Invasion: Colorado ia-3

by Vaughn Heppner

  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. Someth
ing 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.

  At that moment, the missile struck the helo. Paul heard the Blowdart warhead explode, and it created a spectacular effect. Paul watched with his night-vision visor as a fireball billowed into existence. Metal rained as the helo flipped in a seemingly slow-motion cartwheel, and then it plummeted. Going down, the burning machine shed two Chinese aircrew.

  Did they bail out, or were they thrown out by the centrifugal force? Paul had no idea. He knelt in the snow, watching the spectacle. The helo hit the ground with a tremendous smash. It shook Paul so that he swayed, which seemed to wake him up.

  “Are you crazy?” Romo shouted. He came running, doing it much too slowly. It was difficult to move quickly in the heavy suits and the assassin was proving it.

  Paul blinked dry eyes. He was so freaking tired. He just wanted to sleep. Instead, he stood up.

  Romo neared, and he inspected the shot-up, tipped-over snowmobile. “It’s ruined.”

  Paul turned back to the distant specks—only they weren’t specks anymore. The hovertanks had covered ground fast. He could clearly see the smaller turret and the short-barreled cannon sticking from it. Had one or more of them seen this little firefight? Yes, of course they had. How could they have missed it in the darkness?

  “The hovers are coming,” Paul said.

  Romo looked up, and he cursed in Spanish. He rechecked his flipped sled, and he began pulling out Javelin launchers.

  “They’re coming for us,” Paul said.

  “Si. That means we don’t have much time.”

  Paul glanced at his blood brother. Right. They had to fight. He lurched toward him, and he helped Romo cart Javelins to his sled. He piled the extras among his own.

  Flipping up his visor, exposing his face to the cold, Paul rubbed his burning eyes. His gloves dribbled snow, which slid down to his throat. Yikes. That was cold. Blinking, he closed the visor and studied the hovertanks. They were coming on fast, seven of them. Seven armored vehicles with cannons and machine guns. It would be David against Goliath out here on the open snow.

  “Let’s go,” Paul said. The sleepiness had vanished from his brain. He was wide-awake as his heart pounded in his chest.

  He jumped onto the snowmobile and twisted the throttle, listening to the engine whine with power. Romo sat behind him. Paul turned the vehicle and he opened it up. The back treads clattered as they zipped, and they fled across the snow before the approaching hovertanks.

  Paul contacted the air controller. “Hey AWACS!” he shouted. “Do you have some kind of air support for us now?”

  “No, sorry. I already told you. There’s a big attack going on one hundred miles south of you. You’re on your own for another half hour at least.”

  That was just great. Army Group Washington was supposed to have everything the soldiers needed. It looked like that didn’t include the flank guards.

  As he and Romo sped across the snow, Paul gave the coordinates of the seven following hovertanks. “If they get us—”

  “I’m alerting Supply Company Nine now,” the air controller said.

  Paul looked back. The hovertanks were faster than the snowmobile. The mothers were catching up faster than he’d expected.

  “Good luck, Kavanagh,” the air controller said.

  “Sure,” Paul said. “You too.”

  “We have to go to ground!” Romo shouted. “They’ll pick us off soon if we stay on the snowmobile.”

  “I’m already there, amigo,” Paul said. “Do you remember the place half a mile from the farm house?”

  Paul felt Romo turn and look at the hovertanks.

  “We won’t make it there in time,” Romo said.

  Paul glanced back. The hovertanks would be in range long before he reached the area he sought. Romo was right.

  “Okay, listen up,” Paul said. “I’m going to stop and unhook the sled. You keep going and I’ll—”

  “Forget it, brother,” Romo said. “If you stop, I’m jumping off with you. We’ll use the Javelins in tandem.”

  Paul decided it was a waste of breath arguing with Romo. Operation Saturn—it was too ballsy. The President and General McGraw had bitten off too much. The logistical tail was too long. This was an effective use of hovertanks by the enemy, blowing up the rear areas. How did High Command figure they could guard such a large region with snowmobile patrollers and drones? Why were the infantrymen so slow getting into position?

