Invasion: California

by Vaughn Heppner

  “And the Chinese bring up their combat bulldozers,” Sims said. “They plow through buildings and set off hundreds, thousands of your precious booby-traps.”

  “We’re bleeding them,” Alan said.

  “It doesn’t seem to matter to the Chinese,” Sims said. “They’re squeezing us into a ball in Los Angeles. They’re taking away our maneuver room. Soon, our men will be shoulder to shoulder and the Chinese artillery will grind them into bloody pieces.”

  “The other side is hurting, sir. You know that.”

  “Do I?” Sims said, his voice nearly cracking.

  “The commandos, sir,” Anna said. “They will change the situation.”

  Sims shook his head. “We can’t count on that. We have to think of something else.”

  Levin looked up and seemed ready to speak.

  “No,” Sims said. “No. I’m not ready to nuke Los Angeles. Do you realize how many civilians are still living there? …maybe we have to start thinking about pulling back to the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Maybe it’s time to let the Chinese have California.”

  No one spoke. Finally, General Alan motioned for the major to continue with her briefing. She cleared her throat and did just that.

  SAN YSIDRO, CALIFORNIA

  Paul swayed inside the big Chinese supply truck. There had been several fancy ideas about how to do this. One of them included putting each other in the big crates. Donovan had said it would be just like the Trojan Horse of legend.

  Paul remembered reading that story as a kid. The Greeks had stuffed a gigantic hollow wooden horse with hoplites: soldiers with spears. The Trojans thought it was a victory honor, and had been dumb enough to accept the gift and had torn down their gates to drag it in. Afterward, with the gates partly repaired and the Trojans throwing a victory party, the Greeks had slipped out of the hollow horse and let in the rest of the Greek army, which had sneaked back to the city walls under cover of darkness. Donovan had loved the idea of their doing a similar thing to the Chinese. Romo had finally shot down the idea.

  “Amigo, do you not remember your lessons? The gods helped the Greeks trick the Trojans. Who is going to help us trick the Chinese?”

  “Pile the crates all the way up in the very back,” Paul said. “The rest of us will stay in front of the truck-bed behind them. If our trick doesn’t work, at least we can go out firing, not trapped inside the boxes like so many sardines.”

  They had argued about all kinds of things, including the number of trucks to take. Paul had finally told Donovan they were going to take one.

  “Why just one?” Donovan wanted to know.

  “Do you see how many men we have? Sixteen.”

  “And we have all our weapons, too,” Donovan said.

  “The extra weapons we put in the crates nearest us.”

  Now, Paul swayed in the gloom with the other commandos. He’d wrapped his arms around his bent knees and thought about better times as he stared at his wedding ring.

  Two Green Berets of Chinese extraction drove the truck with the needed false papers and orders. The rest of the team was crammed tight in the body-heated space.

  “We should have taken two trucks,” Donovan grumbled in the darkness.

  They had been on the road three hours already. Sixteen commandos out to change history—it seemed balls-up crazy.

  How do people hatch schemes like this? Paul wanted to know. Desperation was the only answer.

  “I got to take a piss,” one man complained.

  “You got a bottle,” Donovan told him. “Use it.”

  The gears changed before he could take the suggestion. The truck slowed down.

  Paul’s stomach churned. They were part of a regular Chinese convoy. They knew that much, but not much more. The driver’s navigator had tapped that out in code from the cab.

  There were plenty of things wrong with this raid. For one thing, they hardly knew anything about the compound’s present condition. An aerial photo six days old had shown a wrecked and blasted area. It would be logical to presume the Chinese had repaired the main bunker. Paul had drawn a sketch-map for the others, which everyone had studied while waiting in the barn. He’d remembered the location from when he’d guarded Colonel Norman from Washington.

  Paul listened as the truck slowed even more. There would be gates, guards, check lists, who knew what else. Still, this was a supply truck bringing supplies. It would be a routine situation and the guards would likely be bored half to death.

