Invasion: Colorado ia-3 Page 32

  The other one must be Romo’s Javelin. Good shooting, Tonto.

  Now another heavy machine gun opened up from the ground. There came more bright flashes of light and more hammering strikes against enemy armor.

  The remaining five hovertanks opened up again, silencing this machine gun as well. Hovertanks scored two against the partisans. Marine recon tally was two against the hovertanks. It sucked to be a partisan.

  Paul waited. Romo must have waited as well. Either that or the Chinese had already killed his blood brother. Paul could have called on the radio to check, but he was sure the Chinese would have a locator to pinpoint their positions then.

  Five hovertanks now approached the blown snowmobile.

  “Screw this,” Paul muttered. He sighted his last Javelin, and he fired. Another Javelin from the right appeared.

  That’s all Paul had time to see. He crawled away again. Now he had nothing but a sidearm. The M-16 was on the snowmobile. He realized as he crawled that Romo must have waited each time for him to fire. Give the enemy two missiles at once to worry about—that was battle wise.

  Paul heard an explosion. Scratch one more hovertank, he hoped. He waited for the second explosion, but it never came.

  Finally, from his new location, Paul stopped and eased up to look. Another hovertank burned. Good. That left four. Those four—

  The hovertanks whined with loud engine revs. They zoomed away across the snow, floating away from the wrecked snowmobile and toward the American rear areas. Perhaps they wanted to hunt easier game.

  Paul grinned tightly. Maybe the hovertank commander figured this was too costly, fighting invisible Americans who kept taking out his vehicles. The enemy commander couldn’t know they were out of Javelins. All the Chinese commander knew was that three of his hovers burned from “partisan” attacks.

  Paul watched the hovertanks float away. After a time, he stood, and he saw others stand, four men. He used the night visor to see them. Make that one man and three women in thick parkas. They carried hunting rifles and shotguns, and they advanced on the burning hovertanks. He saw Romo stand next and wave to him.

  The partisans killed the Chinese who survived the burning vehicles. They were a hard-eyed group, taking the rest of the Javelins for themselves, as well as Paul’s M-16. He let them. A helo was on the way to pick Romo and him up. His blood brother had survived, thank God.

  When he approached them, the partisans didn’t speak much to Paul or Romo. They had lost three older men, who had been firing captured Chinese machine guns at the hovertanks. Their looks accused him, as if to say, “Why can’t you defeat these invaders? Why are you leaving it to us to do your dirty work?”

  It was a good question, even if it was unspoken. Paul thought about it during the ride back to SOCOM HQ, Army Group Washington.

  This was a bitch of a war.

  Are we winning or losing? And when will we know?

  Paul shrugged as he sat at the door of the helo. The snowy ground rushed past one hundred feet below. Someone would tell him when America had won. Until then, he’d keep fighting. What else could he do?

  LAKEWOOD, COLORADO

  Corporal Jake Higgins threw up his hood. It was bitterly cold this morning in the trench. He slapped his gloved hands together, rubbing them. When he was finished with the exercise, he used his teeth and pulled off the right glove. Using his finger, he tapped a computer scroll.

  It was a tech gift from their neighboring Mexico Home Army battalion. Really, the battalion was down to a platoon in strength after the bitter weeks of defending Greater Denver. The Home Army Mexicans were a tough group, excellent soldiers.

  The scroll was linked to an armored video camera at the top of the trench. It beat using a periscope, which is what they had been using until this nifty little device.

  Jake scanned the blasted cityscape. Only a few skeletal buildings remained. Mostly, he saw was snowy rubble and frozen body-parts of Chinese and Americans alike. Artillery shells had turned over the terrain a thousand different times these past weeks.

  He recalled the first week of battle. What a difference. Only a few of those Militiamen still lived. He wore Chinese body armor. Everyone did, including the Lieutenant.

  Oh-oh, what was this? Jake spied movement on his scroll. “Goose,” he said.

  Goose poked his head out of a hole in the side of the trench. The man was gaunt and dirty. They all were. Goose had the far-off stare in his eyes. They all had that too, including the Lieutenant.

  “What’s up?” Goose asked.

