Invasion: China (Invasion America) (Volume 5) Page 13

  The first battery targeted the next Red Dragon. The second PBT-2 cannon took that moment to destroy another missile.

  “We’re doing it,” the TCO said.

  More cruise missiles kept coming. The initial Chinese targeting chief must have realized the Americans would go to extraordinary lengths to guard their prized Behemoth regiments. It seemed the Chinese used blizzard tactics.

  Now, however, the Behemoth tanks got into the action. Their fire control systems were just as good as the particle beam platforms, and could hit at longer ranges.

  “The Chinese don’t know who they’re messing with,” the TCO said.

  Maybe he was right.

  BEMEHOTH TANK, OKLAHOMA

  It was hot inside the green glowing insides of the tank. With the outer hatch shut and the heaters pouring, there was no cold air at all.

  Jake Higgins unbuttoned the top of his shirt. He sat in the commander’s chair, his underarms slick with sweat. He knew the odds. They all did. The colonel had just radioed them with the information. The Chinese sent nuclear cruise missiles, and they were almost here.

  The super tanks no longer traveled for Oklahoma City. HQ had radioed for them to circle into a defensive laager, with their rail guns elevated skyward. The colonel had other ideas.

  “I don’t care what nuclear defensive strategy says. We split apart to present fewer targets.”

  The Behemoths did exactly that, radiating outward, traveling away from the central particle beam platforms. Each tank was still plugged in the PBT-2 net, their radar systems providing linked coverage.

  “The farther apart we are, the wider our radar net,” the colonel said.

  Jake didn’t know if that was right or not. Maybe it was just good BS for doing what they already did.

  The Red Dragons roared at them from treetop level. Chinese UAVs barreled down out of the sky. Some US V-10s tried to engage them. The Chinese drones weren’t playing along. Obviously, their objective was the particle beam platforms. The drones also added to the number of enemy targets. Only one set counted now—the cruise missiles.

  Jake swayed in his seat as he watched his crew going about their tasks. With his regular intensity, Chet tracked. Grant kept up a constant chatter with the PBT-2 net and Simons drove fast, with a white-knuckled grip on the controls. Jake kept debating whether he should tell Simons to take it easy. Despite the advanced hydraulics, at this speed, the rail gun would lack precise stability.

  There were no two ways about this. Nukes frightened Jake. Sitting here, waiting—If I’d let the Detention Center goons take me away, I wouldn’t be in this mess.

  “Corporal,” Chet said.

  “I see it,” Jake said. “Simons, slow it down.”

  The driver ignored or didn’t hear him.

  “Simons!” Jake said.

  “What?” the driver said.

  “Slow it down, I said.”

  The long-faced Simons cast Jake an angry look, but he slowed the tank.

  Jake shook his head. The nukes were wrong, maybe even evil. They’d beaten the Chinese fairly. This tank could take anything the enemy could throw at them…conventionally speaking, of course.

  Is this what it had felt like for Comanche warriors back in the day? The Comanches had been the best light cavalry in the world. No one could compare to their horsemanship and daring. Imagine thundering at US soldiers the first time. A brave would have yelled at the top of his voice, shaking his lance with battle joy. Then US soldiers would have stood up, raised their Winchesters and shot down the brave with advanced technology.

  I guess nukes trump Behemoth tanks. Actually, I’m surprised the toe to toe fighting lasted this long. Jake scowled. He should have talked to his mom more often, phoned or written a letter at least. No one wrote letters these days, just sent texts or emails. He hadn’t even done that much with her.

  Jake couldn’t believe this was the end of his life. How in the world were they going to stop every cruise missile? Ha! They wouldn’t stop anything if he played Hamlet in his commander’s chair.

  “Let’s do this,” Jake said. “Simons, stop the tank. It’s time to shoot.”

  “Are you crazy?” Simon shouted. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  Jake stood, moved to Simons and grabbed the back of the man’s jacket. “Stop now, damnit. I’m giving you an order.”

  Simons scowled at him.

