Invasion: Colorado ia-3

by Vaughn Heppner

“As a matter of fact he has,” Larson said. “They’ve been good ideas, too.”

  McGraw gave Stan a measuring study. “I hear you won the Medal of Honor up in Alaska during the first Chinese invasion.”

  “Yes sir,” Stan said.

  “Old son, don’t you ‘yes sir’ me. I read the brief. In Alaska, you went against orders, everyone’s orders, and blew up the storage tanks the Chinese desperately needed.”

  Stan should have known McGraw would have read up on the commanding officers in around the Denver area. The man was big and he looked as if he must be stupid, but Tom McGraw did his homework. He was like a football coach who stayed up until three A.M. each night watching film of the opposing team. Back in the day, little had caught Tom by surprise. It seemed as if that hadn’t changed.

  “Let’s hurry up and look at your men,” Tom said. “It’s cold out here and I don’t like a soldier freezing his balls off unless there’s a good reason for it. Afterward, you can show me a Behemoth. I’ll climb through it and gush about what it can do. We’ll do all that and then you and I are going to drink a lot of beer, do you hear me?”

  “I sure do, sir.”

  “Old son, who do you think you’re talking to?”

  “You bet, Tom. Let’s get drunk.”

  General McGraw grinned at Larson. It made deep skin-crinkles at the outer corners of his eyes: the mark of an outdoor man. McGraw elbowed the lean general in the side. Larson looked uncomfortable at the treatment. He was a good commander, but didn’t care for the roughhousing of a man like Tom, especially before the men.

  “We’ll swap stories,” Tom told Stan. “And then I’m going to tell you what you can do for me.”

  Right, Stan thought to himself. After the beers, Tom would tell him to get his butt into gear and get those Behemoths ready to roll. They were going to kick some Chinese rear.

  Larson checked his watch.

  “You busy, General?” McGraw asked Larson.

  “No, I simply—”

  “Sure you’re not,” McGraw said. “Go on, do what you need to. I haven’t had a moment’s rest in weeks, months, really. Stan and I are going to drink a few. I’ll speak to you before I leave. Until then, let me unwind with an old friend.”

  “As you wish, General,” Larson said. He saluted crisply. McGraw saluted back.

  How do I tell Tom this is the wrong time to attack with the Behemoths? No, Stan amended. How do I tell him so this fire-eater can understand it?

  * * *

  Several hours later, as the sun set into the mountains, Stan and Tom McGraw sat in the small officer’s club of the Behemoth Tank Park. They were at a round table, with a dozen empty beer bottles on the wooden surface. A plate of sandwiches was the beers’ only company.

  “Now let’s have a real drink,” Tom said.

  Stan signaled the enlisted waiter. The rest of the officer’s club was empty, McGraw having sent everyone else away.

  Tom gave the drink order, and soon the two of them sipped whiskey on the rocks. They kept reminiscing about old times and swapped battle stories. They kept drinking, nibbling on sandwiches as the hours ticked away.

  I shouldn’t drink so much, Stan told himself. I bet this is how it started with my dad.

  Tom picked up another whiskey. His round cheeks had turned red and his eyes had become glazed. The big general almost appeared asleep as he peered at something on the table.

  “You’ll have to excuse me for a minute,” Stan said. “I need to relieve myself.”

  “Go on, take your piss,” Tom said, waving him away with those huge hands. Stan had never gotten over the size of the fingers. He noticed Tom had a worn, gold wedding ring. He’d heard several years ago that Tom’s wife had died. Had the general remarried?

  Lurching out of the dining area, Stan went to the head and relived himself. He came back to find the general swirling his whiskey so the ice cubes clinked.

  As Stan sat down, Tom slammed the glass onto the table, making the empty beer bottles wobble. Stan watched in fascination. The nearest one swayed more than the rest so it almost tipped over. Then it righted itself until it came to rest. Stan laughed, nodding in appreciation.

  “Professor, I have a confession to make.”

  Lifting his head, Stan aimed bleary eyes at Tom. “You’ve never had a problem in your life.”

  “Who said anything about a problem? I said a confession.”

  “But you mean problem,” Stan said.

