does not necessarily mean speed along the highway. I have increased the tempo of battle in California by attacking night and day, by rotating formations and never giving the Americans a rest. It also means headlong attack at times and those attacks are in an urban environment, often considered the worst place for swift advances. That means heavy losses at times among our soldiers. I have tried to ensure that those losses are sustained primarily by penal units and the special infantry.”
“That has not always been the case,” Kao said.
“You are correct. We have sustained heavy losses, both in men and materiel. What I have done is bring the Americans to the brink of defeat. Once the remnant of Army Group SoCal enters the prison camps, California and the entire West Coast will be plucked like a ripe peach. We will not rest, but endlessly assault the enemy until he collapses from exhaustion.”
“What if we collapse first?” Kao asked.
“No. We are the greater power, have better soldiers and the superior technology.”
“The American Behemoth tanks are proof of this, yes?” Kao asked.
“The nuclear strike in Santa Cruz is proof of this,” Nung said. “The Americans had to resort to it because they lacked enough soldiers. It is clear they are exhausted. Several more headlong assaults—”
“I would like to point out that we have not merely sustained
“Yes!” the Leader said. “Finish this fight, Marshal Nung. Defeat the Americans as quickly as you can. I do not want any more Santa Cruzes. We must capture Los Angeles and then California. Then you must rest your troops as we shift the focus to Texas and New Mexico and mass supplies there for the second strike.”
Nung bowed his head. He had won again, even though it was obvious that Kao intrigued against him. But the Leader was wrong in a critical area. He would not stop with California’s capture. He wanted the entire West Coast.
“Do you have anything else to add, Marshal Kao?” the Leader asked.
Kao must have understood which way the wind blew. He shook his head and the conference soon ended.
Paul Kavanagh ducked behind a concrete wall. Seconds later a powerful explosion shook the area. Debris rained and more enemy shells landed. A titanic
He glanced back and could see the separated turret laying sideways, the bent cannon thrust part way into a burning shoe store.
“Chinese UCAV,” Romo said.
Paul looked up and noticed where Romo pointed. Yeah, he saw it, a slow-flying prop job. It had another Annihilator missile under a wing like the one that had just killed the Abrams. It also had a long cannon—it must be a vehicle-hunting drone. Even as he watched, the cannon chugged, and a Stryker hiding from the Chinese Marauders down the street sagged as tires deflated and shells punched holes in the skin.
Paul was part of the rearguard in Poway, fighting with a platoon of the 23rd Infantry Division. The platoon was down to sixteen soldiers, including Paul and Romo. They didn’t have any Blowdart shoulder-launched missiles to take down the enemy aircraft. They’d used the last one days ago.
“Ready?” Paul asked.
“The drone is too far and likely flying too fast for us,” Romo said.
“That isn’t what I asked. Are you ready?”
Romo glanced at Paul. They were both covered with grime, with the dirt worked deep into their skin. Each had a patchy uniform and badly dinged and used Kevlar armor. Paul wore a bandage on his cheek, while Romo had a bigger one on his neck. Paul had sewn the neck wound closed three days ago and it was infected. The assassin was too proud to complain. Each of them had the hollow stare of a soldier who had seen too much combat.
“Amigo, I was born ready,” Romo said.
“Glad to hear it. Let’s take down the S.O.B.”
The UCAV dipped toward them, its cannon chugging. A Bradley Fighting Vehicle barely avoided destruction by backing up fast. Huge chunks of pavement geysered upward and sprayed the pieces in all directions like a granite shower.
Paul grunted as he grabbed the .50 caliber Browning. Romo did likewise. They hefted the machine gun, putting its tripod onto the concrete wall. Paul slid around Romo and clutched the butterfly controls. Romo leaned heavily against the tripod. He’d already put plugs in his ears.
Swiveling the machine gun, Paul used the laser rangefinder. It was an upgraded Browning. The ballistic computer flashed the coordinates. Paul adjusted and he used his thumbs, pressing the buttons. The heavy machine gun was loud, and it shook. Red tracers helped Paul make minute corrections. As a Bradley Fighting Vehicle blew up from the UCAV’s cannon, .50 caliber bullets riddled the drone. The Chinese craft nosedived, and seconds later, it hit the ground, exploding out of sight.
Paul released his grip and slapped Romo on the back. The two of them lifted the big machine gun, taking it down off the wall. Both men ran crouched over, hidden from the enemy. Seconds later, Chinese shaped-charge grenades hit the wall where they’d just been, demolishing it.
That was one of the rules. You couldn’t stay in the same spot long. Anyone who didn’t learn that was already dead or much luckier than he had a right to be.
“Here!” Paul shouted.
Romo grounded the tripod and slid the hot barrel through a hole in the concrete, wearing gloves. One time, when the barrel had glowed with heat, Romo had unzipped his fly and urinated on it. Now, he readied more ammo, giving Paul the thumbs up.
Paul lay on gravel, squinting down the sights. He was deep down exhausted. It was the kind of tired where you felt it in your bones. He wanted a hot bath and to sleep for days. Romo and he had been on the run for too long. They had fought too many battles and hiked over too many mountains to make it here into this particular pocket.
Army Group SoCal wasn’t one big united entity anymore, but just fractured parts holding out in different southern cities and hills. As far as Paul knew, this pocket was the farthest northward. It was the closet to LA. The trouble was that he and Romo were the rearguard. If a miracle occurred and somehow the U.S. Army in LA fought through to them, they would have to stand guard, buying time for the others.
“Movement,” Romo said.
“Ready.”
Romo picked up a Chinese RPG. That was how they operated these days. They scoured battlefields, looking for enemy equipment. Sometimes an American UAV dropped supplies, but that didn’t happen often. The Chinese were doing their best to destroy every vestige of Army Group SoCal, and they were doing a good job of it, too.
“There,” Romo said, pointing.
Paul saw them. Chinese soldiers in dinylon battle armor raced into view as they sprinted for cover. The lead man wore a black visor with a little antenna jutting up from it. These weren’t penal soldiers or the dreaded special infantry. These were regular fighting men. They were the kind that wanted to survive combat.
As if on cue, three Marauder drones appeared down the street. Their cannons roared one right after the other. Shells whistled and blasted sections of the concrete wall.
“Not yet,” Paul said. He didn’t speak to tell Romo what to do. The assassin knew better than he did the moment to strike. Paul spoke out of habit, out of an inner need.
The Marauders’ treads churned rubble. The light tank drones with their forest of antenna clanked toward