  Jake pointed toward the enemy line.

  “I thought it was your turn,” Goose said.

  Jake shook his head.

  Goose crawled out of the small cave. He used the steps, climbing up to the machine gun platform.

  “They’re getting clever,” Jake said. “It’s a robot. I’ve never seen one like this. Mark seven-three-seven.”

  Goose checked his tablet, nodding as he tucked the device away in a cavity in his body armor. He exhaled, blowing out white steam. Then he grabbed the butterfly controls and surged upward.

  Jake watched on the computer scroll as the heavy machine gun chattered hard. Bullets whizzed across no-man’s-land, hammering at the target. The small, turtle-like robot blew out metal parts. A gun appeared from its turret, but he steel-jacketed .50 caliber bullets didn’t give the Chinese robot time to fire. The robot scout stopped, frozen in time.

  “Down!” shouted Jake.

  Goose ducked, moving the machine gun mount down with him.

  Seconds later, the hiss of enemy bullets came from overhead.

  “Let’s move,” Jake said.

  They ran along the trench with their shoulders hunched. Enemy mortar shells landed, exploding ice, snow and dirt. Particles trickled into the trench.

  “You’re welcome,” Jake muttered to no one in particular, with his back now pressed against the freezing dirt wall.

  “When is this going to end?” Goose asked.

  “You’re one to talk,” Jake said. “You’re a protester. You got to prove you love your country by bleeding to death in the snow.”

  Neither said a word afterward. They endured, as everyone in the pocket waited for the end. The big question was how. Would they freeze to death when the wood ran out? Or would they starve to death? If it became too much suspense, one could climb up into no-man’s-land. Many had. That would end the game quickly.

  At this point in the siege, all the quitters were long gone, dead or captured. The hardened survivors waited, inurned to terrible punishment and deprivation.

  CENTENNIAL, COLORADO

  Commander Bao of MC ABM #3 scowled so fiercely his eyes had almost disappeared between two slits. The angry face was not due to the orders to move out. He was sick of the city siege and sick of using his great laser to blast strongpoints. The scowl was not because of the cold weather that refused to let up.

  No, he made the terrible face because his ulcer hurt abominably. He was out of the soothing bottle. He’d drunk the last of it yesterday and the quartermaster said there wouldn’t be another consignment for some time. The Americans had sunk the supply ship that carried more.

  Therefore, Bao was in agony as he sat in the giant tractor cab that pulled the three segments of his Mobile Canopy ABM. He looked out the window, but hardly saw a thing. The sun shone, so his lack of sight wasn’t due to falling snow. He hardly saw because the ulcer pain was beginning to overmaster him.

  Bao opened his mouth, panting silently.

  The driver must have noticed. “Is something wrong, Commander?” the man asked, sounding worried.

  Bao shook his head. He didn’t want to speak and let the man hear the pain in his voice. He put his forehead against the cool glass of the passenger-side window. He wanted the aching to stop, but he couldn’t let himself think about it. He had a great task to perform. Marshal Liang himself had spoken to all the MC ABM commanders via computer screen.

  Bao understood how important his next fig
ht would be. China had the T-66 tank, and the Americans had trumped it with the Behemoth. Now Marshal Liang wished to trump the American marvel with one of Chinese’s latest technological inventions.

  As Bao panted silently, he realized that he hadn’t trained in tank tactics. None of the MC ABM commanders had. This was a makeshift use of a great air-defense laser.

  We used our lasers in Denver and it gave the city to the Army. Now we must deliver our Army from a surprise attack.

  Bao realized his mother must have seen this moment long ago in her dreams. Why else had she always told him to do his best? The fate of the great invasion—Liang had told them—rested on the coming fight. The lasers must defeat the rail-guns.

  Shutting his eyes, Bao listened to his stomach grumble. He wanted something to eat. He always did when he became nervous. But if he ate, his ulcer would only become worse. No. He must fast or he must find some milk to drink. Unfortunately, he hated the taste of milk. He needed ulcer medicine. Why did the American submarines have to sink that supply ship?

  Concentrate, Bao. You still have to fix several critical problems before the fight.

