Invasion: Colorado

-10- Operation Saturn

Colonel Higgins nodded to several Canadian generals as he scooted past them to his seat in the underground auditorium. He had to work to keep his feet from tangling with theirs.

The place was filled with high brass from many different military branches. To get here, MPs had driven Stan over twenty miles from the new Behemoth Tank Park. The MPs had told him exactly nothing along the way, which was okay, as he already knew what was going on.

Much had changed since the midnight drive along I-70 to Salt Lake City. That had been weeks ago. Now the snowstorms howling across the Great Plains reminded him of Alaska during the bitter retreat to Anchorage.

He hadn’t heard from Jake since the phone call from Denver. It haunted him. Was his boy alive, dead or rotting in a Chinese POW camp? It ate at him not knowing.

Footage out of Denver had shocked the nation. Scenes of the Chinese laser tanks had particularly inspired awe and despair. The beam—it was better surely than a Behemoth’s rail-gun. Stan dreaded facing the Chinese laser tank in battle. How many of those did the Chinese have? How had the Chinese managed to generate enough energy for such a powerful beam? In America, only the strategic ABM sites had the means.

From Salt Lake City, tank haulers had brought the Behemoths north. They always traveled by night, with integral MPs going to great lengths with security procedures against enemy surveillance. Here was the middle of nowhere, Nebraska, a flat land of endless snow and wind. The Platte River Defense Line was thirty miles south from the tank park. South beyond the river was the SAF First Front, which stretched across the entire state of Nebraska and even a little into Iowa.

Stan glanced around the vast chamber. Generals and colonels abounded. From what he’d been seeing the past few weeks, America had finally gathered a force to hit back at the Aggressors.

The lights flicked in front, probably to get their attention. Sure, Stan recognized General Tom McGraw. McGraw strode up a short set of stairs onto the stage and moved to the podium.

The murmuring in the great chamber lessened.

McGraw cleared his throat into the microphone. That brought silence to the auditorium.

Stan felt a surge of expectancy.

“Welcome,” McGraw said. “I’ll get right to the point, as we still have much to do and very little time to get it done in. First, I want each of you to know that this location is secret to everyone but a handful of people. That is why each of you came in an unmarked car chauffeured by very special MPs. In fact, each of these MPs was actually a Secret Service agent.”

Stan’s eyebrows lifted. If the Secret Service was involved, that meant so was the President.

“That brings me to point two,” McGraw said. “This meeting has one purpose. To win this war, the United States must go on the offensive. To date, we haven’t had the mass or the resources to attempt a major offensive. We’ve been too busy trying to stave off defeat. Well, that has finally changed due to several critical circumstances. I would explain that to you, but the President of the United States has insisted on telling you personally. Therefore, it is now my honor and privilege to introduce President Sims.”

From speakers around the auditorium, a recording started playing “Hail to the Chief.” Stan felt it. Everyone else must have felt it too. As one, the massed generals and colonels in the auditorium rose to their feet. To the side onstage, a curtain fluttered. President Sims appeared. He marched toward General McGraw. The President held a sheaf of papers at his side, and against tradition, he wore an Army uniform.

Sims was considerably shorter than McGraw, but the President didn’t act like it. He grabbed McGraw’s outstretched hand and pumped it heartily. Stan could see Sims whisper to McGraw. Tom released his grip and saluted. Turning smartly, McGraw strode down the steps and took a vacant seat in the front row.

Sims faced the assembled officers. He put his papers on the podium and cleared his throat. Pulling the microphone closer to his mouth, he glanced behind him.

A screen appeared. On it were the American and Canadian flags.

“This is a rare privilege,” President Sims said. His voice reverberated through the loudspeakers. It told of his confidence and restrained excitement.

That excited Stan as well. He sat straighter. So did many others around him.

“I’ve been waiting for this meeting for some time,” the President told them. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here tonight to implement Operation Saturn. If anyone has heard about that, please raise your hand.”

No one did.

“General,” the President said, looking at McGraw and smiling indulgently.

McGraw raised a meaty paw. So did several officers sitting beside him.

The President nodded. “Except for these few officers, Operation Saturn has remained secret for a simple reason. We mean to surprise the Aggressors. To that end, we have clandestinely transported masses of supplies at night. This has been done under the strictest procedures and with a constant watch on spy satellites, enemy AWACS and recon drones. We have also moved powerful formations into position. This, too, has proceeded under the strictest protocols. Many of you have complained about that, which is good. In fact, your complaints have heartened me, because it means the security people have been following my orders to the letter.”

The President paused, and he smiled. There was a polite ripple of laughter and nods from the audience. The President gripped the podium with both hand and leaned toward them. His eyes burned now with earnestness.

The laughter evaporated. Stan felt a sensation along his spine. This was serious business tonight. It gave him hope, and his expectations rose.

“I have personally selected each of you,” the President said. “I have personally selected your divisions or regiments for the coming task. Together, you are Army Group Washington. The name means something to me and I have no doubt it means something to you. George Washington was the father of our great country. He fought the Redcoats and defeated them after many grueling years of warfare. In the Revolutionary War, it often looked as if General Washington was finished, his soldiers beaten on the field of battle. Yes, many times, he faced battlefield losses, but he fought back from defeat. In the end, General Washington vanquished the enemy and he helped give this new nation the breath of life.

“In the past few months, we have faced many defeats,” Sims said. “In fact, we have faced years of Chinese aggression. First, they attacked us in Alaska where I had the great privilege of defeating their forces. Later, they successfully invaded Hawaii and obliquely attacked our interests with the clandestine invasion of Mexico. If that wasn’t enough provocation, they helped detonate a terrorist bomb at Livermore, a nuclear weapon. We haven’t forgotten that, their perfidy or the lack of courage to admit it was their doing.

“This year, they invaded California. We stopped them in Los Angeles. So they switched fronts. Starting this summer, they smashed their way into Texas and New Mexico. They’ve driven deeply into the Midwest. To do it, they needed help. The Chinese bully convinced the South American Federation that America lay supine, ripe for the taking. There is no doubt these two power blocs have caused havoc and immense destruction to our beloved land, but the fight is far from over.

