Invasion Colorado

-6-

I-70 Colorado





THIRD FRONT HQ, COLORADO



Marshal Liang of the Pan-Asian Alliance Third Front sipped tea in his quarters. It was an American farmhouse bedroom outside of Pueblo, Colorado.

Liang was a sparse man in his late fifties. He seemed unassuming and quiet, and he left nothing to chance. He had never cared for Jian Hong, and he found the Chairman increasingly unappealing since the murder of Foreign Minister Deng. Still, Hong ruled with the backing of East Lightning and the man lavishly supplied the military with the materiel needed for this incredible undertaking of conquering the United States of America.

First blowing across his cup of tea, Liang sipped the hot liquid. It was good tea, and it helped settle his stomach.

Even after several days of receiving the orders, he still seethed about them. He had been given two objectives now: storm a great American city to capture the Behemoth Tank Manufacturing Plant and drive north to the Canadian border during the dead of winter. That meant pushing up through three states: Nebraska, South Dakota and North Dakota, and possibly passing through parts of Wyoming and Montana. That would be a harder task now with the diversion of some of his best assault divisions.

Before the new orders, he’d wished to mask Greater Denver instead of entangling part of his army in street-to-street battles. In modern terms, Denver was a fortress city. He’d wanted to cordon off the urban environment with a ring of second-rate garrison troops. If the Americans wanted a fight, let them come out of the cities onto the plains where his greater numbers and superior quality would annihilate them.

He knew the army would take brutal and, in his opinion, unnecessary casualties to capture the tank plant. El Paso, Albuquerque and Santa Fe had taught him how hard the Americans defended their cities. Worse, urban entrenchments turned second and third rate soldiers into stiff defenders. No, he wanted no more city fights. The latest estimates from his staff showed that this battle could prove even bloodier than the earlier ones of the past summer.

Outside the upstairs window, snow fell instead of the unseasonable rain. For too long the gods of war had frustrated Chinese arms with the warm rains. Here at the Front Range of the Southern Rockies, it should have been sunny this time of year.

The local region here had different names. One was the Colorado Front Range. Liang preferred its other name: the Front Range Urban Corridor. It stretched from Pueblo, Colorado north along I-25 to Cheyenne, Wyoming. Within the oblong area lived nearly five million Americans. The cities sheltered themselves where the Great Plains merged into the Southern Rockies. The majority of the people of Colorado lived here under the auspices of the looming mountains. Denver itself lay a mere twelve miles east from the beginning range.

Because of the protecting Rockies, it was normally sunny this time of year. Usually the mountains were a bulwark against the eastward-traveling storms. Instead, there had been rain, rain and more rain. Finally, for the last several days the temperature had dropped. It froze the mud into icy ground the vehicles could use. Ever since the new orders and the proper winter weather, he had been maneuvering the assault Armies into position.

The Tenth and the Fifteenth Armies would give him Greater Denver. He’d half-expected Chairman Hong to give him such a useless order as this, so he’d had his staff prepare a contingency plan at the start of the rains. The shifting of corps had already taken place.

The Third Front had become a well-oiled machine. Despite desperate months of battle, it still reacted swiftly to his will.

Liang checked his watch. The opening attack would occur in less than three hours. For this city storming, he had decided to return to the old-fashioned methods of urban assault: mass bombardments of air and artillery, followed by the attack. In this case, it would primarily rely on artillery power for the opening assaults. The bulk of his air…he had an altogether different use for it.

The plan was simple. The best ones usually were. Massed long-range guns would turn Greater Denver and the outlying cities into rubble. The Tenth and Fifteenth Armies would then smash their way in through costly but time-effective wave assaults. That would be inelegant, he knew, but he would turn what would otherwise become a draining slugfest into a fast siege. He’d support it through massive air power, choking the Americans of reinforcements and supplies. He could afford an attrition battle on one condition. He had to make sure the Americans didn’t receive any replenishment—more soldiers. They could always airlift a trickle, of course. He had to prevent a flood.

Liang sipped his tea. He’d welcomed the needed rest the rains had forced upon the Third Front. It had given the mechanics time to repair the tanks, the trucks and the IFVs in that order. It had given his commanders time to reorganize and rest their soldiers for the next great push. The speed at which Tenth and Fifteenth Armies had shed their tank corps and accepted more infantry divisions proved their renewed zest.

With a click, Marshal Liang set his teacup into its saucer. He rose and stepped to the window. Through the falling snow, he spied four Mobile Canopy ABMs. They waited on specially-built rail cars, having arrived this morning.

Each MC ABM was massive, bigger even than an American Behemoth tank the Chairman dreaded. The Behemoth weighed three hundred tons. The MC ABMs weighed twice as much. Of course, they were not battlefield weapons in the strict sense like an IFV or hovertank.

He could put these to good use. In fact, their arrival had convinced him of the rightness of his idea. He would risk his air power in the next few days. These MC ABMs would mightily strengthen his anti-air defenses, giving him a strong fallback in case of an aerial disaster. He didn’t expect a catastrophe, but he was Marshal Liang, the commander who left nothing to chance.

Liang’s eyes went blank as once more he thought about what Marshal Wu had told him, how General Cho Deng’s death had persuaded the Chairman of the need for haste north.

It was clever of the Chairman to understand what General Cho Deng’s death signified. Liang would miss his best hovertank commander. It still was incredible to him how the Americans had gone to such fantastic efforts to kill him. How had they known General Deng would inspect the supply group that night? That implied a spy ring inside the Chinese military. The thought was sobering indeed.

But the point of the assassination meant something critical. The Americans hadn’t assassinated any other generals, just Cho Deng.

Many on his staff believed the Americans were violent barbarians, given to emotionalism. Countless of the Chinese higher command thought of Americans as Mongols from China’s past. Liang did not agree with the assessment. These Americans could be shrewd and were often cunning. Sometimes they were brilliant.

The assassination of General Cho Deng was one of those times. To Liang, it showed the spy ring was larger and more intrusive than he would have believed possible. How otherwise did the Americans know about General Deng’s influence? Other commanders had carefully listened to Deng’s theories. By killing him, the Americans slew the strongest proponent of relentless tank and hovercraft breakthroughs and exploitation drives. Cho Deng had not only practiced those drives better than others did. His words and example pushed other commanders to do likewise.

Chairman Hong paid lip service to the ideal of deep penetration drives, but did the Chairman truly understand what must be done to defeat the Americans? Liang had his doubts. The order ten weeks ago to divert Third Front’s armor to help the South Americans captured the enemy around Oklahoma City had hurt the Americans, but it had been wrong nevertheless. Chinese and Brazilian arms had won a great operational battle. Instead, they might have struck a strategic deathblow by driving north harder and deeper and trapping an even greater number of enemies, perhaps shattering the entire Midwestern American Front.

