Shun Li cheered with the others in the Ruling Committee chamber. Chinese lasers and particle beams broke apart the first Orion ship. Sections of the American spacecraft fell away, drifting like junk. Explosions completed the destruction, as one section became a fireball while another showed metal crumbling akin to someone crushing a tinfoil ball.
“Are those nuclear blasts aboard their ship?” Hong asked in a worried voice.
“Negative, Leader,” the chief technician said, as she scanned her screen, reading data.
“Can you scan the debris?” Shun Li asked. “Maybe that will give us some clue as to the ship’s purpose.”
“There,” a man shouted, a different technician. “The remaining Orion ships are launching missiles.”
“Where, where?” Hong cried. “Are they nuclear-tipped missiles?”
Shun Li bent forward, watching the wall image. The technicians worked at their portable stations. Technology changed things so much. It gave the top leaders the ability to watch and affect real-time combat by giving direct orders to the participants. In this instance, that was the laser and particle beam commanders at their sites throughout the country.
“Leader,” the chief technician said. “This seems wrong, but—”
“Speak,” Hong said. “I command it.”
“The debris from the first Orion ship, the destroyed vessel…”
“Yes, yes,” Hong said impatiently. “Tell me.”
“The debris is people.”
“Explain your statement and its importance.”
“The Orion ship appears to hold people,” the technician said, “many of them.”
“Why?” asked Hong. “I must know.”
“Ah…” the technician said. “The drifting people wear armor, heavy amounts of metal.”
“Why?” asked Hong. “Why do they wear metal? What is the meaning of this?”
“Leader,” a different technician said. “The missiles heading down are beginning to open up.”
“That does not make sense,” Hong said, shaking his head as he began to nibble on his lower lip.
“Leader, the missiles are pods of some kind. Armored soldiers have appeared. It seems as if the American ships have launched soldiers at us.”
“These are American space soldiers?” Hong asked.
“So it appears, Leader.”
Hong looked at Shun Li, with confusion twisting his normally placid features. Despite that, Hong was the first to ask, “Where are these space soldiers headed. What are their terminal points?”
That’s a good question, Shun Li thought.
“Leader,” a technician said. “The space soldiers are heading for the PBW stations. Different groups are heading for different sites.”
“Of course,” Hong said. “They are attempting to destroy our anti-THOR and anti-ICBM defenses. Instead of missiles, they try to drop men down, thinking we can’t destroy such small objects.”
Shun Li went cold inside. Were the Americans contemplating nuclear Chinese genocide? Did they plan to do to China what they had once done to Japan? The idea would gall the Chairman.
“We must stop them!” Hong shouted, his voice cracking. “Alert the air force, rush soldiers to those locations, and tell the station defenders to prepare for a ground attack.”
“Yes, Leader,” the chief technician said.
“And retarget the lasers on the space soldiers. We must kill every one of these scoundrels. They will attempt to strip us of the ability to defend ourselves from the ultimate revenge. This I refuse to give the Americans.”
Space soldiers that act like paratroopers—what an idea, Shun Li thought. It is so American. Can we stop them in time? We must, or the enemy will take revenge on us for Oklahoma.
Paul Kavanagh’s final ablative layer exploded outward. Darkness vanished and light blackened his visor. The sky was blue. He was deep in the atmosphere, with the ground a vast panorama below.
He looked everywhere. Masses of pod debris fell above, around and below him. There were also decoy emitters and silvery chaff. Together, they all had one purpose—to make it harder for Chinese radar to pinpoint individual Marines.
As he fell, spread-eagled like any ordinary parachutist, he scanned the approaching countryside. He saw what he hoped was Taiyuan, the capital of Shanxi Province. Beside the city to the north—fed off the same power grid—was the Taiyuan PBW Station, a heavily defended antimissile site.
Swallowing hard, Paul studied the Chinese city of millions. Would he drift off course? Would he land with pinpoint accuracy? How many of his squad and the three platoons dedicate to destroying the PBW station, would reach Taiyuan in time? There were so many imponderables. It didn’t mean that— Paul swore with amazement. A beam in the shape of a lightning bolt flashed upward, passing him by several hundred feet.
They’re shooting at us. That can’t be good.
Just like his space jump in Montana, Paul had various chutes ready to deploy. He fell at terminal velocity, the ground rushing up fast now. Instead of shaking in terror or letting worry devour his thoughts, Paul opened his mouth and laughed. Sure, this was frightening, but it was also exhilarating. Instead of defending America, he took the fight to the invader. It was time for the Chinese to eat atomic fire and die.
A beep in his helmet alerted him. He deployed a chute to cut down speed. It jerked hard, slowing him, and the chute tore away. A second one deployed, lasting a little longer, until it, too, ripped free.
Paul wanted to know how the others were doing, but they maintained radio silence during the actual drop. Why give the enemy an easier target? Make the enemy work for it.
His visor turned darker as another particle beam shot upward. This one flashed closer. He heard hard growling in his earphones. Bad, bad, that was all bad. The good came from one thing: he knew the exact location of the PBW site now, five miles from his landing zone. Considering what it had taken to get here, that was fantastic accuracy.
Five miles, I have my work cut out for me.
Then the antiaircraft guns began firing. He didn’t know until black puffs appeared in the sky with him. Something fast and glittering bright shot past Paul.
Was that a piece of Chinese shrapnel? I can’t worry about that. It’s go time, baby.
“Deploy,” Paul subvocalized.
A huge chute billowed into existence. It snapped him, ripped him seeming upward and he began to float the final distance to the ground.
They have to see this.
Maybe they did, but another piece of luck helped him. A US Orion-launched missile slammed down from the heavens, and exploded. The non-nuclear explosion took out a radar array. Antiaircraft guns sent more shells aloft, but none near Paul afterward.
That’s your last chance. “Release,” he muttered. The chute’s clamps unbuckled, and First Sergeant Kavanagh dropped straight down the last fifty feet. He braced for impact, and struck, his servos whining. The back of his head tried to snap backward, but the cushions in his helmet softened the blow.
He was down, and he scanned around him. A water tower, some sheds or buildings, waving trees—big slender things—and— Trucks appeared at the top of a rise. These were big black-painted trucks—Chinese Army—with canvas backs or covers. The huge machines roared down a blacktop road toward him. He’d bet infantry sat on benches under the canvas. What was this? Machine guns fired from the top of the cabs. He spied tracers. Some of them sprouted dirt in a line, approaching him, and clack, clack, clack. The rounds struck his chest plate. He staggered backward from the impacts. They couldn’t penetrate his armor, not yet anyway, but they would weaken it.