The helo crashed into the side of the rolling hill, and another grass fire blazed. This one would outline them for sure.
“Run!” Romo shouted. “Just run! Give it everything!”
Paul knew Romo was right. He got up, but he felt surreal. Blood dripped from his forearm and his back throbbed. His ankle hurt. A bullet whizzed past his ear.
He would miss Cheri, and he would miss Mikey growing up to be a man. Damn, he wanted to hold his wife again. He wanted to kiss her and tell her how much he loved her. This sucked. He hated this. Man, he wanted to live. He—
“No,” Paul Kavanagh said. He dropped onto his belly, and he took out his sniper rifle. It took him seconds to set himself and another second to find a GD bastard. The enemy commando must have decided he didn’t need to hide anymore. He had exposed himself for a better firing position, and took a shot.
Paul didn’t flinch. He was too angry. He heard the bullet. It might even have grazed him. It was a great shot, but it wasn’t good enough. Paul’s shot was good enough, and the German commando didn’t learn why he should have stayed in his home country. The German didn’t learn because he would never learn anything ever again. He was dead, and he was missing a face because Paul’s bullet had blown it away.
Paul Kavanagh took out two more GD commandos. He gave Romo time to reach the hill. He gave Romo time to reach the dirt bikes on the hill. He even gave Romo time to start a bike.
“Good bye, friend,” Paul said to himself.
He shot the last GD commando in the neck. The Humvee enemy vehicles were halfway here, and one of the machine gunners had already started blazing with its 12.7mm.
Paul was sick of running, and his back hurt throbbing bad. The shrapnel had done something. He might as well fight it out this last battle. Paul was in the process of sighting the lead Humvee gunner when the whine of Romo’s dirt bike penetrated his thinking.
“You’re a crazy-man, Kavanagh,” Romo shouted from the bike. “All you can think about is killing the enemy.”
If Paul were another man, he might have thought about things a few precious seconds longer. The moment he realized Romo was here on the bike, Paul jumped up in a smooth move and slammed down behind Romo. The assassin twisted the throttle. The rear tire spun, blowing out dirt and grass, and the motorcycle’s back end slewed around, aiming them back uphill. Then they shot forward, the engine revving, with bullets causing fountains of dirt to spew around them.
They beat the GD Humvee light vehicles. Romo didn’t bother stopping for Paul’s bike. They fled before enemy air came, or a missile, or whatever the invaders used to do the dirty to kill them. They knew the fight wasn’t over yet. They had survived another commando mission to fight again another time.
Warrant Officer Gunther Weise smoked a cigarette outside the control tower of the greatest GD supercarrier of them all,
All around him in the hazy mist and low swells, Gunther spied war vessels. The GD had seven carrier groups out here, seven supercarriers, each with their accompanying escorts. They had ten battleships altogether with the latest strategic defensive systems. Those masses—the carrier groups and the battleships—were the heart of the armada. There were more cruisers and destroyers. There were helo-carriers, endless transports, dozens of big infantry and tank carriers and giant hover landers. Then there were hundreds of smaller vessels, fuel tankers, supply vessels…
The world had never seen a fleet like this, one able to disgorge two hundred thousand foot soldiers and vast numbers of fighting vehicles onto a beach. This was the war winner for the 2040 North American invasion, and he—Gunther Weise—was a part of history in the making.
Gunther was an intel analyst, and he worked in the central situation room. He was one of the operators keeping the big screen updated with the latest intelligence. General Kaltenbrunner of Army Group D and the armada’s admiral often debated within earshot of him. Sometimes he glanced over his shoulder and saw one of them scowl or shake his head in disagreement.
His father worked in the aerospace industry in Bonn, building the latest satellites. After high school, the old man had immediately wanted Gunther to enter the industry. Gunther planned to follow his dad’s path, of course. There wasn’t a man alive he respected more. First, he wanted an experience of a lifetime. This was an exciting time to be alive. Father could see that. Yes… He supposed there
Gunther shrugged, inhaling cigarette smoke. He’d been told that he was too young to understand things like famine and war. Probably his dad was right. They’d played countless board games together, and Gunther had usually lost. A man was only young once, however. This was Gunther’s time to risk and have a great and lasting experience.
The events he’d written about had impressed the older man. Gunther had heard the grudging acceptance of that in his father’s voice the last time they had talked.
Because of his technical expertise and placement, Gunther had the rare privilege of listening to high strategy in the making. He would sit at his spot near the big screen, drinking in the details as he monitored his equipment.
A door at the bottom of the control tower now opened. A bald-headed officer stepped out, with a purple birthmark shaped like a fist over his right eye. “Warrant Officer Weise!” the man shouted. “You’d better get in here. The screen is acting up, and the commander is back in the situation room.”
With his right-hand thumb and index finger, Gunther pinched the cigarette, taking a last inhalation. Then he removed the cigarette from his lips and flicked it toward the flight deck. The breeze would blow it overboard soon enough. The ashes and butt would tumble into the Atlantic Ocean. They were headed for America, toward New York City and the New Jersey shore. They were already one hundred kilometers beyond the Bahamas and moving fast.
The great event of his life was about to take place. Warrant Officer Gunther Weise strode for the control tower door. He was going to remember every detail today, so he could tell his son someday while the two of them played board games together.
Anna Chen felt sick, as if she was going to vomit onto the great circular conference table down here in Underground Bunker Number Five.
The President sat slumped in his chair, staring at the main screen with wide eyes. He looked ashen, and he had not spoken for a time, almost as if he’d been struck dumb by the newest sight.
The door to the chamber opened. Without the Marine guard announcing him, Director Max Harold strode in. Behind him followed three larger men in black suits.
Anna watched them, and she couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Then it struck her. The Marine guard hadn’t announced them and those three men had holstered weapons under their suits. They came to a meeting with the President while bearing arms. Only the Marines or Secret Service were supposed to be armed down here.
Then Anna noticed the guard closing the door. He almost seemed sheepish, quite unlike any Marine she’d ever seen before.
The director quietly took his place at the table. Behind him, where aides sat, the three bodyguards eased onto seats. They didn’t sit back and relax. No. They began to look around, and they eyed the people.
