Invasion: Colorado ia-3

by Vaughn Heppner

  “What’s the problem?” Wang asked.

  “HQ says Behemoth tanks are out there,” the specialist said.

  It took Wang a moment to decipher what that meant. “The Behemoths from California?” he asked.

  The radar specialist nodded. “The general has ordered us to attack.”

  Once more, Wang grinned. The general always ordered them to attack. So far, except for a few bitter fights, they had overrun everyone brave enough to face the T-66s.

  “The general said this is the perfect condition to take on those beasts,” the specialists said. “They are fancy, long-range fighters who fear to come face to face with us.”

  “Do you have coordinates for the Americans?” Wang asked.

  The specialist handed him a paper with scribbles on it.

  Wang studied the paper a moment. “It’s time to wake up!” he shouted to the others. “Eat your favorite food and relive yourself. We’re racing to kill these American heroes.”

  “Heroes?” the Soldier Rank driver asked.

  “They dare to face us in the open,” Wang said. “The last American heroes to do that are all dead or in the POW cages.”

  “These are the Behemoths,” the driver said.

  Behind his woolen mask, Wang sneered. “They can’t be that good, or the Americans would have used the Behemoths by now. These Americans can never get it right. The Behemoths are long-range fighters and now we’re facing them in a blizzard. That’s the right weather for us.”

  “If only our heater worked,” the driver complained.

  “No malingering in my tank,” Wang said. “I want to personally destroy two of these giant tanks. That will gain us a prize from the General. And you know what I’ll ask for?”

  “That they fix our third turret?” the radar specialist asked.

  “No!” Wang shouted. “That the mechanics fix our heater. That’s why we’re fighting today: for a new heater.”

  The crew glanced at each other and began to nod.

  “Let’s kill these Behemoths,” Wang said.

  The crew cheered.

  NORTHEASTERN EDGE, COLORADO

  Stan didn’t do anything fancy. This was the Great Plains. It was flat terrain. He spread out his eighteen Behemoths in a long line.

  He climbed out the hatch. He could barely make out the Behemoths on either side of him. The howling had stopped, so he heard the rattle and clank of the treads. Around him, the snow fell with great big flakes.

  “Stan!” Jose shouted from within the compartment.

  Stan shut the hatch and sat in his commander’s chair. Despite the magnetic hydraulics, the great vehicle lurched as it lumbered across a dip in the terrain.

  “What’s all the shouting about?” Stan asked.

  “Fred Larch’s Bradleys have T-66s on their radar,” Jose said. “He’s pretty nervous exposed out in the front like that. If the snow clears, he’s dead. He said he doesn’t t know how long he’ll be able to keep his location.”

  Stan began tapping the information onto the various screens. This fight was going to be by radar. Visuals and thermals would be better, but in this weather, one had to take what he could get. Picking up his microphone, he began giving orders to the various crews.

  In less than two minutes, the Behemoths were ready for battle.

  “Here we go,” Stan said to his own crew. “I don’t know how the falling snow will affect our penetrators, but we’re about to find out. Fortunately, the wind has mostly died down.”

  The engine revved to provide extra power. They would need every volt to supply the energy to fire the rail-gun.

  Four and a half miles away, the lead elements of the Pan-Asian Alliance 14th Division came into Fred Larch’s Bradleys’ radar range.

  Stan picked up his microphone to speak to all the Behemoth commanders. “Those are T-66s, gentlemen. If we knock them out—these two armored divisions—the Chinese don’t have anything else near that can possibly face us.”

  Stan nodded to the gunner. The man fed the Bradley-gained data into the targeting AI.

  “Fire,” Stan said softly.

  A fierce surge shook the tank as the penetrator left the cannon three times faster than a speeding bullet. It burned through the air at Mach 10, a lethal round aimed at a distant, tri-turreted tank.

  Stan watched his screen, watching by radar. The round hit the T-66. The one hundred ton tank stopped dead in its tracks. Slowly, it toppled onto its right side. That’s what he wanted to see. They could hit the enemy in this weather—beautiful.

