Invasion: California

-10- Breakout

Stan sat at a flimsy card table with his crew, beside their Behemoth tank. A huge anti-radar camouflage net flapped gently overhead to hide it from Chinese surveillance. Several sparrows rode out the motion as if they were swimmers at sea.

Stan drank a Budweiser with Jose. Nearby, a small dog barked at them from behind a white-picket fence. An old lady stood on the porch of the house, staring at the three-hundred ton monster. MPs had vetted her earlier. Her husband had fought in Iraq decades ago. She was a loyal American and had brought the tankers milk, cookies and Budweisers.

Jose was thinner now, with hollow-looking eyes. He guzzled his Budweiser with a loud sigh before wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

Before this, the Behemoth Regiment had guarded Palm Springs for almost a week. When Jose wasn’t in the tank on patrol, he was working in it, helping to keep the Behemoth running. Then movement orders had come day two days ago, a day before the nuclear attack on Santa Cruz. It had been hectic after that, with the Behemoths loaded onto the massive carriers and brought to Temecula under the greatest secrecy. A regular tank division now held the pass at Palm Springs, with heavy Militia and artillery support.

“Oh-oh,” Jose said.

“What’s wrong?” Stan hated to hear those words.

Jose pointed with the long neck of his beer bottle. “Here comes the Colonel. I wonder what we did wrong this time.”

Stan craned his neck, twisting around. Sure enough, Colonel Wilson headed straight for them with his long stride. The man’s uniform was perfect as always. Dust, sand, grime, oil, it didn’t matter. He was immaculate. Stan and Wilson had been staying out of each other’s way. Stan preferred it that way, but he knew it couldn’t last.

Putting the lip of the bottle to his mouth, Stan took a long swallow. He was dog-tired. They all were. Too much rested on their giant tanks. For once, America had the superior equipment. The trouble was there were only a handful of Behemoths to go around. Truthfully, they needed about two or three hundred, not the meager fifteen.

“Here we go,” Stan whispered. He put the bottle on the card table and stood up.

“Don’t take any of his crap,” Jose said.

Stan shook his head. “We’re all on the same side. Despite what we feel, you and I need to show him respect.”

“Why? He never shows us respect.”

“Look around you, my friend. The why is very easy to answer. We’re America’s last hope and we have to stand together.”

“Why don’t you tell him that?”

“Maybe I will,” Stan said. He waited, and he turned to face the Colonel.

Wilson walked up briskly, and said, “I need to talk to you.”

“Would you like to sit down, sir? Jose, are there any more beers?”

Wilson shook his head. “No. I don’t drink.”

Stan kept a grimace off his face. He should have known.

“I’d like to speak with you alone, Captain.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wilson stood there for a moment. It seemed he didn’t know what to do. He glanced at the little barking dog behind the picket fence. He shook his head and then pointed down the opposite street.

“That way, if you please,” the Colonel said.

Stan frowned. This wasn’t like the man. Usually, he just rapped out what he wanted to say and left, or he sent Stan on his way. What was this about?

Stan followed Wilson. They walked in silence, passing an odd mixture of perfect homes and others shredded from Chinese bombs. Suddenly, the Colonel spun around and he glared at Stan.

“We’ve had our differences,” Wilson blurted.

“Yes, sir, I’d say that’s true.”

“Damnit, soldier, I don’t want—” Wilson cut himself off and glared at the street.

Stan raised an eyebrow.

Wilson looked back up. “I’ve spoken with General Larson. We’re going to lead the assault all the way down to Escondido if we have to.”

“We, sir?”

“The Behemoth tanks, man. Surely, you must know what I’m talking about.”

Stan shook his head.

Wilson glared at him, and he seemed to become angrier the longer he looked at Stan. At last, in seeming exasperation, the Colonel threw his hands into the air.

“I can’t do it,” Wilson said.

“What is that, sir?”

“You’re making this too difficult for me.”

“Colonel, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Wilson blew out his cheeks, turned around, took three steps away and then spun back to face Stan. “You’re a Medal of Honor recipient.”

“Yes?”

“You’ve faced the Chinese before and you’ve beaten them.”

“Well, that’s not exactly what happened, sir. What I did—”

“You outsmarted them.”

“I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”

“Captain, what General Larson is demanding—no, this doesn’t originate with him. It’s from much higher up the chain of command. In any case, using our Behemoths to lead the assault down to Escondido is the wrong way to use our tanks. They’re good at long-ranged combat. The force cannons, it’s their specialty picking off the enemy before they’re anywhere near the range of their weapons.”

“I agree with you.”

“Now we’re supposed to lead the charge into rugged terrain, to try to break through to our trapped Army Group.” Wilson shook his head. “It’s suicide for us and I don’t know what to do.”

“Meaning what exactly, sir? I’m not sure I follow you.”

“You’re a bastard, Captain Higgins. I’m trying to apologize to you, damnit.”

Stan blinked in wonderment. “Apologize to me, sir?”

“Isn’t that what I just said?”

“Yes, you did, sir.” I never expected this.

“You’re the combat expert among us. There’s never been any doubt about that.”

“Ah…you’re a wizard on the technical aspect of the tanks, sir.”

“That’s not what we’re talking about here. Captain, the Chinese are beating us. Look at what happened up north in Santa Cruz. We used nukes in an attempt to balance the situation. We actually annihilated one of our own cities. It’s unimaginable.”

“The Chinese used electromagnetic pulse missiles on us, sir. I’d say we’re striking them back tit-for-tat.”

Wilson shook his head. “None of that matters to us here. I need a tactical solution that will save our tanks and give the chain of command what it’s asking from us. I don’t like you, Captain. But I can’t worry about that anymore. The Chinese have invaded our country. I don’t always get the choice of who stands beside me. Well, you stood against them before and beat them. I would be a fool to waste that asset in my command. I want your battle cunning, Higgins. More than that, your country needs your brilliance and insight once more. Will you help me?”

Stan turned away. “I don’t know that I have anything particularly brilliant to add, sir.”

“Then you’d better start thinking. You’d better give me a tactical solution to using our Behemoths in rugged terrain and in an urban environment. We have a day to prepare. Time is running out. Army Group SoCal is dying on the vine. They no longer have the power to dig out of their encirclement.”

“You’re right, sir.”

“Use the historical acumen stored in that undisciplined brain of yours. Give me something to work with.”

