Invasion: California

-5- Into the Abyss

“Gunnery Sergeant,” General Ochoa said, nodding a greeting.

“Hello, sir,” Paul said warily. He was in one of the Ninth Division’s comm-shacks, the same one he’d used to speak to Cheri. After a tiring day at the border with Colonel Norman, Paul had headed for the showers. The lanky lieutenant he’d bluffed before told him he had a special message.

Now Paul stared at the grim-faced Ochoa. “Do you have bad news, sir?”

“I’m afraid I do,” Ochoa said. “I’ve been giving the news to others all day long.”

“Is it my wife?” Paul asked.

“What?” Ochoa asked. “No,” he said a moment later. “It’s about the survival of the United States as we know it.”

“Oh.” Paul’s shoulders loosened. He had been worried sick it was about Cheri or Mike. “Go ahead, sir. Let’s hear it.”

General Ochoa frowned before explaining the nature of Blue Swan.

“Okay,” Paul said. “I get it. EMP leaves us sitting ducks for the Chinese. What does that have to do with me?”

Ochoa nodded crisply, although he spoke hesitantly. “We need commandos to, ah…”

Paul laughed mirthlessly as the problem and plan crystalized in his mind. “You want American kamikazes to take out the enemy missiles, is that it?”

Ochoa stared at him, finally nodding.

“But those missiles are likely in the middle of enemy formations across the border in Mexico.”

“We’ve begun pinpointing them,” Ochoa said.

“And how have you done that, sir?”

“The CIA—”

Paul had worked with the CIA for some time now, ever since Hawaii, in fact. “Oh,” he said. “You mean you’re guessing.”

Ochoa stopped speaking, which left his mouth open. He closed his mouth and hunched toward the screen. “I won’t lie to you, Kavanagh. Ah…these are educated guesses by the smartest people we have.”

“Great,” Paul said.

“Can I count on you for this?”

Paul turned away. They want me back in Mexico. If this Chinese thingamajig works…then we’re all dead anyway. He faced Ochoa. “When would we go in, sir?” This was going to take a lot of precision training.

“Twenty-four hours from now,” Ochoa said.

Paul felt himself go cold. We’re trying to stay alive by our fingernails. “This is getting better by the minute,” he said. “You’re throwing men together—strangers—to go in and die for a wild hope.”

“It’s a gamble and it’s a raw deal for you. But we need you, Gunnery Sergeant. Your country needs you.”

“Just like the U.S. needed me in Hawaii?”

Scowling, Ochoa said, “The truth is you’re probably a dead man if you agree to this. The trouble is that if you don’t agree, our country could be dead before we start the fight. This is one of those times…” Ochoa cleared his throat. “Sergeant, we’ve been flat-out beaten before the fighting starts by a war-changing enemy weapon. The intelligence community believes the Chinese only have a limited number of these missiles. We’ve yet to spot any facing Texas. Now if—”

“I’ll do it,” Paul said. “I’m in, sir. I want to get it done.”

Ochoa blinked several times. “You know what this means?”

“Yeah, that I get to do the job I was trained for. This driving around as a chauffeur—it’s a waste of my time.”

Ochoa looked away. He shook his head. When he looked back, his eyes had hardened. “You’re a good man, Kavanagh. I’m emailing you the plan on your secure account. Study it, refine it if you can think of anything better for your team, and then tomorrow night you’re going in.”

“Yeah,” Paul said, “that’s just wonderful. I can hardly wait.”

Marshal Nung clasped his hands behind his back as a green light bathed his features. He stood over a computerized situation map of the Mexican-Californian border. Around the glowing table stood his staff officers and old Marshal Gang, the Ruling Committee’s observer.

Marshal Gang was big for a Chinese officer, with wrinkled skin and rows of gaudy medals on his chest.

“We still need several more days, sir,” General Pi told Nung, his logistical wizard. Pi looked haggard, with red-rimmed eyes and a drooping mouth. He was the eternal pessimist and therefore an oddity among Nung’s officers.

Nung breathed deeply, expanding his chest and making his medals clink against each other. He looked up at Pi and shook his head.

Pi’s frown deepened. “The Third Corps needs more—”

“Listen to me,” Nung said. His voice was raw from lack of sleep. Since his return from China he had been everywhere, inspecting, threatening, cajoling and watching. Through force of will he attempted to move two million men and their supplies into attack position. It was a daunting task. Even with a brilliant, hard-working staff, there was simply too much to do and too little time to do it in.

Fortunately, they had prepositioned masses of supplies months ago. The Americans had noticed then and the enemy had gone into alert status. Over time, the Americans became accustomed to his maneuvers. The enemy was on alert again, but Nung suspected that many Americans must think of it as routine, especially as the action had already started in Texas.

Nung breathed once more, staring at the green screen. Two million soldiers and their support groups. Masses of artillery shells, masses of bullets, body armor, boots, jackets, rifles and millions of tons of rations—there was no end to his soldiers’ needs. Tanks, armored cars, IFVs, hovers, fighter jets, bombers, missiles and the tens of thousands of drones, it boggled the imagination how much fuel he needed.

The diversionary attack in Texas had absorbed an amazing amount of materiel, but it would be as nothing compared to his needs.

The Americans had mass, too, but not as much, never close to equal to what he possessed. Besides, the enemy had vast frontages to guard, never certain where his enemy might land an amphibious invasion.

