Invasion: Colorado ia-3 Read online

  “Bah!” McGraw said.

  Stan stared at him. “It’s a risk, a big risk. But I think this is the time to attempt it. We need to use the Rockies or the Mississippi against them. By massing all our extra troops onto the defensive line, and trusting those Militiamen to hold for a time, we wait with the last U.S. Tank Army. That Tank Army or Army Group has to be lavishly supplied with everything we have left. With it, we punch through a Chinese or South American weak spot and encircle a significant portion of the Chinese Army. We put them into a cauldron and annihilate their troops. That’s also the right place to use the Behemoth tanks.”

  Slowly, McGraw shook his head. “It’s a bold plan. That part I like. But it puts too much trust on the Militiamen to hold the line. Too many of them have folded—they have run away in battle—for me to trust the fate of the United States on them.”

  “You asked me my idea,” Stan said. “I think we have to find a spot somewhere to go on the offensive. With what we have, we have to concentrate our best troops in one key spot. Tom, you and I both know that you don’t win a war by defending. I have to believe that holding onto such massive amounts of territory must be weakening the Chinese. The American people won’t just lie down and accept occupation.”

  McGraw pursed his lips, becoming thoughtful for a time. Finally he said, “That’s a lot of movement, pulling out armor all across the Great Plains and shipping it to one area. I’m not sure we’d have the time to pull it off.”

  “It’s not rocket science,” Stan said, “but to do as I suggest would take a lot of confidence for any leader to attempt. The normal thing is to hold onto what you have with your strength spread out evenly, defending everything. Frederick the Great had a saying for that. ‘He who defends everything defends nothing.’ Sometimes, you have to gather your strength in one spot and take a risk.”

  McGraw glanced at his latest shot glass. He let his chin droop and rest on his chest. His eyes were half-lidded. “There’s more to your idea, isn’t there?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t give me that, old son. You have this all written down somewhere. I bet you’ve come up with a thousand details.”

  Stan sucked in his lips. They felt even more numb than before, almost as if a dentist had sneaked in and given him a shot of Novocain. Suddenly, Tom didn’t look so drunk anymore. The man was huge. How much alcohol could the general absorb before he became sloppy drunk and threw glasses at the wall? Had that been a show earlier?

  “Speak up, Colonel. I can’t hear you.”

  “I might have written a few things down,” Stan admitted.

  Tom stood up. “I want to see them.”

  “Now?” asked Stan.

  “I can’t think of a better time.” Tom McGraw grinned, and he winked at Stan. “I figured you’d have something up your sleeve, old son. I also know that a drunken man has a harder time keeping quiet, and talking to a drunk makes it even harder. Listening to you, I realize I’ve come to the right place for a sweeping idea on how to fix our situation. Are you ready?”

  Stan kept blinking. Well I’ll be damned.

  “I said: are you ready?”

  “Yes, sir,” Stan muttered. He shoved up to his feet. “If you’ll follow me…”

  RIO GRANDE NATIONAL FOREST, COLORADO

  Jake Higgins trudged up a pine-needle-littered slope during daylight. These past weeks he’d slept during the day and traveled at night. Now that he moved under towering evergreens, he’d decided to switch it back to normal.

  It had been a week since the ambush east of Alamosa. Jamal and Alabama Ted had stuck with him for two days longer. It had been terrifying: a crawl and wait, watch and then crawl again. Ted had finally crapped out, refusing to go any farther.

  “We’re almost past Alamosa,” Jake had said.

  Ted had rolled over, closed his eyes and refused to say another word.

  In the end, Jamal had dragged Jake away. The two of them kept going. They made it west of Alamosa and kept trudging. He’d lost Jamal when he stepped on a landmine. It killed him instantly. That part was good. He’d gone without pain. The wretched part was that pieces of Jamal hit Jake in the chest. Seeing the man’s mangled finger cling to him—Jake had fallen to this hands and knees and vomited. He’d crawled blindly for a time, making it somehow through the minefield. The only thing that had consoled him in the end was that he knew he’d see Jamal again in heaven someday.

