Invasion: California

-3- Deployments

Paul Kavanagh ran along the beach, trying to outdistance his guilt. His angular features were contorted with concentration. He repeatedly went over in his mind what had happened in Mexico.

Beside him, ocean waves rolled in, crashing against the sand, with swirls of cold saltwater and white foam reaching for his running shoes. In the water, tanned surfers rode the waves. They seemed like humanoid seals to Paul, moving with such ease and grace. He’d surfed a few times. The freedom of lying there on his board as the water rolled under him…it had been magical, among the most peaceful moments of his life.

The thud of his feet and the roar of the ocean couldn’t absolve him of guilt, couldn’t even hide it for long. He’d abandoned Maria Valdez to the Chinese. It hadn’t been his choice. He hadn’t known the helicopter drone was going to take off with only him in it. He’d thought it would pick up Maria and the last guerilla. There had been three seats in the drone.

Paul wore mirrored sunglasses, but he didn’t bother glancing at the beauties lying on the sand on their towels. Most would have already untied the back of their bikinis to get rid of tan lines. Today—actually, ever since coming back from Mexico—he wasn’t interested in any of these women. Running, pumping weights, drinking beer interested him, anything to exhaust him or take his mind off lifting away as White Tigers fired shock grenades at Maria Valdez, knocking her unconscious.

By phone, he had complained to General Ochoa about the drone. The four-star general had told him he’d look into it. The drone was supposed to have picked up all survivors, not just him.

You don’t leave your own on the battlefield. It was a Marine saying that had long ago been drilled into him.

Paul flung his head to the side so sweat flew off. He kept his thumbs “out.” When you clutched your thumbs with your other fingers while running that meant you were about to flag, to quit. He now forced himself to swing his arms in rhythm and keep his knees up. He was too old to allow himself to get out of shape. If he wanted to succeed at his recon duties, he had to keep in top condition.

Years ago, many years ago, he had arrived in Camp Pendleton for basic training. It was only a few miles down the beach from here. That had been a grueling time for most of the recruits, but he’d excelled at it. While on leave, he’d met Cheri in Oceanside. She had been lying on the beach, one of the babes with her string bikini untied. He needed to call her later this evening. She wanted to know where they were posting him next. He still didn’t know. General Ochoa—

Hey! What was this? An MP in his white helmet stood fifty yards down the beach, waving his arm at him. Several sunbathers had propped themselves up onto their elbows to stare at the man.

What do they want with me now?

Figuring this would be the end of his run today, Paul accelerated. He sprinted for the MP. The initial burst made him feel as if he was flying. He loved it. The sand whizzed by in a blur. He felt like a young god, as if he could run forever. Then it hit him: the long run and the demand he’d already placed on his aging body. His lungs wanted more air and his legs lost their feather-like lift. Paul snarled, forcing himself to run just as fast. It lacked the same effortless joy, though.

Keep it up to the MP. Sprint to there.

Paul did through raw stubbornness—it might have been his greatest attribute. He sprinted past the MP.

“Hey!” the man yelled at him.

Paul slowed and then stopped. He gasped for air as sweat appeared. The cool ocean breeze felt good on his skin. He turned around as sweat bathed his face.

“Paul Kavanagh?” the MP asked.

“That’s me.”

“You’re to come with me, Gunnery Sergeant.”

“Is there trouble or am I in it?” Paul asked.

The MP shrugged, which made the strap over his shoulder creak with a leathery sound. “I’m just carrying out orders. I’m to take you straight to Camp Pendleton, to the Commandant’s office.”

“You can’t tell me anything?”

The MP shook his head.

“Sure. Let me get my stuff down the beach.”

“We need to leave right away,” the MP said. “I was told that was to be without exception.”

Paul thought about it and shrugged. He had his key with him. What did a towel and water bottle matter? “Do you want me to follow on my motorcycle?”

“I want you come with me. We’ll have someone else bring in your bike.”

“Sounds serious,” Paul said. “What’s up?”

“Don’t know, just that I’m supposed to get you.”

The MP was young, maybe twenty-one.

“Let’s go then,” Paul said, marching across the hot sand, heading for the nearest set of stairs up to the road.

It was a short trip to Camp Pendleton. He’d been detached from his unit for some time. The last he heard, they were training near the Oregon border. He’d gone to D.C., meeting other special ops members for the secret missions so dear to General Ochoa.

Instead of heading for the Commandant’s office, the MP took him to the base stockade.

“You didn’t tell me I was under arrest,” Paul said.

“You’re not.”

“Then why—”

“Security. We’re to keep you safe.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That’s all I know. If anyone tries for you, I’m to shoot him, or her, if it comes to that.”

“Who wants to shoot me?” Paul asked.

“You’re probably going to find out soon enough.” The MP braked in front of the stockade. “Go ahead. I have to park this.”

Paul got out, checked in with the clerk inside, who stood and motioned to three armored MPs.

“This way,” the senior MP said.

Several minutes later, Paul found himself in the basement, in a small interrogation room, staring at a computer screen. The door was locked and two of the MPs stood outside as guards.

“Now what did I do?” Paul muttered. He sat at the table, looking at the screen. It had several card games on it. He chose spider solitaire. In the middle of his seventh game, the cards dissolved and he found himself staring at General Ochoa.

“Sir?” Paul asked. “Is there some problem, what is going on?”

General Ochoa was a thickset man with straight dark hair and brown Aztec skin. He never smiled and had a particularly intense stare. Paul could easily imagine Ochoa as a gang leader, able to outface any opponent. Long ago, his ancestors had fought the Spanish conquistadors. Wielding nothing but obsidian-tipped swords and wearing feather armor, the Aztecs had furiously attacked Spanish knights in steel-plated armor, swinging Toledo-forged swords and backed by cannons roaring grapeshot. The Aztecs had lost in the end, but not because of a lack of courage or daring. The greatest feat of honor an Aztec flower warrior could achieve in battle was capturing an enemy for ritual slaughter later on the pyramids. Thus, during the hotly contested fights, the Aztec champions had often subdued a Spaniard and begun to drag him away. That gave the other Spaniards time to rescue their companion. Their only goal was to kill as many Indians as possible and take their wealth. Although General Ochoa had Aztec genes, in outlook he was pure conquistador, wanting to kill as many of America’s enemies as possible.

“Yes, there’s a problem,” General Ochoa said. “It concerns Maria Valdez.”

Paul frowned as the guilt resurfaced. You ran away, Marine. You left a comrade when you might have rescued her. He had vowed seven years ago never to leave anyone again. Back then, he’d have to leave a friend on the Arctic ice in order to survive. The grim decision still ate at him. Whenever he drank too much, he had a habit of rethinking seven-year-old options. He would turn the problem over in his mind like a rat on a spinning wheel.

