Invasion: Colorado ia-3 Page 26

  “Your wisdom is the sun to our actions,” Liang said.

  “The Behemoths thwarted Chinese arms once in Los Angeles and once again with our air assault here along I-70. I will not allow these hideous tanks to stop us a third time. Therefore, you will capture the plant or stamp it out of existence.”

  “Leader, if I could make an observation about the Behemoths?”

  “Speak,” Hong said sarcastically. “Grace me with your military acumen.”

  “We have yet to see the Behemoths in action,” Liang said.

  “Are you addled? Have you forgotten your aborted air assault on I-70?”

  “We definitely witnessed force cannons at work,” Liang said. “But the longer I’ve thought about that, the more unlikely it seems to me that those were really Behemoths.”

  “Explain that,” Hong said.

  “Perhaps the wear to the gargantuan tanks in Los Angeles was heavier than we realized. Why else have the Americans waited to unleash them in the Midwest? We witnessed the force cannons during the I-70 assault. Maybe the Americans stripped the Behemoths of their rail-guns and scrapped the tank bodies. Why would the Americans put such unwieldy tanks in the Rocky Mountains? That makes no military sense.”

  “That is an interesting question,” Hong said. “If true, it makes taking this plant all the more critical. I have it on excellent authority that the Americans are mass-producing the tanks. It could be they are mass-producing the rail-guns even faster. Obviously the weapons are very effective even without their armored chassis. Yet we should have greater evidence of them.”

  “Leader, I doubt the Denver plant still runs. I have—”

  “Do not assure me of such a thing,” Hong said, his anger rekindled. “The Americans must be using the plant even now. The German industries remained active during World War II under heavy allied bombing. Surely, these rodent-like Americans can have done the same thing. Perhaps they are underground.”

  “Our bombing raids are more accurate these days,” Liang said. “And—”

  Hong made a chopping gesture with his right hand. “Your arguments weary me, Marshal. I have an order for you, a directive straight from my office. Capture Denver—and do it now. Do not give me more delays. Finish the task and close your jaws on these rats.”

  Liang didn’t know what to say.

  Hong’s eyes became redder than earlier. He leaned forward. “Do you lack the soldiers to do your task?”

  “Leader, I would like to point out—”

  “Answer the question,” Hong said.

  Liang dreaded the possibility of diverted troops going to Denver. He needed them on the Northern Front.

  “No, Leader. I have enough men.”

  “You’re lying. Now you listen to me, Marshal. I am sending you replacement levies. Use them to storm the city. Give me that plant and do it now!”

  “Yes, Leader,” Liang whispered. This was bad. He needed the replacement levies in the north. This entire operation against Denver was a waste of time and soldiers.

  “I realize you cannot see the situation as clearly as I do,” Hong said. “Did I not light a fire under Marshal Nung many years ago?”

  “Yes, Leader,” Liang said. He had read the reports of that Alaskan attack. It still amazed him the Chairman had shown such ability. What had happened to him in the interim?

  “I say capture the city now,” Hong said, “but I am willing to give you a small amount of leeway. You are said to be among my most brilliant Field Marshals. Tell me truthfully, Liang. Can you guarantee me the city’s capture within the next two weeks?”

  Liang saw the look in Hong’s eyes. His exalted rank as marshal and perhaps his very life rested on his answer. There was only one thing to say.

  “Chairman Hong, I guarantee the city’s capture and I will hand you the manufacturing plant within the next fourteen days.”

  “I am pleased to hear it,” Hong said, sitting back. “Since time is pressing, I will leave you to your task. Let me give you one last parting word of advice. Do not fail me, Marshal Liang. No, do not fail.”

  “No, Leader, I will not fail.”

  Hong nodded, and a second later, the screen went blank.

  It left a bitterly reflective Liang. And he finally noticed that the bowl of water had cooled. He removed his feet so water dripped, and he put them on a towel.

