Invasion: California

-7- The Right Hook

In horror, Anna Chen watched a holo-video as she sat in White House Bunker Number Five. It was the fourth day of battle in California and desperation like a sickness ran through the SoCal Command. Disaster threatened.

On the first day of battle, after the Blue Swan missiles struck, the enemy broke through the SoCal Fortifications at San Ysidro. Chinese Marauder tanks, IFVs and remote-control drones pushed through Chula Vista, chewing apart everything in their path. Nothing could stop them as they raced for San Diego. The Joint Forces Commander of California had shifted border formations, even though everything was chaos. Too many places lacked any communications. Others faced heavy assaults. Even so, a brigade of Abrams and Bradleys finally maneuvered in front of the advancing Chinese, and old Apache gunships expended salvos of Hellfire III missiles. It looked like the thrust for San Diego would fail.

Then, early that afternoon, a vast hover-armada had left Mexico. They swung out to sea and roared north. JFC California saw what was happening and sent strike fighters to pick them off. Unfortunately, the hovers had linked fire-control systems. From a distance, the fighters launched air-to-surface missiles, keeping well out of SAM range. The hovers’ integrated air defense system shot down most of the missiles, only losing a modest number of hovers. Then the Chinese swung toward land and hit San Diego. Too many of them were infantry carriers, unloading assault troops. A portion of the hover fleet had continued to La Jolla, landing infantry there and digging in on Interstate 5.

The Chinese continued to fight at night, pushing through Chula Vista, destroying the blocking brigade and linking up with the infantry on the outskirts of San Diego.

On the second day, as fierce conflicts continued along the border fortifications, U.S. armored and mechanized infantry reserves rushed south from LA. Many of these were the mobile units saved by the decision earlier to move them back from the main defensive line. They moved down Interstate 5 and clashed with Chinese advance units in Carlsbad on the coast. For the moment, the U.S. contained the relentless Chinese advance.

The SoCal Fortifications were in serious trouble, however. Like Atlas, they were supposed to be able to carry the world on their shoulders—the military had guaranteed the people that the Chinese would never be able to crack through there. The Blue Swan missiles had changed the equation. There were too many gaps in the line and the Chinese freely expended soldiers to force through dry beachheads. Like a mass of hungry jelly leaking through—particularly in the western portion of the fortifications—the Chinese were encircling the border formations and threatening to devour them.

It had called for a total effort and reorganization from JFC California. Battles raged and American and Chinese alike consumed vast amounts of materiel: artillery and tank shells, missiles and bullets. The destruction awed the participants. Burning vehicles, smashed fortifications with littered bodies made it a surreal landscape. Modern equipment had turned war into a merciless event. Laser sighting, heavier payloads and computer-assisted fire control produced unprecedented death and destruction. The carnage bewildered the combatants, quickly tiring all but the most hardened.

By the evening of the third day, the Americans had linked up the majority of their locally encircled formations in the SoCal Fortifications and secured their internal lines. It came at the cost of operational encirclement. The JFC of California had formed a large defensive area. But his few counterattacks had failed to dislodge the Chinese soldiers guarding the thrust from Tijuana to San Diego, La Jolla, Encinitas and Carlsbad. It meant that over six hundred thousand American troops were in the process of being cut off from the freeways and rail lines leading to LA. That would make it nearly impossible to send them reinforcements and supplies.

“It’s turning into a giant Stalingrad,” General Alan explained.

Early on the fourth day of battle, the U.S. Air Force reappeared in strength. Desperate American assaults from the air and on the ground failed to reopen I-5. Fifty-three wrecked M1A3s on the freeway showed the futility of the attacks. Instead, the Chinese continued to advance, using bulldozers to shove aside the useless American hulks. The Chinese advance was slower than before. Even so, fresh units and a continuous expenditure of material wore down the defenders.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” General Alan told those in the White House bunker. “The will to fight, to drive through—someone has inflamed the Chinese with a greater determination than we’ve ever seen before.”

If that wasn’t enough, news from the eastern SoCal Fortification had suddenly become ten times worse than the western drive on LA.

In the central to eastern SoCal Fortifications, no Blue Swan missiles had exploded. But now mass Chinese armor had broken through at Calexico. The city was near the eastern edge of the Californian border with Arizona. Instead of encircling the embattled Army Group and possibly annihilating it, the enemy armor had swept north past El Centro and raced for Brawley and the Salton Sea. According to General Alan, it looked as if the Chinese were using the desert to swing well east of the southern Californian urban areas. Instead, they were heading for the pass in Palm Springs on Interstate 10. If the massed armor could break though there, they would find LA nearly defenseless, as those forces had headed south to stave off the Chinese on Interstates 5 and 15. If LA fell now, that would irrevocably trap Army Group SoCal and possibly net the enemy nearly eight hundred thousand American troops.

General Alan explained why the fortifications at Calexico had fallen, showing them with the holo-vid. Like everyone else at the conference table, Anna knew the U.S. could not afford such losses this early in the war. It could mean having to retreat from California altogether.

Anna, President Sims and the others watched a Chinese wave assault. The Chinese attacked the fortifications like a horde of ants,. A steel curtain of enemy shells advanced ahead of the Chinese hordes. Missiles came down on the battered fortification in what must have been thunderous salvoes. Then Chinese died as American machine-gun strongpoints began firing. Mines blew up in a portion of the defenses. Still the Chinese came, hunched like turtles with their rucksacks and in their body armor.

“Look,” the President said, pointing. “What’s happening over there?”

General Alan—Chairman of the Joint Chiefs—nodded at his aide. She adjusted the holo-video. Where the President pointed, it now zoomed larger.

Anna watched in sick fascination. Heavily-armored Chinese—in some kind of exoskeleton-enhanced body armor—fired integral machine guns. The gun was part of the battle-suit. They shot down their own soldiers who had turned and fled from the exploding minefield. A few of those unlucky Chinese fired at their tormenters. One exoskeleton-enhanced soldier staggered backward from the slam of bullets. Once he righted himself, he continued to gun down the “cowardly” offenders.

“Those are Chinese officers killing their own men,” the President said. “Is that correct?”

No one spoke until Anna felt compelled to say, “Yes, Mr. President. If you’ll notice the insignia of the heavily-armored Chinese—the lightning bolt—those are East Lightning officers.”

“Yes?” the President asked. “Is that significant?”

“The soldiers marching over the minefield must belong to a penal battalion,” Anna said. “They are controlled by East Lightning political commissars. Some of the soldiers…it looks as if they’re trying to run away and that is not allowed.”

“Incredible,” the President said. “Why not capture and discipline them, using the soldiers again?”

Anna could have told him that the Chinese had more political offenders than they knew what to do with. In fact, they had too many males in general. Shooting them down like this was much easier and served as a bitter lesson to the others.”

After another few moments, the President nodded to the major.

She adjusted the controls and the holo-vid resumed as before. Despite staggering enemy losses, the wave assault reached the Americans, swamping the defenders. Enemy armor now began to reinforce the attack.

General Alan spoke up. “Word of these wave assaults has spread among our troops. I have seen more than one report of badly shaken morale.”

The President’s features hardened. “This is an opportunity for us to bloody the Chinese. Surely our soldiers can see that.”

“Maybe,” General Alan said. “Mostly, they’re terrified of finding themselves surrounded by the Chinese. There are already reports of enemy atrocities. The Chinese are letting some of their soldiers butcher prisoners.”

President Sims rubbed his chin angrily. “We need to spread those reports far and wide to ensure our soldiers fight to the death and don’t surrender.”

Alan nodded.

“Continue with the battle report,” the President said.

The largest enemy breakthrough had occurred at San Ysidro, one of the cornerstones of the SoCal Defenses. Chinese mechanized infantry had thrust through, battling remorselessly, using wave assaults when they had to. They were in Carlsbad now. Another branch was headed up Interstate 15 along the Escondido, Temecula route to LA.