“Due to our diplomacy, we convinced the German Dominion of the danger of remaining an aggressor against us. With the removal of their troops from Cuba, we have been able to shift many formations from the East Coast to here. I know that many of you gentlemen have spent the summer and autumn waiting for those Germans to land. But they’re gone.”

There was some pointed coughing from the audience. Stan saw it came from the Canadian officers, who sat as a bloc. One tall officer had a tattoo on his cheek.

The President noticed the coughing, too. He shifted his stance and regarded the Canadians. “As the price of their withdrawal, the Germans demanded Quebec Province from our staunch ally, Canada. Believe me when I say that such a land grab won’t stand for long. America knows how to help its allies. The Canadian officers among us are a welcome addition to our great objective this winter. In the year to come, we will help you regain Quebec. First, however, we have another task to perform, a task of national honor demanding justice and fierce retribution.”

The President paused and dramatically scanned the audience.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the Canadian and U.S. Armed Forces, Operation Saturn represents our turn to twist the screws on the Aggressors. We have gathered the elite formations of both militaries and pressed them into one awesome force of destruction. Army Group Washington will be composed of three Armies: the U.S. Second Tank Army, the U.S. Ninth Army and the Canadian First Army.”

The President shuffled papers on the podium, glancing at them. When he looked up, he said, “Before I go into detail on your objective, I want you to understand the nature of your task. Operation Saturn will be a two-pronged assault. The first part of the operation is a mass assault against the South American First Front. You will have no part in this. You are the exploitation thrust that will only come after a general offensive meant to shatter a critical section of the SAF forces. Once this has been achieved, I will unleash you upon the Chinese.

“Second Tank Army will lead the attack. In it are the bulk of our cutting-edge armored divisions. This includes the Behemoth tanks that proved so decisive in California. It also includes the new American main battle tank, the MBT-8 Jefferson.”

As the President spoke, various slides appeared on the screen behind him.

Stan saw a Behemoth tank shown from various angles. He now saw the new U.S. Jefferson. It was radically different in appearance from the Behemoth or even the old M1A3 Abrams. The Jefferson was five meters long and 2.4 meters tall, making it the puniest of the MBTs on the battlefield. It had much better high-tech materials than an M1. Like the Behemoth, it had magnetically balanced hydraulic suspension and armored tracks. Unlike the Behemoth, it had inner wheels for highway movement, giving it greater mobility. With its heavy armor, it also had a huge 175mm cannon. It fired rocket-assisted shells: anti-personnel, anti-armor or anti-air. The fire control computer could lock onto targets and direct a six-salvo round in two minutes. It had six Beehive flechette launchers and 25mm autocannons to blast down most incoming enemy missiles or shells. It was a vast improvement to the mainstay but old M1A3.

The President glanced back at the screen before regarding the crowd again.

“It is true we do not yet have the Jefferson MBTs in great number. But there are two divisions of them in Second Tank Army. We have carefully tested and saved them for this moment. Instead of feeding the new MBTs piecemeal into the summer and autumn battles, we wanted a significant number of them to use as a hammer at the right time and place. That time is now and that place is here in Nebraska and Colorado.

“Instead of spreading the Jeffersons around, we’ve gathered the best armor into a mailed fist. That’s the secret to this venture. We have combed our forces for the latest and best formations. You are the cutting edge, gentlemen. It will be up to you to drive to …”

The President peered at them, scanning the crowd as if searching for something special.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the purpose of Operation Saturn is to bring a swift end to the enemy invasion. The Germans thought to bargain with us while we were down so they could drive a hard deal. Very well, I accepted their offer. This was to give us a single objective: hurt the Aggressors in the Midwest hard enough to drive them back into Mexico and end their venture.

“My advisors tell me that the SAF formations have lost their fighting spirit,” Sims said. “For the last several weeks, the SAF troops have fired artillery at our soldiers, but not dared to attack across the Platte River. They’ve become scared. They are the weak sister in the coalition presently directed at us. Therefore, we will overwhelm a portion of their line with a giant offensive, smashing their confidence and sending them reeling back in disarray. Once we achieve that, you will go onto the offensive.

“You will be the spear that tears out the enemy heart. Army Group Washington must sprint to Colorado Springs, reaching the Rockies. By doing this at speed—by making the greatest tank drive in history—you will trap the PAA Third Front in a gigantic cauldron. In order to destroy Third Front, we will have to keep them inside the bag and any enemy breakout attempts from outside.”

The President grinned a predatory smile.

Stan found himself grinning in return.

“That means a twofold operation for you,” Sims said. “The first part, as I’ve said, is to drive to Colorado Springs at great speed, letting nothing slow you down. I’ve already hinted at the second objective. It will be to build two fortified defenses along your deep penetration route. The western defense line—stretching from the Platte River to Colorado Springs—will keep the PAA Third Front captive. The eastern defense stretching the same distance will stop any SAF forces from breaking through and letting the enemy escape the trap.

“If we can do this,” Sims said, “—and I most certainly believe we can—if we can do this, we will have destroyed or captured one-half of the Chinese invasion force. That will cripple the enemy and swiftly bring about his total destruction. As a matter of fact, it will do so before the devious Germans can change their minds and decide to invade our respective countries from Quebec.”

The President reached inside the podium, picking up a glass of water. He drank and set the glass down. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have assembled Army Group Washington with great secrecy and care. As Marshal Liang concentrates on completing the subjection of Greater Denver and attempts to batter into Cheyenne, you will be the tornado that howls down on his head. We’ve waited a long time for this: I mean the turning of the tide of war.”

President Sims paused, studying the audience. “Let me speak very frankly for a moment. Everything depends on your success. If you fail, you might be the last U.S. Army to attack anywhere. We have to knock out the Chinese now, in a blitz of several weeks. You have the means. Hopefully, we have given you enough numbers. My question, gentlemen, is do you have the will and the drive to kick the Chinese in the teeth and boot him out of our country?”

President Sims waited then, watching expectantly.

General Tom McGraw was the first man onto his feet. “We have the will, Mr. President! We have the drive!” McGraw’s words boomed throughout the auditorium.

