Invasion: Alaska

by Vaughn Heppner

  “I like it. Not too fancy and it uses how we’ve been reacting—running like mad. This has to stop, Captain. We can’t let them into Anchorage.”

  Stan thought about his dad sitting in jail, and about his wife at home. He thought about the Boones and the people of the Rock Church. What would the Chinese do to them once they reached Anchorage? “I agree with you, sir.”

  “Okay then,” said Williams. “Let’s hurry it and get ourselves set up for round number nineteen.”

  ***

  Speaking with the data-net master sergeant later, Stan learned some valuable information. According to what they knew, the Chinese hadn’t landed many heavy vehicles, or they hadn’t so far. Stan had also learned they weren’t facing the Chinese Army but the Chinese Naval Infantry, which was much like the Marine Corps in structure and design. The Chi-Nav as men had started calling them—it had been Chi-Com during the Korean War, which had meant Chinese Communists. In any case, the naval infantry were independent of the Chinese Army and lacked the heaviest tanks.

  The master sergeant had looked up on the internet for Stan facts about the Chi-Nav. Their TO&E charts helped Stan breath easier. The naval infantry was lightly armed compared to the regular Chinese Army and compared to the U.S. Marines. Their heaviest combat vehicles were infantry fighting vehicles (IFV) and some light ‘Marauder’ tanks, at least light in Chinese advanced armament terms.

  The sad truth was that the M1A2 Abrams was only barely a match for the Chinese Marauder. Even a relatively small vehicle like that had technologically superior armor and shells.

  As Hank brought Stan’s tank into position, Jose Garcia arranged his shells in order. They had an automatic loader, an improvement compared to twenty years ago when a manual loader had shoved shells into the chamber.

  “We’re ready,” said Hank, who had hung his cowboy hat to the side, where he kept an illegal .55 caliber hand-cannon.

  Stan opened the commander’s hatch, popping his head and torso outside the tank’s protective armor. There was a heavy M2 .50 caliber machinegun here for his use, and two Blowdart tubes secured nearby for quick release. The Blowdart was one of the few modern pieces of American equipment, and with the larger Wyvern SAMs, it helped keep aircraft and choppers from simply mowing them down, at least when the Americans deployed the missiles properly.

  Stan had read many times that a tank army’s effectiveness was in direct proportion to the number of tank commanders it lost during combat. In other words, to ‘see’ well, a tank needed its commander in this position, half in the tank to shout orders to his men, and half out so he could see what the heck what was going on around him. He would strap on body-armor later and a bulky helmet. It was some of the latest in American battle-wear. For torso protection, he had durasteel plates inserted in a compound fiber mesh, with armorplast plates and compound fibers on his head, hands and arms.

  They were on the reverse side of a slope, meaning, the highway was presently hidden from sight. Snow-laden pines loomed all around the tanks. Stan had talked to Pastor Bill, and Bill had his Militiamen sawing off branches to help cover the tanks, to help camouflage them from air recon.

  The massive vehicles were in a line, waiting for the command to clank near the top of the hill. They would roll forward then and depress the gun as far as it would go. Then the long barrel would poke over the top of the hill. Each tank would defilade in order to present the smallest target possible. As they fired from defilade or from a hull-down position, the enemy would see little more than the gun and part of the turret. Using the terrain to its advantage, a tank was an ideal defensive weapons system. Any enemy vehicles roaring through the pass would be perfect targets, especially after Stan sighted the guns.

  Stan climbed out of his tank and crunched through the snow to the top of the hill. There he tried to imagine what it would look like if the Chinese came charging through the pass. After a time, he muttered, “No plan survives contact with the enemy.”

  “What’s that, Captain?”

  Jose Garcia ambled up to stand beside him. It was colder here under the pines. The short gunner with his green scarf wound around his nearly nonexistent neck was also their tech and their best mechanic. Keeping their tank running was a twenty-four hour maintenance chore.

  “What do you think?” asked Stan, as he indicated the road below.

  Jose squatted on his thick hams. He dug through the snow until he picked up a pine needle and sucked on it like a toothpick. Nodding, he stood up, dusting his hands together so snow fell.