“As we feared, sir,” General Alan said, interrupting the major’s report. “The Chinese launched another hover assault last night. They swung through the ocean and hit Camp Pendleton from the west early this morning. They have landed infantry hovers, unloaded troops and have already gained footholds there.”

The President ran his fingers through his hair as the general continued to talk.

The casualties had been brutal these past four days. With the amount of actual fighting—due to endless round-the-clock assaults—and the vast expenditure of munitions, these four days would have been like eight or even twelve days of the hottest World War II battles. Because of that, the entire southern front was buckling under the fierce Chinese assault.

Anna listened to General Alan wax eloquent about the battle. In his opinion, the Chinese kept attacking the trapped formations so they couldn’t regroup and push north to LA. It was costly in Chinese lives, but it was ruthlessly brilliant if victory were the sole objective.

“If you’ll notice this, sir,” General Alan said, as he motioned to the major.

She brought up fresh images on the holo-vid.

“Tri-turreted tanks,” the President said.

Anna grew concerned. This was the real reason for the meeting. On the holo-vid were masses of the triple-turreted tanks. They were big, one-hundred ton vehicles. They churned dust, creating billowing clouds. Behind them followed smaller, conventional tanks and missile-carriers and then fleets of trucks and fuel carriers.

“The Chinese have broken through in the east, sir,” General Alan said. “They appear to be heading for the Salton Sea, which lies in the Coachella Valley. I would guess their objective is Palm Springs.”

“We have to stop them before that,” Sims said.

“Agreed, Mr. President,” General Alan said. “We wish to unleash the last of the strategic reserve in Central California and rush it to Palm Springs. We have to stop those tanks or risk losing LA. Without LA, it will be over for Army Group SoCal.”

“How big is this tank attack?” the President asked.

General Alan looked down at his hands before he said, “It looks to be several corps’ worth, sir, making it a Tank Army. There are literally thousands of enemy tanks rushing Palm Springs.”

The President shook his head. “They’ll annihilate our reserve armor.”

“We have to slow them down before they get through to Palm Springs. We have to give the trapped Army Group time to break out to the north and head to LA. If the Chinese take LA and trap the forces south of the city, it means we simply won’t have enough soldiers to hold the rest of the state.”

“We shouldn’t have massed so many troops on the border,” Sims said.

“I agree with you, Mr. President. But if you’ll recall, for political reasons, you had no other choice.”

Sims nodded slowly. “Are there further suggestions on how to stop this Tank Army?”

Like many of the others, Anna looked down as the President glanced at her. She noticed beads of condensation on the nearest water-pitcher. One of those beads slid down onto the table, entering the pool of moisture there.

Like a drowning man, Sims picked up his glass of water, although he didn’t drink. With a thud that startled Anna, the President slammed the glass back onto the table, causing water to splash up over the rim and drench his hand. “Yes!” he said. “Release the last of the strategic reserves in Central California.”

Does all this spilled water signify something? Anna wondered.

In response to the President, General Alan tapped his computer screen.

“Sir,” Anna asked, “what about the experimental tanks? Couldn’t you send those to Palm Springs?”

The President brightened and asked General Alan, “Where are they?”

“They’re also in the Central Valley, Mr. President.”

“Why there?”

“Well, first, they’re hard to move,” General Alan said. “Most bridges can’t support them. Secondly, we wanted to keep them secret until we’d perfected the tanks. Maybe California isn’t the right place for them.”

The President’s scowl worsened.

“And finally, sir,” General Alan said, speaking faster as the President opened his mouth. “We believe the Chinese are planning an amphibious assault. There are reports of an invasion armada somewhere in the Pacific. The San Francisco area makes the most sense. It’s what I would do given Chinese numbers and capabilities.”

President Sims shook his head. “If I were them, I would land in LA, make certain of taking it.”

“LA is a possibility,” General Alan conceded. “San Francisco seems more likely, given that the Chinese would like to stretch our forces to the breaking point.”

“No,” the President said. “If we lose LA now, it’s over. We have to use everything in Central California. Send the Behemoths to Palm Springs.”

“They might not make it in time,” General Alan said.

“Send them,” the President said gruffly.

General Alan nodded.

President Sims stared at a wall. He soon asked, “What’s happening in Texas?”

The meeting now moved to the additional fronts.

As others talked, Anna tapped her computer scroll and studied the SoCal situation. Despite the commando gamble, the great Chinese surprise had worked. What would have happened if they hadn’t learned about the Blue Swan missiles or not done anything to blunt the blow? Likely, the enemy attack would have been even more successful and she would be sitting in on a complete catastrophe. Would the central reserve armor slow the Chinese Tank Army? Could the SoCal formations break out of the trap? Maybe if the Americans fought in a superhuman fashion… Unfortunately, it was starting to appear as if someone on the other side knew exactly what to do to gain a supreme victory.

Stan Higgins was nervous and sweaty. Grunts were loading the Behemoths onto tank carriers and the carriers would be ready to roll in another hour or so. He didn’t have much time left.

Stan was in the Detention Reception Center in Fresno. The city was in the middle of the Central Valley, a dusty place with myriad irrigation canals feeding peach and almond orchards and mile after mile of wheat fields.

He had spoken to a government coordinator and now waited in a special cubicle with a computer screen. He could hear others in nearby cubicles speaking to relatives in the Central Detention Center in Colorado. These cubicles were the only way to communicate with someone in a Detention Center. The government, he knew, kept careful records of who spoke to detainees and how often they did it. Too much, and it went against your political profile.

The screen came to life and an officious, thick-lipped woman with a mole on her nose regarded him. She wore a tan uniform of a Detention warrant officer and a tan, military-style hat with a red band.

She glanced at something off screen by her hands, his profile, no doubt. “You’re Captain Stan Higgins?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Stan said.

“Hmm. You’re in the Army?”

“That is correct.”

“What is the nature of your call, Captain Higgins?”

He’d already told a Detention official here in Fresno why he was calling. He’d had to fill out several request forms to get this far. The warrant officer he was talking to must know that. Instead of saying any of that, Stan pasted the best smile he could on his face.

“I’d like to speak with my son, Jake Higgins.”

“Hmm,” she said, studying something. “I’m afraid that isn’t possible. Your son is presently in solitary confinement. He has three more hours to serve on a five-day offense.”

“What?” Stan asked.

The warrant officer frowned. “I’m not sure I like your tone, Captain Higgins. According to this,” she said, tapping a computer scroll, “you’re in the active military. Ah, I see you won the Medal of Honor in 2032, ah, in Alaska. You’ll understand then what it means to follow orders.”

“No,” Stan said. “I received my medal for disobeying orders and doing what needed doing to beat the Chinese.”

The warrant officer’s frown hardened, and there was a gleam now in her dark eyes.

Stan knew he’d made a mistake. “Look. I’d just like to say a few words to my son before I go off to face the Chinese.”

“You’re in California?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Near the front?” she asked.

“Not yet, but I’ll be there in a day at the latest.”

“You realize that I cannot let your son out of solitary.”

“Can I ask you what he did?”

“He assaulted a guard,” the woman said.

“Jake did?” Stan asked, horrified to hear this. That was just like Jake’s grandfather. “Did my son have a reason for the assault?”

“There is no good reason, Captain.”

“No, I’m sure there isn’t,” Stan said. He needed another angle with the woman. “You know,” he said, “The Chinese are attacking viciously. According to what I’m hearing, they mean to take the state in what looks like one fell swoop. I might die in the coming fight. I would really appreciate it if you would somehow see it in you to let me speak to my son before that happens.”

“I’m sorry, no. He’s in solitary confinement as I told you and I’m not authorized to break the rules. Despite your earlier statement about disregarding rules, we here in the Detention Center know how to achieve our tasks while coordinating with our superiors.”

“I’m not condoning my son’s actions. I would just dearly like to speak to him one more time. Maybe…maybe I could help straighten him out.”

