Invasion: California

by Vaughn Heppner

  Keep it up to the MP. Sprint to there.

  Paul did through raw stubbornness—it might have been his greatest attribute. He sprinted past the MP.

  “Hey!” the man yelled at him.

  Paul slowed and then stopped. He gasped for air as sweat appeared. The cool ocean breeze felt good on his skin. He turned around as sweat bathed his face.

  “Paul Kavanagh?” the MP asked.

  “That’s me.”

  “You’re to come with me, Gunnery Sergeant.”

  “Is there trouble or am I in it?” Paul asked.

  The MP shrugged, which made the strap over his shoulder creak with a leathery sound. “I’m just carrying out orders. I’m to take you straight to Camp Pendleton, to the Commandant’s office.”

  “You can’t tell me anything?”

  The MP shook his head.

  “Sure. Let me get my stuff down the beach.”

  “We need to leave right away,” the MP said. “I was told that was to be without exception.”

  Paul thought about it and shrugged. He had his key with him. What did a towel and water bottle matter? “Do you want me to follow on my motorcycle?”

  “I want you come with me. We’ll have someone else bring in your bike.”

  “Sounds serious,” Paul said. “What’s up?”

  “Don’t know, just that I’m supposed to get you.”

  The MP was young, maybe twenty-one.

  “Let’s go then,” Paul said, marching across the hot sand, heading for the nearest set of stairs up to the road.

  ***

  It was a short trip to Camp Pendleton. He’d been detached from his unit for some time. The last he heard, they were training near the Oregon border. He’d gone to D.C., meeting other special ops members for the secret missions so dear to General Ochoa.

  Instead of heading for the Commandant’s office, the MP took him to the base stockade.

  “You didn’t tell me I was under arrest,” Paul said.

  “You’re not.”

  “Then why—”

  “Security. We’re to keep you safe.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That’s all I know. If anyone tries for you, I’m to shoot him, or her, if it comes to that.”

  “Who wants to shoot me?” Paul asked.

  “You’re probably going to find out soon enough.” The MP braked in front of the stockade. “Go ahead. I have to park this.”

  Paul got out, checked in with the clerk inside, who stood and motioned to three armored MPs.

  “This way,” the senior MP said.

  Several minutes later, Paul found himself in the basement, in a small interrogation room, staring at a computer screen. The door was locked and two of the MPs stood outside as guards.

  “Now what did I do?” Paul muttered. He sat at the table, looking at the screen. It had several card games on it. He chose spider solitaire. In the middle of his seventh game, the cards dissolved and he found himself staring at General Ochoa.

  “Sir?” Paul asked. “Is there some problem, what is going on?”

  General Ochoa was a thickset man with straight dark hair and brown Aztec skin. He never smiled and had a particularly intense stare. Paul could easily imagine Ochoa as a gang leader, able to outface any opponent. Long ago, his ancestors had fought the Spanish conquistadors. Wielding nothing but obsidian-tipped swords and wearing feather armor, the Aztecs had furiously attacked Spanish knights in steel-plated armor, swinging Toledo-forged swords and backed by cannons roaring grapeshot. The Aztecs had lost in the end, but not because of a lack of courage or daring. The greatest feat of honor an Aztec flower warrior could achieve in battle was capturing an enemy for ritual slaughter later on the pyramids. Thus, during the hotly contested fights, the Aztec champions had often subdued a Spaniard and begun to drag him away. That gave the other Spaniards time to rescue their companion. Their only goal was to kill as many Indians as possible and take their wealth. Although General Ochoa had Aztec genes, in outlook he was pure conquistador, wanting to kill as many of America’s enemies as possible.

  “Yes, there’s a problem,” General Ochoa said. “It concerns Maria Valdez.”

  Paul frowned as the guilt resurfaced. You ran away, Marine. You left a comrade when you might have rescued her. He had vowed seven years ago never to leave anyone again. Back then, he’d have to leave a friend on the Arctic ice in order to survive. The grim decision still ate at him. Whenever he drank too much, he had a habit of rethinking seven-year-old options. He would turn the problem over in his mind like a rat on a spinning wheel.