“The Chinese hammer falls here, comrades,” Nung told his officers. “We will crack the Californian defenses. First, we must smash the American air cover and destroy radar stations, anti-missile launchers, laser and flak sites. Then we will unleash Blue Swan and send in the Eagle Teams. Only then will the wave assaults wash over the shattered and shaken Americans. One swift blow given with tremendous force will shatter the American defenses into a million pieces. Ah, then comrades, then our tanks will lunge into the Californian hinterland and win the war before the Americans have time to recover.”

“It is a bold plan,” Marshal Gang said.

Nung nodded, accepting the compliment.

“Yet I wonder if the Americans will wilt as you hope,” Gang said.

Nung squinted at the frowning marshal. “Without communications, without their vaulted command and control, with Chinese soldiers en masse, flowing over, around and behind them—yes, the Americans will wilt as I expect,” Nung said. “They will run from us in terror. Their entire defensive line will shatter like a brittle vase. I have promised our Great Leader this and I intend to see it achieved. Ceaseless assaults, comrades,” he said, turning to his officers. “Mass and more mass will swamp the American soldiers. Therefore, even though we haven’t achieved perfection in all our divisions, we will launch the assault two days from now. Two days, comrades, and the greatest battle in history will begin.

Marshal Nung was wrong. The start of the war would not begin in two days, but one night earlier under cover of darkness.

Paul Kavanagh stood with his new team in the glare of bright lamplights. Moths flew up there by the lights, motes of anarchy showing the senselessness of fate. This was an ad hoc group of soldiers. He had four former Marine Recon drill instructors from Camp Pendleton. They had been plucked from their training duties. He had six Rangers and five Free Mexico assassins. According to their records, they were the best Colonel Valdez possessed. Their leader was a man named Romo.

He was a dark-skinned native with sharp features. He was shorter than Paul, with his hair shaved to his scalp and with the eyes of a stone cold killer. Romo had an earring, with a small feather dangling and he walked with the silky grace of a jaguar.

Paul had shaken hands with each of his men. All had squeezed back. One or two had looked away; three of the Free Mexico soldiers had shifted uneasily. Romo had shaken hands normally.

“You are Paul Kavanagh?” Romo asked.

“Do I know you?”

Romo shook his head.

“Do you know me?”

“Si,” Romo said, hardly moving his lips as he spoke, but always staring into his eyes.

Paul knew it then. “Colonel Valdez sent you?”

“Si.”

“He wants my head or something like that?”

“Si.”

“And you’re the one who’s going to bring it in?”

With the tip of the fingers of his left hand, Romo touched his feather. “Si,” he said.

“Okay,” Paul said, “fine. But answer me this.”

Romo barely shifted his shoulders in a shrug.

“First, what’s with the feather?”

Romo became utterly still.

“I don’t see too many Mexican soldiers wearing those,” Paul said.

“I am Apache from my mother’s side.

Paul raised his eyebrows, and he nodded. “Good enough. Will you obey my orders until we destroy our Blue Swan missile?”

Romo glanced at his four men, each of them carefully listening to the conversation. “You and me,” he told Paul, “we kill the Chinese first, si.”

Paul stared into Romo’s eyes, and he felt a chill along his spine as if someone had put a cold blade against his back. The man was grim death, a stone killer. As Paul stared into those pitiless eyes, he considered drawing a knife and gutting the man on the spot. But since none of them were coming back alive, he figured why bother.

The conversation with Romo had taken place many hours ago. Now Paul adjusted his body armor. He looked around at the lamp-washed concrete at the waiting helicopters. They were sleek and fast, representing the latest in American insertion technology.

This was the land of the free, eh. Yeah, it was his land. His wife and boy were in LA. If the Blue Swan missiles worked and demolished the SoCal Fortifications…then his family was meat. This way, they had a chance.

“Love you, babe,” he whispered. Paul picked up his combination assault rifle/grenade launcher and with his rucksack secured, he jogged for his waiting jet-assisted helo. Romo and several of his killers followed. So did the Recon Marines. The rest of the Free Mexico soldiers and Rangers headed for the second helicopter. They were sixteen commandos bent on destroying a Blue Swan launcher—if it existed and if the planners had really pinpointed the thing’s location.

Flight Lieutenant Harris cracked his knuckles. He sat in a padded chair, staring at his screen and while wearing virtual reality goggles. In the same room were ten other men and women like him. Each was a drone operator.

Their drone was the Viper 10 air-superiority Unmanned Combat Vehicle. Lieutenant Harris rolled his shoulders, trying to make himself more comfortable. He didn’t like flying if he was stiff.

The V-10 was half the size of an F-35, the Air Force’s main single-engine fighter. Because the UCAV lacked a pilot, it needed less space and a smaller engine to do the same task. It could also take more Gs and be ordered to do suicidal things without losing a valuable pilot.

Lieutenant Harris squeezed his eyes shut and then he concentrated. Tonight, they were headed into enemy air space. Tonight, the drones were going to hunt for trouble.

What are we doing, huh? Doesn’t the brass upstairs know we’re going to take severe loses doing this?

Lieutenant Harris shrugged and then settled back, finding his comfort zone. He would do his best. He knew how much the V-10s cost. And if they failed, it was likely he wouldn’t make it out of San Diego alive before the Chinese came.

“Here we go,” the lieutenant whispered, taxiing his drone down a runway.

All across Southern California, other UCAVs, fighters, bombers and wild weasels launched into the darkness. From Vandenberg Air Force Base, a Titan VII rocket lifted a three-package satellite into space. No one expected those to last long, just long enough to give them vital intelligence.

AWACS planes remained well behind the border. They were critical in detecting enemy low and fast flyers—strike, recon and interceptor aircraft, even ground-to-air weapons and cruise missiles. The Airborne-Warning-And-Control System aircraft used look-down phased-array radar and computers to find low-flying enemy against all the ground clutter. The computers had gotten better since the Alaskan War, making it easier for AWACS and radar stations to spot enemy aircraft.

