Invasion: California

by Vaughn Heppner

  NORTHERN MEXICO

  In the darkness of night, Zhu Peng lurched upward in flight. His Qui 1000 jets expelled air with tremendous force. The jetpack shook his frail body and lifted him with terrifying ease. He rested his right elbow on a flight pad, his right hand using the control-throttle. It was delicate work and needed extreme precision. This is why he had passed the White Tiger tests. Among his pod of recruits, he had proved the best in flight.

  Zhu wore an Eagle helmet, top-of-the-line in quality and with the latest technology. It had a HUD display with night vision built into the visor. He had a shoulder-mount grenade launcher. He turned his head, with crosshairs in his helmet showing him where the grenade would go. By pressing a button in his left hand, the launcher electromagnetically propelled the grenade and reloaded his weapon. Assault rifles had their uses, but where harder to wield well during flight. The idea of the grenade launcher was to clear a landing zone for an Eagle soldier.

  Eagle Team doctrine had changed since the Alaskan War, although Zhu knew little about that. The trainers had taught him present doctrine, not past. In the air, jetpack troops were vulnerable to enemy fire, just as paratroopers in the past had hung like ripe fruit floating down to earth. The jetpack was for maneuver while away from the enemy. While fighting, every Eagle soldier tried to land as quickly as possible and use cover like a regular combatant.

  Pop up. Then get down fast.

  “Fighter Rank.” The words crackled in Zhu’s headphones. It was Tian Jintao.

  Using his chin, Zhu flicked on communications. “Here, First Rank.”

  “‘Here,’ he says,” Tian told the others. “Give me your exact coordinates, recruit.”

  Zhu did.

  “Come down at mark 3, dash 42,” Tian said.

  Zhu read the coordinates on the HUD. Ah, this was a tricky maneuver. He twisted his wrist and throttled down, dipping, his body spinning to the left. He thrust harder, lifting now, and twisted again so he plunged toward the given coordinates.

  “Impressive,” he heard over the headphones.

  “Anyone can fly,” Tian said. “It’s fighting that counts.”

  “He’s supply and doesn’t have to fight,” someone else said.

  “He’s one of ours,” Tian told the others. “So he must do everything right.”

  The dark ground rushed up to greet Zhu. Landing was hardest. Landing while weighted down made it even more difficult. Zhu grinned as his boots touched down light as a feather. He was gifted at this, a—

  Something hard smashed against his side, hurling him down so his visor hit a rock.

  Zhu groaned.

  “Up, up!” Tian shouted. “The enemy is upon us. We’re heading to mark 3, dash 41.”

  Zhu crawled to his feet. On the ground lay a dud grenade. The Frist Rank must have fired it at him. Despite the dinylon armor, his side throbbed.

  “You must be ready for anything, Fighter Rank,” Tian said over the headphones.

  Zhu grunted a response. Just when—he twisted the throttle, rising above another projectile shot at him.

  “He learns quickly, First Rank.”

  “But can he fight?” Tian asked.

  “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  Zhu nodded. They were training hard. Word had filtered down to them that a combat assault was about to take place in several days. No one knew the hour, but everyone knew the Big One was almost here. Invasion: California, it was really going to happen and Zhu would be in the initial assault, killing American High Command personnel.

  “Fighter Rank!” Tian shouted.

  “Here, First Rank,” Zhu said.

  “Quit dreaming. You’re off course by several meters. I expect perfection from my men.”

  Zhu squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them wide. He was going to excel. He was a White Tiger, an elite jetpack killer. The trainers had taught him that he would live or die with his squad mates. He would show the others. He would, even if he was too skinny to fight as well as they did. He would train until he could fire his grenades as well as any of them, or he would die trying.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Anna sat down beside Director Levin at the circular conference table. She couldn’t believe it. Little had changed since the last time she had come down to White House Bunker Number Five. Oh, there were a few more fancy computers and a holoimage in the center of the table, but nothing fundamentally different.