  “Okay,” Paul said. “Our suits are supposed to have camouflage gear. We stop, grab two Javelins each and split up. We crawl through the snow away from each other. Don’t fire until they’re inspecting the snowmobile. Let them think about where we’ve gone, or maybe until one of them pops out of the turret and sees our snow tracks. Then you launch a Javelin, blow up a hovertank.”

  “After that we die,” Romo said.

  “No one lives forever, brother.”

  Romo put a hand on Paul’s armored shoulder. “You are a good brother, my friend. It has been a pleasure knowing you.”

  “We’re not dead men yet.”

  “Si, but we will be soon.”

  Paul didn’t want to think about that. He wanted to hold and kiss Cheri again. He didn’t want his son to be an orphan. This was screwed up. Stupid hovertanks.

  “Are you ready?” Paul asked.

  “Si.”

  Master Sergeant Kavanagh throttled down. In seconds, they stopped. He shut off the machine and hurried to the sled. Paul flipped open the lid and grabbed two Javelins. In the starlight, he stared at Romo.

  “Good luck, you stubborn Apache bastard,” Paul said.

  “You were right before. We’re not finished yet, my friend.”

  Paul ran away in the heavy suit. Then he dove onto the snow and started crawling. He dragged the two Javelin launchers, so he didn’t move fast, that’s for sure. Then he found a small dip in the terrain. He swiveled around and crawled to the lip. He was a football field and a half away from the snowmobile. He couldn’t spy Romo. This was Apache-style warfare, wasn’t it?

  Paul breathed heavily, and he hoped this special suit did indeed camouflage him from the hovertanks’ sensors.

  In the distance a hovertank cannon roared with a belch of flame. Its shell howled in flight, and it blew up the snowmobile, making it jump and turning it into a mess of flying junk.

  Paul readied a Javelin launcher. Through his visor, he watched the hovertanks approach the crumbled snowmobile. Each battle-vehicle rode on a cushion of air. The things floated like science fiction machines. Some of the armored skirts looked shot-up. One of the machine guns on a turret had crumbled. These Chinese hovers had been through a lot of wear and tear. That was something at least.

  Paul waited. What a war. The Chinese and Brazilians tried to conquer a continent. That was just too much territory. How many hundreds of thousands of soldiers had died already? Maybe millions had perished, or they would before this was over. This crazy new Ice Age with its mass worldwide starvation…was U.S. land worth this much blood, sweat and
tears? His own—yeah, it was worth it. But why did the individual Chinese soldier bother? He’d heard about the need for marriage permits. Did the Chinese want hot American babes for wives?

  Once he died, was one of these grasping invaders going to get Cheri?

  “I don’t think so,” he muttered.

  He could hear the hovertanks now. They were loud. The engines whined like giant snowmobiles.

  A flash of light erupted to the west of the first hovertank. Romo—the idiot—he fired too soon.

  The flash or sprouting flame kept going, and it wasn’t bright enough to be a Javelin launch. Paul heard hammering bangs—bullets striking hovertank armor. There were pings and a crash of reinforced plate glass.

  That’s a heavy machine gun firing. Someone else is out here with us. Is that who the helo had been hunting? Partisans?

  Machine guns returned fire from the hovertanks. It took all of ten seconds. The flash of heavy machine gun fire in the snow ended as quickly as it had begun. Hovertanks one, partisans zero.

  That’s it then. Paul aimed a Javelin, and then he pulled the trigger. The missile popped out and whooshed away in a rush.

  Dropping the empty launcher, Paul rolled and grabbed the other one. Then he crawled like a man possessed. Machine gun fire opened up around him. Bullets whined overhead. Others thudded into the ground uncomfortably near. Fortunately, he’d chosen his location well. None of the slugs hit him because he had this concealing fold of ground. Paul kept crawling until sweat beaded into his eyes.

  He swiveled around, and he dared to look up over the lip of terrain. Two of the hovertanks burned nicely. One had a thin oily fume spiraling into the night sky. Two hits, but he’d only fired one missile.