  Yeah, Jamal’s death had been the worst. He missed the man’s cheerful attitude and he missed Jamal’s endurance. He’d been the toughest, after the lieutenant.

  As he trudged up the mountain slope, slipping over pine needles—one time he went down on a knee—Jake wiped sweat out of his eyes. He was thin, hungry and growing weaker every day. He wore Chinese boots, having stolen one of the flyers’ pair. If he’d had his old worn boots—no way, he would have stopped because of bleeding feet.

  How much longer could he go on? He thought about it all the time. His grandfather used to read him Louis L’Amour novels, westerns about incredibly rugged individuals. Jake realized he would have never made it back then. Those settlers and explorers had been plain tough. America could use some of those old-fashioned types about now.

  Jake stopped. He had his M-16 and three full magazines. That was it. His canteen had water and he had one final Chinese ration packet left. As far as he could tell, he’d made it west of the Chinese lines. It had been two days since he’d seen any evidence of enemy patrols.

  This was an empty land, and the farther west he traveled the steeper and more rugged the Rocky Mountains would become.

  Jake had stopped just now because he heard an engine backfire. Was it an American engine or a Chinese vehicle? The noise came from upslope.

  He should go check. If it was Chinese, though—

  Have I come this far only to fail?

  His mind shied away from the thought of all the dead Americans who had begun the journey with him. It was crazy he would be the one to have made it this far. He’d like to think that meant something, but he knew better. It was stupid dumb luck. He wasn’t better than the others, nor did Fate or God have anything in store for him to do.

  “Heck! My own country hardly likes me,” he said aloud to himself. “They put me in the frigging Detention Center.”

  Jake took a deep breath and decided he would be like his grandfather and his father. They had looked up to Louis L’Amour characters, the Old West Americans. If nothing else, he had a story like one of them. He’d made it through miraculous odds. So maybe if it meant anything, he was supposed to act like an Old West American.

  What would one of them do?

  Jake knew the answer. He would check the backfiring engine. He’d be brave. He’d take a chance when life called for taking a chance.

  Putting one foot ahead of the other, Jake kept trudging uphill. It was hard with all these slippery pine needles. He went slowly but he went steadily, and he made it to the top of the slope.

  He stared down at a dirt road thirty feet below. He’d seen an old movie as a kid: The Wizard of Oz. This dirt track was the Yellow Brick Road to him. No more slipping on pine needles.

  He worked his way downslope and soon trudged on the rutted road. There had been an engine cough. How far had the vehicle traveled already from where it made the sound?

  Jake walked, and after two turns in the road, he heard voices ahead. He froze, because some of the voices spoke Chinese. Then he realized two other voices were American. One of the Americans pleaded and begged. The other, a female, said to stop because there was no use anymore. It was over.

  Over?

  Jake’s heart began to pound. What did “over” mean? He had feeling he knew. The Chinese were going to kill the two Americans. He’d seen hanging corpses before. He’d—

  Hanging!

  Jake checked his M-16, and took it off safe, selecting the three-round burst option. It was ready with a bullet in the chamber. He began striding down the road, picking up spee
d. With his heart pounding and knowing what he planned to do, he took out his last Chinese ration. Tearing it open with his teeth, he devoured the rice and half-cooked chicken one-handed. It tasted wonderful.

  Is this my last meal?

  He felt stronger with food in his belly. If he hadn’t heard the voices, he would have only eaten one quarter of the meal. He downed the whole thing now, and he broke into a trot.

  A man screamed, begging and pleading, and suddenly his voice stopped with a gurgle.

  The woman laughed, but there was no humor in it, only bitterness and rage.

  Jake closed his eyes, and then he opened them wide. He found himself sprinting down the dirt road. The air came in hot torrents down his throat and his side began to burn. He’d been hiding like a rabbit for weeks, a frightened, hunted thing, and he was sick of it. His booted feet thudded on the dirt road and gravel shot away.

  Rounding a sharp bend, the sight impinged upon him with a shock. Three men dangled by their necks, with placards tied to them. I CARRIED WEAPONS, they read. To be armed was considered a mortal sin by the Chinese invaders.

