Invasion: Colorado (44 page)

“No sir, not every time.”

“But I expect there is a pattern.”

“I’m not sure.”

“You will write a report, stating the exact times you feed the cub. In the report, you will also record the exact words the Leader utters.”

Shun Li nodded.

Xiao put an insincere smile on his face. It was more a drawing back of his lips, stretching them across his teeth but keeping them hidden.

“I have become concerned about the Leader’s mental health,” he said. “These setbacks in the Midwest are disconcerting. We must help the Leader in any way we can. We must ease the terrible burden for him.”

“That would be wise, sir,” Shun Li said.

The insincere smile widened into a crocodilian grin. “You have become fond of the Chairman?”

“Police Minister,” Shun Li said. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for China. This is a…stressful hour for our country.”

“We will defeat the Americans.”

“I have no doubt of that, sir. They struggle against fate, but in the end, Chinese arms will prevail. It pains me, however, to see the Chairman’s unease at these setbacks. I wish there was some way I could aid him.”

“Yes, that is exactly my thinking. You will write the reports and then I think—depending on the outcome of the next few days of battle—you will be able to help China indeed.”

Cryptic crocodile, he
is
planning a coup. I cannot believe it
. It left Shun Li short of breath.

“That will be all for now,” he told her. “Go. Write the reports, and make sure you are prompt next time.”

“Yes sir,” Shun Li said. This was terrible. Now she didn’t know what to do.

-12-

The Cauldron

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Anna sipped coffee as she sat at the huge computer table in Underground Bunker Number Five. The endless days of emergency meetings had begun to take its toll on everyone, including her and the President.

He’d grown irritated with her lately. And he asked for her advice less often. She felt betrayed, and she wondered what would happen to her if she lost David’s favor. These days, people were even more Sino-phobic, not less. She didn’t understand that. For once, America was on the ascent. They were winning, if encircling two Chinese Army Groups could be called that.

During the summer and autumn battles, the Chinese and Brazilians had often trapped American forces. Sometimes the Americans fought their way out. Sometime, too many U.S. soldiers surrendered to the enemy, marching into captivity.

There had been disturbing rumors about the POWs, about ill-treatment and starvation. David had often asked if they could launch rescue missions into Northern Mexico. The answers had been obvious each time. America couldn’t even defend itself. How could it launch missions into Mexico? How would they ferry ten thousand men to freedom, never mind one hundred thousand or more?

Anna sipped more coffee. She was tired and found it harder to concentrate at these meetings. No one asked her opinion anymore. Their Sino-phobia had begun to eat at her.

She studied the big screen as General Alan spoke about Zhen’s Tank Army. The Canadian First Army had gone through several grueling days of desperate battle. Zhen’s soldiers were veterans and knew their business. For the first two days, it looked like they would burst through the Canadians and destroy them. Several factors had worked against the Chinese. The critical fact in General Alan’s view was worn equipment.

It was true the Canadians lacked the Chinese combined-arms coordination, but no one could doubt their northern neighbor’s stubbornness. By the end of the third day of the slugfest, the Canadians managed to blunt the T-66s and transform the maneuver part of the conflict into grinding attritional fights. There it was more a matter of courage and newer equipment.

Through their blood, the Canadians had bought America time. More Militia formations had moved south, dug trenches and built defenses along the penetration route. A few Regular formations with fast artillery now engaged the tardy Brazilians.

“Mr. President,” General Alan said, “the danger isn’t over for us. General Zhen’s offensive has stalled, but that could be a momentary thing. Marshal Sanchez has begun his drive to reach Zhen. We have a thin screen of Regular Army soldiers holding the line here and here.”

General Alan used a green electronic pointer on the computer map, showing the positions.

“The Canadians are exhausted and still have their hands full corralling the Tank Army,” the President said.

“Yes sir,” Alan said.

“How many Brazilian divisions is Sanchez using against the penetration?”

“He’s stabilized his northern line here in Nebraska, sir,” Alan said. “He’s has to put some of his best units there to stiffen the remaining Venezuelans and Colombians. It has left him little in way of an assault force. I think three of his fastest armored divisions are making the attempt.”

