Invasion: Colorado

-1- Attrition

It was cold, wet and miserable under the supposedly rainproof camouflage slicker. Clouds hid the stars, making the night pitch black except for the dim lights near the Chinese pontoon bridge a mile and a half away.

Master Sergeant Paul Kavanagh lay on his belly. Freezing raindrops pelted his head and occasionally found a way behind his ears. He shivered every time that happened. The bad weather was making it difficult to see anything with his night vision binoculars.

“We should pull back,” Romo said.

Paul grunted for an answer. He was too angry for words.

The world seemed a sea of icy, slushy mud and snow, while nearby the swollen river raged. It was late October and much colder than it had a right to be. Glaciation—approaching Ice Age weather—had changed the normal patterns. Paul didn’t really care why it was so cold. Apparently too many volcanos had spewed particles into the air, and had been for some time now. His wife had told him before that TV preachers talked about the End Times and approaching Armageddon, and how there would be more earthquakes and calamities. Maybe they were right. The invasion this summer in Texas had felt like Armageddon. Weather-wise, the number of solar flares was almost zero—had been for years—and that supposedly made the Earth colder even without the mass volcanism. Talk about your calamities.

“The hell with it,” Paul muttered.

“We’re leaving?” Romo asked.

Paul gripped the binoculars so his knuckles turned white. The Chinese were crazy to have built a pontoon bridge down there. The rain-swollen river should have swept it away, but it hadn’t. Nothing worked right anymore.

Romo and he were an LRSU team: Long Range Surveillance Unit. They belonged to SOCOM, which ran American commandos: SEALs, Delta Force, Marine Recon, you name it.

Normally, a LRSU team was composed of four men. Normally—ha, that was a joke. Since June 15, nothing had been normal. The American military had taken enormous casualties as the combined Pan-Asian Alliance and South American Federation forces drove up through the Great Plains like a bayonet shoved into the United States’ belly.

“Now’s a perfect time to slip away,” Romo suggested.

Paul lay on his stomach. He was cold and he was tired. Since this spring, he’d fought in California, in Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma and now here in Kansas near the Colorado border. His wife and kid were safe for the moment in Reno, Nevada. Yet how safe would anyone be if the Chinese bastards split the U.S. in two? The enemy’s goal had become obvious and nothing America had done so far could stop their relentless advance.

There were just too many of them. Worse, the enemy never seemed to run out of supplies or the will to keep driving north.

This part of the world had turned to water and mud, a slimy glop that clutched boots and wheels alike, striving to pull them off the wearer. Maybe if the enemy didn’t have so many hovercraft things would be different, but Paul wasn’t so sure anymore.

“Do you have an idea?” Romo asked.

Paul tore his eyes from the field glasses and glanced at his blood brother. Romo lay beside him under his own camouflage slicker. The Mexican Apache used to be a hit man for Colonel Valdez of the Mexico Home Army. He was shorter than Paul, and he was dark-skinned, with sharp features, a shaved scalp and the eyes of a stone-cold killer. He also had an earring with a feather dangling from it. Go figure.

“Yeah,” Paul said. “I got an idea.”

“You want to let me in on it?”

With his thumb and forefinger, Master Sergeant Kavanagh wiped water out of his eyes and shoved them back against the field glasses. He was sick and tired of watching the American military retreat. He was sick of seeing good American boys lying dead in the mud.

The Arkansas River was behind enemy lines. The Chinese had taken Wichita and Kansas City and they were still pushing. Actually, it was more like crawling after the American Army. The U.S. formations slipped and slid like drunks on the mud, retreating and attempting to dig in and hold somewhere.

“We have to stop them,” Paul muttered.

“There’s nothing you and me are going to do about it tonight,” Romo said.

Paul turned to his blood brother, and there was fire in Kavanagh’s eyes. Despite his age, he was broad-shouldered, with lean hips. Once he’d been the hardest tackler on his high school football team. Lately a rage had been welling in him against the invading Chinese. What really ate at him was the growing sense of helplessness. He wasn’t used to the feeling. What had him so mad tonight was the radio message they had received five minutes ago.

Romo and he were LRSU. Originally, Paul belonged to Marine Recon, but now worked directly under General Ochoa of SOCOM. Their two-man team had slipped behind enemy lines to disrupt Chinese operations any way they could. They were also the eyes for the drone operators who would launch Precision Guided Munitions—smart bombs—on critical enemy chokepoints.

This pontoon bridge on the swollen Arkansas River was an ideal target. A traffic jam behind the bridge had already built up. If the drones could slip in and launch one, two or three smart bombs…

The message five minutes ago had aborted the mission. The reason it gave was simple. The drone operators had run out of smart bombs again and Ochoa didn’t want to try using dumb gravity bombs. Maybe if this had been the first time it had happened, Paul could live with it. But it wasn’t the first. This was the third time in two and a half weeks.

Three strikes and you’re out.

“See,” Paul said, in a deceptively calm voice, “I’m crawling closer so I can take a few potshots at some Chinese captain or major. If I’m lucky, I’ll nail me one, or maybe even a colonel.”

Romo was slow in answering. “I understand your anger, my brother.”

“Yeah?”

“Remember, they invaded my country first.”

“Yeah,” Paul said.

Six years ago, the Chinese had aided one side of the Mexican Civil War. That side won and more Chinese soldiers kept coming until there were millions of them. The Chinese said it was for protection against American aggression. Under Chinese influence, the South American Federation joined in the fun, adding another few million soldiers against America. This summer with the invasion of Texas and New Mexico…

Paul shook his head. He was done talking or thinking about it. He put away the binoculars and shoved up to his feet. He had an old M25 sniper rifle and decided tonight was a good time to use it. If the smart bombs weren’t coming, he could put a few smart rounds into where they would do the most good.

Wordlessly, Romo rose beside him. They’d been behind enemy lines for twelve days already. Sometimes, LRSU teams stayed out thirty days. A mile from here—two and a half miles from the pontoon bridge—two dirt bikes lay under a sodden tarp. It was their ticket home: one of the few vehicles other than hovercraft that could negotiate this muddy realm.

In the freezing sleet the two commandos, one American and one Mexican, trudged toward the traffic jam down by the river. There were big Chinese Army trucks, stolen U-Haul vehicles, jeeps, IFVs, and towed laser batteries, the kind used to knock down aircraft and drones.

With a slurping sound, Paul’s boots sank into the mud. It was a struggle each time pulling them back out. The Chinese were crazy to use a pontoon bridge in the dark. They must have laid down a blacktop road to here and forced their soldier boys and supply columns to keep moving. All across the Great Plains, Chinese and Brazilians led the drive against America.

Rain struck Paul’s head and hit him in the face. The water dribbled down to his chin and sometimes his neck. He shivered at the cold. The camouflage slicker made him look like a wet Arab sheik or maybe like one of their women in those black garments that covered them from head to toe. He could never remember what they called that sorry-looking garment.