The key to this continental campaign was speed. They needed to drive fast and deep so the Americans never had a chance to recover their poise. The grueling summer battles had been a mistake. Liang would have sent a massive and potent tank Army Group straight up the middle of the prairies. Drive deep and deeper still, spreading out behind the American lines and destroying all communication and higher command. Instead, there had been vast battles of attrition, a slow grind through New Mexico and Texas.

Marshal Liang put his hands behind his back. His right shoulder protested as a half-healed muscle strained at the pull. In less than three hours, the Denver assault would begin. It would fix American attention on the front door, right where he wanted it. With the massed wave assaults, the Americans would no doubt believe the Chinese meant to grind the Denver-defending soldiers to death. He would catch them by surprise, therefore, with his end-run air assault.

The key to taking Denver was the high-altitude I-70 corridor, the thin ribbon of road and rail through which most of the Americans’ supplies would have to thread. If he could destroy I-70 as a supply route, Denver would die on the vine.

His gaze moved again to the MC ABMs. Each vehicle possessed a twelve-man crew. It was a linked system, three rail cars pulled by a massive tractor. One of the trailers held gigantic batteries and chemical fuel storage tanks. Another was a magnetic-propulsion turbine. The last was the laser focusing system. It could project a beam of near strategic strength.

That meant several things. They could shoot down American satellites from the middle of their country, if the enemy was foolish enough to loft any. Even better, he would soon have a nearly impenetrable anti-air and anti-missile umbrella. In a week, several more MC ABMs would arrive.

He would have to compose a poem to Marshal Wu for the man’s thoughtfulness of giving him these strategic assets. Because of them, he would badly surprise the Americans and he might even surprise Chairman Hong.

I leave nothing to chance.

That was his secret. He thought deeper than his fellow marshals did and much deeper than the Americans. Part of the secret was that he had gathered a brain trust of brilliant officers. Outthinking the enemy and beating him with an economy of force made the best use of what he possessed. It would give China the victory despite the un-strategic folly of attempting two variant goals at one time.

Liang’s soft smile hardened. He had the greatest concentration of Chinese power in North America. That meant he had the greatest concentration of military force ever deployed against an opponent.

Now I’m splitting my power at the orders of that worm in Beijing.

Fortunately, he knew his enemy. The Americans were near the breaking point. The loss of Denver’s soldiers and the loss of the cities here might well shatter what was left of enemy morale.

It was good to know he was going to win spectacularly. First, fix American attention on the front door. Then when the back door attack came, it would surprise them even more and destroy what little confidence they had left.





CASTLE ROCK, COLORADO



Private Jake Higgins of the Eleventh CDM Battalion hugged the bottom of his foxhole. The whole world seemed to be on fire. It shook and huge deadly explosions made speech impossible. Several times already, he’d peeked out of the foxhole in a homeowner’s front lawn. Each time more of Castle Rock was flattened, more of its structures turned into rubble or reduced to skeletal remains of reinforced girders and smashed concrete.

The Chinese had unleashed a massed artillery barrage on them. His father had loved telling him war statistics. In WWII, artillery had caused fifty percent of the casualties in urban areas. It had been even higher in deserts.

I can see why.

Jake endured as the explosive shells hammered the city and their position. Unfortunately, he’d arrived just in time for the great Chinese offensive.

The Eleventh CDM Battalion was full of untested wannabes. In Jake’s opinion, it was a crime to place them out here at the very front. Army HQ should have first given them time to learn their trade. Militia units already had a bad reputation for breaking under fire. Two of the reasons was lack of training, and lack of time to get used to this hellish punishment. High Command shouldn’t treat them like a penal battalion, even if that’s what they were. It was wasteful of American lives.

We’re just a tripwire for the enemy.

Jake curled into a ball and plugged his ears. The noise was too much. The blasts, the shaking, the dribbles of dirt on his helmet—men weren’t born to take this. It was enough to drive him mad.

Jake didn’t know how long it lasted, but there came a moment when it finally stopped. Tentatively, he unplugged his ears. Soon, he sat up. With the caution of a wary gopher looking out of its hole, he climbed to his feet and peeked over the lip of his foxhole. He’d dug his deeper than anyone else’s foxhole, but he bet that would change now.

Much of Castle Rock burned. The small city was to the south of Greater Denver on I-25. North from here the freeway led to Castle Pines and then to Centennial where the Mexico Home Army waited.

The stink of gunpowder and burning flesh mingled with oil and gas. The destruction…one had to see this to believe it. This was like being in Dante’s Inferno of brimstone and fire, and fumes kept billowing up from Castle Rock to feed the black cloud above.

Slowly, it dawned on Jake that he heard voices and whistles. The Detention Center people loved blowing the shrillest noises. Officers appeared, with their silver tools between their lips or clenched teeth like high school football coaches. Soon officers began shouting, and one used a bullhorn. He pointed south in the direction of the worst destruction and the leaping, crackling flames.

These officers were former Detention Center guards. They didn’t look too happy, either. Few of the former detainees—the Militiamen grunts—had yet to get out of their foxholes.

Jake climbed out of his. So did others of his squad.

“We’d better line up,” Jake told them. The others looked pale or trembled. A few had obviously been crying. They must be wondering now why they’d ever volunteered for this insanity. Punishment drills or even the isolation cells back in the Detention Center had never been as bad as this.

I must have been an idiot to leave Lisa.

It took ten minutes, but finally the rest of the Militiamen circled their lieutenants and sergeants. Jake listened as theirs told them they were heading forward to drive off the invaders. Enemy artillery had demolished the forward posts and buried the luckless spotters and heavy machine gun teams. During the tail end of the bombardment, Chinese infantry had roared up in their IFVs, unloaded and were already crawling into Castle Rock to claim it. HQ wanted the Eleventh CDM Battalion to drive the Chinese out, or at least buy Division time to reorganize and get a full-scale counterattack going.

Frightened Militiamen glanced at each other. The uncertainty and fear in their eyes made Jake realize this was a stupid plan. Militiamen might hold their ground in foxholes, but advancing to meet the enemy after this hellish artillery pounding—

Whistles blew. It was a shrill sound and seemed to drive arrows of noise into Jake’s ears. Officers shouted and a few screamed, threatening a return to the Detention Center for cowardice in the face of the enemy.

“Come on,” Jake said. “The sooner we get to our new positions, the sooner we can dig in.”

In a ragged group, they started forward into the burning city. Some of the Militiamen shouldered M-16s. Others carried Javelin missile-launchers. Jake belonged to a heavy machine gun team.

