Invasion: Colorado (39 page)

Liang had wanted the two divisions to buy him time. They should have done so. They should have been able to halt the American advance for at least a day or two. Instead, they’d vanished in a hail of unprecedented American firepower. It was simply incredible these two armor divisions were gone. The Behemoths had done it, and the new Jefferson MBT-8s.

One thing he’d learned. The T-66s could match the Jeffersons. They could not face the Behemoths, though. The Behemoth was three times bigger and could fire its shell three times farther. Most of the time, T-66 shells bounced off a Behemoth. The Behemoth shells left smoking holes every time.

Liang had already recalculated. He must hit the flank of this drive—hit where there were no Behemoths. He’d do it with massed hovertanks, the perfect raiding vehicles. The Americans had Behemoths, but they advanced south as if flank protection didn’t matter. It did, and would. He would show them how much. The problem was one of timing.

“My quandary is picking the right time to make a second attack,” Liang told Ping. “Should I wait for the Brazilians and coordinate our strike? If I wait, the Americans might get too far, and they might throw trench-works into place. How long will they drive without bothering with their flanks? Not for long, would be my guess. Now they are mobile and aggressive. Now—or in three days, to be more exact—I can mass Zhen’s Tank Army to engage them. The Brazilians will take longer to get ready. If I fight the Americans alone, I may be allowing the enemy to engage our two forces one at a time instead of smothering them with an overwhelming assault.”

Ping nodded, saying, “It is hard to choose the right decision.”

Liang’s left eye twitched. Damn Ping. The Chief of Staff wasn’t committing. It
was
a hard decision.
This is why they made you a Marshal, Liang. You’re the one who has to decide this. Don’t fob it off onto someone else
.

This time, Liang was wrong about having a choice. A half hour later, Hong took the matter out of his hands.

There came a knock at the door. Liang opened it and regarded a worried aide.

“Sir,” the aide said, “Chairman Hong is calling.”

Liang’s left eye grew worse. He closed the door and put his hand on the eye, stilling its involuntary motion. “Sit down to the side and out of sight,” he told Ping. “I want you to hear this.”

Nervously, Ping did as ordered.

Soon, Liang greeted Hong on the screen. “This is an honor, sir.”

“This is a worsening disaster,” Hong grumbled. “The Americans keep driving deeper south. The untrustworthy Germans have caused this mess. If they had invaded the Eastern Coast as planned, we would be crushing the Americans. Now the Americans have regrouped and attacked. Marshal Wu has explained the situation to me in greater detail last night. The Americans drive a wedge between our fronts. It is very clever. They appear to be headed for Denver.”

“I agree,” Liang said.

“You will stop them, Marshal. You must stop them now before they ruin our winter campaign.”

“Leader, I am busy pulling back Zhen’s Tank Army from the frontages near Cheyenne. It will take three days to get them into position. I want to hit the Americans with my full force then, using massed T-66s and hovertanks.”

“No. Three days is too long,” Hong said. “You will gather what you have and do it in two days.”

Liang took a careful breath. The Leader was too impulsive. Didn’t the man realize…?

“Leader, the Americans have caught us by surprise. They must have planned this with great care. Our main forces are engaged elsewhere too deeply for us to simply withdrawal them. I ask for three days to gather my forces. A Tank Army is not a division, sir. It takes time to—”

“Do not think you can lecture me on military tactics,” Hong said angrily. Surprisingly, he checked himself a moment later. He turned away.

Liang waited, uncomfortable with the Chairman’s unpredictable behavior.

Hong faced the screen, regarding him. “You may have a point. Sixty hours, and you must launch a killing counter-offensive.”

The Chairman’s unexpected reasonableness—meeting him halfway—emboldened Liang. He knew how he wanted to do this. Perhaps this was the moment to take a chance with Hong. The American attack seemed to have shaken the Chairman’s usual confidence. The sudden loss of two armored divisions had apparently made the Leader more reasonable. Good for Marshal Wu—
I wonder what he told Hong last night?

