The last type of helicopter carried deadly cargos of White Tiger Eagle Teams. Their task: kill enemy commanders and radio networks. Lop off the head so the body—the American formations—could no longer act in a harmonized fashion. In other words, turn disciplined bodies of men into uncoordinated and isolated units so the Chinese could kill and capture them more easily.
Fighter Rank Zhu rode outside his specially fashioned helicopter. It was nicknamed the “Battle-Taxi.” It lacked a regular cargo bay. Instead, it had a bubble for the pilot and four staggered poles swept back like a fighter-jet’s wings. Each pole contained three seats and a motorcycle-style windshield. On each seat sat an Eagle Team member in full commando gear, ready for action.
Zhu crouched behind his windshield as the helo roared over the American landscape by a bare fifty meters. He had an eagle’s view of the masses of vehicles crawling over the earth. IFVs, jeeps, missile launchers, light Marauder tanks, hovers, drones, trucks and masses of marching soldiers moved on the Americans. Soon, enemy ground objects flashed past: splintered trees, a trench-line and blasted casements.
Zhu’s stomach churned. He was going to fight today. He would have to prove himself to the First Rank and the others. First, he would have to launch like an eagle.
Gripping his rest-bars, Zhu watched the terrain. He spied a running dog with something bloody in its fangs. Behind it followed three bigger dogs. They might have been barking. He laughed. It was exhilarating perched out here in the elements. These Z4 helicopters—the battle-taxis—were the latest in White Tiger commando operations. The old-style helos only allowed a few Eagle commandos to lift at a time. This allowed them all to leave at once and drop on the enemy.
“The longer you are in the air, the longer the enemy has to pick you off,” the trainers had told Zhu. “You need to get down and fight.”
Zhu nodded. He knew what to do now. The only trouble was…
I must not shame myself. I must fight bravely. I will show the others I deserve to be here.
Zhu wore an Eagle jetpack and dinylon body armor. He had his Eagle grenade launcher attached to his shoulder. On the jetpack was strapped his QZB-95 assault rifle. The First Rank carried a hand-held anti-air missile. Others had RPGs.
“Target in six kilometers,” the pilot said over the helmet’s earphones.
Zhu nodded, even though no one could see the gesture. He glanced at a fellow commando who sat on the same pole. The crouched White Tiger seemed like a rock.
Kill everyone was the order. In these engagements, they had no use for prisoners, no place to safely put them. It was kill or be killed.
“Five kilometers to target,” the pilot said.
Zhu needed a drink of water and all of a sudden, he needed to take a piss. Just five more kilometers to the enemy? Dead Americans lay scattered on the ground. They looked like they were asleep. They must have lacked masks and been hit by poison gas.
I must not shame myself. I must show the First Rank that I am worthy to be an Eagle commando.
Something fast flashed underneath Zhu. It was long and it headed in the same direction they went.
“Cruise missile,” someone said over the helmet radio.
“Two kilometers to target,” the pilot said.
Zhu blinked three more times. Then a terrific explosion occurred ahead. It must be the cruise missile.
Overhead, Gunhawks raced for their hover positions. Graceful Swans—looking like giant mechanical wasps—now hung back. Zhu saw an Annihilator missile streak toward an American tracked vehicle.
“Get ready,” First Rank Tian said.
Zhu’s gut clenched and vomit acid burned the back of his throat. This was real. This wasn’t practice. He began to shake, and shame as he’d never known it began to bubble inside him.
The battle-taxi sank toward the earth as they raced at a berm. There were puffs of smoke from the top of the fortification. Then American RPGs zoomed toward them.
Why so many? Zhu wanted to know. A major had told them that none of those enemy weapons would be operable today because of a new Chinese secret weapon.
The major lied to us. Zhu wondered why.
Almost simultaneously, two enemy shaped-charge grenades struck the battle-taxi nearest Zhu. Some Eagle fighters flew off the stricken helicopter. Other jetpack-soldiers plummeted earthward, to plow like javelins against the built-up berm.
Then Zhu’s helicopter flashed over the berm. He twisted back. American soldiers stood in gun-pits, firing at the other helicopters.
“Fly!” First Rank Tian shouted in the headphones.
Zhu’s muscles froze. He couldn’t let go of the rest-bars. Beside him on the pole, an Eagle-commando launched upward and to the side with a whoosh of jetpack power.
I am shamed. I am forever shamed. Why couldn’t he tear his fingers free? Was he that much of a coward?
Enemy fifty-caliber machine gun fire slammed into the battle-taxi, shaking it as holes appeared in the bubble canopy.
With a yelp of terror, Zhu released his rest-bars and jumped.
“Use your jetpack,” Tian shouted in his headphones.
At the last moment and as he dropped with sickening speed, Zhu realized that Tian spoke to him. Despite his terror, with practiced smoothness, Zhu brought up his arm to the flight-pad. His hand gripped the throttle and he roared his jetpack to life. With a lifting pull on his shoulders and waist, Zhu braked his descent and then rose upward.
There were many Eagle commandos hanging in the air, moving on the enemy like a giant flock of deadly birds. The stricken battle-taxi turned, the pilot inside the shattered bubble bleeding profusely. The helicopter went down, its blades slicing the air a foot from where Zhu hovered.
I forgot to jet to the side.
“Down, down,” Tian said, “land near the bunker.”
To Zhu, it felt as if he was in a fog. Everything moved so slowly. His thoughts were jelly and his limbs hardly obeyed his mental commands.
Yes, the others of his squad sank toward a concrete bunker. It looked like a toy from up here. Vehicles were parked around it and there were shacks in various places. Americans ran outside, some of them kneeling, aiming weapons skyward and firing. Part of the bunker was hidden under desert soil.
Zhu twisted the throttle and sank toward the Americans. It felt surreal. Bullets whistled past him and grenades landed like bombs among them, tumbling some. Then everything became confusion. Eagle team commandos plummeted to the hard ground. One screaming commando struck another flyer under him and they both hit the ground hard enough to bounce. An American ran toward them, firing from the hip, shattering jetpack parts and helmets.
Zhu activated his grenade launcher. In a daze, he targeted enemy soldiers, lobbing grenades at them.
The ground rushed up. As if he were in a dream, he twisted the throttle again, lightly touching down. Then he was running, following Tian. The others shed their jetpacks. The packs hit the ground, sending up dirt. Some commandos sprawled onto the ground, firing assault rifles at the enemy. Others crouched over as they sprinted for burning vehicles or other hiding positions.
Zhu gasped as he ran. The jetpack was heavy and the straps dug into his shoulders. More Eagle Team commandos landed. This was an enemy HQ, the command center for the American Ninth Division.