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