“You think killing this Nung will do that?” Paul asked.
“The President believes it, or his advisors have convinced him of it.”
“What do you believe, sir? I mean really?”
Ochoa’s features became flinty. The General opened his mouth, only to close it. Finally, in a quiet voice, he began to speak:
“Colonel Valdez has agreed to abide by my conditions. I’ve told him your importance to the mission. You’re a killer, although you’re a hell of an insubordinate soldier. How you and Romo made it back to our lines is beyond me. But that the two of you did only proves my theory. Marshal Nung is supposed to be one of those rare, operationally-gifted commanders. He knows how to win battles. From my information, the rest of the Chinese High Command dislikes him and his methods. We’re hoping that killing him…well, we’re hoping it will bring about a change in Chinese operations.”
“Sounds like a slim hope,” Paul said.
“Yes, I suppose it is. The sad truth is we’re down to that. We’re going to need some old-fashioned skullduggery and luck to slip you into First Front Headquarters. I don’t think we can fly you straight in this time. That’s why you’re going to have to take the long way through Mexico. And that’s why we need Colonel Valdez’s help.”
“Okay. I see what you’re saying. Now what do you have planned for getting us back out once we’ve completed the mission?”
Ochoa shook his head. “This is a one-way mission, gentlemen. Unless you can fight your way back like you did before, or unless you can convince Colonel Valdez to help you escape.”
Paul closed his eyes. This was it: a suicide mission. If he could talk Valdez into helping him escape…right! It would be out of the fire and into the cannibal’s cooking pot.
Beside him, Romo leaned near, whispering, “If we make it in, I think we could slip back out into Mexico.”
“Yeah, and into your Colonel’s hands,” Paul whispered.
“What is he saying?” Ochoa asked.
Paul studied the general. The truth was U.S. High Command would never let Cheri, Mike and him relocate to Colorado. If he went AWOL trying that—it was starting to look as if he had one chance to save his wife from Chinese occupation. It was this harebrained commando raid. He Who Dares, Wins, or some other B.S. like that.
Paul shook his head so his neck bones cracked. “Sir, I’ll do this if you promise to relocate my wife and son to Colorado.”
“Where are they now?”
“LA.”
“Can you be more specific?”
Paul gave him the address.
“I give you my word,” Ochoa said. “We’ll move them tomorrow.”
“Thank you, sir. When do we leave for this mission?”
Ochoa hesitated before saying, “Tonight.”
SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS
Colonel Valdez slammed his beer onto the desk, causing amber-colored liquid to slosh over the rim and stain the papers below. He was in a former bank vault, his headquarters here in San Antonio.
“No,” he told Torres. “I will not listen to reason. You will listen to me.”
The one-eyed soldier wouldn’t look at him. Valdez knew then that Torres didn’t truly understand. For a moment, Valdez considered drawing his sidearm and shooting the man in the heart. Torres had once been a good man. The one-eyed soldier had lost his wife to the Chinese, but not his courage. Yes, Torres knew how to hate. But it seemed now to the Colonel that somewhere Torres had given up his seething wish for vengeance against the insufferable foreigners.
That was the difference between him and others, Valdez knew. He kept his vengeance white-hot. He would never change. He would teach the Chinese what his vengeance meant just as he would teach the cowardly Mexican government that it shouldn’t have turned on him. Soon now, he was also going to carve a lesson into Paul Kavanagh for daring to desert his daughter on the field of battle. The crime was unforgiveable. What did it matter to him, this Chinese marshal? The marshal didn’t make the critical difference to the war, but the endless numbers of PAA soldiers did.
They must kill the Chinese, the Japanese and the Koreans until Mexico was a sea of blood. For that, Valdez needed dedicated men and women. They needed to know he would remember them and avenge them no matter what the cost. It was all about loyalty and utter commitment.
“I want Paul Kavanagh,” Valdez said.
“Romo will bring him to us after the raid, Colonel.”
“Ah, good,” Valdez said, deciding this instant that Torres was to be cut out of the loop. The man was dead to him now, useless manure. “Good,” he said. “You may go, my friend.”
