Paul thought about that: take the vehicles. Yeah, that was a good idea. He watched the four Chinese soldiers. The joke-teller had gotten into his story. The other three watched him. The two enlisted men stood close. The officer—the man with the hat—stood farther away.
Taking his assault rifle, Paul began walking through the orchard. He didn’t head toward the enemy, but moved parallel to them. He wanted the barn between them and him.
“This is risky,” Romo said. He didn’t run, but walked beside Paul.
Paul was through talking. The tingling in his arms had begun. Five more steps put the barn between them.
“Better hope there’s no dog around,” Paul said. Or more enemy soldiers we’re not seeing. He sprinted for the back of the barn. Behind him, Romo followed. He heard the man’s footsteps.
I hope it’s a long joke.
As he reached the back of the barn and ran for a corner, he heard muffled laughter. Paul skidded slower and pressed his back against the barn. He peered around the corner. The back ranch yard wasn’t visible, at least the part the four Chinese soldiers stood on wasn’t. He probably didn’t have much time left.
There was a scrape of leather against wood. He glanced the other way and saw Romo sliding along the barn with him.
“You should have stayed in the orchard,” Paul said in a low voice. “That way, if I fail, you could get the heck out of here.”
“And leave my blood brother?”
Paul glanced into Romo’s eyes. That wasn’t a joke. The man was dead serious. Dead—
Taking a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, Paul pushed off the barn and walked for the ranch house. He passed the last corner of the barn. The four Chinese soldiers were splitting up, two walking toward the military truck and the officer and other enlisted man heading toward the Chinese Humvee.
Paul lifted the assault rifle, aimed at the officer and pulled the trigger. The butt slammed against his shoulder. The officer went down and the others turned in surprise. Paul fired again and hit the joke-teller, making the man stagger. Paul shot a third time, putting the jokester down. The two Chinese who had been heading for the truck stared at him. One clawed for his pistol. The other whirled around and sprinted for the truck. Paul shot him in the back, putting three bullets into him. The soldier lifted off his feet and smacked his forehead against the cab of the truck. He sagged, his chin striking the truck before he rolled onto the ground. An enemy bullet ricocheted off gravel, puffing dirt twenty feet in front of Paul. Pistols were terrible at range. They were even worse when caught by surprise.
“Drop your gun!” Paul shouted.
The Chinese soldier brought up his other hand, clutching his pistol two handed, aiming at Paul.
“Drop it!” Paul shouted.
The soldier fired. This time there was no ricochet. Instead, wood splintered in the barn. A quick-glance showed a bullet-hole ten feet up. The man had aimed far too high.
Paul fired, putting several slugs into the soldier’s chest.
Romo clapped Paul on the shoulder. “Excellent.”
Paul almost turned on him with a snarl. Instead, he nodded, feeling hollow inside. Those four, they never had a chance. They weren’t all dead yet, but they were all down.
Romo strode for the four. Paul watched him. After Romo reached halfway, Paul realized what the man was going to do.
“Wait!” Paul shouted.
Romo never even turned around.
Paul wondered if he should do anything to stop Romo. This was war, right? The Chinese were invading America. They were heading for LA. They had to be. He hadn’t started this. Then again, neither had those four started the war. He doubted they had any or much say in where they had ended up. Now it was over for them and over for their jokes.
Almost, Paul turned away. He stood there, holding his assault rifle as Romo checked each Chinese soldier. With two of them, Romo cut their throats, using his weapon, his knife.
The Chinese had stolen Romo’s country. There was no pity in the man. Paul wondered what he would feel like if the Chinese, if the Pan Asian Alliance, the South American Federation and the German Dominion, conquered America. Maybe he would cut every enemy throat he could by that time. What had happened to Romo? Had he lost his wife, his children, his parents to the Chinese? Paul didn’t know. What had made Romo so remorseless? There was a reason. Things didn’t happen in a vacuum. The man was his blood brother. Maybe that meant it was his duty to find out.
Maybe. His first duty, though, was reaching his family. Yeah, maybe his first duty was to make sure the Chinese didn’t reach his family. This was a battle for his home and his loved ones.
You’d better toughen up, Kavanagh, because if you lose this fight, if America loses it, then you’re going to be ruled by a conquering power. Then you’re never going to have a say in how your country is run.
How much of a say did he have now?
Paul shouldered his rifle and trudged across the dirt. He didn’t want to become a butcher. But this was a dirty fight with no holds barred. He was going to do what he had to in order to win. The Chinese would kill his family in the snap of his fingers. It was like a man invading his home at night. You don’t ask questions then—you picked up your gun and kept firing until they were dead.
Nodding, Paul could understand why Romo showed no mercy. He was fighting the invaders of Mexico. Colonel Valdez was fighting the invaders. They were shooting until the enemy was down.
Paul blew out his breath. It was his duty to fight as hard as he could. His family depended on him. Thousands, maybe millions of other American families depended on him, on all the soldiers to do their duty and defend the homeland.
“They’re dead,” Romo said.
“Grab their weapons,” Paul said. “Pick one for yourself.” He lifted the tarp at the back of the military truck. It was filled with giant crates, with missiles of some type. Paul couldn’t read Chinese script. Modern warfare devoured ammo. To keep the attack going, the Chinese would have to pour supplies to their soldiers.
“Okay,” Paul said, “which do you want to drive?”
Romo gave him a funny look.
“We’re grabbing food,” Paul said. “Then we’re heading for the front. We’re going to supply the Chinese.”
“You’re white and I’m Mexican.”
“You think there aren’t others like us transporting supplies for the Chinese?”
“Are you crazy?”
Paul grinned, although there was nothing humorous in it. “It’s balls to the fire wall. If this is the first day of the assault, believe me, there will be plenty of confusion. Now is the time to get as close as we can to our side. Once we’re close enough, we’ll hoof it the rest of the way.”
Romo shook his head.
That brought a true grin to Paul’s face. “I’ll take the truck. They won’t look as closely at its driver. You take the Humvee. Are you ready?”
Romo stared at him a moment longer before nodding.
“Then let’s get busy,” Paul said. “We got a lot of miles ahead of us.”
-7-
The Right Hook
In horror, Anna Chen watched a holo-video as she sat in White House Bunker Number Five. It was the fourth day of battle in California and desperation like a sickness ran through the SoCal Command. Disaster threatened.
On the first day of battle, after the Blue Swan missiles struck, the enemy broke through the SoCal Fortifications at San Ysidro. Chinese Marauder tanks, IFVs and remote-control drones pushed through Chula Vista, chewing apart everything in their path. Nothing could stop them as they raced for San Diego. The Joint Forces Commander of California had shifted border formations, even though everything was chaos. Too many places lacked any communications. Others faced heavy assaults. Even so, a brigade of Abrams and Bradleys finally maneuvered in front of the advancing Chinese, and old Apache gunships expended salvos of Hellfire III missiles. It looked like the thrust for San Diego would fail.