Kao must have understood which way the wind blew. He shook his head and the conference soon ended.
POWAY, CALIFORNIA
Paul Kavanagh ducked behind a concrete wall. Seconds later a powerful explosion shook the area. Debris rained and more enemy shells landed. A titanic clang told Paul the M1A3 tank helping them hold this street was no more.
He glanced back and could see the separated turret laying sideways, the bent cannon thrust part way into a burning shoe store.
“Chinese UCAV,” Romo said.
Paul looked up and noticed where Romo pointed. Yeah, he saw it, a slow-flying prop job. It had another Annihilator missile under a wing like the one that had just killed the Abrams. It also had a long cannon—it must be a vehicle-hunting drone. Even as he watched, the cannon chugged, and a Stryker hiding from the Chinese Marauders down the street sagged as tires deflated and shells punched holes in the skin.
Paul was part of the rearguard in Poway, fighting with a platoon of the 23rd Infantry Division. The platoon was down to sixteen soldiers, including Paul and Romo. They didn’t have any Blowdart shoulder-launched missiles to take down the enemy aircraft. They’d used the last one days ago.
“Ready?” Paul asked.
“The drone is too far and likely flying too fast for us,” Romo said.
“That isn’t what I asked. Are you ready?”
Romo glanced at Paul. They were both covered with grime, with the dirt worked deep into their skin. Each had a patchy uniform and badly dinged and used Kevlar armor. Paul wore a bandage on his cheek, while Romo had a bigger one on his neck. Paul had sewn the neck wound closed three days ago and it was infected. The assassin was too proud to complain. Each of them had the hollow stare of a soldier who had seen too much combat.
“Amigo, I was born ready,” Romo said.
“Glad to hear it. Let’s take down the S.O.B.”
The UCAV dipped toward them, its cannon chugging. A Bradley Fighting Vehicle barely avoided destruction by backing up fast. Huge chunks of pavement geysered upward and sprayed the pieces in all directions like a granite shower.
Paul grunted as he grabbed the .50 caliber Browning. Romo did likewise. They hefted the machine gun, putting its tripod onto the concrete wall. Paul slid around Romo and clutched the butterfly controls. Romo leaned heavily against the tripod. He’d already put plugs in his ears.
Swiveling the machine gun, Paul used the laser rangefinder. It was an upgraded Browning. The ballistic computer flashed the coordinates. Paul adjusted and he used his thumbs, pressing the buttons. The heavy machine gun was loud, and it shook. Red tracers helped Paul make minute corrections. As a Bradley Fighting Vehicle blew up from the UCAV’s cannon, .50 caliber bullets riddled the drone. The Chinese craft nosedived, and seconds later, it hit the ground, exploding out of sight.
Paul released his grip and slapped Romo on the back. The two of them lifted the big machine gun, taking it down off the wall. Both men ran crouched over, hidden from the enemy. Seconds later, Chinese shaped-charge grenades hit the wall where they’d just been, demolishing it.
That was one of the rules. You couldn’t stay in the same spot long. Anyone who didn’t learn that was already dead or much luckier than he had a right to be.
“Here!” Paul shouted.
Romo grounded the tripod and slid the hot barrel through a hole in the concrete, wearing gloves. One time, when the barrel had glowed with heat, Romo had unzipped his fly and urinated on it. Now, he readied more ammo, giving Paul the thumbs up.
Paul lay on gravel, squinting down the sights. He was deep down exhausted. It was the kind of tired where you felt it in your bones. He wanted a hot bath and to sleep for days. Romo and he had been on the run for too long. They had fought too many battles and hiked over too many mountains to make it here into this particular pocket.
Army Group SoCal wasn’t one big united entity anymore, but just fractured parts holding out in different southern cities and hills. As far as Paul knew, this pocket was the farthest northward. It was the closet to LA. The trouble was that he and Romo were the rearguard. If a miracle occurred and somehow the U.S. Army in LA fought through to them, they would have to stand guard, buying time for the others.
