Invasion: California

-13- The Raid

As the battles raged on the front lines in Costa Mesa, Huntington Beach, Fullerton, Anaheim and Pomona, Paul Kavanagh soaked in a hot bath. He was in the northern edge of Los Angeles, in a Best Western Hotel.

Romo and he had arrived last night, and slept like the dead. In the middle of the morning, Paul soaked in the steaming water. His body ached and his soul was numb. After a time, he let some water out and turned on the faucet, adding more hot liquid. This felt good.

With the back of his head resting on the bathtub’s porcelain, he began to think about Sheri and Mike. There were close now, a short drive north to Newhall. Was it time to go AWOL and see them?

I’ve done my part. The military can’t reasonably expect any more from me.

It was time to take his family to Colorado. From what he’d seen, China was going to capture Los Angeles. There just didn’t seem to be any way of stopping the enemy. For sure, he didn’t want his family to end their days in a PAA labor camp.

“Amigo!” Romo shouted through the door as he banged on it. “Are you about done in there?”

“Are you waiting to get in?” Paul asked.

“Me? No. There are some men out here who wish to speak with you.”

Paul blinked lazily and slid down, letting the hot water soak his face. Several seconds later, he surfaced, and he was frowning.

They’d made it, Romo and him. Had the assassin contacted Colonel Valdez? They were blood brothers, right? But did that hold now that they were safely behind American lines?

With a groan, Paul emerged from the bath, with water dripping from him. He was sore everywhere, and there were a dozen black bruises on his skin. The worst was a fist-sized mark in the middle of his left thigh. He stepped out of the tub, wrapped a towel around his waist and lifted a thicker towel. He had a pistol hidden on a stand, with a bullet already chambered.

Taking the gun, Paul put his ear against the door. He couldn’t tell who was out there, if anyone. Quickly, he opened the door, with his gun aimed—

Sergeant Donovan of the SOF sat in a chair. The man raised his eyebrows. “Expecting trouble?” the Green Beret asked.

Paul lowered the gun. “I’ve been in combat mode for a while.”

“Sure,” Donovan said. “Hey, Romo, you can listen to this, too. General Ochoa would like to speak with both of you.”

Romo looked up from where he dealt cards onto a table. He turned toward them, and his dark eyes flickered as he took in Paul’s gun.

“What’s this concerning?” Paul asked.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Donovan said.

“And if we don’t feel like going with you?”

Donovan grinned. “Orders, Sergeant. Why make life tough for any of us?”

“Yeah,” Paul said. “I see what you’re saying. General Ochoa is already going to do that for us, isn’t he?”

“Maybe,” Donovan said. “Maybe he wants to talk to you about some medals.”

“Yeah, sure. Give me a minute. Let me get dressed.”

Donovan grunted as he stood and stepped outside onto the balcony.

“I keep my word,” Romo said, as Paul headed for the bathroom.

Paul glanced at his blood brother, Colonel Valdez’s best assassin. Romo didn’t miss much. Since there was nothing he could say, Paul nodded, entered the bathroom and shut the door behind him.

Twenty-three minutes later, Paul, Romo and Donovan strode down an underground corridor. MPs stood outside a door. The smaller one opened the door, keeping hold of the knob as the three men filed inside.

There was a table with a computer screen on it, a bar with bottled drinks and four empty chairs.

“Are you staying?” Paul asked Donovan.

For an answer, the Green Beret sat down and opened a Gatorade.

Paul rubbed his eyes. This felt like déjà vu. Man, he was old, too old for any more of this. Let the young have their shot at being a hero. He was sick and tired of desperate action. Had he ever craved this sort of thing? Yeah, he’d been young and full of piss and vinegar once. He had fallen for the catchy slogans and loved being in prime condition. Now…now he just wanted to go home. He wanted to sit on his sofa and watch TV, maybe go outside sometimes and weed his vegetable garden. Everyone kept one these days.

The screen came to life. It showed a haggard-looking General Ochoa, with a large American flag behind him. His dark eyes seemed to bore into each of them.

“I’m going to be brief,” General Ochoa said. “The President has spoken with me, and he believes we can slow down the relentless Chinese advance.”

“Does it involve us doing something harebrained?” Paul asked.

Ochoa gaze slid away from Paul’s for a moment. “You’re the three best commandos I have in the theater of operations. You know my beliefs about using the best and this is going to be the most important commando raid so far.”

