Invasion: China (Invasion America) (Volume 5) Read online

  From Military History: Past to Present, by Vance Holbrook:

  MCGRAW’S SPRING OFFENSIVE, APRIL-MAY

  2041, May 9. The First Offensive. American preparation, carefully assembled men, materiel, and improved technology, proved devastating to the Chinese. In heavy fog, the Americans began their drive at dawn, using the latest jamming equipment to render forward Chinese robotics inert.

  The proceeding “avalanche assault” against the “Great Wall” surprised the Chinese. Special Marine shock brigades and Militia penal battalions stunned the enemy by their savagery and bitter determination. The succeeding Chinese lines collapsed in days. The cost in American lives—particularly to the penal battalions—proved staggering, at times approaching seventy-five percent casualties.

  This was the bloodiest phase for the Americans, recalling Civil War battles two hundred years earlier.

  McGraw now proved his brilliance and resolve in two areas. First, the ability to move the exhausted breaching divisions out of the way without stalling the next wave showed exquisite staff work and execution. Second, while others urged caution—saying America should husband its painfully reconstructed armies—McGraw recognized the chaotic enemy situation and boldly unleashed the exploration formations much earlier and far deeper than planned. The massed Behemoths spearheading the attacks proved shattering against Chinese counter assaults.

  Four American armies—Tenth, Second Militia, Fifteenth and Eighteenth—burst through the enemy right flank—the First, Third and Seventh PAA armies—on a sixty-mile front. They rolled up and pulverized Army Group Zhen, splitting the Chinese from the Brazilians to their east. Driving into open country, American Behemoths, Jeffersons, heavily modified M1A3s and other tracked vehicles spread havoc and destruction. The great battle of annihilation Americans had dreamed of for years seemed on the verge of success as the entire Chinese First Front threatened to collapse.

  The mass of Chinese and allied armies on the front line—on either side of the sixty-mile breakthrough—faced encirclement as American forces swung around them from behind. The Chinese and allied formations were uncommonly sluggish to react to American vigor. It surprised McGraw. Many of his officers suggested this was a trap. Brushing aside such talk, McGraw told his men that this gave US armor the chance to inflict a historically strategic victory, possibly netting 700,000 to 1,200,000 enemy soldiers.

  “The end of the invasion is near,” he said. And in those heady days, his words certainly seemed prophetic.

  THIRTY-FIVE MILES NORTHWEST OF OKLAHOMA CITY

  Corporal Jake Higgins wore goggles and a jacket. The goggles pressed against his skin. They hurt his head after a while. He clutched the sides of the commander’s hatch of his Behemoth tank while sticking halfway out of the turret. He enjoyed the view, shivering at the cold rush of air.

  The deceptively flat ground with its riot of spring flowers was perfect terrain for his three-hundred-ton tank. But it was also the right place for the enemy’s Mobile Canopy AntiBallistic Missile vehicle, or MC ABM for short. The Chinese laser tank outraged them, and that was bad out here on the prairies. Any day now, the enemy would deploy the feared weapon system, and the Behemoths would have to face them.

  Jake’s Behemoth was like the others stretched out on either side of him. Fifteen monsters in a row clanked for Oklahoma City. There waited Chinese First Front HQ, a mountain of supplies to destroy, a railroad nexus node and the last enemy armor concentration along with the dreaded MC ABMs. Their task was to demolish everything, the fifteen of them and the following Jefferson tanks and infantry carriers behind them on the horizon.

  In four days of intense exploitation battles against Chinese reserves—the eighth day since the beginning of the offensive—five Behemoths of their regiment had eaten it or developed mechanical problems and dropped behind. Other Behemoth regiments had their own objectives. Oklahoma City was their personal El Dorado of martial glory.

  There was a reason why nearly one hundred and eighty Behemoths had torn the Chinese a new one.

