a minute,” Stan said. “I need to relieve myself.”

“Go on, take your piss,” Tom said, waving him away with those huge hands. Stan had never gotten over the size of the fingers. He noticed Tom had a worn, gold wedding ring. He’d heard several years ago that Tom’s wife had died. Had the general remarried?

Lurching out of the dining area, Stan went to the head and relived himself. He came back to find the general swirling his whiskey so the ice cubes clinked.

As Stan sat down, Tom slammed the glass onto the table, making the empty beer bottles wobble. Stan watched in fascination. The nearest one swayed more than the rest so it almost tipped over. Then it righted itself until it came to rest. Stan laughed, nodding in appreciation.

“Professor, I have a confession to make.”

Lifting his head, Stan aimed bleary eyes at Tom. “You’ve never had a problem in your life.”

“Who said anything about a problem? I said a confession.”

“But you mean problem,” Stan said.

Tom squinted at him. “You always were a smart SOB. Is your head still full of historical parallels and theorems?”

“It is indeed,” Stan said.

“What does this situation remind you of?”

“Do you mean the Chinese approach toward Denver?”

“We can start there,” Tom said. “What do you see?”

Stan smiled drunkenly. These days, he tried to keep the majority of his insights to himself. He’d found that people weren’t interested in his opinions on running a war. Well, General Larson was, but few others. They seldom appreciated his historical parallels. But if Tom had asked—

“These rains remind me of the Grand Turk on his march to Vienna in 1529,” Stan said.

“Why is it you can never answer straight?” Tom asked.

“The Grand Turk in this case was Suleiman the Magnificent,” Stan said. “He ruled the Ottoman Empire and was the last great warrior chief of an amazing family. The Turks had invented an interesting system of slave soldiers: tough European boys stolen from their parents in the Balkans, raised as Muslims and forbidden to marry. The slave soldiers—Janissaries—were like monkish Spartans, trained to fight and conquer. They provided the horse-archer Turks with excellent infantry. That was something the Turks had always lacked.

“Anyway, it was 1529 and the Grand Turk was on the march. He was invading Europe again, marching on the city of Vienna on the Blue Danube. If he could conquer the Austrian city, he would have likely incorporated the land into the empire and made ready to gobble up the rest of Europe.”

Stan folded his hands over his stomach as he sat back, making the chair creak. “Like our Chinese invaders, the Turks had hordes of soldiers under their banner. Unfortunately for them, it rained like it’s been raining here. It turned everything muddy and caused the rivers to overflow. What it meant for Suleiman was he didn’t bring his giant siege cannons in time. They were impossible to transport through the mud. Most of Europe then was heavily forested with almost no metaled roads. Even the Danube flotilla couldn’t float those huge cannons.

“That was one of Suleiman’s secrets—not the mud, but the cannons, some of them weighing up to twelve tons apiece. The gigantic cannons were important because they could knock down the old medieval walls that had made castles and walled cities so impenetrable in the preceding centuries. I know you’ve seen movies where catapults and other siege engines use rocks to batter and blow apart heavy stone walls. That’s pure fiction. Until gunpowder-powered cannons came along, those walls stood up against just about anything. Sometimes sappers dug under walls and brought them down with cave-ins. Most of the time starvation was the only way for besiegers to capture walled cities and castles. With this high-tech invention—the big new cannons—those formerly impenetrable walls became yesterday’s news. The cannons had made them obsolete.”

“The ancient Assyrians would have shown you otherwise,” Tom said. “They stormed walled cities.”

“The Assyrians used terror to sap morale, gold to open locked doors and siege towers to send their hardened warriors over the top to take the city in bloody butchery. They never blew down walls with quick-firing catapults.”

“Okay,” Tom said. “You’ve made your point about cannons. So what happened next with this Suleiman?”

“The Siege of Vienna is what happened. Some tough Spanish and German soldiers had bolstered the city garrison, and they fought savagely, keeping the Turks and their slave soldiers at bay. During the next phase of the invasion, the cost in Turkish dead became too much, and finally Suleiman retreated. That marked the Turks’ deepest penetration into Europe and the beginning of their long military decline.”

