Invasion: California Read online

  “General Larson believed we had to defend Los Angeles by attacking here. Sometimes, gentlemen, life or God, I’m not sure which, hands you a shit job. We have such a job this time. We signed up as soldiers, and that means that sometimes you have to put your body in harm’s way. Well, I love my country. These aggressors are here to steal it out from under me. That means I’m going to fight until I’m dead or until I’ve driven them into the sea. I’m sorry for talking so much. I’m sorry for many things. I suppose I mean to make up for everything rotten I’ve done by laying down my life. ‘Greater love has no man than this: that he lay down his life for his friends.’ That’s from the Bible, gentlemen, the very words of God. We’re going to lay down our lives in the next half-hour. Let’s make sure we do it in such a way that we save our brothers so they can drive the Chinese into the sea.”

  Wilson set down the microphone as a strange calm settled over him. He felt like a still lake on a perfect day, the sun a delight on the skin. One by one, his tank commanders called in, agreeing with him.

  Afterward, near the city of Riverside, began the death ride of the Behemoths into the heart of the Chinese advance.

  It began as long-range howitzers rained down a sheet of steel against them. The Chinese had seen their advance and likely they knew their route. Normally, that should have been enough to set up a perfect ambush. It didn’t work out that way this time. The howitzers attempted to pummel the Behemoths, but most of the shells never made it through the tank defenses. Those that did rained on reinforced armor. The Behemoths, unlike most modern tanks, had put as heavy armor on top as they did in front. It made for an extra-heavy and tall tank, but with this engine, it didn’t matter.

  Drone hovers appeared, firing as they raced like greyhounds toward the Behemoths. If they could get close enough, the experimental tanks would be unable to use their defensive fire effectively. Behind the hovers came Marauder light tanks. For several minutes, confusion reigned. The Chinese vehicles and howitzers spewed mass fire against the five American giants.

  Wilson winced each time an enemy sabot round made it through the blizzard of defensive fire and hit the tank. Each round clanged like a hammer, ringing in the Colonel’s ears. But none of the lighter cannons had the force to break through the special armor.

  In return the five Behemoths reaped a swathing harvest of enemy vehicles. Hovers exploded, flipping over and burning. One flew into the air, spun and landed so the cannon bored into the earth like a drill, until it snapped and the vehicle crashed again, this time onto its side. A light tank burst into flame. A crewmember opened a hatch and tried to escape. The hatch banged onto him, trapping the man. He opened his mouth, screaming surely. His hands covered his face, but the flames melted those and soon the man sagged, dead.

  It was grim. It was war, and the Behemoth was a demon in its element of destruction.

  “I’m seeing the howitzers, sir, in the long-range scope.”

  “Give the AI its head,” Wilson ordered.

  The turret swiveled, a targeting laser sighted and the tank shuddered as the cannon spewed a shell. Two miles away, a howitzer blew into separate pieces.

  The other howitzers continued banging away, sending their shells in a ballistic trajectory. The Behemoths fired their penetrators in a nearly straight line and many times faster than the enemy munitions.

  Chinese infantry began to appear from ditches, doorways and on rooftops. They popped off RPGs. Those had no effect on the Behemoths, but they kept trying. Too many failed to run away in time and died to flechettes shredding them into gory ruin.

  A mile and a half later, the first T-66s entered the fray. They were eighteen of the advanced Chinese tanks in the first wave. None survived, although they knocked a tread off a Behemoth.

  “What are your orders, sir?” the crippled Behemoth commander asked.

  “Tell me this,” Wilson said. “Can you bail out and run back to our lines?”

  “We would never make it, sir.”

  “I agree.”

  “So…”

  “So you remain where you are, commander,” Wilson said. “Your cannon has greater reach than any other vehicle on the battlefield does. You’ve just become our artillery support, in a manner of speaking.”

  “Yes, Colonel, I understand. Good luck, sir.”

  “We do this for America, commander.”

  “And for our families, sir.”

  “Yes,” Wilson said. “They are the heart of our country.”

