Invasion: Colorado ia-3 Page 34

  “The turbine has overheated and won’t come back online,” Bao said.

  The superior blinked at him. “You must fire at them.”

  “I cannot,” Bao said. “I do wish to report two Behemoth kills, however.”

  “Start your turbine!” the superior shouted.

  Commander Bao shook his head. “It is inoperative. I suggest I move back out of range for repairs.”

  The superior stared at him a full three seconds. “Yes!” he shouted. “Do it.”

  Bao didn’t glance at the targeting officer. That would seem too much like gloating. Instead, he informed the tractor driver to engage his vehicle’s drive system and take them down behind this hill.

  His part in the battle was over.

  I-70, COLORADO

  Colonel Higgins wanted to weep. He’d lost seven Behemoths so far and knocked out only two MC ABMs.

  The laser vehicles kept pouring fire, and then he lost the eighth tank.

  Should I retreat? No. It’s be too late for that. All I can do is charge in a zigzag. “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” he muttered to himself.

  This was a regiment, though, not a brigade, and it wasn’t light but had the heaviest super-tanks ever built. Were the Behemoths already obsolete?

  “Stan—I mean Colonel,” Jose said.

  Stan looked over at his friend.

  “The Chinese have stopped firing at us.”

  “Do you know—” Before Stan could finish his question, he stared at McGraw on his third screen.

  “I’ve sent ballistic missiles at them, Colonel.”

  “What?” Stan asked.

  “Didn’t you hear me earlier?”

  Stan was too dazed to remember. He’d lost eight Behemoths and only destroyed two enemy laser tanks. This was terrible. Now he knew what it felt like to be a T-66 versus a Behemoth.

  “Advance now,” McGraw was saying. “Get closer while they’re focused on the ballistic missiles. I fired the missiles to come in bunches. I want to keep the MC ABMs busy in order to buy you time to get closer.”

  “Yes sir, General,” Stan said. He got on the microphone and shouted the orders to the others. He wanted to be Mr. Calm, but he couldn’t do it now. He was too full of adrenaline.

  He watched the three screens. The enemy knocked down the ballistic missiles one right after the other. Doing so kept the Chinese lasers and SAM sites busy, though. It brought the surviving Behemoths another kilometer closer.

  The enemy had seven MC ABMs left. Actually, it only had five left that could fire. According to his screen, two were pulling out.

  “We’re one kilometer closer,” Stan said. “Let’s pour it on now, gentlemen. Let’s kill these invaders and finish the fight.”

  The force cannon surged once more. Penetrators flew at Mach 10. The range was still too much for perfect accuracy. It was close enough, however, that the penetrators began to hit with greater frequency, perhaps one shot in ten.

  That was more than enough. One after another, the MC ABMs blew up and burned spectacularly. One in particular flew up into the air. Six hundred tons blew fifty feet high before smashing down to the ground. Stan would never know it, but that one had been MC ABM #3.

  Commander Bao would never again have to worry about his ulcer. He had been turned into pulped flesh, boiled blood and pulverized bones, disappearing from life and history, a red smear on a hill in Aurora, Colorado.

  BEIJING, PRC

  Two East Lightning operatives marched Guardian Inspector Shun Li toward Xiao’s office in the Police Ministry. They were about to turn into the selected corridor. Before they could, a large old military man with rows of gaudy medals on his chest limped in front of them, coming out of that corridor. An escort walked with the officer.

  Shun Li stopped in surprise. One of the operatives behind her didn’t notice in time and bumped against her, propelling her against the old man.

  The old military officer caught her, and he peered down into her face, breathing a foul odor.

  “Excuse me, please,” Shun Li said.

  The old man shoved her away so several of his medals tinkled against each other. He turned, scowling at his escort.

  “This way, Marshal,” the escort said in a subservient tone.