  Tom squinted at him. “You always were a smart SOB. Is your head still full of historical parallels and theorems?”

  “It is indeed,” Stan said.

  “What does this situation remind you of?”

  “Do you mean the Chinese approach toward Denver?”

  “We can start there,” Tom said. “What do you see?”

  Stan smiled drunkenly. These days, he tried to keep the majority of his insights to himself. He’d found that people weren’t interested in his opinions on running a war. Well, General Larson was, but few others. They seldom appreciated his historical parallels. But if Tom had asked—

  “These rains remind me of the Grand Turk on his march to Vienna in 1529,” Stan said.

  “Why is it you can never answer straight?” Tom asked.

  “The Grand Turk in this case was Suleiman the Magnificent,” Stan said. “He ruled the Ottoman Empire and was the last great warrior chief of an amazing family. The Turks had invented an interesting system of slave soldiers: tough European boys stolen from their parents in the Balkans, raised as Muslims and forbidden to marry. The slave soldiers—Janissaries—were like monkish Spartans, trained to fight and conquer. They provided the horse-archer Turks with excellent infantry. That was something the Turks had always lacked.

  “Anyway, it was 1529 and the Grand Turk was on the march. He was invading Europe again, marching on the city of Vienna on the Blue Danube. If he could conquer the Austrian city, he would have likely incorporated the land into the empire and made ready to gobble up the rest of Europe.”

  Stan folded his hands over his stomach as he sat back, making the chair creak. “Like our Chinese invaders, the Turks had hordes of soldiers under their banner. Unfortunately for them, it rained like it’s been raining here. It turned everything muddy and caused the rivers to overflow. What it meant for Suleiman was he didn’t bring his giant siege cannons in time. They were impossible to transport through the mud. Most of Europe then was heavily forested with almost no metaled roads. Even the Danube flotilla couldn’t float those huge cannons.

  “That was one of Suleiman’s secrets—not the mud, but the cannons, some of them weighing up to twelve tons apiece. The gigantic cannons were important because they could knock down the old medieval walls that had made castles and walled cities so impenetrable in the preceding centuries. I know you’ve seen movies where catapults and other siege engines use rocks to batter and blow apart heavy stone walls. That’s pure fiction. Until gunpowder-powered cannons came along, those walls stood up against just about anything. Sometimes sappers dug under walls and brought them down with cave-ins. Most of the time starvation was the only way for besiegers to capture walled cities and castles. With this high-tech invention—the big new cannons—those formerly impenetrable walls became yesterday’s news. The cannons had made them obsolete.”

  “The ancient Assyrians would have shown you otherwise,” Tom said. “They stormed walled cities.”

  “The Assyrians used terror to sap morale, gold to open locked doors and siege towers to send their hardened warriors over the top to take the city in bloody butchery. They never blew down walls with quick-firing catapults.”

  “Okay,” Tom said. “You’ve made your point about cannons. So what happened next with this Suleiman?”

  “The Siege of Vienna is what happened. Some tough Spanish and German soldiers had bolstered the city garrison, and they fought savagely, keeping the Turks and their slave soldiers at bay. During the next phase of the invasion, the cost in Turkish dead became
too much, and finally Suleiman retreated. That marked the Turks’ deepest penetration into Europe and the beginning of their long military decline.”

  “So it all had to do with the rain?” Tom asked.

  “The rain helped the defenders. But the hard fighting in the city was the key,” Stan said. “The rain is what gave them the chance because of the delay and the lack of Suleiman’s siege cannons meant the walls still stood.”

  “And that reminds you of the Chinese approach toward Denver?”

  “Some,” Stan said. “It’s given us time, but do we have the tough Spanish and German reinforcements as they had in Vienna? It’s too early to tell. I’ve heard how Homeland Security is raising more Militia battalions. That’s good. We need more bodies if we’re going to stop the Chinese. Regulars would be better, but right about now we need numbers almost as much as quality.”

  Tom nodded slowly. He picked up his drink, staring at Stan. The man’s big hand engulfed the glass so it seemingly disappeared. He threw the whiskey back, gulping the contents in one swallow.

