Invasion: California

-12- The Battle for Los Angeles

It was a somber meeting in the underground bunker. The briefing major spoke in a monotone, making Anna wonder if the woman used drugs. Beside her, Levin doodled listlessly. While the President, he watched the proceedings like a man awaiting his death sentence.

There should have been some delight, Anna felt, because the majority of the soldiers from the Escondido Pocket had reached Corona before the Chinese. The soldiers had split in different directions. One third of them had gone to Pomona in the north. The rest had traveled to Fullerton and Anaheim in the west. The sacrifice of the Behemoths had brought about the needed miracle.

Anna believed the somberness was because the situation was still grim and the enemy almost as unrelenting as before. The Chinese simply refused to slow down.

According to the major, in a normal battle the Chinese would have accepted this victory to rest and resupply their troops before they started the next round. Intelligence showed that the Chinese were exhausted just like the Americans. Instead of following their usual doctrine, the Chinese kept pushing. They had swept through the defenses at Corona, rushing after the escaped soldiers until the battle-lines now reached Fullerton and Anaheim and Pomona. Just as bad, with so many of the formerly trapped Americans entering POW camps, the Chinese advance up the coast had picked up speed again, reaching Costa Mesa and Huntington Beach.

General Alan of the Joint Chiefs motioned to the major. As she sat down, he stood up.

“Mr. President, I suggest we speak frankly.”

“Of course,” Sims said.

General Alan tapped the table before saying, “As I’m sure you are aware, sir, there is a grave psychological effect on a soldier when he is constantly retreating. His belief in holding his position weakens each time the enemy drives him back. Our soldiers have retreated across Southern California from the border fortifications to Los Angeles. They are shocked. They are tired and now they have lost most of their heavy equipment. The Chinese have more numbers, more equipment and in most cases, better tech.”

“Are you saying we cannot win?” Sims asked.

Anna noticed the President asked that with an edge to his voice.

“No, Mr. President, I am not saying we cannot win. I am saying that we have reached the crisis point. I’m sure the Chinese have problems. Nevertheless this accelerated attack with their acceptance of sustained casualties has produced results for them, if at a very bloody cost. In the end, who pays the highest butcher’s bill doesn’t determine victory, but who wins the political contest does. The Vietnamese took vastly more losses than we did back in the 1960s and 70s, yet they won the political battle because the Communists remained in power there. We have hurt the Chinese, sir, but at this point, they are winning the battle.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Sims asked, with his voice harsh with a burr as if he’d shouted a long time.

“We are speaking frankly, sir. We are facing the grim reality of defeat. The majority of our troops in Los Angeles lack heavy equipment. We are shipping them more, but the trains need time. The trucks need time. The soldiers also need time to regain confidence in themselves.”

“They’re all out of time,” Sims said.

“Understood, sir,” Alan said. “I suggest, therefore, that we use our submarines more boldly. Of paramount importance would be the sinking of Special Infantry transports. We cannot let the Chinese practice anymore of their SI wave assaults against us.”

“Can we distinguish those transports from others while they are en route?” Sims asked.

“Director?” General Alan asked.

Dr. Levin nodded slowly. “Possibly,” he said.

“Are you referring to your spy-ring in Beijing?” Sims asked.

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Then I agree to this bolder use of our submarines,” Sims said. “Now, what else can we do?”

“Our soldiers can start holding their ground,” Alan said. “We are now in one of the most extensive urban environments in the world. Such territory makes for excellent defensive terrain. There is little likelihood of the Chinese cutting our supply lines here, as the critical one runs through the Grapevine to Bakersfield and through Central California and then to the Sierra Nevada passes.”

“They need to hold,” Sims said, “but we need to buy our soldiers time, even if it’s only an extra day.”

“Why not rush mass reinforcements to Los Angeles?” Levin asked. “We have more troops, many more.”

“We could do that,” General Alan admitted. “But we would do so at a grave risk elsewhere, and in more critically strategic locations. That is what I mean about speaking frankly. We must look at the strategic picture. This attack into California is simply the opening assault against North America. My DIA analysts suggest that counting the naval assault, two million PAA soldiers have driven into the state. That leaves over nine million more for us to deal with. The Germans are heavily reinforcing Cuba, which indicates they are getting ready to move against us. The South American Federation and the rest of the PAA forces are, in our estimation, operationally ready to invade Texas and New Mexico with a mass assault that will make the Californian attack pale in comparison.”

General Alan glanced around the table. “Until the enemy commits himself, we must carefully weigh the reinforcements we send to Los Angeles. If we entrain too many, we could weaken ourselves elsewhere at too great a cost.”

“We cannot afford to lose California,” Sims said.

“I agree, Mr. President. But neither can we afford to save California and lose Texas, which would be a much deadlier blow to our defenses. In the worst case, we could set up new defenses in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. But to lose Texas…it would open up the underbelly of America to the aggressors.”

The silence grew as General Alan stopped talking. The importance of his words stamped themselves onto Anna.

President Sims seemed to age before them as his shoulders drooped. Finally, he cleared his throat and said in a soft voice, “Then it’s up to the soldiers in Los Angeles to hold on until new heavy equipment can beef up their formations.”

“It’s up to the soldiers on the ground to hold,” General Alan agreed. “If they can, they could turn the Chinese drive into a prohibitive siege for the enemy.”

