Colonel Peng shook his head. The chocolates and money would help Donna forget. And she would help him forget the endless weeks of drudgery.
Clutching the box to his chest, Peng hurried up the stairs to Room 14. He knocked and waited, but no one answered.
Was she out somewhere?
Peng looked around at the neat little homes and tall trees. This was a suburb of Mexico City, and looked like a nice residential area. Maybe Donna was visiting a friend. He shrugged, dug out the card-key and slid it into the slot. While clutching the box with his arm, he twisted the door-handle and opened it.
“Hello,” he said, in Chinese.
It was dark in here, hard to see. Ah, he heard the shower. She must be cleaning herself for him.
Grinning, Peng stepped into the room, tossed the chocolates onto the bed and heard the heavy door whomp shut behind him. He turned toward the bathroom and took two steps before stopping in surprise.
“Oh,” he said in Chinese. “I’m sorry. D-Do I have the wrong room?”
An old Mexican man sat in a chair watching him. The man frowned and seemed angry.
Colonel Peng took a step back. Why hadn’t the man said something when he’d first entered?
“Who are you?” the man asked in atrocious Chinese.
“I’m Colonel Peng,” he said, attempting Spanish. “Do you know Donna Cruz?”
The old man nodded. “She is my daughter.”
Peng blinked and then it came to him. Relief flooded his chest. “Oh, you’re her father. Yes, I’ve sent you—”
Colonel Peng’s mouth dropped open as speech failed him. The old Mexican—Mr. Cruz—aimed a gun at him. This was illegal. Mexicans weren’t supposed to have guns.
“You must put that away,” Peng said in Chinese.
A terrible light now shined in Mr. Cruz’s eyes. He struggled upright to a standing position. It appeared as if his knees troubled him.
“Is Donna in the shower?” Peng asked.
The gun barked four loud reports, with flashes belching from the barrel each time. Bullets slammed into Peng until he found himself lying on the carpet. The world spun crazily and narrowed to a tight focus. Peng saw as from a great distance Mr. Cruz standing over him. The old man pointed the gun at his face.
“No,” Peng whispered.
He didn’t hear the sound, but he saw the final muzzle flash. It was the last thing Colonel Peng of the Fifth Transport Division saw before he died.
Three days later, near noon, Stan climbed out of his Behemoth and noticed a terrible black cloud over LA. It seemed gray now rather than black. That was something, at least. The fires were dying out, often because of a lack of fuel. Perhaps the flies would die soon too.
From the top hatch of the tank, he surveyed the enemy lines. He saw a great trench in the rubble, with coils of razor wire before it. The Chinese had put that up yesterday with huge, bulldozer-like machines. He could see machine gun emplacements. Many of those were fake, meant to draw American fire.
Frowning, Stan wondered why the Chinese hadn’t bombarded them today and yesterday. That went against the Chinese methods shown these past weeks. Could the great and mighty offensive have finally halted?
It was too soon to believe that. Yet time in southern California wasn’t on China’s side. Every hour helped JFC SoCal stiffen the defenses. Every hour allowed more trucks to bring badly needed supplies. It meant exhausted and battle-shaken troops could rest and regain their morale. Stan snorted. It allowed the mechanics time to bring the remaining Behemoths a little closer to shipshape.
“Professor!” Jose shouted up from within the tank.
“What is it?”
“They’re sending a jeep for you. You’re to report to Battalion HQ.”
“Now? The Chinese could resume their offensive at any moment.”
“I’m just relying orders, Professor.”
Stan eased out of the hatch and used the rungs on the side of the tank to crawl down to the ground. The weird thing was he actually felt more tired now than he had several days ago. He’d stopped taking stims to stay awake and he almost slept normal hours. It was as if his body had used every reserve it had to keep him going, and now that things had slowed, it was letting go, collapsing from exhaustion.
He leaned against the tank and his mind shied from the endless death and destruction he’d been part of. The things he and the crew had done to stay alive were terrible. Yet what choice did they have? It was either kill or become Chinese slaves.
As Stan leaned against the tank, a jeep roared up. The driver was a Militia teenager, a skinny boy with an oversized helmet. There were too many youngsters in the Army like him, too many hastily drafted kids out of LA.
Slowing down, the kid shouted, “Captain Higgins?”
“Yep. That’s me.”
“I’m here to take you to HQ.”
Stan climbed into the jeep. The kid glanced at the razor wire, shuddered and cranked the wheel. He drove faster, dodging shell-holes and big chunks of rubble and other debris. They passed Militia clearing this street, using their hands and wheelbarrows. A bulldozer would have been better. A lot of things would have been better.
The driver took to him Battalion HQ, a relatively intact Rite Aid store. Battered Bradley Fighting Vehicles used the parking lot, together with beat up Humvee Avengers, their Blowdart missiles aimed skyward.
Stan followed the driver, who took him to an old storeroom in back. Data net men swarmed the area with their equipment. Soon, Stan spoke with the colonel, a Militiaman and a former high school football coach. He was big and balding, and had bowed legs.
“I’ve spoken to the General,” the ex-coach said. “We’re pulling out your Behemoths.”
Stan raised his eyebrows. “I thought we were stiffening the line.”
“You were. But the eggheads who decide such things have changed their mind. Now the Behemoths are going to form LA’s reserve.”
“Because the Chinese have taken a siesta?” Stan asked.
“Did you notice all the razor wire they’ve put up lately?”
“That could be a trick,” Stan said. “Maybe they’re trying to lull us.”
“Or it could indicate a change in mindset.”
“There is that, too.”
“Anyway,” the ex-coach said, “here’s the schedule for the pullout. We’re going to do this by stages.” The colonel handed Stan a folder.
He tucked it under his arm.
“By the way,” the colonel said, as he checked his watch. “You have a call in ten minutes. It’s from the Detention Center.”
Stan’s heart went cold. This was highly unusual. By law, there were only a few places allowed to communicate with the Detention Center facility. The middle of a battle zone wasn’t one, either.
“Is it about my son?” Stan asked.
The colonel shrugged. “You can use the comm-equipment over there. Let me say it in case you don’t know. I’m glad you and your tanks were here, Captain. As far as I’m concerned, you saved all our butts.”
The man held out his hand. Stan shook it. The ex-football coach had a bone-crushing grip.
Soon, Stan found himself sitting at a table, staring at a computer screen. What had happened? He hoped Jake had kept his nose clean.
In time, a Detention Center officer came onscreen. The woman looked angry. She read off a list, asking a series of questions.
“What is this about?” Stan asked.
“First,” she said, looking up, “I must confirm that you are Captain Stan Higgins of the U.S. Army. Until such time, I cannot answer any of your questions.”
Stan kept his face neutral and told himself he couldn’t afford another fight with them. He answered the many and sometimes intrusive questions. Finally, the officer gave him a perfunctory smile.