Invasion: Colorado

-12- The Cauldron

Anna sipped coffee as she sat at the huge computer table in Underground Bunker Number Five. The endless days of emergency meetings had begun to take its toll on everyone, including her and the President.

He’d grown irritated with her lately. And he asked for her advice less often. She felt betrayed, and she wondered what would happen to her if she lost David’s favor. These days, people were even more Sino-phobic, not less. She didn’t understand that. For once, America was on the ascent. They were winning, if encircling two Chinese Army Groups could be called that.

During the summer and autumn battles, the Chinese and Brazilians had often trapped American forces. Sometimes the Americans fought their way out. Sometime, too many U.S. soldiers surrendered to the enemy, marching into captivity.

There had been disturbing rumors about the POWs, about ill-treatment and starvation. David had often asked if they could launch rescue missions into Northern Mexico. The answers had been obvious each time. America couldn’t even defend itself. How could it launch missions into Mexico? How would they ferry ten thousand men to freedom, never mind one hundred thousand or more?

Anna sipped more coffee. She was tired and found it harder to concentrate at these meetings. No one asked her opinion anymore. Their Sino-phobia had begun to eat at her.

She studied the big screen as General Alan spoke about Zhen’s Tank Army. The Canadian First Army had gone through several grueling days of desperate battle. Zhen’s soldiers were veterans and knew their business. For the first two days, it looked like they would burst through the Canadians and destroy them. Several factors had worked against the Chinese. The critical fact in General Alan’s view was worn equipment.

It was true the Canadians lacked the Chinese combined-arms coordination, but no one could doubt their northern neighbor’s stubbornness. By the end of the third day of the slugfest, the Canadians managed to blunt the T-66s and transform the maneuver part of the conflict into grinding attritional fights. There it was more a matter of courage and newer equipment.

Through their blood, the Canadians had bought America time. More Militia formations had moved south, dug trenches and built defenses along the penetration route. A few Regular formations with fast artillery now engaged the tardy Brazilians.

“Mr. President,” General Alan said, “the danger isn’t over for us. General Zhen’s offensive has stalled, but that could be a momentary thing. Marshal Sanchez has begun his drive to reach Zhen. We have a thin screen of Regular Army soldiers holding the line here and here.”

General Alan used a green electronic pointer on the computer map, showing the positions.

“The Canadians are exhausted and still have their hands full corralling the Tank Army,” the President said.

“Yes sir,” Alan said.

“How many Brazilian divisions is Sanchez using against the penetration?”

“He’s stabilized his northern line here in Nebraska, sir,” Alan said. “He’s has to put some of his best units there to stiffen the remaining Venezuelans and Colombians. It has left him little in way of an assault force. I think three of his fastest armored divisions are making the attempt.”

“These soldiers,” the President said, using his pointer. He highlighted the eastern edge of the American penetration, particularity at and around the Nebraska-Colorado-Kansas point, where all three states touched each other. “How many divisions do we have here?”

General Alan shook his head. “We don’t have any divisions, sir. But in numbers, in various battalions, companies and elite units, we have about a division’s worth of men.”

“That’s the critical point then. It looks as if Sanchez knows we’re weak there.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Three to one,” Sims said thoughtfully. “I like those odds for us. I held in Alaska whenever the Chinese attacked at three-to-one odds.”

“Yes sir. Normally, I’d agree with you. But these are three of the best Brazilian divisions and the men facing them are from all kinds of units. They’re an ad hoc group. They’re not used to working together or trusting each other. That makes a difference. The key is that they won’t have to hold for long. But they do need to buy us three days, at least.”

“Air power—”

“We’re stretched everywhere, sir. Our air is engaged helping the Canadian First Army and keeping our Second Tank Army supplied. We’ve completed the encirclement. The Behemoths and other forward elements reached Colorado Springs. Now we have to hold the line against all comers. For an emergency, a critical moment, I’m saving these ballistic missiles. They can reach anywhere on the battlefield.”

“Hmm, that’s not very many,” the President said.

“No sir, but it is our last reserve at the moment.”

President Sims studied the map, switching his gaze from spot to spot. He sat down, stroking his chin, and his features turned from a scowl to a crooked smile.

“Ms. Chen,” he said.

Anna looked up in surprise. David hadn’t addressed her for some time.

“How will Chairman Hong take this encirclement?” the President asked.

“I’m not certain I understand the question, Mr. President.”

“Will he go nuclear to free them?”

“Doubtful, sir,” Anna said. “He would likely expect a massive nuclear retaliation against the trapped troops. With the destruction of the MC ABMs and a massive SAM depletion, he must realize his trapped formations couldn’t stop American nuclear ballistic missiles.”

The President nodded thoughtfully.

“I think Chairman Hong is more concerned about his prestige at home,” Anna said.

“Explain that,” the President said.

“If he loses the Third Front to us—if you march those soldiers into captivity—that’s a massive loss of face for him. It might shake the military’s confidence in Hong. It could cause a severe to total loss of power. It might even cause a coup.”

“I don’t think so,” Director Harold said. He paused to scratch his bald head, his fingernails scraping one of the liver spots. “That’s why Hong has East Lightning. The secret police keep a tight leash on the military.”

“There may come a time when East Lightning loses confidence in the Chairman,” Anna said. “If we defeat the Chinese here…I have no doubt it will cause terrible political consequences for those in power.”

“Do you think Hong understands his danger?” the President asked Anna.

“Not yet, sir,” Anna said. “Given his psychology, I’m sure he still believes he can free his soldiers and continue the conquest of America.”

President Sims rapped his knuckles on the table. “You raise a good point, Ms. Chen. We haven’t won this cauldron battle yet, far from it, in fact. Alan, tell me more about this division’s worth of soldiers facing the Brazilians. And I want to know the exact capabilities of this ballistic missile reserve.”

“Yes, Mr. President. First, I’d like to point out that—”

Master Sergeant Kavanagh and Romo waited behind a log redoubt. No one could tell it was made of timber because a thick blanketing of snow covered the wood from last night. Fifty yards on either side of them ranged other snow-clad bunkers, holding other recon teams. The line stretched for several miles with a little under one thousand soldiers spread out in teams.

Paul and Romo wore their white suits, with the heaters presently shut off. The sun shone today, around one in the afternoon. The flat white expanse before them was brilliant because of it. Behind the redoubt sat a single snowmobile.

