Invasion: California Page 16

  “Not a clue, Professor. What do you want to do?”

  Stan rubbed the giant tread. What did Wilson want now? He sighed, wanting to make the stickler wait, but not wanting to cause problems for Jose and Ted, their young driver.

  “Sure!” Stan shouted. “Radio Wilson that we’re on our way in.”

  ***

  Forty-five minutes later, Stan sat in Colonel Wilson’s tidy office. From behind his desk, the colonel watched him, with his index fingers tapping his chin.

  “We were fixing our tank,” Stan said. Wilson hadn’t asked where he’d been or why he had been late. The colonel had simply pointed at the chair as Stan entered.

  Stan decided to wait it out. He was through with Wilson anyway. Not that he planned to tell him any more of his faults. Once was enough.

  Wilson breathed deeply through his nostrils. As if annoyed, he turned his computer screen so it faced Stan.

  Stan raised an eyebrow. Wilson breathed deeply again, saying nothing. Bending closer, Stan began to read the print on the screen. In a moment, it felt as if his blood froze. It was hard to focus on the words.

  “Do you understand the message’s significance?” Wilson asked in a brittle tone.

  “The Army can’t refuse my resignation,” Stan said.

  Wilson snorted. “You’re with us for the duration, Captain. You will remain under my command until either you or I die.”

  “But—”

  “Dismissed,” Wilson said.

  Stan stared at him.

  “You are dismissed,” the colonel said. “You do remember military discipline, I hope.”

  Nodding, Stan stood. He could fight this, he supposed. Yet how would that help Jake? The President had signed an order. The experimental unit had been activated and cancelled all leaves of absence, resignations—the unit was headed for California, for active duty.

  Why would they send us there? The big tanks were hard to move. There were only a few railcars big enough to carry the Behemoths and almost no bridges. If the railroad over the mountains were destroyed, why, that would strand the Behemoths in California. They had snorkel gear so the giant tank could ford or cruise underwater through the largest rivers.

  “John Glen will have to wait to enjoy the pleasure of your company,” Wilson said.

  Stan swallowed a retort. It was like swallowing a big pill that refused to go down. He had to work at it, his throat muscles going up and down. The colonel sounded vindictive. He shook his head.

  “You’re refusing orders?” Wilson asked.

  “No, sir,” Stan said, giving an over-crisp, sarcastic salute. He was sure Wilson didn’t get it. He’d have to think this over. The unit had been activated. What did the President think was going to happen that he wanted these so-very-prone-to-breakdown-tanks in California?

  “I’d better get back to my tank, sir. I need to get the engine running if they’re moving us.”

  “Hmm,” Wilson said. “Yes, see to it, Captain.”

  Stan spun on his heel and marched for the door. Did this mean he was going to war, that the country was? He couldn’t believe it.

  -5-

  Into the Abyss

  SAN YSIDRO, CALIFORNIA

  “Gunnery Sergeant,” General Ochoa said, nodding a greeting.

  “Hello, sir,” Paul said warily. He was in one of the Ninth Division’s comm-shacks, the same one he’d used to speak to Cheri. After a tiring day at the border with Colonel Norman, Paul had headed for the showers. The lanky lieutenant he’d bluffed before told him he had a special message.

  Now Paul stared at the grim-faced Ochoa. “Do you have bad news, sir?”

  “I’m afraid I do,” Ochoa said. “I’ve been giving the news to others all day long.”

  “Is it my wife?” Paul asked.

  “What?” Ochoa asked. “No,” he said a moment later. “It’s about the survival of the United States as we know it.”

  “Oh.” Paul’s shoulders loosened. He had been worried sick it was about Cheri or Mike. “Go ahead, sir. Let’s hear it.”

  General Ochoa frowned before explaining the nature of Blue Swan.

  “Okay,” Paul said. “I get it. EMP leaves us sitting ducks for the Chinese. What does that have to do with me?”

  Ochoa nodded crisply, although he spoke hesitantly. “We need commandos to, ah…”

  Paul laughed mirthlessly as the problem and plan crystalized in his mind. “You want American kamikazes to take out the enemy missiles, is that it?”

