Invasion: Alaska

-12- Alaskan Nightmare

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 again.

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 Hong 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.

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 except 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 dangerous storing extra shells in the main compartment, but Stan had decided to take the risk. He hadn’t been too sanguine about their chances 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.”

The technicians had forced a cocktail of stimulants down Captain Han’s throat. He was awake and back in his chair, 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 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.

“Please, no more shocks,” Han told the techs in the underground chamber with him.

“You will face a severe shock if your tank is destroyed,” a tech said near his ear. “But we have turned off the skin-strike shock-responder. Too many bullets are bouncing off your armor.”

“No!” shouted Han. “Why are you shocking me for dying, for my tank’s destruction? I’m on a suicide mission. It’s the reason our side is using drones.”

“Concentrate on your battlefield task,” a tech advised, “and do not quibble about drone doctrine.”

Han breathed heavily as he began to fear. He dreaded the idea of receiving another death-shock. With a roar of anguish, he tore off his VR helmet and stood up in the pit. It was disorienting. The two techs at the boards swiveled around in their chairs, one on either side of him. Han’s head and shoulders were higher than the floor. The rest of his body was sunken in the pit.

“I’m finished with this,” said Han.

The shorter tech scowled. “If we must summon the enforcer, tell me now, as it will save time.”

“You mean the muscled lieutenant?” asked Han. The man had spoken to him earlier about obedience. Now the talk made sense.

“Exactly,” the tech said. “Now hurry please, inform us of your decision, as your stalled tank is causing confusion.”

Han swallowed hard, and he pleaded, “I can’t take more of those death-shocks.”

“Complaining is futile,” the taller tech said. “Simply get on with your task, and if you can, stay alive.” The tech turned to a com-board before glancing a last time at Han and raising an eyebrow.

“Stay alive,” Han whispered. He nodded as he shoved the VR helmet onto his head. The Alaskan scene leaped back into view. The sounds of battle played in his earpiece, but not so loudly that he couldn’t hear the battle operator’s comments.

With his twitch-gloves, Han used his cameras to look around. Most of the other tank-drones were ahead of him now. Each tank was a Xing T-29 Marauder, a light tank with an un-turreted 130mm smoothbore gun and two 12.7mm machine guns. A small AI inside the tank fired the weapons in real time. As any online gamer would know, the lag from China to Alaska would make precision firing impossible for Han. He supplied the drone’s strategic guidance.

After moments of assessment, Han shouted, “My tank can’t fire its main gun at the ATGMs at the top of the hills!”

The American teams had just launched TOW2 missiles, taking out one of the Marauders. Now American recoilless rifles opened up from the top of the hill.

In the Mukden pit, Han twitched his gloves like mad. His remote-controlled tank reversed, slewed to the slide, and then roared ahead, racing to a burning Marauder. Shells landed around him as a TOW2 missile whooshed past. His AI fired a flechette beehive defender. It sprayed the air with eraser-sized tungsten balls. The beehive was supposed to take out swaths of infantry. Han had instructed the AI to use it to try to take out the TOW2 missiles.

“You must attack the enemy,” a battle operator said.

“Yes, yes,” panted Han.

He used his position behind the two burning Marauders. He clanked forward, fired and dodged back behind the two wrecks for cover. Why wasn’t their artillery firing smoke shells? He needed covering smoke to help hide him until the last moment.

“You must charge the Americans,” said the battle operator. “You are a suicide vehicle.”

“I will survive,” whispered Han. He absolutely dreaded the death-shock.

For thirty seconds no one talked to him. Han remained behind the burning Marauders. In the pit, he twitched his gloves to keep the techs off his back, but he was only communicating with his Marauder’s AI.

“Captain Han!” a man roared in his ear. “You will advance on the Americans or face court-martial and a firing squad afterward.”

Licking his lips, Han moved his remote-controlled tank out of hiding. Chinese IFVs roared past his drone and raced for the slopes. Attack helicopters swarmed overhead, pouring chaingun-fire down on the Americans.

Heaving a deep sigh, Han revved his engine and roared after the IFVs. If he could stay close enough to them, maybe the enemy would target the infantry carriers instead of his Marauder.

The next few minutes proved to be a cauldron of vicious fighting. The Americans held their positions, dying even as they dealt death. Wyvern and Blowdart missiles, TOW2 anti-tank missiles, grenades, bullets and 155mm artillery shells destroyed choppers, IFVs, Marauders and the naval infantry leaping out of the carriers. The naval infantry fought up the slopes and fired their handheld SPET-missiles at the strongpoints. It was the hardest fighting of the war so far.

