For the moment anyway, the strategic ABM laser system lacked power. It would take weeks of frantic work to rebuild a new generating plant. But it was repairable instead of an irradiated pile of rubble. The antiaircraft guns had saved the main laser housing, but it would be offline for quite some time to come.
A nuclear fireball from a different TRX-3000 obliterated the Guiyang Strategic ABM laser system. The defenses there failed to destroy the American missile. Thus, it too went offline, and it would stay so until someone built an entirely new plant.
“Ready?” Paul shouted. He’d opened his faceplate so he wouldn’t have to use the radio. The knee didn’t hurt so much now, as the painkillers numbed the agony.
He, Romo and others gripped an upside-down lifter. The Taiyuan PBW Station had ceased to function. They’d left it, backtracking to the landing zone, using markers to the dropped lifters. This was the last one.
“One, two, three—heave!” Paul shouted. Together, the Marines lifted the side of the vehicle with their strength augmentation. It went up, threatened to stall and come crashing back down, but it made to the tipping point, crashing against the ground right side up.
“Oh-oh,” Romo said.
“What now?” Paul asked, turning toward his blood brother.
Romo’s faceplate slammed shut. The radio crackled in Paul’s headphones. “Helos coming from the east: looks like three gunships and four troop carriers.”
“Why do they care now?” another man radioed.
Paul ordered his faceplate closed. He brought up the HUD display. “Are you kidding?” he answered. “We’re the prize because we’re the best thing anyone has ever seen on a battlefield. We’re specimens of war, and they want to capture us for study, if nothing else.”
“What do we do, First Sergeant?” a Marine asked. “If they nail our lifter, we’re stuck in China, likely for good. Our suit batteries are at one-quarter power.”
“Anyone have a ramshell round left for his launcher?” Paul asked.
No one spoke up, so apparently no one did.
“Right,” Paul said. “So we’ll do this the easy way.” He began to explain his plan.
Soon, he and Romo bounded like crazy to the left. Others fanned out, everyone heading toward the helos coming for them.
“They spotted the lifter,” a Marine radioed.
Paul saw it, too. Three air-to-ground missiles raced from the gunships straight at the readied lifter. If one of those disabled the craft… and he didn’t see why the missiles would miss…
“Proximity timed grenades,” Romo said.
“Listen fast,” Paul said. “Singh, Chavez and Jones, you’re going to use your grenades.”
“I only have a dozen eggs left,” Chavez said.
“So you’d better make them count,” Paul said. “I want you to knock the missiles off course. Use the grenades like antiaircraft guns.”
It all took place in seconds. The air-to-ground missiles streaked for the lifter. The three designated Marines tracked and the grenade launchers perched on their shoulders swiveled and lobbed. Proximity fuses ticked and explosions threw shrapnel in front of the missiles.
The first missile exploded, and that caused the second following close behind to slam down into the ground, furrowing dirt. Then it also exploded with a geyser of debris. The last one burst out of the cloud of smoke caused by the detonations and flew for the lifter.
A second round of grenades lobbed. This was it—now or never. Paul held his breath, and the last missile broke apart, the pieces raining around the lifter, but leaving it in one piece.
“Thank you, God,” Paul whispered. On a wide channel, he said, “Make your shots count, Marines. We have to finish these bastards before they do that again.”
The gunships lead the way, three helicopters like metal wasps. Behind lumbered the troop carriers.
Raising his gun arm, Paul sighted the lead gunship. It had armor. He had the best targeting computer on the planet, and he had one powerful anti-materiel rifle.
“Magnification twenty,” Paul subvocalized. The targeting dot rested on the armored glass of the front of the nearing gunship. Paul began to fire one round after another. Holes appeared in the armored glass, while the helicopter’s rotary cannons began to whirl and spew bullets.
Masses of dirt fountained as they raced toward Paul, but he didn’t move. If they didn’t kill these helicopters, it was all over anyway. He had no interest in prisoner of war camps, not with Chinese torturers.
The fountains of dirt almost reached him. Before they did, the gunship abruptly dove for the ground. It didn’t appear to be a trick. Paul knew he’d won when the wasp-helo plowed into the earth and exploded.
Romo laughed over the radio. “You’re the best, amigo. It was a pleasure watching that.”
The others took down their gunships and finished the troop carriers before the enemy could get away.
Paul stood there, and he nodded. “Good shooting, Marines. Now let’s get back to the lifter and load up. I want to get out of this country before more of them show up.”
As the cheering died down in the underground bunker, Anna watched Tom McGraw march to Director Harold. The general wore boots instead of shoes.
McGraw stood at attention and saluted crisply. “Director,” he said, with a huge grin plastered across his face. “We have destroyed all the Chinese PBW stations and seventy-six percent of the ABM laser systems. As far as our ICBMs are concerned, the Chinese have their pants around their ankles and their butts in the air.”
Harold nodded slowly as if he savored the moment.
“I suggest, sir,” McGraw said, “that you call Chairman Hong.”
“Wait a minute,” Chairman Alan of the Joint Chiefs said. “I have a question before we proceed. What does it mean if he surrenders? How do we enforce the surrender if Hong decides to back out of it later?”
McGraw faced Alan.
“It will take time for the Chinese to remove their army from Mexico,” Alan said. “During that time, the people in China could rebuild the country’s strategic defenses.”
“What do you suggest we do?” McGraw asked.
“The Chinese Army in Mexico must surrender to the Mexican Army or to us,” Alan said. “They will have three days to do this, possibly four. Then the ex-Pan-Asian Alliance soldiers must march to designated camp sites and await transfer to China.”
“In the interests of self-preservation,” McGraw said, “the PAA soldiers might not agree to this.”
“Then we will have to launch the ICBMs into China,” Alan said. “That is the only credible threat we possess.”
“What about the Chinese Army in China?” McGraw asked.
“We demand that they follow a similar order,” Alan said. “We must receive sixty percent of their artillery and armor. If they fail to comply after a set time, a week or nine days, perhaps—”
“We launch the ICBMs,” Harold said.
“We have to make sure that Hong cannot back out of the deal later,” Alan said. “We must disarm them so we know they won’t continue the war.”
Anna had heard enough. She pushed up to her feet. Walking forward, shoving through the crowd, she faced Director Harold. “Given such a harsh peace, Chairman Hong may decide not to surrender.”
Harold’s eyes seemed to shine. “That’s just as well,” he said. “Because if they don’t surrender, we will launch. We’ll burn them out of existence, which is, frankly, my preference.” He took a breath, and he regarded the crowd. “It’s time to put a call through to Beijing and let them know the situation.”