“These soldiers,” the President said, using his pointer. He highlighted the eastern edge of the American penetration, particularity at and around the Nebraska-Colorado-Kansas point, where all three states touched each other. “How many divisions do we have here?”

General Alan shook his head. “We don’t have any divisions, sir. But in numbers, in various battalions, companies and elite units, we have about a division’s worth of men.”

“That’s the critical point then. It looks as if Sanchez knows we’re weak there.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Three to one,” Sims said thoughtfully. “I like those odds for us. I held in Alaska whenever the Chinese attacked at three-to-one odds.”

“Yes sir. Normally, I’d agree with you. But these are three of the best Brazilian divisions and the men facing them are from all kinds of units. They’re an ad hoc group. They’re not used to working together or trusting each other. That makes a difference. The key is that they won’t have to hold for long. But they do need to buy us three days, at least.”

“Air power—”

“We’re stretched everywhere, sir. Our air is engaged helping the Canadian First Army and keeping our Second Tank Army supplied. We’ve completed the encirclement. The Behemoths and other forward elements reached Colorado Springs. Now we have to hold the line against all comers. For an emergency, a critical moment, I’m saving these ballistic missiles. They can reach anywhere on the battlefield.”

“Hmm, that’s not very many,” the President said.

“No sir, but it is our last reserve at the moment.”

President Sims studied the map, switching his gaze from spot to spot. He sat down, stroking his chin, and his features turned from a scowl to a crooked smile.

“Ms. Chen,” he said.

Anna looked up in surprise. David hadn’t addressed her for some time.

“How will Chairman Hong take this encirclement?” the President asked.

“I’m not certain I understand the question, Mr. President.”

“Will he go nuclear to free them?”

“Doubtful, sir,” Anna said. “He would likely expect a massive nuclear retaliation against the trapped troops. With the destruction of the MC ABMs and a massive SAM depletion, he must realize his trapped formations couldn’t stop American nuclear ballistic missiles.”

The President nodded thoughtfully.

“I think Chairman Hong is more concerned about his prestige at home,” Anna said.

“Explain that,” the President said.

“If he loses the Third Front to us—if you march those soldiers into captivity—that’s a massive loss of face for him. It might shake the military’s confidence in Hong. It could cause a severe to total loss of power. It might even cause a coup.”

“I don’t think so,” Director Harold said. He paused to scratch his bald head, his fingernails scraping one of the liver spots. “That’s why Hong has East Lightning. The secret police keep a tight leash on the military.”

“There may come a time when East Lightning loses confidence in the Chairman,” Anna said. “If we defeat the Chinese here…I have no doubt it will cause terrible political consequences for those in power.”

“Do you think Hong understands his danger?” the President asked Anna.

“Not yet, sir,” Anna said. “Given his psychology, I’m sure he still believes he can free his soldiers and continue the conquest of America.”

President Sims rapped his knuckles on the table. “You raise a good point, Ms. Chen. We haven’t won this cauldron battle yet, far from it, in fact. Alan, tell me more about this division’s worth of soldiers facing the Brazilians. And I want to know the exact capabilities of this ballistic missile reserve.”

“Yes, Mr. President. First, I’d like to point out that—”

POINT NEBRASKA-COLORADO-KANSAS

Master Sergeant Kavanagh and Romo waited behind a log redoubt. No one could tell it was made of timber because a thick blanketing of snow covered the wood from last night. Fifty yards on either side of them ranged other snow-clad bunkers, holding other recon teams. The line stretched for several miles with a little under one thousand soldiers spread out in teams.

Paul and Romo wore their white suits, with the heaters presently shut off. The sun shone today, around one in the afternoon. The flat white expanse before them was brilliant because of it. Behind the redoubt sat a single snowmobile.

This line was the forward tripwire against the enemy. There was another line behind them with a greater abundance of Militia troops busily digging trenches and setting up mortar and TOW teams.

Every hour the Brazilians failed to attack gave High Command time to bring more supplies and more soldiers into position. If the Brazilians hit elsewhere, Paul had orders to pack up his precious supply of Javelins and attack the Brazilian flank.

