“You are CIA,” Daniel said quietly.
The man stiffened slightly, but hid it well.
Secretly, Daniel smiled inside. Rich foreigners—Americans or Chinese—coming to his country and eating better than he did, it was not right.
“Do not,” the man whispered. “say such things.”
“What do you want?”
The man took another bite of corned beef, chewed for a time but couldn’t swallow.
I have scared him. Maybe he is CIA. I don’t know. He cannot help me, so what does it matter?
The man opened his suit and took out a silver-colored flask from an inner pocket. He twisted the cap and took a swallow. By the odor, it was whiskey. The man’s hand didn’t shake as much now as he slipped the flask back into the suit.
Finally swallowing his corned beef, the man whispered, “We need a vital piece of information. If you give it to us, it might go a long way toward defeating the enemy’s California thrust.”
Daniel shrugged. What did he care about that?
“We have never come to you before,” the man said. “That should show you how critical this is to the war effort.”
Daniel could see that. He could also see that the man—the CIA—jeopardized his life by doing this. That jeopardized his daughter’s life. That—ah. The man could do something for him after all.
Feeling calmer, feeling much better about the rich man with his meat sandwich, Daniel said, “You will have to pay me for this information.”
“Yes. I’m prepared to do that.”
“I want a gun.”
“A gun?” The CIA agent actually looked at him, before turning away and blinking thoughtfully.
“I want a .38 revolver,” Daniel said, “with each chamber loaded with a bullet. Can you get that for me?”
“What do you need a gun for?”
Daniel smiled. It was good to control a situation, to show the foreigner that this was his land and his country. “What do you need my information for?” he asked the agent.
The man squeezed his eyes shut as if analyzing the situation. He opened his eyes almost right away and nodded. “Done. One .38 with bullets, I can do that.”
“Excellent.”
“In return, you need to give me a way into Marshal Nung’s Headquarters. We believe it is in San Ysidro, California.”
“Ah,” Daniel said, “such a small thing as that? You do not want the moon as well?”
“Can you do it?”
Daniel took a bite of his sad sandwich. The cheese would upset his stomach tonight. Donna knew that, but she fed him Colonel Peng’s gift anyway. Could he do this thing for the American? He had seen the First Front Headquarters many times on the scheduled traffic routes. Pedro’s computer had more detailed information. Yes, it should be possible for him to find a way. No one bothered with truck drivers bringing needed supplies.
“I believe I can do as you want,” Daniel said. “I will find a special shipment order. Provided you have the needed vehicles and uniforms…”
The man nodded in a noncommittal way.
“I think with the right orders you could slip a truck, maybe two, past the first few guard shacks. I doubt such shipment orders would bring you into the guarded compound, which is where I would think a headquarters would be.”
“…yes. What you suggest would be acceptable. When could you get this?”
“You need this badly, eh? Speed is foolish in these things.”
“I know.” The man shrugged. “I don’t have a say in that.”
“I might be able to get it tomorrow. I have a possible way.”
“Tomorrow when?” the man asked.
“By one o’clock or it’s not going to happen.”
“Can you make the drop—”
“I’ll drop it by two,” Daniel said.
The CIA agent looked at him for a moment, then put his half-eaten sandwich on the bench. He stood, saying quietly, “My…boss thanks you, sir.”
“The big boss?” Daniel asked. Did the man mean the President of the United States?
“Good luck and good-bye.” The man strolled away.
Daniel sat back and he found himself holding his own limp sandwich. The roller still waited. He tore off a piece of crust and threw it to the pigeon. The roller cocked its head at him, strutted closer and pecked at the bread, eating it. Afterward, Daniel ate the rest of the American’s sandwich. A .38 revolver with bullets, yes, it was exactly what he needed.
And the corned beef was very good too.
GUADALUPE’S FARM, MEXICO
The standoff came that evening at 6:32 PM in the barn on Guadalupe’s Farm. Paul, Romo, Donovan and the other twelve commandos had already spent a restless night, morning and afternoon here. The ultra-stealthy UAVs had deposited them yesterday and returned to the States.
In the distance came the nearly constant roar of big supply trucks heading for the front. Occasionally engines sputtered or there came the loud bang of a backfiring truck. Vehicles came from Mexico City, and they came from the Baja ports. Their destinations were always California, feeding the hungry maw of the Chinese armies grinding through Los Angeles. It was one of the reasons why Chinese arms were able to push and push and push forward yet again. The Chinese artillery never seemed to stop pounding and pulverizing because more shells and supplies always reached them.
In the barn were two Chinese supply trucks and each contained large boxes of unopened Army rations. It was a testimony to the will of Valdez’s guerillas that the boxes were still intact. The partisans on Guadalupe’s Farm were thin with malnourishment. They reminded Paul of Maria Valdez and her soldiers.
The sixteen commandos outnumbered the seven guerillas. More Free Mexico soldiers arrived on foot, twenty-one hard-eyed killers carrying an odd assortment of weapons. That meant there were now twenty-eight Mexicans against the sixteen Americans.
