Invasion: China (Invasion America) (Volume 5)

by Vaughn Heppner

  “Hitting the ground in eight seconds,” Dan French said. “Nice fireworks by the way.”

  Others radioed in, except for two members of their squad—they were down to nine Marines. With three platoons dedicated against the Taiyuan PBW Station, they were supposed to have around one hundred and forty-five effectives. How many Marines had made it down?

  We can do this, Paul thought. Once he collected his squad, they would take thirty-foot bounds for five miles, and they would reach the PBW site. Can we smash it?

  Well, it was going to depend on what the Chinese used to defend the thing. So the sooner the actual attack began the less emergency reinforcements they’d have to face.

  BEIJING, CHINA

  Shun Li pushed back her chair so it scraped against the floor, arose and moved toward the wall image. This was…interesting.

  The American space soldiers resembled Japanese anime fighters. They bounded like giant grasshoppers, robotic things with massive weaponry. One soldier had a grenade launcher on his shoulder, with a belt coming out of the pack. The launcher swiveled, no doubt propelling grenades through magnetic propulsion. Two soldiers carried stubby tubes—the nuclear-lobbing devices. Others hefted machine guns, what would have been heavy machine guns for regular troops. That indicated great weight and augmented strength for the space soldiers.

  “Do we know the approximate number of enemies at each station?” Shun Li asked.

  “Between one hundred fifty and two hundred,” a technician said.

  “These aren’t impossible numbers,” Shun Li told Hong.

  “Seeing them, I am more confident,” Hong said. “Exotic, to be sure, but there are not enough of them.”

  “The armor—” Shun Li said.

  “Good armor, no doubt,” Hong said. “But there are weaknesses to them. I would think—” He turned to a military aide. “Order the troops to aim for the visors. That should be the weakest point. Oh, and shoot out their knees. Cripple one of them, and he will no longer leap like a bug.”

  Shun Li nodded. That was sound reasoning.

  “We destroyed an entire Orion ship,” Hong said. “At one stroke, we took out one third of their number. Now our troops shall handle these exotics. Hmmm. The space soldiers near the Taiyuan Station, who do we have attacking the Americans?”

  A tech looked up. “Leader, a flight of Eagle-teams is on the way.”

  “How many are going in?” asked Hong.

  “Four hundred jetpack flyers, Leader,” the tech said.

  Hong grinned at Shun Li. “Exotic against exotic,” he said. “They have newer weapons, we have numbers and experience. I have full confidence the Eagle-teams will kill half these space soldiers and slow them down enough so the tanks can maneuver into position.”

  “Let it be so,” Shun Li said. She didn’t feel the same confidence, but wished she did.

  Once, China had boasted the most futuristic troopers with their jetpack Eagle-team flyers. The war in American had decimated the elite soldiers. They rebuilt at home. Now a small battalion of them converged on the space soldiers nearing the Taiyuan Station.

  “America has gone to great lengths to give our Eagle flyers some target practice,” Hong said.

  Let’s hope you’re right, Shun Li thought.

  TAIYUAN, SHANXI PROVINCE

  Paul Kavanagh finally brought up a terrain map in the right corner of his HUD. It showed the three Marine platoons as blue dots and the PBW site as a big red X. It was like playing a strategic video game, watching the blue dots slowly advance toward the target.

  Dead Chinese soldiers littered Paul’s route. A clothing store with three smoking IFVs in its parking lot showed where Paul and his squad had ambushed the vehicles.

  Paul leaped over railroad tracks, heading up the road. A hill to his right showed a processing plant. Maybe the workers shredded dog meat in there. He’d heard the Chinese ate their pets.

  “Sergeant Kavanagh,” Dan said.

  First checking his HUD, Paul said, “I’m at your four o’clock.”

  “I see you, Sarge. The lieutenant spotted some Eagle-teams headed for us. They’re coming in low.”

  “Roger,” Paul said. He studied the terrain map. “Let’s jump fast to those homes on the right hill, grid 8-E-2. It should give us a good vantage point.”

  Romo, Dan and the others ran in bounding leaps as if they were astronauts on the Moon.