  Because the first wave of T-66s failed to halt them, the Behemoths advanced. A new American recon drone appeared overhead after a Chinese SAM had destroyed the first one. This UAV provided them targeting coordinates on hundreds of big Chinese supply trunks in the distance.

  “Fire at will,” Wilson ordered.

  In a matter of three and a half minutes, one hundred and sixteen haulers exploded and began to burn. Very few escaped.

  “I’m low on ammunition, Colonel,” one Behemoth commander radioed.

  “There’s no help for it now,” Wilson said. “We keep advancing. Choose your targets carefully. If nothing else, you can provide us with protective fire.”

  The four Behemoths, three surviving Bradleys and two brave and lucky Humvees reached the outskirts of Riverside. The final battle began with another cruise missile attack, followed by a thousand special infantry, fifty light tanks and two hundred and forty-one T-66s. It was an inferno of destruction, with nearly one hundred percent Chinese losses.

  Then the first Behemoth finally died as four T-66 shells made it through the defensive fire and together hammered through the amazingly thick armor.

  A new air assault destroyed a second Behemoth, this one to the rear of the formation. That left three experimental tanks, then two and finally Colonel Wilson was alone with his crew among a sea of burning Chinese vehicles.

  Wilson viewed the screens. He had never seen a battlefield like this. Over two hundred and twenty triple-turreted tanks burned or lay on their sides, destroyed. The Behemoths had become a plague to the Chinese tanks.

  Now three more big enemy tanks clanked into view.

  “Sir!” the comm-officer shouted.

  The Behemoth turret swiveled. The giant tank shuddered, and they destroyed yet another enemy tank. Then the world ended for Colonel Wilson as the enemy cannons blew past the defensive fire and opened holes in the battered armor. The huge engine exploded. The world turned white and Colonel Wilson became simply the latest Killed in Action in the defense of his homeland.

  POWAY, CALIFORNIA

  Three days after the original breakthrough of the Behemoths into the Escondido Pocket, Paul clutched the butterfly controls of a Browning .50 caliber. He shared a foxhole with Romo outside of Poway. Clouds hid the sun. The Chinese were stirring in the rubble of the destroyed city, likely getting ready for yet another attack. To Kavanagh it seemed as if the enemy never slept.

  All during the exodus of the trapped Americans through Escondido and I-15, the Chinese had fought their way through Poway, trying to rush the rearguard, to shatter them and collapse the pocket.

  Paul’s eyes felt gritty and he yawned. He’d been fighting nonstop for days and he just wanted to sleep. He feared that if he did, he wouldn’t wake up in this world. He’d been thinking a lot about his family lately. He realized now that he would never get to see them again, but at least he had done his part to make sure LA didn’t fall to the Chinese.

  “How many did you say again?” he asked Romo.

  The assassin sat in the bottom of the foxhole as he clutched extra ammo. He had been to battalion HQ and come back with news.

  Romo lifted his chin off his chest. “What did you say?”

  “How many of us have made it out of the cauldron so far?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

  Paul shrugged, wondering when the Chinese were going to attack. He was bone-tired.

  The Chinese had dropped leaflets, showing long lines of American soldiers marching into c
aptivity. The Chinese were busy mopping up the remnants of the once proud Army Group SoCal. Soon, now, everything would hit Los Angeles. First they would first sweep away the rearguard here in Poway and eat up what was left of the Escondido Pocket.

  It was just a matter of time before the Chinese juggernaut hit them. The truth, the Americans who had had held out for weeks south of here had given the Chinese something to do. American stubbornness had given the men here time to reach Los Angeles.

  The Chinese in Poway...Paul rubbed his eyes. He’d almost fallen asleep. It had been a long trek since Mexico, since the commando assault on the Blue Swan site. Now—

  “Brother,” Romo said, shaking his shoulder. “Wake up.”

  “Huh?” Paul lifted his head from where it had dropped onto his crossed arms. He’d fallen asleep after all, standing upright in the foxhole. His mouth tasted like old coffee grinds, and he smacked his lips. Then resolve filled him as he remembered where he was. He gripped the Browning and swiveled it—

  “Did you hear me?” Romo asked.