Stan found himself on his feet as everyone else stood up.

“Yes, Mr. President,” the chamber full of officers said. “We have the will! We have the drive!”

“Good,” Sims said. “It’s good to hear your heart. We have much to do before we unleash Operation Saturn. Therefore, I will give the microphone to General McGraw as he explains the coming attack in greater detail.”

Stan grinned. They were going to attack. They’d saved the Behemoths for the most important battle yet. He was going to get a chance to reach his son.

Is Jake still alive in Denver? Boy, you’d better have stayed alive. You—

Colonel Higgins pushed the thought aside. He had to concentrate. He had to listen to McGraw. If his boy still lived, this drive was going to save him.

Nothing is going to stand in my way—nothing!

It was the second day of the offensive against the SAF formations across the Platte River Line. The particular South American Federation soldiers around here were Venezuelans, junior partners with the dominant Brazilians.

Master Sergeant Paul Kavanagh, Romo and Sergeant Kline lay on a low, icy hilltop well behind the main enemy defense.

Paul wore cold-weather gear, as did his two companions. The gear was camouflaged white, and included a helmet with a special HUD visor allowing night vision and binocular sight. The rest was composed of body armor and an internal heater. It allowed him to lay on snow or ice for hours without freezing.

It was nearly dawn in this winter netherworld. Temperatures fell far below freezing and it was only supposed to get worse. It reminded Paul of Alaska and his trek across the Arctic ice. He wondered what had ever happened to John Red Cloud.

Paul shook his head. He needed to focus on the present. With this visor, he didn’t need binoculars, because with the proper move of his chin, he switched the HUD’s range-sight.

To the north, giant U.S. artillery tubes thundered. They created mighty flashes of light that reflected off the low clouds. Paul heard the accompanying booms much later. Those guns were miles away. The barrage was unending, and the artillery rained many varieties of munitions on the shocked Venezuelans.

“They don’t have these kinds of fireworks in Caracas,” Romo said.

“I guess not,” Paul said.

They were back to their old game of LRS—Long Range Surveillance. Instead of cross-country motorcycles, now they had snowmobiles. That reminded Paul of Alaska, too. He remembered the Green Berets on their snowmobiles, the ones from the submarine that had popped up out of the ice. What had ever happened to them? It was strange he’d never run across them in SOCOM. He’d have to ask General Ochoa about that. Not that Ochoa spoke to him much anymore, not since the little run-in with Colonel Valdez.

“Look,” Romo said. “I see movement.”

“Where?” asked Kline. He was the new guy.

“Six-three-six,” Romo said.

Out of the corner of his eye, Paul noticed Kline shift his helmet.

“What is that?” Kline asked.

Paul moved his jaw. This suit had taken getting used to, that’s for sure. He had to shift his jaw slightly to the left. Ah, there it was.

The visor zoomed the night-vision picture. Paul squinted. He couldn’t believe it.

“Looks like soldiers,” Romo said.

Paul grunted. That’s what he thought, too. He saw South American soldiers running across the snow, hundreds of them, many thousands of poor slobs. They weren’t running north at the American lines, but south, fleeing from the defenders.

He’d read some reports on the Venezuelans. They were warm-weather soldiers and had done well this summer. Likely, none of them had ever faced a winter like this. Maybe as importantly, Venezuelans didn’t feel the same about the war as the imperialistic Brazilians. Venezuelan hearts weren’t in the fight, and that made a huge difference sitting in a trench in the middle of America during an Ice Age storm and a violent assault by troops burning for serious payback.

“I don’t get it,” Kline said. “Who are those other soldiers attacking?”

In silence, Paul watched the dark horde. He had listened to the SOCOM captain during the briefing session. This was Operation Saturn. Of course, Paul had noticed the build-up of American troops for weeks. This part of the American defenses had crawled with new troops: Militiamen, Canadians, East Coast regulars and the hardened veterans of the earlier Midwestern battles.

“Those soldiers out there,” Paul said, “they’re not attacking.” Those boys were running away. As he scanned back and forth, Paul couldn’t spot a gun on them.

“They’re running away?” Kline asked.

Romo chuckled.

“Did I say something stupid?” Kline asked. He had a chip on his shoulder and was too aggressive. It seemed to Paul that Romo liked needling the new man.

“Our assault troops must have hit them pretty hard,” Paul said. “Maybe it’s our new Sleeper mines. They must be better than we were told.”

“The Venezuelans are coming our way,” Kline said, and for once, he sounded nervous.

Paul was well aware of where the enemy soldiers ran. The three of them were up on this small knoll behind enemy lines. This part of Nebraska didn’t have any real hills and nothing like the Rockies. At the bottom of the hill to the south were hidden three white snowmobiles with plenty of gas and other supplies.

“Don’t worry,” Paul said. “They’re not going to run all the way here. They’ll fall down from exhaustion long before that.”

Sergeant Kline swore soon after. “I don’t believe this. They just keep on coming. It looks as if the whole land is moving. There must be thousands, tens of thousands of them running away, which means running toward us.”

Paul silently agreed. What had caused this? Had it been the new Sleeper mines? They were deadly landmines fired into position by artillery tubes. Or had the Venezuelans buckled in the face of the assault troops launched across the ice? Before he left on this mission, Paul had seen the massed artillery. In his opinion, the government must have robbed every other park and site to put so many guns in one place. He actually pitied the poor slobs down there. He had listened in to some SOCOM chatter. The Venezuelans were sick of the cold and getting worried about reports of massing North Americans. Probably those boys sprinting across the snow just wanted to go home to their sweat señoritas.

“We need to call down an air strike,” Kline said. “This is the perfect moment to hit them.”

Paul didn’t say anything to that. He watched the masses of men running away from the flashes on the horizon. The enemy soldiers were doing a bunk, all right. Let them run, was his feeling.

“He is right,” Romo told Paul.

“Yeah?” asked Paul.

“They are scared now,” Romo said, “and out in the open. In time, they will regain their courage and their sanity. Now they are easy targets for a napalm strike.”

