Invasion: California

-8- The Cauldron

Paul Kavanagh sat on a stuffed chair inside the lobby of a large hotel. For almost a week now, he’d been craving a Snickers bar. Ever since he and Romo had started back to the American lines, he’d been dreaming of the chewy insides.

Lying back on the chair, with his assault rifle propped beside him, Paul watched Romo stride nearer, Snickers bar in hand.

The Mexican assassin had gotten thinner and he looked out of place in the striped green uniform of an American Militia corporal. Paul also felt out of place wearing a similar uniform, although he had a sergeant’s markings. But it made the Lieutenant happy, so what the heck, huh?

The Lieutenant had saved their lives…yeah, that was three days ago now—an eternity of fighting. Three days ago, Paul and Romo had been crawling nearer and nearer the battered American lines, slithering past rubble, endless drifting paper and strewn garbage. It sure hadn’t been a line in the sand. The place had been many miles from the destroyed casements and smashed bunkers of the SoCal Border Fortifications they had crept past. It had been beyond the second and third trench lines. Dead and bloating bodies, with spilled intestines and thousands, no, millions of flies crawling over them—the dead had laid unburied in the maze of trench systems, American and Asian corpses alike. The flies had been clouds of greedy, buzzing testaments to the savage fighting.

Paul and Romo had been crawling through rubble, easing past watching Chinese gunners. They had slipped past a Chinese patrol in the streets of La Presa. Then one of the patrol members had spotted Romo. A buzz and a quick look upward had shown Paul a small UAV with Chinese markings. That had been just great, spotted by an enemy drone.

PAA bullets made the decision for them. Tired from days alone and from having walked endless miles after ditching the two stolen vehicles, they’d sprinted down the street for the American positions.

Machine gun fire coming from ahead of them struck the paving, chips of cement hitting Paul in the chest. Then, as suddenly as the firing had begun—the friendly machine guns aiming at their faces—it stopped.

Several seconds later, Paul discovered why. The Lieutenant had ordered his teenage machine gunners to stop firing. The man had recognized Paul and Romo as Americans.

The two kids behind the .50 caliber, they had watched Paul with wide, scared eyes. Paul had merely nodded to them. Then he’d jumped down right there beside them behind the sandbags. Paul had added his assault rifle fire against the Chinese patrol that led the probe against the shrinking American lines.

Paul and Romo had reached their destination, the one they had dreamed about for days, wondering if they would ever reach it. Since everything had been chaos three days ago, they’d donned the uniform of the Anaheim Militia Company that had saved them and joined the Lieutenant’s woefully understrength platoon.

That had been three days and two cities ago of endless fighting.

“Catch,” Romo said. He pitched the Snickers bar.

Paul caught it one-handed. The kids looked up from their card game around a low lobby table. They’d scooted big, overstuffed chairs up to it. From the corner of his eye, Paul noticed them watching.

There were four of them, what was left of the original Militia squad. They were painfully young, although two claimed to be juniors in college. The other two had worked in construction, meaning fortification workers, probably the grunts hauling material for the men who knew what they were doing. They were aged nineteen to twenty-one, kids really with old men’s eyes now.

These four had looked into the face of death and it had aged them horribly. They tired fast during combat and recuperated even faster afterward. Paul had laid shoulder-to-shoulder with them on many occasions already. Whenever the Chinese artillery or missile poundings stopped, the wave attacks commenced.

Their Militia battalion had a third of its personnel left, maybe less. Not all of the missing were dead. At least half of the missing had taken off, either to surrender or go AWOL with the hordes of streaming refugees heading north. Paul and these four kids had seen what happened to those who tried to surrender to the enemy.

Americans with their hands on their heads had tried to approach enemy lines. Massed Chinese firepower had chopped them into bloody chunks of rat-meat.

“Hungry?” Paul asked, holding up the Snickers bar.

The four Militiamen turned away without answering, resuming their card game.

There was a gulf between Paul and them. It was mainly age—at least Paul liked to tell himself that. They were so young, pure even, with innocence leaking from them. They had illusions, so many illusions it had surprised Paul more than once. During one firefight, the machine gunner just quit firing.

“It’s butchery,” the kid had whispered.

Paul had let go of his assault rifle, shouldered the kid aside and taken over. He’d killed pinned down enemy soldiers. Even as the Chinese had broken and scrambled away, Paul kept firing. When he’d stopped, the kid had just stared at him with a terrified look.

Later, Romo told him what the stare had meant. “You are a killer, my brother.”

“What?” Paul said.

“They are scared of you.”

“That’s crazy. We’re on the same side.”

“No, it is very sane,” Romo said. The two of them had been outside the strongpoint, collecting Chinese weapons and ammo from the dead. Supplies had been drying up lately.

“We’re all fighting the enemy,” Paul said.

Romo smiled. It hadn’t been a friendly thing, although the assassin had not aimed it at Paul in anger or disrespect.

“Do you know that ten percent of the fighter pilots make ninety percent of the kills?” Romo asked.

“Afraid I don’t.”

“Many soldiers do not fire their weapons during battle. Among the others who do fire, many of them aim anywhere than at the enemy. Most men do not like to kill other men. It is one of the reasons it takes many thousands of bullets to kill one enemy. It is also one of the reasons why artillery is the great killer in battle.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Why are you angry?” Romo asked.

“No reason. Being called a killer, yeah, that’s a real honor.”

Romo’s smile had become sad. “We are the wolves, amigo. We are the ten percent. The young ones, they realize this in you. It frightens them. They are brave. I do not mean to disrespect them. But they are not the natural warriors that you and I are.”

“Maybe.”