The 160th Naval Battalion and the two companies of Marauder drone tanks took casualties as the 322nd Naval Infantry Battalion edged closer for their turn at the gap.

“You must break through!” the battlefield operator shouted at Han. “Smash into their rear area—find the command post and obliterate it.”

In the underground center in Mukden, in the controller’s pit, Han guided his drone on Highway One as he moved between the hills. He raced through the gap, with several IFVs clanking behind him.

“Find the CP!” the battle operator said.

“Where?” shouted Han. “Where is it?” Then his AI spotted an American officer behind a boulder. The officer waved his arm, sending reinforcements up the American side of the hill to help their beleaguered brethren on top.

Han revved his engine as the AI fired its 130mm cannon and blew away the boulder. Unsure whether the drone had killed the officer or not, Han charged the area. His camera spotted movement on a rear slope about two hundred meters behind the last American trench. He used zoom, seeing a long barrel and the top of a turret. Quick analysis told him it was a tank, an American Abrams M1A2.

Han swore as he made his sedan-sized Marauder swerve. It upset the AI’s calculations. There was a muzzle flash from the long enemy smoothbore. Something fast zoomed toward Han.

Then Captain Han yelled as his Xing T-29 Marauder burst into flames from a direct hit. Han shouted louder as he received his death-shock. Then he slumped into unconsciousness. For him, the battle was over.

The wind howled around General Shin Nung, hero of the Siberian War. Nine years ago, in 2023, his aggressive armored thrust had captured Yakutsk. He was the present commander of the Cross-Polar Taskforce, ready to win yet another campaign for the Chairman. He was on the Arctic Ocean pack ice, having traveled thousands of kilometers from Ambarchik Base in Eastern Siberia. His Chinese taskforce was headed for Dead Horse, Alaska.

The blasting noise of the blizzard drove like nails into his head so that his eyes continuously pulsed with pain. He wore a heavy parka, with a woolen ski mask protecting his face and with goggles over his tormented eyes. With his thick mittens, he grasped a towline. He pulled himself through the whiteout. The wind continually shoved against him.

The polar blizzard had been howling for days, grounding everything. The blizzard whipped up the powdery snow on the pack ice. It was impossible to see the hundreds of parked vehicles around him.

Nung gripped the towline, dragging himself along. The powdery snow didn’t compress together as he walked over it. Instead, it slid out from under his feet, making this a treacherous endeavor.

He’d been making the rounds between hovertanks, snowtanks, caterpillar-haulers and infantry carriers. This was the advance group. Behind him for hundreds of kilometers were combat engineers building airstrips and creating a polar road. So far, the taskforce had made it halfway from Ambarchik Base to their targeted destination.

Today or tonight—it was always dark—he’d discovered three infantry carrier crews dead from asphyxiation. They hadn’t followed procedures as they heated their stalled vehicles. Such a senseless loss made General Nung frown.

It’s Commissar Ping and his killers. Why did High Command saddle me with East Lightning operatives and this muddled approach to polar warfare?

It was maddening. He knew how to achieve victory, but these rules of approach were binding him. It was the wrong way to grab the American oilfields. If High Command had listened to him, the battle for Alaska would already be over.

For Nung, the blizzard slackened as he reached the command caterpillar. Ping was in there. Maybe after witnessing this blizzard, the commissar could understand the situation and see the truth.

Gripping metal, Nung twisted and opened the hatch. Heat poured around him and light bloomed into existence as three men swiveled around in the caterpillar. They wore heavy shirts, but no parkas. One showed anger but quickly changed into obedient acceptance of the opened door.

“Hello, General,” that man said, a data-net lieutenant.

The thinnest man in the caterpillar showed distaste as if he’d eaten a rotten egg. He was Commissar Ping. He was thin and had long fingers like the violinist he was. He had delicate, sensitive features, almost like a girl.

Gripping his shirt collar and shivering, Ping said, “Close the hatch, General. It’s freezing.”

General Nung scowled. The commissar’s mannerisms were effeminate. It angered him every time he realized that this violinist had veto power over every one of his command decisions.