Paul stared at Romo. Like him, the man lay chest-first on the snow, looking like a white-armored version of the old Iron Man movies. Paul could well imagine Romo lifting a palm and firing a magnetic repulser ray. With these suit heaters, they could lie in the snow all day. Too bad they couldn’t fly.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a cold-hearted bastard?” Paul asked his friend.

“I have heard it said, yes,” Romo replied.

Paul had a bad taste in his mouth. Despite that, he knew Romo was right. With his suit, he radioed in to SOCOM HQ. He told them what he saw and requested an air strike.

“Can you pinpoint their location?” the operator asked.

“Yes,” Paul said, feeling even more dispirited than before.

Romo had his laser rangefinder and locator out. He aimed it at the mass of running soldiers and fired an invisible beam.

“We have target acquisition,” the operator said. “The drones will be in position in three minutes.”

Paul muttered a reply, and then he waited.

“Do not feel bad,” Romo told him. “Those soldiers running down there, they raped your women and killed civilians this summer. If you let them live, they will do it again later. The time to kill a wolf is when he is running away, not when he is full of fight.”

Paul thought about the little girl with red shoes hanging from a tree. Venezuelans might have done that.

“War’s a dirty business,” he said.

“We are good at it,” Romo said. “It is why we see so many evil things. Others in our position, they would be dead by now.”

“I guess so,” Paul said.

“What’s wrong with you?” Kline asked. “This is our job.”

Paul didn’t answer as he waited for the inevitable. A few minutes later, American heavy drones appeared. They roared low over the fleeing soldiers.

Paul could swear he heard groans, the mass sound of frightened men looking up at their doom.

Napalm canisters tumbled from the bellies of the fast-flying drones. The canisters hit the snow and sheets of flame appeared, roaring into life. The napalm roasted hundreds. More canisters tumbled toward the fleeing and now screaming mass of humanity.

Paul watched the slaughter. He didn’t know if they were conscripts or volunteers. The Brazilians ran the show in the South American Federation. The Venezuelan soldiers down there were paying for Brazilian misdeeds. They were paying the butcher’s bill in roasted flesh.

The napalm fires roared across the plain. Thousands of twisting, flopping humans became living torches. It was nauseating, but Paul supposed Romo was right. The sooner they killed enough enemies, the sooner this war would be over. What did it matter how it happened?

Maybe my time for soldiering is up. I want to defend my country, sure. I don’t want to butcher fellow human beings like this anymore, though.

“Let’s go,” Paul said, as he climbed to his feet.

On the formerly snowy plains in the distance, the napalm fires raged unchecked. Black smoke billowed skyward. Was Romo right? Had those same soldiers butchered innocent American civilians?

Yeah, he’s right. I have to believe it. He has to be for them to deserve that.

Paul left deep tracks in the snow. These suits were great except for one thing: they were heavy. Heavy wasn’t good for wading through snowdrifts.

Soon enough, Paul climbed onto his snowmobile and used a gloved thumb on the starter. The engine turned over and revved into life.

“You guys ready?” he asked over the radio.

Two positive answers sounded in his helmet. Paul twisted the throttle and the small machine lurched forward. He listened to it whine as he plowed through this lonely land. There were folds in the terrain and hidden rivers and gullies. He kept it at fifteen miles per hour. That was slow going, but at night like this, it made sense to be careful. They kept the headlights off and used their night vision visors.

After two miles, Romo spoke. “Where’s Kline?”

Paul glanced back. A glimmer of dawn broke on the eastern horizon. The American guns still flashed and boomed to the north. He saw Romo on his snowmobile, but there was no sign of Sergeant Kline.

“What happened to him?” Paul asked.

Romo shook his head.

“Sergeant Kline,” Paul said over the radio. He didn’t get an answer. “We can’t leave him out here.”

“Si,” Romo said.

Paul twisted the throttle and turned around. In the glimmer of dawn, they backtracked. A half mile later, they found him. Kline had strayed off the path following Paul and Romo. That was against regulations. They went single file so the enemy wouldn’t know how many of them were out there. Kline hadn’t gone too wide, but wide enough.

The soldier lay at the bottom of a gully. His machine had broken through a crust of snow hiding a narrow ravine. The sergeant lay on his stomach at the bottom with his head through some ice.

With a sick feeling, Paul climbed down the ravine. He slipped and slid, bumping his way down until his heavy boots cracked through the ice and hit underwater rocks.

He cursed, and he dragged Kline out of the icy stream. He unbuckled the helmet. Water flowed out as he removed it.

“How is he?” Romo asked from the upper bank.

Paul took off his helmet. It was freezing down here in the shadows of the gully. He checked for broken bones. The neck seemed good, but the man didn’t breathe.

Paul gave him mouth to mouth. He unsnapped the man’s body armor, pushed on the chest and hammered against the heart with his fist. Nothing helped. Sergeant Kline was dead. He must have drowned to death.

“What a stupid way to die,” Romo said.

Paul glared up at his blood bother. Would Romo have preferred to burn to death like the unlucky Venezuelans?

“Help me carry him to my machine,” Paul said.

Romo took his time answering.

“I don’t know how the Apaches did it,” Paul said, “but we’re not leaving his corpse for the enemy.”

“No,” Romo said. “You are right.”

It took work, and Paul panted by the time he reached his snowmobile. He tied the body to the back. What a worthless war. The Chinese, the Brazilians and their proxies—they should have all stayed home.

“You know what I think,” Paul said.

“Only some of the time,” Romo said.

“We have to make it hard and bloody and show everyone you don’t mess with the United States of America. This was a stupid way to die. You were right about that.”

“You are glad now we burned the Venezuelans?”

Paul stared north. “I didn’t start this war. All I know is that I’m going to do whatever it takes to finish it.”

“Si,” Romo said. “We will finish it.”

The two men roared away on their snowmobiles, heading for the pickup point.

Colonel Higgins sat in the commander’s seat of his Behemoth tank. Computer screens faced him on three sides. A soft blue light glowed in the compartment. Outside, snow swirled, reducing visibility but doing nothing to slow the assault.

It was the third day of the great attack when Army Group Washington made its move. A screen of M2 Bradleys led the way, followed by M1A3 Abrams tanks. Stan followed them by a kilometer.