Because both sides lacked reliable satellites near the combat zone, they also fell back on using their AWACS and high-flying drones to control their planes and provide an integrated operating picture through secure datalinks. In other words, the AWACS were flying air battle control centers.

A terrible truism affected modern warfare, particularly in air combat. If one could see the enemy, one could kill the enemy nine times out of ten. It was why both sides used stealth craft. Special alloys and polymers, anti-radar paint and ingenious construction meant that most Chinese and American aircraft gave back very small radar signatures. Ever-improving radar and computers helped each side spot the faint returns, often pinpointing positions with lethal precision. It was a constant cat and mouse game.

As he sat in his seat in San Diego, Lieutenant Harris watched through his VR goggles as his V-10 waited twenty miles from the border. There were hundreds of Chinese aircraft up on the other side. The majority of those were fighter drones guarding Chinese air space.

Harris licked his lips. He’d never flown in combat before, although he had logged plenty of hours in simulated battle. There were four critical factors to air fights and to interception missions in particular. The side with superior eyes and ears, the detection devices and electronic counter measures—ECM—usually maneuvered into superior attack positions. The second factor was that the side with better tactics, including tactical or strategic surprise, gained an edge. Third, the side with more skilled pilots had an advantage. Lastly, numbers, sheer mass of planes over the enemy gave a striking advantage.

Lieutenant Harris wiped a wrist across his mouth. America had none of these advantages here. The Chinese particularly were rich as a people and a nation. They had bought the best planes and drones and logged hundreds of hours, perfecting their pilots. Perhaps, America would have tactical surprise tonight—

“Look at that,” a drone operator said.

Harris stopped breathing as he watched his split screen. One side showed him what the V-10’s cameras “saw.” The other was an aerial map of SoCal. The red dots—the Chinese—began to fill the “southern” edge of his screen. More kept appearing, making it a blizzard over there.

“Look at them.”

“I’m looking,” Harris said.

As he did, American wild weasels surged to the forefront. They jammed enemy radar and applied other electronic counter-measures. They attempted to blind the Chinese by throwing a blanket over their early warning stations. Behind the wild weasels followed heavier “Buffalo” drones. These launched flocks of anti-radar missiles, with the missiles zeroing in on Chinese radar and other air-detection stations. These rode the enemy radar beams straight down to their targets. Even if the enemy turned the beams off as a countermeasure, the missiles remembered where their targets were and struck them anyway.

The command came then and Lieutenant Harris and his fellow operators launched their V-10s for the Mexican-Californian border.

Harris took his drone low. He didn’t want to lose his UCAV to enemy flak, tac-lasers or SAMs. Flying low and fast was the way to avoid most of those. The trouble was that this was one of the thickest SAM belts in the world.

Like a swarm of angry bees, the American V-10s raced over the border and lifted their noses to engage the enemy drones, firing anti-air missiles and cannons.

Lieutenant Harris had other orders. As his fellow V-10s engaged the enemy, he raced deeper into Mexico at treetop level. Through his VR goggles, he saw endless splashes and flares of brilliant light. Those were enemy and friendly kills. Twice his threat-receiver blinked, warning him of enemy radar lock-on. Harris released chaff and an echo decoy. It gave off a V-10 signature. Seconds later, a nearby explosion rocked his drone.

In his padded chair in San Diego, Harris’s head wobbled. The action was more noticeable to him because of the weight of his headgear. It felt as if he was in a gym doing a neck exercise. The motion was a reaction to the feedback vibration of the VR system. They almost got me.

Fortunately his threat receiver was quiet now. He’d shaken the radar fix. Grimly, Harris took his drone even lower. He passed a brick building, flashing over it by a mere fifty meters. Since it was a drone, he could take greater chances than a regular pilot could.

His target was an enemy AWACS plane, which stayed well behind the border by several hundred miles. The Chinese had ten up now and could put up more. But that would take time. Whoever had greater air control and better eyes gained a critical advantage for as long as it lasted. And AWACS were high-value targets, expensive, full of specialists, and hard to replace.

The minutes ticked by. The threat receiver blinked. Harris released another packet of chaff. He was deep behind the giant air battle going on over the border. Enemy lasers flashed there, cutting down American aircraft. A thousand Chinese SAMs made it a pilot’s nightmare.

“Come on, baby,” Harris whispered. He wiped a sweaty palm on his pants.

Minutes passed. He was far behind the giant air battle now. He needed to reach the AWACS. There were others like him, he knew, hunting their own AWACS craft. Would any of them make it? If not…it was over for their side.

More time passed. Then it got sticky. A buzzing in his ear told Harris Chinese radar had fixed on him tight. Back here, that would likely mean SAMs.

Harris released his last packet of chaff and two echo decoys. He didn’t have any more now. If the nearby AWACS was smart, it would be turning retrograde, trying to escape.

Harris checked his fuel level. If he used afterburners to catch the enemy, he’d never make it back. “Let’s kiss this bastard,” he said. It was all or nothing tonight.

He kicked in the afterburners and the V-10 became the bat out of hell. Twelve miles from target, ten, eight—Harris lifted his drone sharply. The target acquisition indicator growled in his ear. In his VR goggles, a crosshairs fixed on the enemy AWACS five miles away. Yeah, it was fleeing, racing for the ground, hoping to get lost in the clutter.

“This is with love, baby,” Harris said. He toggled and fired two Sun-stinger missiles. They launched from the V-10 and flashed at the enemy, rapidly building speed at a terrible velocity. A ray burned in the darkness—visible on the V-10’s infrared scanner—and one Sun-stinger disintegrated.

