“Had enough, Fighter Rank?” Tian asked from above.
Zhu struggled to a sitting position, spitting dirt. He shouted, more a scream of frustration and shame. On his hands and knees, he charged Tian. He caught the First Rank by surprise, throwing his weight against the man as he clutched both legs. He toppled Tian so the man crashed onto his butt.
The others watched in silence.
As Tian kicked, Zhu released his tormenter’s legs. He grabbed a rock as his fingers tightened like wires around it. He lifted the rock and lurched at his enemy. He was going to smash Tian Jintao’s face.
Before that happened, Tian made it to his knees and his fist caught Zhu under the jaw. Zhu dropped the rock as he crumpled to the ground. He lay there, stunned, with ringing in his ears.
“He’s too stupid to quit,” someone observed.
“He’s also much too skinny,” someone else said.
“The Americans will kill him the first time we fight.”
“I don’t think he’ll run away, at least.”
“He won’t get the chance because the Americans will kill him like that.” Someone snapped his fingers.
“I think he meant to kill you, First Rank. It’s clear he has no sense of proportion.”
“Yes,” Tian Jintao said. “The new boy knows how to hate. That’s better than crying.”
“I saw tears in his eyes. He feels pain too much.”
“He’s weak,” Tian Jintao said. “Now that he’s in Mexico, he can eat more. Let him put some muscle on his bones. Who knows what will happen.” He paused before saying, “Anyway, he’s ours, and we know now he’s too stupid to quit. If he can actually control his jetpack, we can at least use him to ferry supplies.”
“That’s true. He can ferry supplies.”
“Yes. If he can’t fight, he can still be useful as an errand boy.”
“Wake up, Fighter Rank,” Tian said. “It’s time we got back to base.”
Water poured onto Zhu’s head and despite the ringing in his ears, the world came back into focus. First Rank Tian held out his hand. Zhu took it, helped up to his feet.
Then the world spun and he staggered, trying to remain standing. The world spun worse and Zhu shuddered as his body spasmed. He vomited in front of the others, shamed. When he wiped his mouth, trying to focus his blurring vision, Tian nodded. Tian didn’t smile, but he acknowledged him.
“You belong to Red Squad,” Tian said. “You are too weak, too small and too slow to fight well. I think it is only that you are too stupid to quit that you made it into the White Tigers. From now on, you will carry our supplies.”
Zhu bowed his head, and that made him vomit again. His cheeks burned as shame consumed him. When he straightened, the others slung their canteen straps over his head. Then, as a group, they began to run back to camp. Zhu struggled to keep up with them, weighted down by the canteens and slowed by the pounding in his head. Doggedly, he followed. He belonged to Red Squad Bai Hu, and he would die rather than shame himself by failing to bring the others their supplies.
While wearing dark sunglasses, Captain Stan Higgins’s shoulders slumped as he bounced about in his seat. He rode in an old Humvee back to base, with the big tires crunching over sand and gravel. A scowling, sunglasses-wearing Jose drove them through a bright desert.
Jose was short and fat and he had been with Stan in Alaska, the gunner of their M1A2 tank. After the war, Jose had followed him into the Army, remaining as his gunner, but now of an X1 Behemoth. Jose’s youngest son ran his old mechanic shop in Anchorage. Because of his roly-poly physique, Jose was always wheedling another yearlong exemption for the Army’s weight limit. That he was the unit’s best gunner had something to do with his success gaining it. As did his mechanical skills. In the Alaskan National Guard, Jose had often worked late at night to keep their M1A2s running. Of course, no one had expected an old, fat, ex-National Guardsman to be able to help on the latest technological marvel on the testing grounds. Yet Jose had done that three times already, his “fix” finding its way into the Behemoth’s tech manual each time.
Stan had just told Jose about his decision to leave the Army and go to D.C. as a John Glen analyst.
The Humvee roared through the desert sands of the testing ground. They passed rocks and darting lizards, leaving a billowing sand cloud behind them.
“I can help you,” Jose said.
“Huh?” asked Stan. He lifted his chin off his chest. He’d been thinking about how he was going to tell the colonel his decision as soon as they returned to base.
“I can give you a loan,” Jose said. “How much did you say your son needed?”
“Ten thousand new dollars,” Stan said.
Jose glanced at him. “I don’t have that kind of money.”
Stan shook his head. “I never expected you to give me money or a loan for that matter.”
Jose tightened his grip of the steering wheel. His fat shoulders hunched up and his head leaned forward. “I could take out a mortgage on the shop.”
“No,” Stan said. “I could never—”
“You can’t leave the Army! We need you.”
“Believe me, it isn’t something I want to do.” Stan frowned, wondering if that was true. He loved tanks but he was sick of taking orders from a martinet like Colonel Wilson.
Over three hundred years ago, there had been a Jean Martinet, the Inspector General of the army of the Sun King, Louis XIV of France. The Inspector General had been a stickler for rules and etiquette beyond that of common sense. His brand of insanity had coined a word—martinet—and Colonel Wilson could have been a reincarnation of the Sun King’s old Inspector General.
It would be good to leave the testing grounds, Stan decided as the top of his head struck the Humvee’s ceiling.
“Sorry,” Jose said. The front left tire had hit and climbed a large rock, shaking the Humvee.
Stan grunted his acceptance of the apology. Imagine—no more silly orders, no more snapping off precise salutes or penning time-wasting reports for the colonel. He wouldn’t have to endure the colonel’s scathing words either. The Army wasn’t like the Alaskan National Guard. It had been informal in Alaska, working with the same men for years. Here, a man like Colonel Wilson could torpedo those under him, making life miserable enough so the joy leaked away. Sure, the colonel was smart, and he knew more about electromagnetic projectiles than just about any one. The colonel had a Ph.D. on the subject and years of experimental research. He lacked leadership skills and military acumen, however. Stan would hate to see the colonel try to maneuver the Behemoths in battle.
“There has to be something I can do,” Jose said.
Stan blinked himself out of his reverie, glancing at his friend. Jose had a round head. He’d been losing hair and was almost bald now. Because of that, the man always wore a cap. This one was an old hunting cap with furry earflaps that were badly frayed on the ends.
Jose turned to him. “If I mortgage my shop—”
“No!” Stan said, louder than he’d meant to.
Jose winced as if Stan had hit him.
“Look,” Stan said. “It… it is against regulations for me to accept a loan from one of my men, especially a large loan. I appreciate the offer, though. I really do.”
“We need you,” Jose said, watching the desert, swerving to miss a rock.
As he swayed in his seat, Stan shook his head. “There are still too many glitches in the Behemoths to take them into combat. That’s all you’d really need me for, fighting Chinese. The colonel can take care of the experiments here. Besides, the Chinese aren’t stupid enough to start a continental war with us.”
“There are six million reasons why I disagree,” Jose said.