This line was the forward tripwire against the enemy. There was another line behind them with a greater abundance of Militia troops busily digging trenches and setting up mortar and TOW teams.

Every hour the Brazilians failed to attack gave High Command time to bring more supplies and more soldiers into position. If the Brazilians hit elsewhere, Paul had orders to pack up his precious supply of Javelins and attack the Brazilian flank.

Snowmobiles attacking tanks: Paul didn’t think he’d ever heard of that. It sounded desperate. Was America worried after the grand assault? Maybe they were anxious to hold what they’d taken.

Paul and Romo each sat cross-legged. They had a backgammon set between them. Romo tossed a pair of dice onto the wooden board. The dice bounced and clacked, coming up with seven. They used to play chess, but having to think…Paul and Romo were too tired for that. It was enough to roll the dice and move the pieces around the backgammon board.

From time to time Paul heard jets. The two of them stopped playing and lay flat. Once they saw the markings. Brazilians jets zoomed low to the ground. They didn’t strafe or unload bombs, so that was something. From far to the rear of their positions came explosions.

“The Militia line,” Romo said. “I doubt it’s as well-hidden as our post. I hope the jets didn’t bust it up too much.”

Paul grunted agreement.

Around four in the afternoon, distant American artillery opened up. It fired from the northwest.

Paul shut the backgammon game and set it to the side. Romo took out a cigar and smoked it. Paul lay back and put his hands behind his head. He thought about Cheri and watched cigar smoke curl into the clear sky.

A squawk came from the radio. Paul stirred, acknowledging the call. He discovered that a general spoke to them. The man spoke to the front line of recon teams. Paul had never heard of this general, but the officer ordered them out of the redoubts. He wanted them to head east and attack whatever they found. The Brazilians had struck fifteen miles north of their positions.

“Yes sir,” Paul said, stowing the radio afterward.

“Attack?” asked Romo.

“Let’s mount up,” Paul said.

They left the redoubt at 4:43 P.M. The recon teams didn’t bunch up. That wasn’t their habit. Each set out east and slowly they spread apart from each other.

By 5:36, Paul and Romo discovered they were alone in a wide expanse of nothing. It was dark now. They turned on their suits, used night vision and long-range scanning.

At 7:12, Romo said, “Do you see that?”

Paul didn’t. It was obvious that between them Romo had the better sight. He was younger so it made sense.

Romo pointed. Paul drove and after another quarter-mile, he saw a ribbon of movement on the horizon.

“Hang on,” Paul said. He opened up the throttle.

At 7:52 P.M., the snowmobile’s engine quit. They slid silently for a time and then came to a halt in the snow. They tried, but couldn’t repair it.

Finally, Paul focused on the distant movement. “Trucks,” he said.

“And other supply vehicles,” Romo said.

“It’ll take an hour to get there on foot. They might be gone by then.”

“Radio it in.”

Paul shrugged. He had been about to do that, but he wondered why he bothered. Their side was always running out of smart bombs. Why would it be any different now?

“Say again,” the air-controller said.

Paul told him the info, giving the man the coordinates.

“Do you have a target designator?” the air-controller asked.

“Of course,” Paul said.

“Get closer and put it on them.”

“Let’s go,” Paul told Romo. They left the snowmobile and jogged through the snow. Paul carried a Blowdart launcher and the laser designator. Romo had taken a Javelin.

At 8:17, the air-controller came back online. “Are they still there?”

“Yes and no,” Paul said. “The former supply vehicles have moved on, but we’re near another group.”

“Can you reach them with your laser from where you are?”

“Yes,” Paul said. “You’re telling me you have smart bombs this time?”

“Negative,” the air-controller said. “But somebody upstairs must like you. Once you pinpoint them, ballistic missiles will be on their way.”

Paul knelt and fired the laser at the big trucks moving slowly in the distance. Soon, the ballistic missiles hit the convoy. They started big fires, with belching oil-flames billowing into the starry sky. It was spectacular.

It took an hour and a quarter of trudging through the snow for Paul and Romo to reach the destruction, which took place on an old dirt road. The ballistic missiles had cut a wide swath of destruction. The two men counted fifty-three vehicles. Some still burned. There were countless dead and wounded. Some soldiers carried QBZ-95 assault rifles.

Romo pointed out a truck tilted at a crazy angle. Brazilian soldiers in heavy snow coats manhandled huge crates out of the back of it. The soldiers moved the heavy crates to waiting jeeps. There were seven of them in a line. One jeep already held several of the crates. A soldier climbed into the driver’s side and started the engine.

Paul and Romo glanced at each other. Without a word, both lay down. Paul readied his M-16, wrapping the carrying strap around one of his hands. He nodded to Romo.

Romo prepared the Javelin for firing. “Bad odds for us, my friend,” he said.

“Let’s just get it over with,” Paul said.

“Si,” Romo whispered. He sighted and fired.

The Javelin whooshed and sped fast, hitting the piled-high jeep, causing a fantastic explosion. The blast flattened everyone around it, and the explosion started other fantastic blasts—the biggest and worst in the truck.

Paul barely had time to shove his visor down against the ground. The blast lifted him, tumbling him backward through the air. He struck ground, rolled and rolled like a rag doll. Finally, he came to a stop. He just lay there face down, breathing, glad to be alive.

What had been in those crates?

Finally, Paul stirred. He moved his fingers first, his wrists next and then his elbows. Nothing appeared broken. He stood up and checked his suit for breaches, for holes. It was whole. He was okay, if badly bruised.

“Romo,” he radioed.

“What was that?” Romo radioed back.

Paul found his blood brother twenty feet away. After checking him, Paul discovered that Romo had come through all right as well. The assassin was harder to kill than a bad tax.

From a distance, they examined the former truck with the jeeps. All the vehicles were flipped over or on their sides. None of the Brazilians stirred.

“I wonder if there’s another one around here that still works,” Romo said.

They searched and found one ten minutes later. The engine had a bad knock. Taking a final look around, finding nothing left to destroy, the two men climbed into the Brazilian jeep. They headed west for the American lines, hoping that their part in the Brazilian offensive was over.

Marshal Liang paced back and forth in a captured Wells Fargo bank building. As he marched, his bad eye flickered due to the constant tic. He couldn’t help either the pacing or the eye. Disaster stared him in the face.

The Americans had tricked him, tricked Chairman Hong and—

No, no, no, it was the perfidious Germans. Chancellor Kleist made a deal with the enemy, freeing too many American soldiers.