“Accept who you are, my brother. I have. It is you and me, and men like us, who will drive the invader back into the sea.”

As Paul sat in the wrecked hotel, sitting in the stuffed chair, he used his teeth to tear open the bar’s wrapper. He’d been craving this for days. Battle, being close to death, did that to you. Cravings would overcome him and he would just have to have whatever the thing was.

Paul bit into the bar and savored the gooey, caramel chocolate taste. Oh, this was wonderful, but it would go even better with an ice-cold glass of milk. But where was he going to find that in this sinkhole?

He wasn’t a natural killer. That was a load of crap. He was just a soldier who wanted to see his wife and kid again. If a bunch of Chinese or other Asians was going to get in the way of that, well, he was going to kill them. They had killed enough of his countrymen that he figured he was entitled. Besides, they had invaded his home, his country. If someone entered his house with the intent to steal or rape, bam, he would drill them in the head. End of story.

Paul drew a deep breath through his nostrils and he realized that all he held was the wrapper. Shoot, he’d already finished the Snickers bar. He glanced sidelong at the kids. One of them clicked coins one on top of the other. If they hadn’t been there, he would have licked the wrapper. But he couldn’t do that if he was the big mojo killer.

From outside came a loud boom.

Paul grabbed his assault rifle and bolted upright. The kids dove for their weapons and Romo already ran for the holes in the hotel wall. Chinese IFVs had made similar noises this morning.

Romo crouched by a hole. Then he shouted back. “They brought tanks with them this time, two of them.”

“Right,” Paul said. He picked up a Chinese RPG. They had collected them this morning from the fallen enemy.

In seconds, Paul crouched by his own hole. An enemy IFV had made it close with its 30mm auto-cannons. The tracked carrier had held six infantrymen inside its “womb.” The IFVs were nimble vehicles and heavily armed with four of those auto-cannons and two missile tubes. The Chinese liked to roar at their lines under heavy missile or artillery cover, pouring everything they had at the American positions. Then the back of the IFV would clang down and out would charge six armored Chinese infantry.

This time it was different. Two tanks clanked down the street. A host of antennae sprouted from each light tank. It told Paul these two were drones, remote-controlled vehicles. Each Marauder was smaller than an SUV and possessed a non-turreted 153mm gun.

“Hold your fire,” Paul told the others. “Romo, grab an RPG and come with me.”

“How long to you want us to wait?” asked the twenty-one year old Militia sergeant. He had pimples on his forehead and stood near the two with the .50 caliber.

“Give us a minute,” Paul said. “Then fire at the tanks so the sensors know the vehicles are taking fire. Then scram, but be sure to take the machine gun with you. We’re going to need it.”

“Go where?”

“Deeper in the hotel,” Paul said. “When you hear the explosions outside, you’d better come running fast. Set up the machine gun in a new position and get ready.”

The pimple-faced sergeant nodded and rapped out orders to the other three.

Paul hefted two RPGs, one under each arm. Romo did the same thing. They trotted to the stairs and climbed, going to the third floor. Paul was panting by the time he approached a shattered window.

“They will have spotted these,” Romo said.

“Yeah,” Paul said. He set down one RPG and primed the other. Taking big gulps of air, he tried to steady himself. They would have to do this quickly: spot and fire.

Downstairs, the .50 caliber started up. Metallic hammering sounds told Paul the gunner was hitting one of the light tanks at least.

“Not too long,” Paul said under his breath. As he finished speaking, the machine gun fire quit. These were good kids, the survivors of days of brutal, endless fighting. They had learned.

Paul glanced at Romo. The lean assassin stood poised beside his window. He was ready. He wanted to kill the enemy, even if it was only drone tanks.

The 153s boomed below, and the crash told Paul the shells had smashed into the hotel. Enemy machine gun fire started. He hoped the kids had retreated far enough.

Paul didn’t say anything to Romo. The man knew what to do. Inside Paul’s chest, the fear built, but so did the excitement. One, two, three, he told himself. At three, Paul stepped up to his window. The light tanks were below, perfect targets, showing him their lightly armored tops. Paul brought the RPG into line, using the iron sights, and he fired.

The backblast whooshed fire into the hotel room, starting a blaze on the rear wall. Romo fired his rocket launcher. Paul watched for a split second. His shaped-charge grenade slammed against the top of the Marauder, exploding. Paul felt the concussion, and he saw auto-cannons swiveling up at him. Romo’s RPG round hammered the same vehicle and the auto-cannons froze.

“One down,” Paul said. “Let’s go.” He picked up the remaining RPG from the rug and raced past flickering flames on the wall. This fire had bit into the wall and it looked like it might last. That was okay. Soon, the heat would hide them from enemy thermal sights. A blazing hotel, the Chinese would figure the Americans had evacuated it.

Paul grinned savagely thinking about it. Then he was on the stairs again. He climbed, his thighs burning as he raced for the roof. Outside, Chinese machine gun fire riddled something here, likely the windows they’d just used. The Chinese were so predictable you could have set your cell phone by them. Well, if he’d had a working cell phone.

With a heaving chest, Paul crashed against a door and strode onto the roof, heading for the edge. Romo was right behind him.

“Ready?” Paul wheezed.

“Go,” Romo said.

They both stepped up to the edge of the roof. Six stories down, the light tank used its main cannon for what had to be the fourth time. Flame belched, the light tank shuddered and smoke billowed upward from the cannon. Machine gun fire from Chinese infantry nests hammered the hotel’s windows. Soon, the IFVs would appear.

Paul aimed almost straight down and fired. The rocket-propelled grenade flew atop the tank, exploding. Once again, Romo did likewise. Both soldiers twisted and dove backward. Even as they did, armor-piercing bullets slammed against the roof, shattering brick and eating into the tar-covered top.

