Invasion: California Page 17

  “Look at them.”

  “I’m looking,” Harris said.

  As he did, American wild weasels surged to the forefront. They jammed enemy radar and applied other electronic counter-measures. They attempted to blind the Chinese by throwing a blanket over their early warning stations. Behind the wild weasels followed heavier “Buffalo” drones. These launched flocks of anti-radar missiles, with the missiles zeroing in on Chinese radar and other air-detection stations. These rode the enemy radar beams straight down to their targets. Even if the enemy turned the beams off as a countermeasure, the missiles remembered where their targets were and struck them anyway.

  The command came then and Lieutenant Harris and his fellow operators launched their V-10s for the Mexican-Californian border.

  Harris took his drone low. He didn’t want to lose his UCAV to enemy flak, tac-lasers or SAMs. Flying low and fast was the way to avoid most of those. The trouble was that this was one of the thickest SAM belts in the world.

  Like a swarm of angry bees, the American V-10s raced over the border and lifted their noses to engage the enemy drones, firing anti-air missiles and cannons.

  Lieutenant Harris had other orders. As his fellow V-10s engaged the enemy, he raced deeper into Mexico at treetop level. Through his VR goggles, he saw endless splashes and flares of brilliant light. Those were enemy and friendly kills. Twice his threat-receiver blinked, warning him of enemy radar lock-on. Harris released chaff and an echo decoy. It gave off a V-10 signature. Seconds later, a nearby explosion rocked his drone.

  In his padded chair in San Diego, Harris’s head wobbled. The action was more noticeable to him because of the weight of his headgear. It felt as if he was in a gym doing a neck exercise. The motion was a reaction to the feedback vibration of the VR system. They almost got me.

  Fortunately his threat receiver was quiet now. He’d shaken the radar fix. Grimly, Harris took his drone even lower. He passed a brick building, flashing over it by a mere fifty meters. Since it was a drone, he could take greater chances than a regular pilot could.

  His target was an enemy AWACS plane, which stayed well behind the border by several hundred miles. The Chinese had ten up now and could put up more. But that would take time. Whoever had greater air control and better eyes gained a critical advantage for as long as it lasted. And AWACS were high-value targets, expensive, full of specialists, and hard to replace.

  The minutes ticked by. The threat receiver blinked. Harris released another packet of chaff. He was deep behind the giant air battle going on over the border. Enemy lasers flashed there, cutting down American aircraft. A thousand Chinese SAMs made it a pilot’s nightmare.

  “Come on, baby,” Harris whispered. He wiped a sweaty palm on his pants.

  Minutes passed. He was far behind the giant air battle now. He needed to reach the AWACS. There were others like him, he knew, hunting their own AWACS craft. Would any of them make it? If not…it was over for their side.

  More time passed. Then it got sticky. A buzzing in his ear told Harris Chinese radar had fixed on him tight. Back here, that would likely mean SAMs.

  Harris released his last packet of chaff and two echo decoys. He didn’t have any more now. If the nearby AWACS was smart, it would be turning retrograde, trying to escape.

  Harris checked his fuel level. If he used afterburners to catch the enemy, he’d never make it back. “Let’s kiss this bastard,” he said. It was all or nothing tonight.

  He kicked in the afterburners and the V-10 became the bat out of hell. Twelve miles from target, ten, eight—Harris lifted his drone sharply. The target acquisition indicator growled in his ear. In his VR goggles, a crosshairs fixed on the enemy AWACS five miles away. Yeah, it was fleeing, racing for the ground, hoping to get lost in the clutter.

  “This is with love, baby,” Harris said. He toggled and fired two Sun-stinger missiles. They launched from the V-10 and flashed at the enemy, rapidly building speed at a terrible velocity. A ray burned in the darkness—visible on the V-10’s infrared scanner—and one Sun-stinger disintegrated.

  They have a dedicated tac-laser, no doubt. I don’t like that.

  The enemy AWACS was diving hard and it was expelling chaff like a snowfall. Would American electronics in the Sun-stinger defeat that?

  Harris watched avidly through his VR goggles. He licked his lips. “Come on,” he whispered.