“So it all had to do with the rain?” Tom asked.

“The rain helped the defenders. But the hard fighting in the city was the key,” Stan said. “The rain is what gave them the chance because of the delay and the lack of Suleiman’s siege cannons meant the walls still stood.”

“And that reminds you of the Chinese approach toward Denver?”

“Some,” Stan said. “It’s given us time, but do we have the tough Spanish and German reinforcements as they had in Vienna? It’s too early to tell. I’ve heard how Homeland Security is raising more Militia battalions. That’s good. We need more bodies if we’re going to stop the Chinese. Regulars would be better, but right about now we need numbers almost as much as quality.”

Tom nodded slowly. He picked up his drink, staring at Stan. The man’s big hand engulfed the glass so it seemingly disappeared. He threw the whiskey back, gulping the contents in one swallow.

“You read too much,” Tom said profoundly.

“It’s been said.”

“You think too much, too.”

Stan shrugged.

“But you have the most insightful ideas sometimes.”

“You’re being generous,” Stan said. He liked the praise nonetheless.

Tom stared at the empty shot glass in his hand. He rose unsteadily, cocked his arm and hurled it against the wall. The glass shattered, the shards tinkling onto the tiled floor.

“Give me another!” Tom roared, crashing back onto his chair. He slammed a meaty fist onto the table. This time, the beer bottles hit each other as they tumbled. Several rolled off the table and struck the floor.

Stan motioned to the worried-looking waiter hanging back by the kitchen entrance. “You heard the general. Hurry up and get him another.”

The waiter bobbed his head, turning away.

“We’re screwed, old son,” Tom muttered. “The Chinese and their Nancy-boy South Americans are too well-armed. And despite your numerous Militiamen, the enemy has arrived in too great a number for us. The United States is about to become history, just another story for you to repeat to bored students.”

“You can’t really believe that,” Stan said. “You of all people should know—”

“Me?” Tom shouted. “Why do I of all people have to fool myself? Do you think I’m that stupid?”

“Not at all,” Stan said.

“Where’s that whiskey?” Tom shouted, as he looked around.

“It’s coming.”

“Sir, you should call me sir.”

“Yes sir,” Stan said.

“Bah!” Tom said, hitting the table again, although not as forcefully as before.

The waiter arrived and set another whiskey on the table. Then he slunk away. McGraw had that effect on people.

Tom stared at the floor, slowly shaking his head. “Stan, old son, there are too many of them. They’re clever bastards, too, and the Chinese know how to fight. They’ve chewed us up and forced us deep onto the plains. We don’t have enough trained men. You said that earlier and that’s the truth of it.”

“I know I said that,” Stan replied. “But it’s possible we’re both wrong.”

Tom McGraw’s head snapped up. “What do you mean I’m wrong? Have you been out there?”

“I mean we’re doing this the wrong way,” Stan said. “We’re trying to match them strength for strength everywhere. I can understand why the Joint Chiefs think that’s the way to do it, but it’s just so stupidly wrong that I can hardly believe it.”

“And the Professor knows what to do?” Tom sneered.

Stan shrugged, wondering if he’d said too much. Maybe he shouldn’t have slammed away so many shots. His lips felt numb. They’d certainly been flapping too much tonight.

“No, no,” Tom said sarcastically, “don’t stop now. Tell me the great secret, Professor.”

“It’s hardly a secret,” Stan said. “A little applied history shows us what to do.”

“Well?” Tom said. “Are you going to tell me?”

Stan frowned. Then he spied a tablet at another table. He shoved himself to his feet, staggered there, grabbed the device and turned it on.

“Are you going to read to me?” Tom sneered.

Stan slapped the tablet onto the table. A map of the Great Plains appeared, with the edge of the Rockies on one side and the Mississippi River on the other.

