Vaughn Heppner: Invasion: China

“Master Sergeant?” Ned asked. He sounded frightened.

“You have time to reboot,” Paul told him. Would the corporal even try?

“I’m all out of time, Sergeant. You tell my boy— Promise me you’ll tell my boy I died fighting the Chinese.”

“I will,” Paul said. “Now you listen to me, Ned.”

“This jetpack is lousy piece of junk, Sarge. I never should have joined up for this.”

Instead of using a camera, Paul peered down. Despite their initial height, the ground rushed up with ridiculous speed. His stomach lurched, and he twisted his throttle. Power roared into his jetpack and out the nozzles. Thrust slowed his sickening drop. He twisted the throttle harder, and now he floated toward the earth. This was the wrong way to do it, he knew. A flying commando was supposed to drop fast and land lightly at the last second. Get onto the ground as fast as you could was the idea.

Watching Ned plummet stole some of Kavanagh’s courage.

The corporal struck the ground. The body armor didn’t help in the slightest. Part of the jetpack flew one way and computer pieces the other. Ned bounced like a ball, and the ways his arms and legs flopped, the corporal was already dead.

Paul closed his eyes. How was he supposed to keep his promise to Cheri when he had so little control over his destiny? Maybe a glitch would kill his gyro program. Maybe dirt would plug the turbofans during flight. A hundred little things could go wrong. Maybe he should leave the outfit and return to the LRSU teams.

Keep your two feet on the ground. Less can go wrong that way .

Thirty seconds later, Paul landed gently beside Ned’s corpse. He stared at the broken suit as blood leaked out. This was a rotten war.

One by one, the other commandos landed nearby. No one shed his jetpack and raced for the next part of the exercise.

Paul knew he should give the order. Instead, he knelt on one knee and bent his head. A friend had died today. More of them would die a few weeks from now.

I’m going to try to come home to you, Cheri. I want to hug you again. But I don’t know if I’m strong enough to defeat every challenge and screw-up, so that I can keep my promise.

The colonel shouted at them over the battle-net. Romo put a hand on Paul’s shoulder. Stirring himself, Paul stood, and he gave the order for them to move. A moment later, he shed his jetpack. The others did likewise. Then they continued with their training exercise.

With frank admiration, Stan Higgins eyed the major as she got up from her desk. The woman had large breasts straining against her uniform, shapely legs and definitely knew how to walk. She opened the door to General Tom McGraw’s office.

“Colonel Higgins is here to see you, sir,” she said.

“Send him in,” McGraw said in a gruff voice.

The major turned around and smiled at Stan, motioning for him to walk in.

He felt guilty then for having eyed the major because technically, he was still married. His wife and he were estranged. It had started several years ago with Jake’s interment in the Colorado Detention Center. That had been before the start of the California invasion. The Militia people ran the center. Jake had gone because he’d protested some of President Sims’ most dictatorial laws. Jake had been in college then, and had lost the right to attend. Since the interment, things had deteriorated between Stan and his wife. She talked about divorce, but had never filed. Until she actually cheated on him, Stan didn’t feel he could divorce her. The marriage oath meant something to him. The only out to him would be if his wife committed adultery. So, he endured, but it was hard sometimes, especially seeing women like the major. Clearly, McGraw had no such qualms. How many great military men, now and in the past, kept mistresses? The vast majority of them, no doubt.

Stan entered the office as the major closed the door behind him.

“Sit,” McGraw said, without looking up from his desk.

It was a large office, with boxes piled to the sides with white patches on them and words in block letters describing the contents. Southern Front Headquarters had only recently moved from Wichita to Winfield. The general had already put up several photographs. They showed him shaking hands with President Sims in one, with Director Harold in another and with Jennifer Love the movie actress in a third. There were citations too, a shelf with several mementos and a computer screen on the desk. McGraw typed on a keyboard, grunting as he finished with a flourish. His fingers looked too big for the keys, but somehow he managed.

McGraw now sat back in his swivel chair, eyeing Stan.

Higgins had driven from his assembly area twenty-three miles away. The winter snow had almost finished melting, but the land was soggy, poor terrain for the three hundred ton monster known as the Behemoth tank. The mass Chinese withdrawal had caught just about everyone by surprise, although Stan recalled reading several Army intelligence reports warning about such a move. No one had taken them seriously, least of all McGraw.

Moving the troops, tanks, artillery and supply depots closer to the new enemy line had taken several weeks of hard work. Laying out new roads, tracks—it hadn’t been a nightmare, but it had meant grueling days of drudgery.

Stan sat in a chair with armrests. He hadn’t spoken with the general since the day in Wichita almost a month ago. That was unusual for the two of them. In the past, he had worked closely with McGraw. Clearly, the church conversation had poisoned the general against him.

He shouldn’t have threatened my boy .

“Been a while, old son,” McGraw said, using a hearty tone.

“Yes, sir,” Stan said.

McGraw lurched forward and slammed both meaty fists onto the desk, making the computer screen jump. “Damnit, Higgins, are we going to let a little misunderstanding come between us?”

“I hope not, sir.”

“Good. I feel the same way.”

Stan nodded but was far from convinced. Words without actions meant little. For one thing, he noticed the general hadn’t stood as he entered. The man had not come around the desk and extended a hand so they could shake. Had that been an oversight on the general’s part? He doubted it.

“I drank too much that day,” McGraw was saying. “Can’t even remember what we were talking about.”

Stan wanted to say, “Me neither,” but he’d be lying through his teeth. Many a night he’d lain awake, going over the meeting in his mind. Therefore, he said nothing, waiting.

McGraw regarded him, and a smile might have played along the corners of his lips. Then the possibility vanished as the general’s mouth firmed. The corners of his eyes tightened.

“Colonel, I have some bad news, I’m afraid.”

Stan continued waiting.

First clearing his throat, McGraw opened a drawer and took out a tablet, setting it on the desk. “It says here that three of your Behemoths are having engine trouble. I’m sure you realize that’s over the acceptable limit.”

Stan couldn’t believe McGraw would personally worry or act upon something like this. Had the general been searching for dirt on him? Is that the best you can do?

Instead of vocalizing his thoughts, Stan said, “The Chinese caught us all by surprise, sir. We had to move the regiment before the three received their scheduled overhauls. I don’t know if the report shows it, but those are my three oldest Behemoths. They fought in California. Tenth HQ told us they were going to farm out two of them to the newer regiments and replace those with the latest model.”

“Let me interrupt you, Colonel. I’m not interested in excuses. I’m concerned that my best Behemoth regiment will be understrength before we’ve even fired the first shot.”