Invasion: China (Invasion America) (Volume 5) (12 page)

Despite the kill, and another
on the other side of Jake, twelve Behemoths survived the laser tank onslaught. One tank still partly worked, but its engine died with a squeal of metal parts. The battle was over for that Behemoth.

Twelve great American beasts relentlessly continued their trek to Oklahoma City and First Front HQ.

We’re doing it
, Jake thought. Aloud he said, “The enemy doesn’t have anything that can stop us now. We’re going to crush them.” He laughed. “We’re making history, gents. It’s possible we’re ending the war right here.”

BEIJING,
CHINA

Police Minister Shun Li watched in horror as real-time footage played upon the left wall. They met on the second floor in the War Room of the Cho En Li Building in Mao Square.

On the wall, a
huge MC ABM blew up, the first of many, victims to the hated American Behemoths. The wall showed it all: the jagged metal shards sailing through the air, exploding dirt as they hit and pieces of bloody uniforms fluttering in the wind.

Every member of the Ruling Committee watched the destruction
, nine ultra-powerful men and women. At the head of the conference table, Chairman Hong folded his hands across his black-suited stomach. He had a small potbelly, but acted today like a calm Buddha, with every emotion under control.

“Marshal Meng wishes to report,”
a communications major told them.

“Yes,” Chairman Hong said. “By all means, let us hear the worst.”

Tall Marshal Chao Pin—a sixty-year-old with white hair—gave the Chairman an unreadable glance. A week ago, the old man had eagle eyes of flashing pride. Today, the orbs could have been carved out of glass. His vaunted plan to defang the Americans had failed miserably, leaving him dazed.

A moment later, Marshal
Meng’s image appeared on the wall. He looked like a giant talking to pygmies, his head ten times the size of any of their bodies. He had a mole on his right upper lip and another one over his left eyelid. His skin looked wan and slack, and his eyes were haunted.

“I attempted to coordinate the laser tank attack with a flight of
bombers,” Meng said in a shaken voice. “American stealth drones in the stratosphere provided pinpoint intel for their newest weapon system, a particle beam tac-vehicle. It’s a new American machine, a tracked platform able to keep up with their deepest penetration units, giving them antiair coverage.”

“You
still have several reserves left,” Chao Pin said. “The 34th and 15th Mechanized and the 9th Armor Division—”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Marshal Meng said. His teeth were far too yellow. The wall screen was unkind in its precision details. “The Eighth Corps is too far away from Oklahoma City
to affect—”

“No, no,”
Chao Pin said. “If you drive into the American flank from the west, you can upset their resupply schedule. We have learned from past battles that the Behemoths devour a massive amount of fuel and need continuous maintenance. If you can destroy the following Jeffersons—”

Something stiffened on Marshal Meng’s face. Shun Li realized it was hope.

“Yes!” Meng said. “With a coordinated Brazilian strike—ladies and gentlemen, if you will permit my temporary absence—”

“Yes,”
Chao Pin said, without asking Chairman Hong. “See to it. We will await the outcome.”

As
Meng’s image disappeared from the wall, Shun Li cast a sly glance at Chairman Hong. His thumbnails plucked idly a button on his tunic. Clearly, he bided his time.

Nervously,
Shun Li licked her lips. She didn’t like this one bit. Early this morning, she had discovered the reality of the East Lightning murder squads. The idea of killing Chinese generals in the forward divisions appalled her. Her people had aided the Americans. If the truth ever got out, the world would blame her. Never mind her name in the history books—she dreaded torture.

Hong has made me his tool. By using my people, he forces me to obey his will, or I will die hideously
. No matter which way I turn, I’m doomed
.

OKLAHOMA, FORWARD EDGE OF THE BATTLE AREA

A mixture of worry and growing battle anger seethed through
Paul Kavanagh.

