Invasion California

-6-

The SoCal Fortifications



FIRST FRONT HEADQUARTERS, MEXICO



Despite his infirmities and weakness, Marshal Nung struggled to awareness. He found himself lying in bed, with medical equipment surrounding him and with tubes attached to his arms.

He lay still for several seconds, attempting to collect his thoughts. The attack began tonight. He must return to his post and oversee the greatest assault in history. He couldn’t let General Pi make the key operational decisions. He couldn’t let Marshal Gang report this and take over command.

This is my hour in the sun. You must be at your post.

Nung opened his eyes to signal the nurse fiddling with one of the machines. This was odd. He couldn’t lift his arm. Nor did she seem to be aware of his efforts.

Concentrate, Nung. Will your body into obedience.

He cleared his throat and he concentrated, but it brought zero results. This is ridiculous. In desperation, he thought back to his younger years. The others in school had always looked upon him as the country oaf. They had mocked him. But he had shown all of them by studiously applying himself and excelling at everything he did. It had only made things worse, as he had been too outspoken about his successes. Upon entering the military, his troubles in that regard had worsened. The petty intriguers, the legion of yes-men, he had found himself hating all of them and striving night and day. They had sent him to Moscow, and oh, how he had applied himself. The others of his military class had hated him the more for it. Only the Chairman of yesteryear had really appreciated him.

The old man had loved a winner is why. But you aren’t winning in the sick bed, Nung. If you fail now…Gang and his kind will use that against you. The mockers will have beaten you.

Anger surged through Marshal Nung, the old anger that had helped him overcome a thousand obstacles. He squeezed his fingers together so the nails bit into his palm. Although his arm shook, he raised it and wriggled his fingers.

The nurse noticed, and she came to him, her eyes filled with concern.

“Help me into a wheelchair,” Nung said in a soft whisper.

“But, sir, you’re unwell. You must rest and regain your strength.”

“No,” he whispered. “I have been resting. Now I want you to help me into a wheelchair.”

“I must summon the doctor, sir. He might not agree to this.”

“Go then. Hurry. But if he fails to show up soon, I will remember that you disobeyed me. And you must know what that means.”

Her eyes widened in fear. She bowed hastily, turned and ran out of the room.

Letting his head fall back against the pillow, Nung stared up at the ceiling. This was simply another battle he had to win. His body wanted to betray him. It was old, and a combination of drugs had weakened him, maybe damaged some of the organs within. So be it. He didn’t want longevity. He wanted to win this war. He yearned to capture California and open the way for Chinese glory. This was his hour and he would savor it and achieve even in his final moments of life. He would not wither away in a bed while his soldiers showed the world how you won a continent.

The door opened and the doctor walked in, a short man in a white uniform, with a stethoscope in lieu of a tie.

“Marshal Nung—” the doctor said in an authoritative tone.

Nung held up a hand. He did it easier this time. “You will listen to me, doctor,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “You will remove this ridiculous gown and clothe me in my uniform. Then summon orderlies and they will lift me into a wheelchair.”

The doctor blinked in confusion and hesitation. Slowly, he said, “I must object, sir.”

“No. Do not object, because it simply tires me out. Instead, give me a mild stimulant so I can regain my energy.”

“I cannot do that, as I do not wish to kill you, sir.”

“Nor do I wish to die. Even so, you will obey me.”

“Sir, your body is much too weak for stimulants of any kind.”

“I have already deduced that and have decided to override your concerns. If I die in the line of duty, so be it. I accept that. Then let me die. Until such a time occurs, I command the First Front. I will do so in the command center, not here.”

“Sir—”

Nung looked up at the ceiling. Nausea threatened. That shook his resolve and he almost decided to rest. It seemed then in his mind’s eye that he saw hundreds of his past foes laughing at him. In the forefront, old Marshal Kao stood prominently. No. The others would not beat him. Nung willed down the nausea.

He whispered, “If you do not obey me, doctor, I will order my security officers to take you outside and shoot you.”

The doctor stiffened, in shock and dismay, no doubt. He asked, “A mild stimulant, sir?”

“We’re wasting time. Do as I have ordered.”

“At once, Marshal.”

It took fifteen minutes until Nung sat fully clothed in a mobile wheelchair. He decided it would take too much energy directing it with its confounded joystick control. Therefore, he drafted the beefiest orderly to push him.

“Take me to the Command Center,” he said.

The orderly pushed him outside. The stars twinkled as the orderly took him from the medical center to the First Front’s underground bunker. A long corridor led down, with harsh florescent tubes lighting the way. In the main chamber, the staff officers turned in shock at his entrance. Big Marshal Gang stared at him from the head of the computer table.

Gang is already trying to usurp my command.

“Good to see you back, sir,” General Pi said.

Nung grunted, deciding to save his strength.

“You should be resting,” Gang said.

Nung ignored the man as he signaled the orderly. The beefy youth wheeled him to the green-glowing computer table. To Nung’s dismay, it was too high for him to see while he sat in the wheelchair. This would not do.

“I’ll order a ramp installed, sir,” Pi said.