  “Fire at will,” Stan said into his microphone.

  In the heavily falling snow, the eighteen Behemoth tanks—the ones spread out in a line—began to do exactly that.

  GRID NINE-FIVE-EIGHT, COLORADO

  First Rank Wang’s eyes were huge and staring in his ski mask. Like a frightened gopher, he had his head outside the hatch of his T-66. Snow fell around him in big flakes, wet and heavy. Through the dampening snow, he heard another sickening clang. It was like a devil beating a beastly gong, like evil thunder. Something unseen exploded mightily. A second later, he witnessed the craziest, most surreal thing. It appeared as a hazy shape first. Then Wang realized what he saw: a turret doing cartwheels before his tank, rolling and rolling. It pin-wheeled back into the falling snow and became hazy again and then it disappeared. A moment later, he heard a great thud on the frozen ground.

  Wang had never seen something like that at close range. The Behemoths—the Americans monsters—were living up to their terrible legend.

  “Fire!” Wang shouted.

  “I don’t have a target,” the gunner shouted up.

  “Fire anyway!” Wang roared.

  He hated the waiting. There was flash of something to his right. He spied a burn of light through the falling snow. The burning thing hissed overhead. He waited, but there wasn’t a clang to tell him this enemy round had hit.

  Was that for us? Have they targeted my T-66?

  For the first time during the war, First Rank Wang wanted to flee the battleground.

  “First Rank!” the radar specialist shouted. “There are…American Bradleys to our left.”

  “Turn the cannons on them!” Wang screamed. “We must hit back. We must—”

  Wang heard a shriek of noise. It sounded like death calling. Then a shock of tremendous force struck the tank. Wang’s eyes opened even wider than earlier. He felt the heat first. Then a shock wave and then a sensation like fire blew him out of the turret. He flew into the air, and he had the rare privilege of seeing his tank explode beneath him. Flames belched from the cannons. One tongue of fire flickered wildly. He knew those didn’t come because they shot at someone. No, they were pure flames because of the destruction of his tank and crew inside the compartments.

  The Americans are finally fighting back. He had time to think that as he flew through the air. Then he became aware of something wrong with his legs. He looked down and saw that he lacked trousers. They had burned off. He tumbled down and struck the frozen ground hard enough to snap his neck.

  The great Chinese invasion of the United States of America ended that moment for First Rank Wang. He had known months of victory and months of advance. Now, he was dead, just another corpse in the falling snow.

  THIRD FRONT HQ, COLORADO

  Four days after the start of what everyone now realized was an American offensive, Marshal Liang had lost his icy calm, his legendary steadiness. He did not pace, even though he itched to walk up and down in his study. He could control that urge. The giveaway was a tic in his left eye. It twitched from time to time. He could do nothing to stop it, and it shamed him.

  He stood with General Ping around a computer map. Outside the closed door, they heard officers arguing in the command center. Ping glanced at him too much lately, but Liang refused to say anything about it. Instead, he concentrated on the map, trying to derive an insight that would allow him to deal with the new situation constructively.

  The last few weeks had be
en frustrating enough. Army Group A controlled ninety percent of the Front Range Urban Corridor. He had toured the shattered Behemoth Manufacturing Plant in Denver. The plant was smaller than he had envisioned, and there was nothing mass-production about it. He hadn’t sent the specific information on that to Chairman Hong yet because he feared the man’s reaction to the news. It was the one piece of good news, however. It meant the Americans owned fewer Behemoths than he had envisioned. The enemy already had too many of those amazing tanks.

  As he thought about the Behemoths, Liang’s left eye quivered. He wanted to clamp a hand over it and make the tic stop. He glanced at Ping, but the general didn’t look up. Did Ping know the orb twitched? Is that why he studiously kept his head down?

  Enough! I have more to worry about than a twitching eye.