The President stared at his hands. After a time, he said. “I admit to finding myself dumbfounded at Chinese aggressiveness and to their adroit maneuverability in the Southern Californian environment.”

“Begging your pardon, sir…” General Alan said.

“Go ahead, speak your mind,” Sims said.

“Respectfully, sir, I would hardly call what we’ve seen high maneuverability on their part. Except for the original tank drive past the Salton Sea, it has been more like endless grinding battles of attrition.”

“No,” Sims said, “I don’t see it that way. The Blue Swam missile assault nearly collapsed our entire SoCal Fortifications. Using the partial success of the EMP missiles, the Chinese have used grinding attritional battles to break through in critical areas and then they proceeded to surround our shattered Army Group. We’ve witnessed slow-motion maneuvering in an environment that usually brings month-long sieges. When you think about, it is very original in concept and execution, much like their drive across the Arctic ice seven years ago.”

General Alan shrugged and turned to whisper to the major, his aide.

“Are the Chinese historically known for such military innovation?” Sims asked.

With a start, Anna realized he addressed her. “Uh… I’m uncertain, Mr. President. In the past, my analysis concentrated on the political aspects, not the military.”

“It’s something to think about,” Sims said.

“Mr. President,” General Alan said, “if you’ll consider this…”

Anna cocked her head as she thought about what the President had just asked her. It was a chance comment perhaps, but something about it nagged at her.

I have to study this.

She took out her smart phone and turned on the recorder, telling herself to look into this first thing tomorrow morning.

Marshal Nung sat back at his desk. He rubbed his orbs until purple spots appeared before them. They were tired from reading endless reports.

He had been studying the American air commitment with a careful eye. During the first days of the campaign they had burned up a large portion of their air forces. Because of the commando attacks on the Blue Swan launching sites, it had won the Americans much. In his estimation, it had been a worthy exchange for the enemy. Still, U.S. air power had been steadily dwindling throughout the campaign.

Now he had reached the critical phase of the Battle for California. So much had gone wrong, a common problem in war. No plan survived contact with the enemy. He hadn’t expected the casualties to reach such an excessively bloody point so quickly. Yet they had. It was a fact. He couldn’t change that so there was no use worrying about it.

The key elements were easy to see. The Blue Swan missiles hadn’t worked as thoroughly as he’d hoped. Still, they had torn holes in the SoCal Fortifications. The missiles had given him his great chance. Another element had been the giant American tanks. They had thwarted him at Palm Springs. They had also freed a pocket and slowed his advanced into Los Angeles.

Now it was time to commit the final reserves. He had many fresh divisions left and it would take a day or two to deploy them at the front. They would have to grind through the defenses in the great urban sprawl that was Los Angeles.

Another bitter pill had been the failure of the Navy to capture the Bay Area and drive through the delta into Central California. The naval infantry was bogged down now in the Bay Area, crawling toward San Francisco. They tied down some U.S. formations, but they did not threaten the state with sudden capture. The nuclear missiles there had won the Americans a great reprieve.

It was time to return them the favor. It was time to beseech the Leader and gain approval to use nuclear weapons against the U.S. He would not use them on American cities nor would he use them on American formations. He would not give China a nuclear black eye. But with nuclear weapons he would cut off the Los Angeles troops from reinforcements.

Marshal Nung sighed, rubbed his eyes and picked up his e-reader. He had a few more reports to digest. Then he needed to speak to the Leader. He could no longer spare the Eagle Team troops. He was going to need every one of them to outmaneuver the enemy in Los Angeles.

The answer was there, in the heavy American losses in air assets,. Nung hadn’t expected the enemy to use his air so freely and let it dwindle to almost nothing. That was the opening he needed for something new.

Nung began reading again, clicking his e-reader, and soon he smiled. This could work. This would ensure that the Americans holding Los Angeles would wither on the vine. The battle had been costlier than expected, but it was still possible to win the entire state with the troops he had remaining. What he needed to do was gain the Leader’s permission and then begin the last leg of the Southern Californian assault with his last fresh formations.

“Yes,” Jian Hong said. He spoke via a computer screen to Marshal Nung. The entire Ruling Committee attended, listening to the exchange. Nung had been most persuasive regarding the need for nuclear weapons.

Naturally, Marshal Kao and Foreign Minister Deng had disagreed. Jian had sat back and let Nung argue with them. Kao and Deng feared nuclear escalation, or so they said. Jian was beginning to wonder if those two feared nuclear usage because they secretly wished for the California attack to fail. Well, he would put an end to this right now.

Jian sat stiffly in his chair as the old Chairman used to do in these situations. He said, “It is time to teach the Americans that they are not the only ones who can unleash nuclear fire.” Jian directed his words to Nung but wanted Kao and Deng to understand why he was giving the order. “You have my go-ahead, Marshal Nung. Teach the Americans a most bitter lesson.”

Captain Lee of the Chinese Air Force glanced out of his Ghost aircraft canopy. Stars twinkled overhead, while pines carpeted the nearby mountainside. In the distance loomed giant peaks.

He went from south to north along the Sierra Nevada Range along with six other pilots in their ultra-stealthy bombers.

Thirteen paved roads crossed the mountain range east to west into California. Due to glaciation, most of the passes proved treacherous even in summer. By fall, they were snowed in except for the Donner and Beckwourth Passes. Snowplows working day and night kept the two passes open. The Central Pacific railroad used the Donner Pass, while the Western Pacific used Beckwourth.