Torres gave him a troubled look, and it seemed as if the dead man was going to speak. Finally, Torres slunk away like the dog he had become.
Valdez stood and went to his radio. He would speak to the guerilla commander near the Mexican-American border. He would have to impress upon the man the extreme need to separate Kavanagh from the other commandos. It would be easy except for one thing. Why hadn’t Romo already killed Kavanagh? There was a mystery here.
Could Romo have failed me? If that were true, Romo would also have to die a gruesome death.
POMONA, CALIFORNIA
Fighter Rank Zhu’s stomach did a flip as his helicopter flashed upward. It was as if his helo took a gigantic leap over the defenders dug in the rubble and behind the shattered buildings below. There were several varieties of helicopters around him: more Eagle Team battle-taxis, Gunhawks and Graceful Swans with their Annihilator missiles. The helicopters flew over the blaze of enemy machine guns and launching Blowdarts.
Graceful Swan chain-guns spewed fire, the spent shells raining from their weapons, and Annihilator missiles launched from the stubby wings. Below, a Humvee Avenger blew up, a lone helmet spinning with the gory remains of a blood-dripping neck. Other Americans died in their machine gun pits.
Witnessing this destruction, Zhu clutched the handlebars on his seat of the battle-taxi. Pomona had become a sea of rubble and half-demolished buildings. Civilians huddled in the ruins while others lay bloating and rotting. Just as bad, fires raged in places. Smoke curled in long ribbons up into the black cloud over Pomona and over Greater Los Angeles. Farther away, artillery boomed with gigantic flashes from the south and to the north.
The helicopters headed toward a cluster of several prominent buildings behind the American line. The tactic of cutting off the forward enemy troops had worked brilliantly since its conception. The buildings loomed closer so scourge marks became visible in the brick walls. Many of the windows were cracked and a few were broken with jagged edges. Zhu’s gut tightened and his arms tingle with anticipation.
Tian’s orders growled in his headphones and Zhu lofted off his seat and ignited his thrusters. With unerring skill, the First Rank Tian guided them toward the largest structure of the cluster. Once it must have been a towering office building.
As the advanced flyers zoomed near, a terrible surprise unfolded. Americans appeared in the highest windows. The enemy must have been waiting in ambush for them. Assault guns blazed. Beside Zhu, a commando tumbled backward as his visor shattered. The soldier plummeted toward the ground. More Americans appeared; these were on the roof. They launched Blowdart missiles at the climbing Gunhawks and manhandled heavy machine guns into position.
“What do we do?” a commando shouted through the radio-net.
A Gunhawk slewed to the side. A second Blowdart exploded against the tail. The helo nosedived, picking up speed, and in seconds, it crashed spectacularly into the ground.
The fight became desperate, men versus machines. A Gunhawk’s machine guns began pouring fire onto the Americans. Then three Blowdarts in quick succession blasted the helo out of the sky.
Zhu yelped in terror as Graceful Swans’ chain-guns whirled behind him. Ferroconcrete chunks and chips flew, along with American sprays of blood.
“There’s no turning back,” Tian radioed. “We are White Tigers and we never retreat.”
The Americans in the windows kept firing, even as the ones on the roof died. As they died, more Eagle Team commandos dropped out the sky.
For an Eagle flyer, this was the worst possible place to be during an insertion: hanging in the air like ripe fruit.
“We must retreat!” a commando wailed.
“We can’t land on the roof,” another radioed. “We’ll be cut down by our own Gunhawks.”
“I know!” Zhu shouted. He twisted the throttle and his jets blasted so the straps dug into his shoulders. He flew at the nearest window. Twice, he heard metallic whines like angry mosquitoes—bullets passing him.
Using the crosshairs on the HUD, Zhu targeted the window and let his electromagnetic grenade launcher chug. Like fastballs two grenades hit next to the window, harmlessly exploding concrete. The third flew through the window past the American inside. It blasted the enemy soldier off his feet so he pitched out of the window. He tumbled like a flailing doll for the ground below.