They have a dedicated tac-laser, no doubt. I don’t like that.

The enemy AWACS was diving hard and it was expelling chaff like a snowfall. Would American electronics in the Sun-stinger defeat that?

Harris watched avidly through his VR goggles. He licked his lips. “Come on,” he whispered.

The speeding Sun-stinger exploded against the enemy’s tail. It was pure ecstasy. I love it. The large plane simply dropped for the ground. There wouldn’t be any saving it now.

“Hit,” Harris said.

Seconds later, a Chinese SAM scored its own hit, killing his V-10 and taking Lieutenant Harris’s drone out of the opening air battle of the war.

Marshal Nung shrugged on his jacket as he entered the underground command bunker. His hair was still messed up from sleep. He had taken several tranks earlier in order to get a good night’s sleep before the beginning of tomorrow’s invasion. Now he threw two amphetamines into his mouth, slugged back some tea and swallowed the lumps. Afterward, he accepted his military cap from an aide and jammed into onto his head.

“Report!” he barked, noticing that for once Marshal Gang wasn’t here “observing.”

“The Americans,” General Pi said, looking up from the green command screen. “They’re throwing their air at us. It is most bewildering.”

Nung scowled. “A night before our big assault and they attack? That doesn’t make sense. Did they know what we are going to do?”

General Pi shook his narrow face. “No, Marshal. Our lasers and flak are decimating them, and our drones are killing the rest. They’re throwing away what air force they have. It doesn’t make sense.”

“What about enemy missiles?” Nung asked.

“They’ve taken out a few radar stations. Well, a large number of them, but not enough to affect the overall efficiency of our tac-lasers.”

“Sir, they’ve launched satellites,” an operator said. The man watched on one of the many screens in the room.

“Call Space Command,” Nung said.

“We have, sir,” Pi said. “Space Command is targeting the satellites with strategic lasers. The American won’t be watching us from space for long.”

“Are they attempting to create lanes in our airspace for nuclear-tipped missiles?” Nung asked. That was the only thing that made sense to him.

“That is also my impression, sir,” General Pi said. “Otherwise, this is a meaningless attack.”

“No,” Nung said, scowling at the computer table. “It isn’t meaningless. The Americans aren’t fools.” He stared at the situational map as Pi kept changing screen shots. “I find it hard to accept they would go nuclear,” Nung said. “We would shoot down many of those missiles. Afterward, China might well launch a retaliatory strike. But if they’re not going nuclear…” Nung became thoughtful. “Give me a strategic look of the Mexican-Californian border.”

Pi touched the screen, bringing up the strategic map of Southern California.

Nung scowled at it. “Show me the destroyed radar installations.”

Pi tapped the screen several times. Tiny pink lines like threads appeared on the screen.

“Where do those lines lead?” Nung asked.

Pi shook his head.

For the next fifteen minutes, they monitored the air battle.

“Why aren’t the American fighters retreating?” Nung asked. “This is amazing. They’re handing us their air force.” He felt the amphetamines beginning to kick in. The fuzziness around his mind slipped away, focusing his thoughts. “Compute the ratios of destroyed aircraft between our two sides.”

General Pi tapped a computer screen. Several moments later, he said, “We’ve destroyed half their attacking craft, sir, drones and planes. For every one of ours they’ve destroyed, we’ve shot down four. As you say, it’s a slaughter. The only real negative is the number of our AWACS they destroyed.”

“Sir!” a comm-officer said, swiveling in his chair.

Marshal Nung nodded at the officer.

“The Americans have landed commando teams on our side of the border.”

“Landed where?” Nung asked. His face felt tingly. He adjusted his hat, beginning to feel jittery. “Well, landed where?” he asked.

The officer pressed a hand over his earpiece. He looked up. “Sir, one team landed at a cruise missile installation, another at a Black Thunder park and yet another at a Blue Swan launching site.”

“Blue Swan,” Nung said. “That’s it!” He adjusted his hat again and moved his mouth. His face felt as if ants crawled over it. Why did his skin feel so tight?

“What is it, sir?” Pi asked. The general looked concerned.

Marshal Nung blinked in surprise. What was wrong with him? He felt odd, off. It must be the combination of the tranks and amphetamines.

“Sir?” asked Pi. “Do you feel well?”

“The Americans have discovered Blue Swan,” Nung said. “They’re trying to destroy the missiles before we launch them.”

“Destroy the launching sites with commandos?” asked General Pi. “It would be suicide for them, and we know the Americans are not suicidal.”

Nung’s heart began hammering. Sweat appeared on his face, particularly at the inner corners of his eyes. Yes, he could feel the tranks fighting the amphetamines. He blinked groggily as sweat stung his eyes, and he tried to understand what this meant. Beside him, General Pi was babbling about something. Nung focused on the man’s words.

“Launch now, sir?” Pi asked.

“What are you talking about?” Nung asked. The hammering of his heart increased. He clutched the edge of the computer table. Was he having a heart attack? He couldn’t have one now. This was the greatest battle of his life. Though force of will, he listened to Pi, staring at the man.

“Sir,” Pi said, sounding worried.

“Concentrate on the battle,” Nung snapped.

Pi nodded nervously. “If the Americans are destroying the Blue Swan missiles, sir, shouldn’t we launch them while we can?”

Nung glanced at the green situational map. His heart was tripping fast and he felt cold, yet sweat continued to ooze onto his skin. That wasn’t important now. He had decisions to make. The Americans…they were attacking—“Yes!” he shouted. “Order the personnel to launch all Blue Swam missiles now! This is an emergency. They are to immediately launch the missiles.”