“No,” Gang said. “You must return to the hospital and get better.”

The staff officers glanced from Gang to Nung in his wheelchair.

This is the first test, eh.

“I command the First Front,” Nung whispered.

“Maybe not after I make my report,” Gang said.

“Then go,” Nung said, “report. Until such time, you are merely to observe. Do not presume again.”

Gang’s eyes narrowed. He glanced at the staff officers. Slowly, he nodded. “I must make my report. If you will excuse me…?”

Nung managed the barest nod.

Gang left. So did officers to get the materials to make a ramp.

Ten minutes later, the orderly pushed the wheelchair up the installed ramp and locked clamps onto the wheels. Nung looked down from the same height as if he’d been standing. Seeing the screen at its strategic setting invigorated him.

Four armies waited for the great assault: sixty full divisions, with twenty thousand artillery tubes and ten thousand Marauder light tanks. The Fifth Army with the Pacific Ocean to its west would head for LA, masking San Diego and other coastal cities. The Eleventh Army lined up beside it and then the Nineteenth and Thirty-third Reserve Armies. Once the offensive began, the Seventh Army from the Third Front would become his operational reserve.

Ah, this was exhilarating indeed. The Twenty-third Tank Army waited to the east of the grand assault. The bulk of the T-66s were there, the famed Chinese tri-turreted tank. He had surprises for the Americans. He would give them a land-air-sea and human-robotic assault that would shatter their resolve and devour their soldiers. The 233rd Tank Corps would terrorize them when the time came. He could almost pity the Americans…until he recalled the bitter fighting on the Arctic ice seven years ago. That burned out any thoughts of mercy.

Time passed and Nung grew sleepy. After the fifth time his chin touched down against his chest, he sent the orderly to find the doctor. He couldn’t let Gang see him like this. Soon, outside in the hall, the doctor administered a heavier stimulant.

Finally, zero hour arrived, and Marshal Nung gave the most important order of his life, initiating Operation Yellow Dragon.

Early on the morning on 21 April 2039 and all across the Mexican-Californian border, the Chinese unleashed the assault with a five-hour hurricane artillery bombardment. They only employed gas for the first two hours, striking American headquarters units and enemy artillery sites.

In the darkness, the thousands of artillery pieces created giant flashes of brilliance as they sent their shells screaming across the border. The thunder was awesome, a testament to Chinese power. This was the greatest concentration of artillery since the Battle of Kursk in World War II.

Resolve stiffened Marshal Nung’s neck. He glanced around at his staff officers. He could only imagine what it must feel like for the shivering Americans in their fortifications. The bigger the enemy casement or bunker, the larger the shell or missile sent against it.

Once the artillery stopped, once the bombers unloaded their cargos, ah, then the special infantry divisions and the penal battalions would swamp the Americans who had dared believe they could halt Chinese excellence.



BEHIND ENEMY LINES, MEXICO



Paul woke up with an assault rifle pointed at his face. The open orifice showed the initial rifling, the grooves in the barrel that spun the bullets. His gaze climbed the barrel, stock and up to Romo’s emotionless features and obsidian-chip eyes.

Behind fluttering leaves, the last stars were still out in the western portion of the twilight sky, although dawn had broken in the east. Paul ached everywhere and his head felt stuffed with cotton, making thinking a chore. He couldn’t smell any oil or gasoline, gunpowder or the stink of cooked flesh. Oh yeah, he remembered stumbling away with the others, away from the wrecked Blue Swan launch-site. They’d headed for some trees and had found a stream. What had happened to Frank, the other Marine Recon sergeant? Why wasn’t he here?

“Colonel Valdez wants you to suffer,” Romo said in a low voice. “He wants you to pay for leaving his daughter behind.”

Paul didn’t see anything in those dark eyes other than a hungry wolf ready to kill. Romo must have learned to enjoy killing, and that would have been a long time ago. Paul had known a few Marines like that. They were the truly scary people. The enjoyment of killing had eaten away at their humanity. Shedding human blood, it changed you. There was no getting past that. It made you different. It was a beast, and if you failed to control the beast, it ate the good part of you while you were still alive. Yeah, that’s what he saw looking into Romo’s eyes: a stone cold killer about to do what he loved best.

Even so, Paul couldn’t help but trying. “I didn’t have any choice in leaving her. Before I knew it, my drone was taking off and Maria was still on the ground.”

Romo’s shoulders made the barest shift—his shrug of indifference.

“Doesn’t matter, huh?” Paul asked.

“You’re liked greased death in a fight,” Romo said. “Back there at the launch-site…you were a Tasmanian devil. The Chinese had us pinned and you turned it around. It was impressive. You even helped me personally. I would like to use your prowess to help me reach America. But after watching what you did, I realize it would be foolish of me to give you a chance. The Colonel, he will free Mexico from the invader. He needs to shed his remorse for Maria. Your death will return his focus where it belongs.”

“Sure it will. You bet. The Colonel, he’s going to boot six million Chinese out of Mexico. What were the rest of us thinking?”

That brought a flicker of annoyance to Romo’s hatchet features. He pushed the barrel against Paul’s left cheek.