Marshal Nung wanted both the Donner and Beckwourth Passes unusable, particularly the rail lines running through them. In the past twenty years, with the continually rising cost of gasoline, railroads had taken on greater importance in America.

To that end these seven upgraded and highly-modified Ghosts S-13E3s had slipped past American radar guarding the Greater Los Angeles area.

During the Alaskan War the original Ghosts had been the latest in ultra-stealthy tech. These seven used technologies perfected since that conflict. These Ghosts were also bigger and had greater range than those used in Alaska. They used air-to-ground missiles that the pilots would fire from a safe distance.

Captain Lee took his Ghost lower. He led the attack, and he was nervous. This was a great honor and it was a dangerous task. Each of his missiles carried a nuclear warhead. China was finally going to retaliate for the treacherous nuclear attack in Santa Cruz.

Under most conditions, High Command would have sent drones for such a mission. But secrecy was critical, and drones needed radio guidance, which the Americans might have been able to trace.

Chinese stealth technology was advanced, but there were rumors that the Americans had perfected a new surveillance system. Captain Lee had heard the rumors from his wife who worked in Intelligence. According to her, that’s why China had helped terrorists explode a nuclear device in Silicon Valley.

China’s leaders wanted to keep its technical edge over the Americas. Once, America had possessed the best tech. They used to be an innovative people and China’s leaders didn’t want to allow the enemy to climb back up the tech tree.

Captain Lee grinned. It was a good thing, too, good for him, this technological edge. Otherwise he would be in even more danger flying this boldly and deeply into enemy territory. All he needed was another sixteen minutes and he could launch the missiles. He was here to teach the Americans a bitter and deadly lesson.

In NORAD Command, an air control officer frowned at the strange images on his screen. Finally, he signaled the colonel, motioning him near.

“Sir, I’m sorry to trouble you, but I don’t understand these signals.” The air control officer tapped his screen.

The colonel frowned as he leaned down to study the images. His aftershave was strong and enveloped both men.

“This is the Sierra Nevada Range, sir,” the air control officer said with a hand before his mouth.

“Show me the pattern since you first spotted these.”

The air-control officer held his breath and manipulated his screen as ordered.

The colonel straightened. “Are there any Reflex fighters in range?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alert them and burn whatever they are.”

The air control officer twisted around in his chair to look up at the colonel. “What if they’re our planes, sir?”

The colonel didn’t look at the air-control officer, as he was too busy staring at the faint, intermittent images on the screen. “God help us if they are, but I doubt those are our planes. They have no IFF. Order the Reflexes to intercept them and burn them now!”

As the stars slowly wheeled across the heavens, minutely shifting their patterns, Major Romanov’s Reflex interceptor picked up speed and began climbing. Romanov belonged to a trio of aircraft. The three planes had been cruising, part of the North American Defense Net. Twenty-two such craft were up at all times around the continental U.S.

Each interceptor was larger than a Galaxy cargo plane. Each carried an ultra-hardened mirror on the bottom of the aircraft, the reflex of the strategic battle system.

Giant Anti-Ballistic Missile (ABM) stations ringed the country. Their task was to stab the heavens with a powerful laser and burn down incoming warheads. These stations made an ICBM exchange between the North American Alliance and China nearly impossible. In 2038, President Sims had used the strategic ABMs to destroy every enemy satellite the lasers could reach. No one was going to monitor the U.S. or use space mirrors to fire enemy lasers down into America if he could help it.

Instead of ICBMs, the danger now came from slippery cruise missiles and low-level stealth bomber attacks. The strategic ABMs could not hit those unless they were in direct line of sight to the particular station. The Reflex interceptor changed the equation, as the ABM station could bounce the laser off the plane’s mirror and hit a low-flying target. The trick was making precise calculations and getting the Reflex high enough and in exactly the right position.

The huge planes lumbered higher and higher, afterburners giving them speed. Romanov glanced outside and saw a huge wing wobble the slightest bit. The red light on the end always comforted him and he didn’t know why. In time, as the NORAD colonel cursed at the Reflex pilots to hurry, the planes moved into their positions.

Three distant AWACS now monitored the Chinese Ghosts. NORAD had ordered recon drones toward the first faint images. Now the air control officer could see the enemy aircraft much more clearly.

“We have target acquisition,” Major Romanov said in the first Reflex interceptor.

“Fire,” the NORAD colonel ordered.

The strategic ABM station in Fresno aimed its giant laser at Romanov’s mirror and fired its pulse. The powerful beam flashed upward. Like a banking billiard ball, the ray struck the airborne mirror and sped toward the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The first pulse stabbed into the darkness and burned down a Chinese Ghost, shearing off the rear third of the bomber.

A cheer erupted in Romanov’s headphones from NORAD Command. It made him grin.

Another pulse-beam from the Fresno station struck his reflex mirror. It bounced and traveled at the speed of light and missed the targeted bomber by seventeen inches.

Major Romanov heard groans in his headphones. Then a warning light flashed on his control panel. He flipped a switch, studying the readings. The mirror had taken damage, too much according to this. With each accumulated pulse-strike, the odds would increase of a burn-through against the plane.

“This is Echo Three,” Romanov said. “My mirror had degraded three percent beyond the safety limit.” Time seemed to stretch as Romanov awaited orders.

“Keep on standby,” the NORAD colonel said. “We may need you before this is over.”