“I think you already had your chance, Captain, when your son lived with you for over twenty years.”

Stan turned away, biting his lip. Couldn’t they let him talk to his son? Jake only had three more hours to serve in solitary. What was wrong with these people? “Look,” he said, facing the screen. “Do you have any children?”

“I have a daughter, as a matter of fact. But I don’t see what that has to do with this.”

“What if she was in a Detention Center and you had to go fight the Chinese.”

“My daughter would never be sent to a Detention Center,” the warrant officer said in brittle tone.

“I’m sure that’s true,” Stan said. “How about if the government had made a mistake in putting her there?”

The warrant officer’s features tightened. She leaned closer into the screen. She had terrible skin and visible pours near her nose. “Are you suggesting the government made a mistake with your son?”

“No, of course not,” Stan said. And then, his words just stopped. For a second, he wanted to lift the screen and smash it against the floor. He wanted to slug the woman—the warrant officer—in the face. He could hardly blame Jake for striking a guard if this is what they were like. Maybe he should be proud of his son for standing up for freedom. What was wrong with protesting anyway?

“You know, lady, I’m laying my life on the line for my country and for my family. In a way, I’m putting my body in harm’s way for you and your daughter. And you can’t even let me speak to my son for what might be the last time. That’s un-American to me, just flat-out wrong.”

“Would you like me to record your statement?” the woman asked.

“Yeah,” Stan said, “go ahead and record it. Put it down. I said it and I meant it.”

They stared at each other with growing hostility.

“Good-day, Captain Higgins,” she said.

“I want to speak to your superior.”

“No. I don’t think you do.”

“What’s wrong? Are you afraid now?”

She stared at him. Then she glanced to the side. “My superior happens to be right here. Are you sure you’d like to speak to him, Captain?”

“Absolutely,” Stan said.

The woman rose and stepped out of sight. There was muffled talk and a few moments later, a thin man sat down. He didn’t need to frown, as his long face seemed to have frozen into a scowl.

“I’m afraid I cannot help you,” the man said.

“I think you can,” Stan said. “I’m in California.”

“Sir, the only reason I’m talking with you is so that you understand we back our people to the hilt. We stand as one. Your son has seen fit to protest the President’s actions. That is disloyalty to our country at a time of national emergency. Now he has struck a guard and he has found himself time for serious thinking in solitary confinement. We do not break the rules here in the Detention Center.”

“Don’t you have any heart?” Stan asked. “I might die in combat defending our beloved country and all I want to do is say a few words to my son. I fought in Alaska and won the Medal of Honor. Surely, that should count for something. If you’ve been following the news, you must realize the Chinese have turned this into a bloodbath. Let me tell him goodbye. As you have any mercy in your heart, I’m begging you to do this for a fellow American soldier.”

The man stared at Stan. Finally, he nodded. “My father is in the Militia. He’s a colonel. I would want him to say goodbye to me. Very well, Captain. I’ll give you two minutes.”

“Thank you,” Stan said, surprised at this turnaround.

“Give us a few minutes here to coordinate the call,” the man said. Then the screen went blank before Stan could say anything more.

For the next few minutes, time seemed to crawl along for Stan. Had they forgotten about him? Would they monitor the call? Yes, of course they would.

Oh, Jake, what have you gone and done?

Two minutes later, the screen resumed and his son stared at him. Jake was a younger version of Stan, with a thinner face and now with hollowed-out eyes. There was a strange gleam in Jake’s eyes. It reminded Stan of his father.

He’s been in solitary confinement for some time. Remember that.

“Dad?” Jake asked in a rough voice.

“Hello son. It’s good to see you.”

“Dad…I’m sorry about this.”

Stan nodded because his throat tightened and he was afraid to say anything just then.

“I guess I went and protested the illegal—”

“Jake! Listen to me. Will you listen a bit?”

“Sure. Is everything okay?”

“No,” Stan said, “I’ve been called up and chances are I’m going to face the Chinese soon.”

“You said that wouldn’t happen this time around.”

Stan smiled sadly. “I didn’t think it would. But they need our…they need us, I’m thinking. It must be pretty bad. Son…I love you. I want you to use your head from now on.”

“You think I was wrong protesting the emergency decrees?”

“This is probably the wrong place to talk about that,” Stan said.

“I know we’re being monitored, Dad. That’s why I’m protesting.”

Stan nodded. His boy looked terrible. He looked used up, but he was standing for his rights. That took moral courage, something usually much more lacking in people than physical courage. Thinking about that made Stan’s heart swell with pride.

“You’re an American, son. I’m proud of you. Real Americans stand up for freedom and fight for what they believe in. We may not have the perfect system, Jake, but it is worth fighting for because the other side is ten times worse.”

“I’m not arguing that.”

“I know you’re not. You watch yourself, son. Don’t attack guards unless it’s a matter of self-defense. I…I might not get to talk to you for a time.”

“Dad…I’m proud of what you’re doing, sir.”

Stan nodded, afraid to speak again lest his voice betray what he was feeling.

“When they let me out of here, I’m going to join up.”

Stan shook his head. “I’m not sure you can with a Detention mark on your record.”

“They’ll let me join a Militia. I’m going to fight then, and when I’m done, I’m going to study how to fix our system.”

“Ten seconds left,” a disembodied voice said.

“Good-bye, Jake. You take care of yourself.”

“You too, Dad. Kick their asses, huh?”

Stan forced a grin. “I plan to.”

“Show these invaders what it means to mess with real Americans.”

Stan nodded. As he did, the screen faded and the thin official reappeared.

“Thanks,” Stan told the man. “Watch over him for me—if you know what I mean?”

The man stared at him, and there was an odd look in his eyes. “Yes sir, Captain Higgins. Good luck to you.”

“Thanks. I’m going to need it,” Stan said, wondering if the tank carriers were ready yet.

In a vast armada of armored power, the one-hundred ton T-66 tri-turreted tanks clanked through the desert sands beside the Salton Sea. Many of the commanders were half out of the main hatches, using binoculars to scan forward.

Before them, light Marauder tanks raced ahead, scouting for a sign of the enemy. To the rear of the 83rd Brigade clanked several UAV-launching vehicles. When the time came, they would give them tactical eyes and provide the armored thrust with airborne Annihilator platforms.

First Lieutenant Sheng commanded A platoon of Seventh Company: three T-66s at the head of the battalion.

Sheng wore a black tanker’s uniform with a skull patch. He also wore black gloves and had a pair of powered goggles over his eyes. He’d waited a year for this chance to show the Americans what he could do to their paltry armor. They had nothing to compare to the T-66. He had studied the Alaskan Campaign of seven years ago. The frozen terrain up there had worked against the T-66. These desert sands would give Chinese armor its full scope.

First Lieutenant Sheng beamed with pride just thinking about it. His T-66 had two hundred centimeters of Tai composite armor in front. It also possessed three turrets. Each could traverse 180 degrees and each had a huge, 175mm smoothbore gun. They fired hypervelocity rocket-assisted shells against enemy tanks, and HEAT shells for lesser targets. Six 30mm auto-cannons and twenty beehive flechette defenders made the tank sudden death for any infantryman out in the open. Linked with the defense radar net, the massed T-66s could knock down or deflect most enemy shells. The main gun tubes could also fire Red Arrow anti-air rounds, making it a deadly proposition for attack-craft trying to take it on. The tank had a magnetically balanced hydraulic suspension, so Sheng’s gunners could fire with astounding accuracy while moving at top speed.

Sheng dearly hoped the Americans were foolish enough to engage his tanks. It would mean kills on the battlefield. That might win him a medal, and the medal would definitely help him gain a marriage permit before he reached thirty. Sheng had worked hard to gain this position of honor. The colonel considered him the best first lieutenant in the battalion, the reason why he led the assault.