“Use the windows!” Zhu shouted. “Fly into the building.”
“You’re crazy,” a commando radioed.
“No!” Tian said. “He’s right. It will take skillful flying, but it’s our only chance. Once you make it into a room, get out of the way, because more commandos will follow.”
Zhu’s window became immense in his view. He braked hard and flew in feet first, finding himself running across the floor. An American in the room stared at him in shock. Zhu snapped off a grenade. The American flew off his feet, his chest a gaping, smoking hole. Shrapnel speckled Zhu, but his dinylon armor held. He pulled a strap and the jetpack clanked onto the floor as Zhu tore his assault rifle from it. He didn’t wait, but charged through the room’s door, knelt and fired a burst as Militiamen appeared down the hall.
The fight for the building had begun. Behind him more Eagle Team flyers entered. Some crashed against the building’s side and fell to their deaths. Twenty-seven made it inside. They faced half a company of Militiamen.
For the next hour the battle raged, until only fourteen White Tigers survived. They captured the roof and the three upper floors. Trapped Americans held the lower levels.
“You and me, Fighter Rank,” Tian panted. He lay on his back on the roof, resting for a second as they waited for reinforcements. Tian looked up at him. “The way you fight, I am asking they promote you to Soldier Rank.”
Zhu beamed with pride. Before he could think of something to say, three Chinese cargo helicopters approached the roof. The nearest had open bay doors, with soldiers pointing their weapons earthward. The helos held Chinese airborne troops. An American missile sped upward and slammed into one of them, but the Blowdart failed to explode. The helicopter began to twist, but had a good pilot, and landed heavily onto the roof, disgorging the airborne soldiers.
At the run, the reinforcements filed down the stairwells. Meanwhile the Gunhawks high overhead, continued to make it a murderous sprint for any Americans trying to reinforce the building from the ground entry points.
“We’re going to win this one,” Tian said.
Zhu nodded as he looked into the distance. They kept occupying more of Greater Los Angeles, but there was always additional territory to take. When would it end?
“We’ve killed a lot of them,” Zhu said.
“What’s that?”
“Americans, we’ve killed a lot of them.”
“Yes, and we’re going to kill a lot more.”
Zhu noticed movement below. He swung the captured American machine gun, firing at enemy soldiers sprinting for the bottom entrance to the building. Will I make Soldier Rank? I hope so.
COACHELLA VALLEY, CALIFORNIA
That evening, a sleek, nearly soundless UAV streaked like an owl over the nighttime surfaces of the Coachella Valley floor. Behind it in the distance were several other nearly invisible aircraft.
Inside the first ultra-stealthy insertion drone rode Paul, Romo and Donovan. There were no windows, but there was a soft blue light to show them their piled gear. Like abductees in a UFO, they had to trust an unseen operator. This one piloted them toward a lonely field in Mexico.
Paul and Romo played cards, while Donovan kept staring at the special piece of equipment Romo had chosen.
“I don’t get it,” Donovan finally said.
Paul and Romo looked up.
Donovan toed a bulky, two-cylinder backpack with an attached tube and special nozzle.
“What don’t you get?” Paul asked. He knew Romo wasn’t going to answer the man. “It’s a flamethrower.”
“I know what it is,” Donovan said.
“Okay.”
“What I can’t figure out is why he wants to bring it along.”
Paul glanced at Romo. “Amigo?” he asked.
The ghost of a smile played along Romo’s lips. He lowered his cards and studied Donovan.
The Green Beret didn’t scare. Paul hadn’t thought he would.
“I have a message to give the Chinese,” Romo finally said, speaking in a soft voice.
“Yeah, what’s that?” Donovan asked. “Come on, baby, light my fire?”
“Si, I will light a fire,” Romo said. “I will make them burn for what they did to us.”
“You know we’re probably going down into a bunker,” Donovan said.
Romo just stared at the man.
“Fire gobbles oxygen,” Donovan said. “We won’t be able to breathe if you start smoking them with that thing down there.”