The Fresno ABM station held its fire. Major Romanov banked his giant plane and took it out of position, lowering his altitude. They might need him before the night was through. That meant they might bounce the laser off his degraded mirror, possibly destroying his craft.

I might die.

It was a fearful thought, one he hadn’t envisioned while taxiing down the extra-long runway early this evening. He might die, but he was here to fight for his country.

The damned Chinese, why are they invading our country anyway?

The second Reflex interceptor moved up into position. Two and a quarter minutes later, the Fresno station fired its laser. The beam bounced off the new plane. This time, the pulse-laser struck true and burned down its second Ghost bomber, igniting the craft’s fuel and causing a spectacular midair explosion.

Captain Lee watched in horror as stealth bomber after stealth bomber perished to the great beam firing down from the heavens.

The Americans tech was better than the country had a right to possess. This was terrifying.

He increased speed and spilled chaff. He fired two decoy missiles. Each emitted strong signals. Somehow, the Americans could see them and he had to confuse the enemy.

Captain Lee gritted his teeth, willing his bomber to go faster. If he was going to die, he wanted to deliver his cargo. He needed another three minutes. He turned control over to the aircraft’s AI by pressing a button. The Ghost would jink now, maneuvering in a hopefully unpredictable manner. If the Americans used space lasers, as they must be since the beam slashed downward from above, those took time to beam to target. In that delay from sighting and firing was his slender hope.

The next few minutes of violent maneuvering brought vomit acid burning to the back of Captain Lee’s throat. The terrible laser destroyed most of the stealth bombers until only his plane survived. Twice more the laser struck, missing his plane by centimeters.

Now he had reached the maximum range of his missiles to the two targets. Captain Lee’s fingers moved fast, arming the missiles as the AI jinked again. The great beam flashed a third time, and once more, the Americans missed his plane.

Captain Lee laughed in nervous desperation. “Launching,” he whispered.

The first missile detached, causing the Ghost to wobble. Then a great flame appeared, and the nuclear-tipped missile flashed toward the Donner Pass.

Captain Lee detached his second missile, and the Ghost wobbled once more. At that moment the great beam bouncing off a Reflex interceptor found the captain’s plane. It burned through the canopy, instantly killing Lee and cutting the Ghost in two.

As the Chinese Air Force captain died, his second missile ignited, rocketing toward the distant target of Beckwourth Pass.

“Those are missiles, sir,” the air controller whispered.

“Burn them. Burn them now.”

“Do you know what they are, sir?”

“I don’t give a damn what they are. I want them taken out before they hit.”

Major Romanov’s throat had turned dry. NORAD gave the order and he took his plane back up.

He was glad his hands didn’t shake. The other two interceptors headed back to base in Fresno. Their mirrors had degraded too much. The mirrors wouldn’t reflect with a reasonable chance of accuracy. The calibrations needed due to distance were far too fine.

Romanov blinked and brought his aircraft into perfect alignment. The stars were bright up here and there were no clouds, just him and endless solitude. He radioed NORAD. They were going to use his mirror now. If the beam burned too strongly or if mirror had too many microscopic flaws—

As he held his position, Major Romanov began to pray, something he hadn’t done in years.

The first Chinese air-to-ground missile hugged the terrain. It expelled chaff and radio-emitting decoys. Twice a laser flashed by it, hitting the wrong target or missing by just enough.

Then the missile closed on its target. Its onboard computer adjusted the flight path, pitching the missile up. At precisely the height to give it maximum efficiency the nuclear warhead ignited. A fireball consumed the rail line and bridge and it tore into Donner Pass, causing rocks and boulders to fly and fall. A convoy was using the road, twenty huge transport trucks bringing M1A3 tanks to Los Angeles. The haulers and tanks crumpled and exploded in the fireball and blast, none of the drivers surviving. It was the first direct successful Chinese nuclear assault upon America.

“What is the status of your mirror?” the NORAD colonel asked Major Romanov.

The major sat blinking in astonishment. The Chinese had exploded a nuke.

“I repeat—”

“It’s operational,” Romanov said.

“Say again.”

“My mirror is operational. Go ahead, use it.”

Romanov was lying. They’re using nukes on us. He was lying, but he knew his duty. He was on the rampart defending his country. There was no one else to do this, just him.

“The laser is ready for firing,” the Fresno station chief reported.

“Fire,” the NORAD colonel said.

The second Chinese air-to-ground missile streaked toward target. There was no more chaff in its container and it had deployed every decoy. In another fifty-eight seconds, it would reach ignition point.

Then the pulse-laser from Major Romanov’s heavily degraded reflex mirror struck the Chinese missile. The missile exploded, but the nuclear warhead did not detonate. It tumbled earthward, unexploded, saving the Beckwourth Pass for America’s use.

“You’re a brave man, Major Romanov,” the NORAD colonel said. “I saw the degradation percentage regarding your mirror. It’s a miracle your plane is still intact.”

“Yes, sir,” Romanov said. Sweat bathed his face and he was shaking. He couldn’t believe he was still alive or that they’d destroyed the second missile.

“Return to base,” the NORAD colonel said.

“Yes, sir,” Romanov said. He peered out of the window at the stars above. “Thanks, God. I appreciate that.” Then he banked the giant interceptor, heading back for Fresno.

Anna Chen was back in her CIA cubicle the next morning, searching and compiling data on the Chinese command structure and on their marshals.