The last of the three was the opposite of Ping. The East Lightning killer seemed like some primate proto-human with crude features and coarse mannerisms. The henchman had eyes like oil, and they never turned away when Nung stared at him. The general found that enraging. Several times, he’d debated shooting the killer in the back and leaving him in the snow. Unfortunately, the brute never left Ping’s side.

As he tore off his ski mask and hood, Nung slammed the hatch shut. It was stiflingly hot in here. There was communication equipment piled on both sides of the caterpillar. It was a drone remote-controlling caterpillar, one of several in the taskforce.

“I found another three crews dead,” Nung said. “This delay is killing us. We need to move, to make the crews work.”

“Move in this nightmare?” asked Ping. “Are you joking, General?”

The commissar’s tone infuriated Nung just as much as the insulting question.

“You’ve heard the signals,” Nung said. “There’s heavy fighting near Anchorage. We need to attack the North Slope while the others hit the south coast. We can’t let the Americans use their interior position to shift troops as needed.”

“We are attacking,” said Ping.

“No. We’re grounded in the middle of the Arctic Ocean.”

“Well, certainly we are at this moment,” said Ping. “Once this horrible weather ends, we shall continue our advance.”

General Nung shook his head as he made a fist. “We need to gather all our supplies in the caterpillar-haulers, form a fast taskforce and thrust our way to the North Slope.” He made a boxing motion to illustrate his meaning.

“Please, I’m well acquainted with your theories. There is no need to demonstrate.”

“We’re losing time just sitting here,” Nung said.

Ping shrugged.

Nung turned away and clenched his teeth.

“Please, your theatrics are amusing and help pass the time, but I’m sure they’re not good for your blood pressure. You must relax and save your zeal for the moment we meet the Americans.”

Nung whirled around as he dropped a hand onto his holster.

The bodyguard half rose from his chair. His dark eyes were fixed on Nung.

“No, no,” said Ping, with a waving gesture. “Relax, Mingli. The General merely exhibits his frustration. I agree with him that this weather is most infuriating. When it subsides, I’m sure we’ll move quickly.”

“We cannot ‘move quickly’,” Nung said between his gritted teeth.

“Ah, yes, I keep forgetting,” said Ping. “The weight of our vehicles demand low speeds as we travel over the pack ice. Too fast and the vehicle rocks the water under the ice, creating waves that could possibly destroy the ice. You see, General, I was well briefed before joining your expedition.”

“Let me unleash the hovertanks,” Nung said. “They can move with speed, without creating any wave-action. From here, it’s a short hop until they reach the North Slope.

Commissar Ping examined his fingernails. “How many of the hovertanks have broken down already?”

“Fourteen,” Nung said.

“Incorrect,” said Ping. “Please, General, I know you’re a stickler for facts. I would prefer if you used them while addressing me.”

Nung struggled to control his temper. He was the military man. This police creature knew little about combat and winning wars. It was said the hovertanks were finicky vehicles, prone to breakdowns. That’s why they needed the best crews with an onboard mechanic added to each vehicle.

“I’m waiting for your answer,” said Ping.

“Thirty-seven,” Nung finally said, “but we’ve fixed many of them.”

“Your techs patched up the hovertanks?”

“They’re mechanics,” muttered Nung, “not techs.”

“Ah, yes, your precision makes itself known once more. Thank you for the correction.”

“Fourteen, thirty-seven,” Nung said, “the number doesn’t matter. We need speed to dash to the North Slope.”

“But that’s simply absurd,” said Ping. “If thirty-seven hovertanks have broken down so far, how many will break down before you reach Alaska? Given the proportion of the number of breakdowns the farther we travel, I would estimate an eighty percent loss of your machines by the time they reach the enemy coast. You cannot take the oilfields with a mere twenty percent of your hovertanks.”

“Firstly,” Nung said with heat, “I can. Secondly, only fifty percent would break down.”

“What is your reasoning?”

“Speed and surprise is a force multiplier. Only a handful of units are needed then. Once I’ve captured the oilfields, you can use the heavy air-transports to land garrison forces.”

Ping shook his head.

“But—”

Ping lifted a long-fingered hand. “I have my orders and you have yours. This blizzard changes nothing. High Command wishes for a methodical advance across the ice. If you dash for the oilfields, American bombers will demolish your pitiful force. You need fighters to cover you and snowtanks to provide muscle for the battle.”