  “Take a look, Kavanagh,” the lieutenant said.

  As he jumped, Paul’s system received the lieutenant’s camera data. It showed three dozen jetpack flyers skimming the ground. They kicked up dust. There might be more flyers behind them. Yeah, it was smart going low like that—not safe, but smart.

  “Listen, you grunts,” Paul said. “Romo and I are going to play sniper. I want the rest of you to time your grenades for long lobs. We may not have to hit them with the grenades, just make sure their ride is bumpy enough.”

  “What will that do?” Dan French asked.

  “Right,” Romo said over the radio. “You used to be a SEAL. Paul and I did jetpack fighting. Flying low is rough, and I don’t think the Chinese have our gyro systems. Staying aloft among exploding grenades—some of them might lose their concentration.”

  “So what?” Dan said.

  “You watch, amigo,” Romo said. “You’re about to learn something.”

  Paul accelerated, reaching a two-story Chinese home. It had red brick walls and a pagoda-style roof. From his vantage behind a white picket fence, he spied an open valley. Several miles to the west stood a freeway entering Taiyuan. He saw cars and trucks speeding along, but so far no more military vehicles. They had to cross the valley and get to the other side of the next ridge. A hill over there had the PBW Station.

  Dust billowed as the jetpack flyers zoomed for them. The lieutenant had gone to ground. Most of the platoon was still coming. If those Chinese flyers could set up here, they might have some weaponry to give the rest of the platoon trouble.

  “Ready and willing,” Dan French radioed.

  “Start left,” Paul told Romo. “I’ll begin on the right.”

  He raised his right arm, the one with the embedded fifty-caliber cannon. He chose the single-shot firing sequence. There was no sense wasting ammo. He only had so much, and that would be it. He would rely on his amazing targeting computers instead of volume of shots.

  “Go,” whispered Romo.

  “Full targeting HUD,” Paul subvocalized. Everything disappeared from the visor display. “Times ten magnification,” Paul told his targeting computer.

  The jetpack flyers grew to ten times their former size. He could see an Eagle member grit his teeth and the man’s control hand twitch as he minutely shifted the throttle.

  On his HUD, a red dot centered on the flyer’s armored chest.

  “Fire at the best target acquisition,” Paul said. The ultra-targeting computer judged wind resistance, bullet drop, target’s flight speed and other data. Paul’s cannon used a laser to gather much of the information.

  Paul hardly felt the recoil. This thing was amazing. The suit’s electro-elastic fibers compensated at each shot.

  The first round sent a depleted uranium slug speeding through the air. It hit the targeted flyer. The soldier’s head whipped back. His hand pushed forward, and he shot upward into the sky. It didn’t matter. He was already dead, leaking blood.

  Paul put the dot on another flyer. At the best instant, the computer fired the fifty-caliber. Romo’s did the same thing with his.

  When the ninth jetpack flyer jerked in the air, his arms flapping like a kid trying to fly—he plowed into the ground headfirst—the others got wise. They began evasive flying.

  “Start lobbing grenades,” Paul ordered his squad.

  Afterward, Paul kept targeting flyers, but he missed several times. Grenades blew in the enemy’s flight path. One piece of shrapnel must have sliced a cable. A jetpack quit and its flyer slammed against the ground, bouncing up and finally coming to a dead rest.r />
  “It’s not working,” Dan said. “These guys are too good.”

  Just as he said that, another Eagle-team member went down. Nothing had touched him. He’d simply miscalculated his flying.

  “I bet they go up now,” Romo radioed Paul.

  He was wrong. The Eagle flyers took a detour, swinging wide to the east at speed. It proved to be a bad decision. The Chinese flew into a different Marine platoon’s field of fire, who finished what Paul’s squad had started.

  “Now what?” Romo asked.

  Paul lowered his gun arm. “Take a stim, each of you.”

  “I don’t feel tired yet,” Dan said.

  “That’s right,” Paul said. “You take one before you feel tired. You keep on top of the game. We still have a ways to go. Now take your stim. Let it percolate through you. Then, let’s continue onto target, as I don’t see any more flyers in the air.”