“You are bitter,” Romo told him.

Paul had almost forgotten his friend was there. Bitter or not, he was hunting tonight. Maybe it was the open grave three days ago. The squawking crows had horrified him. The black-colored birds had been like an angry, squabbling blanket of feathers, feasting on American dead tossed willy-nilly into the hastily-dug pit. Or maybe it had been passing near Dodge City. With his binoculars, he’d seen American corpses hanging by their necks. The worst had been a little girl in red tennis shoes. The rule was simple under the Chinese and Brazilian occupation. If they found an American with a rifle, shotgun or pistol, they hanged the poor sod. Land of the Free—no, Land of the Enslaved.

Paul gripped his rifle. Romo had quoted him a good saying before. “Better to fight on your knees than to surrender, but even better to fight on your feet.”

People had been trying to disarm the American populace for a long time now. Even the U.S. Government had tried it a few times. There was an ancient truth about that. If you lacked weapons, you lacked freedom. In this world of tooth and claw, you had to fight or be willing to fight for what was worth keeping. Once you gave up your guns, you were a slave hoping your master was nice to you.

Paul’s nostrils flared. How could they have run out of smart bombs? He shook his head. Don’t worry about it, son. You have bullets. Use them, eh. Kill some sorry Chinese colonel and this little picnic will have been worth it.

“Look,” Romo said. “Look how they stick to the road like good sheep.”

“These sheep have fangs,” Paul muttered. “Let’s head over there. See it?”

In the darkness, they trudged through the mud to a higher spot—it was more like a pitcher’s mound in height. Paul flopped onto wet grass and made sure his slicker covered him from his head to his boots. Romo did likewise. Once more, Paul took out his night vision binoculars.

The rain had turned into a lighter drizzle and he began to scan back and forth along the line of vehicles. There had to be over one hundred trucks, most of them backed up in two lanes. Chinese soldiers smoked cigarettes. There were hundreds, many several thousand glowing tips. More than a few of them also used flashlights, although the vehicles all had hooded headlights. By the number of soldiers down there, he figured an infantry brigade must be hoofing it or maybe they’d hitched a ride with a supply company. He couldn’t figure why so many men were outside of the cabs soaking up the rain.

He’d been right about one thing. There was a blacktop ribbon snaking away into the distance. It was a new road of sorts. Bulldozers moved across the muddy shore of the river. In places, water surged over the pontoon bridge, washing across it. Only a fool would use it tonight.

Even as he thought that, Paul witnessed the first Chinese Army truck inching toward the gate. The driver took the vehicle onto the bridge and slowly moved across. Waves lapped against its tires, but a few minutes later, the truck reached the other side and climbed the higher bank.

“One bomb in the middle of the bridge…” Paul whispered.

Another big truck started across.

“You stay here,” Paul said. “I’m going—”

“We’ll do this together,” Romo said. “You shoot. I’ll spot.”

“Are you with me then?” Paul asked.

“You have the madness tonight, the rage. You need to strike back. I understand.”

“We’ll crawl the rest of the way there,” Paul said.

“And die of hypothermia because we’re soaked,” Romo said. “What good is that? No. We must walk. If someone sees us, they see us, but I doubt they’ll be looking on a night like this.”

Wordlessly, Paul rose and began trudging closer. He didn’t know who was crazier, the Chinese or him. Once he starting shooting, the Chinese would know he was out here. They would start hunting for them. Was that worth it?

He wiped water out his eyes. It was cold and he was losing strength. He needed to use his head, to think.

“Wait a minute,” Paul said. He crouched down, using the slicker as a giant hood. Pulling out his binoculars, he scanned the traffic jam. Ah, what was this?

“There,” he said, pointing into the darkness. It was to their left. “Someone took a jeep out there and got stuck. It looks like they left the vehicle.”

Romo had out his binoculars, too. “I see it.”

“Ready?”

“There might be troops hidden in it,” Romo said.

“If only we could be that lucky. Did you see the open door? I think they left it.”

Fifteen minutes later, the two commandos warily approached the Chinese jeep. The front was tilted down, with the driver’s side tire bogged in a sinkhole. The rear tires were sunken down to the axle. The driver’s door was open, as Paul had mentioned earlier, and the vehicle was empty.

Paul climbed in first. The rain pelted the roof and reminded him of a better time with Cheri. He’d been young, strong and going to college on a football scholarship. Those had been his sweetest years with her.

Romo slid into the driver’s seat. He used the starter button. The engine turned over and coughed into life. Romo shut the door and found the heater. He turned it on and grinned at Paul.

Hunkering by it, Paul warmed his hands. The heat felt good on his cheeks. He wasn’t sure he ever wanted to leave the jeep.

“We might as well eat,” Romo said.

Paul nodded, pulling out some rations. Afterward, he rolled down a window and used the night vision binoculars. The bridge was a mile away, though some of the clogged traffic looked to be at the maximum range of his M25, at least the maximum on a night like this.

Romo rolled down the back window. “Get your rifle ready.”

First taking out a sound suppressor, Paul screwed it onto the end. With all the noise down there and the covering rain, he wasn’t worried any Chinese soldier would hear the gun. Muzzle flash might give him away, but not with the sound suppressor in place.

Romo moved around until he looked comfortable. He used binoculars, spotting for Paul.

“Wait a minute,” Paul said.

Romo looked up.

“What’s what?” Paul asked, pointing.

Rome shifted his binoculars.

Paul used the M25’s scope. A small convoy of new vehicles approached the end of the traffic jam. They were sleek hovertanks, some with bubble cupolas at the top of the turret.

Paul remembered these fighting vehicles from Alaska, from his trek across the Arctic ice. They were the Leopard Z-6 hovertanks. He’d examined several destroyed ones in Alaska—that was seven years ago now. Each of those down there used a high-velocity 76mm cannon and fired rocket-assisted shells. The 12.7mm machine gun in the commander’s copula provided anti-infantry fire. The hovertanks wouldn’t have any difficulty zipping out here to the jeep. Their turbofans lifted the vehicle on a cushion of air, meaning they flew a good foot over the mud.

“That’s trouble for us,” Romo said.

Paul nodded. The hovertanks were one of the Chinese ace cards in this war. They had thousands of them. The vehicle’s ceramic/ultra-aluminum armor wasn’t nearly as good as the heavy armor on a main Chinese battle tank, but it was good enough against most infantry weapons. Neither mud nor water slowed down those dogs. He’d heard how many hovertanks doubled as supply carriers, bringing needed ammo to otherwise bogged-down Chinese formations. You could always tell when the hovertanks did that. The armored skirts sank to only an inch above the ground and dust or muddy water billowed as if hit by a whirlwind.

“Let’s wait until they leave,” Romo suggested.

Paul was thinking the same thing. Then big klieg lights snapped on from the hovertanks. The beams washed across the waiting trunks and IFVs. A voice using a bullhorn began shouting orders.