  She recognized General Alan: the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the highest-ranking military man in the chamber. He was thin and wore glasses, and frowned upon sight of her. General Alan had been here during Clark’s term as President. From a few tidbits that she’d heard before, Anna believed Alan was Sino-phobic.

  There were others here: the Secretary of State, of Defense, the President’s advisors and the top general of the Air Force, the Army and Strategic Command.

  President Sims was a plump man with wispy blond hair attempting to cover his balding spot in front. He had splotchy features, only looking a little like the man who appeared on the TV and billboards. The eyes told a different story. They were pale blue, alert like a hawk and spoke about a man willing to make tough decisions. He had done just that in Alaska seven years ago. The thin mouth was downturned, showing worry. Again, that was nothing like his TV appearances. On TV, on political ads and on the internet he always appeared confident. He spoke in a forthright manner then, looking like someone the American people could trust with their children’s lives.

  He has good image-makers, Anna realized. I wonder what he’s like in person.

  No one introduced her, although several members frowned in her direction. Levin glanced at her once, as if to say, “Don’t worry about a thing, smart girl. You’re here under the President’s wing.”

  Anna wondered what would happen to her if she gave advice that proved disastrous. The President’s wing might not stretch so far then. She might be on her own among an increasingly xenophobic group. If the Japanese had actually landed on the U.S. mainland during World War II, what would have happened to all the interned Japanese-Americans?

  Under the table, Anna rubbed her shoes together so they rustled. What an unpleasant prospect. Should she hedge her bets? Should she tell the others what they wanted to hear? It would be the safest course. She studied the computer scroll before looking up.

  A major was speaking. The woman was one of General Alan’s aides. Using a holopad, the major changed the holoimage in the center of the table. She was running strength figures along the Mexican-American border, the entirety of it, not just in Texas. The enemy had a 1.75 to 1 advantage in numbers. That counted the U.S. Militia brigades. Some were better than others. According to the major, they expected some militia units to crumple upon contact with the enemy.

  Can you count soldiers like you would cordwood? Anna didn’t think so.

  One of the problems was tanks. The PAA and the SAF in Mexico had a three to one advantage in tanks, and the major said a substantial advantaged in quality, too. That could spell true calamity if the enemy armor broke free in Texas or New Mexico. They might drive for hundreds of miles, creating a gap America could never hope to close, forever dividing the country in two.

  “A moment,” the President said. “What about our new Behemoth tanks?”

  The major glanced at General Alan.

  Alan cleared his throat. “Sir, the Behemoths are experimental, with too many teething problems. It will be six months, maybe nine months to a year before they’re ready for combat.”

  “Seeing at what we’re dealing with in Texas, we’re probably not going to have that long.” Sims glanced around the chamber, appearing thoughtful. “I remember the tri-turreted tanks in Alaska, the T-66. They were pure murder. I hate the idea of superior Chinese technology chewing up our boys again. I want those Behemoths in combat.”

  “I understand, sir,” Alan said. “I’ll set up a video conference so you can speak to the colonel of the experimental team.”

  The Presi
dent nodded. “Keep talking,” he told the major.

  In artillery and mortar tubes, the enemy coalition had a four to one advantage. They were seeing what that meant in and around Laredo. The enemy had already destroyed too many American guns. Towed artillery was nearly useless in these duels, dying soon after firing. It was “shoot and scoot” on the Texas plains.

  Once the Germans added their hovers and airmobile brigades, the numbers would skew even more sharply against America. GD aircraft were just as good as the Chinese, their pilots probably better.

  We’re like one giant Alamo, Anna realized.

  “We need time,” Sims said. “The Chairman didn’t bite on my Geneva offer. I thought for sure he would demand a reinstatement of the food tribute. I could have talked for weeks, gaining us time. I want other ideas from you people.”

  Some spoke about a preemptive strike against Mexican railheads, stalling the Chinese buildup against Laredo. Others suggested taking artillery from quiet fronts and massing them and surprising the coming Chinese thrust with a wall of raining steel.