  He must storm all of Denver in the next fourteen days. It would be a difficult task. Still, he had a secret weapon. He’d hoped to save the system for a different emergency. Now, it appeared as if he would have to unveil the secret to the Americans early. It would help knock out stubborn points of resistance in the city, of that he had no doubt. But to let the Americans know about the secret this soon, that might be a mistake.

  Liang picked up a phone, and it troubled him to see that his hand shook. He sighed. The sooner he put this into operation, the quicker the city would fall to him and the sooner he could concentrate on the northern advance.

  CENTENNIAL, COLORADO

  Commander Bao of MC ABM #3 had finished his inspection around the triple trailers. In the chill morning air, he climbed the rungs of the main compartment, watching his breath puff.

  They had moved the vehicle last night and positioned it on this hill in Centennial. The vehicle was exposed up here, precisely against regulations. The normal SAM launchers weren’t even in position yet. It was unnerving, and it made Bao’s ulcer bite. Since he was alone outside, he winced, and he pressed his left cheek against the cold metal. The ulcer had been getting worse lately. The American Air Force kept attacking the Chinese ring around Denver, and his kill ratio was down. MC ABM #6 had almost overtaken him in efficiency.

  He could never allow that to occur. Yesterday, Bao had raised his voice against the crew. In the past, he’d prided himself on always remaining calm. Several operators had glanced at him sharply. He regretted the raised voice, and the glances had angered him, which had worsened the ulcer.

  I am the best MC ABM Commander. At the end of the campaign, my vehicle will achieve the highest award. I will show everyone that I outperform all who challenge me.

  Bao glanced around at the devastated city. Everywhere stood ruins and rubble. Smoke drifted from places and the city stank of oil, dirt and death. In the distance stood tall buildings. The Americans held those. The Americans still clung to too much of Denver.

  Marshal Liang had given a new order last night. It was rumored he did it at the command of Chairman Hong. Not only did Bao’s MC ABM sit up on a hill, but six others did also. Their primary mission was anti-air and anti-missile defense. That was always in heavily defended positions, as these machines were the greatest and most prized military vehicles in the entire invasion Army. In a pinch, though, the MC ABM could operate in a different and still very lethal way.

  Bao reached the hatch, opening it and climbing into the warm command compartment. A soft blue light lit the cramped chamber. Everyone sat at his station, checking systems.

  He’d been outside because there were many things that could have gone wrong due to the movement. Together, the triple-trailered vehicle weighed over six hundred tons. It took time and effort to move the tiered system into place. In some ways, they were like towed pillboxes of fantastic ability.

  Taking off his coat, Bao settled into his chair.

  The Army’s tac-lasers were pygmies compared to the MC ABMs. Bao’s monster together with the others had been providing an effective defense against American air attacks and enemy cruise missiles. Today, they would be used for something completely different.

  Bao checked his watch. It was 7:32 A.M.

  Marshal Liang planned the heaviest assault on Denver to date, heavier even than the beginning attack. The MC ABMs would help directly today.

  7:33 A.M. now, it meant the assault battalions were poised to go. The drones surely gathered in the air, ready to enter the fray, and the standoff bombers likely awaited the word.

  The Chinese and Americans had already waged grim weeks of city w
arfare. Bao knew that each side had taken bitter losses and would likely take many more.

  Despite the twinge in his gut, Bao allowed himself a small smile. This morning, the toughest U.S. defensive positions would wake up to a science fiction surprise. He rubbed his hands in anticipation. Then he went to work, checking his crew’s performance.

  Good, the laser-aiming mirrors were pointed toward the city. They would soon direct the beam on a parallel course with the ground.

  Bao flipped a switch, bringing up the main targeting screen. He tapped it and found that Tenth Army HQ had already linked with them. A red dot appeared. Bao ran a check on his coordinate map. Ah, this was interesting. Did the Army HQ think it would be a test for them? Bao had no doubt at what his vehicle could achieve.

  Quietly, Commander Bao spoke the required words.

  Everyone put on their huge headphones/mufflers. A few of the personnel shifted in their seats as if uncomfortable. Bao wished there was some way to dampen the terrible noise that was about to occur. The continuous exposure to the sound was affecting his crew’s performance.

