Invasion: Colorado ia-3

by Vaughn Heppner

  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 i
nto 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 kick
ed 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.