“More important than the Blue Swan fiasco?” asked Paul.

“Son,” Ochoa said, staring him in the eye. “I’ve had just about enough of your quips. You’re in SOCOM and you’re under my orders. The President believes and I concur with him that this next mission is vital to the integrity of our country.”

Paul struggled to rein in the compulsion to get up and walk away. What would Ochoa do? Likely, the general would order the MPs to throw him in the brig. Did it matter what he had done before? Not enough that it would sway Ochoa, the man was pure hard-nose, all business.

Ochoa’s pause seemed longer than necessary. Finally, he said, “You three are going to lead a raid on Marshal Nung’s Headquarters.”

“That sounds important,” Paul said. “Who is he anyway?”

“Marshal Nung is the enemy First Front commander, the Chinese officer running the California Invasion. His HQ is in San Ysidro, where the Ninth Division used to be. I believe you were there not that long ago, bodyguarding Colonel Norman.”

Paul stared up at the ceiling. This was worse than he’d expected.

“I know this will be a dangerous mission,” Ochoa said. “And we don’t have much time to prepare. Fortunately, Colonel Valdez has agreed to help us from Mexico.”

Paul glanced at Romo. The assassin shook his head in the way that meant he didn’t know anything about this. Paul regarded Ochoa. In his experience, the General never forgot anything, and that would include Valdez wanting his death.

“Uh, I have a problem with that,” Paul said. “Last I heard, Valdez still lusts for my head. Seems stupid of me to walk into Mexico and give it to him.”

“Colonel Valdez will have to wait for your overvalued head,” Ochoa said. “Right now, I have need of you.”

“And you’ve no doubt already told him that. Is that what you’re trying to hint to me…sir?”

Ochoa turned his Aztec death-stare onto Paul. “Gunnery Sergeant, I’ve studied your profile on more than one occasion. You have trouble with authority. So far, I haven’t needed to reprimand you for insubordinate attitudes. Do I need to summon the MPs to take you to the brig?”

“Yes sir, I think that would be a good idea. I don’t mean any offense, but I don’t relish having you send me to my death.”

“Listen here, Kavanagh. The country is at war with the most powerful alliance in history. The PAA, SAF and the GD, along with the Iranian Hegemony, are all lining up against us. The bigger war is going to start soon. We need to end this conflict or stabilize it as soon as possible.”

“You think killing this Nung will do that?” Paul asked.

“The President believes it, or his advisors have convinced him of it.”

“What do you believe, sir? I mean really?”

Ochoa’s features became flinty. The General opened his mouth, only to close it. Finally, in a quiet voice, he began to speak:

“Colonel Valdez has agreed to abide by my conditions. I’ve told him your importance to the mission. You’re a killer, although you’re a hell of an insubordinate soldier. How you and Romo made it back to our lines is beyond me. But that the two of you did only proves my theory. Marshal Nung is supposed to be one of those rare, operationally-gifted commanders. He knows how to win battles. From my information, the rest of the Chinese High Command dislikes him and his methods. We’re hoping that killing him…well, we’re hoping it will bring about a change in Chinese operations.”

“Sounds like a slim hope,” Paul said.

“Yes, I suppose it is. The sad truth is we’re down to that. We’re going to need some old-fashioned skullduggery and luck to slip you into First Front Headquarters. I don’t think we can fly you straight in this time. That’s why you’re going to have to take the long way through Mexico. And that’s why we need Colonel Valdez’s help.”

“Okay. I see what you’re saying. Now what do you have planned for getting us back out once we’ve completed the mission?”

Ochoa shook his head. “This is a one-way mission, gentlemen. Unless you can fight your way back like you did before, or unless you can convince Colonel Valdez to help you escape.”

Paul closed his eyes. This was it: a suicide mission. If he could talk Valdez into helping him escape…right! It would be out of the fire and into the cannibal’s cooking pot.

Beside him, Romo leaned near, whispering, “If we make it in, I think we could slip back out into Mexico.”

“Yeah, and into your Colonel’s hands,” Paul whispered.

“What is he saying?” Ochoa asked.

Paul studied the general. The truth was U.S. High Command would never let Cheri, Mike and him relocate to Colorado. If he went AWOL trying that—it was starting to look as if he had one chance to save his wife from Chinese occupation. It was this harebrained commando raid. He Who Dares, Wins, or some other B.S. like that.