  There were nine operational MC ABMs trundling toward the ambush positions. According to Marshal Liang, eighteen Behemoths converged toward Denver. Therefore, each MC ABM needed to destroy two of the American super-tanks. Of course, Liang had told them he would help even the odds with a fierce air attack at precisely the right moment.

  You’re not concentrating on the right thing, Bao.

  MC ABM #3 needed new laser coils, and fresh coolant in bin-washer seven. He needed to make sure that each was repaired before the coming battle. All the MC ABMs had beamed often during the siege. The endless laser use meant deterioration in the high-tech equipment. Yes, he needed to recalibrate the mirrors as well. This would be a precision battle, as the MC ABMs needed to engage the Behemoths at the farthest distance possible.

  How hot a ray did they need in order to burn through a Behemoth’s plate? How long would he have to keep the laser on target to destroy the heavily-armored tank. An enemy missile or aircraft had tinfoil armor compared to the approaching land-monsters.

  What’s the effective range of their rail-guns?

  Nervousness only made the ulcer worse. The MC ABMs were leaving Denver to go to their ambush points. The Americans drove for the city, smashing everything before them. Soon now, the enemy tanks would face a tech marvel greater and stronger than their rail-guns.

  I-70, COLORADO

  Stan dreamed and he didn’t like it. He began to shake. It seemed as if his whole world was under assault. Maybe it was an earthquake.

  He opened his eyes, waking up to reality. He realized that someone touched him. No, they had been shaking him. He looked up. Jose stood over him, with a hand on his shoulder.

  “You sleep like the dead,” Jose told him.

  Groggily, Stan sat up. He was in a tent beside his Behemoth. They’d stopped near I-70. This part of the freeway system was much different from the system in the Rockies. Here, the land was Great Plains flat. Stan had called a halt because everyone had been exhausted. It was vital to keep rolling, moving toward the enemy, but sometimes, a commander had to give himself and his men a badly needed rest.

  “Is it morning already?” Stan muttered.

  “I woke you because General McGraw wants to speak to you.”

  “He’s here?”

  “He’s on a tight-linked screen,” Jose said.

  Stan struggled to his feet and put on his clothes. He accepted a thermos of hot coffee. He wanted to crawl back into the sleeping bag, but that was impossible now. He checked his watch. It was almost six A.M. He wanted to be moving again by six forty-five.

  Eating a bagel and washing it down with scalding coffee, Stan climbed into the Behemoth and took his place in the commander’s chair. He was getting sick of the compartment, as if he’d lived here weeks. It smelled like a mixture of a gym locker room and a mechanic’s shop: sweat and grease.

  He tapped the screen and General Tom McGraw appeared. The big man was bent over his desk, hard at work.

  Stan sipped coffee.

  The general must have noticed the movement on his own screen. He put down his pen, straightened and nodded a greeting.

  “Hello, Colonel,” McGraw said.

  “Sorry, I was asleep just now and—”

  “No, don’t apologize,” McGraw said. “You’re in the middle of the most important offensive in American history. In thirty minutes, you’re off again. I want to speak to you a moment before that. Are you alone?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “None of that now, old son,” McGraw said. “This is you and me talking. We’re older than we used to be, but we were friends once.”

  “True enough,” Stan said.

  “I think we’ve surprised the enemy, Stan. We’ve surprised them good. You’ve gotten farther faster than I would have thought. But the game enters the hard part now. The Chinese have regrouped. It looks like Zhen’s Tank Army is going to hit us in the flank today. By the looks of it, the Chinese are trying to cut you off by driving through to the Brazilians. The Brazilians are going to try the same thing on their side. We figured they would do something like that. Since our Militia formations have been tardy taking up their assigned defensive positions, I’ve ordered the Canadian First Army to turn back. They’ll have to deal with General Zhen, buying the struggling Militia divisions time to get their trenches built and defended.”

  “What about the Brazilians on the other side of our penetration?” Stan asked. This sounded bad.

