Invasion: Colorado (30 page)

Zhu plummeted and two other Eagle flyers plummeted with him. One of them must have radioed him. Zhu heard the noise in his helmet, but he ignored the message. Nothing mattered now but perfect concentration. Terror blossomed in his stomach. He ignored that, too. The grenade launcher—the man to his right triggered his. The roof rushed near and the enemy soldiers had grown into frightful menaces.

Now!

Zhu flicked on his Qui 1000s and let them roar with power. Straps cut into his legs. It felt as if the jetpack would rip him in half. The straps and belts held, and he slowed fast. The roof rushed up. Americans fired, and the White Tiger who had used the grenade launcher must not have turned on his jetpack in time. Like a meteor, he slammed against the roof and bounced. Americans turned toward him in shock. The dead White Tiger bowled over an American. The two went tumbling and they knocked over another enemy. At least the White Tiger had performed a useful combat service to his country by failing to brake.

Zhu clicked the grenade launcher. It spewed grenades, but he didn’t aim therefore some sailed off the roof. His feet crashed down. Zhu let his knees buckle and his armored body fell sideways. An American fired at him. It felt as if a giant smashed Zhu in the side. Fortunately, his dinylon armor staved off death by deflecting the bullet. He took another round, grunting in pain. Then Zhu found his assault rifle in his hands. He had no idea how it had gotten there. Methodically, from on his belly, he began firing bursts. More Eagle flyers landed. Gunhawks chain-gun fired sections of roof. It was chaos, madness—war!

The next few seconds were impossible for Zhu to understand. His face was screwed up with fear and faith, with horror and elation. He found himself on his feet, roaring words that didn’t make sense. He jammed the rifle against an armored American’s side and shot his way into flesh.

Then, as suddenly as the mayhem boiled over, it ended. The White Tigers had captured the roof.

“The stairwell!” Tian shouted. “Zhu, cover the door and shoot anyone coming out.”

Once more, Zhu dropped onto his belly. Enemies opened the door and American grenades sailed through at them. He fired, heard thuds, and the grenades went off on the roof. Speckles of shrapnel rattled off his dinylon armor, but he was okay.

From high above, two Gunhawks poured concentrated fire at the stairwell entrance. Zhu had a front row seat to annihilating destruction.

“Reinforcements are on their way!” Tian shouted. “We have to keep the Americans from getting up here.”

In the end, cargo helos disgorged Chinese infantry. They battled their way down the stairwell to begin taking this all-important apartment complex. Meanwhile, below, Marauder flame-spewing tanks and IFVs charged the building. If they could take the bottom floors, they would trap the American soldiers.

The cost in Eagle flyers proved high. The second lieutenant was killed. So was half of the platoon, although most of Tian’s squad had survived.

“This is just like Los Angeles,” Tian said, as he crouched beside Zhu. “It’s an inferno.”

Zhu was too tired to comment. He simply knelt, his mind a blank, glad that he had proved himself once again and had kept from acting like a coward.

DENVER, COLORADO

The helicopter’s blades began to turn as it sat on the tarmac. Inside the helo, Paul felt Romo tap him on the shoulder. He turned to his blood bother. The man was finally out of the hospital and ready to return to the field.

Romo pointed outside.

Paul saw a jeep careen toward the helo. It screeched to a halt and Captain Anderson of SOCOM jumped out. He motioned to Paul.

“I’ll be right back,” Paul told Romo. He slid open the door and jumped onto the tarmac. The chopper’s blades blew his hair. He ran to the jeep.

“Sir,” Paul said, holding out his hand.

“I wanted to say good-bye,” Anderson said.

They shook hands.

“Is General Ochoa still angry about the Mexican assassin?” Paul asked.

“He wished you could have disarmed him instead of giving him a metal beard,” Anderson said.

“Yeah, sure,” Paul said. “It would’ve been so easy to do, too.”

“I want you to be careful, Master Sergeant. Valdez is mental, and he’s not finished with you or your friend.”

“This war,” Paul said, “it’s making us all a little mental.”

Anderson shook his head. “I’m not crazy, though I don’t know about anyone else. Hey, I have a favor to ask you.”

