Invasion: California

by Vaughn Heppner

  FIRST FRONT HEADQUARTERS, MEXICO

  Despite his infirmities and weakness, Marshal Nung struggled to awareness. He found himself lying in bed, with medical equipment surrounding him and with tubes attached to his arms.

  He lay still for several seconds, attempting to collect his thoughts. The attack began tonight. He must return to his post and oversee the greatest assault in history. He couldn’t let General Pi make the key operational decisions. He couldn’t let Marshal Gang report this and take over command.

  This is my hour in the sun. You must be at your post.

  Nung opened his eyes to signal the nurse fiddling with one of the machines. This was odd. He couldn’t lift his arm. Nor did she seem to be aware of his efforts.

  Concentrate, Nung. Will your body into obedience.

  He cleared his throat and he concentrated, but it brought zero results. This is ridiculous. In desperation, he thought back to his younger years. The others in school had always looked upon him as the country oaf. They had mocked him. But he had shown all of them by studiously applying himself and excelling at everything he did. It had only made things worse, as he had been too outspoken about his successes. Upon entering the military, his troubles in that regard had worsened. The petty intriguers, the legion of yes-men, he had found himself hating all of them and striving night and day. They had sent him to Moscow, and oh, how he had applied himself. The others of his military class had hated him the more for it. Only the Chairman of yesteryear had really appreciated him.

  The old man had loved a winner is why. But you aren’t winning in the sick bed, Nung. If you fail now…Gang and his kind will use that against you. The mockers will have beaten you.

  Anger surged through Marshal Nung, the old anger that had helped him overcome a thousand obstacles. He squeezed his fingers together so the nails bit into his palm. Although his arm shook, he raised it and wriggled his fingers.

  The nurse noticed, and she came to him, her eyes filled with concern.

  “Help me into a wheelchair,” Nung said in a soft whisper.

  “But, sir, you’re unwell. You must rest and regain your strength.”

  “No,” he whispered. “I have been resting. Now I want you to help me into a wheelchair.”

  “I must summon the doctor, sir. He might not agree to this.”

  “Go then. Hurry. But if he fails to show up soon, I will remember that you disobeyed me. And you must know what that means.”

  Her eyes widened in fear. She bowed hastily, turned and ran out of the room.

  Letting his head fall back against the pillow, Nung stared up at the ceiling. This was simply another battle he had to win. His body wanted to betray him. It was old, and a combination of drugs had weakened him, maybe damaged some of the organs within. So be it. He didn’t want longevity. He wanted to win this war. He yearned to capture California and open the way for Chinese glory. This was his hour and he would savor it and achieve even in his final moments of life. He would not wither away in a bed while his soldiers showed the world how you won a continent.

  The door opened and the doctor walked in, a short man in a white uniform, with a stethoscope in lieu of a tie.

  “Marshal Nung—” the doctor said in an authoritative tone.

  Nung held up a hand. He did it easier this time. “You will listen to me, doctor,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “You will remove this ridiculous gown and clothe me in my uniform. Then summon orderlies and they will lift me into a wheelchair.”

  The doctor blinked in confusion and hesitation. Slowly, he said, “I must object, sir.”

  “No. Do not object, because it simply tires me out. Instead, give me a mild stimulant so I can regain my energy.”

  “I cannot do that, as I do not wish to kill you, sir.”

  “Nor do I wish to die. Even so, you will obey me.”

  “Sir, your body is much too weak for stimulants of any kind.”

  “I have already deduced that and have decided to override your concerns. If I die in the line of duty, so be it. I accept that. Then let me die. Until such a time occurs, I command the First Front. I will do so in the command center, not here.”

  “Sir—”

  Nung looked up at the ceiling. Nausea threatened. That shook his resolve and he almost decided to rest. It seemed then in his mind’s eye that he saw hundreds of his past foes laughing at him. In the forefront, old Marshal Kao stood prominently. No. The others would not beat him. Nung willed down the nausea.

  He whispered, “If you do not obey me, doctor, I will order my security officers to take you outside and shoot you.”

  The doctor stiffened, in shock and dismay, no doubt. He asked, “A mild stimulant, sir?”

