Invasion: China (Invasion America) (Volume 5)

by Vaughn Heppner

  The man used to be an assassin for the Mexico Free Army, working for Colonel Valdez, the leader of the southern resistance. Romo was part Apache and part Spanish-Mexican. He happened to have the darkest eyes Paul had ever seen—those of a cold stone killer. During the California campaign, they had become friends. At first, Romo’s assignment had to been to kill Paul. It was a long story, but Colonel Valdez hated the Master Sergeant for personal reasons. Caught behind enemy lines, Paul and Romo had worked together to survive. After the ordeal, they had become inseparable. Later, Paul saved Romo’s life from another Valdez assassin, sent as a lesson to any who supposedly deserted the colonel.

  Paul didn’t know a better soldier than Romo, but the man lacked something essential, a soul or heart maybe. Romo had lost any purpose in life other than killing Chinese. After two years of witnessing what unchecked bitterness could do to a man, Paul knew he didn’t want to fall into the same pit. If there was a way to save his friend, he wished he knew it. Maybe there was still time to save himself.

  “Why isn’t the colonel jumping with us?” Romo asked.

  Paul shrugged, making his body armor creak. Some men were too important to risk. You could tell who they were, because the important ones worked overtime staying out of danger.

  “Jump,” the colonel said over the battle-net.

  Paul chinned a control. His visor closed. He faced the open bay door, rested his right elbow on the adjustable control pad and clutched the upright throttle on the end. He twisted the rubber-coated grip and listened to the jetpack’s engine rev. It made the entire battlesuit shiver with power. Then he took two steps and launched himself out of the opening.

  He plummeted. Because cameras and a computer let him see the Chinook on the HUD, he didn’t have to crane his neck to check his position. Three seconds of drop gave him plenty of distance from the big machine. Paul twisted the throttle and power roared out of his nozzles. It gave him lift, and he felt the thrust most around his shoulders. A computer and gyros helped him remain vertical during flight, with his head aimed at the clouds and his feet aimed at the Earth.

  All right, I have the hang of this.

  Even as he thought that, a battlesuited commando plunged past him, gaining speed as the man fell headfirst. Soon, he’d be at terminal velocity.

  “Ned’s gyro quit working,” Romo radioed.

  Paul cursed, and he cut power, letting himself drop after Corporal Ned Tarleton. In an instant, he realized he couldn’t fall fast enough to catch up to Ned.

  What if I rotated around and flew down like Superman?

  Paul didn’t remember the override codes to cut his own gyro program. None of them had practiced that type of flying yet. It was incredibly risky.

  “Ned, you have to kick your legs,” Paul said. “You have to get your nozzles pointed at the ground.”

  Paul heard hard breathing and bitter curses in his headphones. It sounded as if Ned struggled to regain control but couldn’t do it.

  “Sergeant Kavanagh, engage your jetpack,” the colonel said. He was in the Chinook monitoring the situation.

  “I’m going to try to catch Ned,” Paul said.

  “Negative,” the colonel said. “You can’t.”

  “If I dive after him—”

  “Kavanagh, you son of a bitch,” the colonel said. “You will not attempt any heroics. I forbid you to dive.”

  The order tasted bitter to Paul, but he knew the colonel was right. He’d lose control, crash, die and break his promise to Cheri.

  “Ned,” he radioed. “Restart your flight computer. You might have time for it to reboot and kick start the gyro program.”

  “Master Sergeant?” Ned asked. He sounded frightened.

  “You have time to reboot,” Paul told him. Would the corporal even try?

  “I’m all out of time, Sergeant. You tell my boy— Promise me you’ll tell my boy I died fighting the Chinese.”

  “I will,” Paul said. “Now you listen to me, Ned.”

  “This jetpack is lousy piece of junk, Sarge. I never should have joined up for this.”