  As she straightened her uniform, Shun Li had time to notice several things. The escort took the highly decorated marshal down a hall that would lead to the underground garage. The implication was that this Marshal of China hadn’t come through the front doors, but through a hidden route. Shun Li watched them, and she realized that she recognized the man’s limp from TV footage. That was Marshal Gang, the leader of the PAA First Front in California. He had taken over after Marshal Nung had perished against American commandos.

  “We must hurry,” one of the operatives told her.

  Shun Li didn’t think so. Hurrying to Xiao’s office now would likely be disastrous for her.

  “A moment, please,” she said. “My shoe is untied.” She knelt and pulled apart the shoestrings. “There’s grain in my shoe.” She pulled off the shoe and then her sock, pulling it inside out and shaking it, pretending to watch bits of dust or gravel fall.

  Her toenails were orange painted. She’d forgotten about that. She tried to hide that from the operatives. East Lightning Guardian Inspectors shouldn’t paint their toenails. Shun Li had begun doing that after several intimate meetings with Tang, the original Lion Guardsman who had invaded her hotel room. She went to Chairman Hong’s country residence every day, usually driven by Tang. Weeks of conversation in the car had led to one thing and then another. She painted her toes orange because Tang said he liked that, and she’d discovered that she indeed liked the big Lion Guardsman.

  “Look,” one of the operatives said.

  Shun Li looked up. The operative tugged the other man’s sleeve and pointed at her orange toenails.

  That was the problem with East Lightning operatives, especially ones working this near the Police Minister. Secret policemen were trained to observe. They were ferrets sniffing out disloyalty to the state. To do so, they often looked for the smallest of clues that would give a person away.

  The second operative laughed. “Orange toenails, Shun Li?”

  She shrugged, smiling at the man.

  He did not smile back. Instead, with such a serious look in his eyes, he was obviously filing the information away. Xiao would have likely tasked these two with studying her behavior. The toenail painting would go into the databanks concerning her personality. On such little things could a career—or a life—hang.

  I am a barracuda among killer whales and great white sharks.

  Yet even barracuda’s had eyes, and they could think and file information away, too. She stalled now in the hallway for an excellent reason. Marshal Gang of First Front should be in California, of that she was certain. It would be easy to discover if he’d made a trip to China. If he had not made an overt trip, then logic dictated he had some covertly. Shun Li had spent much of her time studying the political situation—her life depended on it, as she was a mole in the Chairman’s estate for the Police Minister.

  Chairman Hong disliked Marshal Gang. The old man with the chest full of medals had belonged to the discredited faction backing dead Foreign Minister Deng. At the end of the California invasion, Hong had instructed Xiao to shoot Deng.

  Why had Hong left Gang in military control in California? Shun Li didn’t know the answer to that. Likely, it was for reasons of political maneuvering. The military and especially China’s Army represented the most powerful political bloc in the world. Hong needed to tread lightly with them and at the same time keep them disunited and terrorized if he could.

  If Gang had belonged to Foreign Minister Deng’s side, the Marshal probably resented Deng’s untimely passing. He might even want revenge. Certainly, he would have resentments against Hong.

  Therefore, the conclusion was terrifying to Shun Li. If Gang had secretly flown to China to meet with the Police Minister, then it woul
d appear that a dangerously advanced coup might be in the making.

  Did Xiao fear for his position? Did the Police Minister resent the Chairman’s questioning of her concerning him? Did it even matter what the reason was?

  Shun Li stalled because she did not want to enter Xiao’s office so soon after Marshal Gang had left it. The Police Minister might realize she had seen Gang. And there was something she had learned about Xiao Yang these past weeks. He was thorough to an extraordinary degree. He took great pains and observed the minutiae. To protect himself during such a dangerous scheme, he might execute her.

  “The Police Minister is waiting,” said one of the operatives. “You can scratch your foot later.”

  “I don’t understand it,” she said, continuing to scratch. “My foot itches abominably.”

  “We must hurry,” the operative said, pushing against her shoulder.

  “Yes, of course,” she said. She pulled on her sock.