  The Blue Swan raid had been different. They’d had a plan for getting out once the mission was completed. The idea had been to use the helicopters, but those had been destroyed during the firefight getting down. There was no plan this time except to escape and evade.

  In the gloom, Paul blew out his cheeks in frustration. If they could reach a location five miles away from the Chinese HQ, the insertion drones were supposed to pick them up afterward. Yeah, that was going to work.

  He endured the ride and he listened to the small sounds: boots creaking, a man coughing, someone clearing his throat. Paul opened his mouth and barely kept from panting. It was too hot, too stuffy in here. Beside him, men squirmed. Someone sucked in his breath sharply, maybe in pain.

  Suddenly the truck’s brakes squealed as the vehicle came to a stop. Muted footsteps sounded from outside. There were Chinese voices; well, Chinese words at least.

  Slowly, Paul drew his sidearm. He heard others drawing theirs.

  The truck’s back gate banged open.

  Paul couldn’t breathe. This was it, dying on a fool’s errand. How had he ever let Ochoa talk him into something so stupid? After this—there wasn’t going to be an afterward. He aimed his gun toward the back gate. When the final crate moved out of the way, he was going to fire until he was dead.

  A crate scraped against metal. It made Paul’s blood pressure soar. Wood squealed, maybe from a crowbar. Laughter rang out a moment later. Someone slapped a crate. There were more sounds, of huffing perhaps, and the tailgate slammed shut. Maybe two minutes later, the truck started up again.

  Then—one, two, three—someone thumped three times on the back of the cab. It was a signal from the navigator that everything was okay and the plan was still on schedule.

  Someone in the gloom muttered. Someone else hissed to shut the hell up.

  “Phase two,” Donovan whispered.

  Paul expelled his pent-up breath. Were they in the compound yet? It was hard to believe. This was harebrained. Sixteen commandos to take on Marshal Nung’s Headquarter guards.

  Paul had read the brief. The marshal’s bodyguards were tough and no-nonsense. They would have body armor and they would be ready, even if the raid surprised them.

  “Soon,” Romo whispered into Paul’s ear. The man’s breath smelled like the pumpkin seeds he been chewing.

  Paul nodded. He could feel the building tension. It was as if his limbs were rubber bands and something was winding them tighter than they had ever been before.

  The truck slowed again, and rolled at low speed for a time.

  There came another heavy thump from the cab. It was the signal. The navigator was leaving the cab to plant a directional beacon.

  General Ochoa’s operational planners had come up with the idea. The commandos would never make it from wherever the truck parked all the way to the main bunker. There would simply be too many soldiers, checkpoints and guards around to fight through them. Therefore, the commandos needed those guards removed. They needed a diversion. That diversion would come as a heavy missile attack on the headquarters.

  Paul knew what that meant in real terms. All the commandos did. Some of them were going to die from friendly fire—if the missiles even made it through Chinese anti-missile defenses. If missiles exploded here, it should also mean that everyone above ground would run for cover. That was the moment to strike for the bunker. The missiles would home in on the beacon and give them the needed distraction—that was a big, screw-yourself hurrah.

  “Let’s get re
ady,” Paul said. He pulled out a tiny flashlight, clicking it on. Others clicked theirs on. In the wash of small beams, commandos went to work, opening the boxes nearest them, the wall of crates. Each of these was laid so the tops were aimed sideways at them.

  Paul pulled out body armor. It was hard to do in their tight confines, but he donned the bulky suit and put a headband with earphones over his ears, with a small jack and microphone in front of his mouth. Over that, he secured a helmet. Lastly, he picked up a squat submachine gun made to fire exploding bullets. He had nine magazines in various pockets and five different grenades. He also had a pistol, knife and steel tomahawk. This was it—the mission of his life.

  Beside him Romo strapped the flamethrower to his back. It was a brutal weapon, and burning to death was a particularly nasty way to die. One misconception about flamethrowers was that a bullet through the tank would cause it to explode. Maybe if it was an incendiary bullet. Otherwise, the fluids would simply leak out.

