Romo lifted his chin off his chest. “What did you say?”
“How many of us have made it out of the cauldron so far?”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
Paul shrugged, wondering when the Chinese were going to attack. He was bone-tired.
The Chinese had dropped leaflets, showing long lines of American soldiers marching into captivity. The Chinese were busy mopping up the remnants of the once proud Army Group SoCal. Soon, now, everything would hit Los Angeles. First they would first sweep away the rearguard here in Poway and eat up what was left of the Escondido Pocket.
It was just a matter of time before the Chinese juggernaut hit them. The truth, the Americans who had had held out for weeks south of here had given the Chinese something to do. American stubbornness had given the men here time to reach Los Angeles.
The Chinese in Poway...Paul rubbed his eyes. He’d almost fallen asleep. It had been a long trek since Mexico, since the commando assault on the Blue Swan site. Now—
“Brother,” Romo said, shaking his shoulder. “Wake up.”
“Huh?” Paul lifted his head from where it had dropped onto his crossed arms. He’d fallen asleep after all, standing upright in the foxhole. His mouth tasted like old coffee grinds, and he smacked his lips. Then resolve filled him as he remembered where he was. He gripped the Browning and swiveled it—
“Did you hear me?” Romo asked.
“The Chinese aren’t attacking yet,” Paul said, scowling as he studied the enemy. Couldn’t Romo let him get a little shuteye? The lousy assassin—
“Forget about the Chinese,” Romo said. “The Colonel wants us back in Battalion HQ.”
Paul glanced at Romo. “What are you talking about?”
“You’ve been given orders to go to Battalion HQ. You were asleep when it came.”
“Why are we supposed to go back there?” Paul asked.
“Let’s go see.”
With his index finger, Paul dug grit out of his right eye. He nodded and grunted as he heaved up out of the foxhole. They crawled to a trench and then hurried back toward the rear.
Battalion HQ was a sandbagged position with logs over a very large hole and with lots of dirt over the logs. Back a ways, a small black helicopter waited beside three tough-looking soldiers in body armor.
“Hold it,” an MP said, coming out of the shadows of the HQ.
“We’re supposed to report,” Romo said.
“Who told you that?” the MP asked.
“This is Paul Kavanagh, Gunnery Sergeant Paul Kavanagh of Marine Recon.”
“Oh,” the MP said. “Then you’d better head over there, you lousy bastard,” he told Paul. “Hurry your butt, you lucky S.O.B.”
“What’s going on?” Paul whispered, as Romo pulled him away from the MP, out of the trench and headed for the helo.
The assassin shrugged.
At their approach, the three tough-looking soldiers raised their weapons. By their insignia, they were Green Berets.
“This is Paul Kavanagh,” Romo said.
The meanest-looking of the three squinted at Paul. “You don’t look like much to me.”
Paul just stared at the man. He had a nametag, if you could believe it. It said Donovan.
“All right then,” Donovan said. “Let’s go.”
Paul shook his head. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re leaving this shithole,” Donovan said.
Scowling, Paul asked, “Why?”
“He asks why?” Donovan told the other two. One of them shrugged. “I’m guessing you know a General Ochoa,” Donovan told Paul.
“The General Ochoa of SOCOM?” Paul asked.
“That’s right.”
“Okay? Yeah, I know him. What about it?”
“General Ochoa must figure you’re something special,” Donovan said. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have sent us to fly in and pick you up. You’re going to LA.”
Paul stared at the man.
“Did you hear me?” Donovan asked.
“Yeah,” Paul said. He heard; he just couldn’t believe it. “Come on,” he told Romo. “Let’s board the helicopter.”
“Sorry,” Donovan said, putting a hand up near Romo’s chest. “He’s not coming. I only have orders to take Paul Kavanagh.”
Paul stood as if struck. He began to shake his head.
“Do not be foolish,” Romo told him. “Get out alive while you can.”
“No.”
“Do we have to drag you out?” Donovan asked.
Paul stepped away from the three SOF soldiers and drew his sidearm, aiming it at Donovan. “I’m staying unless you take my blood brother with me.”
