Invasion: Colorado ia-3 Read online

  As she increased her pace, Shun Li frowned. It was funny, but giving mercy didn’t make her feel any better. Why was that? Likely, mercy was highly overrated and this proved it.

  How can I escape my fate? I must discover a way before they send someone to kill me.

  -4-

  The Map

  DENVER, COLORADO

  Master Sergeant Paul Kavanagh leaned forward in his chair, accepting an enlarged photograph of a three-star Chinese general.

  “Was this him?” Captain Anderson of SOCOM asked.

  Paul squinted at the photograph. The Chinese general had strong features, with his military hat tilted slightly.

  “I think so,” Paul said. He slid the photograph back onto the desk. It was the fourth photo Anderson had shown him.

  “Hmm,” Anderson said. He checked an e-reader on the desk. “This is General Cho Deng.” The captain tapped the screen and continued reading. “Well, look at this,” he said shortly. “It appears Deng led Fifth Corps: five pursuit hovertank brigades. They’ve played a key role in several of our worst encirclement battles.” Anderson tapped the screen again, reading further and beginning to nod. “Deng’s hovertanks have driven deep on occasion, creating chaos in our rear areas. I wonder what he was doing on the Arkansas River.”

  “Probably hauling supplies,” Paul said.

  Anderson looked up. The second floor room was in SOCOM HQ for Army Group West. It was spacious, with a photograph of President Sims and a large American flag hanging on the wall. Behind the captain’s desk were several computers. He was a medium-sized man with a small black mustache and a prosthetic right hand and forearm. When he moved its fingers, the fiber-mechanical hand whirred softly. Anderson had fought as a second lieutenant in Alaska, losing the hand and forearm during the Chinese drive on Anchorage.

  Anderson set down the photograph and drummed his prosthetic fingers on the desk.

  “You were lucky, Master Sergeant,” he finally said.

  Paul remained silent. He’d been back several days since coming in from the surveillance mission. Romo was in the hospital, hooked up to fluids. It had been a tough few days after the sniper attack. His blood brother had nearly coughed out his life and given them away twice. Once, Romo had told Paul to leave him behind and report in Denver. Paul had left two people behind in his life, once on the Arctic ice and once in Northern Mexico. Both incidents still bothered him. He knew his conscience couldn’t bear any more abandoned comrades and he’d told Romo so. There had been no more talk about that.

  “We don’t send you behind enemy lines so you can indulge your fancy and kill enemy generals when you feel like it,” Anderson was telling him. “You’re not a lone wolf, but an integral part of a vast team effort.”

  Paul knew better than to talk back to officers or even to try to explain himself. As a young man in Northern Quebec, he hadn’t always known that. It had gotten him kicked out of the Marines the first time. Maybe wisdom came with age. He sat and listened to the lecture, but he didn’t nod or give the captain assurances that he’d learned his lesson. He sat like a rock. He almost did it too much and forced himself to blink, as he’d been staring like an idol.

  “I’m not sure you’re hearing me, Master Sergeant,” Anderson said.

  “Oh. I hear you, sir. Loud and clear.”

  “But do you understand?”

  “Your words? Yes sir, absolutely.”

  The finger drumming increased, making the prosthetic whirring noises more noticeable. “I can understand your frustration. I mean the lack of the smart bombs. And it’s good you took out this general. That’s not the point.”

  “Of course not, sir,” Paul said.

  Captain Anderson stared at him before sitting back. An infectious grin spread across his face. It dropped years off his appearance, making him seem too young.

  “There, I’ve given you the sermon General Ochoa suggested you hear. This is a hell of a war, Master Sergeant. The enemy is stretching us thin and he doesn’t stop pounding. There should be four of you out there on a long-range surveillance mission. Instead, we send you and the Mexican hit man.”

  “Romo is one of the best, sir.”

  “Of course he is. That’s not the point. Look. I need you alive, Kavanagh. I appreciate your valor and your love of country. But the truth is you went cowboy on me and you got lucky. This is going to be a long war, and one of these days, your luck is going to run out.”

  “I hope you’re wrong, sir.”

