“Ten seconds!” the pilot shouted.
At that moment, a terrific explosion occurred just ahead of them. The concussion hit a second later as the Cherokee swerved hard. Paul stared outside. The lead helicopter was gone, debris raining onto the ground a bare forty feet below.
His body went cold inside. He would mourn them later, if he could. Now, he just felt cold, like his emotions had died.
“Eight men left!” Paul shouted into the compartment. He pumped his fist, glancing from man to man. If his emotions had died, it still meant he could fake it. He needed these boys ready for battle. “Semper Fi!” he roared.
Frank, the Marine Recon sergeant, roared it back at him.
The Cherokee started down, coming in among twenty trucks and armed Chinese soldiers firing their weapons.
The Cherokee’s beehives launched together and in a continuous chug, chug, flooding the air with thousands of tungsten flechettes the size and shape of fishhooks. The Cherokee shuddered from the launchings and Paul was certain the helo would simply disintegrate. Instead, as trucks bloomed into fireballs below and as Chinese soldiers toppled into gory ruins, the helicopter slammed against the ground, bounced up and hit again, skidding.
This time Paul had clenched his teeth, the muscles in his jaws beginning to throb from the intensity. Even so, he jerked this way and that, his body slamming against the restraining straps or pressed into the cushioned seat.
“We’re down!” the pilot shouted.
Paul’s head rang and it felt as if someone had played basketball on his muscles. He was sore and tired before anything had begun. That didn’t matter now. He jerked his release so the restraints dropped away. “Go, go, go!” he shouted. He flipped a visor over his eyes and thrust himself out of his seat and for open ground. A dreadful lurch was his only reward and warning—he tumbled out of the helo and hit the ground with his chest. He lay stunned for several seconds, with his lungs locked from the impact. Hands pulled him up from the straps on his back. One strap pressed near his throat, making him cough and unlocking his lungs. Behind him, crouched on one knee, the Marine Recon sergeants fired at the enemy, at Chinese hiding among the burning vehicles. Romo did the same thing.
“We need cover!” Paul shouted. He tried his HUD visor, but there was nothing overhead looking down. No American drones, satellites or AWACS to give him any intel on the enemy. He was going to have to do this the old- fashioned way.
Forcing himself to concentrate, Paul scanned the wreckages around him. Not every truck or IFV burned. There! Enemy soldiers crawled for what looked like a perfectly useable IFV. With his undercarriage grenade launcher, he shot a grenade at the moving clump of Chinese—lousy bastards. He grunted as he climbed to his feet —he’d been kneeling—and ran at them. As he did, he pumped another grenade into the chamber and fired. An explosion and screams told him about his success.
“There, there, to your left,” a sergeant shouted in his ear via his helmet’s radio.
Paul saw it, a Blue Swan launcher. It was big: the launch vehicle and the straight-up missile with twenty cables snaking from it. He wasn’t an expert, but the thing looked ready to fly. Several Chinese technicians—they wore blue overalls—argued as they stood by a command board. Chinese soldiers surrounded the techs. The enemy fired, spewing sparks from the muzzle of their assault rifles.
Dirt spit around Paul. He grunted and flew backward as a round stuck him in the chest. Another
At that moment, their Cherokee blew up in a spectacular blast, creating several secondary explosions. The blast hit Paul in the back of the head and slammed him onto the ground. There was a roaring sound in his ears. It might have been him shouting, he didn’t know. Nothing made sense, just blurry motion and heat up and down his body. Why did his chest throb like that?
The next thing Paul realized was him crawling, firing, crawling and firing again. He looked back. A Chinese soldier rushed Romo from the side. The Mexican Apache was toast. Before he thought things through, Paul swung his gun and fired, cutting down the enemy. Romo saw it, and there was something in his eyes. Maybe he realized Paul had just saved his life.
The Chinese were doing a damn good job of defending the arguing techs. What was it with them anyway? Why didn’t they just fire their toy? It was always something.
By crawling and eating dirt—Paul spit several times—he reached what had seemed at first like a perfectly good Chinese IFV. It wasn’t. There were neat little holes in it from gun rounds—those must have come from the Cherokee’s pilot. Enemy infantry lay in gory ruin around it. Some of them must have not worn body armor. That was stupid but fortunate. Paul thrust himself to his feet and raced into the cramped vehicle. He banged against a rail and bumped his head twice. Good thing he still wore his helmet. By releasing his rucksack, he climbed up into the cupola.
With a savage grin, he drew back the bolt of its 12.7mm machine gun. He swiveled it around, sighted and pressed his thumbs on the butterfly triggers. The hammering sounds and the shivering of the gun was pure delight. He mowed down the soldiers guarding the technicians. Next, he shot the Chinese in blue overalls as they tried to run like mice. All was fair in war, right? Lastly, he poured bullet after bullet into the Blue Swam missile. Some of them were incendiary bullets. The freak had wanted to fly, huh. And it had wanted to broadcast its electromagnetic pulse on his fellow citizens.
“No tonight, Johnny Boy,” Paul said under his breath.
An explosion ended it as the missile’s fuel ignited. Paul slid down into the IFV and rolled himself into a fetal position. A second later, the thirty-ton IFV rocked violently, sending Paul tumbling around like a bowling ball. He didn’t see the very end. The missile fell like an axed tree on speed, hurling itself onto the soil and crumpling. The last Chinese died in a hail of Marine and Mexican assassin bullets.
Soon thereafter, bullet silence allowed the survivors to hear the sound of roaring flames.
Paul crawled out of the IFV. His head throbbed and he staggered as he walked. The enemy was dead and the missile destroyed. According to Paul’s count, including him, there were two Marines and two Free Mexico soldiers left alive behind enemy lines. One of the Mexicans—of course—was Romo. It was probably stupid to have saved the man’s life earlier.
Was this act two between Romo and him? Or did the man still want to work together in order to get back to the good old U.S. of A?
It was time to find out.
Marshal Nung groaned as he sat up. His eyesight was blotchy and breathing had become a chore. There was a painful knot on his head where he’d banged it on the floor.
Medics hovered over him. One of them finished attaching an IV-drip to his arm.
“General,” Nung said in a hoarse voice.
A nervous General Pi glanced down at him. The man looked harried, out of his depth. At logistics, he was excellent. Making battlefield decisions—no, he would give command to Marshal Gang.
“Help me stand,” Nung said in a hoarse voice.
“Begging your pardon, Marshal,” the chief medic said, “but I suggest—”
“I’ve given you an order,” Nung growled. Anger washed though him. A sharp pain in his head made him wince. His lung muscles locked up and he gasped.
“Please, sir,” the medic said, kneeling beside him, rubbing his chest.
With weak fingers, Nung grasped the medic’s arm. “Stand,” he managed to gasp. “Help me. I order you.”
The medic stared at him, judging the odds perhaps at what would happen to him if he disobeyed. Finally, the medic nodded and motioned to his helpers. Together, the three medics helped Nung to his feet.
“Report,” Nung whispered, as the pain in his head throbbed. Why was the chamber tilting and spinning?
General Pi looked at him in horror. “Marshal, I recommend that you—”