  “You read too much,” Tom said profoundly.

  “It’s been said.”

  “You think too much, too.”

  Stan shrugged.

  “But you have the most insightful ideas sometimes.”

  “You’re being generous,” Stan said. He liked the praise nonetheless.

  Tom stared at the empty shot glass in his hand. He rose unsteadily, cocked his arm and hurled it against the wall. The glass shattered, the shards tinkling onto the tiled floor.

  “Give me another!” Tom roared, crashing back onto his chair. He slammed a meaty fist onto the table. This time, the beer bottles hit each other as they tumbled. Several rolled off the table and struck the floor.

  Stan motioned to the worried-looking waiter hanging back by the kitchen entrance. “You heard the general. Hurry up and get him another.”

  The waiter bobbed his head, turning away.

  “We’re screwed, old son,” Tom muttered. “The Chinese and their Nancy-boy South Americans are too well-armed. And despite your numerous Militiamen, the enemy has arrived in too great a number for us. The United States is about to become history, just another story for you to repeat to bored students.”

  “You can’t really believe that,” Stan said. “You of all people should know—”

  “Me?” Tom shouted. “Why do I of all people have to fool myself? Do you think I’m that stupid?”

  “Not at all,” Stan said.

  “Where’s that whiskey?” Tom shouted, as he looked around.

  “It’s coming.”

  “Sir, you should call me sir.”

  “Yes sir,” Stan said.

  “Bah!” Tom said, hitting the table again, although not as forcefully as before.

  The waiter arrived and set another whiskey on the table. Then he slunk away. McGraw had that effect on people.

  Tom stared at the floor, slowly shaking his head. “Stan, old son, there are too many of them. They’re clever bastards, too, and the Chinese know how to fight. They’ve chewed us up and forced us deep onto the plains. We don’t have enough trained men. You said that earlier and that’s the truth of it.”

  “I know I said that,” Stan replied. “But it’s possible we’re both wrong.”

  Tom McGraw’s head snapped up. “What do you mean I’m wrong? Have you been out there?”

  “I mean we’re doing this the wrong way,” Stan said. “We’re trying to match them strength for strength everywhere. I can understand why the Joint Chiefs think that’s the way to do it, but it’s just so stupidly wrong that I can hardly believe it.”

  “And the Professor knows what to do?” Tom sneered.

  Stan shrugged, wondering if he’d said too much. Maybe he shouldn’t have slammed away so many shots. His lips felt numb. They’d certainly been flapping too much tonight.

  “No, no,” Tom said sarcastically, “don’t stop now. Tell me the great secret, Professor.”

  “It’s hardly a secret,” Stan said. “A little applied history shows us what to do.”

  “Well?” Tom said. “Are you going to tell me?”

  Stan frowned. Then he spied a tablet at another table. He shoved himself to his feet, staggered there, grabbed the device and turned it on.

  “Are you going to read to me?” Tom sneered.

  Stan slapped the tablet onto the table. A map of the Great Plains appeared, with the edge of the Rockies on one side and the Mississippi River on the other.

  “I’ve told you about Suleiman the Magnificent and the Siege of Vienna,” Stan said.

  “It happened in 1529. You told me already. Do you think I’m deaf?

  “Now I’d rather talk about Napoleon’s invasion of Russia in 1812.” Stan frowned. Just how much had he drunk? He was switching topics too much.

  “Are you trying to stall?” Tom asked. “Tell me the Stan Higgins secret to victory.”

  “I don’t know about a secret,” Stan said, “but in 1812 Napoleon gathered the largest force in history up to that time: the Grand Army. It numbered well over six hundred thousand soldiers. His biggest previous army had been around two hundred thousand. I’m sure you know the story. Napoleon marched on Russia, wanting to make the Tsar, the Russian ruler, obey his Continental System.”

  McGraw stared at him with big, whiskey-wet eyes. It didn’t look as if the general knew anything.