In this, General McGraw and Stan had agreed. Hit the Chinese hard from the beginning. Annihilate them fast with the Behemoths, with everything new that America possessed.

The giant tank churned over the flat, frozen landscape. This was the perfect territory to use the rail-guns. Almost, Stan felt pity for any Chinese tankers daring to take him on now.

“I’m going up,” Stan told the others.

Jose made a show of shivering.

Stan understood. None of the crew liked it when he opened the hatch. Cold air seeped down through the opening, stealing all the carefully built up warmth in the compartment. Despite the understanding, Stan had a duty to the Regiment. He could see a lot with his computer screens, but sometimes, he needed to see a thing with his own eyes.

He stood, shoved a woolen hat on his head so it covered his ears. He wrapped a scarf around his neck and zipped his coat all the way. Only then did he open the hatch and thrust his head and shoulders into the snowstorm.

Shivering from a blast of icy air, Stan hastily put on goggles. It was crazy out here, a real Arctic blizzard. Ominous gray clouds scudded low across the sky, while snow swirled all around. Behind him, he saw the giant, looming shapes of other Behemoth tanks. Visibility was practically zero. That didn’t matter. Now was the time to catch the Chinese, hopefully, by surprise.

Stan forced himself to stay up here out in the open, to feel the cold. This cold was an ally. They might gain a march on the enemy and hit the Chinese before they knew what was happening. Hit hard, hit from the start and gain as much ground as possible while the enemy was surprised.

Finally, Stan couldn’t take the freezing anymore. He slid inside and banged the hatch shut behind him. The heaters poured warmth out of the vents. He put his face in front of one and let it thaw him out.

“I have a message for you, Colonel,” Jose said.

Stan moved to his commander’s seat and put on a pair of headphones. “Colonel Higgins, here,” he said.

“Stan, this is Tom McGraw.”

“General,” Stan replied, waiting.

“SOCOM has some information for you. There are two divisions of T-66s heading to block your passage.”

“How did the Chinese find out we’re here?” Stan asked.

“I’m sure we’re not the only side with ground-based observers,” McGraw said.

“T-66s you said?” Stan asked.

“That’s right. Maybe the Chinese think they can slip those monsters in close and blast your tanks at close range. It’s the 14th and 92nd Armored Divisions. Those are top-notch formations, Colonel. Intelligence believes they have three hundred T-66s, and plenty of artillery.”

Stan tapped one of his screens.

“Speak to me, Colonel,” McGraw said. “Can your rail-guns fire at extreme range in this weather?”

“Clear weather would be better,” Stan said.

“I hope you’re not avoiding the issue, Colonel.”

“No sir,” Stan said. He’d just looked outside. Clearly, this wasn’t long-range weather.

“We want to keep the drive alive,” McGraw said. “We don’t want to stop for anything. You have a lot of ground to cover before you reach Colorado Springs.”

“Understood, General,” Stan said. “Hit hard and hit fast.”

“We also want to keep your tanks around for the duration,” McGraw said.

“Do you know how far the Chinese divisions are from us?” Stan asked.

“Less than twelve miles,” McGraw said. “The Chinese have reacted fast to our penetration.”

Stan’s gut tightened. Why can’t it be easy for once? In clear weather, he could have already engaged and destroyed these T-66s. The enemy was already too close, and that was due to the blizzard.

“General, it’s time to ram this attack down their throats. I’m want the forward units—”

“The Bradleys?” asked McGraw.

“Yes sir,” Stan said. “I want them to remain in position ahead of us. They’re going to spot for me.”

“You believe the Chinese will expect you to back off?”

“I think anyone would back off in this weather,” Stan said. “Sane people wouldn’t be out trying to march in a blizzard, let alone fight. We’re going to have to trust our thermal sights and radar tracking.”

“God help you,” McGraw said.

“Yes, I hope He does, sir.”

“And good luck, Professor. Kill them all.”

That’s exactly what Stan planned to do.

First Rank Wang shivered uncontrollably. He commanded T-66 Number Two of Eighth Troop. His was the last tri-turreted tank in the unit. Originally, there had been three.

Months of war and countless hundreds of miles advancing had worn down his great machine. One turret didn’t work anymore. The tracks needed changing again and the crew was dog-tired. Worse by far, the main heating unit didn’t work. It meant the tank was an icebox inside.

As he sat in his commander’s chair, Wang wore a winter parka and a woolen ski mask. His breath puffed white and the controls were freezing to the touch. Putting on a pair of goggles, he poked his head outside the main turret. Snow swirled in a vast sheet of blindness.

He’d never seen it like this. This was real Ice Age weather. He glanced around. Other T-66s plowed into the shrieking wind. To Wang, it almost seemed as if the one hundred ton tanks leaned into the storm.

It was crazy to fight in this kind of weather. They’d been moving to intercept American tankers. He found it difficult to believe the Americans drove south to attack now. For months, they had retreated before Chinese might. Sometimes, a few of the braver Americans fought their tanks. Each time the Americans did so, they died uselessly. Most of the time the Americans ran away. First Rank Wang was used to Americans running away.

He could well understand why. The T-66 possessed two hundred centimeters of Tai composite armor in front. Normally, such a tank had three turrets and three cannons. Each could traverse 180 degrees and each had a huge, 175mm smoothbore gun. They fired hypervelocity rocket-assisted shells against enemy tanks, and HEAT rounds 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 Wang’s gunners could fire with astounding accuracy while moving at top speed.

It’s true the Americans had a better tank in the Behemoth. But better was a relative term. China fielded thousands of T-66s. Three tri-turreted tanks were a match for one Behemoth, he believed. Army Intelligence said the Americans only possessed one hundred of their supposedly better tank.

Despite the terrible weather, Wang grinned. Americans could fight stubbornly behind buildings and while in trenches. But in his experience, he’d learned that Americans could not fight out in the open. There, they died. It’s why the Americans had been retreating for months on end.

“First Rank,” the radar specialist called.

Wang could hardly hear the man. He pulled his head in. Everyone wore gloves or mittens and great bundled garments. Their cold breath threatened to fog the gauges. They needed to get the heater fixed. That was even more important than getting the broken turret repaired. How could a soldier fight if his teeth were chattering all the time?

