Invasion: China (Invasion America) (Volume 5) Page 31

  Nodding, Shun Li realized something she’d known before, but this magnified the truth in her eyes. People saw what they expected to see. Tao saw cunning in her mercy, because he never felt merciful. Perhaps the action had been cunning, but for her, it felt as if she might just survive this terrible war after all.

  SONGHUA RIVER, HEILONGJIANG PROVINCE

  Sometimes Stan wondered if he was real general material. He believed too strongly in the old adage: Don’t ask your men to do anything you’re not willing to do yourself.

  A modern general should be in the back so he could think serenely in peace, protected by his men. He shouldn’t be riding in the lead tank. Yet how could he order any Lee or IFV into the water if he didn’t try it first?

  “Let’s do this,” Stan muttered to his driver over the link.

  Stan stood in the Lee’s turret hatch, with the roaring sounds of light tanks behind him. The stars blazed overhead. It was a moonless night with a stiff wind. Too much of Manchuria had proved to develop a smoggy haze like Los Angeles. The Chinese still used thousands of tons of coal a day, letting the fumes flow into the atmosphere day and night. This evening, though, the sky seemed as clear as a Rocky Mountain evening.

  The Songhua River was dark and eerie, shimmering with starlight in places, but swift and treacherous in others. Trees grew along the banks. In the near distance, mountains towered.

  Stan’s tank clanked toward the dark liquid. “Be ready to shut down the engine,” he said.

  “Roger, sir,” the driver said over Stan’s headphones.

  “I hope this works,” Stan muttered to himself.

  “Me, too, sir,” the driver said.

  “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

  “You mean you’re human after all, sir? You can worry about…about crazy stunts like this? Meaning no disrespect, sir.”

  “I’m just a man like you,” Stan said.

  “No, sir, you’re the Professor, and you’re going to outwit the entire Chinese Army. Who would have ever thought of doing this? The men are counting on you, sir.”

  This time, Stan kept his comments inside. With a final lurch, the Lee reached the sandy shore. The tracks churned, and then the glacis reached the water.

  Stan clung to the hatch’s sides. He recalled as a kid back in Alaska, his old man used to cross an underwater bridge during the spring melt. As a kid in the back of the jeep, Stan had been horrified. His dad had driven into the white-capped waters. Little Stan had bitten his lips so he wouldn’t shout with fear. Everywhere young Stan looked, water churned around the vehicle. Only after the jeep climbed the other bank had Stan begun breathing again. This was just like that, only worse. There was no bridge. They planned to float.

  “Here we go,” Stan whispered.

  The twenty-ton Lee with its Hellfire II barrel entered the river. The driver plowed on, and water slashed against the glacis, throwing up droplets to hit Stan in the cheeks.

  He shut his eyes, but only for a moment. The engine went silent, and he felt the vibration as the electric drive took over. They turned the tracks in slow motion. It gave them a little motive power. Then Stan felt it. The light tank floated in the river. The water was less than three feet from his hatch. That was far too close. If the water became too choppy…

  Stan twisted around. He watched the next tank enter the water. Even though starlight gave him some visibility, he slipped his night vision goggles over his eyes. As his Lee crept upstream against the current, Stan witnessed tank after tank taking the plunge, following him.

  The fifteenth Lee sank, though. Stan watched in horror. The tank commander floated out of the hatch. Then masses of bubbles rose from the tank as river water gushed in. Why had the vehicle sunk?

  “Get the other crewmembers out of there!” Stan shouted. They did, but they lost the Lee for now. Hopefully, Army engineers could drag the vehicle out later. For this mission, it was as good as destroyed.

  Soon, nearly eighty American light tanks and IFVs with their accompanying soldiers floated upstream along the Songhua. Stan had stained his face black. He’d ordered every tank commander to do likewise. They stood in their hatches just as he did in his. Now they floated past the enemy, hoping no one spotted them. It was an awful feeling to trust to stealth and do the unthinkable. One person spotting them could ruin the entire plan and ensure their destruction.