The guerilla leader was a one-armed man with a large .357 holstered at his side and an even larger mustache. He reminded Paul of Pancho Villa, although instead of a sombrero the man wore a red do-rag. Romo had informed Paul that in his youth, the guerilla leader had been a Los Angeles gang member.
The twenty-eight Free Mexico guerillas marched toward the barn, with the one-armed leader in front.
“Show time,” Donovan said, as he peered through a crack of the barn door.
Every commando picked up an assault rifle or grenade launcher.
“Wait,” Paul said. “A gunfight isn’t going to make our case.”
“Sure it is,” Donovan said.
“You know what I mean,” Paul said. “We’re here to get ourselves killed in Marshal Nung’s Headquarters, not to die in a firefight with our allies. Let me speak to them outside.”
Donovan laughed. “Sure, go ahead. They’ll take you into the woods and hang you, or maybe they’ll plant your ass on a sharp stick. How would you like that?”
“Paul is right,” Romo said. “We must talk to them. I’ll go with him.”
Donovan eyed them, and he shrugged. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Nice knowing you, Kavanagh.”
Paul grunted. Then he opened the barn door enough and slipped outside to the approaching mob. Romo stepped out with him and closed the barn door.
The one-armed leader with the .holstered 357 and the red do-rag—his street name was Gaucho—swaggered ahead of the mob. He pointed at Paul.
“Colonel Valdez has given his orders, gringo. You must come with us.”
“Look—” Paul said.
“No!” Gaucho shouted, motioning sharply with his hand. “There is no more talk. You will come with us and America can have our two trucks and our help. Otherwise, we pull out our guns, Americano, and shoot you down where you stand.”
Paul’s chest constricted and he had to tell himself to leave the assault rifle on his shoulder. The idea of a rope around his neck, or worse, a stake up his—
Romo stepped in front of him, and the assassin had a gun in his hand.
“What is thi
s?” Gaucho asked. “Are you a traitor to our people?”
“I am Juan Romo.”
The guerillas began talking among themselves, some of them nodding. Everyone knew about the Colonel’s best killer.
“Quiet!” Gaucho told them. “The Colonel gave us his orders.” He faced Romo. “It won’t help if you shoot me. The rest of my men will still hang the traitorous gringo.”
“You won’t be here to see it happen,” Romo said.
Gaucho shrugged with indifference. “Neither will you.”
Romo smiled. “Good. I am tired of living in a land of fools.”
Striking his chest, Gaucho took a step closer. “You can call me a fool. But you will never say such a thing about Colonel Valdez.”
Romo laughed. “That is exactly what I am saying. He is a fool. We all know it and it is why we follow him to the gates of Hell.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we fight the Chinese even though they have six million soldiers in our country. Well, they did have six million. Now many have gone into America to die.”
“Good,” Gaucho said. “The Americans are no better than the Chinese.”
“Wrong,” Romo said. “They kill the Chinese, who have stepped on our country like a conqueror. I am not a slave. I refuse to bow or scrape to the Chinese.”
“I don’t bow either.”
“Colonel Valdez has the heart of a lion,” Romo said. “He fights and he devours his enemies. He lost his daughter to the Chinese. Instead of wishing a terrible vengeance on them, his grief has unhinged his reason. He wants this American killer to suffer. I have been with him now for weeks. Paul Kavanagh kills the Chinese with unrelenting savagery. Now, his country sends him to destroy one of the great military minds of China. No, now, Colonel Valdez wishes this killer dead instead. But Kavanagh is off to die in the very heart of power of the enemy. I love Colonel Valdez. I will follow him anywhere. But in this, I say, he is wrong.”
Gaucho gathered saliva in his mouth and he spit on the ground. “You are a liar, Juan Romo. You—”
Romo’s gun barked. Gaucho staggered backward, with a look of surprise on his face. He opened his mouth and tried to speak. His knees folded and he toppled face-first onto the ground.
“You killed him,” a guerilla said.
“I saw that I could not reason with Gaucho,” Romo said. “His death makes me sad. Come now. Let me know if there are more of you who refuse to reason with me.”
“You killed Gaucho,” the same guerilla said.
Romo swiveled so his gun pointed at the man. “Do you want to join Gaucho?”
The guerilla glanced at Gaucho and then into Romo’s eyes. The guerilla looked away and shook his head, but there was stubbornness stamped on his face.
“Good,” Romo said. “Then go into the barn.”
The guerilla hesitated, maybe with indecision, or maybe he saw something unyielding in Romo. He took a step toward the barn door.
“Leave your gun belt here,” Romo told him.
The guerilla’s eyes widened angrily. He almost spoke. Perhaps he remembered how quickly Gaucho had just died. With a sharp motion, the guerilla unbuckled his gun belt and let the weapon fall in the dust.
“You may enter the barn,” Romo said.
With an erect bearing, the guerilla walked through the now partly open door. As he disappeared from view, the remaining guerillas glanced at each other.
“You know who I am,” Romo said.
They muttered, “Si” and nodded.
“You know I will kill whoever I must, yes?”
There were more muttered responses and nods.
“If you disagree with me, raise your hand and I will let you leave,” Romo said.
Once more, a few guerillas glanced at each other. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Colonel Valdez will not like this.”