  Five Chinese soldiers stood near the last American: a woman. Her hands were tied behind her back. A loop of rope rested tightly around her neck. The rope went up to a high evergreen branch. Four of the Chinese soldiers gripped the other end, no doubt ready to pull the woman up to her death. The last Chinese was an officer. He had his hands on his hips as he regarded the woman. All five invaders had their backs to Jake.

  He saw their truck parked on the road. He didn’t see any other Chinese soldiers.

  Sliding to a halt, Jake knelt deliberately on one knee. With a heaving chest, he lifted his M-16, and from fifty feet away, he carefully sighted the first enemy soldier. Jake’s arms were steady, his aim true and he shot the first soldier in the back, placing a three-round burst in a neat little pattern. He did the same to the next soldier. The others turned. Jake shot the third in the face, blowing him down.

  The officer was calmer than his men. He drew a sidearm and began lengthening his arm to aim at Jake.

  Jake switched targets and emptied his magazine into the officer, squeezing the trigger repeatedly until he was out of ammo. The Chinese officer did a little jig backward, dropping his gun and flailing his arms until he thumped onto his back. With a coolness he’d never felt before, Jake popped the empty magazine out of the assault rifle and slapped in the next.

  Two Chinese soldiers still lived. One raced into the woods in fear. The last held a gun and reached for the woman. She kicked him in the balls, surprising the man. He dropped his gun and crumpled onto his knees. She kicked him in the crotch again, savagely. He toppled sideways, clutching his privates. Next, she kicked him in the throat, brutal and efficient, as if she knew what she was doing. She did it two more times, then with her hands still tied behind her back, she picked up one of the pistols and shot the man in the head.

  During part of that time, Jake emptied his next-to-last magazine after the fleeing soldier. The bullets clipped leaves and spat bark, but missed the enemy. The man got away.

  Jake stood, switching to his last magazine.

  The woman dropped her gun, and she began twisting her wrists, trying to free herself. She had long blonde hair and wore lumberjack-style clothes. The first three buttons were open and Jake caught a glimpse of cleavage. Maybe it was because Jake hadn’t seen a woman for a while, but she looked stunning. She was older, though, maybe twenty-seven or something. Finally, she ripped one of her hands loose, brought the knotted rope around and began working it off.

  Jake walked toward her.

  As she flung off the rope, she looked up at him. “Thanks,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “We need to get out of here,” she said.

  He nodded again.

  “We’ll use their truck. First, help me cut down these patriots and load them in the truck. We’ll bury them later, but we’ll have to move fast whatever we do.”

  Jake glanced at the dangling Americans, each of them freshly strung up. If he’d felt bad about killing the enemy here, the feeling vanished. This was a battle, yeah, to the freaking finish.

  -3-

  The Offer

  I-25 COLORADO

  Soldier Rank Zhu Peng rode one of the newly-modified Z4A “Battle-taxis.”

  The Z4As were strange helos with a bubble canopy for the pilot and two swept back poles on either side for the Eagle Team commandos. They were constructed to give each jetpack-flyer easy and quick access to the air.

  Zhu sat on a motorcycle-style seat as he gripped two handlebars. Before him was a small windshield. His booted feet also rested on bars. He rode outside with the cold wind. So did other Eagle flyers of Tian Jintao’s squad. They were high in the sky tonight. The stars looked like gems, each cold and precise in the heavens.

  Zhu’s helmet was closed and he’d dressed warmly, but that didn’t help after forty-five minutes in the night air. He shivered, wishing he could sit before a glowing orange heater. Since he was so skinny, he didn’t retain heat as well as the others did.

  They were on Partisan Standby. It meant the Z4A had climbed up high into the sky, loitering. American ears had grown wary, and partisans bolted at the first sound of Chinese helos. So command had decided on a new tactic: up and out of sight and sound until the instant of partisan combat.

  High-flying modified AWACS watched the ground for partisans. Once spotted, this battle-taxi could zoom. The new modification to the Z4A was afterburner-equipped tri-jets.