Paul shook his head so his neck bones cracked. “Sir, I’ll do this if you promise to relocate my wife and son to Colorado.”

“Where are they now?”

“LA.”

“Can you be more specific?”

Paul gave him the address.

“I give you my word,” Ochoa said. “We’ll move them tomorrow.”

“Thank you, sir. When do we leave for this mission?”

Ochoa hesitated before saying, “Tonight.”

Colonel Valdez slammed his beer onto the desk, causing amber-colored liquid to slosh over the rim and stain the papers below. He was in a former bank vault, his headquarters here in San Antonio.

“No,” he told Torres. “I will not listen to reason. You will listen to me.”

The one-eyed soldier wouldn’t look at him. Valdez knew then that Torres didn’t truly understand. For a moment, Valdez considered drawing his sidearm and shooting the man in the heart. Torres had once been a good man. The one-eyed soldier had lost his wife to the Chinese, but not his courage. Yes, Torres knew how to hate. But it seemed now to the Colonel that somewhere Torres had given up his seething wish for vengeance against the insufferable foreigners.

That was the difference between him and others, Valdez knew. He kept his vengeance white-hot. He would never change. He would teach the Chinese what his vengeance meant just as he would teach the cowardly Mexican government that it shouldn’t have turned on him. Soon now, he was also going to carve a lesson into Paul Kavanagh for daring to desert his daughter on the field of battle. The crime was unforgiveable. What did it matter to him, this Chinese marshal? The marshal didn’t make the critical difference to the war, but the endless numbers of PAA soldiers did.

They must kill the Chinese, the Japanese and the Koreans until Mexico was a sea of blood. For that, Valdez needed dedicated men and women. They needed to know he would remember them and avenge them no matter what the cost. It was all about loyalty and utter commitment.

“I want Paul Kavanagh,” Valdez said.

“Romo will bring him to us after the raid, Colonel.”

“Ah, good,” Valdez said, deciding this instant that Torres was to be cut out of the loop. The man was dead to him now, useless manure. “Good,” he said. “You may go, my friend.”

Torres gave him a troubled look, and it seemed as if the dead man was going to speak. Finally, Torres slunk away like the dog he had become.

Valdez stood and went to his radio. He would speak to the guerilla commander near the Mexican-American border. He would have to impress upon the man the extreme need to separate Kavanagh from the other commandos. It would be easy except for one thing. Why hadn’t Romo already killed Kavanagh? There was a mystery here.

Could Romo have failed me? If that were true, Romo would also have to die a gruesome death.

Fighter Rank Zhu’s stomach did a flip as his helicopter flashed upward. It was as if his helo took a gigantic leap over the defenders dug in the rubble and behind the shattered buildings below. There were several varieties of helicopters around him: more Eagle Team battle-taxis, Gunhawks and Graceful Swans with their Annihilator missiles. The helicopters flew over the blaze of enemy machine guns and launching Blowdarts.

Graceful Swan chain-guns spewed fire, the spent shells raining from their weapons, and Annihilator missiles launched from the stubby wings. Below, a Humvee Avenger blew up, a lone helmet spinning with the gory remains of a blood-dripping neck. Other Americans died in their machine gun pits.

Witnessing this destruction, Zhu clutched the handlebars on his seat of the battle-taxi. Pomona had become a sea of rubble and half-demolished buildings. Civilians huddled in the ruins while others lay bloating and rotting. Just as bad, fires raged in places. Smoke curled in long ribbons up into the black cloud over Pomona and over Greater Los Angeles. Farther away, artillery boomed with gigantic flashes from the south and to the north.

The helicopters headed toward a cluster of several prominent buildings behind the American line. The tactic of cutting off the forward enemy troops had worked brilliantly since its conception. The buildings loomed closer so scourge marks became visible in the brick walls. Many of the windows were cracked and a few were broken with jagged edges. Zhu’s gut tightened and his arms tingle with anticipation.

Tian’s orders growled in his headphones and Zhu lofted off his seat and ignited his thrusters. With unerring skill, the First Rank Tian guided them toward the largest structure of the cluster. Once it must have been a towering office building.