  BEIJING, CHINA

  Shun Li had never heard the Chairman scream as he did now. It was ugly, frightening, and it brought results.

  Jian Hong in his black suit and tie stood before the wall image. “Commander!” Hong shouted. “You will sweep their approach with bombers, lacing napalm.”

  “The city—”

  “Doesn’t matter!” Hong yelled. “We must save the PBW Station or all China burns. After you carpet bomb them, send in fighters to finish whatever survived. If you fail, I will watch my people slit your belly as others castrate your son before your eyes. You cannot believe what will happen to your wife!”

  The general visibly trembled in terror. He snapped off several salutes. “It will be done, Leader. I will give you their heads, Leader. I will—”

  “Do not tell me about your deeds. Show—show me!” Hong shouted, with spit flying from his mouth.

  If ever Shun Li needed to know how much Hong loved power, this demonstration proved it. He would commit any atrocity to remain supreme.

  “Give me the next commander,” Hong said.

  Shun Li watched in shock. He appeared rational again, lucid and in charge of himself. Yet when the next general appeared, Hong launched into a similar performance.

  US space soldiers swarmed across the country, leaping like insects for the PBW stations.

  It’s a problem of numbers, time and distance. How many stations must we secure to keep the American ICBMs in their silos? It was a frightening question.

  TAIYUAN, SHANXI PROVINCE

  Halfway across the valley, Paul’s headphones crackled.

  “Jets,” Romo radioed. “I’m picking them up at two o’clock. They’re high, but coming down fast.”

  Paul looked up, using telescopic sight. “I see ’em.” Three strike jets roared down from the sky.

  “I recommend we use another nuke,” Paul said.

  “Yeah, good call,” Lieutenant Dempsey said. “Go to ground. I’m launching.”

  Paul skidded to a halt so grass and dirt sprayed, and he threw himself down. The scientists in Montana said the battlesuit would shield a Marine from radioactivity. The faceplate had been built to take it, too. Old habits died hard, though. That’s just the way it was.

  Paul waited, waited, waited… He heard the boom, and he waited more. Then atomic heat washed over him. He knew because the air conditioners ramped up power. That would drain his batteries, in time. Once they were empty, he’d have to climb out of the suit and try to walk home.

  “I guess they never thought of that, huh,” Dan French said.

  Paul looked up, and he saw one of the Chinese jets crash against the ground and explode. There wasn’t any sign of the other two.

  “Let’s get a move on,” Lieutenant Dempsey said. “We want to reach the station before they can ring it with personnel.”

  Paul climbed to his feet just in time to see a Chinese air-to-ground missile.

  “Scatter!” a Marine shouted.

  There wasn’t time. The missile slammed into the ground and exploded. Paul hefted a sigh. It hadn’t been a big nuke. Heck, it hadn’t been nuclear at all.

  “The lieutenant’s dead,” Dan said. “They must have locked onto his radio signal. Looks like you’re in charge of the platoon now, Kavanagh.”

  “Right,” Paul said. He gave his suit system the code words, and it upgraded his comm-net. Now he’d have to take the radio risk. “Listen up. We’re going to act like fleas, bounding faster than the Chinese can believe. We have a job to do, and we’d better get there before the whole Chinese Army shows up. If I die, I want to at least take these sons of bitches with me.”

  Second Platoon got up. Along with the others, Paul began jumping. One, two, three, he increased his leaps as he built up speed and length of jumps. Once, he barely twisted his foot in time, dodging a big rock. He landed with a jar, but was okay. He’d have slipped on the rock for sure. Soon, he ran fifteen miles per hour, eighteen, twenty, twenty-three, twenty-five— “We’re going too fast,” Dan French said.

  “There’s a time for everything,” Paul said. “This minute, it’s Road Runner time.”

  He reached thirty-three miles per hour, and so did the others.

  “I’m getting a red reading,” Romo said.

  “Where?” asked Paul.

  “To your left,” Romo said. “Behind those wrecked cars are soldiers.”

