along with American sprays of blood.
“There’s no turning back,” Tian radioed. “We are White Tigers and we never retreat.”
The Americans in the windows kept firing, even as the ones on the roof died. As they died, more Eagle Team commandos dropped out the sky.
For an Eagle flyer, this was the worst possible place to be during an insertion: hanging in the air like ripe fruit.
“We must retreat!” a commando wailed.
“We can’t land on the roof,” another radioed. “We’ll be cut down by our own Gunhawks.”
“I know!” Zhu shouted. He twisted the throttle and his jets blasted so the straps dug into his shoulders. He flew at the nearest window. Twice, he heard metallic whines like angry mosquitoes—bullets passing him.
Using the crosshairs on the HUD, Zhu targeted the window and let his electromagnetic grenade launcher chug. Like fastballs two grenades hit next to the window, harmlessly exploding concrete. The third flew through the window past the American inside. It blasted the enemy soldier off his feet so he pitched out of the window. He tumbled like a flailing doll for the ground below.
“Use the windows!” Zhu shouted. “Fly into the building.”
“You’re crazy,” a commando radioed.
“No!” Tian said. “He’s right. It will take skillful flying, but it’s our only chance. Once you make it into a room, get out of the way, because more commandos will follow.”
Zhu’s window became immense in his view. He braked hard and flew in feet first, finding himself running across the floor. An American in the room stared at him in shock. Zhu snapped off a grenade. The American flew off his feet, his chest a gaping, smoking hole. Shrapnel speckled Zhu, but his dinylon armor held. He pulled a strap and the jetpack clanked onto the floor as Zhu tore his assault rifle from it. He didn’t wait, but charged through the room’s door, knelt and fired a burst as Militiamen appeared down the hall.
The fight for the building had begun. Behind him more Eagle Team flyers entered. Some crashed against the building’s side and fell to their deaths. Twenty-seven made it inside. They faced half a company of Militiamen.
For the next hour the battle raged, until only fourteen White Tigers survived. They captured the roof and the three upper floors. Trapped Americans held the lower levels.
“You and me, Fighter Rank,” Tian panted. He lay on his back on the roof, resting for a second as they waited for reinforcements. Tian looked up at him. “The way you fight, I am asking they promote you to Soldier Rank.”
Zhu beamed with pride. Before he could think of something to say, three Chinese cargo helicopters approached the roof. The nearest had open bay doors, with soldiers pointing their weapons earthward. The helos held Chinese airborne troops. An American missile sped upward and slammed into one of them, but the Blowdart failed to explode. The helicopter began to twist, but had a good pilot, and landed heavily onto the roof, disgorging the airborne soldiers.
At the run, the reinforcements filed down the stairwells. Meanwhile the Gunhawks high overhead, continued to make it a murderous sprint for any Americans trying to reinforce the building from the ground entry points.
“We’re going to win this one,” Tian said.
Zhu nodded as he looked into the distance. They kept occupying more of Greater Los Angeles, but there was always additional territory to take. When would it end?
“We’ve killed a lot of them,” Zhu said.
“What’s that?”
“Americans, we’ve killed a lot of them.”
“Yes, and we’re going to kill a lot more.”
Zhu noticed movement below. He swung the captured American machine gun, firing at enemy soldiers sprinting for the bottom entrance to the building.
That evening, a sleek, nearly soundless UAV streaked like an owl over the nighttime surfaces of the Coachella Valley floor. Behind it in the distance were several other nearly invisible aircraft.
Inside the first ultra-stealthy insertion drone rode Paul, Romo and Donovan. There were no windows, but there was a soft blue light to show them their piled gear. Like abductees in a UFO, they had to trust an unseen operator. This one piloted them toward a lonely field in Mexico.
Paul and Romo played cards, while Donovan kept staring at the special piece of equipment Romo had chosen.
“I don’t get it,” Donovan finally said.
Paul and Romo looked up.
Donovan toed a bulky, two-cylinder backpack with an attached tube and special nozzle.
“What don’t you get?” Paul asked. He knew Romo wasn’t going to answer the man. “It’s a flamethrower.”
“I know what it is,” Donovan said.
“Okay.”
“What I can’t figure out is why he wants to bring it along.”
Paul glanced at Romo. “Amigo?” he asked.
The ghost of a smile played along Romo’s lips. He lowered his cards and studied Donovan.
The Green Beret didn’t scare. Paul hadn’t thought he would.
“I have a message to give the Chinese,” Romo finally said, speaking in a soft voice.
“Yeah, what’s that?” Donovan asked. “Come on, baby, light my fire?”
“Si, I will light a fire,” Romo said. “I will make them burn for what they did to us.”
“You know we’re probably going down into a bunker,” Donovan said.
Romo just stared at the man.
“Fire gobbles oxygen,” Donovan said. “We won’t be able to breathe if you start smoking them with that thing down there.”
“We will breathe fine,” Romo said.
“I ain’t a dragon.”
Romo raised the cards to his chest, turning back to Paul.
“Am I missing something?” Donovan asked.
“Our helmets have filters,” Paul said. “We’ll breathe okay.”
Sergeant Donovan continued to stare at the flamethrower. “It’s too heavy, too cumbersome and it’s not something you want to take down with you into a bunker. It’s crazy.”
“Si,” Romo said, still studying his cards.
“You’re both crazy is what I think,” Donovan said.
“Is that why General Ochoa sent you with us?” Paul asked.
“No. I’m along to make sure Colonel Valdez’s men understand a few realities about life and about you. You’re golden, Kavanagh, at least until this mission is completed.”
“Sounds good,” Paul said. “I hope you’ve told the Chinese how golden I am.”
“Nope,” Donovan said. “You and me, we’re going to have to show them ourselves.”
On his lunch break, Old Daniel Cruz with the bad knees sat on a bench in Santa Anna Park. He watched a red-colored roller strutting across the bricks.
The roller was a pigeon, but not one of the regular wild ones that infested the park near the city’s main business district. Daniel used to raise pigeons as a young boy. His rollers flew in the air like homing pigeons, but they were the acrobats of the bird world. As they flew, sometimes, they flipped backward. A good roller would flip backward twenty, maybe even fifty times in the air before it recovered and kept winging around. This roller here in Santa Anna Park, it must belong to a pigeon fancier, a pigeon breeder. This roller must have escaped from its loft, the name pigeon breeders called the bird cages.
“Are you free, my friend?” Daniel asked softly.
For an answer, the roller cooed and strutted a little nearer. There was a red band on the bird’s left leg, with lettering on it.
Daniel liked to come to the park for lunch. He had a cheese sandwich wrapped in wax paper. It wasn’t much.