  Jake’s monster was fifteen meters by six by four and mounted 260cm of armor. It had nine autocannons, seven auto-machine guns, and an onboard radar and AI to track enemy missiles and shells. Given enough flight time—like out here on the Great Plains—this baby could knock down incoming projectiles. Whatever ordnance slipped through had to survive forty beehive launchers. They fired tungsten flechettes, a shotgun-like spray of hooks that deflected enemy shells enough to skew their impact against the heavy armor. The super-thick armor and the sheer number of beehives made the Behemoth more than a big, expensive target. It made it the King Kong of the battlefield.

  From his spot high on the turret, Jake winched as the tracks squealed. The Behemoth made a terrible racket while on the move. The land whale creaked, clanged, squealed and rumbled: a symphony of metal. Yet for all that, it was the frontline marvel of the war.

  Two days ago, the lieutenant—their regular tank commander—had smashed his forehead too hard against a steel bulkhead in the main compartment. The captain had bumped Jake into the vacated slot and airlifted the lieutenant back to base.

  Jake still worried about making a mistake and costing the crew their lives.

  I did okay an hour ago.

  The massive tracked vehicle rolled past a wrecked tri-turreted tank lying on its side. Oil leaked from the Chinese monster, staining a nearby snow-patch a dirty color. There were more of the one-hundred-ton, tri-barreled T-66 wrecks around, close to eighty enemy tanks, some of them still funneling smoke into the clear sky.

  We did this. I did this.

  Easily outranging the enemy, the Behemoths had taken out the entire Chinese tank brigade. It had been like America’s glory days during Desert Storm, when Iraqi Republican Guards in their Russian T-72s learned a deadly lesson about the First US Armored Division.

  Jake couldn’t help but grin. Even when he saw dead Chinese tankers in grotesque postures, the grin remained. Death to the invaders—they should have stayed on their side of the Pacific if they wanted to live to a ripe old age.

  Yes. It felt good to win, to defeat the enemy so decisively. No, damnit, it felt glorious. Yet a riot of emotions seethed through Jake, a mixture of not only elation but also anger and worry.

  He took a phone from his pocket. With his left thumb, he brought up the text. A new order for his arrest had come from Washington, from the Militia Command Center itself. From on top of the turret of his rumbling Behemoth, Jake reread the text. The message came from the Director of Homeland Security, Max Harold. It was an arrest order and fixed with a Presidential Seal and signature.

  Why can’t they leave me alone? I’m willing to die for my country. Isn’t that enough? Do they want me to lick their boots, too?

  A loud beep from within the tank’s main compartment brought Jake out of his reverie.

  “Corporal,” the gunner shouted from inside. “You’d better look at this.”

  Jake shoved the phone into his jacket pocket and slipped into the main compartment. He closed the hatch with a clang and let his eyes adjust to the soft green light. Despite the Behemoth’s size, it was tight in here, with him, a gunner, driver and a tech.

  “We got some real-time data,” the gunner was saying, a thin kid from Iowa. His name was Chet. He was a video gaming virtuoso, and even though he was younger than Jake, he was already balding, with wisps of hair on his forehead.

  As Jake settled into the commander’s seat, he flipped on his screen. Images began to appear. The Air Force used a high-flying stealth UAV to provide real-time intelligence. The Chinese usually found such drones soon enough and shot them down. This was a lucky break to have one up now.

  “Looks like enemy laser tanks,” Chet, the gunner, said, his voice raising an octave.

  Jake swallowed. He saw them down there from the UAV’s vantage. The six hundred ton, multi-trailered vehicles were unmistakable. Normally, the Chinese used the MC ABMs for antiair and antimissile coverage. In a pinch, like the famous Germa
n 88s during WWII, they could employ their cannons against land targets. The powerful lasers had fantastic range. According to the data, the enemy vehicles were a little over thirty miles away. At that range, the lasers could slice-the-e of a Behemoth’s outer lettering.

  “Why aren’t they firing at us?” Jake asked.

  “Look at the grid numbers, at 22-A-4,” Chet said. “There’s a rise of land in the way. Don’t want to call it a hill. It’s too low for that. But once we top that rise, the fireworks will start. We’re too far ahead of our artillery to call in support to help us with them.”