  “I should have let go of the ladder and dropped down to help her,” Paul said.

  General Ochoa nodded, his face remaining emotionless like an ancient block of wood. “I thought you would believe something so romantically foolish.”

  “I didn’t kiss her,” Paul said.

  “Not that kind of romantic. You’re a soldier. You’re special ops, the very best we have. You, more than anyone else, should understand the true nature of war. It’s a dirty business. It’s bloody and without remorse. I read your report. You shot Chinese from behind. That wasn’t very sporting of you.”

  “If I hadn’t done that they would have killed us, sir.”

  “Again, you miss the point. You did the right thing ambushing them, shooting them from behind. You also had no choice with the drone. If you had done anything else, we wouldn’t have learned what we did.”

  “What did we learn?”

  General Ochoa shook his head. “It’s classified, but what you brought back will go a long way toward defending California. And that will go a long way to keeping this country ours.”

  “That’s something, at least.”

  General Ochoa snorted. “Your mission will probably end up being the most important single event against the Chinese threat. You proved my theory right. For the big play, you need big play players. You may have fixed everything by what you found.”

  “So…why am I in this stockade?” Paul asked.

  Ochoa nodded. “You’re not in military trouble, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s the nature of the mission rebounding on you. Maria Valdez was captured.”

  “Are the Chinese trying to strong-arm Colonel Valdez with her?”

  “No,” Ochoa said. “They’ve already informed the Colonel of her death and have shipped him most of her body parts.”

  “What? That’s sick.”

  “It’s meant to break the Colonel’s spirit,” Ochoa said. “My sources tell me he’s raging. His aides have hidden all his sidearms and they’ve told his guards to keep theirs at home for a few days. They fear he might turn suicidal or maybe shoot one of them. My sources also tell me he’s angry with his aides for not stopping him from sending his daughter on the mission.”

  Paul thought what he’d feel like if the Chinese sent him his son’s body parts. Imagine opening a package and finding a bloody ear, knowing you’d tweaked that ear more than once. Or taking a hand out of a box and recognizing an old burn mark on the back your son had gotten when he brushed the hand against a hot light bulb. Paul shuddered. He’d want to nuke China.

  “The Chinese are remorseless,” Ochoa said. “They mean to win no matter what they have to do. We have to fight just as hard, as ruthlessly.”

  Paul nodded. If he had to, he would take his wife and son to the hills, to the mountains, and resist the Chinese until his dying day.

  “Unfortunately for you,” Ochoa said, “Colonel Valdez has asked for your presence at his headquarters.”

  “Me?” Paul asked. “Oh. Does he want me to tell him how Maria fought until the very end?”

  “If only that were it,” Ochoa said. “He specifically wants your head detached from your shoulders. He wants your head on a pike so he can plant it on his daughter’s grave.”

  “Is that a joke?”

  Ochoa shook his head.

  Paul leaned back and tore his eyes from the screen. He sat in a prison cell. Two MPs gu
arded his locked door. A sinking feeling twisted his gut.

  “Colonel Valdez and his Free Mexico Army are important to American survival,” Paul said.

  “True.”

  “They’re more important than a single Marine such as me,” Paul added.

  “Are you volunteering to visit Colonel Valdez?”

  Paul frowned, thinking about Cheri, about his promise to her. He meant to protect his country. But giving up his head…

  “Whether you’re volunteering or not,” Ochoa said, “doesn’t matter. The U.S. military does not hand over its soldiers to other countries in order to have their heads removed.”

  At least not openly, we don’t, Paul thought.

  “I had you brought to Camp Pendleton as a security measure,” Ochoa said. “My fear is that Colonel Valdez will have allocated hit men to take you out and bring him your head. Valdez killed President Felipe with assassins.”

  “I remember,” Paul said.

  “The Colonel has survived these years because he is a hard man. He has learned how to make people respect him. He also knows the border area and has many contacts in the Southwestern states.”