As the advanced flyers zoomed near, a terrible surprise unfolded. Americans appeared in the highest windows. The enemy must have been waiting in ambush for them. Assault guns blazed. Beside Zhu, a commando tumbled backward as his visor shattered. The soldier plummeted toward the ground. More Americans appeared; these were on the roof. They launched Blowdart missiles at the climbing Gunhawks and manhandled heavy machine guns into position.

“What do we do?” a commando shouted through the radio-net.

A Gunhawk slewed to the side. A second Blowdart exploded against the tail. The helo nosedived, picking up speed, and in seconds, it crashed spectacularly into the ground.

The fight became desperate, men versus machines. A Gunhawk’s machine guns began pouring fire onto the Americans. Then three Blowdarts in quick succession blasted the helo out of the sky.

Zhu yelped in terror as Graceful Swans’ chain-guns whirled behind him. Ferroconcrete chunks and chips flew, 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. Will I make Soldier Rank? I hope so.

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. Donna had brought the cheese home, a gift from Colonel Peng. The man had impregnated his daughter and then he had forced her to abort the child. Donna wept at night over it, but she still went to visit the Chinese supply officer. She claimed to love him.

Daniel breathed harder. He detested the occupiers and he despised how Colonel Peng used his daughter. Now, with this forced abortion, he had yet another reason to pile hate on top of hate. Unfortunately, he could do nothing about his animosity. He was an old man trapped—

A compact man in a business suit sat down beside him on the bench. The man wore sunglasses and carried a lunch pail. He set the box on his knees, opened it and pulled out a hot corned beef sandwich. It smelled delicious and it made Daniel’s mouth water.

It had been a long time since Daniel had eaten meat. Cheese—he should be grateful for what he had, not wish for something impossible like meat.

“Daniel Cruz,” the man said before taking a bite of his corned beef.

Daniel froze, but he was wary enough, old and wise enough, to keep from whipping about to stare at the man.

“We have done business before,” the man said softly while chewing.

Out of the corner of his eye, Daniel studied the stranger. He was white, compact, probably running to fat and looked to be a youthful forty-five.

Daniel would have loved to be forty-five again. Ah, the things he would do.

“I am from the Swiss Embassy,” the man said.

Daniel’s heart began to pound. And now, he could not help himself. He looked at the man. He had freckles on his cheeks. Yes, he could be Swiss but more likely, this was a CIA agent.

“You’ve never seen me before,” the man said.

“You work for the SNP?” By that, Daniel meant the present Mexican government and the inference therefore was the secret police. They were a nasty, evil lot, who loved entrapping their own people.

“We would not be talking if I belonged to the secret police,” the man said. “Instead, they would be marching you away for torture.”

“Why are you here?”

“Eat your sandwich,” the man said. “Watch your pigeon. It is what you always do, and you should not deviate from that.”

With leaden, numb fingers, Daniel opened the wrapper and took out his sandwich. The bread was limp compared to the man’s and the cheese inside a poor substitute for corned beef. A flash of hatred surged through Daniel for this well-fed American agent, but he suppressed it.

“You are CIA,” Daniel said quietly.

The man stiffened slightly, but hid it well.

Secretly, Daniel smiled inside. Rich foreigners—Americans or Chinese—coming to his country and eating better than he did, it was not right.

“Do not,” the man whispered. “say such things.”

“What do you want?”

The man took another bite of corned beef, chewed for a time but couldn’t swallow.

I have scared him. Maybe he is CIA. I don’t know. He cannot help me, so what does it matter?

The man opened his suit and took out a silver-colored flask from an inner pocket. He twisted the cap and took a swallow. By the odor, it was whiskey. The man’s hand didn’t shake as much now as he slipped the flask back into the suit.

Finally swallowing his corned beef, the man whispered, “We need a vital piece of information. If you give it to us, it might go a long way toward defeating the enemy’s California thrust.”

Daniel shrugged. What did he care about that?

“We have never come to you before,” the man said. “That should show you how critical this is to the war effort.”

Daniel could see that. He could also see that the man—the CIA—jeopardized his life by doing this. That jeopardized his daughter’s life. That—ah. The man could do something for him after all.

Feeling calmer, feeling much better about the rich man with his meat sandwich, Daniel said, “You will have to pay me for this information.”

“Yes. I’m prepared to do that.”

“I want a gun.”

“A gun?” The CIA agent actually looked at him, before turning away and blinking thoughtfully.