  “I’m hoping the Brazilians are tardy and will give us time. Marshal Sanchez is still reorganizing from the collapse of his Venezuelan corps. In any case, I have some scout units and Bradleys who are supposed to buy the First Army time against the Brazilians. The Canadians are going to have to face two attacks. If the enemy can coordinate the assaults…it will get a lot harder for the First Army to keep the corridor open. If the Chinese and Brazilians strike separately, we might keep this offensive alive. If we can close the trap, Stan, I think it will bring an end to the war.”

  “That sounds good to me,” Stan said.

  McGraw grinned, showing off his big horse-sized teeth. “You’re wondering why I woke you up to tell you that—the Canadian information isn’t pertinent for what you’re going to attempt today. Well, old son, I wanted to tell you because you have a bigger job than the Canadian First Army.”

  Stan raised his eyebrows.

  “Listen, Higgins, you’ve seen the Chinese laser tank before on video out of Denver, haven’t you?”

  “I have.”

  “We have intelligence data that shows they’re going to try to bar your path with those laser vehicles.”

  Stan nodded. It’s what he would do in their place. He’d been expecting to hear something like this for some time now.

  “Can you beat those MC ABMs, Stan?”

  “I’m going to try, sir.”

  McGraw scowled. “That isn’t good enough. I don’t give a damn if you try. You’d better beat them. You’d better kill all those laser tanks without losing any Behemoths.”

  “You don’t really think that is going to happen,” Stan said.

  “That’s what I want to have happen.”

  “So how am I supposed to do that?” Stan asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I’ll tell you. I’ve studied photos of those vehicles. Old son, they’re huge, much bigger than your Behemoths are. I don’t think they’re tank-armored, though. They’re meant to shoot down missiles, ballistic missiles in particular. This use of them—”

  “It’s like Rommel’s 88s,” Stan said.

  “I’m sure you’re right.” McGraw checked his watch. “We don’t have time for more history lessons. So listen, Higgins. The laser will surely have reach on you.”

  “I’d think the longer their reach the weaker the beam.”

  “How do you figure that?” asked McGraw.

  “A flashlight’s
beam spreads out over distance. It dissipates. It becomes weaker. The same must be true of a laser tank.”

  “There’s no way to know if that’s enough,” McGraw said.

  “Still, it has to be able to shoot pretty far to knock down missiles in the stratosphere,” Stan said. “Twenty or thirty miles to hit our tanks…”

  “They are precision weapons,” McGraw said. “Probably they can shoot and hit targets at a much greater range than you. I’m hoping it takes that laser too long to burn through your armor.”

  “How much time it takes is the key,” Stan said.

  “That and your mobility,” McGraw said.

  “We’re not exactly nimble, General.”

  “No. But by moving around it should throw off the beam just enough. In fact, the farther you’re from them, the less you’ll have to move to throw them off. It’s your thick armor and zigzagging that will get you in close to hit one of the MC ABMs.”

  “We’re going to take damage today,” Stan said. Maybe we’re all going to die. Stan grew thoughtful. “If I were them, I’d give our Behemoths more to think about than just the lasers.”

  “We plan to do the same thing to them,” McGraw said.

  The implication of the words sank in. Stan straightened in his seat. “You’re taking over the tactical coordination of the attack?”

  “Stan old son, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Now listen up, here’s what I’m thinking.”

  FORWARD EDGE OF THE BATTLE AREA, COLORADO

  Captain Tzu in his Heron bomber bored in toward the most forward American penetration toward Denver.

  The pilot glanced outside. It was bright and sunny today. Far below, the sun shined off the vast expanse of snow. How could men fight in that amazingly white brightness?

  Tzu frowned. He needed to concentrate. There were seven other bombers with him. The eight of them were part of twenty-nine Herons attacking the Behemoth tanks. Each of the standoff bombers carried four air-to-ground missiles. The missiles were special tank busters, very big and very fast, with ECM to survive enemy counterattacks.

  Tzu licked his lips. He recalled the Behemoth tanks all right. They had been waiting for him in the Rockies weeks ago now. Since then, Tzu had been busy bombing Greater Denver and making more attack runs on I-70 in the Rockies. Actually, he’d made long-range attacks on the repair parties trying to fix the freeway from Chinese ballistic bombardments.