  She’d learned another thing about the Police Minister. He was an intensely ardent nationalist. He breathed love of China and the greatness of the present venture. He wished America prostrate before China’s feet.

  Slipping her foot into the shoe, Shun Li tied the laces tight. She couldn’t think of another way to stall. It might be bad policy to drag this out much further. The orange toenails had diverted the two operatives. If she took any longer, they might realize her stalling had to do with Marshal Gang’s surprise appearance.

  “There,” she said, standing. “That’s much better.”

  They turned into the corridor and marched the length to the Police Minister’s ornate door. The senior operative knocked discreetly.

  The red light above the door stayed dark. Finally, the intercom buzzed.

  “Yes, who is there?” Xiao said.

  “It is time for Shun Li’s weekly interview, sir,” the senior operative said.

  The red light shined.

  “Go in,” the operative told Shun Li.

  She did so, closing the door behind her. The Police Minister sat at his desk, and he watched her closely as she approached.

  As she sat down, he appeared to hesitate. He opened his mouth as if he were about to ask a question. She dreaded the possibility that he would ask if she’d seen anyone. Fortunately, the mouth closed and he tapped a finger against the desktop. He checked his watch.

  “You’re late,” he told her. “I expect promptness.”

  “It won’t happen again, sir.”

  He continued to stare at her. She found it terrifying. The crocodile had become suspicious. If the Police Minister played for the highest stakes, he could ill afford to take chances.

  She realized then that he must suspect that she had seen Gang. But her position in the Chairman’s country estate could prove priceless if Xiao planned assassination.

  It felt as if her chest hollowed out. Did Xiao expect her to assassinate the Chairman?

  No, no, you’ve become too paranoid. What higher rank could Xiao possibly seek? If the military practiced a coup, they would never leave Xiao as the Police Minster. He must understand that.

  Shun Li’s mouth almost opened in surprise. Could Xiao be seeking the highest office of all? Surely, he couldn’t yearn to be Chairman himself. Few people wanted a ruthless secret policeman to become head of state.

  “I’ve become curious about the feeding,” Xiao said.

  “What?” Shun Li asked, startled out of her thoughts.

  The Police Minister refolded his hands on the desk. “You attend your polar bear cub daily. You said the Leader has allowed you to hold the cub’s milk bottle.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I want to know the exact times this occurs.”

  “Of course,” Shun Li said.

  “Oh, and I’m also curious about a little thing. Does the Leader attend the feedings?”

  “No sir, not every time.”

  “But I expect there is a pattern.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You will write a report, stating the exact times you feed the cub. In the report, you will also record the exact words the Leader utters.”

  Shun Li nodded.

  Xiao put an insincere smile on his face. It was more a drawing back of his lips, stretching them across his teeth but keeping them hidden.

  “I have become concerned about the Leader’s mental health,” he said. “These setbacks in the Midwest are disconcerting. We must help the Leader in any way we can. We must ease the terrible burden for him.”

  “That would be wise, sir,” Shun Li said.

  The insincere smile widened into a crocodilian grin. “You have become fond of the Chairman?”

  “Police Minister,” Shun Li said. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for China. This is a…stressful hour for our country.”

  “We will defeat the Americans.”

  “I have no doubt of that, sir. They struggle against fate, but in the end, Chinese arms will prevail. It pains me, however, to see the Chairman’s unease at these setbacks. I wish there was some way I could aid him.”

  “Yes, that is exactly my thinking. You will write the reports and then I think—depending on the outcome of the next few days of battle—you will be able to help China indeed.”

  Cryptic crocodile, he is planning a coup. I cannot believe it. It left Shun Li short of breath.

  “That will be all for now,” he told her. “Go. Write the reports, and make sure you are prompt next time.”

  “Yes sir,” Shun Li said. This was terrible. Now she didn’t know what to do.