“I want a .38 revolver,” Daniel said, “with each chamber loaded with a bullet. Can you get that for me?”

“What do you need a gun for?”

Daniel smiled. It was good to control a situation, to show the foreigner that this was his land and his country. “What do you need my information for?” he asked the agent.

The man squeezed his eyes shut as if analyzing the situation. He opened his eyes almost right away and nodded. “Done. One .38 with bullets, I can do that.”

“Excellent.”

“In return, you need to give me a way into Marshal Nung’s Headquarters. We believe it is in San Ysidro, California.”

“Ah,” Daniel said, “such a small thing as that? You do not want the moon as well?”

“Can you do it?”

Daniel took a bite of his sad sandwich. The cheese would upset his stomach tonight. Donna knew that, but she fed him Colonel Peng’s gift anyway. Could he do this thing for the American? He had seen the First Front Headquarters many times on the scheduled traffic routes. Pedro’s computer had more detailed information. Yes, it should be possible for him to find a way. No one bothered with truck drivers bringing needed supplies.

“I believe I can do as you want,” Daniel said. “I will find a special shipment order. Provided you have the needed vehicles and uniforms…”

The man nodded in a noncommittal way.

“I think with the right orders you could slip a truck, maybe two, past the first few guard shacks. I doubt such shipment orders would bring you into the guarded compound, which is where I would think a headquarters would be.”

“…yes. What you suggest would be acceptable. When could you get this?”

“You need this badly, eh? Speed is foolish in these things.”

“I know.” The man shrugged. “I don’t have a say in that.”

“I might be able to get it tomorrow. I have a possible way.”

“Tomorrow when?” the man asked.

“By one o’clock or it’s not going to happen.”

“Can you make the drop—”

“I’ll drop it by two,” Daniel said.

The CIA agent looked at him for a moment, then put his half-eaten sandwich on the bench. He stood, saying quietly, “My…boss thanks you, sir.”

“The big boss?” Daniel asked. Did the man mean the President of the United States?

“Good luck and good-bye.” The man strolled away.

Daniel sat back and he found himself holding his own limp sandwich. The roller still waited. He tore off a piece of crust and threw it to the pigeon. The roller cocked its head at him, strutted closer and pecked at the bread, eating it. Afterward, Daniel ate the rest of the American’s sandwich. A .38 revolver with bullets, yes, it was exactly what he needed.

And the corned beef was very good too.

The standoff came that evening at 6:32 PM in the barn on Guadalupe’s Farm. Paul, Romo, Donovan and the other twelve commandos had already spent a restless night, morning and afternoon here. The ultra-stealthy UAVs had deposited them yesterday and returned to the States.

In the distance came the nearly constant roar of big supply trucks heading for the front. Occasionally engines sputtered or there came the loud bang of a backfiring truck. Vehicles came from Mexico City, and they came from the Baja ports. Their destinations were always California, feeding the hungry maw of the Chinese armies grinding through Los Angeles. It was one of the reasons why Chinese arms were able to push and push and push forward yet again. The Chinese artillery never seemed to stop pounding and pulverizing because more shells and supplies always reached them.

In the barn were two Chinese supply trucks and each contained large boxes of unopened Army rations. It was a testimony to the will of Valdez’s guerillas that the boxes were still intact. The partisans on Guadalupe’s Farm were thin with malnourishment. They reminded Paul of Maria Valdez and her soldiers.

The sixteen commandos outnumbered the seven guerillas. More Free Mexico soldiers arrived on foot, twenty-one hard-eyed killers carrying an odd assortment of weapons. That meant there were now twenty-eight Mexicans against the sixteen Americans.

The guerilla leader was a one-armed man with a large .357 holstered at his side and an even larger mustache. He reminded Paul of Pancho Villa, although instead of a sombrero the man wore a red do-rag. Romo had informed Paul that in his youth, the guerilla leader had been a Los Angeles gang member.

The twenty-eight Free Mexico guerillas marched toward the barn, with the one-armed leader in front.

“Show time,” Donovan said, as he peered through a crack of the barn door.

Every commando picked up an assault rifle or grenade launcher.

“Wait,” Paul said. “A gunfight isn’t going to make our case.”

“Sure it is,” Donovan said.