“I should have let go of the ladder and dropped down to help her,” Paul said.

General Ochoa nodded, his face remaining emotionless like an ancient block of wood. “I thought you would believe something so romantically foolish.”

“I didn’t kiss her,” Paul said.

“Not that kind of romantic. You’re a soldier. You’re special ops, the very best we have. You, more than anyone else, should understand the true nature of war. It’s a dirty business. It’s bloody and without remorse. I read your report. You shot Chinese from behind. That wasn’t very sporting of you.”

“If I hadn’t done that they would have killed us, sir.”

“Again, you miss the point. You did the right thing ambushing them, shooting them from behind. You also had no choice with the drone. If you had done anything else, we wouldn’t have learned what we did.”

“What did we learn?”

General Ochoa shook his head. “It’s classified, but what you brought back will go a long way toward defending California. And that will go a long way to keeping this country ours.”

“That’s something, at least.”

General Ochoa snorted. “Your mission will probably end up being the most important single event against the Chinese threat. You proved my theory right. For the big play, you need big play players. You may have fixed everything by what you found.”

“So…why am I in this stockade?” Paul asked.

Ochoa nodded. “You’re not in military trouble, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s the nature of the mission rebounding on you. Maria Valdez was captured.”

“Are the Chinese trying to strong-arm Colonel Valdez with her?”

“No,” Ochoa said. “They’ve already informed the Colonel of her death and have shipped him most of her body parts.”

“What? That’s sick.”

“It’s meant to break the Colonel’s spirit,” Ochoa said. “My sources tell me he’s raging. His aides have hidden all his sidearms and they’ve told his guards to keep theirs at home for a few days. They fear he might turn suicidal or maybe shoot one of them. My sources also tell me he’s angry with his aides for not stopping him from sending his daughter on the mission.”

Paul thought what he’d feel like if the Chinese sent him his son’s body parts. Imagine opening a package and finding a bloody ear, knowing you’d tweaked that ear more than once. Or taking a hand out of a box and recognizing an old burn mark on the back your son had gotten when he brushed the hand against a hot light bulb. Paul shuddered. He’d want to nuke China.

“The Chinese are remorseless,” Ochoa said. “They mean to win no matter what they have to do. We have to fight just as hard, as ruthlessly.”

Paul nodded. If he had to, he would take his wife and son to the hills, to the mountains, and resist the Chinese until his dying day.

“Unfortunately for you,” Ochoa said, “Colonel Valdez has asked for your presence at his headquarters.”

“Me?” Paul asked. “Oh. Does he want me to tell him how Maria fought until the very end?”

“If only that were it,” Ochoa said. “He specifically wants your head detached from your shoulders. He wants your head on a pike so he can plant it on his daughter’s grave.”

“Is that a joke?”

Ochoa shook his head.

Paul leaned back and tore his eyes from the screen. He sat in a prison cell. Two MPs guarded his locked door. A sinking feeling twisted his gut.

“Colonel Valdez and his Free Mexico Army are important to American survival,” Paul said.

“True.”

“They’re more important than a single Marine such as me,” Paul added.

“Are you volunteering to visit Colonel Valdez?”

Paul frowned, thinking about Cheri, about his promise to her. He meant to protect his country. But giving up his head…

“Whether you’re volunteering or not,” Ochoa said, “doesn’t matter. The U.S. military does not hand over its soldiers to other countries in order to have their heads removed.”

At least not openly, we don’t, Paul thought.

“I had you brought to Camp Pendleton as a security measure,” Ochoa said. “My fear is that Colonel Valdez will have allocated hit men to take you out and bring him your head. Valdez killed President Felipe with assassins.”

“I remember,” Paul said.

“The Colonel has survived these years because he is a hard man. He has learned how to make people respect him. He also knows the border area and has many contacts in the Southwestern states.”

“So where are you sending me?” Paul asked. “My unit is in Oregon.”

“Actually, your unit is in Florida practicing in the Everglades.”

“Are we worried about GD commandos?” Paul asked.

“More than that,” Ochoa said. “But you’re not headed for Florida.”

“Okay.”

“I’m placing you on Colonel Norman’s staff. You’re going to be his bodyguard.”

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s easy enough,” Ochoa said. “Keep Colonel John Norman alive. He’s supposed to be one of our defense wizards and the Joint Chiefs want him advising our generals down there. It seems there’s to be an emergency shuffle of military arrangements on the border.”

“The colonel is in California then?”

“He’s already inspecting the so-called ‘Great Wall of America.’ You have heard of it, I hope.”

“Who hasn’t?” Paul said.

“I’m sending you to him tonight. You’ll be his shadow, Paul.”

“Okay, but why am I really going?”

“I just told you.”

“Who’s going to try to kill a colonel that he needs a bodyguard?” Paul asked. “Isn’t that what MPs are for?”

“You and I both know Chinese Intelligence has penetrated our country.”

Paul nodded. President Sims and his communication teams often spoke about that, naming it as one of the key reasons for the state of emergency.

“It’s also common Chinese military doctrine to try to paralyze an enemy by first assassinating his key commanders,” Ochoa said. “I would expect them to know about Colonel Norman. Likely, the Chinese will use White Tigers to strike commanding generals and anyone else they think is important enough. It’s an excellent idea, actually. We’ll be doing the same thing soon.”

“You’re going to send me into Mexico to shoot Chinese commanders?” Paul asked, thinking about Lee in Hawaii.

“It’s a distinct possibility.”

“With the help of Colonel Valdez’s guerillas to guide my team?” asked Paul.

Ochoa frowned. “We’ll have to see if the Colonel has calmed down enough by then concerning you.”

Right. The general was putting him on ice, keeping him nearby in case America needed to give Valdez a present to keep him interested in helping them. They would never just send him gift-wrapped. No. They would send him across the border on a mission and let him fall into Valdez’s hands. If it was a matter of American survival…could he blame them?

Yeah, ‘cause it’s my head.

“You think the Chinese are going to attack sometime soon?” Paul asked.

Ochoa’s frown departed, giving his features the ancient wood quality.

Is that his poker face?

“Would you ship six million soldiers across the Pacific to just sit on their thumbs?” Ochoa asked.

“It got them free wheat.”

“Keep yourself out of trouble, Gunnery Sergeant, and keep Colonel Norman alive. I don’t care what you have to do to see it done. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Paul said. You’re giving me a makeshift chore to keep me near Colonel Valdez, or you’re hanging me out as a target for the Colonel’s hit men.

“Good luck, Marine. I think you’re going to need it.”

“Yeah,” Paul said, believing exactly that.

Fighter Rank Zhu Peng of the White Tiger Commandos lay on the hard ground. His nose bled and his head rang from the rock-hard punch of First Rank Tian Jintao, the hit that had dropped him.