After shouting, Marshal Nung lost his grip on the table. His strength simply vanished. In slow motion, the bulldog soldier toppled backward onto the tiled floor.

Paul swayed in his seat as the Cherokee helicopter banked hard. Below, the dark ground swept past. The sound of firing in the distance—missiles, artillery and rockets—penetrated the whomp-whomp of the helicopter’s blades. Red light flared, artillery no doubt, and smaller, brighter flares that indicated explosions.

They flew at treetop level, trying to come in under the enemy radar. It made them vulnerable to ground fire. But they flew so fast that enemy soldiers only had a moment’s glance and then they were past.

The Cherokee was the latest in American innovations. No nation used helicopters like the U.S. This one was faster and sleeker than anything seen so far and it maneuvered with afterburner tri-jets.

The Cherokee shook now from counter-fire, its automated flechette launchers firing. Paul glanced outside. A contrail closed toward them, showing a speeding missile. Then, where the missile had been, a brilliant flash stole his night vision. Seconds later, the helicopter shuddered from the concussion.

The flechette launchers had done their job, knocking down an enemy missile that would have blown them out of the battle.

Paul watched the ground pass. They must be in Mexico by now or close enough so it didn’t matter. A hundred thoughts tumbled through his mind. Would he ever see his wife again? When should he shoot Romo and his killers? Did Valdez want to torture him? How did the CIA know where the Chinese had hidden their secret weapons? He doubted their team would get anywhere close to one of these Blue Swans. What were the odds, ten percent, fifteen? Just how many doomsday missiles did they have to destroy—all the commandos together—to have to make this crazy operation worthwhile?

He didn’t know the answers to any of his questions. So he let his gut churn with pre-battle jitters. It was always like this. He figured if he ever stopped feeling nervous before a mission then he would have stopped being alive.

I’ll be a corpse. Yeah, then I’ll know peace.

The helo shuddered again with another brilliant flash. Seconds later the craft slewed hard as if a giant had batted it. The noise from the blades changed. It wasn’t whomp-whomp-whomp now, but sounded wounded.

“We’re going to crash!” a Marine shouted in Paul’s ear.

Paul clutched his restraining straps. His stomach did flips. Would they topple, tumble and burst into flame? Would he feel anything? Damn, he hated this. He should have deserted and headed for LA. He would have loved to hold his wife one more time. He had things he wanted to tell his son. He should have taken the time when he had the chance. This was so screwed up.

The helo slewed one way and then another, and then, incredibly, they straightened, more or less. The back end kept fishtailing. One of the Free Mexico soldiers vomited. Another was as pale as a corpse. The Cherokee kept heading in the same direction as before. It was crazy.

“It ain’t our time just yet!” Paul shouted into the compartment.

Romo stared at him. The man had dead eyes. It was creepy. Didn’t it bother him they had almost eaten it?

Paul leaned across the small aisle and shoved his face close to Romo. “What’s wrong? You don’t care if you die?”

Nothing changed in those dead eyes. Slowly, Romo shook his head.

Paul grinned. “I’ll be doing you a favor later.”

One eyebrow lifted the tiniest fraction.

Paul sat back. He’d said enough. Now he leaned toward the edge of the open compartment. The glows and flashes were brighter out there.

“Shit!” he said.

The Cherokee flashed over enemy soldiers crouched low. They looked up, and Paul got a momentary glance of Chinese faces.

We’re in enemy territory all right.

“Almost there,” the pilot said over the intercom.

Paul blew out his cheeks and he saw Romo staring at him. With his thumb, Romo slowly sliced it across his throat.

“That’s right!” Paul shouted. “We’re about to kill us some Chinese. We’re still on with our deal?”

Romo just stared at him.

“What deal?” Frank asked, one of the Marine Recon drill sergeants.

For just a second, Paul wanted to tell the Marine why Romo was here. Then he realized it would probably start a gun-battle in the helo. That wouldn’t be any good. They had a job to do. America needed these Blue Swans destroyed. How many commandos needed to die in order to give the SoCal soldiers a chance of stopping the Chinese?

You have no idea; do you, Marine?

“Ten seconds!” the pilot shouted.

At that moment, a terrific explosion occurred just ahead of them. The concussion hit a second later as the Cherokee swerved hard. Paul stared outside. The lead helicopter was gone, debris raining onto the ground a bare forty feet below.

His body went cold inside. He would mourn them later, if he could. Now, he just felt cold, like his emotions had died.

“Eight men left!” Paul shouted into the compartment. He pumped his fist, glancing from man to man. If his emotions had died, it still meant he could fake it. He needed these boys ready for battle. “Semper Fi!” he roared.

Frank, the Marine Recon sergeant, roared it back at him.

The Cherokee started down, coming in among twenty trucks and armed Chinese soldiers firing their weapons.

The Cherokee’s beehives launched together and in a continuous chug, chug, flooding the air with thousands of tungsten flechettes the size and shape of fishhooks. The Cherokee shuddered from the launchings and Paul was certain the helo would simply disintegrate. Instead, as trucks bloomed into fireballs below and as Chinese soldiers toppled into gory ruins, the helicopter slammed against the ground, bounced up and hit again, skidding.

This time Paul had clenched his teeth, the muscles in his jaws beginning to throb from the intensity. Even so, he jerked this way and that, his body slamming against the restraining straps or pressed into the cushioned seat.

“We’re down!” the pilot shouted.