Paul glanced at the jeep. He seemed to recognize the man sitting in the passenger side. The man had a hunter’s cap low over his eyes, making it hard to tell exactly whom it was. “Who is that?”

“Have you forgotten already?” Anderson asked.

“I’ve been busy.”

“That’s Mr. Knowles. You plucked him from Mr. Smith’s farmhouse, from a partisan meeting.”

“Oh, right. Is Knowles the favor?”

“Yes. I’m not too sanguine about Denver’s chances. It isn’t fair to Knowles for him to stay here.”

Paul wanted to ask if it was fair to Anderson. Maybe Colonel Valdez had done Romo and him a favor with the little hospital stunt. The Chinese wanted Denver. How long could the Army hold out here?

“Sure, I’ll take him,” Paul said. “But we’re not going south. We’re headed north to the Main Line of Defense.”

“Good luck, Marine. I hope I see you again.”

“You, too, sir,” Paul said.

They shook hands one more time. Then the captain motioned to Knowles. The older man climbed out of the jeep. He wore sunglasses, and he kept them aimed at Paul.

“You’re leaving here!” Anderson shouted. “I’ve managed to find you a ride out.”

“You want me to go with him?” Knowles asked, pointing at Kavanagh.

“It’s the only ride out for you,” Anderson said.

Knowles stared at Paul. Finally, he shook his head. “No. I’m not going anywhere with him. He’s…” Knowles didn’t finish the sentence.

Anderson licked his lips. “Don’t you understand? Denver isn’t going to—”

As Anderson talked, Knowles looked as if he wanted to give Paul the finger. He turned abruptly and headed back for the jeep, likely the reason Anderson had stopped talking.

“Guess he doesn’t like me much,” Paul said. “Can’t say that I blame him.”

“The fool,” Anderson said. “This is his chance to live.”

The words were like a knife in Paul. Was Anderson right about that? Was Denver doomed?

“I could knock him out again and drag him aboard,” Paul said.

Anderson gave him a sharp look. It seemed he would speak. Instead, he straightened. “Good-luck, Marine. Give the enemy hell.”

“Yes, sir,” Paul said. “You, too.”

“Semper Fi,” Anderson said. Then he headed for the jeep.

Paul looked around a final time. Speaking of Hell…this place was about to go through it. He turned and ran back to the helo.

A few minutes later, the helicopter lifted, heading west toward the Rockies, taking Paul and Romo to their next assignment.

-8-

Dong-Fong 15

THIRD FRONT HQ, COLORADO

Marshal Liang and his Chief of Staff General Ping stood around a computer map of the Third Front. They were alone in Liang’s study, although they could hear the sounds of the Third Front Command personnel through the closed door. Two cups of steaming tea sat on the edges of the map.

The primary frontages were in Colorado, divided between Army Group A and Army Group B. The bulk of Army Group A was storming Greater Denver, while a smaller portion had swung west and attacked Greeley. Greeley was part of the Front Range Urban Corridor, which was on the eastern face of the Southern Rocky Mountains. The city of Greeley anchored the American defenses along the South Platte River, and the fierce resistance by the enemy showed that the enemy had put the rainy weather halt to good use.

Army Group B assaulted along the South Platte River to the west of Army Group A. The area of attack extended slightly into western Nebraska. So far, Liang had kept General Zhen’s Sixth Tank Army in reserve. He waited for a weak spot to appear in the American defenses. Once he found it, he would unleash the Tank Army against the opening. The Tank Army would exploit the weakness to drive into the American rear areas, wreaking havoc by destroying supply dumps, communications and headquarters units.

Liang had expected a stiffening of the American defenses. The mud-induced halt had hurt the Chinese momentum, but he expected to regain it soon. What troubled him more than the enemy’s stiffening resistance was his ally to the east: the South American First Front, commanded by Field Marshal Sanchez. By all appearances, things did not go well with the South Americans, the Venezuelans in particular.

“The First Front is tardy in its assault,” Liang said.

General Ping nodded in agreement.

Liang picked up his tea, gently blowing across it. He touched his lower lips to the cup, but found that it was still too hot. With a click of noise, he set the cup into its saucer.