  Four hundred yards away and ninety degrees from them—the curve of the highway did that—was the American strongpoint. Soldiers waited in foxholes and built-up points. At the top of the higher slopes waited recoilless gunners, recently sent there to reinforce the ATGM-teams.

  Stan perked up. He took out his binoculars. In the distance, he spotted a Marauder tank.

  The newer Chinese vehicles were at least a generation ahead of what America possessed up here. Earlier, Stan had checked the specs on the Chinese light tanks. The Marauder in the distance was the size of a regular Ford sedan. It had advanced multi-flex Tai armor and a 130mm un-turreted cannon. That meant it only had one hundred and twenty degrees traverse. Combined with attack choppers, the Marauders were the extent of the Chi-Nav heavy vehicle power.

  “We’re too few to hold long against a major attack,” said Jose, “but you already know that.”

  Stan lowered his binoculars. “We’re trying to buy time for our side.”

  Jose squinted one eye at him, as everyone who’d had a car or truck serviced in Jose’s shop would have recognize as his trademark ‘thinking’ look. “Do you believe we can win?”

  “You mean this battle or the war?”

  “Let’s start with the battle.”

  “We’re sure going to find out,” said Stan, trying to pump enthusiasm into his voice.

  Jose shook his head. “That’s not what I want to hear. When this is over, I want to go home to my wife and kids. Do you think we’ll still have wives and kids afterward?”

  “How am I supposed to know that?”

  Jose moved his ‘toothpick’ to the other side of his mouth. “You know, Professor, sometimes you’re too honest. How about you tell me something good.”

  “We’re going to kick their butts.”

  Jose nodded.

  Stan took out a small computer-pad and brought up a video image of a Chinese IFV, showing it to Jose. Each had four 30mm auto-cannons and a Hung missile-tube for anti-air. The tracked vehicle carried six infantrymen inside, had half the armor of a Chinese main battle tank and moved fast with its powerful rotary engine. With that engine, the IFV had worked up and down the slopes that abounded in the peninsula. That had turned out to be a critical feature of the Chinese attack.

  “We can use HEAT rounds on these,” said Stan.

  HEAT meant High Explosive Anti-Tank. Those shells hit the enemy skin and exploded, driving a pencil-thin jet of metal into the target at over twenty times the speed of sound. Unfortunately, composite armor over time had proven superior to HEAT shells. A HEAT shell should destroy an IFV, but Stan had his doubts concerning the Marauders. Their HEAT shells would likely bounce off any Chinese main battle tank. For the Marauders and heavier tanks, Stan would use the Sabot rounds.

  Jose squinted at the video IFV bouncing over the ground. “They’re fast,” he said.

  “Yeah,” said Stan, slapping his chest, “but we’re the National Guard.”

  Jose adjusted his scarf. His wife had knitted it for him long ago. He considered it his good luck charm. “We are that,” he said.

  “We’re the Alaskan National Guard,” said Stan. “And we have Abrams tanks.”

  “They’re the best tanks in the world.”

  Stan knew that wasn’t true, but he said, “The very best. This spot, it’s perfect. It will buy our side days.”

  “Perfect, huh?”

  Sure, as long as White Tiger Commandos don’t flank us. As long as the
y don’t have something seriously heavy that they brought along with the fleet, and as long as their choppers don’t shred us to bits.

  “Yes,” said Stan, “perfect.”

  Jose cracked his knuckles. He still had black grease under his fingernails. He always did. “Good. As long as we can win, I’m good.” He frowned. “Look out over there,” he said, pointing far down the highway.

  Stan swallowed nervously as he grabbed his binoculars. Those were tracked self-propelled guns, Chinese artillery. The data-net master sergeant had told him earlier they were 200mm and fired rocket-assisted shells. The show was about to begin.

  -12-

  Alaskan Nightmare

  MUKDEN, P.R.C.

  Han protested. “Please, I can do this without injections.”

  “We have our orders, Captain.”

