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. T
hey 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 seve
n 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.
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