Sheng lifted his goggles and glanced back. The brigade’s tanks churned a mighty cloud of dust. It rose and billowed, some of it drifting onto the sea to the brigade’s right. There, the falling, raining particles speckled the water, creating ripples.

Incredibly, the Salton Sea was a manmade lake. In his spare hours, Sheng had studied the databases on it. In 1900, the Americans had built irrigation canals, diverting water from the Colorado River and into the Salton Sink, an ancient dry lakebed. American farmers had benefited from this until 1902, when floodwaters from the Colorado River overran a set of headgates for the Alamo Canal. The flood breached the Imperial Valley dike, among other damage. In the course of two years, two newly created rivers carried the entire volume of the Colorado into the Salton Sink. Only the completion of the Hoover Dam in 1935 had ended the periodic flooding of this area.

The Salton Sea was 69 meters below sea level and averaged 24 km by 56 km. It was California’s largest lake and saltier than the ocean, although not as salty as the Great Salt Lake in Utah.

Taking out a rag, First Lieutenant Sheng wiped his mouth. The T-66s were headed for Palm Springs and then LA beyond. Afterward, Sheng hoped to be the first to race onto the Grapevine and over the pass to Bakersfield. They were going to overrun California. That’s what the colonel had told them. They were going to meet up with Navy personnel in Sacramento, crushing any Americans foolish enough to engage the greatest tanks and the greatest army in the world.

Sheng grinned thinking about it, and then he checked a computer. The gauge showed they were in the red, meaning they were almost empty of diesel. He would need more fuel soon. They had been traveling fast for many hours. If the T-66 had a problem, it was a hog-like thirst for fuel. How long until the fuel carriers pulled up?

Dropping down into the interior, Sheng moved to the radio, deciding it was time to find out.

In the late afternoon, Sergeant McGee shut down his Abrams M1A3 Main Battle Tank. He had half a tank of fuel left and wanted to conserve what he had.

In training, the instructors had hammered home the need to conserve fuel. After 2032, with the loss of the Arctic Ocean oil fields and the diminishment of Prudhoe Bay, finding enough oil and gas had become a problem. Extracting oil from shale had provided some of the answer. It proved harder to do on a commercial scale than expected. Synthetic oil from coal produced the rest. Despite this, the American Army seldom had enough fuel and thus everyone conserved wherever he could.

McGee was seven miles outside of Palm Springs, an advance unit of American armor. He was in a swing battalion of the U.S. Tenth Division, the second-to-last reserve formation in LA. The plan was simple enough, as McGee knew about it. Bradley Fighting Vehicles with advanced TOW missiles would engage the Chinese at range, four thousand meters or more. Self-propelled artillery would then hammer the enemy with direct fire of guided projectiles. Old Apache helicopters with advanced Hellfire III missiles would then pop up and try to destroy advancing T-66s, before falling back.

At that point, in the hoped-for confusion, Sergeant McGee and others would turn on their Abrams and attack the enemy flanks. The goal was to get in amongst enemy supply and headquarters vehicles and blow them to Hell. The key vehicles command wanted destroyed were the enemy fuel carriers. They had to stop the Chinese advance to Palm Springs, giving LA time for Central Californian reinforcements.

As he stood in the hatch, Sergeant McGee swallowed uneasily. The rumors coming down were all bad. The Chinese had encircled the fortifications on the border, trapping the bulk of Army Group SoCal. On the coast and a little inland, the enemy was driving up the interstates to LA. But the big right hook that would take out Southern California was coming through the desert past the Salton Sea.

“Sergeant!” his driver yelled up from within the tank.

McGee was resting in the hatch, with a pair of binoculars on his chest. He dipped down inside the tank. “What are you hollering for?”

The driver looked up. “The Chinese, Sarge, they’ve been spotted.”

“Yeah?” McGee asked, trying to sound cool. He was twenty-three years old and was finding that hard to do right now.

“It looks like their advance elements will be in range of the Bradleys soon, maybe in twenty minutes, maybe sooner.”

“T-66s?” McGee asked.

The driver shook his head. “Marauder tanks, Sarge.”

McGee had to turn away from the driver, as the driver looked too scared, and that could be infectious. “We’ll show them.”

“Do you think so?” the driver asked.

“Yeah,” McGee said, looking at the man again.

“They say a whole tank army is coming behind these vehicles. How are we going to face an army of enemy tanks? We’re just a division, Sarge.”

“Yeah, but we’re Tenth Division. They’ve beefed us up to twenty thousand soldiers. We’re going show the Chinese what it means to take on the Tenth.”

The driver blinked so his entire face scrunched up. “I hope you’re right. I don’t want to die out here.”

“No,” McGee said, “neither do I.”

Flight Lieutenant Harris shook his head. He wore VR goggles and sat in his chair in an Air Force bunker. Onscreen, he looked out of his new V-10 UCAV. He flew over the Coachella Valley, hunting for enemy fuel carriers.

What he should be doing was hunting for Chinese amphibious vehicles heading for San Diego. He and the other drone pilots were presently trapped behind enemy lines. It made him nervous. The idea of being shipped overseas to a Chinese POW camp terrified him. The Japanese of World War II, the North Koreans in the 1950s and the Vietnamese during the 60s all had terrible records as prison wardens. Harris didn’t see why the Chinese would be any different.

He shook his head again, trying to drive the idea away. He needed to concentrate on the task. The Chinese were heading for Palm Springs, trying to slip into LA through the side door.

A ping in his ear alerted Harris.

Flipping on a different camera on his V-10, Harris looked down on the white sands below. It showed a billowing dust cloud. He used a thermal scanner. The image told him he could possibly have a fleet of fuel carriers. Unfortunately, air-defense vehicles roared alongside them.

Harris didn’t want to lose another V-10. It would look bad on his record. But he knew this was important, critically so, he’d been told.

He chinned on his radio to the colonel in charge here in the San Diego bunker.

“You see them, sir,” Harris said. “Do I wait for others or—”

“Kill them now, Lieutenant. Don’t waste time. We have to stop the Chinese from refueling their heavies, if they haven’t already done that.”

“Yes, sir,” Harris said.

If he’d been flying an F-35 or a ground-attack plane, the order might have been different. The Air Force didn’t like suicidal pilots. UCAVs changed the rules.

“Here we go,” Harris said to himself, using his joystick thumb-control. He piloted the V-10 down, down, down toward the fuel carriers. As he did, he primed the V-10’s Hellfire III missiles.

From below and hidden in the dust cloud, enemy chain-guns opened up. They were like mini-volcanos and soon he spied eruptions of flames. They were hypnotic if he looked at them too long. He heard a growl in his ear from the threat indicator. The Chinese had radar lock on him. This time it didn’t change a thing. Harris increased speed as he launched Hellfire after Hellfire. Their contrails burned brightly on his screen.

“Come on,” Harris said, trying to get within cannon range.

On his thermal scanner, he saw the first hit. It was a massive explosion. He’d gotten a fuel carrier. Then came another explosion and another. He’d hit pay dirt, this time.

Harris whooped with delight. This would go on his record, too. He was making kills, critical kills.

At the last moment and on his screen, he saw a Chinese SAM barreling up at his craft. He hit a button, expelling chaff. This time it was too late. The SAM destroyed the V-10 and Harris lost his link to the Coachella Valley. He was back to being a pilot without a drone, but at least he was alive and he had helped the Army out there on the white sands facing the enemy sneak attack.

On the flat Highway 99 north of Bakersfield, twenty massive tank carriers hauled twenty Behemoth tanks. It was the whole complement of the experimental vehicles. They were spaced far apart on the highway and moved at a mere fifteen mph. If they tried moving any faster, they would risk blowing tires and tipping over.

Captain Stan Higgins sat in the back of the cab of the fifth hauler. He listened to reports from Tenth Armor Division outside of Palm Springs. They were supposed to delay the Chinese tank advance, giving the reinforcements from Central California time to reach Palm Springs.

