For the next fifteen minutes, they monitored the air battle.
“Why aren’t the American fighters retreating?” Nung asked. “This is amazing. They’re handing us their air force.” He felt the amphetamines beginning to kick in. The fuzziness around his mind slipped away, focusing his thoughts. “Compute the ratios of destroyed aircraft between our two sides.”
General Pi tapped a computer screen. Several moments later, he said, “We’ve destroyed half their attacking craft, sir, drones and planes. For every one of ours they’ve destroyed, we’ve shot down four. As you say, it’s a slaughter. The only real negative is the number of our AWACS they destroyed.”
“Sir!” a comm-officer said, swiveling in his chair.
Marshal Nung nodded at the officer.
“The Americans have landed commando teams on our side of the border.”
“Landed where?” Nung asked. His face felt tingly. He adjusted his hat, beginning to feel jittery. “Well, landed where?” he asked.
The officer pressed a hand over his earpiece. He looked up. “Sir, one team landed at a cruise missile installation, another at a Black Thunder park and yet another at a Blue Swan launching site.”
“Blue Swan,” Nung said. “That’s it!” He adjusted his hat again and moved his mouth. His face felt as if ants crawled over it. Why did his skin feel so tight?
“What is it, sir?” Pi asked. The general looked concerned.
Marshal Nung blinked in surprise. What was wrong with him? He felt odd, off. It must be the combination of the tranks and amphetamines.
“Sir?” asked Pi. “Do you feel well?”
“The Americans have discovered Blue Swan,” Nung said. “They’re trying to destroy the missiles before we launch them.”
“Destroy the launching sites with commandos?” asked General Pi. “It would be suicide for them, and we know the Americans are not suicidal.”
Nung’s heart began hammering. Sweat appeared on his face, particularly at the inner corners of his eyes. Yes, he could feel the tranks fighting the amphetamines. He blinked groggily as sweat stung his eyes, and he tried to understand what this meant. Beside him, General Pi was babbling about something. Nung focused on the man’s words.
“Launch now, sir?” Pi asked.
“What are you talking about?” Nung asked. The hammering of his heart increased. He clutched the edge of the computer table. Was he having a heart attack? He couldn’t have one now. This was the greatest battle of his life. Though force of will, he listened to Pi, staring at the man.
“Sir,” Pi said, sounding worried.
“Concentrate on the battle,” Nung snapped.
Pi nodded nervously. “If the Americans are destroying the Blue Swan missiles, sir, shouldn’t we launch them while we can?”
Nung glanced at the green situational map. His heart was tripping fast and he felt cold, yet sweat continued to ooze onto his skin. That wasn’t important now. He had decisions to make. The Americans…they were attacking —“Yes!” he shouted. “Order the personnel to launch all Blue Swam missiles now! This is an emergency. They are to immediately launch the missiles.”
After shouting, Marshal Nung lost his grip on the table. His strength simply vanished. In slow motion, the bulldog soldier toppled backward onto the tiled floor.
Paul swayed in his seat as the Cherokee helicopter banked hard. Below, the dark ground swept past. The sound of firing in the distance—missiles, artillery and rockets—penetrated the whomp-whomp of the helicopter’s blades. Red light flared, artillery no doubt, and smaller, brighter flares that indicated explosions.
They flew at treetop level, trying to come in under the enemy radar. It made them vulnerable to ground fire. But they flew so fast that enemy soldiers only had a moment’s glance and then they were past.
The Cherokee was the latest in American innovations. No nation used helicopters like the U.S. This one was faster and sleeker than anything seen so far and it maneuvered with afterburner tri-jets.
The Cherokee shook now from counter-fire, its automated flechette launchers firing. Paul glanced outside. A contrail closed toward them, showing a speeding missile. Then, where the missile had been, a brilliant flash stole his night vision. Seconds later, the helicopter shuddered from the concussion.
The flechette launchers had done their job, knocking down an enemy missile that would have blown them out of the battle.
Paul watched the ground pass. They must be in Mexico by now or close enough so it didn’t matter. A hundred thoughts tumbled through his mind. Would he ever see his wife again? When should he shoot Romo and his killers? Did Valdez want to torture him? How did the CIA know where the Chinese had hidden their secret weapons? He doubted their team would get anywhere close to one of these Blue Swans. What were the odds, ten percent, fifteen? Just how many doomsday missiles did they have to destroy—all the commandos together—to have to make this crazy operation worthwhile?
He didn’t know the answers to any of his questions. So he let his gut churn with pre-battle jitters. It was always like this. He figured if he ever stopped feeling nervous before a mission then he would have stopped being alive.
The helo shuddered again with another brilliant flash. Seconds later the craft slewed hard as if a giant had batted it. The noise from the blades changed. It wasn’t whomp-whomp-whomp now, but sounded wounded.
“We’re going to crash!” a Marine shouted in Paul’s ear.
Paul clutched his restraining straps. His stomach did flips. Would they topple, tumble and burst into flame? Would he feel anything? Damn, he hated this. He should have deserted and headed for LA. He would have loved to hold his wife one more time. He had things he wanted to tell his son. He should have taken the time when he had the chance. This was so screwed up.
The helo slewed one way and then another, and then, incredibly, they straightened, more or less. The back end kept fishtailing. One of the Free Mexico soldiers vomited. Another was as pale as a corpse. The Cherokee kept heading in the same direction as before. It was crazy.
“It ain’t our time just yet!” Paul shouted into the compartment.
Romo stared at him. The man had dead eyes. It was creepy. Didn’t it bother him they had almost eaten it?
Paul leaned across the small aisle and shoved his face close to Romo. “What’s wrong? You don’t care if you die?”
Nothing changed in those dead eyes. Slowly, Romo shook his head.
Paul grinned. “I’ll be doing you a favor later.”
One eyebrow lifted the tiniest fraction.
Paul sat back. He’d said enough. Now he leaned toward the edge of the open compartment. The glows and flashes were brighter out there.
“Shit!” he said.
The Cherokee flashed over enemy soldiers crouched low. They looked up, and Paul got a momentary glance of Chinese faces.
“Almost there,” the pilot said over the intercom.
Paul blew out his cheeks and he saw Romo staring at him. With his thumb, Romo slowly sliced it across his throat.
“That’s right!” Paul shouted. “We’re about to kill us some Chinese. We’re still on with our deal?”
Romo just stared at him.
“What deal?” Frank asked, one of the Marine Recon drill sergeants.
For just a second, Paul wanted to tell the Marine why Romo was here. Then he realized it would probably start a gun-battle in the helo. That wouldn’t be any good. They had a job to do. America needed these Blue Swans destroyed. How many commandos needed to die in order to give the SoCal soldiers a chance of stopping the Chinese?
