Beside him Romo strapped the flamethrower to his back. It was a brutal weapon, and burning to death was a particularly nasty way to die. One misconception about flamethrowers was that a bullet through the tank would cause it to explode. Maybe if it was an incendiary bullet. Otherwise, the fluids would simply leak out.
The truck parked, or it came to stop at least and the engine turned off. Now, they waited. If workers began unloading the crates too soon, there would be trouble. Hopefully, the driver had arranged it so that they were the last truck unloaded. Whatever the case, Paul would know soon enough.
Stan rubbed his scraggly chin. He had a three-day growth of beard and had far too many gray hairs. His head and shoulders were out of the top hatch. Another Behemoth followed his tank down the street.
The treads crunched rubble and flattened a discarded machine gun. Then cracks appeared in the pavement like ice. Its engine made strange sounds and the batteries were down to forty-eight percent charge.
It was a wonder the tank still worked. Four Behemoths still ran under their own power. That wouldn’t last much longer, though.
These past two days, Stan had noticed a slight slacking of enemy attacks. The Chinese seemed tired, worn down after relentless weeks of combat. Even so, they still pushed through Los Angeles, using jetpack flyers, combat bulldozers, mass artillery and triple-turreted tanks. They leveled the great metropolis and sent infantry teams through everything. The number of civilian dead was mind-boggling and had to be in the hundreds of thousands by now.
“Air traffic,” Jose radioed from within the tank.
“What’s that?” Stan asked into his microphone.
“Air traffic is coming through,” Jose said. “But don’t fire, this is ours.”
“What are you talking about?”
Just then, Stan heard and saw them: cruise missiles. Like air-sharks, the deadly missiles streaked overhead. Hot exhaust roared out of their backs, and in the nearest, Stan could swear he saw lettering on the fuselage. The missiles hugged the ground and would do so until they reached the target.
“Is that our counter-battery fire?” Stan asked.
“I have no idea,” Jose radioed, “but I don’t see what else it could be.”
The cruise missiles streaked away. In the distance, Chinese computer-assisted artillery knocked one down in a spectacular explosion.
Stan shook his head. That was the truth of this war. The Chinese had too much ordnance. No matter what America did, the Chinese always had three to four times as much.
Sighing, Stan wondered when the battle was going to end for him. He couldn’t keep this up much longer. He was just so damn tired and sick of killing.
In the gloom, Paul saw the green beep on his communicator. “This is it. The missiles are coming.”
It was stifling hot now in the front of the truck bed. A restless energy filled the commandos.
“It would be our luck if a cruise missile hits our truck and kills the lot of us,” Donovan said.
“I don’t want to hear that,” Paul said. “We’re going to kick ass, Sergeant. You got that?”
Donovan shined his light on Paul’s face. A second later, the beam moved away. “Are you in the zone, Kavanagh?”
“I don’t want anyone stopping because he’s hurt or shot in the side,” Paul told the commandos. “You know what to do: follow me. Kill every officer you see and keep heading to the bunker. Once there, we go down. We’re the plague. We’re the Angel of Death.”
The communicator beeped red.
“It’s game time,” Paul said. “Shove aside the crates.”
With their shoulders against the wood, commandos grunted and shoved. Wood squealed and crates fell out of the truck bed. The driver was supposed to have made sure the gate was down, and he had done his job.
Light burst into the gloom as crates tumbled out of the way. Fresh air roiled in.
“Looks beautiful,” Paul said.
Beside him, Romo grunted.
As Paul Kavanagh jumped to the ground, the first cruise missile slammed down into the compound and exploded with a deafening noise. Seconds later, sirens blared. Then two more cruise missiles hammered the compound. Everywhere things went into the air: parts of buildings, IFVs and Chinese soldiers.
“Perfect,” Paul said. He grinned like a manic, and his eyes gleamed with murder lust. “Follow me.”
He ran for the chain-link gate, the way out of the fenced-off area that was the parking lot. A guard shack stood there. A Chinese soldier stuck his head out. Paul fired a burst, hitting him in the face, exploding the man’s head his bullets.
The compound was huge just as he remembered it. There were comm-shacks, new Chinese portables and shell-riddled buildings. Staff cars, jeeps, Humvees, IFVs were parked all around. Some burned. Others had flipped.
Assault rifle fire sounded behind Paul. Chinese soldiers crumpled ahead of him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something massive in the air. It was another cruise missile. Paul crouched and ducked his head. The missile exploded, raining shrapnel and staring fires. The concussion washed against Paul and nearly knocked him off his feet. He looked up, as he got ready to stand. He saw another missile coming. It exploded closer than the first one. The blast knocked Paul tumbling, and he found himself flat on his back, gasping hot air.
Am I hurt?
With a groan, he sat up, checking his legs, his arms and finally his chest. He was good. Grunting, he stood up. One by one, armored commandos stood with him, including Romo. Four of the commandos stayed down. He would have liked to see if they were alive, but there was no time for it. This was the ball game.
He shouted, at least, he thought he did. He ran half-crouched over, heading for the bunker. Another cruise missile came down. How many had his side fired? This was too much.
“Hit the dirt!” Paul roared. He did, hugging dirt. The missile went off and he lifted, slamming back against the ground. He was slower getting up this time, and fewer commandos joined him.
Behind his visor Donovan had big staring eyes. Romo’s face was like a skull. The Mexican assassin was Death’s cousin, and he brought his flames with him.
This is the final lap. Oh, Cheri, you’ll never know how much I loved you.
Paul gulped, too filled with emotion. It almost overwhelmed him how precious it was to live and love. What a blessing to have a wife as he did. What a great thing to leave the world a son like Mike.
I don’t deserve them. They needed someone better than me, far better.
With an animal groan, Paul started for the bunker. Fires burned everywhere, including in the center of a smashed comm-shack, with wood splinters laid around it like pickup sticks. Chinese lay sprawled on the ground, some at grotesque angles. One man had his legs folded under him, meaning they had to be broken. A few stirred and groggily stood. Most of those fled once they saw the commandos. One guard picked up his rifle. From fifty feet away, Paul put a three-round burst into his chest. The soldier flopped back down, smacking the back of his head hard against the pavement. He wasn’t going to get up again.
As he staggered, Paul picked up speed. He sprinted across gravel. The bunker was shut, the blast-doors secured. All righty then, I have a little present for you. Sliding to a halt, Paul went to one knee, unslung a LAWS rocket, armed, aimed and fired it with a whoosh. The small rocket slammed against the door and tore it open.