Invasion: California

matter to Romo he’d saved his life twice? The eyes before, they had shown the man’s troubled thoughts.

Kill him. Get it over with, Marine.

As if reading his mind, Romo said, “I am sworn to the Colonel. But… He never saved my life. You have. Therefore, I will make you my blood brother. It means I will tell you before I kill you. I will give you a fair chance to defeat me.”

“After what you did, you think I buy your Indian crap?”

“Apache,” Romo said.

“Indian, Apache, Aztec, it doesn’t matter to me. What you are is a vicious murderer without a conscience.”

“I am a warrior defending my native land,” Romo said. “Unlike my ancestors, I will never surrender.”

Paul veered to the west. They had been headed north and the tress thinned out north. Right now, they needed to stay in this small forest.

After fifty more steps, Paul stopped. Romo stopped beside him, the knife still in the man’s hand.

“So what’s the deal anyway?” Paul asked.

“We each cut our hand.”

“Maiming ourselves?” Paul asked. That sounded bright.

Romo shook his head. “A small cut, enough to bring blood. Then we clasp hands and speak the oath, the vow as my Apache ancestors used to do. We will become blood brothers. As such, we cannot kill each other except in a formal duel, either fist-to-fist or knife-to-knife.”

“And you believe in this stuff?”

Romo stared at him.

For a moment, Paul seemed to see into the man’s soul. This man was tribal, a barbarian really. He obviously believed in what he was saying.

“Ah, what the hell,” Paul said. “We’re dead men anyway.” He shouldered the assault rifle and held up his hand.

Romo stared hard at him.

For a second, Paul thought, he suckered you, you fool.

Romo lifted his hand and made the cut. Then he pressed the razor-sharp knife against Paul’s left palm and made a tiny incision. Blood oozed out. Romo clasped his bleeding hand against Paul’s. Then he made his oath, his vow, calling Paul his blood bother.

Paul repeated the vow even though he felt like an idiot doing it. Afterward…

The two men stared at each other. It was a crazy feeling for Paul.

This killer is my blood brother. I’ve never had a brother before. This is weird. He knew a moment of sadness. It was too bad he was going to have to kill Romo after this was done.

“Come on,” Paul said, with a burr in his voice. “Let’s get the heck out of here before the Chinese find us.”

SAN YSIDRO, CALIFORNIA

The thunder had stopped—an ending to the Chinese hurricane bombardment.

Now Chinese wild weasels lead the way into American air space. Advanced electronic counter measures and hard jamming attempted to confuse the enemy. Behind the wild weasels came bombers and fighter-bombers. Many sent ARMs into whatever operational radar stations the Americans still had and dared to use. Others released napalm or five-hundred pound bombs. The rest carried bunker-busters, seeking out those fortifications the artillery had failed to smash.

In selected areas—San Ysidro being one of those—sleek Chinese helicopters zoomed for enemy HQs. The poison gas had been to suppress the enemy commanders. These pinpoint missions were to kill the hopefully dazed Americans.

There were three types of helicopters. The first were the standoff hunter/killers, the Graceful Swans with their Annihilator missiles. They swooped across the battlefield, seeking American vehicles to destroy. The others were Gunhawks, transformed Chinese cargo helicopters. They each carried two 12.7mm machine guns and a 20mm auto-cannon in its nose. Each machine gun and cannon had a dedicated TV-fed operator. The Gunhawks’ MO called for them to hover above American infantry at ten thousand feet, well out of enemy machine gun range. Aiming their weapons straight down, the Gunhawks would pour concentrated fire on any enemy trying to hide. It was similar in concept to the old “Puff the Magic Dragon” airplane of Vietnam, the Douglas AC-47 Spooky.

The last type of helicopter carried deadly cargos of White Tiger Eagle Teams. Their task: kill enemy commanders and radio networks. Lop off the head so the body—the American formations—could no longer act in a harmonized fashion. In other words, turn disciplined bodies of men into uncoordinated and isolated units so the Chinese could kill and capture them more easily.

Fighter Rank Zhu rode outside his specially fashioned helicopter. It was nicknamed the “Battle-Taxi.” It lacked a regular cargo bay. Instead, it had a bubble for the pilot and four staggered poles swept back like a fighter- jet’s wings. Each pole contained three seats and a motorcycle-style windshield. On each seat sat an Eagle Team member in full commando gear, ready for action.

Zhu crouched behind his windshield as the helo roared over the American landscape by a bare fifty meters. He had an eagle’s view of the masses of vehicles crawling over the earth. IFVs, jeeps, missile launchers, light Marauder tanks, hovers, drones, trucks and masses of marching soldiers moved on the Americans. Soon, enemy ground objects flashed past: splintered trees, a trench-line and blasted casements.

Zhu’s stomach churned. He was going to fight today. He would have to prove himself to the First Rank and the others. First, he would have to launch like an eagle.

Gripping his rest-bars, Zhu watched the terrain. He spied a running dog with something bloody in its fangs. Behind it followed three bigger dogs. They might have been barking. He laughed. It was exhilarating perched out here in the elements. These Z4 helicopters—the battle-taxis—were the latest in White Tiger commando operations. The old-style helos only allowed a few Eagle commandos to lift at a time. This allowed them all to leave at once and drop on the enemy.

“The longer you are in the air, the longer the enemy has to pick you off,” the trainers had told Zhu. “You need to get down and fight.”

Zhu nodded. He knew what to do now. The only trouble was…

I must not shame myself. I must fight bravely. I will show the others I deserve to be here.

Zhu wore an Eagle jetpack and dinylon body armor. He had his Eagle grenade launcher attached to his shoulder. On the jetpack was strapped his QZB-95 assault rifle. The First Rank carried a hand-held anti-air missile. Others had RPGs.

“Target in six kilometers,” the pilot said over the helmet’s earphones.

Zhu nodded, even though no one could see the gesture. He glanced at a fellow commando who sat on the same pole. The crouched White Tiger seemed like a rock.

Kill everyone was the order. In these engagements, they had no use for prisoners, no place to safely put them. It was kill or be killed.

“Five kilometers to target,” the pilot said.

Zhu needed a drink of water and all of a sudden, he needed to take a piss. Just five more kilometers to the enemy? Dead Americans lay scattered on the ground. They looked like they were asleep. They must have lacked masks and been hit by poison gas.

I must not shame myself. I must show the First Rank that I am worthy to be an Eagle commando.

Something fast flashed underneath Zhu. It was long and it headed in the same direction they went.

“Cruise missile,” someone said over the helmet radio.

“Two kilometers to target,” the pilot said.

Zhu blinked three more times. Then a terrific explosion occurred ahead. It must be the cruise missile.

Overhead, Gunhawks raced for their hover positions. Graceful Swans—looking like giant mechanical wasps— now hung back. Zhu saw an Annihilator missile streak toward an American tracked vehicle.

“Get ready,” First Rank Tian said.