  “So do I. Now that we’re clear about that, I have…”

  The prosthetic hand stopped moving as the captain laid the palm flat on the desk. Anderson glanced away and he pursed his lips.

  “We all have our orders, Master Sergeant. I know you appreciate that. General Ochoa has given me orders concerning you. I don’t think you’re going to like them.”

  “What now, sir?”

  “There’s someone who wants to meet you. He’s very insistent about it, too. At first, he demanded the general send you to him, alone preferably.”

  “Are you talking about Colonel Valdez?” Paul asked.

  “Yes,” Anderson said. He faced Paul, and the captain was frowning.

  “General Ochoa hasn’t changed his mind about sacrificing me to Valdez, has he?” Paul asked.

  Anderson gave an insincere shake of the head.

  “It sounds like there’s more to this story, sir.”

  “There always is,” Anderson said. He let out a sigh. “The Mexican Home Army has been through the grinder like the rest of us. They were stationed in Texas and have been through hell. You’re probably aware that the American Government hopes to use the Home Army as much politically as militarily. We’ve been helping Colonel Valdez to foment rebellions in Mexico. The expectation is that he’ll become our Charles De Gaulle, as it were.”

  “Who?” Paul asked.

  The trace of the former grin appeared on the captain’s lips. “It’s old history, Master Sergeant. General Charles De Gaulle led the Free French during World War II. He commanded battle units in the early part of the war, but he also helped the war effort by coordinating French Resistance against the Nazis. After the war, De Gaulle became the President of France. We’re hoping Cesar Valdez does something similar in Mexico. By fighting with us, we’re hoping the Home Army shows the rest of Mexico that it doesn’t have to lie supine under the Chinese occupation.”

  “Got it,” Paul said.

  “As I said earlier, the Home Army has taken a terrible beating just as we have. They were a little over sixty thousand strong before the summer invasion.”

  “And now?” Paul asked.

  “More like twenty-five thousand,” Anderson said. “Not all of the missing are dead, mind you. Some deserted and others are wounded.”

  “Where are those twenty-five thousand?”

  “The majority are holding out in Centennial,” Anderson said. “That’s to the south of here in Greater Denver. They’re tough soldiers, some of the best we have. Colonel Valdez has started wondering, though. What happens when the war’s over and he doesn’t have anyone left? He’s been talking about leaving, letting his soldiers rest and refit, which likely means sitting out the war. We can’t afford that just now as we’re stretched thin enough as it is.”

  “Got it,” Paul said. One man versus twenty-five thousand, yeah, he got it all right. One man like him didn’t count much stacked against all those thousands of badly needed soldiers.

  “Colonel Valdez has highly placed contacts,” Anderson said, “powerful people that want to keep him happy. Some of them have put pressure on General Ochoa.”

  Here it comes, Paul thought. “Yeah?” he asked.

  “I can understand your cynicism, but you have nothing to worry about.”

  “Who’s worried?” Paul asked.

  “I wouldn’t be party to handing over an American soldier in my command to anyone. I give you my word on that.”

  Paul sensed something in Anderson. And he recalled how the
captain had lost his hand. Back in Alaska, he’d held the rearguard for an outfit pulling out from the advancing Chinese. Second Lieutenant Anderson had been one of the soldiers staying behind, firing a heavy machine gun to give the rest of the unit cover. The Chinese attacked swarm-style. Anderson had remained at his post, firing until an enemy bullet destroyed his hand and the machine gun. Another bullet had ricocheted around in his helmet, knocking him unconscious.

  The Chinese advance reached his position and passed the unconscious officer by. Later, with a bleeding head and ruined hand, Anderson had begun a long, long journey back to American lines. The captain had guts, and he didn’t quit. No, he didn’t seem like the kind of officer to hand over one of his men.

  Paul Kavanagh sat up and nodded. “I believe you, sir.”

  “Good. I don’t like my men thinking I’m a turncoat or a sellout. Like our country, you’ve been through a lot. Personally, I’d like to see this problem taken care of. General Ochoa agrees with me. To that end, I’ve arranged a meeting between you and Valdez.”

  Paul had to work not to swivel his head to look behind him. He could imagine MPs waiting outside for him. Despite the captain’s words just now—

  “When and where would the meeting take place?” Paul asked.