Studying the desert terrain of the Coachella Valley, Stan realized it would be the perfect place for the Behemoths—if the tanks worked how they were supposed to, and if they had enough air cover.

Could Tenth Division halt the Chinese? Could the lone American formation give the rest of them enough time to get there and set up?

Time for what, though? What could twenty experimental tanks do against thousands of Chinese T-66s, the Chinese MBTs and the light Marauder tanks?

We need a miracle, Stan realized. We need our own Blue Swan missiles.

With his head and shoulders outside the main hatch, Sergeant McGee heard the distant thunder of divisional artillery. There were flashes in the night. Seconds later came the booms.

Dark twilight had come over the desert. Several hours earlier, Bradley Fighting Vehicles had launched a salvo of TOW missiles at advancing Marauder tanks, killing some and driving the others back. It had brought about visible air duels above, more waiting and finally an enemy battalion of what command now knew had been drone light tanks. They had driven at the Bradleys at over forty mph. That had been a mistake: the head-on attack. The TOWs had demolished the drones, although it had seriously depleted the number of missiles the Bradleys had. Maybe that had been the idea.

McGee took comfort in the fact the Chinese could make mistakes. A tank drive against unknown forces…he could only imagine how difficult it was to coordinate everything.

Now word had come down. A large force of T-66 tanks was massed before the Bradleys and the enemy was massed against the flanking forces, too. In other words, there weren’t going to be any American surprises. Instead, it looked as if a slugfest was in the making.

“Are they going to try to overrun us?” the driver asked McGee.

McGee had dropped down into the M1A3 tank.

Two low-powered blue lights lit the Abrams’ interior. The blue light didn’t steal their night vision. Of course, other lights glowed on the panels: red, green and yellow.

“The Chinese waited too long,” McGee told the crew. He had to tell them something to cheer them up. “I don’t know why they waited. They should have rushed us earlier when they had the chance. Now we have more artillery. Our side must be laying down sleeper mines. That will give the T-66s something to think about.”

“You sure, Sarge?” the driver asked. “You don’t think the Chinese have them a good plan?”

“No,” McGee said. “They made a mistake waiting this long. Now we’re going to bloody their noses and then fall back to our next prepared position. They played into our hands and now we’re going to delay them as ordered.”

Stan Higgins watched twilight turn into true night from the cab of his Behemoth-carrier. They had made it over the Grapevine at fifteen mph. Now they were in LA, the vast urban area.

What amazed him was they had only been stopped once, letting a faster formation race past.

He still listened to Tenth Division net. The Chinese had made desultory attacks, but nothing in force. What were they waiting for? It didn’t make sense. Were the Chinese going to let the reinforcements set up outside Palm Springs? It seemed like a missed opportunity for them.

They had raced up the Coachella Valley, heading for the San Gorgonio Pass. It cut between the San Bernardino Mountains on the north and the San Jacinto Mountains to the south. San Gorgonio Pass was one of the deepest in America, the mountains on either side towering 9000 feet above the road. Palm Springs guarded the pass, while Greater San Bernardino was on the other side. Now was the moment for the Chinese to smash through.

“Keep waiting,” Stan whispered.

Jose lifted his head. He’d been snoozing most of the trip. “You say something, Professor?”

“Go back to sleep,” Stan said. “At this speed, we’re still a long way out from Palm Springs.”

“Sure, Professor, anything you say.” Jose’s head slumped back.

Stan stared out of the cab, watching LA go past outside the tank carrier’s window.

First Lieutenant Sheng had been chaffing at the bit most of the afternoon. It was dark now and still his platoon waited for the attack to commence, still waited for a fuel-carrier to fill up his T-66 tanks.

Motion caused one of the vehicle’s outer lights to snap on. In the distance, Sheng spied a jackrabbit in the circle of light. Its long ears twitched, and with a bound, it dashed for cover.

Earlier, Sheng had listened to the major explaining the situation to them. “We will destroy them at a blow, shattering them utterly. We have watched the Americans trickle reinforcements to the Tenth Division. Yes, they have laid their artillery-spread minefields and they have strengthened themselves. We want to destroy them here in the desert so there will be fewer of them in the built-up areas later.”

One swift and massive blow, yes, Sheng could understand that. But the major had been telling lies. The attack hadn’t occurred out of any brilliance. It hadn’t occurred, Sheng suspected, because the Americans had destroyed too many fuel carriers. He’d heard about the air attacks, hundreds of little pinpricks that had hit a fuel-carrier one at a time. Command had ordered the other fuel carriers back until enough air support appeared. Finally, the fuel carriers were here, or so the major had told them.

The T-66 was like an alcoholic with an immense thirst. They needed fuel before they dared attack the Americans.

It took another hour before Sheng actually saw a fuel-carrier. Men attached a hose and gave him half-a-tank full.

“I need more,” Sheng said, as a First Rank began disconnecting the hose.

“Sorry, sir,” the First Rank said. “It’s orders. Everyone only gets half-a-tank.”

That seemed foolish to Sheng. It would be wiser to fill half the tanks all the way, so they could drive to LA without having to worry about another fuel gulp.

Because he was merely a first lieutenant, Sheng kept his thoughts to himself.

After the fuel carriers left, brigade waited another forty-five minutes. Finally, at 9:23 PM, the order came. They were finally going to destroy the American Tenth Division and open the way to Palm Springs and LA beyond.

From his wheelchair in the command center, Marshal Nung rubbed his eyes. He was impatient for the Tank Army to attack. The Americans had cleverly burned up more of their air, hunting through the desert for the most forward fuel carriers.

He should have remembered the tactic from what the enemy had done in Alaska. It was foolish to forget something so obvious. From now on, he would defend the fuel carriers with triple the anti-air units and with continuous air cover.

He mustn’t allow the Americans to practice the same tactic on him again.

General Pi looked up from the glowing computer table. “Sleeper mines are taking a heavy toll of our Marauder drones, sir.”

“Yes,” Nung said. “I accept heavy losses in those cheap units now in order to achieve brilliance later. A hard and furious assault, General, that is what wins true glory.”

“Yes, Marshal,” Pi said.

From his wheelchair, Nung observed Marshal Gang frowning in the corner. He knew the man would record that statement and tell Ruling Committee member Kao about it.

As long as I’m advancing, no one will say anything. It is if I start to lose, that these words will haunt me. But I will not lose. That is the key.

“Unleash the T66s,” Nung said. “It is time to shatter the Americans and let them truly know what it is to fear.”

Sergeant McGee had buttoned the M1A3, meaning he’d shut the outer hatch and was completely inside the tank. He now sat above and behind the gunner. His right hand rested on the pistol-grip handle. With it, he had override control of the turret—where it turned—and where the main gun pointed. He leaned into the brow-padded thermal sights, hunting for a target.

Tenth Division Command had just radioed. The Chinese heavies were finally advancing. The realization had twisted McGee’s gut with fear. Was he going to die tonight? Was this it?

Get a grip, McGee. You’re fighting for your country. Stand your ground and kill the Chinese.

Like the other M1A3s, McGee had carefully chosen his first spot. The tank used a small, grassy dune, putting the Abrams behind it in the “hull-down” position. It meant most of the tank used the sand as a shield. The turret was higher than the top of the dune and the gun-barrel depressed so it could fire straight at the enemy. It would make him a smaller sight on enemy thermals and the sand or dune would act as a shield against enemy shells. Well, the dune would stop a HEAT round, but he wasn’t sure about the latest Chinese sabot round.

In the Abrams’s thermal sights, he saw the first enemy tank—a T-66 by its size. It was nearly five thousands meters away. Behind it, others appeared, following the first monster. A squeeze of purified terror tightened McGee’s chest. He’d heard stories about the tri-turreted tanks. The battalion didn’t have a chance against them. But so what, huh? It was time to fight.

With the pistol grip, McGee adjusted the turret and put crosshairs on the target. The enemy tank was moving fast and would soon be in range.