  The speeding Sun-stinger exploded against the enemy’s tail. It was pure ecstasy. I love it. The large plane simply dropped for the ground. There wouldn’t be any saving it now.

  “Hit,” Harris said.

  Seconds later, a Chinese SAM scored its own hit, killing his V-10 and taking Lieutenant Harris’s drone out of the opening air battle of the war.

  FIRST FRONT HEADQUARTERS, MEXICO

  Marshal Nung shrugged on his jacket as he entered the underground command bunker. His hair was still messed up from sleep. He had taken several tranks earlier in order to get a good night’s sleep before the beginning of tomorrow’s invasion. Now he threw two amphetamines into his mouth, slugged back some tea and swallowed the lumps. Afterward, he accepted his military cap from an aide and jammed into onto his head.

  “Report!” he barked, noticing that for once Marshal Gang wasn’t here “observing.”

  “The Americans,” General Pi said, looking up from the green command screen. “They’re throwing their air at us. It is most bewildering.”

  Nung scowled. “A night before our big assault and they attack? That doesn’t make sense. Did they know what we are going to do?”

  General Pi shook his narrow face. “No, Marshal. Our lasers and flak are decimating them, and our drones are killing the rest. They’re throwing away what air force they have. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “What about enemy missiles?” Nung asked.

  “They’ve taken out a few radar stations. Well, a large number of them, but not enough to affect the overall efficiency of our tac-lasers.”

  “Sir, they’ve launched satellites,” an operator said. The man watched on one of the many screens in the room.

  “Call Space Command,” Nung said.

  “We have, sir,” Pi said. “Space Command is targeting the satellites with strategic lasers. The American won’t be watching us from space for long.”

  “Are they attempting to create lanes in our airspace for nuclear-tipped missiles?” Nung asked. That was the only thing that made sense to him.

  “That is also my impression, sir,” General Pi said. “Otherwise, this is a meaningless attack.”

  “No,” Nung said, scowling at the computer table. “It isn’t meaningless. The Americans aren’t fools.” He stared at the situational map as Pi kept changing screen shots. “I find it hard to accept they would go nuclear,” Nung said. “We would shoot down many of those missiles. Afterward, China might well launch a retaliatory strike. But if they’re not going nuclear…” Nung became thoughtful. “Give me a strategic look of the Mexican-Californian border.”

  Pi touched the screen, bringing up the strategic map of Southern California.

  Nung scowled at it. “Show me the destroyed radar installations.”

  Pi tapped the screen several times. Tiny pink lines like threads appeared on the screen.

  “Where do those lines lead?” Nung asked.

  Pi shook his head.

  For the next fifteen minutes, they monitored the air battle.

  “Why aren’t the American fighters retreating?” Nung asked. “This is amazing. They’re handing us their air force.” He felt the amphetamines beginning to kick in. The fuzziness around his mind slipped away, focusing his thoughts. “Compute the ratios of destroyed aircraft between our two sides.”

  General Pi tapped a computer screen. Several moments later, he said, “We’ve destroyed half their attacking craft, sir, drones and planes. For every one of ours they’ve destroyed, we’ve shot down four. As you say, it’s a slaughter. The only real negative is the number of our AWACS they destroyed.”r />
  “Sir!” a comm-officer said, swiveling in his chair.

  Marshal Nung nodded at the officer.

  “The Americans have landed commando teams on our side of the border.”

  “Landed where?” Nung asked. His face felt tingly. He adjusted his hat, beginning to feel jittery. “Well, landed where?” he asked.

  The officer pressed a hand over his earpiece. He looked up. “Sir, one team landed at a cruise missile installation, another at a Black Thunder park and yet another at a Blue Swan launching site.”

  “Blue Swan,” Nung said. “That’s it!” He adjusted his hat again and moved his mouth. His face felt as if ants crawled over it. Why did his skin feel so tight?

  “What is it, sir?” Pi asked. The general looked concerned.

  Marshal Nung blinked in surprise. What was wrong with him? He felt odd, off. It must be the combination of the tranks and amphetamines.

  “Sir?” asked Pi. “Do you feel well?”