From on their chests, Paul and Romo grinned at each other.

“That will slow them down some,” Paul said.

“Si.”

“We’d better get back and help the kids.”

“They are near their breaking point,” Romo said. “Soon, we must leave them.”

“Those four?” Paul asked, as he climbed to his feet.

“They are brave for such young men, but they are terrified and we are running out of ammo.”

Paul cocked his head. Yeah, that was a problem. They needed more ammo. The Chinese, they just keep on coming, dying as they expended munitions at a prodigious rate and pushing the Americans into a smaller and smaller area.

“I’m not leaving the Lieutenant in the lurch,” Paul said.

“Si, I understand. But he will break soon, too. It is inevitable.”

“I don’t agree.”

Romo stared at him, and soon he shrugged. “Let us help the young ones.”

“Yeah,” Paul said, heading for the exit.

In the subdued light, Anna Chen concentrated on her split-pea soup in order to avoid seeing the people staring at her. She was in Upscale, one of the most expensive restaurants in D.C. Across the red and white checkered cloth of the small table from her was Dr. Levin, Director of the CIA.

The old man forked more of his salad, popping an oily olive and some lettuce into his mouth. He smiled at her, nodding.

“Do you like the soup?” he asked.

“Oh yes, it’s delicious, sir.”

“Please, my dear, don’t do that here. We’re on a half-hour vacation, remember?”

She hunched her shoulders a little more, letting the spoon click against the bowl.

“I didn’t mean that as a reprimand,” he said.

“I know,” she said, softly.

“What is it, my dear?”

She hesitated before leaning toward him. “The people, do you notice them staring at me.”

Dr. Levin blinked in wonderment and glanced around. Several people looked down. One big Navy officer glared at him. The officer had a bloated face with red cheeks.

“Why do you suppose he’s angry with me?” Levin asked her.

“Because you’re with me,” Anna said.

“Ah,” he said, “because you’re of Chinese descent?”

“Half of me is, yes.”

Levin sighed, seemed as if he was going to say something profound and then he forked another bite of salad.

Anna thought she understood. Dr. Levin didn’t share their feelings, although he understood. But what could he do about it here? The answer was clear. Nothing. Therefore, it was best to let the topic drop. A stubborn core in her didn’t quite feel like letting it drop.

“Man is tribal,” Anna pronounced.

“An unfortunate truth,” Dr. Levin said.

Anna shrugged. “Perhaps it isn’t as bad as we think.”

“Would you elaborate, please?”

She smiled. She liked the Director. “Could you imagine if the entire planet lived under one political system?”

“Indeed. Most people yearn for just that.”

“No sir, I’m afraid you’re wrong.”

He nodded as the waiter indicated the empty salad plate. The waiter took the plate.

“I’m done, too,” Anna said.

The waiter took her bowl, balancing it on his arm and then pouring more coffee into the Director’s cup.

After the waiter left, the Director said, “What I meant to say is that most political theorists wish for a one-world government.”

“True, but I think it would be a catastrophe.”

“Because of racism?” the Director asked.

“No sir, because it most certainly would eliminate the few precious freedoms certain people in various countries enjoy.”

He added cream, stirred with a small silver spoon, laid the spoon aside and sipped his coffee. “Ah, this is perfect. It’s why I come to Upscale. Now about this theory of yours…”

“It’s simple, really. With many competing governments, there is always somewhere to flee if one system becomes too repressive. Power corrupts. A one-world government would place that much greater power into the hands of the person or the clique ruling it. There would be no competing system to oppose him or the clique.”

“What about world peace? Isn’t that something worth striving for?”

Anna shook her head. “It is an illusion, sir. Most militaries are used to kill their own people, to preserve those in power, and to repress those who are out of power. If there was a one-world government, I have no doubt those in power would use the military or the police to repress those they disliked. As I said earlier, man is tribal. If it isn’t racism, it’s competing ideas. For example, the abortionists and the pro-life people have divided into competing camps and cannot abide each other. Why do sports teams create such fierce loyalty? The reason is easy—men like to divide themselves by tribes. The Kansas City Chiefs fan hates the Oakland Raiders fan, who turns it around and hates the Chiefs fan right back.”

“Hmm,” Levin said. “I wish the Chinese used their military to kill their own people. That would be better them their coming to America to kill us.”

“Believe me, they have killed their own in the past, and still do. But consider what China has done. The political theorists always seem to think that bigger governments or organizations are better. I disagree completely, by the way. Smaller countries are often better for the average citizen. China is now Greater China. That in turn has become the Pan Asian Alliance. But what if China was still divided into many small competing states? They would not have the unity to attack us as they’re doing. Big countries field big armies. And eventually, those in power like to use their big armies to go conquering. Therefore, my belief is this: with greater unity there is a greater ability to harm.”

“And to do good,” Levin said. “America is big. If we weren’t, the Chinese could sweep us aside.”

“That’s the problem. When one group gets big, the other side feels forced to do the same thing. In the end, it’s seldom good for the regular people and their freedom.”

Levin sipped his coffee. “I think I understand. You feel the racial hostility, the tribalism, as you like to put it. I suppose I would find such a situation embittering, too.”

Anna shook her head. Couldn’t he see what she was trying to say? “I’m a student of the human condition, sir. I try to study what is there, instead of what we would like to think is there. No one benefits from too much authority over others. Eventually, power works its insidious spell over the heart of the one who wields it.”

“I hope you’re not referring to the President,” Levin said frostily.

Anna noticed his tone. Before she could correct him concerning her point, the waiter brought their meals. Dr. Levin had lobster. Anna had an eight-ounce piece of prime rib. The waiter set a small cup of horseradish beside her. Prime rib wasn’t the same without it.