“You know what I mean,” Paul said. “We’re here to get ourselves killed in Marshal Nung’s Headquarters, not to die in a firefight with our allies. Let me speak to them outside.”

Donovan laughed. “Sure, go ahead. They’ll take you into the woods and hang you, or maybe they’ll plant your ass on a sharp stick. How would you like that?”

“Paul is right,” Romo said. “We must talk to them. I’ll go with him.”

Donovan eyed them, and he shrugged. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Nice knowing you, Kavanagh.”

Paul grunted. Then he opened the barn door enough and slipped outside to the approaching mob. Romo stepped out with him and closed the barn door.

The one-armed leader with the .holstered 357 and the red do-rag—his street name was Gaucho—swaggered ahead of the mob. He pointed at Paul.

“Colonel Valdez has given his orders, gringo. You must come with us.”

“Look—” Paul said.

“No!” Gaucho shouted, motioning sharply with his hand. “There is no more talk. You will come with us and America can have our two trucks and our help. Otherwise, we pull out our guns, Americano, and shoot you down where you stand.”

Paul’s chest constricted and he had to tell himself to leave the assault rifle on his shoulder. The idea of a rope around his neck, or worse, a stake up his—

Romo stepped in front of him, and the assassin had a gun in his hand.

“What is this?” Gaucho asked. “Are you a traitor to our people?”

“I am Juan Romo.”

The guerillas began talking among themselves, some of them nodding. Everyone knew about the Colonel’s best killer.

“Quiet!” Gaucho told them. “The Colonel gave us his orders.” He faced Romo. “It won’t help if you shoot me. The rest of my men will still hang the traitorous gringo.”

“You won’t be here to see it happen,” Romo said.

Gaucho shrugged with indifference. “Neither will you.”

Romo smiled. “Good. I am tired of living in a land of fools.”

Striking his chest, Gaucho took a step closer. “You can call me a fool. But you will never say such a thing about Colonel Valdez.”

Romo laughed. “That is exactly what I am saying. He is a fool. We all know it and it is why we follow him to the gates of Hell.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we fight the Chinese even though they have six million soldiers in our country. Well, they did have six million. Now many have gone into America to die.”

“Good,” Gaucho said. “The Americans are no better than the Chinese.”

“Wrong,” Romo said. “They kill the Chinese, who have stepped on our country like a conqueror. I am not a slave. I refuse to bow or scrape to the Chinese.”

“I don’t bow either.”

“Colonel Valdez has the heart of a lion,” Romo said. “He fights and he devours his enemies. He lost his daughter to the Chinese. Instead of wishing a terrible vengeance on them, his grief has unhinged his reason. He wants this American killer to suffer. I have been with him now for weeks. Paul Kavanagh kills the Chinese with unrelenting savagery. Now, his country sends him to destroy one of the great military minds of China. No, now, Colonel Valdez wishes this killer dead instead. But Kavanagh is off to die in the very heart of power of the enemy. I love Colonel Valdez. I will follow him anywhere. But in this, I say, he is wrong.”

Gaucho gathered saliva in his mouth and he spit on the ground. “You are a liar, Juan Romo. You—”

Romo’s gun barked. Gaucho staggered backward, with a look of surprise on his face. He opened his mouth and tried to speak. His knees folded and he toppled face-first onto the ground.

“You killed him,” a guerilla said.

“I saw that I could not reason with Gaucho,” Romo said. “His death makes me sad. Come now. Let me know if there are more of you who refuse to reason with me.”

“You killed Gaucho,” the same guerilla said.

Romo swiveled so his gun pointed at the man. “Do you want to join Gaucho?”

The guerilla glanced at Gaucho and then into Romo’s eyes. The guerilla looked away and shook his head, but there was stubbornness stamped on his face.

“Good,” Romo said. “Then go into the barn.”

The guerilla hesitated, maybe with indecision, or maybe he saw something unyielding in Romo. He took a step toward the barn door.

“Leave your gun belt here,” Romo told him.

The guerilla’s eyes widened angrily. He almost spoke. Perhaps he remembered how quickly Gaucho had just died. With a sharp motion, the guerilla unbuckled his gun belt and let the weapon fall in the dust.

“You may enter the barn,” Romo said.

With an erect bearing, the guerilla walked through the now partly open door. As he disappeared from view, the remaining guerillas glanced at each other.

“You know who I am,” Romo said.

They muttered, “Si” and nodded.