It brought chaos to the waiting Chinese. Soldiers threw their cigarettes into the mud. Men began shoving and pushing. Drivers jumped out of the trucks and ran around.

“What is this?” Romo asked.

More klieg lights snapped on from the other hovertanks. The rain picked up, too. It slashed through the bright light, giving the situation an eerie feel. Soon, the chaos changed as soldiers lined up in ranks. Drivers also lined up, many straightening their uniforms.

“It looks like an inspection,” Romo said.

Paul swiveled his M25, using the scope to study the hovertanks. He hated them. They were fast and agile. Any one of those hovers could aim a floodlight on the jeep out here. A hovertank’s cannon could send a shell screaming into this vehicle.

“We’re hoofing it out of here,” Paul said. Then he saw something that changed his mind.

A thin Chinese commander opened his cupola at the top of a hovertank turret. The man climbed higher so his torso stuck out of the hatch. He wore rain gear, and he looked around. Paul spotted the three shiny stars on the man’s plastic-coated military hat.

“We have ourselves a three-star general,” Paul whispered. “He must be a real fire-eater too, to come out in this weather for an unannounced inspection.”

“My friend, I hope you are not thinking—”

“Yeah,” Paul said. “That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

Romo’s shoulders might have slumped the slightest bit, but he nodded a moment later.

“First, we have to relocate,” Paul said. “They’ll shell the jeep first thing.”

The two commandos rolled up the windows and prepped their gear. Soon, Paul stepped back into the rain and mud. Romo followed. They trudged toward the enemy, toward the rows upon rows of Chinese soldiery, with the slowly moving hovertank inching before the mass. The general saluted the men, studying them in the harsh glare.

“Okay,” Paul said. He pulled out a poncho, putting it on the mud. He lay on it and adjusted the camouflaged slicker over him. Then he set up a bipod at the end of his rifle. He was going to need a steady base to make this long-distance shot. Romo lay beside him, using his binoculars.

Now Paul waited. He lay in the dark, with the rain turning back to drizzle. His heart hammered, and he tried to stop his hands from shaking. He readjusted the M25 several times. This was crazy. If he fired, those Chinese SOBs would be all over here hunting for Romo and him. But he couldn’t let it go. The drone operators had run out of smart bombs again. America wasn’t going to win this war if everyone played it safe. They were going to have to take chances, maybe even crazy chances to drive the enemy where he belonged.

I can’t take out the bridge by myself, but I can take out the brains to a division or maybe even to a Chinese corps.

“Every little bit helps,” Paul muttered to himself.

“Seven hundred, maybe seven hundred and twenty meters,” Romo said, as he stared through his binoculars, giving him the distance.

Paul put his right eye to the scope and he adjusted, using Romo’s info. Soon, the crosshairs touched the general’s head. For this shot, for possibly dying in turn, Paul wanted it all. He wanted a kill, not just to wound the man in the shoulder or take out a lung.

The Chinese general held his hand in a frozen salute. The hovertank moved slowly before the men. With his crosshairs on the general’s head, Paul could tell the hovertank quivered as the vehicle’s turbofans kept it aloft. He could just imagine the mud and dirt the hovercraft sprayed by its whirling fans. He bet droplets of mud pelted the front-rank soldiers in the face. The freaking general could have walked in the mud like the soldiers he was making line up in the rain. The brass was the same everywhere.

With a little rain in his face, the general probably thinks he’s roughing it tonight.

A mean grin tightened Paul’s face. He thought about the open grave with the American dead and squabbling crows. He remembered the dangling corpses in Dodge City.

So very slowly, his finger eased against the trigger. A moment froze in time. The M25 rifle butt kicked against Paul’s shoulder. The sound suppressor blotted out any muzzle flash and allowed only a low noise. On the hovertank, a spray of blood and bone blew outward from the general’s head. The Chinese commander pitched forward and crumpled, bending sharply at the waist. The hovertank’s hatch must have caught him at the hips. Likely, his legs kicked up against the turret’s ceiling. He draped over the cupola for all the ranks to see.

“Good shot,” Romo said.

Paul’s eyes narrowed to slits. He was a killer, which people said was a bad thing. So why did it feel so good taking out one of their big boys? His chest tightened. It always did when he killed like this in the deliberate sniper way.

“Let’s back up,” Paul said a harsh whisper.

“No,” Romo said. “Get down. Quick, cover up. There are some smart operators over there.”

Like a turtle pulling in its nose, Paul drew the M25 so the sound suppressor was even with his head. He pulled the camouflage slicker over him so only his eyes showed, with his chin tucked on the wet grass.

Shouting soldiers raced away from the dead general. Another hovertank’s turret swiveled. A klieg light illuminated the lone jeep stuck out in the mud. A 76mm cannon roared, spewing a tongue of fire into the drizzly night. The hyper-velocity shell kicked in and the jeep exploded, jumping sideways and flipping over.

“Good call moving out of it,” Romo said dryly.

For a moment, a harsh beam touched them. Paul closed his eyes and held his breath. Are we next? Fortunately, the light moved on and he exhaled.

“Start crawling,” Paul said.

They did so, even as 12.7mm machine guns opened up, firing into the sea of mud. Paul saw the muzzle flashes and he heard bullets hissing over him. In places, mud shot up in small geysers. None where close enough yet that would have let him know the Chinese had spotted him. The hovertanks revved their fans with power, and several lurched forward.

“Now the fun starts,” Paul said.

Three hovertanks zoomed toward the flipped jeep, with machine guns chattering, bullets ricocheting on the metal, creating sparks. Klieg lights played over the muddy sea as vehicle crews searched for them.

In the next twenty minutes, Paul and Romo halted seven times, trusting in their camouflage gear. Paul remembered an old movie he’d watched as a kid, one of the Lord of the Rings epics. There had been a scene where Frodo and Sam had hidden from Orcs before the Gates of Mordor. The two Hobbits had had an elf cloak. Well, his slicker proved just as good. It wasn’t magic, but it worked on a dark and rainy night like this.

The hovertanks kept searching and now Chinese soldiers formed up in a gigantic line. They moved away from the traffic jam with bayonets fixed onto their weapons. The soldiers skewered the mud as if they were at war with Mother Nature. One soldier came up with a piece of cardboard on his bayonet.

By now, Paul and Romo had crawled half a mile away from the shooting site. Paul’s teeth chattered. He was thoroughly soaked and cold.

From where he lay on the mud, Paul said, “We’d better make a run for our bikes.”

Romo just kept crawling, moving mechanically.

Paul lurched at him, grabbing the man’s ankle. Romo tried to shake off the hand.

Paul crawled even with Romo and said into his blood brother’s ear, “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Romo turned his head, staring blankly at him.

“You okay?” Paul asked.

Romo just kept staring.

“Let’s get up and hoof it from here,” Paul said. He climbed to his feet. While lying on the mud, Romo still stared at him, although now he craned his neck. Paul grunted as he hauled Romo upright. The man was shaking. He must be freezing. Romo breathed raggedly and was clearly out of it. It was one of their occupational hazards.