“I’ve told you about Suleiman the Magnificent and the Siege of Vienna,” Stan said.

“It happened in 1529. You told me already. Do you think I’m deaf?

“Now I’d rather talk about Napoleon’s invasion of Russia in 1812.” Stan frowned. Just how much had he drunk? He was switching topics too much.

“Are you trying to stall?” Tom asked. “Tell me the Stan Higgins secret to victory.”

“I don’t know about a secret,” Stan said, “but in 1812 Napoleon gathered the largest force in history up to that time: the Grand Army. It numbered well over six hundred thousand soldiers. His biggest previous army had been around two hundred thousand. I’m sure you know the story. Napoleon marched on Russia, wanting to make the Tsar, the Russian ruler, obey his Continental System.”

McGraw stared at him with big, whiskey-wet eyes. It didn’t look as if the general knew anything.

“At the time of the 1812 invasion, Napoleon was waging economic warfare against the British,” Stan said. “Napoleon said no one could buy British goods. He planned to beggar the British and bring them to their knees economically, since he couldn’t get to them militarily. The naval battle of Trafalgar had seen to that. But the economic war didn’t work out the way it was supposed to for the man from Corsica. The worst offenders for breaking the rules of the Continental System were the Russians. They bought British goods and—”

“What about the war of 1812?” Tom said impatiently. “I don’t care about the economics of the thing. Get to the fighting.”

Stan nodded. “Napoleon crossed the Niemen river with his Grand Army, looking to smash the puny Russian forces. Some of the Russian generals wanted to trade space for time. They would keep their army intact, fighting along the way, but always backing up into the deep spaces of their gigantic country. Napoleon tried to catch the main Russian armies and annihilate them fast. They always managed to slip away from his traps.

“Finally, after months of hard maneuvering, the Russians dug in and built log redoubts on the road to Moscow, setting up for a grim fight. Napoleon beat them at the Battle Borodino, although the French Grand Army took bitter losses doing it. Napoleon might have crushed the Russians at the end of the battle, but he feared to send in his Old Guards, his last un-bloodied formation, his final reserve. What if his last stable troops were ground down to a nub in the battle? Napoleon said something like the victory would have been too costly for him. Instead of crushing the beaten Russians, he let them march away.

“In the end, a battlefield-victorious Napoleon reached Moscow. Russian terrorists burned the city to the ground, leaving the French a smoldering ruin. After many weeks of negotiating, Napoleon finally realized the Tsar wasn’t going to make peace with him but was playing for time, for winter to arrive and do its freezing work. Napoleon started marching for home, but he took the wrong route back, retracing the same way he’d come. That meant his soldiers had already plucked the countryside bare of supplies. Most of the straw-roofed homes were smoldering ruins this time, their grim trademark.

“Disease began to do its work, while angry Russian peasants bushwhacked French stragglers. Swift-riding Cossacks harried the French flanks. Soon the harsh winter weather arrived. Sickness, hunger, the punishing cold and battle losses eventually destroyed the Grand Army. Napoleon barely escaped with his life, and his legend of invincibility had been shattered. The Russian plan had worked due to luck and persistence.”

Tom pursed his lips. “Are you saying we should pull back deeper into the northern prairies?”

Stan tapped the map in the e-reader. “I’m saying we should be cagier in our approach. Look, we’ve fought the summer and autumn battles. We took grim losses, but the main U.S. Army still exists. We’ve already traded space for time and now winter approaches.”

“The Chinese will just keep on marching deeper into the Great Plains,” McGraw said, “cutting our nation in half. The Chinese are better supplied than Napoleon ever was.”

“Look at the map,” Stan said. “Do you see all the space they control? I’ve read reports and I know Americans are turning into partisans. They’re becoming like the Russian peasants, cutting off enemy stragglers and blowing up supplies. That costs China soldiers, weakening their overall Army as they put guards everywhere. Look at the length of the Mississippi River. The Chinese are using troops to guard it, too. That pulls out yet more soldiers from their advancing fronts.”