  “At the time of the 1812 invasion, Napoleon was waging economic warfare against the British,” Stan said. “Napoleon said no one could buy British goods. He planned to beggar the British and bring them to their knees economically, since he couldn’t get to them militarily. The naval battle of Trafalgar had seen to that. But the economic war didn’t work out the way it was supposed to for the man from Corsica. The worst offenders for breaking the rules of the Continental System were the Russians. They bought British goods and—”

  “What about the war of 1812?” Tom said impatiently. “I don’t care about the economics of the thing. Get to the fighting.”

  Stan nodded. “Napoleon crossed the Niemen river with his Grand Army, looking to smash the puny Russian forces. Some of the Russian generals wanted to trade space for time. They would keep their army intact, fighting along the way, but always backing up into the deep spaces of their gigantic country. Napoleon tried to catch the main Russian armies and annihilate them fast. They always managed to slip away from his traps.

  “Finally, after months of hard maneuvering, the Russians dug in and built log redoubts on the road to Moscow, setting up for a grim fight. Napoleon beat them at the Battle Borodino, although the French Grand Army took bitter losses doing it. Napoleon might have crushed the Russians at the end of the battle, but he feared to send in his Old Guards, his last un-bloodied formation, his final reserve. What if his last stable troops were ground down to a nub in the battle? Napoleon said something like the victory would have been too costly for him. Instead of crushing the beaten Russians, he let them march away.

  “In the end, a battlefield-victorious Napoleon reached Moscow. Russian terrorists burned the city to the ground, leaving the French a smoldering ruin. After many weeks of negotiating, Napoleon finally realized the Tsar wasn’t going to make peace with him but was playing for time, for winter to arrive and do its freezing work. Napoleon started marching for home, but he took the wrong route back, retracing the same way he’d come. That meant his soldiers had already plucked the countryside bare of supplies. Most of the straw-roofed homes were smoldering ruins this time, their grim trademark.

  “Disease began to do its work, while angry Russian peasants bushwhacked French stragglers. Swift-riding Cossacks harried the French flanks. Soon the harsh winter weather arrived. Sickness, hunger, the punishing cold and battle losses eventually destroyed the Grand Army. Napoleon barely escaped with his life, and his legend of invincibility had been shattered. The Russian plan had worked due to luck and persistence.”

  Tom pursed his lips. “Are you saying we shoul
d pull back deeper into the northern prairies?”

  Stan tapped the map in the e-reader. “I’m saying we should be cagier in our approach. Look, we’ve fought the summer and autumn battles. We took grim losses, but the main U.S. Army still exists. We’ve already traded space for time and now winter approaches.”

  “The Chinese will just keep on marching deeper into the Great Plains,” McGraw said, “cutting our nation in half. The Chinese are better supplied than Napoleon ever was.”

  “Look at the map,” Stan said. “Do you see all the space they control? I’ve read reports and I know Americans are turning into partisans. They’re becoming like the Russian peasants, cutting off enemy stragglers and blowing up supplies. That costs China soldiers, weakening their overall Army as they put guards everywhere. Look at the length of the Mississippi River. The Chinese are using troops to guard it, too. That pulls out yet more soldiers from their advancing fronts.”

  “They still have far more soldiers than we do,” McGraw said.

  “It’s the Battle of Borodino time,” Stan said with drunken certainty. “But with a German World War II twist.”

  “Meaning what?” McGraw asked.

  “In 1812, the Russians strengthened their army at Borodino by building redoubts: log barricades. Those redoubts were force multipliers for the troops behind them. It meant they could face the French charge. We need to build a Great Plains defensive line and throw every Militiaman Mr. Harold has gathered behind them. Of course, we should stiffen those Militiamen with Regular Infantry and—”

  “And tanks,” McGraw said.

  “No!” Stan said. “That’s where you change up the historical parallel with a German WWII idea.”

  McGraw frowned, but finally nodded. “I’m listening.”

  “We have to mass all our tanks and mobile artillery into one big fist,” Stan said. “That’s what the Germans did for the invasion of France in 1940. Did you know that the French and British had more tanks than the Germans did in that swift historical campaign? Some of the Allied tanks were better than the German tanks. The German advantage was concentration. Instead of spreading out their tanks everywhere, they put them altogether. It was the difference between slapping a man in a fight and punching him in the face. We have to punch the Chinese in the face with all our tanks in one spot.”