  -12-

  The Cauldron

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Anna sipped coffee as she sat at the huge computer table in Underground Bunker Number Five. The endless days of emergency meetings had begun to take its toll on everyone, including her and the President.

  He’d grown irritated with her lately. And he asked for her advice less often. She felt betrayed, and she wondered what would happen to her if she lost David’s favor. These days, people were even more Sino-phobic, not less. She didn’t understand that. For once, America was on the ascent. They were winning, if encircling two Chinese Army Groups could be called that.

  During the summer and autumn battles, the Chinese and Brazilians had often trapped American forces. Sometimes the Americans fought their way out. Sometime, too many U.S. soldiers surrendered to the enemy, marching into captivity.

  There had been disturbing rumors about the POWs, about ill-treatment and starvation. David had often asked if they could launch rescue missions into Northern Mexico. The answers had been obvious each time. America couldn’t even defend itself. How could it launch missions into Mexico? How would they ferry ten thousand men to freedom, never mind one hundred thousand or more?

  Anna sipped more coffee. She was tired and found it harder to concentrate at these meetings. No one asked her opinion anymore. Their Sino-phobia had begun to eat at her.

  She studied the big screen as General Alan spoke about Zhen’s Tank Army. The Canadian First Army had gone through several grueling days of desperate battle. Zhen’s soldiers were veterans and knew their business. For the first two days, it looked like they would burst through the Canadians and destroy them. Several factors had worked against the Chinese. The critical fact in General Alan’s view was worn equipment.

  It was true the Canadians lacked the Chinese combined-arms coordination, but no one could doubt their northern neighbor’s stubbornness. By the end of the third day of the slugfest, the Canadians managed to blunt the T-66s and transform the maneuver part of the conflict into grinding attritional fights. There it was more a matter of courage and newer equipment.

  Through their blood, the Canadians had bought America time. More Militia formations had moved south, dug trenches and built defenses along the penetration route. A few Regular formations with fast artillery now engaged the tardy Brazilians.

  “Mr. President,” General Alan said, “the danger isn’t over for us. General Zhen’s offensive has stal
led, but that could be a momentary thing. Marshal Sanchez has begun his drive to reach Zhen. We have a thin screen of Regular Army soldiers holding the line here and here.”

  General Alan used a green electronic pointer on the computer map, showing the positions.

  “The Canadians are exhausted and still have their hands full corralling the Tank Army,” the President said.

  “Yes sir,” Alan said.

  “How many Brazilian divisions is Sanchez using against the penetration?”

  “He’s stabilized his northern line here in Nebraska, sir,” Alan said. “He’s has to put some of his best units there to stiffen the remaining Venezuelans and Colombians. It has left him little in way of an assault force. I think three of his fastest armored divisions are making the attempt.”

  “These soldiers,” the President said, using his pointer. He highlighted the eastern edge of the American penetration, particularity at and around the Nebraska-Colorado-Kansas point, where all three states touched each other. “How many divisions do we have here?”

  General Alan shook his head. “We don’t have any divisions, sir. But in numbers, in various battalions, companies and elite units, we have about a division’s worth of men.”

  “That’s the critical point then. It looks as if Sanchez knows we’re weak there.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Three to one,” Sims said thoughtfully. “I like those odds for us. I held in Alaska whenever the Chinese attacked at three-to-one odds.”

  “Yes sir. Normally, I’d agree with you. But these are three of the best Brazilian divisions and the men facing them are from all kinds of units. They’re an ad hoc group. They’re not used to working together or trusting each other. That makes a difference. The key is that they won’t have to hold for long. But they do need to buy us three days, at least.”

  “Air power—”

  “We’re stretched everywhere, sir. Our air is engaged helping the Canadian First Army and keeping our Second Tank Army supplied. We’ve completed the encirclement. The Behemoths and other forward elements reached Colorado Springs. Now we have to hold the line against all comers. For an emergency, a critical moment, I’m saving these ballistic missiles. They can reach anywhere on the battlefield.”