“Do you see how many men we have? Sixteen.”
“And we have all our weapons, too,” Donovan said.
“The extra weapons we put in the crates nearest us.”
Now, Paul swayed in the gloom with the other commandos. He’d wrapped his arms around his bent knees and thought about better times as he stared at his wedding ring.
Two Green Berets of Chinese extraction drove the truck with the needed false papers and orders. The rest of the team was crammed tight in the body-heated space.
“We should have taken two trucks,” Donovan grumbled in the darkness.
They had been on the road three hours already. Sixteen commandos out to change history—it seemed balls- up crazy.
“I got to take a piss,” one man complained.
“You got a bottle,” Donovan told him. “Use it.”
The gears changed before he could take the suggestion. The truck slowed down.
Paul’s stomach churned. They were part of a regular Chinese convoy. They knew that much, but not much more. The driver’s navigator had tapped that out in code from the cab.
There were plenty of things wrong with this raid. For one thing, they hardly knew anything about the compound’s present condition. An aerial photo six days old had shown a wrecked and blasted area. It would be logical to presume the Chinese had repaired the main bunker. Paul had drawn a sketch-map for the others, which everyone had studied while waiting in the barn. He’d remembered the location from when he’d guarded Colonel Norman from Washington.
Paul listened as the truck slowed even more. There would be gates, guards, check lists, who knew what else. Still, this was a supply truck bringing supplies. It would be a routine situation and the guards would likely be bored half to death.
The Blue Swan raid had been different. They’d had a plan for getting out once the mission was completed. The idea had been to use the helicopters, but those had been destroyed during the firefight getting down. There was no plan this time except to escape and evade.
In the gloom, Paul blew out his cheeks in frustration. If they could reach a location five miles away from the Chinese HQ, the insertion drones were supposed to pick them up afterward. Yeah, that was going to work.
He endured the ride and he listened to the small sounds: boots creaking, a man coughing, someone clearing his throat. Paul opened his mouth and barely kept from panting. It was too hot, too stuffy in here. Beside him, men squirmed. Someone sucked in his breath sharply, maybe in pain.
Suddenly the truck’s brakes squealed as the vehicle came to a stop. Muted footsteps sounded from outside. There were Chinese voices; well, Chinese words at least.
Slowly, Paul drew his sidearm. He heard others drawing theirs.
The truck’s back gate banged open.
Paul couldn’t breathe. This was it, dying on a fool’s errand. How had he ever let Ochoa talk him into something so stupid? After this—there wasn’t going to be an afterward. He aimed his gun toward the back gate. When the final crate moved out of the way, he was going to fire until he was dead.
A crate scraped against metal. It made Paul’s blood pressure soar. Wood squealed, maybe from a crowbar. Laughter rang out a moment later. Someone slapped a crate. There were more sounds, of huffing perhaps, and the tailgate slammed shut. Maybe two minutes later, the truck started up again.
Then—
Someone in the gloom muttered. Someone else hissed to shut the hell up.
“Phase two,” Donovan whispered.
Paul expelled his pent-up breath. Were they in the compound yet? It was hard to believe. This was harebrained. Sixteen commandos to take on Marshal Nung’s Headquarter guards.
Paul had read the brief. The marshal’s bodyguards were tough and no-nonsense. They would have body armor and they would be ready, even if the raid surprised them.
“Soon,” Romo whispered into Paul’s ear. The man’s breath smelled like the pumpkin seeds he been chewing.
Paul nodded. He could feel the building tension. It was as if his limbs were rubber bands and something was winding them tighter than they had ever been before.
The truck slowed again, and rolled at low speed for a time.
There came another heavy thump from the cab. It was the signal. The navigator was leaving the cab to plant a directional beacon.
General Ochoa’s operational planners had come up with the idea. The commandos would never make it from wherever the truck parked all the way to the main bunker. There would simply be too many soldiers, checkpoints and guards around to fight through them. Therefore, the commandos needed those guards removed. They needed a diversion. That diversion would come as a heavy missile attack on the headquarters.
Paul knew what that meant in real terms. All the commandos did. Some of them were going to die from friendly fire—if the missiles even made it through Chinese anti-missile defenses. If missiles exploded here, it should also mean that everyone above ground would run for cover. That was the moment to strike for the bunker. The missiles would home in on the beacon and give them the needed distraction—that was a big, screw-yourself hurrah.
“Let’s get ready,” Paul said. He pulled out a tiny flashlight, clicking it on. Others clicked theirs on. In the wash of small beams, commandos went to work, opening the boxes nearest them, the wall of crates. Each of these was laid so the tops were aimed sideways at them.
Paul pulled out body armor. It was hard to do in their tight confines, but he donned the bulky suit and put a headband with earphones over his ears, with a small jack and microphone in front of his mouth. Over that, he secured a helmet. Lastly, he picked up a squat submachine gun made to fire exploding bullets. He had nine magazines in various pockets and five different grenades. He also had a pistol, knife and steel tomahawk. This was it—the mission of his life.
Beside him Romo strapped the flamethrower to his back. It was a brutal weapon, and burning to death was a particularly nasty way to die. One misconception about flamethrowers was that a bullet through the tank would cause it to explode. Maybe if it was an incendiary bullet. Otherwise, the fluids would simply leak out.
The truck parked, or it came to stop at least and the engine turned off. Now, they waited. If workers began unloading the crates too soon, there would be trouble. Hopefully, the driver had arranged it so that they were the last truck unloaded. Whatever the case, Paul would know soon enough.
Stan rubbed his scraggly chin. He had a three-day growth of beard and had far too many gray hairs. His head and shoulders were out of the top hatch. Another Behemoth followed his tank down the street.
The treads crunched rubble and flattened a discarded machine gun. Then cracks appeared in the pavement like ice. Its engine made strange sounds and the batteries were down to forty-eight percent charge.
It was a wonder the tank still worked. Four Behemoths still ran under their own power. That wouldn’t last much longer, though.
These past two days, Stan had noticed a slight slacking of enemy attacks. The Chinese seemed tired, worn down after relentless weeks of combat. Even so, they still pushed through Los Angeles, using jetpack flyers, combat bulldozers, mass artillery and triple-turreted tanks. They leveled the great metropolis and sent infantry teams through everything. The number of civilian dead was mind-boggling and had to be in the hundreds of thousands by now.
“Air traffic,” Jose radioed from within the tank.
“What’s that?” Stan asked into his microphone.
“Air traffic is coming through,” Jose said. “But don’t fire, this is ours.”
“What are you talking about?”
Just then, Stan heard and saw them: cruise missiles. Like air-sharks, the deadly missiles streaked overhead. Hot exhaust roared out of their backs, and in the nearest, Stan could swear he saw lettering on the fuselage. The