Paul’s head rang and it felt as if someone had played basketball on his muscles. He was sore and tired before anything had begun. That didn’t matter now. He jerked his release so the restraints dropped away. “Go, go, go!” he shouted. He flipped a visor over his eyes and thrust himself out of his seat and for open ground. A dreadful lurch was his only reward and warning—he tumbled out of the helo and hit the ground with his chest. He lay stunned for several seconds, with his lungs locked from the impact. Hands pulled him up from the straps on his back. One strap pressed near his throat, making him cough and unlocking his lungs. Behind him, crouched on one knee, the Marine Recon sergeants fired at the enemy, at Chinese hiding among the burning vehicles. Romo did the same thing.

“We need cover!” Paul shouted. He tried his HUD visor, but there was nothing overhead looking down. No American drones, satellites or AWACS to give him any intel on the enemy. He was going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.

Forcing himself to concentrate, Paul scanned the wreckages around him. Not every truck or IFV burned. There! Enemy soldiers crawled for what looked like a perfectly useable IFV. With his undercarriage grenade launcher, he shot a grenade at the moving clump of Chinese—lousy bastards. He grunted as he climbed to his feet—he’d been kneeling—and ran at them. As he did, he pumped another grenade into the chamber and fired. An explosion and screams told him about his success.

“There, there, to your left,” a sergeant shouted in his ear via his helmet’s radio.

Paul saw it, a Blue Swan launcher. It was big: the launch vehicle and the straight-up missile with twenty cables snaking from it. He wasn’t an expert, but the thing looked ready to fly. Several Chinese technicians—they wore blue overalls—argued as they stood by a command board. Chinese soldiers surrounded the techs. The enemy fired, spewing sparks from the muzzle of their assault rifles.

Dirt spit around Paul. He grunted and flew backward as a round stuck him in the chest. Another whanged off his helmet and it was hard to think. Paul crawled behind a fuzzy burning object, thankful for his body armor.

The pilot put us right on top of them. This is the craziest op I’ve ever been on.

At that moment, their Cherokee blew up in a spectacular blast, creating several secondary explosions. The blast hit Paul in the back of the head and slammed him onto the ground. There was a roaring sound in his ears. It might have been him shouting, he didn’t know. Nothing made sense, just blurry motion and heat up and down his body. Why did his chest throb like that?

The next thing Paul realized was him crawling, firing, crawling and firing again. He looked back. A Chinese soldier rushed Romo from the side. The Mexican Apache was toast. Before he thought things through, Paul swung his gun and fired, cutting down the enemy. Romo saw it, and there was something in his eyes. Maybe he realized Paul had just saved his life.

The Chinese were doing a damn good job of defending the arguing techs. What was it with them anyway? Why didn’t they just fire their toy? It was always something.

By crawling and eating dirt—Paul spit several times—he reached what had seemed at first like a perfectly good Chinese IFV. It wasn’t. There were neat little holes in it from gun rounds—those must have come from the Cherokee’s pilot. Enemy infantry lay in gory ruin around it. Some of them must have not worn body armor. That was stupid but fortunate. Paul thrust himself to his feet and raced into the cramped vehicle. He banged against a rail and bumped his head twice. Good thing he still wore his helmet. By releasing his rucksack, he climbed up into the cupola.

With a savage grin, he drew back the bolt of its 12.7mm machine gun. He swiveled it around, sighted and pressed his thumbs on the butterfly triggers. The hammering sounds and the shivering of the gun was pure delight. He mowed down the soldiers guarding the technicians. Next, he shot the Chinese in blue overalls as they tried to run like mice. All was fair in war, right? Lastly, he poured bullet after bullet into the Blue Swam missile. Some of them were incendiary bullets. The freak had wanted to fly, huh. And it had wanted to broadcast its electromagnetic pulse on his fellow citizens.

“No tonight, Johnny Boy,” Paul said under his breath.

An explosion ended it as the missile’s fuel ignited. Paul slid down into the IFV and rolled himself into a fetal position. A second later, the thirty-ton IFV rocked violently, sending Paul tumbling around like a bowling ball. He didn’t see the very end. The missile fell like an axed tree on speed, hurling itself onto the soil and crumpling. The last Chinese died in a hail of Marine and Mexican assassin bullets.

Soon thereafter, bullet silence allowed the survivors to hear the sound of roaring flames.

Paul crawled out of the IFV. His head throbbed and he staggered as he walked. The enemy was dead and the missile destroyed. According to Paul’s count, including him, there were two Marines and two Free Mexico soldiers left alive behind enemy lines. One of the Mexicans—of course—was Romo. It was probably stupid to have saved the man’s life earlier.

Was this act two between Romo and him? Or did the man still want to work together in order to get back to the good old U.S. of A?

It was time to find out.

Marshal Nung groaned as he sat up. His eyesight was blotchy and breathing had become a chore. There was a painful knot on his head where he’d banged it on the floor.

Medics hovered over him. One of them finished attaching an IV-drip to his arm.

“General,” Nung said in a hoarse voice.

A nervous General Pi glanced down at him. The man looked harried, out of his depth. At logistics, he was excellent. Making battlefield decisions—no, he would give command to Marshal Gang.

“Help me stand,” Nung said in a hoarse voice.

“Begging your pardon, Marshal,” the chief medic said, “but I suggest—”

“I’ve given you an order,” Nung growled. Anger washed though him. A sharp pain in his head made him wince. His lung muscles locked up and he gasped.

“Please, sir,” the medic said, kneeling beside him, rubbing his chest.

With weak fingers, Nung grasped the medic’s arm. “Stand,” he managed to gasp. “Help me. I order you.”