“Lean on me,” Paul said.

Romo did.

Helping each other, the two commandos lurched through the mud, with hovertanks searching for them. Fortunately, the enemy search patterns extended wider and farther afield than formerly, but that could quickly change.

It took another thirteen minutes before Paul guided Romo to the dirt bikes. They needed to get warm, and they needed to get the heck out of this entire area. By how hard the Chinese were searching, he knew he’d killed someone important. Maybe the smart round had been a mistake, at least in terms of his and Romo’s survival.

“We’ll know soon enough,” Paul muttered. He whipped away a camouflage tarp and righted his bike. Straddling it, he glanced back at Romo. The man just stood there.

“Let’s go!” Paul shouted.

Romo moved to his bike and even bent down. But that was it. He didn’t right the bike or himself. The man was in no condition to drive.

“Sit behind me,” Paul said, “and hold on tight.”

It took a second, but then like a robot, Romo obeyed and climbed behind Paul.

Paul kick-started the machine. The rain had turned into icy sleet. This wasn’t going to be easy or fun. With Romo on the seat, Paul half stood and twisted the throttle. The back tire slewed. Paul straightened the motorcycle and gave it more gas. The back tire spun wildly, spraying mud. Then, with a lurch, it shot forward.

Working their way through the muddy sea, the two commandos left the scene of the sniper attack.

Will we survive the night? Paul wondered. The hovertanks could still easily catch them, but right now they couldn’t see them. Well, if they died it wouldn’t be for a lack of trying to escape. Why did the drone operators have to run out of smart bombs? That had to change, or America was never going to win this war.

Soldier Rank Zhu Peng took apart his QBZ-95 assault rifle, sitting on a stool alone in the tent. He belonged to First Rank Tian Jintao’s squad of the Bai Hu Tezhongbing—White Tiger Commandos. Each sleeping bag in the tent was rolled tight, along with each foam sleeping mat. An electric lantern burned on a small campaign table, providing Zhu light. Outside, crickets chirped and occasionally he heard the grinding gears of heavy supply trucks in the distance.

Zhu’s rifle parts lay on a sheet. Beside it was his dinylon body armor, Qui 1000 jets, jetpack fuel tank, controls and other Eagle Team paraphernalia.

Although he didn’t look the part, Zhu was an elite Chinese soldier, one of the jetpack flyers. He was thin, practically frail looking, with gaunt cheeks and it appeared, innocent eyes.

He’d survived a lot since the California campaign. Most of the original members of his squad were dead. In fact, only First Rank Tian Jintao still lived.

Zhu picked up the skeleton of his QBZ-95 to clean it. The assault rifle was the Qing Buqiang Zidong-95. It had a bullpup configuration, meaning the weapon’s action and magazine were located behind the grip and trigger assembly. It fired caseless ammunition, giving it more bullets per magazine, also meaning the rifle didn’t have to open up after each shot to eject a spent case. With fewer moving parts and less exposure, the rifle jammed less often than other combat weapons. The QBZ-95 was quintessential proof of Chinese battlefield superiority. It was better and more advanced than similar American weapons. The advancement wasn’t overwhelming, but it helped give Chinese soldiers an edge.

I need more of an edge.

Zhu frowned thoughtfully. The others of the squad had joined Tian tonight in town. They’d found willing American women to spend a night of pleasure with them. Tian had taken extra food as payment.

Many Americans in the Occupied Territories were having trouble getting enough to eat. Zhu had heard some terrible stories. Chinese rear-area troops gathered supplies for the fighting soldiers and sent the rest south to Mexico. Some of the food went all the way to China. It left little for the Americans in the conquered zones. Still, if they were busy looking for enough to eat, they wouldn’t have the time or energy for partisan activities.

Zhu shook his head. Tian had suggested he come along and enjoy the fruits of conquest. Tian assured him that with the right inducements, American women were very willing. But he couldn’t go. Zhu still had much to learn concerning his new rank and responsibilities. During the Californian campaign, he’d been a rookie of Fighter Rank, newly arrived from China. The old enlisted ranking went private, corporal and sergeant. In the White Tigers, it went Fighter Rank, Soldier Rank and First Rank.

I am now Soldier Rank. The promotion had come through after the fighting in Los Angeles. The advancement made Zhu proud. More than ever, he wanted to live up to the image of an elite White Tiger.

Zhu began reassembling his assault rifle. Afterward, he took off his shirt and carefully laid it on the stool so it wouldn’t get dirty.

His ribs showed, with his stomach sucked in. Some of the others in the squad said he looked like a skeleton, like a man ready to meet Yan Luo—Death. Such comments made Zhu angry. He ate as much as he could, but extra meat never seemed to stick to his bones. He was cursed with a skinny frame.

First Rank Tian was a muscle-bound warrior of great skill. He was also Zhu’s best friend. Many times, Zhu had wondered if he should begin taking steroids. He wanted to be powerfully strong. He wanted to become the greatest warrior in the world.

In the electric lantern-light, Zhu took a Shaolin fighting stance. He’d learned the combat techniques in his youth, from a janitor in the orphanage. His parents had been old when they’d had him, and they had died shortly after his birth. In the State-run orphanage, bullies had tormented a very skinny and young Zhu Peng. Thanks to the janitor, he’d learned to fight back. Unfortunately, he had paid for his hard-won victories with beatings from the schoolmaster. They’d pulled down his pants in front of the others, caning him with bamboo rods until his butt was red. They had made him cry in front of the entire orphanage, telling him he needed to get along better.

In the tent, Zhu preformed the Shaolin maneuvers. He moved gracefully, slowly increasing the tempo. It helped calm him to do the moves. It also caused him to remember the janitor, one of his only friends in his earlier years.

How he longed to be a fierce warrior, able to dominate whomever he faced. So far, he had survived the American War, but he wanted to do more than survive; he wished to excel as a White Tiger Commando. He wanted to become the bravest and best of any who donned the jetpacks.

I’m too skinny and I’m still too weak. Therefore, I must practice and increase my skills. I must never let Tian Jintao or the others down.

After twenty minutes of practice, he dropped and did pushups. Zhu didn’t have bulky muscles like Tian. His were like strings—but strings of steel. They rose up on his arms as he did one after another pushup. Soon, he panted, with sweat appearing on his lean frame. In time, his arms quivered. Yet still he went up and down. Finally, he strained to do one more rep. He gritted his teeth and continued to strain until he collapsed, thumping onto the tent’s fabric.

Zhu closed his eyes, breathing for a time. One thing he’d learned in California. Sometimes during the fighting he became exhausted, utterly and completely so. With the flights, the shooting, the running with heavy gear, the hand-to-hand combat, passing ammo packs to the others, exhaustion would rush upon him. At those times, he wanted to quit. Yet if he gave up, his squad mates might die. His quitting therefore would be cowardice.

