from the other hovertanks. The rain picked up, too. It slashed through the bright light, giving the situation an eerie feel. Soon, the chaos changed as soldiers lined up in ranks. Drivers also lined up, many straightening their uniforms.
“It looks like an inspection,” Romo said.
Paul swiveled his M25, using the scope to study the hovertanks. He hated them. They were fast and agile. Any one of those hovers could aim a floodlight on the jeep out here. A hovertank’s cannon could send a shell screaming into this vehicle.
“We’re hoofing it out of here,” Paul said. Then he saw something that changed his mind.
A thin Chinese commander opened his cupola at the top of a hovertank turret. The man climbed higher so his torso stuck out of the hatch. He wore rain gear, and he looked around. Paul spotted the three shiny stars on the man’s plastic-coated military hat.
“We have ourselves a three-star general,” Paul whispered. “He must be a real fire-eater too, to come out in this weather for an unannounced inspection.”
“My friend, I hope you are not thinking—”
“Yeah,” Paul said. “That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
Romo’s shoulders might have slumped the slightest bit, but he nodded a moment later.
“First, we have to relocate,” Paul said. “They’ll shell the jeep first thing.”
The two commandos rolled up the windows and prepped their gear. Soon, Paul stepped back into the rain and mud. Romo followed. They trudged toward the enemy, toward the rows upon rows of Chinese soldiery, with the slowly moving hovertank inching before the mass. The general saluted the men, studying them in the harsh glare.
“Okay,” Paul said. He pulled out a poncho, putting it on the mud. He lay on it and adjusted the camouflaged slicker over him. Then he set up a bipod at the end of his rifle. He was going to need a steady base to make this long-distance shot. Romo lay beside him, using his binoculars.
Now Paul waited. He lay in the dark, with the rain turning back to drizzle. His heart hammered, and he tried to stop his hands from shaking. He readjusted the M25 several times. This was crazy. If he fired, those Chinese SOBs would be all over here hunting for Romo and him. But he couldn’t let it go. The drone operators had run out of smart bombs again. America wasn’t going to win this war if everyone played it safe. They were going to have to take chances, maybe even crazy chances to drive the enemy where he belonged.
I can’t take out the bridge by myself, but I can take out the brains to a division or maybe even to a Chinese corps.
“Every little bit helps,” Paul muttered to himself.
“Seven hundred, maybe seven hundred and twenty meters,” Romo said, as he stared through his binoculars, giving him the distance.
Paul put his right eye to the scope and he adjusted, using Romo’s info. Soon, the crosshairs touched the general’s head. For this shot, for possibly dying in turn, Paul wanted it all. He wanted a kill, not just to wound the man in the shoulder or take out a lung.
The Chinese general held his hand in a frozen salute. The hovertank moved slowly before the men. With his crosshairs on the general’s head, Paul could tell the hovertank quivered as the vehicle’s turbofans kept it aloft. He could just imagine the mud and dirt the hovercraft sprayed by its whirling fans. He bet droplets of mud pelted the front-rank soldiers in the face. The freaking general could have walked in the mud like the soldiers he was making line up in the rain. The brass was the same everywhere.
With a little rain in his face, the general probably thinks he’s roughing it tonight.
A mean grin tightened Paul’s face. He thought about the open grave with the American dead and squabbling crows. He remembered the dangling corpses in Dodge City.
So very slowly, his finger eased against the trigger. A moment froze in time. The M25 rifle butt kicked against Paul’s shoulder. The sound suppressor blotted out any muzzle flash and allowed only a low noise. On the hovertank, a spray of blood and bone blew outward from the general’s head. The Chinese commander pitched forward and crumpled, bending sharply at the waist. The hovertank’s hatch must have caught him at the hips. Likely, his legs kicked up against the turret’s ceiling. He draped over the cupola for all the ranks to see.