The medic stared at him, judging the odds perhaps at what would happen to him if he disobeyed. Finally, the medic nodded and motioned to his helpers. Together, the three medics helped Nung to his feet.

“Report,” Nung whispered, as the pain in his head throbbed. Why was the chamber tilting and spinning?

General Pi looked at him in horror. “Marshal, I recommend that you—”

Even though it hurt, Nung shook his head. He knew now that he must leash his anger. He must maintain his composure or his body would betray him a second time. A catastrophe threatened. If Marshal Gang reported this…the Ruling Committee might summon him home. He knew what to do to win, and he must do it and show all of them that he was the greatest commander China possessed.

First taking several calming breaths, Nung glanced at the computer map. Unfortunately, he couldn’t make any sense of it. It kept blurring, hurting his eyes.

“Blue Swan,” Nung managed to say.

General Pi licked his mouth, bobbing his head. “The missiles are about to launch, sir, although on an ad hoc basis. We lack full coordination, I’m afraid. I have ordered our fighter drones into California in order to clear the space and swamp American anti-air defenses. For the same reason, I am also in the process of launching cruise missiles.”

Nung tried to gather his thoughts. It was like an old fisherman trying to draw a net too heavy with tuna. He lacked the strength. His willpower kept slipping. “Procedure,” he said.

“I know, sir,” Pi said. “I’m trying to follow your plan. But it is chaos tonight. Some of the Blue Swan launchers have been destroyed.”

“How…how many?” whispered Nung. This was terrible.

“We’re still in the process of discovering that, sir.”

Nung blinked several times. When did breathing become so difficult? He swayed, and the medics eyed each other.

“Sit,” Nung told them. “There.” He tried to indicate with his chin. He was simply too weak to lift his arms to point.

The medics moved him toward an open chair before a screen. Nung shuffled his feet. He felt so old, so desperately weak.

“Rest,” Nung whispered.

“Yes, sir,” the chief medic said. “You must rest here and gather your strength.”

As the night progressed, the air battle went heavily against the Americans. The surviving V-10s retreated from Mexican air space, racing for home. The Chinese fighter drones followed, although most had already launched their air-to-air missiles and expended their cannon shells.

Two American drones watched the battle from a great distance away near the stratosphere. Each had long, thin wings and many, black bubble canopies along the length of its fuselage. Hidden in each bubble was a sensor.

The three satellites were drifting junk in the stratosphere, clusters of twisted metal.

Then a Chinese strategic laser outside Monterrey, Mexico reached up and burned one of the high-flying drones, searing off a thin wing. There was hardly any noise this high up. The drone had drifted too near Mexican air space, but now it began a long tumble to the Earth below. That left one drone and three American AWACS hundreds of miles behind the border.

With the data from these sources, the JFC of California realized the Chinese were up to something. They had gone from defense to offense. Therefore, he gave the order. Waiting F-35s entered the fray.

Major Max Grumman gritted his teeth as he signaled his acceptance of the order. He had been watching the air battle for the past half hour. Drones. He hated them. They took the glory out of air combat. The great aces of World War I and II, the Vietnam jet-jocks and the heroes of the Alaskan War, he’d read about them avidly. Like his fellow pilots, he knew that UCAVs could never replace the man on the spot in his fighter plane.

The night was rich with stars and the ground was far below. Grumman banked and took the F-35 down.

His screen lit up with targets. Look at them, drones by the dozen, small and lethal. They could turn tighter and take any Gs their operators gave them. Yeah, drones had advantages, but desk boys weren’t jet-jocks.

“Little pricks,” Grumman said under his breath.

He activated a Sun-stinger. It was a lovely new missile, the latest thing in the American arsenal.

“You watching me through your cameras, desk-boy?” asked Grumman.

He began the targeting sequence. One of them jittery, fast-flying little pricks, ah, right in his crosshairs.

The F-35 shuddered as a Sun-stinger dropped loose from a wing. The heavy missile dropped and its engine ignited. The burn was a hard glow, and the missile zoomed into the night after its target.

Grumman watched on his targeting HUD. The little prick, it moved quickly, the jittery bastard. Then, a winking light on his screen indicated a hit and a kill.

Grumman’s gritted teeth turned into a faint smile as the Chinese drone ceased to exist. There were a million of them, though. This was like an old Star Wars movie. He shook his head, the edge of the oxygen mask pressing against his cheek. It was time to work, time to play the ultimate game. How could a desk-boy in Mexico City know anything about that?

In quick succession, Grumman launched two more missiles, getting two more kills in less than a minute. That’s how you did it. That’s how you owned the sky.

“It’s a turkey shoot!” he shouted over the radio.

Even as he said it, he studied the operational screen. Look at that. Three kills and the Chinese pricks just kept on coming. Tonight, he was going to become an ace—five kills. He just needed two more now. A turkey shoot was the right place to be in order to enter the hall of air-ace heroes.

Major Grumman might not have thought that if he’d known the Chinese plan. Like him, most of the F-35s fired their Sun-stingers, taking a dreadful toll of nearly dry—of offensive armament—enemy fighter drones.

The drones bored in, firing their remaining air-to-air missiles and if they made it close enough, using up their last cannon shells.

Grumman swore then.

“J-25s,” the ground-control operator said in his headphones. “They’re coming up fast behind the drones.”

The J-25 was the Chinese air-superiority fighter. Like sharks using a shoal of herring, they’d hidden behind the drones. The J-25s were armed, fresh and loaded for American pilots.

Major Grumman’s stomach tightened as he heard the growl of his threat indicator. Enemy radar had locked onto him. He launched chaff, a decoy and looked up into the starry night. Something flashed toward him. It came as fast as an enemy missile. Then he realized the truth, saw it for just a moment.

