The seven of them, seven stragglers, seven SOBs who had been traveling northwest for weeks now. Jake was the only Militia member. A hard-bitten artillery sergeant led them, taking over when the lieutenant had bought it eight days ago. Back then there had been fifteen desperate soldiers.
Tonight, well east of Highway 285, they were seven U.S. soldiers remaining who had refused to surrender. They’d eluded the Chinese ever since the cauldron battle around Amarillo, Texas had destroyed their formations and pounded the living into bloody dust. From there they had crawled cross-country, avoiding enemy patrols and aircraft sweeps, reaching northeastern New Mexico. After a near-fatal ambush by a Chinese garrison platoon, they passed Trinidad in southeastern Colorado. Now the seven of them needed to race across the 285 south of Alamosa. They were trying for the Rio Grande National Forest, believing the wilderness area would be outside Chinese occupation.
Jake looked like a younger version of his father, Stan Higgins, but he’d lost weight these past weeks. It gave him the staring eyes of a wild dog on the run, with similar stark ribs. His uniform was ragged and dirty, his coat had holes and the soles of his boots were far too thin. His feet ached all of the time, causing him to limp.
One thing Jake knew. He wasn’t going to surrender, ever. His dad had been a history prof and had told him many grim stories about American prisoners in Japanese hands during WWII. His grandfather had been a colonel and fought in Afghanistan, and he’d told him stories about what the Taliban had done to those they captured. Jake would rather starve to death then get his head cut off by a screaming fanatic or have a prison guard slap him across the face because he didn’t bow deeply enough.
I’m an American. We don’t bow to anyone.
The goons in the Colorado Detention Center had tried to teach him otherwise, but he’d resisted them, too. A real American stood up for what he believed in.
“Get ready,” the sergeant told them, speaking in the darkness.
Jake was hungry and his feet hurt. Stretched out on the ground, he just wanted to close his eyes and sleep…maybe forever.
In the distance he could hear Chinese choppers. They could be hunting for them or maybe they were just transport machines. The enemy moved supplies north no matter the time of night or the weather. He’d taken note of that these past miserable weeks.
The lieutenant, when he’d been alive, had talked to a New Mexico partisan nine days ago. The sixty-three year-old had told the lieutenant how some of them blew up Chinese supply dumps at night. They were thinking about sniping enemy soldiers now, too. The lieutenant had given the old-timer one of the M2 .50 calibers and several boxes of ammunition. The old patriot had given the lieutenant directions, freeze-dried packets of food and a package of dried apricots. Jake’s three apricots had been the best-tasting food of his life. After the exchange, the old man had asked them to join up and help him set up a harder-hitting guerilla operation.
Some of the men had liked the idea, but not the lieutenant. He’d been set on returning to American lines, rejoining the Army and killing the invaders soldier-to-soldier.
As Jake lay on the cold ground, listening to the distant whomp-whomp of enemy helos, he wondered if that might have been a good idea. The old-timer had told the lieutenant about White Tiger commandos hunting down Army stragglers. The Chinese were ruthless about it, and they were as tricky as rattlesnakes.
Craning his neck, Jake looked up into the dark sky. The stars blazed. Too bad the seven of them weren’t riding in a helo. It beat hoofing it on the hard ground when your feet pulsated with pain at each step.
“Let’s go,” the sergeant said. “Move it.”
Through an effort of will, Jake forced himself to his feet. Straps dug into his shoulders. He had an ancient M-16 and he carried extra ammo in his pack. He wished it were food.
“Hurry it now,” the sergeant said. “We don’t have all night.”
Seven hungry U.S. soldiers began trudging toward the Southern Rockies. They moved single file, ghosts of the battlefield, seeking their units so they could flesh out and fight toe-to-toe against the hated invaders once again.
“What’s that?” a man said. It sounded like Tito speaking.
“Stop,” the sergeant said. He was a tall man like a stork. Nothing seemed to bother him. His hearing was bad, though. “What is it?” he asked. “What do you hear?”
“It’s a hissing sound,” Tito said. “Doesn’t anyone else hear it? It’s coming from up there.” An arm pointed skyward.
Jake was too tired and hurting to look up. He was sick of the straps digging into his shoulders. He was hungry. Even a stale slice of bread sounded good. Then the hissing sound intruded upon his hearing. What is that? He cocked his head. Yeah, the hissing was getting louder so it almost came from straight up over him.
“They’re Eagle commandos!” Tito shouted. “Look, I can see one silhouetted in the sky.”
Jake slid his M-16 into his hands, readied it and looked up. As he did, Tito opened fire, his assault rifle blazing flame from the end of the barrel.
“You fool!” the sergeant roared. “You’re giving us away. Scatter.”
Jake used to be fast on his feet. He’d had quick reflexes once. That had been with a full stomach and after plenty of sleep. He frowned dully now as he kept scanning the sky, looking for the flyers Tito shot at.
Several of the seven, including the sergeant, scattered in various directions as if they’d been mice under a water bowl a farmer had just lifted.
Tito kept firing into the night until his assault rifle clicked dry, out of bullets. The soldier cursed and began switching magazines.
Jake heard a helo now, and it was much closer than before. He hit the dirt and began crawling away.
Tito slapped another magazine into his weapon and stood there, firing into the starry sky.
Jake crawled, and he kept glancing up. The whomp-whomp of the helicopter had become loud. The way Tito kept firing, he must have lost it. They’d all been on edge since the lieutenant had bought it, ready to call it quits and surrender. They’d been without food for too long. Starvation, more than anything else, sapped a man’s courage.
In the sky, way up there with the stars, a Chinese Gunhawk opened fire with heavy machine guns. It was a horrifying sight: a menacing Fourth of July fireworks that killed with brutal efficiency. Bloody body-chunks ripped off Tito, the heavy bullets shredding the soldier where he stood.
The sight—Jake gasped, unable to breathe, but he kept on crawling. He kept his head down now and moved. He heard more hissing sounds, and that indicated Chinese jetpack flyers. The bastards must be searching for the rest of them, coming down low to finish the job.
“The Sergeant’s hit!” a soldier shouted in the darkness.
Jake squeezed his eyes shut and shoved his forehead against the ground. It was hard to think. He wanted to rave like a lunatic. He wanted this nightmare to end. Why couldn’t it ever end?
The Gunhawk continued to blaze fiery death, showers of bullets. It was Armageddon for the seven survivors. This was it, die time.
“Die fighting,” Jake whispered to himself. His grandfather used to tell him that and so had his dad. Yeah, his dad had told him hundreds of stories of brave last stands: Thermopylae where three hundred Spartans had faced off thousands of Persians, the Alamo where American heroes had given the bird to the Mexican Army and William Tell the crossbowman who had taught the Austrian knights what tough Swiss mountaineers could do.