  Instead of using a camera, Paul peered down. Despite their initial height, the ground rushed up with ridiculous speed. His stomach lurched, and he twisted his throttle. Power roared into his jetpack and out the nozzles. Thrust slowed his sickening drop. He twisted the throttle harder, and now he floated toward the earth. This was the wrong way to do it, he knew. A flying commando was supposed to drop fast and land lightly at the last second. Get onto the ground as fast as you could was the idea.

  Watching Ned plummet stole some of Kavanagh’s courage.

  The corporal struck the ground. The body armor didn’t help in the slightest. Part of the jetpack flew one way and computer pieces the other. Ned bounced like a ball, and the ways his arms and legs flopped, the corporal was already dead.

  Paul closed his eyes. How was he supposed to keep his promise to Cheri when he had so little control over his destiny? Maybe a glitch would kill his gyro program. Maybe dirt would plug the turbofans during flight. A hundred little things could go wrong. Maybe he should leave the outfit and return to the LRSU teams.

  Keep your two feet on the ground. Less can go wrong that way.

  Thirty seconds later, Paul landed gently beside Ned’s corpse. He stared at the broken suit as blood leaked out. This was a rotten war.

  One by one, the other commandos landed nearby. No one shed his jetpack and raced for the next part of the exercise.

  Paul knew he should give the order. Instead, he knelt on one knee and bent his head. A friend had died today. More of them would die a few weeks from now.

  I’m going to try to come home to you, Cheri. I want to hug you again. But I don’t know if I’m strong enough to defeat every challenge and screw-up, so that I can keep my promise.

  The colonel shouted at them over the battle-net. Romo put a hand on Paul’s shoulder. Stirring himself, Paul stood, and he gave the order for them to move. A moment later, he shed his jetpack. The others did likewise. Then they continued with their training exercise.

  WINFIELD, KANSAS

  With frank admiration, Stan Higgins eyed the major as she got up from her desk. The woman had large breasts straining against her uniform, shapely legs and definitely knew how to walk. She opened the door to General Tom McGraw’s office.

  “Colonel Higgins is here to see you, sir,” she said.

  “Send him in,” McGraw said in a gruff voice.

  The major turned around and smiled at Stan, motioning for him to walk in.

  He felt guilty then for having eyed the major because technically, he was still married. His wife and he were estranged. It had started several years ago with Jake’s interment in the Colorado Detention Center. That had been before the start of the California invasion. The Militia people ran the center. Jake had gone because he’d protested some of President Sims’ most dictatorial laws. Jake had been in college then, and had lost the right to attend. Since the interment, things had deteriorated between Stan and his wife. She talked about divorce, but had never filed. Until she actually cheated on him, Stan didn’t feel he could divorce her. The marriage oath meant something to him. The only out to him would be if his wife committed adultery. So, he endured, but it was hard sometimes, especially seeing women like the major. Clearly, McGraw had no such qualms. How many great military men, now and in the past, kept mistresses? The vast majority of them, no doubt.

  Stan entered the office as the major closed the door behind him.

  “Sit,” McGraw said, without looking up from his desk.

  It was a large office, with boxes piled to the sides with white patches on them and words in block letters describing the contents. Southern Front Headquarters had only recently moved from Wichita to Winfield. The general had already put up several photographs. They showed him shaking hands with President Sims in one, with Director Harold in another and with Jennifer Love the movie actress in a third. There were citations too, a shelf with several mementos and a co
mputer screen on the desk. McGraw typed on a keyboard, grunting as he finished with a flourish. His fingers looked too big for the keys, but somehow he managed.

  McGraw now sat back in his swivel chair, eyeing Stan.

  Higgins had driven from his assembly area twenty-three miles away. The winter snow had almost finished melting, but the land was soggy, poor terrain for the three hundred ton monster known as the Behemoth tank. The mass Chinese withdrawal had caught just about everyone by surprise, although Stan recalled reading several Army intelligence reports warning about such a move. No one had taken them seriously, least of all McGraw.

  Moving the troops, tanks, artillery and supply depots closer to the new enemy line had taken several weeks of hard work. Laying out new roads, tracks—it hadn’t been a nightmare, but it had meant grueling days of drudgery.