He sat beside the open bay door of a tri-jet-assisted Cherokee helicopter. A dozen sleek machines painted prairie brown and yellow flashed through a surviving enemy antiair belt.
This maneuver was risky. High Command was putting all its chips down on the board and rolling the dice. General McGraw obviously sought a strategic victory in one bold stroke, and this was simply another part of it.

Paul swore under his breath.

A Chinese missile streaked into the sky, leaving a dirty trail of fumes. The gunmetal-colored object zeroed in on the helicopter to Paul’s right. In a moment, the missile connected like a fist to the face, and a fiery explosion obliterated the craft. Smoke billowed thickly and parts rained out of the cloud. Something swishing end-over-end burst out of the haze and sped like an arrow at Paul’s helo.

A computer-slaved fifty-caliber machine gun sent tracers at the
man-sized length of shrapnel. The bullets missed in a long line of what looked like red sparks.

A lurch of Paul’s stomach told him their pilot saw the danger. The
man yanked the Cherokee up. The pilot was a twitchy boy with fantastic reflexes, a punk who flew as if the helicopter was a bucking bronco. The action saved their lives.

A hot concussion of force struck Paul’s face then—the aftereffects of the missile’s warhead.
It let him know how close he’d come to dying and breaking his promise.

What the—?

Leaning out of the bay door, feeling the restraints press against his chest, Paul saw the spinning piece of shrapnel flash underneath them. Sparks showered and Paul felt a jarring vibration as the rotating shrapnel knifed the helicopter’s undercarriage. He expected a beehive-pod to burst open or them to ignite in flames. Instead, the ex-helo blade ricocheted away, heading for the ground.

Paul exhaled, only then realizing he’d been holding his breath. That had been
too close. The pilots flew in close formation and far too low to the ground. Platform-launched missiles weren’t supposed to have time for lock-on.

“Amigo!” Romo shouted. “You’ll
get your head blown off leaning out like that.”

Paul pulled himself back into the helo, glancing at his best friend and the others piled in here like metallic gorillas.
Before he could respond to his friend, a voice crackled in his ear-link. The pilot gave them a warning.

Many of the suited gorillas shifted positions. Some leaned forward. Paul leaned back, resting his head against a cushion. He curled his fingers under the seat, hanging on tight. A second later, the machine’s tri-jets ignited. The Cherokee leapt forward
like a cougar jumping off a rock. The helicopter nosed downward as it raced like a NASCAR maniac.

“The pilot’s crazy!” Romo shouted.

The damp Oklahoma ground with its gopher holes and yellow prairie flowers flashed past them outside. The surface was fifty feet away. That was bad enough. The pilot lurched left, went hard right and the tri-jets screamed with noise. The Cherokee hauled butt over enemy territory. They still had twenty, maybe twenty-five miles to go.

For a second, Paul witnessed the muzzle flashes of surprised Chinese soldiers firing up out of their trenches.
A different man tucked his shlong away, zipped up his pants and dove for his rifle. To the left, another missile lofted after them.

Would the missile chase the Cherokees? Maybe. He knew their pilot or one of the others deployed chaff. Computers certainly tracked the missile with radar, using fifty-calibers or beehive flechettes to try to knock it down.

With these sorts of things—the mission—the wait to get into action drove a man crazy with anxiety.

Kavanagh knew the
Chinese 34th Mechanized Division belonged to the enemy’s final reserve. According to the briefing officer twenty minutes ago, the 34th had received orders to counterattack the leading American formations.

“Ten minutes to
drop,” the colonel said over the battle-net.

“Roger,” Paul vocalized into his throat
microphone. His stomach did a flip. It would squeeze now until he jumped. No matter how many times he fought, he had to go through the ritual of fear. What? Did he want to live forever?

Yeah I do. Forever and ever and eve
r. I’m going to kiss you again, baby.

He grinned, and several commandos glancing his way, tough hombres each one, paled and looked elsewhere.

Paul released the bottom of his seat and picked up his headgear. It was heavy and bulky, just like a knight’s pot helm back in the Middle Ages. He fit the helmet over his head and locked it onto the battlesuit. Chinning a lever, he opened the visor, listening to tiny gears whine.