“You fled the battlefield, Gunnery Sergeant. You left Maria Valdez for the Chinese torturers. They abused her and cut her into pieces, mailing those to the Colonel.”

“They’re sick bastards,” Paul said. He was about to say more, but he closed his mouth instead. What good would it do to tell Romo how it had eaten at him, leaving Maria? It had reminded him too much of the Arctic, out there on the pack ice. The Chinese had butchered Maria like an animal, huh. It figured.

“Put your hands behind your back,” Romo said.

Paul laughed. “That’s right, I’m going to let you hogtie me so you can play your games. Screw you, Romo. Shoot if you think you have to. Earn your pay.”

Romo moved fast, taking the tip of the barrel away from Paul’s check and swinging it down toward his leg. Paul figured he had nothing left to lose. He didn’t see Frank or the other Mexican. It must mean it was just the two of them. Paul jerked his leg aside as Romo pulled the trigger. The bullet creased his pant leg and his flesh, leaving a furrow, but it failed to incapacitate. The assault-rifle’s kick against Romo’s shoulder gave Paul a fraction of a second to act, and he used it. He thrust himself at Romo and kicked up as hard as he could. It was an old-fashioned groin kick, catching the assassin even though Romo instinctively tried to block by twisting his hips and closing his legs.

The toe of Paul’s boot did its job. Romo crumpled as only getting smashed in the balls could do. The assassin released the assault rifle and flopped onto the ground. He clutched his groin, groaning, rolling on the dirt.

Paul grabbed the rifle, put the barrel against Romo’s head and started applying pressure to the trigger.

“Hey, what’s going on?” That sounded like Frank.

Paul took two steps away from Romo and looked up. Frank the Recon Marine carried a canteen in each hand. Behind him was the other assassin. He had a heavy pistol in his hand, held against his leg.

“Our Mexicans were ordered to kill me because Valdez’s daughter got captured on a mission I happened to survive,” Paul said. “The Chinese chopped her up and mailed the parts to her father.”

Frank swore under his breath.

Before Paul could tell him the same thing he’d told Romo, shots rang out from behind the other two. They came from the bushes fifty yards away. The Mexican gunman groaned and sagged down. Frank dove onto his belly.

Paul hit the dirt as bullets zinged past him. Bushes shook over there. Yeah, Paul spotted barrels poking out. He fired at a bush, slithering backward, firing and slithering some more.

Frank tried to do the same thing. Chinese fire hit him. With his assault rifle and as he shouted, Frank sprayed the bushes. The Chinese sprayed back. A round caught Frank in the face and the former drill sergeant deflated as death claimed him.

A second burst caused the gunman to scream in agony. It was a terrible sound. Maybe it rattled the Chinese soldiers. They stopped firing for a moment.

It gave Paul time to slither into hiding behind a grassy knoll. He popped up as Romo crawled after him. For the first time there was something new on the assassin’s face. It was grim determination to survive. Paul fired at Chinese soldiers, giving the assassin cover. He wasn’t sure why he helped Romo. Maybe the man’s determination showed him that a portion of Romo’s humanity yet remained.

A second later, the assassin panted beside Paul while peering up over the knoll.

The Chinese soldiers fired again, killing the gunman and ending the dreadful screaming.

“We got a problem,” Paul said.

Romo eyed him strangely, with seemingly mixed emotions.

“You want to see me suffer and the Chinese want to kill me,” Paul said.

“No…the problem is that you have a rifle and I don’t.”

“There’s one out there,” Paul said, indicating Frank’s assault rifle.

Romo’s nostrils widened. His head whipped forward as the Chinese started firing at them. Well, they fired at the grassy knoll, as both men ducked down. Bullets chewed the soil. How soon would it be until the Chinese fired some grenades?

“Do you know how many are out there?” Paul asked.

Romo shook his head.

Paul kept low. He needed to think, to use his wits and figure out what made the most sense. They were behind enemy lines—far behind them—and the Big One might have already started. Romo was a bastard, and Frank and the gunman were dead. Hmm. Those two might have died anyway. Yeah, the place must be crawling with Chinese for those soldiers to have stumbled on them like this.

Cheri. Mike. What was going to happen to his family? He had to make it back to LA and make sure they were okay.

Romo popped up his head, maybe to see what the enemy was doing. The action brought immediate fire. The assassin ducked behind the knoll as bullets plowed dirt and hissed overhead uncomfortably near.

Paul crawled up, shooting back as he pulled the trigger twice. It made his rifle kick, letting him know it was alive and well. If he didn’t fire back, the Chinese might start getting brave. As he slid back behind the knoll, he noticed Romo with a knife in his hands, and turned his rifle toward him.

“No!” Romo said, holding up the knife, turning it sideways. “This isn’t to kill you.”

“You’re going to fight them with it?” Paul asked with a sneer.

“We have to flee.”

“I’m heading out alone,” Paul said.

“Two are stronger than one,” Romo said.

“Usually that’s true. But I can’t trust you. So no, one is better this time.”

