Invasion: Colorado (25 page)

Looking up at the Air Chief, McGraw said, “Liang identified our weak link. Now we know why their fighter-bombers swarmed Denver and did so little damage. Their heavies are out trying to kill our supply artery. Better alert the I-70 air-defenses, if they aren’t already.”

“Sir, have you noticed the number of Heron stand-off bombers? If one of their missiles reaches one of the key tunnel entrances—I can’t guarantee you that won’t happen. These numbers—the Chinese have caught us with our pants down.”

“I understand the problem,” McGraw said. “Now tell me how you’re fixing it.”

“We’re scrambling fighters and drones, sir, but they’re not going to reach some of these places soon enough. We’re also lofting more Reflex interceptors. I’m sure you know that those take time to get into strategic laser position. We can make the Chinese suffer later, when they’re running for home. Stopping all of them now from hitting I-70…”

The Air Chief shook his head.

McGraw’s jaw muscles bulged. If the Chinese blasted enough tunnel entrances and bridges, it would be a total disaster. There were sufficient assets protecting I-70 to stop Ghosts and even a mid-size attack, but this—

McGraw remembered something, and whirled around. “Get me on the horn with Colonel Higgins of the Behemoth Regiment. We may have an answer for this.”

FORWARD EDGE OF THE BATTLE AREA, COLORADO

The first launch order came. Captain Tzu had been waiting for it the last two minutes. This was the reason his bomber had lumbered off the runway earlier tonight. With a decisive movement, he yanked a lever.

The entire Heron shook. A moment later, the bomber lifted higher. Outside, he knew, the clamps on the pylons had released, and a big Goshawk drone had dropped away. It fell fifty meters before the turbojets kicked on.

From other Herons dropped more drones. A few winked silvery in the moonlight. Their turbojets belched orange flares into the night. It was a sign of strength, of coming destruction.

Tzu decreased airspeed. He wasn’t looking at the moon anymore, but at the drones. Their Goshawk climbed higher and well ahead of them. It was remote-controlled, likely from a trailer in Pueblo, Colorado. The many drones gathered in their destination-teams. They would be the aircraft to zero in on I-70. The drones would battle their way in if they had to, hammering bridges and tunnel entrances.

Licking his lips, Tzu noticed faster, quicker drones flittering through the darkness. They were UCAV fighter drones. Other Herons had released them together with the Goshawks. Those Herons would race ahead of the other bombers, putting themselves between the faster advancing drones and the still heavily laden bombers. The forward Herons would act as decoys, since they didn’t carry missiles.

Over five hundred drones bored in toward I-70. The destination teams had various targets: bridges, tunnels or hairpin turns on the freeway in the deepest gorges. Others would hit the rail line.

Now that the drones were on their way, Tzu increased speed again. The remaining Herons had a second task. They carried ARMs to destroy American radar stations and air-to-ground missiles if the inconceivable happened and the drones failed. The briefing officer had told them Marshal Liang himself had planned the operation. Everyone knew that Liang left nothing to chance.

Soon, the navigator informed Tzu that the drones had passed the EW Anchors. Later still, the navigator told him the Anchors had begun jamming the Americans. What one couldn’t see, one couldn’t kill. This electronic cover would allow the Goshawks to penetrate the American air-defense zone too deeply for the Americans to stop such a mass assault.

Tzu heard the navigator rhapsodize about the plan, but he no longer cared about the drones. The captain looked out the window at the bright moon. The idea of Reflex interceptors high in the atmosphere, ready to bounce strategic-strength lasers—that’s what had him worried now.

BEHEMOTH TANK PARK, COLORADO

A panting Colonel Higgins strode into in the command post—CP—of the tank park’s air-defense-net center. He’d come running from bed after hearing klaxons ringing several minutes ago.

The CP captain had just informed him that Chinese air assets were approaching fast. There were nearly one hundred heavy drones headed this way.

Have they discovered my Behemoths? Are they trying to knock them out?

Stan inhaled deeply, trying to get his breath back. He’d run through snow so thick his boots had disappeared each time, then raced down a flight of stairs to get here.