  Jake shifted his stance, ready to cock a fist and smash Simons in the face. I need to buy some heavy metal rings, leave an impression in the man’s face. When he gave an order, he meant it.

  “You’re crazy,” Simons muttered. But he slowed the tank. “We’re supposed to have a lieutenant or at least a sergeant in charge. Whoever heard of a corporal running a tank?

  “Yeah, that’s the breaks,” Jake said.

  Soon, the monster tank squealed to a halt. Chet raised the cannon. Jake listened as Grant talked to the battle-net operator. Thirty seconds later, it was their turn. They were a mile and a half from the PBT-2. In rail gun range, that made no difference.

  On his screen, Jake watched the targeted cruise missile flash toward the center of the formation. Man, the thing moved fast.

  “Fire!” he shouted.

  Chet pulled the trigger, although he didn’t actually fire. With the way it was set up, the trigger-pull gave the internal AI tracking system the green light to do its thing.

  Five seconds later, the engine revved with power. A red firing light blinked on Jake’s screen. “Here it goes,” he said.

  A surge went through the super tank, making the entire three hundred tons shake. The rail gun sent a penetrator screaming through the cannon.

  They weren’t the only ones relying on computer AI technology, though. A Chinese UAV dropped at precisely the wrong moment. The saucer-shaped craft with its alien wings took the penetrator meant for the Red Dragon.

  “Son of a bitch!” Jake shouted.

  “Corporal Higgins,” the PBT-2 captain said over the data-net.

  “I can’t believe it either,” Jake said. “We’re getting ready to fire again.”

  “Negative,” the captain said. “I have it.”

  He was wrong. The selected particle beam weapon system took that moment to overheat. Automatic safety programs began a shutdown procedure.

  Jake watched his screen. Others watched on theirs. Chinese UAVs dove at them, jamming and expelling chaff.

  A Red Dragon cruise missile sped low over the Earth. Its internal systems categorized the giant tanks for what they were. Did it recognize the increased distance between machines? Whatever the case, the cruise missile headed up for the maximum blast value.

  Corporal Jake Higgins leaned forward in his commander’s chair. Sweat pooled on his face, with his eyes glued to the screen. His mouth turned dry. “Take it down, Chet.”

  Chet pulled the trigger. As the AI made its calculations, Simons shouted in terror. The engine revved, building power for a launch. He engaged the gears. With a lurch, the mighty machine shot forward.

  It caught Jake by surprise. He hadn’t buckled in. As he yelled, he launched headfirst at the screen, smacking his forehead against it.

  A penetrator roared out of the cannon, but it lacked accuracy.

  “Simons!” Jake shouted.

  Onscreen, another enemy UAV disintegrated. They were thick around this Red Dragon.

  Blood dripped across Jake’s face. At the same time, the Chinese Z13 thermonuclear warhead detonated with 300 kilotons of power. It was located at the forward edge of the spread-out Behemoths, making ground zero over two miles away.

  The blast, heat and radiation struck the nearest tanks. Incredibly, a Behemoth flipped. As if a giant smashed its fist, dents and then torn rents appeared on the hardened armor of others. Farther away, the PBT-2 platforms disappeared in a flash of heat.

  Simons wept bitterly as he put the pedal to the metal. Their tank squealed and swayed as it fled the mushroom cloud billowing into existence.

  “Are w
e buttoned up?” Jake shouted. They couldn’t survive from this close. That was common sense. Yet the desire to live was too powerful for mere logic. “Button up!” Jake roared. He lurched to a panel and began flipping buttons. Locks snapped shut on the hatches. They were going NBC, seeing if they truly could survive a nuclear strike.

  Then gale force winds shrieked over the tank. Jake froze. Once, he’d had to box a sick cat to take to the vet. It had howled like a demon inside the enclosed box. The radioactive wind outside the Behemoth sounded worse, a thousand demons demanding entrance.

  Tears streamed down Simons’ face, but he kept driving the tank.

  The three hundred ton Behemoth rose like a speeding car lifting as it hit a large bump in the road. Jake couldn’t believe this. They were father away from the blast than that, right? No. The machine rose, and heat washed over them. The conditioners began to hum.