Of all things, Zhu dreaded being a coward. Many, many times in battle, he became scared. Bullets whizzing past his head, the crump of mortars, the roar of artillery and the distinctive sound of masonry falling around him—Zhu had never told anyone how frightened he became. Sometimes, tears welled in his eyes. Sometimes, he was terrified that he would piss his pants. What if one of his Bai Hu mates saw that? They would despise him, and they would brand him with the hated label of coward.

Therefore, he must train every chance he had to become proficient with his weapons. He must turn himself into steel, into an automaton of war. Zhu attempted to beat the weakness out of his body, out of his mind and out of his soul. That meant he couldn’t join the others as they lay with American women. Oh, Zhu wanted a woman. He dearly wanted to marry a good girl and have a son. He didn’t want to weaken himself, though, by enjoying the pleasure of sex for a brief moment. That might soften him. No! He had to harden himself against everything.

With a grunt, he pushed off the ground. Sweat slicked his skinny body. He donned clothes, dinylon body armor and strapped on the jetpacks. They were bulky and heavy. Taking his assault rifle, he tramped outside the tent.

Santa Fe loomed in the distance. It had been brutal there. Most of the city was now rubble with the skeletons of ferroconcrete buildings. The Americans had died hard, although some had surrendered at the very end. Those had been dirty and tired soldiers, many with starved looks.

Would I surrender if I lacked food? Zhu dearly hoped not. A brave soldier fought until he was dead. A White Tiger never surrendered. A White Tiger was the most ferocious and deadly soldier humanity had ever seen.

In his armor and Eagle Team jetpack, Zhu knelt and pinned a paper target to the ground.

He looked again at Santa Fe in the distance. Much nearer was the freeway looping around the city. Trucks moved on it day and night. American partisans often attacked those trucks, even though hundreds of partisans died attempting it. The survivors learned, and attacked again, doing the real damage.

Zhu and his squad-mates had been partisan-hunting for two weeks already. High Command wanted every shell and every bullet to reach the front, not burning in exploding trucks due to partisan ambushes.

Putting on his helmet, Zhu radioed the nearby outpost and the First Rank in charge of security. He didn’t want them to begin firing at him.

“I’m practicing,” he said.

“Is that you, Zhu?”

“Yes,” Zhu answered via the helmet’s radio.

“I thought Tian went to town for some skirt,” the First Rank said.

“He did.”

“Why didn’t you go with them for once?”

Zhu looked away. He couldn’t tell anyone that he practiced so much because he feared that deep inside he was a coward. “I’m trying a new technique,” he said.

“You work too hard,” the First Rank radioed. “You need to rest sometime. You’re supposed to be relaxing tonight.”

“This…this helps me relax,” Zhu said.

“You’re an animal. Go ahead then, practice.”

Zhu put his elbows on the armrests and activated the jetpack. The Qui 1000s purred with power. After years of effort, Chinese scientists had finally produced a rugged, fuel-efficient, battlefield jetpack. That had given China the Eagle Teams, the elite of the elite. Each Eagle Team flyer was a White Tiger, although not all White Tigers were Eagle flyers.

With a twist of the throttle and a spring with his legs, Zhu Peng shot into the air. He moved fast, gracefully and under perfect control. This was Zhu’s element. He might not have big muscles, but his flight-control was phenomenal. No one in the company could fly as well as he could.

A sense of well-being flooded through Zhu. He performed tricky maneuvers, going sideways, flipping, abruptly stopping his forward momentum and zooming away backward.

After each twenty-second interval of flight, Zhu automatically checked his fuel-gauge. Eagle Team flyers had died before, crashing to the ground because they ran out of fuel. There was probably nothing in the Chinese Army harder to perfect than flying and fighting during combat in a jetpack.

Now, Zhu focused on the target on the ground. He’d been thinking about this for some time. Usually, during flight, Eagle Team commandos used a grenade launcher carefully fitted to their left shoulder. Grenades were area-effect weapons. A commando was supposed to clear a landing zone for himself. Aiming with an assault rifle in flight took too much concentration. Eagle Team doctrine called for short, hopping flights because a flyer caught by the enemy in the air was soon dead.

Zhu had been thinking about that. He was good with a grenade launcher. But the partisans had learned to distinguish the whoosh of approaching Qui 1000 jets far too well. He wanted to be able to snipe them from the air as they ran away.

Building up speed, flying one hundred meters above the ground, Zhu turned off his jets. He went silent, using stubby glide wings. If the jets didn’t whoosh, the partisans had nothing to hear. Taking his elbows off the armrests, he grabbed his QBZ-95. It was attached to a side-rack. He saw the paper target in the dark and began firing. Unfortunately, he did it too long.

The realization struck him powerfully as he realized he headed down fast. He tried to rack the assault rifle—failed—and let it drop. He didn’t have any more time to stow it. He put his arms on the rests and grabbed the throttle. With a flick of his thumb, he turned the jets back on and gave them fuel.

The jets whooshed and he shot up. As he climbed, Zhu thought about what had just happened.

I almost panicked. How would that have helped me? I must train harder and learn to act calmly in ALL situations. Only then will I be worthy of being called a Bai Hu Tezhongbing.

Zhu turned in flight and began sweeping the area, searching for his gun. He didn’t see Tian watching him from a hidden position behind a large set of bushes. He didn’t see the other man with First Rank Tian Jintao. He didn’t hear the words Tian said, either.

Likely, the words would have surprised Zhu Peng. Even more likely, he would have thought they were joking about him.

Tian said, “There goes China’s most fearless warrior.”

“Why didn’t he join us tonight? The women were very eager to please.”

Tian laughed, although with a sneer. “Join the likes of us? We’re ordinary mortals. Zhu, he is something that comes along only once in a generation. I’ve never seen a flyer like him. Does that satisfy him, though? No. He demands godlike perfection in everything he does. Don’t let that skinny body fool you, or his meek attitude. Zhu Peng is the best White Tiger commando China possesses. Of that, I have no doubt.”

The two continued to watch Zhu fly in the darkness, their eyes shining with envious admiration.

Captain John Winthrop sat in the submersible’s command chair, with a cushion propped against the small of his back. There was a lump in the cushion. It always pressed against him too hard, constantly making him change position. His back had been hurting for months now and no matter what he did or how he sat, nothing seemed to help for long. The cushion was the latest experiment.

He sat ramrod straight even though that usually made it worse. A sub commander needed to project a certain image, especially during a combat run. He hadn’t slouched several months ago when he and the three-man crew had launched nuclear-tipped missiles at Santa Cruz, California. Those nukes had helped blunt the Chinese amphibious invasion of Monterey Bay. Yes sir, he had sat straight then and he certainly wasn’t going to slouch now.

The Santa Cruz attack had won him and the crew a promotion. It had also gotten them a fast refit of their small carbon fiber submersible. The upgrade had occurred in Seattle. It was an experimental addition and a new way for submarines to go about their business of ship destruction.