Jake carried the Browning M2 .50 caliber. It was heavy on his shoulder. He noticed once again that none of the ordinary Militiamen wore body armor, just the officers. It hadn’t been that way in the Seventh in Texas. There, the officers had tried to make soldiers out of them. They seemed to have cared about the troops in their care. These guards–turned-officers had the feel of angry men taking it out on those below.

Machine gun fire started ahead, cannons barked. There were screams, bloodcurdling things. Everyone around Jake slowed down. Taller buildings with huge concrete chunks taken out of them blocked their view of what happened up there and made everyone imagine the worst.

“Double time it!” the captain shouted.

The lieutenants and then the sergeants began whistling. If they’d had whips, the officers and NCOs would probably have been lashing them.

Jake found himself jogging. Each pound of his feet made the Browning dig against his shoulder. The thing was frigging heavy.

Then everything changed as two drones appeared in the sky. They looked like giant, angry wasps dropping down out of the black cloud. They must have been enemy craft, because machine guns opened up in the noses and rockets whooshed from under their wings, slamming down with fierce explosions. Concrete flew and so did humans, some tumbling in grotesque somersaults. Other Militiamen began screaming in agony and falling over, spurting blood. One poor sod tried to shove his guts back into his ripped stomach.

Jake hit the ground, throwing the machine gun ahead of him so it wouldn’t land on his body. He crawled for what must have once been a building. It was a jagged scar of masonry now, a tombstone of a memory of a better time. His squad remained with him.

“What do we do now?” the tallest one asked, the corporal and nominally in charge of the M2 Browning.

Crouched behind the tongue of a wall, Jake looked up as he kept hold of his helmet. The two drones had left, or at least he couldn’t see them anymore. Maybe the operators figured they’d done enough here. Looking back, Jake saw some Militiamen running away down the street they’d just come up. None of them had their weapons. There was a litter of M-16s and grenade launchers on the ground. A few of the officers and NCOs ran, too. They weren’t blowing their whistles either, just sprinting as if they wanted into the Olympics. On the street groaned the dying, a few shrieking horribly and held onto their ribs or their groins. The dead lay silent, making it much easier to take.

“Should we help them?” the corporal asked.

Before Jake could answer, someone else shouted, “Chinese!”

Jake looked over the masonry. His eyes bugged outward. Chinese soldiers in body armor sprinted through a cross street, with their equipment jangling. The enemy had nasty-looking assault weapons. A few wore visors, likely battery-powered with a schematic of Castle Rock. The wash and illumination of flames on their backs make the enemy soldiers seem like demons of the Inferno.

“Up there!” another Militiaman shouted.

Jake looked up. An Eagle flyer darted overhead. The Chinese commando fired a grenade from a shoulder-launcher. The projectile landed with an explosion thirty feet away, and two Militiamen tumbled over. Didn’t anyone know how to hide?

“We have to get out of here,” the tall corporal told Jake. Dirt streaked the man’s cheeks and his eyes were huge.

“Yeah, soon,” Jake said. “Help me set up the machine gun.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“We’re screwed,” Jake told the corporal. “Our battalion just did a bunk and the rest are too scared to fight back. That leaves us.”

“We should run.”

“We should kill Chinese bastards,” Jake said, remembering the ones who had hanged Americans in Rio National Forest.

“I’m out of here,” the corporal said. His name was Charles and he used to be a philosophy student. His neck was far too long. Right, right, everyone called him Goose.

“Listen, Goose,” Jake said good-naturedly. “If you run, I’m going to shoot you.”

“What?” Goose said. “You can’t threaten me. I’m a corporal and you’re a private in my squad.”

“Watch this,” Jake said, drawing a sidearm. He touched Goose’s forehead with the barrel. The corporal had lost his helmet.

“How does that feel?” Jake asked.

“Please,” Goose whispered. “Don’t kill me.”

“Set up the machine gun and do what I say,” Jake told him. “That way you live.”

Goose nodded wildly.

The other Militiaman of the machine gun squad watched with wide eyes.

“Hurry it up,” Jake said. He peeked up to scout the situation. More Chinese ran through the cross street, setting up to come here from an old bakery. He could seem them hiding in there, likely figuring out what they were going to do next.

“See the edge of our little wall over there,” Jake said, pointing to the left.

“I see it,” Goose said.

“Slide the gun there and get ready to feed me more ammo. The Chinese are going to cross at the junction, coming straight for us.”

“Set it up there,” Goose repeated. As he did, the Chinese infantry started firing at them from the bakery.

Jake looked behind. Groaning and wounded Militiamen hurried off the street. Most ran away. A few braver, tougher soldiers fired back. Some of the fleeing died with bullets in the back, falling over like sick old men.

A whistle blew. One of the officers had stayed. Seconds later, a grenade flew at the Militia officer, hitting him in the chest, killing him with a flash.

Jake stood up, aiming his M-16. The flyer that had just popped the captain jetted for cover. Jake hit something on it with his shots. The jet quit and the flyer smacked into a three-story building and tumbled down to earth.

Jake ducked down and bullets rattled against the small wall of shelter. It made Goose groan and he clutched his head in panic.

“Is the gun ready?” Jake asked him.

Goose nodded frantically.

Jake threw himself onto his belly, getting behind the .50 caliber. The Chinese would likely get a machine gun set up soon in the bakery. Others would surely try to work around their position, flanking them. He had to start firing, start showing the enemy they had to play it safer. He also needed to show his own side they could hurt the Chinese.

“Okay. Pick it up and set the gun beyond the wall to the side,” Jake said.

“I’ll die if I expose myself,” Goose said.

“Do it!” Jake shouted.

Hunched over, Goose grabbed the barrel. It was crazy. He picked up the front of the M2 Browning and set it with its tripod-mount where Jake had told him. Then Goose dove behind the protective cover, skidding on soil with his elbows.

Lying on the ground, Jake began firing. The loud sound of the heavy caliber bullets reassured him. The big slugs smashed through the bakery walls and exploded the remaining glass. He heard screaming as they hit enemy soldiers. Even though Jake didn’t know it, he grinned from ear to ear. It made Goose shudder to see it.

Something about the sound of the heavy machine gun woke up a few others in the Eleventh CDM Battalion. They crawled to better positions and started firing at the enemy.

From a different direction, fifteen Chinese soldiers charged, shooting from the hip, one of them popping off grenades like a shotgun. All of them wore body armor.

The first grenade hit Jake’s protecting wall, exploding harmlessly. A second one landed beyond the wall, rolling on the street, tumbling like a can of beans. The smaller Militiaman of Jake’s squad shouted in horror. He got up and ran at the grenade.

What’s he doing? Then Jake realized the Militiaman must think he was going to grab it and throw it elsewhere.