“Sir,” Liang said. “I wonder if it might be better to wait until the Brazilians are ready to strike from the other flank with us. If we coordinate this attack—”

“The Brazilians?” asked Hong. “Did I hear you correctly? We are in this dilemma because the Brazilians couldn’t defend their own front. You will not wait for anyone. You will destroy these American hotheads. I tell you, they have scraped the bottom of the barrel and put the last East Coast troops there. If you strike them hard, they will shatter. All that bolsters them are these Behemoths. Destroy them, and their game is over.”

Liang heard the Chairman’s bitterness. He also calculated the time and routes of travel. Zhen was a brilliant tank general. He had a rare gift for moving armor. Sixty hours…yes, he could be ready to start the counterattack by then. But it would be so much better to mass with the Brazilians. There had to be a way to make the Chairman see reason. He had to use the man’s own thinking against him.

“Leader,” Liang said, “I think the Americans have become too bold.”

“Explain that.”

“Sir, you’re right about their scraping the bottom of the barrel in terms of manpower. To amass so many tanks in one location, they must have striped other fronts to do it. If we engage them in a fierce tank contest, our T-66s and hovertanks will chew them to death in a vast battle of annihilation. I will use air to help kill the Behemoths. We will take losses. The battle yesterday taught us that. But we can resupply our Army faster with new tanks than the Americans can with their side. Now if we—”

“See to the counterattack,” Hong said. “Destroy this American Tank Army and kill those Behemoths. I do not want to hear of another Chinese defeat like yesterday. The Brazilians will mop up once you’re done. They’re always late to a battlefield. So you cannot count on them until after you’ve won.”

Hong appeared thoughtful. “The enemy has gathered his final strength and come out in the open. The Behemoths being here show us this is their last throw of the dice of Fate. They no longer hide behind their cowardly defenses. Yes, I am glad to see you’ve regained heart. Once again, I have bolstered one of my wavering marshals. Do your duty, Liang, and I will reward you handsomely. Fail me like the tank generals did yesterday, and your end with be a bitter one.”

Liang despised threats. He was a professional and he would do his best because that’s what he was. The threat was all too real, however.

On the face of it, the American attack looked like a disaster for China. But some hard and clever fighting might well turn everything around again. Perhaps the Chairman had a point. Despite their Behemoths, the Americans were taking a grave risk. They had come out of their defenses to strike. Now was the time to spring traps on them and destroy their Behemoths and operational mobility.

“I hear and obey, Leader,” Liang said.

“I await the coming victory with anticipation,” Hong said. “See that you do not disappoint me.”

With that, the screen went blank.

Liang didn’t waste a moment. He picked up a phone and called General Zhen so they could begin making plans. He had one ace card, one secret to use against the Americans. The enemy had their Behemoths. He had the MC ABMs. It was time to begin moving them into position.

-11-

Counterattack

NORTHEASTERN FLANK, COLORADO

The stars shone brightly as Master Sergeant Kavanagh and Romo patrolled the western flank of Army Group Washington.

There were Militia and Regular Army infantry divisions slogging to close the gap of the advancing tanks. The foot soldiers would build defenses to keep the PAA Third Front surrounded, but the trap hadn’t shut yet and that made the deep-driving units vulnerable.

Paul and Romo moved slowly on their snowmobiles, the front skis sliding over ice crystals, leaving a furrow behind them. Each man scanned the western flatlands. They used their night-vision visors switched to long-range scan. For Paul, it was an endless wasteland where little moved, a frozen land supinely accepting the Arctic cold. Each snowmobile pulled a sled, the skis hissing over the white powder. The attachments carried an abundance of ordnance and survival equipment.

Paul and Romo were part of a larger effort to provide coverage against PAA counterattacks. The Chinese had grown cunning. They used hovertanks and UAVs against the Americans’ growing logistical tail. Each day the rear area lengthened, stretching back to the Platte River Line.

The American Second Tank Army spearheaded the advance toward Colorado Springs. The lead units had already covered an incredible two hundred miles, half the distance there. Behind Second Tank Army followed Ninth Army and then the Canadian First Army. Trucks, oil tankers and haulers crisscrossed back and forth, bringing up badly needed supplies. The fighting had been stiff in places, the use of U.S. munitions prodigious. Despite the around-the-clock effort, the ground haulers weren’t enough. The Army Group used an inordinate number of air transports, bringing fuel to thirsty tanks.

