I need more of an edge.
Zhu frowned thoughtfully. The others of the squad had joined Tian tonight in town. They’d found willing American women to spend a night of pleasure with them. Tian had taken extra food as payment.
Many Americans in the Occupied Territories were having trouble getting enough to eat. Zhu had heard some terrible stories. Chinese rear-area troops gathered supplies for the fighting soldiers and sent the rest south to Mexico. Some of the food went all the way to China. It left little for the Americans in the conquered zones. Still, if they were busy looking for enough to eat, they wouldn’t have the time or energy for partisan activities.
Zhu shook his head. Tian had suggested he come along and enjoy the fruits of conquest. Tian assured him that with the right inducements, American women were very willing. But he couldn’t go. Zhu still had much to learn concerning his new rank and responsibilities. During the Californian campaign, he’d been a rookie of Fighter Rank, newly arrived from China. The old enlisted ranking went private, corporal and sergeant. In the White Tigers, it went Fighter Rank, Soldier Rank and First Rank.
I am now Soldier Rank. The promotion had come through after the fighting in Los Angeles. The advancement made Zhu proud. More than ever, he wanted to live up to the image of an elite White Tiger.
Zhu began reassembling his assault rifle. Afterward, he took off his shirt and carefully laid it on the stool so it wouldn’t get dirty.
His ribs showed, with his stomach sucked in. Some of the others in the squad said he looked like a skeleton, like a man ready to meet Yan Luo—Death. Such comments made Zhu angry. He ate as much as he could, but extra meat never seemed to stick to his bones. He was cursed with a skinny frame.
First Rank Tian was a muscle-bound warrior of great skill. He was also Zhu’s best friend. Many times, Zhu had wondered if he should begin taking steroids. He wanted to be powerfully strong. He wanted to become the greatest warrior in the world.
In the electric lantern-light, Zhu took a Shaolin fighting stance. He’d learned the combat techniques in his youth, from a janitor in the orphanage. His parents had been old when they’d had him, and they had died shortly after his birth. In the State-run orphanage, bullies had tormented a very skinny and young Zhu Peng. Thanks to the janitor, he’d learned to fight back. Unfortunately, he had paid for his hard-won victories with beatings from the schoolmaster. They’d pulled down his pants in front of the others, caning him with bamboo rods until his butt was red. They had made him cry in front of the entire orphanage, telling him he needed to get along better.
In the tent, Zhu preformed the Shaolin maneuvers. He moved gracefully, slowly increasing the tempo. It helped calm him to do the moves. It also caused him to remember the janitor, one of his only friends in his earlier years.
How he longed to be a fierce warrior, able to dominate whomever he faced. So far, he had survived the American War, but he wanted to do more than survive; he wished to excel as a White Tiger Commando. He wanted to become the bravest and best of any who donned the jetpacks.
I’m too skinny and I’m still too weak. Therefore, I must practice and increase my skills. I must never let Tian Jintao or the others down.
After twenty minutes of practice, he dropped and did pushups. Zhu didn’t have bulky muscles like Tian. His were like strings—but strings of steel. They rose up on his arms as he did one after another pushup. Soon, he panted, with sweat appearing on his lean frame. In time, his arms quivered. Yet still he went up and down. Finally, he strained to do one more rep. He gritted his teeth and continued to strain until he collapsed, thumping onto the tent’s fabric.
Zhu closed his eyes, breathing for a time. One thing he’d learned in California. Sometimes during the fighting he became exhausted, utterly and completely so. With the flights, the shooting, the running with heavy gear, the hand-to-hand combat, passing ammo packs to the others, exhaustion would rush upon him. At those times, he wanted to quit. Yet if he gave up, his squad mates might die. His quitting therefore would be cowardice.
Of all things, Zhu dreaded being a coward. Many, many times in battle, he became scared. Bullets whizzing past his head, the crump of mortars, the roar of artillery and the distinctive sound of masonry falling around him—Zhu had never told anyone how frightened he became. Sometimes, tears welled in his eyes. Sometimes, he was terrified that he would piss his pants. What if one of his Bai Hu mates saw that? They would despise him, and they would brand him with the hated label of coward.
Therefore, he must train every chance he had to become proficient with his weapons. He must turn himself into steel, into an automaton of war. Zhu attempted to beat the weakness out of his body, out of his mind and out of his soul. That meant he couldn’t join the others as they lay with American women. Oh, Zhu wanted a woman. He dearly wanted to marry a good girl and have a son. He didn’t want to weaken himself, though, by enjoying the pleasure of sex for a brief moment. That might soften him. No! He had to harden himself against everything.
With a grunt, he pushed off the ground. Sweat slicked his skinny body. He donned clothes, dinylon body armor and strapped on the jetpacks. They were bulky and heavy. Taking his assault rifle, he tramped outside the tent.
Santa Fe loomed in the distance. It had been brutal there. Most of the city was now rubble with the skeletons of ferroconcrete buildings. The Americans had died hard, although some had surrendered at the very end. Those had been dirty and tired soldiers, many with starved looks.
Would I surrender if I lacked food? Zhu dearly hoped not. A brave soldier fought until he was dead. A White Tiger never surrendered. A White Tiger was the most ferocious and deadly soldier humanity had ever seen.
In his armor and Eagle Team jetpack, Zhu knelt and pinned a paper target to the ground.
He looked again at Santa Fe in the distance. Much nearer was the freeway looping around the city. Trucks moved on it day and night. American partisans often attacked those trucks, even though hundreds of partisans died attempting it. The survivors learned, and attacked again, doing the real damage.
Zhu and his squad-mates had been partisan-hunting for two weeks already. High Command wanted every shell and every bullet to reach the front, not burning in exploding trucks due to partisan ambushes.
Putting on his helmet, Zhu radioed the nearby outpost and the First Rank in charge of security. He didn’t want them to begin firing at him.
“I’m practicing,” he said.
“Is that you, Zhu?”
“Yes,” Zhu answered via the helmet’s radio.
“I thought Tian went to town for some skirt,” the First Rank said.
“He did.”
“Why didn’t you go with them for once?”
Zhu looked away. He couldn’t tell anyone that he practiced so much because he feared that deep inside he was a coward. “I’m trying a new technique,” he said.
“You work too hard,” the First Rank radioed. “You need to rest sometime. You’re supposed to be relaxing tonight.”
“This…this helps me relax,” Zhu said.
“You’re an animal. Go ahead then, practice.”
Zhu put his elbows on the armrests and activated the jetpack. The Qui 1000s purred with power. After years of effort, Chinese scientists had finally produced a rugged, fuel-efficient, battlefield jetpack. That had given China the Eagle Teams, the elite of the elite. Each Eagle Team flyer was a White Tiger, although not all White Tigers were Eagle flyers.