  Stan sat in a chair with armrests. He hadn’t spoken with the general since the day in Wichita almost a month ago. That was unusual for the two of them. In the past, he had worked closely with McGraw. Clearly, the church conversation had poisoned the general against him.

  He shouldn’t have threatened my boy.

  “Been a while, old son,” McGraw said, using a hearty tone.

  “Yes, sir,” Stan said.

  McGraw lurched forward and slammed both meaty fists onto the desk, making the computer screen jump. “Damnit, Higgins, are we going to let a little misunderstanding come between us?”

  “I hope not, sir.”

  “Good. I feel the same way.”

  Stan nodded but was far from convinced. Words without actions meant little. For one thing, he noticed the general hadn’t stood as he entered. The man had not come around the desk and extended a hand so they could shake. Had that been an oversight on the general’s part? He doubted it.

  “I drank too much that day,” McGraw was saying. “Can’t even remember what we were talking about.”

  Stan wanted to say, “Me neither,” but he’d be lying through his teeth. Many a night he’d lain awake, going over the meeting in his mind. Therefore, he said nothing, waiting.

  McGraw regarded him, and a smile might have played along the corners of his lips. Then the possibility vanished as the general’s mouth firmed. The corners of his eyes tightened.

  “Colonel, I have some bad news, I’m afraid.”

  Stan continued waiting.

  First clearing his throat, McGraw opened a drawer and took out a tablet, setting it on the desk. “It says here that three of your Behemoths are having engine trouble. I’m sure you realize that’s over the acceptable limit.”

  Stan couldn’t believe McGraw would personally worry or act upon something like this. Had the general been searching for dirt on him? Is that the best you can do?

  Instead of vocalizing his thoughts, Stan said, “The Chinese caught us all by surprise, sir. We had to move the regiment before the three received their scheduled overhauls. I don’t know if the report shows it, but those are my three oldest Behemoths. They fought in California. Tenth HQ told us they were going to farm out two of them to the newer regiments and replace those with the latest model.”

  “Let me interrupt you, Colonel. I’m not interested in excuses. I’m concerned that my best Behemoth regiment will be understrength before we’ve even fired the first shot.”

  Stan wasn’t sure how to take that.

  The thing with the super tanks was that everyone wanted more of them. That meant constructing more assembly plants. The first Behemoth manufacturing plant had been in Denver, but the Chinese siege had ruined it. The government had built a new one in Detroit.

  The secret to making hordes of tanks was a gargantuan plant, maybe two or three of them. It’s what the Soviets had done during WWII. A vast plant allowed the easiest concentration of effort and the best way to mass-produce something, at least from an economic standpoint. With three shifts working morning, noon and night, tanks poured off the assembly lines.

  Although it made the best economic sense to have one or two huge plants versus many smaller ones, there was a drawback. The enemy only had to destroy a few places to halt production. Detroit had seemed like a safe place until the German Dominion launched its surprise attack out of Quebec. In the end, the military stopped the German advance and saved the plant as it continued to churn out tanks.

  That meant more Behemoths, enough to fill six entire regiments of them. Most of the regiments fielded thirty super tanks. The United States Army therefore had one hundred and ninety of them, with ten held in reserve. Until this year, America had only fielded one regiment and performed miracles with them. With six regiments concentrated in one area, hopes ran high for the coming offensive. Yet with only one hundred and eighty super tanks in all, concentrated in six formations, three tanks out of thirty represented a ten percent loss to his regiment before hostilities began. That might reasonably trouble the Southern Front Joint Forces Commander enough to call him in. Okay. Stan could see that.

  “I’m not making excuses, sir,” he said.

  McGraw snorted. “Son, I know an excuse when I hear one. You just made it, and I already told you I’m not interested in any. I want to know how soon those three tanks can be ready.”

  “I’m short on engine parts, sir. These aren’t ordinary tanks.”