“What’s the problem?” Wang asked.

“HQ says Behemoth tanks are out there,” the specialist said.

It took Wang a moment to decipher what that meant. “The Behemoths from California?” he asked.

The radar specialist nodded. “The general has ordered us to attack.”

Once more, Wang grinned. The general always ordered them to attack. So far, except for a few bitter fights, they had overrun everyone brave enough to face the T-66s.

“The general said this is the perfect condition to take on those beasts,” the specialists said. “They are fancy, long-range fighters who fear to come face to face with us.”

“Do you have coordinates for the Americans?” Wang asked.

The specialist handed him a paper with scribbles on it.

Wang studied the paper a moment. “It’s time to wake up!” he shouted to the others. “Eat your favorite food and relive yourself. We’re racing to kill these American heroes.”

“Heroes?” the Soldier Rank driver asked.

“They dare to face us in the open,” Wang said. “The last American heroes to do that are all dead or in the POW cages.”

“These are the Behemoths,” the driver said.

Behind his woolen mask, Wang sneered. “They can’t be that good, or the Americans would have used the Behemoths by now. These Americans can never get it right. The Behemoths are long-range fighters and now we’re facing them in a blizzard. That’s the right weather for us.”

“If only our heater worked,” the driver complained.

“No malingering in my tank,” Wang said. “I want to personally destroy two of these giant tanks. That will gain us a prize from the General. And you know what I’ll ask for?”

“That they fix our third turret?” the radar specialist asked.

“No!” Wang shouted. “That the mechanics fix our heater. That’s why we’re fighting today: for a new heater.”

The crew glanced at each other and began to nod.

“Let’s kill these Behemoths,” Wang said.

The crew cheered.

Stan didn’t do anything fancy. This was the Great Plains. It was flat terrain. He spread out his eighteen Behemoths in a long line.

He climbed out the hatch. He could barely make out the Behemoths on either side of him. The howling had stopped, so he heard the rattle and clank of the treads. Around him, the snow fell with great big flakes.

“Stan!” Jose shouted from within the compartment.

Stan shut the hatch and sat in his commander’s chair. Despite the magnetic hydraulics, the great vehicle lurched as it lumbered across a dip in the terrain.

“What’s all the shouting about?” Stan asked.

“Fred Larch’s Bradleys have T-66s on their radar,” Jose said. “He’s pretty nervous exposed out in the front like that. If the snow clears, he’s dead. He said he doesn’t t know how long he’ll be able to keep his location.”

Stan began tapping the information onto the various screens. This fight was going to be by radar. Visuals and thermals would be better, but in this weather, one had to take what he could get. Picking up his microphone, he began giving orders to the various crews.

In less than two minutes, the Behemoths were ready for battle.

“Here we go,” Stan said to his own crew. “I don’t know how the falling snow will affect our penetrators, but we’re about to find out. Fortunately, the wind has mostly died down.”

The engine revved to provide extra power. They would need every volt to supply the energy to fire the rail-gun.

Four and a half miles away, the lead elements of the Pan-Asian Alliance 14th Division came into Fred Larch’s Bradleys’ radar range.

Stan picked up his microphone to speak to all the Behemoth commanders. “Those are T-66s, gentlemen. If we knock them out—these two armored divisions—the Chinese don’t have anything else near that can possibly face us.”

Stan nodded to the gunner. The man fed the Bradley-gained data into the targeting AI.

“Fire,” Stan said softly.

A fierce surge shook the tank as the penetrator left the cannon three times faster than a speeding bullet. It burned through the air at Mach 10, a lethal round aimed at a distant, tri-turreted tank.

Stan watched his screen, watching by radar. The round hit the T-66. The one hundred ton tank stopped dead in its tracks. Slowly, it toppled onto its right side. That’s what he wanted to see. They could hit the enemy in this weather—beautiful.

“Fire at will,” Stan said into his microphone.

In the heavily falling snow, the eighteen Behemoth tanks—the ones spread out in a line—began to do exactly that.

First Rank Wang’s eyes were huge and staring in his ski mask. Like a frightened gopher, he had his head outside the hatch of his T-66. Snow fell around him in big flakes, wet and heavy. Through the dampening snow, he heard another sickening clang. It was like a devil beating a beastly gong, like evil thunder. Something unseen exploded mightily. A second later, he witnessed the craziest, most surreal thing. It appeared as a hazy shape first. Then Wang realized what he saw: a turret doing cartwheels before his tank, rolling and rolling. It pin-wheeled back into the falling snow and became hazy again and then it disappeared. A moment later, he heard a great thud on the frozen ground.

Wang had never seen something like that at close range. The Behemoths—the Americans monsters—were living up to their terrible legend.

“Fire!” Wang shouted.

“I don’t have a target,” the gunner shouted up.

“Fire anyway!” Wang roared.

He hated the waiting. There was flash of something to his right. He spied a burn of light through the falling snow. The burning thing hissed overhead. He waited, but there wasn’t a clang to tell him this enemy round had hit.

Was that for us? Have they targeted my T-66?

For the first time during the war, First Rank Wang wanted to flee the battleground.

“First Rank!” the radar specialist shouted. “There are…American Bradleys to our left.”

“Turn the cannons on them!” Wang screamed. “We must hit back. We must—”

Wang heard a shriek of noise. It sounded like death calling. Then a shock of tremendous force struck the tank. Wang’s eyes opened even wider than earlier. He felt the heat first. Then a shock wave and then a sensation like fire blew him out of the turret. He flew into the air, and he had the rare privilege of seeing his tank explode beneath him. Flames belched from the cannons. One tongue of fire flickered wildly. He knew those didn’t come because they shot at someone. No, they were pure flames because of the destruction of his tank and crew inside the compartments.

The Americans are finally fighting back. He had time to think that as he flew through the air. Then he became aware of something wrong with his legs. He looked down and saw that he lacked trousers. They had burned off. He tumbled down and struck the frozen ground hard enough to snap his neck.