By remaining in Cuba before, the GD had tied down nearly a million American GIs from the East Coast to the Gulf of Mexico. Now those soldiers poured to the Midwest and south along the penetration to Colorado Springs.

They’ve trapped over two thirds of my Third Front. I can’t believe this is happening.

Marshal Liang massaged his forehead. He’d been busy while General Zhen attacked the Americans and the Brazilians hammered to break through the encirclement. Both assaults had failed, which was more bad luck.

During that time, Liang had sent a flurry of orders to his generals. The bulk of Tenth and Fifteenth Armies disengaged from Greater Denver. At the same time, Army Group B in the north gathered assault troops, while the others held the line in Cheyenne and the forward areas near the North Platte River.

In the south, Liang gathered his garrison troops and those hunting partisans in New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma and southeastern Colorado. From now on, he’d use armored convoys for the supply routes and let the rest of the Occupied Territory fend for itself. Let the partisans roam free for a time in most of those places. After freeing Third Front and with rushed reinforcements from China, he would reoccupy his designated states. Unfortunately, it was taking time to gather the scattered formations. His portion of the Occupied Territory was huge. The good news was that he already had eight divisions here in Pueblo and there would be more pouring in during the next few days.

The Americans had encircled the Third Front, but they could never hold such a mass of soldiers. Field Marshal Sanchez reconfigured his divisions in order to give him a decisive assault force. The SAF commander understood that the war could go either way now. Liang had begged Chairman Hong for reinforcements from Fourth Front in the east. Marshal Wen didn’t like the idea, but the man understood the terrible need. This was the battle for North America. The Pan-Asian Alliance and the South American Federation could smash the Americans and Canadians for good now if they could free Third Front.

A little more time and quicker concentrations of troops and I will drive through and resupply my Army Groups.

“Sir,” said Chief of Staff Ping. “The generals are ready.”

Liang turned around. His left eye quivered. He nodded, and strode into the other room. Eight generals snapped to attention around the situational map, saluting him. The map showed the area between Pueblo, Colorado Springs and Denver.

Saluting back, striding to the table, Liang picked up a pointer and began to outline the coming assault.

The eight divisions around Pueblo would become Army Group C. The burnt-out remains of Tenth and Fifteenth Armies and fast formations from Greeley were altogether Army Group A. These two Army Groups, in a coordinated attack, would hit the American Second Tank Army in and around Colorado Springs.

“We have five to one odds, gentlemen,” Liang told the generals. “Yes, the enemy still maintains a few of the Behemoths. Fortunately for us, Intelligence has reported that each of the super-tanks has taken severe damage. We have the means to defeat them and the combined-arms skills to crush these over-bold Americans. Gentlemen, they turned the situation against us like skilled jujitsu fighters. They failed to perceive that we are better jujitsu warriors than they are. Now it is our turn to flip them. The Americans have put themselves in a precarious situation and we will use it to our advantage.”

“When do we begin the assault?” a general asked.

Liang tapped the map with the pointer. He had read the reports. He knew the Americans raced supplies and extra soldiers to the Second Tank Army. U.S. fighters could dig, and behind trenches, they become stubborn foes indeed. He had to strike before they hardened the defenses. But he needed time to coordinate the attack.

“Two days,” he said. “In two days, Army Group A will be ready. During those two days, I hope to add another division-worth of troops to Army Group C.”

In the Oval Office, Anna sat to the side of the President. Last night, their lovemaking—how had she ever doubted his affection for her? It had been tender and beautiful. He’d told her how the stress had eaten at him as a man. It had made him, well—

Anna smiled to herself. There hadn’t been anything impotent about the President last night. He’d been a tiger.

Now David Sims rocked back and forth in his chair. From time to time, it gave off a wooden squeal, a comfortable noise. He wore his old, Alaska Joint Force Commander uniform, as today was a military meeting.

Having flown in from the Colorado Penetration, General McGraw sat across from David in a big stuffed chair. There were others here. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs sat on one end of a couch while Director Harold sat on the other end.

David regarded the group as his Brain Trust. Months ago, they had decided to accept Chancellor Kleist’s offer. And these three had helped David to decide on the risky and so far successful counterattack against Third Front.

“We’ll make this meeting short,” David said. “General, I know you’re anxious to get back to your men.”

“Yes sir, Mr. President,” McGraw said. He had a burn mark on his right cheek. The skin around it was red.

“Alan, you’ve seen the reports,” the President said. “The entire Chinese and Brazilian military is on the move. Our drive has upset every one of their timetables. Marshal Sanchez’s First Front has pulled back from the Platte River Defenses. Even Marshal Wen’s Fourth Front is retreating from the Des Moines Line. Clearly, Marshal Liang is gathering strength in Pueblo. He’s freed much of Tenth and Fifteenth Armies in the Denver area. We can’t keep things the same on our side if they’re changing up the game on theirs.”

“Mr. President,” Director Harold said. “I’m anticipating you, perhaps. But are you talking about a general offensive everywhere?”

“You’re asking about our northern defense lines?” David said.

“Yes sir,” Harold said.

“It’s crossed my mind to launch a general offensive, yes,” the President said. “We must push now that the Aggressors are shaken. We mustn’t allow them time to regroup and catch their breath.”

Max Harold shook his head. “I would advise against a general offensive everywhere, sir. We’ve learned the hard way that the Militia battalions are fragile formations. On the defense behind built-up works, they can fight as hard as most Regular formations. Out in the open in battles of maneuver…” Harold shook his head.

“What do you think about that?” the President asked Alan.

“The Director has a cogent point, sir,” Alan said.

“Hmm,” the President said. “You don’t think the Militia should leave their defense works?”

“It would be a risky move,” Alan said. “Perhaps it’s even premature.”

“But we must keep up the pressure,” David said. “If we let the enemy withdraw as he wishes, he can reform at will. Then he can select where to strike back. No. The enemy is on the run. We have to keep him running and unbalanced.”

“What if this is a massive trick?” Harold asked. “What if these pullbacks are meant to lure our Militiamen out in the open where the Aggressors can cut them to pieces?”

“I doubt this is a trick,” David said.

“Sir,” McGraw said. “I think you both have a point. We have to keep the pressure on, but we must move the Militia formations with great care. I suggest there is a way to throw a monkey wrench into the Chinese timetable without risking the Militia. Once we unbalance the Chinese a second time, then we could move the Militia to forward positions, but always in junction with brother Army units and always to prepared defenses posts.”