  “The Americans have discovered Blue Swan,” Nung said. “They’re trying to destroy the missiles before we launch them.”

  “Destroy the launching sites with commandos?” asked General Pi. “It would be suicide for them, and we know the Americans are not suicidal.”

  Nung’s heart began hammering. Sweat appeared on his face, particularly at the inner corners of his eyes. Yes, he could feel the tranks fighting the amphetamines. He blinked groggily as sweat stung his eyes, and he tried to understand what this meant. Beside him, General Pi was babbling about something. Nung focused on the man’s words.

  “Launch now, sir?” Pi asked.

  “What are you talking about?” Nung asked. The hammering of his heart increased. He clutched the edge of the computer table. Was he having a heart attack? He couldn’t have one now. This was the greatest battle of his life. Though force of will, he listened to Pi, staring at the man.

  “Sir,” Pi said, sounding worried.

  “Concentrate on the battle,” Nung snapped.

  Pi nodded nervously. “If the Americans are destroying the Blue Swan missiles, sir, shouldn’t we launch them while we can?”

  Nung glanced at the green situational map. His heart was tripping fast and he felt cold, yet sweat continued to ooze onto his skin. That wasn’t important now. He had decisions to make. The Americans…they were attacking—“Yes!” he shouted. “Order the personnel to launch all Blue Swam missiles now! This is an emergency. They are to immediately launch the missiles.”

  After shouting, Marshal Nung lost his grip on the table. His strength simply vanished. In slow motion, the bulldog soldier toppled backward onto the tiled floor.

  FORWARD EDGE OF THE BATTLE AREA, MEXICO

  Paul swayed in his seat as the Cherokee helicopter banked hard. Below, the dark ground swept past. The sound of firing in the distance—missiles, artillery and rockets—penetrated the whomp-whomp of the helicopter’s blades. Red light flared, artillery no doubt, and smaller, brighter flares that indicated explosions.

  They flew at treetop level, trying to come in under the enemy radar. It made them vulnerable to ground fire. But they flew so fast that enemy soldiers only had a moment’s glance and then they were past.

  The Cherokee was the latest in American innovations. No nation used helicopters like the U.S. This one was faster and sleeker than anything seen so far and it maneuvered with afterburner tri-jets.

  The Cherokee shook now from counter-fire, its automated flechette launchers firing. Paul glanced outside. A contrail closed toward them, showing a speeding missile. Then, where the missile had been, a brilliant flash stole his night vision. Seconds later, the helicopter shuddered from the concussion.

  The flechette launchers had done their job, knocking down an enemy missile that would have blown them out of the battle.

  Paul watched the ground pass. They must be in Mexico by now or close enough so it didn’t matter. A hundred thoughts tumbled through his mind. Would he ever see his wife again? When should he shoot Romo and his killers? Did Valdez want to torture him? How did the CIA know where the Chinese had hidden their secret weapons? He doubted their team would get anywhere close to one of these Blue Swans. What were the odds, ten percent, fifteen? Just how many doomsday missiles did they have to destroy—all the commandos together—to have to make this crazy operation worthwhile?

  He didn’t know the answers to any of his questions. So he let his gut churn with pre-battle jitters. It was always like this. He figured if he ever stopped feeling nervous before a mission then he would have stopped being alive.

  I’ll be a corpse. Yeah, then I’ll know peace.

  The helo shuddered again with another brilliant flash. Seconds later the craft slewed hard as if a giant had batted it. The noise from the blades changed. It wasn’t whomp-whomp-whomp now, but sounded wounded.

  “We’re going to crash!” a Marine shouted in Paul’s ear.

  Paul clutched his restraining straps. His stomach did flips. Would they topple, tumble and burst into flame? Would he feel anything? Damn, he hated this. He should have deserted and headed for LA. He would have loved to hold his wife one more time. He had things he wanted to tell his son. He should have taken the time when he had the chance. This was so screwed up.

  The helo slewed one way and then another, and then, incredibly, they straightened, more or less. The back end kept fishtailing. One of the Free Mexico soldiers vomited. Another was as pale as a corpse. The Cherokee kept heading in the same direction as before. It was crazy.