“Gunner, sabot, tank,” McGee said. It made him glad his voice still sounded level. Maybe he could fool the others, not letting them know he was worried sick.

The first order—“gunner”—alerted the crew. The second told them what kind of shell he wanted. The last was the target they aimed at.

McGee glanced at the gunner. The man had his own thermal sights, leaning his brow on the pad. The gunner shouted, “Identified,” and took over control of the gun. With his left hand, the gunner flipped the switch on the fire control to “sabot.” At the same time, he ensured the crosshairs were on target. He used the laser range finder. It shot a beam at the target and returned, giving them the precise distance. The M1A3’s ballistic computer analyzed the type of ammo, the wind speed and direction, humanity and the angle of the tank relative to the horizontal plane. In microseconds, the computer showed the needed gun-tube elevation, which the gunner used to adjusted the mighty 120mm cannon.

While the gunner readied the gun, the loader—to McGee’s left and below him—turned to the rear bustle. With his right knee, the loader hit a switch. A one-inch-thick blast door slid open, showing rows of main gun rounds. He pulled out a fifty-pound sabot round. With a grunt, he turned and his knee lifted off the switch. The blast door slid shut, sealing off the deadly rounds. The loader shoved the round into the breech and slid it home with his fist. The breech-lock knocked his fist out the way as it sealed the breech. Some loaders had lost fingers that way. The loader finally flipped the safety switch on the turret wall and shouted, “Up!” over the intercom.

Now McGee waited, letting the enemy come to poppa. Before the T-66 reached the gun’s range, American artillery shells began falling on the enemy. This was perfect. McGee knew all about the enemy defensive systems. The T-66 had more than great armor, but included radar-directed flechettes and auto-cannons. The artillery shells might give the radar-guided defenses too many targets to monitor. Even better, the arty shells would possibly hit against the T-66s’ tops. Just like the Abrams, the enemy’s weakest armor was there. Unfortunately, enemy defensive systems began chugging at the steel hail.

After a wait that squeezed McGee’s stomach tighter than a fist, the lead and targeted T-66 came into range.

“Fire!” McGee said.

The gunner shouted, “On the way!” and fired the round.

The M1A3 shook as the 120mm smoothbore gun fired the shell. The entire front of the tank seemed to lift.

The sabot round contained a cardboard casing around the gunpowder, which was burned up by the explosion. It meant that no hot brass shell landed inside the tank.

The kinetic energy sabot round exited the tube. The word sabot meant “wooden shoe” in French. The plastic “shoe” around the depleted uranium (DU) rod dropped away upon exiting the tube. Flight-stabilizing fins popped up, making the round look like a technological arrow. The arrow was a dense metal rod nearly two feet long.

Despite the artillery rain, Chinese flechettes flew as the round neared, but they missed, as did the auto-cannons tracking it by radar. Too many targets—this was great!

The DU round struck the T-66 with the mass and pressure equivalent to an NASCAR racer hitting a brick wall at 175 mph, all concentrated in an area the size of a golf ball.

The DU round punched through a turret. As it did, particles sheared off as the round penetrated. It was like a snake shedding its skin. The enormous pressure turned the projectiles white-hot. The peeled-off skins became fiery granules and were twice as dense as the steel that followed them. Those granules zinged around the compartment like a thousand white-hot BBs. They ignited everything they touched, killing the Chinese personnel and cooking off a round. In this instance, the pyrophoric effect resulted in a terrific explosion that ripped the turret from the T-66 and flipped the one-hundred ton tank onto its side, taking it out of the battle.

Back at the M1A3, McGee shouted, “Hit! We took out a T-66.”

The crew shouted with glee, the driver pumping his fist in the air, showing off his high school ring. Then McGee targeted the next enemy tank and the procedure began all over again.

All along the line from their hull-down positions, American Abrams opened up, reaching out over four thousand meters. Some rounds hit, a few making kills like McGee. Others hit and only burned in partway. A few hit and bounced—the angle and new, super-dense skirts working as designed on the Chinese tanks. The T-66s knocked down some rounds with defensive fire or deflected the sabots just enough. A few of the sabots just plain missed.

As all this happened, McGee realized the enemy probably had as good a night vision as they had, maybe even better.

“Back her up!” McGee shouted to the driver. “And give me smoke.”

The driver revved the gas turbine engine. The mighty seventy-ton tank lurched as it backed away from its dune and backed away from the advancing horde of Chinese monsters.

The Abrams lobbed smoke shells, creating dense clouds of it between them and the enemy.

The Abrams had two ways to make smoke. The first was how they were doing it, with the turret-mounted grenade dischargers. The second way was to inject a little fuel into the exhaust. That generated a heavy cloud of smoke.

Sergeant McGee pressed his forehead against the thermal sights. Night or day, they used them. They could “look” through most smoke and other interference. These smoke shells had tiny particles, however, making thermal imaging harder to achieve.

The opening battle raged against forty-two M1A3s and fifty-nine T-66s. The Chinese tanks now opened fire. On McGee’s thermal sights, the firings were bright blooms.

Unfortunately, for McGee and his fellow tankers it wasn’t sixty gun-tubes firing at the battalion, but one hundred and eighty. The Abrams had a 120mm tube. Each Chinese tank had three 175mm tubes and more advanced munitions.

Terrific explosions occurred outside McGee’s Abrams. Titanic hammers beat at metal and it rained shattered and exploded M1A3s.

“Get us out of here!” McGee shouted, with his voice cracking.

“I’m trying, Sarge! I’m trying!”

McGee leaned his forehead against the thermal sights. When the T-66s fired in unison, it looked like Hell had erupted.

How are we supposed to stop this?

First Lieutenant Sheng sat in the commander’s seat of the highest turret. He had several computer screens around him and wore safety straps as the T-66 roared at the retreating enemy.

The damned Americans had knocked out one of the platoon’s T-66s. It was because of the artillery shells. There had simply been too many targets for the defensive radar to track at once. An Abrams had hit, blown a turret off one of his T-66s, which had caused the tank to fall onto its side, thereby taking it out of the battle.

Sheng wanted revenge, which overrode the small sense of concern humming in his head for his own safety.

These were China’s premier tank. These models were better than the ones that had gone into Alaska seven years ago. The Americans—once they had built the greatest weapons. That had been before the Sovereign Debt Depression. After the Alaskan War, America had faced growing debt, secession troubles, sanction damage and the Chinese cyber-attack. Even better, a terrorist nuclear weapon had taken out Silicon Valley, once home to the world’s highest technology. The American research and development had yet to advance as far as the great T-66. Yes, once the Americans had ruled the world’s battlefields with their superior weapons. Now China ruled the battlefields, and tonight Sheng was going to show the has-beens what that meant.

The Americans fled from their hull-down positions, trying to use the dunes as cover for their escape. Sheng shook his head. He wasn’t going to let that happen.

At his orders, the two tanks of his platoon revved to the right. They had brigade UAVs in the sky, spotting for them. He used the computer screens, waiting, watching—

“There!” Sheng shouted. He spied the enemy Abrams, the bastard who had killed one of his tanks. He’d “painted” the Abrams, using a computer-code marker.

“I want all three guns targeted on the painted Abrams,” Sheng said.

The T-66 had three turrets and three guns, which meant a gunner and a loader for each. The main turret was slightly larger than the other two. It held the gunner, loader, Sheng and his radio operator. Each T-66, therefore, had eight crewmembers.

Now the three 175mm tubes aligned on the retreating Abrams.

The enemy tank’s cannon boomed. Sheng witnessed the fact on one of his screens. The sabot round screamed across the distance between them and likely would have hit. The radar on the T-66 tracked it and two 30mm auto-cannons fired, knocking the American round out of the air.

“You cannot defeat us,” Sheng said. “Yes, you are wise to flee, weak American tank.”

Sheng heard the three gunners shout. They were ready.