General Shin Nung crashed into an empty chair. He hated this weather, the useless deaths and the East Lighting commissar with veto power. It would be a risk dashing over the ice with hovertanks. If this blizzard had hit a hovertank taskforce…he might have lost everything. They would need an open window of good weather, but only a short one if every hovertank moved at maximum speed. This slow, methodical advance, it meant they spent far too much time on the ice. If he were the American commander, he knew of ten different ways to stall them out here and possibly destroy them. The ice was an enemy. It wasn’t simply another form of road. Every minute they remained on the pack ice, the potential for disaster increased. He could give China the greatest possibility for victory, but they had saddled him with small thinkers.

Why am I always surrounded by the ordinary when extraordinary commanders are required?

He’d broken through and dashed to Yakutat during the Siberian War. He’d ended the conflict by dealing with problems directly and twisting the elements to suit him. Maybe it was time to do that here. It entailed risk, not only a militarily, but also a politically.

Marshal Kao had given him Commissar Ping to spite him. Maybe it was time to gamble everything—life and career—on one bold throw of the dice. The Chairman would reward a victor. If he failed in this assault by their methods, Kao and his clique of mandarins would sacrifice him anyway. They would use any excuse to squash what they could only envy.

Nung touched his holster. By adding a little more pressure to his fingers, he could unsnap the flap. The desire to draw his gun and shoot was nearly overpowering.

“Turn up the heat,” Ping told his bodyguard.

The man grunted as he got up and went to the temperature control.

“I have more vehicles to inspect,” Nung said.

“Away with you then,” said Ping, gesturing with his hand.

Nung rose and lurched for the door.

“Oh,” said Ping, as if it was an afterthought. “I forgot to tell you. There was a radio message concerning, hmm, our situation.”

“We’re supposed to keep radio silence once we’re this far across the pack ice,” Nung said.

“Yes, yes, but this message was different.”

Nung waited for Ping to tell him.

“I’m afraid I’ve detected that explosive mind of yours plotting for something grand,” said Ping.

General Nung frowned.

“Because of that, I asked my superiors to take your wife and child into protective custody.”

“What?” shouted Nung.

Ping shrugged. “It sullies our working relationship, I’m sure. But it might also clarify the situation. General Nung, you are an active general, well-suited to battle. That is a wonderful trait for a fighting commander. But it makes one in my position nervous. I have thwarted your desires a few too many times. This blizzard and the eternal darkness, it is maddening, and might induce one to rashness. Therefore, I would formally like to let you know that my sudden demise will result in your wife’s untimely death. It is an awful thing to say, and I’m sorry to say it. But there it is—a new working relationship between us.”

“You…you monster,” breathed Nung.

“I accept your epitaph for my horrid action, as it’s well-deserved. But please, let us keep that between ourselves for now and spare the troops such descriptive words. Save the name for your memoirs.”

Nung leaned against the hatch. His wife and son—his desire for victory oozed away. He shook his head.

“This cannot be,” he said.

“It leaves a bad aftertaste, I agree,” said Ping, and his eyes were bright as they latched onto Nung.

The general noticed. Many considered him brash and arrogant, but he was also perceptive. The monster enjoys this. He enjoys my grief. He likes to break a person’s spirit even as he pretends he doesn’t.

“I understand,” Nung managed to say. “I will do my utmost to ensure your survival.”

Commissar Ping frowned, and he cocked his head. “You must also achieve victory for the homeland.”

“That is my honor, Commissar.”

The frown deepened. Then Ping flicked his hand. “Go on then, check your vehicles. Make sure we survive this dreadful weather.”

General Nung opened the hatch and staggered into the freezing, brain-blasting blizzard. His wife and son—maybe everyone in the High Command and in the government were monsters. He gripped the towline and dragged himself away. Once this was over, he’d gain his revenge.

Nung shook his head. He couldn’t even think those thoughts for now. He would have to bide his time and wait for his chance. If it came, he would strike at his tormenters then—and crush them thoroughly as one would a poisonous spider. Until then, he would wait, seeking his one chance. Before that occurred, however, he’d have to keep his taskforce alive in this bitterly alien environment.

Stan stood beside wounded Major Williams. The commanding officer was stretched out on two fold-up tables of the data-net. There were dead soldiers littered nearby, here behind the two guarding slopes. One of the dead included the master sergeant of the communications net.

There had been a lull in the fighting for the granite hills guarding this small section of Highway One. Already, American reinforcements had been rushed forward along the highway. They climbed the hills to take the place of the dead and dying. Each new soldier carried a heavy pack stuffed with ammo.