  Checking his watch, Bao saw it was 7:46 A.M. The crew had finished the prep work and targeting had selected the object of assault.

  “Give me power,” Bao said in his calm voice.

  Chemical rocket fuel pumped the magnetic-propulsion turbine. The whine climbed the octaves to a nearly unbearable level. Crewmembers hunched their shoulders. Like Bao, they endured the hateful noise.

  “Fire,” Bao said.

  Relays clicked. A second later, a heavy laser beam poured out of the focusing system. The beam flashed across the city and struck its first objective with annihilating energy.

  The other MC ABMs came online and they too poured their beams at carefully chosen targets.

  Inside MC ABM #3, Bao studied his split screen. A White Tiger recon team provided real-time data. His beam burned into an enemy bunker. It melted the outer surface and punched through.

  “Move the turret point three degrees,” Bao ordered.

  Slowly, the turret shifted. That moved the focusing mirrors. That in turn moved the constant beam. At the end of the ray, it sliced the bunker, melting and burning through. The hellish beam must have fried the Americans inside, causing them to turn into vapor.

  Bao didn’t realize it, but his hands balled into fists as he watched. This felt different from missile destruction. Now he was killing people.

  “Raise the projector a half degree,” Bao said, with a twinge in his voice. Because of the horrendous noise inside the MC ABM, probably none of the crew noticed the difference.

  At his command, the focusing projector lifted, and so did the beam destroying the American bunker. As if the ray was a giant knife, the strategic-level laser sliced and diced the American bunker that had stood against countless Chinese assaults.

  Bao flinched as a red alert beacon flashed on his screen in the corner. It kept disappearing and reappearing, and put red spots in his eyes. The beacon had never flashed before. With missile and air destruction, they used pulse shots, not a continuous burn.

  “Shut down power,” Bao said, speaking sharply.

  The horrible whine climbed down the octaves, bringing needed relief to the crew.

  “Dampening estimate?” Bao asked.

  “Two minutes,” the dampening officer said.

  Bao licked his lips. This was going to be a long day. He’d read the report on projected MC ABM use for today. It would leave them with less anti-missile and anti-air protection than usual. High Command must believe this ground use outweighed a possible American surprise air attack.

  First glancing around to make certain no one watched, Bao opened the compartment under his chair. He took out the medicine. He twisted the lid and drank from it. The cool, thick liquid slid down his throat. He was going to have to take several swallows to put his ulcer to rest today.

  In another few minutes, they would fire again at a different target. The Americans were going to learn a lesson they would not soon forget. Bao hoped it didn’t ruin his MC ABM or any of the carefully calibrated components.

  He checked his watch. Then he took another sip before stowing the bottle. This was going to be a long day.

  ENGLEWOOD, COLORADO

  The morning began like many others for Jake. He stretched sore muscles and ate a light breakfast of MREs.

  The blockhouse position had held off countless attacks. The landmines, the razor wire, the heavy ferroconcrete walls combined with the stubbornness of the defenders had thwarted the Chinese many times. The blockhouse indeed stood like an anchor.

  More than once the Chinese had driven back the U.S. divisions on either side of the blockhouse. But because the three-story building stood, pouring fire on the Chinese from the flanks, the Americans soon regained the lost ground. Bulldozers, Gunhawks, drones, Special Infantry assaults, mortars from the top of the tall buildings to the east, nothing had dislodged the dwindling Eleventh CDM Battalion from its castle.

  Fifty-three effectives remained, led by the Lieutenant. None of his old muscle-bound NCOs remained. Jake and Goose still lived, and they had fought many grueling battles in the sewer system.

  Jake donned his stolen Chinese body armor. He picked up his M-16 and strode to the Lieutenant. They were on the ground floor. The big Lieutenant listened to the radio.

  “Anything new?” asked Jake.

  The Lieutenant looked up. Like the rest of them, the man had gray features and hollow-staring eyes. He’d lost weight, but something still flickered in his gaze, something solemn and maybe even majestic, although it was certainly crazed with inhuman determination.