Romo nodded. “You should think this… Why did you help me just now?”

“Reflex, I guess. Don’t let it bother you.”

“That is the second time you helped, maybe saved my life.”

“Yeah?” Paul asked.

Romo frowned intently. “I owe you a great debt. But I am the Colonel’s man.”

“Keep thinking about it. I’m leaving.”

“No. Wait. You and I…we must become blood brothers.”

Paul stared at the man. “Are you nuts? Blood brothers, like Indian mumbo-jumbo? You just tried to kill me.”

“Not Indian,” Romo said, “but White Mountain Apache.”

“Apache like the little feather in your ear? Since you’re Mexican, you must be Aztec.”

The dead eyes came alive as if shutters opened into Romo’s soul. It showed a blaze of emotion.

“Do not tell me what I am, white man. In the old days, Apaches often raided into Mexico. They took women, one of them my great grandmother.”

Paul noticed a lull in the enemy gunfire. He lifted up and fired a burst, causing three Chinese soldiers to dive back into cover. He slid down and began crawling away. Romo crawled beside him, with the knife still in his hands.

“You feel you cannot trust me,” Romo said as he crawled. “I understand. But you saved my life twice now. I owe you a debt, and I pay my debts, always. Besides, we need each other if we’re going to make it back alive.”

“I don’t need you,” Paul said. “I’ll make it by myself.”

“You are greased death, this I know. But you will need to sleep sometimes. Then you will need a lookout. I will need the same thing.”

Figuring they were far enough away, Paul climbed to his feet and began to run past trees. He wore combat fatigues, his helmet and a few supplies on his belt. The rucksack was back at the temporary encampment with Frank and the gunman’s corpses.

Romo ran tirelessly beside him.

Soon, Paul slowed to a walk. He heard shouting Chinese behind them. Last night had taken its toll. He had been battered, smashed and might have gotten a concussion. Yeah, he could probably use some help. Did it really matter to Romo he’d saved his life twice? The eyes before, they had shown the man’s troubled thoughts.

Kill him. Get it over with, Marine.

As if reading his mind, Romo said, “I am sworn to the Colonel. But… He never saved my life. You have. Therefore, I will make you my blood brother. It means I will tell you before I kill you. I will give you a fair chance to defeat me.”

“After what you did, you think I buy your Indian crap?”

“Apache,” Romo said.

“Indian, Apache, Aztec, it doesn’t matter to me. What you are is a vicious murderer without a conscience.”

“I am a warrior defending my native land,” Romo said. “Unlike my ancestors, I will never surrender.”

Paul veered to the west. They had been headed north and the tress thinned out north. Right now, they needed to stay in this small forest.

After fifty more steps, Paul stopped. Romo stopped beside him, the knife still in the man’s hand.

“So what’s the deal anyway?” Paul asked.

“We each cut our hand.”

“Maiming ourselves?” Paul asked. That sounded bright.

Romo shook his head. “A small cut, enough to bring blood. Then we clasp hands and speak the oath, the vow as my Apache ancestors used to do. We will become blood brothers. As such, we cannot kill each other except in a formal duel, either fist-to-fist or knife-to-knife.”

“And you believe in this stuff?”

Romo stared at him.

For a moment, Paul seemed to see into the man’s soul. This man was tribal, a barbarian really. He obviously believed in what he was saying.

“Ah, what the hell,” Paul said. “We’re dead men anyway.” He shouldered the assault rifle and held up his hand.

Romo stared hard at him.

For a second, Paul thought, he suckered you, you fool.

Romo lifted his hand and made the cut. Then he pressed the razor-sharp knife against Paul’s left palm and made a tiny incision. Blood oozed out. Romo clasped his bleeding hand against Paul’s. Then he made his oath, his vow, calling Paul his blood bother.

Paul repeated the vow even though he felt like an idiot doing it. Afterward…

The two men stared at each other. It was a crazy feeling for Paul.

This killer is my blood brother. I’ve never had a brother before. This is weird. He knew a moment of sadness. It was too bad he was going to have to kill Romo after this was done.

“Come on,” Paul said, with a burr in his voice. “Let’s get the heck out of here before the Chinese find us.”



SAN YSIDRO, CALIFORNIA



The thunder had stopped—an ending to the Chinese hurricane bombardment.

Now Chinese wild weasels lead the way into American air space. Advanced electronic counter measures and hard jamming attempted to confuse the enemy. Behind the wild weasels came bombers and fighter-bombers. Many sent ARMs into whatever operational radar stations the Americans still had and dared to use. Others released napalm or five-hundred pound bombs. The rest carried bunker-busters, seeking out those fortifications the artillery had failed to smash.

In selected areas—San Ysidro being one of those—sleek Chinese helicopters zoomed for enemy HQs. The poison gas had been to suppress the enemy commanders. These pinpoint missions were to kill the hopefully dazed Americans.