The others of their squad watched silently, waiting to see what he would do.

Zhu blinked while on the ground, trying to focus. He had always been too late and too little for just about everything. His parents had been in their fifties when they’d had him. Each had died before his twelfth birthday. He had gone therefore to the State home for orphans. Unfortunately, he had been a skinny child; some might have said malnourished. He had been an easy target to pick on and he might have retreated into himself except for an old soldier who had lost a leg in the Siberian War. The man was the orphan home’s janitor. Many had considered the janitor a lack-wit. But the old soldier had let Zhu watch TV with him down in the basement. He had also taught Zhu a few Shaolin martial arts moves. With those, Zhu had fought back against his tormenters. It had meant corporal punishment in the yard by the headmaster, a beating on the buttocks by cane. He had cried; more like sobbed. The others had laughed later and therefore he had been even more of an outcast than before. It had meant many lonely hours watching TV with the old soldier.

The man’s combat stories had fired Zhu’s imagination. It had led him to join the White Tigers, China’s elite commandos.

The Bai Hu Tezhongbing were unique to Socialist-Nationalist China. They had been the first to implement the new enlisted rankings. The White Tigers had dispensed with the old order of private, corporal and sergeant. Instead, it went Fighter Rank, Soldier Rank and First Rank. Several years later, the Chinese Army, Navy and National Militia had incorporated the new enlisted rankings. In everything military, the Bai Hu led the way.

Too little and too late—Zhu Peng lay on the hard ground in Mexico. He had just arrived from China, from basic jetpack training in the Jing Mountains. Normal Bai Hu military procedure kept each White Tiger squad together. Like other militaries around the world, the Chinese had found that men fought hardest for their comrades, to save them and to keep his fellow soldiers’ respect. Zhu was a replacement for a White Tiger killed by a Mexican saboteur. Zhu was the new man. Worse, he was the thinnest and weakest of the squad. This afternoon, the First Rank had decided to test his quality. In other words, to give Zhu a beating so he understood that he wasn’t wanted.

Zhu clenched his teeth, even though it made his bleeding nose throb with pain. With the palms of his hands, he shoved up against the ground, feeling the grains of sand press against his flesh. Something at the corner of his eye blurred—it was the First Rank’s booted foot coming for him. He could see the frayed laces.

The steel toe caught Zhu in the chest. It was like a hammer. It flipped him onto his back as he gasped for air.

Tian Jintao peered down at him from what seemed like a great height. Tian had bulging muscles and he knew how to use them with his dreadful coordination. Tian had a thick neck and a tiger-tail tattoo under his left eye. He was naked from the waist up, wearing camouflage pants and combat boots. Tall cactuses ringed the hard-packed ground around them.

“You are too small, Zhu Peng,” the First Rank told him. “You are also too slow. You will get the rest of us killed in combat.”

The other squad-members muttered agreement.

“How did you ever pass White Tiger training?” Tian asked.

Zhu had been told before it was due to the war, to the mass mobilization of Chinese soldiers. The quality of the Bai Hu was not what it used to be. That he had made it this far showed that.

“I’m going to stomp on you,” Tian said, raising his left knee.

Zhu swiveled while remaining on his back. He lashed out with a foot, almost catching Tian by surprise. At the last moment Tian hopped up. When he landed, he lashed out, kicking Zhu in the side with a terrific thud.

“Yes, a good beating,” Tian said matter-of-factly. “That’s exactly what you need.”

“Get rid of the new boy!” one of the others shouted. “We don’t want a skinny runt like him in our squad.”

Tian swung his foot back to kick again.

From on the ground, Zhu threw two fistfuls of dirt up at the First Rank. He slithered away and hurried to his feet. His nose dripped blood, his chest throbbed and it felt as if one of his ribs was broken. The multiple pains stole his courage. He wanted to run away so the beating would end.

“That’s a good trick, new boy.” Tian took a combat stance, moving toward Zhu sideways, circling him.

The sight of Tian closing in, knowing there was going to be more pain—Zhu’s eyelids flickered and his mouth opened slightly.

It made Tian pause.

Zhu took a combat stance. He was thin, a mere one-sixty in American pounds. Tian was two-ten and only an inch taller.

“I’m going to hurt you,” Tian said, smiling.

Zhu shouted desperately, launching a flying kick. Tian evaded, punching Zhu in the side of the head, knocking him down so Zhu thudded onto the hard ground.

“Had enough, Fighter Rank?” Tian asked from above.

Zhu struggled to a sitting position, spitting dirt. He shouted, more a scream of frustration and shame. On his hands and knees, he charged Tian. He caught the First Rank by surprise, throwing his weight against the man as he clutched both legs. He toppled Tian so the man crashed onto his butt.

The others watched in silence.

As Tian kicked, Zhu released his tormenter’s legs. He grabbed a rock as his fingers tightened like wires around it. He lifted the rock and lurched at his enemy. He was going to smash Tian Jintao’s face.

Before that happened, Tian made it to his knees and his fist caught Zhu under the jaw. Zhu dropped the rock as he crumpled to the ground. He lay there, stunned, with ringing in his ears.

“He’s too stupid to quit,” someone observed.

“He’s also much too skinny,” someone else said.

“The Americans will kill him the first time we fight.”

“I don’t think he’ll run away, at least.”

“He won’t get the chance because the Americans will kill him like that.” Someone snapped his fingers.

“I think he meant to kill you, First Rank. It’s clear he has no sense of proportion.”

“Yes,” Tian Jintao said. “The new boy knows how to hate. That’s better than crying.”

“I saw tears in his eyes. He feels pain too much.”

“He’s weak,” Tian Jintao said. “Now that he’s in Mexico, he can eat more. Let him put some muscle on his bones. Who knows what will happen.” He paused before saying, “Anyway, he’s ours, and we know now he’s too stupid to quit. If he can actually control his jetpack, we can at least use him to ferry supplies.”

“That’s true. He can ferry supplies.”

“Yes. If he can’t fight, he can still be useful as an errand boy.”

“Wake up, Fighter Rank,” Tian said. “It’s time we got back to base.”

Water poured onto Zhu’s head and despite the ringing in his ears, the world came back into focus. First Rank Tian held out his hand. Zhu took it, helped up to his feet.

Then the world spun and he staggered, trying to remain standing. The world spun worse and Zhu shuddered as his body spasmed. He vomited in front of the others, shamed. When he wiped his mouth, trying to focus his blurring vision, Tian nodded. Tian didn’t smile, but he acknowledged him.

“You belong to Red Squad,” Tian said. “You are too weak, too small and too slow to fight well. I think it is only that you are too stupid to quit that you made it into the White Tigers. From now on, you will carry our supplies.”

