Invasion: California

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s easy enough,” Ochoa said. “Keep Colonel John Norman alive. He’s supposed to be one of our defense wizards and the Joint Chiefs want him advising our generals down there. It seems there’s to be an emergency shuffle of military arrangements on the border.”

“The colonel is in California then?”

“He’s already inspecting the so-called ‘Great Wall of America.’ You have heard of it, I hope.”

“Who hasn’t?” Paul said.

“I’m sending you to him tonight. You’ll be his shadow, Paul.”

“Okay, but why am I really going?”

“I just told you.”

“Who’s going to try to kill a colonel that he needs a bodyguard?” Paul asked. “Isn’t that what MPs are for?”

“You and I both know Chinese Intelligence has penetrated our country.”

Paul nodded. President Sims and his communication teams often spoke about that, naming it as one of the key reasons for the state of emergency.

“It’s also common Chinese military doctrine to try to paralyze an enemy by first assassinating his key commanders,” Ochoa said. “I would expect them to know about Colonel Norman. Likely, the Chinese will use White Tigers to strike commanding generals and anyone else they think is important enough. It’s an excellent idea, actually. We’ll be doing the same thing soon.”

“You’re going to send me into Mexico to shoot Chinese commanders?” Paul asked, thinking about Lee in Hawaii.

“It’s a distinct possibility.”

“With the help of Colonel Valdez’s guerillas to guide my team?” asked Paul.

Ochoa frowned. “We’ll have to see if the Colonel has calmed down enough by then concerning you.”

Right. The general was putting him on ice, keeping him nearby in case America needed to give Valdez a present to keep him interested in helping them. They would never just send him gift- wrapped. No. They would send him across the border on a mission and let him fall into Valdez’s hands. If it was a matter of American survival…could he blame them?

Yeah, ‘cause it’s my head.

“You think the Chinese are going to attack sometime soon?” Paul asked.

Ochoa’s frown departed, giving his features the ancient wood quality.

Is that his poker face?

“Would you ship six million soldiers across the Pacific to just sit on their thumbs?” Ochoa asked.

“It got them free wheat.”

“Keep yourself out of trouble, Gunnery Sergeant, and keep Colonel Norman alive. I don’t care what you have to do to see it done. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Paul said. You’re giving me a makeshift chore to keep me near Colonel Valdez, or you’re hanging me out as a target for the Colonel’s hit men.

“Good luck, Marine. I think you’re going to need it.”

“Yeah,” Paul said, believing exactly that.

NORTHERN MEXICO

Fighter Rank Zhu Peng of the White Tiger Commandos lay on the hard ground. His nose bled and his head rang from the rock-hard punch of First Rank Tian Jintao, the hit that had dropped him.

The others of their squad watched silently, waiting to see what he would do.

Zhu blinked while on the ground, trying to focus. He had always been too late and too little for just about everything. His parents had been in their fifties when they’d had him. Each had died before his twelfth birthday. He had gone therefore to the State home for orphans. Unfortunately, he had been a skinny child; some might have said malnourished. He had been an easy target to pick on and he might have retreated into himself except for an old soldier who had lost a leg in the Siberian War. The man was the orphan home’s janitor. Many had considered the janitor a lack-wit. But the old soldier had let Zhu watch TV with him down in the basement. He had also taught Zhu a few Shaolin martial arts moves. With those, Zhu had fought back against his tormenters. It had meant corporal punishment in the yard by the headmaster, a beating on the buttocks by cane. He had cried; more like sobbed. The others had laughed later and therefore he had been even more of an outcast than before. It had meant many lonely hours watching TV with the old soldier.

The man’s combat stories had fired Zhu’s imagination. It had led him to join the White Tigers, China’s elite commandos.

The Bai Hu Tezhongbing were unique to Socialist-Nationalist China. They had been the first to implement the new enlisted rankings. The White Tigers had dispensed with the old order of private, corporal and sergeant. Instead, it went Fighter Rank, Soldier Rank and First Rank. Several years later, the Chinese Army, Navy and National Militia had incorporated the new enlisted rankings. In everything military, the Bai Hu led the way.

Too little and too late—Zhu Peng lay on the hard ground in Mexico. He had just arrived from China, from basic jetpack training in the Jing Mountains. Normal Bai Hu military procedure kept each White Tiger squad together. Like other militaries around the world, the Chinese had found that men fought hardest for their comrades, to save them and to keep his fellow soldiers’ respect. Zhu was a replacement for a White Tiger killed by a Mexican saboteur. Zhu was the new man. Worse, he was the thinnest and weakest of the squad. This afternoon, the First Rank had decided to test his quality. In other words, to give Zhu a beating so he understood that he wasn’t wanted.

Zhu clenched his teeth, even though it made his bleeding nose throb with pain. With the palms of his hands, he shoved up against the ground, feeling the grains of sand press against his flesh. Something at the corner of his eye blurred—it was the First Rank’s booted foot coming for him. He could see the frayed laces.

The steel toe caught Zhu in the chest. It was like a hammer. It flipped him onto his back as he gasped for air.

Tian Jintao peered down at him from what seemed like a great height. Tian had bulging muscles and he knew how to use them with his dreadful coordination. Tian had a thick neck and a tiger-tail tattoo under his left eye. He was naked from the waist up, wearing camouflage pants and combat boots. Tall cactuses ringed the hard-packed ground around them.

“You are too small, Zhu Peng,” the First Rank told him. “You are also too slow. You will get the rest of us killed in combat.”

The other squad-members muttered agreement.

“How did you ever pass White Tiger training?” Tian asked.

Zhu had been told before it was due to the war, to the mass mobilization of Chinese soldiers. The quality of the Bai Hu was not what it used to be. That he had made it this far showed that.

“I’m going to stomp on you,” Tian said, raising his left knee.

Zhu swiveled while remaining on his back. He lashed out with a foot, almost catching Tian by surprise. At the last moment Tian hopped up. When he landed, he lashed out, kicking Zhu in the side with a terrific thud.

“Yes, a good beating,” Tian said matter-of-factly. “That’s exactly what you need.”

“Get rid of the new boy!” one of the others shouted. “We don’t want a skinny runt like him in our squad.”

Tian swung his foot back to kick again.

From on the ground, Zhu threw two fistfuls of dirt up at the First Rank. He slithered away and hurried to his feet. His nose dripped blood, his chest throbbed and it felt as if one of his ribs was broken. The multiple pains stole his courage. He wanted to run away so the beating would end.

“That’s a good trick, new boy.” Tian took a combat stance, moving toward Zhu sideways, circling him.

The sight of Tian closing in, knowing there was going to be more pain—Zhu’s eyelids flickered and his mouth opened slightly.

It made Tian pause.

Zhu took a combat stance. He was thin, a mere one-sixty in American pounds. Tian was two-ten and only an inch taller.