There were three types of helicopters. The first were the standoff hunter/killers, the Graceful Swans with their Annihilator missiles. They swooped across the battlefield, seeking American vehicles to destroy. The others were Gunhawks, transformed Chinese cargo helicopters. They each carried two 12.7mm machine guns and a 20mm auto-cannon in its nose. Each machine gun and cannon had a dedicated TV-fed operator. The Gunhawks’ MO called for them to hover above American infantry at ten thousand feet, well out of enemy machine gun range. Aiming their weapons straight down, the Gunhawks would pour concentrated fire on any enemy trying to hide. It was similar in concept to the old “Puff the Magic Dragon” airplane of Vietnam, the Douglas AC-47 Spooky.

The last type of helicopter carried deadly cargos of White Tiger Eagle Teams. Their task: kill enemy commanders and radio networks. Lop off the head so the body—the American formations—could no longer act in a harmonized fashion. In other words, turn disciplined bodies of men into uncoordinated and isolated units so the Chinese could kill and capture them more easily.

Fighter Rank Zhu rode outside his specially fashioned helicopter. It was nicknamed the “Battle-Taxi.” It lacked a regular cargo bay. Instead, it had a bubble for the pilot and four staggered poles swept back like a fighter-jet’s wings. Each pole contained three seats and a motorcycle-style windshield. On each seat sat an Eagle Team member in full commando gear, ready for action.

Zhu crouched behind his windshield as the helo roared over the American landscape by a bare fifty meters. He had an eagle’s view of the masses of vehicles crawling over the earth. IFVs, jeeps, missile launchers, light Marauder tanks, hovers, drones, trucks and masses of marching soldiers moved on the Americans. Soon, enemy ground objects flashed past: splintered trees, a trench-line and blasted casements.

Zhu’s stomach churned. He was going to fight today. He would have to prove himself to the First Rank and the others. First, he would have to launch like an eagle.

Gripping his rest-bars, Zhu watched the terrain. He spied a running dog with something bloody in its fangs. Behind it followed three bigger dogs. They might have been barking. He laughed. It was exhilarating perched out here in the elements. These Z4 helicopters—the battle-taxis—were the latest in White Tiger commando operations. The old-style helos only allowed a few Eagle commandos to lift at a time. This allowed them all to leave at once and drop on the enemy.

“The longer you are in the air, the longer the enemy has to pick you off,” the trainers had told Zhu. “You need to get down and fight.”

Zhu nodded. He knew what to do now. The only trouble was…

I must not shame myself. I must fight bravely. I will show the others I deserve to be here.

Zhu wore an Eagle jetpack and dinylon body armor. He had his Eagle grenade launcher attached to his shoulder. On the jetpack was strapped his QZB-95 assault rifle. The First Rank carried a hand-held anti-air missile. Others had RPGs.

“Target in six kilometers,” the pilot said over the helmet’s earphones.

Zhu nodded, even though no one could see the gesture. He glanced at a fellow commando who sat on the same pole. The crouched White Tiger seemed like a rock.

Kill everyone was the order. In these engagements, they had no use for prisoners, no place to safely put them. It was kill or be killed.

“Five kilometers to target,” the pilot said.

Zhu needed a drink of water and all of a sudden, he needed to take a piss. Just five more kilometers to the enemy? Dead Americans lay scattered on the ground. They looked like they were asleep. They must have lacked masks and been hit by poison gas.

I must not shame myself. I must show the First Rank that I am worthy to be an Eagle commando.

Something fast flashed underneath Zhu. It was long and it headed in the same direction they went.

“Cruise missile,” someone said over the helmet radio.

“Two kilometers to target,” the pilot said.

Zhu blinked three more times. Then a terrific explosion occurred ahead. It must be the cruise missile.

Overhead, Gunhawks raced for their hover positions. Graceful Swans—looking like giant mechanical wasps—now hung back. Zhu saw an Annihilator missile streak toward an American tracked vehicle.

“Get ready,” First Rank Tian said.

Zhu’s gut clenched and vomit acid burned the back of his throat. This was real. This wasn’t practice. He began to shake, and shame as he’d never known it began to bubble inside him.

The battle-taxi sank toward the earth as they raced at a berm. There were puffs of smoke from the top of the fortification. Then American RPGs zoomed toward them.

Why so many? Zhu wanted to know. A major had told them that none of those enemy weapons would be operable today because of a new Chinese secret weapon.

The major lied to us. Zhu wondered why.

Almost simultaneously, two enemy shaped-charge grenades struck the battle-taxi nearest Zhu. Some Eagle fighters flew off the stricken helicopter. Other jetpack-soldiers plummeted earthward, to plow like javelins against the built-up berm.

Then Zhu’s helicopter flashed over the berm. He twisted back. American soldiers stood in gun-pits, firing at the other helicopters.

“Fly!” First Rank Tian shouted in the headphones.

Zhu’s muscles froze. He couldn’t let go of the rest-bars. Beside him on the pole, an Eagle-commando launched upward and to the side with a whoosh of jetpack power.

I am shamed. I am forever shamed. Why couldn’t he tear his fingers free? Was he that much of a coward?

Enemy fifty-caliber machine gun fire slammed into the battle-taxi, shaking it as holes appeared in the bubble canopy.

With a yelp of terror, Zhu released his rest-bars and jumped.