  “Do you think they know we’re here?” Jake asked.

  “Ask the captain,” Chet suggested.

  Jake didn’t like asking the captain anything. It made it look as if he didn’t know how to run his tank.

  “They must know about us if they’re lining up like that,” Jake said.

  “Agreed,” Chet said. “That’s what I think.”

  Sweat slicked Jake’s underarms. He hated when that happened. Why couldn’t he remain calm and collected at times like this? Why did his gut knot and twist as if he was afraid? He’d done this before, an hour ago, in fact.

  Breathing through his nostrils, Jake sought for calm, for visible confidence in front of the crew. Being in charge definitely made things harder and he wasn’t sure why.

  The laser could strike the distance, but so could they. The rail gun was the heart of the Behemoth system. Unlike conventional tanks, the main weapon didn’t use gunpowder shells. Instead, the rail gun had two magnetized rods lining the inner cannon. The projectile or “shell” completed the current between the two rods. The direction of the current expelled the round, firing the shell and breaking the current. It gave the projectile incredible speed, one of its greatest powers.

  Like a regular tank’s sabot, it used kinetic energy, the same kind of energy that sent a bullet smashing through a man’s body. An M16 rifle fired a bullet at the muzzle velocity of 930 meters per second. The Behemoth’s cannon fired its round at 3,500 meters per second, over three times as fast. That was approximately Mach 10 at sea level.

  The rail gun had much greater range than a gunpowder shell, less bullet drop, faster time on target and less wind drift. In other words, it bypassed the physical limitations of conventional firearms. In fact, the rounds flew so fast they ionized the air around them. The Behemoth rail gun theoretically fired farther, faster and with greater penetrating power than any comparable conventional weapon. Its range was also much greater than the tank’s targeting precision, meaning it was easily possible to fire a Behemoth round over one hundred miles. At half that range—fifty miles—most rail gun rounds missed. At twenty-five miles, the cannons achieved great accuracy. The Chinese were over thirty miles away: near enough to hit some of the time, but not every time.

  “Looks like we’re about to have a quick-draw contest,” Jake said, trying to keep his voice from cracking.

  “They’re sitting still and have likely already sighted in,” Chet said. “They have the advantage.”

  Jake kept himself from glancing at Chet. Having been in combat many times in the last few years, he was the veteran here. Thus, it galled Jake that Chet sounded more relaxed than he did. Jake had a few years on the others. Yet the truth was that they were all young enough that games of cool took on monumental importance.

  “Higgins!” a man said on the screen.

  Jake twitched at the voice. Some might even have said he jumped or started in his seat. He didn’t dare look to see if the others frowned at each other as if to say, “Look how jumpy Jake is. The corporal’s gotta settle down.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jake said, as he clicked a button on his chair, having to press harder than normal. The thing was sticky because he’d set too many peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on the arm. On the screen, the drone’s data imaging disappeared and the captain’s face took its place.

  The captain had a thick mustache curving down to his chin. He wore his tanker’s cap at an angle as if he were some Confederate cavalry commander from the War Between the States. The captain was from Alabama and had a twang that wouldn’t quit.

  “You see laser tank number five?” the captain asked in his slow drawl.

  “Starting from the right, sir?” Jake asked.

  “Of course from the right, son,” the captain said. “We’ve been over that.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jake said, as his neck prickled with embarrassment.

  “I know you’re the colonel’s son…”

  Jake swallowed. Colonel Higgins didn’t run this regiment. His dad attacked farther to the east. Colonel Nelson ran the show for the Sixth Behemoth Regiment. But Jake knew the captain meant his dad.

  Through the screen, the captain’s eyes bored into Jake. “You done fine so far, son. You keep paying attention, hear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jake said.

  “Number five laser tank,” the captain said. “That one’s yours. I want it dead before it damages anyone else.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jake said. He wanted to assure the captain that everything would be all right. But he knew the captain hated boasting. Doing counted with this man, not saying.