  From his gunner’s location, Chet stared at Jake.

  “We’ve got two hundred and sixty centimeters of armor!” Jake shouted. “It will stop some of the radiation. Maybe that will give us time to get out of here.”

  Outside, over two miles away, the mushroom cloud grew as Oklahoman grass, flowers and dirt blew over the fleeing Behemoth.

  The winds lessened, and the tank sank onto its hydraulics, making them rock. The giant treads kept ripping up soil, propelling them away from ground zero.

  Jake laughed. It appeared they had survived the initial blast and now the heat. If this had been a different tank…

  Are we taking a killing dose of radiation?

  Jake swallowed in a parched throat. This was insane. The Chinese were lighting off nuclear warheads, and he had survived one because this was the heaviest armored vehicle in the world.

  Maybe they were going to stay alive after all.

  FORWARD EDGE OF THE BATTLEFIELD, OKLAHOMA

  Captain Penner’s parachute had almost reached the ground when he spied the mushroom cloud. Terror coursed through him.

  I can’t believe it. This is happening.

  His helmet’s visor saved his eyesight from the flash. As his pilot’s seat struck the ground, the blast reached him. It hurled his chair like a toy and vaporized the parachute like onion paper in a roaring furnace. His seat slammed against the Earth so he tumbled end over end. During the second roll, Penner’s neck snapped, killing him, making the Canadian Air Force captain simply another casualty of the war.

  STILLWATER, OKLAHOMA

  Although Kavanagh’s Cherokee was still three miles out of Stillwater, it began descending fast. The helos had picked up the survivors after the mission’s success. Paul, Romo and others returned to base after the raid against the 34th Mechanized Headquarters Battalion.

  The Master Sergeant sat slumped in his seat. Like a Viking berserker of old, Paul felt drained after combat. His mind drifted now as he stared off into space.

  “How many more of those do we fight before the war is over?” Romo shouted.

  Paul stirred, and he noticed the city in the distance. They had survived yet another battle against the Chinese. Given enough of these, none of them would live to see the end of the war. There had to be a better way to do this.

  “I’m surprised we survived this one,” Romo said. “Actually, I’m more surprised you live. You’re too aggressive, my friend.”

  Paul wasn’t sure that was true. The aggressive person didn’t hang back. He gave it one hundred percent. Paul grinned to himself. He’d never liked it when someone said he gave it one hundred and ten percent. That was impossible. A person could only give one hundred percent. If you were going to go over that, why stop at one hundred and ten? Why not say, “One hundred and twelve, or one hundred and fifty-six?” Heck. Why not say, “I’m going to give it three thousand percent.”

  His headphones crackled. Although his eyes remained vacant, he listened.

  “You’d better hang on,” the pilot told them. “We’re landing now and we’re going to do it hard.”

  Something about that—Paul sat up, glancing at Romo. “Did the kid sound shaky to you?”

  Romo raised his eyebrows. “Now that you mention it, yes, he did.”

  “What’s the problem?” Paul radioed. “Are enemy aircraft heading for us?”

  “Look outside to the south,” the pilot radioed. “But be sure you have your visors down first or you risk blinding yourself.”

  Chinning a helmet lever, Paul caused his visor to close with a whirr of noise. Then he peered south.

  “What am I supposed to see?” Romo asked over the link.

  Paul saw it then. He couldn’t miss it. He doubted anyone could. As he watched, his gut curdled. A distant mushroom cloud billowed into existence, climbing higher and higher. Intense orange light bloomed everywhere under the cloud.

  Romo swore in Spanish, while other men began to shout.

  “Nuclear war,” Paul whispered.

  “Hang on,” the pilot shouted over the link. “I want to get down before the atmospheric shockwave reaches us.”

  Paul hung on as tightly as he could. So did the other commandos. He kept watching the horizon, and he saw another mushroom cloud climb into existence…maybe twenty miles to the east of the first one. How many had the Chinese launched?

  Before anyone could answer, he saw a third mushroom cloud. He knew nothing would be the same after this. Was there even another “after” for him?