  “It ain’t our time just yet!” Paul shouted into the compartment.

  Romo stared at him. The man had dead eyes. It was creepy. Didn’t it bother him they had almost eaten it?

  Paul leaned across the small aisle and shoved his face close to Romo. “What’s wrong? You don’t care if you die?”

  Nothing changed in those dead eyes. Slowly, Romo shook his head.

  Paul grinned. “I’ll be doing you a favor later.”

  One eyebrow lifted the tiniest fraction.

  Paul sat back. He’d said enough. Now he leaned toward the edge of the open compartment. The glows and flashes were brighter out there.

  “Shit!” he said.

  The Cherokee flashed over enemy soldiers crouched low. They looked up, and Paul got a momentary glance of Chinese faces.

  We’re in enemy territory all right.

  “Almost there,” the pilot said over the intercom.

  Paul blew out his cheeks and he saw Romo staring at him. With his thumb, Romo slowly sliced it across his throat.

  “That’s right!” Paul shouted. “We’re about to kill us some Chinese. We’re still on with our deal?”

  Romo just stared at him.

  “What deal?” Frank asked, one of the Marine Recon drill sergeants.

  For just a second, Paul wanted to tell the Marine why Romo was here. Then he realized it would probably start a gun-battle in the helo. That wouldn’t be any good. They had a job to do. America needed these Blue Swans destroyed. How many commandos needed to die in order to give the SoCal soldiers a chance of stopping the Chinese?

  You have no idea; do you, Marine?

  “Ten seconds!” the pilot shouted.

  At that moment, a terrific explosion occurred just ahead of them. The concussion hit a second later as the Cherokee swerved hard. Paul stared outside. The lead helicopter was gone, debris raining onto the ground a bare forty feet below.

  His body went cold inside. He would mourn them later, if he could. Now, he just felt cold, like his emotions had died.

  “Eight men left!” Paul shouted into the compartment. He pumped his fist, glancing from man to man. If his emotions had died, it still meant he could fake it. He needed these boys ready for battle. “Semper Fi!” he roared.

  Frank, the Marine Recon sergeant, roared it back at him.

  The Cherokee started down, coming in among twenty trucks and armed Chinese soldiers firing their weapons.

  The Cherokee’s beehives launched together and in a co
ntinuous chug, chug, flooding the air with thousands of tungsten flechettes the size and shape of fishhooks. The Cherokee shuddered from the launchings and Paul was certain the helo would simply disintegrate. Instead, as trucks bloomed into fireballs below and as Chinese soldiers toppled into gory ruins, the helicopter slammed against the ground, bounced up and hit again, skidding.

  This time Paul had clenched his teeth, the muscles in his jaws beginning to throb from the intensity. Even so, he jerked this way and that, his body slamming against the restraining straps or pressed into the cushioned seat.

  “We’re down!” the pilot shouted.

  Paul’s head rang and it felt as if someone had played basketball on his muscles. He was sore and tired before anything had begun. That didn’t matter now. He jerked his release so the restraints dropped away. “Go, go, go!” he shouted. He flipped a visor over his eyes and thrust himself out of his seat and for open ground. A dreadful lurch was his only reward and warning—he tumbled out of the helo and hit the ground with his chest. He lay stunned for several seconds, with his lungs locked from the impact. Hands pulled him up from the straps on his back. One strap pressed near his throat, making him cough and unlocking his lungs. Behind him, crouched on one knee, the Marine Recon sergeants fired at the enemy, at Chinese hiding among the burning vehicles. Romo did the same thing.

  “We need cover!” Paul shouted. He tried his HUD visor, but there was nothing overhead looking down. No American drones, satellites or AWACS to give him any intel on the enemy. He was going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.

  Forcing himself to concentrate, Paul scanned the wreckages around him. Not every truck or IFV burned. There! Enemy soldiers crawled for what looked like a perfectly useable IFV. With his undercarriage grenade launcher, he shot a grenade at the moving clump of Chinese—lousy bastards. He grunted as he climbed to his feet—he’d been kneeling—and ran at them. As he did, he pumped another grenade into the chamber and fired. An explosion and screams told him about his success.