  Zhu had been on several afterburner runs. They were wild rides, exhilarating and fast. The trouble was, few Eagle flyers could dismount in the accepted manner when the battle-taxi flew that fast. Once the Eagle commando stood up to launch, the wind hit him hard, pushing him back into his seat. The trick was to fall backward like a skydiver.

  For the moment, as his teeth chattered, Zhu tried to figure out how to enjoy the patrol. He was cold and getting colder. He studied the nearby Rocky Mountains. They were majestic, but their snowy sides…no, looking at them just made him shiver more. The ground was far below. The distant I-25—it went north to south—was the tiniest of ribbons. On that route went most Chinese supplies to the PAA Third Front.

  Zhu’s helmet crackled with sound. “Soldier Rank Zhu,” he heard.

  Zhu chinned his controls. “Yes, First Rank.”

  “I’m so cold my balls are going to freeze off,” Tian complained. “How I am going to please the hot American women then? Tell me that.”

  Zhu blinked in confusion. Was this a code? Orders mandated quiet from Eagle flyers during a combat air patrol. Tian must have spotted something vitally important to break radio silence.

  “Are we jumping?” Zhu asked.

  “No,” Tian said. “I told you my balls are cold. That means I’m freezing. How do you keep yourself warm?”

  Oh, Zhu understood. Tian must realize how easily he became cold. The beefy First Rank must be saying this to make him feel better. It was thoughtful of Tian, but it made Zhu uncomfortable. Does he think I’m too weak to take the cold?

  “First Rank,” Zhu said in a chiding voice. “Orders state we must maintain radio silence.”

  “I’m too cold to be silent,” Tian said. “If I have to sit another moment with my thoughts, I’m jumping off and going to ground where it’s warmer.”

  “The officers would mark you AWOL.”

  Tian chuckled. “Zhu, Zhu, Zhu, why are you so serious all the time? Aren’t you cold?”

  Instead of answering—he never wanted to lie to Tian—Zhu said, “What if the officers hear our radio chatter?”

  “You were a Hero of Los Angeles and now you’re worried about a few prissy officers?” Tian asked. “Soldier Rank, are you worried about a few demerits?”

  This must be a secret test. Zhu nodded to himself. Tian and likely officers wish to see if I have moral courage. I cannot show moral cowardice. Yet, I am supposed to obey orders. I don’t know what to do.

  �
��Are you still there, Soldier Rank? Or have you already jumped off to get warm?”

  “I am at my post,” Zhu said.

  “Are you cold?”

  “No, First Rank,” Zhu said.

  “Did you just lie to me?”

  “Well…” Zhu said, “Yes, I’m a little cold.”

  “So a Hero of Los Angeles is mortal after all.”

  Zhu had a won a Hero of China medal for his actions in Los Angeles. “First Rank, I wish you would not mock my efforts in California.”

  “Do you remember that my mother went to an astrologer before I left and she discovered that I wouldn’t die in North America?”

  “I remember,” Zhu said.

  “I wonder if the astrologer was true or if she was a charlatan like people say they are. If she was false, it means I might die here. This country is so big, and there are so many Americans who take up their guns to fight us—do you think we can win this war?”

  “China cannot lose,” Zhu said.

  “Why is that?” Tian asked.

  “We fight better,” Zhu said in surprise. “We have the greatest soldiers in history. The Americans have retreated constantly before us. It is impossible for us to lose.”

  “That’s a nice speech, Soldier Rank. Now tell me what you really think.”

  “I’m…” Zhu glanced to his left. First Rank Tian looked at him. The big commando raised an arm and waved.

  Zhu let go of a handlebar and waved back.

  “I have a report of a band of partisans, First Rank Tian,” the Z4A’s pilot said. “They’ve blown up three trucks nine kilometers from our position. Are your commandos ready for a dive?”

  “Get set, Eagle flyers,” Tian radioed the others with wide band. “We’re going down.”

  Zhu gripped the handlebars with both hands. He lowered his head and heard the ripping wind pass his ears. Sometimes when the afterburners roared hottest, wind slipped over the windshield. He’d seen a flyer torn out of his seat before.