The great Chinese invasion of the United States of America ended that moment for First Rank Wang. He had known months of victory and months of advance. Now, he was dead, just another corpse in the falling snow.

Four days after the start of what everyone now realized was an American offensive, Marshal Liang had lost his icy calm, his legendary steadiness. He did not pace, even though he itched to walk up and down in his study. He could control that urge. The giveaway was a tic in his left eye. It twitched from time to time. He could do nothing to stop it, and it shamed him.

He stood with General Ping around a computer map. Outside the closed door, they heard officers arguing in the command center. Ping glanced at him too much lately, but Liang refused to say anything about it. Instead, he concentrated on the map, trying to derive an insight that would allow him to deal with the new situation constructively.

The last few weeks had been frustrating enough. Army Group A controlled ninety percent of the Front Range Urban Corridor. He had toured the shattered Behemoth Manufacturing Plant in Denver. The plant was smaller than he had envisioned, and there was nothing mass-production about it. He hadn’t sent the specific information on that to Chairman Hong yet because he feared the man’s reaction to the news. It was the one piece of good news, however. It meant the Americans owned fewer Behemoths than he had envisioned. The enemy already had too many of those amazing tanks.

As he thought about the Behemoths, Liang’s left eye quivered. He wanted to clamp a hand over it and make the tic stop. He glanced at Ping, but the general didn’t look up. Did Ping know the orb twitched? Is that why he studiously kept his head down?

Enough! I have more to worry about than a twitching eye.

Army Group A controlled ninety percent of Greater Denver, but the remaining Americans in the pocket still hung on. The few American prisoners were grimy to a man. Every one of them had filthy, worn clothes and gaunt, staring faces. How the remaining soldiers found the energy to keep fighting, Liang didn’t understand. He had finally prevented the American airdrops to them. His fighters and particularly the MC ABMs had made it too costly for the Americans to attempt any more dropping of supplies to the trapped soldiers.

That interdiction had been achieved seven days ago now. The remaining enemy in Denver was like a pack of rats living in the rubble and ruins. He didn’t really care about them now. The cost to take the metropolitan area had been staggering in numbers and time. He had squandered a full month—five and a half weeks actually. Worse, at Hong’s orders, he’d fed an inordinate number of troops into the urban furnace to achieve the victory. And for what: that pathetically small manufacturing plant?

Now, he withdrew vital units from Denver and the surrounding towns. He pulled tanks and hovercraft from Army Group B, which had reached Cheyenne and taken it. Yes, they had taken the city in time for the Americans to attack.

Where have the Americans gotten all these extra soldiers?

He knew part of the answer. It was so galling. Chairman Hong had fallen for a sly European trick.

“The Germans betrayed us,” Liang said.

“That is true,” Ping said. “Yet strategically, I can understand their thinking.”

Liang’s left eye twitched again. Ping could speak calmly. It wasn’t his head on the chopping block. Chairman Hong hadn’t berated him for allowing the catastrophe to occur.

As if I was the one who ordered Army Group A into Denver. But even that misses the point.

“We miscalculated concerning the American reserves,” Liang said. He shook his head. “We needed to crush the Americans at the very beginning. We made them bleed, but we needed to kill their Army. It survived long enough to regroup because of the treacherous mud.”

Ping looked up. He appeared stupefied with the last statement, with his enlarged eyes staring through thick and distorting lenses.

Liang managed a brief smile. Didn’t Ping see? Didn’t the Chief of Staff understand? Am I the only one who knows what this enemy offensive means? It’s the end of our grand adventure. We miscalculated, thinking the Americans a weak and beaten people. That was the real mistake.

“The Brazilians are regrouping,” Ping said. “They’re gathering their best armor divisions for a counterattack. Soon, together with us, they will nip these American penetrations and crush their formations. Afterward, we will resume the offensive.”

“You can say this after the destruction of our two armored divisions?”

“They were a stopgap measure,” Ping said. “We did not yet realize the magnitude of the enemy offensive. Now that we know, we will take the necessary steps to crush them.”

Liang looked away. His Chief of Staff spoke for the recordings now. Had it gone this far then? Where their heads already on the chopping block?

Liang focused on the map. Army Group A was embroiled in Denver and Army Group B engaged in and around Cheyenne. The savage fighting in Denver had whittled down too many divisions, bleeding them white. In Cheyenne and the surrounding territory, the problem was quite different. The Americans facing them pressed forward, keeping up the pressure. Any rearward movement in mass might collapse the entire front. That would bring about a disaster during the middle of a grim American winter.

“Zhen’s Tank Army—” Ping said.

“Yes, we must use the Tank Army,” Liang said, interrupting his Chief of Staff. He would have to withdraw Zhen’s forces from the northern front and rush infantry divisions into their place. He needed to fortify the north front in and around Cheyenne, putting Army Group B on the defensive.

“Here is my quandary,” Liang said. He’d been thinking about the problem for hours already—no, longer, in fact.

The enemy had shattered the South Americans nearest Third Front. Weak Venezuelan corps had fled en masse, a large majority dying on the open snow. The Americans had been merciless. Worse for the Venezuelans, it had been a most disgraceful way to perish.

The loss of those corps had created a large gap in the SAF Front. Field Marshal Sanchez rushed new units there, but the Americans had driven a wide gap between the PAA Third Front and the SAF First Front: it included northeastern Colorado and the bottom, southwestern Nebraska. Through the gap raced an American Tank Army of tremendous hitting power. It swept everything before it, crushing the 14th and 92nd Armor Divisions, two excellent tank formations. They were gone now, destroyed during a snowstorm.

Liang had wanted the two divisions to buy him time. They should have done so. They should have been able to halt the American advance for at least a day or two. Instead, they’d vanished in a hail of unprecedented American firepower. It was simply incredible these two armor divisions were gone. The Behemoths had done it, and the new Jefferson MBT-8s.

One thing he’d learned. The T-66s could match the Jeffersons. They could not face the Behemoths, though. The Behemoth was three times bigger and could fire its shell three times farther. Most of the time, T-66 shells bounced off a Behemoth. The Behemoth shells left smoking holes every time.