“I’m listening,” the President said.

“St. Louis is the key,” McGraw said.

“I hope you’re not going to talk about Army Group South again,” Alan said.

Anna perked up. Army Group South was the carefully built-up “fire-brigade” stationed in northern Mississippi near the Tennessee border. Over the months, Militia formations had taken over Regular Army positions along the eastern bank of the Mississippi River. Army Group South was supposed to be the reaction force if the Chinese ever made a strong invasion across the Mississippi River into the Deep South.

“That’s exactly what I’m going to suggest we do,” McGraw said.

“We’ve been over that before,” Alan said, angrily. “If you move Army Group South, we’re essentially defenseless if Marshal Wen decides on a cross-Mississippi River attack.”

Big Tom McGraw laughed. “Do you hear yourself? Marshal Wen make an attack into Tennessee or Mississippi now? I don’t think so. The Aggressors are on the ropes and frantically attempting to free formations to fix their essential problem. Look, we’ve encircled the bulk of Third Front. The SAF forces are backing up from the north. The Fourth Front is also backing up and sending units west to help Marshal Liang. Gentlemen, I say that now is the time to make the Aggressors crap their pants. We’ve encircled one front, why not another?”

“Because we don’t have the manpower or the materiel to beat the Aggressors on two Fronts,” Alan said.

“You know we can’t do that,” McGraw said. “Does that mean the enemy knows the same thing? No. He’s running like a rabbit now, frightened at what we’ve done. They’re reacting to us. We have the initiative for the first time in this bloody war. We must keep the initiative until we’ve driven them back into Mexico.”

“I’m well aware we have the initiative,” Alan said. “But that doesn’t mean one goes hog wild. We have to practice caution so we don’t overextend as the Chinese have done in Wyoming. We can’t let them do to us as we’ve just done to them.”

McGraw banged the arm of his chair and thrust his huge torso forward. “That’s where you’re wrong, dead wrong. ‘Audacity, audacity, always audacity’.”

“Who said that?” the President asked.

“Frederick the Great of Prussia,” McGraw promptly answered.

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs shook his head. “You have your facts wrong, General. That’s a misapplied quote to Frederick the II. Actually, Danton, a radical of the French Revolution, said it.”

“Either way,” McGraw said. “The quote still applies to us. Now is the time to take calculated risks.”

The President appeared thoughtful.

“Sir,” Alan said, “if we moved Army Group South to St. Louis in order to launch an attack—” He turned to McGraw. “You do mean to attack with the Army Group, right?”

“Yes!” McGraw said. “I think Army Group South should attack hard out of St. Louis. It’s our bridgehead over the Mississippi River. The objective for the attack would be to pin down the Fourth Front where it is. Let Marshal Wen, and Chairman Hong for that matter, believe we’re trying to encircle the Fourth Front. That will keep Wen from sending needed soldiers to Marshal Liang.”

“But you would not try to encircle Fourth Front?” the President asked.

“No sir,” McGraw said. “We can fake it, but we don’t have enough troops to actually do it.”

“What about the Mississippi River Line?” the President asked. “Taking Army Group South away from there opens us up to an attack across the Mississippi River into the Deep South.”

“Firstly, the Militia guards the Mississippi River in strength.” McGraw said. “They’re not going to be blown away unless the Chinese attack with overwhelming force. Secondly, as of now, you don’t have to worry about the Mississippi River because the Chinese are focused elsewhere. Sir, they’re worried about two different fronts—if we make the attack out of St. Louis that is. By the time the Chinese realize the St. Louis assault was a feint, we’ve sewn up Third Front and turned their soldiers into POWs. The idea of this is to keep needed reinforcements out of Marshal Liang’s hands.”

“I see,” the President said. “Yes, your idea has merit.”

“It also has grave risks,” Alan said.

“This is war,” McGraw said. “Great victories come to the men who are willing to take the big risks. We’ve caught the enemy off balance and out of position. As the President says, now we have to keep the Aggressors upset until we’ve destroyed Chinese Army Groups A and B: Third Front. Actually, that would be approximately two thirds of Third Front.

“Destroying that many soldiers takes time,” McGraw said. “Soon, the Chinese in the encircled area are going to be short of food and munitions. That’s when we begin chewing into them. Until that time, we have to hold on to what we’ve taken. To do that, we have to keep the pressure on. Director Harold is right about the Militia. They’re sorely needed troops, but they’re fragile if used wrongly. Wrongly means putting them out in the open. My idea puts the burden squarely on Army soldiers who are trained to attack. Hell, maybe we’ll even get lucky in St. Louis and destroy more Chinese.”

“Sir,” General Alan implored the President. “I beg you, don’t do this. It’s too risky. We need Army Group South where it is. We can’t risk any more of America to the enemy.”

“You’re wrong,” McGraw said. He raised his hand and almost scratched the burn mark. He glanced at his hand as if seeing it for the first time. He put the hand in his lap. “You can’t afford to let Army Group South sit on its butt. We have to use everything now and keep the Chinese on the defensive. The greatest risk is to let the Aggressors concentrate against us in the west. We can’t let them regain the initiate. That’s the greatest risk to us.”

The President scowled as he stared at the floor. Looking up, he asked the Director of Homeland Security. “What do you think, Max?”

Director Harold was slow in answering. “Sir, I’m with General McGraw this time. I’m sorry, Alan. I think McGraw is right. I like the quote by the way,” he told McGraw.

“Anna?” the President asked. “What’s your take on this?”

She’d been waiting for him to ask her. “General McGraw came up with a winner the first time,” she said. “I think you should keep doing what he suggests until he fails.”

President David Sims put his chin on his chest, deep in thought. He pursed his lips. He sat like that for a time. Finally, he raised his head, glancing at each of them in turn.

“It’s a big risk,” the President said. “Yet I believe it’s what George Washington would do if he were in my place. Yes. Let’s get started on a new offensive. Let’s get Army Group South to St. Louis as fast as we can.”

Soldier Rank Zhu accompanied First Rank Tian into the captain’s office.

Everything was in disarray: the radio equipment, the computers and masses of paper. Bai Hu HQ Denver was moving out to join the others for the breakout attempt.

The captain of the Eagle Teams was an ordinary-looking Chinese officer. He didn’t seem like the leader of the most elite soldiers in Third Front. But then, Zhu didn’t seem like the highest-rated sniper, either.

Despite the commotion, the captain sat behind his desk. Both Zhu and Tian came to attention before it, saluting and waiting.