For a second, he enjoyed the sensation of knowing he was going to kill the American. It was a delicious thing. Then Sheng said, “Fire.”

The front of the one-hundred ton monster seemed to rise in air from the three cannons firing in unison. Three Chinese sabot rounds sped at hyper-velocity, rocket-assigned for greater speed and reach.

First Lieutenant Sheng watched on a thermal-imaging screen.

Sabot rounds hit the Abrams. Giant lava streams spewed out of blown enemy hatches. Those were solid columns of flame climbing into the night air. It meant one of the shells at least must have burned down the blast door to the enemy shell compartment. The American rounds began to cook off and the turret tore free from the main body, its 120mm tube spinning like a top. The Abrams engine shot out of the back like a squeezed bar of soap. Oh, this was impressive. This was pure joy to Sheng, better than porn.

“We are the conquerors,” he told the main turret crew. “We are supreme, the lords of the battlefield.”

The T-66 crew cheered.

Sheng allowed them the moment. Ten seconds later, he snapped an order. Tonight, they would smash Tenth Armor Division and open the way to LA.

Sergeant McGee’s corpse was gone, devoured in the inferno that had destroyed his beloved M1A3. The battalion was dying and the hated enemy bloodied but advancing victoriously on Palm Springs.

Captain Stan Higgins was wide-awake and on the move, directing his Behemoth down from the tank carrier.

It was 3:19 AM, cool and dark outside. Tenth Division was gone as an organized force, the vast majority of it was dead and littered on the white sands beyond Palm Springs. That meant wrecked Abrams, destroyed Bradleys and demolished Humvees, 155mm self-propelled artillery, Strykers and supply vehicles by the hundreds. Many of the hulks burned miles outside of Palm Springs. Close to eighteen thousand American soldiers were dead. Maybe seven hundred or so fled from the approaching T-66s. Less than a hundred still fought, firing a TOW here or a Javelin missile there. It meant the Chinese crept forward instead of racing into Palm Springs.

It helped that artillery fired from within the city. Several infantry battalions were also setting up in Palm Springs. There was a woeful lack of armor and very few Bradleys with their TOWs.

The last of the Apache gunships were dying, although they had managed to kill T-66s, about a dozen of them.

The Tank Army of the great Chinese right hook followed the conquering T-66s of the first wave.

Stan knew these things, and yet he calmly motioned the driver easy does it down the carrier’s ramp.

Colonel Wilson marched up to him then. The man wore a red scarf around his neck, with the end whipping about at each step. In the wash of sodium streetlamps, he eyed Stan critically. “Your tank is down. Good. I want you to head out immediately. Captain Reece will go with you.”

“Two tanks, sir?” Stan asked.

“We want to slow the Chinese down before they hit the city.”

“This is our great moment, sir. I think—”

“Are you refusing orders, Captain?”

“No sir,” Stan said. “I’m just thinking—”

“You leave the thinking to me,” Wilson said. “I want you to obey orders for once.”

“Yes sir,” Stan said.

“Get out there and stop the forward advance. But don’t go farther than our artillery shells can reach.”

“Yes sir,” Stan said. He hadn’t intended to do that anyway.

Wilson eyed him critically, waiting. He finally asked, “Haven’t you forgotten something, Captain?”

“No sir,” Stan said, knowing what Wilson expected. “It isn’t good practice to salute near the forward lines. The enemy likes to take out the officers. If I salute you, sir, I’m marking you for death.”

Wilson blushed and nodded sharply. Without another word, he turned and strode away.

“The man’s an ass,” Jose muttered from behind Stan.

Stan shrugged. “He’s our commanding officer, so we’ll give him the respect he’s due.”

“Which is nothing, right?” Jose asked.

“Wrong,” Stan said. “His commission and rank deserve respect. Now let’s get going.”

“Alone to face the enemy?” Jose asked.

“Didn’t you hear? Captain Reece’s Behemoth will be joining us. Now let’s quit jawing. We have a job to do.”

“I have reports, Marshal,” General Pi said.

Nung blinked his eyes and lifted his chin off his chest. “What was that?” he asked groggily. Had he been sleeping?

“The American Tenth Division has been destroyed, sir. Our lead tankers have spotted Palm Springs. There are reports of new American formations setting up within city limits.”

Nung nodded and smacked his lips before speaking. “I expected that. The Americans will have poured whatever they could find to block us. Now is the moment to shatter them just as we have destroyed the armored division. Afterward, we will drive onward to LA and greater glory.”

“The attack is for China’s greatness,” Marshal Gang said in his deep voice.

Nung nodded, not for the first time hating the man’s presence. “Here,” Nung said, stabbing a finger on the computer map. “Here is the beginning of the march to American dismemberment. Once we are in LA, then we will turn our attack onto annihilating the trapped Army Group.”

“Let the trapped troops wither on the vine,” Gang suggested. “That is the wise move. As Sun Tzu has said, ‘If the army does not have baggage and heavy equipment it will be lost; if it does not have provisions it will be lost; if it does not have stories it will be lost.’ Therefore, the trapped Americans are now lost to their cause.”

Nung scowled. Instead of answering with a sharp rebuttal or a Sun Tzu quote of his own, he let the statement go. The marshals who quoted the ancient sage on war didn’t impress him. The Americans had said it better long ago: shock and awe. He had shocked the enemy, would continue to do so, and that awed them and made men’s knees weak. That was the time to strike.

“Here,” Nung said for the third time. “Here at Palm Springs is where the Americans will truly realize that we are invincible in battle and their cause doomed to ultimate failure.”

Stan sat in the commander’s seat. For a three-hundred ton monster, there was surprisingly little space within the Behemoth.

So far, the engine worked and the treads stayed on the suspension system. They had been working hard these past days in Fresno, making sure all the little problems stayed away.

The Behemoth was something completely new. It was big because its engine was massive. The power plant had to be that way to feed the rail gun.

The Behemoth didn’t use conventional gunpowder shells, although it had several .50 caliber machine guns and used the auto-cannons and beehive flechette launchers. It was a walking—rolling—supergun. There was nothing like it on Earth.

The rail gun was simple in a way. It had two magnetized rods lining the Behemoth’s cannon. The projectile or “shell” completed the current between the two rods. The direction of the current expelled the round, firing the shell and breaking the current. The great difference was the incredible speed at which the electromagnetic cannon could eject the solid metal round.

Like the Abrams’s sabot round it used kinetic energy, the same kind of energy that sent a bullet smashing through a man’s body.

An M16 rifle fired a bullet at the muzzle velocity of 930 meters per second. The Behemoth’s cannon fired its round at 3,500 m/s, over three times as fast. That was approximately Mach 10 at sea level.

The Behemoth’s penetrator size and weight was much lower than an ordinary sabot round. It could therefore carry much more ammo onboard than otherwise. Nor did the crew need to worry about explosives in the tank. The greatest benefit was that at this velocity the rail-gun had much greater range, less bullet drop, faster time on target and less wind drift. In other words, it bypassed the physical limitations of conventional firearms. In fact, the rounds flew so fast, they ionized the air around them.

The Behemoth rail-gun theoretically fired farther, faster and with greater penetrating power than any comparable conventional gun. Its range was also much greater than the targeting precision, meaning it was easily possible to fire a Behemoth round over one hundred miles.

Stan blew out his cheeks and cracked his knuckles. The Behemoth clanked onto the desert sands, the treads rolling over a cactus so moisture squelched onto a nearby rock, wetting it. Captain Reece’s tank followed behind them by fifty yards.

“How far are we going?” Jose asked.

“Eh, what’s that?” Stan asked.

“How far are we going?”

“Several miles,” Stan said.

No one talked after that. They listened to the steel monster rattle and clank. The Behemoth could theoretically perform marvels. Unfortunately, on the testing grounds the giant vehicles had broken down all the time.

Stan now pulled up a map and began studying the terrain. If he could find a level—

“Hello,” Stan said.