“Use your jetpack,” Tian shouted in his headphones.

At the last moment and as he dropped with sickening speed, Zhu realized that Tian spoke to him. Despite his terror, with practiced smoothness, Zhu brought up his arm to the flight-pad. His hand gripped the throttle and he roared his jetpack to life. With a lifting pull on his shoulders and waist, Zhu braked his descent and then rose upward.

There were many Eagle commandos hanging in the air, moving on the enemy like a giant flock of deadly birds. The stricken battle-taxi turned, the pilot inside the shattered bubble bleeding profusely. The helicopter went down, its blades slicing the air a foot from where Zhu hovered.

I forgot to jet to the side.

“Down, down,” Tian said, “land near the bunker.”

To Zhu, it felt as if he was in a fog. Everything moved so slowly. His thoughts were jelly and his limbs hardly obeyed his mental commands.

Yes, the others of his squad sank toward a concrete bunker. It looked like a toy from up here. Vehicles were parked around it and there were shacks in various places. Americans ran outside, some of them kneeling, aiming weapons skyward and firing. Part of the bunker was hidden under desert soil.

Zhu twisted the throttle and sank toward the Americans. It felt surreal. Bullets whistled past him and grenades landed like bombs among them, tumbling some. Then everything became confusion. Eagle team commandos plummeted to the hard ground. One screaming commando struck another flyer under him and they both hit the ground hard enough to bounce. An American ran toward them, firing from the hip, shattering jetpack parts and helmets.

Zhu activated his grenade launcher. In a daze, he targeted enemy soldiers, lobbing grenades at them.

The ground rushed up. As if he were in a dream, he twisted the throttle again, lightly touching down. Then he was running, following Tian. The others shed their jetpacks. The packs hit the ground, sending up dirt. Some commandos sprawled onto the ground, firing assault rifles at the enemy. Others crouched over as they sprinted for burning vehicles or other hiding positions.

Zhu gasped as he ran. The jetpack was heavy and the straps dug into his shoulders. More Eagle Team commandos landed. This was an enemy HQ, the command center for the American Ninth Division.

Zhu saw a tall American with red hair and the eagles of a colonel. The man held an M-16 as he sprinted for a civilian-style pickup truck. Zhu fired a grenade into the colonel’s chest, blowing the man off his feet. Nearby, Humvees revved into life.

First Rank Tian fired an RPG at one, exploding its hood.

The other Humvees carried .50 caliber machine guns. One American shook as he fired the big machine gun, killing two commandos of Zhu’s squad. They toppled to the soil like rag dolls, with red holes on their chest. The American kept shooting them, desecrating their bodies. That was wrong. Without thinking about what he was doing, Zhu throttled up his jetpack. With a whoosh, he lifted into the air three meters and arrowed at the Humvee.

“What are you doing, Fighter Rank?” Tian asked. “Stay on the ground.”

The man’s voice penetrated Zhu’s sub-conscious. What was he doing? He was flying during a firefight, exactly the wrong thing. Zhu watched in stupefaction as the American behind the .50 caliber swiveled the big machine gun up at him. The man grimaced like a manic. Zhu realized that he was a dead man.

Then an RPG hit the Humvee. It threw the American backward, his fingers sliding off the machine gun’s butterfly triggers. Three seconds later Zhu landed behind the burning vehicle, turned and fired a grenade into another Humvee, one whose engine revved. Americans bailed from it a microsecond before the grenade exploded. Chinese assault rifle fire cut the Americans down.

“Shed your jetpack, Fighter Rank,” Tian radioed Zhu. “We don’t want any more heroics from you. Too many of us are dying.”

“He’s a real White Tiger,” a Soldier Rank radioed.

“Did you see Zhu? That was amazing. We have a real fighter on our hands, First Rank.”

In a daze, Zhu shed his jetpack. It fell back and hit the ground nozzles-first, spraying heat and air and making dirt puff up. He’d forgotten to shut if off completely. A sensor in the pack now initiated an emergency shutdown and Zhu began wondering who the others were talking about. It couldn’t be him. His heart raced as he gulped air. Slowly, he lay down on the ground amid the burning American vehicles. From his position he began firing bursts from his assault rifle at the nearest enemy. When the magazine was empty, he wiped his sweaty brow and put in another one.

Soon, First Rank Tian ordered the squad up. Another squad launched multiple RPGs at the bunker’s door, blasting it down.

“It’s time to kill colonels and generals,” Tian said.

In as big a daze as ever, Zhu climbed to his feet. He shouted with his squad members and charged the door, entering the bunker-clearing phase of the attack.

Fifteen minutes later, with blood and steaming gore splattered against the walls, it was over. With grenade and rifle fire, they had slaughtered the Ninth Division’s general and HQ’s staff, effectively destroying the coordination for twelve thousand American soldiers.

Only four Eagle Team members of Zhu’s squad remained: him, First Rank Tian and two others. The cost in White Tigers had been heavier than expected, but the operation had been a success. It would no doubt help pave the way for next move in the grand Chinese assault.