Stan faced the Colonel. “I’ll try my best, sir.”

“No, Captain Higgins. I don’t care anything about trying. I want success.”

Stan nodded. He could live by that philosophy.

“Do we understand one another?” Wilson asked.

“We do, sir, and thank you.”

Wilson nodded the barest fraction. “That will be all, Captain. Carry on.”

Stan turned around and headed back for the Behemoth, his mind awhirl with ideas.

Marshal Nung buttoned his uniform. He had new brass buttons, bigger than normal. It took a good shove with his thumb to force them through the cloth slots. This was the best he’d felt since the unfortunate mixture of tranks and amphetamines.

He stood before a mirror, studying his features. He didn’t like the splotches on his face, as they told their own story. A man like Kao would have probably used makeup to hide the discolorations, but he wasn’t Kao. He would face life with his warts and all, and he would conquer by superior willpower and aggressiveness. An army was only as good as its commander. It was an old lesson of war. His army was winning, although a tally sheet of casualties might not show it right now.

There was a knock on the door and an aide popped his head inside. “The conference starts in two minutes, sir.”

“I’ll be there,” Nung said.

The aide disappeared as the door closed.

Chairman Jian Hong—the Leader—wished to speak with him, together with Marshal Kao of the Ruling Committee. It was going to be a three-way conference call. The nuclear assault in Santa Cruz had shaken the Ruling Committee. It was the Navy’s fault. Anyone with half a strategical brain could see that. The Navy had badly erred there and reaped a bitter rebuke from the enemy. Correction: the Naval Commander had made a gross error and he had paid a grim penalty. The trouble was that Admiral Ling had also made China pay.

Nung spun on his heel. Dizziness occurred and he lowered his head, taking several calming breaths. When the dizziness passed, he marched for the door, strode down the hall and came to the comm-room.

This was an advance outpost and more communications equipment was on its way. Nung planned to turn this into his new, First Front Headquarters.

“There’s bottled water and food behind you, sir.”

Nung nodded in acknowledgement as he sat down before the screen. An aide handed him his military cap. Nung put it on and the aide adjusted it.

“Seven seconds, sir.”

Nung stared at the screen. What did the Leader want to tell him in the presence of Marshal Kao? It wouldn’t be anything good, of that he had no doubt. He didn’t have long to wait to find out.

The screen came alive and Nung found himself looking at the Leader on the left of a split-screen and Marshal Kao on the right. Jian Hong was puffy-faced with bags under his eyes. It indicated worry. Aesthetic Marshal Kao had a pinched look, which could mean many different things.

“Gentleman,” the Leader said. “It is good of you to meet with me. You are well, Marshal Nung?”

There was more to the question, Nung was certain. Yes, he noticed the tiny twitch of eye movement in Kao, as if the man yearned to speak up.

“I am tired in a good sense,” Nung said, “tired like a worker hard at his task but brimming with the energy to complete the work he has begun.”

“There you are, Marshal.” The Leader appeared to address the words to Kao.

Nung decided it would be wisest to let the matter drop. “And you two gentlemen are doing well, I hope?”

“Yes,” Kao said.

The Leader frowned. “I must admit to a sense of unease. Predictions were made in my presence and yet reality has shown me a different face. I continue to attempt to reconcile the two.”

“Leader, if I may interject a point,” Kao said.

“Before you do, I would like Marshal Nung to understand the nature of the conference call. Marshal,” the Leader told Nung. “The battle in California was supposed to be a swift affair, which would allow us to gobble up a profitable state and strengthen our overall strategic position versus the Americans.”

“Leader,” Nung said, “that is exactly what is occurring even as we speak.”

“Respectfully,” Kao said, “I would beg to differ with your assessment.”

“You are free to do so,” Nung said. “But I would like to point out that we are on the verge of a climatic victory.”

“You’re speaking about the capture of California?” the Leader asked.

“The state will fall to us like dominos,” Nung said. “The first piece that will begin the process is the American Army Group of an original six hundred thousand soldiers. We have cut them off from Los Angeles and have begun devouring this Army Group so it is already smaller and vastly weaker than on the opening day of war.”

“You have told me this before,” the Leader said. “Yet we have not even captured any of the outlying suburbs of Los Angeles. To have truly encircled the Americans, your tanks were supposed to have driven through Palm Springs, captured Los Angeles and sealed everyone from the Grapevine Pass.”

“Little is certain in war, Leader,” Nung said. “The Americans surprised us with their giant tanks. Yet I have used the Tank Army that would have captured Los Angeles and whittled away more of the trapped Army Group. It is only a matter of days now before the entire enemy Army Group ceases to exist as a military obstacle.”

“You have fought a fierce campaign,” Kao said. “No one can drive soldiers to battle like you. Yet I would be remiss if I did not point out that the Americans are reinforcing the state in greater numbers than you had anticipated. In the end, if you destroy Army Group SoCal but the Americans place greater numbers of soldiers there, you will have failed to capture California.”

“Allow me to disagree with your assessment in an important particular,” Nung said. “The Americans have entrained some reinforcements. I predicted they would do as much. Nevertheless, they have not sent anything approaching an entire new Army Group. Perhaps they would if we gave them the time. Once I capture Los Angeles, I will use my White Tigers to seal the Sierra Nevada passes.” Nung cleared his throat. “Leader, Marshal Kao, I understand your concerns. War is a messy business with its difficulties. The incident in the north, in Santa Cruz—”

“It was more than an incident,” the Leader said heatedly. “The Americans used nuclear weapons against Chinese troops. We must retaliate or they will think they can do such a thing again with impunity. This cannot stand.”

“You have a valid point, sir,” Nung said.

Kao’s eyes widened, probably in surprise.

Nung chuckled inwardly. It was Chinese military doctrine to stay well away from nuclear weapons. The Americans had just shown that there was a time and place to use them. A wise commander would consider the ramifications of the nuclear assault with care.

“Go on,” the Leader said.

“If it comes down to it, sir,” Nung said, “I suggest we use nuclear weapons to render the Sierra Nevada passes unusable.”

“Our ICBMs would never make it past the American strategic lasers,” Kao said sharply.

“I agree,” Nung said. “That is why I believe White Tiger Commandos would need to carry the nuclear weapons with them. They would set the weapons like gigantic mines in the passes, ready to explode at the best possible opportunity.”

