Vaughn Heppner - Invasion - Colorado

“Why aren’t you at home?” Smith said.

“Of course I would like it better than doing this,” Paul said. “I haven’t seen my wife or son…well, for a while anyway. But I’m an American. For me, that means I’m either free or I’m dead. You’ve just seen that I say what’s on my mind. It’s an old habit and it’s a habit only for a free man who can back up his words. So you see, I’m not suited to being a slave to the Chinese. I might as well fight.”

“The same goes for me,” Smith said.

The other men nodded.

Paul stared each of them in the eyes. They were angry and five of them looked determined. One was scared but seemed like a fighter. When Paul looked at the biggest man—a farmer named Knowles—the man dropped his gaze. Paul didn’t like that. No, he didn’t trust the big man. Knowles struck him as someone who would eventually inform on his friends to get out of trouble. It was a gut feeling, that’s true, but Paul had long ago decided to trust such an instinct. He really didn’t like the idea of helping these gentlemen and seeing a coward like Knowles turning in his friends and ruining everything.

Maybe it was the mental image of the little girl he’d seen hanging before, the one with the red tennis shoes. He couldn’t get it out of his thoughts.

“If you’re decided on doing this,” Paul said, “you have to figure out your objectives. The first thing is this. Don’t ever square off against the regular soldiers and never think about testing the White Tiger Commandos. If you want to drive out the Chinese, you have to stay alive long enough to do some real damage to them. That means IEDs or booby-traps. If you’re lucky, maybe it means gasoline and a match burning up supplies. If you get the chance, pour sugar down a gas tank. Heck, slash a tire. This is the death of a thousand cuts, a million cuts. Every little bit helps. But don’t think you can get in a firefight with enemy soldiers. That’s suicide. They have training, armor and much better weapons than you’ll have.”

“You said you could give us some supplies,” Smith said.

“I can— if you have a truck with gas.”

“I have,” Smith said.

“Good. You’re going to take us to a place.”

“What place?”

“You’re going to tell me,” Paul said. “It has to be lonely, where no Chinese would see a helo land. He and I are leaving, but we’ll give you the supplies from the helicopter.”

Smith nodded. “Fair enough, but first you need to explain more about this guerilla work. I want specifics on tactics. You need strategy to hunt ducks. I figure that holds true with what we’re thinking.”

For the next hour and a half, Paul did just that. Several of the men took out notepads and jotted things down.

Afterward, Paul said, “You ready?”

Smith nodded.

“It’s going to take some work unloading the helo,” Paul said. “You’re strong, why don’t you join us?” He pointed at Knowles, the big man who still refused to look him in the eye.

Knowles glanced around at the others. He looked as if he wanted to ask, “Why me?” But he nodded in the end. He didn’t seem popular with the others, and that only confirmed Paul’s instincts about the man.

A half hour later, Paul and Romo sat squashed in the cab with Smith. Romo radiated feverish heat. Knowles hunched in the back of the pickup, bundled in raingear. Drops hit the windshield and Smith ground the gears. They moved slowly across a gravel road, negotiating muddy ruts.

Paul was on the radio with chopper pilot. Outside in the darkness, it was flat and lonely, the middle of nowhere, Colorado.

“I’m glad I found you earlier today,” Smith said. “I’m a praying man, and I was asking God to send us help. I believe he sent you.”

Paul wasn’t sure how to broach the topic, so he decided to plow ahead straight. “The man in the back.”

“You mean Knowles?” Smith asked.

“He doesn’t have the guts to see this through,” Paul said.

Smith glanced at him. The old-timer wore a cowboy hat. “Are you kidding? Knowles hates the Chinese more than any of us.”

“That may be,” Paul said. “But he’s going to fold later. It’s in his eyes.”

“You can’t know that. You can’t predicate the future.”

“This time I do know,” Paul said. “Fighting and soldiers, I’ve learned the hard way about this stuff. Maybe that’s the only way anyone really learns anything. Look, Mr. Smith, this isn’t a picnic. This is a fight to the bloody finish. You have to have haters and finishers on your team. That goes double with this sort of thing. Enemy Intelligence will be one of your greatest worries. You can’t have people on your side who will rat you out.”

“Knowles is…” Smith gripped the steering wheel with greater force. “He’s a starter. He gets excited about a thing. But damn all, you’re right, he quits once he gets tired of something. Maybe you have a point.”

“It’s a common trait,” Paul said, “getting revved up about something but getting sick of it after the long haul.”

“What do you suggest I do about it?”

“I don’t think you should do anything,” Paul said. “I chose him to join us for a reason.”

Smith glanced at him. “Mister, if you think you’re going to shoot one of my friends—”

“Hold on. No one is talking about shooting anyone.”

“You picked him to come along for a reason, you said.”

Paul liked Smith. The farmer had brains and he obviously had guts. Maybe these old men would make a difference after all. “I wanted Knowles along but not so I could shoot him. I’m taking him with us.”

“Say again.”

“We’re headed to Denver,” Paul said. “Knowles is going along for the ride. After this is over—the war—he can come home.”

“And hate me for the rest of his life,” Smith said. “I don’t know about this.”

“Here it is,” Paul said. “This is what I’ve been talking about. Your decisions are only going to get harder after this. If you can’t even do this with Knowles, to save your own life and his too maybe, you’d better call it quits. This is the time to back out.”

Smith drove in silence. The truck slid once and he gently applied the brakes. Once the Chevy was steady again, he gave it a little gas. “Okay,” he whispered. “But you’re a bastard, mister, a royal bastard and I guess that means I’m one too.”

Romo lifted his chin off his chest. The assassin chuckled hoarsely. “This is true,” he whispered. “It is why we will win. In the end, we’re tougher than the Chinese because we have Paul Kavanagh.”

Smith glanced at Romo, looked at Paul and shook his head. “I hope you’re right, mister. Because this is probably the worst thing I’ll have ever done in my life.”

“Then consider yourself lucky,” Paul said, “because this is nothing compared to what you might have to do soon.”

An hour later, Paul Kavanagh rode in a helo, with the dark, wet land flashing beneath them. Romo shivered, wrapped in a blanket. Knowles sat hunched in back, massaging his jaw. He’d fought the decision, but to little avail.

Paul wasn’t proud of what he’d done. In fact, he hated it. But he hated even worse the thought of those six old men in the cellar dangling from trees by their necks. This was a dirty war. There was no doubt about that. It meant you had to go all the way, if you wanted to win, and baby, he planned to drive these invaders into the sea where they could all drown to death.

Colonel Stan Higgins walked through the Stone Lab Behemoth Manufacturing Plant. On the western outskirts of Denver, it was a small site really, considering that these boys and girls built the biggest tank in history.