Vaughn Heppner - Invasion - Colorado

The Chinese general held his hand in a frozen salute. The hovertank moved slowly before the men. With his crosshairs on the general’s head, Paul could tell the hovertank quivered as the vehicle’s turbofans kept it aloft. He could just imagine the mud and dirt the hovercraft sprayed by its whirling fans. He bet droplets of mud pelted the front-rank soldiers in the face. The freaking general could have walked in the mud like the soldiers he was making line up in the rain. The brass was the same everywhere.

With a little rain in his face, the general probably thinks he’s roughing it tonight .

A mean grin tightened Paul’s face. He thought about the open grave with the American dead and squabbling crows. He remembered the dangling corpses in Dodge City.

So very slowly, his finger eased against the trigger. A moment froze in time. The M25 rifle butt kicked against Paul’s shoulder. The sound suppressor blotted out any muzzle flash and allowed only a low noise. On the hovertank, a spray of blood and bone blew outward from the general’s head. The Chinese commander pitched forward and crumpled, bending sharply at the waist. The hovertank’s hatch must have caught him at the hips. Likely, his legs kicked up against the turret’s ceiling. He draped over the cupola for all the ranks to see.

“Good shot,” Romo said.

Paul’s eyes narrowed to slits. He was a killer, which people said was a bad thing. So why did it feel so good taking out one of their big boys? His chest tightened. It always did when he killed like this in the deliberate sniper way.

“Let’s back up,” Paul said a harsh whisper.

“No,” Romo said. “Get down. Quick, cover up. There are some smart operators over there.”

Like a turtle pulling in its nose, Paul drew the M25 so the sound suppressor was even with his head. He pulled the camouflage slicker over him so only his eyes showed, with his chin tucked on the wet grass.

Shouting soldiers raced away from the dead general. Another hovertank’s turret swiveled. A klieg light illuminated the lone jeep stuck out in the mud. A 76mm cannon roared, spewing a tongue of fire into the drizzly night. The hyper-velocity shell kicked in and the jeep exploded, jumping sideways and flipping over.

“Good call moving out of it,” Romo said dryly.

For a moment, a harsh beam touched them. Paul closed his eyes and held his breath. Are we next? Fortunately, the light moved on and he exhaled.

“Start crawling,” Paul said.

They did so, even as 12.7mm machine guns opened up, firing into the sea of mud. Paul saw the muzzle flashes and he heard bullets hissing over him. In places, mud shot up in small geysers. None where close enough yet that would have let him know the Chinese had spotted him. The hovertanks revved their fans with power, and several lurched forward.

“Now the fun starts,” Paul said.

Three hovertanks zoomed toward the flipped jeep, with machine guns chattering, bullets ricocheting on the metal, creating sparks. Klieg lights played over the muddy sea as vehicle crews searched for them.

In the next twenty minutes, Paul and Romo halted seven times, trusting in their camouflage gear. Paul remembered an old movie he’d watched as a kid, one of the Lord of the Rings epics. There had been a scene where Frodo and Sam had hidden from Orcs before the Gates of Mordor. The two Hobbits had had an elf cloak. Well, his slicker proved just as good. It wasn’t magic, but it worked on a dark and rainy night like this.

The hovertanks kept searching and now Chinese soldiers formed up in a gigantic line. They moved away from the traffic jam with bayonets fixed onto their weapons. The soldiers skewered the mud as if they were at war with Mother Nature. One soldier came up with a piece of cardboard on his bayonet.

By now, Paul and Romo had crawled half a mile away from the shooting site. Paul’s teeth chattered. He was thoroughly soaked and cold.

From where he lay on the mud, Paul said, “We’d better make a run for our bikes.”

Romo just kept crawling, moving mechanically.

Paul lurched at him, grabbing the man’s ankle. Romo tried to shake off the hand.

Paul crawled even with Romo and said into his blood brother’s ear, “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Romo turned his head, staring blankly at him.

“You okay?” Paul asked.

Romo just kept staring.

“Let’s get up and hoof it from here,” Paul said. He climbed to his feet. While lying on the mud, Romo still stared at him, although now he craned his neck. Paul grunted as he hauled Romo upright. The man was shaking. He must be freezing. Romo breathed raggedly and was clearly out of it. It was one of their occupational hazards.

“Lean on me,” Paul said.

Romo did.

Helping each other, the two commandos lurched through the mud, with hovertanks searching for them. Fortunately, the enemy search patterns extended wider and farther afield than formerly, but that could quickly change.

It took another thirteen minutes before Paul guided Romo to the dirt bikes. They needed to get warm, and they needed to get the heck out of this entire area. By how hard the Chinese were searching, he knew he’d killed someone important. Maybe the smart round had been a mistake, at least in terms of his and Romo’s survival.

“We’ll know soon enough,” Paul muttered. He whipped away a camouflage tarp and righted his bike. Straddling it, he glanced back at Romo. The man just stood there.

“Let’s go!” Paul shouted.

Romo moved to his bike and even bent down. But that was it. He didn’t right the bike or himself. The man was in no condition to drive.

“Sit behind me,” Paul said, “and hold on tight.”

It took a second, but then like a robot, Romo obeyed and climbed behind Paul.

Paul kick-started the machine. The rain had turned into icy sleet. This wasn’t going to be easy or fun. With Romo on the seat, Paul half stood and twisted the throttle. The back tire slewed. Paul straightened the motorcycle and gave it more gas. The back tire spun wildly, spraying mud. Then, with a lurch, it shot forward.

Working their way through the muddy sea, the two commandos left the scene of the sniper attack.

Will we survive the night? Paul wondered. The hovertanks could still easily catch them, but right now they couldn’t see them. Well, if they died it wouldn’t be for a lack of trying to escape. Why did the drone operators have to run out of smart bombs? That had to change, or America was never going to win this war.

Soldier Rank Zhu Peng took apart his QBZ-95 assault rifle, sitting on a stool alone in the tent. He belonged to First Rank Tian Jintao’s squad of the Bai Hu Tezhongbing— White Tiger Commandos. Each sleeping bag in the tent was rolled tight, along with each foam sleeping mat. An electric lantern burned on a small campaign table, providing Zhu light. Outside, crickets chirped and occasionally he heard the grinding gears of heavy supply trucks in the distance.

Zhu’s rifle parts lay on a sheet. Beside it was his dinylon body armor, Qui 1000 jets, jetpack fuel tank, controls and other Eagle Team paraphernalia.

Although he didn’t look the part, Zhu was an elite Chinese soldier, one of the jetpack flyers. He was thin, practically frail looking, with gaunt cheeks and it appeared, innocent eyes.

He’d survived a lot since the California campaign. Most of the original members of his squad were dead. In fact, only First Rank Tian Jintao still lived.

Zhu picked up the skeleton of his QBZ-95 to clean it. The assault rifle was the Qing Buqiang Zidong -95. It had a bullpup configuration, meaning the weapon’s action and magazine were located behind the grip and trigger assembly. It fired caseless ammunition, giving it more bullets per magazine, also meaning the rifle didn’t have to open up after each shot to eject a spent case. With fewer moving parts and less exposure, the rifle jammed less often than other combat weapons. The QBZ-95 was quintessential proof of Chinese battlefield superiority. It was better and more advanced than similar American weapons. The advancement wasn’t overwhelming, but it helped give Chinese soldiers an edge.