  “No! Wait,” said Han. He sat in a pit, wearing twitch gloves and a VR helmet. He loathed the idea of anyone using drugs to alter his mind.

  Since the King of Heaven missiles and the Chinese victory in Low Earth Orbit, the Nexus Center had many trained operators with little to do. A war directive from Minister Jian Shihong had released half the Space Service’s controllers to help on the Alaskan battlefield. There had been a four hundred percent increase in drones launched by the invasion fleet and an overload on the Navy’s limited number of remote controllers.

  A tall tech now swabbed Han’s arm and jabbed a needle into his flesh, injecting him with S-15. It had an almost instantaneous and disorientating effect.

  “No,” Han moaned. “Why?”

  “You perform your task for the honor of China,” the tech said.

  “I love China,” Han said reflexively.

  “We know. Now relax. You’re about to switch to a Z4 Recon Drone.”

  Han licked his lips. He wasn’t sure he wanted to do this anymore, not if they were going to inject him with drugs. It was regular Navy procedure apparently, and the Space Service was complying with their regulations.

  “Engage helmet…now,” said a tech.

  “Oh,” said Han. Within his helmet appeared a snowy panorama of mountains, pines and marching men. The soldiers were below as if he were a watching eagle. He heard a flight operator from the fleet giving him instructions as a grid map appeared on his helmet’s visor.

  “You must investigate grid D-8,” the flight operator said.

  “Acknowledged,” said Han, as he twitched his gloves.

  Soon, he approached the American position. It blocked the main highway with two guardian hills. Using zoom, he begin pinpointing larger pieces of equipment. Radar-guided artillery would take care of those. Then a warning beep alerted him of an enemy lock-on. A shock made him flinch, and Captain Han shouted in pain.

  “You fool,” someone said. The disembodied voice sounded like the shorter technician. “You set the punishment shock too high. Quickly, lower the setting or you’ll render this controller unconscious, too.”

  “What’s going on?” asked Han. The warning light flashed again, and another shock ran through him.

  “Quickly,” the disembodied voice said. It sounded like the voice was talking to him, to Han. “You must engage your EW pods.”

  Han twitched his gloves, remembering his instructions. In Alaska, a Wyvern missile streaked up at his drone. It was then Han saw enemy vehicles hiding under some pines. He twitched, and he launched a decoy. The Wyvern veered from the drone and destroyed the decoy emitter. The shockwave made his drone wobble, which made the view in his helmet wobble.

  “Give us zoom!” someone shouted in Han’s ear.

  New targeting radar locked-onto Han’s drone. More shocks zapped his body, making him twist in the remote-controlling pit.

  “Disengage the shock mechanism!” a disembodied voice shouted. “It’s disorienting him.”

  “…done for lock-ons,” said a different tech. “The kill setting is still active, however.”

  “Give me a zoom on the American vehicles!” a flight operator shouted in Han’s ear. Vaguely, he recalled the voice belonged to a battlefield operator situated in a command cruiser in the Gulf of Alaska.

  Han released more decoys, but a dark streak made it through and hit his Z4 Recon Drone. A second later, a massive punishment shock jolted through him.

  It was Captain Han’s initiation into the latest remote-controlling modification. Controllers never reacted to battlefield danger as tankers or jetfighters did who actually rode in the vehicles they fought in. Many professionals felt this made controllers too light-hearted about their vehicle’s destruction. One group of theorists felt that giving remote controllers punishments shocks for lock-ons and greater shocks for vehicle destruction would heighten the controller’s effectiveness. Now he or she would vigorously attempt to remain ‘alive.’ No one had explained this to Han. The professionals felt it was better if the controllers learned this through experience. The painful surprise would help them remember later.

  Captain Han groaned as his drone fell from the sky. The S-15 in his blood made the shocks many times more painful. He blacked-out and pitched from his controlling chair, taking him out of the battle in Alaska and out of consciousness in Mukden, China.

  COOPER LANDING, ALASKA

  Stan shivered inside his tank as it shook from nearby impacts. The enemy bombardment had been going on for some time already. He figured the enemy used missiles, not just heavy artillery shells.