She’d received information about the nuclear strike last night, and it filled her with fear. The Chinese had overcome their inhibition against using the ultimate weapon. Now she wondered where it would lead. Massive nuclear usage…it could destroy the civilized world.

Yes, Director Levin had been correct in one sense. The American nuclear missiles had saved the situation in the Bay Area. But what would be the future cost? This attack on the Sierra Nevada Passes—nuclear employment would likely escalate now. It was the human pattern. Levin had won a battle but may have caused the loss of the war and the world.

Levin seldom spoke to her now and he no longer confided in her. Should she have backed him on his wish to use nuclear weapons?

“No,” she whispered. She had to follow her conscience. She would be no good to anybody, least of all to herself, if she went against what she knew was right.

Anna sipped tea and continued to read. After several hours of intense study, it began to dawn on her that Marshal Nung was an outcast among the others in Chinese High Command. He seemed very Old Russian in his approach to military problems.

The Russians, as she had read today, used to have very inflexible ideas about how to run an offensive. They had learned bitter lessons from the Germans in two World Wars. The Second World War had been particularly savage for the country. Although Russia eventually won the conflict, they had taken staggering losses. The German method of combat, the blitzkrieg or lightning war, had awed the Russians, stamping it on their hearts and minds. Years later, in their military manuals for attacking Western Europe during the Cold War, the Russians had advocated a similar form of ceaseless assault. They had believed in the Axe Theory of combat: to pour troops into the most successful advances and to ignore whatever didn’t work, discard whatever failed.

Marshal Nung appeared to have learned his earliest military lessons at the Moscow Academy. Ever since then, he had attempted to practice “lightning war.” That appeared to be at odds with normal Chinese military doctrine.

What did that tell her?

Hmm. Marshal Nung had led the only truly successful attack during the Alaskan War. He had captured his target, even though he had taken brutal losses doing so. In the Siberian War, he had made the brilliant strike that brought Chinese victory.

He is their Russian. No, he is a German-practicing theorist of blitzkrieg, but with a Chinese disregard for materiel losses.

Anna sat back so her chair creaked. Her eyes were half-lidded. Probably better than anyone in America, she grasped what the political infighting was like on the Ruling Committee. Nung was Jian Hong’s darling. The Leader backed the Marshal and together they had achieved what President Sims deemed as a military miracle. The originality for the California assault likely came from Marshal Nung.

Anna picked up her e-reader and studied wartime assassinations. Hmm, this was interesting. In 1943, in something called Operation Vengeance, America sent a squadron of P-38 Lightning fighters on a mission of assassination. The pilots were to target Admiral Yamamoto’s plane, hoping to kill the man who had planned the attack on Pearl Harbor. The pilots succeeded, and according to this article, Admiral Yamamoto’s death had damaged Japanese morale.

Anna continued reading, and she found out about the British commando attempt to assassinate the Desert Fox, General Rommel, in North Africa in 1941. It had been called Operation Flipper. It might have worked, too, but Rommel had gone to Rome to request replacements for supply ships sunk by the enemy. Thus, he was not in place when the commandos struck.

What would happen if they killed Marshal Nung? If nothing else, it might give the soldiers in Los Angeles time as the Chinese reorganized their command structure, or as the new commander took over.

Anna stood up, determined to take this to the President.

As the political leaders and their aides spoke, argued and decided strategy, Captain Stan Higgins smoked a cigar as he leaned against his worn Behemoth tank. His eyes were red from a lack of sleep and his arms and legs felt jittery because of the stims he’d been taking to stay awake.

The promotion to major hadn’t gone through, so he was back to being a captain again. Not that Stan cared one way or another. He knew he wasn’t going to survive the war. He was going to die in LA. The odds were simply too heavily stacked against him.

Stan rolled the cigar in his fingers and thrust it back into his mouth. He liked the strong taste and the smoke helped keep him awake. It bothered him that General Larson had ignored his advice. Instead of keeping the battle-winning Behemoth Regiment intact, the General had split it into its component companies. The General had spread the companies throughout Anaheim. The city—part of Greater Los Angeles—was a wasteland of rubble and skeletal buildings. General Larson had told Stan his reasoning. He needed the Behemoths all along the line in order to stiffen the soldiers by bolstering morale. If they saw the tanks with them, they would likely stand their ground longer.

Stan inhaled on the cigar. Above, the sky was black from burning oil, rubber and a host of other inflammables. Los Angeles and Anaheim in particular was aflame.

Chinese artillery boomed in the distance. From offshore, enemy battleships sent titanic rounds hammering into everything. If one of those giant shells hit his tank directly, it would take out the Behemoth.

Stan exhaled cigar smoke. For two days now the Chinese had ground into Anaheim. Special Infantry wave assaults, penal battalions attacks, Eagle Team jetpack commandos, Marauder tanks, T-66s, IFVs, assault guns, mortars, mag grenades, RGPs, cannon shells—Stan rubbed his eyes. The Chinese assaults just never stopped. It was more than depressing. It was soul numbing.

The naval gunfire shells were landing closer now. Each strike shook the ground and caused rubble and concrete to geyser and rain. The chatter of enemy machine guns began. PAA soldiers shouted hoarsely. Bugle blasted and bullets whined.

“Professor,” Jose shouted down from the tank’s top hatch. “The General wants to talk to you.”

Stan ground out his cigar and stuffed the unused part in his front pocket. Then he grasped the rungs on the side of the tank and climbed up. He was so damned tired that it was hard to think. Smoking the cigar was his one moment of peace in a world that had turned into a hectic and never-ending battle.