“Down!” Jake roared.

The grenade exploded, knocking the Militiaman backward, ending the war for him. He also saved Goose and Jake from any damage.

Goose went utterly pale and he trembled. He also grabbed his M-16, stood and emptied the magazine at the enemy. It did nothing, completely missing everything. Well, it did make the Chinese duck and slow their rush.

“Down!” Jake shouted again, hoarsely. Then he had no more time to shout. He swiveled the heavy machine gun and pressed his thumbs on the butterfly triggers. He mowed down the stalled attackers, starting with the grenade-launching whore. The big .50 caliber bullets tore through Chinese body armor as if it was paper. Some of those bastards wore schematic visors, too, but it didn’t help them any, now did it?

When Jake ran out of ammo, Goose loaded more. Soon Jake worked over the dead Chinese on the street, making sure they weren’t faking.

It was the opening of the battle for Castle Rock—the gate the Chinese needed so they could drive for Greater Denver. It was also the Eleventh CDM Battalion’s baptism by fire, and the first time Jake and Goose worked together as a team.





THIRD FRONT HQ, COLORADO



Marshal Liang sat in his Command Center, staring up at a huge screen. Around the room, officers sat at their consoles. Near Liang sat General Ping. He appeared to be an unassuming staff officer, with utterly regular features and glasses. The man was unable to use contact lenses and had feared corrective surgery. There was nothing unassuming about Ping’s mind, though. He was Liang’s most brilliant assistant and most trusted confidant.

“Tonight we draw the noose tight,” Liang said.

General Ping nodded. He also watched the big screen. It showed a satellite image of Greater Denver and the Southern Rockies to the west. I-70 was highlighted in red, a thin ribbon that stretched away from the built-up urban area and went left across the screen.

Marshal Liang wore no smiles tonight. With the initial ground assaults, he had knocked on Greater Denver’s front door. The Tenth and Fifteenth Armies surged toward the city. Artillery poured destruction upon the Americans. Eagle Team flyers murdered thousands. The assault divisions swarmed to the attack, taking heavy losses but pushing the enemy perimeter ever backward.

Now, tonight, he would unleash his backdoor surprise that would guarantee him victory.

I-70 was an engineering marvel of former American ingenuity. The freeway passed over many bridges, through famous tunnels and mountain gorges. Several well-placed missiles and bombs at key locales would slow traffic to a mule-laden trickle. Without I-70 and the rail lines next to it, and once he sealed off the urban area in the north to Cheyenne, Wyoming, the Rockies would become a logistical nightmare for the defending Americans. Knowing they were cut off from aid and they were destined for death or the prisoner-of-war camps in Northern Mexico, the American defenders would lose heart, wilt and surrender in bitterest defeat.

The key to the Chairman’s order therefore was to strike at I-70 with their total force now, at the very beginning of the struggle. One of the staff officers had suggested nuclear weapons, but that was too risky. The Americans might use nuclear weapons in response. Liang needed far more tac-lasers and MC ABMs before he would feel comfortable he could fend off an American nuclear attack.

Tonight he would do this the conventional way. He would watch the offensive’s progress through high-flying AWACS planes and recon drones. Ping and he would watch on the big screen in the Command Center.

“It is time,” Liang said. “Tell the air traffic controllers to give the orders.”





FORWARD EDGE OF THE BATTLE AREA, COLORADO



Captain Tzu piloted one of the big Heron bombers of the mass Chinese assault on I-70’s Eisenhower Tunnel. He had lifted off the main airfield in Santa Fe, New Mexico. The gathering of air power tonight reminded him of the opening days of the invasion.

“All this to destroy a freeway tunnel?” his navigator asked. “This is overkill.”

With his hands on the controls, Tzu glanced outside. The Rockies were beautiful, a range of rugged, snow-covered mountains. In the moonlight, they looked majestic, like a land of wonder. If they had to bail out, though, he would never see home again. Wolves lived down there and American cougars and grizzly bears. He had heard stories, terrible tales. If the wild beasts didn’t kill them, the snow and trackless mountains would ensure they starved to death.

“The Americans are in for a horrible surprise,” the navigator said.

Tzu turned to the navigator with a start. He wiped his forehead, glad to be out of his daze. He needed to stop thinking about being shot down in the amazing but deadly mountain-land. Yes, he hoped the navigator was right. He hoped, but…this one didn’t feel right. Why did command believe so many planes were needed just to take out a single tunnel? This kind of precision night attack was better suited to the Ghosts, the S-13s.

Captain Tzu glanced out the window again. In every direction loomed the terrible and gloriously beautiful Rocky Mountains. The stars blazed with light and the moon…

“I wish we could fly there,” Tzu said, pointing at the moon.

“Eh?” asked the navigator.

“Look at the moon.”

“Tzu, can’t you ever keep your mind on task? Look at the radar. Look at the number of planes ahead of us. This is an audacious operation. We’re making history.”

Tzu tore his gaze from the cratered, captivating moon. He did look at the radar, and he recalled what the briefing officer had told them. Tonight, China massed its air power to strip the Americans of hope.

Twenty-seven EW Anchors led the way. Behind followed three hundred and seventy-nine Heron bombers, nearly four hundred machines. There were no fighters tonight. Most of those made strikes against Denver, occupying the American air there, keeping enemy eyes fixed elsewhere. Fortunately, no Chinese pilot would actually go in that deeply to I-70. Drones and missiles would do that. The Americans must have some air defense present, but the enemy would not have nearly enough to stop this mass. The greatest danger—

Tzu looked up at the moon, delighting in the pockmarks, the darker areas.

“Captain!” the navigator said.

“I’m thinking about the Reflex interceptors,” Tzu said.

The navigator frowned. “Do not jinx us, Captain. It is better not to speak about them.”

“They must be out in numbers tonight.”

“Please.”

Captain Tzu glanced at his navigator. The man looked sick with worry. He nodded. Pilots and navigators were a superstitious lot. Do not speak about Reflex interceptors because maybe they could hear you talk about them and would notice what was going on. It was a foolish idea, but difficult not to believe in his heart.

“What’s our reading?” Tzu asked. “We should be ready to unload our first cargo soon.”

The navigator went to work and soon he appeared to have forgotten about the Reflex, long-distance, laser-bouncing interceptors.





CHEYENNE, WYOMING



U.S. Army Group West Headquarters was a bustle of activity and noise. Officers spoke into phones. Coffee steamed from Styrofoam cups and operators scanned their screens. It all took place in a large chamber, with nearly fifty people present.

Big Tom McGraw tapped his fingers on a console. Pilots and drone operators had just beaten off a night attack on Denver. The Chinese had stormed the city in force, yet according to reports, they had done little damage.