  “I’d hate to be outside,” said Jose from his gunner’s seat.

  Stan didn’t know how anyone wanted to be a foot soldier, especially when you thought about artillery. A military study he’d read reported that the vast majority of battle-deaths occurred from artillery shells. During the Second World War, artillery had accounted for fifty-eight percent of the casualties. Body-armor helped some against shrapnel. Deep foxholes were better.

  “Hey,” said Stan, “listen.”

  The others in the Abrams became quiet.

  There was a screaming noise from outside—a heavy shell. The sound made Stan shiver. Then a tremendous boom tightened his muscles as the tank shook and swayed back and forth on its shock absorbers. Shrapnel peppered the tank’s skin, sounding like baseball-sized hail.

  “What was that?” said Jose, as he checked his screen. It took a lot to make a M1A2 tremble.

  “They must have spotted us,” said Stan. “Quick, Hank, we need to move to a new location.”

  Hank started the Abrams as Stan got on the radio, telling his other crews the news. It took ten gallons of JP8 jet fuel to start each tank. The M1A2’s gas turbine was a hog, but it was powerful and could drive the tank fast.

  Soon, they clanked away in reverse as more enemy rounds slammed nearby. A direct hit would take out the tank. The heaviest armor was on the front, it was somewhat thinner on the sides. The rear had a tank’s lightest armor. Just like enemy Marauder tanks, they had composite armor. Theirs was Chobham RH Armor, with depleted uranium strike plates and Kevlar mesh.

  In several minutes, the loud booms and shrapnel peppering stopped and the tank no longer shook from nearby impacts.

  “Report,” said Stan to the other tankers.

  “I can’t see anything without radar expect these shells falling on us,” a tank commander said.

  Stan acknowledged that. The mountains and trees badly cut down visibility.

  “Can you hear that?” asked Jose, who was down below Stan and to his right in the gunner’s seat.

  It was roomier in the M1A2 than in just about any tank in existence. There used to be four crewmen when the Abrams first came out. In old German tanks like the Panther, there had been five men inside. Russian tanks used to be so cramped that tankers were only chosen from among shorter men. Stan and Jose had used the extra space in the Abrams to add shells. The usual ammo allotment was kept below in special chambers so the rounds wouldn’t cook off if they were hit. It was a risk storing extra shells in the main compartment, but Stan had decided to take the risk. He hadn’t been too sanguine about their ch
ances for a quick re-supply of shells once the battle started.

  Jose touched a hand to his headphones. He was listening to amplifiers outside the Abrams. He looked up over his shoulder at Stan.

  “The Chinese are attacking,” said Jose. “With tanks,” he added.

  “What kind of tanks?” Stan asked. “Is anyone reporting that?” There was a telephone attached by a cord outside the tank. It was there for the militiamen spotters to tell them what they saw.

  Jose shrugged. “No one is saying, but I’m sure we’re going to find out soon enough.”

  MUKDEN, P.R.C.

  The technicians had forced a cocktail of stimulants down Captain Han’s throat. He was awake and back on his chair, with the VR helmet strapped on tight and his twitch gloves ready.

  “What happened?” Han whispered. He felt disoriented. With his VR helmet’s visor, he saw the snowy ground and the looming slopes on the road ahead of him. American tracer-rounds already bounced off his armored skin. Behind him, he saw, with a backward-viewing camera, crouched naval infantrymen moving out of a wall of smoke. The soldiers wore dinylon body-armor and cradled heavy assault rifles, SPET-tubes and RPGs.

  “You’re leading the attack,” a tech informed Han.

  Han nodded as orders rattled in his earpiece. He was part of the Battle-Net attacking the American position, with the 160th and 322nd Naval Infantry Battalions and two companies of light drone tanks. The enemy seemed to be ready for them, as the Americans had held even after a fierce artillery pounding. It was the reason for the drone tanks, the first vehicle of the pack under Han’s remote control. These days, Chinese battle doctrine called for drone tanks leading overrun assaults. They were suicide-tanks, meant to absorb the worst enemy punishment.