  “The Chinese aren’t attacking yet,” Paul said, scowling as he studied the enemy. Couldn’t Romo let him get a little shuteye? The lousy assassin—

  “Forget about the Chinese,” Romo said. “The Colonel wants us back in Battalion HQ.”

  Paul glanced at Romo. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’ve been given orders to go to Battalion HQ. You were asleep when it came.”

  “Why are we supposed to go back there?” Paul asked.

  “Let’s go see.”

  With his index finger, Paul dug grit out of his right eye. He nodded and grunted as he heaved up out of the foxhole. They crawled to a trench and then hurried back toward the rear.

  Battalion HQ was a sandbagged position with logs over a very large hole and with lots of dirt over the logs. Back a ways, a small black helicopter waited beside three tough-looking soldiers in body armor.

  “Hold it,” an MP said, coming out of the shadows of the HQ.

  “We’re supposed to report,” Romo said.

  “Who told you that?” the MP asked.

  “This is Paul Kavanagh, Gunnery Sergeant Paul Kavanagh of Marine Recon.”

  “Oh,” the MP said. “Then you’d better head over there, you lousy bastard,” he told Paul. “Hurry your butt, you lucky S.O.B.”

  “What’s going on?” Paul whispered, as Romo pulled him away from the MP, out of the trench and headed for the helo.

  The assassin shrugged.

  At their approach, the three tough-looking soldiers raised their weapons. By their insignia, they were Green Berets.

  “This is Paul Kavanagh,” Romo said.

  The meanest-looking of the three squinted at Paul. “You don’t look like much to me.”

  Paul just stared at the man. He had a nametag, if you could believe it. It said Donovan.

  “All right then,” Donovan said. “Let’s go.”

  Paul shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re leaving this shithole,” Donovan said.

  Scowling, Paul asked, “Why?”

  “He asks why?” Donovan told the other two. One of them shrugged. “I’m guessing you know a General Ochoa,” Donovan told Paul.

  “The General Ochoa of SOCOM?” Paul asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay? Yeah, I know him. What about it?”

  “General Ochoa must figure you’re something special,” Donovan said. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have sent us to fly in and pick you up. You’re going to LA.”

  Paul stared at the man.

  “Did you hear me?” Donovan asked.

  “Yeah,” Paul said. He heard; he just couldn’t believe it. “Come on,” he told Romo. “Let’s board the helicopter.”

  “Sorry,” Donovan said, putting a hand up near Romo’s chest. “He’s not coming. I only have orders to take Paul Kavanagh.”

  Paul stood as if struck. He began to shake his head.

  “Do not be foolish,” Romo told him. “Get out alive while you can.”

  “No.”

  “Do we have to drag you out?” Donovan asked.

  Paul stepped away from the three SOF soldiers and drew his sidearm, aiming it at Donovan. “I’m staying unless you take my blood brother with me.”

  “Your what?” Donovan asked.

  “You heard me,” Paul said.

  Donovan studied Paul and finally backed away. He went to the helicopter and climbed in.

  “You are mad,” Romo said. “I would leave you if they offered this to me.”

  “No you wouldn’t,” Paul said.

  Instead of arguing, Romo looked away.

  Donovan jumped down from the helo. He looked bemused as he approached. “Well, well, well, it seems like General Ochoa is in a good mood today. You can bring your little buddy with you. Come on then. Let’s get going while the corridor is still open. It won’t last forever.”

  Paul holstered his gun and strode past Donovan and the other two SOF soldiers to climb into the back of the helo. Romo followed. As they buckled in, the three Green Berets entered and the rotors sped up. They lifted, and Paul felt a sense of déjà vu. This was weird. He was going to live and he might even see his wife again, see his son.

  The helicopter kept low, a mere fifty feet above the earth. Assist jets kicked in and the little machine zoomed fast, soon flying over Escondido. In minutes, it shot over a long marching column of American soldiers heading for Temecula. They were on I-15, the last open corridor to freedom and Los Angeles.

