“Why are we supposed to go back there?” Paul asked.
“Let’s go see.”
With his index finger, Paul dug grit out of his right eye. He nodded and grunted as he heaved up out of the foxhole. They crawled to a trench and then hurried back toward the rear.
Battalion HQ was a sandbagged position with logs over a very large hole and with lots of dirt over the logs. Back a ways, a small black helicopter waited beside three tough-looking soldiers in body armor.
“Hold it,” an MP said, coming out of the shadows of the HQ.
“We’re supposed to report,” Romo said.
“Who told you that?” the MP asked.
“This is Paul Kavanagh, Gunnery Sergeant Paul Kavanagh of Marine Recon.”
“Oh,” the MP said. “Then you’d better head over there, you lousy bastard,” he told Paul. “Hurry your butt, you lucky S.O.B.”
“What’s going on?” Paul whispered, as Romo pulled him away from the MP, out of the trench and headed for the helo.
The assassin shrugged.
At their approach, the three tough-looking soldiers raised their weapons. By their insignia, they were Green Berets.
“This is Paul Kavanagh,” Romo said.
The meanest-looking of the three squinted at Paul. “You don’t look like much to me.”
Paul just stared at the man. He had a nametag, if you could believe it. It said Donovan.
“All right then,” Donovan said. “Let’s go.”
Paul shook his head. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re leaving this shithole,” Donovan said.
Scowling, Paul asked, “Why?”
“He asks why?” Donovan told the other two. One of them shrugged. “I’m guessing you know a General Ochoa,” Donovan told Paul.
“The General Ochoa of SOCOM?” Paul asked.
“That’s right.”
“Okay? Yeah, I know him. What about it?”
“General Ochoa must figure you’re something special,” Donovan said. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have sent us to fly in and pick you up. You’re going to LA.”
Paul stared at the man.
“Did you hear me?” Donovan asked.
“Yeah,” Paul said. He heard; he just couldn’t believe it. “Come on,” he told Romo. “Let’s board the helicopter.”
“Sorry,” Donovan said, putting a hand up near Romo’s chest. “He’s not coming. I only have orders to take Paul Kavanagh.”
Paul stood as if struck. He began to shake his head.
“Do not be foolish,” Romo told him. “Get out alive while you can.”
“No.”
“Do we have to drag you out?” Donovan asked.
Paul stepped away from the three SOF soldiers and drew his sidearm, aiming it at Donovan. “I’m staying unless you take my blood brother with me.”
“Your what?” Donovan asked.
“You heard me,” Paul said.
Donovan studied Paul and finally backed away. He went to the helicopter and climbed in.
“You are mad,” Romo said. “I would leave you if they offered this to me.”
“No you wouldn’t,” Paul said.
Instead of arguing, Romo looked away.
Donovan jumped down from the helo. He looked bemused as he approached. “Well, well, well, it seems like General Ochoa is in a good mood today. You can bring your little buddy with you. Come on then. Let’s get going while the corridor is still open. It won’t last forever.”
Paul holstered his gun and strode past Donovan and the other two SOF soldiers to climb into the back of the helo. Romo followed. As they buckled in, the three Green Berets entered and the rotors sped up. They lifted, and Paul felt a sense of deja vu. This was weird. He was going to live and he might even see his wife again, see his son.
The helicopter kept low, a mere fifty feet above the earth. Assist jets kicked in and the little machine zoomed fast, soon flying over Escondido. In minutes, it shot over a long marching column of American soldiers heading for Temecula. They were on I-15, the last open corridor to freedom and Los Angeles.
Paul was glad to leave, but he couldn’t help but think of the soldiers outside of Poway holding the line while others marched away to continue the fight. It wasn’t just. It wasn’t fair. It was war, and she was a mean-faced witch.
-12-
The Battle for Los Angeles
It was a somber meeting in the underground bunker. The briefing major spoke in a monotone, making Anna wonder if the woman used drugs. Beside her, Levin doodled listlessly. While the President, he watched the proceedings like a man awaiting his death sentence.
There should have been some delight, Anna felt, because the majority of the soldiers from the Escondido Pocket had reached Corona before the Chinese. The soldiers had split in different directions. One third of them had gone to Pomona in the north. The rest had traveled to Fullerton and Anaheim in the west. The sacrifice of the Behemoths had brought about the needed miracle.
Anna believed the somberness was because the situation was still grim and the enemy almost as unrelenting as before. The Chinese simply refused to slow down.
According to the major, in a normal battle the Chinese would have accepted this victory to rest and resupply their troops before they started the next round. Intelligence showed that the Chinese were exhausted just like the Americans. Instead of following their usual doctrine, the Chinese kept pushing. They had swept through the defenses at Corona, rushing after the escaped soldiers until the battle-lines now reached Fullerton and Anaheim and Pomona. Just as bad, with so many of the formerly trapped Americans entering POW camps, the Chinese advance up the coast had picked up speed again, reaching Costa Mesa and Huntington Beach.
General Alan of the Joint Chiefs motioned to the major. As she sat down, he stood up.
“Mr. President, I suggest we speak frankly.”
“Of course,” Sims said.
General Alan tapped the table before saying, “As I’m sure you are aware, sir, there is a grave psychological effect on a soldier when he is constantly retreating. His belief in holding his position weakens each time the enemy drives him back. Our soldiers have retreated across Southern California from the border fortifications to Los Angeles. They are shocked. They are tired and now they have lost most of their heavy equipment. The Chinese have more numbers, more equipment and in most cases, better tech.”
“Are you saying we cannot win?” Sims asked.
Anna noticed the President asked that with an edge to his voice.
“No, Mr. President, I am not saying we cannot win. I am saying that we have reached the crisis point. I’m sure the Chinese have problems. Nevertheless this accelerated attack with their acceptance of sustained casualties has produced results for them, if at a very bloody cost. In the end, who pays the highest butcher’s bill doesn’t determine victory, but who wins the political contest does. The Vietnamese took vastly more losses than we did back in the 1960s and 70s, yet they won the political battle because the Communists remained in power there. We