The air-defense CP was underground with reinforced concrete overhead. Stan’s seventeen Behemoth tanks were hidden by the latest anti-radar netting. Several weeks ago, he’d used bulldozers to create big revetments for them. It meant the three hundred ton tanks were half-buried, giving them greater protection and turning them into gigantic pillboxes.

One hundred heavy drones—the Chinese must want my tanks
.

Stan didn’t intend to do ground fighting from the holes. The idea the Chinese would send tanks or IFVs into the mountains struck him as ludicrous. He’d simply wanted to do everything he could to protect them from enemy air assaults, and now he was glad he had.

How did they find out about the Behemoths?

“Sir,” the CP captain said. “I have General McGraw on the secure line. He wants to talk to you.”

In the dim green light of the CP, Stan’s shoes clicked on the tiles. He picked up the proffered receiver. “General, this is Colonel Higgins speaking.”

“Stan, old son, the Chinese snookered us.”

“Sir?”

“The air! The Chinese are swarming toward I-70.”

“We see less than one hundred aircraft, sir.”

“They’re jamming hard, but we have a satellite up giving us real-time visuals. There are over eight hundred independent aircraft converging on and around you.”

Stan felt sick. Over eight hundred?

“We don’t have enough Reflex inceptors up yet,” McGraw was saying. “Some are taxiing as we speak, but they won’t be in position in time to stop this attack cold, which is what we have to do.”

“Sir, the Chinese air—”

“Listen up, Colonel. This time we’re using my plan. I have fighters on the way, but I don’t think they’re going to make it in time, either, at least, not for the entire length of the Chinese assault on the freeway. What that means is that I’m rerouting air assets to take on the most western assaults. That leaves me with tac-lasers and SAMs in your area. We have anti-air concentrations along I-70, but not enough for this. You know we can’t afford any hits on the freeway, certainly none on the main tunnels or bridges.”

“I’ve already linked my defense-net with the strategic network,” Stan said.

“You’re not listening to me, Colonel. The bulk of the Chinese assault is heading your way. But I’m moving out all fighters to the west, to concentrate there and destroy
everything
. Your added tac-lasers and SAMs aren’t enough in your area. So I’m ordering you to engage with your Behemoths. I’ve read what you did in California. Your force cannons are as good at anti-air as they are at killing enemy armor. Your guns may be the margin we need for victory.”

“Yes, sir,” Stan said.

“We have to stop this attack cold. They snookered us, but I bet they didn’t think we’d have our Behemoths in the Rockies. It seemed like a stupid place to put them, but now I’m seeing it was pure genius. General McGraw, out.”

Stan dry swallowed. That was it then. The Chinese must be trying to cut off Denver’s supply route. Everyone had expected Ghosts, not this WWII-style attack with overwhelming mass.

More klaxons wailed as Stan handed the receiver to the operator. The CP captain shouted orders. He was finally receiving the real-time intelligence from the satellite. Someone shouted he spotted Electronic Warfare Anchors in the enemy formation. They must be the planes doing the jamming.

Stan used the phone to begin alerting his Behemoth crews. They needed to start up the tanks and get the force cannons pointed skyward with all systems ready.

Woodenly, Stan moved over behind a CP sergeant’s screen. He knew McGraw was ordering the right thing. Still, this was too soon to let the Chinese know the Behemoths were here. He’d wanted to keep their location a surprise. There were only seventeen of them in the entire United States. Surely, the Chinese must wonder where the super-tanks were hidden.

“Look at that,” the CP captain whispered from where he stood beside Stan.

Stan watched the sergeant’s screen. He saw it, waves of enemy aircraft.

“I’m counting over five hundred drones,” the sergeant said.

Colonel Higgins nodded. This was the right place for using the Behemoths. He just hoped he would not lose them by doing so.

PUEBLO, COLORADO

Blue light filled the large but cramped command compartment in MC ABM #3. Officers and enlisted personnel sat at their stations, checking their screens.

Commander Bao held a receiver to his ear. The Marshal’s orders came through the line firmly and quietly: “Destroy the American satellite.”

Commander Bao of the Mobile Canopy Anti-Ballistic Missile Vehicle #3 hung up the phone. He was a middle-aged man with a stomach ulcer. He kept a bottle of a thick medicine in a compartment under his chair.