The Leader’s eyes shone as he nodded. “Yes, yes, I like it. We will pay them back in the same coin they have paid us. When they move mass troops through the passes, we annihilate them.”

“Exactly, Leader,” Nung said.

“We do not want to start a nuclear holocaust,” Kao said. “I think we should reconsider this idea.”

“Bah!” the Leader said. “We’re starting nothing. The Americans used the nuclear weapons first. They have always used them first, and they signed an accord with us saying they would never use them. Now it is time to teach the Americans a lesson. They cannot continue to use such weapons against the Asian peoples. I will not stand for it.”

“We will use them in accord with my strategy of a swift assault,” Nung said.

“Leader,” Kao said, “could we address the central issue?”

Jian Hong became thoughtful, with his eyes half-lidded. “Proceed as you wish, but I expect you will find that Marshal Nung has an excellent explanation for what occurs.”

“Nung is a gifted speaker,” Kao said. “He has also proven to be an excellent commander of small formations. The Siberian and Alaskan Wars show that. The current bloodbath seems to be something altogether different.”

“You intrigue me,” Nung told Kao. “Please, let me hear your concerns.”

“In a nutshell,” Kao said, “China has lost far too many soldiers these past weeks for the present gains.”

Nung bowed his head, and this time his eyes were bright as he began to speak. “If the war stopped this instant, I would agree with you. My operational method is simple and therefore elegant. Speed is its essence. That does not necessarily mean speed along the highway. I have increased the tempo of battle in California by attacking night and day, by rotating formations and never giving the Americans a rest. It also means headlong attack at times and those attacks are in an urban environment, often considered the worst place for swift advances. That means heavy losses at times among our soldiers. I have tried to ensure that those losses are sustained primarily by penal units and the special infantry.”

“That has not always been the case,” Kao said.

“You are correct. We have sustained heavy losses, both in men and materiel. What I have done is bring the Americans to the brink of defeat. Once the remnant of Army Group SoCal enters the prison camps, California and the entire West Coast will be plucked like a ripe peach. We will not rest, but endlessly assault the enemy until he collapses from exhaustion.”

“What if we collapse first?” Kao asked.

“No. We are the greater power, have better soldiers and the superior technology.”

“The American Behemoth tanks are proof of this, yes?” Kao asked.

“The nuclear strike in Santa Cruz is proof of this,” Nung said. “The Americans had to resort to it because they lacked enough soldiers. It is clear they are exhausted. Several more headlong assaults—”

“I would like to point out that we have not merely sustained heavy losses, but debilitating losses,” Kao said. “You need to use a more methodical approach now. In a vast urban and mountainous environment, you must proceed with a siege mentality instead of trying to press as if you’re a tank commander on the steppes of Siberia.”

They always return to that, don’t they? They are envious of my past feats. Nung smiled grimly. “Forgive me, please, Marshal Kao, but I come to a different conclusion. Now is the moment to reap the rewards of our continuous attack. It is a sin to give up at the goal line. That is where we are, and you must have the courage to finish what we started.”

“Yes!” the Leader said. “Finish this fight, Marshal Nung. Defeat the Americans as quickly as you can. I do not want any more Santa Cruzes. We must capture Los Angeles and then California. Then you must rest your troops as we shift the focus to Texas and New Mexico and mass supplies there for the second strike.”

Nung bowed his head. He had won again, even though it was obvious that Kao intrigued against him. But the Leader was wrong in a critical area. He would not stop with California’s capture. He wanted the entire West Coast.

As long as I’m commanding the First Front, we will attack until victory is mine.

“Do you have anything else to add, Marshal Kao?” the Leader asked.

Kao must have understood which way the wind blew. He shook his head and the conference soon ended.

Paul Kavanagh ducked behind a concrete wall. Seconds later a powerful explosion shook the area. Debris rained and more enemy shells landed. A titanic clang told Paul the M1A3 tank helping them hold this street was no more.

He glanced back and could see the separated turret laying sideways, the bent cannon thrust part way into a burning shoe store.

“Chinese UCAV,” Romo said.

Paul looked up and noticed where Romo pointed. Yeah, he saw it, a slow-flying prop job. It had another Annihilator missile under a wing like the one that had just killed the Abrams. It also had a long cannon—it must be a vehicle-hunting drone. Even as he watched, the cannon chugged, and a Stryker hiding from the Chinese Marauders down the street sagged as tires deflated and shells punched holes in the skin.

Paul was part of the rearguard in Poway, fighting with a platoon of the 23rd Infantry Division. The platoon was down to sixteen soldiers, including Paul and Romo. They didn’t have any Blowdart shoulder-launched missiles to take down the enemy aircraft. They’d used the last one days ago.

“Ready?” Paul asked.

“The drone is too far and likely flying too fast for us,” Romo said.

“That isn’t what I asked. Are you ready?”

Romo glanced at Paul. They were both covered with grime, with the dirt worked deep into their skin. Each had a patchy uniform and badly dinged and used Kevlar armor. Paul wore a bandage on his cheek, while Romo had a bigger one on his neck. Paul had sewn the neck wound closed three days ago and it was infected. The assassin was too proud to complain. Each of them had the hollow stare of a soldier who had seen too much combat.

“Amigo, I was born ready,” Romo said.

“Glad to hear it. Let’s take down the S.O.B.”

The UCAV dipped toward them, its cannon chugging. A Bradley Fighting Vehicle barely avoided destruction by backing up fast. Huge chunks of pavement geysered upward and sprayed the pieces in all directions like a granite shower.

Paul grunted as he grabbed the .50 caliber Browning. Romo did likewise. They hefted the machine gun, putting its tripod onto the concrete wall. Paul slid around Romo and clutched the butterfly controls. Romo leaned heavily against the tripod. He’d already put plugs in his ears.

Swiveling the machine gun, Paul used the laser rangefinder. It was an upgraded Browning. The ballistic computer flashed the coordinates. Paul adjusted and he used his thumbs, pressing the buttons. The heavy machine gun was loud, and it shook. Red tracers helped Paul make minute corrections. As a Bradley Fighting Vehicle blew up from the UCAV’s cannon, .50 caliber bullets riddled the drone. The Chinese craft nosedived, and seconds later, it hit the ground, exploding out of sight.