“Sit, sit,” the captain said with a wave of his hand.

With a grunt, Tian fell back into his chair. Zhu perched on the edge of his. He’d never been in the captain’s office before. This was a great honor.

The captain glanced at a computer scroll on his desk before eyeing Zhu. “So, you’ve slain one hundred and sixteen Americans with your sniper rifle.”

“Yes sir,” Zhu said.

“Impressive.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“At ease, Soldier Rank, at ease,” the captain said.

“Yes sir,” Zhu said. He remained perched on the edge of his chair, with his back ramrod stiff.

“Is he always this way?” the captain asked Tian.

“Zhu is the best soldier in my unit, sir. I believe he is the most conscientious soldier in the entire Chinese military.”

“Well, well, well,” the captain said, eyeing Zhu once more.

Zhu felt miserable under the scrutiny.

“Such zeal should be rewarded,” the captain said. “We’ve lost too many good White Tigers in this blasted city. These Americans don’t know when they’re beaten. Well, in any case, we’re going to beat them now in Colorado Springs. High Command tells us the enemy has brought their super-tanks along, the Behemoths. It won’t help them this time, not once we join the assault.”

The captain leaned back in his chair. “What caused you to pick up the sniper rifle, Soldier Rank?”

“Sir?” Zhu asked, uncertain what he was supposed to say.

Tapping the computer scroll, the captain said, “I’ve read the reports. You jetted up to some of the tallest buildings and hid up there for half a day, at times. You waited for an American to poke up his head and then you shot him. Why did you go to such lengths to hunt the enemy?”

“I am a White Tiger. I am an Eagle flyer,” Zhu said.

“Go on,” the captain said.

“Sir, the Americans refused to surrender. That meant they needed killing. These past few weeks, sniper attacks have proved the most effective means of whittling down their remaining numbers.”

The captain slapped the table. “I don’t have all day. So we’ll get to the point. Soldier Rank Zhu, due to your excellent performance and skill as a soldier, I am promoting you to First Rank.”

Zhu could only blink his eyes at this astonishing news.

The captain grinned and winked at Tian. “He’s the strong and silent type is he?”

“He’s silent,” Tian said, “and he’s very strong of heart.”

“A real White Tiger,” the captain said. “First Rank Zhu, let me be the first to congratulate you on your new rank.”

“Thank you, sir,” Zhu said. This was unbelievable. He was a First Rank now.

“With your exalted status, I can’t very well leave you in Tian’s squad,” the captain said. “Therefore, you’re going to get a squad of your own.”

“Sir?” Zhu asked. He glanced at Tian in worry.

The captain chuckled. “Don’t worry. You’ll still be near Tian. The man’s unstoppable, I know. Yes, it’s good having several of those like Tian in your command.” The captain paused before telling Zhu, “If I could, I’d like to give you newer recruits, First Rank.”

Zhu was still shocked at his promotion. Gaining rank in the White Tigers was much harder than in regular Army formations. Yet he had become a First Rank.

“I’ve amalgamated the fragments of several squads and formed them into one unit,” the captain was telling him. “You’ll be their First Rank, Zhu. Do you believe you’re up to the task?”

“Yes sir,” Zhu said with enthusiasm.

The captain smiled indulgently. “I don’t want you going off and getting drunk in celebration. We have too much work to do.”

“I won’t sir,” Zhu said.

“It would be good if you could go through several practice runs with your men, but there’s no time. After we establish the breakthrough through this Second American Tank Army, then you’ll have time.”

The captain stood.

Zhu shot to his feet. Tian rose too, although more slowly.

“I want to show you gentlemen my little surprise for the enemy. The Eagle Teams are still the cutting edge of Army Group A. If you’ll follow me…”

The captain marched out of the room.

Zhu followed Tian. He was a First Rank. He would have his own squad to lead. What an honor. Zhu grinned and his eyes shined. This was so marvelous that he could hardly believe it. After months of grueling battle, someone finally noticed his effort. That was a good feeling. No. It was a great feeling.

In the right time and place, the Behemoths were unstoppable. That was Colonel Higgins’ belief. He picked up a pipe, fingering the opening. He’d found this in an abandoned house and had picked it up on impulse.

The trouble was, none of his ten remaining super-tanks was unscathed. Each had taken damage from the Chinese heavy lasers. Tests to the frontal armor on each showed that the lasers had deeply stressed the plate. Each tank also had compromised systems, such as the thermal sighting, cannon control, the AI or the main power plant. These were not the same Behemoths that had begun the attack along the Platte River Line.

Still, there was nothing in Second Tank Army even closely approaching the Behemoths in capability. The Jefferson MBT-8s had also performed well. They were able to face the T-66s on relatively equal terms. The Chinese tank still had an edge due to having three guns to the Jefferson’s one.

The Jefferson divisions had lost half their new tanks to a variety of problems: enemy hits, battle stress, engine failure and teething problems, kinks that still needed hammering out.

Second Tank Army had originally spread out to face both north and south. It contained a critical number of the nation’s M1A3s, all the Jeffersons, all the Behemoths and far too many of the remaining Bradleys, Strykers and self-propelled artillery. Reinforcements had arrived: attack helos, vast amounts of munitions, tac-lasers and mobile missile launchers.

Stan had spoken to General McGraw, who had flown down to the southernmost position of the penetration.

As Stan waited in his Behemoth, with his head and shoulders outside the hatch, he recalled the earlier conversation.

“The Chinese have assembled too much north and south of us for Second Tank Army to handle,” Stan said.

“You’re getting cold feet?” McGraw asked.

“I’ve read the Intelligence reports. Tom, we always knew this would be the hardest fight: keeping the Chinese sealed. Marshal Liang is good at his job. He’s assembled a fighting force to break through faster than we thought he could. He’s accepted greater risks than we thought he would.”

“I’ve read the Intelligence reports too,” McGraw said. “So this is it? You’re suggesting I withdrawal Second Tank Army and try to bloody the Chinese as much as we can as they drive past us? And we do this because they’re too strong for us to contain?”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Stan said “But I have a different suggestion.”

“Let’s hear it.”

Stan took a deep breath. “Let Second Tank Army deal with the southern attack. Those are relatively fresh enemy divisions but they’ll be ill-coordinated, would be my guess. They’re not used to working together. Second Tank Army can stop them.”

“That still leaves the Tenth and Fifteenth Armies from Denver to worry about,” McGraw said.

