Invasion: China (Invasion America) (Volume 5) (21 page)

As Paul stared at the Earthly blue of his planet, he realized something else, too. He’d refused to think about it
before this.

A grin tightened his lips.

This was better than talking to a shrink—contemplation time as he floated into position while riding a stratospheric balloon. Seeing the curve of the Earth, the sheer beauty, the uniqueness of the planet—it gave him perspective. It let him admit some things to himself that otherwise he’d kept buried deep inside.

Back near Stillwater, Oklahoma, as
he’d been stretched on the ground watching those mushroom clouds grow, terror had coursed through his body. He’d been scared before, but never like that. It had been worse than the time against the AI Kaiser in Toronto, Ontario against the GD. How did one fight nukes? At least a guy could find a way to take out a smart tank.

Yeah, the terror had changed his thinking. Paul hated hopelessness. Feeling his gut tighten
like that…

As he sat in the capsule, t
he grin turned into a silent snarl. To be hopeless made him angry. There had to be a way to hit back against the Chinese. Until that moment in Oklahoma, he would have been content to drive the invaders out of the country. Lying there, with his guts sick with terror, Paul had wanted to strike back at them. The Chinese wanted to come to America and play their filthy games, well baby, they were going to learn what a pissed-off, angry American could do.

Paul
had volunteered when a general asked him if he wanted to join an elite team to take the war overseas. Hell yeah, he jumped on that bandwagon. If the enemy wanted to drop nukes—
Now you’re fighting me
, Mr. Chinaman. Now you’re pissing in my face and calling it Cool Aid, and laughing about it.

That’s why he was sitting in this capsule, with nausea threatening to make him puke. That’s why he wanted to be a
powered armored Marine, one of the first. He didn’t know the exact plan, but he knew it meant an orbital drop into enemy territory. He knew it meant exotic science fiction weapons and some kind of funky new battle armor.

This was the worst kind of war, more brutal than a knife fight. He’d made his promise to Cheri. With all his might, he would try to come home. First, he had to finish th
e war and make it safe for his wife and boy. Otherwise, what was the point anyway, right?

Paul exhaled, and tried not to squirm. The
capsule continued to rise at 750 feet per minute. How much longer was this going to take?

Ten minutes later, the ground controller radioed,
“You’re approaching deployment height.”

Romo picked up his helmet. Paul grabbed his.

“Seeing this,” Romo said, as he indicted Earth. “It makes you think.”

“Yeah,” Paul said.
“It does at that.”

“Where is Mexico and where is America?”

“Down there.”

“Si. Down there, together, one.”

The other three trainees glanced at Romo.

“You’re t
urning into a romantic,” Paul said.

“Maybe I am,” Romo said
, with a thoughtful look on his hard features. “I’ve never seen the Earth like this. I have been thinking.”

“I suppose we
all have,” Paul said.

The others nodded in agreement.

“It is too bad we must war on each other,” Romo said.

“It is what it is
,” Paul said.

“Will men always fight
and kill each other?” Romo asked, with uncharacteristic lines appearing in the man’s forehead.

“Seems like it to me.
We’re not angels, although sometimes I wonder if we’re devils.”

“Si. I suppose you are right
: men will always fight. It is too bad.” The former assassin sighed.

Paul wanted to needle Romo
about his reflective moment, but he didn’t have it in him, not up here floating above Earth.

Quietly, with the clunk of metal, the
five trainees donned their helmets.

Paul twisted his until he heard it latch. Then he began to check
his suit’s seals. After he finished the rundown, he turned on the pressure unit, listening to it hiss. Once he opened the capsule’s hatch, the full-pressure suit would be his only protection until he reached the lower, safer levels of the atmosphere. The suit could protect him from extreme variations: from plus 100 degrees Fahrenheit to minus 90.

Checking a gauge, he saw that it had pressurized to 3.5 pounds per square inch, the rough equivalent of the atmospheric pressure at 35,000 feet. The suit would protect him from embolism, and it would prevent decompression sickness, or the “bends,” as he plummeted back to Earth.

He continued to check his equipment, making sure the chutes were in place and ready to deploy. The five of them were thick bundles now, in this small compartment, five mortals in a place men had no right to be.

I’m not even an astronaut, a spaceman. I’m just a
n orbital dropping wannabe
. He’d never expected something like this. Even though he was in his forties, it brought back some of that feeling of his twenties when he’d first joined the Marines. It was good to feel that, made him seem alive.

“Sergeant Kavanagh,” the
ground controller said. “You will move to the hatch.”

Working on his suit and chutes had kept him busy. That had kept the nausea at bay. The order triggered it again.
Could fear be doing that? He didn’t want to admit such a thing, not even to himself.

Paul began to unbuckle
. Try as he might not to, he dry heaved as he did it.

You should have taken the
anti-nausea pill
. He didn’t like them. They made him feel achy and sleepy. Yet the DIs and other trainers had relentlessly drummed one thing into them. They must listen
exactly
to the instructions.

Paul recalled the first time they’d told him that.
“This is a brand new endeavor, recruit. You’re trying to become a new kind of Marine in the space age. There’s never been an orbital drop before. You live by our rules, or we flush you like an unwanted goldfish. Do you understand?”

How many times had they asked him that? He’d sig
ned forms, etc.,
etc.
They still harped on perfect obedience.

I’m not a dog. I’m a man.