For the past two weeks, they had crawled along the bottom of the continental shelf toward Mexico, toward the Baja Peninsula and Mazatlan. The port was outside the Gulf of California and opposite the inner side of the Baja Peninsula in Mexico proper. Mazatlan was a major port for Chinese supplies used in the Midwestern invasion.

Tonight, they would test the experimental adaptations and see if and how they worked.

Captain Winthrop forced a smile onto his narrow face. Because of his back, the smile was painful but heartfelt. Truthfully, he’d like to launch another trio of nukes aimed smack-dab at the port. He wasn’t sure why High Command didn’t give the orders—not that their little submersible had nuclear-tipped Tomahawks anymore. No, such a privilege would have to go to someone else now.

Winthrop’s reasoning was straightforward. The Chinese used nukes. The U.S. should do the same thing, but with more of them. Well, the Chinese had used nuclear weapons. He hadn’t heard of them using anymore since the end of the Californian invasion. Maybe the Chinese and their South American allies figured they didn’t need to use them anymore to win.

“We’re in position, sir,” Warrant Officer Stevens said.

“Good,” Winthrop managed to say without any back-pain entering his words.

Stevens swiveled around. “Do you want me to launch the scout, sir?”

“No. I’ll do that.” With both hands on the armrests, Winthrop pushed himself to a standing position.

Merrimac was tiny as submarines went. It carried more fuel because the former Tomahawk launch tubes had been refitted into diesel tanks. Instead of the tubes as armaments, four drone vehicles resting on outer hull-racks rode with the submersible like pilot fish on a shark. Three crewmembers and a captain maintained everything, which meant they were all extremely overworked. High Command had refitted Merrimac for something the designers had never intended it to do: long-range attack runs.

Maybe not too long-range, Winthrop told himself.

The carbon fiber construction meant the sub couldn’t take hits or withstand the normal concussions a regular submarine could. Concussions came from anti-sub weapons such as depth charges. The Chinese had begun using nuclear charges, or they had for a little while. Maybe they would again. If that happened near the sub, they were all dead.

For protection, the boat used stealth instead of armor. Merrimac’s carbon fiber construction meant it had practically zero radar and very little sonar signature. The boat also ran silently on batteries; well, most of the time. It used a quiet diesel engine the rest of the time. That meant the little craft was nearly impossible to hear or spot. Now High Command had added another layer of deception and therefore protection. What you couldn’t see, you couldn’t hit, except with extreme luck. Submarine warfare was a giant game of percentages.

“We’re on the surface, sir,” Steven said.

Captain Winthrop strode stiffly out of the tiny command center, down a corridor and up a plastic ladder. When he reached up with a hand, the small of his back shot an agonizing twinge through his body. For some unaccountable reason, it made his jaw ache.

You stupid body. Why don’t you work right for once?

Winthrop forced up the hatch. Cool evening air gushed down and hit him in the face. He breathed the salty tang. He’d missed that these past few days.

With a few more lurches up the ladder, he stuck his head, shoulders and torso out of the hatch. The vast Pacific Ocean encircled the tiny craft. Surging water filled every horizon. He knew that straight east was Baja California, enemy territory. A bit farther south was the key port. Merrimac wasn’t going to make a direct attack against it, just the shipping.

Captain Winthrop breathed the ocean air and a giant swell lifted the carbon fiber boat. The stars shone brightly overhead and the moon slowly rose out of the ocean. It was great to be alive, and for a moment, his back felt fine.

The pain returned as he bent at the waist. It made his features twist with agony. He should’ve stayed in Seattle. He should have told someone how much his back hurt.

“No,” he said. The Chinese had killed his father at Lawrence Livermore Laboratory several years ago. Terrorists had lit a dirty nuke there. Everyone knew the Chinese had given the terrorists that nuke. This was simply another way to make the enemy pay for what they had taken from him.

With his long fingers, Winthrop opened seals and extracted a small UAV, a drone plane weighing nine pounds and eight ounces. He drew it out of its compartment and unfolded the wings, latching them into flight position. The UAV was a featherweight, but packed with high tech cameras and sensors. Its duty tonight was to go and find them a worthwhile target.

He checked the drone and finally lifted it. Taking a deep breath, raising it above his head, he waited until Merrimac climbed a swell. He turned on the UAV and the engine began to buzz, turning the propeller. With a grunt, he heaved the drone into the air. It gained speed and then buzzed even louder as it climbed sharply. From inside the sub, Stevens had it under radio control.

Winthrop grinned, watching the drone disappear into the starry darkness. He climbed down the ladder and shut the hatch. It was time to see if their little experimental gimmick was going to work. With that in mind, he climbed down the rest of the way and headed back to the command center…

Two hours and sixteen minutes later, Stevens said, “I think we have a winner, sir.”

Since launching the UAV, Merrimac had done its favorite disappearing trick. The submersible was deep underwater again. Normally, when it was at this depth, the sub would have never been able to receive radio information from the drone. A thin line attached the carbon fiber sub to a tiny buoy bobbing on the surface. The scout drone sent them signals through that.

A second, waterborne drone cruised through the Pacific like a shark. That drone had been attached to Merrimac’s side on the outer rack. Captain Winthrop had released it soon after reentering the command center. The drone was little more than a carbon fiber tube, running on battery power. It was a one-time device and it would never return to Merrimac.

“Put the image on the screen,” Winthrop said.

Stevens tapped his panel.

Despite his bad back, Captain Winthrop leaned forward, propping an elbow on the armrest. The scout had found a big transport ship. The Chinese vessel wallowed in the sea, showing it carried extra-heavy cargo.

“Maybe it’s more tanks,” Stevens said.

“Or artillery guns,” Winthrop said. “Either way, it’s a prime target.” He leaned back in his chair, shoving up against the cushion. He forced himself to relax as much as he could. The sub was small, but he was the captain. He had to keep his boys loose, and one did that through a calm demeanor.

“The Tomahawk drone is forty-seven miles away from the target,” Stevens said.

“Meaning it is well within range,” Winthrop said. He nodded. “Let’s do it.”

Once more Stevens tapped his panel.

As the scout UAV roamed the night sky, reporting with its radio what its camera and other sensors saw, the Tomahawk drone surfaced. It had been fifty feet below, with its own buoy providing a radio link to the scout. The scout radioed the Tomahawk drone the target’s coordinates. Robotically, the waterborne drone’s computer checked its components.

“We’re good, sir,” Stevens said, pointing at a green light on his panel.

Far out at sea, the Tomahawk drone went through a swift and simple transformation. It turned from a drone sub into a Tomahawk launch tube. The end sank and the front or top popped open. Seconds later, the Tomahawk’s nose appeared.

“Three, two, one…” Stevens said in the sub.