“You mean the burned-out hulk of those two armies,” Stan said. “They’ve taken losses in the house to house battles. They’re not the same formations that started the attack.”

“Go on,” McGraw said.

“I propose that you leave them to me.”

“You’d better explain what you mean.”

“It’s simple: my ten Behemoths against them.”

“Are you crazy?” McGraw asked.

“I’m not going to wait for them to launch a perfectly coordinated assault against me,” Stan explained. “I’m going to attack, but with the ten super-tanks bunched together. I’ll want plenty of artillery to help me. But those tubes can turn around later and assist our Second Tank Army.”

“The Behemoths are good, old son. I admit that. But you can’t take on two entire Chinese armies.”

“Burned out armies,” Stan said. “I’m guessing many of those soldiers have had their fill of fighting in the city ruins. Perhaps just as importantly, they’re now used to trench warfare. I’m going to give them mobile warfare and long-range destruction that they won’t believe.”

“You’re crazy, Colonel.”

“You’re going to have to give me several battlewagons as supply vehicles. I’m going to need everything in them: lubricants, penetrators, gas, 30mm shells and .50 caliber bullets by the ton.”

Battlewagon was an old term for a Navy battleship. The Army version were low, wide vehicles and heavily armored. They carried fuel, munitions and extra spares for radio equipment, AI components, loaders, calibrators and a host of other articles.

“With what you’re suggesting, your tanks will burn out,” McGraw said.

“I’ll let you in on a secret, Tom. They’re already burned out. The fight against the heavy lasers ruined their forward plates.”

“So how do you expect to face two Chinese armies then?”

“I already told you,” Stan said. “I’m going to attack, and I’m going to count on my beehive flechette launchers and the AIs to knock down most incoming missiles and shells. The armor will just have to hold against shrapnel and bullets, and that the stressed plates can still do.”

“Go over your plan in greater detail,” McGraw said slowly.

Stan had. Now he was out there alone with his ten Behemoth tanks. He was north of Colorado Springs. He had a plan all right. He’d read so much military history that there was always a battle he could go to for inspiration. This time, it was the battle of Leuthen in 1757.

Frederick the Great of Prussia with 36,000 soldiers had decisively and crushingly defeated the Austrian army of nearly 80,000 troops. Napoleon had said of the battle: “His (Frederick’s) Oblique Order could only prove successful against an army which was unable to maneuver.”

That’s something Stan was counting on. He didn’t think the Chinese Tenth and Fifteenth Armies could maneuver as they used to. For one thing, most of their tanks had gone north weeks ago. Two, a large number of their vehicles had perished in Greater Denver. Finally, as he’d told McGraw, these soldiers had been fighting siege battles for weeks on end. A soldier became used to that. He began to turtle, and built a shelter he loved. Now they were supposed to maneuver quickly and boldly as they had this summer. No. They would be sluggish, if not downright slow in reacting to his plan.

Stan recalled reading about Frederick the Great explaining the oblique order of attack: “You refuse one wing to the enemy and strengthen the one which is to attack. With the latter you do your utmost against one wing of the enemy which you take in flank. An army of 100,000 men taken in flank may be beaten by 30,000 in a very short time…The advantages of this arrangement are (1) a small force can engage one much stronger than itself; (2) it attacks an enemy at a decisive point; (3) if you are beaten, it is only part of your army, and you have the other three-fourths which are still fresh to cover your retreat.”

Stan had a small force all right: ten Behemoths with artillery well to the rear. He would not so much withhold part of his force, as let depth of space hold the enemy. He was counting on sluggishness and suspicion to keep the Chinese from pouring into that empty space. He was also counting on dummies and some U.S. deception troops traveling back and forth behind trenches, giving radio signals as if there were whole divisions waiting for the Chinese. Hopefully, the Chinese would take time to deploy for a combined-arms attack instead of just rushing forward into the otherwise empty space.

The key to the plan was to attack from a flank. With the ten Behemoths, he could concentrate an unbelievable amount of firepower in once place. His plan was to concentrate that firepower one spot at a time against the enemy.

The other key to his plan was the Southern Rocky Mountains. The Chinese could not escape into them. Instead, those mountains would act as a wall. If this worked, he would drive the Chinese into them, demolishing the enemy as he drove into the flank of Army Group A.

It was a bold plan. It was a preposterous plan. It also adhered to the idea of “Audacity, audacity, always audacity.”

Lastly, he hoped to prove to the full the great superiority of these monstrous tanks. Kept together under tight control, he believed he could overwhelm the Chinese in detail faster than they could turn around to swarm him with materiel.

It was the test of a lifetime.

“Are you ready, Professor?” Jose called up.

Stan scanned the snow. One hump showed a branch poking out: a small bush of some sort. He glanced around at the ten tanks. Then he darted down into the Behemoth, with a bang, closing the hatch behind him.

The inside of a former Wells Fargo bank bustled with activity. Headquarters staff hurried back and forth, while others watched on screens. In the center of all the hushed speech and clicking shoes was the main situational map. Marshal Liang with his Chief of Staff studied the computer images.

“The Americans are putting up much stiffer resistance than expected,” Ping said.

Liang couldn’t believe this. Army Group C seemed to have hit the Great Wall of Second Tank Army. The Jefferson tanks darted forward against the T-66s as if the American commander didn’t care about losses. For the first time in battle, the Americans were living up to their legendary image of vast expenditures of firepower. Missiles in abundance, artillery shells like a downpour and massed tank cannons roaring as if they were ancient dragons roused from sleep hit his force.

In stunned silence, Liang watched the computer map. The Second Tank Army chewed through his hastily formed Army Group C. It was like throwing wood into a blazing furnace.

“I’m beginning to believe the Americans have put everything they have against Army Group C,” Ping said.

Liang’s eyes blurred red from having studied hundreds of different Intelligence reports. He recalled one strange paper that spoke about vast dummy emplacements to the north of Colorado Springs. Other reports had impressed Liang with the American ability to erect a defensive line in days. Had the Americans been so bold as to use everything against one side of his assault?

The enemy had the interior position. He could shift from side to side. Was the strange report correct whose writer had insisted little stood against the Tenth and Fifteenth Armies?

“We must light a fire under Army Group A,” Liang said, speaking as if coming out of a deep sleep.

A man ran to Chief of Staff Ping and handed him a note. Ping read it and looked up.

“What is it?” Liang asked with a sick feeling in his stomach.