Paul released his grip and slapped Romo on the back. The two of them lifted the big machine gun, taking it down off the wall. Both men ran crouched over, hidden from the enemy. Seconds later, Chinese shaped-charge grenades hit the wall where they’d just been, demolishing it.

That was one of the rules. You couldn’t stay in the same spot long. Anyone who didn’t learn that was already dead or much luckier than he had a right to be.

“Here!” Paul shouted.

Romo grounded the tripod and slid the hot barrel through a hole in the concrete, wearing gloves. One time, when the barrel had glowed with heat, Romo had unzipped his fly and urinated on it. Now, he readied more ammo, giving Paul the thumbs up.

Paul lay on gravel, squinting down the sights. He was deep down exhausted. It was the kind of tired where you felt it in your bones. He wanted a hot bath and to sleep for days. Romo and he had been on the run for too long. They had fought too many battles and hiked over too many mountains to make it here into this particular pocket.

Army Group SoCal wasn’t one big united entity anymore, but just fractured parts holding out in different southern cities and hills. As far as Paul knew, this pocket was the farthest northward. It was the closet to LA. The trouble was that he and Romo were the rearguard. If a miracle occurred and somehow the U.S. Army in LA fought through to them, they would have to stand guard, buying time for the others.

“Movement,” Romo said.

“Ready.”

Romo picked up a Chinese RPG. That was how they operated these days. They scoured battlefields, looking for enemy equipment. Sometimes an American UAV dropped supplies, but that didn’t happen often. The Chinese were doing their best to destroy every vestige of Army Group SoCal, and they were doing a good job of it, too.

“There,” Romo said, pointing.

Paul saw them. Chinese soldiers in dinylon battle armor raced into view as they sprinted for cover. The lead man wore a black visor with a little antenna jutting up from it. These weren’t penal soldiers or the dreaded special infantry. These were regular fighting men. They were the kind that wanted to survive combat.

As if on cue, three Marauder drones appeared down the street. Their cannons roared one right after the other. Shells whistled and blasted sections of the concrete wall.

“Not yet,” Paul said. He didn’t speak to tell Romo what to do. The assassin knew better than he did the moment to strike. Paul spoke out of habit, out of an inner need.

The Marauders’ treads churned rubble. The light tank drones with their forest of antenna clanked toward them. The big cannons looked pitted around the mouths from too much firing. Now those cannons fired again, shaking the SUV-sized tanks. The shells made a dreadful noise, smashing into the concrete wall and into buildings, making everything shake.

On their bellies, Chinese soldiers crawled after the drones, working to get closer to the hidden Americans.

A sound crackled in Paul’s ear. It was their platoon leader. Actually, it was their company captain, but there wasn’t any company any more, just this skeleton of a platoon of sixteen sorry soldiers. The good thing was that these were the toughest, shrewdest and luckiest sixteen. It’s why they were still alive and why the rest of the company was dead meat. Still, the sixteen survivors were bone-weary and just wanted to go home.

The three tank-drones repeated their performance and the Chinese infantry crawled that much closer. Paul counted twenty of them and figured there was another forty soldiers hidden around here somewhere. It was a Chinese infestation.

“Bunch of cockroaches,” Paul muttered.

“That’s close enough,” the captain said into Paul’s ear via the implant. “Let her rip, gents.”

From his belly, Romo poked the RPG through a hole in the concrete. Enemy bullets flew at him. The Chinese soldiers must have been waiting for this. The slugs peppered the wall. Cool as you please Romo continued to sight.

Paul pressed the trigger of his .50 cal. His big bullets struck the nearest drone with hammering clangs. He tried to shoot out the camera ports. Blinding these tanks made everything easier.

Now Romo fired. There was a whoosh. The shaped-charge grenade flew and struck the Marauder drone, knocking off one of the treads.

“No kill on the cannon,” Paul said, as Romo pulled back beside him.

The drone fired, the shell screaming. It blew up more of the wall and this time it was uncomfortably near.

Paul pressed the butterfly triggers, and he began counting the number of Chinese he killed.

The implant crackled in his ear, “What are you doing? Pull back, soldier. We don’t want any more heroes. We can’t afford it.”

“Let’s go,” Paul said.

With robotic skill, he and Romo went to work taking down the machinegun. Seconds later, they ran, lugging the .50 caliber between them. The other Americans also retreated. That was the secret to the fight. You didn’t stay in one spot long. You traded space for time. You set up in a new ambush site and made the Chinese start the process all over again. It meant the pocket was always shrinking. Theirs wasn’t going to last long, but while it did last, Paul planned on taking down as many of the enemy as he could.

Early in the morning of the next day, all fifteen operational Behemoths were on the move, hauled on their massive carriers.

Stan sat in the cab of his carrier, staring at the mountains around them. He’d been working out ideas on his iPad. This was a gamble, and as far as he could see, it was time to use the Behemoths as a closed fist. They had to smash through the Chinese line hard and fast. It needed to be a stunning blow. Since it was a gamble, and since time would be at a premium, why not risk everything right away?

M1A3 tanks ranged ahead, together with anti-air tac-lasers and Humvee Avengers with Blowdart missiles. Behind the Behemoths and the rest of the attacking force were hundreds of heavy trucks and haulers. They brimmed with supplies, and if everything went right, they would haul out weary soldiers of Army Group SoCal on their return to Temecula.

The carriers traveled for a time at fifteen mph. At mid-morning, the radio crackled. The lead elements of the breakthrough assault had reached the enemy.

In the cab of the carrier, Stan and Jose traded glances. Several seconds later, the radio squawked. Stan answered.

“What do you think?” Colonel Wilson asked.

“We’re not close enough yet,” Stan said. “Let’s wait to unload.”

“And if the Chinese send jets at us?”

“I don’t think they’re going to do that just yet, sir. Give it another half hour and then we unload.”

“That’s cutting it awful close, Captain.”

“Sir, this is a gamble, and—”

“You explained it to me earlier. Place everything on the bet, holding nothing back. All right, I asked for your advice and you’re the hero of Alaska.”

“That doesn’t make me right,” Stan said.

“No, but it means you might actually know what you’re talking about. We’ll do this your way, Captain.”

The words should have made Stan feel good. Instead, they tightened his gut. Is this what it felt like being a commander? Then he wanted nothing to do with the job. It was one thing risking your life on the line of battle. It was quite another sending other men to die for your ideas.