  “So where are you sending me?” Paul asked. “My unit is in Oregon.”

  “Actually, your unit is in Florida practicing in the Everglades.”

  “Are we worried about GD commandos?” Paul asked.

  “More than that,” Ochoa said. “But you’re not headed for Florida.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m placing you on Colonel Norman’s staff. You’re going to be his bodyguard.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “It’s easy enough,” Ochoa said. “Keep Colonel John Norman alive. He’s supposed to be one of our defense wizards and the Joint Chiefs want him advising our generals down there. It seems there’s to be an emergency shuffle of military arrangements on the border.”

  “The colonel is in California then?”

  “He’s already inspecting the so-called ‘Great Wall of America.’ You have heard of it, I hope.”

  “Who hasn’t?” Paul said.

  “I’m sending you to him tonight. You’ll be his shadow, Paul.”

  “Okay, but why am I really going?”

  “I just told you.”

  “Who’s going to try to kill a colonel that he needs a bodyguard?” Paul asked. “Isn’t that what MPs are for?”

  “You and I both know Chinese Intelligence has penetrated our country.”

  Paul nodded. President Sims and his communication teams often spoke about that, naming it as one of the key reasons for the state of emergency.

  “It’s also common Chinese military doctrine to try to paralyze an enemy by first assassinating his key commanders,” Ochoa said. “I would expect them to know about Colonel Norman. Likely, the Chinese will use White Tigers to strike commanding generals and anyone else they think is important enough. It’s an excellent idea, actually. We’ll be doing the same thing soon.”

  “You’re going to send me into Mexico to shoot Chinese commanders?” Paul asked, thinking about Lee in Hawaii.

  “It’s a distinct possibility.”

  “With the help of Colonel Valdez’s guerillas to guide my team?” asked Paul.

  Ochoa frowned. “We’ll have to see if the Colonel has calmed down enough by then concerning you.”

  Right. The general was putting him on ice, keeping him nearby in case America needed to give Valdez a present to keep him interested in helping them. They would never just send him gift-wrapped. No. They would send him across the border on a mission and let him fall into Valdez’s hands. If it was a matter of American survival…could he blame them?

  Yeah, ‘cause it’s my head.

  “You think the Chinese are going to attack sometime soon?” Paul asked.

  Ochoa’s frown departed, giving his features the ancient wood quality.

  Is that his poker face?

  “Would you ship six million soldiers across the Pacific to just sit on their thumbs?” Ochoa asked.

  “It got them free wheat.”

  “Keep yourself out of trouble, Gunnery Sergeant, and keep Colonel Norman alive. I don’t care what you have to do to see it done. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Paul said. You’re giving me a makeshift chore to keep me near Colonel Valdez, or you’re hanging me out as a target for the Colonel’s hit men.

  “Good luck, Marine. I think you’re going to need it.”

  “Yeah,” Paul said, believing exactly that.

  NORTHERN MEXICO

  Fighter Rank Zhu Peng of the White Tiger Commandos lay on the hard ground. His nose bled and his head rang from the rock-hard punch of First Rank Tian Jintao, the hit that had dropped him.

  The others of their squad watched silently, waiting to see what he would do.

  Zhu blinked while on the ground, trying to focus. He had always been too late and too little for just about everything. His parents had been in their fifties when they’d had him. Each had died before his twelfth birthday. He had gone therefore to the State home for orphans. Unfortunately, he had been a skinny child; some might have said malnourished. He had been an easy target to pick on and he might have retreated into himself except for an old soldier who had lost a leg in the Siberian War. The man was the orphan home’s janitor. Many had considered the janitor a lack-wit. But the old soldier had let Zhu watch TV with him down in the basement. He had also taught Zhu a few Shaolin martial arts moves. With those, Zhu had fought back against his tormenters. It had meant corporal punishment in the yard by the headmaster, a beating on the buttocks by cane. He had cried; more like sobbed. The others had laughed later and therefore he had been even more of an outcast than before. It had meant many lonely hours watching TV with the old soldier.