“We will breathe fine,” Romo said.
“I ain’t a dragon.”
Romo raised the cards to his chest, turning back to Paul.
“Am I missing something?” Donovan asked.
“Our helmets have filters,” Paul said. “We’ll breathe okay.”
Sergeant Donovan continued to stare at the flamethrower. “It’s too heavy, too cumbersome and it’s not something you want to take down with you into a bunker. It’s crazy.”
“Si,” Romo said, still studying his cards.
“You’re both crazy is what I think,” Donovan said.
“Is that why General Ochoa sent you with us?” Paul asked.
“No. I’m along to make sure Colonel Valdez’s men understand a few realities about life and about you. You’re golden, Kavanagh, at least until this mission is completed.”
“Sounds good,” Paul said. “I hope you’ve told the Chinese how golden I am.”
“Nope,” Donovan said. “You and me, we’re going to have to show them ourselves.”
MEXICO CITY, MEXICO
On his lunch break, Old Daniel Cruz with the bad knees sat on a bench in Santa Anna Park. He watched a red-colored roller strutting across the bricks.
The roller was a pigeon, but not one of the regular wild ones that infested the park near the city’s main business district. Daniel used to raise pigeons as a young boy. His rollers flew in the air like homing pigeons, but they were the acrobats of the bird world. As they flew, sometimes, they flipped backward. A good roller would flip backward twenty, maybe even fifty times in the air before it recovered and kept winging around. This roller here in Santa Anna Park, it must belong to a pigeon fancier, a pigeon breeder. This roller must have escaped from its loft, the name pigeon breeders called the bird cages.
“Are you free, my friend?” Daniel asked softly.
For an answer, the roller cooed and strutted a little nearer. There was a red band on the bird’s left leg, with lettering on it.
Daniel liked to come to the park for lunch. He had a cheese sandwich wrapped in wax paper. It wasn’t much. Donna had brought the cheese home, a gift from Colonel Peng. The man had impregnated his daughter and then he had forced her to abort the child. Donna wept at night over it, but she still went to visit the Chinese supply officer. She claimed to love him.
Daniel breathed harder. He detested the occupiers and he despised how Colonel Peng used his daughter. Now, with this forced abortion, he had yet another reason to pile hate on top of hate. Unfortunately, he could do
nothing about his animosity. He was an old man trapped—
A compact man in a business suit sat down beside him on the bench. The man wore sunglasses and carried a lunch pail. He set the box on his knees, opened it and pulled out a hot corned beef sandwich. It smelled delicious and it made Daniel’s mouth water.
It had been a long time since Daniel had eaten meat. Cheese—he should be grateful for what he had, not wish for something impossible like meat.
“Daniel Cruz,” the man said before taking a bite of his corned beef.
Daniel froze, but he was wary enough, old and wise enough, to keep from whipping about to stare at the man.
“We have done business before,” the man said softly while chewing.
Out of the corner of his eye, Daniel studied the stranger. He was white, compact, probably running to fat and looked to be a youthful forty-five.
Daniel would have loved to be forty-five again. Ah, the things he would do.
“I am from the Swiss Embassy,” the man said.
Daniel’s heart began to pound. And now, he could not help himself. He looked at the man. He had freckles on his cheeks. Yes, he could be Swiss but more likely, this was a CIA agent.
“You’ve never seen me before,” the man said.
“You work for the SNP?” By that, Daniel meant the present Mexican government and the inference therefore was the secret police. They were a nasty, evil lot, who loved entrapping their own people.
“We would not be talking if I belonged to the secret police,” the man said. “Instead, they would be marching you away for torture.”
“Why are you here?”
“Eat your sandwich,” the man said. “Watch your pigeon. It is what you always do, and you should not deviate from that.”
With leaden, numb fingers, Daniel opened the wrapper and took out his sandwich. The bread was limp compared to the man’s and the cheese inside a poor substitute for corned beef. A flash of hatred surged through Daniel for this well-fed American agent, but he suppressed it.
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