  “You can’t take anything from Florida,” the Army Chief of Staff said, a big man with flushed features. He looked like a beer drinker. “For that matter, it would be a damn stupid idea to strip soldiers from Louisiana or Georgia. The Germans are coming. They want revenge for what we did to them in World Wars I and II.”

  There came a pause in the conversation. CIA Director Levin cleared his throat. “We have some minority analysis that indicates a possibility that we should consider one disturbing possibility. The Laredo artillery attack and the GD demonstration may be meant as decoys to the real assault.”

  General Alan shook his head. “I think you’re being too subtle. Remember, the World War II Germans thought the D-Day Invasion into Normandy was a feint. They held back their reserves, waiting for the real attack to occur. In the end, they waited too long to strike at the beachheads. It seems clear to me what happened in Texas. A Chinese general started shooting too soon. How do you keep control of six million soldiers? Believe me; it’s difficult. Since he started firing, the Chinese are massing sooner than they intended, deciding to push through with the assault.”

  “I don’t know about ‘massing’,” the Air Force Chief of Staff said. He was a tall man with a nose like a hawk and a thin mustache, looking like the old French General Charles De Gaulle. “The Chinese are ‘moving’ troops into the sector. I don’t believe they’re moving as many bodies as we’re supposed to think they are.”

  “Bah!” General Alan said. “And you believe your drones have spotted everything?”

  “Enough to get a picture of what’s happening,” the Air Force General snapped. His name was O’Connor.

  “Gentlemen,” the President said, “please. I don’t want pointless bickering. Instead, I would like to address the possibly of a Chinese offensive in California.”

  “Sir?” General Alan asked. “The evidence is plain. An offensive has already begun in Texas.”

  “I wouldn’t call it an offensive just yet,” the President said. “After years of waiting that’s the best the Chinese can do?”

  “It’s very methodical,” Alan said. “It’s chewing up our fortifications and whittling down our artillery at little cost to them, other than a massive expenditure of shells.”

  “It’s also giving us time to harden our defenses behind the attacked area,” Sims said. “No, as devastating as it is, the artillery bombardment isn’t a real attack. The Chinese have yet to send in their infantry to take ground. It feels far too much as if they’re orchestrating an attack to fix our attention in Texas.”

  “I wonder if the German General Staff had similar arguments about the D-Day Invasion,” Alan said.

  Sims scowled at his hands. He sat like that for a time. Finally, looking up, he said, “Ms. Chen, explain to us your reason for your continuously grim reports concerning California.”

  Anna’s head snapped up. Everyone looked at her, some with hostility. Steeling herself, she began to speak, telling them what she’d told Director Levin. The spy in Mexico City reported a shutdown of civilian road usage at night in northern Baja to California. It occurred, the spy believed, so the Chinese could move troops and supplies to the border.

  General Alan shrugged. “The biggest war in history has started and we’re worried because the Chinese military has closed the roads nearest our border? I expect attacks in California. Yes, we must prepare there. But I’m much more worried about Texas where men are dying. Our reports indicate the Chinese weren’t one hundred percent ready to attack there. Yet they have massed—”

  “Moved, not massed,” Air Force General O’Connor said.

  General Alan slapped a hand on the table.

  “Gentlemen,” the President said. “I would like to point out that Ms. Chen was correct about Chinese actions seven years ago. Back then, she tried to warn Clark or one of his top people about the impending attack. None of them listened to her. I don’t plan making the same mistake. She is an expert on Chinese behavior. It is, I believe, her report that allowed us to find out about Blue Swan.”

  “That is correct,” Director Levin said.

  “Blue Swan,” Sims said. “I haven’t heard anything about evidence of Blue Swan missiles in Texas. Yet we know some are near the SoCal border. The EMP missiles seem to me like a potentially war-winning weapon. It would be logical to believe that wherever the Chinese put the Blue Swan missiles, that is where they plan to break through our defenses.”

  No one said a word for a time after the President’s statement.

