Zhu saw a tall American with red hair and the eagles of a colonel. The man held an M-16 as he sprinted for a civilian-style pickup truck. Zhu fired a grenade into the colonel’s chest, blowing the man off his feet. Nearby, Humvees revved into life.
First Rank Tian fired an RPG at one, exploding its hood.
The other Humvees carried .50 caliber machine guns. One American shook as he fired the big machine gun, killing two commandos of Zhu’s squad. They toppled to the soil like rag dolls, with red holes on their chest. The American kept shooting them, desecrating their bodies. That was wrong. Without thinking about what he was doing, Zhu throttled up his jetpack. With a whoosh, he lifted into the air three meters and arrowed at the Humvee.
“What are you doing, Fighter Rank?” Tian asked. “Stay on the ground.”
The man’s voice penetrated Zhu’s sub-conscious. What was he doing? He was flying during a firefight, exactly the wrong thing. Zhu watched in stupefaction as the American behind the .50 caliber swiveled the big machine gun up at him. The man grimaced like a manic. Zhu realized that he was a dead man.
Then an RPG hit the Humvee. It threw the American backward, his fingers sliding off the machine gun’s butterfly triggers. Three seconds later Zhu landed behind the burning vehicle, turned and fired a grenade into another Humvee, one whose engine revved. Americans bailed from it a microsecond before the grenade exploded. Chinese assault rifle fire cut the Americans down.
“Shed your jetpack, Fighter Rank,” Tian radioed Zhu. “We don’t want any more heroics from you. Too many of us are dying.”
“He’s a real White Tiger,” a Soldier Rank radioed.
“Did you see Zhu? That was amazing. We have a real fighter on our hands, First Rank.”
In a daze, Zhu shed his jetpack. It fell back and hit the ground nozzles-first, spraying heat and air and making dirt puff up. He’d forgotten to shut if off completely. A sensor in the pack now initiated an emergency shutdown and Zhu began wondering who the others were talking about. It couldn’t be him. His heart raced as he gulped air. Slowly, he lay down on the ground amid the burning American vehicles. From his position he began firing bursts from his assault rifle at the nearest enemy. When the magazine was empty, he wiped his sweaty brow and put in another one.
Soon, First Rank Tian ordered the squad up. Another squad launched multiple RPGs at the bunker’s door, blasting it down.
“It’s time to kill colonels and generals,” Tian said.
In as big a daze as ever, Zhu climbed to his feet. He shouted with his squad members and charged the door, entering the bunker-clearing phase of the attack.
Fifteen minutes later, with blood and steaming gore splattered against the walls, it was over. With grenade and rifle fire, they had slaughtered the Ninth Division’s general and HQ’s staff, effectively destroying the coordination for twelve thousand American soldiers.
Only four Eagle Team members of Zhu’s squad remained: him, First Rank Tian and two others. The cost in White Tigers had been heavier than expected, but the operation had been a success. It would no doubt help pave the way for next move in the grand Chinese assault.
With one knee on dirt, Paul leaned against an almond tree within an orchard. Romo knelt beside him as they eyed a two-story ranch house. A heavy military truck and a Chinese version of a Humvee sat on the U-shaped driveway to the side.
“We need food,” Romo said.
The growl in Paul’s stomach had led him to the same conclusion. They had trekked over seven miles by his calculation, having detoured three times to avoid enemy logistic support. Seven miles…that meant the border was still a good twenty miles away.
Normally, that wouldn’t have worried Paul. He had often ranged far behind enemy lines, but this time he had no radio and no way of knowing if the Big One had begun. He was beginning to believe it had. The amount of traffic had surprised him.
Unfortunately, he had no supplies this time, no destination other than the American line. The longer they remained behind Chinese lines, the worse it was going to become. The odds weren’t with them.
“You know what I think?” Paul said.
“We go in and kill them.”
Paul glanced at Romo. The man looked tired, with hollowness around his eyes. “First, we only have one weapon and I only have three magazines for it. Second, there could be Mexicans in the house, and I have no intention of killing them.”
Romo shook his head. “Chinese vehicles are there, meaning Chinese soldiers lived in the house. The Mexicans were driven out long ago. And we have two weapons, as I have a knife.”
“Okay, three weapons then. I have a knife, too. Are you sure no Mexicans are in the house?”
“I am positive,” Romo said. “Come, we will surprise the Chinese.”
“Unless there’s a dog in the house,” Paul said. “I’m surprised there aren’t any dogs out here.”
“They say Koreans and some Chinese eat dogs.”
Paul had heard the same thing. Who would eat a dog? That was barbaric. Yeah, he could believe it, though. Food was scarce behind enemy lines; at least that’s what he’d heard. That might cause some soldiers to butcher animals for the pot. Would they have butchered all the Mexican dogs?
Paul studied the barn, the back yard and the ranch house. The grass in the yard looked trampled. The dirt around the barn had a hundred tires tracks and now that he looked closely, he saw the barn had several scrapes as if brushed by heavy vehicles.
“They must have kept troops here,” Paul said. And those troops had eaten the dogs, which was a good thing for the two of them. A dog would have sniffed them out or heard them by now and started barking.
“Why are those two vehicles still here?” Romo asked.
“A thousand reasons,” Paul said. “Maybe one of the trucks had engine trouble and they stopped here. Maybe someone got sick. Maybe they were supposed to pick something up here. Maybe there are whores in the house and they wanted a quick one before heading out to battle.”
Romo stared at the two vehicles. “I doubt the truck is a troop transport. It looks like something is in the truck.”
A back door in the ranch house opened and three Chinese soldiers exited. One of them was talking and gesturing. Finally, the other two began laughing. A fourth man came out of the house. Instead of a helmet, he wore a hat with a single red star on it. He shut the door and inserted a key.
“He’s locking up,” Paul said.
Romo gripped Paul’s shoulder. “Kill them.”
“They’re too far for me to hit all of them.”
“I watched you in battle. You’re a good shot. Kill them and we’ll take the vehicles.”
“And then?” asked Paul.
“No more talking. You must kill them. Look, the one is beginning another joke. The officer appears interested. You must take them out, as we don’t have time to get closer. Besides, they’ll see us if we try that.”
Paul didn’t like it. It was too far to take out four Chinese soldiers. Yeah, he could take out one maybe…if he had a sniper rifle and time to settle down for a good shot.
“Now,” Romo urged him.
Resting the barrel of the assault rifle on a branch, Paul sighted the enemy. It was ninety yards, almost the full length of a football field. He had three magazines and that was it. Then he would be down to a knife just like Romo. If he took out the officer first—
Paul withdrew the assault rifle from the tree branch. It would be safer to let the Chinese leave. Afterward, they could break in and get some food.”
“What are you doing?” Romo asked. “We must kill them and take their vehicles. We cannot hope to remain hidden more than a day or two. We may not get another chance like this.”