missiles hugged the ground and would do so until they reached the target.
“Is that our counter-battery fire?” Stan asked.
“I have no idea,” Jose radioed, “but I don’t see what else it could be.”
The cruise missiles streaked away. In the distance, Chinese computer-assisted artillery knocked one down in a spectacular explosion.
Stan shook his head. That was the truth of this war. The Chinese had too much ordnance. No matter what America did, the Chinese always had three to four times as much.
Sighing, Stan wondered when the battle was going to end for him. He couldn’t keep this up much longer. He was just so damn tired and sick of killing.
In the gloom, Paul saw the green beep on his communicator. “This is it. The missiles are coming.”
It was stifling hot now in the front of the truck bed. A restless energy filled the commandos.
“It would be our luck if a cruise missile hits our truck and kills the lot of us,” Donovan said.
“I don’t want to hear that,” Paul said. “We’re going to kick ass, Sergeant. You got that?”
Donovan shined his light on Paul’s face. A second later, the beam moved away. “Are you in the zone, Kavanagh?”
“I don’t want anyone stopping because he’s hurt or shot in the side,” Paul told the commandos. “You know what to do: follow me. Kill every officer you see and keep heading to the bunker. Once there, we go down. We’re the plague. We’re the Angel of Death.”
The communicator beeped red.
“It’s game time,” Paul said. “Shove aside the crates.”
With their shoulders against the wood, commandos grunted and shoved. Wood squealed and crates fell out of the truck bed. The driver was supposed to have made sure the gate was down, and he had done his job.
Light burst into the gloom as crates tumbled out of the way. Fresh air roiled in.
“Looks beautiful,” Paul said.
Beside him, Romo grunted.
As Paul Kavanagh jumped to the ground, the first cruise missile slammed down into the compound and exploded with a deafening noise. Seconds later, sirens blared. Then two more cruise missiles hammered the compound. Everywhere things went into the air: parts of buildings, IFVs and Chinese soldiers.
“Perfect,” Paul said. He grinned like a manic, and his eyes gleamed with murder lust. “Follow me.”
He ran for the chain-link gate, the way out of the fenced-off area that was the parking lot. A guard shack stood there. A Chinese soldier stuck his head out. Paul fired a burst, hitting him in the face, exploding the man’s head his bullets.
The compound was huge just as he remembered it. There were comm-shacks, new Chinese portables and shell-riddled buildings. Staff cars, jeeps, Humvees, IFVs were parked all around. Some burned. Others had flipped.
Assault rifle fire sounded behind Paul. Chinese soldiers crumpled ahead of him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something massive in the air. It was another cruise missile. Paul crouched and ducked his head. The missile exploded, raining shrapnel and staring fires. The concussion washed against Paul and nearly knocked him off his feet. He looked up, as he got ready to stand. He saw another missile coming. It exploded closer than the first one. The blast knocked Paul tumbling, and he found himself flat on his back, gasping hot air.
With a groan, he sat up, checking his legs, his arms and finally his chest. He was good. Grunting, he stood up. One by one, armored commandos stood with him, including Romo. Four of the commandos stayed down. He would have liked to see if they were alive, but there was no time for it. This was the ball game.
He shouted, at least, he thought he did. He ran half-crouched over, heading for the bunker. Another cruise missile came down. How many had his side fired? This was too much.
“Hit the dirt!” Paul roared. He did, hugging dirt. The missile went off and he lifted, slamming back against the ground. He was slower getting up this time, and fewer commandos joined him.
Behind his visor Donovan had big staring eyes. Romo’s face was like a skull. The Mexican assassin was Death’s cousin, and he brought his flames with him.
Paul gulped, too filled with emotion. It almost overwhelmed him how precious it was to live and love. What a blessing to have a wife as he did. What a great thing to leave the world a son like Mike.
With an animal groan, Paul started for the bunker. Fires burned everywhere, including in the center of a smashed comm-shack, with wood splinters laid around it like pickup sticks. Chinese lay sprawled on the ground, some at grotesque angles. One man had his legs folded under him, meaning they had to be broken. A few stirred and groggily stood. Most of those fled once they saw the commandos. One guard picked up his rifle. From fifty feet away, Paul put a three-round burst into his chest. The soldier flopped back down, smacking the back of his head hard against the pavement. He wasn’t going to get up again.
As he staggered, Paul picked up speed. He sprinted across gravel. The bunker was shut, the blast-doors secured.
Behind his visor Paul’s eyes narrowed to slits. The Chinese had slaughtered Greater Los Angeles. The orders to do that came from here, from Marshal Nung. It was time for this Nung to taste what he had given everyone else.
“Let’s see how you like them apples,” Paul muttered.
He was up. He heard thudding footfalls and flicked his head to the side. Romo ran near. Donovan was close behind. Good, good, it was good to die with your friends.
“Ready?” Paul shouted.
“Si!”
“Let’s rock and roll, baby!” Donovan roared, reverting perhaps to his Viking ancestry.
Paul increased speed, reaching the blasted door first. He grabbed a grenade, armed and hurled it through. This was his private, portable artillery. It burst. Paul used his foot and bashed the door, forcing it further open. He leaped inside. A Chinese guard groaned from on the floor. Paul shot him. Another whipped around a corner. Paul shot him, too, in the face.
The handful of commandos started down the bunker, firing, tossing grenades, creating mayhem. Then four Chinese guards began firing at them from the bottom concrete stairs.
Paul was out of grenades. Donovan shrugged, suggesting they trust their body armor to see them through. Instead Romo slithered forward on his belly, the grim nozzle aimed forward. Flame spit from the nozzle in a long line. It reached down the stairs and began to burn. Chinese soldiers screamed in agony.
“It works every time,” Romo said.
“Our target is down there,” Paul said. He tore an empty magazine from the submachine gun and slapped in a fresh one. “Ready?”
Romo squirted another terrible line of fire. A blaze crackled down there. Smoke began to billow.
Picking himself off the floor, Paul charged down the stairs. The smell of cooked pork assaulted his nostrils. He knew the awful fact that humans smelled like pork when they cooked.
Kavanagh raced past the dying guards. He cut down another man and then he burst into what had to be the command chamber. It held a large computer table and more stations than he could count. Some of the personnel had backed away. Others fired at him with handguns, but they were small caliber weapons.
Paul fired back, cutting down the First Front High Command. Bullets
A blazing line of liquid fire arched toward the enemy and Chinese officers began to burn and scream hideously. Smoke chugged and the stench was wicked. More bullets ripped into them, and mercifully they went down.
“Is he here?” Donovan shouted.