Under gas pressure, the Tomahawk missile ejected from the tube and into the air. All told the Tomahawk was eighteen feet and three inches in length. It weighed 3500 pounds. The solid-fuel booster kicked on as a ball of fire shot the Tomahawk higher.

“Ignition, sir,” Stevens said in the sub.

The booster quit several seconds later. The missile’s wings now unfolded. Their span was eight feet, nine inches. With a whirl and a click, the air-scoop appeared and the turbofan engine kicked on. The missile made an easy transition to cruise flight, heading toward the targeted Chinese vessel.

On his chair, Winthrop licked his lips. The Chinese Navy had been hunting down and destroying American submarines. There were a few left, but something had to change. This was one of those changes—if it worked.

“I see it, sir,” Stevens said. He was using the small drone as his camera eye.

Every eye aboard Merrimac watched the screen. The big Tomahawk cruise missile appeared, flying low over the water. It zoomed toward the heavily-laden Chinese cargo vessel.

Are they carrying tanks, or maybe more troops? Winthrop didn’t want to know if it was troops. He hadn’t told anyone, but he’d been having nightmares of launching the nuclear missiles at Santa Cruz. He was glad he’d done it. The Chinese hadn’t deserved any better. But all those men…he’d killed all those men by launching the Tomahawks. Had every Chinese soldier deserved to die so horribly?

Not all the dead were Chinese.

Winthrop didn’t want to think about that, either, but he did. He couldn’t help it.

“Look at it,” Stevens said.

The cruise missile sped straight toward the center of the Chinese cargo vessel. Whoever was out there didn’t have a chance. The missile bored in and struck, exploding its one thousand pound warhead.

A column of fire reached up into the sky. In slow motion, the huge cargo vessel cracked in half. It was awful. It was glorious. Men tumbled into the sea, so did big tank and huge crates. The splashes—

Winthrop turned away. They’d done it. The new system worked. If the Chinese hunted the killer—the launch tube—they would simply sink the empty Tomahawk drone. He had three more to fire before he crawled back to Seattle for another resupply.

“Wow,” Stevens said.

The other two crewmembers grinned at each other.

Winthrop forced a smile onto his face. His back hurt badly. It throbbed. “Shut down the scout,” he said.

“What if can find more—”

“Shut it down,” Winthrop said, with more force than he’d wanted. He needed to take some pills and get to sleep. His back was killing him.

“Good work, gentlemen,” he said. “Our country has found a winner in this combination. Now we want to write our reports and tell the brass hats back home we did it. They need our information as much as we need to make another…hit.”

He’d almost said kill. But he didn’t want to kill. He just wanted to destroy the Chinese capacity to wage war against America.

Private Jake Higgins of the Seventh CDMB—Colorado Detention Militia Battalion—lay on his stomach. It was night and he was cold, hungry and gaunt, and the seven of them were on the wrong side of Alamosa.

The seven of them, seven stragglers, seven SOBs who had been traveling northwest for weeks now. Jake was the only Militia member. A hard-bitten artillery sergeant led them, taking over when the lieutenant had bought it eight days ago. Back then there had been fifteen desperate soldiers.

Tonight, well east of Highway 285, they were seven U.S. soldiers remaining who had refused to surrender. They’d eluded the Chinese ever since the cauldron battle around Amarillo, Texas had destroyed their formations and pounded the living into bloody dust. From there they had crawled cross-country, avoiding enemy patrols and aircraft sweeps, reaching northeastern New Mexico. After a near-fatal ambush by a Chinese garrison platoon, they passed Trinidad in southeastern Colorado. Now the seven of them needed to race across the 285 south of Alamosa. They were trying for the Rio Grande National Forest, believing the wilderness area would be outside Chinese occupation.

Jake looked like a younger version of his father, Stan Higgins, but he’d lost weight these past weeks. It gave him the staring eyes of a wild dog on the run, with similar stark ribs. His uniform was ragged and dirty, his coat had holes and the soles of his boots were far too thin. His feet ached all of the time, causing him to limp.

One thing Jake knew. He wasn’t going to surrender, ever. His dad had been a history prof and had told him many grim stories about American prisoners in Japanese hands during WWII. His grandfather had been a colonel and fought in Afghanistan, and he’d told him stories about what the Taliban had done to those they captured. Jake would rather starve to death then get his head cut off by a screaming fanatic or have a prison guard slap him across the face because he didn’t bow deeply enough.

I’m an American. We don’t bow to anyone.

The goons in the Colorado Detention Center had tried to teach him otherwise, but he’d resisted them, too. A real American stood up for what he believed in.

“Get ready,” the sergeant told them, speaking in the darkness.

Jake was hungry and his feet hurt. Stretched out on the ground, he just wanted to close his eyes and sleep…maybe forever.

In the distance he could hear Chinese choppers. They could be hunting for them or maybe they were just transport machines. The enemy moved supplies north no matter the time of night or the weather. He’d taken note of that these past miserable weeks.

The lieutenant, when he’d been alive, had talked to a New Mexico partisan nine days ago. The sixty-three year-old had told the lieutenant how some of them blew up Chinese supply dumps at night. They were thinking about sniping enemy soldiers now, too. The lieutenant had given the old-timer one of the M2 .50 calibers and several boxes of ammunition. The old patriot had given the lieutenant directions, freeze-dried packets of food and a package of dried apricots. Jake’s three apricots had been the best-tasting food of his life. After the exchange, the old man had asked them to join up and help him set up a harder-hitting guerilla operation.

Some of the men had liked the idea, but not the lieutenant. He’d been set on returning to American lines, rejoining the Army and killing the invaders soldier-to-soldier.

As Jake lay on the cold ground, listening to the distant whomp-whomp of enemy helos, he wondered if that might have been a good idea. The old-timer had told the lieutenant about White Tiger commandos hunting down Army stragglers. The Chinese were ruthless about it, and they were as tricky as rattlesnakes.

Craning his neck, Jake looked up into the dark sky. The stars blazed. Too bad the seven of them weren’t riding in a helo. It beat hoofing it on the hard ground when your feet pulsated with pain at each step.

“Let’s go,” the sergeant said. “Move it.”

Through an effort of will, Jake forced himself to his feet. Straps dug into his shoulders. He had an ancient M-16 and he carried extra ammo in his pack. He wished it were food.

“Hurry it now,” the sergeant said. “We don’t have all night.”

Seven hungry U.S. soldiers began trudging toward the Southern Rockies. They moved single file, ghosts of the battlefield, seeking their units so they could flesh out and fight toe-to-toe against the hated invaders once again.

“What’s that?” a man said. It sounded like Tito speaking.

“Stop,” the sergeant said. He was a tall man like a stork. Nothing seemed to bother him. His hearing was bad, though. “What is it?” he asked. “What do you hear?”

“It’s a hissing sound,” Tito said. “Doesn’t anyone else hear it? It’s coming from up there.” An arm pointed skyward.