BEHIND ENEMY LINES, MEXICO



With one knee on dirt, Paul leaned against an almond tree within an orchard. Romo knelt beside him as they eyed a two-story ranch house. A heavy military truck and a Chinese version of a Humvee sat on the U-shaped driveway to the side.

“We need food,” Romo said.

The growl in Paul’s stomach had led him to the same conclusion. They had trekked over seven miles by his calculation, having detoured three times to avoid enemy logistic support. Seven miles…that meant the border was still a good twenty miles away.

Normally, that wouldn’t have worried Paul. He had often ranged far behind enemy lines, but this time he had no radio and no way of knowing if the Big One had begun. He was beginning to believe it had. The amount of traffic had surprised him.

Unfortunately, he had no supplies this time, no destination other than the American line. The longer they remained behind Chinese lines, the worse it was going to become. The odds weren’t with them.

“You know what I think?” Paul said.

“We go in and kill them.”

Paul glanced at Romo. The man looked tired, with hollowness around his eyes. “First, we only have one weapon and I only have three magazines for it. Second, there could be Mexicans in the house, and I have no intention of killing them.”

Romo shook his head. “Chinese vehicles are there, meaning Chinese soldiers lived in the house. The Mexicans were driven out long ago. And we have two weapons, as I have a knife.”

“Okay, three weapons then. I have a knife, too. Are you sure no Mexicans are in the house?”

“I am positive,” Romo said. “Come, we will surprise the Chinese.”

“Unless there’s a dog in the house,” Paul said. “I’m surprised there aren’t any dogs out here.”

“They say Koreans and some Chinese eat dogs.”

Paul had heard the same thing. Who would eat a dog? That was barbaric. Yeah, he could believe it, though. Food was scarce behind enemy lines; at least that’s what he’d heard. That might cause some soldiers to butcher animals for the pot. Would they have butchered all the Mexican dogs?

Paul studied the barn, the back yard and the ranch house. The grass in the yard looked trampled. The dirt around the barn had a hundred tires tracks and now that he looked closely, he saw the barn had several scrapes as if brushed by heavy vehicles.

“They must have kept troops here,” Paul said. And those troops had eaten the dogs, which was a good thing for the two of them. A dog would have sniffed them out or heard them by now and started barking.

“Why are those two vehicles still here?” Romo asked.

“A thousand reasons,” Paul said. “Maybe one of the trucks had engine trouble and they stopped here. Maybe someone got sick. Maybe they were supposed to pick something up here. Maybe there are whores in the house and they wanted a quick one before heading out to battle.”

Romo stared at the two vehicles. “I doubt the truck is a troop transport. It looks like something is in the truck.”

A back door in the ranch house opened and three Chinese soldiers exited. One of them was talking and gesturing. Finally, the other two began laughing. A fourth man came out of the house. Instead of a helmet, he wore a hat with a single red star on it. He shut the door and inserted a key.

“He’s locking up,” Paul said.

Romo gripped Paul’s shoulder. “Kill them.”

“They’re too far for me to hit all of them.”

“I watched you in battle. You’re a good shot. Kill them and we’ll take the vehicles.”

“And then?” asked Paul.

“No more talking. You must kill them. Look, the one is beginning another joke. The officer appears interested. You must take them out, as we don’t have time to get closer. Besides, they’ll see us if we try that.”

Paul didn’t like it. It was too far to take out four Chinese soldiers. Yeah, he could take out one maybe…if he had a sniper rifle and time to settle down for a good shot.

“Now,” Romo urged him.

Resting the barrel of the assault rifle on a branch, Paul sighted the enemy. It was ninety yards, almost the full length of a football field. He had three magazines and that was it. Then he would be down to a knife just like Romo. If he took out the officer first—

Paul withdrew the assault rifle from the tree branch. It would be safer to let the Chinese leave. Afterward, they could break in and get some food.”

“What are you doing?” Romo asked. “We must kill them and take their vehicles. We cannot hope to remain hidden more than a day or two. We may not get another chance like this.”

Paul thought about that: take the vehicles. Yeah, that was a good idea. He watched the four Chinese soldiers. The joke-teller had gotten into his story. The other three watched him. The two enlisted men stood close. The officer—the man with the hat—stood farther away.

Taking his assault rifle, Paul began walking through the orchard. He didn’t head toward the enemy, but moved parallel to them. He wanted the barn between them and him.

“This is risky,” Romo said. He didn’t run, but walked beside Paul.

Paul was through talking. The tingling in his arms had begun. Five more steps put the barn between them.

“Better hope there’s no dog around,” Paul said. Or more enemy soldiers we’re not seeing. He sprinted for the back of the barn. Behind him, Romo followed. He heard the man’s footsteps.

I hope it’s a long joke.

As he reached the back of the barn and ran for a corner, he heard muffled laughter. Paul skidded slower and pressed his back against the barn. He peered around the corner. The back ranch yard wasn’t visible, at least the part the four Chinese soldiers stood on wasn’t. He probably didn’t have much time left.

There was a scrape of leather against wood. He glanced the other way and saw Romo sliding along the barn with him.

