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.