“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 dead. 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.”
Paul noticed a lull in the enemy gunfire. He lifted up and fired a burst, causing three Chinese soldiers to dive back into cover. He slid down and began crawling away. Romo crawled beside him, with the knife still in his hands.
“You feel you cannot trust me,” Romo said as he crawled. “I understand. But you saved my life twice now. I owe you a debt, and I pay my debts, always. Besides, we need each other if we’re going to make it back alive.”
“I don’t need you,” Paul said. “I’ll make it by myself.”
“You are greased death, this I know. But you will need to sleep sometimes. Then you will need a lookout. I will need the same thing.”
Figuring they were far enough away, Paul climbed to his feet and began to run past trees. He wore combat fatigues, his helmet and a few supplies on his belt. The rucksack was back at the temporary encampment with Frank and the gunman’s corpses.
Romo ran tirelessly beside him.
Soon, Paul slowed to a walk. He heard shouting Chinese behind them. Last night had taken its toll. He had been battered, smashed and might have gotten a concussion. Yeah, he could probably use some help. Did it really matter to Romo he’d saved his life twice? The eyes before, they had shown the man’s troubled thoughts.
Kill him. Get it over with, Marine.
As if reading his mind, Romo said, “I am sworn to the Colonel. But… He never saved my life. You have. Therefore, I will make you my blood brother. It means I will tell you before I kill you. I will give you a fair chance to defeat me.”
“After what you did, you think I buy your Indian crap?”
“Apache,” Romo said.
“Indian, Apache, Aztec, it doesn’t matter to me. What you are is a vicious murderer without a conscience.”
“I am a warrior defending my native land,” Romo said. “Unlike my ancestors, I will never surrender.”
Paul veered to the west. They had been headed north and the tress thinned out north. Right now, they needed to stay in this small forest.
After fifty more steps, Paul stopped. Romo stopped beside him, the knife still in the man’s hand.
“So what’s the deal anyway?” Paul asked.
“We each cut our hand.”
“Maiming ourselves?” Paul asked. That sounded bright.
Romo shook his head. “A small cut, enough to bring blood. Then we clasp hands and speak the oath, the vow as my Apache ancestors used to do. We will become blood brothers. As such, we cannot kill each other except in a formal duel, either fist-to-fist or knife-to-knife.”
“And you believe in this stuff?”
Romo stared at him.
For a moment, Paul seemed to see into the man’s soul. This man was tribal, a barbarian really. He obviously believed in what he was saying.
“Ah, what the hell,” Paul said. “We’re dead men anyway.” He shouldered the assault rifle and held up his hand.
Romo stared hard at him.
For a second, Paul thought, he suckered you, you fool.
Romo lifted his hand and made the cut. Then he pressed the razor-sharp knife against Paul’s left palm and made a tiny incision. Blood oozed out. Romo clasped his bleeding hand against Paul’s. Then he made his oath, his vow, calling Paul his blood bother.
Paul repeated the vow even though he felt like an idiot doing it. Afterward…
The two men stared at each other. It was a crazy feeling for Paul.
This killer is my blood brother. I’ve never had a brother before. This is weird. He knew a moment of sadness. It was too bad he was going to have to kill Romo after this was done.
“Come on,” Paul said, with a burr in his voice. “Let’s get the heck out of here before the Chinese find us.”
The thunder had stopped—an ending to the Chinese hurricane bombardment.
Now Chinese wild weasels lead the way into American air space. Advanced electronic counter measures and hard jamming attempted to confuse the enemy. Behind the wild weasels came bombers and fighter-bombers. Many sent ARMs into whatever operational radar stations the Americans still had and dared to use. Others released napalm or five-hundred pound bombs. The rest carried bunker-busters, seeking out those fortifications the artillery had failed to smash.
In selected areas—San Ysidro being one of those—sleek Chinese helicopters zoomed for enemy HQs. The poison gas had been to suppress the enemy commanders. These pinpoint missions were to kill the hopefully dazed Americans.
There were three types of helicopters. The first were the standoff hunter/killers, the Graceful Swans with their Annihilator missiles. They swooped across the battlefield, seeking American vehicles to destroy. The others were Gunhawks, transformed Chinese cargo helicopters. They each carried two 12.7mm machine guns and a 20mm auto-cannon in its nose. Each machine gun and cannon had a dedicated TV-fed operator. The Gunhawks’ MO called for them to hover above American infantry at ten thousand feet, well out of enemy machine gun range. Aiming their weapons straight down, the Gunhawks would pour concentrated fire on any enemy trying to hide. It was similar in concept to the old “Puff the Magic Dragon” airplane of Vietnam, the Douglas AC-47 Spooky.