“Are you a praying man, Colonel?” Stan asked.

“I’ve been to church.”

“Well, sir, if I were you, I’d start praying pretty heavily right about now. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

Marshal Nung yawned as he entered the commander center. This was more like it. The technicians had been busy all last night. Now it looked like the regular command center back in Mexico. Everyone was here now, too. That included General Pi and Marshal Gang.

Moving to the computer table in the center of the chamber, Nung nodded to the larger Marshal Gang. The man looked at him stonily before grunting an acknowledgement. Nung acted better than he felt. He was sure Gang sent daily reports back to China to Marshal Kao. Well, everyone had his or her afflictions. Old-woman marshals were one of his.

“Put up situational map on the screen,” Nung said. The tac-officer obeyed and Nung surveyed the situation. Something caught his eye up there to the north.

“What’s this?” he asked, tapping the table along I-15 between Escondido and Temecula.

“I’ll find out, sir,” General Pi said. The officer spoke into his wrist microphone. Several minutes later, he said, “It appears the Americans are probing there, sir.”

“Probing?” Nung asked.

“There are reports of Abrams tanks, sir.”

Nung frowned. “Do we have a visual of what’s going on?”

“Negative,” the tac-officer said.

“I want a drone out there,” Nung said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Is something wrong, sir?” Pi asked.

“We’re eating the Americans,” Nung said, “devouring them as I had anticipated from the start. Finally, some of the trapped formations have begun to surrender. Yet I fear we might not have made the net strong enough in this area. We’ve taught them that driving down the coastal route simply makes them targets for our sea-borne hovers and missile cruisers. There’s something different about this attempt here.”

“Are you sure, sir?” Pi asked. “We’ve driven off every attempt they’ve made to break through to the trapped army. I think they no longer have enough soldiers to make any more attempts.”

“You are wrong,” Nung said. “The Americans don’t have enough soldiers not to try. Now get me those visuals, even if you have to send a wing of fighters to get it.”

For this operation, Stan was privy to more information than usual. It came through Colonel Wilson. The Behemoth Regiment had become the most important formation in all of California. That meant General Larson often spoke to Wilson. Wilson in turn had made Stan his right-hand advisor.

Fifteen Behemoth monsters clanked south along I-15. They were like fifteen, slow-motion semis, but with long cannons and squealing treads. Each tank proudly flew the Stars and Stripes and each approached the increasingly heated battle.

“We’ve lost eleven Abrams so far,” Wilson radioed.

Stan sat in his commander’s seat in the Behemoth. The trouble was the terrain. Here it definitely favored the defender. And in this instance, Chinese troops had infiltrated between Temecula and Escondido and grown stronger through helicopter reinforcements.

Stan spoke into the receiver. “I suggest you tell General Larson that he should accept the losses of all his Abrams in order to smash through the Chinese line. If we don’t break through into the pocket today, we can kiss California goodbye.”

“Those are harsh words, Captain.”

“Yes, sir, but the truth is we’re going to need more soldiers in order to defend Los Angeles. That means a few lost tanks here won’t matter in the end. All that matters is getting the trapped men free and ready to face tomorrow. This is our Dunkirk, sir.”

“Dunkirk, I’ve heard that name before,” Wilson said.

“You should. It’s a story of great valor and cunning. In 1940, the German panzers had slipped through the Ardennes, shattered the French and trapped the British Army on the coast. The British retreated to Dunkirk, and it was only a matter of time before the panzers came in to finish the job. Hitler took too long, however, interfering with his generals. That gave the British time to send every ship afloat to Dunkirk, where they ferried over 300,000 soldiers back to England. It saved the British, sir, because without those troops they wouldn’t have been able to hold out against a German cross-Channel invasion.”

“And you think this is our Dunkirk?” Wilson asked.

“I think so, sir. We need to ferry out our soldiers to fight again another day.”

“Yes, it’s what I’ll tell the General. A few Abrams don’t matter now.”

“In truth, our Behemoths don’t matter either,” Stan said. “We have to break through and free these soldiers, sacrificing whatever we have to in order to do it.”

“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Wilson said.

“Those are my sentiments exactly, sir.”

Flight Lieutenant Harris found it hard to concentrate. He could hear Chinese artillery shells landing near the bunker. That shook the equipment in here and made plaster fall from the ceiling. PAA forces had steadily infiltrated San Diego and pushed back the American perimeter.

It was the confounded hovers. The Chinese controlled the ocean, reinforcing at will along the coast and attacking anywhere there that they wanted.

“Lieutenant,” a voice said in his ear.

Harris wore drone-gear as he piloted what would likely be his last V-10 UCAV. He was part of an air wing over I-15. They were covering the great escape, or what they hoped would be the great escape of the trapped American troops. Unfortunately, no one was coming for them here in San Diego. It was too far behind enemy lines. The terrible part was that they weren’t the only cut-off and trapped city. All over San Diego County the situation was the same. The Chinese had shattered the integrity of Army Group SoCal and now squeezed each pocket tighter and tighter.

“Look to your left,” the air-controller said.

“Sorry,” Harris said. He had to forget about his own troubles. He had a job to do. He concentrated on flying his V-10. He ignored the shudder around him and the piece of plaster that fell near his feet. Instead, concentrating, he peered through the VR goggles and saw that the sky over I-15 swarmed with Chinese drones and jet fighters.

Clenching his teeth, Flight Lieutenant Harris decided this was going to be the only payback he would get. Soon, he would be dead or he would be a prisoner. Would they ship him south into Mexico, or would they transport him across the Pacific to China? Either way, he would never come home. He was certain of that.

“Let’s do this,” he whispered.

Several J-25s bored toward them. Higher up were recon drones. Battle ops called for no enemy recon vehicles. They were trying to keep the Chinese blind about what was going on along the highway.

The threat receiver growled in his ear. Harris expelled chaff, executed a hard-G maneuver and brought his small V-10 into position. He had lock-on, and he launched two Sun-stingers. Then he decided—

In his operator’s seat, Harris shook from side-to-side. He had no idea what was going on. Then someone tore off his VR goggles. A panicked MP with blood running down his face stood before him.

“What are you doing?” Harris asked.

“Chinese soldiers have blown the bunker entrance,” the MP said. “Take this.” The man shoved an assault rifle into his hands. Then the man fell backward, and try as he might, the MP couldn’t get back up.