Levin bowed his head, praying silently before picking up his knife.

“I was speaking theoretically,” Anna told him. “I support the President, but he is only human. I would not want him to possess unlimited power, no.”

Levin nodded, popping a piece of lobster into his mouth. He closed his eyes as he chewed. After he swallowed, he said, “Please don’t say such things to anyone else. I’ve come to appreciate your insights during the meetings. If you become too outspoken about the President having too much power, you’ll find yourself in a Detention Center. And yes, I’ve begun noticing the stares directed toward you. If these people here are like this, I can only imagine what they’ll be like in a Detention Center.”

Thinking about that almost stole Anna’s appetite. She so seldom ate out anymore that she refused to let this dampen her enjoyment. The Director’s bodyguards waited in the lobby. At the snap of the old man’s fingers, they would come running with guns drawn. With such protection, Anna had accepted his invitation to dine at Upscale. She never went out to eat alone these days, and she didn’t trust the latest, commercial bodyguard services—not since what had happened the last time they had sent someone.

“Anna, the reason I’ve asked you to eat with me is that I have something I would like to share with you.”

She looked up, startled and worried.

Levin glanced both ways before he said quietly, “I’m afraid the military has run out of ideas on how to save the situation in California.”

His words surprised her.

“There’s an invasion armada out there in the Pacific, waiting for something,” Levin said. “The Chinese are annihilating Army Group SoCal and there doesn’t seem to be anything General Alan can do about it.”

“We are entraining reinforcements from other fronts,” Anna said. “We’ve also shipped trainloads of munitions to LA to make sure they don’t run out.”

“It will all be too little, too late. General Alan knows that.”

“Then why is he doing it?”

“If you’re fighting a stronger person who is trying to kill you, does that mean you simply give up and let them do that?”

“I wouldn’t think so,” Anna said.

“There’s your answer. That’s what we’re doing. We’re fighting.”

“The Behemoths have changed the equation,” she said.

“Yes, for the moment that’s true. But you’ve seen the data. Some of the enemy tanks that would have poured through to Palm Springs have now turned back on the eastern part of the embattled Army Group. I think whoever is making the decisions over there has decided to accelerate the destruction of our trapped soldiers. It’s an inferno.”

“I agreed with that,” Anna said.

“Once the Army Group is gone, the Chinese will swamp the rest of the defenders in LA. There won’t be enough reinforcements to save the state. We’ll have lost, and that rather quickly, too.”

“I suppose I do read the situation the same way, sir.”

“Well that’s just won’t do!” Levin said, striking the table with a fist.

The dining area grew quiet. Anna could feel the stares even more than before.

Levin waited and took several more bites of lobster. He must not have prepared it well enough because Anna heard his teeth chewing and crushing shell. After people had stopped staring, Levin told her, “There’s a way out of this impasse.”

“Oh?”

Levin’s eyes seemed to shine. “I’m going to suggest to the President that he use nuclear weapons to rebalance the situation.”

A hollow feeling worked through Anna’s chest.

“You don’t agree with that?” Levin asked.

Anna didn’t know what to say and barely managed to shake her head no.

“I see,” Levin said. “Then you won’t support me when the time comes?”

“Sir… Are you certain there’s no other option? I mean, nuclear weapons will be a disaster. They may have helped us a little in Alaska, but we paid a terrible price using them.”

“Give me another solution and I’ll listen. The problem is that I don’t see any other way to save the situation.”

Anna bowed her head in thought. This was a challenge, wasn’t it? Was there another way to save the situation? There had to be. Nuclear weapons might bring the end of the civilized world. It was a terrible risk. There had to be something she could do, some fact or other that would give them a chance. Who knew the Chinese better than she did? No one. Therefore, it was her responsibility to find the answer that might save the country.

She looked up at Levin. “Do you mean that, sir?”

“Eh?” he asked. He was cutting his lobster.

“Will you back me if I find you another way?”

Levin set down his fork and knife, leaning back, studying her. “I said I will listen. What do you hope to find?”

“I don’t know.”

“The prospect of nuclear war terrifies you, I can see.”

“Sir, I think it should terrify everyone.”

“Hmm,” he said. Picking up his fork and knife, he went back to cutting his meal. As he forked a succulent piece of lobster, he eyed Anna again. “A nuclear explosive is just a bigger weapon.”

“That’s one way of looking at it, sir. Another might be as a civilization ending event.”

“You think that one nuclear weapon will lead to another?”

“Yes I do. I also believe that radiation poisoning is a terrible way for the world to die.”

Levin gave her a chilling smile. Who was this little old man?

“Then find another way, my dear, because I don’t plan on letting anyone defeat my country. I’d rather destroy it than let Jian Hong’s hordes have his way with it. I’d rather annihilate his armies with nuclear fire than surrender. We cannot let the Pan Asian Alliance smash through California with such ease. It will be the beginning of the end if that happens and I will not stand by and watch that occur. I’m certain I can convince the President of that.”

Anna’s appetite left for good. She would have to ask for a doggy bag, even though she had no dogs, but a Persian cat. What can I possibly do that the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff cannot or the President of the United States? She didn’t know, but she did realize that she was going to work her thoughts overtime to finding an answer.

Captain Wei of East Lightning had a fixed smile on his face as he slid an enclosed helmet over his head. Today, they were going to try something new, something special for these infuriating American holdouts.

The attack had been going on for days. This was the twelfth or thirteenth wave assault. That meant…eight or nine days ago since command had launched the Blue Swan missiles. Eight, yes, it had been eight days ago and they were digging out these American holdouts.