“They still have far more soldiers than we do,” McGraw said.

“It’s the Battle of Borodino time,” Stan said with drunken certainty. “But with a German World War II twist.”

“Meaning what?” McGraw asked.

“In 1812, the Russians strengthened their army at Borodino by building redoubts: log barricades. Those redoubts were force multipliers for the troops behind them. It meant they could face the French charge. We need to build a Great Plains defensive line and throw every Militiaman Mr. Harold has gathered behind them. Of course, we should stiffen those Militiamen with Regular Infantry and—”

“And tanks,” McGraw said.

“No!” Stan said. “That’s where you change up the historical parallel with a German WWII idea.”

McGraw frowned, but finally nodded. “I’m listening.”

“We have to mass all our tanks and mobile artillery into one big fist,” Stan said. “That’s what the Germans did for the invasion of France in 1940. Did you know that the French and British had more tanks than the Germans did in that swift historical campaign? Some of the Allied tanks were better than the German tanks. The German advantage was concentration. Instead of spreading out their tanks everywhere, they put them altogether. It was the difference between slapping a man in a fight and punching him in the face. We have to punch the Chinese in the face with all our tanks in one spot.”

“Bah!” McGraw said.

Stan stared at him. “It’s a risk, a big risk. But I think this is the time to attempt it. We need to use the Rockies or the Mississippi against them. By massing all our extra troops onto the defensive line, and trusting those Militiamen to hold for a time, we wait with the last U.S. Tank Army. That Tank Army or Army Group has to be lavishly supplied with everything we have left. With it, we punch through a Chinese or South American weak spot and encircle a significant portion of the Chinese Army. We put them into a cauldron and annihilate their troops. That’s also the right place to use the Behemoth tanks.”

Slowly, McGraw shook his head. “It’s a bold plan. That part I like. But it puts too much trust on the Militiamen to hold the line. Too many of them have folded—they have run away in battle—for me to trust the fate of the United States on them.”

“You asked me my idea,” Stan said. “I think we have to find a spot somewhere to go on the offensive. With what we have, we have to concentrate our best troops in one key spot. Tom, you and I both know that you don’t win a war by defending. I have to believe that holding onto such massive amounts of territory must be weakening the Chinese. The American people won’t just lie down and accept occupation.”

McGraw pursed his lips, becoming thoughtful for a time. Finally he said, “That’s a lot of movement, pulling out armor all across the Great Plains and shipping it to one area. I’m not sure we’d have the time to pull it off.”

“It’s not rocket science,” Stan said, “but to do as I suggest would take a lot of confidence for any leader to attempt. The normal thing is to hold onto what you have with your strength spread out evenly, defending everything. Frederick the Great had a saying for that. ‘He who defends everything defends nothing.’ Sometimes, you have to gather your strength in one spot and take a risk.”

McGraw glanced at his latest shot glass. He let his chin droop and rest on his chest. His eyes were half-lidded. “There’s more to your idea, isn’t there?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t give me that, old son. You have this all written down somewhere. I bet you’ve come up with a thousand details.”

Stan sucked in his lips. They felt even more numb than before, almost as if a dentist had sneaked in and given him a shot of Novocain. Suddenly, Tom didn’t look so drunk anymore. The man was huge. How much alcohol could the general absorb before he became sloppy drunk and threw glasses at the wall? Had that been a show earlier?

“Speak up, Colonel. I can’t hear you.”

“I might have written a few things down,” Stan admitted.

Tom stood up. “I want to see them.”

“Now?” asked Stan.

“I can’t think of a better time.” Tom McGraw grinned, and he winked at Stan. “I figured you’d have something up your sleeve, old son. I also know that a drunken man has a harder time keeping quiet, and talking to a drunk makes it even harder. Listening to you, I realize I’ve come to the right place for a sweeping idea on how to fix our situation. Are you ready?”

Stan kept blinking. Well I’ll be damned.

“I said: are you ready?”