“Your what?” Donovan asked.
“You heard me,” Paul said.
Donovan studied Paul and finally backed away. He went to the helicopter and climbed in.
“You are mad,” Romo said. “I would leave you if they offered this to me.”
“No you wouldn’t,” Paul said.
Instead of arguing, Romo looked away.
Donovan jumped down from the helo. He looked bemused as he approached. “Well, well, well, it seems like General Ochoa is in a good mood today. You can bring your little buddy with you. Come on then. Let’s get going while the corridor is still open. It won’t last forever.”
Paul holstered his gun and strode past Donovan and the other two SOF soldiers to climb into the back of the helo. Romo followed. As they buckled in, the three Green Berets entered and the rotors sped up. They lifted, and Paul felt a sense of déjà vu. This was weird. He was going to live and he might even see his wife again, see his son.
The helicopter kept low, a mere fifty feet above the earth. Assist jets kicked in and the little machine zoomed fast, soon flying over Escondido. In minutes, it shot over a long marching column of American soldiers heading for Temecula. They were on I-15, the last open corridor to freedom and Los Angeles.
Paul was glad to leave, but he couldn’t help but think of the soldiers outside of Poway holding the line while others marched away to continue the fight. It wasn’t just. It wasn’t fair. It was war, and she was a mean-faced witch.
-12-
The Battle for Los Angeles
It was a somber meeting in the underground bunker. The briefing major spoke in a monotone, making Anna wonder if the woman used drugs. Beside her, Levin doodled listlessly. While the President, he watched the proceedings like a man awaiting his death sentence.
There should have been some delight, Anna felt, because the majority of the soldiers from the Escondido Pocket had reached Corona before the Chinese. The soldiers had split in different directions. One third of them had gone to Pomona in the north. The rest had traveled to Fullerton and Anaheim in the west. The sacrifice of the Behemoths had brought about the needed miracle.
Anna believed the somberness was because the situation was still grim and the enemy almost as unrelenting as before. The Chinese simply refused to slow down.
According to the major, in a normal battle the Chinese would have accepted this victory to rest and resupply their troops before they started the next round. Intelligence showed that the Chinese were exhausted just like the Americans. Instead of following their usual doctrine, the Chinese kept pushing. They had swept through the defenses at Corona, rushing after the escaped soldiers until the battle-lines now reached Fullerton and Anaheim and Pomona. Just as bad, with so many of the formerly trapped Americans entering POW camps, the Chinese advance up the coast had picked up speed again, reaching Costa Mesa and Huntington Beach.
General Alan of the Joint Chiefs motioned to the major. As she sat down, he stood up.
“Mr. President, I suggest we speak frankly.”
“Of course,” Sims said.
General Alan tapped the table before saying, “As I’m sure you are aware, sir, there is a grave psychological effect on a soldier when he is constantly retreating. His belief in holding his position weakens each time the enemy drives him back. Our soldiers have retreated across Southern California from the border fortifications to Los Angeles. They are shocked. They are tired and now they have lost most of their heavy equipment. The Chinese have more numbers, more equipment and in most cases, better tech.”
“Are you saying we cannot win?” Sims asked.
Anna noticed the President asked that with an edge to his voice.
“No, Mr. President, I am not saying we cannot win. I am saying that we have reached the crisis point. I’m sure the Chinese have problems. Nevertheless this accelerated attack with their acceptance of sustained casualties has produced results for them, if at a very bloody cost. In the end, who pays the highest butcher’s bill doesn’t determine victory, but who wins the political contest does. The Vietnamese took vastly more losses than we did back in the 1960s and 70s, yet they won the political battle because the Communists remained in power there. We have hurt the Chinese, sir, but at this point, they are winning the battle.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Sims asked, with his voice harsh with a burr as if he’d shouted a long time.
“We are speaking frankly, sir. We are facing the grim reality of defeat. The majority of our troops in Los Angeles lack heavy equipment. We are shipping them more, but the trains need time. The trucks need time. The soldiers also need time to regain confidence in themselves.”
“They’re all out of time,” Sims said.
