Invasion: California

Zhu’s gut clenched and vomit acid burned the back of his throat. This was real. This wasn’t practice. He began to shake, and shame as he’d never known it began to bubble inside him.

The battle-taxi sank toward the earth as they raced at a berm. There were puffs of smoke from the top of the fortification. Then American RPGs zoomed toward them.

Why so many? Zhu wanted to know. A major had told them that none of those enemy weapons would be operable today because of a new Chinese secret weapon.

The major lied to us. Zhu wondered why.

Almost simultaneously, two enemy shaped-charge grenades struck the battle-taxi nearest Zhu. Some Eagle fighters flew off the stricken helicopter. Other jetpack-soldiers plummeted earthward, to plow like javelins against the built-up berm.

Then Zhu’s helicopter flashed over the berm. He twisted back. American soldiers stood in gun-pits, firing at the other helicopters.

“Fly!” First Rank Tian shouted in the headphones.

Zhu’s muscles froze. He couldn’t let go of the rest-bars. Beside him on the pole, an Eagle-commando launched upward and to the side with a whoosh of jetpack power.

I am shamed. I am forever shamed. Why couldn’t he tear his fingers free? Was he that much of a coward?

Enemy fifty-caliber machine gun fire slammed into the battle-taxi, shaking it as holes appeared in the bubble canopy.

With a yelp of terror, Zhu released his rest-bars and jumped.

“Use your jetpack,” Tian shouted in his headphones.

At the last moment and as he dropped with sickening speed, Zhu realized that Tian spoke to him. Despite his terror, with practiced smoothness, Zhu brought up his arm to the flight-pad. His hand gripped the throttle and he roared his jetpack to life. With a lifting pull on his shoulders and waist, Zhu braked his descent and then rose upward.

There were many Eagle commandos hanging in the air, moving on the enemy like a giant flock of deadly birds. The stricken battle-taxi turned, the pilot inside the shattered bubble bleeding profusely. The helicopter went down, its blades slicing the air a foot from where Zhu hovered.

I forgot to jet to the side.

“Down, down,” Tian said, “land near the bunker.”

To Zhu, it felt as if he was in a fog. Everything moved so slowly. His thoughts were jelly and his limbs hardly obeyed his mental commands.

Yes, the others of his squad sank toward a concrete bunker. It looked like a toy from up here. Vehicles were parked around it and there were shacks in various places. Americans ran outside, some of them kneeling, aiming weapons skyward and firing. Part of the bunker was hidden under desert soil.

Zhu twisted the throttle and sank toward the Americans. It felt surreal. Bullets whistled past him and grenades landed like bombs among them, tumbling some. Then everything became confusion. Eagle team commandos plummeted to the hard ground. One screaming commando struck another flyer under him and they both hit the ground hard enough to bounce. An American ran toward them, firing from the hip, shattering jetpack parts and helmets.

Zhu activated his grenade launcher. In a daze, he targeted enemy soldiers, lobbing grenades at them.

The ground rushed up. As if he were in a dream, he twisted the throttle again, lightly touching down. Then he was running, following Tian. The others shed their jetpacks. The packs hit the ground, sending up dirt. Some commandos sprawled onto the ground, firing assault rifles at the enemy. Others crouched over as they sprinted for burning vehicles or other hiding positions.

Zhu gasped as he ran. The jetpack was heavy and the straps dug into his shoulders. More Eagle Team commandos landed. This was an enemy HQ, the command center for the American Ninth Division.

Zhu saw a tall American with red hair and the eagles of a colonel. The man held an M-16 as he sprinted for a civilian-style pickup truck. Zhu fired a grenade into the colonel’s chest, blowing the man off his feet. Nearby, Humvees revved into life.

First Rank Tian fired an RPG at one, exploding its hood.

The other Humvees carried .50 caliber machine guns. One American shook as he fired the big machine gun, killing two commandos of Zhu’s squad. They toppled to the soil like rag dolls, with red holes on their chest. The American kept shooting them, desecrating their bodies. That was wrong. Without thinking about what he was doing, Zhu throttled up his jetpack. With a whoosh, he lifted into the air three meters and arrowed at the Humvee.

“What are you doing, Fighter Rank?” Tian asked. “Stay on the ground.”

The man’s voice penetrated Zhu’s sub-conscious. What was he doing? He was flying during a firefight, exactly the wrong thing. Zhu watched in stupefaction as the American behind the .50 caliber swiveled the big machine gun up at him. The man grimaced like a manic. Zhu realized that he was a dead man.

Then an RPG hit the Humvee. It threw the American backward, his fingers sliding off the machine gun’s butterfly triggers. Three seconds later Zhu landed behind the burning vehicle, turned and fired a grenade into another Humvee, one whose engine revved. Americans bailed from it a microsecond before the grenade exploded. Chinese assault rifle fire cut the Americans down.

“Shed your jetpack, Fighter Rank,” Tian radioed Zhu. “We don’t want any more heroics from you. Too many of us are dying.”

“He’s a real White Tiger,” a Soldier Rank radioed.

“Did you see Zhu? That was amazing. We have a real fighter on our hands, First Rank.”

In a daze, Zhu shed his jetpack. It fell back and hit the ground nozzles-first, spraying heat and air and making dirt puff up. He’d forgotten to shut if off completely. A sensor in the pack now initiated an emergency shutdown and Zhu began wondering who the others were talking about. It couldn’t be him. His heart raced as he gulped air. Slowly, he lay down on the ground amid the burning American vehicles. From his position he began firing bursts from his assault rifle at the nearest enemy. When the magazine was empty, he wiped his sweaty brow and put in another one.

Soon, First Rank Tian ordered the squad up. Another squad launched multiple RPGs at the bunker’s door, blasting it down.

“It’s time to kill colonels and generals,” Tian said.

In as big a daze as ever, Zhu climbed to his feet. He shouted with his squad members and charged the door, entering the bunker-clearing phase of the attack.

Fifteen minutes later, with blood and steaming gore splattered against the walls, it was over. With grenade and rifle fire, they had slaughtered the Ninth Division’s general and HQ’s staff, effectively destroying the coordination for twelve thousand American soldiers.

Only four Eagle Team members of Zhu’s squad remained: him, First Rank Tian and two others. The cost in White Tigers had been heavier than expected, but the operation had been a success. It would no doubt help pave the way for next move in the grand Chinese assault.

BEHIND ENEMY LINES, MEXICO

With one knee on dirt, Paul leaned against an almond tree within an orchard. Romo knelt beside him as they eyed a two-story ranch house. A heavy military truck and a Chinese version of a Humvee sat on the U-shaped driveway to the side.

“We need food,” Romo said.

The growl in Paul’s stomach had led him to the same conclusion. They had trekked over seven miles by his calculation, having detoured three times to avoid enemy logistic support. Seven miles…that meant the border was still a good twenty miles away.

Normally, that wouldn’t have worried Paul. He had often ranged far behind enemy lines, but this time he had no radio and no way of knowing if the Big One had begun. He was beginning to believe it had. The amount of traffic had surprised him.

Unfortunately, he had no supplies this time, no destination other than the American line. The longer they remained behind Chinese lines, the worse it was going to become. The odds weren’t with them.