“Yes, sir,” Stan muttered. He shoved up to his feet. “If you’ll follow me…”





RIO GRANDE NATIONAL FOREST, COLORADO



Jake Higgins trudged up a pine-needle-littered slope during daylight. These past weeks he’d slept during the day and traveled at night. Now that he moved under towering evergreens, he’d decided to switch it back to normal.

It had been a week since the ambush east of Alamosa. Jamal and Alabama Ted had stuck with him for two days longer. It had been terrifying: a crawl and wait, watch and then crawl again. Ted had finally crapped out, refusing to go any farther.

“We’re almost past Alamosa,” Jake had said.

Ted had rolled over, closed his eyes and refused to say another word.

In the end, Jamal had dragged Jake away. The two of them kept going. They made it west of Alamosa and kept trudging. He’d lost Jamal when he stepped on a landmine. It killed him instantly. That part was good. He’d gone without pain. The wretched part was that pieces of Jamal hit Jake in the chest. Seeing the man’s mangled finger cling to him—Jake had fallen to this hands and knees and vomited. He’d crawled blindly for a time, making it somehow through the minefield. The only thing that had consoled him in the end was that he knew he’d see Jamal again in heaven someday.

Yeah, Jamal’s death had been the worst. He missed the man’s cheerful attitude and he missed Jamal’s endurance. He’d been the toughest, after the lieutenant.

As he trudged up the mountain slope, slipping over pine needles—one time he went down on a knee—Jake wiped sweat out of his eyes. He was thin, hungry and growing weaker every day. He wore Chinese boots, having stolen one of the flyers’ pair. If he’d had his old worn boots—no way, he would have stopped because of bleeding feet.

How much longer could he go on? He thought about it all the time. His grandfather used to read him Louis L’Amour novels, westerns about incredibly rugged individuals. Jake realized he would have never made it back then. Those settlers and explorers had been plain tough. America could use some of those old-fashioned types about now.

Jake stopped. He had his M-16 and three full magazines. That was it. His canteen had water and he had one final Chinese ration packet left. As far as he could tell, he’d made it west of the Chinese lines. It had been two days since he’d seen any evidence of enemy patrols.

This was an empty land, and the farther west he traveled the steeper and more rugged the Rocky Mountains would become.

Jake had stopped just now because he heard an engine backfire. Was it an American engine or a Chinese vehicle? The noise came from upslope.

He should go check. If it was Chinese, though—

Have I come this far only to fail?

His mind shied away from the thought of all the dead Americans who had begun the journey with him. It was crazy he would be the one to have made it this far. He’d like to think that meant something, but he knew better. It was stupid dumb luck. He wasn’t better than the others, nor did Fate or God have anything in store for him to do.

“Heck! My own country hardly likes me,” he said aloud to himself. “They put me in the frigging Detention Center.”

Jake took a deep breath and decided he would be like his grandfather and his father. They had looked up to Louis L’Amour characters, the Old West Americans. If nothing else, he had a story like one of them. He’d made it through miraculous odds. So maybe if it meant anything, he was supposed to act like an Old West American.

What would one of them do?

Jake knew the answer. He would check the backfiring engine. He’d be brave. He’d take a chance when life called for taking a chance.

Putting one foot ahead of the other, Jake kept trudging uphill. It was hard with all these slippery pine needles. He went slowly but he went steadily, and he made it to the top of the slope.

He stared down at a dirt road thirty feet below. He’d seen an old movie as a kid: The Wizard of Oz. This dirt track was the Yellow Brick Road to him. No more slipping on pine needles.

He worked his way downslope and soon trudged on the rutted road. There had been an engine cough. How far had the vehicle traveled already from where it made the sound?

Jake walked, and after two turns in the road, he heard voices ahead. He froze, because some of the voices spoke Chinese. Then he realized two other voices were American. One of the Americans pleaded and begged. The other, a female, said to stop because there was no use anymore. It was over.

Over?