He didn’t understand these smash-your-way-in assaults so far. It seemed too wasteful of Chinese assets. It had given the enemy ground fast, and it had moved the city battle forward sooner than he wanted. He understood why so few enemy tanks had appeared. The Chinese had also unleashed their northern offensive at the same time, and needed them there on the open plains.

They’re trying to do two things at once. They heading north and they’re trying to swamp us here, and they’re coming damn near to it, too.

Would he get the East Coast reinforcements in time? It almost felt as if the Chinese knew his plan. They were trying to finish the war now. Something troubled him, and he couldn’t quite place his finger on it.

Scowling, General McGraw continued to tap the console.

“Sir,” the Air Chief said.

McGraw looked up. The Joint Forces Air Component Commander, JFACC or Air Chief for short, was a slender man and wore a silk scarf around his neck. The general reminded Tom of the early pilots of WWI, those daredevils of the sky. The Air Chief didn’t look reckless now. He looked worried.

Is this why I’ve been feeling nervous all night?

“What do you have for me?” McGraw asked.

The Air Chief motioned to an Air Force operator and then beckoned McGraw to a desk screen. “I’d like you to look at this, sir.”

McGraw strode to the desk screen, staring down at it. Instead of a churning stomach, he felt relief. Finally, I know what my opposite number is up, too. You’re a clever bastard, Liang.

Looking up at the Air Chief, McGraw said, “Liang identified our weak link. Now we know why their fighter-bombers swarmed Denver and did so little damage. Their heavies are out trying to kill our supply artery. Better alert the I-70 air-defenses, if they aren’t already.”

“Sir, have you noticed the number of Heron stand-off bombers? If one of their missiles reaches one of the key tunnel entrances—I can’t guarantee you that won’t happen. These numbers—the Chinese have caught us with our pants down.”

“I understand the problem,” McGraw said. “Now tell me how you’re fixing it.”

“We’re scrambling fighters and drones, sir, but they’re not going to reach some of these places soon enough. We’re also lofting more Reflex interceptors. I’m sure you know that those take time to get into strategic laser position. We can make the Chinese suffer later, when they’re running for home. Stopping all of them now from hitting I-70…”

The Air Chief shook his head.

McGraw’s jaw muscles bulged. If the Chinese blasted enough tunnel entrances and bridges, it would be a total disaster. There were sufficient assets protecting I-70 to stop Ghosts and even a mid-size attack, but this—

McGraw remembered something, and whirled around. “Get me on the horn with Colonel Higgins of the Behemoth Regiment. We may have an answer for this.”





FORWARD EDGE OF THE BATTLE AREA, COLORADO



The first launch order came. Captain Tzu had been waiting for it the last two minutes. This was the reason his bomber had lumbered off the runway earlier tonight. With a decisive movement, he yanked a lever.

The entire Heron shook. A moment later, the bomber lifted higher. Outside, he knew, the clamps on the pylons had released, and a big Goshawk drone had dropped away. It fell fifty meters before the turbojets kicked on.

From other Herons dropped more drones. A few winked silvery in the moonlight. Their turbojets belched orange flares into the night. It was a sign of strength, of coming destruction.

Tzu decreased airspeed. He wasn’t looking at the moon anymore, but at the drones. Their Goshawk climbed higher and well ahead of them. It was remote-controlled, likely from a trailer in Pueblo, Colorado. The many drones gathered in their destination-teams. They would be the aircraft to zero in on I-70. The drones would battle their way in if they had to, hammering bridges and tunnel entrances.

Licking his lips, Tzu noticed faster, quicker drones flittering through the darkness. They were UCAV fighter drones. Other Herons had released them together with the Goshawks. Those Herons would race ahead of the other bombers, putting themselves between the faster advancing drones and the still heavily laden bombers. The forward Herons would act as decoys, since they didn’t carry missiles.

Over five hundred drones bored in toward I-70. The destination teams had various targets: bridges, tunnels or hairpin turns on the freeway in the deepest gorges. Others would hit the rail line.

Now that the drones were on their way, Tzu increased speed again. The remaining Herons had a second task. They carried ARMs to destroy American radar stations and air-to-ground missiles if the inconceivable happened and the drones failed. The briefing officer had told them Marshal Liang himself had planned the operation. Everyone knew that Liang left nothing to chance.

Soon, the navigator informed Tzu that the drones had passed the EW Anchors. Later still, the navigator told him the Anchors had begun jamming the Americans. What one couldn’t see, one couldn’t kill. This electronic cover would allow the Goshawks to penetrate the American air-defense zone too deeply for the Americans to stop such a mass assault.

Tzu heard the navigator rhapsodize about the plan, but he no longer cared about the drones. The captain looked out the window at the bright moon. The idea of Reflex interceptors high in the atmosphere, ready to bounce strategic-strength lasers—that’s what had him worried now.





BEHEMOTH TANK PARK, COLORADO



A panting Colonel Higgins strode into in the command post—CP—of the tank park’s air-defense-net center. He’d come running from bed after hearing klaxons ringing several minutes ago.

The CP captain had just informed him that Chinese air assets were approaching fast. There were nearly one hundred heavy drones headed this way.

Have they discovered my Behemoths? Are they trying to knock them out?

Stan inhaled deeply, trying to get his breath back. He’d run through snow so thick his boots had disappeared each time, then raced down a flight of stairs to get here.

The air-defense CP was underground with reinforced concrete overhead. Stan’s seventeen Behemoth tanks were hidden by the latest anti-radar netting. Several weeks ago, he’d used bulldozers to create big revetments for them. It meant the three hundred ton tanks were half-buried, giving them greater protection and turning them into gigantic pillboxes.

One hundred heavy drones—the Chinese must want my tanks.

Stan didn’t intend to do ground fighting from the holes. The idea the Chinese would send tanks or IFVs into the mountains struck him as ludicrous. He’d simply wanted to do everything he could to protect them from enemy air assaults, and now he was glad he had.

How did they find out about the Behemoths?

“Sir,” the CP captain said. “I have General McGraw on the secure line. He wants to talk to you.”

In the dim green light of the CP, Stan’s shoes clicked on the tiles. He picked up the proffered receiver. “General, this is Colonel Higgins speaking.”

“Stan, old son, the Chinese snookered us.”

“Sir?”

“The air! The Chinese are swarming toward I-70.”

“We see less than one hundred aircraft, sir.”

“They’re jamming hard, but we have a satellite up giving us real-time visuals. There are over eight hundred independent aircraft converging on and around you.”

Stan felt sick. Over eight hundred?

“We don’t have enough Reflex inceptors up yet,” McGraw was saying. “Some are taxiing as we speak, but they won’t be in position in time to stop this attack cold, which is what we have to do.”