  “I’m quite aware of that.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stan said.

  “You’ve done well in the past, Colonel. I’m very aware of that. The President is aware and so is Director Harold. Yet as I’m sure you know: a man only has a short time when he’s fit for battle.”

  So that’s how they’re going to play it—old Stan Higgins is washed up.

  “Do you feel you’re still capable to command a Behemoth regiment, Colonel?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “You’ve seen my operational plan. Hell, you’ve even added a few flourishes. The Behemoths will have to drive deep and smash Chinese formations attempting to counterattack. That means the tanks have to move. The super tanks have a fantastic arsenal of weaponry. But that means jack squat if the Behemoth can’t be in the right place at the right time.”

  “I totally agree with you on their importance. What I need then is priority supply status.”

  McGraw stared at him as if measuring his worth. “I can give you that. Everything must work like clockwork in the coming offensive. America has gathered its strength for this one. It’s taken a year of effort to collect the tanks, the artillery, the jamming gear and soldiers. We have to start taking back territory before the Mexican government begins to believe their overlords about claiming California, Arizona and Texas as their birthright.”

  “Yes sir,” Stan said, wondering why McGraw was saying any of this.

  “What I’m driving at is that I’m limited in what I can do for you as a personal favor. America is counting on me to win, and win spectacularly. That means I have to play this one straight up.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Why should I give your regiment priority over others?” McGraw asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “I suppose because the Behemoths are the arm of the decision.”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m going to say if anyone asks.”

  “Why would they ask, sir?”

  McGraw looked away. “I’m limited in my sphere of actions, Stan. What I told you a month ago in Wichita…I was drunker than you can believe. I serve the government. I took an oath on the Constitution, and I’m a man of my word.”

  “I’ve never doubted your word, General.”

  “Good. Then believe me when I say that I’m going to do everything I can to protect Jake.”

  Stan felt the heat rise in him. We’re back to that, are we? He’d been following the general’s comings and goings since Wichita. McGraw had been to the White House twice in the past few weeks. What had the general talked about back there?

  Stan had few illusions about his importance in the larger scheme of things. He was a mere colonel. But he also happened to be the co
lonel who had fought in three decisive engagements, beginning in Alaska back in 2032. He wasn’t a military superstar like McGraw, but more than a few people had read about him, and he had won the Medal of Honor.

  Do they think I’m dangerous politically?

  A knock at the door startled Stan. It opened, and the pretty major poked in her head. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir. But Militia General Williamson is here to see you.”

  “Tell him I’m talking with Colonel Higgins.”

  “I will, sir,” and she hesitated.

  “Is there something else?” McGraw asked.

  “Well, sir, the general wishes to speak to you about Corporal Jake Higgins of the Sixth Behemoth Regiment.”

  “Ah,” McGraw said. “Maybe this is providential. I’m speaking with Jake’s father. Send the general in, please.”

  The major retreated and spoke quietly with someone in the outer office.

  McGraw leaned forward, whispering to Stan. “They’re pushing me about your boy. I remember what you told me in Wichita, and I believe you. More than that, I think you’re important to the war effort. Let’s—”

  McGraw stopped short as he looked up.

  Stan turned in time to witness the major ushering in a tall Militia general. This Williamson wore an odd pair of glasses, two small circles before his eyes. They enlarged his pupils. He had a thin neck and narrow arms. Stan recognized him. Yes, a reputation for ruthless efficiency preceded the man. Rumors suggested he had shot several cowardly Militia generals and colonels in the Great Lakes region last year. In fact, Williamson reminded Stan of Russian Marshal Georgi Zhukov under Stalin. Zhukov had been stout instead of tall but equally ruthless.

  “General Williamson,” McGraw said, standing, coming around the desk. He thrust out a big hand. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  The two men shook hands, and Stan noticed that McGraw shook civilly for once.

  “This is Colonel Higgins,” McGraw said.

  “Indeed,” Williamson said, “how fortuitous.”