Harris stared at the dying man and then at the ugly thing in his hands. Feeling as if he was in a nightmare, he called the air-controller. “I have to sign off. Someone else needs to control my drone.”

The air-controller acknowledged.

Standing, ripping off the leads attached to him, Harris brought up the assault rifle and moved toward the sound of gunfire. The Chinese were in the bunker. What did that mean?

Blinking, Harris realized what it meant. I’m going to end up in a Chinese POW camp. They’re going to starve me to death and practice horrible experiments on me like the Japanese did to some of our soldiers in World War II.

A well of fear constricted his chest. His eyes bulged, and Flight Lieutenant Harris began to shake. This wasn’t anything like flying drones. This wasn’t like a first-person shooter computer game, either. This was for real.

You can’t become a prisoner.

Another MP ahead of him turned the corner and fired his weapon behind him. Armor-piercing bullets ripped through the corner and blew the MP backward.

With a howl of anguish, Harris ran to the same corner, stepping over the MP. He saw two armored Chinese soldiers. He lifted the assault rifle and emptied the magazine at them. He shot the floor first, then one of the enemy and finally the ceiling. It was crazy, the assault rifle shook like mad as he fired, causing the barrel to rise. He must have gotten lucky, because one of the Chinese lay on the floor with a gaping wound in his face. The other one aimed his assault weapon.

Grinding his teeth together, Harris yanked out the magazine and started to put in another one. But he was not ground-combat trained and he had forgotten to duck back out of sight. As he slapped the magazine into the slot, the Chinese soldier fired a three-round burst, two of them catching Harris in the chest. He staggered backward and crashed to the floor. He found it hard to breathe, hard to see.

What’s happening?

Boots appeared before his eyes. A soldier spoke Chinese. Then a barrel appeared before Harris’s face. He heard a click, and then Flight Lieutenant Harris didn’t hear anything at all, ever.

“Those are the giant tanks,” Nung said. He stared at the computer table, at images recorded from the air-battle over I-15. Beside a giant tank, a passing Humvee looked like a child’s toy.

“If the giant tanks are here,” Pi said, “it means they are no longer guarding Palm Springs.”

Nung looked up. This was an excellent point. “Alert the general of the Tank Army outside Palm Springs. I want his advance units to make an immediate assault upon the city.”

“Palm Springs is surely heavily guarded by others,” Pi said.

“Yes, surely,” Nung agreed.

Marshal Gang muttered under his breath as he strode to the computer table. “I would make an observation.”

“You are free to do so,” Nung said.

“The Americans have entrenched themselves in Palm Springs,” Gang said. “A frontal attack now would mean heavy losses to our T-66s. A methodical assault with intense artillery preparation is the correct procedure.”

“For assaulting an entrenched enemy, you are correct,” Nung said.

Gang raised his eyebrows, likely in surprise. “Is this not what they are?”

“I see the broader picture,” Nung said, “because I have a grand strategical goal. Everything I do is based upon that goal. The Americans have one technologically advanced weapons system over us: the giant tanks with their electromagnetic cannons. They stopped us at Palm Springs. Now they are gone, fighting down here near Escondido. We must immediately launch an attack at Palm Springs, because that will shake the morale of the enemy commander more than anything else we can do.”

“I do not follow your logic,” Gang said.

It was so obvious that Nung was surprised at Gang. “The enemy has taken a risk. The giant tanks blocked us at Palm Springs because their extreme range and powerful gun trumped our superior numbers. Now the enemy tanks no longer have the better range because the terrain they are in blocks such long-distance firing. Instead, for close tank combat, we have the advantage with our triple-turreted armor. While I do agree that our Tank Army will take heavy losses as it assaults Palm Springs, it will also put tremendous pressure on the American commander. Even if he can break through down here near Escondido, it won’t matter if I can succeed in Palm Springs. The Tank Army will race through the pass and assault San Bernardino. We will cut off Temecula—cut off this entire region down here—from Los Angeles. That means Army Group SoCal remains trapped and these new formations sent to rescue them will be caught in the giant net with them.”

“This will only come at a heavy cost in men and materiel,” Gang said. “Why not win Palm Springs through a properly planned and executed assault?”

“I just explained that to you,” Nung said in exasperation. “Don’t you understand anything? Have you learned nothing while in my presence? You have watched and reported on my health; why not report to Kao on the excellence of my operational grasp? Speed is the essence as we outmaneuver the Americans. Now is the time to rush Los Angeles as the enemy commander expends his best formations driving into our net. By the time he turns around and rushes those formations back to Los Angeles, it will be too late.”

Gang was stony-faced, with his shoulders hunched. “How do we defeat the giant tanks? What is your excellent plan for them?”

“They are in rough terrain, as you can see. The terrain negates their range advantage because their line of sight is blocked, not allowing them their six to seven-mile shots. Even better, they have given me the perfect target.”

“I do not understand.”

Nung smiled craftily. “I saved a Blue Swan missile for a critical moment such as this. The missile will EMP the giant tanks, rendering them useless. Then we will rush helicopter-borne infantry around them and delay the Americans from retreating or turning around and racing for Palm Springs. Gentlemen, I predict that the Battle for California will be won right here.”

Stan sat in his Behemoth as they rumbled to the attack. He watched his screens, with intelligence provided by UAVs, his tank-cameras and scouting infantry.

The Chinese waited up on the rocky hills surrounding the highway. Burning and destroyed Abrams littered the concrete road. With the squeal of metal, Stan’s Behemoth shoved the hulk of an M1A3 to the side and continued its advance.

The three-hundred-ton monsters were a sight, majestic creations, clanking and squealing south. There were twelve of them. Three had stalled due to engine failure. Three Behemoth-haulers had rushed forward to retrieve them, but that meant nothing here on the battlefield.

Chinese Main Battle Tanks were at the top of the rocky hills. The MBTs had been in hull-down positions earlier. Now they waited out of sight, hidden from the Behemoths. Unfortunately for them, they were visible to the recon drones buzzing overhead.

“Get ready,” Stan said. “Three MBTs are moving up to make their attack.”

On the screen and seen from the UAV’s angle, Stan watched the Chinese tanks clank the short distance to the mountaintop. Soon, their cannons poked over the hill, targeting them. Each cannon belched fire and shot a sabot round.