Lately, the Chinese pinprick counterattacks had increased. They sent hovertank companies, sometimes battalions. The objective was simple: destroy supply dumps and transport vehicles. If the enemy could drain away enough gas and munitions, the drive to Colorado Springs would dry up of its own accord without any major combat. That would also strand Army Group Washington out in the open for the Chinese to slice and dice at will.

Paul and Romo were only part of the side guard. Helicopters and AWACS patrolled the lengthening flank. Drones and bombers waited in the air with Hellfire III missiles. The air assets swooped out of the night sky, bringing vengeance against the Chinese raiders. Various LRSU units, together with Marine Recon and other elite soldiers, formed an early warning line thrown out like a net to catch the elusive Chinese.

The enemy hovertanks acted like ancient Scythians or Great Plains Indians. They raided, using their mobility to flee the strong and their cannons to destroy the weak: in this instance, supply vehicles or supply and fuel dumps.

Paul swayed on his snowmobile, half-asleep from endless days and nights of patrolling. His suit’s heater had been malfunctioning lately, shutting off at the oddest times. He needed to see a tech about it, but hadn’t been back to base for some time.

“To your right,” Romo said, the words reverberating in Paul’s helmet. “We’d better stop,” the former assassin added.

Paul took his hand off the throttle, letting the machine slide to a halt. In the darkness, Romo pulled up beside him.

“Eight-eight-two,” Romo said.

Using the grid coordinates on his HUD, Paul looked there. He moved his jaw, giving him extreme magnification with his binocular vision.

“They look like dots,” Paul said.

“We’ve seen these types of dots before,” Romo said. “The very top seems to have a little hump.”

After a moment, Paul grunted agreement. Romo had good eyes.

“They’re Chinese hovertanks,” Romo said.

Paul kept his head still. If he twitched even the slightest bit, he lost visual due to the distance. “Okay. I’m counting seven of them.”

“Seven,” Romo agreed.

Paul yawned. It lost him the visual, but he didn’t care now. He used the helmet radio, reporting in to SOCOM HQ, AG Washington. He spoke to the air controller on duty and quickly discovered that there weren’t any drones available in their region.

“The hovertanks are moving,” Romo said. “It looks like they’re headed in our direction.”

Paul heard a noise then. He looked up, scanning the star-studded sky. “Hey, what’s that?”

Romo glanced up. A second later, he dove off his snowmobile, landing on his chest in the snow. “It’s Chinese—a chopper! Get down. I think they spotted us.”

Paul didn’t dive. Instead, he jumped off the snowmobile and clumped to the sled. Flipping off the top, he grabbed the last Blowdart launcher.

Machine guns opened up from the enemy helo hovering in the night. Clearly, the Chinese also patrolled along the flank, not like guards but like hungry wolves. Romo was right: they’d been spotted.

Were the helos hunting patrollers? It was crazy bad luck to have this enemy machine here now.
Why’s the helo so quiet? We should have heard it way before this
. Paul knew the Chinese used ultra-quiet helos to hunt guerillas, with some success.

There was little discreet about the Chinese machine gun. Big, brutal bullets tore into Romo’s snowmobile. The assassin had a sixth sense about these things and moved in time, although just barely. Paul heard the bullets’ metallic screeches. It sounded like a giant throwing punches. Something metal struck his helmet, propelling his head forward. It must have been a glancing hit, though, because he was still alive and his helmet lacked a hole.

Snarling, raising the Blowdart launcher, Paul sighted the helo hovering to his left. Its heavy machine gun blazed, raining bullets at him. In a moment he would be dead from them.

Before the fatal gun-swivel brought those bullets hosing into his body, Paul calmly pulled the trigger. The ejection charge whooshed, launching the missile. Its orange contrail climbed into the sky, doing it fast.

“Get down!” Romo shouted over the radio.

For once, Paul didn’t. He watched. Maybe he was too tired to realize his danger. The missile raced up at the helo, a winter gift for the invaders. The helo pilot must have realized his danger. The machine swerved to the right, and it threw off the gunner. Bullets hammered the ground in front of Paul. He could feel them, the slugs ripping into the frozen sod. It made his nape hairs stand on end. Then the bullets stopped hitting so near, falling elsewhere.