The Chinese never stopped. Of his three tanks, only his own worked now. Two M1A3s had dragged the stalled monsters deeper into Anaheim. They were the last ditch stronghold in case everything fell apart, which it looked like was happening and would only accelerate.

As Stan climbed up the tank, he paused and turned his head. Look over there, a hundred American teenagers ran for their lives, leaving their foxholes and rubble strongpoints. Most pitched aside their assault rifles. Stan looked left. A seven-story building collapsed. Through the dust he saw running American soldiers, although most of them kept their weapons.

The Chinese kept pushing them back, destroying everything and sending Eagle Teams commandos behind every defensive position. The enemy had gone berserk, pouring men and materiel at them.

The Chinese didn’t have a limit. It was crazy. It was mad. And it was all too true.

Stan slid into the tank, plopping himself into the commander’s seat. He flipped on a screen. General Larson glared at him in it. The man was tall, a real tactician, brilliant usually.

“Captain, you’re the only thing that’s stable in your part of Anaheim. The Chinese are pouring through our lines. You have to stop them.”

“Yes, sir,” Stan said. “You realize I only have one Behemoth running, right, sir?”

“Higgins!” the General shouted. “Stop the attack. I can’t afford to have your line crumble into nothing. We’re stretched everywhere right now and every line is shaky. You have to give me something solid. I need you to anchor your location down hard.”

“With one tank, sir?” Stan asked. He was too tired. Otherwise, he probably wouldn’t have talked this way.

“You have your orders, Captain. I expect you to do your duty.”

The screen went blank.

“Well,” Stan said into the quiet compartment. “You heard the General. We have the Behemoth and just about nothing else. Let’s see what we can do.”

“Better close the hatch, Professor,” Jose said from below. “I don’t want you to catch your death.”

Stan reached up and closed the hatch with a clang. A moment later, the driver started the mighty engine. The tank shook. It didn’t run as smoothly anymore. Too many things ran on a knife’s edge.

“Battery power is at eighty percent,” Jose said.

“It will have to do,” Stan said. He’d switched on every screen, and he now studied the situation with a critical eye. Seven Marauder tanks were roaming the streets, heading for the American teenagers. The teenagers had been formed into a Militia company three days ago. Stan didn’t blame the poor kids in the least. In fact, they reminded him of Jake. What had happened to the Bradleys that were supposed to help—

Oh, he saw the Bradleys on Screen 3. They were burning hulks or they were flipped upside down. Something had taken them out. Maybe the battleship shells had done it.

The Behemoth clanked toward the approaching Marauders two streets over. Stan used images from a video-cam from a soldier recording in the rubble. The tank’s AI computed distance and trajectory.

“The cannon’s ready, Professor,” Jose called up.

“Do you see the Marauders,” Stan asked.

“Roger.”

“Take out the back tank first.”

The Behemoth shuddered in a quick succession of shots. At least Jose and other mechanics had fixed the turret swivel. It moved like lightning, just as designed.

Stan watched on his screens. One after another, the Marauders exploded. Some of the Behemoth shells bored through rubble or buildings like a .44 Magnum through a cheap car. The last two Chinese light tanks reversed course and fled. It didn’t help, and soon they were also burning hulks.

“Good work, Jose,” Stan said. “Now let’s head to grid seven-nine-nine.”

Stan saw an Eagle Team in flight. They were swinging wide, but not widely enough. Using the 30mm guns, Stan took over control and sent several antipersonnel rounds screaming at them. The AI had set each shell’s proximity fuse. He watched on Screen 1. The Chinese jetpack commandos fell like wasps hit by bug spray.

The AI took over in emergency defensive mode then. The tank revved, backed up, and the 30mms and flechette launchers chugged. Seconds later, battleship shells landed uncomfortably near. The Behemoth shook from their impact on the ground. If one of those hit them directly—

The turret swiveled as T-66s appeared in the distance and across the rubble. The Behemoth shuddered again, this time from its own cannon. The mighty engine whined from the strain and Jose shouted that battery power was down to fifty-three percent.

Like prehistoric dinosaurs, the Chinese triple-turreted tanks fought the mighty Behemoth. It was mayhem, flying shells and defensive fire. Twice, a T-66 shell slammed against them, deflected by its immense thickness.

Stan’s ears rang from the noise and none of them could hear what the other man was saying. It didn’t matter at this point. They knew the routine. Seven enemy tanks burned, flipped or stood as useless scrap metal.

Stan slid from his seat and tapped the driver’s shoulder. He motioned, back her up fast.

The Behemoth retreated, and barely in time. A mass artillery hurricane fell where the tank had been. Seconds later, battleship shells crashed. They caused rubble and cement to geyser like titanic whale blowholes spewing water.

Stan took the Behemoth out of easy enemy view. Then, by hand signal, he motioned for the driver to head down a side street. The massive tank rumbled and crushed everything in its path.

“Can you hear me?” Stan shouted.

“A little, Captain,” the driver said.

Stan climbed back up to the commander’s seat. In a screen, he saw advancing Chinese infantry. Because of the hurricane artillery barrage, he didn’t think they heard the tank. That didn’t happen too often, but when it did—

“Now,” Stan said.