  “The Chinese—” the Lieutenant said.

  A strange phenomenon halted his words. Nothing like this had ever happened before. A gaping hole appeared in the wall. It just appeared, and there was hot wavering air in the center of the room. A second later, another hole appeared as if an invisible nail had been punched through, although the edges of the holes burned.

  “What’s happening?” asked Jake.

  The Lieutenant stared at him in incomprehension.

  The hot wavering beam in the building began sliding leftward. As it did, an invisible knife appeared to cut out the front wall and then the back wall at exactly the same position.

  “Enemy laser!” the Lieutenant roared. “Everyone into the sewer system!”

  The blockhouse shook and trembled, and dust rose and concrete rained.

  Jake didn’t know what was going on, but he’d heard enough. This was freaking crazy. He grabbed the lip of his helmet—he wore it on his head—and he raced for the stairs. As he ran, more of the blockhouse trembled and shook, and now the strange phenomenon started to climb, cutting out wall as it did.

  The world became a giant earthquake for Jake. Concrete rained and walls collapsed. Everything rumbled. He sprinted, dodged, caromed off something and made it into the basement. He moved to the opening to the sewer system. Like rats running for their lives, Militiamen disappeared into the opening.

  Jake looked back.

  The Lieutenant turned ghost white. “Go, go, go!” he seemed to say. Jake couldn’t hear a thing. The earth was too busy rocking and roaring. It was surreal. It was a nightmare. Jake made it down the hole. He didn’t bother with the steel ladder. He just dropped and landed heavily. It hurt his feet and he collapsed. Survival instinct kept him going. He crawled on his hands and knees. Something smashed behind him, a body perhaps. Heavy thuds hammered above him. Was the blockhouse coming down on their heads? This was madness. The damned Chinese had everything.

  With his mouth opening as he panted heavily, Jake crawled and crawled. Maybe a hundred yards later a shouting voice brought a modicum of sanity to him. He looked back. In the gloom and drifting dust, the Lieutenant stared at him with nearly blank eyes.

  “What?” Jake managed to ask.

  “Heavy laser,” the Lieutenant said. His voice was without emotion.

  “What do you mean?” Jake said.

&
nbsp; The Lieutenant shook his head. Then he said, “Is there an open area near here?”

  Jake tried to think. More rumbles sounded, crashes and roars. The blockhouse came down and a billowing dust cloud rolled at them, choking him and turning everything dark.

  An hour later, the Lieutenant took roll call in the sewer. Nineteen effectives were left, among them Goose.

  “Do you know which way to our lines?” the Lieutenant asked.

  “Yeah,” Jake muttered.

  “Then let’s go,” the Lieutenant.

  “Why?” asked Jake.

  The Lieutenant took his time answering. Finally, he asked, “Did you enjoy that?”

  Jake managed a dull laugh.

  “Neither did I,” the Lieutenant said.

  “So?”

  “We’re going to report this. Then I’m going to pay back the Chinese. I remember every hurt, then double it and look for a way to do it back to them.”

  Jake shook his head. “We can’t do anything like they just did.”

  “We’ll see,” the Lieutenant said. “Until then, are you still with me?”

  Jake knew the Lieutenant was nuts: not just a little battle crazy, but truly over the deep end. What did it matter, though?

  “Yeah, sure, I’m with you,” Jake said.

  “Good,” the Lieutenant said. “Lead the way. We need to report to somebody what just happened to our blockhouse.”

  BEIJING, PRC

  Two East Lightning operatives flanked Shun Li as she strode down a large corridor leading to Police Minister Xiao’s chamber. Each had an open holster, with his gun-hand drifting near the weapon. The leftward operative had a jet-black ring on his middle finger.

  The two operatives had picked her up at her apartment after Tang—one of Hong’s Lion Guardsman—had dropped her off.

  They had said nothing driving her to the Police Ministry. Now the three of them hurried. The truth of the matter was that Shun Li had been expecting something like this for several days.