  The truck parked, or it came to stop at least and the engine turned off. Now, they waited. If workers began unloading the crates too soon, there would be trouble. Hopefully, the driver had arranged it so that they were the last truck unloaded. Whatever the case, Paul would know soon enough.

  LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

  Stan rubbed his scraggly chin. He had a three-day growth of beard and had far too many gray hairs. His head and shoulders were out of the top hatch. Another Behemoth followed his tank down the street.

  The treads crunched rubble and flattened a discarded machine gun. Then cracks appeared in the pavement like ice. Its engine made strange sounds and the batteries were down to forty-eight percent charge.

  It was a wonder the tank still worked. Four Behemoths still ran under their own power. That wouldn’t last much longer, though.

  These past two days, Stan had noticed a slight slacking of enemy attacks. The Chinese seemed tired, worn down after relentless weeks of combat. Even so, they still pushed through Los Angeles, using jetpack flyers, combat bulldozers, mass artillery and triple-turreted tanks. They leveled the great metropolis and sent infantry teams through everything. The number of civilian dead was mind-boggling and had to be in the hundreds of thousands by now.

  “Air traffic,” Jose radioed from within the tank.

  “What’s that?” Stan asked into his microphone.

  “Air traffic is coming through,” Jose said. “But don’t fire, this is ours.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Just then, Stan heard and saw them: cruise missiles. Like air-sharks, the deadly missiles streaked overhead. Hot exhaust roared out of their backs, and in the nearest, Stan could swear he saw lettering on the fuselage. The missiles hugged the ground and would do so until they reached the target.

  “Is that our counter-battery fire?” Stan asked.

  “I have no idea,” Jose radioed, “but I don’t see what else it could be.”

  The cruise missiles streaked away. In the distance, Chinese computer-assisted artillery knocked one down in a spectacular explosion.

  Stan shook his head. That was the truth of this war. The Chinese had too much ordnance. No matter what America did, the Chinese always had three to four times as much.

  Sighing, Stan wondered when the battle was going to end for him. He couldn’t keep this up much longer. He was just so damn tired and sick of killing.

  SAN YSIDRO, CALIFORNIA

  In the gloom, Paul saw the green beep on his communicator. “This is it. The missiles are coming.”

  It was stifling hot now in the front of the truck bed. A restless energy filled the commandos.

  “It would be our luck if a cruise missile hits our truck and kills the lot of us,” Donovan said.

  “I don’t want to hear that,” Paul said. “We’re going to kick ass, Sergeant. You got that?”

  Donovan shined his light on Paul’s face. A second later, the beam moved away. “Are you in the zone, Kavanagh?”

  “I don’t want anyone stopping because he’s hurt or shot in the side,” Paul told the commandos. “You know what to do: follow me. Kill every officer you see and keep heading to the bunker. Once there, we go down. We’re the plague. We’re the Angel of Death.”

  The communicator beeped red.

  “It’s game time,” Paul said. “Shove aside the crates.”

  With their shoulders against the wood, commandos grunted and shoved. Wood squealed and crates fell out of the truck bed. The driver was supposed to have made sure the gate was down, and he had done his job.

  Light burst into the gloom as crates tumbled out of the way. Fresh air roiled in.

  “Looks beautiful,” Paul said.

  Beside him, Romo grunted.

  As Paul Kavanagh jumped to the ground, the first cruise missile slammed down into the compound and exploded with a deafening noise. Seconds later, sirens blared. Then two more cruise missiles hammered the compound. Everywhere things went into the air: parts of buildings, IFVs and Chinese soldiers.

  “Perfect,” Paul said. He grinned like a manic, and his eyes gleamed with murder lust. “Follow me.”

  He ran for the chain-link gate, the way out of the fenced-off area that was the parking lot. A guard shack stood there. A Chinese soldier stuck his head out. Paul fired a burst, hitting him in the face, exploding the man’s head his bullets.

  The compound was huge just as he remembered it. There were comm-shacks, new Chinese portables and shell-riddled buildings. Staff cars, jeeps, Humvees, IFVs were parked all around. Some burned. Others had flipped.