On the two fold-up tables, a bloody bandage covered half the major’s face. A standing medic used his fingers to probe Williams’ black-and-blue torso.

Major Williams winced. “Careful, man,” he whispered.

“You have broken ribs, sir,” the medic informed him.

“Inject me with painkillers,” Williams said.

“Sir, I need to send you back to a medical unit.”

Clenching his teeth, Williams strained and grasped the medic with his good hand. “You listen to me, soldier. The Chinese are coming back. I need to be on my feet by then.”

“You’ll be dead if I inject you with—”

“I don’t have time to argue with you,” Williams whispered. “Look around. There are lots of dead soldiers. Why? Because they held their positions. Because they threw back the Chinese. We stopped them cold and that’s buying us time for reinforcements to arrive from the mainland states.” Major Williams gave the medic a nasty leer. “We’re all dead-men here. It’s just that a few of us don’t know it yet. Now inject me with painkillers so these men can see I haven’t deserted them.”

Turning pale, the medic snatched a vial from the medkit on his belt. Using his index finger, he flicked the vial and inserted a needle into the yellow drug.

Williams watched the procedure. Now he lay back with a groan and he turned his head so he could see Stan with his good eye.

“How many of your Abrams are left?” Williams wheezed.

“All of them,” said Stan.

“Don’t worry. That will change.”

“Sir?” asked Stan.

“The Chinese have to break through,” the major said. He scowled fiercely as the medic stabbed him with a needle. “Get back to your tanks. I don’t know what the Chinese have—”

“Sir!” the last data-net operator shouted, as he leaped up from his fold-up chair. “The Chinese destroyed our 155s with low-level bombers.”

“We weren’t going to keep our artillery forever,” Williams said. “The Chi-Navs are better than us at counter-battery fire.” His eyebrows thundered. “Okay, we’re down to the mortar-teams, but at least we have a new infusion of blood with—what are those men?”

“Sir?” asked the data-net operator. “Oh, I see what you’re asking.” He glanced at the soldiers climbing the hills. “They’re National Guardsmen, sir.”

“Good boys, the National Guardsmen,” Williams said, looking at Stan. “Listen, Captain, you keep your tanks in reserve on those slopes behind the trenches. The Chinese have a surprise and it ought to be coming soon.”

“What have you heard?” asked Stan, who failed to hide his worry.

Williams grabbed the edge of one of the fold-up tables and pulled himself to a sitting position. “One of our fighter jocks saw it,” Williams said. “It was huge, he said, before the Chi-Navs knocked the jet-jock out of the air. He told us the monster had three turrets.”

Stan felt faint. “One of the Chinese multi-turreted tanks, sir?”

“Can your Abrams knock it out?”

“If it’s the T-66, it has two hundred millimeters of Tai composite armor in front. That’s near the limit of what our Sabot rounds can penetrate—if they hit perfectly.”

Stan knew the key to the coming fight were the APFSDS rounds: Armor-Piercing Fin-Stabilized Discarding Sabot. After being shot out of the 120mm smoothbore gun, the skin of the Sabot round dropped away during flight. That gave greater velocity to the remaining spent uranium “bullet.” To increase penetrating power, the bullet was actually a long, thin rod. Unfortunately, long thin rods tended to tumble in flight instead of going straight. It was the reason for the fins, to stabilize the spent uranium rod. That hardened rod slammed against the enemy at hyper-velocity, boring through the armor. Whatever made it into the enemy compartment was usually enough to kill the crew or cook off any shells lying around, and those killed the crew. The Abrams only had ten such Sabot shells in each of the ten tanks.

“You’ll have to hit the T-66s in the sides then,” the major said.

“If we try to maneuver around them here, that will expose us, sir, which isn’t a good idea. What the enemy can see, he can kill.”

“You have tanks!”

“The T-66 is more than one hundred tons, sir. It—”

“I don’t give a rip about its specs, Captain. I just want it dead. Use your little tank trick to smash it and however many friends it brings along.”

“How many tri-turreted tanks did the pilot see?” Stan asked, trying to keep his composure.

Ignoring the question, Major Williams slid off the two tables, swaying as sweat trickled down his face. “We have to hold this place, Captain. We have to buy our side time. Do you understand?”