The driver drove the Behemoth into the back of a standing building. Moments later, the giant tank burst out of the front. Before them were over two hundred Chinese infantry. Some stood waiting, maybe for the artillery bombardment to end. A lot of them sat on packs as they snacked and drank bottled water. The soldiers scrambled to their feet and grabbed their weapons. It didn’t matter. In less than two seconds, thousands of flechettes made a gory ruin of the enemy. Body armor didn’t help them today.

“Keep going!” Stan shouted. “Let’s see if we can catch something behind the buildings of seven-nine-eight.”

The Behemoth raced to the buildings when five drones darted in from the sky like rocketing hawks. The enemy aircraft fired their main guns. The shells struck with resounding clangs, making a terrible din within the tank, but they did nothing permanent against the Behemoth’s heavy armor. In turn, the tank’s AI shot the drones out of the air.

The Behemoth turned the corner. At point blank range, enemy troops raced back into open IFVs. Some of the Chinese sprinted away. Others opened fire on the tank. Their puny guns—IFVs and soldiers alike—could do nothing against the American marvel. In return, Stan and his crew destroyed everything.

“It’s time to fall back,” Stan said. “Turn over air and missile defense to the AI.”

It was good thing he did that. Chinese artillery rained. Several times, shell fragments clanged against them. Then battlefield missiles targeted them. The AI shot them down, although several nearby blasts rocked the Behemoth.

“We’re low on ammo,” Jose said.

Stan checked battery power. Look at that. One of the main batteries had decided it could hold juice after all. They were back up to sixty-one percent.

“Well done, Captain Higgins,” General Larson said, appearing on screen 5. “It looks as if you’ve stemmed the local assault.”

“If I had all the Behemoths together—” Stan began.

Onscreen, General Larson held up a hand. “What do you think is going on, Captain? We’re holding on with nothing to spare. Your Behemoth and others in the line are doing miracles. It’s why we’re holding on in Anaheim. We aren’t attacking anymore. We’re simply buying our country time and hopefully bleeding the Chinese beyond anything they expected.”

“Yes, sir,” Stan said. He could have added that one of these times the Chinese were going to get lucky. Actually, the enemy didn’t even need to get lucky. The odds would finally catch up with each Behemoth.

But what did it matter saying that? Everyone knew the odds. At least for another hour this portion of the line in Anaheim still held. It would give command time to reorganize. Maybe it would give the teenagers time to stop and catch their breath. Maybe it would even give the Militia enough time so their nerve returned and they went back to holding their part of the defense.

Like a deadly Great White Shark, the Virginia-class fast attack submarine glided through the deep. It was in the main shipping lane between Chinese-controlled Hawaii and the U.S. Pacific Coast.

It sped from its grisly handiwork, the sinking of a Chinese SI transport, with thousands of dead and dying Chinese soldiers in the water. With critical intelligence received twenty-eight hours ago, the South Dakota had moved into range, then crept into position and Captain Leroy Clay had proceeded to hunt.

Two modified Mark 48 torpedoes had left the tubes and demolished the large cargo vessel. Now the submarine glided away, heading deeper, sinking through a cold-water layer, called a thermocline.

The sonar men listened. The rest of the crew waited in terrible anticipation and Captain Clay stared into space. He was a six-foot-six black man, often having to hunch as he moved through the submarine.

There, the sounds of distant, underwater explosions told the story.

“They’re hunting us now,” Captain Clay said.

“They’re well out of range, Captain,” the chief sonar-man said.

“And we’re going to keep it that way,” Clay said. “Conn, take us deeper. I want the cold water layer hiding us.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

For the next thirty-seven minutes they played the old cat-and-mouse game first begun in World War I between the British and Germans. The submariners endured the hammering thuds against the skin of their vessel. None of the depth charges—giant grenades really—were near enough to cause concussion damage against the hull integrity of the fast attack submarine. This time the South Dakota was going to beat the Chinese, or they should have.

Forty-one minutes after the sinking of the SI transport, the rules changed in the deadly game at sea.

“I think they’re leaving, Captain,” the chief sonar-man said.

Clay nodded, and he continued to wait. It was perhaps his greatest virtues as a submarine captain.

Later, the sonar-man added, “I don’t hear any enemy ships, sir.”

“They can still use helicopters to drop the depth charges,” Clay said.

The South Dakota continued with silent running. Fifty-three minutes after the transport’s sinking, the sonar-man cocked his head. He might have heard—

A terrific and terrible underwater explosion occurred. This depth charge wasn’t any closer than the previous ones had been. The difference was in its explosive power, fueled by a nuclear warhead. Then came another enormous explosion.

The first concussion shock slammed against the South Dakota, tilting the submarine and throwing officers and crew out of their chairs or positions and onto the deck. Before they had time to right themselves, the second shockwave struck, breaching the integrity of the hull, ripping it open like a bear smashing a can of beans.

Cold ocean saltwater poured into the submarine. Captain Leroy Clay looked up from where he lay on the deck. Water boiled and rushed toward him. He would have won. He had won, but the Chinese were changing the rules.

The water picked up the six-foot-six captain and hurled him against a bulkhead. It knocked him unconscious and then ocean water flooded the South Dakota. The crumpled war vessel sank like a stone, beaten to death by nuclear detonations.

Ushered in by the secretary, Anna timidly stepped into the Oval Office. President Sims sat behind his desk, leaning back as he spoke to General Alan. The two of them seemed to be in an earnest conversation. Both men turned as the secretary and Anna entered.