Zhu bowed his head, and that made him vomit again. His cheeks burned as shame consumed him. When he straightened, the others slung their canteen straps over his head. Then, as a group, they began to run back to camp. Zhu struggled to keep up with them, weighted down by the canteens and slowed by the pounding in his head. Doggedly, he followed. He belonged to Red Squad Bai Hu, and he would die rather than shame himself by failing to bring the others their supplies.

While wearing dark sunglasses, Captain Stan Higgins’s shoulders slumped as he bounced about in his seat. He rode in an old Humvee back to base, with the big tires crunching over sand and gravel. A scowling, sunglasses-wearing Jose drove them through a bright desert.

Jose was short and fat and he had been with Stan in Alaska, the gunner of their M1A2 tank. After the war, Jose had followed him into the Army, remaining as his gunner, but now of an X1 Behemoth. Jose’s youngest son ran his old mechanic shop in Anchorage. Because of his roly-poly physique, Jose was always wheedling another yearlong exemption for the Army’s weight limit. That he was the unit’s best gunner had something to do with his success gaining it. As did his mechanical skills. In the Alaskan National Guard, Jose had often worked late at night to keep their M1A2s running. Of course, no one had expected an old, fat, ex-National Guardsman to be able to help on the latest technological marvel on the testing grounds. Yet Jose had done that three times already, his “fix” finding its way into the Behemoth’s tech manual each time.

Stan had just told Jose about his decision to leave the Army and go to D.C. as a John Glen analyst.

The Humvee roared through the desert sands of the testing ground. They passed rocks and darting lizards, leaving a billowing sand cloud behind them.

“I can help you,” Jose said.

“Huh?” asked Stan. He lifted his chin off his chest. He’d been thinking about how he was going to tell the colonel his decision as soon as they returned to base.

“I can give you a loan,” Jose said. “How much did you say your son needed?”

“Ten thousand new dollars,” Stan said.

Jose glanced at him. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

Stan shook his head. “I never expected you to give me money or a loan for that matter.”

Jose tightened his grip of the steering wheel. His fat shoulders hunched up and his head leaned forward. “I could take out a mortgage on the shop.”

“No,” Stan said. “I could never—”

“You can’t leave the Army! We need you.”

“Believe me, it isn’t something I want to do.” Stan frowned, wondering if that was true. He loved tanks but he was sick of taking orders from a martinet like Colonel Wilson.

Over three hundred years ago, there had been a Jean Martinet, the Inspector General of the army of the Sun King, Louis XIV of France. The Inspector General had been a stickler for rules and etiquette beyond that of common sense. His brand of insanity had coined a word—martinet—and Colonel Wilson could have been a reincarnation of the Sun King’s old Inspector General.

It would be good to leave the testing grounds, Stan decided as the top of his head struck the Humvee’s ceiling.

“Sorry,” Jose said. The front left tire had hit and climbed a large rock, shaking the Humvee.

Stan grunted his acceptance of the apology. Imagine—no more silly orders, no more snapping off precise salutes or penning time-wasting reports for the colonel. He wouldn’t have to endure the colonel’s scathing words either. The Army wasn’t like the Alaskan National Guard. It had been informal in Alaska, working with the same men for years. Here, a man like Colonel Wilson could torpedo those under him, making life miserable enough so the joy leaked away. Sure, the colonel was smart, and he knew more about electromagnetic projectiles than just about any one. The colonel had a Ph.D. on the subject and years of experimental research. He lacked leadership skills and military acumen, however. Stan would hate to see the colonel try to maneuver the Behemoths in battle.

“There has to be something I can do,” Jose said.

Stan blinked himself out of his reverie, glancing at his friend. Jose had a round head. He’d been losing hair and was almost bald now. Because of that, the man always wore a cap. This one was an old hunting cap with furry earflaps that were badly frayed on the ends.

Jose turned to him. “If I mortgage my shop—”

“No!” Stan said, louder than he’d meant to.

Jose winced as if Stan had hit him.

“Look,” Stan said. “It… it is against regulations for me to accept a loan from one of my men, especially a large loan. I appreciate the offer, though. I really do.”

“We need you,” Jose said, watching the desert, swerving to miss a rock.

As he swayed in his seat, Stan shook his head. “There are still too many glitches in the Behemoths to take them into combat. That’s all you’d really need me for, fighting Chinese. The colonel can take care of the experiments here. Besides, the Chinese aren’t stupid enough to start a continental war with us.”

“There are six million reasons why I disagree,” Jose said.

“Yeah, I know,” Stan said. He peered out his side window. There was a jackrabbit out there, running away, zigzagging. You never did that in combat. If you needed to get somewhere, you ran hard to reach safety. There wasn’t any of that goofing around with zigzagging. Stupid rabbit.

Stan remembered reading an article about Bernard Montgomery, the English Field Marshal who had defeated Rommel at El Alamein during World War II. Montgomery had said:

Stan would have liked to add Rule 3. Do not bring your land armies to America to fight because we will whip your ass.

Yes, the Chinese had six millions soldiers, with Mexican allies and with millions of South American Federation soldiers. But the U.S. was a big place with many tough fighters and American determination. Stan frowned. Would the Chinese dare attack? Yes, the Chinese had knocked out the satellites, cyber-assaulted and helped terrorists ignited a nuke. The scope of a land war, though, dwarfed the imagination. It would be World War III, and for what?

Stan’s frown deepened. The Chinese talked about food, but that was just an excuse. It was about power, about being the biggest dog on the block. The truth was that some men loved to fight. History showed that some men or nations rose up to conquer. The Assyrians, the Persians, Macedonians, Romans…it was a long list. They conquered for a time and finally settled down again, becoming like everyone else once more. Was this China’s era? Was it their turn to collect nations like trophies on their belt and kill millions?

“They won’t attack us,” Stan said. He had to believe that. He hated the idea of running out on his men if the Chinese were really going to attack. Why had his son protested Sims? Why couldn’t his boy keep his head down and get on with his studies? The young were always so reckless.

“You keep saying the Chinese won’t attack, Professor. So how come I don’t believe you really mean it?”

“It’s foolish to attack us,” Stan muttered.

“Like you said many times, ‘People are fools’.”

“The expenditure in money, blood and treasure,” Stan said, “it would beggar them.”

“Maybe they mean to beggar us,” Jose said.

“No. They want our farmland. The world does, too. In the end, it would be wiser and more productive for them to find new ways to grow food. Look at what the Germans are doing in Saharan Africa. That’s the right way to fix this mess. But that takes too much thought for most people. Besides, men with nifty weapons like to use them. They figure, ‘It’s easy. We’ll just conquer the Americans and steal their bread. They aren’t what they used to be.’ But invading a country, it seldom goes how you think it will. Ask the Iraqis about that after they invaded Iran in 1980.”