Eight days, or a lifetime if one considered how many cowardly offenders he had gunned down. At first, he had found it difficult. And the fear in him standing at the rear of the battle-line so American soldiers could actually sight him with their sniper rifles—he had kept himself drugged ever since.

His battle-suit was the latest in combat technology. Certain White Tiger squads had them and East Lighting commissioners in the penal battalions.

He wore powered armor from head to toe. It was not science fiction armor. He had seen several Japanese movies about those. There, a soldier could jump fifty meters or run like a bullet train. He could do nothing so amazing, although what he did was spectacular enough.

The suit was mostly body armor, but of such weight that electric motors helped the wearer move. It was mostly heavy dinylon mesh with a carbide-ceramic corselet. With the helmet’s CBR filter, it protected him from chemical or biological attacks. The visor in the helmet had a HUD and targeting crosshairs. He had several computers integrated into the suit, connecting him to the HQ net and various video feeds. He had two weapons. The first was an integral 5.56mm machine gun. All he had to do was turn his head and paint the crosshairs on a target and the ballistic computer did the rest, firing from his shoulder. Sound-suppressor plugs in his ears saved his hearing. He also had an electromagnetic grenade launcher. It, too, had a ballistic computer, adjusting for range, height and wind speed. He could lob the grenade over a hiding spot, raining death on whatever coward had thought to sit out the battle.

The powered armor was amazing, prohibitively expensive, and ran off the latest batteries. That was the suit’s greatest drawback. The batteries supplied power for six hours. Then they needed recharging. With charged batteries and full magazines, however, he was a walking tank. Unfortunately, he lacked normal mobility and if his sensors failed, he became deaf to the world. It was the perfect thing for a political commissioner watching his penal soldiers from the back, ready to destroy those who lacked the zeal to continue attacking.

How the White Tiger specialists used their powered armor, Wei didn’t know or care. In his company, three East Lighting commissioners had died, either slain by Americans or enraged political offenders who had turned their weapons on their betters. That had sobered the rest of them. At first, the East Light commissioners had feared their charges. Later, after shrugging off bullets and grenade fragments, Wei and several others had felt invincible. Watching a RPG penetrate the armor of a follow commissioner had cured them of that battlefield malady. Still, they had learned how to motivate the penal soldiers to courageous acts of madness.

Now command had sent them a fresh batch of penal personnel. Some of these offenders already had combat experience. Wei had spoken with his lieutenants and first ranks. Some of the new men might be more dangerous than those they had processed so far.

Last night in an abandoned 7-11, Wei had received his inspiration.

“Why are we so eager to destroy Chinese citizens?” he asked the others.

They had remained silent, watching him carefully. The words he spoke, they were nearly heretical and therefore dangerous.

Wei had reached into a pocket and removed a blue pill. He had blue pills, red ones and yellow triangles that gave him fantastic hallucinations. Those he saved for his “let-down” times after battle, after killing too many of his offenders. Incredibly, shooting them outright had been much different than killing them on the torture table. Watching men crumple from his 5.56mm bullets, he had felt like a god inflicting such divine justice. It was an awesome sensation, but later gave him the shakes and a hollow feeling in his chest. At those times, to drive the emptiness away, that is when he’d popped the yellow triangles.

“Let us do as the Mongols once did,” Wei had told the others last night.

“Do you mean Genghis Khan?” a thin lieutenant asked.

“Yes, yes,” Wei said. “Genghis Khan was the greatest soldier in history. He was invincible in battle. Remember your studies, gentlemen.”

The lieutenants, and the first ranks milling behind them, continued to look at him in wary silence.

“We are consuming soldiers at too fast a rate,” Wei said. “That is what HQ has told us. Yet they also order us to clear minefields at once, or to storm a strongpoint and take it despite what casualties we might suffer. Excuses don’t matter. Am I right?”

Two of the lieutenants nodded. The taller of them squeezed a cigarette between his fingers, the tip glowing red as smoke curled.

“Yes,” Wei said. “I am right. Therefore, we have a contradiction. Win through at all costs but save personnel while you do so. The wave attacks have been succeeding, but at a terrible cost. Now I ask you, are we not the Chinese?”

“Yes,” a lieutenant said.

“Yes,” Wei said. “We learned at the hands of the greatest conqueror in history. Genghis Khan had his handful of Mongol warriors against China’s millions. He could not afford to spend his men like water against Chinese cities. What did he do? None of you knows, eh?”

Wei had eyed them, these hardened butchers, and he had seen their curiosity. This was amazing, as several of them had been as drugged as he was.

“The plan was simple,” Wei said. “The great Khan ordered his soldiers to gather Chinese peasants and captured city dwellers. These his soldiers drove with whips before them toward the besieged city walls. Enemy archers had a terrible choice, expended needed arrows to kill their fellow citizens or let the enemy get to the walls unscathed.”

Wei had smiled at them, a smile that had shown all his teeth. He had been genuinely happy with his thought.

“Tomorrow,” Wei told them, “we will gather a horde of Americans hiding in the ruins. Women and children, it doesn’t matter to me. Warm bodies are all that counts. Then we will drive them at the American strongpoints, letting our penal soldiers mingle among them. If the American soldiers fire, they will kill their own and possibly save some of ours.”

“What if the people try to run away?”

“We kill them,” Wei said. “We mow them down.”

The others looked at him. Then they looked at each other. Finally, those highest on drugs had grinned back at Wei.

Now morning was here and HQ had given him the order. They were supposed to wave-assault the American strongpoint that was holding the outskirts of El Cajon. The enemy had been adjusting, apparently trying to reshuffle their formations to gain strength to attack the northern-most Chinese. In other words, Army Group SoCal was trying to make a breakout in order to link-up with LA.