  Assault rifle fire sounded behind Paul. Chinese soldiers crumpled ahead of him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something massive in the air. It was another cruise missile. Paul crouched and ducked his head. The missile exploded, raining shrapnel and staring fires. The concussion washed against Paul and nearly knocked him off his feet. He looked up, as he got ready to stand. He saw another missile coming. It exploded closer than the first one. The blast knocked Paul tumbling, and he found himself flat on his back, gasping hot air.

  Am I hurt?

  With a groan, he sat up, checking his legs, his arms and finally his chest. He was good. Grunting, he stood up. One by one, armored commandos stood with him, including Romo. Four of the commandos stayed down. He would have liked to see if they were alive, but there was no time for it. This was the ball game.

  He shouted, at least, he thought he did. He ran half-crouched over, heading for the bunker. Another cruise missile came down. How many had his side fired? This was too much.

  “Hit the dirt!” Paul roared. He did, hugging dirt. The missile went off and he lifted, slamming back against the ground. He was slower getting up this time, and fewer commandos joined him.

  Behind his visor Donovan had big staring eyes. Romo’s face was like a skull. The Mexican assassin was Death’s cousin, and he brought his flames with him.

  This is the final lap. Oh, Cheri, you’ll never know how much I loved you.

  Paul gulped, too filled with emotion. It almost overwhelmed him how precious it was to live and love. What a blessing to have a wife as he did. What a great thing to leave the world a son like Mike.

  I don’t deserve them. They needed someone better than me, far better.

  With an animal groan, Paul started for the bunker. Fires burned everywhere, including in the center of a smashed comm-shack, with wood splinters laid around it like pickup sticks. Chinese lay sprawled on the ground, some at grotesque angles. One man had his legs folded under him, meaning they had to be broken. A few stirred and groggily stood. Most of those fled once they saw the commandos. One guard picked up his rifle. From fifty feet away, Paul put a three-round burst into his chest. The soldier flopped back down, smacking the back of his head hard against the pavement. He wasn’t going to get up again.

  As he staggered, Paul picked up speed. He sprinted across gravel. The bunker was shut, the blast-doors secured. All righty then, I have a little present for you. Sliding to a halt, Paul went to on
e knee, unslung a LAWS rocket, armed, aimed and fired it with a whoosh. The small rocket slammed against the door and tore it open.

  Behind his visor Paul’s eyes narrowed to slits. The Chinese had slaughtered Greater Los Angeles. The orders to do that came from here, from Marshal Nung. It was time for this Nung to taste what he had given everyone else.

  “Let’s see how you like them apples,” Paul muttered.

  He was up. He heard thudding footfalls and flicked his head to the side. Romo ran near. Donovan was close behind. Good, good, it was good to die with your friends.

  “Ready?” Paul shouted.

  “Si!”

  “Let’s rock and roll, baby!” Donovan roared, reverting perhaps to his Viking ancestry.

  Paul increased speed, reaching the blasted door first. He grabbed a grenade, armed and hurled it through. This was his private, portable artillery. It burst. Paul used his foot and bashed the door, forcing it further open. He leaped inside. A Chinese guard groaned from on the floor. Paul shot him. Another whipped around a corner. Paul shot him, too, in the face.

  The handful of commandos started down the bunker, firing, tossing grenades, creating mayhem. Then four Chinese guards began firing at them from the bottom concrete stairs.

  Paul was out of grenades. Donovan shrugged, suggesting they trust their body armor to see them through. Instead Romo slithered forward on his belly, the grim nozzle aimed forward. Flame spit from the nozzle in a long line. It reached down the stairs and began to burn. Chinese soldiers screamed in agony.

  “It works every time,” Romo said.

  “Our target is down there,” Paul said. He tore an empty magazine from the submachine gun and slapped in a fresh one. “Ready?”

  Romo squirted another terrible line of fire. A blaze crackled down there. Smoke began to billow.

  Picking himself off the floor, Paul charged down the stairs. The smell of cooked pork assaulted his nostrils. He knew the awful fact that humans smelled like pork when they cooked.