  Flicking his wrist and pulling back the cuff, Anderson checked his gold-rimmed watch. “In three minutes. He’s coming here, alone with his driver. Are you armed, Master Sergeant?”

  Paul felt a prickle along his neck. Despite everything, was this a sellout? He couldn’t believe it. “Yes sir, you probably see I’m wearing a gun. Do you want my sidearm?”

  “General Ochoa told me to take it from you,” Anderson said, staring Paul in the eyes.

  Paul’s chest tightened.

  “But I’m not going to do that,” Anderson said.

  Paul’s nostrils flared, and he nodded in the manner of one elite warrior to another.

  There came a knock at the door.

  “Ah, it appears Colonel Valdez is a little early,” Anderson said. “Are you ready, Master Sergeant?”

  “Let’s get this over with,” Paul said.

  “Enter,” Anderson said.

  A sergeant opened the door. As he did, Paul stood and turned around. He didn’t like having his back to Valdez. A hard-faced man entered. It must be the driver. The man was big, in uniform, and he stared at Paul with cold eyes.

  This one means to kill me.

  Colonel Valdez strode in next. He was shorter than the driver and an inch taller than Captain Anderson. He had darker, pitted skin. He must have had chicken pox as a kid. A cigar smoldered between his lips. He had a sharp nose and a fierce presence radiating from him. His eyes burned black like coals as they focused on Paul.

  Kavanagh’s neck hairs prickled and his right hand instinctively dropped onto his hostler. With a twitch of his fingers, he unsnapped it.

  Valdez shot an accusing glance at Captain Anderson. “Ochoa promised me he would be—”

  “Colonel Valdez!” Anderson said at parade-ground volume.

  It seemed to take an effort of will, but Valdez tore his gaze from Paul to look at Anderson.

  “I’d like to show your driver into the other room,” Anderson said.

  “My driver stays with me,” Valdez said.

  “Sergeant,” Anderson said to the man at the door. “Draw your weapon and point it at Colonel Valdez’s driver. If he twitches a muscle, shoot him, kill him.”

  The driver had been busy staring down Paul. His eyebrows lifted now, he turned and his hand dropped toward the weapon on his belt.

  Paul didn’t wait for the surprised sergeant to do as he’d been told. He drew his gun before anyone else did. “This isn’t the place for it,” he said in a low voice.

  The driver—the obvious hit man—studied Paul. The cold eyes showed nothing. This was a dangerous man, likely one of the Colonel’s most deadly. The driver let his gun hand go limp and hang down by his side.

  Finally, belatedly, the sergeant drew his sidearm. He pointed it at the Colonel’s hit man.

  “Take him to the waiting room in the lobby,” Anderson said. “I don’t want him anywhere on this floor.”

  “Yes sir,” the sergeant said. “Come on,” he told the driver.

  “Take his gun first,” Anderson said.

  “That will not be necessary,” Valdez said. “He will not draw here.” The Colonel spoke rapidly in Spanish to the driver.

  The hit man nodded lazily.

  Anderson appeared to think a moment and nodded to the sergeant. “The Colonel is a man of his word. Leave the driver his sidearm, but take him downstairs to the waiting room.”

  The driver and sergeant left.

  “I’m going to retire down the hall,” Anderson said. “You two gentlemen are free to use my office. If you need me—”

  “General Ochoa lied to me,” Valdez said.

  “No sir,” Anderson said. “He kept his word. General Ochoa ordered me to disarm the Master Sergeant. I chose to ignore the order.”

  “Ochoa will learn of this,” Valdez said.

  “We’re all on the same side, Colonel,” Anderson said. “It would be good to remember that. And if I were you, I’d also remember that Master Sergeant Kavanagh is a crack shot. He killed General Cho Deng, one of the enemy’s best hovertank commanders.”

  “You’d better remember who I am, Captain. It is a poor decision to cross swords with me.”

  Anderson saluted. “Oh yes, sir. I will remember.” He thereupon took his leave, closing the door behind him.

  Paul holstered his sidearm and faced the intense Colonel Valdez.