“Sir, the Chinese air—”

“Listen up, Colonel. This time we’re using my plan. I have fighters on the way, but I don’t think they’re going to make it in time, either, at least, not for the entire length of the Chinese assault on the freeway. What that means is that I’m rerouting air assets to take on the most western assaults. That leaves me with tac-lasers and SAMs in your area. We have anti-air concentrations along I-70, but not enough for this. You know we can’t afford any hits on the freeway, certainly none on the main tunnels or bridges.”

“I’ve already linked my defense-net with the strategic network,” Stan said.

“You’re not listening to me, Colonel. The bulk of the Chinese assault is heading your way. But I’m moving out all fighters to the west, to concentrate there and destroy everything. Your added tac-lasers and SAMs aren’t enough in your area. So I’m ordering you to engage with your Behemoths. I’ve read what you did in California. Your force cannons are as good at anti-air as they are at killing enemy armor. Your guns may be the margin we need for victory.”

“Yes, sir,” Stan said.

“We have to stop this attack cold. They snookered us, but I bet they didn’t think we’d have our Behemoths in the Rockies. It seemed like a stupid place to put them, but now I’m seeing it was pure genius. General McGraw, out.”

Stan dry swallowed. That was it then. The Chinese must be trying to cut off Denver’s supply route. Everyone had expected Ghosts, not this WWII-style attack with overwhelming mass.

More klaxons wailed as Stan handed the receiver to the operator. The CP captain shouted orders. He was finally receiving the real-time intelligence from the satellite. Someone shouted he spotted Electronic Warfare Anchors in the enemy formation. They must be the planes doing the jamming.

Stan used the phone to begin alerting his Behemoth crews. They needed to start up the tanks and get the force cannons pointed skyward with all systems ready.

Woodenly, Stan moved over behind a CP sergeant’s screen. He knew McGraw was ordering the right thing. Still, this was too soon to let the Chinese know the Behemoths were here. He’d wanted to keep their location a surprise. There were only seventeen of them in the entire United States. Surely, the Chinese must wonder where the super-tanks were hidden.

“Look at that,” the CP captain whispered from where he stood beside Stan.

Stan watched the sergeant’s screen. He saw it, waves of enemy aircraft.

“I’m counting over five hundred drones,” the sergeant said.

Colonel Higgins nodded. This was the right place for using the Behemoths. He just hoped he would not lose them by doing so.





PUEBLO, COLORADO



Blue light filled the large but cramped command compartment in MC ABM #3. Officers and enlisted personnel sat at their stations, checking their screens.

Commander Bao held a receiver to his ear. The Marshal’s orders came through the line firmly and quietly: “Destroy the American satellite.”

Commander Bao of the Mobile Canopy Anti-Ballistic Missile Vehicle #3 hung up the phone. He was a middle-aged man with a stomach ulcer. He kept a bottle of a thick medicine in a compartment under his chair.

The ulcer came because of his insistence on perfection, he believed. His vehicle had the best rating in the military and he planned to keep it that way. Bao knew the crew considered him a martinet, a perfectionist. That was fine with him. All his life his mother had taught him to be the best. He had achieved perfection in every endeavor: in piano playing, in Ping-Pong and in mathematics during his school years. Just as China outperformed every other country, so Bao would outperform the other MC ABM commanders. That included in how he instructed the others. For example, he had never raised his voice with them because that would indicate nervousness.

When one was the best, one had nothing that could make one nervous.

The ulcer now bit him with a twinge of pain. Commander Bao ignored it for the moment as he began to issue orders in a calm voice.

Each of the personnel put on huge headphones with noise cancellation technology. They had to in order to survive the next few minutes.

Bao checked with Tracking and got on the intercom with Power and Fuel. The operators from each told him they were ready. He checked his watch.

“Twenty seconds,” he said. As he said it, he meant neither nineteen seconds nor twenty-one seconds. He demanded perfect precision from everyone, including himself.

The small hand of his high-grade watch ticked away. Precisely twenty seconds later, green lights appeared on his board.

“Are we still tracking?” Bao asked into his microphone. His lips were too close and he heard blowing sounds in his ears.

“Yes, Commander,” the Tracking Officer said.

“Give me power,” Bao said.

In the other two links of the tier-system, chemical rocket fuel pumped into the magnetic-propulsion turbine—MPT. The whine was unbelievable and it quickly rose to a painful volume.

Commander Bao and his team in the laser unit winced or scrunched their faces. Firing the laser never got easier. The compartment shook and rattled Bao’s teeth. He pressed them together. For some unaccountable reason, his mouth had been open. That was a mistake. He noted it and told himself never to make that mistake again.

“Aim the focusing mirrors,” he said. He heard his voice as weak and small in his headphones, but he heard it. That was the amazing thing. Chinese electronics was the best.

Outside the three-trailer MC ABM system, the focusing mirror aimed into space. Inside the command compartment, Tracking followed the American satellite.

“Fire,” Bao said.

The MPT’s output combined with the stored battery power and pumped the laser with a strategic level of energy. A heavy beam speared into the atmosphere and climbed at the speed of light into space.

Precision targeting ensured the beam hit the enemy recon satellite. The wattage was too much for the spacecraft’s armored skin. Titanium melted away. The hellish laser devoured inner electronics. In a second of time, the irresistible Chinese weapon destroyed the American eye in the sky.

“Shut down the laser,” Bao said. “We have achieved success.” Immediately, the horrible whine of the MPT lowered. Bao’s ulcer bit once more.

Glancing from side to side, seeing that his crew personnel were busily engaged, Bao opened the compartment under his chair. He grabbed the bottle of gooey blue liquid. Twisting the cap, he took a slug, swallowing rapidly. The medical fluid took its time going down. That was fine. It would ease the stomach pain and help him operate at peak efficiency. He was the best, and he planned to win the top laser unit award so he could add to the plaques on his wall in his house. It would make both his wife and his mother proud.





BEHEMOTH TANK PARK, COLORADO



Colonel Higgins stood behind the CP sergeant, watching the screen with downloaded imaging from the satellite. A second later, the image went blank. After a half-second, the sergeant tapped the screen, switching it back to radar. A few enemy aircraft appeared, but the majority of the enemy appeared to have vanished as if swallowed by the Bermuda Triangle.

The captain shouted.

“What happened?” Stan asked. Was this Chinese sabotage? Did they have deep penetration commandos outside in the tank park? The thought tightened his chest.

“The satellite is down,” the captain said.

“Did Space Command spot anything approaching it?” a CP officer asked.

The captain shook his head. “The Chinese must have used their best battlefield laser they had to knock it down.