“The Behemoths, sir,” Ping said. “We’ve finally found out where they’re hidden.”

“Where?” asked Liang. “Put it on the map.”

Ping adjusted a set of controls. Red images appeared to the east of 5th Division, the easternmost formation of Tenth Army.

“The Behemoths are flanking us,” Liang said. “They’ve put themselves badly out of position.”

“Uh, sir,” Ping said. “The Behemoths aren’t just flanking. They’re attacking.”

Liang scowled. “We need better reconnaissance. I don’t care what it costs in our drone reserve. Get me better images of the Tank Army’s northern edge.” He picked up a phone. With a deeper scowl, Liang turned to one of the communications people. “Put me through to General Xi.”

General Xi commanded Tenth Army of Army Group A.

“It’s time to light a fire under him,” Liang muttered. “They’re moving much too slowly against the Americans.”

Like a thunderclap from Heaven, Stan Higgins and his ten Behemoths poured penetrators into 5th Division of the PAA Tenth Army.

Stan rocked forward in his commander’s seat. The engine revved with power and yet another surge sent a penetrator screaming at the helpless enemy.

The ten super-tanks charged across the snowscape at speed. It put the magnetic suspension to the test. Behind the ten Behemoths followed specially-built battlewagons.

Stan had already called one halt to resupply. Each Behemoth had its own battlewagon and team of experts. They moved with the speed of NASCAR specialists, rushing fuel hoses to the Behemoths and carting extra penetrators and buffers through the large back ports.

So long as each cannon worked, Stan planned to use them against the enemy and maintain the assault.

“Enemy incoming!” the tech sergeant shouted.

“I see them,” Stan said, turning to his number three screen. “Artillery shells,” he added.

The tracking AI had already spotted the shells. The ten Behemoths were linked with the Phalanx Defense System. Automated .50 calibers, 30mm auto-cannons and the beehive flechettes spewed counter-fire at the shells, knocking ninety-nine percent of them.

Some always made it through. Probability dictated it. The three hundred ton Behemoth shook as shells slammed into them.

With worried eyes, Stan studied his screens. His tank was okay. …So were the other nine. Damn! One of his battlewagon’s treads had been knocked off. He’d have to leave the supply vehicle behind. To lose it this early in the battle…

“Who are you kidding?” he muttered to himself. This was the death ride of the Behemoths. Ten tanks no matter how super could not defeat two entire Chinese Armies, not even these burnt-out shells of armies that had whittled away their strength in Denver.

But…the death ride might give Second Tank Army time to defeat the southern rush so they could turn around and take on the others later.

There was one other component to Stan’s plan. He hadn’t told anyone else about it. His son was in Denver—at least, he hoped Jake still lived. The thing Stan wanted more than anything was to free his son from the trap. To do that, they had to keep these Chinese sealed up in the encirclement.

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” Stan said.

“What’s that, Colonel?” Jose asked.

“I said: I’m wondering when they’re going to throw their remaining air at us. They can’t afford to let us keep chewing into the Tenth.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” Jose said. “The enemy air will be along soon.”

Stan kept an eye on the AI meter. This new Phalanx link was amazing. Ten Behemoths threw up a massive amount of counter-fire. He wondered now if he’d brought along enough extra munitions.

Too bad the Chinese had already knocked out a battlewagon. Stan had a feeling he’d be wanting those supplies before this fight was over.

Marshal Liang’s tic grew worse as the information poured in.

“Ten tanks can’t do this!” he shouted. It happened after the third division in a row of Tenth Army fell apart.

The worst were the images of ten Behemoths destroying infantry too slow to flee from their line of advance. Beehive flechettes and 30mm shrapnel blew down soldiers like combines scything wheat. The worst was a Chinese soldier sprinting for safety among rubble. He blew apart into red mist, simply disappearing from history. The mist settled and sprinkled the snow red.

During the slaughter, the first piece of good news flashed on a screen. It happened after Liang ordered a mass artillery bombardment on the Behemoths.

“Such a bombardment will kill our soldiers, too,” the general of Tenth Army complained.

“They’re already dead,” Liang said. “The least they can do is to take their tormenters to the grave with them.”

Soon, the artillery barrage and cruise missile attack reached the hateful tanks. On a screen, Liang and the entire Headquarters staff watched a ground-hugging missile slam against a three hundred ton beast and blow a gaping hole in it.

Officers and orderlies cheered. A few even slapped each other on the back.

That alone brought home to Liang several key factors. The Behemoth tanks were amazing. Hong had been right to expend two armies to destroy the Behemoth Manufacturing Plant. It also meant the MC ABMs were equally fantastic. Before their destruction, they had killed eight of these super-tanks. China needed more MC ABMs. China should field hundreds of the great vehicles.

Liang shook his head. That was the future. Today, the viability of the North American conquest might very well rest on destroying nine American super-tanks.

The cruise missile barrage during the slaughter of Chinese infantry gave Liang the answer to his problem. Now he would have to coordinate the next strike and make sure it took out several of these grim monsters.

“Colonel Higgins, my force cannon has malfunctioned.”

“Can you repair it?” Stan asked the commander. He sat in his Behemoth. He’d spent hours now, driving west as he destroyed one Chinese formation after another. The flank attack—hitting the Chinese piecemeal with the full force of the remaining Behemoths—had been more wildly successful that he would have thought possible.

Frederick the Great knew more than he explained. When this trick works, it works.

Stan accepted a stim pill from Jose, put it on his tongue and slugged it back with bottled water. The endless hours of surges, stopping to let the AI Phalanx-link do it task and watching the murderous efficiency of his tanks at close range against infantry had taken its toll on him.

War was young man’s game, and he was in his fifties. All the working out over the years helped, but his body wasn’t what it used to be.

“Well, Ted,” Stan told the Behemoth commander. “If your force cannon won’t work, you’re along now to provide protective cover with the rest of your armaments. Concentrate on searching for air assaults.”

“Yes sir, Colonel.”

The screen flickered, removing the commander and showing the operational situation. What remained of Tenth Army and the Fifteenth turned to face and swarm the Behemoths. American artillery kept pounding the enemy at the longest range possible, and drone strikes hammered in to keep the Chinese busy. Even with all that, the enemy was finally doing the right thing.

It’s a matter of speed. Who can accomplish his task quicker: our Behemoths or the great, unwieldy armies?

“With the loss of the force cannon and the destroyed Behemoth earlier, we’ve lost one-fifth of our offensive firepower,” Jose commented.