  “We’re wasting time. Do as I have ordered.”

  “At once, Marshal.”

  It took fifteen minutes until Nung sat fully clothed in a mobile wheelchair. He decided it would take too much energy directing it with its confounded joystick control. Therefore, he drafted the beefiest orderly to push him.

  “Take me to the Command Center,” he said.

  The orderly pushed him outside. The stars twinkled as the orderly took him from the medical center to the First Front’s underground bunker. A long corridor led down, with harsh florescent tubes lighting the way. In the main chamber, the staff officers turned in shock at his entrance. Big Marshal Gang stared at him from the head of the computer table.

  Gang is already trying to usurp my command.

  “Good to see you back, sir,” General Pi said.

  Nung grunted, deciding to save his strength.

  “You should be resting,” Gang said.

  Nung ignored the man as he signaled the orderly. The beefy youth wheeled him to the green-glowing computer table. To Nung’s dismay, it was too high for him to see while he sat in the wheelchair. This would not do.

  “I’ll order a ramp installed, sir,” Pi said.

  “No,” Gang said. “You must return to the hospital and get better.”

  The staff officers glanced from Gang to Nung in his wheelchair.

  This is the first test, eh.

  “I command the First Front,” Nung whispered.

  “Maybe not after I make my report,” Gang said.

  “Then go,” Nung said, “report. Until such time, you are merely to observe. Do not presume again.”

  Gang’s eyes narrowed. He glanced at the staff officers. Slowly, he nodded. “I must make my report. If you will excuse me…?”

  Nung managed the barest nod.

  Gang left. So did officers to get the materials to make a ramp.

  Ten minutes later, the orderly pushed the wheelchair up the installed ramp and locked clamps onto the wheels. Nung looked down from the same height as if he’d been standing. Seeing the screen at its strategic setting invigorated him.

  Four armies waited for the great assault: sixty full divisions, with twenty thousand artillery tubes and ten thousand Marauder light tanks. The Fifth Army with the Pacific Ocean to its west would head for LA, masking San Diego and other coastal cities. The Eleventh Army lined up beside it and then the Nineteenth and Thirty-third Reserve Armies. Once the offensive began, the Seventh Army from the Third Front would become his operational reserve.

  Ah, this was exhilarating indeed. The Twenty-third Tank Army waited to the east of the grand assault. The bulk of the T-66s were there, the famed Chinese tri-turreted tank. He had surprises for the Americans. He would give them a land-air-sea and human-robotic assault that would shatter their resolve and devour their soldiers. The 233rd Tank Corps would terrorize them when the time came. He could almost pity the Americans…until he recalled the bitter fighting on the Arctic ice seven years ago. That burned out any thoughts of mercy.

  Time passed and Nung grew sleepy. After the fifth time his chin touched down against his chest, he sent the orderly to find the doctor. He couldn’t let Gang see him like this. Soon, outside in the hall, the doctor administered a heavier stimulant.

  Finally, zero hour
arrived, and Marshal Nung gave the most important order of his life, initiating Operation Yellow Dragon.

  Early on the morning on 21 April 2039 and all across the Mexican-Californian border, the Chinese unleashed the assault with a five-hour hurricane artillery bombardment. They only employed gas for the first two hours, striking American headquarters units and enemy artillery sites.

  In the darkness, the thousands of artillery pieces created giant flashes of brilliance as they sent their shells screaming across the border. The thunder was awesome, a testament to Chinese power. This was the greatest concentration of artillery since the Battle of Kursk in World War II.

  Resolve stiffened Marshal Nung’s neck. He glanced around at his staff officers. He could only imagine what it must feel like for the shivering Americans in their fortifications. The bigger the enemy casement or bunker, the larger the shell or missile sent against it.

  Once the artillery stopped, once the bombers unloaded their cargos, ah, then the special infantry divisions and the penal battalions would swamp the Americans who had dared believe they could halt Chinese excellence.