Inside his special body armor, Captain Wei grinned. His skin tingled and he felt good. He was pumped up. The men of his penal company had gathered nearly two hundred American civilians. With bayonets, they prodded the protesting mass up the street and toward the enemy strongpoint.

Last night, American artillery had laid quick-mines. Oh yes, the Americans were ready for a wave assault. But he doubted that they were ready for this.

“I am the son of Genghis Khan,” Wei told himself. “I am the conqueror.”

With his armor purring with battery power, Wei lurched out of the 7-11. He loved the clank of his footsteps. This was so different from the torture table. This was glorious.

Within the enclosed helmet, Wei frowned. The old way in Mexico City seemed like a world ago now. Yes, it had been much more peaceful, and safe. Now he was out on the battlefield. He shuddered. He remembered Maria Valdez and her hated curse. But there was no God and therefore no curse. Wei could do as he wanted on this Earth and no one would ever judge him for it. It was good to know that. Yes, very good, otherwise he might not have been able to devise such a clever tactic as the one he was about to spring on the defenders.

“Sir, can you hear me?”

Groggily, Marshal Nung opened burning, bloodshot eyes. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. Then he recognized his aide bending over him. Yes, he was in bed. The days of endless decisions and worry had wearied him. His body wasn’t what it used to be. The doctor had finally convinced him that instead of stimulants and constant attention, what he needed was plenty of sleep. Then he could make wise decisions. The aide looking over him, Nung finally realized the man was worried.

“Is there trouble?” Nung whispered.

“Uh…Chairman Hong wishes to speak to you, sir.”

“Help me up,” Nung said.

The aide was a large man and easily pulled him to a sitting position. The wheelchair was at the foot of the bed. Nung had begun to hate the thing.

“Help me to my feet,” Nung said.

The aide licked his lips.

“Do as I command,” Nung said, for the first time speaking in his normal tone.

The aide gripped an elbow and helped Nung stand. A moment of disorientation followed. Then Nung felt better than he had since the “incident” with the tranks and amphetamines. With faltering steps, he stepped into the lavatory, turned on the facet and washed his hands and then his face. Oh, that felt good. Drying his hands, he returned into the bedroom. Maybe the doctor had known what he was talking about.

“Help me into my uniform,” Nung said.

Ten minutes later, the aide wheeled Nung into the communication room. With a boiled egg in his stomach and a bowl of rice, Nung felt ready to tackle the Leader. As he ate, he listened to a situational report. The main forces continued to squeeze the SoCal Army Group as the Fifth Army coordinated with the Hover Command for another thrust up Interstate 5.

Nung rose up out of the wheelchair and had the aide put it out of visual range of the computer screen. Then he sat in a chair and activated the link. He spoke to the Leader’s secretary and waited. Hopefully, this wouldn’t take too long.

Three minutes later, Jian Hong appeared on the screen. The Leader’s hair was jet black from the best hair dye. His face was wider than it used to be, evidence that the man had gained weight.

“I will make this brief,” the Leader said.

Nung bowed his head. The Leader’s tone troubled him.

“Marshal Kao has informed me of the situation,” the Leader said. “The sudden and now complete blockage of the Palm Springs-Los Angeles route is a disturbing occurrence.”

Kao! Nung thought. It seemed the old soldier on the Ruling Committee was always trying to torpedo him.

“It is accurate to say that the Americans surprised us,” Nung said. “They have developed an amazing tank and potentially one that could do us great harm. Fortunately, they are few in number. We know this is true because otherwise they would have gone over to the attack. Notice, the Americans are content to hold the Palm Springs pass. Therefore, in truth, the few superlative tanks do not change the balance of military power or the precarious American position.”

“Marshal Kao predicted you would say such things. He says you cannot see anything but for headlong assaults. Marshal Gang has concurred with this analysis.”

Within his chest, Nung burned at these insults and he felt his blood pressure rising. Why did such small-minded men always try to interfere with his greatness? They feared, perhaps, to risk everything for glory and ultimate, spellbinding victory.

“With all due respect, Leader, the two marshals are old men who have the lost the spirit of the warrior. It pains me to say this, but they quail like the enfeebled worriers they are at the idea of taking a risk to win large.”

“There is a risk?” the Leader asked.

“In war, one must always accept risks.”

“Do you seek to teach me, Marshal Nung?”

“I do not, Leader. I am the servant of the State, the State you lead with consummate skill.”

“Hmm. I find the latest reports disturbing. We have taken heavy causalities and expended massive amounts of munitions. Already, the Navy has rushed more supplies to Mexico. This rate of expenditure cannot continue indefinitely.”

The battle has just begun, and already the Leader’s nerves are shaky. I must proceed with caution.

“Sir,” said Nung, “we have smashed the heaviest fortification on Earth and driven the Americans back in reeling disarray. We have surrounded the main Californian Army Group and cut them off from their supply base, in this instance, Los Angeles. It is true we have accepted heavy causalities to achieve this. Yet we have far more troops than they do. Our factories churn out far more munitions.”

“Marshal Kao suggests we use maneuver to defeat the Americans instead of attrition.”

“Yes, these things are easy to say, Leader. Yet Marshal Kao does not know how to do such a thing. I do know, sir. I am outmaneuvering the Americans.”

The Leader frowned, looking confused. “You admit to great losses and yet claim to be using clever maneuvers. Yet our boldest maneuver ended in a bloody defeat.”

“I’m sure that is how Marshal Kao put it,” Nung said. “The situation is actually quite different, sir.”

“Your confidence is intriguing. I wish you to enlighten me, Marshal.”