Jose arched an eyebrow.

Stan got on the radio with Reece and they talked things over. Ten minutes later, the two giant tanks parked fifty yards apart.

There was a thin, last ditch screen of Americans ahead of them. Coming hard against these shreds of Tenth Division were the lead elements of two T-66 divisions.

“What else is there out here?” Reece asked over the radio.

“It’s just us now,” Stan said, “with artillery support once we call for it.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Higgins,” Captain Reece said.

“I hope the Colonel knows what he’s doing,” Stan replied.

Captain Reece said nothing to that.

Stan studied the data on his screen. They had a high-flying drone in position. Ah, look at them, Chinese T-66 tanks plowing head-on. Using the computer to study the enemy, Stan counted one hundred and eleven tri-turreted tanks, seven miles out, a bit more than eleven thousand meters. They were just beginning to appear on the same horizontal plane as the two Behemoths and almost in effective range.

“I’d say we give them another eight hundred meters,” Stan said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

He knew it was important to get the maximum advantage out of a technological surprise as one could. The Germans had failed to do that during World War II with their newest Panther and Tiger tanks in 1943. Hitler had ordered the new tanks into combat before all their teething problems had been overcome. The Panthers and Tigers were supposed to be new wonder weapons, helping the Germans defeat the much more numerous Russian tanks. The new tanks had been thrown in too soon into the giant cauldron of the Battle of Kursk, the greatest tank battle of the war.

Are we throwing our Behemoths into the fray too soon?

If America lost California, but had time to prefect the Behemoth and enter battle for the first time with a hundred of them instead of twenty, or the two out here—

Stan shrugged. It didn’t matter now. He was out here. On his screen, he watched the last Americans of the Tenth Division standing their ground in the desert and dying.

“Are you boys ready?” Stan asked his crew.

Jose, the gunner and the air/radio operator nodded or muttered a yes.

“Captain Reece,” Stan said, “I suggest we open fire on the enemy.”

“We should order some artillery down on them first,” Reece said.

“Agreed,” Stan said. He was feeling surreal. He was about to enter combat again. He hadn’t fired in anger since Anchorage.

Can I do as well this time? Stan shook his head. He doubted he could, but he might halt the Chinese advance. He could buy the U.S. Army time to regroup and defend LA. It might even save an entire Army Group, allowing them time to fight their way out of the trap.

Thirty seconds later, American artillery began to pound the enemy, who used onboard defensive armaments to shoot down the vast majority of artillery shells.

Stan checked the Behemoth’s batteries. They were at full power. “Okay, rev up the engine.”

The driver did just that.

“Target the nearest tank, Jose.”

“Roger,” Jose said, with his brow pressed against the high-powered thermal scanner.

The Behemoth had an auto-loader, which just dropped a round into position.

Stan’s hands were clammy. They weren’t in danger yet from the enemy. The T-66s had conventional ranges.

“Fire,” Stan said.

The giant electromagnetic gun hummed with power. Then the current pumped the twin rods in the cannon. The round fired, and it exited with a hard surge that rocked the Behemoth. It was one of the reasons the tank needed its incredible weight. For every action, there was an equal reaction in the opposite direction.

Stan watched on the thermal screen. The round’s flight time—it was incredibly short. Within two seconds, a T-66 lit up on the screen and exploded.

“Fire at will,” Stan said. He felt as if his spirit stood outside of his body, watching him at work.

Stocky Jose proceeded to do just what he did best: target, laser-wash the enemy, wait for the chambered round and the crack of the shell going supersonic before it even exited the gun. The Behemoth rocked with violent force, expelling another of its incredibly hyper-fast rounds, reaching out around over ten thousand meters or six and a half miles.

Stan grinned at first, hit! A T-66 blew up. Seven seconds later, hit! On the thermal sights, a second T-66 lay on its side like a dead beast. Every seven seconds another hard surge sent a shell screaming across the desert, slamming into a Chinese tank.

It’s working. The Behemoth is behaving, but for how long?

The smile slipped three minutes later. Stan kept a clicker, counting hits, counting kills. So far, Jose had destroyed twenty-three tri-turreted tanks, almost eight a minute. Reece probably had a similar count. Stan’s smile slipped because a loud noise from the engine area made his gut clench.

“What’s wrong?” Stan shouted.

“A generator,” the driver said.

“Battery power is dropping,” the radio operator said, who helped Jose right now.

Stan peered through the thermal scope. The Chinese were still coming. Don’t fail us now. God, help us.

For the moment, he needn’t have worried. Yet another hard surge rocked the Behemoth as a shell roared away. How long could they keep this up? Theoretically, a long time, but the desert tests had shown them not to expect that.

Even as Stan worried, shell after shell continued to drop into the chamber. The turret swiveled, the gun adjusted and the penetrator round reached supersonic speed as it raced at the oncoming Chinese.

Soon after the giant enemy tanks opened fire, the order came down the Chinese line of command: Charge the enemy and destroy the technological marvels at close range.

First Lieutenant Sheng rode in his platoon’s last T-66. The other two tanks were smoking hulks. Behind him thundered hundreds of tri-turreted tanks.

It was then Sheng learned the truth. The major told them over the company net. “It seems to be only two American tanks we’re facing.”

“Two?” Sheng said. That couldn’t be right. Not two tanks. The way they fired, so fast, so accurately, each hit drilling though a T-66—these things were science fiction dreams.

“We will be in firing range soon,” the major said. It was the last time Sheng heard from him, as the major’s T-66 blew apart.

“Two American tanks are doing this?” Sheng asked aloud in wonder.

Sheng sat between his computer screens. Sweat soaked his back. How was this possible? Could the enemy have better weapons than China? No, that was impossible.

Three seconds later, his internal debated ended. An electromagnetically ejected penetrator round smashed into Sheng’s tank. The velocity—white-hot BB-like sparks were the last things Sheng saw. One passed through his chest and First Lieutenant Sheng died. Immediately the T-66 generated an internal inferno and turrets popped off, spinning away onto the white sands.

Stan’s Behemoth continued to malfunction, but in a more serious manner now. Sensors in the engine diagnosed trouble. It could begin a forced shutdown any second, stranding them out here.

“Not now,” Stan said with a groan. “My engine is about to begin an involuntary shutdown,” he said over the radio.

“Back up,” Colonel Wilson said. “Get out of there. We’re on our way with the rest of the regiment.”

“Roger,” Stan said. “Captain Reece should probably come with me.”

“Negative,” Wilson said.

“Sir—”

“I give the orders,” Wilson said over the radio. “Now scoot.”

Stan licked his lips. He had won his famed medal by—

“What are we doing, sir?” the driver asked.

Stan only gave it a moment’s thought. An order was an order. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s move out.” He immediately got on the radio with Captain Reece and told him the score. “I’m moving out,” Stan told him. “Orders.”

“Don’t worry about us, Higgins.”

Stan did worry. Why didn’t the Colonel order Reece to come with him? Slowly, the Behemoth began to clank, retreating from the still sizable mob of enemy T-66s. It was the last time he spoke to Captain Reece and their crew.

Twenty T-66s made it within range, and they fired salvos of sabot rounds at Reece’s Behemoth. The shells flew like angry wasps roaring with destruction. The defending beehive flechettes and auto-cannons took out most of the rounds. Most, but not all of them—with a terrific clang two penetrated the Behemoth from the side and blew the giant engine.

Stan’s tank stopped by that time, the forced shutdown stranding them for the moment. The remaining T-66s started for him. They never reached that far, as the rest of the Behemoths had finally left Palm Springs and now closed with and destroyed the final enemy lunge at the city.

It ended the first battle for Palm Springs, leaving one dead Behemoth tank, two out due to technical difficulties other than engine trouble and three with engine trouble. In return, they had destroyed three hundred and fifty-nine T-66s and for the moment, at least, halted the right hook to Palm Springs and LA beyond.