  BEHIND ENEMY LINES, MEXICO

  Paul woke up with an assault rifle pointed at his face. The open orifice showed the initial rifling, the grooves in the barrel that spun the bullets. His gaze climbed the barrel, stock and up to Romo’s emotionless features and obsidian-chip eyes.

  Behind fluttering leaves, the last stars were still out in the western portion of the twilight sky, although dawn had broken in the east. Paul ached everywhere and his head felt stuffed with cotton, making thinking a chore. He couldn’t smell any oil or gasoline, gunpowder or the stink of cooked flesh. Oh yeah, he remembered stumbling away with the others, away from the wrecked Blue Swan launch-site. They’d headed for some trees and had found a stream. What had happened to Frank, the other Marine Recon sergeant? Why wasn’t he here?

  “Colonel Valdez wants you to suffer,” Romo said in a low voice. “He wants you to pay for leaving his daughter behind.”

  Paul didn’t see anything in those dark eyes other than a hungry wolf ready to kill. Romo must have learned to enjoy killing, and that would have been a long time ago. Paul had known a few Marines like that. They were the truly scary people. The enjoyment of killing had eaten away at their humanity. Shedding human blood, it changed you. There was no getting past that. It made you different. It was a beast, and if you failed to control the beast, it ate the good part of you while you were still alive. Yeah, that’s what he saw looking into Romo’s eyes: a stone cold killer about to do what he loved best.

  Even so, Paul couldn’t help but trying. “I didn’t have any choice in leaving her. Before I knew it, my drone was taking off and Maria was still on the ground.”

  Romo’s shoulders made the barest shift—his shrug of indifference.

  “Doesn’t matter, huh?” Paul asked.

  “You’re liked greased death in a fight,” Romo said. “Back there at the launch-site…you were a Tasmanian devil. The Chinese had us pinned and you turned it around. It was impressive. You even helped me personally. I would like to use your prowess to help me reach America. But after watching what you did, I realize it would be foolish of me to give you a chance. The Colonel, he will free Mexico from the invader. He needs to shed his remorse for Maria. Your death will return his focus where it belongs.”

  “Sure it will. You bet. The Colonel, he’s going to boot six million Chinese out of Mexico. What were the rest of us thinking?”

  That brought a flicker of annoyance to Romo’s hatchet features. He pushed the barrel against Paul’s left cheek.

  “You fled the battlefield, Gunnery Sergeant. You left Maria Valdez for the Chinese torturers. They abused her and cut her into pieces, mailing those to the Colonel.”

  “They’re sick bastards,” Paul said. He was about to say more, but he closed his mouth instead. What good would it do to tell Romo how it had eaten at him, leaving Maria? It had reminded him too much of the Arctic, out there on the pack ice. The Chinese had butchered Maria like an animal, huh. It figured.

  “Put your hands behind your back,” Romo said.

  Paul laughed. “That’s right, I’m going to let you hogtie me so you can play your games. Screw you, Romo. Shoot if you think you have to. Earn your pay.”

  Romo moved fast, taking the tip of the barrel away from Paul’s check and swinging it down toward his leg. Paul figured he had nothing left to lose. He didn’t see Frank or the other Mexican. It must mean it was just the two of them. Paul jerked his leg aside as Romo pulled the trigger. The bullet creased his pant leg and his flesh, leaving a furrow, but it failed to incapacitate. The assault-rifle’s kick against Romo’s shoulder gave Paul a fraction of a second to act, and he used it. He thrust himself at Romo and kicked up as hard as he could. It was an old-fashioned groin kick, catching the assassin even though Romo instinctively tried to block by twisting his hips and closing his legs.

  The toe of Paul’s boot did its job. Romo crumpled as only getting smashed in the balls could do. The assassin released the assault rifle and flopped onto the ground. He clutched his groin, groaning, rolling on the dirt.

  Paul grabbed the rifle, put the barrel against Romo’s head and started applying pressure to the trigger.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” That sounded like Frank.

  Paul took two steps away from Romo and looked up. Frank the Recon Marine carried a canteen in each hand. Behind him was the other assassin. He had a heavy pistol in his hand, held against his leg.

  “Our Mexicans were ordered to kill me because Valdez’s daughter got captured on a mission I happened to survive,” Paul said. “The Chinese chopped her up and mailed the parts to her father.”