“Movement,” Romo said.
“Ready.”
Romo picked up a Chinese RPG. That was how they operated these days. They scoured battlefields, looking for enemy equipment. Sometimes an American UAV dropped supplies, but that didn’t happen often. The Chinese were doing their best to destroy every vestige of Army Group SoCal, and they were doing a good job of it, too.
“There,” Romo said, pointing.
Paul saw them. Chinese soldiers in dinylon battle armor raced into view as they sprinted for cover. The lead man wore a black visor with a little antenna jutting up from it. These weren’t penal soldiers or the dreaded special infantry. These were regular fighting men. They were the kind that wanted to survive combat.
As if on cue, three Marauder drones appeared down the street. Their cannons roared one right after the other. Shells whistled and blasted sections of the concrete wall.
“Not yet,” Paul said. He didn’t speak to tell Romo what to do. The assassin knew better than he did the moment to strike. Paul spoke out of habit, out of an inner need.
The Marauders’ treads churned rubble. The light tank drones with their forest of antenna clanked toward them. The big cannons looked pitted around the mouths from too much firing. Now those cannons fired again, shaking the SUV-sized tanks. The shells made a dreadful noise, smashing into the concrete wall and into buildings, making everything shake.
On their bellies, Chinese soldiers crawled after the drones, working to get closer to the hidden Americans.
A sound crackled in Paul’s ear. It was their platoon leader. Actually, it was their company captain, but there wasn’t any company any more, just this skeleton of a platoon of sixteen sorry soldiers. The good thing was that these were the toughest, shrewdest and luckiest sixteen. It’s why they were still alive and why the rest of the company was dead meat. Still, the sixteen survivors were bone-weary and just wanted to go home.
The three tank-drones repeated their performance and the Chinese infantry crawled that much closer. Paul counted twenty of them and figured there was another forty soldiers hidden around here somewhere. It was a Chinese infestation.
“Bunch of cockroaches,” Paul muttered.
“That’s close enough,” the captain said into Paul’s ear via the implant. “Let her rip, gents.”
From his belly, Romo poked the RPG through a hole in the concrete. Enemy bullets flew at him. The Chinese soldiers must have been waiting for this. The slugs peppered the wall. Cool as you please Romo continued to sight.
Paul pressed the trigger of his .50 cal. His big bullets struck the nearest drone with hammering clangs. He tried to shoot out the camera ports. Blinding these tanks made everything easier.
Now Romo fired. There was a whoosh. The shaped-charge grenade flew and struck the Marauder drone, knocking off one of the treads.
“No kill on the cannon,” Paul said, as Romo pulled back beside him.
The drone fired, the shell screaming. It blew up more of the wall and this time it was uncomfortably near.
Paul pressed the butterfly triggers, and he began counting the number of Chinese he killed.
The implant crackled in his ear, “What are you doing? Pull back, soldier. We don’t want any more heroes. We can’t afford it.”
“Let’s go,” Paul said.
With robotic skill, he and Romo went to work taking down the machinegun. Seconds later, they ran, lugging the .50 caliber between them. The other Americans also retreated. That was the secret to the fight. You didn’t stay in one spot long. You traded space for time. You set up in a new ambush site and made the Chinese start the process all over again. It meant the pocket was always shrinking. Theirs wasn’t going to last long, but while it did last, Paul planned on taking down as many of the enemy as he could.
AVOCADO HIGHWAY, CALIFORNIA
Early in the morning of the next day, all fifteen operational Behemoths were on the move, hauled on their massive carriers.
Stan sat in the cab of his carrier, staring at the mountains around them. He’d been working out ideas on his iPad. This was a gamble, and as far as he could see, it was time to use the Behemoths as a closed fist. They had to smash through the Chinese line hard and fast. It needed to be a stunning blow. Since it was a gamble, and since time would be at a premium, why not risk everything right away?