  Ochoa stared at him, finally nodding.

  “But those missiles are likely in the middle of enemy formations across the border in Mexico.”

  “We’ve begun pinpointing them,” Ochoa said.

  “And how have you done that, sir?”

  “The CIA—”

  Paul had worked with the CIA for some time now, ever since Hawaii, in fact. “Oh,” he said. “You mean you’re guessing.”

  Ochoa stopped speaking, which left his mouth open. He closed his mouth and hunched toward the screen. “I won’t lie to you, Kavanagh. Ah…these are educated guesses by the smartest people we have.”

  “Great,” Paul said.

  “Can I count on you for this?”

  Paul turned away. They want me back in Mexico. If this Chinese thingamajig works…then we’re all dead anyway. He faced Ochoa. “When would we go in, sir?” This was going to take a lot of precision training.

  “Twenty-four hours from now,” Ochoa said.

  Paul felt himself go cold. We’re trying to stay alive by our fingernails. “This is getting better by the minute,” he said. “You’re throwing men together—strangers—to go in and die for a wild hope.”

  “It’s a gamble and it’s a raw deal for you. But we need you, Gunnery Sergeant. Your country needs you.”

  “Just like the U.S. needed me in Hawaii?”

  Scowling, Ochoa said, “The truth is you’re probably a dead man if you agree to this. The trouble is that if you don’t agree, our country could be dead before we start the fight. This is one of those times…” Ochoa cleared his throat. “Sergeant, we’ve been flat-out beaten before the fighting starts by a war-changing enemy weapon. The intelligence community believes the Chinese only have a limited number of these missiles. We’ve yet to spot any facing Texas. Now if—”

  “I’ll do it,” Paul said. “I’m in, sir. I want to get it done.”

  Ochoa blinked several times. “You know what this means?”

  “Yeah, that I get to do the job I was trained for. This driving around as a chauffeur—it’s a waste of my time.”

  Ochoa looked away. He shook his head. When he looked back, his eyes had hardened. “You’re a good man, Kavanagh. I’m emailing you the plan on your secure account. Study it, refine it if you can think of anything better for your team, and then tomorrow night you’re going in.”

  “Yeah,” Paul said, “that’s just wonderful. I can hardly wait.”

  FIRST FRONT HEADQUARTERS, MEXICO

  Marshal Nung clasped his hands behind his back as a green light bathed his features. He stood over a computerized situation map of the Mexican-Californian border. Around the glowing table stood his staff officers and old Marshal Gang, the Ruling Committee’s observer.

  Marshal Gang was big for a Chinese officer, with wrinkled skin and rows of gaudy medals on his chest.

  “We still need several more days, sir,” General Pi told Nung, his logistical wizard. Pi looked haggard, with red-rimmed eyes and a drooping mouth. He was the eternal pessimist and therefore an oddity among Nung’s officers.

  Nung breathed deeply, expanding his chest and making his medals clink against each other. He looked up at Pi and shook his head.

  Pi’s frown deepened. “The Third Corps needs more—”

  “Listen to me,” Nung said. His voice was raw from lack of sleep. Since his return from China he had been everywhere, inspecting, threatening, cajoling and watching. Through force of will he attempted to move two million men and their suppli
es into attack position. It was a daunting task. Even with a brilliant, hard-working staff, there was simply too much to do and too little time to do it in.

  Fortunately, they had prepositioned masses of supplies months ago. The Americans had noticed then and the enemy had gone into alert status. Over time, the Americans became accustomed to his maneuvers. The enemy was on alert again, but Nung suspected that many Americans must think of it as routine, especially as the action had already started in Texas.

  Nung breathed once more, staring at the green screen. Two million soldiers and their support groups. Masses of artillery shells, masses of bullets, body armor, boots, jackets, rifles and millions of tons of rations—there was no end to his soldiers’ needs. Tanks, armored cars, IFVs, hovers, fighter jets, bombers, missiles and the tens of thousands of drones, it boggled the imagination how much fuel he needed.

  The diversionary attack in Texas had absorbed an amazing amount of materiel, but it would be as nothing compared to his needs.