“The situation is this, Leader. We have stretched the Americans in California, doing so in a little more than a week. We are about to devour their main Army Group. The reason we are doing this is our relentless assault. It is costly now in men and munitions. Soon, we will reap our reward, obliterating the Army Group and then snatching California. Marshal Kao should be congratulating me for bringing the fight to the brink of annihilating victory, and this victory despite the unveiling of a truly impressive enemy weapon system.”

“It amazes me how two marshals of China can see this in such a different light.”

“I suspect that Marshal Kao sees that I am in the process of shattering two of my armies. I have hurled them at the enemy and in urban areas. Many would consider that rash. What they cannot see is that I will annihilate the Americans and still have armies to rush into the rest of the state, snatching Oregon and Washington and setting up our defenses in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. That will allow us to proceed with the next step in conquering a continent.”

“What if the American Army Group breaks out of your trap?” the Leader asked.

“They will not break out. I am constantly attacking, lunging, grinding, refusing to give them time to regroup and escape.”

The Leader tapped a computer stylus on the table. Then he lifted it and bumped the end against one of his teeth. “There are reports of new reinforcements from the rest of the U.S.”

“Paltry sums, I believe. In any case, our amphibious assault in two days will change the equation even more in my favor.”

“China’s favor,” the Leader said.

“That is what I meant, sir. My victory is China’s victory.”

“Hmm. Yes, I’m beginning to appreciate your overall theory. It is much different from what Marshal Kao tells me. You will continue with your relentless assaults. Shock and awe the Americans, Marshal. Grind their bones to dust so we may ready our other fronts for the truly great Battle for America.”

“As you command, Leader,” Nung said, his voice ringing. “We will grind their bones to dust.”

“I don’t know, Lieutenant. We ought to retreat from this spot.”

Paul Kavanagh glanced at the frightened man behind the .50 caliber machine gun. The forty-something man was a new levy, fresh from a training camp that had given him two days instructions.

There were fifty militiamen and soldiers hiding behind what had once been a Wells Fargo bank, a retail outlet and a Baskin Robbins ice cream shop. The buildings were piles of rubble, dust, shattered boards and rotting flesh. Rats had begun to appear everywhere, wild-eyed feral cats and flies, always the flies.

The Anaheim Militia Company was now composed of people from all over Southern California. Two of them were from El Cajon, their latest stop in the endless retreat from the border.

“Division told us to hold,” the Lieutenant told the man, the new Militia private. “So we’re holding the line until they tell us otherwise.”

The division had become an ad hoc grouping with a Militia battalion, a regular Infantry battalion, a company of mortars and a missile platoon, meaning three missile-carriers. It wasn’t much to hold the line. But it had finally begun, the careful withdrawal of select units in order to build a reserve in the shrinking area of Army Group SoCal.

Paul figured the reserve was meant to hurl against the Chinese in order to drive to LA. They had to break out soon or the Army Group was going to succumb to a lack of ammo and supplies.

“We’re exposed here, Lieutenant,” the forty-something Militia private whined.

The Lieutenant stared at the man. The young Lieutenant had aged since La Mesa. He’d lost the four young kids of the platoon Paul and Romo had joined. They had died fighting, holding their post.

The forty-something squirmed uncomfortably. Yet he still managed to say, “We have to preserve ourselves so we have soldiers to keep the Chinese at bay.”

“The Lieutenant still doesn’t understand,” Romo whispered. “But I will show him.” The Mexican assassin rose from where he couched beside Paul. They had their own .50 caliber to serve and several RPGs, the last ones.

Romo sauntered beside the Lieutenant. “Can I speak to him, sir?”

The Lieutenant eyed Romo, finally nodding.

Romo crouched beside the wary, forty-something private. He began whispering, going so far as to pull out a knife and show it to the private. The older man paled, and he would no longer look in Romo’s eyes.

“Si?” Romo asked him.

The forty-something private nodded quickly.

Romo rose, touched his helmet in respect to the Lieutenant and then sauntered back beside Paul.

“What did you tell him?” Paul asked.

“If he runs during combat I will feed him his balls.”

“You showed him the knife you’re going to do it with?”

“It always helps to show them the knife.”

“I’m sure it does,” Paul said. “Oh-oh, you hear that.”

“Incoming!” Romo shouted.

“Everyone down!” the Lieutenant shouted. “And don’t get up until you hear my whistle.”

Paul crawled into a narrow slit trench. Seconds later, shells went screaming in and blew up rubble, dust, men and weapons. Concussions washed over Paul. Debris flew everywhere. The enemy pounded their position and likely all along the line and the mortar and artillery sites. No doubt drones buzzed up there, helping the enemy sight them.

Screwing his eyes shut, Paul endured. He hated artillery. It was so impersonal. It was just stupid fate and luck. Someday, his luck would run out, just as it had for Maria Valdez. Colonel Valdez should never have sent his daughter along.

Then an arty shell landed too close. The blast hurled Paul against the side of his trench. Hot shrapnel flew over him. He began shivering uncontrollably. Cheri, Cheri, Cheri, I love you, babe. Can you ever forgive me, my love?

“God!” he screamed, although he couldn’t hear a word. “Let me live! Let me be with my wife again! God! Are you listening?”

Another shell came down. The explosion hurled Paul against the other side of his slit trench. He wore armor, a mesh vest. He wore a helmet, tough pants and heavy-duty boots. It would be like wet toilet paper if a piece of shrapnel caught him.

Suddenly, the artillery barrage ended.