“Maybe we should pull back,” said Stan. “We’ve made them bleed here. That’s how the Israelis soundly defeated the Syrians back in 1973. During the Yom Kippur War, the Israeli tankers retreated from one hill to another, blowing away the charging Syrian tanks. Now we need to—”

Williams staggered to Stan, grabbing one of his arms. The major blew his foul breath into Stan’s face. “We can’t run forever, soldier. Sometimes you have to stand and die to win. Have you ever heard of the Alamo?”

“I’m a history teacher, sir.”

“This is our Alamo. Here’s where we make the Chinese bleed. If they want our country, they’re going to have to buy it over our dead bodies.”

Stan shook his head. “Old General Patton said the way to win a war was to make the enemy S.O.B. die for his country.”

Williams shoved Stan. “Go. I don’t think we have much time. And soldier?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good luck, son. You’re going to need it.”

The second assault on their position was worse than the first. The Chinese had time to prepare and they poured material on the exposed areas. Rocket-assisted artillery shells screamed down, sweeping the hilltops and slopes. Low-level bombers swept through the Wyvern and Blowdart barrage to release napalm. As the napalm fires crackled, Marauder light-tank drones appeared out of billowing clouds of smoke laid down by the Chinese artillery.

Enough Americans were alive, however. They had crouched deep in their foxholes. Now a few popped up and painted the drones with laser-targeters. Seconds later, tank-killing mortar rounds rained on the drones.

The Chinese were ready for that. With radar and patrolling drone recon flyers, they pinpointed the mortar-teams’ positions and fired huge tubes from mobile guns. 200mm anti-personnel rounds whooshed over the guarding hills, plunging on the hidden mortar-teams. One-by-one the teams fell silent. Then IFVs roared out of the smoke and charged the short distance to the slopes. They clanked past burning drones and reached the edge of the granite hills. Bay doors opened on each IFV and Chinese dinylon-armored infantry poured out. They clawed and climbed the steep granite mountainside.

The last Americans on the hilltops rose up, hurling grenades, firing recoilless rockets and spraying the enemy with assault-rifle fire. They fought with bitter tenacity, and their position was a strong one, their pitted body-armor giving these soldiers another few minutes of life. At last, as the Chinese crawled near the top, the Americans couldn’t fire directly on the enemy. Each side lobbed grenades at the other.

Then attack choppers roared in. Like mechanical insects, they hung over the Americans and ripped with massed 25mm chainguns. As the chainguns fell silent, grim-faced Chinese infantry crawled the final distance to the top of the hills. They’d taken the twin positions, but at a bitter cost.

Now the Chinese battlefield commander unleashed what he considered his secret weapons. Three big T-66 multi-turreted tanks moved on Highway One. No doubt, the Chinese commander meant to finish the fight fast and reduce his losses. Maybe he was a mind reader, maybe he’d gotten an inkling of the American commander’s thinking. Either way, he was right. Major Williams was about to play his last card of this Kenai Peninsula Alamo.

Inside the Abrams, Stan used his sleeve to wipe his sweaty face. It was cold out there but hot in the tank.

“They’re coming,” said Jose, who crouched over his gun’s controls.

The T-66 multi-turreted tank. It was a World War One dream that had finally come to life: a land battleship. Stan had read up on it before in a U.S. Army paper on possible Chinese design specs. It had three turrets, each with a 175mm smoothbore gun. It fired hyper-velocity, rocket-assisted shells. It was over one hundred tons, making it nearly twice as heavy as an Abrams. Six 30mm auto-cannons and twenty beehive flechette defenders made it sudden death for any infantryman out in the open. Linked with the defense radar, the T-66 could knock down or deflect enemy shells. The main gun tubes could fire Red Arrow anti-air rounds, making it a deadly proposition for attack-craft trying to take it out. It had a magnetically balanced hydraulic-suspension, meaning the gunners could fire with astounding accuracy while moving at top speed.

Stan opened the hatch, climbed out and jumped to the snowy ground. He crawled to the slope, carefully peering over. The sight froze him.

Three of the monster tanks moved fast along the highway. He knew why. Extendable inner wheels allowed it. If needed, the wheels could retract into the tank like an aircraft’s wheels. Then the armored treads would churn.

Cursing softly, Stan dug out his binoculars. He focused on the massive lead tank. Could any of his Abrams knock it out? Probably only at close range. How many of these had the Chinese brought with them to Alaska?