The tactic had worked against the M1A3s, as the evidence on the road proved. The Chinese shells screamed down. Stan’s Behemoth—like all the others—had an advanced Artificial Intelligence. It tracked the shells and automatically targeted them with the 30mm cannons. To insure the enemy shells never hit, beehive flechette launchers blasted. This time it worked, as none of the enemy shells reached the Behemoth’s incredibly thick armor.

“Have you computed their position?” Stan shouted.

“Roger,” Jose said, with his forehead pressed against the targeting scope.

Stan glanced at the intel-screen. The Chinese had played it smart. Their crews were apparently highly-trained professionals. As soon as they’d fired, the three MBTs had ducked back down behind the rocky hill. Against normal munitions, the rock and earth would have protected them. The force cannons were anything but normal.

“Fire!” Stan shouted, unable to give the command it in a quiet voice.

Jose pressed the switch. Power flowed through the force cannon. The Behemoth shook as the penetrator round ejected at a terrific velocity.

The depleted uranium rod zoomed with unerring accuracy. It smashed through rock and dirt and scored a direct hit against the Chinese MBT on the other side. The round burned through the armor and BB-sized molten pellets ignited everything inside the tank. The MBT exploded.

The other Behemoths did likewise, and the enemy tanks up on the hills burned or exploded. The sheer power of the force cannons was too much to resist.

“We’ve broken through,” Colonel Wilson shouted over the radio.

The twelve Behemoths led the assault down I-15. They were nearing the trapped Americans. As of right now, it looked as if the gamble was going to pay off.

Forty-seven minutes after Stan’s Behemoth destroyed a Chinese MBT, a Blue Swan carrier pulled off the road. It pulled into the Vista Mall parking area and came to a stop. Technicians jumped out of the cab as the launcher bed began to rise.

“Do you have to coordinates?” the major in charge of the missile asked his chief technician.

“Yes, sir,” the tech said, lifting his Graceful Swan netbook.

“How long until you’re ready to fire?” the major asked.

“Twelve minutes at the most, sir.”

“Make sure you avoid all errors. This missile must fly directly to target and in as little time as possible.”

“It will fly, sir. I stake my reputation on it.”

“No,” the major said, a hard-faced man. “You are staking your life on its success.”

The technician blanched as he backed away and hurried to his team.

Nung paced in the command center as he carefully set his soft-soled shoes on the floor, listening to their nearly inconspicuous squelch. He could not help himself as nervousness seethed through his body. Information about the giant tanks was beginning to concern him. The Americans had truly developed a marvel with the tank. They were slow as armor vehicles went, but nothing appeared to be able to stop them.

I was wise to save a Blue Swan missile. Yes, the Americans have a marvel, but we Chinese have the greater technological tool.

“Sir,” General Pi said. “The Blue Swan missile is ready to launch.”

Nung turned and marched to the computer table. “In case the Americans have a trick left, we will precede the Blue Swan attack with a mass of cruise missiles swarming the enemy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are the helicopter-carriers ready?” Nung asked.

“They are filled with White Tiger Commandos. The cargo helicopters are lifting Marauder tank and several mortar-jeeps. At your word, they will swing behind the Americans and seal them in the trap.”

“Good.” Nung waited a moment, savoring this. He glanced at Gang in his corner. How the marshal must hate this. Nung turned to General Pi, and he let a fierce grin stretch his lips. “Let the attack begin now, and give me those giant tanks.”

The Blue Swan missile stood ready. Cables snaked from it to the control panel. The technicians in their white coats spoke among themselves while the major watched.

The major stiffened as he stood at the comm-table, hearing General Pi personally give the order. The major took three steps toward the technicians, shouting, “Is the missile ready?”

“It is ready,” the chief tech said.

“Put in these coordinates,” the major said, pressing a button on his console.

The techs made adjustments and then signaled that they were set.

“Fire!” the major shouted.

The chief tech tapped a screen.

The Blue Swan ignited on its launch pad as smoke billowed densely. The EMP missile lofted slowly at first and then quickly gained speed. It roared as flames flickered from its exhaust port. Then it shot toward the highway where the Behemoths smashed everything in their path.

“How much farther until we reach Escondido?” Jose asked from his gunner’s seat.

“A little less than a mile,” Stan said.

There were nine Behemoths left. None had dropped out due to battle damage. For each, it was equipment failure, usually in the treads or the engine. The stalled Behemoths were already on their carriers and headed back toward Temecula.

Behind the advancing Behemoths and Abrams, Bradleys and Strykers followed the heavy trucks and haulers. From a recon UAV, the mass looked like a giant mechanical snake slithering toward the trapped pocket.

“Captain,” Colonel Wilson radioed. The man sounded worried.

“What is it, sir?” Stan asked.

“Get ready! The Chinese are sending cruise missiles!”

“Are they nukes, sir?” asked Stan.

“That is unknown, but they’re coming fast. You have a minute or two left.”

“Are the tac-lasers ready, sir?”

“Captain, they’re going to swamp us!”

“No,” Stan said, knowing Wilson knew better. “We’ve been waiting for this, remember? It’s time to employ our special tactic and teach the Chinese another reason why they shouldn’t mess with the Behemoths.”

“But if they’re using nuclear weapons—”

“Let’s fight, sir, and worry about the results later.”

“I hope this works, Higgins. Colonel Wilson, out.”

“Yeah, me too,” Stan whispered. “Jose!”

“Right here, Professor.”

“Raise the cannon. It’s time to see just how good these Behemoths really are.”

On I-15, a little less than half a mile from the forward line of the trapped Americans, the nine Behemoth tanks raised their force cannons. The ejected shells flew many times faster than a rifle bullet, and the shells could fly in a relatively flat trajectory.

The Behemoth AIs linked with the tac-laser defensive net, and several extra UAVs were already sending data. All the while, the Chinese cruise missiles bored in on the Behemoths.

Ninety-eight seconds later the mayhem began. Cruise missiles approached and laser beams flashed. Flak fired and chain-guns chugged. Even more impressively, the force cannons shot cruise missiles out of the sky from long range, well before the missiles detonated their warheads.

One enemy missile acted much differently than the others, and it came last in the attack. This missile did not try to hug the ground as it approached the Behemoths. Instead, it flew upward to increase the range of its EMP strike.

Inside Stan’s Behemoth, he said, “Look at that, Jose. It’s going for an airburst. The missile must be a nuke. Take it out.”