“You know I will kill whoever I must, yes?”

There were more muttered responses and nods.

“If you disagree with me, raise your hand and I will let you leave,” Romo said.

Once more, a few guerillas glanced at each other. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Colonel Valdez will not like this.”

“I do not like this,” Romo said. “Now, I have waited long enough. Everyone will set down his weapon and file into the barn. We must wait, and I do not want to have to kill any more fine Free Mexico fighters. But I will, my friends. This raid, it is the most important of the war. Later, I will visit Colonel Valdez and explain my actions to him. If he wishes, he can kill me then.”

“You swear this?” a guerilla asked.

“I swear it on the Virgin,” Romo said.

“That is good enough for me,” the guerilla told the others. “Juan Romo never lies.”

“He never lies,” another man said.

Soon, guerillas began putting their weapons on the ground and entering the barn.

Romo leaned near Paul and whispered, “It is a trick I learned a long time ago. Kill the leader and the rest will want to listen. Still, it is too bad about Gaucho. He was a good fighter. I did not enjoy that.”

Paul nodded, wondering if Romo had really fixed the situation or if the guerillas were just biding their time.

Jian Hong stood with Marshal Kao in his underground bunker in Beijing. There were enormous framed photographs on the walls with Jian handing a leashed polar bear cub to various dignitaries. The old Chairman had brought Jian down here seven years ago. This time Jian had summoned Kao. He wanted China’s top military man to explain the situation between the two of them while they were alone from prying ears.

“Leader,” Marshal Kao said, pointing at the computer table, at the symbol of Los Angeles. “This is an intolerable situation. Marshal Nung can no longer cut through the enemy and slice his formations into pieces, capturing the trapped troops later at his leisure.”

“I do not understand your references,” Jian said. “Nung has done it again. He has broken through Pomona, through Fullerton, Anaheim, Huntington Beach and Costa Mesa. We are in Long Beach, and in some places, we have battled through to the actual city of Los Angeles. We are winning.”

“We are winning if you believe acquiring a little more territory achieves victory.” Kao looked up with surprise, maybe at his own boldness. “I beg your pardon, Leader. What I meant to say is that we have not yet broken through the defending formations, merely pushed them back.”

Jian pursed his lips, nodding finally. “Army Group SoCal has been destroyed as a military formation. You told me so yourself several days ago. These are new units facing us, the last remnants of the old and the Central Californian Reserves.”

“Leader, this is what I’m trying to explain. At the beginning of hostiles, with Army Group SoCal, we burst through them in places. Nung separated the various divisions and surrounded them. Those he killed or captured at his leisure. But there has always been just a little more in Los Angeles and reinforcements trickling in from the other states. Those formations have slowed us down or halted Nung from driving through Los Angeles at will.”

“You’ve just shown me that Nung is still driving the Americans from the field of battle.”

“But he no longer bursts through various formations. Instead, he is squeezing the Americans tighter. Instead of surrounding and cutting them off from supplies, he drives them closer to their bases. It means we will have to destroy all of them before we can break into the Grapevine Pass.”

Jian frowned at the computer map. “Nung reports there are less than two hundred thousand enemy soldiers in Los Angeles. The Americans started the hostiles with eight hundred thousand in Southern California, didn’t they?”

“Yes. That is all true,” Kao said. “Yet we have taken just as staggering a proportion of losses, and we are still bottled in the southern portion of the state.”

“If they have so few soldiers left, why can’t we brush them aside?”

“Because their defensive area is shrinking and we’re battling through one of the largest urban areas in the world. It gives them perfect terrain and it means their lines are denser than earlier, harder to break through. We are also facing the toughest and cleverest survivors, veterans now.”

“A few more days and Nung says he will be through to the Grapevine Pass.”

Marshal Kao straightened. “It may be as he says. If so, we could yet conquer California. There is little left in the state in terms of military power and we have reports that reinforcements to California have slowed. That is what I wish to speak about, Leader. We must begin stockpiling supplies for our Texas thrust. This…” Kao indicated Los Angeles. “This is too small. You must unleash us in Texas and New Mexico. There, with our greater numbers in open terrain and our South American allies, we can win this war quickly. Instead, we are frittering away our strength for a worthless piece of real estate.”