  “What do they have for weapons?” Paul asked. He saw several muzzle flashes, and a 12.7mm anti-materiel round glanced off his right knee. It knocked the leg out from under Kavanagh. He lost his rhythm, his stride, and the battlesuit went tumbling.

  “The First Sergeant is down!” Dan shouted.

  At that moment, enemy artillery began to rain. The shells had unerring accuracy, which meant laser guidance—it had to be.

  Sergeant Dan French, former SEAL, died as a 120mm round smashed against his suit. Awful dents appeared, but no open breach. It didn’t matter. The Marine inside expired from impact, his brain scrambled.

  Other Marines perished to more shells.

  Paul Kavanagh raised his head. His right knee throbbed and he didn’t know if he could go on. That had been one lucky shot. Taking his stubby launcher, Paul aimed it at the pile of car wrecks. The shots came from there. It stood to reason therefore that Chinese commandos hid there, using lasers to guide the artillery.

  Pop—whoosh—the fat missile sped for the pileup.

  “I went nuclear,” Paul said. The platoon didn’t have any more of those rounds left.

  He watched, and he ducked his faceplate against the ground. The wrecks were too close. Still, a little radiation through the powered armor was better than artillery shells killing him through collision.

  BOOM! A mushroom cloud billowed upward, and metal wrecks flew everywhere.

  “Start crawling,” Paul said. “When you can, get up and keep going.”

  Romo tried to answer. Paul could tell the assassin spoke, but that was it. He couldn’t hear the actual words through the harsh static.

  Okay, buddy, let’s get up and get going. Inside his helmet, Paul gritted his teeth. His right knee ached. That’s the way to disable us. The soldier who shot me was clever, but not clever enough.

  Dialing painkillers, gulping several as if they were slimy pieces of squid, Paul forced himself to his feet. He visibly checked the knee. A dent stared back at him. The attempt to move his right knee brought success. All right, then, it was time to get going.

  Paul jumped, and he shouted at the pain. Should he wait until the painkillers kicked in? The rest of the platoon had already started moving. The artillery still rained, and some shrapnel knocked Marines around. Most of them got back up, but not all. Fortunately, without the lasers to guide the 120mm, they weren’t hitting individual men.

  I have to get out of the kill zone. I can’t afford to wait.

  Trembling from the pain, Paul took another step, another, and he jumped. Upon landing, agony shot like a bolt up his leg into his groin. Well, that was too damn bad for him. He had a job to do, and he planned to be there when the Marines went in for
the kill at the Taiyuan PBW Station.

  WASHINGTON, DC

  Anna Chen looked up as Levin set a cup of coffee beside her. She sat to the side at a smaller table. Harold, Alan and McGraw had their heads together at the big table, discussing something in a heated whisper.

  “The Daniel Boone is gone,” Levin said quietly. “That makes the last one.”

  “Did we expect any of the Orion ships to survive?”

  “No,” Levin said. “But in those matters, it’s good to be surprised.”

  “Are we really going to use ICBMs?”

  “What do you think?” Levin asked.

  Anna nodded.

  “You always were a good analyst,” Levin said, half turned away from her.

  “I notice Hicks is here,” she said.

  Levin said nothing, but she could feel his worry.

  “Threatening nuclear war is one thing,” Anna said. “Indulging in it is another matter entirely.”

  Levin’s shoulders loosened, probably because she hadn’t continued to talk about Hicks. He glanced at her and then looked away. “Will Chairman Hong order a full Chinese strike against us?”

  “I’d consider that very possible,” she said.

  “Even if it means China’s destruction in return?” asked Levin.

  “When Chairman Hong dies, the world dies with him.”

  Levin nodded. “I thought it would be something like that. By the way, how certain are you about this?”

  “You want probabilities?” she asked.

  “That would be nice.”

  “Ninety-nine percent,” she said.

  He nodded again. “What do you recommend we do?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Possibly,” he said.

  She looked up at him, and the urge to ask Levin what he planned to do here with Hicks almost made her pop the question. “I’m not sure,” she said finally. “Hong will agree to anything to keep us from launching the ICBMs. He’ll agree but go back on his word later. He’ll play for time in order to repair his PBW stations—provided we can destroy them.”