“I do not like this,” Romo said. “Now, I have waited long enough. Everyone will set down his weapon and file into the barn. We must wait, and I do not want to have to kill any more fine Free Mexico fighters. But I will, my friends. This raid, it is the most important of the war. Later, I will visit Colonel Valdez and explain my actions to him. If he wishes, he can kill me then.”
“You swear this?” a guerilla asked.
“I swear it on the Virgin,” Romo said.
“That is good enough for me,” the guerilla told the others. “Juan Romo never lies.”
“He never lies,” another man said.
Soon, guerillas began putting their weapons on the ground and entering the barn.
Romo leaned near Paul and whispered, “It is a trick I learned a long time ago. Kill the leader and the rest will want to listen. Still, it is too bad about Gaucho. He was a good fighter. I did not enjoy that.”
Paul nodded, wondering if Romo had really fixed the situation or if the guerillas were just biding their time.
BEIJING, PRC
Jian Hong stood with Marshal Kao in his underground bunker in Beijing. There were enormous framed photographs on the walls with Jian handing a leashed polar bear cub to various dignitaries. The old Chairman had brought Jian down here seven years ago. This time Jian had summoned Kao. He wanted China’s top military man to explain the situation between the two of them while they were alone from prying ears.
“Leader,” Marshal Kao said, pointing at the computer table, at the symbol of Los Angeles. “This is an intolerable situation. Marshal Nung can no longer cut through the enemy and slice his formations into pieces, capturing the trapped troops later at his leisure.”
“I do not understand your references,” Jian said. “Nung has done it again. He has broken through Pomona, through Fullerton, Anaheim, Huntington Beach and Costa Mesa. We are in Long Beach, and in some places, we have battled through to the actual city of Los Angeles. We are winning.”
“We are winning if you believe acquiring a little more territory achieves victory.” Kao looked up with surprise, maybe at his own boldness. “I beg your pardon, Leader. What I meant to say is that we have not yet broken through the defending formations, merely pushed them back.”
Jian pursed his lips, nodding finally. “Army Group SoCal has been destroyed as a military formation. You told me so yourself several days ago. These are new units facing us, the last remnants of the old and the Central Californian Reserves.”
“Leader, this is what I’m trying to explain. At the beginning of hostiles, with Army Group SoCal, we burst through them in places. Nung separated the various divisions and surrounded them. Those he killed or captured at his leisure. But there has always been just a little more in Los Angeles and reinforcements trickling in from the other states. Those formations have slowed us down or halted Nung from driving through Los Angeles at will.”
“You’ve just shown me that Nung is still driving the Americans from the field of battle.”
“But he no longer bursts through various formations. Instead, he is squeezing the Americans tighter. Instead of surrounding and cutting them off from supplies, he drives them closer to their bases. It means we will have to destroy all of them before we can break into the Grapevine Pass.”
Jian frowned at the computer map. “Nung reports there are less than two hundred thousand enemy soldiers in Los Angeles. The Americans started the hostiles with eight hundred thousand in Southern California, didn’t they?”
“Yes. That is all true,” Kao said. “Yet we have taken just as staggering a proportion of losses, and we are still bottled in the southern portion of the state.”
“If they have so few soldiers left, why can’t we brush them aside?”
“Because their defensive area is shrinking and we’re battling through one of the largest urban areas in the world. It gives them perfect terrain and it means their lines are denser than earlier, harder to break through. We are also facing the toughest and cleverest survivors, veterans now.”
“A few more days and Nung says he will be through to the Grapevine Pass.”
Marshal Kao
straightened. “It may be as he says. If so, we could yet conquer California. There is little left in the state in terms of military power and we have reports that reinforcements to California have slowed. That is what I wish to speak about, Leader. We must begin stockpiling supplies for our Texas thrust. This…” Kao indicated Los Angeles. “This is too small. You must unleash us in Texas and New Mexico. There, with our greater numbers in open terrain and our South American allies, we can win this war quickly. Instead, we are frittering away our strength for a worthless piece of real estate.”
Jian Hong studied the computer map. “I’m unsure. We have spent so much in California and Marshal Nung assures me of victory. I do not want to stop at the goal line if it is merely a matter of a few more feet and a few more days.”
It appeared that Marshal Kao would say more, but he didn’t. He held his tongue.
What is the correct decision? Jian asked himself. Who can tell me the unvarnished truth? These are hard choices. I wish there was someone I could fully trust.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Anna watched the President rub his face as he listened to the late night report from the briefing major.
The woman used the holo-video and an electric pointer. It was quiet tonight. The situation had turned grim again.
“We saved several Behemoth tanks,” the major said. “The Chinese overran the others during the rout. Now…”
She continued to explain the Battle of Los Angeles. The Chinese had overrun too many places. They had killed thousands and made thousands more soldiers flee. The civilian death toll kept climbing higher and higher. The Chinese were merciless toward them.
“We have to hold somewhere!” Sims cried.
“Sir,” General Alan said. “We’re making the enemy pay for every step of the way. But it’s too much to expect our soldiers to stand in place and die. Instead, they trade space for time and set up new defensive positions. They booby-trap everything.”
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