Jake’s heart began to pound. What did “over” mean? He had feeling he knew. The Chinese were going to kill the two Americans. He’d seen hanging corpses before. He’d—

Hanging!

Jake checked his M-16, and took it off safe, selecting the three-round burst option. It was ready with a bullet in the chamber. He began striding down the road, picking up speed. With his heart pounding and knowing what he planned to do, he took out his last Chinese ration. Tearing it open with his teeth, he devoured the rice and half-cooked chicken one-handed. It tasted wonderful.

Is this my last meal?

He felt stronger with food in his belly. If he hadn’t heard the voices, he would have only eaten one quarter of the meal. He downed the whole thing now, and he broke into a trot.

A man screamed, begging and pleading, and suddenly his voice stopped with a gurgle.

The woman laughed, but there was no humor in it, only bitterness and rage.

Jake closed his eyes, and then he opened them wide. He found himself sprinting down the dirt road. The air came in hot torrents down his throat and his side began to burn. He’d been hiding like a rabbit for weeks, a frightened, hunted thing, and he was sick of it. His booted feet thudded on the dirt road and gravel shot away.

Rounding a sharp bend, the sight impinged upon him with a shock. Three men dangled by their necks, with placards tied to them. I CARRIED WEAPONS, they read. To be armed was considered a mortal sin by the Chinese invaders.

Five Chinese soldiers stood near the last American: a woman. Her hands were tied behind her back. A loop of rope rested tightly around her neck. The rope went up to a high evergreen branch. Four of the Chinese soldiers gripped the other end, no doubt ready to pull the woman up to her death. The last Chinese was an officer. He had his hands on his hips as he regarded the woman. All five invaders had their backs to Jake.

He saw their truck parked on the road. He didn’t see any other Chinese soldiers.

Sliding to a halt, Jake knelt deliberately on one knee. With a heaving chest, he lifted his M-16, and from fifty feet away, he carefully sighted the first enemy soldier. Jake’s arms were steady, his aim true and he shot the first soldier in the back, placing a three-round burst in a neat little pattern. He did the same to the next soldier. The others turned. Jake shot the third in the face, blowing him down.

The officer was calmer than his men. He drew a sidearm and began lengthening his arm to aim at Jake.

Jake switched targets and emptied his magazine into the officer, squeezing the trigger repeatedly until he was out of ammo. The Chinese officer did a little jig backward, dropping his gun and flailing his arms until he thumped onto his back. With a coolness he’d never felt before, Jake popped the empty magazine out of the assault rifle and slapped in the next.

Two Chinese soldiers still lived. One raced into the woods in fear. The last held a gun and reached for the woman. She kicked him in the balls, surprising the man. He dropped his gun and crumpled onto his knees. She kicked him in the crotch again, savagely. He toppled sideways, clutching his privates. Next, she kicked him in the throat, brutal and efficient, as if she knew what she was doing. She did it two more times, then with her hands still tied behind her back, she picked up one of the pistols and shot the man in the head.

During part of that time, Jake emptied his next-to-last magazine after the fleeing soldier. The bullets clipped leaves and spat bark, but missed the enemy. The man got away.

Jake stood, switching to his last magazine.

The woman dropped her gun, and she began twisting her wrists, trying to free herself. She had long blonde hair and wore lumberjack-style clothes. The first three buttons were open and Jake caught a glimpse of cleavage. Maybe it was because Jake hadn’t seen a woman for a while, but she looked stunning. She was older, though, maybe twenty-seven or something. Finally, she ripped one of her hands loose, brought the knotted rope around and began working it off.

Jake walked toward her.

As she flung off the rope, she looked up at him. “Thanks,” she said.

He nodded.

“We need to get out of here,” she said.

He nodded again.

“We’ll use their truck. First, help me cut down these patriots and load them in the truck. We’ll bury them later, but we’ll have to move fast whatever we do.”

Jake glanced at the dangling Americans, each of them freshly strung up. If he’d felt bad about killing the enemy here, the feeling vanished. This was a battle, yeah, to the freaking finish.