“Should we help them?” the corporal asked.
Before Jake could answer, someone else shouted, “Chinese!”
Jake looked over the masonry. His eyes bugged outward. Chinese soldiers in body armor sprinted through a cross street, with their equipment jangling. The enemy had nasty-looking assault weapons. A few wore visors, likely battery-powered with a schematic of Castle Rock. The wash and illumination of flames on their backs make the enemy soldiers seem like demons of the Inferno.
“Up there!” another Militiaman shouted.
Jake looked up. An Eagle flyer darted overhead. The Chinese commando fired a grenade from a shoulder-launcher. The projectile landed with an explosion thirty feet away, and two Militiamen tumbled over. Didn’t anyone know how to hide?
“We have to get out of here,” the tall corporal told Jake. Dirt streaked the man’s cheeks and his eyes were huge.
“Yeah, soon,” Jake said. “Help me set up the machine gun.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“We’re screwed,” Jake told the corporal. “Our battalion just did a bunk and the rest are too scared to fight back. That leaves us.”
“We should run.”
“We should kill Chinese bastards,” Jake said, remembering the ones who had hanged Americans in Rio National Forest.
“I’m out of here,” the corporal said. His name was Charles and he used to be a philosophy student. His neck was far too long. Right, right, everyone called him Goose.
“Listen, Goose,” Jake said good-naturedly. “If you run, I’m going to shoot you.”
“What?” Goose said. “You can’t threaten me. I’m a corporal and you’re a private in my squad.”
“Watch this,” Jake said, drawing a sidearm. He touched Goose’s forehead with the barrel. The corporal had lost his helmet.
“How does that feel?” Jake asked.
“Please,” Goose whispered. “Don’t kill me.”
“Set up the machine gun and do what I say,” Jake told him. “That way you live.”
Goose nodded wildly.
The other Militiaman of the machine gun squad watched with wide eyes.
“Hurry it up,” Jake said. He peeked up to scout the situation. More Chinese ran through the cross street, setting up to come here from an old bakery. He could seem them hiding in there, likely figuring out what they were going to do next.
“See the edge of our little wall over there,” Jake said, pointing to the left.
“I see it,” Goose said.
“Slide the gun there and get ready to feed me more ammo. The Chinese are going to cross at the junction, coming straight for us.”
“Set it up there,” Goose repeated. As he did, the Chinese infantry started firing at them from the bakery.
Jake looked behind. Groaning and wounded Militiamen hurried off the street. Most ran away. A few braver, tougher soldiers fired back. Some of the fleeing died with bullets in the back, falling over like sick old men.
A whistle blew. One of the officers had stayed. Seconds later, a grenade flew at the Militia officer, hitting him in the chest, killing him with a flash.
Jake stood up, aiming his M-16. The flyer that had just popped the captain jetted for cover. Jake hit something on it with his shots. The jet quit and the flyer smacked into a three-story building and tumbled down to earth.
Jake ducked down and bullets rattled against the small wall of shelter. It made Goose groan and he clutched his head in panic.
“Is the gun ready?” Jake asked him.
Goose nodded frantically.
Jake threw himself onto his belly, getting behind the .50 caliber. The Chinese would likely get a machine gun set up soon in the bakery. Others would surely try to work around their position, flanking them. He had to start firing, start showing the enemy they had to play it safer. He also needed to show his own side they could hurt the Chinese.
“Okay. Pick it up and set the gun beyond the wall to the side,” Jake said.
“I’ll die if I expose myself,” Goose said.
“Do it!” Jake shouted.
Hunched over, Goose grabbed the barrel. It was crazy. He picked up the front of the M2 Browning and set it with its tripod-mount where Jake had told him. Then Goose dove behind the protective cover, skidding on soil with his elbows.
Lying on the ground, Jake began firing. The loud sound of the heavy caliber bullets reassured him. The big slugs smashed through the bakery walls and exploded the remaining glass. He heard screaming as they hit enemy soldiers. Even though Jake didn’t know it, he grinned from ear to ear. It made Goose shudder to see it.
Something about the sound of the heavy machine gun woke up a few others in the Eleventh CDM Battalion. They crawled to better positions and started firing at the enemy.
From a different direction, fifteen Chinese soldiers charged, shooting from the hip, one of them popping off grenades like a shotgun. All of them wore body armor.
The first grenade hit Jake’s protecting wall, exploding harmlessly. A second one landed beyond the wall, rolling on the street, tumbling like a can of beans. The smaller Militiaman of Jake’s squad shouted in horror. He got up and ran at the grenade.
What’s he doing? Then Jake realized the Militiaman must think he was going to grab it and throw it elsewhere.
“Down!” Jake roared.
The grenade exploded, knocking the Militiaman backward, ending the war for him. He also saved Goose and Jake from any damage.
Goose went utterly pale and he trembled. He also grabbed his M-16, stood and emptied the magazine at the enemy. It did nothing, completely missing everything. Well, it did make the Chinese duck and slow their rush.
“Down!” Jake shouted again, hoarsely. Then he had no more time to shout. He swiveled the heavy machine gun and pressed his thumbs on the butterfly triggers. He mowed down the stalled attackers, starting with the grenade-launching whore. The big .50 caliber bullets tore through Chinese body armor as if it was paper. Some of those bastards wore schematic visors, too, but it didn’t help them any, now did it?
When Jake ran out of ammo, Goose loaded more. Soon Jake worked over the dead Chinese on the street, making sure they weren’t faking.
It was the opening of the battle for Castle Rock—the gate the Chinese needed so they could drive for Greater Denver. It was also the Eleventh CDM Battalion’s baptism by fire, and the first time Jake and Goose worked together as a team.
Marshal Liang sat in his Command Center, staring up at a huge screen. Around the room, officers sat at their consoles. Near Liang sat General Ping. He appeared to be an unassuming staff officer, with utterly regular features and glasses. The man was unable to use contact lenses and had feared corrective surgery. There was nothing unassuming about Ping’s mind, though. He was Liang’s most brilliant assistant and most trusted confidant.
“Tonight we draw the noose tight,” Liang said.
General Ping nodded. He also watched the big screen. It showed a satellite image of Greater Denver and the Southern Rockies to the west. I-70 was highlighted in red, a thin ribbon that stretched away from the built-up urban area and went left across the screen.
Marshal Liang wore no smiles tonight. With the initial ground assaults, he had knocked on Greater Denver’s front door. The Tenth and Fifteenth Armies surged toward the city. Artillery poured destruction upon the Americans. Eagle Team flyers murdered thousands. The assault divisions swarmed to the attack, taking heavy losses but pushing the enemy perimeter ever backward.