“You think killing this Nung will do that?” Paul asked.
“The President believes it, or his advisors have convinced him of it.”
“What do you believe, sir? I mean really?”
Ochoa’s features became flinty. The General opened his mouth, only to close it. Finally, in a quiet voice, he began to speak:
“Colonel Valdez has agreed to abide by my conditions. I’ve told him your importance to the mission. You’re a killer, although you’re a hell of an insubordinate soldier. How you and Romo made it back to our lines is beyond me. But that the two of you did only proves my theory. Marshal Nung is supposed to be one of those rare, operationally-gifted commanders. He knows how to win battles. From my information, the rest of the Chinese High Command dislikes him and his methods. We’re hoping that killing him…well, we’re hoping it will bring about a change in Chinese operations.”
“Sounds like a slim hope,” Paul said.
“Yes, I suppose it is. The sad truth is we’re down to that. We’re going to need some old-fashioned skullduggery and luck to slip you into First Front Headquarters. I don’t think we can fly you straight in this time. That’s why you’re going to have to take the long way through Mexico. And that’s why we need Colonel Valdez’s help.”
“Okay. I see what you’re saying. Now what do you have planned for getting us back out once we’ve completed the mission?”
Ochoa shook his head. “This is a one-way mission, gentlemen. Unless you can fight your way back like you did before, or unless you can convince Colonel Valdez to help you escape.”
Paul closed his eyes. This was it: a suicide mission. If he could talk Valdez into helping him escape…right! It would be out of the fire and into the cannibal’s cooking pot.
Beside him, Romo leaned near, whispering, “If we make it in, I think we could slip back out into Mexico.”
“Yeah, and into your Colonel’s hands,” Paul whispered.
“What is he saying?” Ochoa asked.
Paul studied the general. The truth was U.S. High Command would never let Cheri, Mike and him relocate to Colorado. If he went AWOL trying that—it was starting to look as if he had one chance to save his wife from Chinese occupation. It was this harebrained commando raid.
Paul shook his head so his neck bones cracked. “Sir, I’ll do this if you promise to relocate my wife and son to Colorado.”
“Where are they now?”
“LA.”
“Can you be more specific?”
Paul gave him the address.
“I give you my word,” Ochoa said. “We’ll move them tomorrow.”
“Thank you, sir. When do we leave for this mission?”
Ochoa hesitated before saying, “Tonight.”
Colonel Valdez slammed his beer onto the desk, causing amber-colored liquid to slosh over the rim and stain the papers below. He was in a former bank vault, his headquarters here in San Antonio.
“No,” he told Torres. “I will not listen to reason. You will listen to me.”
The one-eyed soldier wouldn’t look at him. Valdez knew then that Torres didn’t truly understand. For a moment, Valdez considered drawing his sidearm and shooting the man in the heart. Torres had once been a good man. The one-eyed soldier had lost his wife to the Chinese, but not his courage. Yes, Torres knew how to hate. But it seemed now to the Colonel that somewhere Torres had given up his seething wish for vengeance against the insufferable foreigners.
That was the difference between him and others, Valdez knew. He kept his vengeance white-hot. He would never change. He would teach the Chinese what his vengeance meant just as he would teach the cowardly Mexican government that it shouldn’t have turned on him. Soon now, he was also going to carve a lesson into Paul Kavanagh for daring to desert his daughter on the field of battle. The crime was unforgiveable. What did it matter to him, this Chinese marshal? The marshal didn’t make the critical difference to the war, but the endless numbers of PAA soldiers did.
They must kill the Chinese, the Japanese and the Koreans until Mexico was a sea of blood. For that, Valdez needed dedicated men and women. They needed to know he would remember them and avenge them no matter what the cost. It was all about loyalty and utter commitment.
“I want Paul Kavanagh,” Valdez said.
“Romo will bring him to us after the raid, Colonel.”
“Ah, good,” Valdez said, deciding this instant that Torres was to be cut out of the loop. The man was dead to him now, useless manure. “Good,” he said. “You may go, my friend.”
Torres gave him a troubled look, and it seemed as if the dead man was going to speak. Finally, Torres slunk away like the dog he had become.
Valdez stood and went to his radio. He would speak to the guerilla commander near the Mexican-American border. He would have to impress upon the man the extreme need to separate Kavanagh from the other commandos. It would be easy except for one thing. Why hadn’t Romo already killed Kavanagh? There was a mystery here.
Fighter Rank Zhu’s stomach did a flip as his helicopter flashed upward. It was as if his helo took a gigantic leap over the defenders dug in the rubble and behind the shattered buildings below. There were several varieties of helicopters around him: more Eagle Team battle-taxis, Gunhawks and Graceful Swans with their Annihilator missiles. The helicopters flew over the blaze of enemy machine guns and launching Blowdarts.
Graceful Swan chain-guns spewed fire, the spent shells raining from their weapons, and Annihilator missiles launched from the stubby wings. Below, a Humvee Avenger blew up, a lone helmet spinning with the gory remains of a blood-dripping neck. Other Americans died in their machine gun pits.
Witnessing this destruction, Zhu clutched the handlebars on his seat of the battle-taxi. Pomona had become a sea of rubble and half-demolished buildings. Civilians huddled in the ruins while others lay bloating and rotting. Just as bad, fires raged in places. Smoke curled in long ribbons up into the black cloud over Pomona and over Greater Los Angeles. Farther away, artillery boomed with gigantic flashes from the south and to the north.
The helicopters headed toward a cluster of several prominent buildings behind the American line. The tactic of cutting off the forward enemy troops had worked brilliantly since its conception. The buildings loomed closer so scourge marks became visible in the brick walls. Many of the windows were cracked and a few were broken with jagged edges. Zhu’s gut tightened and his arms tingle with anticipation.
Tian’s orders growled in his headphones and Zhu lofted off his seat and ignited his thrusters. With unerring skill, the First Rank Tian guided them toward the largest structure of the cluster. Once it must have been a towering office building.
As the advanced flyers zoomed near, a terrible surprise unfolded. Americans appeared in the highest windows. The enemy must have been waiting in ambush for them. Assault guns blazed. Beside Zhu, a commando tumbled backward as his visor shattered. The soldier plummeted toward the ground. More Americans appeared; these were on the roof. They launched Blowdart missiles at the climbing Gunhawks and manhandled heavy machine guns into position.
“What do we do?” a commando shouted through the radio-net.
A Gunhawk slewed to the side. A second Blowdart exploded against the tail. The helo nosedived, picking up speed, and in seconds, it crashed spectacularly into the ground.
The fight became desperate, men versus machines. A Gunhawk’s machine guns began pouring fire onto the Americans. Then three Blowdarts in quick succession blasted the helo out of the sky.
Zhu yelped in terror as Graceful Swans’ chain-guns whirled behind him. Ferroconcrete chunks and chips flew,