  Valdez chomped down on the cigar, and his eyes blazed. With his pitted skin, it made him seem like some Aztec god of the days when they demanded blood-sacrifices from their conquering people. In those times, The Aztecs had marched to war, swinging obsidian-tipped clubs and spears, building an empire. At its core was the glorious city of Tenochtitlan, where present day Mexico City stood. There, on the tallest pyramid, the Aztec priests tore out the hearts of their victims, appeasing the gods with human blood. On some feast days, they had sacrificed as many as twenty thousand men, women and children.

  The Aztecs had been fierce warriors. Colonel Valdez could have been one of their chosen sons. Despite a conquering horde of Chinese soldiery numbering in the millions, he had fought against the Mexican occupation. He had waged merciless war, using assassins against President Felipe, killing the supposed victor of the Mexican Civil War. The Chinese had tried to hunt Valdez down as ruthlessly. The Colonel had survived—a hero, a butcher and a relentless foe.

  “You were supposed to protect my daughter,” Valdez growled.

  Paul didn’t know what to say. He hated the man who had sent assassins after him, but he could understand the rage. He also despised the fact of his leaving Maria Valdez behind. He’d had no choice in the matter, but he knew he couldn’t explain that to the Colonel.

  “I’m sorry,” Paul said.

  “Does that bring her back to life?”

  “No.”

  “Then what good is your apology?” Valdez sneered.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Bah!” Valdez said. He yanked the cigar out of his mouth and spat on Paul’s boots. “I give you that for your sorry. The Chinese cut her into pieces because you failed to keep your promise. The Marines never leave their own behind? Ha! It is a lie.”

  “We’re human, Colonel. Sometimes—”

  Valdez’s right hand dropped to his gun.

  Paul’s dropped onto the butt of his holstered semi-automatic.

  “You will kill me?” Valdez asked.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “But I want to kill you,” Valdez said.

  In the middle of Paul’s stomach, outrage and frustration exploded. It tightened his jaws, and he drew his gun. Belatedly, Valdez drew his. Paul knocked the hand aside, sending the revolver flying to smack against the wall. Then he jammed his semi-automatic against Valdez�
��s neck, pushing the smaller man until he slammed against the wall.

  “You’re the one who sent your daughter into combat,” Paul whispered, his face an inch away from Valdez. “Why didn’t you lead the mission? I fought alongside her. I risked my life as she risked hers. Did I kill her later? No, the Chinese did that. Don’t blame me, Valdez.”

  “I do.”

  Paul cocked the hammer, and he stared into the eyes of a man determined to kill him. Finally, he twisted to the side and pushed Valdez away. The Colonel staggered, bashing into a chair so it went tumbling and Valdez sprawled onto the floor.

  Holstering his gun, Paul wondered about the wisdom of letting a man live who would never stop seeking his life. He didn’t see as he had much choice, though. Anderson would arrest him if he killed Valdez here. What good would being arrested do?

  I’d probably survive the war then, tucked away in a prison cell. Cheri would like that.

  “You just made a terrible mistake, gringo,” Valdez said, climbing to his feet. “You should have killed me. When I get the drop on you, I will kill you.”

  “Whatever,” Paul said. “As far as I’m concerned…” He stopped himself from speaking further. What did name-calling do? Nothing. It was doubtful either of them was going to survive the Chinese. So this was all moot anyway.

  “You are a dead man,” Valdez said. “Tell Romo he is dead, too.”

  Paul breathed deeply. Ochoa had ordered Anderson to disarm him. What a crazy world. Valdez hated. The Chinese conquered. And—

  “I’m sorry about your daughter, Colonel. I wish I could have saved her. In fact, even though I know you’re going to spit at this—” Paul scowled and the words wouldn’t come. He wanted to speak them. He even opened his mouth to try, but his tongue refused to move and help him curl the words.

  Valdez stared at him with hatred.

  Paul moved his lips, and this time, he forced out the words. “I’m sorry, and I…I ask you to forgive me.”

  “What did you say?” Valdez hissed.

  Paul took an even deeper breath. He couldn’t believe he was saying this, but it felt like the right thing to do. “Please forgive me, sir. I failed your daughter and I’m sorry.”