“So you’re staying?” Jose asked.

Stan closed his eyes. The truth, he could probably do more good at John Glen than he could do here. Congressmen would listen to him. Maybe he could even help shape policy. What was he going to do out here, driving these overweight tanks with their nitpicky problems and commanded by Colonel Martinet himself?

His wife wanted him to leave. His son desperately needed him to leave. From John Glen, if nothing else, he could pull strings. Crane had already said the corporation had a policy about helping relatives in trouble with the government. Besides, Stan thought, he could no longer endure the humiliation of serving here, not with being passed over yet again for major.

“I can’t stay, Jose. I’m sorry.”

Colonel Walter Wilson sat behind his mammoth desk staring at Stan.

Everything in the office was at right angles to everything else. The photographs on the wall showing Wilson with various dignitaries or superior officers were perfectly aligned. The desk and everything on the desk sat precisely at the right spot. There was no dust, no dirt and absolutely no sand on anything. The colonel’s shirt and jacket were impeccably pressed. His shoes shone. His black hair looked as if he’d just left the barber’s shop and his pinkish skin showed that he zealously kept the sun’s rays from damaging his cells.

“You have three minutes,” the colonel said.

It was three minutes to twelve and Stan and everyone on base knew that the colonel would be in the officer’s mess sipping a glass of wine as he watched the waiter march out to take his order at 12:05. It took four minutes to walk from the office to the officer’s mess, and it took one minute for the colonel to walk into the mess and reach his chair at his table. Thus, he could now afford Stan three minutes.

Stan wiped his brow. He was still sweating. The air conditioner in the Humvee had quit working several days ago. His jacket was stifling. Why couldn’t Wilson lower the temperature in here?

Stan wondered if Wilson had read how Douglas MacArthur had changed his clothes several times a day. MacArthur had seldom appeared to sweat or show any sign that heat bothered him. He had simply changed shirts, and thus they had usually been free of stains.

A trickle of sweat worked down Stan’s back, letting him know he was nothing like Douglas MacArthur or Colonel Wilson.

“Sir—” Stan said.

“You’d better hurry up,” Wilson said. “You have two minutes and thirty-five seconds. I suggest you use the time judiciously.”

Stan wiped his brow again as his heart thudded. This was just so damn hard to say. Just do it then. Get it over with, already.

“I’m resigning my commission, sir,” Stan blurted.

Wilson couldn’t sit any straighter, as he already sat ramrod stiff. He placed his hands on the desk, spreading his fingers until they were all equidistantly apart from each other.

“Is this more of your Alaskan humor?” Wilson asked.

“No, sir, I’m…I’m going to John Glen in D.C. It’s a think tank, sir.”

Wilson frowned. He had a long face. The frown put two vertical lines between his eyes. One of those lines was slanted off-center. Stan had never noticed that before.

Wilson is off-center. He tries, but he isn’t straight like he wants to be. I wonder what the colonel is trying to hide.

“You’re quitting the Army during its darkest hour, is that it?” Wilson asked.

“No, sir, that’s not it.”

Wilson snorted in derision. “If you resign your commission it means you’re quitting the military, the Army. That is what you’re saying, is it not?”

“No, sir, it means I’ll be able to help my son. He’s in a Detention Center.”

Wilson’s chin lifted as he made a scoffing noise. “Our country is the on the brink of war facing ten million enemy soldiers and that’s the best excuse you can find to scamper away in fear. Let your son stew there and learn a valuable lesson about patriotism.”

“There isn’t going to be a war,” Stan said. If he said it enough times, he might even come to believe it. Why, Jake, why?

“Ah, more or your gifted historical insight, is it?” Wilson asked.

“Yes, sir, that’s right.”

“Ah, we have grown bold now, Captain.”

“No sir. What I think—”

Wilson held up a long-fingered hand. “I do not accept criticism from a quitter. Nor do I accept criticism after the fact. If you had wanted to criticize, you should have done so while under my command.”

“I did criticize your actions,” Stan said with heat. “It’s why you failed yet again to help promote me to major.”

“So, you’re sulking over that, are you? This talk about your boy is merely your cover story.”

Stan’s eyes narrowed and he scooted forward on his chair until he felt the edge against his butt. If he moved forward any more he’d slip off. The heat in his chest now leaped onto his tongue, igniting it. “You’re a coward, Wilson. You hide behind your rank and use rules to gloss over your mistakes. I’ve read about your kind. Now I’ve seen your kind in action. What you need is a life. Look at this office. Why is everything so perfectly set? Imagine the time it takes to worry and fuss with all that.”

Wilson leaned back in his chair, tapping his chin with his two index fingers pressed together.

“I always knew you were a fake, Captain. The Medal of Honor, it was a prop a former President used to hide…I’m still not sure what he was hiding. But I know it was something.” Wilson shrugged. “It doesn’t matter that you wish to scamper away at this time, you still have obligations.”

“I’ll stay until my replacement is sent out,” Stan said. Would Wilson try to keep him against his will? Had the President signed a new order about such things?

“I will expedite the matter, of that you can be sure,” Wilson said. “The Army doesn’t need your kind. Good riddance to you, I say.”

Stan nodded, turning from Wilson. I can’t believe it. We’re acting like boys, not men. The Chinese won’t attack, I can’t afford for them to attack.

“Ah. I see that your time is up, Captain. Or should I say, Mr. Higgins?”

“No, it is still Captain for a few more days,” Stan said.

“Hmm,” Wilson said. “Good day then, Captain. Be sure to fill out the proper paperwork and to finish your report on the X1 Five. Dismissed!” he said, standing.

Stan stood too, feeling more defeated than ever.

Marshal Nung’s right hand ached. He had signed hundreds of operational orders today. The bureaucratic procedures needed to move masses of munitions and troops stole precious time from reflective thought. Two millions soldiers and their support troops all carefully coordinated into one—

Nung shook his head. He sat at his desk surrounded by his staff, all of them busily at work. The rustle of cloth, the tapping of screens, typing, breathing, sipping drinks, munching on snacks added to the hive-like quality. Nung imagined himself as the chief ant in a vast colony, issuing orders that would send thousands of scurrying couriers onto their motorcycles to various divisions and corps headquarters. Most of his orders were personally given by hand, making it impossible for the Americans to intercept or decode them. The little things like this often won a diligent commander immortality on the battlefield. In the end, it was worth taking such pains. Even old Marshal Gang had seen the wisdom of that.

Gang…Nung shook his head. He didn’t want to think about Kao’s intriguer. He had more important things to spend his time on.