“Understood, sir,” Alan said. “I suggest, therefore, that we use our submarines more boldly. Of paramount importance would be the sinking of Special Infantry transports. We cannot let the Chinese practice anymore of their SI wave assaults against us.”
“Can we distinguish those transports from others while they are en route?” Sims asked.
“Director?” General Alan asked.
Dr. Levin nodded slowly. “Possibly,” he said.
“Are you referring to your spy-ring in Beijing?” Sims asked.
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Then I agree to this bolder use of our submarines,” Sims said. “Now, what else can we do?”
“Our soldiers can start holding their ground,” Alan said. “We are now in one of the most extensive urban environments in the world. Such territory makes for excellent defensive terrain. There is little likelihood of the Chinese cutting our supply lines here, as the critical one runs through the Grapevine to Bakersfield and through Central California and then to the Sierra Nevada passes.”
“They need to hold,” Sims said, “but we need to buy our soldiers time, even if it’s only an extra day.”
“Why not rush mass reinforcements to Los Angeles?” Levin asked. “We have more troops, many more.”
“We could do that,” General Alan admitted. “But we would do so at a grave risk elsewhere, and in more critically strategic locations. That is what I mean about speaking frankly. We must look at the strategic picture. This attack into California is simply the opening assault against North America. My DIA analysts suggest that counting the naval assault, two million PAA soldiers have driven into the state. That leaves over nine million more for us to deal with. The Germans are heavily reinforcing Cuba, which indicates they are getting ready to move against us. The South American Federation and the rest of the PAA forces are, in our estimation, operationally ready to invade Texas and New Mexico with a mass assault that will make the Californian attack pale in comparison.”
General Alan glanced around the table. “Until the enemy commits himself, we must carefully weigh the reinforcements we send to Los Angeles. If we entrain too many, we could weaken ourselves elsewhere at too great a cost.”
“We cannot afford to lose California,” Sims said.
“I agree, Mr. President. But neither can we afford to save California and lose Texas, which would be a much deadlier blow to our defenses. In the worst case, we could set up new defenses in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. But to lose Texas…it would open up the underbelly of America to the aggressors.”
The silence grew as General Alan stopped talking. The importance of his words stamped themselves onto Anna.
President Sims seemed to age before them as his shoulders drooped. Finally, he cleared his throat and said in a soft voice, “Then it’s up to the soldiers in Los Angeles to hold on until new heavy equipment can beef up their formations.”
“It’s up to the soldiers on the ground to hold,” General Alan agreed. “If they can, they could turn the Chinese drive into a prohibitive siege for the enemy.”
The President stared at his hands. After a time, he said. “I admit to finding myself dumbfounded at Chinese aggressiveness and to their adroit maneuverability in the Southern Californian environment.”
“Begging your pardon, sir…” General Alan said.
“Go ahead, speak your mind,” Sims said.
“Respectfully, sir, I would hardly call what we’ve seen high maneuverability on their part. Except for the original tank drive past the Salton Sea, it has been more like endless grinding battles of attrition.”
“No,” Sims said, “I don’t see it that way. The Blue Swam missile assault nearly collapsed our entire SoCal Fortifications. Using the partial success of the EMP missiles, the Chinese have used grinding attritional battles to break through in critical areas and then they proceeded to surround our shattered Army Group. We’ve witnessed slow-motion maneuvering in an environment that usually brings month-long sieges. When you think about, it is very original in concept and execution, much like their drive across the Arctic ice seven years ago.”
General Alan shrugged and turned to whisper to the major, his aide.
“Are the Chinese historically known for such military innovation?” Sims asked.
With a start, Anna realized he addressed her. “Uh… I’m uncertain, Mr. President. In the past, my analysis concentrated on the political aspects, not the military.”
“It’s something to think about,” Sims said.
“Mr. President,” General Alan said, “if you’ll consider this…”
Anna cocked her head as she thought about what the President had just asked her. It was a chance comment perhaps, but something about it nagged at her.
I have to study this.
She took out her smart phone and turned on the recorder, telling herself to look into this first thing tomorrow morning.