  As Stan watched from the turret hatch, he recalled James Wolfe in 1759 at Quebec City. The British and French fought for control of Canada back then. Wolfe had entered the Saint Lawrence River, floating upstream just as he did against the Chinese. Well, Wolfe had traveled in oceanic ships of the line, wooden sailing vessels. With 9,000 troops in his fleet, Wolfe spent two months before Quebec, looking for a way to land unopposed in order to defeat French General Montcalm. The enemy had 14,000 soldiers and some Indians to defend the almost impregnable fortress, standing high above the river. The British Admiral Saunders feared that his wooden ships might be caught in winter ice. As the weather turned cold, he finally threatened to leave. Wolfe had been distraught. He yearned for victory. Then some scouts found a footpath winding up steep cliffs just north of the city. On a night expedition, Wolfe sent one battalion of provincial rangers up the footpath, followed by four regular battalions. That had been 12 September 1759. By dawn, Wolfe’s 4800 soldiers were in battle line in front of Quebec City, on a piece of ground called the Plain of Abraham.

  General Montcalm attacked the British at once with 4500 soldiers, although he lacked cannons. The governor of Quebec refused to remove them from the seawalls. Both Wolfe and Montcalm died in the battle on the Plain of Abraham, but the British victory broke the back of French Canadian resistance. Quebec City surrendered on September 18.

  Stan wondered if he could pull a Plains of Abraham victory here in Heilongjiang Province, Manchuria. If he won, would he have to pay for it with his life? He hoped not. Shifting into a more comfortable position in the turret hatch, he continued to watch the river and its banks through his night-vision goggles.

  G1011 EXPRESSWAY, HEILONGJIANG PROVINCE

  In the dark, Jake Higgins prowled a cold battlefield. The fight had taken place several hours ago at dusk. Chinese IFVs and machine-gun armed jeeps had tried to ambush a fuel truck convoy.

  The enemy nailed two fuel tankers and killed a dozen American GIs. The rest of the convoy had sped away north along G1011, while arriving Cherokees hovered at a distance, using chain guns and Hellfire IIs to take out the enemy.

  Jake slowly rotated, scanning all around. With night-vision goggles, he studied bushes on a slope, thin trees to the left of that and waving grass near the highway. The surviving ambushers had hightailed it to who knew where. Would they come back, or would others try to sneak up on them again? Chinese guerilla tactics had begun to worry some people, including Jake. China was an awful big country and the Americans were the invaders this time.

  “Wonder where the Chinese hid their vehicles before they struck,” Chet said.

  “Yeah,” Jake said.

  Both of them wore body armor and lugged fifty-pound packs. They weren’t going to be here long, so they kept carrying. Jake and Chet had learned the hard way that you didn’t want to be separated from your stuff for very long. Supplies like ammo, food and fuel were becoming hard to get sometimes. It’s why they were out here tonight.

  “See anything?” Jake shouted at Grant.

  “Nope,” Grant said. He was closer to the bushes, and he was bigger and taller than either Jake or Chet. “It’s as quiet as the grave,” Grant added.

  “Yeah, that’s funny,” Chet said.

  “Thought a genius like you might like it,” Grant said.

  “Okay,” Jake said. He squatted and pulled the quick-release strap, letting his pack thump onto the soil. He wanted to move fast if he had to. Aiming his rifle at a crashed IFV tilted on its side, he shot a round at it. The bullet pinged off metal, creating a spark and a loud ricochet sound.

  “Hey!” Chet said. “What
the heck are you doing?”

  Jake studied the graveyard of vehicles, searching for a sign of the enemy, anyone willing to shoot back, hidden like a sniper in a downed vehicle.

  “If someone is hiding in a wreck,” Jake said, “they’re not too jumpy.”

  “I am,” Chet said. “I almost lobbed a grenade ’cause of your trick. Next time, tell me what you’re doing.”

  “I wonder if we should toss a grenade in each,” Grant said, walking to them. “They’re going to start booby-trapping the things soon.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Jake said. “If you ask me, it’s clear.”

  “I agree,” Chet said.

  “I’ll go ask the lieutenant,” Grant said.

  Their squad searched the graveyard of vehicles. The rest of the platoon had spread out off road, searching for Chinese.

  Jake returned to his pack and plopped down beside it. Chet sat nearby. Both infantrymen kept hold of their assault rifles.