  The Americans had mass, too, but not as much, never close to equal to what he possessed. Besides, the enemy had vast frontages to guard, never certain where his enemy might land an amphibious invasion.

  “The Chinese hammer falls here, comrades,” Nung told his officers. “We will crack the Californian defenses. First, we must smash the American air cover and destroy radar stations, anti-missile launchers, laser and flak sites. Then we will unleash Blue Swan and send in the Eagle Teams. Only then will the wave assaults wash over the shattered and shaken Americans. One swift blow given with tremendous force will shatter the American defenses into a million pieces. Ah, then comrades, then our tanks will lunge into the Californian hinterland and win the war before the Americans have time to recover.”

  “It is a bold plan,” Marshal Gang said.

  Nung nodded, accepting the compliment.

  “Yet I wonder if the Americans will wilt as you hope,” Gang said.

  Nung squinted at the frowning marshal. “Without communications, without their vaulted command and control, with Chinese soldiers en masse, flowing over, around and behind them—yes, the Americans will wilt as I expect,” Nung said. “They will run from us in terror. Their entire defensive line will shatter like a brittle vase. I have promised our Great Leader this and I intend to see it achieved. Ceaseless assaults, comrades,” he said, turning to his officers. “Mass and more mass will swamp the American soldiers. Therefore, even though we haven’t achieved perfection in all our divisions, we will launch the assault two days from now. Two days, comrades, and the greatest battle in history will begin.

  SAN YSIDRO, CALIFORNIA

  Marshal Nung was wrong. The start of the war would not begin in two days, but one night earlier under cover of darkness.

  Paul Kavanagh stood with his new team in the glare of bright lamplights. Moths flew up there by the lights, motes of anarchy showing the senselessness of fate. This was an ad hoc group of soldiers. He had four former Marine Recon drill instructors from Camp Pendleton. They had been plucked from their training duties. He had six Rangers and five Free Mexico assassins. According to their records, they were the best Colonel Valdez possessed. Their leader was a man named Romo.

  He was a dark-skinned native with sharp features. He was shorter than Paul, with his hair shaved to his scalp and with the eyes of a stone cold killer. Romo had an earring, with a small feather dangling and he walked with the silky grace of a jaguar.

  Paul had shaken hands with each of his men. All had squeezed back. One or two had looked away; three of the Free Mexico soldiers had shifted uneasily. Romo had shaken hands normally.

  “You are Paul Kavanagh?” Romo asked.

  “Do I know you?”

  Romo shook his head.

  “Do you know me?”

  “Si,” Romo said, hardly moving his lips as he spoke, but always staring into his eyes.

  Paul knew it then. “Colonel Valdez sent you?”

  “Si.”

  “He wants my head or something like that?”

  “Si.”

  “And you’re the one who’s going to bring it in?”

  With the tip of the fingers of his left hand, Romo touched his feather. “Si,” he said.

  “Okay,” Paul said, “fine. But answer me this.”

  Romo barely shifted his shoulders in a shrug.

  “First, what’s with the feather?”

  Romo became utterly still.

  “I don’t see too many Mexican soldiers wearing those,” Paul said.

  “I am Apache from my mother’s side.

  Paul raised his eyebrows, and he nodded. “Good enough. Will you obey my orders until we destroy our Blue Swan missile?”

  Romo glanced at his four men, each of them carefully listening to the conversation. “You and me,” he told Paul, “we kill the Chinese first, si.”

  Paul stared into Romo’s eyes, and he felt a chill along his spine as if someone had put a cold blade against his back. The man was grim death, a stone killer. As Paul stared into those pitiless eyes, he considered drawing a knife and gutting the man on the spot. But since none of them were coming back alive, he figured why bother.

  The conversation with Romo had taken place many hours ago. Now Paul adjusted his body armor. He looked around at the lamp-washed concrete at the waiting helicopters. They were sleek and fast, representing the latest in American insertion technology.

  This was the land of the free, eh. Yeah, it was his land. His wife and boy were in LA. If the Blue Swan missiles worked and demolished the SoCal Fortifications…then his family was meat. This way, they had a chance.