“There’s heavy jamming, sir,” the sergeant said. “Those damn Anchors are pouring it out. We’re practically radar blind.”

I’m useless here. I should be with my men. “Captain,” Stan said. “I’m heading for my tank.”

The captain nodded absently.

“Good luck,” Stan said.

“The same to you, sir,” the captain said, with his face aimed elsewhere.

Stan strode to the CP door. It was heavy, and a MP eased it open. Stan sprinted up the stairs, taking them three at a time. The blast door was closed. Stan shoved it open and closed it behind him.

The stars blazed tonight and the moon looked huge in the sky. Snow covered the Behemoth Tank Park and covered the anti-radar netting hiding each giant vehicle.

Stan kept sprinting. He didn’t know how much time was left. The seventeen big vehicles rumbled with sound. The engines were massive. They needed to be to move the three hundred tons of reinforced steel.

Stan’s tank was like the others. It was fifteen meters by six by four and mounted 260cm of armor. It had nine auto-cannons, seven auto-machine guns and an onboard radar and AI to track enemy missiles and shells. Given enough flight time, the Behemoth could knock down incoming missiles and most shells aimed at it. Whatever came close had to survive forty beehives launchers. Those fired tungsten flechettes, a spray of shotgun-like metal that often knocked down or deflected an enemy projectile enough to skew its impact against the heavy armor. It was the super-thick armor and the sheer mass of beehives that was supposed to make the Behemoth more than a big, expensive target.

Stan climbed outer rungs to the commander’s hatch up top. He knocked on the steel portal. A second later, it popped open, and Jose looked at him. The man wore his lucky scarf around his neck.

“I was wondering when you’d show up for the fun,” Jose said.

Stan’s mouth was too dry to reply. The run combined with worry had winded him. Stan squeezed through the hatch, closing it, keeping in the compartment’s warm air. Soft green light lit the compartment.

He opened channels with the CP captain as he settled into his commander’s chair.

The images had begun to reappear. The U.S. Air Force had switched to high-flying stealth drones to provide real-time intelligence.

Stan watched spellbound on his commander’s screen. If those drones reached I-70—

“Slick bastards,” Jose muttered from his location. “Thought you could trick us, huh? But we know you’re there.”

“What’s that behind them?” the captain asked someone in the CP.

Stan noticed it on his screen. Yes, farther back appeared new blips, hundreds of them.

“Looks like the Heron bombers, sir,” the CP sergeant said. “They’re using the big boys tonight.”

The Chinese were doing it right, Stan realized. Hit hard at the start. The siege of Greater Denver was barely five days old. Already, the enemy knocked at the city gates. Soon, the leading Chinese formations would be inside the city.

I-70 was like the Trans-Siberian Railroad during the Russian-Japanese War of 1905. Then, the Japanese fought the Russians in Korea and Manchuria. A single line track had connected European Russia to their army in the East. In same places, the line hadn’t even connected. Meaning the Russians had to load and unload railcars. It had been a tenuous supply thread. If the Chinese could destroy enough bridges and tunnel entrances here in the Rockies, I-70 would turn into something worse than the 1905 Trans-Siberian Railroad.

“The leading drones are in range, sir,” the Gunner said. He was a new man named Greg Zane, twenty-four years old.

“Get the cannon ready,” Stan said. He spoke similar words to the other tank commanders.

All over the Tank Park, huge cannon barrels ripped open the anti-radar netting. Turrets swiveled as targeting computers began to analyze the situation.

The rail-gun or force cannon was the heart of the Behemoth system. Unlike conventional tanks, the X1 Behemoth X1 didn’t use gunpowder shells. That was so out of date and frankly, old-fashioned. The rail-gun had two magnetized rods lining the inner cannon. The projectile or “shell” completed the circuit between the two rods. The direction of the current expelled the round, firing the shell and then breaking the circuit. It gave the shell incredible speed, one of its greatest powers.

Like an M1 tank’s sabot round it used pure kinetic energy, the same kind of energy that sent a bullet smashing through a man’s body. An M16 rifle fired a bullet at the muzzle velocity of 930 meters per second. The Behemoth’s cannon fired its round at 3,500 meters per second, over three times as fast. That was approximately Mach 10 at sea level.

The rail-gun had much greater range, less bullet drop, faster time on target and less wind drift than a gunpowder shell. In other words, it bypassed the usual limitations of conventional firearms. In fact, the rounds flew so fast, they ionized the air around them.

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

Stan had used his Behemoths in California to help shoot down incoming missiles. This time, they would help defeat the Chinese air assault.

Stan picked up his receiver and clicked the switch several times. He shook it and finally the green light appeared. He spoke to the tank crews. Soon, he switched to the air-defense captain. “Our cannons are ready to go and linking with your fire-control.”

“It’s a good thing we practiced this before, sir,” the captain said. “With our SAMs and tac-lasers, and given the fact they’re going to shoot back fast at us, I think we should let them get as close as possible. The Behemoth’s range and rate of fire is our only chance to do this, sir.”

“Don’t fire until we see the whites of their eyes, is that it?” Stan asked.

“Sir?” the captain asked over the line.

“The phrase doesn’t ring a bell?”

“No, sir,” the CP captain said.

“Where did you go to school?” Stan asked.

“New York City, sir. The public school system.”

“And no one ever taught you about the Revolutionary War? Bunker Hill?”

“Some. I remember my teacher saying George Washington owned slaves.”

Stan rolled his eyes. Owning slaves was obviously bad, but you had to judge a man by his times. In Stan’s historical opinion, George Washington was the greatest American who ever lived. In large part due to him, the American Revolution hadn’t turned into a blood bath afterward for those who had won it. In the French, Russian and Cuban Revolutions, the victors had devoured each other, killing former friends in a power struggle. That didn’t happen in the American Revolution—it had been unique in world history.

As a former high school teacher, it angered Stan how students were normally fed these days; they weren’t taught real American history. George Washington, Thomas Jefferson—the list could go on of the great men who had forged this exceptional nation.

“Don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes,” Stan said. He kept his gaze on his screen. They had several minutes yet, and he didn’t want to watch in silence. Talking helped ease his nerves.

“That’s what the colonial soldiers told each other on Breed’s Hill in 1775. It was called the Battle of Bunker Hill, even though it was mainly fought on Breed’s Hill. The saying—‘Don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes’—wasn’t original to the colonists. General James Wolfe said it to his British troops in the Plains of Abraham during the Battle for Quebec. Soldiers fought with flintlock smoothbores back then. They were single shot muskets with bayonets attached. You had to make your shot count. That’s the reason for the saying: wait to fire until the enemy is right there so you can’t miss. The British won the Battle of Bunker Hill, but they took heavy losses and learned the American colonists knew how to fight hard.”