“ETA, five minutes
,” the colonel said.

The landscape looked the same: flat with flowers. Paul licked his lips and closed the visor. Immediately, he could hear himself breath
e.

He closed his eyes tight and opened them wide.

Flat with flowers, and filled with death. Oklahoma had it all: rifles, grenades, flamethrowers, mortars, artillery, infantry fighting vehicles, tanks, laser-cannons, drones, UAVs, fighters, bombers and EMP missiles. The only thing missing were nuclear warheads, and who knew? Maybe they would rain down, too.

“ETA, one minute,” the colonel radioed.

With a gloved hand, Paul unhooked his buckles and forced himself to stand. His gut shriveled and he blinked several times. This was the first battle where he wore a jetpack into the fight.

With a sig
h, Paul flipped on the Chinese generator and listened to it purr. The thing vibrated against his back. Using his throttle hand, he revved the engine.

With a lurching step, Paul brought himself to the open bay
door. Using his free hand, he grabbed a handhold and leaned out, feeling the wind push his body. He looked ahead and saw Chinese vehicles in the prairie. They’d circled like old-time pioneers used to against Comanche raiders. That must be the divisional HQ, a mobile group and their chosen target. In the distance, a dust cloud billowed. Those would be tri-turreted tanks, maybe several dozen of them churning up dirt.

“Enemy rockets
coming!” the colonel shouted into Paul’s ear. “Start your drops.”

Paul almost vocalized his
objections. The pilot was supposed to take them up first, give them some maneuvering, some flying room. There were too many enemy vehicles nearby, and he saw Chinese soldiers running to a firing line. Most of them held weapons.

He saw r
ockets and missiles zooming in the air for them, a deadly flock launched from mobile platforms: trucks and jeeps mostly. Counter-fire blazed as Cherokee chainguns and beehive flechettes filled the air with metal.

“
Today I take scalps,” Romo said.

It was hard to force his fingers loose of the handhold. Paul did it anyway as he leaned out of the bay door. He’d already folded open the jetpack’s flying arm.
He rested his right elbow on it and grasped the maneuverable joystick throttle. The thing was tricky to work right. Then Paul found himself falling, with the ground rushing up to greet him.

He
revved the engine to get it ready. At the same time, he violently kicked his legs to the right. Jetpack flying took strong abs to do correctly. He aligned the nozzles just so and opened the throttle wide. If the engine didn’t kick in precisely now—
It did, and it hurled him forward so he rushed over the nearing ground. He had seconds to g
ain vertical lift. He should be out of range of the Cherokee’s spinning blades by now. Violently, he swung his legs again. G forces slammed against him and forced his head low. He lifted, though. He went up and up, and he saved his life by doing it then.

Other commandos lacked his gifts. A black-clad trooper plowed against prairie dirt
, throwing up flowers and grass divots. The soldier tumbled and his arms and legs flopped wildly. The impact must have snapped the man’s spine. He became a broken doll, another mindless statistic in a savage war for global supremacy.

The knot in Paul’s gut loosed at that precise instant. The fear vanished and anger pulled his lips back. Paul’s
college teammates of many years ago would have recognized the look as he sprinted to tackle a running back.

The colonel barked orders through their
headphones. Then the talk didn’t matter anymore. Explosions and wild concussions made everything confusion. Chinese trunks flipped as Cherokee missiles slammed home. Impacted helicopters rained metal parts and dead men, and followed the junk to crash onto the prairie. There must have been enemy jets up there. Or maybe the Chinese HQ people had better antiair hardware than the SOCOM experts had realized.

It became a balls-up, maybe a
complete disaster. Nothing went right.

Paul no longer cared or even consciously thought about much of anything.
Cheri had seen the look before. Once, in their garage, she had put her hands to her mouth at the crazy number of wasps boiling around a monster nest. Paul had taken three quick steps and pressed his finger on a Raid nozzle, spraying until foam covered every inch of moving mass.