Jian Hong studied the computer map. “I’m unsure. We have spent so much in California and Marshal Nung assures me of victory. I do not want to stop at the goal line if it is merely a matter of a few more feet and a few more days.”

It appeared that Marshal Kao would say more, but he didn’t. He held his tongue.

What is the correct decision? Jian asked himself. Who can tell me the unvarnished truth? These are hard choices. I wish there was someone I could fully trust.

Anna watched the President rub his face as he listened to the late night report from the briefing major.

The woman used the holo-video and an electric pointer. It was quiet tonight. The situation had turned grim again.

“We saved several Behemoth tanks,” the major said. “The Chinese overran the others during the rout. Now…”

She continued to explain the Battle of Los Angeles. The Chinese had overrun too many places. They had killed thousands and made thousands more soldiers flee. The civilian death toll kept climbing higher and higher. The Chinese were merciless toward them.

“We have to hold somewhere!” Sims cried.

“Sir,” General Alan said. “We’re making the enemy pay for every step of the way. But it’s too much to expect our soldiers to stand in place and die. Instead, they trade space for time and set up new defensive positions. They booby-trap everything.”

“And the Chinese bring up their combat bulldozers,” Sims said. “They plow through buildings and set off hundreds, thousands of your precious booby-traps.”

“We’re bleeding them,” Alan said.

“It doesn’t seem to matter to the Chinese,” Sims said. “They’re squeezing us into a ball in Los Angeles. They’re taking away our maneuver room. Soon, our men will be shoulder to shoulder and the Chinese artillery will grind them into bloody pieces.”

“The other side is hurting, sir. You know that.”

“Do I?” Sims said, his voice nearly cracking.

“The commandos, sir,” Anna said. “They will change the situation.”

Sims shook his head. “We can’t count on that. We have to think of something else.”

Levin looked up and seemed ready to speak.

“No,” Sims said. “No. I’m not ready to nuke Los Angeles. Do you realize how many civilians are still living there? …maybe we have to start thinking about pulling back to the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Maybe it’s time to let the Chinese have California.”

No one spoke. Finally, General Alan motioned for the major to continue with her briefing. She cleared her throat and did just that.

Paul swayed inside the big Chinese supply truck. There had been several fancy ideas about how to do this. One of them included putting each other in the big crates. Donovan had said it would be just like the Trojan Horse of legend.

Paul remembered reading that story as a kid. The Greeks had stuffed a gigantic hollow wooden horse with hoplites: soldiers with spears. The Trojans thought it was a victory honor, and had been dumb enough to accept the gift and had torn down their gates to drag it in. Afterward, with the gates partly repaired and the Trojans throwing a victory party, the Greeks had slipped out of the hollow horse and let in the rest of the Greek army, which had sneaked back to the city walls under cover of darkness. Donovan had loved the idea of their doing a similar thing to the Chinese. Romo had finally shot down the idea.

“Amigo, do you not remember your lessons? The gods helped the Greeks trick the Trojans. Who is going to help us trick the Chinese?”

“Pile the crates all the way up in the very back,” Paul said. “The rest of us will stay in front of the truck-bed behind them. If our trick doesn’t work, at least we can go out firing, not trapped inside the boxes like so many sardines.”

They had argued about all kinds of things, including the number of trucks to take. Paul had finally told Donovan they were going to take one.

“Why just one?” Donovan wanted to know.

“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.

How do people hatch schemes like this? Paul wanted to know. Desperation was the only answer.

“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—one, two, three—someone thumped three times on the back of the cab. It was a signal from the navigator that everything was okay and the plan was still on schedule.

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 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.

Am I hurt?

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.

This is the final lap. Oh, Cheri, you’ll never know how much I loved you.

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.

I don’t deserve them. They needed someone better than me, far better.

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. All righty then, I have a little present for you. Sliding to a halt, Paul went to one knee, unslung a LAWS rocket, armed, aimed and fired it with a whoosh. The small rocket slammed against the door and tore it open.

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 spanged off his body armor, and kinetic force caused him to stagger back. One bullet smashed through and singed his cheek, creating a bloody furrow. None sank into his flesh to kill him.

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.

Paul flung out a spent magazine. This butchery made him sick. It felt wrong. Yet he rammed another magazine in and continued to do his duty. He was here to kill, to try to end the conflict by eliminating the mastermind behind the relentless orgy of destruction that the Chinese committed upon America.