We’re busy ants. Nung grinned. He used to watch ants as a child outside Shanghai. He would catch a fly in their house, with his little and quite grubby fingers on the window. Once caught, he’d carefully pulled off the fly’s wings. The fly’s legs crawling inside his cupped hand used to make him laugh because it tickled his skin. He’d taken the wingless fly and dropped it onto a busy ant hole. How the ants had swarmed upon the struggling fly, biting its squirming legs and then its head. That’s what he wanted to do to the Americans, immobilize them so he could pick them to pieces. The Blue Swan missiles would be like his little fingers pulling off the wings. That would leave the Americans defenseless against his massed ant assault.

It had been so much easier as a child catching the fly on the window glass as it buzzed to escape. Today, his eyes hurt from reading endless reports and his back was stiff from sitting in this chair too long.

He wished to lead from the front again, driving in a command vehicle as he raced with his troops to the objective. Exhorting exhausted and dispirited soldiers had once been his specialty. Drive, drive, drive toward the enemy, smashing anything that dared stand in the way. He’d done that in Siberia and on the North Slope of Alaska. Could he exhort his front to do the same thing in California?

There was so much to do, and his troops needed to do it secretly, or as secretly as possible.

Can we fool the Americans?

Clearly, six million Chinese on the border made it impossible to surprise the enemy in a true sense. Yet there had been endless American alerts these past two years. East Lighting had discovered that much at least about the enemy. The alerts, the crying wolf, had sapped the American populace and perhaps the enemy generals. Now it was a matter of moving hundreds of thousands of troops in a chess game along a thousand mile border. A technological surprise could give him the needed edge. A hidden massing in the critical sector would ensure the surprise obliterated a million or more American soldiers and give him California. Perhaps it would give China the entire West Coast.

Would Blue Swan work as advertised? It had succeeded during the tests in the Gobi Desert. Had those been genuine tests or had some aspects of the tests been rigged so the person in charge would look good on a bureaucratic report? That was a problem. He had to trust others to do their job well.

He rubbed his throbbing hand, digging a thumb into the sore palm. It was a good plan, but it would demand competent execution by his troops. If he could lead each of the critical attacks from the front, ah, then he would win because he knew how to make soldiers fight. Now he had to trust others to act as he would, to act in an aggressive manner. He had worked hard these past two years weeding out the cautious commanders in his Front. He had prepositioned mountains of supplies and his troops had trained endlessly these past five months.

The Americans have their own problems. You must remember that.

In the old days, both sides would have watched the other through satellites. Those days were over for both of them. Chinese satellites watched much of the world, but not wherever the enemy ABM lasers could reach. The Americans didn’t have satellites, at least not for more than several hours after launching. Chinese lasers or missiles took them down. The American drones, on the other hand, were still a problem.

Marshal Nung blew out his cheeks. He would have to decide later today how many Chinese drones to use to study the American defenses. Too many would alert them of an attack. Too few would leave his army open to defensive surprises.

I must think carefully. At all costs, I must gain tactical surprise and hopefully operational surprise as well.

If only he could read the enemy’s mind. Nung grinned mirthlessly. War was the ultimate contest and in a week, in nine more days perhaps, he would initiate the greatest battle in human history with a full-scale invasion of California.

Cracking his knuckles, Nung picked up the next thing to sign. Hmm, penal battalions, he needed more East Lightning commissioners to ensure discipline. This could be a delicate topic.

Nung made a face as if sucking on a lemon. He had little love for East Lightning, particularly learning to hate them from the assault across the Arctic ice seven years ago. Still, the police had their uses, and he would need more penal battalions, especially during the initial attacks. He lacked enough special infantry. The Leader had promised him more, but they had not been forthcoming. Gang had sent back a negative dispatch to the Ruling Committee concerning the need. The Marshal had interfered against him, and it likely wouldn’t be the last time, either. Only an observer—Nung understood that Kao meant Marshal Gang as a threat to take over the First Front if he failed. He could never give Marshal Gang that reason.

Hmm. Perhaps penal battalions would have to take the place of special infantry.

With a flourish, Nung signed his name. He needed more commissioners, which meant East Lightning. With this signature, he would get more because the Leader backed his plan. Let East Lightning worry about where to get extra men. They didn’t even need to be excellent commissioners. At this point, he needed more warm bodies to feed the coming furnace.

Captain Wei sat in his office, with the back of his head resting on the cushioned top of his chair. It stretched the muscles under his jaw, especially a tight knot parallel with his left ear. His eyes were closed and a cigarette dangled between his lips. He sucked on the cigarette, attempting to empty his mind of thoughts.

Today, that proved impossible. His report on Maria Valdez had climbed the rungs of power and importance. It had reached all the way to the Ruling Committee itself where, he’d heard, generals had swayed the Leader toward immediate war.

With his eyes closed, Wei frowned.

Usually while he smoked, the lines in his forehead eased away because he would drift into non-thought. He would relax as his qualms or worries disappeared, floating away with his smoke.

The Maria Valdez report had reached the Ruling Committee. His words, his pretense—according to what he’d learned—had actually affected state policy. He found that unsettling, believing nothing good could come from it.

Wei drew smoke into his lungs. He wanted peace, non-thoughts, not anxiety concerning his actions. Why did he let this information bother him? Could it be Maria’s curse taking effect?

Exhaling smoke, Wei sneered. Silently, he mocked the concept of karma. Perhaps it was a useful tool to help keep fools in line. Let them think their bad actions rebounded on them later. Let fear keep them on a “pure” path of action. Ha! A simple scrutiny of life showed the folly of such thinking. The powerful trampled others in their quest for influence, fame and money. Thieves prospered, some of them running the largest banks in the world. Adulterers ruled nations. Mass killers received medals and politicians stoked voters lust for other people’s money. The entire idea of the redistribution of wealth was nothing more than coveting what others possessed and then stealing it from them, all while praising yourself at how noble such theft was. Karma—it was a ridiculous idea.

It’s as foolish as Maria Valdez’s curse. She died. I’m safe and alive, and now my report will win me a promotion. I have nothing to worry about.

It he was lucky, he might actually leave this barbaric land and return home to civilization.

While resting his head on the back of the chair, Captain Wei heard a faint sound. His sneer shifted to a frown. Usually, it was quiet up here in Dong Dianshan headquarters. Who dared to march about in the halls? Yes, those were shoes—boots, he realized.

Are their soldiers in the halls?

No, that was preposterous. The outer guards would have fought to the death before admitting the military into East Lightning Headquarters. The outer guards were chosen specimens, hypnotically motivated and thus fearless fighters even against outrageous odds. If the military had attempted to enter these halls, he would have heard gunfire.

The sound of marching grew louder. It was in cadence, too. Likely, that meant several jackbooted thugs trained to move in step. What were they doing here?