M1A3 tanks ranged ahead, together with anti-air tac-lasers and Humvee Avengers with Blowdart missiles. Behind the Behemoths and the rest of the attacking force were hundreds of heavy trucks and haulers. They brimmed with supplies, and if everything went right, they would haul out weary soldiers of Army Group SoCal on their return to Temecula.
The carriers traveled for a time at fifteen mph. At mid-morning, the radio crackled. The lead elements of the breakthrough assault had reached the enemy.
In the cab of the carrier, Stan and Jose traded glances. Several seconds later, the radio squawked. Stan answered.
“What do you think?” Colonel Wilson asked.
“We’re not close enough yet,” Stan said. “Let’s wait to unload.”
“And if the Chinese send jets at us?”
“I don’t think they’re going to do that just yet, sir. Give it another half hour and then we unload.”
“That’s cutting it awful close, Captain.”
“Sir, this is a gamble, and—”
“You explained it to me earlier. Place everything on the bet, holding nothing back. All right, I asked for your advice and you’re the hero of Alaska.”
“That doesn’t make me right,” Stan said.
“No, but it means you might actually know what you’re talking about. We’ll do this your way, Captain.”
The words should have made Stan feel good. Instead, they tightened his gut. Is this what it felt like being a commander? Then he wanted nothing to do with the job. It was one thing risking your life on the line of battle. It was quite another sending other men to die for your ideas.
“Are you a praying man, Colonel?” Stan asked.
“I’ve been to church.”
“Well, sir, if I were you, I’d start praying pretty heavily right about now. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”
SAN YSIDRO, CALIFORNIA
Marshal Nung yawned as he entered the commander center. This was more like it. The technicians had been busy all last night. Now it looked like the regular command center back in Mexico. Everyone was here now, too. That included General Pi and Marshal Gang.
Moving to the computer table in the center of the chamber, Nung nodded to the larger Marshal Gang. The man looked at him stonily before grunting an acknowledgement. Nung acted better than he felt. He was sure Gang sent daily reports back to China to Marshal Kao. Well, everyone had his or her afflictions. Old-woman marshals were one of his.
“Put up situational map on the screen,” Nung said. The tac-officer obeyed and Nung surveyed the situation. Something caught his eye up there to the north.
“What’s this?” he asked, tapping the table along I-15 between Escondido and Temecula.
“I’ll find out, sir,” General Pi said. The officer spoke into his wrist microphone. Several minutes later, he said, “It appears the Americans are probing there, sir.”
“Probing?” Nung asked.
“There are reports of Abrams tanks, sir.”
Nung frowned. “Do we have a visual of what’s going on?”
“Negative,” the tac-officer said.
“I want a drone out there,” Nung said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is something wrong, sir?” Pi asked.
“We’re eating the Americans,” Nung said, “devouring them as I had anticipated from the start. Finally, some of the trapped formations have begun to surrender. Yet I fear we might not have made the net strong enough in this area. We’ve taught them that driving down the coastal route simply makes them targets for our sea-borne hovers and missile cruisers. There’s something different about this attempt here.”
“Are you sure, sir?” Pi asked. “We’ve driven off every attempt they’ve made to break through to the trapped army. I think they no longer have enough soldiers to make any more attempts.”
“You are wrong,” Nung said. “The Americans don’t have enough soldiers not to try. Now get me those visuals, even if you have to send a wing of fighters to get it.”
AVOCADO HIGHWAY, CALIFORNIA
For this operation, Stan was privy to more information than usual. It came through Colonel Wilson. The Behemoth Regiment had become the most important formation in all of California. That meant General Larson often spoke to Wilson. Wilson in turn had made Stan his right-hand advisor.
Fifteen Behemoth monsters clanked south along I-15. They were like fifteen, slow-motion semis, but with long cannons and squealing treads. Each tank proudly flew the Stars and Stripes and each approached the increasingly heated battle.
“We’ve lost eleven Abrams so far,” Wilson radioed.
Stan sat in his commander’s seat in the Behemoth. The trouble was the terrain. Here it definitely favored the defender. And in this instance, Chinese troops had infiltrated between Temecula and Escondido and grown stronger through helicopter reinforcements.