The ulcer came because of his insistence on perfection, he believed. His vehicle had the best rating in the military and he planned to keep it that way. Bao knew the crew considered him a martinet, a perfectionist. That was fine with him. All his life his mother had taught him to be the best. He had achieved perfection in every endeavor: in piano playing, in Ping-Pong and in mathematics during his school years. Just as China outperformed every other country, so Bao would outperform the other MC ABM commanders. That included in how he instructed the others. For example, he had never raised his voice with them because that would indicate nervousness.

When one was the best, one had nothing that could make one nervous.

The ulcer now bit him with a twinge of pain. Commander Bao ignored it for the moment as he began to issue orders in a calm voice.

Each of the personnel put on huge headphones with noise cancellation technology. They had to in order to survive the next few minutes.

Bao checked with Tracking and got on the intercom with Power and Fuel. The operators from each told him they were ready. He checked his watch.

“Twenty seconds,” he said. As he said it, he meant neither nineteen seconds nor twenty-one seconds. He demanded perfect precision from everyone, including himself.

The small hand of his high-grade watch ticked away. Precisely twenty seconds later, green lights appeared on his board.

“Are we still tracking?” Bao asked into his microphone. His lips were too close and he heard blowing sounds in his ears.

“Yes, Commander,” the Tracking Officer said.

“Give me power,” Bao said.

In the other two links of the tier-system, chemical rocket fuel pumped into the magnetic-propulsion turbine—MPT. The whine was unbelievable and it quickly rose to a painful volume.

Commander Bao and his team in the laser unit winced or scrunched their faces. Firing the laser never got easier. The compartment shook and rattled Bao’s teeth. He pressed them together. For some unaccountable reason, his mouth had been open. That was a mistake. He noted it and told himself never to make that mistake again.

“Aim the focusing mirrors,” he said. He heard his voice as weak and small in his headphones, but he heard it. That was the amazing thing. Chinese electronics was the best.

Outside the three-trailer MC ABM system, the focusing mirror aimed into space. Inside the command compartment, Tracking followed the American satellite.

“Fire,” Bao said.

The MPT’s output combined with the stored battery power and pumped the laser with a strategic level of energy. A heavy beam speared into the atmosphere and climbed at the speed of light into space.

Precision targeting ensured the beam hit the enemy recon satellite. The wattage was too much for the spacecraft’s armored skin. Titanium melted away. The hellish laser devoured inner electronics. In a second of time, the irresistible Chinese weapon destroyed the American eye in the sky.

“Shut down the laser,” Bao said. “We have achieved success.” Immediately, the horrible whine of the MPT lowered. Bao’s ulcer bit once more.

Glancing from side to side, seeing that his crew personnel were busily engaged, Bao opened the compartment under his chair. He grabbed the bottle of gooey blue liquid. Twisting the cap, he took a slug, swallowing rapidly. The medical fluid took its time going down. That was fine. It would ease the stomach pain and help him operate at peak efficiency. He was the best, and he planned to win the top laser unit award so he could add to the plaques on his wall in his house. It would make both his wife and his mother proud.

BEHEMOTH TANK PARK, COLORADO

Colonel Higgins stood behind the CP sergeant, watching the screen with downloaded imaging from the satellite. A second later, the image went blank. After a half-second, the sergeant tapped the screen, switching it back to radar. A few enemy aircraft appeared, but the majority of the enemy appeared to have vanished as if swallowed by the Bermuda Triangle.

The captain shouted.

“What happened?” Stan asked. Was this Chinese sabotage? Did they have deep penetration commandos outside in the tank park? The thought tightened his chest.

“The satellite is down,” the captain said.

“Did Space Command spot anything approaching it?” a CP officer asked.

The captain shook his head. “The Chinese must have used their best battlefield laser they had to knock it down.

“There’s heavy jamming, sir,” the sergeant said. “Those damn Anchors are pouring it out. We’re practically radar blind.”

I’m useless here. I should be with my men
. “Captain,” Stan said. “I’m heading for my tank.”

The captain nodded absently.

“Good luck,” Stan said.