Sweat trickled into his eyes. He wasn’t going to survive this battle. He knew that now. Down below, Stan could see Williams shouting and gesturing at the men waiting in foxholes and in the trench. Dirt covered the snow around each hole and each trench. The enemy must know the major and his men were there despite the amount of Wyvern and Blowdart missiles they’d fired at the various recon flyers.

At a distance, IFVs followed the three T-66 tanks.

Just then, Pastor Bill Harris, sergeant of the twenty Militiamen assigned to the Abrams, plopped down beside Stan. Bill’s men remained on the slopes up here with the tanks and well behind the Major’s trenches and foxholes. Although he was a pastor, Bill Harris was a tough man, a bulldog of a basketball player.

“Can you stop those things?” asked Bill. For the first time in Stan’s life, he heard fear in Bill’s voice.

“Remember the Alamo,” Stan told him.

Bill nodded slowly, with his eyes on the Chinese monsters.

Stan used to read about the Alamo with a grand sense of adventure. As a boy, he’d always wanted to be there with the great American heroes. They had faced the Mexican Army and died almost to a man.

Just like today, only this time the Chinese are killing us.

Stan didn’t want to die. He wanted to get up and run away into the woods. If he did that, all those men who had died up on the hills and who would soon die in the forward trenches….

“Susan,” he whispered, speaking his wife’s name. He wanted someday to hug his wife and kiss her again. “I can’t let the Chinese reach Anchorage. We have to stop them here.”

“Do you mind if I pray?” asked Bill.

“What? Oh. Knock yourself out.”

“Help us, Jesus,” said Bill. “Let all of us be brave today. Amen.”

Stan realized he needed to get inside his tank. He gripped Bill’s shoulder. “Thanks, Pastor. See you…see you up there after this is over.”

“You destroy those tanks,” said Bill. “You destroy them and keep your Abrams intact. I don’t know of anything else that can stop such things.”

“Good luck,” said Stan.

“God bless you, brother.”

Stan nodded. Then he slid backward out of sight of the approaching tanks and shoved up to his hands and knees. It took an effort of will. Then he was up. He stood there. With a curse, he ran for the Abrams, knowing that today he was going to die.

As he climbed onto the tank’s hull, Stan shouted at the open hatch to Jose and Hank, “They’re coming! It’s time to rock and roll.”

Four minutes later, Stan was cold. He was wedged in the hatch, half his body outside and half his body in the tank. He wore durasteel body-armor and an extra-armored tank commander’s helmet. To steady himself, he gripped his .50 caliber machine gun.

The ten M1A2s were in hull-down position behind the slope. That slope was behind and above the major’s foxholes and trenches. From the trenches, desperate Americans fired ATGMs, LAWS rockets, recoilless guns and assault rifles. Everything bounced off the big T-66s. In retaliation, the Chinese monsters murdered exposed soldiers with mass beehive flechette blasts, while the 30mm auto-cannons chugged endlessly.

Stan froze momentarily as the first T-66 reached the trench line. The one hundred-plus ton tank spun on its treads. Blood spurted from the crushed trench. In fear, Americans crawled out of foxholes and the remaining trenches and sprinted like mice. Beehive flechettes blasted from the vehicle’s sides, causing a bloody mist to spray. When the vapors cleared, there were no bodies. Metallic raining sounded as the T-66s peppered each other, but that did nothing to halt the massacre. There was no retreat as such, as Major Williams had planned. There was simply annihilation.

Stan could hardly speak. There was no moisture in his mouth. He clicked his receiver anyway and said in a husky voice, “Everyone concentrate your fire on the lead tank, over.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jose.

The nearest enemy tank was five hundred feet away. The Abram’s 120mm gun roared and a Sabot round sped at the enemy.

Stan watched wide-eyed. The round hit, burning itself partway into the Tai armor, but not making it all the way through. Three enemy turrets began to traverse around, bringing the big guns toward his partly hidden tanks.

“Jose!” shouted Stan.

Several of the Abrams began to fire from hull down. Each Sabot round either burned partway into the enemy armor to no effect or bounced off the incredibly thick Tai composite hull.

From one T-66, three enemy cannons roared. The shells were loud, blurs in the air. Two American tanks exploded. The third shell missed, blowing up a geyser of dirt. Metal from the destroyed tanks hissed past Stan.

“Turtle!” he roared into his receiver. Like a submariner, he dropped through the hatch and clanged it shut behind him.

The tank shook as Jose fired another shell.