  “Love you, babe,” he whispered. Paul picked up his combination assault rifle/grenade launcher and with his rucksack secured, he jogged for his waiting jet-assisted helo. Romo and several of his killers followed. So did the Recon Marines. The rest of the Free Mexico soldiers and Rangers headed for the second helicopter. They were sixteen commandos bent on destroying a Blue Swan launcher—if it existed and if the planners had really pinpointed the thing’s location.

  SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

  Flight Lieutenant Harris cracked his knuckles. He sat in a padded chair, staring at his screen and while wearing virtual reality goggles. In the same room were ten other men and women like him. Each was a drone operator.

  Their drone was the Viper 10 air-superiority Unmanned Combat Vehicle. Lieutenant Harris rolled his shoulders, trying to make himself more comfortable. He didn’t like flying if he was stiff.

  The V-10 was half the size of an F-35, the Air Force’s main single-engine fighter. Because the UCAV lacked a pilot, it needed less space and a smaller engine to do the same task. It could also take more Gs and be ordered to do suicidal things without losing a valuable pilot.

  Lieutenant Harris squeezed his eyes shut and then he concentrated. Tonight, they were headed into enemy air space. Tonight, the drones were going to hunt for trouble.

  What are we doing, huh? Doesn’t the brass upstairs know we’re going to take severe loses doing this?

  Lieutenant Harris shrugged and then settled back, finding his comfort zone. He would do his best. He knew how much the V-10s cost. And if they failed, it was likely he wouldn’t make it out of San Diego alive before the Chinese came.

  “Here we go,” the lieutenant whispered, taxiing his drone down a runway.

  All across Southern California, other UCAVs, fighters, bombers and wild weasels launched into the darkness. From Vandenberg Air Force Base, a Titan VII rocket lifted a three-package satellite into space. No one expected those to last long, just long enough to give them vital intelligence.

  AWACS planes remained well behind the border. They were critical in detecting enemy low and fast flyers—strike, recon and interceptor aircraft, even ground-to-air weapons and cruise missiles. The Airborne-Warning-And-Control System aircraft used look-down phased-array radar and computers to find low-flying enemy against all the ground clutter. The computers had gotten better since the Alaskan War, making it easier for AWACS
and radar stations to spot enemy aircraft.

  Because both sides lacked reliable satellites near the combat zone, they also fell back on using their AWACS and high-flying drones to control their planes and provide an integrated operating picture through secure datalinks. In other words, the AWACS were flying air battle control centers.

  A terrible truism affected modern warfare, particularly in air combat. If one could see the enemy, one could kill the enemy nine times out of ten. It was why both sides used stealth craft. Special alloys and polymers, anti-radar paint and ingenious construction meant that most Chinese and American aircraft gave back very small radar signatures. Ever-improving radar and computers helped each side spot the faint returns, often pinpointing positions with lethal precision. It was a constant cat and mouse game.

  As he sat in his seat in San Diego, Lieutenant Harris watched through his VR goggles as his V-10 waited twenty miles from the border. There were hundreds of Chinese aircraft up on the other side. The majority of those were fighter drones guarding Chinese air space.

  Harris licked his lips. He’d never flown in combat before, although he had logged plenty of hours in simulated battle. There were four critical factors to air fights and to interception missions in particular. The side with superior eyes and ears, the detection devices and electronic counter measures—ECM—usually maneuvered into superior attack positions. The second factor was that the side with better tactics, including tactical or strategic surprise, gained an edge. Third, the side with more skilled pilots had an advantage. Lastly, numbers, sheer mass of planes over the enemy gave a striking advantage.

  Lieutenant Harris wiped a wrist across his mouth. America had none of these advantages here. The Chinese particularly were rich as a people and a nation. They had bought the best planes and drones and logged hundreds of hours, perfecting their pilots. Perhaps, America would have tactical surprise tonight—

  “Look at that,” a drone operator said.

  Harris stopped breathing as he watched his split screen. One side showed him what the V-10’s cameras “saw.” The other was an aerial map of SoCal. The red dots—the Chinese—began to fill the “southern” edge of his screen. More kept appearing, making it a blizzard over there.