“I understand your reference now,” the CP captain said. “Thank you, sir.”

And that’s why I have the nickname of the Professor. When will I learn to keep my big mouth shut?





FORWARD EDGE OF THE BATTLE AREA, COLORADO



Captain Ray Smith flew an F-22 Raptor. His wingman was beside him and a little to the left. On both their fighter jets, they used super-cruise power to stay supersonic. They came from Idaho Springs, which was west of Denver. They headed west over I-70. They burned fuel in order to engage a host of Goshawk drones.

“Permission to engage,” Smith heard over his headphones.

“You are clear to engage, weapons free,” an AWACS controller said.

Within his breathing gear, Captain Smith grinned tightly. That was a Reflex interceptor pilot asking. Good. They were hitting the enemy. Captain Smith knew the importance of this mission.

“Even if it kills you,” the briefing officer had said, “stop those drones from reaching I-70.”

“We’re getting short of fuel,” his wingman said over the radio.

“Yeah,” Smith said. It was a rocket-ride to battle. There was little time left and time was on the Chinese side.





BEHEMOTH TANK PARK, COLORADO



Stan judged ten miles as the optimum firing mark. He’d told his tank commanders that, and the CP captain.

“Thirty seconds,” Jose said.

“I don’t think they know about us,” the CP captain said over the open link. “They’re heading straight into your guns.”

“Captain,” Stan said. “I think you should leave this wave to us. Save your SAMs and tac-lasers. We’re going to need them for the bombers. And this way they don’t know you’re there yet.”

“You’re talking about almost two hundred drones,” the captain said. It was the number in their sector. There were other drones headed elsewhere along I-70.

“Yes,” Stan said. “Leave these drones to us.”

“Yes sir, Colonel,” the captain said.

Stan squeezed his armrests. He didn’t like this. He didn’t want to give away the Behemoths. The enemy would have to realize what had happened. It would be too much to hope they wouldn’t. Some of the Chinese aircraft would likely survive. Probably, Chinese AWACS watched from far-off. But if they were going to give away where the Behemoths hid, they might as well get the full use out of it. They had to demolish this attack.

I can’t worry about the entire I-70, just my portion of it.

Stan had a moment where he wondered what had happened to his son Jake. Was his boy a Chinese prisoner? Was he a guerilla in Texas? Or was Jake dead? A thunderous scowl twisted Stan’s features.

The seconds ticked away. The Chinese Goshawks and fighter drones bored in toward I-70. They were eleven miles from the Tank Park.

“Ten seconds,” Jose said.

Stan wiped sweat out of his eyes. The seconds passed with agonizing slowness. He watched his screen and hoped their AI was smart enough to switch air targets one right after the other. If it failed—

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

There was a mighty surge of engine power. A loud noise filled his ears and the Behemoth shook as the first penetrator round left the force cannon. It flew at Mach 10, burning through the cold mountain air.

In seconds, the shell reached a lead Goshawk, a heavy ground assault drone. The penetrator meant to smash through tank steel ripped easily through the drone. The machine crumpled and disintegrated, raining metal parts onto the freezing snow below on the mountain.

Stan bent forward in his command chair. He watched the radar screen as another penetrator surged out of the cannon. The Behemoth engine revved and more power flowed to the rail-gun. Another penetrator surged out. Two point five seconds later, another shell headed for the Goshawks.

The force cannon had two tremendous powers. One, its shells could blast through any armor on the battlefield. Two, it fired much more quickly than any tank cannon known.

The seventeen Behemoth tanks mercilessly shredded the nearly two hundred drones headed their way. Thirty drones died every seven seconds. Some Behemoth’s missed and others didn’t fire as fast.

The slaughter was magnificent and awe-inspiring to all who witnessed it on the American side. A solid chunk of the Chinese plan to take out I-70 failed in a minute of rarefied destruction.

But the battle for I-70 wasn’t over. Drones fought in other areas and the Herons still bored in toward the ribbon supply line.





THIRD FRONT HQ, COLORADO



Marshal Liang stared at the big screen in disbelief. A drone went down in flames, crashing into the side of a mountain and igniting. Evergreens began to burn like torches, sending up columns of smoke.

“The Americans have something new,” he told General Ping.

Ping had been working on a computer tablet. “Sir,” he said, “I beg to differ.”

Liang tore his gaze from the big screen and glanced at calm General Ping. “What have you discovered?”

“The rate of enemy fire,” Ping said. “I submit the Americans have new rail-gun anti-air weapons, or they employed Behemoth tanks.”

“In the Rocky Mountains?” Liang asked.

“High Command wondered where the Behemoth tanks hid. Now we know: near their manufacturing plant. It makes sense that they would defend it strongly.”

Liang nodded. “The Chairman’s information is accurate then.”

“It would appear so, sir,” Ping said.

“Denver must be their heart of power. Yes. The Chairman is correct. We must wrest this plant from the Americans.”

“The Chairman is always correct, sir.”

Without glancing around, Liang realized that personnel listened to their conversation. Some of those personnel could be East Lightning plants. It was wise to remember that.

“Yes, the Chairman is brilliant in his analysis,” Liang said. “The Behemoths—we must call off the attack.”

“The bombers are nearing firing position and the rest of the Goshawks—”

“Pull back!” Liang said. What had the Chairman informed them of? There were several Behemoth regiments, perhaps as many as one hundred giant tanks with rail-guns. Liang stood, and he spoke in a loud voice, “Radio the bombers and tell the drone operators to immediately flee south. We must escape the other rail-guns.”

“Sir?” Ping asked.

Liang turned to him. “This is a trap. I don’t know how, but the Americans knew what I was planning or they analyzed my former behavior and correctly predicted my actions. We must save our bombers and whatever Goshawks we can. We must not uselessly throw away important air assets.”

“Yes, sir,” Ping said. “But if even one of the Goshawks could break through—”

“No!” Liang said. “The hidden Behemoths show us they waited precisely for this in order to annihilate our air force. Recall the Chairman’s information. There are several Behemoth regiments. Surely, more are hidden there, protecting the critical I-70. Yes, the fact that the Americans were willing to show us the Behemoths in this position convinces me of this.”

Ping nodded and went back to checking his tablet.

Marshal Liang looked up at the screen. A fourth of the Herons launched at their farthest distance from target. The rest where still out of range, but that meant he would likely save them from the hidden Behemoths. The bombers began their retrograde turn. Elsewhere, Goshawks fled at speed, even as some enemy fighters attacked.

Oh, the Americans are clever. Yes, it was obvious I had to try for I-70. I must think more deeply next time.

Liang sat in his chair. The Behemoths are the key. I must destroy them. And I must think of a new way to shatter I-70.