Stan pressed his eyes against his scope. Jose’s shell punched through turret-armor and the enemy turret froze in place. Black smoke poured out of a small shell-hole in the turret. They’d done it! They’d hurt a T-66. It was possible. That T-66 still traversed its other two guns. The 175mm cannons recoiled again as each sent a round at two different Abrams tanks.

With a sick groan, Stan used his scope to inspect his company. From Henry Smith’s Abrams, the turret and gun-tube spun in the air like a Frisbee. It landed fifty feet away. Stan swiveled his scope in the other direction. The next Abrams was burning. One T-66 had taken out four Abrams tanks in less than a minute. How were they supposed to defeat such an enemy?

“Focus on the turrets!” Stan yelled into his receiver. “Don’t try to penetrate the central mass. Just knock the three turrets out and they’ll be effectively disabled.”

More Abrams fired Sabot rounds.

Stan stared through his scope. Oily smoke billowed from another enemy turret in the tank already hit. A hatch opened and a Chinese tanker began climbing out. A fiery blast hurled the Chinese tanker into the air. The shells in that turret must have started cooking off.

The T-66’s single remaining cannon fired. It sent a 175mm shell through the dirt, destroying yet another Abrams hiding behind the slope, bringing its total to five kills.

That made Stan sick. “Listen!” he shouted. “Fire at the enemy turrets! Aim at the turrets and we might win this battle!”

Then Stan saw a running man. It was Pastor Bill. He ran down the slope as if he was driving to the hoop for a winning basket.

“What are you doing?” whispered Stan.

The pastor heaved a sticky round. Wired to it was a cluster of grenades. The pastor dove into a foxhole and the sticky round stuck to the T-66’s tracks. The cluster exploded, knocking off a tread and halting the deadly tank. An anti-personnel machine gun opened up, sending rounds in the pastor’s direction.

At that moment, the remaining Abrams fired, and the Sabot rounds bored into the crippled T-66’s single operational turret. The great Chinese tank shuddered.

“Retreat!” shouted Stan. “It’s time to leave.” Another T-66 tank was headed in their direction. The third continued to slaughter Americans in their foxholes.

Stan’s company needed no more urging. Five Abrams tanks backed up fast, racing for the next slope and so they could get to the road. Four other Abrams remained where they were, burning. The fifth Abrams was among the stalled tanks, but it didn’t burn.

“Go, go, go,” Stan said. He was shaking. Was Bill still alive? What had that crazy-man been thinking? Stan opened the hatch and popped his head outside into the cold air.

The second tri-turreted tank clanked over the top of the slope as it gave chase. One of its guns roared, and another Abrams exploded, leaving the company with four tanks.

Stan cursed feebly and then shouted down the hatch, “Jose!”

“I see it,” said Jose, who adjusted the Abrams’s gun.

The tri-turreted monster traversed two cannons at them as it clanked past burning Abrams tanks, those that never had a chance to leave the slope.

“It has us,” said Stan. He felt sick inside as the giant cannons aimed at his tank. There was no way his armor could stop the 175mm shells. This was murder.

The monster T-66 passed burning Abrams tanks littered behind the slope. One of those five M1A2s wasn’t burning, however, although it had been disabled. Now, as the giant Chinese tank clanked past it, the fifth Abrams’ turret adjusted slightly. Someone in the disabled tank was still alive! Before the T-66 could alter its path, the 120mm cannon fired at point blank range. The Sabot round drilled into the mighty Chinese tank. The T-66 stopped, and it exploded, turrets popping off.

“A miracle,” whispered Stan. “That was a miracle.”

“What now?” asked Hank.

Stan couldn’t speak, for the hatch to the fifth Abrams opened. Flames licked up as a man tried to climb out. Then he blew upward as the insides of his tank cooked off.

“Did you see that?” Stan whispered.

“I saw,” said Jose.

“He saved our lives,” said Stan.

“He let us get away.”

Stan felt numb inside. That was heroism. Bill charging the T-66s alone and the Abrams gunner just now—Stan made a fist. He struck the turret. “Let’s get out of here before the last T-66 shows up.”

He’d seen what those things could do. One T-66 was more than a match for five Abrams tanks.

“We had ten Abrams and now we have four,” Stan said. “They slaughtered us.”

“It isn’t over yet,” said Jose. “You’d better get us out of here,” Jose told Hank.

“Roger that,” said Stan. “It’s time to run away so we can live to fight another day.”