Liang had already recalculated. He must hit the flank of this drive—hit where there were no Behemoths. He’d do it with massed hovertanks, the perfect raiding vehicles. The Americans had Behemoths, but they advanced south as if flank protection didn’t matter. It did, and would. He would show them how much. The problem was one of timing.

“My quandary is picking the right time to make a second attack,” Liang told Ping. “Should I wait for the Brazilians and coordinate our strike? If I wait, the Americans might get too far, and they might throw trench-works into place. How long will they drive without bothering with their flanks? Not for long, would be my guess. Now they are mobile and aggressive. Now—or in three days, to be more exact—I can mass Zhen’s Tank Army to engage them. The Brazilians will take longer to get ready. If I fight the Americans alone, I may be allowing the enemy to engage our two forces one at a time instead of smothering them with an overwhelming assault.”

Ping nodded, saying, “It is hard to choose the right decision.”

Liang’s left eye twitched. Damn Ping. The Chief of Staff wasn’t committing. It was a hard decision. This is why they made you a Marshal, Liang. You’re the one who has to decide this. Don’t fob it off onto someone else.

This time, Liang was wrong about having a choice. A half hour later, Hong took the matter out of his hands.

There came a knock at the door. Liang opened it and regarded a worried aide.

“Sir,” the aide said, “Chairman Hong is calling.”

Liang’s left eye grew worse. He closed the door and put his hand on the eye, stilling its involuntary motion. “Sit down to the side and out of sight,” he told Ping. “I want you to hear this.”

Nervously, Ping did as ordered.

Soon, Liang greeted Hong on the screen. “This is an honor, sir.”

“This is a worsening disaster,” Hong grumbled. “The Americans keep driving deeper south. The untrustworthy Germans have caused this mess. If they had invaded the Eastern Coast as planned, we would be crushing the Americans. Now the Americans have regrouped and attacked. Marshal Wu has explained the situation to me in greater detail last night. The Americans drive a wedge between our fronts. It is very clever. They appear to be headed for Denver.”

“I agree,” Liang said.

“You will stop them, Marshal. You must stop them now before they ruin our winter campaign.”

“Leader, I am busy pulling back Zhen’s Tank Army from the frontages near Cheyenne. It will take three days to get them into position. I want to hit the Americans with my full force then, using massed T-66s and hovertanks.”

“No. Three days is too long,” Hong said. “You will gather what you have and do it in two days.”

Liang took a careful breath. The Leader was too impulsive. Didn’t the man realize…?

“Leader, the Americans have caught us by surprise. They must have planned this with great care. Our main forces are engaged elsewhere too deeply for us to simply withdrawal them. I ask for three days to gather my forces. A Tank Army is not a division, sir. It takes time to—”

“Do not think you can lecture me on military tactics,” Hong said angrily. Surprisingly, he checked himself a moment later. He turned away.

Liang waited, uncomfortable with the Chairman’s unpredictable behavior.

Hong faced the screen, regarding him. “You may have a point. Sixty hours, and you must launch a killing counter-offensive.”

The Chairman’s unexpected reasonableness—meeting him halfway—emboldened Liang. He knew how he wanted to do this. Perhaps this was the moment to take a chance with Hong. The American attack seemed to have shaken the Chairman’s usual confidence. The sudden loss of two armored divisions had apparently made the Leader more reasonable. Good for Marshal Wu—I wonder what he told Hong last night?

“Sir,” Liang said. “I wonder if it might be better to wait until the Brazilians are ready to strike from the other flank with us. If we coordinate this attack—”

“The Brazilians?” asked Hong. “Did I hear you correctly? We are in this dilemma because the Brazilians couldn’t defend their own front. You will not wait for anyone. You will destroy these American hotheads. I tell you, they have scraped the bottom of the barrel and put the last East Coast troops there. If you strike them hard, they will shatter. All that bolsters them are these Behemoths. Destroy them, and their game is over.”

Liang heard the Chairman’s bitterness. He also calculated the time and routes of travel. Zhen was a brilliant tank general. He had a rare gift for moving armor. Sixty hours…yes, he could be ready to start the counterattack by then. But it would be so much better to mass with the Brazilians. There had to be a way to make the Chairman see reason. He had to use the man’s own thinking against him.

“Leader,” Liang said, “I think the Americans have become too bold.”

“Explain that.”

“Sir, you’re right about their scraping the bottom of the barrel in terms of manpower. To amass so many tanks in one location, they must have striped other fronts to do it. If we engage them in a fierce tank contest, our T-66s and hovertanks will chew them to death in a vast battle of annihilation. I will use air to help kill the Behemoths. We will take losses. The battle yesterday taught us that. But we can resupply our Army faster with new tanks than the Americans can with their side. Now if we—”

“See to the counterattack,” Hong said. “Destroy this American Tank Army and kill those Behemoths. I do not want to hear of another Chinese defeat like yesterday. The Brazilians will mop up once you’re done. They’re always late to a battlefield. So you cannot count on them until after you’ve won.”

Hong appeared thoughtful. “The enemy has gathered his final strength and come out in the open. The Behemoths being here show us this is their last throw of the dice of Fate. They no longer hide behind their cowardly defenses. Yes, I am glad to see you’ve regained heart. Once again, I have bolstered one of my wavering marshals. Do your duty, Liang, and I will reward you handsomely. Fail me like the tank generals did yesterday, and your end with be a bitter one.”

Liang despised threats. He was a professional and he would do his best because that’s what he was. The threat was all too real, however.

On the face of it, the American attack looked like a disaster for China. But some hard and clever fighting might well turn everything around again. Perhaps the Chairman had a point. Despite their Behemoths, the Americans were taking a grave risk. They had come out of their defenses to strike. Now was the time to spring traps on them and destroy their Behemoths and operational mobility.

“I hear and obey, Leader,” Liang said.

“I await the coming victory with anticipation,” Hong said. “See that you do not disappoint me.”

With that, the screen went blank.

Liang didn’t waste a moment. He picked up a phone and called General Zhen so they could begin making plans. He had one ace card, one secret to use against the Americans. The enemy had their Behemoths. He had the MC ABMs. It was time to begin moving them into position.