Anna grinned, feeling appreciated and as if she had done something useful. “So what does Blue Swan do?”
“Our technicians were fortunate, as our commando didn’t bring back much in way of evidence. Luckily, one of the techs—let’s just leave at this: we’re ninety percent certain the missiles melt electronics through EMP. And they do this without needing a nuclear explosion.”
Anna’s eyes became large. Oh, that was clever.
“It means a national disaster could be in the making,” Levin said. “We’re hoping the Chinese drag their heels using their advantage. They should have already moved. We keep expecting EMP missiles in Texas, but that hasn’t happened. The Chinese appear to be waiting for something. We’d like to figure out what and then see if we can thwart them.”
“I can tell you what they’re waiting for,” Anna said. “They want to line up all their ducks in a row.”
“Explain that, please.”
“In this, the Chinese are more like Russians than World War II Germans. The Germans liked to take bold gambles. The Russians bet on sure things. The Chinese will want to make sure they have enough to win big, instead of going too soon and ruining their chances of conquest.”
“This is your opinion why?”
“Years and years of study and research on the Chinese and their character,” she said.
Levin scratched his ear again, with the pinky fingertip disappearing from view and shaking vigorously so it reminded Anna of a dog. But this man was one smart dog.
“Let us suppose you’re right. The hovers and the Texas artillery attacks are decoys meant to fix our attention. What does that say about California, especially knowing that Marshal Nung is in charge of the First Front?”
“Nung means you’re likely not going to get as much time to get ready as if it were someone else,” Anna said.
Levin looked away as his grin vanished. He seemed old then. “Right,” he whispered. Looking up, he said, “Get your purse, Ms. Chen, and then let’s go.”
“Any place in particular?” Anna asked.
Levin nodded. “White House Bunker Number Five.”
“Sir?”
“The President wants you at the War Council meeting as they decide what to do about Texas and Florida.”
In the darkness of night, Zhu Peng lurched upward in flight. His Qui 1000 jets expelled air with tremendous force. The jetpack shook his frail body and lifted him with terrifying ease. He rested his right elbow on a flight pad, his right hand using the control-throttle. It was delicate work and needed extreme precision. This is why he had passed the White Tiger tests. Among his pod of recruits, he had proved the best in flight.
Zhu wore an Eagle helmet, top-of-the-line in quality and with the latest technology. It had a HUD display with night vision built into the visor. He had a shoulder-mount grenade launcher. He turned his head, with crosshairs in his helmet showing him where the grenade would go. By pressing a button in his left hand, the launcher electromagnetically propelled the grenade and reloaded his weapon. Assault rifles had their uses, but where harder to wield well during flight. The idea of the grenade launcher was to clear a landing zone for an Eagle soldier.
Eagle Team doctrine had changed since the Alaskan War, although Zhu knew little about that. The trainers had taught him present doctrine, not past. In the air, jetpack troops were vulnerable to enemy fire, just as paratroopers in the past had hung like ripe fruit floating down to earth. The jetpack was for maneuver while away from the enemy. While fighting, every Eagle soldier tried to land as quickly as possible and use cover like a regular combatant.
“Fighter Rank.” The words crackled in Zhu’s headphones. It was Tian Jintao.
Using his chin, Zhu flicked on communications. “Here, First Rank.”
“‘Here,’ he says,” Tian told the others. “Give me your exact coordinates, recruit.”
Zhu did.
“Come down at mark 3, dash 42,” Tian said.
Zhu read the coordinates on the HUD. Ah, this was a tricky maneuver. He twisted his wrist and throttled down, dipping, his body spinning to the left. He thrust harder, lifting now, and twisted again so he plunged toward the given coordinates.
“Impressive,” he heard over the headphones.
“Anyone can fly,” Tian said. “It’s fighting that counts.”
“He’s supply and doesn’t have to fight,” someone else said.
“He’s one of ours,” Tian told the others. “So he must do everything right.”
The dark ground rushed up to greet Zhu. Landing was hardest. Landing while weighted down made it even more difficult. Zhu grinned as his boots touched down light as a feather. He was gifted at this, a—
Something hard smashed against his side, hurling him down so his visor hit a rock.
Zhu groaned.
“Up, up!” Tian shouted. “The enemy is upon us. We’re heading to mark 3, dash 41.”
Zhu crawled to his feet. On the ground lay a dud grenade. The Frist Rank must have fired it at him. Despite the dinylon armor, his side throbbed.
“You must be ready for anything, Fighter Rank,” Tian said over the headphones.
Zhu grunted a response. Just when—he twisted the throttle, rising above another projectile shot at him.
“He learns quickly, First Rank.”
“But can he fight?” Tian asked.
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
Zhu nodded. They were training hard. Word had filtered down to them that a combat assault was about to take place in several days. No one knew the hour, but everyone knew the Big One was almost here. Invasion: California, it was really going to happen and Zhu would be in the initial assault, killing American High Command personnel.
“Fighter Rank!” Tian shouted.
“Here, First Rank,” Zhu said.
“Quit dreaming. You’re off course by several meters. I expect perfection from my men.”
Zhu squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them wide. He was going to excel. He was a White Tiger, an elite jetpack killer. The trainers had taught him that he would live or die with his squad mates. He would show the others. He would, even if he was too skinny to fight as well as they did. He would train until he could fire his grenades as well as any of them, or he would die trying.
Anna sat down beside Director Levin at the circular conference table. She couldn’t believe it. Little had changed since the last time she had come down to White House Bunker Number Five. Oh, there were a few more fancy computers and a holoimage in the center of the table, but nothing fundamentally different.
She recognized General Alan: the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the highest-ranking military man in the chamber. He was thin and wore glasses, and frowned upon sight of her. General Alan had been here during Clark’s term as President. From a few tidbits that she’d heard before, Anna believed Alan was Sino-phobic.
There were others here: the Secretary of State, of Defense, the President’s advisors and the top general of the Air Force, the Army and Strategic Command.
President Sims was a plump man with wispy blond hair attempting to cover his balding spot in front. He had splotchy features, only looking a little like the man who appeared on the TV and billboards. The eyes told a different story. They were pale blue, alert like a hawk and spoke about a man willing to make tough decisions. He had done just that in Alaska seven years ago. The thin mouth was downturned, showing worry. Again, that was nothing like his TV appearances. On TV, on political ads and on the internet he always appeared confident. He spoke in a forthright manner then, looking like someone the American people could trust with their children’s lives.
No one introduced her, although several members frowned in her direction. Levin glanced at her once, as if to