  “This is where we earn our money,” the captain said. “If we smash them, Oklahoma City is going burn with enemy dead.” The captain squinted. “If we burn Oklahoma City, we might end up smashing the entire front. It’s time to fry us some laser tanks. Good hunting, Higgins.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jake said. “Good hunting to you, too.”

  TEN MILES NORTHWEST OF OKLAHOMA CITY

  First Rank Lon Lu of MC ABM #5 sat at his controls. He was the engine tech in charge of the magnetic-propulsion turbine. Without the great generating plant, the laser cannon would be useless.

  Lon Lu was small, dark-haired and studiously serious. He had arrived from China, from a suburb of Beijing, a little over two months ago. He should have gone to Wei Mining in northern Manchuria, but the Army had drafted him for service in this land of savage barbarians. The stories coming from America had frightened many of the men his age in China. A few better-connected or richer souls had already escaped possible conscription by finding office jobs in Korea or Indonesia. Lon Lu hadn’t been so lucky.

  Still, this was exciting technology, and the commander of the MC ABM #5 implicitly trusted him and his judgment—Lon received honor and accompanying letters to his mother and father because of it.

  First Rank Lon Lu took pride in his work. Their MPT— magnetic propulsion turbine—was the quietest in the brigade, and their cannon continually fired the hottest beam. The only troubling thing so far about the assignment was American women.

  Lon was fiercely Han centric, proud of Greater China and xenophobic of foreigners to a high although rather ordinary degree for someone from Beijing. He planned to marry a Chinese woman when he received a marriage permit from the Ministry of Matrimony. His honors and letters here would greatly aid in that regard.

  The trouble with American women was their ready availability in Oklahoma City. China had a gross gender imbalance with too few women. It came from the one-child-per-family policy. Many more girls than boys were aborted because a high percentage of parents desired the family name to continue and wanted a son.

  “Warm the turbine,” the commander said from his chair.

  This was the main compartment to the three-trailer vehicle—that number didn’t include the giant tractor to move them. Driving the vehicle took careful preparation and route coordination. Mobility was a relative term. They could move, but weren’t mobile like a Behemoth tank.

  Lon sat at the engine section, and he reached up and began to tap controls. He watched gauges and heat levels, and like a master pianist, he made his instrument purr with excellence.

  Others worked the laser coils, the bin-washers and coolant radiator, while officers matched UAV-gathered intelligence with the cannon’s precise elevation.

  Lon Lu sat alertly even though his crotch itched and stung. Han were superior to Nort
h American barbarians. The obviousness of the statement made it a truism. Lon Lu meant to marry a proper Han woman and produce a superior child. He did not have a preference and would accept fate’s call, boy or girl.

  The problem was the availability of hungry American women. Naturally, East Lightning and Occupation Authority police rigorously applied Chinese law here. Much of Texas and Oklahoma’s agricultural produce went to China. That meant Americans went hungry for a change. That brought consequences. Too many American women bartered sex for food. Before the oceanic voyage, Lon had planned to remain chaste throughout his term of North American service. He would save himself for Han sexual encounters with his future wife.

  The problem was that some American women were incredibly alluring, with their long luxurious hair, skimpy clothing and provocative ways of strutting and pouting when they looked at him. After three weeks of abstaining, Lon Lu bought extra loaves of bread at the commissary and went to the brothel he passed every day during his duties.

  He wanted a particular American woman, a small thing with dark hair like a Han and thrusting breasts of intoxicating stiffness.

  In the main compartment, Lon glanced both ways to make sure no one watched him. Then he reached down and rubbed his itching groin. The writhing on the silk sheets had been divine. Why had he waited so long to do it? Unfortunately, the dark-haired beauty had given him a venereal disease. He had used her many times these past weeks, discovering that his appetite grew with exposure. His shame at contracting VD meant he’d remained silent about it for some time. He did not want a reprimand on his record. He wanted a Han wife—he had to have a woman more than ever now. He had become accustomed to sexual intimacy. He was, in fact, unsure he could live without it.