  Army Group A controlled ninety percent of Greater Denver, but the remaining Americans in the pocket still hung on. The few American prisoners were grimy to a man. Every one of them had filthy, worn clothes and gaunt, staring faces. How the remaining soldiers found the energy to keep fighting, Liang didn’t understand. He had finally prevented the American airdrops to them. His fighters and particularly the MC ABMs had made it too costly for the Americans to attempt any more dropping of supplies to the trapped soldiers.

  That interdiction had been achieved seven days ago now. The remaining enemy in Denver was like a pack of rats living in the rubble and ruins. He didn’t really care about them now. The cost to take the metropolitan area had been staggering in numbers and time. He had squandered a full month—five and a half weeks actually. Worse, at Hong’s orders, he’d fed an inordinate number of troops into the urban furnace to achieve the victory. And for what: that pathetically small manufacturing plant?

  Now, he withdrew vital units from Denver and the surrounding towns. He pulled tanks and hovercraft from Army Group B, which had reached Cheyenne and taken it. Yes, they had taken the city in time for the Americans to attack.

  Where have the Americans gotten all these extra soldiers?

  He knew part of the answer. It was so galling. Chairman Hong had fallen for a sly European trick.

  “The Germans betrayed us,” Liang said.

  “That is true,” Ping said. “Yet strategically, I can understand their thinking.”

  Liang’s left eye twitched again. Ping could speak calmly. It wasn’t his head on the chopping block. Chairman Hong hadn’t berated him for allowing the catastrophe to occur.

  As if I was the one who ordered Army Group A into Denver. But even that misses the point.

  “We miscalculated concerning the American reserves,” Liang said. He shook his head. “We needed to crush the Americans at the very beginning. We made them bleed, but we needed to kill their Army. It survived long enough to regroup because of the treacherous mud.”

  Ping looked up. He appeared stupefied with the last statement, with his enlarged eyes staring through thick and distorting lenses.

  Liang managed a brief smile. Didn’t Ping see? Didn’t the Chief of Staff understand? Am I the only one who knows what this enemy offensive means? It’s the end of our grand adventure. We miscalculated, thinking the Americans a weak and beaten people. That was the real mistake.

  “The Brazilians are regrouping,” Ping said. “They’re gathering their best armor divisions for a counterattack. Soon, together with us, they will nip these American penetrations and crush their formations. Afterward, we will resume the offensive.”

  “You can say this after the destruction of our two armored divisions?”

  “They were a stopgap measure,” Ping said. “We did not yet realize the magnitude of the enemy offensive. Now that we know, we will take the necessary steps to crush them.”

  Liang looked away. His Chief of Staff spoke for the recordings now. Had it gone this far then? Where their heads already on the chopping block?

  Liang focused on the map. Army Group A was embroiled in Denver and Army Group B engaged in and around Cheyenne. The savage fighting in Denver had whittled down too many divisions, bleeding them white. In Cheyenne and the surrounding territory, the problem was quite different. The Americans facing them pressed forward, keeping up the pressure. Any rearward movement in mass might collapse the entire front. That would bring about a disaster during the middle of a grim American winter.

  “Zhen’s Tank Army—” Ping said.

  “Yes, we must use the Tank Army,” Liang said, interrupting his Chief of Staff. He would have to withdraw Zhen’s forces from the northern front and rush infantry divisions into their place. He needed to fortify the north front in and around Cheyenne, putting Army Group B on the defensive.

  “Here is my quandary,” Liang said. He’d been thinking about the problem for hours already—no, longer, in fact.

  The enemy had shattered the South Americans nearest Third Front. Weak Venezuelan corps had fled en masse, a large majority dying on the open snow. The Americans had been merciless. Worse for the Venezuelans, it had been a most disgraceful way to perish.

  The loss of those corps had created a large gap in the SAF Front. Field Marshal Sanchez rushed new units there, but the Americans had driven a wide gap between the PAA Third Front and the SAF First Front: it included northeastern Colorado and the bottom, southwestern Nebraska. Through the gap raced an American Tank Army of tremendous hitting power. It swept everything before it, crushing the 14th and 92nd Armor Divisions, two excellent tank formations. They were gone now, destroyed during a snowstorm.

  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 sou
th. 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.”