  Have I just broken my promise to Cheri? Should I have gone AWOL?

  The ground rushed up. The Cherokee struck the earth, bounced up, hit again, skidded and lofted a few feet. The third bounce threw Paul against the restraints. He heard metallic groaning and hard thuds.

  Then men shouted around him. Mechanically, Paul unbuckled, jumped out of the Cherokee and hit the dirt. His knees gave out and he fell down face first. Paul crawled. Romo crawled beside him. One man ran.

  Wind struck then, a gale force. It knocked down the running man.

  “Button up,” Paul radioed. “Go NBC with your suits. We can survive this.”

  Most of the commandos listened to him. The wind began to shriek as dust whipped up. It howled over them. Paul hugged the ground and closed his eyes.

  Don’t let me die. I have a promise to my wife. I’m supposed to get home.

  An eternity later, the wind’s howl died down. Paul waited. Beside him, a man pushed up to his hands and knees.

  The radio crackled, but nothing made sense.

  Time passed. Finally, Paul rose to his hands and knees. The helo lay on its side. Some men in uniforms stood up nearby. They looked dazed.

  He went near Romo and tried the radio. There was nothing but static. He was afraid that Romo might risk opening his visor to talk. That would ruin the reason for using the NBC filters.

  Paul raised his right hand. Romo nodded. Then Paul clunked his helmet against Romo’s and kept it there. “Can you hear me?” he shouted.

  “Yes,” a small voice said through the helmets.

  “We’re going to walk back to Stillwater,” Paul said. “Start telling the others.”

  Romo nodded and clumped to the nearest commando.

  Paul turned north. How many nukes had the Chinese lit? A grim feeling worked its way through him. Yeah. This was going to change everything.

  WASHINGTON, DC

  Anna Chen sat beside the President and gripped his right arm. He sat stricken, staring at the big screen. SR drones recorded the growing number of Chinese nuclear strikes. The number kept climbing, having reached three hundred and twelve so far.

  “We must launch a massive retaliatory strike,” Harold said softly.

  Anna focused on the Director of Homeland Security. He faced the President, his features tight and controlled. Harold spoke in a soft, even voice, but there was fury there, and his eyes were wet with rage.

  “The bastards are murdering us,” Harold said. “We must pay them back, Mr. President. We must give them compound interest to what they’ve done today.”

  The President seemed inc
apable of speech. He kept staring at the big screen.

  Then Anna felt his biceps quiver, and heat radiated from his arm.

  “It’s over three hundred and fifty strikes now,” Harold said. “They’re poisoning our land. This is madness.”

  The President opened his mouth, perhaps trying to speak. He kept staring at the big screen, and his shaking grew worse.

  “The strikes have hurt their own people,” Chairman Alan of the Joint Chiefs said. “It’s possibly destroyed their air force—”

  “They’re not holding back,” Harold said. “So we can no longer afford to hold back—unless we want to wage a gun battle with a knife.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Anna asked. “That we saturate our country with yet more nuclear weapons?”

  “Not our land,” Harold said. “This is the sacred country, and these demons have spoiled it. No,” he said quietly. “It’s time to strike the Chinese homeland and teach them a lesson they won’t forget for a thousand years.”

  “If we launch our ICBMs, they’ll launch theirs at us,” Anna said. “How does that help us?”

  Harold focused on her. “In case you haven’t noticed, Ms. Chen, they’ve already struck with nuclear weapons.”

  “They can still strike us again, with heavier nuclear weapons,” she said.

  They locked stares, and it must have been clear to both of them that they each thought differently from the other.

  “Mr. President,” Harold said, “what do you suggest we do? Should we wait for their ICBMs to launch?”

  David Sims continued to stare at the big screen. A small line of saliva trickled down his open mouth. Anna was the first to notice. As she did, the first heart attack struck the President of the United States, and his torso collapsed onto the table.

  For a few minutes at least, no one could order a nuclear retaliation. Meanwhile, the number of Chinese thermonuclear explosions grew to three hundred and sixty-three.

  -5-

  The Aftermath

  STILLWATER, OKLAHOMA