Paul didn’t say anything to Romo. The man knew what to do. Inside Paul’s chest, the fear built, but so did the excitement.
The backblast whooshed fire into the hotel room, starting a blaze on the rear wall. Romo fired his rocket launcher. Paul watched for a split second. His shaped-charge grenade slammed against the top of the Marauder, exploding. Paul felt the concussion, and he saw auto-cannons swiveling up at him. Romo’s RPG round hammered the same vehicle and the auto-cannons froze.
“One down,” Paul said. “Let’s go.” He picked up the remaining RPG from the rug and raced past flickering flames on the wall. This fire had bit into the wall and it looked like it might last. That was okay. Soon, the heat would hide them from enemy thermal sights. A blazing hotel, the Chinese would figure the Americans had evacuated it.
Paul grinned savagely thinking about it. Then he was on the stairs again. He climbed, his thighs burning as he raced for the roof. Outside, Chinese machine gun fire riddled something here, likely the windows they’d just used. The Chinese were so predictable you could have set your cell phone by them. Well, if he’d had a working cell phone.
With a heaving chest, Paul crashed against a door and strode onto the roof, heading for the edge. Romo was right behind him.
“Ready?” Paul wheezed.
“Go,” Romo said.
They both stepped up to the edge of the roof. Six stories down, the light tank used its main cannon for what had to be the fourth time. Flame belched, the light tank shuddered and smoke billowed upward from the cannon. Machine gun fire from Chinese infantry nests hammered the hotel’s windows. Soon, the IFVs would appear.
Paul aimed almost straight down and fired. The rocket-propelled grenade flew atop the tank, exploding. Once again, Romo did likewise. Both soldiers twisted and dove backward. Even as they did, armor-piercing bullets slammed against the roof, shattering brick and eating into the tar-covered top.
From on their chests, Paul and Romo grinned at each other.
“That will slow them down some,” Paul said.
“Si.”
“We’d better get back and help the kids.”
“They are near their breaking point,” Romo said. “Soon, we must leave them.”
“Those four?” Paul asked, as he climbed to his feet.
“They are brave for such young men, but they are terrified and we are running out of ammo.”
Paul cocked his head. Yeah, that was a problem. They needed more ammo. The Chinese, they just keep on coming, dying as they expended munitions at a prodigious rate and pushing the Americans into a smaller and smaller area.
“I’m not leaving the Lieutenant in the lurch,” Paul said.
“Si, I understand. But he will break soon, too. It is inevitable.”
“I don’t agree.”
Romo stared at him, and soon he shrugged. “Let us help the young ones.”
“Yeah,” Paul said, heading for the exit.
In the subdued light, Anna Chen concentrated on her split-pea soup in order to avoid seeing the people staring at her. She was in Upscale, one of the most expensive restaurants in D.C. Across the red and white checkered cloth of the small table from her was Dr. Levin, Director of the CIA.
The old man forked more of his salad, popping an oily olive and some lettuce into his mouth. He smiled at her, nodding.
“Do you like the soup?” he asked.
“Oh yes, it’s delicious, sir.”
“Please, my dear, don’t do that here. We’re on a half-hour vacation, remember?”
She hunched her shoulders a little more, letting the spoon click against the bowl.
“I didn’t mean that as a reprimand,” he said.
“I know,” she said, softly.
“What is it, my dear?”
She hesitated before leaning toward him. “The people, do you notice them staring at me.”
Dr. Levin blinked in wonderment and glanced around. Several people looked down. One big Navy officer glared at him. The officer had a bloated face with red cheeks.
“Why do you suppose he’s angry with me?” Levin asked her.
“Because you’re with me,” Anna said.
“Ah,” he said, “because you’re of Chinese descent?”
“Half of me is, yes.”
Levin sighed, seemed as if he was going to say something profound and then he forked another bite of salad.
Anna thought she understood. Dr. Levin didn’t share their feelings, although he understood. But what could he do about it here? The answer was clear. Nothing. Therefore, it was best to let the topic drop. A stubborn core in her didn’t quite feel like letting it drop.
“Man is tribal,” Anna pronounced.
“An unfortunate truth,” Dr. Levin said.
Anna shrugged. “Perhaps it isn’t as bad as we think.”
“Would you elaborate, please?”
She smiled. She liked the Director. “Could you imagine if the entire planet lived under one political system?”
“Indeed. Most people yearn for just that.”
“No sir, I’m afraid you’re wrong.”
He nodded as the waiter indicated the empty salad plate. The waiter took the plate.
“I’m done, too,” Anna said.
The waiter took her bowl, balancing it on his arm and then pouring more coffee into the Director’s cup.
After the waiter left, the Director said, “What I meant to say is that most political theorists wish for a one- world government.”
“True, but I think it would be a catastrophe.”
“Because of racism?” the Director asked.
“No sir, because it most certainly would eliminate the few precious freedoms certain people in various countries enjoy.”
He added cream, stirred with a small silver spoon, laid the spoon aside and sipped his coffee. “Ah, this is perfect. It’s why I come to Upscale. Now about this theory of yours…”
“It’s simple, really. With many competing governments, there is always somewhere to flee if one system becomes too repressive. Power corrupts. A one-world government would place that much greater power into the hands of the person or the clique ruling it. There would be no competing system to oppose him or the clique.”
“What about world peace? Isn’t that something worth striving for?”
Anna shook her head. “It is an illusion, sir. Most militaries are used to kill their own people, to preserve those in power, and to repress those who are out of power. If there was a one-world government, I have no doubt those in power would use the military or the police to repress those they disliked. As I said earlier, man is tribal. If it isn’t racism, it’s competing ideas. For example, the abortionists and the pro-life people have divided into competing camps and cannot abide each other. Why do sports teams create such fierce loyalty? The reason is easy—men like to divide themselves by tribes. The Kansas City Chiefs fan hates the Oakland Raiders fan, who turns it around and hates the Chiefs fan right back.”
“Hmm,” Levin said. “I wish the Chinese used their military to kill their own people. That would be better them their coming to America to kill us.”
“Believe me, they have killed their own in the past, and still do. But consider what China has done. The