“Ms. Chen,” Sims said. “Good, I’m glad you’re here. Perhaps you can help me convince the General I’m right.”

The secretary quietly took her leave, closing the door behind her.

“Help, sir?” Anna asked.

Sims scowled as he said, “The Chinese Navy has begun to use nuclear depth charges against our submarines.”

Anna closed her eyes as if she could shut out reality. If she couldn’t see it, it wasn’t real. Here it was—the escalation of nuclear weapons. This was exactly what she had feared. She opened her eyes, deciding to face fate head on.

“Using Levin’s spy-ring in Beijing, our commanders were able to target several SI transports, but at a terrible cost to our dwindling submarine fleet.” Sims shook his head. “We’re running out of options. If the Chinese have begun using nuclear weapons at sea, we have no course but to do the same.”

“Oh,” Anna said.

General Alan became stone-faced.

“First the attack in Donner Pass, now this,” Sims said. “It has to stop. We no longer have any choice.”

“Uh…if you’ll recall, sir,” Anna said, “we used nuclear weapons first.”

Sims’s face thundered and he banged a fist on the desk. “I need to speak with Director Levin.”

“Sir, if you would just—” Anna said.

“Not now,” Sims said. “The Chinese are raining nuclear weapons—”

“Mr. President!” Anna said, speaking louder than she ever had to him.

Sims raised an eyebrow, glanced at General Alan and sat farther back in his chair.

“Sir,” Anna said, speaking more softly and with greater deference. “You know surely that I understand the Chinese mindset.”

“Dr. Levin made that clear to me, yes.”

“I think if you take a step back a moment, you will see that they have carefully chosen how they use these nuclear weapons.”

“Explain that,” Sims said.

“The Chinese have not targeted cities and they have refrained from attacking land formations.”

“It’s simply a matter of time now before they do,” Sims said.

“Sir, I would like to point out that we used nuclear weapons first. In the Alaskan War, we used nuclear torpedoes on two different occasions. Not once did the Chinese do similarly.”

“Are you suggesting the Chinese are superior to us,” General Alan asked in a biting tone.

What’s wrong with him? Anna wondered. She and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs were on the same page regarding nuclear weapons. Now his racial bigotry was interfering with his better judgment.

“I’m simply pointing out that Jian Hong must have been under tremendous pressure to retaliate against us,” Anna said, “to allow his military to hurt us with nuclear weapons just as we’ve hurt them.”

“Then you are saying they are morally superior to us,” Alan said. “You’re suggesting we forced them to use nuclear weapons.”

“If that’s true,” Anna said, “then they forced us to use them. They attacked us. They’re invading our country, which makes them the aggressors. Men—and women, too, for that matter—aren’t always logical. In my opinion, we are not even rational beings, but rationalizing ones. We act on our emotions and then make up reasons—rational sounding reasons—for why we do X Y and Z.”

“What are you suggesting with this mumbo-jumbo?” Sims asked.

“That further nuclear weapon usage will escalate into a possible world-wide holocaust.”

“Our ABM stations will protect us from that,” Sims said.

“We’ve seen three different instances now where the nuclear attack came from everything but an ICBM,” Anna said. “Will the ABM stations protect us from other, imaginative nuclear weapon use?”

“Are you suggesting we drop our pants for the Chinese?” Sims asked. “That we let them nuke us at will?”

“No, sir,” Anna said, her voice hardening. “I’m suggesting we beat the Chinese in Los Angeles and slow the speed of the enemy assault.”

Sims sat blinking at her. “That’s a swift change of topic.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Very well,” the President said, indicating a chair. “Make your case.”

Anna sat down and proceeded to tell the President and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs about Operation Flipper and Operation Vengeance in World War II. Each time, the raid had targeted an enemy commander.

“Are you suggesting we attempt to assassinate Chairman Jian Hong?” Sims asked. “I’m not sure I like the idea of starting an assassin’s war between heads of state.”

“Mr. President,” Anna said, “I have evidence that shows the critical nature of Marshal Shin Nung’s presence in the current conflict.”

“Let’s hear it,” Sims said.

Anna told him what she had learned about Nung and his previous exploits in Alaska and Siberia.

“Let me see if I get this straight,” Sims said. “You believe the speed and ferocity of the present attack is due to Marshal Nung?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, yes sir,” Anna said.

The President turned to General Alan. “What are your thoughts on this?”

Alan stared at Anna. Slowly, he began to nod. “It’s an interesting concept, certainly. How do you suggest we exploit this information?”

“In a similar manner as we solved the Blue Swan missile crises,” Anna said. “Maybe we should contact General Ochoa of SOCOM.”

“Send our commandos in one more time?” Alan asked. “It would be their death sentence. Frankly, I doubt they would get anywhere near Marshal Nung.”

“I’m not saying it’s a good chance,” Anna said. “I’m just giving you another option, a way to help our beleaguered troops in Los Angeles. If you took away the guiding hand, it might slow down the pace of the enemy assault. That could possibly be the margin—”

“Yes!” the President said, slapping his hand hard against the desk. “I like it. It’s bold, and it’s something other than just waiting to lose. In the end, in some fashion, we have to go over to the assault to win. I know it will risk the lives of these brave men, but that’s better, I think every one of them would agree, than waiting to die in their foxholes.”

“Should I look into this?” General Alan asked.

“No,” Sims said, picking up his phone. “I’m going to talk to General Ochoa and get the ball rolling right now.”