  “We haven’t even reached Harbin yet,” Jake said.

  “So what?”

  “Do you know how far it is to Beijing?”

  “Sure don’t,” Chet said.

  “This is just Manchuria. Including our part of Siberia and Mongolia, it’s as big as the eastern half of the United States.”

  “Okay. So?”

  “How long do you think it will take us to conquer China?” Jake asked.

  “As long as it takes,” Chet said. He dug out his smartphone and used his thumb to upload saved porn. Soon, he was engrossed in his pics.

  Jake kept vigilant. The way things were going, they were going to need a lot more soldiers to finish the job. He remembered Denver. What if they had to start going house to house in a giant city? Harbin could easily swallow the entire American Expeditionary Force. This was going to get bloody and nasty. He could feel it in his gut.

  Jake raised his head. He heard trucks approaching. The lieutenant must have given the all clear. Grant strode toward them. The man didn’t shout. He would have if the lieutenant had given the order to move out. Likely, they would stay here for a little longer, just in case any Chinese showed up.

  Five minutes later, the first American fuel tanker truck slowly backed toward the nearest wrecked enemy vehicle.

  “Guard duty,” the lieutenant radioed into Jake’s ear-link.

  “Time to get up,” Jake told Chet.

  Putting away his porn-phone, Chet grunted as he pulled on his pack. Jake did the same thing. Soon, with Grant, they moved to a bushy knoll, taking up station.

  Meanwhile, truck personnel equipped with hoses and hand-cranked fuel pumps began to scavenge for diesel among the Chinese wrecks. First, a team tested the fuel in an enemy vehicle. It didn’t seem likely, but the Chinese might have sabotaged it. Afterward, personnel shoved a hose down the gas tank and began to crank.

  One man kept spitting as he pumped. Then Jake realized the soldier was eating sunflower seeds.

  The reason for the pumps was simple. It was easier to go vulture for fuel than to hope more arrived from the distant depots fast enough. If this fuel tanker found enough diesel, it could return to forward bases and top off more Jeffersons or IFVs.

  “Look at that,” Jake said.

  “What now?” asked Chet.

  “Over there. Look.”

  “All I see is that trucker spray-painting a flipped Chinese jeep. Is he writing graffiti on it?”

  “No, idiot,” Jake said. “He’s leaving a mark that says he’s already tapped out the jeep.”

  “Oh,” Chet said. A second later: “That’s a good idea.”

  Jake agreed, and they kept guard for another thirty minutes. Afterward, the fuel tanker backed up and turned around. He was heading for the front again. He must have found enough fuel to make the trip worth it.

  “And so we keep a blitzkrieg alive,” Jake said. “Using whatever we can to keep the Chinese off balance.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Chet said. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

  That was good news. Jake could use some sleep, but he wouldn’t get it until the platoon reached its bivouac area.

  BEHIND ENEMY LINES, HEILONGJIANG PROVINCE

  Stan knuckled his eyes, trying to keep alert as his tank climbed a steep path out of the riverbank. Checking his watch, he saw that it was half an hour to dawn.

  According to his calculations, they were forty miles behind the main Chinese line. Harbin would be thirty miles south the other way. What would a quick dash to over fifteen million Chinese bring him? It would surely surprise the enemy. But given his paltry number of tanks, the city people could likely swarm him in a sea of bodies. Thirty-seven Lees didn’t seem like so much now. Thirty-seven lightly armored tanks and a bunch of IVFs against hordes armed with RPGs able to penetrate the thin skin. No thank you; he wanted no part of that.

  It was time to surprise Chinese soldiers to the north of them and attempt quick overruns. How big a pair of balls do you actually have, Stan Higgins?

  The feeling in his gut told him why Hasdrubal’s forces had failed so miserably against Counsel Nero’s Roman legionaries. Hasdrubal had been the brother of the famous Alps-crossing, elephant-riding Hannibal Barca of Carthage. Hasdrubal had also marched over the Alps, bringing many more of his soldiers through alive than his brother had been able to do. That had been eleven years after Hannibal’s feat—eleven years of the great Carthaginian rampaging up and down Italy. In 207 BC, Counsel Nero of Rome took a picked force of legionaries from the toe of Italy where he watched Hannibal. The legionaries marched fast on the Roman roads, and met Hasdrubal in the north. There, the brother of Hannibal attempted a night march against the Romans, to surprise them in the morning. His men got confused in the forest, though. They panicked, and lost the Battle of the Metaurus the next morning. It meant Hannibal would never have enough troops to conquer Rome.