He’d spoken at length with Chinese observers placed among the SAF forces. All agreed that the Latin Americans had found the invasion too bloody and the defenders too ferocious for their tastes. Some of the elite Brazilian divisions did well, particularly their high-speed armor. But the bulk of the South Americans lacked the needed fire in their hearts and in their bellies to engage the enemy with zeal. They used prodigious amounts of artillery before every attack. They also expended an excessive number of drones, both airborne and ground. Even before the mud-induced halt, the South Americans had showed a decided lack of fervor in the attack. Now, they were late assaulting the Americans and causing a slowing all along the line because they were not pinning down the enemy’s forces.

White Tiger recon teams and deep-penetration drones showed that the Americans had built a heavy defensive system along the North Platte River and the main Platte River in Nebraska. Unfortunately, the SAF First Front had yet to reach the southern Nebraska border. Instead they inched upward through northern Kansas, clearing away American delaying battalions.

Marshal Liang attempted to be philosophical concerning the South Americans. It was good China had allies. For one thing, it added millions more troops to their side. And if the SAF armies lacked aggression, they still made reasonably good garrison troops. Frankly, China needed bodies, great masses of them, to conquer the United States. The South Americans had helped flesh out the invasion force. That was to China’s benefit and it certainly aided Third Front.

However, the lack of SAF fighting power also meant the primary advances would have to come from the two Chinese Fronts. The two outer drives would have to be like a bull’s horns. Those horns would have to encircle the American front and crush everything in the center. Therefore, the South Americans didn’t need to drive the rest of the way to the Canadian border. They simply needed to hold what they had and keep the Americans from escaping their coming doom. It meant the SAF armies were adequate for victory.

There was one problem with the fact of SAF inadequacy. The Chinese horns needed to pierce the American defenses, and the deeper they did so the better. Because of Chairman Hong’s desire to capture the Behemoth Tank Plant, and thereby force the storming of Denver, Liang lacked the necessary power to smash decisively through the hardened American defenses in his region of responsibility.

“We need all of Army Group A,” Liang said. With his right-hand middle finger, he tapped Greater Denver on the map. The tip of his finger happened to touch the “N” in Denver. “Instead of attacking the city, we could use those two armies in the north to help in the main assault.”

“The American line has stiffened considerably,” Ping said. “They have received reinforcements from somewhere.”

That was another thing troubling Liang. He said, “I have read reports of
massive
reinforcements.”

“I have read those reports, too,” Ping said. “I would discount the part of the assistance being massive, but I do agree the Americans have received considerable aid. You and I knew this would occur. The truth: the weather halt hurt us.”

Liang grunted agreement. Ping and he had talked about this for months before the initial invasion. The conclusion had been obvious even then. China must
shatter
the main American Army fast, never allowing it time to regroup and regrow.

Chairman Hong believed his armies would now race to the Canadian border, along the way snatching the crucial oil fields in Montana and North Dakota. Yes, Liang believed those things would happen. First, though, they needed to encircle the Americans in Nebraska in one gigantic trap. A gargantuan battle of annihilation, with one to two million American soldiers caught and devoured. That would win them this campaign and give China the war. For that to occur, they needed to smash through the defensive lines quickly, before more American levies could join the veteran formations.

“This winter might be our last chance to finish this,” Liang said. “The Americans must be mobilizing millions of new troops.”

“Perhaps,” Ping said. “But with German Dominion aid—”

“No!” Liang said. “We cannot count on anyone else to save us. We must mass and punch through these defensive lines now. I need all of Army Group A. I need them to add weight to our northern assaults. Later, I will need them to help encircle the Americans so we may devour the enemy.”

General Ping was silent for a time. He took off his glasses, cleaning a lens with a rag from his pocket. When he put the glasses back on, he said, “The storm-assault into Denver is proving costly in soldiers.”

“We must seal off the Americans there and keep them from receiving aid,” Liang said. “We must destroy I-70. There are many places to break the route.” As he stood, he leaned against the computer map, using his middle finger to tap various locations along I-70.”

“Our Air Force—”

“We will save our Air Force for less costly missions,” Liang said. “I have talked with Marshal Wu and he agreed I should use a portion of our Dong-Fong 15s to break the route.”