“You should have stayed in the orchard,” Paul said in a low voice. “That way, if I fail, you could get the heck out of here.”

“And leave my blood brother?”

Paul glanced into Romo’s eyes. That wasn’t a joke. The man was dead serious. Dead—

Taking a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, Paul pushed off the barn and walked for the ranch house. He passed the last corner of the barn. The four Chinese soldiers were splitting up, two walking toward the military truck and the officer and other enlisted man heading toward the Chinese Humvee.

Paul lifted the assault rifle, aimed at the officer and pulled the trigger. The butt slammed against his shoulder. The officer went down and the others turned in surprise. Paul fired again and hit the joke-teller, making the man stagger. Paul shot a third time, putting the jokester down. The two Chinese who had been heading for the truck stared at him. One clawed for his pistol. The other whirled around and sprinted for the truck. Paul shot him in the back, putting three bullets into him. The soldier lifted off his feet and smacked his forehead against the cab of the truck. He sagged, his chin striking the truck before he rolled onto the ground. An enemy bullet ricocheted off gravel, puffing dirt twenty feet in front of Paul. Pistols were terrible at range. They were even worse when caught by surprise.

“Drop your gun!” Paul shouted.

The Chinese soldier brought up his other hand, clutching his pistol two handed, aiming at Paul.

“Drop it!” Paul shouted.

The soldier fired. This time there was no ricochet. Instead, wood splintered in the barn. A quick-glance showed a bullet-hole ten feet up. The man had aimed far too high.

Paul fired, putting several slugs into the soldier’s chest.

Romo clapped Paul on the shoulder. “Excellent.”

Paul almost turned on him with a snarl. Instead, he nodded, feeling hollow inside. Those four, they never had a chance. They weren’t all dead yet, but they were all down.

Romo strode for the four. Paul watched him. After Romo reached halfway, Paul realized what the man was going to do.

“Wait!” Paul shouted.

Romo never even turned around.

Paul wondered if he should do anything to stop Romo. This was war, right? The Chinese were invading America. They were heading for LA. They had to be. He hadn’t started this. Then again, neither had those four started the war. He doubted they had any or much say in where they had ended up. Now it was over for them and over for their jokes.

Almost, Paul turned away. He stood there, holding his assault rifle as Romo checked each Chinese soldier. With two of them, Romo cut their throats, using his weapon, his knife.

The Chinese had stolen Romo’s country. There was no pity in the man. Paul wondered what he would feel like if the Chinese, if the Pan Asian Alliance, the South American Federation and the German Dominion, conquered America. Maybe he would cut every enemy throat he could by that time. What had happened to Romo? Had he lost his wife, his children, his parents to the Chinese? Paul didn’t know. What had made Romo so remorseless? There was a reason. Things didn’t happen in a vacuum. The man was his blood brother. Maybe that meant it was his duty to find out.

Maybe. His first duty, though, was reaching his family. Yeah, maybe his first duty was to make sure the Chinese didn’t reach his family. This was a battle for his home and his loved ones.

You’d better toughen up, Kavanagh, because if you lose this fight, if America loses it, then you’re going to be ruled by a conquering power. Then you’re never going to have a say in how your country is run.

How much of a say did he have now?

Paul shouldered his rifle and trudged across the dirt. He didn’t want to become a butcher. But this was a dirty fight with no holds barred. He was going to do what he had to in order to win. The Chinese would kill his family in the snap of his fingers. It was like a man invading his home at night. You don’t ask questions then—you picked up your gun and kept firing until they were dead.

Nodding, Paul could understand why Romo showed no mercy. He was fighting the invaders of Mexico. Colonel Valdez was fighting the invaders. They were shooting until the enemy was down.

Paul blew out his breath. It was his duty to fight as hard as he could. His family depended on him. Thousands, maybe millions of other American families depended on him, on all the soldiers to do their duty and defend the homeland.

“They’re dead,” Romo said.

“Grab their weapons,” Paul said. “Pick one for yourself.” He lifted the tarp at the back of the military truck. It was filled with giant crates, with missiles of some type. Paul couldn’t read Chinese script. Modern warfare devoured ammo. To keep the attack going, the Chinese would have to pour supplies to their soldiers.

“Okay,” Paul said, “which do you want to drive?”

Romo gave him a funny look.

“We’re grabbing food,” Paul said. “Then we’re heading for the front. We’re going to supply the Chinese.”

“You’re white and I’m Mexican.”

“You think there aren’t others like us transporting supplies for the Chinese?”

“Are you crazy?”

Paul grinned, although there was nothing humorous in it. “It’s balls to the fire wall. If this is the first day of the assault, believe me, there will be plenty of confusion. Now is the time to get as close as we can to our side. Once we’re close enough, we’ll hoof it the rest of the way.”

Romo shook his head.

That brought a true grin to Paul’s face. “I’ll take the truck. They won’t look as closely at its driver. You take the Humvee. Are you ready?”

Romo stared at him a moment longer before nodding.

“Then let’s get busy,” Paul said. “We got a lot of miles ahead of us.”