“Drone!” he snarled. Where had it come from? With his thumb, he readied his cannon.

The drone’s cannon fired first, quick blooms of light at shutter-speed, sending death and destruction. The operator in Mexicali had been waiting for this. The drone’s shells punctured Grumman’s F-35, a fragment of metal slicing into his back and severing several arteries.

The air battle turned savage after that. American tac-lasers, flak and SAMs devoured hordes of Chinese drones. U.S. officers and men alike shouted in glee at their stations. Many of them pumped their fists, although a few wondered how much more ordnance the Chinese would keep pouring at them. This was just too bloody much and it was a sign of enemy wealth.

Then enemy ARMs exploded a dozen American radar stations. In a matter of minutes, a half dozen more disappeared. The J-25s engaged the F-35s. There were too many Chinese, with more fuel and missiles. After twenty minutes, the F-35s were either dead or running away.

Waiting Chinese bombers screamed in, released smart bombs and then flashed away along the ground. American C-RAM systems chugged steadily. Several times an explosion created a greater fireball as an enemy bomber plowed into the earth and ignited, sending a column of fire up into the night.

Larger Chinese aircraft now fired air-to-ground missiles, flocks of them. The heavy missiles bored through flak, defensive explosions and screens of flechette clouds: tungsten particles that disintegrated many of the lethal cargoes. Half the missiles never made it to target. The others chewed up tac-laser sites, SAM launchers and radar installations. It was a bloody start to a savage attack, as the Chinese refused to quit and just kept on coming.

Because of this, more Chinese cruise missiles made it through the defensive belt than might have otherwise, even as they died. The enemy mass swamped the American defenses, overwhelmed it and poured through in sickening numbers, raining death and destruction, and bringing shock and awe.

It was then the first Blue Swan missile arrived. Like a cruise missile, it flew nap-of-the-earth, over hills, through valleys and scraping treetops. Its onboard sensors and AI allowed it to avoid nearby enemy defenses, aided by defensive chaff and decoys and through plain speed when it could.

In a few places, the air battle still raged hot above the destruction, although the Americans had seriously dwindled in number. In its flight, the Blue Swan missile passed burning anti-air installations and a damaged radar site.

Then one of the American AWACS two hundred miles away bounced a radar beam off it. The missile was of especially stealthy construction, however, and the faint return signal wasn’t enough for the AWACS’ computers. Six and a half miles later, a powerful ground-based American radar station in Escondido located the advancing missile.

Two SAMs left their launchers, accelerating to Mach 7. If they had launched sooner, they might have reached the Blue Swan missile. Maybe. The fact was they failed to reach it in time. Three miles into the border, over Fourth Corps of the American Sixth Army, the Blue Swan warhead exploded.

Everything worked perfectly inside the warhead core—the missile had been manufactured and tested in Tokyo, Japan. A massive electromagnetic pulse blew outward from it, radiating like an exploding sun. The pulse washed over American minefields, over artillery, mortar tubes, troops, thousands of computers, hundreds of tanks, Strykers, IFVs, a veritable host of electronic equipment. The EMP also struck nearby drones, fighters and bombers. It even reached a following Blue Swan, incapacitating the missile so it plunged into a hill and disintegrated. The latest technological marvel wrecked masses of American equipment and weapons systems, and it took a bite out of Chinese air assets.

The single Blue Swan missile created confusion everywhere, on both sides, on and behind the battlefield. But it wasn’t over. There were more Blue Swan missiles on the way.

The Americans couldn’t know it yet—they might never learn, in fact—but five commando teams had succeeded in destroying their targeted missiles. The rest of the teams died, some attacking the wrong site, usually dying in the process, or they never made it through the Chinese air defenses. Their helos became junk, the commandos gory chunks of meat. It was a bloodbath of lost commando teams and lost equipment.

But the five destroyed Blue Swan missiles were only part of the damage. The fact of the attack did more than the five teams achieved individually. In the haste and confusion of the night launch, three Chinese technician teams blew up their own missiles. Improper launch timing meant that Chinese EMP rendered two other missiles incapable, while American ground-to-air defenses shot down four more. That was not counting the five missiles that simply failed to work as advertised. For one reason or another—a faulty component, incorrect computations or a malfunctioning AI—five missiles never detonated or never even made it near their targets.

That left a paltry six Blue Swans. Those six created unprecedented damage, chaos and confusion. In the radius of the EMP, air and a great deal of ground equipment and mines simply ceased functioning, with their electronics fused or burned out.

Both Chinese and American air took appalling losses as drones, fighters and bombers plummeted, crashing, crumbling and igniting as they struck ground. Several explosions started forest fires.

Amid the burning radar stations and the dying tac-laser casements and SAM locations, the SoCal border defenses had electronic gaps. They were black holes where nothing electrical worked: cell phones, dead; radar, dead; vehicle starters, dead; tank systems, dead; artillery sighting equipment, dead, all dead and useless junk now.

These “black-hole” gaps were uneven in nature. Two Blue Swan missiles had exploded near each other, making it the largest dead zone. One other missile EMP yield was low, while another had caused three times as much radiation as expected.

In the majority of the SoCal Fortifications, the electronics were shielded well enough to work normally. In others, panic and confusion had already begun. Soldiers there wondered if the end had come. What was going on? Why couldn’t they talk to anyone and why had their equipment simply died?

Those six Blue Swan missiles initiated the first phase of the great Chinese assault into California. It was less than Marshal Nung would have wanted but much more than President Sims could accept. Whether it was a success or a failure was still to be determined by the second phase about to begin in several hours.