  Finally, General Alan glanced at his aide—the major—before addressing the President. “Sir, suppose this is the truth. Suppose the growing Texas firestorm is a Chinese ploy to divert our attention. Suppose the German Dominion is helping them trick us by sending their hovers out to sea. What does that mean for Southern California?”

  O’Connor spoke up. “It means the Chinese have improved EMP devices to throw against us.”

  “Highly improved,” Levin added.

  General Alan glanced from the Air Force General to the CIA Director. “Suppose Blue Swan knocks out much of our electronics on the SoCal front. What does that mean to us?”

  “You’re supposed to tell us what it means,” Sims said.

  General Alan glanced at the major.

  “With your permission, sir,” she said.

  The President nodded.

  “Sir,” the major said, “We’re laying old-fashioned fiber optic lines between various headquarters and their artillery parks in the SoCal Fortifications.”

  “That isn’t exactly correct,” Director Levin said.

  The major blushed and she glanced at General Alan. Alan glanced at her with raised eyebrows. She leaned toward him, whispering in his ear so her red lips almost touched his skin. She did it as if she was his lover imparting precious secrets.

  “Let me correct the statement,” General Alan said a moment later. “We’ve begun placing fiber optics. It is unfortunately taking us longer than we thought it would. We’ve also scoured warehouses for old land mines, simple pressure mines. Our stockpiles are low, I’m afraid. Usually, we send factory-made mines straight to the front, where the troops emplace them. My point, sir, is that up until now little has changed in the Southern California Fortifications. Because of the sheer size of the fortifications and the hundreds of thousands of troops there, these things take time.”

  “We don’t have time,” Sims said. “Texas shows us that.”

  “That’s the real problem, sir. We’re not ready to face the Blue Swan missiles—if the missiles do what our scientists believe they might. But what if this is all an elaborate bluff by Chinese Intelligence.”

  “Speak plainly, General.”

  General Alan glanced at Anna. “No offense intended, sir, but can we trust everyone in the chamber?”

  Sims’s pale blue eyes focused sharply on the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “Do you believe Ms. Chen is a traitor? Is
that what you’re saying?”

  “I have no way of knowing that, sir,” General Alan said. “She has not gone through the military’s vetting program as most of us here have.”

  “Other than her Chinese heritage,” Sims said, “what suggests to you that Ms. Chen might be a traitor?”

  General Alan frowned and he drummed his fingers on the table. The frown vanished and his features tightened. He leaned his head forward in an aggressive manner.

  “Blue Swan suggests it, sir. This entire scenario is too incredible to believe. It would seem, given this technological marvel, that we should pull back our troops from our carefully built defenses. That would be better than exposing an Army Group worth of soldiers to heightened EMP missiles. Yet if that’s true, then we know why Ms. Chen found out about the convoy when no one else could. The Chinese want us to leave our defenses without their having to fire a shot.”

  “No,” Sims said. “I don’t see it that way.”

  “If we stay,” Alan said, “and Blue Swan does indeed melt our electronics, it could be a military disaster.”

  “Sir,” Director Levin asked, “If I may?”

  Sims nodded to the wizened CIA Director.

  Levin directed his words to General Alan, “Trying to withdraw our troops from the fortifications as the missiles hit would be an even greater disaster.”

  The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs pursed his thin lips, nodding a moment later. “I grant you that.”

  “Therefore,” Levin said, “no matter what, we must hold the line.”

  “Hold without communications?” General Alan asked. “Hold with many critical components burned out? Oh, I grant you we may be able to harden with field-expedients some electronics if they give us enough time. Depending on the strength of the EMP, many weapons systems would simply shut down. You don’t hold under those conditions. You die. But as I said, it strikes me as too incredible that China has such missiles. I think we are being bluffed by Chinese Intelligence.”

  “What you’re suggesting is ridiculous,” Levin said. “Ms. Chen has often been proven right in her assessments. The Chinese have advanced technology. We know that. The Blue Swan missile exists. Your recon man Kavanagh discovered the one as the Chinese quietly brought it to the SoCal Front. These are all facts.”