Wei inhaled so the tip of his cigarette wobbled as it glowed. Cadenced steps of booted thugs—

Wei sat up and opened his eyes. He blew smoke out of his nostrils and mashed the cigarette in his overflowing ashtray. He still had half the cigarette to smoke, too. It was the only one of its kind in the tray. All the other stubs had been smoked down to the end. Wei hated wasting cigarettes.

He’d heard such cadenced steps before from Easting Lighting personnel. The Guardian Inspector kept armored enforcers with her wherever she went. They often marched like that, with boots crashing down against the tiles. If she was in the halls—Wei blinked rapidly. The Guardian Inspector was second-in-command of East Lightning personnel in Mexico. Why would she be here in his halls?

Wei recalled the doctor’s sly sidelong glances as the man had probed Maria Valdez’s corpse. The doctor’s silence during the examination had unnerved Wei enough to mention several of the doctor’s indiscretions he’d committed this past year.

For many years now, Wei had found it useful keeping a dossier on his underlings, on anyone who could write a report about him. Would the doctor have been foolish enough to write or speak to others about his suspicions concerning Maria’s death?

Wei released his crumpled cigarette as his office door swung open. There was no polite tapping on it first by his secretary. No one would barge in here like this unless he or she wielded power. Therefore, Wei raised his eyebrows in an attentive manner, in the way an East Lightning operative should do before his superiors.

Three red-armored enforcers strode into the room. They were big men in body armor and enclosed helmets with darkened visors. Each cradled a close-combat carbine, an ugly-barreled weapon with a pitted end. They took up station in his cramped quarters and leveled the carbines at him.

Inadvertently, Wei touched his constricting chest. Those pitted barrels...

The Guardian Inspector entered the office, confirming Wei’s worst fear. She was taller than he was, average-sized for a Chinese woman. Her hair was short, barely covering her ears. She wore a scarlet uniform with brown straps, reversing the normal East Lightning uniform. A short brown cape was draped over her shoulders and pigskin gloves clad her hands. She had a peasant girl’s features. They were too wide in Chinese terms to be called beautiful. Even so, she had a pleasing face, with incredibly dark eyes of a compelling nature. They made her seem like a night creature, a seductress who would leave his bloodless corpse for jackals or rats to quarrel over.

She stopped before his desk and regarded him. “Captain Wei,” she said.

He recovered from his shock enough so his chair scraped back. He stood, saluting smartly in the accepted manner.

“Sit,” she said, while unpinning her cloak. She let it drape over a chair and then sat down.

Wei sat stiffly, putting his hands on the desk, waiting.

“You’re surprised to see me,” she said.

Wei nodded. How could it be otherwise?

“The carbines,” she gestured at her enforcers. “Do they unnerve you?”

“Innocent men need not fear,” Wei said, quoting an East Lightning maxim.

Her smile became cruel. “It surprises me then that you are not a quivering wreck on the floor.”

Wei blinked several times. He wanted a cigarette. No, he needed a pill as his heart thudded. “Your words wound me,” he managed to say.

While staring into his eyes, she shook her head. “It is my policy to never utter false words or to bandy in jest with those I’m about to destroy.”

His throat tightened. What had gone wrong? The doctor—he would kill the man before this was over. He would escape and hunt the weasel to the earth, using a knife to castrate the informer and stuffing the man’s—

“May I inquire as to what this is about?” Wei forced himself to ask. He needed to concentrate, not escape into revenge fantasies.

“Poor Wei,” she said. “You wish to maintain dignity in your final hour. You have hidden like a snake among us all these years. I wonder now upon the number and magnitude of your transgressions.”

“Guardian Inspector?” he asked. He would slice open the doctor’s belly and pull out the man’s—

“We know about your drug addiction,” she said.

Wei stared at her and he almost let his shoulders slump in relief. He had to suppress a caw of laughter. Drug addiction, this was about drug addiction? No one could torture people long and escape some form of relaxant. East Lightning knew this. Oh, they all spoke about hard men determined to do the unwanted tasks because this was the hour of China’s greatness. But the truth was no one was hard enough except for a psychopath.

“Ah,” the Guardian Inspector said. She was watching him closely. “You interest me, Captain. You’re relieved at the charge, not worried as you should be.”

“I assure you—”

“No!” she said. “Do not assure me of anything. You are a snake, Captain Wei. You have abused your privileged post in order to practice a loathsome habit. How can we trust your judgment if you’re addled with drugs? You are an addict. You ingest drugs to sustain yourself instead of hardening your resolve for the good of the State. You have stained yourself. You are no longer worthy of your rank or your station. I begin to wonder now about this report of yours concerning Maria Valdez.”

Was she playing him like a mongoose with a cobra? That must be it. It couldn’t really be about drug addiction. Besides, he wasn’t an addict. He merely used the pills to ease his burden. He was hard inside. He did work for the good of the State. China was everything and he was nothing, an ant tirelessly working for the nation, for the people.

The Guardian Inspector shrugged. “By his actions, our Great Leader has stamped your Maria Valdez report with approval.”

“Ah,” Wei said. “That disproves your charge then. My hard work—”

She held up a gloved hand. The glove was thin leather with little holes running up and down the fingers. The gesture was menacing, as it seemed to Wei that if she should drop her hand too quickly, the three enforcers would open fire.

“Your report has reached too high for us to dig too deeply into it,” she said. “But is there anything you wish to tell me about it, anything you wish to confess?”

He tried to appear contrite, but it was so foreign to him. He had dominated shackled patients too long, perhaps. He had always been in control.

“It is true I have sipped a drink to…to pass the time,” he said.

“You were going to say something else. Tell me what it was. Confess to me, Captain, and you may find mercy.”

Wei smiled softly. Did the Guardian Inspector not realize she spoke to the premier extractor of truths? He sifted truth and lies many times a week. He would never tell her that he took the blue pills to dull his conscience. No! That wasn’t even true. He took the pills in order to pass the tedium of life. But he would never tell her that, either. It would simply be too dangerous. High-ranking, East Lighting operatives knew nothing about mercy except that it was a word for fools and weaklings.

“You are a snake,” she said, as if pronouncing judgment on him. “Despite your glorious service to China, we must punish you, Captain. We are impartial, the dog and broom of the Socialist-Nationalist Revolution. We sniff out troublemakers and sweep them away.”

Wei’s throat felt gritty. He told himself it was the smoke of his cigarette. Yet if that was so, why hadn’t his throat ever felt this way before?

“I have never performed less than excellently while, ah, ingesting a stimulant,” he said.

“I’m sure that’s a lie,” she said. “Thus, it proves to me how low you’ve fallen from the height of dedicated service. Even in my presence, you dare to act like a snake, a liar and a drug addict.”

“Not an addict,” he protested.

