Graceful Swan chain-guns spewed fire, the spent shells raining from their weapons, and Annihilator missiles launched from the stubby wings. Below, a Humvee Avenger blew up, a lone helmet spinning with the gory remains of a blood-dripping neck. Other Americans died in their machine gun pits.
Witnessing this destruction, Zhu clutched the handlebars on his seat of the battle-taxi. Pomona had become a sea of rubble and half-demolished buildings. Civilians huddled in the ruins while others lay bloating and rotting. Just as bad, fires raged in places. Smoke curled in long ribbons up into the black cloud over Pomona and over Greater Los Angeles. Farther away, artillery boomed with gigantic flashes from the south and to the north.
The helicopters headed toward a cluster of several prominent buildings behind the American line. The tactic of cutting off the forward enemy troops had worked brilliantly since its conception. The buildings loomed closer so scourge marks became visible in the brick walls. Many of the windows were cracked and a few were broken with jagged edges. Zhu’s gut tightened and his arms tingle with anticipation.
Tian’s orders growled in his headphones and Zhu lofted off his seat and ignited his thrusters. With unerring skill, the First Rank Tian guided them toward the largest structure of the cluster. Once it must have been a towering office building.
As the advanced flyers zoomed near, a terrible surprise unfolded. Americans appeared in the highest windows. The enemy must have been waiting in ambush for them. Assault guns blazed. Beside Zhu, a commando tumbled backward as his visor shattered. The soldier plummeted toward the ground. More Americans appeared; these were on the roof. They launched Blowdart missiles at the climbing Gunhawks and manhandled heavy machine guns into position.
“What do we do?” a commando shouted through the radio-net.
A Gunhawk slewed to the side. A second Blowdart exploded against the tail. The helo nosedived, picking up speed, and in seconds, it crashed spectacularly into the ground.
The fight became desperate, men versus machines. A Gunhawk’s machine guns began pouring fire onto the Americans. Then three Blowdarts in quick succession blasted the helo out of the sky.
Zhu yelped in terror as Graceful Swans’ chain-guns whirled behind him. Ferroconcrete chunks and chips flew, along with American sprays of blood.
“There’s no turning back,” Tian radioed. “We are White Tigers and we never retreat.”
The Americans in the windows kept firing, even as the ones on the roof died. As they died, more Eagle Team commandos dropped out the sky.
For an Eagle flyer, this was the worst possible place to be during an insertion: hanging in the air like ripe fruit.
“We must retreat!” a commando wailed.
“We can’t land on the roof,” another radioed. “We’ll be cut down by our own Gunhawks.”
“I know!” Zhu shouted. He twisted the throttle and his jets blasted so the straps dug into his shoulders. He flew at the nearest window. Twice, he heard metallic whines like angry mosquitoes—bullets passing him.
Using the crosshairs on the HUD, Zhu targeted the window and let his electromagnetic grenade launcher chug. Like fastballs two grenades hit next to the window, harmlessly exploding concrete. The third flew through the window past the American inside. It blasted the enemy soldier off his feet so he pitched out of the window. He tumbled like a flailing doll for the ground below.
“Use the windows!” Zhu shouted. “Fly into the building.”
“You’re crazy,” a commando radioed.
“No!” Tian said. “He’s right. It will take skillful flying, but it’s our only chance. Once you make it into a room, get out of the way, because more commandos will follow.”
Zhu’s window became immense in his view. He braked hard and flew in feet first, finding himself running across the floor. An American in the room stared at him in shock. Zhu snapped off a grenade. The American flew off his feet, his chest a gaping, smoking hole. Shrapnel speckled Zhu, but his dinylon armor held. He pulled a strap and the jetpack clanked onto the floor as Zhu tore his assault rifle from it. He didn’t wait, but charged through the room’s door, knelt and fired a burst as Militiamen appeared down the hall.
The fight for the building had begun. Behind him more Eagle Team flyers entered. Some crashed against the building’s side and fell to their deaths. Twenty-seven made it inside. They faced half a company of Militiamen.
For the next hour the battle raged, until only fourteen White Tigers survived. They captured the roof and the three upper floors. Trapped Americans held the lower levels.
“You and me, Fighter Rank,” Tian panted. He lay on his back on the roof, resting for a second as they waited for reinforcements. Tian looked up at him. “The way you fight, I am asking they promote you to Soldier Rank.”
Zhu beamed with pride. Before he could think of something to say, three Chinese cargo helicopters approached the roof. The nearest had open bay doors, with soldiers pointing their weapons earthward. The helos held Chinese airborne troops. An American missile sped upward and slammed into one of them, but the Blowdart failed to explode. The helicopter began to twist, but had a good pilot, and landed heavily onto the roof, disgorging the airborne soldiers.
At the run, the reinforcements filed down the stairwells. Meanwhile the Gunhawks high overhead, continued to make it a murderous sprint for any Americans trying to reinforce the building from the ground entry points.
“We’re going to win this one,” Tian said.
Zhu nodded as he looked into the distance. They kept occupying more of Greater Los Angeles, but there was always additional territory to take. When would it end?
“We’ve killed a lot of them,” Zhu said.
“What’s that?”
“Americans, we’ve killed a lot of them.”
“Yes, and we’re going to kill a lot more.”
Zhu noticed movement below. He swung the captured American machine gun, firing at enemy soldiers sprinting for the bottom entrance to the building. Will I make Soldier Rank? I hope so.
That evening, a sleek, nearly soundless UAV streaked like an owl over the nighttime surfaces of the Coachella Valley floor. Behind it in the distance were several other nearly invisible aircraft.
Inside the first ultra-stealthy insertion drone rode Paul, Romo and Donovan. There were no windows, but there was a soft blue light to show them their piled gear. Like abductees in a UFO, they had to trust an unseen operator. This one piloted them toward a lonely field in Mexico.
Paul and Romo played cards, while Donovan kept staring at the special piece of equipment Romo had chosen.
“I don’t get it,” Donovan finally said.
Paul and Romo looked up.
Donovan toed a bulky, two-cylinder backpack with an attached tube and special nozzle.
“What don’t you get?” Paul asked. He knew Romo wasn’t going to answer the man. “It’s a flamethrower.”
“I know what it is,” Donovan said.
“Okay.”
“What I can’t figure out is why he wants to bring it along.”
Paul glanced at Romo. “Amigo?” he asked.
The ghost of a smile played along Romo’s lips. He lowered his cards and studied Donovan.
The Green Beret didn’t scare. Paul hadn’t thought he would.
“I have a message to give the Chinese,” Romo finally said, speaking in a soft voice.
“Yeah, what’s that?” Donovan asked. “Come on, baby, light my fire?”