Paul knew what it meant. The Chinese did these things like machines. Their attack procedure never varied. The trouble with him was that he just wanted to lie there. The peace of no shells coming in…he couldn’t take any more of this. He didn’t want to face yet another Chinese wave assault. He wanted—

Gritting his teeth, Paul rose to his knees. He was the first up. With ringing ears and moisture in his eyes, he crawled to the .50 caliber and set it back up. It had survived, although there were dings in it. He put it on the tripod mount and manhandled it to a position behind a smoking piece of rubble.

“Lieutenant!” Paul shouted. “The artillery prep is over. They’re going to be coming soon.”

Romo appeared beside him. The lean face looked more hollowed-out than ever and dirt smeared the assassin’s face. The eyes lacked their normal wolfishness. The artillery shelling had shaken Romo. Who wouldn’t be shaken by that?

A whistle blew. A turn of his head showed Paul the Lieutenant was up. The officer began kicking prone and shaking soldiers. The Lieutenant bent down, yanked a kid up and screamed in his face.

“Mother Mary,” Romo whispered.

Something about the way Romo spoke made the hairs on the back of Paul’s neck rise up. He didn’t want to look, but he did. What he saw…

“No,” Paul whispered. “They can’t do that.”

Except these Chinese were doing it. Soldiers herded civilians, American women and children straight at them. The enemy poked bayonets at the civilians. One of the soldiers drove his bayonet into a young woman, between her shoulder blades so the point jutted out of her chest. Her scream was paralyzing. Paul had never seen something like this, such gruesome barbarity.

“They’re going to stumble over the minefield,” the Lieutenant said.

Paul could feel the officer’s hand on his right shoulder as the Lieutenant crouched behind him.

“This is murder,” Paul heard himself say.

Romo cursed in Spanish. He turned to Paul, and there was fire in his eyes. “We cannot let them approach.”

Paul felt the heart go out of him. “What are you suggesting?”

“Start firing, amigo. We must stop the Chinese.”

“We can’t fire on women and children,” the Lieutenant said.

Paul found himself agreeing internally.

“Let’s get out of here,” the forty-something private said.

Romo cursed again. Using his elbows for propulsion, he slithered across shale, one of the dislodged stones tumbling into a shell-hole. Romo reached a forward observer. He grabbed the man’s speaker and shouted into it. After he was done, Romo slithered back to them behind the low wall of rubble.

“What did you report?” the dazed Lieutenant asked.

Seconds later, the answer came in a hail of mortar rounds.

“No,” Paul said, staring at Romo.

The Mexican assassin stared hard at the wall of rubble. He seemed to be in another world right then.

The mortar rounds howled down, and soon the sounds of the wounded, dying and screaming civilians drove Paul to madness.

He went to the .50 caliber, to the butterfly button triggers. He aimed at the dinylon-armored Chinese and he fired at the enemy. He also hit American civilians, putting many out of their misery. All along the line, other Americans opened up. The Chinese climbed to their feet and they kept coming. Far behind them watched robots or at least they looked like robots.

“Battle suits,” Paul said. He aimed his machine gun at them, but after a single burst, they moved out of his line of sight.

The other Chinese refused to break, firing assault rifles and grenade launchers in a suicidal frenzy. One by one, the defending Americans hiding in the rubble died, killed by bomb, lobbed grenade and bullet. In return, the few survivors reaped a dreadful harvest of Chinese penal soldiers.

Then all at once, even though they had worked far forward, the remaining wave assaulters threw themselves flat.

“Incoming!” Paul screamed in a raw throat. He fell flat, too, and a missile barrage thundered upon them. He felt himself lift and slam back against the ground. It left him limp, and then he lay still as one dead.

Soon, he heard the march of enemy feet. He heard Chinese curses and then he heard them crunching over rubble and climbing into their positions. Some Americans farther away took potshots at the enemy.

Harsh Chinese commands boomed nearby. It must have come from the battle-suited soldiers, the officers, likely.

Paul lay still like one dead. A Chinese soldier kicked him in the helmet, but Paul never flinched. He waited. He couldn’t do anything more now. He waited as the soldiers moved past. Like a beast, a deadly wolf playing a last trick, he bided his time.

Then some instinct rose in Paul. He grabbed his assault rifle and lifted up to one knee. Enemy soldiers had their backs to him. Without hesitation, Paul opened up, cutting down the wave assaulters. Beside him, Romo did the same thing, together with the Lieutenant and a handful of others. Paul lobbed grenades and shot the enemy.

“We’re doing it. We’re—” Those were the Lieutenant’s last words. He crumpled, torn apart by machine gun fire.

Time seemed to slow down for Paul Kavanagh. He whirled around. One of the battle-suited soldiers was less than fifty feet away. The man’s armament was crazy. The machine gun was perched on the armored shoulder. The muzzle blast made the Chinese killer take a step back, and that produced a whine of motorized power.

It’s powered armor. Paul didn’t have any more time to think. He acted. He picked up his last RPG and didn’t even bother with the iron sights. He did this the natural way by feel, and he pulled the trigger. The backblast felt good. The shaped-charge grenade did its trick. It blasted the powered-armored soldier and tore him apart.

Captain Wei of East Lightning flew backward, blasted off his feet by the crazy American with the RPG. His chest was wet and the world spun out of control.

Is this you, Maria Valdez? Is this your curse?

Then Captain Wei died, his soul headed to the next world, there to learn one of the most terrible truths of existence.

In El Cajon, among the littered dead, Paul Kavanagh and Romo crawled through gory rubble. Enemy machine gun fire from the surviving battle-suits sought to end their lives. Like hardened rats, like junkyard dogs, the two soldiers fled from superior armaments and firepower. The Chinese had broken through here, killing everyone in the Anaheim Militia Company except for these two interlopers, two killers who were turning out to be harder to butcher than an old governmental tax.