“I know,” Stan said. He’d been thinking the same thing.

“How many force cannons do you need to keep the attacking going?” Jose asked.

“That’s a good question. I’ll tell you in a little bit.”

Jose laughed nervously. “I never realized our Behemoths were this good, Colonel.”

No, Stan thought, neither did I.

First Rank Zhu gripped the handlebars of his battle-taxi. To his right, First Rank Tian’s squad clung to their battle-taxi. The helos flew nap-of-the-earth, a bare twenty meters above the snow. This was trick flying and he was leading his squad into the fray for the first time.

This felt different from any other time. Now, he was responsible for the others. It wasn’t just how well he fought; he had to make sure his men fought well, too.

Zhu licked his lips. Today, they didn’t carry assault rifles or grenade launchers. Each Eagle flyer carried a big magnetic mine. Each Eagle flyer had a single task to perform: land on a giant American tank, attach the mine—that would automatically set the device—and fly away for safety.

Zhu doubted they could escape again. This was a suicide mission.

This is for the glory of China.

It saddened Zhu that he would have to die today. But if he was going to die, he was going to take an American super-tank with him. He had become a First Rank. Who would have ever expected that from him? His mother, if she were still alive, would have been proud of him.

Zhu glanced at his men. They watched the ground, each wrapped in his own thoughts. Zhu didn’t know them well. He had no doubt they were brave.

He looked up. Missile streaks left trails in the sky. Beside them flashed long cruise missiles. They were almost to the great tanks. Yes, he saw the monsters blazing fire. They were beasts, and the firepower pouring from them was awe-inspiring.

Against orders, Zhu chinned on his helmet radio. “First Rank Tian of Second Squad, this is First Rank Zhu of Fifth Squad.”

“Hello, Zhu,” Tian said in a tired voice.

“Are you well?” Zhu asked.

“No I’m not well. I’m not supposed to die in America. The astrologer said so. But look at those tanks. How are we supposed to destroy them?”

“We will die gloriously today,” Zhu said.

“…Zhu, my friend, you are a good man.”

The sadness in Tian’s voice was difficult to take.

“Tian…everything I know…you taught me.”

“Zhu, Zhu, Zhu, you are China’s best soldier. Do you know that?”

“You mock me at a time like this?” Zhu asked. The tanks were getting bigger, and none of the missiles streaking at them or the cruise missiles hugging the ground could reach those tanks. This was incredible. The tanks shot the missiles out of the air.

“You are like a brother to me,” Tian was saying. “I wish you well.”

“I…I wish you well, First Rank.”

“You are my best friend, Zhu.”

“You are also my best friend.”

“Ah, Zhu, what a strange thing life is. I did not realize how much I wanted to live until this moment. Don’t you want to live?”

“Not at the price of dishonor,” Zhu said.

“Is this honor?”

“Yes!” Zhu said. “We are White Tigers. We are the greatest soldiers in the world. We have lived well, with honor and with pride. I am happy to perish well, fighting the enemy with every particle of my strength.”

“They picked the right man to be a White Tiger. I will miss you.”

Zhu blinked rapidly, finding that his eyes were wet. The moisture leaked out of the corners and streaked his temples. His chest felt so terribly hollow. He wished he could live. But this was the price of being the greatest soldier, a White Tiger. One had to be willing to lay down his life for his country. This was China’s hour of greatness. His country called upon him to destroy the dreaded tanks that annihilated his fellow warriors.

They were more blooms in the nearing distance. Nine great vehicles in a line stopped everything sent at them. As the helo closed, more explosions occurred all around the Behemoths. It was most incredible.

“Launch!” their pilot shouted.

Zhu shoved up for what would likely be the last time in his life. He engaged his jetpack and lifted at exactly the right angle. A moment later, an enemy shell obliterated the battle-taxi. It took half his squad with it. They had been too slow in exiting.

From ten meters above the ground, First Rank Zhu flew at the great tanks. Concussions in the air shook him as he closed. More Eagle flyers tumbled from the air.

“Tian?” Zhu radioed. He did not get an answer. Tian must be dead. The astrologer had been wrong. It didn’t matter. Zhu’s eyes shined and he flew at the tanks.

He dropped another few meters. And then he gave his jetpack full thrust. Artillery rained on the tanks. Cruise missiles came down. How could nine tanks stop so much at one time?

Then an explosion knocked a Behemoth tank onto its side.

Zhu shouted wildly, the sound reverberating in his helmet. His heart beat with excitement. He was terrified. He was alive. He snarled and activated the mine strapped to his chest.

“I am First Rank,” he said to himself.

Zhu closed as shrapnel rattled against his armor. The last Eagle flyers with him went down, plowing into the snow. Only First Rank Zhu continued. He had practiced long hours to become the best. He flew, taking another hit that breached his armor so a hole appeared in his stomach and fluids leaked out. He felt his strength oozing from him. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now but the hulk of steel before him.

Zhu Peng, White Tiger First Rank, struck the Behemoth tank. The impact ignited his mine, and it blew a hole into the main compartment, killing the entire crew and destroying the greatest battlefield weapon on either side.

Stan Higgins reluctantly ordered a retreat. The latest enemy attack had broken through the defensive fire, destroying three Behemoths and four battlewagons.

He had five operational Behemoths left, and one more that could fire defensively. After the latest mass assault, he didn’t believe he had enough firepower to keep the Chinese off balance.

Of the five tanks left, three of the force cannons had lost their fine calibration. They could hit close objects, but not the miles-long distant enemy.

As the Behemoths backed up, retreating at speed as friendly artillery laid down thick, anti-thermal clouds, he judged the flank attack a success, at least while it had lasted.

The Pan-Asian Alliance Tenth Army had ceased to exist as a fighting formation. The Fifteenth had stalled. The new Sleeper mines had done some damage to it. Mainly, however, the Chinese were now out of position and would need time to redeploy.

Already, elements from American Second Tank Army raced for the empty trenches facing what was left of PAA Army Group A. Their encounter with the southern Chinese had been decisive.

Stan retreated, dragging two hulks of Behemoths with him. The others he left on the battlefield.

The remaining super-tanks would need a lot of repair to fix them back up to full efficiency. But it appeared right now that they had more than fulfilled their role as America’s saviors. They had blunted the Chinese breakthrough attempt.

The question remained, though. How was Jake doing? Was his boy still alive?

Stan sat in his commander’s chair, too tired for words.