  The man’s combat stories had fired Zhu’s imagination. It had led him to join the White Tigers, China’s elite commandos.

  The Bai Hu Tezhongbing were unique to Socialist-Nationalist China. They had been the first to implement the new enlisted rankings. The White Tigers had dispensed with the old order of private, corporal and sergeant. Instead, it went Fighter Rank, Soldier Rank and First Rank. Several years later, the Chinese Army, Navy and National Militia had incorporated the new enlisted rankings. In everything military, the Bai Hu led the way.

  Too little and too late—Zhu Peng lay on the hard ground in Mexico. He had just arrived from China, from basic jetpack training in the Jing Mountains. Normal Bai Hu military procedure kept each White Tiger squad together. Like other militaries around the world, the Chinese had found that men fought hardest for their comrades, to save them and to keep his fellow soldiers’ respect. Zhu was a replacement for a White Tiger killed by a Mexican saboteur. Zhu was the new man. Worse, he was the thinnest and weakest of the squad. This afternoon, the First Rank had decided to test his quality. In other words, to give Zhu a beating so he understood that he wasn’t wanted.

  Zhu clenched his teeth, even though it made his bleeding nose throb with pain. With the palms of his hands, he shoved up against the ground, feeling the grains of sand press against his flesh. Something at the corner of his eye blurred—it was the First Rank’s booted foot coming for him. He could see the frayed laces.

  The steel toe caught Zhu in the chest. It was like a hammer. It flipped him onto his back as he gasped for air.

  Tian Jintao peered down at him from what seemed like a great height. Tian had bulging muscles and he knew how to use them with his dreadful coordination. Tian had a thick neck and a tiger-tail tattoo under his left eye. He was naked from the waist up, wearing camouflage pants and combat boots. Tall cactuses ringed the hard-packed ground around them.

  “You are too small, Zhu Peng,” the First Rank told him. “You are also too slow. You will get the rest of us killed in combat.”

  The other squad-members muttered agreement.

  “How did you ever pass White Tiger training?” Tian asked.

  Zhu had been told before it was due to the war, t
o the mass mobilization of Chinese soldiers. The quality of the Bai Hu was not what it used to be. That he had made it this far showed that.

  “I’m going to stomp on you,” Tian said, raising his left knee.

  Zhu swiveled while remaining on his back. He lashed out with a foot, almost catching Tian by surprise. At the last moment Tian hopped up. When he landed, he lashed out, kicking Zhu in the side with a terrific thud.

  “Yes, a good beating,” Tian said matter-of-factly. “That’s exactly what you need.”

  “Get rid of the new boy!” one of the others shouted. “We don’t want a skinny runt like him in our squad.”

  Tian swung his foot back to kick again.

  From on the ground, Zhu threw two fistfuls of dirt up at the First Rank. He slithered away and hurried to his feet. His nose dripped blood, his chest throbbed and it felt as if one of his ribs was broken. The multiple pains stole his courage. He wanted to run away so the beating would end.

  “That’s a good trick, new boy.” Tian took a combat stance, moving toward Zhu sideways, circling him.

  The sight of Tian closing in, knowing there was going to be more pain—Zhu’s eyelids flickered and his mouth opened slightly.

  It made Tian pause.

  Zhu took a combat stance. He was thin, a mere one-sixty in American pounds. Tian was two-ten and only an inch taller.

  “I’m going to hurt you,” Tian said, smiling.

  Zhu shouted desperately, launching a flying kick. Tian evaded, punching Zhu in the side of the head, knocking him down so Zhu thudded onto the hard ground.

  “Had enough, Fighter Rank?” Tian asked from above.

  Zhu struggled to a sitting position, spitting dirt. He shouted, more a scream of frustration and shame. On his hands and knees, he charged Tian. He caught the First Rank by surprise, throwing his weight against the man as he clutched both legs. He toppled Tian so the man crashed onto his butt.