  Until this moment in his Lee, Stan had never truly understood the panic of Hasdrubal’s soldiers. Reading about something is so much different from living it.

  He screwed off a canteen cap, guzzling water. What he’d really like was some coffee. Next time he did something like this, he’d put some coffee in a thermos. Ah… He’d do even more than that. He’d make sure all his drivers, commanders, everyone, had their own thermoses of hot coffee. The great captains of the past had worried about such details and they had won era-shattering victories because they took such pains.

  “It’s time,” he radioed his Intelligence captain.

  Soon, because Stan knew where to look, he watched a model-sized drone buzz into the air. It was going to scout out G1011 and see what waited for them up the road.

  Forty-five minutes later, Stan gave the orders to his commanders. The infantrymen would stay in their IFVs for now. He wanted to keep everyone fast.

  Then his Lees clanked up a rise in the road. Five light tanks had Hellfire IIs in the tubes. The rest of them had loaded up with the heavier dumb rockets.

  A battalion of Chinese trucks waited on the other side of the rise, together with a growing mountain of ammo and fuel supplies. It would be nice to capture the diesel, but that wasn’t going to happen this time.

  “We rush up the road and spread out,” he said into a throat-microphone. “Then pound them unmercifully. Don’t give anyone a moment’s rest. I want that place burning like an inferno.”

  After giving his order, Stan watched it carried out from the turret hatch, with his hands on the butterfly controls of his fifty-caliber machine gun. He swayed as the tracks clanked and squealed across the Chinese blacktop. The fear in his gut had moved up to his chest, squeezing, making each heartbeat thud with purpose.

  “Come on,” he whispered to himself.

  Then the small Lee reached the top of the road. With a loud squeal, the tank turned sharply to the left. At the same time, Stan’s gunner swiveled the turret, aiming the barrel at the enemy.

  Stan saw the big enemy trucks lined in rows down there, painted black instead of American government green. A few Chines
e civilian drivers opened their cab doors, climbing in. All of them had cigarettes dangling from their mouths. He saw some mingling enemy troops with carbines slung over their shoulders. Those looked like MPs. He even spied a squad of East Lightning officers standing around a table, drinking their morning jin-jin from tiny porcelain cups.

  Swiveling the heavy machine gun into position, Stan’s thumbs jammed down onto the butterfly controls. He knew he should wait and give the enemy a concentrated, withering salvo from all the Lees at once. The race of his heart told him he was too keyed up for that. Perfection only came in the movies, not in real life.

  The fifty-caliber chattered with its loud sounds. The vibration of the controls felt good in Stan’s hands. Even better, the fear vanished in him as adrenaline took over. Stan’s mouth opened of its own accord and he began to laugh with pent-up emotion. It wasn’t laughter at the enemy, but sheer joy to be fighting at last, to be hitting back at the bastards instead of sneaking around and hoping no one caught him.

  “We caught you!” he roared at the enemy.

  Every fifth bullet was an incendiary. Because of it, the first Chinese fuel hauler blew up, sending a giant column of fire into the air.

  That’s beautiful, Stan thought. I did that.

  A loud whoosh alerted him to the first 178mm rocket launched from a Lee. The puppy roared at a Chinese supply dump, and it hit something flammable, creating a fantastic boom. The blast sent wood chips and burning fuel everywhere as a column of smoke billowed skyward. The heat of the explosion reached him, and it ignited Stan’s heart with a fierce desire to destroy.

  “Charge!” he shouted. He fired the fifty-caliber as he said it, his arms shaking because of it, and he realized he hadn’t spoken into the radio microphone. As he released the butterfly controls, he rethought the idea. No. Why take the Lees down there. Some Chinese soldier might get brave and pick up a RPG. He should let the Lees fight here from range first.