The giant cannon swiveled. The AI fired a targeting laser and computed the missile’s height, speed and future position several seconds from now. Automatically, the AI fired the force cannon and the Behemoth shuddered as the round sped skyward.

Meanwhile, the Blue Swan reached its desired position. Within it, the computer triggered the firing mechanism. The first explosion occurred which would initiate the EMP burst.

At that moment, the Behemoth’s round smashed the Blue Swan missile. Instead of creating an EMP blast, the missile disintegrated in the air, the pieces raining down as useless junk.

As quickly as the missile attack had begun it was over. Several cruise missiles had reached their targets, but the rest were destroyed. The cost was several burning tac-lasers and chain-gun platforms with their accompanying crews, but not one Behemoth was lost.

In their slow and relentless rumble, the nine giant tanks continued toward Escondido.

Marshal Nung stared at the computer table, blinking in astonishment. “Did you witness that?” he whispered. “The tank destroyed our missile.”

“What now?” Gang asked.

Nung looked up. It felt as if his eyes were on fire. He struck the computer table. “Nothing changes.”

“Everything changes,” Gang said. “You have failed to halt their breakthrough.”

“Ah, I see. One failure shatters your resolve—how truly pitiful.”

Marshal Gang stiffened, while those in the command chamber at their various stations showed shock and surprise at the insult.

Nung looked away. He must control his temper and tongue no matter what the provocation. He could not speak this way to a fellow marshal. Word of it would filter back to the Ruling Committee and they might see it as him cracking under the strain of command. Even so, it was impossible that he apologize to Gang, to this tool of his enemies.

Nung shook his head and he faced the others. “In war, many attacks fail. The one that succeeds is the critical assault. This setback has done nothing to alter my will or change the ultimate fate of the Americans.”

“Have I heard you correctly?” Gang asked. “Formerly, you said that trapping the Americans was the linchpin to your plan as you starved the enemy of needed troops. Now, with the failure of the Blue Swan missile, the enemy has broken through to Army Group SoCal. He will be able to reinforce his defenses with these badly needed soldiers.”

Nung massaged his forehead, struggling to maintain his decorum. “In an instance like this, precision is vital in deed and word. The Americans have only broken through to this northernmost pocket; they have not broken through to the entire Army Group SoCal.”

“Perhaps that is so,” Gang said, “but this is the largest of the trapped pockets.”

Nung studied the computer table, the operational map. The lights on the side were all blue, indicting everything worked properly. In his thoughts, he put aside Gang and his words and concentrated on the military and strategic situation. After a time, he began to speak. “With these giant tanks, the Americans have broken through. That is true. But it will be another matter entirely to escape with these soldiers into Los Angeles.”

“You are the eternal optimist,” Gang said. “It is one of your military gifts. Yet I would suggest that you are underestimating the importance of this attack. I fear it might begin a chain-reaction of assaults against the other beleaguered forces, the other pockets, as you call them?”

Nung raised an eyebrow. The suggestion was preposterous. It was mere rhetoric, wind. He had no time for Ruling Committee gadflies, even if Gang was the second-most senior marshal in Greater China after Kao. He had a campaign to win. This was a setback, nothing more. With the giant tanks down here in Escondido, it meant they no longer helped guard Palm Springs. He would have to make the Americans pay for that. In fact, looking at the operational map…yes, he knew what to do. This reminded him of Siberia, of the drive to Yakutsk. Once more, he must outflank the enemy.

“We must call Marshal Kao,” Gang said.

Nung looked up in surprise. He was forming a plan and had already forgotten about Gang. “If you will excuse me, Marshal, I have no more time for handwringing. The Americans have handed us a rare opportunity. We must snatch it while there is still time. Yes, they have stolen a march on us. It was clever of them and it was bold. Now, I plan to use their boldness against them like a Shaolin priest practicing kung fu on a pirate.”

Gang opened his mouth, and hesitated. He glanced around the room. Perhaps he saw the command personnel eagerly waiting for Nung to unfold his new insight.

“As you wish, Marshal,” Gang said. He retired to his corner, sitting, watching and waiting.

The man is a vulture, hungering for me to show weakness. Nung shook his head. I cannot falter now. I must outmaneuver the enemy and change this disaster into an even greater victory.

“What are your orders, sir?” Pi asked.

Nung continued to study the operational map. He must outmaneuver the Americans, but he must not make hasty decisions. This was a moment for careful reflection. He waved General Pi to silence. Then Nung put his fingertip on the computer table as he concentrated. The Americans had lunged into Escondido, using the giant tanks to bolster the assault. It indicated they used their best—their most offensive—formations to make the assault. That meant they had thinned out these formations from elsewhere. The problem was some of the other trapped American formations farther south of Escondido. According to reports, some of the pockets were on the verge of collapse. The others would last several more days, maybe even a week. Those pockets tied down Chinese formations needed for the assault on Los Angeles. Perhaps it was time to screen some of the pockets and gather greater hitting power to continue the lunge for the sprawling American city and the Grapevine Pass behind it. If he could trap all of Los Angeles in a gigantic pocket…

Nung leaned over the table, tracing the coastal route along Highway 5 from Mexico to Los Angeles. He nodded and stepped around the table. He tapped Palm Springs, and he eyed Temecula and then followed the route to Corona. Yes, it was becoming clear what he needed to do. The trick would be to slow the escape of these soldiers from the Escondido Pocket in order to give him time for the Tank Army waiting south beyond Palm Springs.

Nung straightened and regarded General Pi. “You must put me through to the Tank Army General. It is time to light a fire under him and reignite the original assault against Palm Springs.”

“Yes, sir,” Pi said.

Once more, Nung studied the computer table. He moved around it again and stabbed a finger along I-15. “Here,” he said. “This is where we are going to send the helicopter-borne troops.”

“There, sir?” Pi asked, sounding surprised.

“They will not survive their attack, I realize this. And we must work out a tactical plan to put them down there so they last as long as possible. They must buy us time while the Tank Army takes Palm Springs and then smashes through the pass to San Bernardino and beyond.”

“Sir?” Pi asked.

“It will become a race. If we win, once more we will cut off these freed soldiers and we will capture the attacking American forces and the giant tanks along with them. Yes, if we win this race, we will win the battle in Southern California and ready ourselves for capturing everything.”