“Spare both of us any breast-beating of innocence. You are charged, found guilty and will now hear your sentence, your punishment.”

Wei hid his surprise. The charge of drug addiction in East Lightning usually brought swift death. He had been waiting for bullets to smash his body.

“You are surprised,” she said, nodding, “as am I. Left up to me, my enforcers would kill you like a pig. Yet it is true that you have performed several notable services for China. Thus, you will have a chance at rehabilitation.”

“Thank you,” he said.

She shook her head. “I doubt you’ll thank me a week from now. You are being reassigned, Captain.”

“May I ask where?”

“To a penal battalion,” she said.

He frowned. “I thought only the military possessed those.”

She smiled like a hungry leopard. “You will join a shock battalion. It is a fancy title for those who clear minefields.”

“I’m untrained in such—”

She held up her hand again.

The three guards grew tense. Wei noticed one smiling in anticipation under his visor. The man was just tall enough for him to spot it. Wei gulped, dreading to know what a bullet entering his body felt like.

“The mine clearing is a simple process,” she said. “The battalion runs across it, exploding the mines with their feet. If you survive that, you will then become shock troops, charging enemy strongholds.”

“But—”

She stared at him, wilting his speech.

“You will still be East Lightning. You will be one of the enforcers, guarding and goading the penal troops to courageous acts of bravery. I’m told these troops often turn their guns and grenades on their enforcers. So you will need to remain vigilant. If you become drug-addled while performing your duties, well, we both know what will happen: Your commanding officer will draw his gun and shoot you in the head.”

Wei sat back. This was disastrous. What had he ever done to deserve this? It was viciously unfair.

“If you survive a year of combat,” the Guardian Inspector said, “I shall review your case. If I find you have purged yourself of this filthy drug habit, I will reinstate you in your regular command.”

“Thank you,” Wei managed to say.

“But we both know that you will not survive,” she said. “Good-bye, Captain Wei. Remember, if you can, to always act like an East Lightning hero, rooting out traitors to the State.”

She slings jokes into my teeth in my hour of doom. I will remember this.

The Guardian Inspector stood. Wei sat in his chair, staring helplessly at her, wishing he could order her stripped and secured to an informant table. He would spend days on her, days of agony for this mocking bitch.

“Help him,” the Guardian Inspector told her enforcers.

Each man slid his carbine into a large holster. Then, as one, they came around the desk, putting their iron-strong hands on him. With unnecessary brutality, they dragged Wei out of the chair, out of the office and propelled him down the corridor. He stumbled his way toward a penal battalion, one that would no doubt soon see military action.

Colonel Valdez sat in a dark room, smoking a cigar. When the glowing tip brightened as he inhaled, it showed hard, dark eyes and a pitted forehead. As a young man he had contracted chicken pox, and it had ravaged his features. The rage in his heart over his daughter’s death and dismemberment had changed to ice, and like a glacier, he remorselessly ground toward his goal in his mind.

He would have to leave Laredo soon. He seldom stayed in one locale for more than two days. The Chinese wanted him, but not nearly as badly as the new puppet President of Mexico did. The war of assassins between them continued despite the Americans and the Chinese. It was a ruthless contest between warring tribes, and Valdez had the weaker hand. Yet he had survived the SNP due to cunning, ruthlessness and the ability to instill fierce loyalty in his people.

“Maria,” he whispered.

The Chinese had sent him her parts piece by piece. He would make them pay. He would discover who had done this thing and he would do terrible things to them. The Americans had come to him earlier, begging for his best man. Instead, he had given them his daughter, because she had known the countryside better than any of his men did. He had told the CIA man that he wanted his daughter back. Oh, the CIA man had assured him she would be safe because America was sending its best men with her. He had been a fool to believe that or believe they would take care of his daughter. He had learned the man’s name. Yes. Paul Kavanagh the Marine had flown free, leaving his daughter behind to face the torturers.

Now Valdez waited for critical news concerning Kavanagh’s whereabouts.

He took the cigar out of his mouth and rolled it between his fingers. Four years ago, he had renamed his ragtag guerillas the Free Mexico Army. He had fled to America for sanctuary, although he’d continued to send assassins and guerillas into his native land. Surprisingly, his army had grown from Mexican nationals in America and from those escaping the Chinese prison across the Rio Grande. American advisors had trained his men until he had over sixty thousand soldiers on U.S. soil. America desperately needed allies and needed trained fighters. His sixty thousand made him a force, and the Americans hoped that someday he could incite a Mexican uprising and return to his country as its new leader. Because of that, the Americans catered to him on many issues. He had contacts among them and could learn hidden things, such as where they had put Paul Kavanagh.

While inhaling, with the hot smoke tickling the back of his throat and the taste causing saliva to congeal, Valdez’s eyes burned like icy motes of hate. The CIA man had told him Marines never left their own on the battlefield. That was a lie, and people lied to Cesar Valdez at their peril.

There was a knock on the door.

“Yes,” Valdez said.

The door creaked open and one-eyed Torres stared at him. Torres, the Oakland Raiders fan, looked like the football team’s logo, although minus the helmet. “The Marine is in California, Colonel,” Torres told him.

“You are sure of this?” Valdez asked.

“One hundred percent sure.”

Valdez considered this, finally saying, “California is a large state.”

Torres nodded, and his smile was grim. “The Marine is guarding a man from Washington who tours the front.”

Valdez inhaled so the cigar glowed fiery, and he nodded. “The Chinese have snipers, yes?”

“It is true,” Torres said.

“Perhaps as this Washington man tours the front, Chinese snipers will kill him. It has happened before. Yes. I like it. The Marine guarding the Washington man—no one will care what happens to him if Chinese snipers kill the important one.”

“And if the Americans learn we did this?” Torres asked.

The cigar glowed once more. “The Americans failed to protect Maria. You know what happens when people fail me?”

Torres nodded.

“Send Romo,” the colonel said. “He is our best killer and he is near the bastard who failed my daughter. Forge a pass, allowing Romo to go where he pleases.”

“The Americans are nervous, Colonel. Security has been tightening.”

Valdez stared at Torres. The man looked down, nodding quickly. “It will be as you say, Colonel.”

“I want Kavanagh’s head. If Romo cannot bring it to me, I want pictures of Kavanagh suffering brutally before he dies. I want to see a dagger planted in his eye, planted to the hilt.”

Torres nodded once more.

“Go. Do this. Then we leave Laredo tonight. I do not like the reports from Mexico. The Chinese in this sector are up to something.”

“Yes, Colonel,” Torres said. He softly closed the door behind him.

After several glows of the cigar, Valdez whispered in a voice few would have recognized. “Maria, my darling girl, I will avenge you and then I will free our country from the foreigner. This I vow to you, my child. This I vow by the Madonna.”