There was a gulf between Paul and them. It was mainly age—at least Paul liked to tell himself that. They were so young, pure even, with innocence leaking from them. They had illusions, so many illusions it had surprised Paul more than once. During one firefight, the machine gunner just quit firing.
“It’s butchery,” the kid had whispered.
Paul had let go of his assault rifle, shouldered the kid aside and taken over. He’d killed pinned down enemy soldiers. Even as the Chinese had broken and scrambled away, Paul kept firing. When he’d stopped, the kid had just stared at him with a terrified look.
Later, Romo told him what the stare had meant. “You are a killer, my brother.”
“What?” Paul said.
“They are scared of you.”
“That’s crazy. We’re on the same side.”
“No, it is very sane,” Romo said. The two of them had been outside the strongpoint, collecting Chinese weapons and ammo from the dead. Supplies had been drying up lately.
“We’re all fighting the enemy,” Paul said.
Romo smiled. It hadn’t been a friendly thing, although the assassin had not aimed it at Paul in anger or disrespect.
“Do you know that ten percent of the fighter pilots make ninety percent of the kills?” Romo asked.
“Afraid I don’t.”
“Many soldiers do not fire their weapons during battle. Among the others who do fire, many of them aim anywhere than at the enemy. Most men do not like to kill other men. It is one of the reasons it takes many thousands of bullets to kill one enemy. It is also one of the reasons why artillery is the great killer in battle.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Why are you angry?” Romo asked.
“No reason. Being called a killer, yeah, that’s a real honor.”
Romo’s smile had become sad. “We are the wolves, amigo. We are the ten percent. The young ones, they realize this in you. It frightens them. They are brave. I do not mean to disrespect them. But they are not the natural warriors that you and I are.”
“Maybe.”
“Accept who you are, my brother. I have. It is you and me, and men like us, who will drive the invader back into the sea.”
As Paul sat in the wrecked hotel, sitting in the stuffed chair, he used his teeth to tear open the bar’s wrapper. He’d been craving this for days. Battle, being close to death, did that to you. Cravings would overcome him and he would just have to have whatever the thing was.
Paul bit into the bar and savored the gooey, caramel chocolate taste. Oh, this was wonderful, but it would go even better with an ice-cold glass of milk. But where was he going to find that in this sinkhole?
He wasn’t a natural killer. That was a load of crap. He was just a soldier who wanted to see his wife and kid again. If a bunch of Chinese or other Asians was going to get in the way of that, well, he was going to kill them. They had killed enough of his countrymen that he figured he was entitled. Besides, they had invaded his home, his country. If someone entered his house with the intent to steal or rape, bam, he would drill them in the head. End of story.
Paul drew a deep breath through his nostrils and he realized that all he held was the wrapper. Shoot, he’d already finished the Snickers bar. He glanced sidelong at the kids. One of them clicked coins one on top of the other. If they hadn’t been there, he would have licked the wrapper. But he couldn’t do that if he was the big mojo killer.
From outside came a loud boom.
Paul grabbed his assault rifle and bolted upright. The kids dove for their weapons and Romo already ran for the holes in the hotel wall. Chinese IFVs had made similar noises this morning.
Romo crouched by a hole. Then he shouted back. “They brought tanks with them this time, two of them.”
“Right,” Paul said. He picked up a Chinese RPG. They had collected them this morning from the fallen enemy.
In seconds, Paul crouched by his own hole. An enemy IFV had made it close with its 30mm auto-cannons. The tracked carrier had held six infantrymen inside its “womb.” The IFVs were nimble vehicles and heavily armed with four of those auto-cannons and two missile tubes. The Chinese liked to roar at their lines under heavy missile or artillery cover, pouring everything they had at the American positions. Then the back of the IFV would clang down and out would charge six armored Chinese infantry.
This time it was different. Two tanks clanked down the street. A host of antennae sprouted from each light tank. It told Paul these two were drones, remote-controlled vehicles. Each Marauder was smaller than an SUV and possessed a non-turreted 153mm gun.
“Hold your fire,” Paul told the others. “Romo, grab an RPG and come with me.”
“How long to you want us to wait?” asked the twenty-one year old Militia sergeant. He had pimples on his forehead and stood near the two with the .50 caliber.
“Give us a minute,” Paul said. “Then fire at the tanks so the sensors know the vehicles are taking fire. Then scram, but be sure to take the machine gun with you. We’re going to need it.”
“Go where?”
“Deeper in the hotel,” Paul said. “When you hear the explosions outside, you’d better come running fast. Set up the machine gun in a new position and get ready.”
The pimple-faced sergeant nodded and rapped out orders to the other three.
Paul hefted two RPGs, one under each arm. Romo did the same thing. They trotted to the stairs and climbed, going to the third floor. Paul was panting by the time he approached a shattered window.
“They will have spotted these,” Romo said.
“Yeah,” Paul said. He set down one RPG and primed the other. Taking big gulps of air, he tried to steady himself. They would have to do this quickly: spot and fire.
Downstairs, the .50 caliber started up. Metallic hammering sounds told Paul the gunner was hitting one of the light tanks at least.
“Not too long,” Paul said under his breath. As he finished speaking, the machine gun fire quit. These were good kids, the survivors of days of brutal, endless fighting. They had learned.
Paul glanced at Romo. The lean assassin stood poised beside his window. He was ready. He wanted to kill the enemy, even if it was only drone tanks.
The 153s boomed below, and the crash told Paul the shells had smashed into the hotel. Enemy machine gun fire started. He hoped the kids had retreated far enough.
Paul didn’t say anything to Romo. The man knew what to do. Inside Paul’s chest, the fear built, but so did the excitement. One, two, three, he told himself. At three, Paul stepped up to his window. The light tanks were below, perfect targets, showing him their lightly armored tops. Paul brought the RPG into line, using the iron sights, and he fired.
The backblast whooshed fire into the hotel room, starting a blaze on the rear wall. Romo fired his rocket launcher. Paul watched for a split second. His shaped-charge grenade slammed against the top of the Marauder, exploding. Paul felt the concussion, and he saw auto-cannons swiveling up at him. Romo’s RPG round hammered the same vehicle and the auto-cannons froze.
“One down,” Paul said. “Let’s go.” He picked up the remaining RPG from the rug and raced past flickering flames on the wall. This fire had bit into the wall and it looked like it might last. That was okay. Soon, the heat would hide them from enemy thermal sights. A blazing hotel, the Chinese would figure the Americans had evacuated it.
Paul grinned savagely thinking about it. Then he was on the stairs again. He climbed, his thighs burning as he raced for the roof. Outside, Chinese machine gun fire riddled something here, likely the windows they’d just used. The Chinese were so predictable you could have set your cell phone by them. Well, if he’d had a working cell phone.
With a heaving chest, Paul crashed against a door and strode onto the roof, heading for the edge. Romo was right behind him.