  Paul was glad to leave, but he couldn’t help but think of the soldiers outside of Poway holding the line while others marched away to continue the fight. It wasn’t just. It wasn’t fair. It was war, and she was a mean-faced witch.

  -12-

  The Battle for Los Angeles

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  It was a somber meeting in the underground bunker. The briefing major spoke in a monotone, making Anna wonder if the woman used drugs. Beside her, Levin doodled listlessly. While the President, he watched the proceedings like a man awaiting his death sentence.

  There should have been some delight, Anna felt, because the majority of the soldiers from the Escondido Pocket had reached Corona before the Chinese. The soldiers had split in different directions. One third of them had gone to Pomona in the north. The rest had traveled to Fullerton and Anaheim in the west. The sacrifice of the Behemoths had brought about the needed miracle.

  Anna believed the somberness was because the situation was still grim and the enemy almost as unrelenting as before. The Chinese simply refused to slow down.

  According to the major, in a normal battle the Chinese would have accepted this victory to rest and resupply their troops before they started the next round. Intelligence showed that the Chinese were exhausted just like the Americans. Instead of following their usual doctrine, the Chinese kept pushing. They had swept through the defenses at Corona, rushing after the escaped soldiers until the battle-lines now reached Fullerton and Anaheim and Pomona. Just as bad, with so many of the formerly trapped Americans entering POW camps, the Chinese advance up the coast had picked up speed again, reaching Costa Mesa and Huntington Beach.

  General Alan of the Joint Chiefs motioned to the major. As she sat down, he stood up.

  “Mr. President, I suggest we speak frankly.”

  “Of course,” Sims said.

  General Alan tapped the table before saying, “As I’m sure you are aware, sir, there is a grave psychological effect on a soldier when he is constantly retreating. His belief in holding his position weakens each time the enemy drives him back. Our soldiers have retreated across Southern California from the border fortifications to Los Angeles. They are shocked. They are tired and now they have lost most of their heavy equipment. The Chinese have more numbers, more equipment and in most cases, better tech.”

  “Are you saying we cannot win?” Sims asked.

  Anna noticed the President asked tha
t with an edge to his voice.

  “No, Mr. President, I am not saying we cannot win. I am saying that we have reached the crisis point. I’m sure the Chinese have problems. Nevertheless this accelerated attack with their acceptance of sustained casualties has produced results for them, if at a very bloody cost. In the end, who pays the highest butcher’s bill doesn’t determine victory, but who wins the political contest does. The Vietnamese took vastly more losses than we did back in the 1960s and 70s, yet they won the political battle because the Communists remained in power there. We have hurt the Chinese, sir, but at this point, they are winning the battle.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Sims asked, with his voice harsh with a burr as if he’d shouted a long time.

  “We are speaking frankly, sir. We are facing the grim reality of defeat. The majority of our troops in Los Angeles lack heavy equipment. We are shipping them more, but the trains need time. The trucks need time. The soldiers also need time to regain confidence in themselves.”

  “They’re all out of time,” Sims said.

  “Understood, sir,” Alan said. “I suggest, therefore, that we use our submarines more boldly. Of paramount importance would be the sinking of Special Infantry transports. We cannot let the Chinese practice anymore of their SI wave assaults against us.”

  “Can we distinguish those transports from others while they are en route?” Sims asked.

  “Director?” General Alan asked.

  Dr. Levin nodded slowly. “Possibly,” he said.

  “Are you referring to your spy-ring in Beijing?” Sims asked.

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Then I agree to this bolder use of our submarines,” Sims said. “Now, what else can we do?”

  “Our soldiers can start holding their ground,” Alan said. “We are now in one of the most extensive urban environments in the world. Such territory makes for excellent defensive terrain. There is little likelihood of the Chinese cutting our supply lines here, as the critical one runs through the Grapevine to Bakersfield and through Central California and then to the Sierra Nevada passes.”