Snowmobiles attacking tanks: Paul didn’t think he’d ever heard of that. It sounded desperate. Was America worried after the grand assault? Maybe they were anxious to hold what they’d taken.

Paul and Romo each sat cross-legged. They had a backgammon set between them. Romo tossed a pair of dice onto the wooden board. The dice bounced and clacked, coming up with seven. They used to play chess, but having to think…Paul and Romo were too tired for that. It was enough to roll the dice and move the pieces around the backgammon board.

From time to time Paul heard jets. The two of them stopped playing and lay flat. Once they saw the markings. Brazilians jets zoomed low to the ground. They didn’t strafe or unload bombs, so that was something. From far to the rear of their positions came explosions.

“The Militia line,” Romo said. “I doubt it’s as well-hidden as our post. I hope the jets didn’t bust it up too much.”

Paul grunted agreement.

Around four in the afternoon, distant American artillery opened up. It fired from the northwest.

Paul shut the backgammon game and set it to the side. Romo took out a cigar and smoked it. Paul lay back and put his hands behind his head. He thought about Cheri and watched cigar smoke curl into the clear sky.

A squawk came from the radio. Paul stirred, acknowledging the call. He discovered that a general spoke to them. The man spoke to the front line of recon teams. Paul had never heard of this general, but the officer ordered them out of the redoubts. He wanted them to head east and attack whatever they found. The Brazilians had struck fifteen miles north of their positions.

“Yes sir,” Paul said, stowing the radio afterward.

“Attack?” asked Romo.

“Let’s mount up,” Paul said.

They left the redoubt at 4:43 P.M. The recon teams didn’t bunch up. That wasn’t their habit. Each set out east and slowly they spread apart from each other.

By 5:36, Paul and Romo discovered they were alone in a wide expanse of nothing. It was dark now. They turned on their suits, used night vision and long-range scanning.

At 7:12, Romo said, “Do you see that?”

Paul didn’t. It was obvious that between them Romo had the better sight. He was younger so it made sense.

Romo pointed. Paul drove and after another quarter-mile, he saw a ribbon of movement on the horizon.

“Hang on,” Paul said. He opened up the throttle.

At 7:52 P.M., the snowmobile’s engine quit. They slid silently for a time and then came to a halt in the snow. They tried, but couldn’t repair it.

Finally, Paul focused on the distant movement. “Trucks,” he said.

“And other supply vehicles,” Romo said.

“It’ll take an hour to get there on foot. They might be gone by then.”

“Radio it in.”

Paul shrugged. He had been about to do that, but he wondered why he bothered. Their side was always running out of smart bombs. Why would it be any different now?

“Say again,” the air-controller said.

Paul told him the info, giving the man the coordinates.

“Do you have a target designator?” the air-controller asked.

“Of course,” Paul said.

“Get closer and put it on them.”

“Let’s go,” Paul told Romo. They left the snowmobile and jogged through the snow. Paul carried a Blowdart launcher and the laser designator. Romo had taken a Javelin.

At 8:17, the air-controller came back online. “Are they still there?”

“Yes and no,” Paul said. “The former supply vehicles have moved on, but we’re near another group.”

“Can you reach them with your laser from where you are?”

“Yes,” Paul said. “You’re telling me you have smart bombs this time?”

“Negative,” the air-controller said. “But somebody upstairs must like you. Once you pinpoint them, ballistic missiles will be on their way.”

Paul knelt and fired the laser at the big trucks moving slowly in the distance. Soon, the ballistic missiles hit the convoy. They started big fires, with belching oil-flames billowing into the starry sky. It was spectacular.

It took an hour and a quarter of trudging through the snow for Paul and Romo to reach the destruction, which took place on an old dirt road. The ballistic missiles had cut a wide swath of destruction. The two men counted fifty-three vehicles. Some still burned. There were countless dead and wounded. Some soldiers carried QBZ-95 assault rifles.

Romo pointed out a truck tilted at a crazy angle. Brazilian soldiers in heavy snow coats manhandled huge crates out of the back of it. The soldiers moved the heavy crates to waiting jeeps. There were seven of them in a line. One jeep already held several of the crates. A soldier climbed into the driver’s side and started the engine.