Yeah. They wouldn’t care about that. If he threw up in his pressure suit…they would know he hadn’t taken the anti-nausea pill. He didn’t want them to know, because they might flush Paul Kavanagh out of the program. He couldn’t fail. He had to pass. He had to become a space-dropping specialist so he could pay back the Chinese for making him scared in Oklahoma.

“Sergeant Kavanagh?”
the ground controller asked.

He chinned on his communit. “Getting to
the hatch now,” he muttered.

“Your pulse rate is higher than normal.
”

“What?”

“We’re monitoring your pulse rate. Are you feeling well?”

“
I’m feeling super,” he said.

“Sergeant Kavanagh, strict honesty is the policy. If you cannot comply—”

“Your systems must be goofy,” Paul said. “I’ve never felt better.”

“Re
turn to your seat, Sergeant.”

“Negative,” Paul said. “I’m doing this.”

The other four candidates swiveled their visors to watch him.

Paul stood,
taking the step to the hatch. He dry heaved once more.

“Did you take your anti-nausea pill?” the
ground controller asked.

Paul realized
his internal communit was still broadcasting. A trickle of sweat beaded down his forehead. He felt awful. With his chin, he turned off the comm and dry heaved so vomit burned the back of his throat.

Ignore it. Get on with the job
.

He couldn’t ignore it.
He dry heaved again and feelings of claustrophobia struck. So, he pressed a switch and his visor slid opened. He exhaled, saw the others watching him and closed the visor. Slowly, as the suit re-pressurized, he reached the hatch.

“Sergeant Kavanagh,
you must know we have a visual of the capsule. Are you vomiting?”

“It’s no big deal,” he radioed. “
A few dry heaves.”

“Did you forget to take the anti-nausea pill?”

“No, I didn’t forget. I just didn’t do it.”

“You disobeyed a direct order?”

“Yeah, I guess I did.”

“At least he’s being honest,” someone down there said.

“You will sit down—”

“No,” Paul said. “If
I’ve just flushed out of the program, I’m at least going to do one drop.”

“No,” the ground controller said. “If you—”

“Let him do it,” another man said. “I’m curious if someone in his condition can do it without a pill.”

Despite the nausea, t
he next few minutes were amazing. First, Paul decompressed the compartment. It wouldn’t do for him to open the hatch and have the escaping air expel outside before he was ready.

“
Are you in position?” the ground controller asked.

“Roger that,” Paul said. He moved a lever, turned a wheel and
swung open the hatch. Then he looked outside. The Earth was below in its glorious panorama. He could see the curvature of the planet and marveled once more at its bluish atmosphere. Far down below was the United States of America. He was going to land down there in Montana, if he could summon the guts to leap.

He
heard the harsh sound of his breathing. This was awesome, like the highest high dive on the planet. He remembered his youth when he used to cliff dive forty feet or more.

Sergeant Kavanagh laughed as he forgot
about being sick.

“Why is he laughing?” someone down there asked.

“This is great,” Paul whispered. Then he pushed off. It was just like cliff diving. He pushed away, and he dropped from the capsule. A rear camera on his helmet let him view the round balloon and the capsule holding his blood brother. In seconds, he lost sight of the balloon.

At that point,
it felt as if he just hung in space. He recalled a time surfing, the most serene moment in his life. It had been in Oceanside near Camp Pendleton, the California Marine training base. Winter surfing demanded a wet suit. The gray sky made it impossible to tell, as he lay on his surfboard, to see where the ocean ended and where the sky began. The ocean waves just rolled in. The waves sucked for surfing that day, but they had been perfect for just lying there, serene. It had been the one moment in his life where he went Zen peaceful.

This was like that, floating in the stratosphere. Actually, he dropped, gaining speed as he went.
He grinned. That lasted a minute. Slowly, the grin began slipping away as the nausea returned.

“How are you feeling?”
the ground controller asked.

“Like I twirled around too many times doing ring-around-the—
rosie.”

“You do that often, Sergeant?”
the other man asked.

“I did as a kid. What, you never did?”

“Watch your mouth,” the ground controller said. “The general is talking to you.”

Paul might have said he was sorry about that. He wasn’t. Screw them anyway. He was a speck of nothing, picking up speed. Look at the Earth, just look at it. This was crazy. According to the briefing, he’d be going supersonic soon.

As he free fell, Paul wondered why no one had tried inserting Special Forces personnel into China already like this. Maybe they had. Maybe SEALs used exotic equipment, gliding across the Pacific Ocean and quietly dropping into China to commit acts of sabotage. That would be the ultimate. Well…no…being an orbital-dropping Marine was going to be the ultimate.

How was that going to work anyway? The candidates had already gone through
grueling tests. They were looking for the best of the best. Paul figured he was one, but was that really true?

He knew one thing. He was the oldest candidate. Talk about working overtime to stay in shape…

Oh wow, he began to notice movement. It was no longer quite so dark around him. He couldn’t see the curvature of the planet, either.

“He’s at four hundred and fifteen miles per hour
, sir.”

Paul
groaned. He couldn’t help it as his stomach gurgled. Clenching his teeth, he ran a litany in his mind:
You will not vomit; you will not vomit. One time, the throat burn before, that’s all you’re allowed
.

The struggle took
all his concentration. By the time the nausea passed, the world had turned fully normal again.

“Six hundred and seventy-five miles per hour,”
the ground controller said in his headphones.

Paul had already assumed the skydiving position. As he reached seven hundred miles per hour, he moved
incorrectly, putting his arm in the wrong place. He rolled, tried to correct and only made it worse. Now he began to spin, and it accelerated faster than he could believe.