Stan spoke into the receiver. “I suggest you tell General Larson that he should accept the losses of all his Abrams in order to smash through the Chinese line. If we don’t break through into the pocket today, we can kiss California goodbye.”
“Those are harsh words, Captain.”
“Yes, sir, but the truth is we’re going to need more soldiers in order to defend Los Angeles. That means a few lost tanks here won’t matter in the end. All that matters is getting the trapped men free and ready to face tomorrow. This is our Dunkirk, sir.”
“Dunkirk, I’ve heard that name before,” Wilson said.
“You should. It’s a story of great valor and cunning. In 1940, the German panzers had slipped through the Ardennes, shattered the French and trapped the British Army on the coast. The British retreated to Dunkirk, and it was only a matter of time before the panzers came in to finish the job. Hitler took too long, however, interfering with his generals. That gave the British time to send every ship afloat to Dunkirk, where they ferried over 300,000 soldiers back to England. It saved the British, sir, because without those troops they wouldn’t have been able to hold out against a German cross-Channel invasion.”
“And you think this is our Dunkirk?” Wilson asked.
“I think so, sir. We need to ferry out our soldiers to fight again another day.”
“Yes, it’s what I’ll tell the General. A few Abrams don’t matter now.”
“In truth, our Behemoths don’t matter either,” Stan said. “We have to break through and free these soldiers, sacrificing whatever we have to in order to do it.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Wilson said.
“Those are my sentiments exactly, sir.”
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
Flight Lieutenant Harris found it hard to concentrate. He could hear Chinese artillery shells landing near the bunker. That shook the equipment in here and made plaster fall from the ceiling. PAA forces had steadily infiltrated San Diego and pushed back the American perimeter.
It was the confounded hovers. The Chinese controlled the ocean, reinforcing at will along the coast and attacking anywhere there that they wanted.
“Lieutenant,” a voice said in his ear.
Harris wore drone-gear as he piloted what would likely be his last V-10 UCAV. He was part of an air wing over I-15. They were covering the great escape, or what they hoped would be the great escape of the trapped American troops. Unfortunately, no one was coming for them here in San Diego. It was too far behind enemy lines. The terrible part was that they weren’t the only cut-off and trapped cit
y. All over San Diego County the situation was the same. The Chinese had shattered the integrity of Army Group SoCal and now squeezed each pocket tighter and tighter.
“Look to your left,” the air-controller said.
“Sorry,” Harris said. He had to forget about his own troubles. He had a job to do. He concentrated on flying his V-10. He ignored the shudder around him and the piece of plaster that fell near his feet. Instead, concentrating, he peered through the VR goggles and saw that the sky over I-15 swarmed with Chinese drones and jet fighters.
Clenching his teeth, Flight Lieutenant Harris decided this was going to be the only payback he would get. Soon, he would be dead or he would be a prisoner. Would they ship him south into Mexico, or would they transport him across the Pacific to China? Either way, he would never come home. He was certain of that.
“Let’s do this,” he whispered.
Several J-25s bored toward them. Higher up were recon drones. Battle ops called for no enemy recon vehicles. They were trying to keep the Chinese blind about what was going on along the highway.
The threat receiver growled in his ear. Harris expelled chaff, executed a hard-G maneuver and brought his small V-10 into position. He had lock-on, and he launched two Sun-stingers. Then he decided—
In his operator’s seat, Harris shook from side-to-side. He had no idea what was going on. Then someone tore off his VR goggles. A panicked MP with blood running down his face stood before him.
“What are you doing?” Harris asked.
“Chinese soldiers have blown the bunker entrance,” the MP said. “Take this.” The man shoved an assault rifle into his hands. Then the man fell backward, and try as he might, the MP couldn’t get back up.
Harris stared at the dying man and then at the ugly thing in his hands. Feeling as if he was in a nightmare, he called the air-controller. “I have to sign off. Someone else needs to control my drone.”
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