That had been three days and two cities ago of endless fighting.
“Catch,” Romo said. He pitched the Snickers bar.
Paul caught it one-handed. The kids looked up from their card game around a low lobby table. They’d scooted big, overstuffed chairs up to it. From the corner of his eye, Paul noticed them watching.
There were four of them, what was left of the original Militia squad. They were painfully young, although two claimed to be juniors in college. The other two had worked in construction, meaning fortification workers, probably the grunts hauling material for the men who knew what they were doing. They were aged nineteen to twenty-one, kids really with old men’s eyes now.
These four had looked into the face of death and it had aged them horribly. They tired fast during combat and recuperated even faster afterward. Paul had laid shoulder-to-shoulder with them on many occasions already. Whenever the Chinese artillery or missile poundings stopped, the wave attacks commenced.
Their Militia battalion had a third of its personnel left, maybe less. Not all of the missing were dead. At least half of the missing had taken off, either to surrender or go AWOL with the hordes of streaming refugees heading north. Paul and these four kids had seen what happened to those who tried to surrender to the enemy.
Americans with their hands on their heads had tried to approach enemy lines. Massed Chinese firepower had chopped them into bloody chunks of rat-meat.
“Hungry?” Paul asked, holding up the Snickers bar.
The four Militiamen turned away without answering, resuming their card game.
There was a gulf between Paul and them. It was mainly age—at least Paul liked to tell himself that. They were so young, pure even, with innocence leaking from them. They had illusions, so many illusions it had surprised Paul more than once. During one firefight, the machine gunner just quit firing.
“It’s butchery,” the kid had whispered.
Paul had let go of his assault rifle, shouldered the kid aside and taken over. He’d killed pinned down enemy soldiers. Even as the Chinese had broken and scrambled away, Paul kept firing. When he’d stopped, the kid had just stared at him with a terrified look.
Later, Romo told him what the stare had meant. “You are a killer, my brother.”
“What?” Paul said.
“They are scared of you.”
“That’s crazy. We’re on the same side.”
“No, it is very sane,” Romo said. The two of them had been outside the strongpoint, collecting Chinese weapons and ammo from the dead. Supplies had been drying up lately.
“We’re all fighting the enemy,” Paul said.
Romo smiled. It hadn’t been a friendly thing, although the assassin had not aimed it at Paul in anger or disrespect.
“Do you know that ten percent of the fighter pilots make ninety percent of the kills?” Romo asked.
“Afraid I don’t.”
“Many soldiers do not fire their weapons during battle. Among the others who do fire, many of them aim anywhere than at the enemy. Most men do not like to kill other men. It is one of the reasons it takes many thousands of bullets to kill one enemy. It is also one of the reasons why artillery is the great killer in battle.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Why are you angry?” Romo asked.
“No reason. Being called a killer, yeah, that’s a real honor.”
Romo’s smile had become sad. “We are the wolves, amigo. We are the ten percent. The young ones, they realize this in you. It frightens them. They are brave. I do not mean to disrespect them. But they are not the natural warriors that you and I are.”
“Maybe.”
“Accept who you are, my brother. I have. It is you and me, and men like us, who will drive the invader back into the sea.”
As Paul sat in the wrecked hotel, sitting in the stuffed chair, he used his teeth to tear open the bar’s wrapper. He’d been craving this for days. Battle, being close to death, did that to you. Cravings would overcome him and he would just have to have whatever the thing was.
Paul bit into the bar and savored the gooey, caramel chocolate taste. Oh, this was wonderful, but it would go even better with an ice-cold glass of milk. But where was he going to find that in this sinkhole?
He wasn’t a natural killer. That was a load of crap. He was just a soldier who wanted to see his wife and kid again. If a bunch of Chinese or other Asians was going to get in the way of that, well, he was going to kill them. They had killed enough of his countrymen that he figured he was entitled. Besides, they had invaded his home, his country. If someone entered his house with the intent to steal or rape, bam, he would drill them in the head. End of story.
Paul drew a deep breath through his nostrils and he realized that all he held was the wrapper. Shoot, he’d already finished the Snickers bar. He glanced sidelong at the kids. One of them
From outside came a loud boom.
Paul grabbed his assault rifle and bolted upright. The kids dove for their weapons and Romo already ran for the holes in the hotel wall. Chinese IFVs had made similar noises this morning.
Romo crouched by a hole. Then he shouted back. “They brought tanks with them this time, two of them.”
“Right,” Paul said. He picked up a Chinese RPG. They had collected them this morning from the fallen enemy.
In seconds, Paul crouched by his own hole. An enemy IFV had made it close with its 30mm auto-cannons. The tracked carrier had held six infantrymen inside its “womb.” The IFVs were nimble vehicles and heavily armed with four of those auto-cannons and two missile tubes. The Chinese liked to roar at their lines under heavy missile or artillery cover, pouring everything they had at the American positions. Then the back of the IFV would clang down and out would charge six armored Chinese infantry.
This time it was different. Two tanks clanked down the street. A host of antennae sprouted from each light tank. It told Paul these two were drones, remote-controlled vehicles. Each Marauder was smaller than an SUV and possessed a non-turreted 153mm gun.
“Hold your fire,” Paul told the others. “Romo, grab an RPG and come with me.”
“How long to you want us to wait?” asked the twenty-one year old Militia sergeant. He had pimples on his forehead and stood near the two with the .50 caliber.
“Give us a minute,” Paul said. “Then fire at the tanks so the sensors know the vehicles are taking fire. Then scram, but be sure to take the machine gun with you. We’re going to need it.”
“Go where?”
“Deeper in the hotel,” Paul said. “When you hear the explosions outside, you’d better come running fast. Set up the machine gun in a new position and get ready.”
The pimple-faced sergeant nodded and rapped out orders to the other three.
Paul hefted two RPGs, one under each arm. Romo did the same thing. They trotted to the stairs and climbed, going to the third floor. Paul was panting by the time he approached a shattered window.
“They will have spotted these,” Romo said.
“Yeah,” Paul said. He set down one RPG and primed the other. Taking big gulps of air, he tried to steady himself. They would have to do this quickly: spot and fire.
Downstairs, the .50 caliber started up. Metallic hammering sounds told Paul the gunner was hitting one of the light tanks at least.
“Not too long,” Paul said under his breath. As he finished speaking, the machine gun fire quit. These were good kids, the survivors of days of brutal, endless fighting. They had learned.
Paul glanced at Romo. The lean assassin stood poised beside his window. He was ready. He wanted to kill the enemy, even if it was only drone tanks.
The 153s boomed below, and the crash told Paul the shells had smashed into the hotel. Enemy machine gun fire started. He hoped the kids had retreated far enough.