Jake was too tired and hurting to look up. He was sick of the straps digging into his shoulders. He was hungry. Even a stale slice of bread sounded good. Then the hissing sound intruded upon his hearing. What is that? He cocked his head. Yeah, the hissing was getting louder so it almost came from straight up over him.

“They’re Eagle commandos!” Tito shouted. “Look, I can see one silhouetted in the sky.”

Jake slid his M-16 into his hands, readied it and looked up. As he did, Tito opened fire, his assault rifle blazing flame from the end of the barrel.

“You fool!” the sergeant roared. “You’re giving us away. Scatter.”

Jake used to be fast on his feet. He’d had quick reflexes once. That had been with a full stomach and after plenty of sleep. He frowned dully now as he kept scanning the sky, looking for the flyers Tito shot at.

Several of the seven, including the sergeant, scattered in various directions as if they’d been mice under a water bowl a farmer had just lifted.

Tito kept firing into the night until his assault rifle clicked dry, out of bullets. The soldier cursed and began switching magazines.

Jake heard a helo now, and it was much closer than before. He hit the dirt and began crawling away.

Tito slapped another magazine into his weapon and stood there, firing into the starry sky.

Jake crawled, and he kept glancing up. The whomp-whomp of the helicopter had become loud. The way Tito kept firing, he must have lost it. They’d all been on edge since the lieutenant had bought it, ready to call it quits and surrender. They’d been without food for too long. Starvation, more than anything else, sapped a man’s courage.

In the sky, way up there with the stars, a Chinese Gunhawk opened fire with heavy machine guns. It was a horrifying sight: a menacing Fourth of July fireworks that killed with brutal efficiency. Bloody body-chunks ripped off Tito, the heavy bullets shredding the soldier where he stood.

The sight—Jake gasped, unable to breathe, but he kept on crawling. He kept his head down now and moved. He heard more hissing sounds, and that indicated Chinese jetpack flyers. The bastards must be searching for the rest of them, coming down low to finish the job.

“The Sergeant’s hit!” a soldier shouted in the darkness.

Jake squeezed his eyes shut and shoved his forehead against the ground. It was hard to think. He wanted to rave like a lunatic. He wanted this nightmare to end. Why couldn’t it ever end?

The Gunhawk continued to blaze fiery death, showers of bullets. It was Armageddon for the seven survivors. This was it, die time.

“Die fighting,” Jake whispered to himself. His grandfather used to tell him that and so had his dad. Yeah, his dad had told him hundreds of stories of brave last stands: Thermopylae where three hundred Spartans had faced off thousands of Persians, the Alamo where American heroes had given the bird to the Mexican Army and William Tell the crossbowman who had taught the Austrian knights what tough Swiss mountaineers could do.

It was so different crawling in the dirt under Chinese heavy machine gun fire than it was sitting on the rug at home listening to your dad talk.

“Screw it!” Jake hissed. He trembled from fear and adrenaline. He couldn’t stop it. But the thought keep pounding through him: How many times can I die?

With a convulsive shrug of his shoulders, he slid off the ammo pack. It thudded onto the dirt beside him. He shoved up to his feet and he ran for the sergeant. Were the Chinese using night vision? Sure, it was almost a certainty. What did it matter, though? You only died once.

Jake felt something: a terrible premonition that meant death. His neck hairs bristled and his body went icy. He launched himself off his feet as if doing a flying tackle. He thrust the M-16 in front of him and he hit the ground hard with his chest. The breath knocked out of him. Inches behind him something exploded. It lifted him, blew him forward so he tumbled head over heels. If he hadn’t had jumped, it would have blown him in two.

He lay dazed on the ground. It was crazy. The world spun. But something in him was on fire. Mechanically, he rolled onto his stomach, and he kept crawling. He spied the sergeant, the long twisted figure of a soldier.

“Sergeant?” Jake asked.

There was no answer from the man. There never would be. The sergeant was dead.

Jake lunged forward and wrestled the last Blowdart missile off the sergeant’s back. The tough guy had insisted on carrying it, saying he would decide when they needed it.

The Blowdart was a hand-held, expendable anti-air rocket launcher. Jake grabbed it, flipped the switches and lifted up onto one knee. He aimed the sights at the Gunhawk way up there, too high for their last .50 caliber to reach. The Blowdart beeped. He had lock-on, baby.

Jake muttered a curse against the Chinese and pressed the trigger. The Blowdart whooshed. He felt the blast on his shoulder. The rocket launched with vengeance and sped upward into the darkness.

Jake hurled the tube away. It hit on an end, flipped and landed on gravel. He grabbed his M-16 off the ground, climbed to his feet and ran. He didn’t look up. Instead he hunched his shoulders and concentrated on running as fast as he could.

Time seemed to slow down. He could feel his thudding heart. Air burned down his throat and each crashing pound of his feet seemed to send spikes up his shins. The shock of the near miss still messed with his perceptions. Then a terrific explosion transpired up in the sky. It had to be the most beautiful sound Jake had ever heard in his life, even better than the time Lucy had said, “Yes, I want to do it.”

One of the remaining U.S. soldiers let out a rebel yell.

Jake slid to a halt and looked up. Burning Gunhawk chopper lit the night sky with illumination like an old-time Very flare. Now he could see some of them flying Eagle jetpack whores.

Jake lifted his M-16, sighted the nearest, led the freak and started firing. In seconds, the flyer did a flip and plunged earthward. Oh, but that was a sight, and even though Jake didn’t know it, he was grinning from ear-to-ear.

From on the ground, other American guns opened up.

The Eagle Team flyers fled, but not before two more of them went down.

After the last of those thudded hard, bouncing up and crashing again, Jake turned to the others.

“Let’s go!” he shouted. “They’ll be coming back with more. We can bet on that.” He had to shout again until the two remaining Americans lowered their weapons and listened.

“What are we going to do?” asked a short Alabamian with a pimpled face. He’d been the one to give the rebel yell.

“Let’s check the dead,” Jake said. “But we have to move fast after that. First we pick the best weapons and—”

“We can’t head west anymore,” the Alabamian said.

“You want to play guerilla with the Chinese until we’re dead?” Jake asked. “Or do you want to get back home?”

“Alabama?”

“No, you idiot, the American Army,” Jake said.

“We’d better quit jawing about it,” Jamal said. “The Chinese will be back soon. They don’t like seeing their boys die to us.”

The last three Americans hurried, checking their buddies and the dead flyers.

“Maybe we ought to use these jetpacks,” Jamal said.

“You know how to fly one?” Jake asked.

“Naw,” Jamal said. “But I bet I could learn.”

“Look at this,” Jake said. “Jackpot. This one is carrying food.”

Soon the three of them stuffed their faces with Chinese rations. Jake kept chewing and swallowing rice. Then he heard the distant sound of helos.

“We have to go,” he said.

They did. The three of them strode away in the night, trying to put as much distance as they could between them and this latest ambush. It was now or never to get to the 285, cross it and head for the Rio Grande National Forest.