  Frank swore under his breath.

  Before Paul could tell him the same thing he’d told Romo, shots rang out from behind the other two. They came from the bushes fifty yards away. The Mexican gunman groaned and sagged down. Frank dove onto his belly.

  Paul hit the dirt as bullets zinged past him. Bushes shook over there. Yeah, Paul spotted barrels poking out. He fired at a bush, slithering backward, firing and slithering some more.

  Frank tried to do the same thing. Chinese fire hit him. With his assault rifle and as he shouted, Frank sprayed the bushes. The Chinese sprayed back. A round caught Frank in the face and the former drill sergeant deflated as death claimed him.

  A second burst caused the gunman to scream in agony. It was a terrible sound. Maybe it rattled the Chinese soldiers. They stopped firing for a moment.

  It gave Paul time to slither into hiding behind a grassy knoll. He popped up as Romo crawled after him. For the first time there was something new on the assassin’s face. It was grim determination to survive. Paul fired at Chinese soldiers, giving the assassin cover. He wasn’t sure why he helped Romo. Maybe the man’s determination showed him that a portion of Romo’s humanity yet remained.

  A second later, the assassin panted beside Paul while peering up over the knoll.

  The Chinese soldiers fired again, killing the gunman and ending the dreadful screaming.

  “We got a problem,” Paul said.

  Romo eyed him strangely, with seemingly mixed emotions.

  “You want to see me suffer and the Chinese want to kill me,” Paul said.

  “No…the problem is that you have a rifle and I don’t.”

  “There’s one out there,” Paul said, indicating Frank’s assault rifle.

  Romo’s nostrils widened. His head whipped forward as the Chinese started firing at them. Well, they fired at the grassy knoll, as both men ducked down. Bullets chewed the soil. How soon would it be until the Chinese fired some grenades?

  “Do you know how many are out there?” Paul asked.

  Romo shook his head.

  Paul kept low. He needed to think, to use his wits and figure out what made the most sense. They were behind enemy lines—far behind them—and the Big One might have already started. Romo was a bastard, and Frank and the gunman were dea
d. Hmm. Those two might have died anyway. Yeah, the place must be crawling with Chinese for those soldiers to have stumbled on them like this.

  Cheri. Mike. What was going to happen to his family? He had to make it back to LA and make sure they were okay.

  Romo popped up his head, maybe to see what the enemy was doing. The action brought immediate fire. The assassin ducked behind the knoll as bullets plowed dirt and hissed overhead uncomfortably near.

  Paul crawled up, shooting back as he pulled the trigger twice. It made his rifle kick, letting him know it was alive and well. If he didn’t fire back, the Chinese might start getting brave. As he slid back behind the knoll, he noticed Romo with a knife in his hands, and turned his rifle toward him.

  “No!” Romo said, holding up the knife, turning it sideways. “This isn’t to kill you.”

  “You’re going to fight them with it?” Paul asked with a sneer.

  “We have to flee.”

  “I’m heading out alone,” Paul said.

  “Two are stronger than one,” Romo said.

  “Usually that’s true. But I can’t trust you. So no, one is better this time.”

  Romo nodded. “You should think this… Why did you help me just now?”

  “Reflex, I guess. Don’t let it bother you.”

  “That is the second time you helped, maybe saved my life.”

  “Yeah?” Paul asked.

  Romo frowned intently. “I owe you a great debt. But I am the Colonel’s man.”

  “Keep thinking about it. I’m leaving.”

  “No. Wait. You and I…we must become blood brothers.”

  Paul stared at the man. “Are you nuts? Blood brothers, like Indian mumbo-jumbo? You just tried to kill me.”

  “Not Indian,” Romo said, “but White Mountain Apache.”

  “Apache like the little feather in your ear? Since you’re Mexican, you must be Aztec.”

  The dead eyes came alive as if shutters opened into Romo’s soul. It showed a blaze of emotion.

  “Do not tell me what I am, white man. In the old days, Apaches often raided into Mexico. They took women, one of them my great grandmother.”